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Silco sighed and reclined in his chair. Marcus could, finally, exhale - a meeting with this man was always nerve-racking, as if he's stepping down into the bottom of a snake pit to fight a beast. Like he's sent to the principal's office for a stern talking to. Today was one of the easier meetings; frankly, they usually went about the same, Silco making demands and Marcus ultimately agreeing to them. The difference between a difficult meeting and an easy one was if Silco's wishes were easy to accept or not, how much arguing it would take. Today was so easy that the air in the green-lit office was almost friendly, if it wasn't for Silco's hulking henchwoman standing feet away from Marcus' flank.
Maybe he could, after all…
"This was, surprisingly, quite a productive meeting." Silco picks up his glass, his dextrous, confident hand swirling the amber liquid at the bottom, before turning it up and downing it all. Marcus watched his Adam's apple bob with the gulp, powdery skin of his neck undulating. He turned his gaze away.
"Yes. I'm quite happy with the outcome."
Silco grunted in acknowledgement more than response. "Hopefully, you won't have to visit me again for a while, then."
Marcus' cue to leave.
Well. It's now or never.
"Um, actually. Before I go..." Silco was in the middle of turning away from him, and he paused and looked back at him. Nevermind. Nevermind. Abort.
A pit opened in Marcus’ stomach.
Perhaps it was smarter to choose 'never'. Perhaps it'd be better to just snap my mouth shut and know that I survived another meeting.
Silco didn't look curious, his contempt was, as always, palpable - he was silently asking why Marcus was interrupting him. Why he hadn't left yet.
This is so stupid. This is so fucking stupid. I'm going to die here tonight.
"What.” Silco was waiting.
"I... I brought you something. From topside."
Marcus reached into the breast pocket of his blue jacket. Silco's henchwoman tensed up visibly, same as Silco, watching his movements.
"It's cigars." He pulled out a cigar tin, with a gilded geometric design etched onto the lid. This is so incredibly, lethally stupid.
Silco regarded the box, the crease in his brow sharp and his lips taut.
"Why." His tone was ingrained with deep suspicion, rendering the single, raspy word into a statement.
Because I saw it in the markets and I thought of you. Like a lovestruck teenager.
"I wanted to extend my gratitude. For all we achieved together."
That was a direct quote of Silco's but, somehow, from his mouth it sounded naïve and pathetic. The awkwardness of holding the box up expanded threefold with each second Silco didn't accept the gesture.
Marcus felt a bead of sweat roll down the dip of his spine. Silco continued to eye the tin.
"It's not... It's not a trick, or anything. It's-" Marcus withdrew the box and opened it for him, gloved hands shaking. "It's just cigars. I promise. They're from the markets."
Silco exchanged a look with his henchwoman, then peered into the box.
"Are you trying to bribe me, Sheriff?"
Marcus lifted his eyes from the neat row of cigars affixed in the tin, to regard the man in front of him. Silco's voice was quieter than his usual intimidating gravelly self, softer - Marcus could feel light-headed if he wasn't mortified. Somehow, his title sounded like he was being called a name.
"I- No. It's simply a gift. I'm hoping our alliance can continue. This is just... A gesture of good will." His voice broke. His head was right back in elementary school, failing to impress his maths teacher. Failing to impress his crush. Failing to-
Silco's eyes met his, his blue eye half-lidded and unamused.
He was red, beet red, he felt it.
Silco's henchwoman watched each of his movements close, igniting the fire under his belly further. This was worse than any school test, any enforcer hazing he has been a part of, any life-threatening scenario this specific man - this short, skinny, evil, vicious, mean fucker - put him in. This was Marcus' own fault, he got himself into this, and he didn't need to do this; had he thought even a second longer, he would know that this was stupid. Completely moronic, through and through.
It's not even... He didn't even tell him the truth. It's so much stupider than just a gift.
