Arcane headcanons | °• Silco •°

You guys have an argument

• The tension in the air is thick as you stand in the middle of the dimly lit office, your voice sharp as you throw accusations at Silco. He remains seated on the couch, his posture deceptively calm, but his good eye glints with barely contained fury.

• “You don’t listen,” you snap, pacing back and forth as the words spill out. “You think you know everything, that your way is the only way!”

• His lips curl into a cold, humorless smile, his fingers steepled in front of him. “Careful, darling,” he says softly, the warning in his tone unmistakable. “You’re treading on thin ice.”

• The condescension only fuels your anger, and you stop pacing, turning to face him with fire in your eyes. “Thin ice? Is that all you can say? Every time I try to talk to you, you shut me out like I don’t matter!”

• His composure fractures slightly, and he rises to his feet, towering over you. “Don’t twist this,” he growls, his voice low but dangerous. “You think I don’t care? Everything I do is for us—for you!”

• “For us? Or for your empire?” The words come out bitter, and you see the flicker of hurt in his expression before it’s replaced with cold anger.

• He steps closer, his presence overwhelming, but you don’t back down. “You have no idea what it takes to survive down here,” he hisses, his voice venomous. “If you did, you’d stop this childish rebellion.”

• “Childish?” The word cuts deep, and your fists clench at your sides. “You’re impossible, Silco. You think you can control everything, even me!”

• His hand darts out, gripping your wrist—not harshly, but firmly enough to stop you from pulling away. His good eye searches yours, his voice quieter but no less intense. “You’re right. I can’t control you. But I’ll be damned if I let you destroy yourself with your stubbornness.”

• The words hang in the air, heavy and raw. For a moment, neither of you speaks, both breathing hard, locked in a standoff.

• When you finally pull your wrist free, tears sting your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. “You don’t get it,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “You don’t get what it feels like to always come second to your ambitions.”

• His expression softens, just a fraction, and his hand drops to his side. “That’s not what this is,” he murmurs, but the words lack their usual conviction.

• You shake your head, stepping back toward the door. “I need some air,” you mutter, your voice breaking.

• Silco doesn’t stop you, but his gaze follows you like a physical weight as you walk out. The sound of the door closing echoes in the room, and for the first time, he looks unsure, his hand running through his hair in frustration.

• Alone in the office, he sits back down heavily on the couch, his elbows resting on his knees as he stares at the floor. His fingers dig into his temples, and his mind races with the words he couldn’t say.

• When you return hours later, your eyes red from crying, you find him in the same position, a cigarette burning forgotten in the ashtray beside him. He looks up at you, and for a moment, neither of you says a word.

• Silco breaks the silence first, his voice low and rough. “I was wrong.” The words are quiet but carry the weight of his rare humility.

• You take a hesitant step closer, and he rises to meet you, his hands hovering near your shoulders before settling there gently. “You matter, more than any of this,” he says, his good eye locking onto yours. “More than you know.”

• His apology is imperfect, laced with his usual stubbornness, but the sincerity in his voice is undeniable. When you finally let him pull you into his arms, his hold is fierce, as if he’s afraid of losing you again.

• “I don’t want to fight with you,” you whisper against his chest, and his hand moves to cradle the back of your head, his touch uncharacteristically tender.

• “Nor I with you, my dear,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your hair.