Chapter Text
The first time Silco sees Vander, he doesn’t think much of him. In fact, he doesn’t even know his name. Silco is new to this sector of the mines, assigned here only recently, a fresh face in a tunnel carved deep into the rock. This part of the mine is infamous, deeper and more dangerous than the upper levels, which is exactly what Silco is looking for.
At twenty-five, an orphan with no safety net, Silco works because he must. The deeper you dig, the better the pay. Better pay means he might finally escape the miserable hole he calls home. Maybe even afford something better. And really, if he’s going to spend his days choking on dust and chipping away at stone, he might as well be well-paid for it. Danger doesn’t scare him. Fuck danger, for that matter. It’s not as though anyone would mourn him if he didn’t make it back up.
On his first day in this part of the mine, Silco immediately senses that people are distrustful of him. They watch him from the corners of their eyes, glances sharp and guarded as he moves through the tunnel to find a good spot to work on. He is not surprised; he does have a reputation as too sharp-tongued and too quick to bite back. So he doesn’t blame them, really, and it doesn’t take long for everyone to learn to leave him be.
Most of Silco’s breaks are spent alone. He tends to retreat to a quiet corner, back against the rough stone wall, scribbling in his diary or smoking in silence, lost in thought. It is on one of those breaks when the massive man approaches him, a towering figure with an affable smile and a helmet tucked under his arm.
“Hi there,” Vander greets, his voice low and warm. He stretches out a hand. “You’re new here, right? I’m Vander.”
He looks up, raising a sceptical eyebrow as he takes the offered hand. “Silco,” he replies, shaking it cautiously. Vander’s grip is firm, his palm calloused and warm.
“Good to see a new face,” Vander says, grinning as he lets go, his presence radiating a rare friendliness. “Do you mind if I borrow that crate? Ours are full.” He gestures to the pair of wooden crates by Silco’s side, one of them already half-filled from Silco’s past hour work.
Silco studies Vander for a moment, and then he simply shrugs. “All yours,” he says, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. “Not like they’re mine anyway.”
Vander steps forward, his broad frame blocking the dim light as he crouches to grab the crates. Janna, the man is built like an ox. As much as it irks Silco to admit it, Vander is someone who actually looks like he belongs in a mine, unlike himself.
As if to underline the point, Vander lifts one of the lidded crates in his massive arms, muscles rippling with the effort. Silco finds himself staring, and he forces himself to glance away.
“Not bad,” Vander says with a smirk.
Silco suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. It’s not like the guy picked up anything heavy—he’d grabbed the empty crate. Even he could’ve done that. Instead of dwelling on it, he takes another drag of his cigarette.
By the time Silco exhales, smoke curling lazily into the air around him, Vander is already walking away. Silco doesn’t bother watching him go until the man turns to him once more.
“By the way,” Vander began, adjusting the crate’s weight in his arms, “feel free to join us during the break, if you want.”
Silco doesn’t miss the ease in Vander’s tone. He’s probably the kind of guy everyone around here looks up to. “Perhaps another time,” he replies coolly, holding up the cigarette he’s nearly finished.
“Shame,” Vander says with a shrug. He shifts the crate to one arm, freeing a hand before gesturing with his thumb back toward a small group of miners in the other side of the tunnel. “In any case, we’re usually over there. You’re welcome to join us anytime—we don’t bite.”
Voices from the group call out to Vander, pulling his attention. He shifts the weight of the crate again, adjusting his grip with both arms. “I should go,” he says. Then, to Silco’s utter bafflement, he winks at him with a smirk before striding off toward his friends, crate rattling noisily with every step.
Silco stays rooted in place, a scowl forming on his face. With the cigarette perched between his lips, he moves to the remaining crate, placing both hands on its lid. He flips it open and glances inside with curiosity, only to find it completely empty.
“That means…” Silco mutters under his breath, his gaze darting toward the other side of the tunnel, where Vander, oblivious to the weight he was carrying, has already set the crate down and joined the others.
Scoffing quietly, Silco plucks the cigarette from his mouth, flicks it to the ground, and snuffs it out beneath his boot.
Strange man, he thinks, straightening with a shake of his head before going back to work. Strong, though.
The next time Silco sees Vander, it’s once again under the dim lights of the tunnel. Silco is working a particularly hard section of wall, his pick striking over and over with little progress. He pauses briefly, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. After an hour of effort, the rock seems just as solid as when he started. Damn his lack of muscle, he needs to build more strength if he ever hopes to make real money here.
