Work Text:
“Don’t look at the mirror, just look at me.” Kotetsu’s voice is a wet rattle, sounding more like a broken accordion than a human being.
He's leaning heavily against the passenger door of the car, his chest heaving in shallow, jagged spurts that make the cracked plating of his suit groan. Blood—thick, dark, and smelling of copper and ozone—is leaking from a gash in his temple, carving a steady crimson river down his cheek. He’s pushed his power past the red line, his muscles twitching with the aftershock of a surge that nearly fried his nervous system to save Barnaby from a collapsing android chassis.
Barnaby is a wreck beside him. His breathing is a ragged whistle, his ribs humming with a dull, sickening vibration from the impact of a high-frequency blade. He looks ghoulish in the dim light of the cabin, skin the color of spoiled milk, eyes sunken and flickering. Every time the car idles, the vibration of the engine sends a jolt of agony through his spine, making his fingers curl instinctively into the upholstery.
“We’re going to the hospital,” Kotetsu grunts, though he’s clutching his own side where a puncture wound is soaking through his undershirt. He’s already calculating the cost of gauze and sutures in his head, planning to treat himself in the dark of the bathroom so he doesn't have to pay a co-pay.
Barnaby’s head lolls back. He doesn’t move, but his voice is a ghost of a sound, barely audible over the ticking of the cooling engine. “I can’t... I can’t afford to go to the doctor, Kotetsu.”
The admission hits harder than the battle did. Barnaby, the man of prestige, the strategist with the polished exterior, is shaking. He’s staring into the blind spot of the rearview mirror, avoiding Kotetsu’s gaze, his pride finally crushed under the weight of mounting debts and the cost of maintaining a life that looks perfect from the outside. Kotetsu feels a surge of heat that has nothing to do with the adrenaline. He reaches out, his hand shaking, and cups the back of Barnaby’s neck. The skin is clammy and cold.
“I’ve got a clinic in the apartment,” Kotetsu murmurs, his voice softening. He doesn’t mention that it’s mostly a collection of stolen surgical grade tools, high-end antibiotics, and a very expensive sterilized table he’d rigged up years ago for the 'worst-case scenarios.'
As he helps Barnaby out of the car, he wonders, with a flicker of melancholy, what has shifted in these two years. The walls that Barnaby built around himself are no longer skyscrapers; they are crumbling ruins, and for the first time, Barnaby isn't trying to rebuild them. Barnaby doesn't fight him. He collapses into Kotetsu’s side, clinging to him with a desperate, bruising grip, letting himself be carried toward the apartment and the promise of a bandage and a quiet room.