only at night

by ticklefarts

Summary:

Enemies by the morning, "lovers" at night. God, do their relationship even make sense anymore?

Notes:

this is for subkit week, i suck at drawing (im just insecure tbh) so i figured that maybe i could just write for subkit week instead.. heh.. scratches head

Chapter 1: date

Another day, another list of errands to run. Medkit awoke in his apartment at Crossroads, the familiar weight of routine settling over him. He longed to sleep longer, but duty, as always, called. With a resigned sigh, he dragged himself out of bed and began his usual morning ritual. After a quick shower and dressing in his customary attire, he downed a bitter black coffee—its sharp taste a necessary jolt to the system—and headed out.

 

To his surprise, he found Scythe waiting directly outside his door.

 

Scythe explained that The Father required his assistance, and that it was urgent. Of course, being the prize pony of the cult, Medkit complied without protest, though a familiar sense of weariness crept in. He fell into step with Scythe, the two making their way to the bus stop in silence to catch the next transport to Lost Temple. They waited under the dull sky until the bus rumbled to a halt before them, and they boarded, beginning the long journey.

 

 

 

Hours later, Medkit finally returned to Crossroads. The task assigned by the cult had been anything but "quick"; it was a long and dreadfully tedious affair. Yet, as a devoted member of the Church of the True Eye, he could not afford to disappoint. Shaking off his fatigue, Medkit shifted his focus to the rest of his day's obligations: first, a check-in on Rocket's prosthetics, followed by consultations with new clients hoping to commission his work. The day was far from over.

 

After long hours of errands, Medkit finally completed his tasks for the day. He let out a weary sigh, the tension in his shoulders begging for relief. Perhaps a brief stop at Slingshot’s cafe would provide a moment's respite. As he walked, his mind churned with the day’s remnants and tomorrow’s concerns. He mentally cataloged the errands yet to run, dreaded the possibility of another summons from The Father, and calculated if it was time to increase his commission fees. The thoughts were a familiar, cyclical drone in his head. He arrived at the cafe and paused, peering through the window before committing to enter. His blood ran cold. There, moving with mechanical efficiency among the tables, was a Biograft. It was absurdly dressed in a cocoa-brown apron, serving pastries and drinks to patrons. Medkit’s hand instinctively went to the strap of his briefcase.

 

A heavy sigh escaped him. Any thought of relaxation vanished. So even here, he thought. Who was to say this one wouldn’t recognize him? To its programming, he would always be a "traitor" to Blackrock, a designation that often came with lethal consequences. It seemed these mechanical sentries multiplied every day, infiltrating every corner of the city.

The risk wasn't worth a cup of coffee. Turning on his heel, Medkit abandoned the idea and began the solitary walk back to his apartment, the day’s weariness now compounded by a familiar, watchful paranoia.

 

Night was falling just as Medkit reached his apartment. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing him in the day’s silence. He tossed his briefcase onto the sofa, the thud echoing in the sparse room. With a weary sigh, he retrieved a pack of cigarettes and stepped out onto the balcony.

 

Leaning against the railing, he lit a cigarette and took a long, slow drag, the tip flaring in the deepening dusk. Below him, Crossroads pulsed with life—lights flickered on, laughter echoed from the streets, and the distant hum of the city created a symphony of existence. How lively, he thought, a familiar feeling of sonder settling over him. He often wondered about the stories unfolding in each lit window, the private joys and sorrows of strangers. To the outside world, he was a statue of indifference, but within, he cared deeply—a capacity for empathy stifled by his own asocial nature and the walls he’d built for survival.

 

He exhaled, a grey plume of smoke vanishing into the cool air. His gaze grew distant, fixed on nothing. Life has been getting hard lately. The thought was a quiet, constant undercurrent. The irony was not lost on him: a healer who dreamed of dying. An inphernal who dedicated his existence to mending others, yet couldn't suture his own fractures.

 

He stubbed out the first cigarette and lit another, the ritual offering a fleeting sense of control. The smoke burned his lungs, a tangible pain to focus on. His mind, unbidden, turned to his fears—old, deep-seated ghosts that refused to be exorcised. Even hearing his name was enough to make Medkit’s heart stutter, a phantom limb aching for a touch that always, always burned.

 

Funnily enough, the phantom was real. He saw him still, and he didn't understand why. His mind screamed to run, to put continents between them, yet his traitorous body rooted to the spot, a moth drawn to a flame that had already scorched its wings. He knew the relationship was a poison, a cycle of damage and unreliable respite. Yet, he couldn't sever the tie.

 

A painful question lingered in the smoke: Did he truly miss him, or did he miss the inphernal he used to be? Was he clinging to this shattered version now, pouring his hope into the broken vessel, desperately praying for a glimpse of the past to return? It was a pathetic, hopeless addiction—one he feared he’d never have the strength to quit.

 

 

An hour had passed. The empty cigarette pack lay crumpled on the balcony railing, a testament to his solitude. Medkit was a chainsmoker, he admitted it freely; the cigarettes were a crutch, a fleeting ritual of control where he had little. He cherished the sharp intake of breath, the burn in his lungs, the slow, deliberate exhale that momentarily clouded his problems. He was a medic—he knew the precise damage each stick inflicted, the silent war it waged on his body. But the knowledge was abstract. We only spawn once, he reasoned with a nihilistic shrug. Might as well.

 

The nicotine buzz had faded, leaving a familiar emptiness. Needing to replenish his supply, he turned back inside, grabbed a coat from its hook, and shrugged it on. A convenience store run. Maybe he’d pick up something stronger, too—something to ensure the night’s thoughts would drown before they could pull him under.

 

The night air was cold, a soft wind whispering against his skin as he stepped outside. He made his way to the neon-lit store a few blocks away, the transaction silent and efficient: a slide of bux across the counter, a new pack slid back. Tucking it into his pocket, he turned to leave, the weight a small comfort.

 

It was on the walk back that he saw him.