As he glares at the still impertinently intact wall, a voice cuts through his thoughts.
“Hey.”
Silco glances to the side, and there stands Vander once again, this time with his helmet firmly in place. His broad shoulders and thick arms are hidden beneath the rough fabric of his uniform jacket, which somehow makes him appear even bulkier.
Silco’s gaze lingers on him a moment too long. He’d be lying if he said the memory of those arms hadn’t crossed his mind more than once since their last encounter.
Vander stands a few feet away, his pickaxe resting in one hand, his clean-shaven face lit with that infuriatingly casual smile. The kind that always made Silco bristle.
“Need a hand with that?” Vander asks,
Silco’s first instinct is to scowl at the offer. He’s been in this situation before, back in other tunnels. He tended to attract all kinds of overconfident, muscular morons that would swoop in, eager to show him “how it’s done.”. The same kind of men who’d earned him his reputation for being mouthy and venomous.
But what can Silco say? He’s had enough of their bullshit—the endless posturing, the constant attempts to prove they were better men because of their rough skin, bulky bodies, and calloused hands.
Fuck them. Silco could do their job better. Sure, he might not look the part, but he’s strong, agile, and, unlike most of them, has more than three working brain cells.
“Be my guest,” he says dryly.
“Appreciate that,” Vander replies with a laugh. The sound is warm, and it stirs something in Silco he can’t quite name.
He shrugs begrudgily before tightening his grip around the handle. He’s about to raise it above his head to try again at the wall, when Vander speaks again.
“Felicia’s had about enough of me today,” Vander explains, grinning sheepishly. “Told me to ‘fuck off before she shoved her pickaxe up my ass.’”
He glances over his shoulder, as if checking to make sure the woman isn’t sneaking up to make good on the threat. Silco tilts his head in curiosity as he follows Vander’s gaze.
In the distance, a woman with dark purple hair crouches to gather rocks from the ground. Another miner works beside her, chipping away at the wall, the two exchanging quiet words and bursts of laughter every few minutes. Silco watches them for a moment, his mind turning. Maybe they’re flirting. Maybe they just wanted Vander out of their way. Who the fuck cares.
“Are you for real?” Silco says, looking at Vander up his nose. “A big guy like you, scared of her?” he sneers with a teasing smirk.
“Oh, believe me, she’s fierce,” Vander chuckles, shaking his head. “You’ll know if you joined us sometime for a drink.”
Silco’s gaze wanders once more to the woman, and then back at Vander. “Shall we then?” he says, ignoring the offer.
“Let’s,” Vander nods, apparently not faced by his rejection. “I’ll show you a trick.”
For once, Silco decides to trust. He’s tired anyway, and he knows that with Vander’s help, the work will get done faster, and he won’t crawl into bed with muscles screaming in protest. It’s a win-win situation. Besides, Vander does seem different from the self-entitled morons from the other tunnels.
Vander steps forward, his heavy boots crunching against the grit on the floor. He halts in front of the stubborn wall and studies it for a long moment, his brow furrowed in concentration. Then, as if coming to a decision, he wields his pickaxe and strikes in the rock with a piercing sound.
“There we are,” Vander says with a hint of pride, glancing over his shoulder at Silco. “Give me a hand here.”
Silco hesitates but ultimately rises his tool, following Vander’s lead. He positions the pickaxe where instructed, jamming it into a gap between two solid chunks of rock. Vander mirrors his movements from another angle. On the third strike, the wall cracks and gives way, crumbling with a satisfying crash to reveal a freshly opened tunnel.
For a moment, Silco just stares, stunned. He’d spent an hour hammering away at that wall to no avail… when it could have been done in a matter of minutes. He feels embarrassment and inadequacy flooding him, his face flustering.
He tightens his jaw as he bristles, like he always does when that happens. With an angry grunt, he flings his pickaxe against a nearby rock, the clang of metal echoing in the cave.
“Guess I was wasting my time,” Silco mutters under his breath, spitting onto the dusty ground in disgust. “This is fucking bullshit.”
A warm hand then settles on his shoulder, and Silco feels grounded all at once. Vander’s expression is soft as he looks at him, full of an understanding that disconcerts Silco.
“Don’t let it get to you,” he says as he pats Silco’s shoulder. “These rocks are tougher than the ones in the other tunnels, much denser and harder to break.”
