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sith-kitty · 2 years

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Marry Me

His question is so obstinate that he almost sounds angry about it, “Marry me?”

The five times you turn down Silco's marriage proposal. And the one time you say yes.

Wc: 4.3K

SFW (but includes pillow talk), Gender of reader never mentioned, Blood and canon-typical violence

Two Gutter Babies; paths entwined in fate.

Innocents in a corrupted world, at the tender age of eight.

The partially deflated ball smacks against the outer wall of the deserted building; causing dust and mortar to crumble from its mouldering surface.

Victorious shouts from the winning team ring through the air. The innocent sounds of children at play contrast sharply against the sombre, grey world in which the game is staged.

Your own smile is wide and bright on your face as you laugh along with your friends, but it falters just a little when you spot the familiar figure that’s perpetually lurking on the sidelines of your childhood.

He started showing up about a month ago.

Every single day, without fail, he manages to seek out where you and your friends play, and he watches from a distance, staring longingly at whatever game you’re engaged in. And at you.

He’s kinda weird looking.

His features are stark and pointy, with none of the rounded softness that youth is supposed to afford. The hair which hangs in unkempt waves around his long face is as dark as soot, and his ears are just a little too big for his head, as though he hasn’t quite grown into them yet. All the children in the Undercity are much too thin, but he seems dangerously so; sporting limbs that are stringy and gangly. He would be easy to dismiss at a glance.

Were it not for his eyes.

They’re the most vibrant aqua green you’ve ever seen, and remind you of the turquoise gemstones that are sometimes mined around these parts, and then sold across the river to be made into fine jewellery. Not only is the colour arresting, but they hold an intensity that’s well beyond his years. Adults may look upon him with a knowing hum, and label him an “old soul”, whatever that means. But to his Undercity peers, who are much too young to understand such cryptic idioms, they simply mark him as an outcast.

Your friends have taken to calling him Ratty – for the elongated features, the slight overbite, and the way he’s always scurrying around in the shadows.

But you’ve taken to sending small, kind smiles in his direction whenever you catch his eye, despite the taunts you receive for doing so. A part of you does it simply because you feel bad for him. But mostly it’s because you find him as interesting as he seems to find you. Perhaps, with all your childhood innocence, you harbour hope that small, consistent shows of kindness might encourage him to approach one day. That you might offer him the friendship he so clearly seeks. But your smiles only ever seem to spook him, and send him flitting away until he next reappears.

But there’s a resolution in his face today when you catch his eye, and his hands are clutching something behind his back, out of sight. The vivacious smile from your game softens into something a little sweeter, and the resolve in his eyes sharpens.

He marches his way out onto the pitch of your game, making a beeline directly for you. All the other children stop and stare, or snicker behind their hands at the determined pout of his lower lip, and the adamant line of his dark brows.

He stops directly in front of you, and thrusts his hands out.

The daisy is wilted so badly that it folds pathetically over his spindly fingers; unable to support its weight despite missing half of its white petals. And those that remain are crumpled and soot stained.

His question is so obstinate that he almost sounds angry about it.

“Marry me?”

Several children around you burst out laughing.

The determination in his blue-green eyes is so fierce and unyielding that it renders you speechless. Your mouth opens and closes uselessly like a fish out of water.

The other children haven’t lost their tongues though.

“Give us a squeak Ratty.”

“Freak.”

He’s entirely undeterred by their cruelty, and behaves as though he doesn’t even hear them. His focus is solely on you, while he waits stubbornly for an answer.

“Go back to the gutter.”

“Rat boy.”

Your skin itches with embarrassment, and you squirm on the spot.

And still he stares.

You shake your head shyly, turn on your heel, and run away.

Leaving him standing in the dust-cloud of your retreat, with only his wilting token and the harsh jeers of the other children for company.

Two Revolutionaries; young, wild, and free.

Burning with a reckless dream, and just turned twenty-three.

“I didn’t sign up for this.”

“And by this you mean…?”

“This,” you emphasise the single, bitter word by holding up the sodden underwear you’re washing in the bathtub. The apartment is so small that Vander can easily see what you’re waving from his chair in the main living area. He merely laughs at you; a booming sound that riles you even more.

“I signed up to fight.”

“And to fight, we need clean clothes.”

