Chapter Text
"What," is the very snappish reply that Recovery Girl gets that morning. And it's really not all that surprising, she supposes, because it's not like her own temper has aged well since her youth either.
Still, it is her duty to cut that out. It wouldn't do well to repeat the mistakes of the past, after all.
"Language," she warns, terse; Midoriya rolls his eyes in frustration but apologizes anyways. The office falls quiet again, the steady scritch of a pen writing and the gentle hum of the air conditioner a conversation words could never say. The radio she keeps crackles old pop music and Present Mic's voice filters into the air, mingling in with the dust motes illuminated by the sun.
Her charge hums along. If Recovery Girl is smiling, well then—no one has to know but her.
//
It starts like it always does.
Here is the story: it starts with All Might in all his glory, it starts with praise on the people's tongues and curses from villians' lips. Children sing his praises, teenagers aspire to be like him, adults dedicate their passion to his legacy.
Midoriya Izuku is no different, and it's really not a surprise that he falls in love with him just like the rest. But the difference is that Midoriya Izuku was destined to be a hero in his own way. The difference is that in this universe, Midoriya Izuku is born with heroism in his fingertips and in his genetics—just maybe not in the way he (or anyone else) thought of.
This is what stays the same: Midoriya Izuku is ordinary, is extraordinary, is always and never the same. Midoriya Izuku is unconventional, anyways and always.
The narrative doesn't start with Midoriya Izuku, nor does it end with him.
But it sure as hell is driven by him.
//
"Your son has a quirk—he's just a late bloomer," the doctor tells Inko. "I'm sure you and your husband were very worried, but don't be. Congratulations!"
Inko blinks and cups her cheek, pauses for a second to take it all in. The whole reason she'd taken Izuku to the doctor was because she had been worried about him being quirkless. He's four, almost five, but he hadn't presented his quirk yet and his classmates seemed to be far ahead of him in terms of growth.
Inko smiles, thanks Doctor—she checks his name tag—Tsubasa, and beckons for Izuku to follow her. He follows dutifully as she checks out with the receptionist, and as soon as they're outside, he bursts out in joy.
"I have a quirk! I have a quirk, Mama!"
She laughs. "You do! Come on, let's go get you ice cream!"
Her boy yells in excitement. Her boy. (Sometimes, Inko still can't believe she's a mother, that she carried something so precious inside her for 9 months.) Izuku reaches out his hand for her to take it and laces their fingers together—one callused, one not, so small that her hand dwarfs his.
She gets vanilla. He gets the All Might themed flavored ice cream. Next to her, a family is laughing at a joke that their little girl has told and Izuku giggles along. In that moment, everything is perfect.
//
The pantry is running awfully low, Inko notes, and makes a mental note to go shopping soon. This is the last of the carrots and the rice is running out, which means it's another trip to Mitsuwa to buy more jasmine rice. The TV is on in background, a gentle buzz as Izuku plays with his limited-edition Gang Orca action figure. (It took her three weeks to save up enough money so she could get him the toy. The look on his face was well worth it.)
She's so busy watching Izuku play with his toys, however, that she's not paying attention to where she's cutting. “Ow,” she murmurs, taking care to not draw Izuku's attention as she curses under her breath. It's a bad habit she's never really broken despite best efforts—Mitsuki’s fault, she muses wryly.
She sucks her thumb as she reaches for a napkin to blot the rest of the blood off—there’s a little on the knife, she notes sourly, pressing her lips together. Izuku notices the cut, though, and he runs around the kitchen table to reach the sink. “Mama, Mama, are you okay?”
“Ah, it's okay, Izuku! Mommy just cut her thumb, see? It's nothing to be worried about.”
His bottom lip wobbles a bit, and for a second Inko worries that maybe Izuku is going to cry or overreact. Except her heart breaks instead when he asks, “... does it hurt?”
Inko rushes to reassure him that even if it does, it's not that much and she'll bandage it up sooner or later with Recovery Girl Band-Aid. But Izuku narrows his eyes in the picture of determination and declares, “I'll kiss it better, so Mama won't hurt anymore!”
He takes her big hand with his tiny one, stands on his tiptoes so he can reach her thumb and presses a kiss on it. “Mwah!” he says, smile so large it stretches from cheek to cheek. Wide-eyed, Inko watches as his hand glows green on hers, watches her cut seal itself back up and her pain dull until it's nonexistent.