 

His blood ran cold, freezing him mid-step. Leaning against a lamppost under the harsh yellow light, stood a four-horned inphernal. It was him.

 

Subspace.

 

A grin was already slicing across his face, and he was waving, a gesture that was far too cheerful for the late hour and their shared history. Every instinct in Medkit’s mind screamed at him to turn around, to cross the street, to feign ignorance and take the longest route home imaginable. But his body, his traitorous body, had already made its choice. His feet carried him forward, each step a quiet betrayal, closing the distance between them once again.

 

“Meddy,” Subspace cooed, watching the teal-horned inphernal walk toward him. The nickname sent a familiar chill down Medkit’s spine. Even now, long after they had become sworn enemies, Subspace still had the audacity to use it—that intimate, grating diminutive that made his teeth clench.

 

“Meddy” was, by far, the worst nickname he had ever been given. “Meds” was tolerable. Just “Med” was acceptable, clinical, and distant. But “Meddy”? It was a name soaked in history, a relic from a time of foolish trust and shared ambitions. It was a name that had been whispered in labs and murmured in moments of weakness, and now it hung between them, heavy with everything that had been broken. He hated it. He hated how it sounded coming from Subspace’s mouth—a mockery of a fondness that had long since curdled into something toxic.

 

“What are you here for, Subspace?” Medkit said, his voice flat, his gaze fixed on some distant point in the night. He refused to grant him the courtesy of eye contact.

 

Subspace just smiled under his gas mask, a low, familiar chuckle escaping the filter. “Can’t an inphernal visit their favorite Medic?”

 

Medkit cringed at the reply, the false sweetness like acid on his skin. He didn’t like where this was going. He knew this script by heart. It always ended the same way: a desperate, angry hookup in the shadows. By day, they were enemies on the phighting grounds, a public spectacle of mutual contempt. But by night, in the isolating moonlight, they fell into this old, toxic pattern, pretending for a few fleeting hours that they were still lovers.

 

It was the worst kind of hypocrisy. Every inphernal in the league knew they were sworn rivals, that they despised each other. Yet here they were, standing in the quiet street, already falling into the roles they played best in private. The dissonance was maddening.

 

“You see, you weren’t answering my messages,” Subspace said, his voice dripping with a false, cloying sweetness that made Medkit’s skin crawl. “So I came all this way to visit you! I want us to visit a restaurant, just the two of us. I’ve gotten myself enough money for us to eat at the most luxurious place in Crossroads. Say, do you want to come with me?”

 

Medkit’s every instinct screamed at him to refuse. He wanted to shove Subspace away, to finally voice the fury and hurt, to sever this sick cycle for good and prove he no longer needed him. The word no was a solid, heavy weight on his tongue.

 

But his heart, that traitorous, sentimental organ, beat a frantic, opposing rhythm. It remembered older nights and softer words, a version of Subspace that was now just a ghost haunting his memories.

 

“Sure,” Medkit heard himself reply, the single word leaving his lips before his mind could reclaim control.

 

It was a constant, exhausting civil war. His mind, sharp and self-preserving, demanded he rid himself of this poison. His heart, foolish and clinging, ached to pull him closer. Feelings were a curse—a vulnerability he wished he could excise entirely. And as he fell into step beside Subspace, he hated himself a little more for succumbing to them yet again.

 

“I knew you’d say yes, Meddy.” Subspace purred, the sound a vibration in the cool night air. He reached out a hand, his eyes glinting with a familiar, predatory gleam from behind his mask. “Hold my hand.”

 

A silent war raged within Medkit for a single, suspended moment. Then, with a quiet sigh of surrender, he reached out and took it.

 

Subspace’s hand was cold, the skin unnaturally smooth and brittle beneath his touch, marred by the creeping, crystalline rot that Medkit himself had inflicted. It was a permanent testament to their ruin. In stark contrast, Medkit’s own hand was warm and clammy with nervous sweat. He was betraying himself with every second of contact, his mind screaming in protest even as his fingers interlaced with Subspace’s.

 

“Jeez, you’re sweaty.” Subspace remarked with a light, teasing laugh. He lifted their joined hands and, despite the barrier of his gas mask, pressed a mocking kiss to Medkit’s knuckles. The gesture was a grotesque pantomime of chivalry that sent another wave of conflicting shame and longing through Medkit. Subspace chuckled, low and knowing, and then they were walking, two sworn enemies hand-in-hand, disappearing into the neon glow of Crossroads on their way to its most luxurious restaurant.

 

They arrived at the restaurant, a place of understated opulence. The air was cool and smelled of polished silver and fresh flowers. Crystal glasses gleamed under soft, ambient lighting, and the quiet hum of conversation was a world away from the gritty streets of Crossroads.

 

“A table for two, please,” Subspace announced with a flourish. A waiter, with a practiced smile, led them to a secluded booth. The two inphernals sat across from each other, the wide table feeling like both a barrier and a stage.

 

“So what’ll it be, Meddy?” Subspace asked, not looking up from his menu. 

 

Medkit’s reply was flat, devoid of interest. “I’ll have the chicken alfredo.”

 

Subspace let out a considering hum. “Hm, I’ll get the pesto, then.” He closed his menu with a snap, and they relayed their orders to the attentive waiter. Then, they were left in a heavy silence, waiting for the food to arrive.

 

It was Subspace who broke it. “So, how has your life been, Meddy?”

 

“It’s going fine.”

 

“Are you not going to ask me how my life has been as well?” Subspace cooed, leaning forward slightly.

 

Medkit didn’t bother to look at him. “I have no interest in what your life has been.”

 

The rejection only seemed to amuse Subspace, drawing a low chuckle from him. “Aw, come on, Meddy. Act like you’re interested. At least pretend.”

 

Medkit sighed, the sound weary and resigned. He played his part in the familiar script. “How about you? How has your life been, Subspace?”

