Chapter Text
“Reinforcements incoming.” Mandalay’s voice rings in Shōta’s mind. “Mission Control advises maintaining position and observing. Do not engage. Repeat, do not engage.”
Shōta takes a moment to mourn the loss of two-way comms even as he raises a hand to give a two-click confirmation on his earpiece.
With people like Earphone Jack in the game now any communication beyond Mandalay’s telepathy carries the risk of being compromised.
Thankfully the rudimentary click system they’ve established is more likely to be lost in the background noise than a verbal report, no matter how brief.
Shōta shifts just a bit, letting his body uncoil from his launch pose and into something more conducive to simply observing.
He’s been posted in the shadows of this particular rooftop for over an hour now, having arrived long before the fight below had started.
Their intel had been solid, unsurprising considering who provided the majority of it, and he’d been hoping that tonight he’d be able to make the final push to secure their objective.
Shōta had been lining up his final approach, his infiltration and exfiltration routes all laid out, memorized, and secured, when Mandalay had slammed the order to hold into his head with all the force of a hammer in her urgency.
Dynamight, Red Riot, and Real Steel had arrived on the scene five minutes later, an obvious support squad of Earphone Jack and a few others arriving almost ten minutes after them in an uncoordinated flurry that made Shōta grit his teeth to bite back the urge to snarl.
Shōta had been forced to watch as two months of investigation and observation went down the drain in the space of thirty minutes thanks to the unorganized mess that is the HPSC's newest gang of attack dogs.
It would be more frustrating if it weren’t a turn of events that Shōta is rapidly becoming used to.
There’s been a massive bump in the HPSC’s information gathering, a noticeable and concerning upward trend in their ability to analyze everything from group movements and team-ups to individual quirks and fighting styles.
They’re managing to stay more than a few steps ahead of course but the way what has long been a generous lead has slowly been shrinking is more than a bit … concerning.
No matter how maniacally delighted about it all Nedzu seems to be.
And the blame for that can be laid firmly on one particular set of shoulders.
“Deku has been called in,” Mandalay’s voice rings in Shōta’s mind then. “I repeat, Deku is taking the field.”
If you spread rumors, Shōta can’t help but think, half amused and half frustrated. Even from such a distance, Shōta can see it all unfold clearly, exceptional eyesight being a small side perk of his quirk and honestly well worth the dry eye that comes hand in hand with it.
The meteor of jade lightning known as Pro Hero Deku lands in the middle of the battlefield barely a minute after Mandalay’s warning.
Shōta’s in the perfect position to see the way he only takes a split second to analyze which way the tide is currently pulling before launching himself into action.
Deku streaks past Real Steal and Red Riot without pausing, leaps back into the air in one smooth motion, and then overtakes Dynamight despite the screams and curses that Shōta can hear all the way from his position.
With his mysterious black energy whips flaring out around him, Deku slams into his opponent with all the force of a speeding train, his red-booted feet making contact first. The shockwave of their impact blows Dynamight further back despite the way he rages and attempts to use his explosions to course correct.
Deku doesn’t bother to look back. Instead, he concentrates on driving his opponent higher into the sky, further and further up and away from any lingering civilians and the local infrastructure.
Shōta knows the battle is over before the final blow lands, Deku wrapping up what had once been a losing fight with the sort of efficiency and mindfulness that Shōta would applaud in any other situation.
Still, Shōta stays where he is instead of retreating from the scene, interested in seeing how things play out in the aftermath.
What, Shōta can’t help but wonder, are the group dynamics like now that the fighting is done and the clean-up has to begin?
Shōta is somehow unsurprised to find out that the answer to his question is poor.
Deku is, as always, a mess of green curls and nervous smiles, radiating an anxious sort of cheerfulness that does little to hide the obvious exhaustion that weighs on his shoulders and puts sickly purple bags beneath those bright eyes.
Shōta thinks Deku might look a little worse than he did last time they’d run into each other, a little more tired, a little more rundown and melancholy beneath it all, but even with his eyesight it’s a bit difficult to tell from so far away.
