Work Text:
The last few hours were a blur in Hitomi’s mind, honestly. A mess on the stove, the shrieking anger of her foster mother, claws extended from furred fingers as the woman swiped at her torso. It was an accident, probably, usually Hitomi was able to get out of the way in time. A single, sharp claw had caught her on the abdomen, and it had cut deep.
Now here she was, holed up in her shitty foster home’s shitty bathroom, trying to sew herself back together.
Hitomi breathed harshly, sweat pouring from her brow and the occasional pained tear slipping down her cheek. She had her phone propped up on the small bathroom counter, some informational video of a surgeon doing neat stitches into a slab of fake flesh playing on the cracked screen. Sitting atop the toilet lid beside her was her modest (very modest) first aid kit and a cookie tin whose guts had long since been replaced by sewing supplies.
Hitomi’s shaking, bloodied hands moved needle and thread through her own flesh as she leaned against the counter, doing her best to follow the handful of videos she’d watched leading up to this DIY surgery.
It was an unspoken (and sometimes actually spoken) rule that hospitals weren’t really an option in a lot of the homes she’d stayed in. Hospitals lead to questions, and questions lead to consequences, usually for Hitomi herself. This home was no different, and it was fine, it was. Being her own doctor was something Hitomi was used to.
Still, she’d never had to do stitches before, and as she pulled the thread through her skin, biting back a whimper all the while, she couldn’t help but feel in over her head. So overwhelmed and alone, and not for the first time in her life.
But what else could she do? Ask for help? And then what?
At this point, Hitomi was running out of potential homes to be sent to, and an incident like this would inevitably lead to her being moved. Being moved meant new foster parents, and who knew if they would be better or worse than this?
There were times that she counted herself lucky that all her foster mother did was scream at and hit her. That that was the worst she had to fear from within these walls. That the eyes that watched her only felt scorn and nothing more devious.
So Hitomi sucked it up and continued her work.
What a miserable way to start her weekend.
---
“Listener, you’re not looking so good.”
It felt like so much effort for Hitomi to lift her fevered face to meet Yamada’s concerned gaze.
She had spent the weekend in agony, with little to numb the pain and even less to redress her wound. By the time she had returned to school, she was sure the cut was infected, and she was overcome by fever. Fate really never did anything by halves when it came to her, when it screwed her over, it really screwed her over.
It was at that point that she had to admit to herself just how in over her head she was. She had dragged herself out of bed, looked herself in the mirror, and had known that if she didn’t seek medical attention, something bad could happen (could she actually die from this? Her phone searches were indecisive). Getting to school was something of a Herculean task in her state, but she managed, planning to visit Recovery Girl after classes were over. She was hoping she could pass it off as something semi-innocent to the old woman, that since Recovery Girl spent her days tending to way more grievous injuries than Hitomi had to show, she wouldn’t think much of it. Surely she had more important things to worry about when Midoriya was turning his bones to powder every other day? A little scratch and a light fever wasn’t anything to bat an eye at. Right?
Hitomi’s plan was to maintain a low profile until her trip to the infirmary, but she grossly underestimated how bad she looked, as Yamada had taken one look at her upon stepping into her classroom and was immediately on the alert. From the looks of it, he was probably going to make a big deal about it.
Yamada was second on Hitomi’s list of the top people she didn’t want fussing over her and digging into her home life. Second only to Aizawa. She actually kind of...liked those two, as far as adults went. It was enough to not want to face the disappointment of when they ultimately let her down, when they would be faced with the extent to which her life was an utter shitshow and decide they didn’t want to bother. Hitomi was too much trouble, she knew, but she had a feeling it would break her if either of them told it to her face. So she did what she could to avoid tough conversations with them, just so she could enjoy what peace they gave her for a little longer.
But as her Homeroom/English teacher looked down at her with concern tinging the edges of his smile, she knew her time was up. She was going to cause trouble whether she wanted to or not, and she was feeling way too bad at this point to try and bullshit her way out of this situation.
“I...I don’t feel good,” she admitted quietly, and it felt like so much effort just to confess even that much. Usually getting her to admit anything was wrong was a lot harder than this, and the surprised raise of Yamada’s brow showed that he was well aware of this fact. "I think I have a fever."