 

Subspace’s eyes gleamed with immediate, manic energy behind his mask. “It’s going great! More projects yet to come! The higher-ups love all my inventions; it’s crazy!” He launched into a rambling monologue about blueprints and prototypes, his hands animating his words. He spoke to Medkit as if no time had passed, as if they were still co-workers in a shared lab, partners in creation.

 

And as much as Medkit’s mind recoiled, a treacherous part of him—the part that still remembered the thrill of innovation and shared ambition—leaned in and listened.

 

Medkit offered noncommittal hums in response to Subspace’s endless rambling. He didn’t know what else to say, so he defaulted to a soft chorus of “mhm” and “uhuh,” the bare minimum required to feign engagement. It was the best he could manage, a shield of indifference protecting him from the whirlwind of Subspace’s presence.

 

When their food arrived, the performance continued. Medkit took a slow, deliberate bite of his alfredo, his eyes cautiously tracking Subspace’s movements. With a click and a hiss, Subspace removed the lower portion of his gas mask, revealing the jawline and mouth beneath. The sight made Medkit’s stomach clench—the skin was marred by a familiar, crystalline rot, a vivid and permanent reminder of their violent history. He cringed internally but held his tongue.

 

“Are you sure you can eat properly with your… condition, Subspace?” Medkit asked, the question clinical, almost detached.

 

Subspace waved a dismissive hand, a grotesque smile stretching his damaged features. “Hm, I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine, dear Medkit.”

 

Medkit rolled his eyes, turning his attention back to his plate. Dear Medkit. The endearment echoed in his mind, absurd and infuriating. What was it about this dynamic that made Subspace cling to such intimate terms? They were sworn enemies, figures locked in a very public and bitter rivalry. The irony was so thick it was suffocating, a madness that seemed to deepen every time they found themselves trapped in this same, painful cycle.

 

Subspace took a bite of his food, a faint, pained “irk” escaping him as he worked his jaw, ignoring the obvious discomfort the rot caused him. He simply continued eating, a picture of stubborn denial.

 

Medkit watched him, a flicker of unwanted concern stirring in his chest. Against his will, his healer’s instincts began to surface, mentally cataloging the degradation and running through potential palliative formulas. If only he could find a way to synthesize a compound to counteract the rot's spread, maybe Subspace wouldn't have to live as a...

 

The thought hit him like a physical blow. A walking corpse. Like how Coil described him.

 

Wait.

 

Why was he thinking about healing Subspace?

 

He was supposed to hate him. He did hate him. He was supposed to wish for his downfall, to take grim satisfaction in the visible proof of his own past retaliation—not sit here in a fine restaurant, worrying about the inphernal's comfort and secretly wishing for his recovery. The cognitive dissonance was dizzying, a betrayal of his own resolve that left him feeling deeply unsettled. He quickly looked down at his plate, ashamed of his own traitorous mind.

 

Medkit ate the rest of his meal in heavy silence, the only sound between them Subspace’s occasional, pained groans as he forced food past the rot. Medkit found himself strangely numb to it; he had caused this affliction, after all. He should be accustomed to the consequences by now.

 

When they had both finished, Medkit dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin. Subspace mirrored the gesture almost exactly, a faint, unsettling parody of manners. For a brief moment, Subspace offered a soft, uncharacteristic smile—a glimpse of something that wasn't manic or mocking—before the familiar hiss of his gas mask sealed the expression away, locking it back behind a facade of cold, polished chrome.

 

"As I promised, I'll pay for the both of us," Subspace declared, his voice once again filtered and distorted. He signaled for the waiter, requested the bill, and without a second glance at the total, slid a black credit card across the machine. A soft beep confirmed the transaction was approved.

 

Without another word, they rose and stepped out of the restaurant's pristine warmth, returning to the cool, indifferent embrace of the Crossroads night, the silence between them louder than any argument.

 

Medkit retreated into his own thoughts, bracing himself for the inevitable. He knew what typically came next. They would walk back to his apartment and fall straight into bed, losing themselves in a physical frenzy that was equal parts passion and punishment. God. He didn't want that tonight. The day had left him hollowed out, and the last of his energy had been spent on maintaining that dinner's fragile facade. They walked in silence through the neon-drenched streets, the only sound between them the soft scuff of their shoes on the pavement and Subspace’s light, tuneless humming.

 

Then, they stopped. Not at Medkit’s apartment building, but at a nearly deserted bus stop.

 

Medkit looked around, confused. He turned his head to stare at Subspace. “Are we not going back to my apartment?”

 

Subspace chuckled, the sound oddly gentle through the mask’s filter. “No, Meddy. I just wanted to have a good late-night dinner with you, is all. There’s a phight tomorrow, and I must rest.”

 

The statement hit Medkit with the force of a physical shock. This was a deviation from their script, an unexpected breach of their toxic routine. He had braced for a collision, only to be met with a quiet withdrawal. He just nodded, too perplexed to form a coherent response.

 

Then, Subspace did something even more surprising. He took off his gas mask, closed the distance between them, and pressed a soft, warm kiss to Medkit’s lips. It was brief, devoid of its usual desperate hunger. Medkit froze for a moment before instinctively kissing back, a response born of old habit more than present desire. As quickly as it happened, Subspace let go, offering one of those rare, soft smiles.

 

“Goodnight, Meddy!” he said, his voice cheerful as the bus hissed to a stop beside them. He stepped aboard with a wave.

 

“Goodnight.. Subspace,” Medkit replied, the words feeling foreign on his tongue.

 

He stood there long after the bus’s taillights had vanished into the night, the ghost of the kiss lingering on his lips. The entire walk back to his apartment was spent wrestling with a single, torturous question: Was that moment of tenderness real? Or was it simply another layer of a complex, carefully constructed facade?

Chapter 2: hunger

Summary:

slight NSFW warning

The next day, Medkit woke groggily, a dull ache behind his eyes. He fumbled for his phone on the nightstand, squinting at the bright screen to check the date and time.

Crap.

Today was a phight.

He threw the covers back and launched into his morning routine with a frantic, mechanical efficiency. After dressing and grabbing a quick, bitter coffee, he snatched his gear and swiftly left his apartment, locking the door behind him.