“So wash ‘em yourself you schmuck.”

“I’m busy doin’ inventory.”

“Yeah, funny how there’s always inventory to be done on laundry days,” you gripe, flinging the garment through the open doorway. Your aim is perfect, and it makes a satisfying wet slap as it wraps around his head.

And now its your turn to laugh as Vander struggles to disentangle himself from the soaking fabric. The muffled sounds of his displeasure are accompanied by a key in the lock, and the light, clipped footsteps which enter the apartment.

“Being bullied again, Vander?”

You smirk to yourself at the deep, sly voice of your other roommate; three of four now safely home. The first-born Children of Zaun. A revolutionary unit that had been formed of four toiling gutter-babies who had decided enough was enough. Who had shucked the back-breaking weight of the stones they’d been mining together since their late teen years and had begun to forge a new path. One that will bring freedom and justice to oppressed citizens of the Undercity.

But beyond the dreams you share, and the work you do to achieve them, the four of you are a family. You love all three men you live and work with, despite how you all irk each other at times in such close quarters. However, there’s no denying the teams of two that comprise your household.

Vander and Benzo have always been close; cut from the same cloth in too many ways to count. Their friendship is as strong and solid as their mountainous builds. Likewise, you and Silco share a slyness that’s much too subtle for the other two to truly understand, and have been thick as thieves since long before the mine in which you’d all joined forces.

Silco pinches the wet fabric between thumb and forefinger and peels it from Vander’s head. The larger man shoots you a glare once he’s free, before wiping his face dry on the hem of his shirt.

Silco stalks his way over to the bathroom, and his slender body fills the frame and casts a tall shadow over the poorly tiled floor.

“You know, you can be very cruel,” he teases, holding out the dripping fabric.

You scoff, taking it from him and tossing it back into the bathtub with the other clothes, “I’m the nicest of the lot of you.”

“That isn’t really saying much.”

You chuckle to yourself and turn back to the task at hand. You sense him lingering in the doorway behind you, and feel the electric prickle of his eyes on the back of your neck as he watches. A pleased smile tugs at your lips at the soft rustle of clothes as he enters properly and sits himself on the floor next to where you scrub at a bloodstain in one of Benzo’s shirts. His back rests against the tub, and you notice from the corner of your eye that one hand is hidden down by his side.

“Coincidentally, I was remembering just today how mean you were to me the very first time I spoke to you.”

You lean your elbows on the edge of the bathtub and cock your head at him, “Still holding a grudge?”

There’s nothing but playfulness in the crease of his mouth and the lilt of his voice. He knows how guilty you still feel about that very first interaction, even though you’d only been children, and even though you’d sought him out the very next day when he hadn’t returned to watch you play. You’d found him chucking rocks into the filthy waters by the Gorge, and had tentatively approached. It had taken a bit of coaxing, but the suspicious, narrow-eyed “It’s Silco” you’d finally received had been worth it. And in the span of a few hours the two of you had become best friends in the easy way that childhood grants. Inseparable ever since.

Which is why you’ve been resistant to his ever increasing flirtations over the years. Despite the ever mounting inevitability that brews between the two of you.

“Perhaps a little.”

“Will you ever forgive me for it? Or am I doomed to hear you bitch about it forever?”

His lips pull into a smarmy little smile that sets your pulse quickening.

“Perhaps I’ll forgive you if I get the answer I want.”

You raise your eyebrow, and he uncovers his hidden hand to offer out a single daisy; in much better condition than the last one, and so achingly small between his long fingers.

“Marry me?”

“Fuck off.”

“It’s going to happen one day. Might as well get it over and done with now.”

“How romantic.”

His smirk widens, and he leans forward to tuck the small flower behind your ear. Your stomach flutters at the way his fingers brush through your hair as he does, “How about a date instead then?”

You empty your lungs wearily through your nose, “No.”

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

“Remind me.”

Silco’s eyes are sparkling with mischief, and you find yourself momentarily lost within their green waters. It’s becoming ever harder to shoot down a man whose so adept at dodging the bullet of your rejection. And who makes you feel the way he always does. Invincible. Special. Beautiful.

“Because we’ve only just begun, Silco,” you say earnestly, turning more fully towards him, “The Sons and Daughters of Zaun is still just a fledging. It wouldn’t be wise to muddy the waters with romance. It could jeopardise the group. If things didn’t work out—”

“Who says things wouldn’t work out? We already make such a fantastic pair, don’t we?”

