Chapter Text
So it was the dream again.
The dream that didn’t come every night, but whenever it did, it left him staring at his ceiling long after the alarm had gone off, feeling like his chest had been cracked open and something was missing. Even at twenty-four, even after years of med school, residency, and the kind of surgical training that made most people lose their sense of wonder entirely, Izuku still wanted — no, ached — to know what it felt like to be a hero. And in the dream, he was. Standing in sunlight that made his hair stick to his forehead, breathing hard like he’d just run into danger instead of away from it. Sometimes he woke up with the phantom taste of dust in his mouth, or the burn of a sprint in his legs, like his body believed it had happened.
It seemed like no matter what, he couldn’t scrape the yearning out of his head. And sure, now, obviously, he knew it would never become reality — he was well past the point of believing in miracle quirks dropping into his lap. But if the universe ever decided to throw him a curveball, if there was ever a chance to become a hero, Izuku would take it. Immediately. No questions asked.
Because there had been one thing in his heart since probably the moment he came out of the womb, and it was the same thing that had kept him up at night at four years old, at fourteen, and even now: He wanted to be a hero.
So badly, it left an unappealing ache in his heart that sometimes made him question if maybe he should take up therapy. Learn to fully accept the fact that he was quirkless. Which, in fairness, he had — years ago. He’d made peace with the reality that he’d been born without the one thing he probably wanted more than anyone else on Earth. A quirk. It wouldn’t have mattered how weak it was, how useless people thought it might be. He would’ve made it work. Because that desire to become a hero wasn’t just in his head; it was in his bones.
Which was why, whenever he had the dream — like the one he’d just woken up from — it felt like glimpsing the life he was meant to live. In the dream, he wore a green hero suit his mom had designed, stitched with so much love it almost hurt to look at. His quirk was never the same twice — maybe because his lack of one in real life had made him imagine every possible power under the sun. Sometimes he could float. Sometimes he had super strength. Sometimes he could sense danger before it happened. Other nights he could whip what semed black energy from his body , vanish into smoke, release kinetic energy explosively or wield the raw force of wind itself.
And yet, no matter what the dream handed him, each quirk always felt like it had been his all along.
A dream was a dream, however, and it would forever stay that way. And it wasn’t like he wasn’t content with the life he had now. Being a doctor — one of the youngest surgeons in Japan — wasn’t exactly something to scoff at. He got to save lives. Not in the way he’d once imagined, sure, but that had to count for something.
Still… there probably wouldn’t be a moment in his life when his mind didn’t drift back to the old dream. So yes, he was content — content with his life, his apartment, his friends. But his mind would always wander to what it must feel like to battle villains, to go on patrols, to stand in the chaos of a fight and come out the other side. He saw heroes doing it all the time, in flashes and fragments on his way to the hospital or heading home after a shift.
And he was still a fanboy. Sue him. At his grown age, he couldn’t help it — he’d still slow down to watch if a hero zipped past in a flash of color. He didn’t take notes anymore, obviously. He didn’t need to. The pages that used to be crammed with sketches and breakdowns of quirks had been replaced with diagrams of surgical techniques, trauma protocols, and cardiac repair strategies. Different dreams. Same obsessive handwriting.
The life he had settled for wasn't exactly the glamorous life a hero would live — not unless you considered collapsing into bed after a thirty-hour shift glamorous, in which case he was basically a celebrity. His apartment was small but neat, because he was never home long enough to make a mess. His fridge was a crime scene, stocked with takeout containers, three bottles of sports drinks, and a jar of pickles he swore he would eventually finish.
His social life was… fine. He saw Mina and Tsuyu whenever their hero schedules lined up with his rare days off, which usually meant meeting somewhere with food that came in paper boxes so nobody had to worry about washing dishes. Hitoshi dropped by sometimes, mostly to “make sure you haven’t died of exhaustion yet” but also, Izuku suspected, to see if he had any snacks worth stealing. And if Izuku didn’t answer his phone for too long, Mina once threatened to climb up his fire escape just to make sure he was alive.
Some days, his life felt like everything he’d ever wanted. Other days, it was just exhausting. And on the worst days — the ones that started with too little sleep and ended with a patient he couldn’t save — he tried to remember why he chose this path in the first place. To save people in a different way.
Most mornings started with him running late because he’d hit snooze “just for five minutes” and then woken up forty minutes later to Hitoshi sending a text that just said: “Wake up, idiot. The news says the roads are backed up. Again.” His neighbors probably thought he had some secret night life, since they only ever saw him in one of two states: sprinting out the door with wet hair or dragging himself home like a zombie clutching convenience store food. The hospital cafeteria staff knew his coffee order by heart, which would have been sweet if it wasn’t “double espresso, three sugars, and a look of impending doom.”
Mina once joked he was “two missed meals away from developing a quirk called Cardiac Arrest.” He laughed, then ate a protein bar at 3 a.m. in the supply closet like it was fine. And while some of his coworkers went home to spouses or adorable pets, Izuku went home to a cactus named All Might. The plant was on its third pot after he’d almost killed it twice by forgetting to water it during back-to-back overnight shifts. Shinsou claimed it was a metaphor for his love life. Izuku pretended he didn’t know what that meant.
Still, he liked his little routines, it all felt oddly comforting now. This was his battlefield. This was where he fought. And yeah, okay, maybe it didn’t come with costumes or trading blows with villains, but he was good at it.
Weekends — the rare ones he actually got off — were even less glamorous. Sometimes he tried to sleep in, but his body was so used to the surgical schedule that “sleeping in” meant waking up at 6:15 instead of 5:30. Other times, he’d attempt errands, which inevitably went wrong. The last time he’d gone grocery shopping, he’d gotten distracted by a hero merch clearance bin and accidentally left with three All Might mugs and no milk.
His mom called him at least twice a week, sometimes to ask if he was eating enough and sometimes to send him articles with titles like “10 Signs You Need More Vitamin D” . He’d try to assure her he was fine, but she had a sixth sense for knowing when he was lying — which was always.
