Chapter Text
Medkit didn't think he was depressed.
At least in his opinion, no matter how many times his coworkers said otherwise.
And yes, perhaps lately it felt as if the only way he could feel was by getting drunk—Medkit would say "a night out with Sword," but if he did, he wouldn't be telling the full truth. Not with the used shot glasses lining his kitchen counter nor the half finished bottle of whiskey on his bedside table that he hasn't had the energy to put away.
That, he just called “feeling a little under the weather.” And Medkit would continue to call it that because it was easier to ignore it than to admit something was very, very wrong.
It seemed like when he wasn't drinking or smoking, he was going through the motions of his life with about as much agency as a puddle on the ground.
Everyday was the same boring hum of monotony that Medkit had become numb to, like he had gotten numb to the ringing in his ears, the nightly phantom pains in his eye, like the constant feeling that he was doing something horribly wrong with his life that he tuned out far too many times than he'd like to admit.
But all that was pushed to the side for now. Because for now, his paycheck depended on it.
“Kit. Kit, ya there?” Scythe snapping her fingers in his face is what takes Medkit back to reality. She snorts as he shoots her a sidelong glance.
“You were zonin’ out there. What's on yer mind, huh?” she asks casually, leaning on her good arm, watching over Medkit's shoulder as he screws the joints on her mechanical one in place.
“What's on my mind is why you keep bothering me in the middle of the night to fix your arm.” Medkit states matter-of-factly, a slight bite in his words fitting of the usual, grumpy Medkit Scythe knows. “And I thought I told you to stop calling me that.”
Scythe lets out a hearty laugh at his words. “Well, we both know ya ain't doin’ much this time of night anyway! And besides, we're chummy enough now to have nicknames for each other, right?” she blinks up at Medkit.
The most he could do at the moment was pause the fiddling of the innocent joint and give it a hard stare in place of his employer.
“We are far from chummy.” He simply responds.
“No, no, don't be like that, Kit.” Scythe chides, wrapping an arm around Medkit as his shoulders tense. “Just try to ponder up a few nicknames for me and try ‘em out. You'll get used to ‘em in no time!”
“Wow, I am just not doing that.” Medkit replies, still staring ahead though starting to resume screwing the loose arm into place.
“C'mon! Please?”
“Get your arm off of me before I hurt you.”
Scythe chuckles, pulling her arm back but not before patting Medkit on the shoulder a few times. “Yer always so serious. Try to lighten up a bit, won't ya?”
“…” Medkit tests out the joint, clicking his tongue as it squeaks and grabbing his screwdriver to unscrew it again and tweak it.
He held back a sigh. It was going to be a long night.
And a long night it was.
Medkit took in a deep breath of the cold Crossroads air at night. It was the best he was going to get, considering his two choices were the dry, blurry heat-filled air of the Lost Temple desert and the pollution-filled morning Crossroads air that he honestly thinks may affect his lungs more than his smoking habit.
He had decided a few moments after Scythe left his apartment and he was convincing himself that he would definitely get some sleep tonight that he’d go out on a walk. Just to clear his mind a bit.
Medkit took a breath, watching as the warmth of his created a cloud of steam in the air.
Work kept his mind off things. It wasn’t the most riveting job out there, especially for Medkit, who’d much rather pursue a better goal than be a fixer-upper for his employer's squeaking arm and being an illegal doctor of medicine helping a cult, but it was all he had. So, he’d deal with it.
It was better than Blackrock, so he’d take the scraps like the good street dog he is and thank the man who gave them.
Medkit sniffles, boots clicking against the concrete of the sidewalk as he continues along the streets he knows like the back of his hand by now.
Why is it that it seemed Medkit was always on someone else’s leash?
He was always the prize pony. A mcguffin. An object to be owned and used and wielded, then discarded when no longer of use. He was the treasure the dragon hoarded in the castle.
He was nothing more, nothing less.
In all honesty, Medkit should be thankful for his gear. Thank it for all the opportunities he’d been given as a result.
Without it, he'd probably still be rotting away in Blackrock, chugging coffee like his life depended on it just to get through daily life.
Support gears, especially healers, were nothing short of miracles in the inpherno. He always had the upper hand in that regard.
But at times, during his countless sleepless nights, he thought. He thought and thought and thought. He thought of a world where people saw him as more than his gear. A world where he wasn’t bound to Blackrock. A world where he was a renowned scientist, known only for his inventions and creating a better inpherno. A world where he wasn’t a doctor. And that alone was enough to help him sleep at night, as childish as it was.