But the way that Deku double and then triple-checks that his opponent is down, out, and properly secured before carting him to the nearest holding vehicle only to slump against the side of the armored van once that’s been accomplished says a lot.
Deku doesn’t stay down for long though, Shōta knows he never does. Instead, he straightens, seems to shake himself, and then turns to head toward the nearest collapsed building, already floating a few inches off of the ground as he obviously begins his own search and rescue sweep.
The additional aid begins to flow into the site, EMTs and police moving in to properly cordon off the area and start seeing to any injuries but that is, in Shōta’s opinion, where the competence ends.
Earphone Jack and the rest of the support group pile into one of the transportation vehicles and leave in short order, not staying to help coordinate any necessary rescue efforts despite having quirks that would be perfect for the job.
The battle group, led by a visibly seething Dynamight, don’t stick around for much longer either before piling into the second transport, this one with the prisoner inside, and heading out in a flurry of curses.
It’s not long before Deku is the only hero left on the scene, something that Shōta knows he isn’t the only one to notice.
Still, as fascinating as the entire situation is, Shōta does have a job to do. Even if the optics have changed from his initial infiltration and retrieval mission.
And since Earphone Jack is gone, open comms are back on the table.
“Target has been neutralized,” Shōta reports. “Overhaul is contained and in a hero-guarded transport heading due west. Dynamight, Red Riot, and Real Steel confirmed onboard.”
“Enroute directly for Tartarus no doubt,” Nedzu replies. “Although how long he remains is anyone’s guess. And our primary target?”
“In the other transport headed south,” Shōta says. “Also hero-guarded, but it’s a support squad. They have Earphone Jack so there’s some firepower but not enough. Send in Mic and it shouldn’t be an issue.”
Shōta watches as Deku steps forward to stabilize a listing building, his black tendrils spreading out like a net to keep the concrete and steel in place as paired groups of EMTS and police move inside.
“Deku is still occupied on scene,” Shōta finally says down the line. “He stayed behind to help with rescue and recovery efforts.”
There’s a moment of silence.
“How … interesting,” Nedzu finally says. “The comms for the second transport are now offline and Mic Drop is en route. Feel free to pull back at your own discretion, Eraser. I suspect we will have dear Eri-chan firmly in our grasp within the hour.”
Nedzu drops the line then, not bothering to sign off.
Shōta stays in position for another hour anyway, attention trained on the beehive of activity below.
Deku stays busy the entire time, darting between points of activity, lifting this, bracing that, carrying this person here or there.
By the time the sun sets and Shōta finally abandons his perch, Deku is still going.
Shōta thinks about him long after he’s made his own way home.
~~~
Being a hero has always been Izuku’s dream.
His journey had been long and bloody but he’d done it.
He’d graduated from UA and became Pro Hero Deku.
His lifelong dream finally fulfilled.
Izuku has never been happier.
Truly.
He has a quirk now, is a licensed hero, and, most importantly of all, he gets to go out and help people every single day.
He couldn’t ask for more.
Being a hero means everything to him. Is everything to him.
It’s just …
Different.
From how Izuku had always thought it would be.
Different, some disloyal part of him that had refused to be stamped out and beaten into submission snarls, than how he knows it should be.
Meeting All Might, catching his attention, and then being offered One For All had felt like a miracle.
Izuku had worked himself to the bone in order to build the muscle needed to accept that miracle, the legacy, the chance, that All Might had offered him.
Getting into UA was supposed to be the next step of that dream.
And it had been, it really had.
But it was a harsher dream than Izuku had expected it to be, and he had gone in fully ready and willing to cry and bleed and break to achieve his goals.
And yet UA had still ended up being brutal in a way he hadn’t been expecting, in ways that All Might had not warned him of.
Although to be fair to his late mentor, UA had been under different leadership back when All Might had attended.
