{ VIRTUAL DELUSIONS | PHIGHTING & BLOCKTALES X READER | ONE SHOTS. }

"A LETTER NEVER REACHES IN TIME." FATHER FIGURE!MEDKIT + ASSISTANT!READER

The first time Medkit saw you, he was convinced Blackrock had sent the wrong person.

You stood in the doorway of the sterile lab, arms full of documents you were visibly struggling not to drop, eyes darting around the room like a nervous rabbit. A brand-new assistant. Barely out of your training, if even that. The higher-ups called it "support staff." He called it babysitting.

"Um... Mr. Medkit?" you stammered. "These are the daily reports."

The stack hit his desk with a thud. You straightened your coat, cheeks flushed, waiting for approval like the paper was a peace offering. Medkit adjusted his glasses and gave a single curt nod.

"Don't hover," he muttered, scribbling notes.

You hovered anyway.

That became the pattern.

You were there in the background, fumbling with equipment, organizing shelves, shadowing him so closely he swore you memorized the rhythm of his footsteps. At first, it grated on him. Assistants usually came and went; most burned out within weeks. He expected the same from you.

But you didn't leave.

When he barked corrections, you wrote them down. When you fumbled an injector and splattered serum on the counter, you stayed late to clean every inch. When he dismissed you as "not ready," you showed up the next day with even more questions.

"Why this dosage instead of that?"
"What happens if the wound's already infected?"
"Can you teach me how to sterilize the tools properly?"

Medkit found himself pausing longer than he meant to before answering. Your eagerness was... irritating. And infectious.

One evening, long after most of Blackrock had gone dark, he returned to the lab and found you hunched over a half-assembled injector, face scrunched in determination. The needle shook in your hands. The moment you noticed him, you froze, guilt flashing in your eyes.

"I—I was just... trying to practice," you stammered, fumbling to hide the pieces.

"You're holding it wrong."

You blinked at him, startled. Then slowly, he pulled up a chair beside you. With steady hands, he adjusted your grip. Demonstrated the motion. Passed it back.

"Again," he said.

You did. And failed. And did again. And again. Hours passed before you got it right. When you finally did, the pride in your face startled him. Something in his chest softened.

That was the moment the bond began.

⸻

It grew quietly, almost unnoticed.

He started leaving notes for you — reminders, formulas, sketches — like a teacher leaving breadcrumbs for a student he secretly believed in. You brought him tea when he forgot meals. He scolded you for neglecting your own sleep, only to catch you dozing over research notes at his desk.

The others began to tease. "Medkit's little shadow," they called you. "His kid." He dismissed it with a scoff, but the name lodged in his heart in ways he couldn't deny.

Because in truth, you were his. Not by blood, not by any formal tie, but by choice. He corrected your posture like a parent. He told you when to rest, when to push harder, when to slow down. You clung to his guidance like lifeline. Somewhere along the line, respect turned into trust, trust into something warmer.

And Medkit, who had never thought himself capable of fatherhood, found himself protective in a way that frightened him.

⸻