Phights were a lucrative way to supplement his income from prosthetic commissions. The pay was high, and it was his duty to represent his faction, Lost Temple, just as others fought for theirs. It was a simple, violent transaction.

But there was always one glaring problem. He participated in phights, too. Which meant Medkit was almost guaranteed to see him. The thought sent a fresh wave of exhaustion through him. After the bizarre intimacy of last night, the idea of facing Subspace across a battlefield was its own special kind of torment. A childish, desperate hope flickered in his chest: maybe Subspace would call in sick. But he knew better. Subspace lived for the chaos. He’d be there.

Just don’t let me get paired up against him, Medkit pleaded silently to no one in particular, heading toward the lobby. At least not today.

Medkit arrived at the bustling lobby with the help of Zuka’s truck, managing to slip in just on time. He scanned the crowd, looking for other members of his faction. Of course, Scythe was there, practically vibrating with eagerness, a sharpened grin on her face as she thirsted for the coming fight.

And then he saw him.

The four-horned inphernal stood out even in the chaotic crowd. Subspace. Medkit’s blood ran cold. He instinctively turned, hoping to blend into the background, but it was far too late. Subspace’s masked head had already swiveled in his direction, and a familiar, unnerving smile was evident in the crinkle of his eyes.

“What’s wrong, Medkit?” Subspace called out, his voice a taunting sing-song. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

Medkit didn’t reply, attempting to sidestep away, but Subspace mirrored his movement, closing the distance.

“Aw, what’s wrong? Scared to face me now? I thought you were better than that,” Subspace teased, his voice dropping to a provocative purr.

“Can you zip that mouth of yours for once?” Medkit spat, the words laced with a venom he usually kept contained.

Subspace flew a dramatic hand to his chest, feigning a mortal wound. “You wound me, doctor,” he replied, his tone dripping with a sickly-sweet faux hurt.

Before the confrontation could escalate further, Scythe shouldered her way between them. “Quit fightin’, ya’ two. The phight’s aboutta start,” she grumbled, breaking their locked gaze.

Subspace relented, taking a step back. But his eyes remained fixed on Medkit, gleaming with promised mischief. “Tch. I’ll see you when I catch you, Meddy.”

The nickname, so jarringly intimate in the public, hostile arena, made Medkit cringe inwardly. As Subspace melted back into the crowd, Medkit was left with a familiar, sinking feeling—the battle had already begun, and it was far more complicated than any simple fight over territory.

The phight began, and Medkit, as always, positioned himself in the backlines. The goal was simple: annihilate the opposing team. His role was simpler still: watch for injured teammates and keep them in the fight.

What an unlucky day, he thought grimly. Not only was he up against Subspace, but Subspace was making it abundantly clear that he was his primary target. The only small mercy was that Vinestaff was on his team, sharing the healing burden alongside Scythe, Katana, and Rocket. It was an aggressive, volatile team composition, and Medkit privately questioned its sustainability.

He was so focused on this internal critique, his attention divided by scanning the field for Subspace's telltale pink crystals, that he let his guard down for a critical second. As he darted forward to patch up a wounded Rocket, a sharp, familiar pain erupted in his side. The world dissolved into a blinding, crystalline pink light.

He had walked right into it. Subspace's Phinisher.

Medkit groaned in frustration as his vision faded to the respawn timer, the last thing he saw being Subspace gleefully waving goodbye before scooting away into the fray.

What a bad day, he lamented, watching the counter tick down. He should have known better. He should have been more careful. Subspace was hunting him, and he had just delivered himself on a silver platter.

“Be careful next time, Kit. That guy’s into you,” Scythe remarked, materializing beside him as he respawned. Her tone was laced with a knowing, predatory amusement.

Medkit just let out a noncommittal hum, refusing to acknowledge the comment. It was enough to make Scythe’s smile widen before she launched herself back toward the frontlines.

For the rest of the match, Medkit kept his distance, weaving through the chaos to heal his teammates alongside Vinestaff. Fortunately, Scythe and Katana were a relentless force, carrying the team to a hard-fought victory. The moment the match ended, Rocket whooped with joy and immediately bolted across the field to tackle Sword from the enemy team in a friendly hug.

Back in the lobby, the adrenaline began to fade. Medkit sighed as the digital tally of his earnings updated—a decent pile of bux for his efforts. I guess this is enough for today, he thought, weary to the bone.

The feeling was short-lived.

“Hm, you did good out there, doctor,” a voice purred from behind him. Subspace let out a low chuckle. “It was so fun watching you suffer through my Phinisher.”

Medkit didn’t bother to turn around. “Leave me alone,” he replied, his voice tight with a fresh wave of irritation.

“Can’t even have a little chat? You really wound me,” Subspace replied, the faux sweetness in his voice like grating sugar.

Medkit just rolled his eyes, done with the game. Without another word, he turned and walked away, seeking out Zuka to let him know he was done for the day. All he wanted was to be far away from the arena, and far, far away from Subspace.

As Medkit made his way back into the heart of Crossroads, the other phighters from the match began to trickle in, their voices rising in friendly banter as they replayed the highlights of the battle.

His quiet return was interrupted by a hesitant shuffle. Rocket approached, his head lowered in embarrassment. “I… um…”

Medkit didn’t need to hear the rest. He took in Rocket’s sheepish expression and the faint, tell-tale scent of singed metal. “You caught your prosthetic arm in an explosion. Again?” he guessed, his voice flat.

Rocket nodded, offering a guilty, lopsided grin. “Woops.”

Medkit sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “I’ll be charging extra for that,” he stated. It wasn’t a question.

“What!!!” Rocket yelped, his outburst causing several heads to turn their way. “Zuka’s going to scold me! Can’t we negotiate this?!” he pleaded.

Before Medkit could shut him down, a smooth, synthetic voice cut through the air. Subspace scooted closer, inserting himself into their conversation with an infuriating grin evident in his tone. “I can fix that for free, kid. Unlike this doctor over here.”