Last time she checked, no one in her family nor Hisashi's had a healing quirk.
Suddenly, Izuku wobbles, knees clicking together as he stumbled into her leg with a yelp. “Izuku!” Inko crouches, taking his face with her hands. “Are you hurt? Are you okay? Are—”
She stops. On his face is the biggest, silliest grin, his eyes as wide as saucers. “Mama—Mama, I can heal people! I can heal people!”
There's a feeling that bubbles up in her chest, foreign and familiar at the same time. Inko brushes away a stray lock of hair that sticks to his forehead, glances at the toy still in his hand, and smiles. “Yes, you can.”
She knows what this is.
“My little hero.”
//
They go to register his quirk the next day on the way to back from getting the groceries. Izuku cheers the whole way long, still ecstatic about his newfound powers. Bags tucked in the crook of her arm, Inko leads them to the office, bemused. She gives a friendly wave to Ms. Shannon from America and a courteous nod to old lady Aizawa across the street, traveling with the horde across the paved roads of Musutafu.
Above them the world towers, skyscrapers a sculpture of metal that frames the sky. There's a hero-villain fight that Inko steers Izuku away from just down the corner. All around then, the world is painted in the colors of untold stories and powers.
Inko crosses the threshold of the office and into the lobby, which is painted off-white and decorated with fake office plants. Somehow, that doesn't stop one of the workers from sneezing. There's a line of parents and their kids, some smaller than Izuku, some bigger than her, and some just the same age. All of them are just as wide-eyed and wondrous as her boy is.
The line moves slowly, one by one slowly falling away. At last, it comes to her. Suddenly, Izuku ducks into the crook of her other elbow—her free one—shyly, and Inko has to resist the urge to coo.
“Hello! Welcome to the quirk registration counter,” the receptionist greets brightly. “How may I help you?”
“I'm here to register my son's quirk.”
“Perfect! Please wait a second so I can open up your family file,” he says, eyes flickering up to look at them both. “Family name?”
“Midoriya.”
“Ah, got it,” the receptionist nods, before smiling kindly. “For Midoriya Izuku, is it?”
Izuku looks up, cheeks red but gap-toothed smile on full display. “Uh-huh!” He beams. “That's right, 'cause I got a quirk!”
The receptionist laughs. “You sure do, little man. Now, he's already been registered as having an emitter quirk by his pediatrician due to the tests they previously conducted, but if you could provide any details—”
“Oh, oh!” Izuku bursts in, so excited he's balancing on the balls of his feet. “Yesterday, Mama got a cut on her finger but I made it all better, see?” Triumphant, he takes her hand and shows it, shows her new shiny pink scar to the receptionist, who's gone slack-jawed.
The entire room has.
Healing quirks are a rare occurrence. Last time Inko checked, there were only 200 people worldwide who currently had a quirk that could heal. It's why Recovery Girl is such a highly-praised hero, why such a prestigious school such as UA coveted her, why she's so guarded by other heroes on the battlefield even though she's more than competent enough to wipe the battlefield clean.
Dread pools in Inko's stomach. As the room gawks and Izuku becomes shy again, the receptionist selects biological when the option for what type of emitter quirk pops up. Healing is the next thing he types, and finally, he breaks the room's silence when he looks directly at her son.
“What would you like to name your quirk?”
Izuku's fingers curl in the fabric of her cardigan, but he looks up. For the first time, it feels like the reality of the situation has set upon their little bubble, and Inko always knew her son was destined for great things but she wasn't quite sure great things meant… this.
“... Asclepius,” Izuku says finally. Inko recognizes the name from the stories she reads him to sleep, tales of ancient, long ago heroes. The ancient god of healing and medical arts was named that, she thinks, and her hand grips Izuku's a little tighter. “I want to name it Asclepius.”
//
Everyone stares at them now.
Hinata-san in 2B congratulates her on Izuku's power. “I can't believe we have the next Recovery Girl living right here in our complex!” he jokes, and while Izuku beams, well. If her own smile is the slightest bit strained, that's only her problem, now is it?
The world waits expectant for his entry into the world, hungry for the next great hero. Inko knows that the gaping jaw will swallow Izuku whole and spit him out broken if he is not careful. Maybe that's why she worries so much, now, wrings her hands whenever Izuku offers to heal a bruise or a minor scrape that others suffer. He's set to start quirk counseling soon, but the mandatory 4 months are already so expensive and she knows that he will need more than just 4.