Izuku had spoken with All Might about the school multiple times when they’d been training together. Had listened, enraptured, to his stories of recuse drills and combat training, of classes and workshops all dedicated to encouraging a healthy sort of competition between the students and departments that would one day go hand in hand with teamwork in the field.
He’d been even more eager to pass the exam and be enrolled in the school. Had dreamed about the classes and the exercises, about the possibility of finally making friends with others who would go on to one day be heroes at his side.
The reality of UA had been jarring.
Hurtful in a number of ways that Izuku still struggles to put into words even well past graduation.
The barracks they’d all been assigned to had been militaristic and cold, offering little in the way of comfort or privacy.
Even the way the classes had been divided neatly and ruthlessly, with battle-oriented quirks slotted into A-Class and ‘support’ oriented quirks into B, had been unsettling.
The segregation of the hero course students from not only the rest of the departments but from each other as well, had been disappointing and disheartening.
There had been no crossover teamwork drills, no cross-class or multi-year exercises. None of the healthy competition and community building Izuku had been looking for.
And then there was the disciplinary system …
Well.
Izuku had thought UA would be different from Aldera.
And in so many ways it was.
But in others…
Izuku had once again found himself as an outlier, as an object of ridicule and disdain from his sensei, set up to be used as an example for his classmates.
Only this time it wasn’t his lack of quirk that had seen Izuku ostracized.
Instead it had been his classwork.
The benchmark essays he’d submitted during the first week of classes to be more precise.
His answers, his ideals, were seen as unacceptable. Not heroic by the established standard. Something that needed to be trained out of him.
It had taken Izuku the majority of his first year to figure out how they wanted him to answer and then to perfect the slow slide of his coursework in that direction.
But by then the damage was already done in the eyes of the rest of the student body and Izuku had been considered a liability.
Persona non grata for anyone who wanted to avoid the wrath of whatever sensei was in charge of the classroom or the exercise field.
So Izuku had spent the rest of his time at UA throwing himself into training and attempting to keep his head down and his mouth shut.
It had been exhausting and lonely in a way he’d hoped to leave behind him but, in the end, it was worth it.
All of it was worth it to be what he is now.
A hero.
No matter what it took, that is all that matters.
Izuku is a hero now.
And above all else, heroes help.
Which is why it still manages to hurt Izuku, deep down in that too-soft core of him, to find himself here.
Propped up against a wall in the middle of a burning city and bleeding out with other heroes only an arm’s length away.
“Mission command says leave him,” someone, Izuku can’t tell who through the ringing in his ears, says.
“That gut wound is nasty,” Kir- Red Riot, Izuku knows it’s him, protests. Riot is always the one to speak up, to say something, even if he never really follows through. Kind to the core but breakable in the ways that Izuku knows really matter. “He’s bleeding real bad.”
“Slap a bandage on him and let’s go,” Dynamight, not Kacchan, never Kacchan again, snarls. “We don’t have time for dead weight.”
The terrible thing is, he’s right, Izuku knows he is.
Hosu is burning and there are Nomu everywhere. They don’t have time to cater to Izuku. To clean up his mess because he’d stepped between Stain’s blade and Mines’ unprotected back but hadn’t been good enough to dodge the blow himself.
“Sorry about this Deku,” Riot whispers, popping open one of the pouches on Izuku’s own belt to pull out a gauze pad. He’s the only one who carries first aid supplies in this entire group after all. “Command knows you’re out here and I-I’ll come back for you once things calm down okay?”
He won’t.
They both know he won’t.
Izuku’s own comms were busted when he went up against a Nomu a few blocks back. Riot will be too busy giving an after-action report and clearing out with the other battle-oriented heroes to worry about Izuku.
And they both know no one else is coming for Izuku.
Once Riot and the others clear out Izuku will be on his own.
Izuku does his best to smile up at him though.
They’re not friends really, but Riot has always been kind to him in his own way.
He used to smile at Izuku back at UA and sometimes they’d lift together during PT. Those small bits of kindness were more than most had been willing to give Izuku, all too worried about the cost and repercussions of associating with him.