Vander smiles, giving Silco’s shoulder a brief, reassuring squeeze before releasing him. Silco can’t help but wonder if Vander has noticed how naturally skittish he is, and chose not to linger or impose his touch. Whatever the reason, he feels his instinct to lash out waning, his bruised pride inexplicably soothed.
Vander gets him. Somehow, this man—who by all accounts should be oblivious to Silco’s struggles—sees through his insecurities with ease. And instead of humiliating him further, as so many have done before, Vander chooses to offer comfort. He’s not patronizing—he’s… patient. And that is new for Silco.
“It was Felicia who showed me that trick,” Vander continues, and then he lets out a low chuckle that reverberates through the space. “Her and Connel—they’ve been here for months. When I first got to this sector, I spent two days nearly tearing my shoulders apart before they showed me how it’s done.”
“Right,” Silco mutters, not quite meeting Vander’s gaze. He leans against the tunnel wall in defeat. “As if you needed help.”
“Oh, ask them if you don’t believe me,” Vander replies easily, propping his pickaxe against his shoulder. “But to do that, you’ll have to join us in a break at some point.”
Silco lets out a quiet scoff, brushing dust off his gloves. “You’re really persistent, aren’t you?” he says dryly. But there’s something about Vander’s that stops him from sulking further, finally placated.
Vander doesn’t press the matter. Instead, he turns back to the fresh tunnel, stepping over the rubble to inspect the new space. The faint glow of lantern light from his helmet spills over his broad frame, throwing sharp shadows along the dark walls.
“Well,” Vander says, breaking the silence as he surveys the new passage, “looks like we’ve got our next job ahead of us!” he beams, turning to flash a crooked smile at Silco. “Think you can manage, or should I grab Felicia to help?”
“I can manage,” Silco says petulantly, narrowing his eyes and straightening his posture. “Let’s see if you have any more useful tricks,” he sneers.
Vander just chuckles again, and without waiting for a reply, he strides deeper into the tunnel. Silco lingers for a moment, glaring at the man’s back as he busies his lower lip between his lips.
What a strange guy, he thinks once more.
There’s something irritating about Vander’s amicability, something that that keeps him perpetually on edge. It’s as if Vander’s kindness is an itch he can’t scratch.
Silco is like a wary shelter dog, instinctively mistrusting anyone who’s good to him for no apparent reason. In his world, kindness is always followed by the sting of the stick.
Yet, as much as he tries to distrust Vander’s intentions, Silco finds himself failing. And that annoys the shit out of him.
He must want something, Silco tells himself, clinging to the thought like a lifeline. I know I’m right.
Weeks pass by, and the more Silco interacts with Vander, the clearer it becomes that the man wants something from him. It’s not exactly a leap of logic to figure that out, and it’s far from the first time Silco has dealt with this kind of attention. He knows he’s an attractive man, and he’s damn proud of it. Men like Vander have noticed him before.
But this feels… different. The guys who wanted to fuck never bothered to be subtle about it. They were direct, blunt, and Silco appreciated that. He preferred it, really. No pretence, no games, he always went after those people himself, when all he wanted was a quick, no-strings romp. He never had much patience for sentimentality, thank you very much.
Vander, though, unsettles him. The man clearly has an agenda. Silco can see it in the way he looks at him – and if he’s honest with himself, Silco has been looking back. But Vander doesn’t just come out with it or makes a move. He just keeps being fucking charming around him, treating him like an equal, like a partner, as if they’ve known each other far longer than they have.
It’s infuriating, really. So much, that it doesn’t take long for Silco’s patience to finally snap.
Like everyone else, Silco has bad days. But then there were those days—the really bad ones. Thankfully, they didn’t happen often. When they did, it was usually because he had a migraine or hadn’t slept well. On those days, Silco was consumed by rage, dark thoughts about his life choking him and filling his veins with a fury that burned like acid.
He gets one of those days about a month after he’s been assigned to this sector. The mine feels especially oppressive that day—thick, heavy air pressing down on everything. Sweat pours from every pore as he hauls rocks into a crater, his muscles already screaming in protest.
Then, from the other end of the corridor, he hears laughter. Glancing over from the corner of his eye, he sees Vander, having a smoke on his break with the same crowd he always gathers. Silco knows their names by now—though he pretends he doesn’t. Lately, he’s found himself tempted to take Vander up on his offer to join them during breaks, but he hasn’t really gathered the courage for it. For now, he keeps retreating into the safety of his solitude.
