Arcane headcanons | °• Silco •°

You are in danger during a mission

(In this chapter they have something like headsets)

• The plan had seemed solid enough when you left for the mission, but now everything was unraveling. Gunfire echoes around you, and you take cover behind a crumbling wall, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

• You curse under your breath as the radio crackles, Silco’s voice sharp and demanding. “Report. Where are you?” His tone is tight, clipped, but you can hear the underlying tension.

• You press the button to respond, trying to keep your voice steady despite the chaos. “Pinned down. There’s too many of them.”

• A moment of silence follows, then his voice comes through again, low and dangerous. “Stay where you are. I’m coming.”

• He’s not supposed to intervene directly, but the sheer panic in his tone tells you he won’t listen to reason.

• The next few minutes are a blur. You fire off shots to keep your attackers at bay, but they’re closing in, their footsteps crunching against the debris-strewn ground. Your heart pounds as you reload, your hands shaking.

• Then you hear it—the distant, unmistakable sound of Silco’s reinforcements. His men flood the area, their presence turning the tide of the fight.

• You don’t see him at first, but when the immediate threat is neutralized, he emerges from the smoke like a phantom, his good eye scanning the battlefield with lethal precision.

• The moment his gaze lands on you, his expression hardens, but there’s a flicker of relief as he strides toward you, his steps purposeful.

• “What the hell were you thinking?” he growls, his voice low but filled with barely restrained fury as he pulls you to your feet. His hands grip your arms, his eyes searching yours for any signs of injury.

• “I didn’t—” you start, but he cuts you off, his voice rising slightly. “You didn’t think, clearly. Do you have any idea how close you came to getting yourself killed?”

• His words are harsh, but the way he cups your face, his thumb brushing over a scrape on your cheek, betrays his fear. “Damn it, love,” he mutters, his voice cracking slightly.

• You flinch at his tone, guilt welling up in your chest, but before you can respond, he pulls you into a fierce embrace. His arms are tight around you, almost crushing, as if he’s trying to assure himself that you’re still alive, still here.

• “Never again,” he says against your hair, his voice trembling. “Do you hear me? Never again.”

• His hand moves to the back of your head, holding you close, and you can feel the tension in his body, the way his heart races against yours.

• When he finally pulls back, his face is a mix of anger and anguish. “You’re coming home,” he says firmly, leaving no room for argument.

• On the way back, his hand never leaves yours, his grip firm and grounding. Even in the silence, you can feel the storm of emotions brewing beneath his calm exterior.

• Once you’re back at the base, he doesn’t let you out of his sight. His touch is gentler now as he cleans the cuts and scrapes on your skin, his movements methodical but careful.

• “You scared me,” he admits quietly, not looking at you. The vulnerability in his voice catches you off guard, and you reach for his hand, squeezing it lightly.

• He meets your gaze, his good eye softening as he leans forward to press his forehead against yours. “You’re mine, darling,” he whispers. “And I don’t lose what’s mine.”