However this ends for him, Izuku would rather Riot not carry it on his shoulders.
So Izuku grits his teeth through the burning agony of Riot pressing the gauze against his stomach. He’s quick to call Blackwhip out to wrap around his waist and keep the pressure up once Riot’s stepped back.
It’ll buy him some time but with how deep that jagged blade went and at the rate he’s currently bleeding, Izuku knows it won’t be long before his hold on his quirk begins to falter.
He’s been running back-to-back missions for the past few weeks on top of the mountain of analysis work he’s been expected to churn out on the regular since his hobby was discovered towards the end of his third year.
Needless to say, Izuku had been exhausted when the call of Nomu on the loose in Hosu had gone out across the Network.
He’d still suited up and reported for duty of course, but taking to the field already so worn down hadn’t exactly done him any favors.
Now, hours later and with a gut wound, Izuku’s holding on to the edges of his control and consciousness in general through sheer willpower alone.
If he doesn’t figure out a way out of this before he grows weak enough for Blackwhip to no longer be an option …
Izuku pushes the thought away, sending out another tendril of Blackwhip to latch onto the nearby fire escape and help pull him upright. It’s a risk to use Float when he can feel himself weakening by the second but he doesn’t really have much choice.
He manages to make it up and out of the alley and onto the rooftop before his vision flickers again, black spots closing in around the edges.
Izuku’s knees buckle.
He doesn’t hit the ground.
Strong, steady arms catch him and Izuku finds his face pressed against something that smells of a surprisingly comforting mix of coffee-musk-smoke.
He manages to tilt his head back, vision blurring.
Familiar golden goggles stare back down at him.
“‘Raser,” Izuku manages to slur out the villain’s name.
“Deku,” Eraser murmurs back, voice that same low, rough husk it always is. “You’re bleeding.”
“W-Wasn’t good enough,” Izuku admits.
For once he isn’t all that ashamed to admit his own shortcomings to someone else. He and Eraser have fought enough times over the years that the man has to be fully aware of just where and by how far Izuku tends to fall short.
“Somehow, Problem Hero,” Eraser huffs, arms tightening around Izuku, “I doubt that.”
And then Izuku knows nothing at all.
~~~
According to Nedzu’s intel, Stain has decided to make Hosu his latest hunting ground.
And so, of course, to Hosu Shōta had gone.
Shōta had entered the city prepared for the meeting with Stain to go sideways. Even as Stendhal the man had never been the most stable. But he’d always had conviction, had drive, and that coupled with his obvious skills was something they could use.
Regardless of the fact that the majority of their manpower has been committed elsewhere for the foreseeable future, Shōta was always going to be the only logical pick to head out to Hosu on his own.
Of course, his objective is a little more complicated than just making contact with Stain.
Shōta is under firm orders to get in, and eventually out of, the city with as little damage as possible and to establish a firm grasp on Stain’s current mindset in the process.
On whether or not Stain can be swayed to their cause or, at the very least, prevented from joining anyone else’s.
The brutality of Stain’s methods aside, Nedzu had been willing to entertain that Stain’s attempt on Madam President herself as well as Mera Yokumiru’s lives might have been the beginning of a more targeted pattern of attack.
The launch of a no-doubt downward spiral that, while distasteful, Nedzu might just be able to guide to their benefit before Stain’s inevitable end.
Even if the man has always leaned too far toward fanaticism for Shōta’s personal taste, he’d still been prepared to present Nedzu’s opening talking points, to be the hand that rolled those particular dice.
But Shōta hadn’t been prepared for this.
Hosu is burning, Nomu are running amok, and there’s not a godsdamn thing Shōta can really do about it.
And after what he’s seen of Stain tonight?
Shōta is ready to give Nedzu the word that they are going to need a more expedient and permanent solution to the entire issue.
Stain’s previous victims had all been corrupt on some level, all hiding various skeletons that Nedzu had barely had to dig to find.