With a groan, he heaves the last rock into place and straightens, stretching out his sore, aching body. The exhaustion already weighs on him heavily, the kind that promises a restless, sore night. Again. The thought sours his mood even further.
Without sparing a glance at the crates, Silco grabs his pickaxe and turns toward the wall he’s been chipping away at, this time a softer section. With a low grunt of frustration, he swings the tool, driving it deep into the rock. He swings again. And again. Each impact reverberates up his arms, his muscles protesting and straining. He doesn’t care. He just keeps going, pick after pick, pouring every ounce of his anger and exhaustion into the motion. At least the job is good for one thing: venting. And venting is exactly what Silco needs.
He hates this life.
As proud as he is to have been born in Zaun, it’s a shitty life, one that feels unfair and unbearable in days like today. Nobody should have to fight this hard just to survive. To scrape by on the scraps of an elite class that doesn’t even see them. He hates that he risks his life for a job that barely covers the bills. He hates the scarcity of food, and the piss-poor quality of what little they do get. He hates that the is air thick of chemicals, shortening his lifespan every time he takes a fucking breath.
But most of all, he hates his own life. He hates that there’s no one to help him. He hates that he is alone, poor, weary and tired, that there’s no one to comfort him when he feels vulnerable. Because damn it all, even he can feel desperate and miserable every once in a while.
He hates, hates, hates and then hates some more.
He swings harder, faster, frantic now. The skin on his hands burns as blisters form, but he doesn’t stop. Somewhere in his rage, he forgot to put his gloves on. It doesn’t matter. Nothing does. Not until the pickaxe suddenly gives way, snapping with a sharp crack as he drives it too hard into the rock.
For a moment, Silco just stands there, staring at the broken tool in his trembling hands. Panting heavily, he lets it clatter to the ground. He tries to take a deep breath, but his lungs feel tight, his chest heaving as sweat drips from his temples, soaking into his sideburns and bangs.
He knows he needs to calm down, get a fucking grip, before he ends up with a migraine to go along with his aching muscles. But he can’t. The frustration, the thoughts, all of it is raging inside him, consuming him, making him want to crawl out of his own skin. Making him want to see the world burn.
“Silco!”
The sound of his name cuts through his haze, and he groans in exasperation. Vander is already hurrying over, the massive man moving with surprising speed for someone his size. Silco barely has time to blink before Vander is at his side, taking one of Silco’s hands in his own.
“Have you lost your damn mind? Look what you did to yourself!” Vander chides, frowning as he inspects Silco’s hand.
“Piss off,” Silco hisses as he jerks his hand, trying to pull free, but Vander holds on tight.
“No,” Vander barks.
“No?” Silco snaps, glaring up at him. “What the fuck do you mean, no?”
“Silco,” Vander growls, his voice sharp in a way that SIlco hasn’t heard before. It makes all of Silco’s hair stand on edge. “Sit your ass down and let me take care of this. Do you have any idea how easy it is to catch an infection in this place? You could end up losing your damn hands.”
The sheer force of Vander’s tone makes Silco hesitate. Finally, he gulps and gives in. The last thing he needs is to end up a cripple. With a huff, he lowers himself to the floor, only now noticing the sharp sting in his hands as the adrenaline begins to fade. Pain cramps through his fingers, making him wince.
Vander shakes his head in disapproval, his gruff voice cutting through the quiet. “Bring me the medkit!” he shouts to one of the nearby miners.
The man scrambles to comply, returning with the kit before retreating swiftly. Silco notices how quickly they obey. So, people not only respect him, but actually listen to him, he thinks.
Vander kneels and takes Silco’s hands with surprising gentleness, inspecting the wounds before digging through the basic supplies. He works methodically, pulling out splinters with steady precision. Silco hisses but doesn’t pull away, biting back the urge to curse. He would rather die than complain like a wussy Piltie right now.
Vander doesn’t seem to notice, too busy grabbing a cotton handkerchief, dousing it with alcohol before pressing it to the raw skin. This time, Silco’s breath catches at the burn, but if Vander notices, he pretends he doesn’t. He just moves on, wrapping Silco’s hands tightly with clean bandages.
Once satisfied, Vander nods and pats Silco’s shoulder, a gentle smile breaking through his rugged features. The sight sends a spark of irritation flaring in Silco’s chest.
“Take better care of yourself, will you?” Vander says simply before turning to head back to his section of the tunnel.
That’s it. Silco’s had enough.