Medkit’s glare could have melted steel. “Get away from Rocket, Subspace.”

Subspace let out a theatrical laugh. “You charge extra while I offer charity. Your greed truly sickens me, Medkit.” The tease was deliberate, a needle expertly aimed at Medkit’s pride.

Medkit’s hand twitched, his composure cracking as he started to reach for Subspace’s collar. Rocket threw his hands up in frustration. “Jeez, can you two stop fighting in public?! It’s embarrassing!” he groaned, drawing even more unwanted attention.

The intervention was enough. Medkit forced his hand down, steadying his breathing and rebuilding his walls of icy composure. He pointedly turned his back on Subspace, focusing entirely on Rocket. “The offer stands. I’ll tell Zuka about that arm of yours, and I will charge extra. No other negotiations.”

Left with no other options, Rocket could only let out a long, defeated groan.

Medkit turned and walked away, the weight of the day settling heavily on his shoulders. He let out a long, weary sigh. Even after the exhaustion of the phight, his work was never done. Thanks to Rocket's chronic clumsiness, another unplanned errand had been added to his list.

Shaking his head, he navigated the familiar streets of Crossroads, the sounds of the other phighters fading behind him. His apartment building came into view, a welcome sight promising a sliver of solitude. Without a backward glance, he stepped inside, the door closing behind him and finally shutting out the day's relentless demands.

"I spent hours fixing your arm. Make sure you don't explode it again," Medkit stated, his voice stern as he wiped a stray bit of grease from his hands. Zuka crossed his arms and glanced down at Rocket. "You heard him, Rocket. Don't be reckless with that arm of yours, alright?"

Rocket just let out a defiant "hmph" and looked at Medkit. "No promises," he replied, a mischievous glint in his eye. Zuka handed Medkit a small pouch of bux for the commission. Medkit counted it with a practiced efficiency before giving a short, satisfied hum.

"Thanks for patching the kid up. Again," Zuka said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'll try to ensure he doesn't break it this time."

"You've said that a couple of times already, Zuka," Medkit replied flatly, slipping the bux into his coat. "Maybe you should stop getting your kid into explosives."

"The kid doesn't listen, unfortunately," Zuka sighed, looking at Rocket with a mix of exasperation and fondness. Rocket just rolled his eyes in response.

As Medkit stepped out of Zuka's shop, the cool night air hit him. He sighed, realizing the phight and the repairs had consumed the entire day. I guess it really took a lot of hours, he thought, feeling the deep weariness in his bones.

He began the familiar walk back to his apartment, longing for the quiet of his own space. But as the building came into view, his hopes for a peaceful end to the day evaporated. Leaning against the wall next to the entrance, unmistakable even in the dim light, was Subspace.

Medkit was too tired for his bullshit. The anger and irritation that usually spiked at the sight of him were dulled by pure exhaustion, leaving behind a heavy sense of resignation. With another, deeper sigh, he changed his course and approached him. For once, and despite every fiber of his being screaming not to, he walked directly toward the waiting inphernal.

“Meddy! Well, if it isn’t you!” Subspace chirped, his voice dripping with amusement.

Medkit pinched the bridge of his nose, a familiar gesture of exasperation. “What are you doing here, outside my apartment complex, Subspace?” he asked, his tone completely deadpan.

Subspace gave a low whistle before answering. “Just came to visit you! Finished all my work for the week—which means I get a break!” he exclaimed with exaggerated cheer. “Well, mostly. I still need to pop back into the lab for some… minor adjustments.” He waved a hand dismissively. “You know how it is.”

Medkit sighed heavily. “I’d rather you go back to the lab than come see me.”

“Aw, can’t you be a little nicer, Meddy? After everything we’ve shared?” Subspace cooed, taking a step closer.

Medkit instinctively retreated a step. “I charge extra for emotional attachment,” he stated flatly, raising a hand as if to hold the other inphernal at bay.

Subspace let out an amused hum that quickly bloomed into full laughter. “You know you can’t do that. Not with me.”

He was right. As much as Medkit wanted to invoice him for every ounce of emotional turmoil, he knew he never would. In the end, he’d offer his attention, his presence—himself—for free. Because deep down, beneath layers of resentment and logic, lay an inexplicable, stubborn attachment to Subspace that no amount of bux could ever quantify.

Medkit let out a long, weary sigh, the last of his resistance crumbling. “You want to go up to my apartment, correct?”

Subspace nodded quickly, a triumphant gleam in his eyes.

“This way, Subspace,” Medkit said, his voice devoid of enthusiasm as he turned and led the way into the complex. Subspace followed closely on his heels, a shadow Medkit couldn’t seem to shake.

Medkit unlocked his apartment door, and before he could even step inside, Subspace rushed past him, making himself at home.

“Neat as always,” Subspace declared, spinning slowly to take in the sterile, orderly living space. “And also looks boring as always,” he added with a theatrical sigh.

Medkit didn’t grace the jab with a reply. He simply placed his briefcase beside the couch and moved toward the kitchen, seeking the familiar, grounding ritual of making a pot of black coffee.

As he measured the grounds, a pair of arms suddenly wrapped around his waist from behind. Medkit startled for a moment before going still, recognizing the touch. He glanced over his shoulder to see Subspace nuzzling against his back.

“Can you get off of me, Subspace?” Medkit asked, his voice tight.

“No can do!” Subspace chirped, only holding on tighter and continuing to nuzzle with a contented hum. “You’re just too comfortable, Meddy.”

“I don’t understand you,” Medkit sighed, the words barely more than a breath as he finished preparing his bitter black coffee. It was the truest thing he’d said all night.

The moment the pot was done, Subspace finally released him, only to immediately begin trailing after him like a lost, albeit sinister, puppy. Medkit sank onto the couch, seeking solace in the warm mug cradled in his hands. Subspace mirrored him, settling onto the opposite cushion with an unnerving familiarity.

