Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It happened, oddly enough, not in a chance encounter during a phight, or in the midst of a heated clash or chase between the infamous members of the Church of the True Eye and the Banland Police. No, this first encounter took place in a grocery store.

No, Banhammer did not want to explain how he ended up here, in this stupid mortal grocery store holding a tomato and staring across the fresh produce aisle at Blackrock’s most wanted traitor- and one of the accursed members of that stupid Lost Temple cult he was hunting down.

But be that as it may, it was Banhammer’s dumbass employee who had gotten himself sick while on an infiltration mission to Blackrock- he’d volunteered himself both of out of a genuine desire for information on the elusive, very shady faction and what Banhammer suspected was an infatuation with one of their worker ant employees.

Okay, maybe infatuation was a strong word. Knowing the kid, he was probably running strong both off of genuine do-good intent and the sheer stubborn will of befriending those he liked and found interesting.

Either way, it seems everyone had forgotten that temperature dysregulation was an open door invitation for illness- the drastic temperature difference of hopping between Blackrock and Banland had gotten the brat sick. Didn’t help that the little twerp naturally ran cold.

And because Banhammer unfortunately recognized that he’d slacked on this responsibility for the inphernal that was about as closest to his protege as he could get for several years until now, some form of twisted guilt and obligation found him here. In this tiny, horribly lit pathetic mortal grocery store, buying items for a soup (because like hell he was feeding the kid basic ass canned soup) when he should be just taking what he pleased like the tyrant he was.

And now he was stuck facing him. And Banhammer was sure it was him, Blackrock hadn’t exactly been subtle with their wanted posters.

Teal antler-resembling horns, missing eye (must’ve been easy fitting in with the Church) covered by a diamond eyepatch, shiny crystal floating between said horns. He was dressed in casual wear, but Banhammer had recognized that peculiar, life-weary face anywhere.

He levelled Banhammer not with the gaze he wore everywhere- the kind that made you feel awkward, like you were some cockroach in his coffee- but with a small look of panic. Which, of course he should! He was faced with the tyrant of Banland, the instigator of his doom- was he holding a carrot?

The demigod’s eyes drifted down to the vegetable, his face covered by one of his more see-through blindfolds. Ah. Yeah, the guy was gripping the orange root vegetable tightly not unlike a knife, hands shaking. Like hell Banhammer would ever let himself get felled by a vegetable.

Right. Why was he staring at this guy instead of arresting him again?? Bring the hammer out, knock him down, take him to the station down the street. Problem solved.

Okay, so here’s why Banhammer was precisely not doing that.

1. If he brought out the hammer, he was definitely gonna cause property damage. And out of his employees, he was sure Noobcaik was actually gonna try and wring his neck if he wrecked yet another piece of public property for the eighth time this money. Which was hilarious, because Noobcaik was tiny and they weren’t even in charge of finances.

2. He’d just finished a long mission of hunting down loose ends and dead ends and finally a few successful criminals down South. He was a lot more exhausted and exasperated with the way things were going than he usually would be.

3. Medkit was a Blackrock bounty and a cultist. Dealing with him would mean overtime. The shrimp was only a grunt too, it wasn’t like he could give them any substantial information other than possibly some stuff about Scythe and Broker- but he doubted Medkit had that much intel.

4. Noobcaik was going to strangle him.

5. The kid needed that soup. He was the equivalent of a miserable raccoon cocooned up in blankets and pillows in his room right now, and would probably need some sustenance.

6. He didn’t want any more paperwork, even if he did less than 10% of it.

7. He was running out of reasons. He just didn’t really feel like it. He was running on three hours of sleep and some cheap coffee.

8. Noobcaik was going to strangle him. Did he mention that already?

So with these eight very meaningful reasons on his mind and after running some half-assed calculations through his sleep-deprived brain, he simply broke the awkward four minutes of eye-contact and nodded at Medkit.

“You gonna poke my eye out with that carrot or what?”

The other inphernal startled. Clearly, he hadn’t expected that response out of him at all.

“.....what?”

“I said-”

The traitor- Medkit- shook his head. “No, I- I heard what you said the first time. Are you… what are you talking about?”

“You’re gripping that carrot like a knife- or maybe a gun, ‘cause if that’s how you grip a knife you’re cooked in a fight. You should work on that.”

“I don’t typically use knives, but your unnecessary criticism and judgment is appreciated-”

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

“I’m sorry, are we bantering right now? Apologies if I seem impatient, but I’m decently sure you’re supposed to be arresting me right now.”

“...do you wanna get arrested?”

“...no.”

“That’s what I thought. Then scram. I got better things to do than to make small talk with scrawny mortals.”

“You started this conversation first-” An aggrieved inhale. The other closed his eye and gave a slow nod. “Alright. ….Thank you, I suppose.”