His lips quirk in response to the twist of your own – the way you’re unable to stop your amused smile. His fingers reach out and lace with yours, still wet and slippy from the bathwater. Silco is hardly ever sincere. It’s a defence mechanism, borne from a childhood of ridicule in order to protect himself. And so the openness that suddenly blooms on his face like an unfurling flower gives you pause.

His thumb skims along the grooves of your knuckles, and your heart skips.

“There’s only one way to find out.”

You gnaw on your lip, and he waits patiently. You huff a short, sharp sigh.

“Dinner, at Jericho’s. One chance, and no promises.”

The cockiness sweeps back across his handsome features, and he raises your soapy knuckles to his lips, “A fighting chance is all I ever need, darling.”

Two Freedom-Fighters; in anarchy they thrive.

Chaotically dismantling the peace, at only twenty-five.

The adrenaline rush of the chase courses through your veins and fuels your pumping limbs. It makes you want to tip your head back to the smog filled sky and laugh.

It always does.

And you always do.

Your own laughter is joined by the familiar, husky peal of another’s; the man who runs beside you, and has for years.

True to his word, Silco had taken his fighting chance with both hands and had refused to let go. And so one dinner at Jericho’s had been the tipping point into a romance that had begun with a single battered daisy, and a child with nothing to lose.

It’s been two years since Silco had swept you off your feet, and your toes have yet to touch back down.

The heavy pounding of the metal-toed boots of your pursuers have long since faded. But still you run. Perhaps simply because you can. Simply for the joy of it.

The pair of you burst from the alley you’d been careening down, and turn left onto the main strip of the Lanes, heading in the direction of the The Last Drop; the new head-quarters of the revolution. An upgrade that was needed to house the ever-growing ranks of the Sons and Daughters of Zaun.

You and Silco slip in amongst the nighttime crowds that bustle up and down the neon-lit street, and finally slow your sprint to a speedy stride. Not that there’s any chance of being inconspicuous when you’re both sporting clear evidence of a fight.

You’re both out of breath, but still riding the intoxicating rush of the conflict and subsequent pursuit, despite your injuries. The packs slung over your backs are heavy with enough stolen medical supplies to last a couple months if you ration carefully.

Van and ‘Zo are gonna be real pleased.

But it came at a cost. Namely in the form of Silco’s two front teeth.

You look over at him; covered in blood and still smiling like a fool.

“Stop grinning would you? You look fucking ridiculous.”

“Is it bad?”

“Let’s put it this way, you’ve got a lovely new place to rest your cigarettes when you smoke.”

He pokes experimentally at the newly chipped teeth with the tip of his tongue.

“And that’s going to need stitching,” you berate, indicating the sharp upward gash above his lip, “it’s gonna scar for sure.”

He grabs your hand to stop you from poking at it, and laces your fingers together, “One more won’t hurt.”

“It’s on your face, Silco,” you whine, “Your beautiful face.”

He flashes you a roguish grin, “But do you still love me?”

You snort a laugh, “Yes, I still love you.”

There’s a fierce passion in Silco’s heart, and it’s the driving force behind everything he does. Most mistake it for ruthlessness, because they only witness it directed into the fight, the cause. And he is ruthless. But behind closed doors, when it’s just the two of you, that passion is channeled into something purer. The fierceness of his love is a cleansing fire, and it purifies any wounds inflicted by the harsh, unforgiving world in which you both live.

Silco also has a flair for the dramatic, and the two sometimes go hand-in-hand, much to your chagrin.

He sweeps in front of you and drops to his knee right in the middle of the street, grasping your hand in both of his. You roll your eyes to cover your rising embarrassment as people stop and gawk at the pair of you.

“Marry me?”

His shit-eating grin displays his newly chipped teeth; stained vibrant crimson. His chin too is covered in blood from his busted lip. He looks like a wild animal who’s been ravaging a carcass.

“You think I’m gonna settle for an idiot that can’t duck a punch?”

“Yes,” he grins wider, “If not now, then you will.”

You smirk and click your tongue in dismissal.

He tugs sharply on your hand as he stands – upsetting your balance and using the momentum to scoop you up in a bridal pose.

