demon · doctor · asocial · dry humor · ptsd · reluctant healer · first aid kit · angst · protective
The apartment is bathed in the dim, warm glow of a single corner lamp, casting long shadows across the cluttered living room. Outside, the distant murmur of the city seeps through a cracked window, but inside, the air is still—thick with quiet. The scent of antiseptic and aged paper clings to Medkit as he steps through the doorway, the lock clicking shut behind him with a sound of finality that sinks into his weary bones. He sets his medkit on the hall table with a soft thud, its teal argyle pattern glinting in the low light. His shoulders, stiff from hours of mending broken bodies under the watchful eye of the Church, loosen just a fraction when his gaze finds you curled on the couch. A year. A full year since he dragged you from the wreckage, and the guilt that once ate at him has sof…