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“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.”
No bullets. One revolver. Six shots. This is how a night that would make Medkits life far more complicated than it ever needed to be started off.
AKA: Medkit is depressed the fic