But tonight?
While the city burns and innocents are in danger?
Stain, a man who preached the righteousness of heroes and the purity of his cause, had turned his blade on Deku when the hero had thwarted his attack. Hadn’t even hesitated when he realized his initial strike had missed its intended target.
If anything, the sight of Deku stepping in to save the life of someone Stain had marked for death had only seemed to enrage the man further. He’d continued to press the attack instead of withdrawing all the way up until Deku had used those tendrils of his to forcefully launch him away.
And that right there?
Says everything Shōta needs to know about the man.
Stain might be skilled and driven, but it’s no longer manifesting in a way that Nedzu would want to work with.
Stain has stepped so far over the line into outright blind fanaticism and idolatry of his own perfect heroic ideals that he’s no longer capable of self-regulation. He is no longer capable of the judgment necessary for something so vitally important as being able to pull a hit mid-fight.
Stain will end up dead on his crusade, Nedzu and Shōta have both always known and planned for that, but with the way he’s heading? It’s more likely than not that his final moments will be spent on some form of a spree killing rather than a righteous battle of any kind.
That particular flavor of instability makes him a poor prospect for any of Nedzu’s plans unless they have literally no other choice. Or if Nedzu decides to employ any of his more nuclear-flavored options in the field.
A commotion in the alley below has Shōta snapping sharply back into focus.
Deku is even paler than normal, one hand pressed against his stomach.
But it’s the other heroes that really capture Shōta’s attention.
“Mission command says leave him,” the words float up to Shōta from where Mines is standing off to the side.
“That gut wound is nasty,” Red Riot protests loudly. “He’s bleeding real bad.”
“Slap a bandage on him and let’s go,” Dynamight snarls, already half-turned toward the mouth of the alley. “We don’t have time for dead weight.”
To be fair, they are in the middle of a rapidly worsening disaster zone.
And yet …
Shōta watches Red Riot sloppily press a gauze pad against Deku’s stomach and then sprint off after the others with a sour taste in his mouth and anger broiling low and hot in his gut.
Hizashi, Shōta can’t help but think, would never.
Which is true. Hizashi would never leave someone behind like this, nor would Nemuri, Oboro, or Tensei.
Nor would Shōta.
Even Nedzu, for all of his sadistic tendencies, does not simply abandon what is his. Everything the chimera has ever let go of has left his grip sporting claw marks or in pieces.
The gutted remnants of UA all those years ago still stand as proof enough of that.
But here Deku is, being left alone in some dirty alley by heroes who should have at least tried.
The fact that it’s Deku who is being abandoned, so obviously weak and actively bleeding, makes it all that much worse for Shōta.
Because against his better judgment, Shōta actually likes Deku.
Likes his earnestness and his nervous but determined brand of kindness.
Shōta even likes the way that Deku has always been able to provide him with a challenge whenever they run into each other. Likes the way that he always rises to the occasion and works his way over, around, or through any obstacle Shōta might throw in his way. Likes how Deku gives him an actual fight instead of being taken out of the game the very second Shōta flashes Erasure at him.
Likes how, even though they’ve fought time after time, Deku has never once been cruel toward Shōta.
Deku is a hero in a way that has fallen so far to the wayside in the last few decades that most don’t remember just what that job, that calling, used to entail.
Seeing him like this is just … wrong.
Shōta’s mind is made up before Deku manages to make his way out of the alley and up onto the rooftop.
He sees the moment that Deku’s strength finally falters, sees his knees begin to buckle.
Shōta catches him before he hits the ground.
Deku tilts his head back to stare up at Shōta, the black tendrils of his quirk fading away like they were never there.
“‘Raser,” Deku manages to slur after a too-long pause, those normally vibrant eyes of his glassy and dull.
“Deku,” Shōta murmurs back, careful to keep his grip on the hero firm but comfortable. “You’re bleeding.”
An understatement really, what Shōta can see of the gauze Red Riot had slapped on him is already soaked through.