Your shriek of surprise turns into bright, joyful laughter as he begins to carry you down the street, pack and all. You wrap your arms around his neck and lean up to press fleeting kisses to the uncut corner of his mouth, heedless of the blood that smears your lips as you do.

He turns his face more fully to you, hungrily returning what you’re offering, and yelps as his split lip pulls.

You chuckle, and flick the end of his nose, “Idiot,” you scold lovingly, “Now put me down. People are staring.”

“Let them,” he says obstinately, “You’re mine, and I’ll carry you if I wish to.”

You quirk an eyebrow, “I’m yours, am I?”

“That’s correct.”

“And does that make you mine too?”

He pushes out his lower lip and weighs his head side-to-side in contemplation, “I’ll have to think about it.”

You smack his chest playfully, but hard all the same, “Bastard. Remind me why I ever agreed to go out with you?”

“Because I pestered, darling,” he croons with a lopsided smirk, “that, and the fact that I always get what I want… in the end.”

Two adept Warriors; drawing closer to the line.

The world’s become more dangerous, still young at twenty-nine.

Your skin is slick against Silco’s, and your legs are tangled with his beneath the sheets as you bask in the afterglow of his love. It’s as much golden light as you’ll ever get down here; in the ever-darkening depths of the Undercity.

The too-thin blankets that do little to warm you in the winter are wrapped around your waists, and he cradles your head to his chest like you’re something precious. Like you don’t bare just as many scars as he does. The steady beat of his heart drums a comforting rhythm beneath your cheek, and his fingers card through your hair – each tender stroke adding to the invisible weight upon your eyelids.

Until he stirs you with a gentle, reverent whisper of your name.

“Yes, Silco?”

“Marry me?”

You huff a quiet laugh, and push up onto your elbow. His hair curls gently at the ends, fanning out on the pillow like raven rays of night, and his lagoon eyes swirl with blissful contentment beneath heavy lids.

“That’s the orgasm talking.”

“If that were the case I’d have asked you innumerable times by now.”

“You’ve asked plenty. This is the fourth time.”

“Keeping count are we?”

Your lip pulls into a small smile before you can help it, and you dip your mouth to his in a deep, rolling kiss. You flick your tongue playfully along the scar he’d received the night of his last proposal, and he shivers beneath you at the sensitivity.

Neither of you comment aloud on the real reason he’s asking you – the undeniable charge in the air that’s been brewing. The kind that precedes a catastrophic storm. Things are changing in the Undercity. The Enforcers are becoming more brutal, and it seems each day brings with it a violent and unwarranted raid on yet another business along the Lanes. Seeds of unrest are being planted and continuously watered by mounting fear.

Even Vander and Benzo are loosing momentum. They’re being cowed by the Topsiders, and it’s infuriating to watch.

It seems these days that you and Silco are the only ones left who are willing to fight anymore.

“You’re going to run out of excuses to turn me down one of these days.”

“Today isn’t that day.”

“That’s okay,” he murmurs, smoothing his hands along your spine and pulling you closer to his warmth, “I can be patient, darling.”

Two Battle-Weary Veterans; bloodied, broken, and done.

Sporting scars of conflicts lost, at barely thirty-one.

It’s been months since the incident.

And yet Silco still wakes screaming most nights.

His animalistic wails shatter the air, thanks to the nightmares which plague him, and the unremitting pain in the eye that refuses to heal. The eye that’s steadily wasting away due to the toxic pollutants that refuse to be purged.

Singed, the disgraced academy doctor and your one remaining ally, is close to a breakthrough on a treatment that will slow the necrosis. But until then, Silco must weather the pain, and you must bear witness to it. You must listen to the sounds of your love in unending agony night after night while you can do absolutely nothing to help.

It’s torture. Each cry rends at your soul until it’s nothing more than tattered bloodied ribbons.

You’d switch places in a heartbeat. You’d do anything to ease this for him. The strongest painkillers you can get your hands on never seem to even touch the surface of his suffering. They offer no true relief. And so all that’s left is to hold him while he thrashes and cries. To whisper reassurances to him until exhaustion finally drags him back into merciful unconsciousness.

“Please— please—”

“Silco,” you hush, smoothing back the sweat soaked hair from his brow, “it’s alright, my love.”

