Archive of Our Own ^beta

Shota Aizawa reminded you why you worked at UA every time he stepped into the nurse’s office. Even compared to the hundreds of students who trained daily to become heroes, even compared to someone like Vlad King who’s quirk literally revolved around blood, he somehow managed to become your most frequent patient. It was almost hilarious. Even that student of his with a penchant for breaking his bones didn’t visit as much anymore.

Every other day, it seemed, Aizawa would walk in with a different ailment at the expense of his class. The most notable was the time he was drenched in blood—his own, you might add. But it paled in comparison to the notorious USJ incident that turned him into a mummy for a month. Other minor incidents included a broken pinky finger, a bleeding cut he assured wasn’t from dropping scissors, and on one occasion, the first inch of a pencil embedded in his forearm. He hardly spoke on that last one, gruffly mumbling the entire time about how he was going to kill his student.

Obviously, he never did. As much as he complained, as much as he claimed he couldn’t wait for them to graduate, Aizawa cared for his class deeply. You’d catch glimpses of this truth when patching up one of his students during their training, or when he informed you in thickly-veiled pride that his newest injury you were treating was from a move one of his kids learned.

Most of the time, his nurse office visits weren’t focused on them, but you didn’t mind in the slightest and once again welcomed him to rest on the medical cot. He sat down with a yawn; fatigue pooling around him in thick, heavy waves. That was one thing you wished you could cure. Exhaustion.

Recovery Girl was your grandmother, and you’d inherited your quirk from her—which was also how you got your job at UA. Healing people was your specialty, and it left a similar drain on their energy. Having to witness Aizawa trudging around everyday while hanging on his last threads was hard to deal with as a nurse, but the best you could do was patch him up and send him on his way.

But he would continue to return with new injuries and always-remaining eye bags. The dark bruises bore evidence of the toll his job took on him—both hero and teacher. You had a suspicion that even in a different career, exhaustion would still plague him. Some people were just like that. All you could hope to do was study more in medical school and learn how to maximize your quirk output with minimal energy cost. But even then, it wouldn’t do much. Aizawa always insisted on traditional means for tending to him, as if the pain and long healing process reminded him he was alive.

In the office once again, it was just him and you, like it often was. Recovery Girl preferred to take care of students herself since they were top priority; leaving you with the staff and, most commonly, Aizawa. You had only minded when you were first getting used to the job. Many teachers and students could be exaggeratedly described as some level of crazy, and you ran out of ice packs the first week of school. Aizawa hadn’t yet marked himself as a frequent visitor to the office, but he was an anchor in the storm, making your work quick, simple, and easy. Multiple years later and he was a comfortable constant in the background while you focused on your job.

Getting a crick out of his neck, he sighed. The tension in his shoulders loosened up and he waited for you to finish restocking a cabinet. “Do you have any eyedrops?” he asked monotonously, raking a hand through his messy hair. “I ran out.”

The tiredness in his voice didn’t fail to reach you even as you focused elsewhere. He always sounded like that.

You opened another cabinet and grabbed one of many containers. “Do you want me to administer them again?”

He nodded. “Sure.” His lidded eyes followed your movements as you washed your hands and slipped on disposable gloves. “You’re better at it than me.”

It was hard to believe, considering he’d probably used more eyedrops on himself than you would ever give people in your entire career, but you had a steady hand and an outward view. Chances were he just couldn’t keep his eyes open for it himself. You were happy to help.

After Aizawa tied his hair back in a way you had to admit was rather flattering on him, you readied the dropper. His head tilted up, and your thumb gently rested on his upper eyelid to hold it open; displaying the redness of the veins and the reason for today’s visit. You squeezed the rubber bulb. A single droplet left the glass pipette, landing on his sclera—he blinked—and mixing in with the limited moisture of his eye. Repeating this once, twice, he blinked in the solution all while staring expressionless at the ceiling. You did the other eye. He cooperated to the fullest degree.

Once done, you removed your gloves and disposed of them while Aizawa sat on the cot, expecting that to be it for the visit. You heard a breath, an inhale, preparing to say something. But nothing came.

Mildly perplexed, you turned and found yourself alone in the room—the door currently sliding shut. Just before it closed, a quiet “thank you” carried from from the other side.

It wasn’t what you expected, but it was more than enough. Aizawa’s regular gratitude was casual, simple, and enough to keep you going with this Herculean task of making sure UA’s staff didn’t die on the spot. It wasn’t easy, but it’s what you wanted to do. You would treat him a thousand times over if it did any good, and maybe with a little luck, the frequent visits would dwindle down into nothing.