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x-amount-verbs · 3 years ago

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A Helping Hand - Part 4

[start here] || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5

[silco x f!reader] [2.8k words] [no y/n] [during timeskip] [touch-starved reader] [henchwoman!reader] [SFW] [tween jinx]

AO3 Link

You may have given Sevika a bad rap. She’s not welcoming and inclusive and empathetic — or, at least, she doesn’t give off any of those traits — but she made a point to bring you back into the fold (and, perhaps more importantly, keep you engaged for a few hours and not wandering off to mope). Even if her lips thinned in a judgmental silence, she rolled her eyes and indulged your request for a sling to hold your dumb arm against your chest while you sat at her table.

And yes, you did lose money to her.

She made a point of saying she refused to lose to you just cause you were feeling sorry for yourself. Which… well, fair. Still kinda grated on you, but it was better than the people who were constantly sneaking peeks at the hand until you got the sling set up to hide it.

You get home later than you expected, having left with a coworker once the bar picked up, the new clientele too loud and too rowdy for you to feel good about staying with your stupid dumb deformity.

It’s how you kept thinking of it these past few hours. That foreign body that’s latched onto you. Parasitic piece of junk. A weight constantly dragging you down, that only seems to get harder to work the more you try. The amount of resentment you hold toward the inanimate— or… semianimate object— is impressive.

In the dark of your room in the lodging house, you pull the objects from your waist pocket, setting them on your dresser before finding the lantern’s switch. The sling is comforting. It’s much easier to ignore the hand this way. Your good hand has gotten used to some tasks anyway, during the original recovery period. You stopped pulling your hair up, for one, opting to lop off a few inches so it wasn’t as much of a burden. It had felt bold, then. Freeing, to bluntly state the decision, make it happen, and say screw the consequences. Now you miss it, miss the old spike-strapped braid. But you can’t braid with one hand, so… too bad so sad sucks to be you, apparently.

You run your hand through the thick mess of what’s left, grimacing at the feel of sweat against your scalp. Gross. You are in desperate need of bathing beyond the towel-and-basin method. Scanning the list from Silco (once again marveling at how neat and concise the script is) you note the directions for use when bathing, and then pause. You missed one of the last bits, earlier.

Sleeve will self-sanitize generally; remove 1x/week to check connections, evaluate, etc.

Removing the sleeve? The sheath that covers the undoubtedly ugly tubes embedded in your arm, that protects where shimmer binds nerves and muscles to the fluid hydraulics? It makes your stomach turn over. You don’t want to see that. Isn’t the purpose of this prosthetic limb to never have to see your mutilated flesh again? To replace it with smooth fired plates and a polymer liner?

Besides, you’re not even 100% sure how to remove the sleeve. But in the back of your mind, time is counting down. This is day two; you need to face that unpleasant reality before seven days have passed.

But not tonight!

Letting out a long breath, you straighten your spine and set all your attention to getting yourself clean and into bed.

The first time you awkwardly try to wash your hair with the prosthesis, fingers catch in curls and tug uncomfortably, and you can’t feel what’s tangled. So that’s not going to happen. The hand goes back to resting awkwardly against your chest as you try to ignore the too-smooth backs of its knuckles.

—

Morning aches and pains have been the norm, but with the fresh supply of painkillers they ease at the press of a plunger. You can practically hear Silco chiding you for your pride— the hypocrite. But he’s right; trying to function without the drugs would just be making things purposefully harder for yourself, and you’d hope you’re smarter than that. (Jury’s still out on that one, though.)

You’re running out of easy-to-wear clothes that are appropriate for an actual work day. When you were just going back and forth to the lab, all your time spent waiting and testing and sitting around, it didn’t matter what you wore— which was great, cause foundation garments are a tough sell when you put them on with one hand. Oh well. You’ll figure out tomorrow tomorrow. Maybe you’ll talk to the lodging manager about moving up your usual laundry service day.

The walk to work isn’t too bad, even without the escort you’ve had the past few weeks. A pistol at your side and a good cloak to hide the sling both help discourage trouble. You haven’t been carrying the gun, but it’s time you got back to it.

Orid shows you to your makeshift office, and the unusual gentleness he shows makes you cringe. Pity is not your favorite thing. And that’s what this ‘job’ is: pity. Something to let you feel useful while you’re being useless.

At least now you have a desk.

—

You notice her around the corner when you’re on your way back to your office with lunch (maybe more like dinner, it’s well past 3). Blue hair disappears around the edge of the hallway just as you’re getting to your door. Your gaze lingers on the corner, but after a momentary pause you tilt your head and accept she isn’t interested in being seen again. Food is more important, anyway.

Not three minutes later, you hear light footsteps and a muffled hollow metallic sound in the hall, and don’t regret leaving your door open. Sounds like the kid is back, but trying to be sneaky. A sidelong glance spots blue and purple in the crack of the door.

Your good hand sets down the almost-stale bread you’ve been dipping in leftover soup, chewing slowly as you try to see all you can without actually looking at the girl. The colors shift a little, but don’t leave.

“Are you going to come in, or just stand there stalking me?”

The movement stops.