“What are you really here for, Subspace?” Medkit asked wearily, taking a long sip of the scalding liquid.

Subspace carefully took off his gas mask and placed it on the coffee table, revealing a soft, almost genuine smile. “Just visiting you, of course! What? Can’t an inphernal visit their favorite doctor?” he teased, his voice lighter without the filter’s distortion.

Medkit didn’t reply. He simply looked away and continued to sip his coffee, the silence itself an admission. Arguing with Subspace was like trying to hold back the tide—exhausting and ultimately futile.

“Hm.. how about we watch some Netphlix, Meddy? I have a few shows I’ve been wanting to watch with you!” Subspace announced, already snatching the remote from the coffee table. He flicked the television on, the screen casting a blue glow across the dim apartment as he navigated to the streaming service.

Medkit let out a noncommittal hum, sinking deeper into the couch cushions. “Do whatever you want,” he replied, his voice flat with resignation. The fight had long since drained out of him.

Subspace scrolled through the menu with frantic energy. “I know just what you’ll like! This one’s about a doctor—a very peculiar one!” he said, his tone implying he found the comparison deeply amusing. He selected the show, and the opening credits began to roll.

Medkit took a slow, final sip of his now-lukewarm coffee, the bitter taste a familiar comfort as he half-heartedly watched the screen. When the mug was empty, he leaned forward and placed it carefully on the coffee table, right beside Subspace’s discarded gas mask—an odd juxtaposition of their two worlds colliding once again in his quiet apartment.

“Do you like the show so far Meddy?” Subspace asked as he looked at Medkit. He then scooted closer to Medkit. Medkit just let out a hum. Subspace then leaned over Medkit’s shoulder. Medkit froze, watching as Subspace leaned over his shoulder. “So comfortable..” Subspace muttered. 

The rest of the night slipped by in a blur of flickering screen light and shared, unspoken space. Subspace remained curled against Medkit’s side, nuzzling into his shoulder and clinging to him with the quiet insistence of a cat claiming its territory. Soft, intermittent kisses were pressed against Medkit’s jaw and shoulder—each one a quiet question.

Finally, Subspace reached for the remote and paused the show. The sudden silence in the apartment was deafening. In one fluid motion, he shifted, gently pinning Medkit down against the couch cushions. Medkit stared up at him, his breath catching. He knew exactly where this was leading.

“Is it okay..?” Subspace whispered, his voice uncharacteristically soft, stripped of its usual manic energy.

Medkit’s mind raced. The stress of the phight, the hours spent repairing Rocket’s arm, the endless emotional whiplash of Subspace’s presence—it all coalesced into a single, weary thought. Maybe a physical release wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe he needed the distraction, the chance to quiet his own mind through sensation.

After a suspended moment, Medkit let out a slow, almost imperceptible nod. He couldn’t help it. He didn't want to.

A slow, genuine smile spread across Subspace’s face before he leaned in, closing the distance between them. The kiss was hungry, deep, and felt overwhelmingly intimate. Medkit kissed back, his hands coming up to clutch at Subspace’s shoulders as their tongues met. A soft, involuntary moan escaped him at the fervor of it.

Subspace moved from his lips to his neck, his mouth warm and insistent as he littered the skin with love bites. He kissed and licked a trail along Medkit’s throat, each touch a brand claiming him. Medkit arched into the contact, another low moan slipping out as his fingers tangled gently in Subspace’s hair, holding him close.

Subspace’s fingers worked deftly at the buttons of Medkit’s shirt, parting the fabric to reveal the skin beneath. His gaze was one of pure, unadulterated hunger, taking in the sight as if it were a long-awaited feast. He lowered his head, his tongue and lips mapping a heated, worshipful path across Medkit’s chest, eliciting sharp, breathy gasps that soon melted into soft, low moans. Each sound was heavenly to Subspace, a symphony of surrender he craved.

Emboldened, Medkit’s own hands rose, his movements less practiced but just as desperate. He fumbled with the fastenings of Subspace’s attire, pushing the clothing aside to feel the cool, familiar skin underneath. He pulled him closer, capturing his mouth in another kiss—this one was harsher, more hungry, fueled by a pent-up need that finally broke through his icy composure.

The rest of the night was lost to them. The forgotten television cast shifting blue shadows across their tangled forms on the couch, the only soundtrack their shared breaths and hushed, urgent whispers. Hours later, long after they had stilled, the screen flickered to a menu screen, the automated message—Are you still watching?—glowing silently in the dark room, a quiet witness to the temporary truce they had forged in each other's arms.

Notes:

yes they had sex while watching dr house

Chapter 3: snapped

Medkit woke the next morning with a hazy, fragmented recollection of the previous night. The memories returned in a slow, uncomfortable trickle. He looked around, realizing he was in his bed—he didn’t remember moving there.

 

Oh. Right.

 

Subspace.

 

The name echoed in his mind, bringing the events of the evening into sharp, painful focus. He had slept with Subspace. Again. His sworn enemy. The one person he was supposed to despise above all others.

 

God, this is awful.

 

He stood up groggily, the sheets tangling around his legs, and made his way to the bathroom. Splashing cold water on his face did little to clear the fog of regret. He stared at his reflection in the mirror—tired eyes, a faint mark on his neck just visible above his collar—and felt a fresh wave of self-reproach. He had let his guard down. He had given in. Again.

 

After drying his face, he stepped out of the bathroom, the weight of his choices settling heavily back onto his shoulders with the new day.

 

He did his usual routine and then dressed himself. Making sure the hickeys on his neck were hidden. After preparing himself, he grabbed his briefcase and then headed out of his apartment.

 

The day proceeded with its usual rhythm—a relentless cycle of errands and obligations. Medkit was long accustomed to the grind. Ever since his escape from Blackrock, his life had narrowed to this: running tasks across Crossroads and occasionally answering a summons to the Church of the True Eye at Lost Temple, but only if The Father required his specific expertise. Each day bled into the next with a numbing sameness. He found himself longing for something to break the monotony, for a single event that wasn't penciled into his ledger or dictated by duty. But no change came. He was trapped in the loop, a prisoner of his own making and the debts he owed.