His apartment building was small, the kind where everyone knew each other’s business whether you wanted them to or not. Mrs. Takahashi from 4B kept offering to set him up with her granddaughter “before all the good ones are taken,” which Izuku had no polite way of refusing except to fake a cough and say he was “married to his work.” The kids from 2C knocked on his door every other Friday to sell him cookies for their hero scout troop. He bought them every time, not because he liked cookies (he did), but because they wore little capes and shouted their hero names at him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And, embarrassingly enough, he still had every issue of Hero Weekly stacked in the corner of his bedroom. He told himself he only kept them for “historical reference,” but the truth was, sometimes he just liked flipping through them, looking at the action shots, and wondering — for the millionth time — what it would feel like to be on the other side of the camera.
He wasn’t a magnet for trouble the way some people were, but the universe seemed to enjoy messing with him in small, petty ways. Like last month, when he’d been halfway to the train station and realized he’d left his wallet at home — only for it to start raining. Not just regular rain, but sideways, typhoon-level rain that had his scrubs plastered to his skin before he made it back to his apartment. He’d walked into the lobby dripping like a drowned cat and had to nod politely to Mr. Endo, the elderly man who always fell asleep in the chair by the elevator.
There were also the occasional run-ins with pro heroes. Not the cool, cinematic kind. No — Izuku’s luck meant they were always weirdly mundane. He’d once shared an umbrella with Kamui Woods while waiting for the train. Another time, he’d helped Mt. Lady carry her groceries up two flights of stairs after the elevator broke. And, in what he considered his lowest point, he’d accidentally gotten in Ryukyu’s way at a crosswalk because he was too busy texting Hitoshi about whether or not coffee counted as a meal.
Speaking of Hitoshi, he was probably the closest thing Izuku had to a brother. Which meant half of their conversations were insults.
“You look like hell,” Shinsou had said the last time they met for lunch.
“Thanks,” Izuku had replied through a mouthful of noodles, “it’s my natural glow.”
“You need better hobbies.”
“I have hobbies.”
“Name one that doesn’t involve a scalpel or medical-grade disinfectant.”
Izuku had been unable to answer. Still, for all the late nights, caffeine dependency, and occasional near-death encounters with vending machines that ate his coins, he liked his life. It wasn’t the one he’d dreamed about. But it was his.
But he couldn’t lay in bed forever, dwelling on how content he was with his life.. He couldn’t keep staring at the ceiling, replaying a dream that would always stay a dream. Reality had this annoying habit of barging in, whether he wanted it to or not. His alarm was still buzzing on the nightstand, vibrating so hard it nearly knocked itself onto the floor, and his phone was already lighting up from the second alarm he had set up.
Izuku groaned, dragging a hand over his face before finally rolling out of bed. His hair was doing that thing where it looked like he’d been electrocuted in his sleep — which, to be fair, was an accurate summary of how he felt most mornings. He shuffled to the bathroom, glanced at his reflection, and immediately decided not to dwell on it. The dream could linger in the back of his mind all it wanted, but right now, he had to be a person.
And being a person, unfortunately, meant being a surgeon with a shift that started in less than an hour.
His showers were quick — in and out, no fuss. He didn’t waste time worrying about his appearance, mostly because he didn’t have time, and also because being in a hospital for most of the day didn’t exactly require him to look good. Besides, by the time he walked out of the hospital after a shift, he usually looked like he’d been hit by a train anyway.
So he didn’t linger. He jumped into the shower, let the hot water blast away the last of his sleep. As quickly as he got in, he got out. He let his hair dry on its own. His hair had always been a little wild, back when he was fourteen, it was stuck in that awkward middle ground between wavy and curly, a mess of uneven curls that wouldn’t behave no matter how hard he tried. Now it had settled into something more defined, tighter curls that framed his face. He kept it shorter these days, not too short, he hated it buzzed, but just enough that it didn’t get in the way when he was leaning over a patient.
Physically, he’d changed a lot since the days people had called him plain. He still wasn’t striking the way pro heroes or models were, but there was something sharper in his face now, something more adult. Maybe it was the faint shadows under his eyes from sleepless nights, or the way his frame had leaned out with years of long hours on his feet.
Some of the nurses— more than a few had tried asking him out over the last year. He always turned them down politely, not because he wasn’t grateful, but because he just… didn’t have the time. Dating required time. Energy. Emotional investment. Izuku barely had enough of those things to spare for himself, let alone another person. So he kept his head down, said no with a smile, and went back to what mattered: his work.Whatever it was they saw in him, it wasn’t the awkward kid he used to be. Not that he cared much.
Once he was out of the shower, his routine wasn’t much of a routine at all — more of a mad scramble. He toweled off, tugged on clean scrubs, and immediately started shoving whatever he could grab into his bag. His keys. His phone. His ID badge that had nearly gone through the wash three times. A granola bar that was probably stale but still edible.
Breakfast, if you could call it that, was whatever he could fit into his mouth on the way out the door. Sometimes it was an apple, sometimes a half-squished protein bar, sometimes just coffee so strong it could peel paint off the walls. He’d told himself a hundred times that he’d start waking up earlier to eat something decent — but considering he’d already overslept today, that clearly wasn’t happening.
He slung his bag over his shoulder, double-checked that he hadn’t left the stove on (he hadn’t used it in three days, but still), and then gave a small nod to the cactus sitting on his kitchen counter. “You’re in charge while I’m gone,” he muttered, because talking to All Might the cactus was better than total silence.
With that, he shoved his feet into his sneakers and bolted for the door.
The hallway outside his apartment was already buzzing with morning life. Mrs. Takahashi from 4B was wrangling her dog, a fluffy white menace who barked at anything that moved. The kids from 2C were arguing loudly about which pro hero was cooler — Kamui Woods or Shouto — and Izuku had to physically bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from giving his opinion.
“Morning, Midoriya-kun!” one of the kids chirped when he passed, cape askew and cookie crumbs all over his shirt.
“Morning,” Izuku answered, offering a quick smile as he sidestepped the dog lunging for his ankle.
By the time he made it down the stairs and out onto the street, the city was already alive with the usual chaos. Delivery trucks honking, vendors setting up stalls, people hustling to work. And, because this was Musutafu, a hero zipped overhead in a blur of color. Izuku slowed, just for a second, head tilted back like the kid he used to be. He told himself it was a habit, not longing.