Inko slips off her shoes and tucks them neatly next to the wall. Izuku is with Ms. Shannon right now, and she's supposed to pick him up soon but all Inko wants to do right now is to just crumble under the weight of everything. Money is tight and she's stretching thin, and Hisashi tries but it's just not enough. Inko presses her face into her hands and tries not to sob.
She does so anyways. She hopes Izuku never sees her like this, back against the wall with nowhere else to go. But Inko has things to do and places to be so she wipes her tears and her worries away, blinks her anxieties into non-existence, and hopes and prays that things will turn out better.
Inko picks up her bag that she left in the kitchen and slips her shoes back on, clicking the door shut. I might as well get the mail, she thinks, and checks the mailbox. There's the bills and the magazine subscriptions, but there's also a… letter.
To Midoriya Inko, it reads, From David Shield.
David… Shield?
Wasn't he All Might's assistant during his career in America? I thought they were working on that fancy island of theirs, Inko thinks, chewing her lip. Sure enough, the return address reads I-ISLAND in bold strokes. Inko tucks the rest of the mail into her bag and opens the letter and begins to read.
Dear Midoriya Inko, it starts off with. My name is David Shield, and I, along with my team of scientists, cordially invite you and your son to stay with us on I-Island.
Inko can't believe it. Her eyes scan the letter for reasons why, bits and pieces catching her attention. She doesn't know if her heart drops or not as she reads on.
Your son… Incredible quirk… conducting research… Inko feels dizzy just thinking about it—about this , but what really catches her attention is the second to last paragraph:
We here at I-Island will provide all the quirk counseling necessary for Izuku to reach his full potential, it says. I-Island provides top notch education for all who come here.
Quirk counseling—the thing that Izuku needs. Oh, Inko thinks, and then begins to walk the familiar path to Ms. Shannon's house. She's already dialing the number left by Mr. David Shield at the bottom of the page, waiting for him to pick up.
“Hello? Ah, yes—this is Midoriya Inko…”
Three months later, Inko is exchanging phone numbers with the tenants of her apartment, promising to call and write back from I-Island. Izuku is waving, laughing, fingers laced with hers as they prepare to move from the only home Inko has ever to known to this new, terrifying place. She packs up her life into brown boxes, something so fragile that threatens to crumble apart.
But Inko is a Midoriya and she has always lived on the edge of danger. What else is new?
(The real thing—what really convinces Inko to call David Shield—is the postscript, penned in a hurried, messy scrawl. Between you and me, it says, I know that Izuku will do well here. I was skeptical, but—my daughter, Melissa, has struggled all of her life but she's doing so good here. I want to give Izuku that same chance. Please?
Of course Inko was going to call him. How could she ignore a plead like that?)
//
Their host family, as Inko learns, will be the Shields. It's not like they don't have an apartment—goodness, no, the island is plenty big enough for them to live comfortably. Rather, the Shields will help them get situated in with the community, seeing how Inko isn't exactly a scientist.
Which is how Inko finds herself on the porch of David Shield's lovely house, sipping coffee as she and him watch Melissa and Izuku play together. His brows scrunch together and his shoulders sink like the weight of the world rests upon him every time he looks back at Melissa. Inko can relate.
Maybe that's the burden of a parent. Melissa screams as Izuku chases her around the area; she watches with weary eyes. This is the future that they're supposed to protect as parents, but how can Inko do that if she can't even seem to let go of her past?
David peers over the rim of his mug, and they share a solidarity—the miserable kind, the one where it seems like everything is passing by too fast and not fast enough.
“...Let's talk about your son,” he says. He's not beating around the bush. “We’ll be conducting tests on Izuku to find the limits of his quirk, seeing as healing quirks are relatively rare.”
“Okay,” Inko nods, “but…”
//
The grass feels nice underneath his fingers, he thinks. Melissa hums, exhausted from playing tag, and turns to Izuku. Melissa is so nice and cool and awesome, and she's really good at tag too. But she hesitates for a bit, and then asks, “Hey, whaddya wanna be when you grow up?”
Izuku beams. “I wanna be like All Might!”