Silco still didn't take the box. He overlooked it completely, peering into Marcus' eyes with a neutral expression, as if he was reading him like a book. As if he could read Marcus' thoughts.
Finally, he swallowed his pride and set the box down on the table, withdrawing his hand.
"Marcus." Silco's voice was even softer, even quieter. The reaction it sparked in his belly horrified Marcus. This was a criminal, a man who killed indiscriminately and who put drugs out on the streets and who made the place of his birth worse, and yet here, where Marcus was sat in the lion's den, his name in that tone felt like being baby-talked at. It felt like Silco knelt down on his level. Marcus has never felt so fucking ashamed. He's really felt enough camaraderie with this- this old man in a vest, this pallid river fish, this deranged predator, that he purchased a gift for him and brought it down here, and he expected a thank you and perhaps a shared glass of something brown. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
"Marcus, our relationship is strictly limited to what you have to offer me and what I can do for you. I harbor no interest in your affinity."
"Of course. I'm sorry." Marcus' voice was barely a whisper. His gloved hands wrung together in his lap.
"I strongly advise you not to repeat this. I do not favour brown-nosing nor do I care for your presence in particular. I suggest you take your box and leave."
"Yes. Of course, Silco."
"Go home to your daughter. Give her a better daddy than the one you clearly had."
Marcus' throat closed up, and his shoulders tensed up like a springloaded mousetrap. His eyes snapped to Silco, and then the woman, who was pointedly looking elsewhere, a smirk tugging on her lip. His mind drew a blank on what he should say. Honestly, good; he knew that whatever he'd say would embarrass him further. He snapped the box shut and stuffed it back in his breast pocket, his big gloves suddenly rendering him clumsy. He turned his back on Silco and didn't say good bye or shake his hand or anything of the sort. He just left.
The edges of the tin dug into his chest as he sat in the car home, leg bouncing the whole way as he was slumped in the backseat clutching his forehead, avoiding looking at the driver in front.
Isn't he lucky that he won't have to see Silco for a while again.
He spent the day with Ren. He pulled her out of school for the day, and he took her to a sweets shop. He dismissed her after-school tutor and instead read to her, listened to her chatter about this and that. He thought about Clerra, and decided he'll visit the cemetery later, because right now he couldn't get Silco's eye out of his head, and he didn't want to bring that with him to see his late beloved. He listened to his baby's laughter, and he thought about Silco and Jinx. He thought about what he should do next, how to stop being this way, how to wriggle out from under Silco's thumb, and decided that he had too much of a shit day to think clearly enough to come to a conclusion right now.
He put Ren to bed, and he showered, and he sat alone in the drawing room. He watched flames lick edges of logs in the fireplace, listened to song get occasionally disrupted by the crackle of his old phonograph.
The tin of cigars was there, on the table.
Marcus wasn't a smoker. He owned a cigar cutter and an ashtray, it stayed behind after Greyson, may the earth be light on her.
He leaned forward, cracking the tin open. Bringing it up to his nose, he took a whiff, and he cursed himself for buying this, again. He could not have been more foolish. Well, he could have, of course he could have, there's always that possibility with Silco. But not by much.
He plucked a cigar out of the row, and with the cigar cutter, he snipped the tip off. He knew how to do this, and he felt the tips of his ears burn with the realization that he'd learned by watching Silco.
Was it really so obvious? No, he didn't have a good father. It was, frankly, cruel of Silco to mock him for that. The knowledge that Silco had known this information simply by, what, seeing directly through his gesture, was absurd. He wasn't a mind-reader, he was just a man in a fancy chair, with a yellowing cravat he probably stole from a Piltovan. He could've run a background check on Marcus, and he probably did. He probably knew every single fucking thing about him.
Marcus clicked a lighter on, igniting the tip of the cigar and taking a drag. He didn't even pull into his lungs. Bet Silco would laugh at that. Marcus could count on one hand the times he'd heard Silco laugh, each time it was this deep crackle, like stepping into gravel.