 

The only variance, the only unpredictable element in his life, came not with the sun, but with the moon.

 

Because of Subspace.

 

However reluctantly, Medkit had to admit that Subspace made nights eventful. He was a storm that blew into Medkit’s orderly existence, shattering the repetition with chaos, intimacy, and a painful, thrilling reminder of a past he could never fully escape. It was a complication, a danger, and a secret—and try as he might, he couldn't bring himself to truly deny it.

 

Luckily, his errands were shorter than usual, wrapping up before the afternoon had fully waned. As he checked the last item off his mental list, he let out a slow sigh. The day stretched out before him, empty and devoid of anything to anticipate. The only thing that ever broke the predictable pattern was an unannounced visit from a certain four-horned inphernal.

 

A dangerous thought flickered in his mind. Or maybe… I could visit Subspace?

 

He immediately dismissed it. That would be a profoundly bad idea. Venturing into Blackrock territory as a known traitor wasn't just foolish; it was a direct ticket to a jail cell—or worse.

 

Seeking a distraction, he stopped at a cafe in Crossroads—not Slingshot’s, with its Biograft server, but a quieter, more anonymous one. He placed his order at the counter: a black coffee and a slice of tiramisu. Then he found a small table near the window, sinking into the chair as he waited, watching the world pass by outside, a spectator to a life that felt increasingly distant from his own.

 

Another inphernal stepped into the cafe, and Medkit’s blood ran cold. The uniform was unmistakable—Blackrock’s colors, sharp and authoritative, adorned a tall, imposing figure topped with a familiar, sleek helmet.

 

Hyperlaser.

 

Medkit froze, his hand tightening around the edge of the table. Was this it? Was he about to be executed right here, over tiramisu and black coffee? Had his luck finally run out? His mind raced, already calculating escape routes he knew he couldn’t take in time. But Hyperlaser’s visored gaze swept over him—paused for a heartbeat—and then looked away, as if Medkit were just another patron. No recognition. No aggression. Nothing.

 

Wait. He didn’t care?

 

Medkit watched, every sense on high alert, as Hyperlaser moved with calm purpose to the counter. He didn’t order a drink fit for a soldier—he ordered a cake. A rich, layered slice of something sweet. Medkit stared, baffled. He never would have guessed the stoic mercenary had a taste for pastries.

 

Transaction complete, Hyperlaser took the small box, turned, and walked straight back out of the cafe without another glance in Medkit’s direction.

 

That’s… odd.

 

The tension drained from Medkit’s shoulders, leaving behind only confusion. He was safe, for now. 

 

 

Medkit received his order shortly after, the brief encounter with Hyperlaser leaving a strange aftertaste that had nothing to do with his food. He took a bite of the sweet, creamy tiramisu followed by a sip of the bitter black coffee. It was a bizarre combination—much like his life, he mused. A clash of contradictions.

 

His eyes drifted back to the window, and he froze. Hyperlaser was still there, standing just outside the cafe, focused on his phone. Who is he waiting for?

 

A moment later, he had his answer. A familiar, four-horned inphernal came into view, his cheerful stride unmistakable even from a distance. Subspace? But he never came to Crossroads in the afternoon; his visits were strictly a cover-of-darkness affair. A cold dread washed over Medkit. Can this day not get any worse?

 

He pinched the bridge of his nose, but when he looked up again, it was directly into Subspace’s gaze. The inphernal had spotted him through the glass. Medkit quickly averted his eyes, focusing intently on his tiramisu as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.

 

The cheerful ding of the cafe doorbell announced Subspace’s entrance. Medkit kept his head down, listening to the sound of his footsteps heading straight for the counter. He could feel a smirk aimed in his direction even through the gas mask. He stubbornly continued eating, pretending to be utterly engrossed in his dessert.

 

The act was shattered when Subspace slid into the chair opposite him without a word. Medkit’s carefully maintained indifference crumbled. He was trapped.

 

“A little birdie told me you were here,” Subspace chirped, the smile evident in his voice even through the mask.

 

Medkit let out a long, weary sigh. Escape was impossible. He glanced toward the window, but Hyperlaser had already vanished, leaving him alone with his problem. He finally looked back at Subspace, his expression stony, offering no reply.

 

Subspace’s attention dropped to Medkit’s half-eaten tiramisu. “Enjoying your cake, Meddy?”

 

“I can’t enjoy it now that you’re here,” Medkit replied flatly.

 

“Woah, relax! I’ll be here for a while!” Subspace said, his cheer undimmed as a server arrived with his order. He placed an identical slice of tiramisu on the table, mirroring Medkit’s choice perfectly. The deliberate imitation was unbearably annoying.

 

Medkit leaned forward, his voice dropping to a sharp, urgent whisper. “If one of the other phighters sees us together, we’re done for.”

 

Subspace only giggled, a light, airy sound that was utterly out of place. “So? I’d let them watch,” he cooed, leaning in as if sharing a delicious secret.

 

Medkit recoiled, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. He chose silence, retreating behind a wall of icy indifference, the only defense he had left against Subspace’s relentless, public games.

 

“The rumors are going to spread that instead of us being sworn enemies… we’re—” Medkit began, his voice low and tense, but he was swiftly cut off.

 

Subspace reached across the table, placing a single, silencing finger against Medkit’s lips. The gesture was intimate, deliberate, and dangerously public. Medkit stiffened, then let out a defeated sigh. Arguing was pointless. He pulled back, choosing instead to focus on finishing his tiramisu, the sweet flavor now tinged with the bitter taste of exposure.

 

Medkit finished the last bite of his cake and drained the final, bitter sips of his coffee. Without a word, he stood, the legs of his chair scraping softly against the floor.

 

Subspace immediately perked up, his face tilting. “You’re not going to wait for me?” he asked, a theatrical pout in his voice.

