Chapter Text
The general hospital wasn’t unfamiliar-- the long white hallways and countless rooms almost seemed welcoming in a way I didn’t know I would ever get used to. Last time I was here, I had been asleep for two days-- and I slept for four more, under the unwavering eyes of some unknown doctor-- I don’t remember much. The time before that, my step-mom broke her wrist while bowling and wanted some company during her x-ray while my mom was on a weekend business trip and wouldn’t be back for a couple hours. I got my tonsils removed in this hospital, too-- and I was born here. But I had never visited anyone who had their face crushed or their exo-skeleton ripped off before-- was there a dress code? Code of conduct? Coded message to put in the get-well-soon cards?
I may have been code-less as I wandered the fourth floor, looking for room 457 and 58, but I wasn’t cold-less. The air conditioning blasted through every vent, like a refrigerator, desperate to keep everyone inside fresh. I regretted being coat-less.
“Are you lost, ma’am?” someone asked.
“Huh? Me?” I asked, snapping out of my ramble and my daze. I immediately felt stupid, there was no one else in the hallway, of course she meant me. I tried to focus on her-- she was all purple hair and pearl jewelry, middle aged and sturdy looking-- her clothes looked like scrubs but my mind couldn’t seem to process what that meant. I felt velveteen, filled with nothing but stuffing and beans. This hallway was making me feel at home in more ways than one.
“Yeah, would you mind pointing me to 457?”
“Are you sure?”
The question caught me off guard. There was something wrong with the tone of her voice, something beyond just checking if I had the right room number. I had the thought that we might’ve met before, that she had worked in one of the mental hospitals— how embarrassing would that be? I was a mess most of the time I was in public-- it was almost frightening thinking about how many people I might interact with that had known me at my messiest. Of course, she probably just looked at my face and decided that I was a patient on the wrong floor for a mental health crisis-- I resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose. I was holding flowers for God’s sake.
“Yes,” I said dryly. “You don’t know if they’re awake yet, do you?”
“This way,” she nodded, and I wasn’t sure if she was agreeing that I was sure or saying they were awake. I wasn’t sure about most things with this nurse. Was it just me? Was I the one being weird or was she seriously off it?
It might’ve been weird that Aizawa and Thirteen were sharing a hospital room, but I decided not to acknowledge it because of how convenient it was. The sight of two proper heroes bandaged and stitched beyond recognition while I stood there unharmed didn’t sit right with me. There was something about the long, untouched tear in Thirteen’s body that made me freeze-- blood to bone. I might’ve used my power in that moment and I would have no way of knowing. It was so silent, so still-- were they even breathing? I tried to ignore the creeping whisper of disgust, looking at the faded pink of Aizawa’s bandaged face-- that was blood, peeking through.
(I don’t think I’ll ever get over my fear of red blood. I got lucky that mine is blue-- I doubt I could stand my period after Stain if I bled red.)
I forced myself to hold my gaze for another moment, but the next thing my eyes landed on was the bedside tables. It was only late morning and there were already dozens of cards decorating them, alongside bright flowers and bowls of melons. I wasn’t sure the vases would even fit. The windowsill was only slightly less crowded, but I managed to squeeze the two onto the ledge, even if I bent a few petals in the process.
“Hello?” came a voice that I expected to recognize, but didn’t. I spun around and it came to my attention that I had never actually heard Eraser-Head speak before.
“Oh hi-- I was just-- I had flowers--” I started, not expecting to make conversation. My words landed unceremoniously on the ground, skidding and bouncing on the smooth tiles.
“Do I know you?” he asked. I saw his hand twitch towards the bandage over his eyes-- there was blood on that one, too. I could see the blood at the corners of his words, too. They were smooth and dark, heavy against the mattress.
“Not really. I helped with the rescue, though.”
“So you’re a hero.”
“I wouldn’t go that far--”
“Did you contribute to keeping people from dying? Yeah? Do everyone a favor and don’t start putting qualifiers on saving people.”
“Okay,” I said. I didn’t want to argue with someone in the hospital-- especially not someone I just brought flowers for. Besides, if he wanted to call me a hero, that was his mistake, not mine.
“Thank you,” he said. It was silent for a moment. The words faded, covered by the drone of the air conditioner that started up in the distance. An artificial silence.