Then, after a brief hesitation, the kid pops around the corner, lips in a stubborn line and chin high. “I wasn’t stalking you,” she argues, word emphasized with a melodramatic eye roll. “I was observing your patterns.” She sounds like she’s quoting someone. If this is who you think it is, she probably is, and that someone is probably Silco.

“Why? Plan on taking me down? Am I a threat to your operation?”

Her eyes narrow, like she can’t tell if you’re being serious. Your brows raise, expectantly, but you carry none of that oppressive vibe that Silco gives off. It’s a joking challenge, even if it’s delivered with a straight face.

She opens her mouth to say something, then snaps it closed again. Instead, she stares intently at the sling. “Does yours do the thing like Sevika’s?” She sounds halfway between interest and wariness.

Well, at least she’s being upfront.

You free your arm, holding it out for her to see. “No. Not yet, anyway. It’s just a hand.”

A few more steps into the room, and you can tell this kid is seriously putting on a show of confidence. That jutting chin, the tight mouth, some echo of Silco’s haughtiness… As a kid, it would’ve passed in your circles. Everyone was constantly posturing. Didn’t have much choice, if you wanted to stay above the last rungs of the social hierarchy.

“What happened to your arm?”

“Not the arm, just the hand,” you correct. “The arm part just keeps it on.” You watch your own hand as you flex and curl your fingers, lips pursing at the uncomfortable dissonance of seeing and not feeling.

“Then what happened to your hand?”

“Blew up.”

Her eyes go wide, breaking the carefully curated too-cool-to-be-interested facade she had. “No shit, really?”

“Yes shit.” You nod. “Guy was trying to kill—” You’re tempted to say your dad, but falter. There’s a few different rumors that go around about why Silco took in the blue-haired girl. That she’s his bastard, his niece (though you weren’t aware he had siblings), or even a kid kidnapped from some Piltie family, being held hostage to keep them cooperating. The last one was a stretch to begin with, and seeing her now you're even more sure that one is bullshit. “-my boss,” you finish.

“Silco?” She doesn’t say dad, so it feels like a good call.

“Yep. Assassin had explosive rounds and I took it to the hand. Detonated on impact.”

She looks interested. You’re not sure if it’s about the injury or the event. “Explosive rounds? Like, for a pistol?” Or about the weapon, apparently. Her gaze drops to the half-visible grip of the one on your belt, and a brief warning blares in your head that this kid better not get ahold of your gun.

“I don’t have any.” You head off the question before it can get asked. “And you shouldn’t be shooting guns at your age, anyway.”

She snorts. “Pffft, yeah, okay,” her blatant sarcasm is nowhere near the subtlety of Silco. “I’m twelve.”

You shoot her a quizzical look, unsure how that relates.

Her expression seems to imply you’re stupid. “Um, duh? Twelve is basically thirteen.” She adopts a bad impersonation of Silco. “‘Gun safety is important, Jinx. No guns until you’re a teenager, Jinx.’ But I still know how to shoot. Sheesh, you think I’m some dumb topsider?”

You try to recall your first experiences with firearms. Pretty sure you didn’t have live rounds until you were at least 18. But, to be fair, pop guns definitely were a thing, and pellet guns, and paintballs. Not to mention other ranged weapons kids could use to fuck with each other. “You a good shot?” you ask; another casual challenge. Undercity kids are tough. Basically tiny adults just with bizarre priorities. Baby talk would be a waste of both your time.

She lets out a bark of laughter, and her smirk is impish. Next thing you know, there’s a gun pointed your direction and your heart stops for a hot second.

Then paint splatters the desk drawer next to you and you’re back, shoving that panic away.

This is not a good realization. Guns are a part of your trade, pistols your favored weapon; you can’t have such a strong reaction to seeing one. Your heart is racing, vaguely lightheaded as the unexpected shock lulls away. Logic is at the forefront of your mind. It’s just a paintball gun.

Speaking of which—

Jinx is laughing, clutching her stomach like it’s the funniest thing. “Your face! It’s like you really thought-” Another laugh splits the air.

You grimace. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

The kid smirks. “What are you doing here?” she shoots back.

Janna, and Silco called you impertinent. “I work here.”

“Nuh uh. You work in the armory district.”

How the hells does she know that? There’s no way she could’ve spotted you there, cause you never spotted her. Where did she hear that? “Not anymore.” Your gaze scours the kid for some kind of clue as to her purpose here. “Now I work here, doing a sum total of nothing useful.”

That makes her laugh. “Yeah. You really got the short end of the arm, huh?”

To your surprise, a laugh makes your chest jolt, even if it’s hardly more than a huff. “Rude.”

“Why do you have to work here?”

“Because the arm cost your— Silco, money.” Still tempted to call him her dad. “And he pays my bills. So.”

“So you do what he says.”

“Yep.”

“And you save his life.”

“I guess.”

“Do you regret it?”

That’s… That's not a question you expected from a kid. It’s heavy. Given the option to undo it, to rewind time and keep your hand in return for Silco’s life? You’re not sure how to answer. Mostly because… gut instinct feels very wrong.

