Work Text:
His hands shake. It messes up a plait. Annoying.
Sword looks back, hair strands dragging away from his fingers. “Are you okay?” he asks.
Okay. “I’m alive, aren’t I?” Medkit scoffs. He knows better than to believe he’s okay.
The braid flows out as he realizes Sword turns around and holds his hands. Green specks sprinkle his gloves, while the scent of grass was definitely transferring over to him now. The jitter in Medkit’s muscles is obvious—visibly shaking Sword’s arm now—but the twitch seems to slow as he looks for evidence of what he was doing.
They were sitting in a field. After a short hike around the border between Crossroads and Thieves Den, Sword dragged him into an open clearing. The grass was plentiful enough to cushion their landing, yet short enough to reveal any dangers that would now think twice before attacking.
And of all things Sword could have asked of him in that spot, he asked to braid his hair. “Like yours!” Sword had exclaimed, pointing to the small braid dangling off his cheek. He didn’t tell him that the braid only exists because he needs to do something with his hands during his long, stressful commute, but he obliges in the request.
Sword’s eyes laser-focus onto him, immediately seeing through him. “If you’re worried about pulling too hard, it’s not going to happen.”
“How do you know that?” Medkit pulls his hands away.
“I trust you!” It’s honest.
“…Well, I would hope you trust your healer,” he responds in typical dry fashion.
Sword smiles, like he achieved a goal of his. “You know what I mean, Medkit,” he replies, tossing the half-completed braid over his shoulder as he turns back around.
His hands return to work while Sword returns to staring at something at the ground. These moments are…nice. He hasn’t had much of an opportunity to breathe since his hours have increased and the trips between the church and the city have only become more inconvenient with his time away. He supposes the only upside is the small raise, but asking for more would put too much attention on his back—the exact opposite of his goals.
The repetitive action is akin to stitching wounds, if he squints at it. One strand over another, a thread over the other. The braids are consistent—easy to understand what will happen, if not with few miscounts. Crossroads—with all its layers—is easy to understand. Unlike the mountain of paperwork in the labs or the strings attached to every praise, it is here he can know what he is up against.
A bounty on his head. The law, artificial and flesh, breathing down his neck. History he must face the consequences for eventually. Subconsciously, he knows this is not fine—not something he can keep running from, but what can he do? His ties to the church are keeping him in one place, yet it pushes him to flee at every chance he can. Knee deep in snow and work and blood, he cannot see his fate ending in anything but misery.
He continues on. The snow will melt regardless. The water will wash off the blood. The grass will grow over his worries.
Medkit ties the ends of the braid together. “How’s this?”
Turning, Sword reaches for the braid and holds it in his hands. “Aww, thanks! Hold on, I have something in return—”
Before he could process his words, Sword moves his other hand away from the grounds and swings it above Medkit’s head. His now open palm releases something above his head, slotting itself in the space between his horns and his head. Medkit’s hands press to see what it is—the pressure is soft, and so is the texture.
A flower crown, his mind discovers. Dandelions are interwoven between grass strands while seeds fly off, revealing a golden yellow outline dotted along the straw.
Sword is giggling to himself, probably laughing at how stupid he looks, but Medkit can’t help himself but smile along. Dignity has definitely been lost here though, so he’ll have to find a way to pay it back between his scheduled commutes and written assignments.
For now? He thinks he will be okay.