“I’m Tokei,” I offered.
“So I do know you--” he groaned and shifted. “You could’ve said that first.”
“You do?” I was shocked. “We didn’t go to school together, you’re too old.”
“Thanks,” he said.
“Sorry.”
“I’m a hero course teacher. I stay updated. Besides, everyone watches the Sports festival. It took weeks before anyone could shut up about your total sweep all those years ago. Are you planning on telling me why I never see “Stopwatch” on the Hero Billboards?”
“I can’t say I am,” I shrugged. “Are you planning on telling me why you remember the Sports Festival from a decade ago?”
“I was younger-- a student teacher-- but I thought about quitting and offering you a work study. Not that you would’ve picked me. You could’ve had anyone. But I thought we might’ve made a good team,” he said. He sounded half-asleep, raspy. “Stopping time and stopping power, for stopping a fight before it happens. I still think about it, but I think about a lot of options for becoming a pro hero. I’ll never do it, though. I’m not the right kind of hero, you know?”
It was the sort of story you’d expect from a dying man, which made me nervous.
But it was also the sort of story you’d expect from a heavily drugged man whose system was chock-full of painkillers and anesthesia. I had expected him to return my attitude of secrecy-- just based on how his students described him. The honest, helpful explanation felt like oversharing by contrast. Not that I wasn’t curious, but it did also make me feel guilty as hell.
If I had a therapist, they would probably tell me not to spend too much time thinking about what could’ve been-- but honestly? Eraserhead was just the next item of a long, long list of wasted potentials. If I had a therapist, they probably would tell me not to call my hero label a “mistake,” but I don’t. I was thinking about these things for myself. That was enough, right?
Right?
I tried to remember where we were in the conversation and apparently, I had come full circle.
“Right enough to save those kids,” I said. And get your face destroyed in the process.
“Yeah, right,” he said, unsarcastically. “I just mean that not all heroes are power types, popular faces. I’m not and there’s nothing wrong with that. You don’t have to be strong to be effective.”
“It sure helps,” I said. He sighed in agreement.
“I’d love to be a tank right about now-- maybe a self-repair quirk.”
The words bounced comically off the sheets and onto the floor, disappearing beneath the bed. I watched them and wasn’t sure how to proceed-- I wished he would fall back asleep-- I wished a nurse would walk in to usher me out to let them rest-- I wished I had an excuse to leave because I didn’t want to stay. No such luck.
I cleared my throat-- this silence was awful. Panic creeped over me-- how had we run out of things to talk about so fast? Oh god, how long had it been since either of us had said anything? This wasn’t a natural pause-- was he asleep? Did he want to be? Was I keeping him awake? Could he hear my heartbeat that felt so loud-- I was certain he could hear it-- I couldn’t take the silence anymore.
“Enjoy the flowers, get well soon--” I said, practically running from the room. I had to get away-- I had to get as far away from the awkward silence as possible.
The silence in the hall was much more pleasant. I regretted not being able to talk to Thirteen, but in the same way, I was grateful that my conversation was with a delirious semi-stranger, not my high school crush on her deathbed— I mean, not her deathbed. God, I was so pathetic-- I was an adult. I'm not 17 anymore.
As much as I might’ve liked to wallow in self-pity in the hallway for hours, I had one more stop. And I wanted to make sure the sweet rolls were still warm when I got there.
"Tokei--"
The greeting I got when I entered wasn't the high pitched teenager I expected. No, he was still asleep. Recovery Girl was sitting in the window sill, legs dangling and face pinched in a warm, inviting frown.
“Hey, Recovery Girl--”
“Hay is for horses,” she chided, though it lacked her usual strength.
“And these rolls are for Midoriya, here, but I think we can sneak a few without him minding.”
Her gaze was steady and focussed on me, but when I finally had the nerve to meet it, I saw she looked tired. Stray gray hairs from her usually perfect knot and deep creases in her suit like it hadn’t been cleaned in awhile-- it made me worry. She was so much older than when I knew her-- who was I to say what was “usual?” Maybe this is just what age looked like: exhaustion. I could barely imagine what it’d be like to live for 90 years. Honestly, I was never sure I’d make it past 25, but here I was. Here both of us were-- still alive.