He inhaled the smoke into his lungs, and he released it immediately. An imagined chuckle purred in his ear. Holding the thing in the crook of his index finger, Marcus held it like Silco had, as if he taught him how to do it.
He couldn't ignore it any longer, pushing the heel of his hand down into his crotch. A cold wave of shame rolled over his body, face aflame and the heat spreading down to his neck.
Surely, he wasn't about to do this. Not about Silco. He was a fucking terrorist, dealing shit cards to everyone he spoke to from behind a big table. That uppity beak-nosed freak who looked down on everyone, including Marcus.
Somehow, the cigar felt like a gift; by rejecting Marcus' gesture, Silco gifted him a memento. Marcus was sure that Silco wasn't thinking about him at night; definitely not in the way he's thinking about Silco. Not pushing the waistband of his sleep trousers down and taking himself in hand, blushing with embarrassment.
Marcus thumbed the tip of his cock, red and weeping, and he brought the cigar up to his lips again. He imagined he's still there, kilometers away, in the office above the nightclub. Silco sitting behind that desk, watching his every move, making him smoke that thing. Properly teaching him, maybe. Sitting him down with a firm hand on his shoulder and lighting it for him at his lips. Then sitting on the edge of the desk, crossing his ankles, watching him cough and sputter, and laughing.
Marcus let out a puff of smoke and coughed a bit, stroking his cock in hand, head on fire the thought of Silco watching him do that. That mean little smirk he does, when he knows he has Marcus in a corner. His breath hitched, throat sore, but he brought the cigar up to his lips again and forced in a shaky inhale. It hurt, it was uncomfortable, and he coughed again, followed by a pathetic sob. The Silco in his head, standing right in front of him with his own cigar, shook his head in disappointment. Wasting a perfectly good cigar, boy.
A groan slipped from his mouth.
I'll show you how a real man smokes, hm, boy?
"Please," Marcus breathed, and the way the throbbing need in his cock pulsed, he had to stop to gather himself.
Already? Weak.
"M'sorry," Marcus whimpered, eyes screwed shut. He resumed his strokes, slower and looser now.
Hold on for me, boy. You can last longer. Finish the cigar, at least.
"Yes, sir," Marcus whimpered, remembering how they had to call their drill instructor that in enforcer academy. Silco giving him orders...
Repeat after daddy, boy.
His jaw fell open, a silent scream, his own exhales loud in his head as he pulled on his cock. In his mind's eye, he watched Silco's teeth and lips close around his own cigar, slowly pulling a drag and the cherry-tip of it glowing. Marcus mirrored the image, imagining a firm hand gripping his wrist in place in front of his mouth. His eyebrows stitched together, he knew he was under Silco's eye, every move, every breath under scrutiny, and his breath hitched again and he sputtered, smoke stinging in his sinuses. Gasping for air, he moaned openly, head tipping back onto the edge of the sofa's backrest, shoulder tensing with furious movements of his hand.
Stupid boy. I thought you were better than this. Useless, pathetic boy.
Marcus' thighs tensed hard, his abdomen following. Tension building, quiet whimpers fell out of his parted lips openly, unrestrained and shameful, and he bit his lip to try and tamper them.
Maybe Silco would find a use for him. Bend him over that desk. Make his goons watch him defile his stupid useless body. Maybe he'd fuck his face, stuff his cock in his mouth. Teach him to suck dick the same way he taught him to smoke. Teach him his place, how to be a good boy for him, just for him-
Marcus' voice cut off as he came, a puddle of hot cum pooling over his fist and spilling over his knuckles. Forcing his eyes open, the ceiling of his drawing room was swimming in his vision. He blinked and leveled his breath. His throat was sore.
“Shit-”
He shot up, lifting the cigar up from the spot where it had been burning a circle into his sofa cushion.
“Ugh, god fucking damnit.”