It seemed the only person who saw Medkit as more than his gear was—
Medkit slowly treaded to a stop at a particular house, his gaze settling on its terracotta walls and the stone stairway leading to the quaint home on the outskirts of Crossroads.
Without realizing, Medkit found himself knocking at the door in rhythmic beats.
“Hello?” Answers a familiar voice, whose owners face beams at the inphernal knocking at his door. Medkit could only chuckle at the sight.
“Medkit!” Sword exclaims in joyful surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“I was just taking a nightly walk and then I found myself at your doorstep.” Medkit replies honestly, not able to stop the small smile from spreading across his face. “I must be getting too used to hanging out with you.”
“It must’ve been fate.” Sword declares with mock seriousness, clenching his fist as if delivering a prophecy. His serious expression breaks into a bright grin as he speaks again.
“Well, since you’ve come all this way..” he trails off, opening the door further for Medkit to enter. “You might as well come in, right?”
The warm air of the cozy house blowing across his face was much too inviting for Medkit to resist, and he found himself already stepping inside.
Sword’s home was as comfortable and inviting as it usually was. For a deity, Venomshank was pretty great at decorating. Medkit didn’t think he’d enjoy going over to Sword’s house as much if there were giant marble statues of Venomshank in every room. He gets enough creepy statues staring at him in the bathroom in the church already. At least Venomshank has his eyes covered.
Time flew by for the two. After a nice conversation and shared tea, Sword let Medkit use the spare guest bedroom to sleep in for the night.
Sword was his dearest friend. A brother, even. Every time Medkit stressed, it all seemed to fade away once the two were together. At least enough so that Medkit could ignore it and focus on actually enjoying himself.
So why was it that Medkit was now sitting on the floor with his head down and a flask in his hand?
Of course Medkit wasn't crazy. He wouldn't cut himself or write suicide notes in his pastime. It wouldn't even cross his mind. It seemed the only thing that could was the boring, monotonous hum of daily life that had now become his normal.
He wasn't that damaged. He knew that. And Medkit would continue to repeat it until it was true. The line between his actual sanity and his act of having one was blurry, but Medkit knew it was there.
And yet, somewhere in the burrows of his mind pops up a thought that he'd long since pushed down. Something his subconscious self squirmed at, so it did the only thing it knew how to do—repress it.
Repress it until it comes back up like bile from his throat, like how it did when he was alone with nothing but his thoughts to entertain him. Like right now, with his head in his hands and a flask slipping from his fingers.
No matter how hard he tried to reroute his thoughts, the train seemed to only have one track.
It asked: If death pulled back its scythe aimed at his throat, would he flinch?
Medkit didn't answer.
After all, it seemed more like life was dragging Medkit around like a rag doll more than him actually living it.
Maybe it was because of his drunken haze or the false confidence that the liquor gave him, or the sudden urge to take control of his own life, one that cried out for attention and for something, anything to reply.
The reason behind his sudden introspection didn't matter so much anymore as Medkit picked up his revolver.
The cold weight in his hand felt familiar. It felt right. It was probably why Medkit didn't think twice when he lifted it up to watch the light bounce off the blued steel.
Before he realized what he was doing, the barrel of the gun was pressed against his temple.
Something somewhere deep inside his mind, too subdued to mutter utter anything but a weak whisper asked: why was he doing this?
He had none of his usual empty excuses to give it.
There were no bullets in the chamber.
This was a pointless endeavor.
And yet, Medkit's hand didn't falter as he pulled the trigger of his revolver.
Click. One.
Click. Two.
Click. Three.
Click. Four.
Click. Five.
... Click. Six.
Medkit felt the kick of the gun as he shot blank after blank at his head until the final shot rang out. By then, he was just staring at a spot on the floor.
It was strange, really.
Medkit ran. Medkit ran from a lot of things. Be it big or small, his first instinct was to run and hide and cower like a wild deer in a frantic chase against an imaginary predator. Medkit ran from his past, from his mistakes, from his sorrows, from his love, and most importantly, from himself.
And for some reason, he thought that this would change when he finally pulled the trigger. That his weak legs would collapse under the stress and his constant running would finally sputter to a stop. That he'd finally be able to take a full breath of air that he hadn't been able to take in years. That, at the end of it all, Medkit would be able to look back at the enemy chasing him, and finally know peace as he meets its eyes. He had assumed that death was the only thing he wouldn't run from.
Medkit slowly lowered the revolver from his head and he let himself stare at the now smoking gun, his hand fuzzy from the harsh recoil.
Even with no bullets, he couldn't help but notice himself hesitate.
Medkit let out a humorless laugh amidst the dancing specks of gunpowder.