I handed her a roll and sat next to her. She devoured it at a frightening rate-- suddenly she didn’t look so tired.
“Thank you, Keiko,” she smiled gruffly, putting a small gloved hand on mine. “I’ve been debating for the last few minutes whether or not I was going to take some of this fruit his mom left. Quirks wear you out when you’re my age-- and his age, I suppose. Though, I think it’s a bit more extreme than being worn out.”
“You’re not saying--” I started, thinking about his mangled legs and hand-- “he did that to himself?”
Recovery Girl looked at him for a long moment, but I got the feeling she wasn’t really thinking about the answer to my question. For a moment I worried if that awful awkward silence was following me-- but she spoke again.
“I think it’s a tragically beautiful quirk for a hero-- to save others at the expense of oneself? To help through hurt? But just because it’s poetic doesn’t mean it’s good. If not for his circumstances, I’d probably tell him to find a less painful career path. Maybe in medicine!”
I got the feeling that we weren’t talking about a high schooler-- at least not one that existed anymore-- but I wanted to know, just in case.
“What circumstances would those be?”
“Ones that aren’t my business to share, Keiko! Now hurry up and finish your roll. It’s my volunteer day at the hospital and you’re coming with me.”
For the life of me, I cannot imagine what I’ve ever done to make Recovery Girl think that I’m her assistant-- or anywhere near medically capable. Usually when I tell people about my quirk, they tell me what they would do if they had it. Not Recovery Girl. She just proceeded to do it. Every single time I was around.
I first met Recovery Girl at school-- I was 14 and terrified of letting people down, so the first time I worked myself to the point of passing out in the middle of class, it wasn’t a shock. She wouldn’t let me go back to class after I woke up-- insisting that I stay with her until the end of the day, to help her out. It was nice, relaxing. Took me years to see what she was really doing.
And she kept doing it, too-- thank god. When the infirmary visits got more frequent with the same blue cuts, all over my skin-- she saved my life from more than just blood loss. She was probably the only reason I saw my power as anything more than a failure-- that it could still be used for good in my hands. That my hands were still worth stitching up.
The general hospital wasn’t unfamiliar-- the long white hallways and countless rooms almost seemed welcoming in a way I didn’t know I would ever get used to. Last time I was here, I had been asleep for two days-- and I slept for four more, under the unwavering eyes of some unknown doctor-- I don’t remember much. The time before that, my step-mom broke her wrist while bowling and wanted some company during her x-ray while my mom was on a weekend business trip and wouldn’t be back for a couple hours. I got my tonsils removed in this hospital, too-- and I was born here. But I had never visited anyone who had their face crushed or their exo-skeleton ripped off before-- was there a dress code? Code of conduct? Coded message to put in the get-well-soon cards?
I may have been code-less as I wandered the fourth floor, looking for room 457 and 58, but I wasn’t cold-less. The air conditioning blasted through every vent, like a refrigerator, desperate to keep everyone inside fresh. I regretted being coat-less.
“Are you lost, ma’am?” someone asked.
“Huh? Me?” I asked, snapping out of my ramble and my daze. I immediately felt stupid, there was no one else in the hallway, of course she meant me. I tried to focus on her-- she was all purple hair and pearl jewelry, middle aged and sturdy looking-- her clothes looked like scrubs but my mind couldn’t seem to process what that meant. I felt velveteen, filled with nothing but stuffing and beans. This hallway was making me feel at home in more ways than one.
“Yeah, would you mind pointing me to 457?”
“Are you sure?”
The question caught me off guard. There was something wrong with the tone of her voice, something beyond just checking if I had the right room number. I had the thought that we might’ve met before, that she had worked in one of the mental hospitals— how embarrassing would that be? I was a mess most of the time I was in public-- it was almost frightening thinking about how many people I might interact with that had known me at my messiest. Of course, she probably just looked at my face and decided that I was a patient on the wrong floor for a mental health crisis-- I resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose. I was holding flowers for God’s sake.
“Yes,” I said dryly. “You don’t know if they’re awake yet, do you?”
“This way,” she nodded, and I wasn’t sure if she was agreeing that I was sure or saying they were awake. I wasn’t sure about most things with this nurse. Was it just me? Was I the one being weird or was she seriously off it?