The walk to the station was short, but it felt longer when his bag kept sliding off his shoulder and his sneakers squeaked against the pavement. He weaved through the crowd of office workers and students, trying not to spill the coffee he definitely had to stop for to survive a shift at the hospital.
The train was already packed when he got there, which was normal. He squeezed inside, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder between a man in a business suit and a high schooler blasting music through cheap earbuds. Izuku clutched the overhead rail with one hand, coffee balanced in the other, and told himself this counted as arm strength training.
Halfway through the ride, the train jolted to a sudden stop. Izuku braced himself automatically, coffee miraculously unspilled, while the speakers crackled with the familiar announcement: “Delay due to hero activity ahead. Please remain calm.”
Of course.
The car collectively groaned, but Izuku couldn’t help himself — he leaned toward the window, craning for a glimpse. And there it was, a flash of color in the distance, two heroes clashing with a villain near the tracks. He caught maybe three seconds of the fight before the train lurched forward again, but his heart was already hammering.
By the time he forced himself to look away, he realized the businessman next to him was giving him a very odd look. Izuku ducked his head, sipping his coffee like it was totally normal to look starstruck at twenty-four.
Izuku nearly missed his stop.
One second he was scrolling through an article about new prosthetic limb tech, the next he looked up and the doors were already sliding open. He yelped, shoved his phone into his pocket, and tried to wriggle through the crowd before the doors closed again. In the process he almost lost his bag, elbowed the businessman in the ribs, and had to mutter a string of frantic “sorry, sorry, excuse me, sorry—” before tumbling out onto the platform.
His coffee did not survive.
Half the cup splashed onto his scrubs, leaving a dark stain across his chest that would absolutely make him look like he’d been attacked by a caffeinated villain. Izuku stared down at it in dismay. He could already hear Shinsou’s voice in his head: “Maybe if you stopped gawking at heroes out the window, you wouldn’t look like you got mugged by a Starbucks.”
He sighed, adjusted his bag, and kept walking. Just another perfectly average morning.
Izuku walked into the hospital, nodding and offering tired smiles to the people he passed — nurses finishing up night shifts, interns clutching clipboards like lifelines, security guards who’d already seen too much chaos before eight a.m. He got a few double-takes at the massive coffee stain across his chest, but nobody said anything. This was a hospital; coffee stains were practically part of the uniform.
He headed straight for the locker room, grateful for the extra set of scrubs he always kept stashed away. A lesson learned the hard way — because coffee wasn’t even the worst thing he’d ever spilled on himself here. He changed quickly, stuffing the ruined scrubs into his locker, and raked his fingers through his curls before calling it good enough.
Today was supposed to be a chill day. No surgeries scheduled, just a handful of patient check-ups and maybe a couple of discharges if he thought they were ready to go home. Easy. Low-stress. The kind of day he could maybe even get out of the hospital on time.
His first patient of the day was someone who’d had more surgeries than Izuku had seen in his entire career — and that was saying something.
Togata Mirio. The number one hero in Japan. Even months later, Izuku still had to fight the urge not to completely geek out every time he walked into the room. The first time he’d met him, he’d nearly dropped his chart on the floor. He couldn’t help it — Mirio was the hero who’d taken All Might’s place the moment he graduated, filling a void nobody else could. Granted, All Might had retired, and Izuku was absolutely not biased when he thought All Might would still be number one otherwise (he wasn’t, really). But still.
Mirio being in his care was surreal enough.
What made it bad was why he was there. Strange symptoms had started cropping up a few months back — symptoms Izuku had never seen on any hero before. Organs behaving like they were decades older than they should’ve been. Like his body was… aging from the inside out, far faster than it should. None of the tests gave him clear answers, and none of the treatments worked, because how do you treat something that doesn’t follow the rules of medicine?
Izuku had saved dozens of lives by now, pulled people back from the brink with steady hands and frantic determination — but this, this made him feel helpless in a way that twisted deep in his chest. Because it wasn’t just anyone lying in that bed. It was the number one hero. And Izuku couldn’t fix him.
Blood test after blood test, and nothing. Not a single result gave him anything remotely useful about why Mirio’s body was acting the way it was. Izuku had done his research — stayed up at three in the morning scrolling through every article, every book he could access — and the only explanation he’d found was a grim one.
Some quirks were too much for the body to handle.
Mirio had an immense amount of power. Everyone knew that. But how exactly was Izuku supposed to fix that if the very thing tearing him apart was his quirk? There was no way to remove a quirk. That was impossible.
He’d even gone down rabbit holes he normally wouldn’t — searching for theories about rewinding quirks that could restore organs, bring them back to what healthy twenty-six-year-old organs should look like. Nothing concrete. Nothing he could use. Still, he kept looking. He kept reaching out, even contacting colleagues in America to see if anyone had a lead, a connection, something he hadn’t thought of yet.
For now, all he could do was keep Mirio monitored. Keep running tests. Keep trying.
They’d just finished another surgery last week — a kidney transplant. Mirio’s left kidney had given out, just like the right one had years earlier. And even the new organ didn’t seem safe from whatever was happening to him. Izuku hated that feeling — putting his all into repairing someone, only to watch the body betray them anyway.
And the worst part was that Mirio never stopped smiling through it. Izuku didn't know how he did it.
Upon entering the room, Izuku found Mirio lying back in his hospital bed, eyes fixed on the window like he was watching something far away. Izuku wondered if he missed patrolling — the rush of the city streets, the feel of being out there. Probably.
“It’s pretty today, huh?” Izuku said softly, setting the chart down at the foot of the bed. “Very sunny.”
“Good morning, Doc.” Mirio turned his head, and the brightness in his smile made the sterile room feel a little less cold.
“Good morning, Mr. Togata,” Izuku replied automatically, already moving toward the monitor.
“What have I told you about that? Call me Mirio. I think we’ve reached that status by now, don’t you?” Mirio chuckled, shaking his head.
“We’ve been over this. It’s professional.” Izuku couldn’t help a small smile.
“Professional, huh?” Mirio’s grin widened, making it impossible not to feel lighter even with IV lines and bandages keeping him tethered. “Well, Doc, if you’re going to be the one replacing my organs one by one, I think we’ve already skipped the professional stage.”