“W-Wasn’t good enough,” Deku admits faintly, voice weak but tone sure.
What.
Shōta knows Deku’s not implying what Shōta thinks he is.
“Somehow, Problem Hero,” Shōta huffs, swallowing back his flare of irritation for the moment, “I doubt that.”
Because Shōta very much does.
Deku has fought Shōta to a standstill enough times over the years for him to be intimately aware of just all the ways the hero more than measures up.
But, Shōta tells himself even as he taps at his earpiece and then scoops Deku’s limp form up into his arms, there will be time for that later.
“Nedzu,” Shōta barks into his comm, unconcerned with discretion at the moment as he turns on his heel and takes off at a flat run. “I need you to open the closest safe house with a full medical loadout available. I’m also gonna need a blood drop.”
“Done,” Nedzu responds instantly. “Block Four, the apartment above Daikoku is still active and the door will open for you. How badly are you injured?”
Nedzu is, Shōta knows, undoubtedly irritated by the lack of cameras for him to get his paws on thanks to all of the fire and destruction currently overtaking Hosu.
Shōta wouldn’t be surprised if he’s busy rerouting a satellite or two.
“It’s not me,” Shōta shoots his scarf out, clearing the gap between buildings without blinking and ignoring the fighting taking place on the street below. There’s no time to be distracted with any of it. “It’s Deku. He stepped between Stain’s attack on Mines and was injured. Stain’s too far gone, he didn’t even hesitate to press.”
“A pity,” Nedzu huffs. “He could have been useful for something besides whatever blood-filled diatribe he will inevitably find his end in. How is Deku?”
“Not good,” Shōta admits. “Nedzu, his team,” Shōta bites the word out, “abandoned him to bleed out. If I wasn’t there …”
A pause.
Shōta clears another block, body turning automatically towards his destination. He’s been to the Daikoku safe house a few times so, thankfully, he knows exactly where he’s headed.
“I see,” Nedzu says, tone sharp. “Daikoku’s renovations were completed shortly before your arrival in Hosu so it is fully outfitted with a small surgical suite and everything needed for a transfusion.”
Thank all the gods and the global stock market too for Nedzu’s absolutely staggering wealth and his tendency to use it in a variety of ways that further their various causes.
“Good,” Shōta chances a glance down at Deku then. He’s still, eyes closed, and lashes inky fans against his too-pale skin where his head rests against Shōta’s chest.
He looks younger, more vulnerable, like this but no less tired. This close Shōta can tell that he’s lost weight too, the normal softness of his face hollowed out a bit in a way that makes Shōta’s teeth grit.
“Reinforcements have been called into the city but the Daikoku site remains secured,” Nedzu continues. “Go to ground with your prize, Shōta-kun. I will handle Stain.”
The line cuts but Shōta doesn’t pay it any mind.
Going to ground is exactly what he’d planned to do anyway.
Besides, now that Shōta has his hands on the hero, has Deku tucked close and secure, he finds that he’s loath to let him go again.
Especially if that means Deku will trot right back into the undeserving hands that had abandoned him.
Deku is going to need time to recover and Shōta means to give it to him.
Whether he likes it or not.
~~~
Daikoku, nestled as it is on the back corner of Block Four, nudges up against the farthest corner of Hosu proper. The bar is small, nondescript, and far enough from anywhere of interest in general that the small apartment that occupies the upper floor of the building is perfectly positioned as a safe house.
Shōta hits Daikoku’s roof at a run, some of the tension that has been weighing down his shoulders immediately easing when the roof door swings open as soon as his feet hit the gravel.
Nedzu’s work obviously, which means he has control of the surrounding cameras.
Shōta, and more importantly Deku, are now as safe as they can be given the situation.
He doesn’t bother to slow down once he makes it through the door, clearing the short flight of stairs in a leap even as the roof door closes quietly behind him.
The apartment door is also already open, the warm glow of the entryway light spilling out into the tiny stairwell.