It might’ve been weird that Aizawa and Thirteen were sharing a hospital room, but I decided not to acknowledge it because of how convenient it was. The sight of two proper heroes bandaged and stitched beyond recognition while I stood there unharmed didn’t sit right with me. There was something about the long, untouched tear in Thirteen’s body that made me freeze-- blood to bone. I might’ve used my power in that moment and I would have no way of knowing. It was so silent, so still-- were they even breathing? I tried to ignore the creeping whisper of disgust, looking at the faded pink of Aizawa’s bandaged face-- that was blood, peeking through.
(I don’t think I’ll ever get over my fear of red blood. I got lucky that mine is blue-- I doubt I could stand my period after Stain if I bled red.)
I forced myself to hold my gaze for another moment, but the next thing my eyes landed on was the bedside tables. It was only late morning and there were already dozens of cards decorating them, alongside bright flowers and bowls of melons. I wasn’t sure the vases would even fit. The windowsill was only slightly less crowded, but I managed to squeeze the two onto the ledge, even if I bent a few petals in the process.
“Hello?” came a voice that I expected to recognize, but didn’t. I spun around and it came to my attention that I had never actually heard Eraser-Head speak before.
“Oh hi-- I was just-- I had flowers--” I started, not expecting to make conversation. My words landed unceremoniously on the ground, skidding and bouncing on the smooth tiles.
“Do I know you?” he asked. I saw his hand twitch towards the bandage over his eyes-- there was blood on that one, too. I could see the blood at the corners of his words, too. They were smooth and dark, heavy against the mattress.
“Not really. I helped with the rescue, though.”
“So you’re a hero.”
“I wouldn’t go that far--”
“Did you contribute to keeping people from dying? Yeah? Do everyone a favor and don’t start putting qualifiers on saving people.”
“Okay,” I said. I didn’t want to argue with someone in the hospital-- especially not someone I just brought flowers for. Besides, if he wanted to call me a hero, that was his mistake, not mine.
“Thank you,” he said. It was silent for a moment. The words faded, covered by the drone of the air conditioner that started up in the distance. An artificial silence.
“I’m Tokei,” I offered.
“So I do know you--” he groaned and shifted. “You could’ve said that first.”
“You do?” I was shocked. “We didn’t go to school together, you’re too old.”
“Thanks,” he said.
“Sorry.”
“I’m a hero course teacher. I stay updated. Besides, everyone watches the Sports festival. It took weeks before anyone could shut up about your total sweep all those years ago. Are you planning on telling me why I never see “Stopwatch” on the Hero Billboards?”
“I can’t say I am,” I shrugged. “Are you planning on telling me why you remember the Sports Festival from a decade ago?”
“I was younger-- a student teacher-- but I thought about quitting and offering you a work study. Not that you would’ve picked me. You could’ve had anyone. But I thought we might’ve made a good team,” he said. He sounded half-asleep, raspy. “Stopping time and stopping power, for stopping a fight before it happens. I still think about it, but I think about a lot of options for becoming a pro hero. I’ll never do it, though. I’m not the right kind of hero, you know?”
It was the sort of story you’d expect from a dying man, which made me nervous.
But it was also the sort of story you’d expect from a heavily drugged man whose system was chock-full of painkillers and anesthesia. I had expected him to return my attitude of secrecy-- just based on how his students described him. The honest, helpful explanation felt like oversharing by contrast. Not that I wasn’t curious, but it did also make me feel guilty as hell.
If I had a therapist, they would probably tell me not to spend too much time thinking about what could’ve been-- but honestly? Eraserhead was just the next item of a long, long list of wasted potentials. If I had a therapist, they probably would tell me not to call my hero label a “mistake,” but I don’t. I was thinking about these things for myself. That was enough, right?
Right?
I tried to remember where we were in the conversation and apparently, I had come full circle.
“Right enough to save those kids,” I said. And get your face destroyed in the process.
“Yeah, right,” he said, unsarcastically. “I just mean that not all heroes are power types, popular faces. I’m not and there’s nothing wrong with that. You don’t have to be strong to be effective.”
“It sure helps,” I said. He sighed in agreement.