“That’s not exactly how it works,” Izuku straightened, tugging at the edge of his coat as if it would make him look less flustered. Mirio just kept watching him with that easy smile.“How’re you feeling today?”
“Like I could bust through that wall and go patrol right now,” Mirio said, jerking his thumb at the window. “But I’ll settle for a walk down the hallway if you let me.”
Izuku shook his head, lips twitching. “You know I can’t clear you for hallway demolition yet.”
“Yet,” Mirio repeated, grin widening.
Despite himself, Izuku chuckled, grabbing the clipped the chart, flipping it open, scanning the latest results before clearing his throat. “Alright. So — your vitals are stable. The new kidney is doing its job, at least for now, and the incision is healing well. If everything continues like this, you should be good to go home tomorrow.”
Mirio’s eyes lit up. “Home, huh? Sounds like paradise.”
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Izuku said, tone slipping back into professional. “I’ll still need you back here once a week for check-ups. Blood tests, imaging, monitoring your organs. I want to make sure nothing else is being… compromised.”
Mirio tilted his head, smile softening. “Whatever you say, Doc. You know I trust you.”
Izuku swallowed and quickly jotted another note on the chart just to have something to do with his hands.Yes, he got flustered. This was still the number one hero after all.
Izuku closed the chart but didn’t move away just yet. “When you go back,” he started carefully, “you can’t push yourself too hard. Your body’s still healing — a kidney transplant takes at least six weeks before you can even think about real strain. And that’s assuming everything goes perfectly.”
“Six weeks, huh? That’s a long time for villains to run around causing trouble.” Mirio gave him a sheepish grin.
“I mean it,” Izuku pressed, trying not to sound too much like his mom and failing miserably. “You can’t go crazy. Not yet. You’re—” he hesitated, searching for the right word. “Fragile.”
“Fragile,” Mirio repeated, laughing like it was the funniest thing he’d heard all week. “Never thought I’d hear that word aimed at me.”
“I’m serious,” Izuku said, even as his lips threatened to curl up. “Ease into it. Nothing reckless.”
Mirio’s smile softened, but the spark in his eyes never dimmed. “I’ll try. But you know how it is, Doc — I’ve got a lot of people to save.” He shifted against the pillows, gaze flicking briefly back to the window. “I haven’t hit a million yet.”
“One step at a time,” Izuku said quietly. “Let’s make sure you get there first.”
Izuku stood there for a moment longer than he meant to, the chart clutched against his chest. He knew Mirio well enough by now to understand he wasn’t joking — not really. That line, the dream of saving a million people, it wasn’t just a slogan for Mirio. It was something he carried with him, the same way Izuku carried his own impossible dream. And it killed him, that the one man who could smile through anything was being undone by something Izuku couldn’t even name. Surgeons were supposed to fix things. But when he looked at Mirio, all he had were question marks and half-measures.
“Alright,” Izuku said, clearing his throat. He forced a smile, though. That was the other deal — the patient always came first, no matter what was happening in his own chest. “Rest today. Tomorrow we’ll talk discharge papers.”
“Thanks, Doc.” Mirio nodded, still smiling like sunshine.
Izuku gave a short wave and slipped out of Mirio's room, Izuku kept his face neutral until the door clicked shut behind him. The second he was alone in the hallway, though, his shoulders sagged, and he let out a quiet breath that was half a laugh, half a groan. He had just spent solid minutes talking to the number one hero like it was nothing . Like he hadn’t grown up idolizing people like Mirio. Like a part of him wasn’t still twelve years old inside, clutching a hero notebook and scribbling facts until his hand cramped.
He pressed his chart against his chest for a second, letting himself feel it. The surreal weight of it all. He was Mirio’s doctor. His doctor. He was the one running the tests, planning the follow-ups, doing the surgeries.
And sure, maybe he still got starry-eyed when a hero flew overhead, maybe he still stopped dead on the street just to catch a glimpse of pro heroes at work. Maybe he was still a fanboy, through and through. But he was also… this. A doctor trusted to save their lives when even their quirks couldn’t, Izuku thought, as he moved on to his next patient, it wouldn’t kill Mirio to stop smiling so much while his organs betrayed him. It made it impossible to look like the calm, put-together professional he was supposed to be when all Izuku wanted to do was sit down and cry on the man’s behalf.
By the time Izuku finished his rounds, he was more than ready for a breather. His stomach growled so loudly in the elevator that a nurse standing beside him gave him a startled glance, and Izuku tried to cover it with an awkward cough. Professional. Totally professional.
The staff room smelled like burnt coffee and disinfectant — a familiar cocktail by now. He dropped into one of the plastic chairs, tugging his bag into his lap, and dug around until he found what could generously be called lunch: a slightly crushed sandwich wrapped in foil.
“Wow,” one of the interns said as they walked past. “Living the dream, huh, Dr. Midoriya?”
“Don’t be jealous.” Izuku raised his sandwich like a toast.
He was about to take the first bite when the automatic coffee machine sputtered violently and spewed a jet of liquid across the counter, narrowly missing him. Izuku jerked back so fast his chair almost tipped over, and the intern burst out laughing.
“Machine hates me,” Izuku muttered, cheeks pink as he set the sandwich down. “It’s personal.”
He finally did take a bite — stale bread, too much mustard, definitely not worth the effort — but it didn’t matter. Sitting in the break room with the hum of conversation around him, his patients stable for the moment, it was one of those rare pockets of peace in the chaos of hospital life.
Izuku was halfway through forcing down his sandwich when a shadow fell across the table.
“Word on the floor is you lost a fight with the coffee machine this morning. Again.” He looked up to see Nurse Tanaka leaning against the counter with her arms crossed, smirking like she’d been waiting all morning to pounce.
“It wasn’t—” Izuku started, then faltered, because technically it had been exactly that. “It malfunctioned,” he tried weakly, gesturing toward the machine that was still dripping like it had committed a crime.
“Funny how it only malfunctions when you’re the one pressing the button.” Tanaka raised an eyebrow.
Heat rushed up Izuku’s neck. He grabbed his sandwich like it might shield him. “It’s personal,” he muttered, sticking to his story. “Machines hate me.”
“Sure they do, Doc. Sure they do.” She laughed, shaking her head as she poured herself a fresh cup without a single drop spilling.