“You’re welcome, traitor. Now get outta here.”

Medkit shot him a look- an aggravated stare, yet with an underlying curiosity. If he wanted to ask what the warden of Banland was doing in a grocery store, he kept his mouth shut and walked over to the next aisle, disappearing behind the shelves.

Right. That was a thing. He’d probably think about it more later when he was more coherent and energized- but first he had to get that twerp his soup.

And as Banhammer got his things and purchased the items, strolling away from the gawking civilians who crossed his path- an observant stare followed him from the aisles, confused and considering.

Chapter Text

The curious palm flipped his own, interlocking their fingers as he felt the other’s eye examine their little entanglement. Banhammer was doing the impossible and filing out paperwork (the less than 5% that made it to him, the ones he couldn’t just shrug off onto his employees and the mortals he hired for this kind of monotone crap) while Medkit sat by and supervised him.

It was an arrangement devised by Banhammer’s traitorous employees and the inphernal himself (Banhammer was 50% certain Noobcaik had genuinely started shedding tears when they found out just how much of a ‘good influence’ the traitor supposedly was on their ‘good-for-punching-and-not-much-else’ boss. The gall. The nerve. Banhammer should fire them), designed to get Banhammer to do the more mundane (boring) aspects of his job.

So here the traitor was. Sipping his own cheap coffee and holding Banhammer’s hand as he worked, the smaller warmth encompassed in his own. Which was actually a little out of routine for them both, actually. This was new. This was weird.

For one, Banhammer didn’t do handholding with traitors. Especially not cultist traitors like Medkit.

Secondly, why was he even letting this depressing bum ass mortal touch him in the first place???

But then Medkit’s gloved thumb swept over the back of his hand, and all other thoughts fled Banhammer’s mind.

This was not helping him focus on his paperwork.

The thumb kept sweeping back and forth, leaving a trail of velvety warmth as it went. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and for-

“You mortals sure are small.”

A pause, a stutter in the rhythm. “...Pardon?”

“Pardon.” Banhammer scoffed, voice light. “No need to go all fancy-shmancy on me, doc. I’m just stating a general fact.”

“Yes, right.” Medkit’s voice was exasperated in turn. “Well, I suppose not all of us are spawns of literal deities and can have the privilege of being behemoths nearing 7 feet tall.”

Banhammer smirked. “Your loss, really. So puny and tiny. What if you get stepped on?”

“Much better than constantly banging your head on doorways and low-hanging ceilings, I presume. Especially with your… very well-endowed horns.”

The demigod scowled at that. Medkit wasn’t wrong, to his chagrin. Those things were the worst. And as proud as he was of his horns, they certainly didn’t help in these situations.

“Anyways-” he deflected, and by the small, amused huff the other let out, it hadn’t gone unnoticed. “What are ya holding my hand for?”

Medkit stilled even further, more than Banhammer thought was possible.

“Ah. Well.”

The vaguely flustered note in the other’s voice raised one of his brows. Banhammer grinned. “Like what you see?”

“Oh, be quiet.” Medkit’s hand squeezed his own for a moment, before seemingly remembering himself and letting go. “I was just observing. Your hands are… heavily scarred and calloused.”

Banhammer shrugged. Nothing to be ashamed of, really. Everyone gained a few scars- they were symbols of glorious victories and hard-fought battles. “Yeah, well- you don’t exactly get smooth baby hands wielding a hammer as glorious as mine all day. ‘Specially if you’re constantly skirmishing and catching criminals.”

Medkit stayed quiet, eye inquisitively panning over Banhammer’s palms as he began tracing a scar on the underside of one of his knuckles.

A shiver went down the demigod’s spine. While it’s true they didn’t do handholding much- at all, really- he had held the healer’s hand precisely once.

It’d been during the aftermath of a phight, where Medkit had found him leaning against one of the walls out back. He’d gotten hit pretty harshly and was too prideful to seek a healer to patch it up- he didn’t want to appear weak in front of the others. Puny mortals got lucky, he didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing their despised warden bleeding and requesting any form of help.

But Medkit, for some odd reason, had to refused to leave. Stubbornly shooting down any reasonable suggestion of scramming and cornering the already downed demigod.

And somehow, Banhammer had found himself squeezing the other’s hand tightly as the traitor pressed one of his healing crystals into his stinging, bloodied wound. It wasn’t exploratory or something Banhammer even gave much thought to afterward- it’d been a heat of the moment decision, a smaller anchor in an ocean of pain and Medkit’s very possible crystal meth.

(Look, there was no reasonable possible explanation Medkit’s healing methods felt that good, alright? Had to be crack of some kind.)

But here they were. Medkit’s much smaller hands running over every scar, smooth or jagged, Banhammer had claimed over the years. The warm velvet of his gloves pressed into every callous, every patch of skin Banhammer had trained and toughened throughout his life.

