Chapter Text
Another day, another list of errands to run. Medkit awoke in his apartment at Crossroads, the familiar weight of routine settling over him. He longed to sleep longer, but duty, as always, called. With a resigned sigh, he dragged himself out of bed and began his usual morning ritual. After a quick shower and dressing in his customary attire, he downed a bitter black coffee—its sharp taste a necessary jolt to the system—and headed out.
To his surprise, he found Scythe waiting directly outside his door.
Scythe explained that The Father required his assistance, and that it was urgent. Of course, being the prize pony of the cult, Medkit complied without protest, though a familiar sense of weariness crept in. He fell into step with Scythe, the two making their way to the bus stop in silence to catch the next transport to Lost Temple. They waited under the dull sky until the bus rumbled to a halt before them, and they boarded, beginning the long journey.
Hours later, Medkit finally returned to Crossroads. The task assigned by the cult had been anything but "quick"; it was a long and dreadfully tedious affair. Yet, as a devoted member of the Church of the True Eye, he could not afford to disappoint. Shaking off his fatigue, Medkit shifted his focus to the rest of his day's obligations: first, a check-in on Rocket's prosthetics, followed by consultations with new clients hoping to commission his work. The day was far from over.
After long hours of errands, Medkit finally completed his tasks for the day. He let out a weary sigh, the tension in his shoulders begging for relief. Perhaps a brief stop at Slingshot’s cafe would provide a moment's respite. As he walked, his mind churned with the day’s remnants and tomorrow’s concerns. He mentally cataloged the errands yet to run, dreaded the possibility of another summons from The Father, and calculated if it was time to increase his commission fees. The thoughts were a familiar, cyclical drone in his head. He arrived at the cafe and paused, peering through the window before committing to enter. His blood ran cold. There, moving with mechanical efficiency among the tables, was a Biograft. It was absurdly dressed in a cocoa-brown apron, serving pastries and drinks to patrons. Medkit’s hand instinctively went to the strap of his briefcase.
A heavy sigh escaped him. Any thought of relaxation vanished. So even here, he thought. Who was to say this one wouldn’t recognize him? To its programming, he would always be a "traitor" to Blackrock, a designation that often came with lethal consequences. It seemed these mechanical sentries multiplied every day, infiltrating every corner of the city.
The risk wasn't worth a cup of coffee. Turning on his heel, Medkit abandoned the idea and began the solitary walk back to his apartment, the day’s weariness now compounded by a familiar, watchful paranoia.
Night was falling just as Medkit reached his apartment. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing him in the day’s silence. He tossed his briefcase onto the sofa, the thud echoing in the sparse room. With a weary sigh, he retrieved a pack of cigarettes and stepped out onto the balcony.
Leaning against the railing, he lit a cigarette and took a long, slow drag, the tip flaring in the deepening dusk. Below him, Crossroads pulsed with life—lights flickered on, laughter echoed from the streets, and the distant hum of the city created a symphony of existence. How lively, he thought, a familiar feeling of sonder settling over him. He often wondered about the stories unfolding in each lit window, the private joys and sorrows of strangers. To the outside world, he was a statue of indifference, but within, he cared deeply—a capacity for empathy stifled by his own asocial nature and the walls he’d built for survival.
He exhaled, a grey plume of smoke vanishing into the cool air. His gaze grew distant, fixed on nothing. Life has been getting hard lately. The thought was a quiet, constant undercurrent. The irony was not lost on him: a healer who dreamed of dying. An inphernal who dedicated his existence to mending others, yet couldn't suture his own fractures.
He stubbed out the first cigarette and lit another, the ritual offering a fleeting sense of control. The smoke burned his lungs, a tangible pain to focus on. His mind, unbidden, turned to his fears—old, deep-seated ghosts that refused to be exorcised. Even hearing his name was enough to make Medkit’s heart stutter, a phantom limb aching for a touch that always, always burned.
Funnily enough, the phantom was real. He saw him still, and he didn't understand why. His mind screamed to run, to put continents between them, yet his traitorous body rooted to the spot, a moth drawn to a flame that had already scorched its wings. He knew the relationship was a poison, a cycle of damage and unreliable respite. Yet, he couldn't sever the tie.