With a sharp curl of his lip, he surges to his feet. Ignoring the others in the tunnel, he takes two furious strides forward and grabs Vander by the shoulder, yanking him around.
Vander turns, his brow furrowing in surprise, but Silco stands his ground with a hand on his own hip, not the least bit cowed by the man’s size, and jabs a finger into the centre of the broad chest.
“What’s your fucking deal?” he spats out.
Perhaps he should have been more cautious. A man like Vander, with his sheer size and presence, was surely violent when provoked. And oh, Silco is provoking him just about right.
Let him try, Silco thinks. The truth is, he could use the rush today, whether it’s from a good fuck or a good fight. Either would do, and it seems that today it would be the last one.
But Silco’s expectations are shattered once more when Vander doesn’t lash out. He doesn’t even bristle. Instead, he just looks at Silco with a maddeningly calm, slightly puzzled expression, as if the furious little gremlin in front of him is just an amusing riddle to solve.
“What do you mean?” Vander asks, his eyebrows knitting together in genuine confusion.
The lack of reaction catches Silco off guard. He’s been expecting something. Anger, indignation, fucking anything. He swallows hard, slowly removing his finger from Vander’s chest to take his hand through his own curls.
Why do you… act like this? With me?” he presses, glaring at the man with bright, burning green eyes.
Vander’s confusion only seem to increase. “Act with you? You mean right now?”
Silco stares at him, incredulous. Is he a bloody idiot? he wonders, the thought flashing hot through his mind. Fine. If Vander won’t be direct, Silco will. Even if there are people around them. Is he being dramatic? Perhaps. But he doesn’t give a shit anymore.
“Do you want to fuck me? Is that it?” Silco snarls, his voice snapping like a whip. “Because if you do, you can save the theatrics. Say it out loud. I don’t go to bed with wusses.”
“Silco!”
Vander’s voice slices through his rambling, and Silco freezes, clamping his mind shut against the sudden calling of his name. His chest is heaving, finally the tension has snapped, and now he just looks at Vander with furious eyes, huffing and puffing through his nose like an angry bull.
“I...,” Vander hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand. “Look, life’s hard enough in Zaun. I just think it’s better if we look out for each other. Especially here, in the mines.”
The nervousness he detects in the other man is enough to put Silco slightly at ease. Barely, but at least his breathing calms down.
“Right,” Silco drawls, narrowing his eyes. “So that’s it? You’re just some samaritan taking care of everyone?”
Vander shrugs. “Well… I try my best. If you joined us during breaks, you’d see I’m not much different from anyone else around here. We’re a good bunch.”
Again with the sodding breaks. Silco ignores it, crossing his arms in front of his chest. He studies Vander for a long moment, tapping his finger against his biceps as he does so.
“And that’s it?” he finally asks suspiciously.
“Not quite,” Vander says, his voice lowering slightly. “I do like you.”
What?
Silco blinks, caught off guard. “You…” he trails off. Then he tries again. “Wait—what? You like me?"
“I’m not really good at this kind of thing,” Vander shrugs again, gazing to the side. “But you’re hot, and witty and yes, I do like you.”
“What are you, five?” Silco sneers, pressing a hand against his forehead. “Honestly…” he snorts.
“A five-year-old wouldn’t be able to invite you for a drink,” Vander replies, his tone so matter-of-fact it borders on cheeky.
Silco stares, utterly speechless, and before he knows, laughter bursts from him. He doesn’t even know why—it just spills out, loud and unstoppable. Gasping, he presses a hand to his eyes and leans against the wall, his body shaking with snorts and chortles he can’t contain.
Through it all, Vander watches him with that same calm, steady expression, unshaken by Silco’s outburst. The sight only sends Silco into another fit of hysterical laughter.
When Silco finally manages to calm himself, he wipes at the corner of his eye, still catching his breath. “Oh man, I needed that today.”
“I’m glad I could be of service,” Vander replies with a snort and a roll of his eyes.
For once, Silco smiles back, genuinely this time. The laughter had done more for his mood than any amount of swinging a pickaxe at the wall ever could. He doesn’t dwell on why it helped, but he does feel lighter. And really? He’ll take it.
They return to their work after that, the half-hearted suggestion of a drink lingering unspoken between them. Neither of them addresses it, but it stays there, circling in Silco’s thoughts like smoke curling in the air.
Over the next few days, it continues to linger at the edges of his mind. He even begins to wonder—if Vander had been serious, would he actually have turned him down?