Izuku groaned and dropped his forehead onto the table with a soft thunk. Professional. Totally professional.
“Honestly,” Tanaka went on, stirring sugar into her coffee with exaggerated care, “it’s kind of impressive. Most people just get caffeine. You get… battle scars.”
“I’m not that bad.” Izuku lifted his head off the table just enough to glare weakly at her.
“You set off the vending machine alarm last week because it ate your coins,” she reminded him.
“That wasn’t my fault,” he protested, sitting up straighter. “The machine stole from me. I was simply standing up for justice.”
“Right,” Tanaka said, deadpan. “Hero of the vending machine underdogs. Truly inspiring.”
Izuku groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Why does everyone in this hospital think I’m cursed?”
“Because you are,” came another voice from the doorway.
Izuku didn’t even need to look up to know who it was. Hitoshi strolled in, still in his detective’s coat, holding a can of coffee like he’d just walked out of a commercial.
“Don’t encourage him,” Izuku muttered to Tanaka.
Hitoshi sat across from him, eyes half-lidded with his usual unimpressed expression. “You spilled coffee on yourself this morning, then picked a fight with a machine you’ve already lost to three times. That’s not a curse, Izuku. That’s natural selection.”
“You’re supposed to be my friend.” Izuku pointed his sandwich at him.
“I am,” Hitoshi said, cracking open his can. “That’s why I’m telling you before the machines unionize.”
Tanaka snorted into her coffee. Izuku sighed, resigned. This was his life.
That was Hitoshi Shinsou — sarcasm as a first language. They’d met years ago, when Izuku had been called in to operate on a villain. His hospital didn’t pick sides when it came to trauma — a torn artery was a torn artery, whether the hand holding the knife had been saving or taking lives. Hitoshi had been the detective on the case, standing in the corner of the ER, watching with those sharp, unreadable eyes while Izuku stitched the man’s heart back together. They’d argued, briefly, about why someone like that deserved another chance. Hitoshi had said something cutting. Izuku had said something stubborn. And somehow, a friendship had come out of it.
Izuku finished chewing his sandwich and narrowed his eyes at him. “What are you even doing here? Don’t you have an actual job?”
“Sure,” Hitoshi said, leaning back in his chair and taking a slow sip of his coffee. “But your cafeteria has the best bad coffee in the city. I’d be an idiot not to exploit that.”
Izuku rolled his eyes. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting,”Hitoshi replied smoothly. He’d been allowed into the hospital whenever he wanted for years now — technically not protocol, but this was basically Midoriya’s domain, and he could bend the rules a little. The only line he wouldn’t let Hitoshi cross was the OR — for obvious reasons — but outside of that, the detective could loiter in his office, raid his snack drawer, or haunt the break room without anyone blinking twice.
Izuku shook his head, defeated. “One of these days, security’s going to realize you don’t actually work here.”
Hitoshi smirked, lifting the can in a mock-toast. “And on that day, I’ll make you bail me out. Perks of being your friend.”
The nurse had bid her goodbye, leaving her empty mug on the counter. Hitoshi’s gaze lingered on the door she’d left through, then slid back to Izuku. “You ever notice the way she looks at you?”
“What?”
“Sparkly eyes,” Hitoshi said flatly. “Like she’s one monologue away from writing your initials in her notebook with little hearts.”
Izuku nearly choked on the last bite of his sandwich. “She does not—” he coughed, smacking his chest with his fist, “—she does not do that.”
Hitoshi tilted his head. “She does. So do half the nurses on this floor. It’s embarrassing to watch.”
Izuku’s face went scarlet, and he waved his hands like that would erase the words out of the air. “Th-that’s ridiculous. They don’t— nobody— I don’t even have time to date, okay?”
“Didn’t say you did,” Hitoshi replied, sipping his coffee like he hadn’t just thrown Izuku into a tailspin. “Just pointing out the obvious. Some of us notice these things.”
Izuku groaned and dropped his forehead onto the table. “Why are you like this?”
“Gifted,” Hitoshi said.
Izuku groaned again, muffled into the table. “Can we not do this right now?”
“Do what?” Hitoshi asked innocently, which was a lie in itself. His smirk gave him away.
“You know what,” Izuku said, lifting his head just enough to glare, cheeks still burning.
Hitoshi shrugged, unbothered. “I’m just saying, Izuku — you’re twenty-four, one of the youngest surgeons in the country, and you spend more time talking to your cactus than to actual people. At some point, you’re going to have to admit your love life is a flatline.”
Izuku threw his hands up. “I don’t have time! Between shifts, surgeries, research—”
“You had time to buy three All Might mugs last week,” Hitoshi cut in, deadpan.
Izuku sputtered, his face turning a deeper shade of red. “That—that was different! That was—! It was a clearance sale!”
Hitoshi leaned back, sipping his coffee with all the smugness of a man who lived for this. “Exactly my point. No time for a date, but plenty of time for hero merch. You’re hopeless.”
Izuku groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” Hitoshi said. “I’m the only one who tells you the truth.”
Izuku muttered something incoherent under his breath, but his ears were still glowing red.
Hitoshi set his can down with a quiet clink and studied Izuku with that unreadable detective stare that usually meant trouble. “You know,” he drawled, “if you’re holding out for one of your childhood hero crushes to notice you, you should probably give up now. They don’t put ‘world-class surgeon, slightly awkward, talks to plants’ on dating apps.”
Izuku sat bolt upright, mortified. “I—! I don’t—! I don’t have hero crushes! ”
“Please,” Hitoshi said, unimpressed. “You used to memorize their birthdays.”
“That was— that was research!” Izuku sputtered, jabbing his finger at him. “For analysis!”
“Uh-huh,” Shinsou said, leaning back in his chair. “Totally normal. Most kids make flashcards for math. You made them for Allmight.”
Izuku buried his face in his hands. “Why are you like this ?”
“Because it’s fun,” Hitoshi answered smoothly. “And because watching you melt down over your tragic, nonexistent love life is cheaper than cable.”
Izuku groaned, dragging his hands down his face. But the corner of his mouth twitched despite himself. It was easier to take the hits when he knew Hitoshi never actually meant them to wound. He lowered his hands just enough to peek at him. “You know what’s really tragic?”