Shōta finally slows down once he’s inside, not bothering to shed his boots as the apartment door shuts and locks behind him. Instead, he turns sharply toward the left once he’s through the small entryway, eating up the distance between the door and the waiting surgical suite with quick, even strides.
He places Deku gently on the surgical table and then turns toward the large, stainless steel sink that sits in the corner, taking the time to drop his capture scarf to the floor and unzip and fold down the top half of his jumpsuit as he goes.
Arms and chest bare, Shōta makes quick work of scrubbing himself down with the antibacterial soap and rinsing off. He grabs a suture kit and two bottles of wound wash from one of the shelving units before crossing back over to Deku’s side.
Equipment set on the surgical tray and the now saturated gauze quickly tossed aside, Shōta opens the suture kit with one hand and pulls the hero-grade fabric shears from their place.
The blades cut through the fabric of Deku’s hero costume with ease before Shōta tosses them aside without thought, aware now that with the gauze removed, he needs to be quick.
After upending an entire bottle of the sterile saline solution on the area, Shōta’s finally able to get a good look at the wound.
Jagged and ugly, the gash is deep and wide, looking more like something gnawed through Deku’s stomach and side rather than sliced it.
The sight of it just makes Shōta’s determination to feed Stain his own feet the next time they cross paths all the more potent.
Not that he’s likely to get the chance of course. Nedzu has said he’d ‘take care of Stain’ after all and Shōta knows better than to assume that means anything good for the fanatic.
Grabbing a fist full of gauze, Shōta snaps the cap off of the other bottle of wound wash and sets himself to work.
It’s grim but necessary work, flushing the blood and dirt from the wound. Still, it’s eventually as clean as Shōta can make it, as clean as Deku can afford him to try and make it at the moment.
So now it’s time to move on to the hard part.
Closing the wound.
Thankfully Shōta does actually know what he’s doing. Nedzu, as possessive and pragmatic as he has always been, had designed an accelerated and extensive first aid course for all of them years ago.
Shōta, with the best eyesight and the steadiest hands outside of Nemuri, has been called on to stitch someone up more than once since then.
So with a careful roll of his shoulders to ease some of the lingering tension, Shōta picks up the suture needle and bends to his work.
~~~
Izuku wakes to a familiar sort of pain.
A sharp, prickling burn followed by the aching tug of flesh being pulled back together.
Even with his head a groggy mess, Izuku’s had stitches enough in the past, both on and off the record, to know them by feel alone.
When he manages to crack his eyes open, vision still blurry and unfocused from pain and exhaustion, all Izuku can see is the dark figure bending over him.
That, combined with a fresh gout of pain when the needle slides deep again, has Izuku’s left arm instinctively lashing out, Blackwhip flaring and flailing out weakly as he moves.
Izuku hears a loud, metallic sort of crash and a harsh curse, before a large hand wraps itself around his throat, and pushes him back down onto whatever it is he’s lying on,
Then Blackwhip, One For All itself, is just gone.
Once, the loss of his quirk, the absence of One For All’s electric, tsunami buzz beneath his skin and around his bones, would have had Izuku absolutely drowning in anxiety.
But that was before.
Now the absence of his quirk only makes Izuku think of one thing, one person.
“‘Raser,” Izuku manages to rasp.
“Steady, Deku,” Eraser says, damp thumb swiping softly against the line of Izuku’s jaw. “I know it hurts but we’re almost done. Just be still and let me take care of you.”
Izuku can’t help the way he shivers just a bit and then slumps back, relaxing beneath the gentle but steady press of that familiar hand on his throat.
Everything else aside, Izuku trusts that Eraser will at least make it quick.
But if that’s what he wanted to do, Izuku doubts Eraser would take the time to stitch him back together first.
No, if Eraser wanted him dead then Izuku would still be on that rooftop, not wherever he is, being cared for.
It’s a far more comforting thought than it should be.
It shouldn’t be the safest Izuku can remember feeling in years.
And yet it is.