“I’d love to be a tank right about now-- maybe a self-repair quirk.”
The words bounced comically off the sheets and onto the floor, disappearing beneath the bed. I watched them and wasn’t sure how to proceed-- I wished he would fall back asleep-- I wished a nurse would walk in to usher me out to let them rest-- I wished I had an excuse to leave because I didn’t want to stay. No such luck.
I cleared my throat-- this silence was awful. Panic creeped over me-- how had we run out of things to talk about so fast? Oh god, how long had it been since either of us had said anything? This wasn’t a natural pause-- was he asleep? Did he want to be? Was I keeping him awake? Could he hear my heartbeat that felt so loud-- I was certain he could hear it-- I couldn’t take the silence anymore.
“Enjoy the flowers, get well soon--” I said, practically running from the room. I had to get away-- I had to get as far away from the awkward silence as possible.
The silence in the hall was much more pleasant. I regretted not being able to talk to Thirteen, but in the same way, I was grateful that my conversation was with a delirious semi-stranger, not my high school crush on her deathbed— I mean, not her deathbed. God, I was so pathetic-- I was an adult. I'm not 17 anymore.
As much as I might’ve liked to wallow in self-pity in the hallway for hours, I had one more stop. And I wanted to make sure the sweet rolls were still warm when I got there.
"Tokei--"
The greeting I got when I entered wasn't the high pitched teenager I expected. No, he was still asleep. Recovery Girl was sitting in the window sill, legs dangling and face pinched in a warm, inviting frown.
“Hey, Recovery Girl--”
“Hay is for horses,” she chided, though it lacked her usual strength.
“And these rolls are for Midoriya, here, but I think we can sneak a few without him minding.”
Her gaze was steady and focussed on me, but when I finally had the nerve to meet it, I saw she looked tired. Stray gray hairs from her usually perfect knot and deep creases in her suit like it hadn’t been cleaned in awhile-- it made me worry. She was so much older than when I knew her-- who was I to say what was “usual?” Maybe this is just what age looked like: exhaustion. I could barely imagine what it’d be like to live for 90 years. Honestly, I was never sure I’d make it past 25, but here I was. Here both of us were-- still alive.
I handed her a roll and sat next to her. She devoured it at a frightening rate-- suddenly she didn’t look so tired.
“Thank you, Keiko,” she smiled gruffly, putting a small gloved hand on mine. “I’ve been debating for the last few minutes whether or not I was going to take some of this fruit his mom left. Quirks wear you out when you’re my age-- and his age, I suppose. Though, I think it’s a bit more extreme than being worn out.”
“You’re not saying--” I started, thinking about his mangled legs and hand-- “he did that to himself?”
Recovery Girl looked at him for a long moment, but I got the feeling she wasn’t really thinking about the answer to my question. For a moment I worried if that awful awkward silence was following me-- but she spoke again.
“I think it’s a tragically beautiful quirk for a hero-- to save others at the expense of oneself? To help through hurt? But just because it’s poetic doesn’t mean it’s good. If not for his circumstances, I’d probably tell him to find a less painful career path. Maybe in medicine!”
I got the feeling that we weren’t talking about a high schooler-- at least not one that existed anymore-- but I wanted to know, just in case.
“What circumstances would those be?”
“Ones that aren’t my business to share, Keiko! Now hurry up and finish your roll. It’s my volunteer day at the hospital and you’re coming with me.”
For the life of me, I cannot imagine what I’ve ever done to make Recovery Girl think that I’m her assistant-- or anywhere near medically capable. Usually when I tell people about my quirk, they tell me what they would do if they had it. Not Recovery Girl. She just proceeded to do it. Every single time I was around.
I first met Recovery Girl at school-- I was 14 and terrified of letting people down, so the first time I worked myself to the point of passing out in the middle of class, it wasn’t a shock. She wouldn’t let me go back to class after I woke up-- insisting that I stay with her until the end of the day, to help her out. It was nice, relaxing. Took me years to see what she was really doing.
And she kept doing it, too-- thank god. When the infirmary visits got more frequent with the same blue cuts, all over my skin-- she saved my life from more than just blood loss. She was probably the only reason I saw my power as anything more than a failure-- that it could still be used for good in my hands. That my hands were still worth stitching up.