“Do tell.” Hitoshi raised an eyebrow.
“You,” Izuku said, jabbing his sandwich in his direction like it was a pointer. “You sit in a dark office interrogating people for hours, then you come here, drink bad coffee, and insult me. When was the last time you went on a date, huh?”
Hitoshi blinked slowly, deadpan. “Cute. Deflect with counterattack. You’d make a terrible detective.”
Izuku grinned, leaning in. “No, seriously. You’re what? Twenty-five? And the most intimate relationship in your life is with that trench coat you wear everywhere.”
Hitoshi took a sip of his coffee without breaking eye contact. “Bold words from a man who talks to a cactus.”
Izuku sputtered a laugh, clapping a hand over his mouth to muffle it. “Okay, fair. But at least All Might the cactus doesn’t smell like stale cigarettes.”
Hitoshi tilted his head, lips curving just enough to show he was enjoying himself. “Careful, Mido. Keep talking and I’ll interrogate your cactus. Bet it knows more about your secrets than I do.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
Izuku narrowed his eyes, then smirked. “Fine. But if you so much as look at All Might the cactus, I’m telling everyone in this hospital about your secret crush on the number forty-four hero, Chargebolt.”
For the first time that morning, Hitoshi actually sputtered mid-sip. “What—” he coughed, glaring, “—how do you even know he’s ranked forty-four?”
“Because of course I know.” Izuku’s grin widened, all teeth.
Hitoshi set his coffee down with exaggerated care. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you,” Izuku said sweetly, “are deflecting.”
Hitoshi dragged a hand down his face, then leveled Izuku with a flat stare. “You know, it’s actually impressive. Most people outgrow their hero obsession by, what—middle school? But not you. You just doubled down.”
“I did not!” Izuku’s mouth fell open.
“You stitched lemillion’s kidney back in and couldn't tell if it was the right time for an autograph,” Hitoshi deadpanned.
“That’s—” Izuku flailed, cheeks burning, “—that’s completely slander!”
“Tell yourself whatever helps you sleep, fanboy.” Hitoshi smirked, leaning back in his chair.
Izuku groaned, hiding his face in his hands. Why did he even try to turn the tables? With Hitoshi, it always came back around twice as sharp.
Hitoshi leaned back, clearly satisfied with how red Izuku’s ears had gotten, and then waved a hand like he was brushing the whole thing aside. “Anyway, back to the real reason I’m here.”
“You actually had a reason?”
“Always.”Hitoshi smirked. “Think you’ll be out on time this shift? There’s a new restaurant downtown I want to try. Supposed to be”—he made a vague gesture in the air—“5 star. But I don’t feel like sitting there by myself looking like a loser.”
Izuku blinked, caught off guard. “You came all the way to the hospital to invite me to dinner?”
“Better odds of catching you here than if I text. Half the time you ignore me, the other half you’re elbow-deep in somebody’s chest cavity.” Hitoshi shrugged, taking a long sip.
Izuku’s face flamed again, though this time it wasn’t embarrassment so much as… well, okay, it was still embarrassment. “That’s not fair,” he muttered. “I don’t ignore you. I’m just… busy.”
“Busy,” Hitoshi echoed flatly. “Right. So, what’s it gonna be, Doc? Dinner after work, or do I let your cactus friend know you stood me up?”
Izuku groaned into his hands again, but this time he was smiling. “...Fine. Yes. Dinner. Just don’t pick a place where I have to wear a tie.”
“Knew you’d say yes.” Hitoshi pulled out his phone and started typing. “I’ll text Mina, see what time she gets off patrol. Because if we go without her, she’ll find out.”
“Oh, right. Yeah. Definitely tell Mina.” Izuku winced.
He didn’t need to be reminded. The last time he and Hitoshi had made plans without looping her in, Mina had discovered it through sheer terrifying intuition and hunted them down mid-meal. Izuku still had flashbacks of the way she’d slammed her hands on their table, eyes glowing with betrayal as she declared, ‘So you two thought you could have fun without me?!’
They’d both sworn never to repeat the mistake. Izuku rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah… I’m not interested in dying that young.”
“Smart choice,” Hitoshi said, sending the text off with a satisfied little click.
The break room door cracked open again. It was Nurse Tanaka, the same one who’d mocked him about the coffee machine earlier — only now, her eyes were wide, and she looked a little flushed, like she’d just sprinted up three flights of stairs.
“Uh—Dr. Midoriya?” she said, voice pitched higher than usual. “You… have someone waiting for you. In urgent care.”
“Someone? Like a walk-in?” Izuku blinked.
Tanaka gave him a look that was equal parts starstruck and horrified. “Not just someone. It’s—well, this girl is asking for you. And she’s with… the number two hero.”
“Wow. Didn’t know you took celebrity appointments.”Hitoshi leaned back in his chair, smirking.
Izuku froze. Number two hero? That didn’t make sense. Heroes didn’t know who he was — at least, not like that. Sure, his name had made the rounds in medical journals and the occasional article that got picked up by mainstream news: “Prodigy Surgeon Saves Hero With Record-Breaking Operation,” that kind of thing. But still. He never really thought of himself as… known.
“Are you sure?” he asked weakly, standing up.
Tanaka just gestured toward the hall, looking like she was going to faint if she had to say it twice.
“Well, I’m not moving.” Shinsou didn’t even glance up from his coffee. “Good luck, though. Don’t faint.”
Izuku groaned but got to his feet anyway, following Tanaka out into the hall.
When they reached urgent care, it didn’t take long to spot the pair waiting.
The girl — long brown hair pulled into a ponytail, waving cheerfully like she was greeting an old friend — was Camie Utsushimi. She radiated energy, talking fast enough that the staff milling nearby didn’t seem sure whether to laugh along or make a run for it.
And next to her, standing stiff with his hands shoved into his pockets, was Todoroki Shouto. Number two hero.
Izuku’s breath caught.
Camie spotted him immediately and lit up even brighter. “Yo! You’re Midoriya, right? Heard from a birdie who heard from a birdie who heard from another birdie that you’re, like, the guy. The prodigy doc. The legend. So.” She clapped a hand on Todoroki’s shoulder, ignoring the way he flinched at the contact. “This one doesn’t like hospitals, but I dragged him here anyway. Pretty cool, huh?”
