Arcane headcanons | °• Silco •°

You push him away to save him

• The chaos of the fight is deafening, bullets flying and the sharp clash of steel echoing in the confined space. Silco moves with precision, his focus unwavering as he handles the threat.

• You see the enemy raising their weapon, the aim too clear, too direct—right at Silco. Time seems to slow as you realize he hasn’t noticed yet.

• Without hesitation, you move, shoving him out of the line of fire. “Silco, get down!” you shout, your voice cutting through the noise.

• The impact hits you before you can register the pain, a searing heat spreading through your side as the bullet strikes.

• Silco stumbles, his balance momentarily disrupted by your push. His sharp gaze snaps to you immediately, his expression twisting in shock as he sees you falter.

• “No,” he breathes, his voice tight with disbelief. His hand reaches for you instinctively as you collapse to your knees.

• The fight around him blurs; his focus narrows entirely on you. He’s by your side in an instant, catching you before you can fall completely.

• “What have you done?” he demands, his voice low but trembling with restrained emotion. His hands press against the wound, trying to stem the blood.

• Your breath comes in shallow gasps, and you manage a weak smile. “I… I couldn’t let them…”

• “Don’t,” he interrupts, his voice sharp, almost desperate. “Don’t justify this.” His hands tremble slightly as he applies more pressure, the red staining his fingers a grim reminder of your sacrifice.

• The enemy is dealt with swiftly—his men, loyal and efficient, handle the remaining threats as Silco refuses to leave your side.

• He cradles you against him, his jaw tight as he barks orders for someone to bring help. “Stay with me,” he murmurs, his voice softer now but no less intense. “You don’t get to leave me like this, darling.”

• You try to reassure him, your hand weakly brushing against his cheek, but the pain steals your voice. His good eye glistens, though no tears fall.

• When his men finally arrive with a medic, he growls at them to work quickly, his patience thin as he watches every move.

• As they stabilize you, his hand never leaves yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a rare show of vulnerability.

• When you’re finally safe, resting on the worn couch in his office, he sits beside you, silent and brooding. His gaze lingers on the bandages, his anger simmering beneath the surface.

• “You were reckless,” he says finally, his voice low and controlled, but the edge of hurt is undeniable. “Do you think I would survive losing you?”

• You reach for his hand, your grip weak but steady. “I couldn’t let them hurt you,” you whisper, your voice hoarse.

• He exhales sharply, his head bowing as he collects himself. “You don’t get to decide whose life is worth more,” he says, his voice rough with emotion.

• Despite his words, his touch is impossibly gentle as he brushes a strand of hair from your face. “Next time,” he murmurs, his tone softening, “don’t push me away. Let me protect you, too.”

• He presses a kiss to your temple, his lips lingering as he closes his eye. “You’re mine, my dear. And I’ll be damned if I let anyone take you from me.”