A painful question lingered in the smoke: Did he truly miss him, or did he miss the inphernal he used to be? Was he clinging to this shattered version now, pouring his hope into the broken vessel, desperately praying for a glimpse of the past to return? It was a pathetic, hopeless addiction—one he feared he’d never have the strength to quit.
An hour had passed. The empty cigarette pack lay crumpled on the balcony railing, a testament to his solitude. Medkit was a chainsmoker, he admitted it freely; the cigarettes were a crutch, a fleeting ritual of control where he had little. He cherished the sharp intake of breath, the burn in his lungs, the slow, deliberate exhale that momentarily clouded his problems. He was a medic—he knew the precise damage each stick inflicted, the silent war it waged on his body. But the knowledge was abstract. We only spawn once, he reasoned with a nihilistic shrug. Might as well.
The nicotine buzz had faded, leaving a familiar emptiness. Needing to replenish his supply, he turned back inside, grabbed a coat from its hook, and shrugged it on. A convenience store run. Maybe he’d pick up something stronger, too—something to ensure the night’s thoughts would drown before they could pull him under.
The night air was cold, a soft wind whispering against his skin as he stepped outside. He made his way to the neon-lit store a few blocks away, the transaction silent and efficient: a slide of bux across the counter, a new pack slid back. Tucking it into his pocket, he turned to leave, the weight a small comfort.
It was on the walk back that he saw him.
His blood ran cold, freezing him mid-step. Leaning against a lamppost under the harsh yellow light, stood a four-horned inphernal. It was him.
Subspace.
A grin was already slicing across his face, and he was waving, a gesture that was far too cheerful for the late hour and their shared history. Every instinct in Medkit’s mind screamed at him to turn around, to cross the street, to feign ignorance and take the longest route home imaginable. But his body, his traitorous body, had already made its choice. His feet carried him forward, each step a quiet betrayal, closing the distance between them once again.
“Meddy,” Subspace cooed, watching the teal-horned inphernal walk toward him. The nickname sent a familiar chill down Medkit’s spine. Even now, long after they had become sworn enemies, Subspace still had the audacity to use it—that intimate, grating diminutive that made his teeth clench.
“Meddy” was, by far, the worst nickname he had ever been given. “Meds” was tolerable. Just “Med” was acceptable, clinical, and distant. But “Meddy”? It was a name soaked in history, a relic from a time of foolish trust and shared ambitions. It was a name that had been whispered in labs and murmured in moments of weakness, and now it hung between them, heavy with everything that had been broken. He hated it. He hated how it sounded coming from Subspace’s mouth—a mockery of a fondness that had long since curdled into something toxic.
“What are you here for, Subspace?” Medkit said, his voice flat, his gaze fixed on some distant point in the night. He refused to grant him the courtesy of eye contact.
Subspace just smiled under his gas mask, a low, familiar chuckle escaping the filter. “Can’t an inphernal visit their favorite Medic?”
Medkit cringed at the reply, the false sweetness like acid on his skin. He didn’t like where this was going. He knew this script by heart. It always ended the same way: a desperate, angry hookup in the shadows. By day, they were enemies on the phighting grounds, a public spectacle of mutual contempt. But by night, in the isolating moonlight, they fell into this old, toxic pattern, pretending for a few fleeting hours that they were still lovers.
It was the worst kind of hypocrisy. Every inphernal in the league knew they were sworn rivals, that they despised each other. Yet here they were, standing in the quiet street, already falling into the roles they played best in private. The dissonance was maddening.
“You see, you weren’t answering my messages,” Subspace said, his voice dripping with a false, cloying sweetness that made Medkit’s skin crawl. “So I came all this way to visit you! I want us to visit a restaurant, just the two of us. I’ve gotten myself enough money for us to eat at the most luxurious place in Crossroads. Say, do you want to come with me?”
Medkit’s every instinct screamed at him to refuse. He wanted to shove Subspace away, to finally voice the fury and hurt, to sever this sick cycle for good and prove he no longer needed him. The word no was a solid, heavy weight on his tongue.
But his heart, that traitorous, sentimental organ, beat a frantic, opposing rhythm. It remembered older nights and softer words, a version of Subspace that was now just a ghost haunting his memories.
“Sure,” Medkit heard himself reply, the single word leaving his lips before his mind could reclaim control.