Except—Melissa frowns. “Nuh uh,” she says, “you gotta be like Recovery Girl, 'cos of your quirk.” She nods, triumphant, like she's won the argument.
“Nuh-uh!”
“Uh-huh!”
“Nuh-uh!”
“Uh-huh!”
“But I don't want to be like Recovery Girl!” he almost wails, stomping his feet. Melissa pauses and furrows her brows (an imitation of her father), bites and pulls at her lip.
“But why? Recovery Girl is so cool!”
“No, she's not!” Izuku finally says. “Because—because Recovery Girl is always getting defended on the battlefield. And she's super cool but Recovery Girl doesn't save people from trouble! She just... makes them feel better.”
Melissa frowns again, presses her lips together and thinks. “But isn't that the same thing?”
“No way!” he shouts. “Because… because they're always defending her. An’ how can she be saving people if all they do is get hurt for her? That's not hero-like at all.”
And then, quieter, under Izuku's breath, “How can I save people if all they're gonna do is defend me?”
Melissa doesn't answer the question.
But she's really cool anyways, even if Melissa is quirkless. Melissa likes heroes and even knows All Might, so she has to be super cool. And she's really smart, too!
Izuku hums the song that was playing on all the radio stations and reaches out to tag Melissa's shoulder. “Tag, you're it!”
She shrieks as Izuku darts away, laughing as she tries to tag him. He lets the question fade away and laughs his worries into non-existence, and wonders if maybe not existing would feel better than that.
//
The clunky bracelet on his wrist sucks. Izuku can barely do anything without almost knocking something over. Sure, he understands the purpose of storing his energy when he's not actively healing anybody, but whenever he's allowed to take it off, his wrist aches like nobody's business.
Izuku sucks in his breath and blows out. He's going to be starting school soon at I-Island, and Mr. Shield and the others are going to start giving him his medical lessons soon. Suddenly, his (other) wristband beeps, high-pitched and clear.
What could they need him for?
He slides off his bed and toes on his shoes. “I'm going out!” he yells to Melissa in an imitation of Mama and almost giggles. Izuku darts across the island and lets the streets carry him to where he needs to be, watches the faces beside him blur and twist and fade into nothing as he runs.
Oh! There's Mr. Shield, Izuku thinks, and Mr. Shield turns around. Something is very wrong, he realizes, because why else would Mr. Shield look so out of breath, so… scared?
“Izuku!” Mr. Shield rushes to him, taking him by the arm and tugging him along. Above, the sky begins to fade into night time, strokes of color that paint the sky a canvas of blues, reds, oranges, yellows, pinks, and purples. “Where have you been? No matter, now,” he says, and walks the fastest Izuku has ever seen him. No—he’s not walking, he's running.
Before long, they've reached the hospital and Mr. Shield tugs him into the ER. The pit in Izuku's stomach drops; he's only ever healed minor injuries before, so why are they going here?
He almost runs into Mr. Shield, who comes to a stop in front of a weird looking man. There's a yellow stripe that runs through his green hair. His face is buried in his hands, but he's shaking a lot.
“He's here,” Mr. Shield says. “I brought him.”
The man trembles harder and rubs at his eyes. “Please,” he rasps out, voice broken from sobbing. “Save him.”
Izuku is ushered into the ER without another second wasted. “I'm sorry that we have to make you do this,” one nurse says quietly as he's guided in, “you shouldn't need to see this.” Another takes him gently by the shoulders, solemn as they tell him that what he needs to do will be hard.
And then Izuku understands.
They say you shouldn't meet your heroes, say you shouldn't prop them on a pedestal. His knees give out beneath him and Izuku only barely restrains himself from wailing, held up only by the nurse's steady hand. A broken idol lies on the hospital bed, shattered, fragile, and all too human.
There are doctors and nurses everywhere. Someone gently nudges him forward. “I'm going to need you to help him heal, okay?” One nurse tells him, hair plastered to their forehead from how sweaty they are. Izuku gulps and nods, trembling as he scoots forward.
There's so much blood. Carefully, he places his hand on All Might's own (it's so bony, does he not eat?) and concentrates, watches as the room glows green.
Someone yells something. Izuku feels like he's gonna throw up from how dizzy he is, but then he's biting into something soft and the world comes back into focus like a camera lens. He keeps on eating until his clunky bracelet beeps once, twice, and then Izuku is pulled away. All Might lays still.
