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The apartment door slammed harder than usual, the sound echoing down the hallway like a thunderclap. Ban Hammer winced, one massive hand pressed to his left side just under the ribs, where the armor plate had dented inward during the scuffle. He’d been chasing down a rogue group of Blackrock defectors who’d decided Banland’s outer perimeter was a good place to test experimental gear. One of them had gotten lucky with a crystal-charged spear. Not life-threatening for someone with his bloodline, but the impact had torn something deep enough that every breath felt like swallowing glass.
He’d told the medics to fuck off. Told them he’d walk it off. Told them he had shit to do.
Now he was home, and the clock on the wall said he still had about forty-five minutes before Medkit came home.
“Fuckin’ amateurs,” he muttered, voice rough. “Should’ve just caved their skulls in and been done.”
He didn’t sit. Sitting would hurt more, and he wasn’t about to bleed all over the cushions Medkit actually liked. Instead he leaned against the kitchen counter, one gauntleted hand braced on the edge, the other still clamped over the wound. The snake head on his tail curled in on itself, almost protectively, like it knew something was wrong.
He peeled back the edge of the cuirass just enough to look. A jagged gash maybe five inches long, edges blackened from residual crystal burn. Not gushing anymore, but still oozing steadily. He’d already used most of the field gauze from his utility belt to pack it on the way home, stupid, stubborn pride keeping him from calling for evac or even hitting up one of the Banland med bays. Medkit would be home in less than an hour. He could wait. He’d dealt with worse.
Ban Hammer rummaged one-handed through the junk drawer, coming up with a roll of duct tape and a clean dish towel. He pressed the towel over the wound, then wrapped the tape around his torso as tight as he could manage without blacking out from the pain. Each loop made his vision swim. By the time he was done the tape was crooked and the towel was already darkening.
He moved to the couch, slow, careful, and lowered himself onto it like he was handling live explosives. The armor clanked against the wall. He left it on; taking it off would mean more movement, more bleeding. Better to just… sit. Breathe shallow. Wait.
The clock on the wall ticked louder than it should have.
When the front door finally opened forty-seven minutes later, Ban Hammer had his head tipped back against the cushions, eyes closed, pretending to nap. His tail was coiled tight around one ankle, snake head tucked under his own thigh.
Medkit stepped inside, gear in one hand, keys in the other. He froze in the doorway.
The air smelled wrong: copper and scorched crystal, undercut with the faint sweet tang of ichor. Medkit’s ears flicked forward, deer tail going rigid.
“You’re hurt.”
Not a question.
Ban Hammer cracked one eye open, then forced a grin that didn’t reach the other three.
“Hey, Meds. Rough day at the prison. Nothin’ major.”
Medkit hung his keys on the hook with deliberate calm. He crossed the room in six strides, gaze already cataloging: the awkward way Ban Hammer was sitting, favoring his right side; the bulge of makeshift bandaging under the cuirass and the suspicious dent over it; the pallor under the purple fur; the tension in his jaw that said he was gritting his teeth against every inhale.
“Take the armor off.”
“Babe, I’m fine—”
“Take. It. Off.”
The tone was ice over steel. Ban Hammer knew that tone. He sighed, then hissed as the motion pulled at the wound, and started removing the pauldrons with clumsy fingers. Medkit didn’t wait; he knelt in front of him, smaller hands moving faster, unlatching the clasps, easing the heavy plate away. The blood-soaked inner lining peeled free with a wet sound. Ban Hammer sucked in a sharp breath.
Medkit’s visible eye narrowed at the sight of the gash: burned edges, deep enough to see muscle in places, poorly packed gauze already saturated.
“You idiot,” Medkit said quietly. He didn’t yell. He never yelled. But the words cut sharper than any shout. “You walked home like this. You tried to patch it yourself. You sat here bleeding for an hour because your pride couldn’t handle asking for help?”
Ban Hammer looked away, jaw tight. “Didn’t want you coming home to more bullshit. You’ve had a long shift. Figured I could handle—”
“You can’t.” Medkit cut him off, voice flat. “Not this. Not when it’s embedded shrapnel and you’re too stubborn to let anyone look at it properly.” He turned around and set his medkit (the one he kept stocked for emergencies despite swearing he hated being a doctor) on the coffee table and opened it.
He dropped to his knees again, pulling on gloves with sharp snaps.
“Lie down. Slowly.”
Ban Hammer grudgingly obeyed. Medkit propped pillows behind him and a towel under his ribs, then peeled away the ruined towel and tape. He didn’t flinch at the mess, just worked: irrigating the wound with saline, pulling out the tiny crystal fragments one by one, each clink against the metal tray sounding louder than it should. Ban Hammer hissed once when Medkit hit a particularly deep piece; Medkit reached up, free hand gently rubbing Ban Hammer’s shoulder. Steady, grounding.
“You could’ve died,” Medkit said eventually, low enough that it almost sounded like he was talking to himself. “If that had nicked an artery. If infection set in. You’re not invincible, no matter how much you like to pretend.”
“I know,” Ban Hammer muttered. “I just… didn’t want to worry you.”
Medkit paused, needle hovering. For a second his expression cracked, something raw and tired flickering behind the irritation.
Medkit snorted, the sound dry and humorless. “You always worry me.” He threaded a suture needle, gloved fingers steady as stone. “Hold still.” He started stitching, voice steady again but softer.
“Oh, and if you ever pull this again, if you sit here bleeding alone because you think you’re sparing me, I will personally drag you to Banland’s med bay by your tail and make them chain you to a bed. Understood?”
Ban Hammer huffed a weak laugh, then winced. “Yeah. Understood, doc.”
Medkit finished the sutures: neat, precise, twenty-three of them, then layered on antibiotic ointment, fresh gauze, and medical wrap. He didn’t speak again until he was taping the final edge.
“Keep that on for twenty. No moving. No getting up to ‘handle’ anything. Pain meds. Then you’re staying right here.” He pressed two pills and a glass of water into Ban Hammer’s hand. “No arguing.”
Ban Hammer swallowed them without protest. Medkit stood in front of him, one hand resting lightly over the bandaged area like he could will it to heal faster.
“You scare me sometimes,” Medkit said quietly. “More than I let on.”
Ban Hammer turned his head, four eyes soft for once. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Medkit exhaled through his nose, then leaned in and pressed a brief, firm kiss to Ban Hammer’s temple, right between the base of his horns. He didn’t move his hand from the bandage. In fact, he gently rubbed it with his thumb.
“Good. Now shut up and rest. And I’m not carrying your 300-pound ass to bed if you pass out here.”
Ban Hammer smirked, eyes already drooping from pain and exhaustion and the meds kicking in.
“Love you too, doc.”
Medkit didn’t reply. He just leaned in a fraction closer, letting their horns brush, and stayed there, quiet, steady, watching over him until he finally drifted off.