It was a constant, exhausting civil war. His mind, sharp and self-preserving, demanded he rid himself of this poison. His heart, foolish and clinging, ached to pull him closer. Feelings were a curse—a vulnerability he wished he could excise entirely. And as he fell into step beside Subspace, he hated himself a little more for succumbing to them yet again.
“I knew you’d say yes, Meddy.” Subspace purred, the sound a vibration in the cool night air. He reached out a hand, his eyes glinting with a familiar, predatory gleam from behind his mask. “Hold my hand.”
A silent war raged within Medkit for a single, suspended moment. Then, with a quiet sigh of surrender, he reached out and took it.
Subspace’s hand was cold, the skin unnaturally smooth and brittle beneath his touch, marred by the creeping, crystalline rot that Medkit himself had inflicted. It was a permanent testament to their ruin. In stark contrast, Medkit’s own hand was warm and clammy with nervous sweat. He was betraying himself with every second of contact, his mind screaming in protest even as his fingers interlaced with Subspace’s.
“Jeez, you’re sweaty.” Subspace remarked with a light, teasing laugh. He lifted their joined hands and, despite the barrier of his gas mask, pressed a mocking kiss to Medkit’s knuckles. The gesture was a grotesque pantomime of chivalry that sent another wave of conflicting shame and longing through Medkit. Subspace chuckled, low and knowing, and then they were walking, two sworn enemies hand-in-hand, disappearing into the neon glow of Crossroads on their way to its most luxurious restaurant.
They arrived at the restaurant, a place of understated opulence. The air was cool and smelled of polished silver and fresh flowers. Crystal glasses gleamed under soft, ambient lighting, and the quiet hum of conversation was a world away from the gritty streets of Crossroads.
“A table for two, please,” Subspace announced with a flourish. A waiter, with a practiced smile, led them to a secluded booth. The two inphernals sat across from each other, the wide table feeling like both a barrier and a stage.
“So what’ll it be, Meddy?” Subspace asked, not looking up from his menu.
Medkit’s reply was flat, devoid of interest. “I’ll have the chicken alfredo.”
Subspace let out a considering hum. “Hm, I’ll get the pesto, then.” He closed his menu with a snap, and they relayed their orders to the attentive waiter. Then, they were left in a heavy silence, waiting for the food to arrive.
It was Subspace who broke it. “So, how has your life been, Meddy?”
“It’s going fine.”
“Are you not going to ask me how my life has been as well?” Subspace cooed, leaning forward slightly.
Medkit didn’t bother to look at him. “I have no interest in what your life has been.”
The rejection only seemed to amuse Subspace, drawing a low chuckle from him. “Aw, come on, Meddy. Act like you’re interested. At least pretend.”
Medkit sighed, the sound weary and resigned. He played his part in the familiar script. “How about you? How has your life been, Subspace?”
Subspace’s eyes gleamed with immediate, manic energy behind his mask. “It’s going great! More projects yet to come! The higher-ups love all my inventions; it’s crazy!” He launched into a rambling monologue about blueprints and prototypes, his hands animating his words. He spoke to Medkit as if no time had passed, as if they were still co-workers in a shared lab, partners in creation.
And as much as Medkit’s mind recoiled, a treacherous part of him—the part that still remembered the thrill of innovation and shared ambition—leaned in and listened.
Medkit offered noncommittal hums in response to Subspace’s endless rambling. He didn’t know what else to say, so he defaulted to a soft chorus of “mhm” and “uhuh,” the bare minimum required to feign engagement. It was the best he could manage, a shield of indifference protecting him from the whirlwind of Subspace’s presence.
When their food arrived, the performance continued. Medkit took a slow, deliberate bite of his alfredo, his eyes cautiously tracking Subspace’s movements. With a click and a hiss, Subspace removed the lower portion of his gas mask, revealing the jawline and mouth beneath. The sight made Medkit’s stomach clench—the skin was marred by a familiar, crystalline rot, a vivid and permanent reminder of their violent history. He cringed internally but held his tongue.
“Are you sure you can eat properly with your… condition, Subspace?” Medkit asked, the question clinical, almost detached.
Subspace waved a dismissive hand, a grotesque smile stretching his damaged features. “Hm, I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine, dear Medkit.”