Smart people don’t opt to get their hands blown off for the sake of a kingpin. Smart people value their own safety over their boss.

Alternatively: smarter people know the chaos that would come if Silco ever was removed.

Sure. That’s why you did it.

Do you regret it? “No.”

It’s frustrating that that’s true.

“Shit, you’re crazy.”

You roll your eyes. “And you’re a little menace.” It’s not said maliciously.

Jinx cackles. “Sevika calls me a tripping hazard.”

“Sevika is also a menace,” you add, flatly. For that matter— “So is Silco.”

More giggles spill forth. You manage to keep your grumpy facade, even if there’s something soft threatening the structural integrity.

“So is Lock,” you add. Which is true. “And Liro. And Pashek.” You start listing names of the most overbearing coworkers, annoyances you’ve had on jobs, the ones who’ve irked you in any small way. Very few are people you actively hate, but they’re known enough for Jinx to recognize them, maybe.

Jinx, meanwhile, is collapsing in on herself with laughter. When your list lulls she wheezes, “What about Orid?”

“Oh, a saint.” You don’t even hesitate. “Finest man I’ve ever met.”

She loves it. You are possibly the funniest person she’s ever met, based on her reaction.

You will never understand why kids find things so uproariously funny, or if they just laugh at their own laughter, but it’s more endearing than it should be. Lips press tight to stop yourself from smiling. Dammit. Of all people to feel a kinship to, the boss’s daughter probably isn’t great, when he’s notoriously protective.

Finally, her laughter dies down. “You’re a much better project than the last one,” she shares, amiably.

It’s said so casually.

It should not hit you like a too-hard paintball to the solar plexus; a small focused pain at the crux of your rib cage, bruising but not breaking skin. It could hurt worse than it does.

But it does hurt.

…Which is stupid. Of course you’re a project to him, he practically said as much, that he was taking you on as a project so the Doctor could work on more important things. Silco sees you as an investment of time and energy, with the goal being discoveries he can apply to future dealings.

So why does your mind keep imagining other projects before you? Maybe not medical projects— maybe charity cases, or political schemes, or business offers. Each person receiving his undivided attention until he got what he wanted.

Which was results. And nothing else.

This is fine, you think. This is expected. Logical, reasonable. There is no reason to experience any emotion over this revelation.

A blink or two and you force your mind back on track. Jinx. Cute kid, dumb laugh, right here in front of you.

“Thanks.” It’s unenthused, followed by a low, “I think.”

“So if your hand can’t do the Sevika thing, what can it do?”

You let out a soft sigh. Weight has crept back into your limbs— particularly the prosthetic one. “Theoretically feel, but that’s not working yet.”

“So you can’t feel your hand?”

“Nope.”

Her head cocks sideways. “So like… I could stab a knife through your hand and you wouldn’t feel it?”

Perhaps it should bother you that a twelve year old is proposing stabbing you. It doesn’t. This is the Undercity, and the question is reasonable. You shrug. “I mean, I’m not sure if you personally could get through the material, but I guess. If it was the hand part.”

She lights up. “Cool! Can—”

“No,” the voice is from the hall as an older man suddenly appears in the doorway. He comes in looking thoroughly anxious. “No, you cannot stab one of your father’s employees-”

Blue braids whip around as she turns on a dime. “He’s not my dad!”

The sudden change of mood is disconcerting.

Jinx scowls at the man, glaring daggers. When he doesn’t have a response, she pulls the paintball gun.

You quickly speak up. “I don’t know if Silco would appreciate you shooting this, uh…” Who is he, exactly?

“Tutor,” the man offers, hands up as though the kid holds a real gun, looking terrified. This poor guy.

“Silco says I have to know when people are bullshitting me, and trust my own judgment.”

Well it is a valid point. “He’s not much use if you shoot him,” you point out. From the way the man’s face drains, you suspect he may not realize the clunky firearm is a fake.

Jinx’s face screws up in annoyance. Finally, she lets out a frustrated noise. “Ugh, fine!” She stomps her foot, and heads for the door.

As soon as the tutor lets out his terrified breath, she shoots him in the knee.

—

[next part]

[Eyyy, baby Jinx! Or, technically, tween Jinx! I am very curious to hear opinions on this one, cause I know my take on Jinx doesn’t mesh with all fanon interpretations (like, for instance, my Jinx’s refusal to give Silco the title of father after having lost her last two). Also, yeah, my hc for Jinx is that she’s 10/11 in act 1, and this takes place appx 1.5-2 years after that.

Okay, plug time! Boosting through reblogs is always appreciated, given the nature of tumblr’s opaque rules for links in posts that make it into the main tags. If you want to check it out on AO3. Tag list can be joined by commenting on this linked post. Also I crave any and all comments, be they replies, reblogs, tags, or the comments on ao3. They are the wind beneath my wings. ❤️ -verbs]

Tag list: @hawk4president @mello-jello29 @jennrosefx @dad-dumpster @ellhd-imagination @zuckerwattencupcake @meep-moop-mystic

#silco x f!reader #silco x reader #silco/reader #silco #silco arcane #arcane x reader #arcane league of legends #x-amount-writes #wip:a helping hand #a helping hand

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