And while this was happening, a curiosity grew.

“Take off your gloves.”

“...my gloves?”

Banhammer raised an eyebrow at him.

“Hardly seems fair, doc, that you’re all gloved up while you’re exploring my hands like the next great big discovery.”

Medkit looked down at his own. “Ah. Well, I usually keep these on for sanitation, anyway.” He pulled back- and Banhammer absolutely did not attribute that pang of loss at the lack of contact as his own, thank you very much- and fiddled with the hem of one of his gloves, pulling it off and pocketing it before settling it back in Banhammer’s own hand.

“There. Are we even?” His voice was amused, consoling. Smug bastard.

Banhammer found himself staring down at Medkit’s own hand. Despite it’s size, it wasn’t all that different from his own. Nicks and cuts and small burns- right, he had a history of being a scientist- from various projects scattered throughout his hand like a constellation map. Banhammer found himself brushing his own claws over the other’s, pressing into callouses worn out by revolver grips.

Medkit’s breath froze, and his hand stilled for a few good minutes as he let Banhammer explore his own palm. Then he leaned over and interlocked their fingers again, smiling a little out of the corner of Banhammer’s vision as the demigod froze.

Cheeky bastard.

Banhammer wouldn’t let him get the last laugh. In a moment of impulse, he lifted both of their intertwined hands- ignoring the raised brows from the healer- and pressed the interlocked claws to his lips.

He carefully made sure to kiss one of the scars on Medkit’s hand, staring into the other’s ocean teal eye as he felt the roughness of the healed wound under his lips.

For a few tantalizing, glorious moments, Medkit stared at him like a deer in headlight. His cheeks colored as his eye widened, staring at Banhammer and frozen still.

Then, slowly, he leaned forward, pulling their hands towards himself as he let go of Banhammer’s hand and brought the demigod’s palm to his mouth.

That scar in particular on Banhammer’s hand felt scorched by the searing press of the healer’s lips.

Chapter Text

“So, how are we doing this?”

“I’m… not sure, actually. I’ve never tried this recipe before. I don’t usually cook.”

“So why the sudden interest?? I thought you didn’t cook. Neither of us do.”

Medkit shifted a little from where he stood on the stool to reach Banhammer’s- according to the healer, ‘ridiculously sized’- countertop and cabinets. “I recently met a young inphernal. She’s been gifting me baked goods from her shop. I wanted to do something in return for her as a thanks for her generosity.”

“Hah… I get that.”

“You do?” A furrow of the brow. A ghost of a tilted smile. “I wouldn’t have expected generosity to be a virtue of a great tyrant such as yourself.”

“Hey!” His tone was light as his tail thumped behind him. “I just get paying back how others treat ya. If you wrong someone, they pay back tenfold. You treat them as they deserve, they’ll pay it forward.”

“I see. I suppose this really isn’t so different from you learning to cook your mother’s recipes for your protege.”

“Hey! That punk looked miserable, I was pitying him.”

“Whatever you say.”

They fell into a comfortable silence as they continued to simmer the dish. The broth bubbled as the smell of tomatoes and peppers filled the air, the meat stewed in the dish releasing a mouthwatering aroma as the smells mixed together and permeated the-

“...We’re out of eggs.”

“What?”

“I realized earlier when I was checking your fridge. We’re out of eggs.”

“Really?” Banhammer tilted his head in thought before he frowned. “Damnit, kid.”

“Your employee?”

“Who else? He consumes eggs like a black hole, doc. He’s gonna drive me bankrupt at this rate, you’ve seen the ridiculous prices nowadays!”

“You could just take the eggs. Aren’t you a tyrant?”

“That’s true. I am the law.”

“And besides, he takes after you with that trait.”

“...I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to impart my criminal-punishing skills on that punk, not my eating habits.”

“Perhaps. I’m just telling you not to judge him too harshly, your protege takes after his mentor.”

“You’re just sayin’ that ‘cause you have a soft spot for him!”

Medkit laughed softly, giving the concoction a stir, and Banhammer found himself soaking up the sound.

It was weird, really. Wardens shouldn’t be letting criminals cook soup or whatever this was in their kitchens. A criminal lowlife shouldn’t be knowing that said wardens were out of eggs, or that they fed their proteges out of guilt they never truly got past. They shouldn’t know all the little mundane details about the warden’s lives, shouldn’t be holding a tyrant’s hand at night behind closed doors or in between the sheets because they knew that’s how their supposed jailer. A warden shouldn’t know a criminal lowlife’s heartbeat by rhythm, their breathing pattern, the way their eye softens and twinkles when they laugh.

It was weird. But surrounded by the scent of gentle spices and tomatoes and in a warmly lit kitchen beside the healer, Banhammer couldn’t find it within himself to care as much as he should’ve.