Medkit rolled his eyes, turning his attention back to his plate. Dear Medkit. The endearment echoed in his mind, absurd and infuriating. What was it about this dynamic that made Subspace cling to such intimate terms? They were sworn enemies, figures locked in a very public and bitter rivalry. The irony was so thick it was suffocating, a madness that seemed to deepen every time they found themselves trapped in this same, painful cycle.
Subspace took a bite of his food, a faint, pained “irk” escaping him as he worked his jaw, ignoring the obvious discomfort the rot caused him. He simply continued eating, a picture of stubborn denial.
Medkit watched him, a flicker of unwanted concern stirring in his chest. Against his will, his healer’s instincts began to surface, mentally cataloging the degradation and running through potential palliative formulas. If only he could find a way to synthesize a compound to counteract the rot's spread, maybe Subspace wouldn't have to live as a...
The thought hit him like a physical blow. A walking corpse. Like how Coil described him.
Wait.
Why was he thinking about healing Subspace?
He was supposed to hate him. He did hate him. He was supposed to wish for his downfall, to take grim satisfaction in the visible proof of his own past retaliation—not sit here in a fine restaurant, worrying about the inphernal's comfort and secretly wishing for his recovery. The cognitive dissonance was dizzying, a betrayal of his own resolve that left him feeling deeply unsettled. He quickly looked down at his plate, ashamed of his own traitorous mind.
Medkit ate the rest of his meal in heavy silence, the only sound between them Subspace’s occasional, pained groans as he forced food past the rot. Medkit found himself strangely numb to it; he had caused this affliction, after all. He should be accustomed to the consequences by now.
When they had both finished, Medkit dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin. Subspace mirrored the gesture almost exactly, a faint, unsettling parody of manners. For a brief moment, Subspace offered a soft, uncharacteristic smile—a glimpse of something that wasn't manic or mocking—before the familiar hiss of his gas mask sealed the expression away, locking it back behind a facade of cold, polished chrome.
"As I promised, I'll pay for the both of us," Subspace declared, his voice once again filtered and distorted. He signaled for the waiter, requested the bill, and without a second glance at the total, slid a black credit card across the machine. A soft beep confirmed the transaction was approved.
Without another word, they rose and stepped out of the restaurant's pristine warmth, returning to the cool, indifferent embrace of the Crossroads night, the silence between them louder than any argument.
Medkit retreated into his own thoughts, bracing himself for the inevitable. He knew what typically came next. They would walk back to his apartment and fall straight into bed, losing themselves in a physical frenzy that was equal parts passion and punishment. God. He didn't want that tonight. The day had left him hollowed out, and the last of his energy had been spent on maintaining that dinner's fragile facade. They walked in silence through the neon-drenched streets, the only sound between them the soft scuff of their shoes on the pavement and Subspace’s light, tuneless humming.
Then, they stopped. Not at Medkit’s apartment building, but at a nearly deserted bus stop.
Medkit looked around, confused. He turned his head to stare at Subspace. “Are we not going back to my apartment?”
Subspace chuckled, the sound oddly gentle through the mask’s filter. “No, Meddy. I just wanted to have a good late-night dinner with you, is all. There’s a phight tomorrow, and I must rest.”
The statement hit Medkit with the force of a physical shock. This was a deviation from their script, an unexpected breach of their toxic routine. He had braced for a collision, only to be met with a quiet withdrawal. He just nodded, too perplexed to form a coherent response.
Then, Subspace did something even more surprising. He took off his gas mask, closed the distance between them, and pressed a soft, warm kiss to Medkit’s lips. It was brief, devoid of its usual desperate hunger. Medkit froze for a moment before instinctively kissing back, a response born of old habit more than present desire. As quickly as it happened, Subspace let go, offering one of those rare, soft smiles.
“Goodnight, Meddy!” he said, his voice cheerful as the bus hissed to a stop beside them. He stepped aboard with a wave.
“Goodnight.. Subspace,” Medkit replied, the words feeling foreign on his tongue.
He stood there long after the bus’s taillights had vanished into the night, the ghost of the kiss lingering on his lips. The entire walk back to his apartment was spent wrestling with a single, torturous question: Was that moment of tenderness real? Or was it simply another layer of a complex, carefully constructed facade?