Todoroki said nothing, just stared at Izuku with that calm, unreadable gaze.
Izuku’s brain scrambled between holy shit it’s Todoroki Shouto, why is the number two hero in my hospital, and did she just call me a legend?!
Out loud, he managed: “Uh. Hi.”
Camie, still talking a mile a minute, gestured vaguely toward Todoroki’s face. “So, like, here’s the deal, Doc. For the past couple days, his left side’s been all…” She wiggled her fingers, making an explosion noise with her mouth. “…funky. He says it’s nothing, but he’s been getting these headaches, and sometimes he zones out, and also there was this one time he nearly faceplanted during patrol and pretended it was ‘strategy.’” She leaned in, stage-whispering loudly enough for the entire ward to hear. “It wasn’t strategy.”
Todoroki didn’t even blink. “Camie exaggerates.”
Izuku, caught between starstruck and confused, tilted his head. “Your… left side?” His eyes flicked toward the burn scar that stretched across Todoroki’s left eye, then quickly darted away. “Does it happen when you’re using your quirk?”
“Not always,” Todoroki said flatly. “It’s fine.”
Camie snorted. “It’s not fine. He hasn’t been sleeping, either. I practically had to drag him here.”
Izuku swallowed, pulling himself back into professional mode. “Right. Okay. Why don’t we go somewhere private, and I’ll check a few things?”
Todoroki gave him a long look, then finally nodded.
Izuku pressed a stethoscope against Todoroki’s chest, listening carefully while he ran through the basics — heart rhythm, lungs, vitals. Everything seemed normal, but there was tension in Todoroki’s body, like every muscle was coiled and ready to resist.
“Any dizziness? Shortness of breath?” Izuku asked gently.
“No.”
“Fatigue?”
“No.”
“Headaches?”
A pause. “…Sometimes.”
Izuku scribbled notes onto the chart, then glanced up. “I’ll have the nurse schedule some lab tests — blood work, imaging, just to rule out anything more serious.”
“You don’t need to,” Todoroki said, eyes flat. “It’s unnecessary. I’m fine.”
Izuku set the pen down, meeting his gaze. “Maybe. But she’s a good friend if she’s worried about you over something small.”
For the first time, Todoroki’s expression flickered.
Izuku leaned back, chewing his lip. Something wasn’t adding up. The headaches, the zoning out, the left-side issues… all on the side of his fire quirk, the one he famously avoided. And suddenly, the pieces clicked.
“I think I know what’s happening,” Izuku said slowly. “Your quirk isn’t balanced. You’re only using your ice side, right? If you don’t regulate your temperature with the fire side, your body compensates —You’re overloading one half.”
Todoroki’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue.
Izuku softened his voice. “The solution’s simple, actually. Use your fire. Balance it out. That should stop the symptoms before they get worse.”
Silence stretched between them. Todoroki’s eyes, cool and unreadable, flicked away toward the wall. “…It’s not that simple.”
Todoroki’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “No. There has to be another explanation. I’m not using my fire.”
Izuku set his chart down a little harder than necessary, lips twitching like he was fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “With all due respect—actually, no, scratch that. Respect or not, if you keep this up, you’re only going to get worse. You’ll end up back here every other week with headaches, fatigue, or worse. And last I checked, the number two hero doesn’t exactly have time for frequent hospital visits.”
Todoroki’s jaw tightened. “It’s manageable.”
“Manageable?” Izuku’s voice lifted, incredulous. “How are you supposed to save people when you can’t even stand without feeling like your head’s splitting in half? Are you going to fight villains in ten-second bursts between migraines? That’s not manageable. That’s reckless.”
For the first time, Todoroki’s eyes sharpened on him, cool and probing. “Why are you insisting so much on the fire?”
“Because it’s my professional opinion. If you don’t use your fire side, your symptoms will continue. And if you want to keep being a hero—if you want to keep saving people—then you need to start giving it your all, not just half.”
Todoroki’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you so insistent? It’s suspicious. Did my father—” his voice was flat but sharp, cutting — “pay you to say this? Did he bribe you to convince me to use my fire?”
Izuku blinked. For a second, he thought he’d misheard. “Wait. What?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Todoroki continued coldly. “He’s tried everything else. Why not this?”
Izuku’s mouth opened, then closed again. His brain scrambled between outrage and disbelief. And then the words just came out, quick and sharp.
“You think the previous number two hero — Endeavor — called me, paid me off, and convinced me to push you to use your fire… all in the five minutes between when your friend dragged you into this hospital and I walked into this room?” Izuku’s voice rose as he went, his hands gesturing wildly now. “Did Camie call your dad on the way here? Was this all some elaborate conspiracy? Really?”
Todoroki’s eyes flickered — not backing down, but faltering, just slightly, as the logic cut through his accusation.
“You just insulted my practice. The years of school I clawed my way through. The debt I’m still in. You think I’d throw all of that away to be someone’s puppet? To get bribed?” He jabbed his pen against the chart in his hands, his green eyes burning. “I didn’t become the youngest surgeon in Japan because people paid me off. I became the best because I busted my ass for it. And I’ll be damned if anyone — even the number two hero — tries to belittle that.”
The words hit the air like a scalpel hitting the tray — sharp, final.
Todoroki stared at him, expression still cool, but his posture had shifted. The unshakable confidence wavered, just slightly. The accusation he’d thrown out in blind anger didn’t hold under the weight of Midoriya’s fire.
“I’m insisting on your fire because you’re not the number two hero right now. You’re a patient. A patient with symptoms that could be fixed easily if you stopped being so damn stubborn.” He leaned forward, eyes bright. “I’m insisting because once you leave this room, you’ll go back to being a hero — and I want you to be able to give it your all when you’re out there saving people who need you. Because I look up to you. Because when I'm a civilian on the streets, and I'm on my way to work and a villain decides to stir up some trouble. You stop them. You are my hero.”
He continued. “But you’re not my hero right now. You’re my patient. And I won’t let you die because you’re too damn stubborn.”
The room went utterly still. Todoroki’s expression didn’t change much — but something in his eyes shifted, like he’d just been struck somewhere deep. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t even blink. Just stared at him with that unreadable calm that somehow felt heavier than if he’d shouted back.