 

Medkit shook his head, his expression unreadable. “No. Finish the cake by yourself.”

 

Before Subspace could launch into another plea or protest, Medkit turned and strode out of the cafe, the door chiming sharply behind him. He didn't look back, marching with purpose through the streets of Crossroads, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the complicated, public entanglement.

 

Left alone at the table, Subspace could only let out a low, amused smile. He picked up his fork, watching Medkit’s retreating form through the window. The game, it seemed, was far from over.

 

 

Medkit trudged back to his apartment complex, the weight of the day settling heavily on his shoulders. His phone chimed—a notification announcing another phight tomorrow. He sighed; just the thought of patching up his reckless teammates was enough to make his temples throb.

 

He unlocked his door and stepped inside, the familiar silence of his apartment a small relief. Gently, he placed his briefcase beside the couch and ran a hand over his face. Today had been… tiring. And, thanks to Subspace, unexpectedly eventful. This day can’t get any wors—

 

A sharp, impatient knock cut through his thoughts.

 

Medkit’s eyes narrowed. He knew that knock. With another, deeper sigh, he opened the door.

 

There stood Subspace, grinning widely and holding a small white box—clearly another slice of cake. For once, his gas mask was off, revealing the sharp, knowing smile and the faint, lingering traces of rot around his mouth. Medkit couldn’t help but wonder if any Crossroads residents had seen him like this—exposed and unmistakable—and been frightened by the sight. Subspace never went without his mask in public.

 

Great.

 

“Yes, Subspace?” Medkit asked, exhaustion clear in his voice.

 

Subspace’s grin only widened. “You think I was just gonna let you go? Nope! You’ve got it all wrong, Meddy!”

 

Of course. Medkit stepped aside, too worn down to protest. “Come inside.”

 

Subspace strode in proudly, as if he’d been invited all along, already making himself at home once again.

Subspace placed the box of cake on the coffee table and turned to Medkit with a bright, unreadable smile. “What do you want this time, Subspace?” Medkit asked, his voice flat.

 

“Just visiting you,” Subspace said innocently, whistling a light tune.

 

Medkit sighed, snatching a pack of cigarettes from the counter before heading out to the balcony. Subspace followed without hesitation, watching as Medkit lit a cigarette with slightly unsteady hands.

 

“Ha! It’s just like the old times, Meddy!” Subspace chirped, leaning against the railing.

 

“Don’t talk to me about the old times,” Medkit warned, taking a long, slow drag.

 

“Why not? Don’t you miss it too?” Subspace pressed, gazing out over the Crossroads skyline.

 

“…I don’t,” Medkit lied. He did miss it—more than he’d ever admit. But the memory of what came after, the incident, was enough to make him bury those feelings forever.

 

Subspace was quiet for a moment, then spoke again, his tone shifting. “How about you come back to Blackrock with me, Medkit? Your betrayal will be covered up. You won’t be a wanted criminal anymore.”

 

“I prefer this life. Thanks,” Medkit replied, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

 

“We’d be happy again,” Subspace insisted, turning to face him fully. “Together. Just like I always wanted.”

 

Medkit finally looked at him, his gaze hard. “Do you not remember what you did to my eye, Subspace?”

 

Subspace blinked, his expression flickering. “You did this to me as well,” he retorted, gesturing vaguely toward the rot along his jaw. “Don’t act like you’re special.”

 

“No matter how many times you try to convince me,” Medkit said, his voice low and controlled, “I’m never coming back there. Never. Ever.”

 

Subspace’s eye twitched. “Do you not want us to be together again? We could stop all this sneaking around. Go back to how things were. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. Yet you never agree.”

 

That was the last straw. Medkit finally snapped. “You only think about yourself and what you need! You never stop to consider what I want—how I feel!”

 

The words hung heavy in the air between them. Silence fell, broken only by the distant hum of the city. Medkit took one final drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out.

 

“Get out of my apartment.”

 

“But—”

 

“I said get out.”

 

Subspace sighed, shoulders slumping in rare defeat. “…Okay. I left a cake for you, if you want it.” Without another word, he turned and left, the door clicking shut softly behind him.

 

Medkit stood alone on the balcony for a long moment, rubbing his temples. He finished his cigarette, the cool night air doing little to calm the storm inside him. When he finally stepped back inside, his eyes fell on the cake box sitting alone on the coffee table.

 

A faint pang of guilt tugged at him. He hadn’t meant to snap—but it had to be said. He opened the box. Tiramisu. Again.

 

He sat on the couch and slowly began to eat it, each bite sweet and somber.

 

Sorry, Subspace, he thought. But it had to be said.

 

 

 

 

Medkit slid into bed, the weight of the day settling deep into his bones. Just as he was about to close his eyes, his phone screen lit up the dark room—a text notification from Subspace. He didn’t open it. He didn’t even read the preview. With a tired swipe, he cleared the notification and placed the phone facedown on the bedside table, shutting out the digital pull of more drama, more words, more Subspace.

 

He turned off the lamp, plunging the room into a silence that felt heavy, almost loud. Guilt lingered like a faint scent in the air—subtle but persistent. He shouldn’t have snapped like that… and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to fully regret it. Subspace had been pushing—always pushing—dredging up a past Medkit had tried so hard to bury. While Subspace remained anchored there, obsessed with what was, Medkit was fighting every day to focus on what is.

 

They were different in almost every way that mattered. Opposites in motive, in memory, in how they carried their scars.

 

And yet…

 

No matter how far apart they drifted, no matter how many lines were drawn or words were thrown like weapons, they always found their way back to each other—as if all those differences were just… noise.

 

Medkit sighed into the darkness, already feeling the inevitable pull. Tomorrow, there’d be another phight. Another chance encounter. Another moment where their eyes would meet across the battlefield or in the dim light of a Crossroads street.

 

He hoped Subspace would keep his distance, just this once. Hoped he’d grant Medkit a day of peace after tonight’s outburst.

 

But deep down, he knew better.

Notes:

rolls around