He didn't do anything, he realizes. What kind of hero is he, then, if he can't even do something?
They sit him in the now empty waiting room, hands slick with cherry red and shiny like a new toy. Izuku debates wiping it off on his pants or not, but someone gives him a towel before they have to run back. He sits and waits until suddenly, the doors burst open.
Recovery Girl walks in. She's not smiling like she does on all the ads and Band-Aids, but like she's wearing her battle scars like armor. Her coat billows behind her like a cape for a brief second and Recovery Girl wastes no time barking orders at others as she snaps on medical gloves.
“I need a blood transfusion now,” she snaps. And then she marches into the ER, into a battlefield that's different and just the same as the ones All Might goes to.
Izuku watches her go. His eyelids flutter, and before he knows it, he's slipping into sleep and snapping awake into consciousness.
The beginning of the sun's rays begins to peek into the building, orange on the horizon. Recovery Girl steps out of the ER. Her hair is messy and frazzled and it looks like she aged 200 years, but she faces him anyways.
“You're Midoriya Izuku, correct?” she asks. Izuku nods, jerky and stiff. Recovery Girl sighs heavily and sits in the chair across from his, her bones and joints as creaky as a rusty door. “Well, he made it through. Foolish man,” she adds under her breath, but he's already trembling as he starts sobbing in relief.
All Might is okay.
All Might is okay.
Suddenly Recovery Girl is patting his back gently as Izuku cries. “I'm so scared,” he sobs, because Izuku is. Eventually his tears run dry and he sniffles, wiping his snot on his sleeve. “M'sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about, dearie.”
Recovery Girl turns to leave, likely to check up on her patient but something in him makes him blurt, “Wait!” She stops in her tracks, hovering in the doorway. Izuku begins to speak.
“Do you… think I can become a hero? Like All Might?”
Something about Recovery Girl changes. “Dearie, I thought you wanted to be a medical hero.”
But everyone thinks that, thinks that he's going to be the next great Recovery Girl but Izuku doesn't wanna . “Don't wanna,” he says.
She asks the million dollar question. “Why?”
Izuku knows why. It's because being a hero means helping people, and sure, Recovery Girl helps people, but it's not like—
“Not like what?”
“It's not like you stop them from getting hurt at all!” Izuku finally blurts out. “That's what—that’s what heroes like All Might do, though! And that's what a hero is! What kind of hero can't stop someone from getting hurt in the first place?” he asks. “What kind of hero can't save someone? What kind of person am I if I can't save someone?”
What is he without his quirk? Izuku thinks, because what if Izuku can't save someone with his quirk? What if Izuku fails? His shoulders shake and then he's crying all over again.
Out of nowhere, Recovery Girl whacks him softly on the head.
“Ow!” Izuku sniffles, looking up into Recovery Girl's eyes and finding nothing but molten steel.
“Listen here, sonny boy,” she tells him, “heroes are not just All Might. Heroes are normal people.”
What?
“Heroes are doctors. Heroes are businessmen. Heroes are lawyers, waiters, teachers, heroes are everyday people. And they save people.” Fondly, she cups his cheek, like an old lady to her grandchild. “We protect each other. We defend each other. Every day, every place is a battlefield—we are all fighting.”
Her eyes drill into Izuku's soul. “Heroes like All Might need saving sometimes from themselves. That's my job. And I'm proud of it.”
Recovery Girl turns around into the ER, but pauses, lingering in the doorway. “You can be a hero.”
Izuku watches her enter the battlefield again and tucks his knees to his chest, closes his eyes and begins to cry. Outside, the sun rises from the ashes, rising and floating so very high.
//
A week later, I-Island Elementary School's Class 1-C receives a new student. Melissa sits in the classroom elated and bounces in her seat, peering at the door, waiting for her friend to introduce himself.
“Class, settle down please!” Their teacher Genki Maiya calls. The chitter of the classroom slows down to a gentle stop, eager and curious. “We have a new student today. Why don't you introduce yourself, Midoriya-kun?”
Izuku nods, turns toward the classroom and looks at his classmates for the next three years. Izuku looks beyond his class and beyond school and thinks of a gentle green glow and of gods turned human, thinks of five words.
“My name is Midoriya Izuku and my quirk is called Asclepius, and I want to be a hero just like Recovery Girl!” Izuku bows. “Please take care of me!”