Izuku’s stomach twisted. Shit. That was it. He’d just yelled at the number two hero. In a hospital room. Where other people could probably hear. Fantastic. Way to ruin his career before thirty.
He exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “…Look,” he said finally, softer now. “I got carried away. I shouldn’t have snapped like that. So—yeah. I’m sorry. For that part.”
He straightened, though, his voice firm again. “But I’m not sorry for insisting. I meant every word. I’m in debt up to my eyeballs. I've sacrificed years of my life to get here, but not once — not once — would I ever take a bribe to put a patient at risk. Not for your father. Not for anyone.”
Izuku paused, then held the chart out, his tone settling back into clipped professionalism. “Head downstairs to the lab. They’ll take some samples, run some tests. If there’s another solution that doesn’t involve using your quirk, I’ll find it. That’s my job.”
For a moment, Todoroki’s gaze lingered on him, unreadable as ever. Then, without a word, he turned and headed for the door.
Izuku let out a long breath the second it clicked shut. “…Great,” he muttered to himself. “Definitely nailed that. Totally didn’t just scream at the number two hero. Fantastic.”
Todoroki pulled the door open without a word, slipping out into the hall. Izuku followed a few steps behind, trying to shove his chart back under his arm like the argument hadn’t just happened.
Camie was waiting in the chairs near the wall, bouncing one leg and scrolling on her phone. The second she spotted them, she lit up, springing to her feet. “Yo! That was fast. What’s the verdict, Doc?”
Izuku cleared his throat, pointedly keeping his eyes on the chart in his hands. “He needs labs. Can you take him downstairs and get them done?” His gaze flicked to Todoroki, then back to Camie. “And… if he asks to switch doctors after this, I won’t be offended.”
Camie blinked at him, then broke into a grin. “Pfft. Please. If Shouto didn’t want you as his doc, he would’ve frozen the door shut on his way out. He’s here, isn’t he? You’re good.”
Izuku opened his mouth, then shut it again, unsure how to respond to that kind of logic.
Camie tilted her head, her smile softening just a little. “But, uh… everything’s okay with him, right?”
Izuku forced his tone even, professional. “It’s nothing serious right now.”
Camie beamed like that was the best news she’d heard all day. “Awesome! See, Shouto? Told ya it’d be fine.” She looped her arm through Todoroki’s without waiting for permission and started dragging him toward the elevators, chattering the whole way.
Izuku watched them go, running a hand down his face. He’d definitely need to stress-eat something later.
By the time Izuku pushed back into the break room, regret was already gnawing at him like acid in his stomach. He dropped his chart onto the nearest counter, slumped into a chair, and buried his face in his hands.
Why had he yelled at Todoroki? He didn’t even know. It wasn’t something he should’ve gotten so defensive about, and now it probably looked suspicious as hell. As if getting heated like that meant he was guilty of something. Which he wasn’t. He wasn’t.
His defensive wasn’t guilt. It was… frustration. At watching someone with such an incredible quirk throw half of it away. At knowing there were people born without anything, people like him, who would’ve given anything — anything — to have that kind of power. And instead, Todoroki was burning his body out rather than using the fire he’d been born with.
Izuku let out a bitter little laugh into his palms. Maybe he really did need therapy.
Still. He could understand why Todoroki hadn’t said anything after his outburst. If he were in Todoroki’s shoes, he probably would’ve just walked out too.
But the whole thing was insane. Putting his body through hell just because he refused to use his own quirk? And then to throw that accusation about his father into the mix… yeah. There was definitely something deeper there. Something Izuku couldn’t even begin to imagine.
He lifted his head, rubbing tiredly at his eyes.
The contrast between the top two heroes couldn’t have been sharper. Mirio was sunlight personified — vibrant, grinning like tomorrow was guaranteed, no matter how many surgeries, transplants, or endless hospital stays he had behind him. He reminded Izuku so much of All Might it almost hurt. That same larger-than-life warmth that filled a room and made people believe they were safe just because he was standing there.
And then there was Todoroki. Stoic, cold, eyes like a shuttered window. He was strength contained in silence, a wall instead of a beacon. In some twisted way, it felt like watching All Might and Endeavor all over again.
Izuku leaned back in his chair, exhaling.
“Deep thoughts?” a voice drawled.
Izuku just about jumped out of his skin, whipping his head up to see Hitoshi lounging in the corner like he’d been there all along. Coffee in hand. Eyes half-lidded. Smirk tugging at his mouth.
“I—how—what—” Izuku stammered, clutching his chest. “You’re still here?”
“Obviously.” Hitoshi took a lazy sip. “Hospital coffee may be terrible, but it’s still free. Now,” his gaze sharpened, “how was Japan’s number two hero? Did you tell him you’re his number one fan?”
Izuku groaned and dropped into the chair across from him, burying his face in his hands. “I think I yelled at him.”
There was a pause. Then Shinsou’s smirk spread, slow and dangerous. “Oh, this is good. You yelled at Shouto Todoroki. Please, elaborate.”
“He accused me of being bribed,” Izuku mumbled through his palms. “By his father. To make him use his fire quirk. And then I just—snapped. I told him he wasn’t my hero, he was my patient. I basically… ranted. Loudly. At the number two hero.”
Hitoshi took another deliberate sip. “Incredible. Truly. If I’d known this day was coming, I would’ve brought popcorn.”
Izuku peeked out from between his fingers, cheeks burning. “I ruined it, didn’t I? He’s probably going to request another doctor. Or worse, file a complaint. Or—or—”
“If he files a complaint, it’s not your fault,” Hitoshi cut in, leaning back in his chair with a shrug. “You were offended, and you defended yourself. There’s nothing wrong with that. Heroes don’t need more people kissing their asses. They need someone who’ll call them out when they’re being idiots. Sounds like you did your job.”
Izuku blinked at him, stunned. His chest still felt tight, but… a little less crushing.
He let out a shaky breath that came out half laugh, half groan. “You make everything sound so simple.”
“That’s because it is,” Hitoshi deadpanned. A pause. Then the corner of his mouth twitched. “Also because I want to see if Todoroki comes back just to watch you panic again. That’s entertainment.”
Izuku grabbed the nearest napkin and hurled it at him.