Arcane headcanons | °• Silco •°

You have a panic attack

• The room is quiet, the only sound the faint hum of Zaun outside the window. You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, heart racing in a way that has nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with memory.

• It starts subtly—your breath catching, a chill creeping over your skin despite the warmth of the room. The image flashes unbidden: shadows of men, harsh voices barking orders, the echo of heavy footsteps pursuing you down a dark alley.

• You sit up abruptly, your body trembling, as if the ghosts of that night have returned to drag you back.

• Silco stirs beside you, his sharp instincts pulling him from sleep almost immediately. He turns to see you clutching the edge of the bed, knuckles white, your chest rising and falling erratically.

• “Love?” His voice is rough from sleep but steady, anchoring.

• You can’t respond; your throat feels too tight, and tears prick at the corners of your eyes as panic grips you.

• He moves closer, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder. The weight is grounding but doesn’t pull you fully from the spiral.

• Realizing the severity of your state, he shifts to sit upright, his body pressing slightly against yours to block out the rest of the room, creating a bubble of safety.

• “Breathe with me,” he murmurs, his voice low and deliberate. His hand moves to your jaw, gently turning your face toward his.

• His mismatched eyes lock onto yours, their intensity cutting through the haze. He starts breathing slowly, audibly, willing you to match him.

• Your breaths stutter, tears spilling over as the memory refuses to loosen its grip. “I can’t,” you whisper, voice trembling.

• “Yes, you can.” His tone sharpens—not cruel, but firm, commanding. “You’ve faced worse, my dear. You will get through this.”

• His fingers tighten slightly on your shoulder, not enough to hurt but enough to keep you present. The slight edge in his voice is deliberate, forcing you to focus on something real.

• He keeps his body close, never letting go, his other hand now tracing slow circles on your back, soothing and steady.

• Slowly, painfully, your breathing begins to even out, though your body still shakes with residual fear.

• “There you are,” he says quietly, his lips barely moving. He brushes a strand of hair from your face, his thumb grazing your cheek where the tears have left their mark.

• You lean into his touch, desperate for the grounding warmth of him. He shifts, pulling you into his arms fully, tucking your head beneath his chin.

• “What was it?” he asks after a long pause, his voice softer now, though there’s a tension beneath it, as if he’s ready to unleash hell on whatever caused this.

• “It was… them,” you finally manage to choke out. He doesn’t need specifics; the past you share is enough to piece it together.

• His grip tightens around you, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. “They’re gone,” he says, the words laced with venom. “They’ll never touch you again.”

• You nod against his chest, the reassurance sinking in even as the tremors in your body take longer to fade.

• He stays awake with you for the rest of the night, his hands never leaving you—one resting on your back, the other lacing fingers with yours.

• When the panic finally ebbs enough for exhaustion to take over, he presses a kiss to your forehead, murmuring, “You’re safe, darling. I’ll always keep you safe.”

• His tone is protective, but there’s a flicker of guilt there too, as though he blames himself for not preventing the memory from surfacing.

• He doesn’t sleep again, watching over you with a vigilance that feels both suffocating and comforting, ensuring nothing else can hurt you tonight.