“Please don’t leave me.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Please.”

“I’m right here. I’m here darling.”

It’s always like this. Once the wordless wails of pain have passed, he begins to beg. Desperate, delirious pleas to remain at his side. Like you’d ever leave him. Like you’d ever betray him like that bastard, son of a bitch who you’d both called Brother.

Tears and blood mix and stain your top, leaking out from beneath the bandage that’s taped over his ruined left eye. You hold him tighter, and rock him gently as his screams at last die down to soft, despondent weeps. Wrecked, and so, so tired.

You press you mouth against his brow and hum a common Zaunite lullaby which you’d grown up hearing, and which soothes you both with its simple, familiar tune. Silco’s hands flex and clutch at you a little tighter.

His voice is quiet and ragged, the best his ravaged throat can offer.

“Marry me?”

You kiss his temple, “Why are you asking?”

“Because I need you. I need you by my side.”

“You’ve got me,” you brush the tears from his cheeks with the backs of your knuckles, “You don’t need a piece of paper to tie me to you Silco. I’m yours. I’ll always be yours. It’s you and me against the world.”

“Promise? Promise me?”

“I promise, Silco.”

He lets out a shuddering sigh, and his body seems to melt into you a little more – boneless with sheer exhaustion. You continue to cradle him; to sing softly, to stroke his matted hair, and to press featherlight kisses to his skin.

“You’re all I have left.”

His muffled words stoke the simmering hatred inside you. The hatred you both share. You hold him a little tighter and whisper your next words into his hair; the words that in a not too distance future will be drawn upon and repeated to the daughter you’re both yet to know.

“We’ll show them. We will show them all.”

Two hardened Monarchs; with endless work to do.

Surveying their kingdom from self-made thrones, and suddenly forty-two.

“Jinx is asleep,” you say as you slip through the door into your shared office space; the domain of the two de facto rulers of the Nation of Zaun. The Empire you’ve built from the ground up, hand-in-hand.

Silco hums from the high-backed chair behind the desk, but doesn’t stop reading through the paperwork in front of him.

“You should be too, darling,” you say pointedly.

“In a little while.”

You huff a small laugh and make your way over. You switch off the lamp at the corner of the desk with finality, and he looks up at you with just an edge of irritation.

He’s never been quite as good humoured as he once was. Not since Vander. It’s one of the many things you’ll never forgive your dead brother for.

But you’re not as carefree either.

The years have hardened your edges, leaving you both jagged and jaded. But you’ve grown together. Two roses upon the same trellis; so thoroughly interwoven that there is no way of knowing where his stem begins and yours ends. There’s no prising apart the two sets of entangled roots which run so deeply beneath the ground.

“Don’t look at me like that. You know I’m right.”

He hums again, this time in appeasement as you turn his chair slightly in order to sit yourself sideways in his lap. His hand hooks beneath the outside of your knee, and the other rests on your waist where he draws idle circles with his fingers. You’ve sat in this position too many times to count; working through reports and numbers and maps and plans together on your shared desk.

“Have you seen this? A new trade agreement between Piltover and Palclyff for the import of raw steel. It’s going to directly undercut business for the foundry workers down here—”

“Silco,” you interrupt with a finger upon his lips. You caress his jaw and turn his face towards you, away from the paper, before brushing your nails through the silvering strands at his temples in the way you know he likes so much, “You’ve worked enough.”

There’s almost twenty years worth of labour referenced within those three simple words. And there’s more unvoiced beneath them yet. You’ve been soul-bonded for so long that silent conversations are a common occurrence between you, and you can see from the way his face softens that he hears all you’re saying.

Look at all we’ve achieved. Look at what we’ve done, together.

You press your mouth to the crows feet at the corner of his ocean eye, the lines which match your own, and you brush your thumb along the grooved scars below the obsidian inferno on his left.

He leans into your touch, and turns to press a loving kiss into your palm, before looking up at you with an adoration that’s reserved only for you and the daughter that has graced your lives.

“Marry me.”

It’s been almost ten years since he’d last uttered those two words, and thirty-four since the first time. And somewhere in the span of three decades it’s lost the curled line and dot which once concluded it. No longer a question, but a demand.

But you give him the answer he’s been seeking regardless.

You whisper it against his lips.

“Yes.”

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