Arcane headcanons | °• Silco •°

You're drunk

• The door to the office swings open with a clumsy shove, and you stumble inside, laughter bubbling from your lips, slurring something unintelligible. Silco looks up from his spot on the couch, his good eye narrowing as he takes in your unsteady movements.

• His jaw tightens as he watches you sway, your coat half off your shoulders and your steps uncoordinated. He’s up in an instant, his long strides purposeful as he crosses the room toward you.

• He grabs your arm gently but firmly, steadying you before you can collapse onto the floor. “What in the hells are you doing?” His voice is low, sharp, but there’s an unmistakable note of concern beneath the irritation.

• You laugh again, leaning heavily into him, your hands clutching at his lapels for balance. He stiffens for a moment before sighing, his arm wrapping around your waist to hold you upright.

• “You’re drunk.” It’s not a question, but the faint sneer in his voice doesn’t hide his worry. He adjusts his grip on you, guiding you toward the couch.

• When you stumble, nearly tripping over your own feet, he lets out a quiet curse under his breath and lifts you slightly, half-carrying you the rest of the way.

• He sits you down on the couch, his hand pressing lightly against your shoulder to keep you there. “Stay.” The command is cold, but the way he brushes a strand of hair from your face is surprisingly tender.

• You tilt your head up at him, your glassy eyes meeting his. A sloppy grin spreads across your face as you murmur something about him being handsome. He huffs, his lips twitching in what might have been amusement if he weren’t so annoyed.

• “You’re a mess, darling,” he mutters, grabbing a glass of water from the table. He sits beside you, pressing the glass into your hands. “Drink this. Slowly.”

• You obey, though your hands are unsteady, and he reaches out to steady the glass, his fingers brushing against yours. His patience is strained, but he doesn’t let go until you’ve taken a few sips.

• When you start to slump forward, he catches you, his arm sliding around your shoulders to support you. He shifts you gently, guiding your head to rest against his chest.

• “Why did you do this to yourself?” he mutters, though the question is more rhetorical than anything else. His fingers trace small circles against your back, soothing despite his irritation.

• You mumble something incoherent, and he lets out another sigh, his head tilting back against the couch. His free hand rubs at his temple as if to stave off the headache you’re giving him.

• “You’ll regret this in the morning,” he says, his tone sharp again. But even as he scolds you, his hold on you tightens protectively, his hand brushing up and down your arm.

• When you drift off, lulled by the warmth of his embrace, he stays still, his gaze fixed on the far wall. His thoughts are unreadable, but his fingers continue their absentminded movements against your back.

• He shifts slightly, adjusting you so you’re lying more comfortably against him, the blanket draped over both of you. His good eye softens as he glances down at your peaceful, if drunken, face.

• “You’ll be the death of me,” he murmurs, his voice quiet and almost fond. He leans his head back, allowing himself a rare moment of calm as he holds you close, already dreading the hangover you’ll face—but prepared to deal with it anyway.