“Yeah, I think you might be on to something there,” he agreed with a mild hum. He rested his hand on his hip as he looked her over then snapped his fingers, “how about we take a stroll down to Recovery Girl's and have her take a look at you?”
Well, that was the plan anyway. Now it was just going to happen ahead of schedule. She nodded, feeling too sick to put up much of a front about it.
Hitomi got up as Yamada handed out some worksheets and put the class rep in charge. She trudged to the door in a haze, pain and fever weighing down her steps. Dread soured her stomach, already knowing that the questioning she was going to go through was going to suck.
She was a little surprised Yamada was taking her there himself. Maybe he wanted to make sure she actually did go to Recovery Girl like he suggested, she could admit to having a record of slipping away when the school nurse was mentioned. Whatever the case, she was kind of thankful. Her head felt like it was full of sludge and she could barely focus on staying upright, let alone where she was going.
He was talking to her as they walked, a noted strain to his usual casual, upbeat cadence. Hitomi mumbled responses but for the life of her she couldn’t keep track of the conversation. It was as though the illness and the injury were all catching up to her at once.
She was so relieved when they finally reached Recovery Girl’s office. Those stiff, overly-sterile beds might as well have been fluffy white clouds with how much she just wanted to curl up on one and sleep for weeks. Fortunately, Recovery Girl was quick to usher her to one of them as soon as she laid eyes on her. Hitomi sank onto the bed and sighed as if the mattress was made of goose feather. Her head swam a little at the change in orientation and she couldn’t help the soft groan that left her.
“Oh dear…” Recovery Girl tutted, bustling around her, tutting some more when she took Hitomi’s temperature and confirmed the rising fever. Hitomi heard Yamada let out a low whistle at the thermometer’s reading. “Let’s see what we can do about bringing that fever down a bit,” Recovery Girl said, half to Hitomi, half to herself, as she stepped away to prepare a cold compress. In the meanwhile, Hitomi closed her eyes as a dull, pounding headache began to form in the back of her head, nausea building up as her disorientation grew.
She heard the soft clunk of Yamada’s boots as he stepped closer to her bedside. “Well you’re really bringing the heat now, aren’t you, little listener?” his voice had smoothed to a soothing cadence, and she could feel her quirk respond to it in the back of her mind, wanting to reach out and curl around the sense of comfort that voice gave her. “You really gotta learn to take it easy sometimes.”
Gentle fingers brushed her sticky bangs from her forehead and she sighed at the cooling touch, opening her eyes to look up at Yamada gazing down at her with concern and… tenderness. It was almost unfamiliar, to see someone look at her with worry, like they gave a shit whether or not she’d make it out of whatever shit situation she was currently in.
Though that wasn’t exactly right. Lately, she’d been getting these looks a lot, both from Yamada and Aizawa.
Tears suddenly filled Hitomi’s eyes and she was certain the fever was boiling her brain at that point. Her emotions had never been on such a loose leash, not in recent memory. But she wanted nothing more in that moment than to bask in Yamada’s caring (not paternal, don’t think it, that way lies only disappointment and heartache, Hitomi) attention for as long as she could.
“I didn’t know what to do,” she whispered, and she knew that when the fever cleared, she’d hate herself for how needy and small she sounded. “It hurts.” She closed her eyes, a few tears sliding down her flushed face.
A careful thumb brushed away her tears. “What hurts, Hitomi?”
She felt like she was sinking. “My stomach...I tried to stitch it up...I think it’s infected, I’m sorry.” More tears. Sinking and spinning. She was lost in space, she was deep underwater. Everything felt off. Strange.
“Don’t apologize, kid, you have nothing to be sorry for.”
“-did she say stitches?”
Who was speaking now? She was so tired and confused. She felt heavy. She was scared.
"-abdomen-"
"-need to lift up her shirt-"
"-I can step out if you need me to."
“Don’t leave me,” she pleaded. She was always so alone. She didn’t want to be alone.
In the darkness and delirium, someone squeezed her hand.
“I won’t, Hitomi, I’m right here, ya dig? I’m not going anywhere.”
She drifted off, that hand still squeezing hers.