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Tabe doesn’t leave immediately.
Izuku notices that he is still there, but only in the background sense at first, the same way he notices furniture or light changes, until he realises Tabe is actually watching him rather than just passing through.
“…you’re still here?” Izuku says, a little surprised.
Tabe shrugs.
“Got nothing better to do,” he replies.
There's a small pause from Izuku, trying to decide if that is a joke or not.
It probably is.
Tabe steps a little closer again, eyes flicking down to the notebook.
“You really like drawing complicated problems,” he says.
Izuku looks down at the page too, then back up.
“…it helps me think,” he says.
“Looks like it hurts you more than it helps,” Tabe replies immediately.
Izuku blinks.
“…what?”
Tabe gestures vaguely at his wrist brace.
“That thing,” he says. “You’ve been babying it like it’s gonna fall off if you look at it wrong.”
Izuku shifts slightly, almost reflexively adjusting his posture.
“…it’s not that bad,” he says.
Tabe raises an eyebrow.
“Sure,” he says. “And I’m a ballet dancer.”
Izuku pauses again, processing that.
“…are you?” he asks, genuinely uncertain.
Tabe stares at him for a second then lets out a short laugh.
“No.”
“So what’s the actual answer,” he asks. “Why are you writing medical textbooks in the living room instead of resting like you’re supposed to be doing?”
Izuku hesitates.
He looks down at the notebook again, pen still in his hand, then slowly closes it just enough that it rests flat against his knee instead of being open.
“…because I’m tired of waiting,” he says finally.
Tabe doesn’t respond immediately.
That gets his attention, so Izuku continues before he can overthink it.
“…my wrist is still weak,” he says, glancing at it briefly, then back up. “And it keeps getting told to just rest and heal and not stress it, but it feels like nothing is happening fast enough. I know healing takes time, but…”
He trails off, then exhales softly.
“…I don’t like waiting when there might be a way to make it better.”
Tabe watches him for a second, expression unreadable.
Then he speaks.
“So you decided to build medical miracles instead of listening to doctors.”
Izuku blinks.
“…I wouldn’t call it that.”
Tabe points lightly at the notebook.
“That is exactly what that is.”
Izuku opens his mouth, then closes it again.
“…it’s just a theory,” he says.
Tabe nods.
“Sure,” he says. “And my hobby is also ‘just a theory’ but with slightly more explosions.”
That catches Izuku off guard.
“…you have a hobby like that?”
“No,” Tabe says again, completely straight-faced.
Izuku stares at him for a moment.
Then lets out a small breath that might almost be a laugh if it had gone a little further.
“…you’re strange,” he says quietly.
Tabe nods like that is a normal thing to hear.
“Yeah,” he says. “So are you. You’re just quieter about it.”
Izuku looks down at his notebook again, thumb brushing lightly over the edge.
“…I just don’t want to be stuck like this,” he says more softly now. “Waiting for things to fix themselves. It feels like there should be something I can do instead.”
Tabe hums then gestures at his wrist again.
“So your solution is to invent healing faster than your body can keep up,” he says.
Izuku hesitates.
“…I mean, kind of,” he admits.
Tabe exhales through his nose, almost like he is amused by the idea more than anything else.
Then Tabe adds, immediately after,
“That's the kind of stupid that actually works sometimes.”
Tabe shrugs again.
“People here don’t really wait for permission either,” he says. “They just figure things out until something breaks or doesn’t.”
He leans a little closer, peering down at the notebook again.
“…you’re doing the same thing, just with more words and less punching people.”
Izuku blinks.
“…I don’t think I’m supposed to punch people with a broken wrist.”
Tabe looks at him.
“Good instinct,” he says. “Keep that one.”
“…I’m still going to try it,” Izuku says.
Tabe straightens again.
“Obviously,” he replies. “You look like the type who would get bored if you didn’t.”
Izuku doesn’t deny it.
Tabe starts to walk away again, then pauses halfway to the door.
“…hey,” he says over his shoulder.
Izuku looks up.
“…yeah?”
Tabe glances back at him.
“If your wrist falls off because you rushed it,” he says, “I’m blaming the notebook.”
Izuku stares at him.
“…my wrist won’t fall off,” he says.
Tabe nods seriously.
“Good,” he replies. “Because I don’t want to have to explain to Chisaki why you exploded your arm in the living room.”
Izuku pauses.
“…I’m not going to explode my arm.”
Tabe gives him a look.
“Mm.”
Then he finally leaves.
Izuku sits there for a second longer, staring at the door. Then quietly opens his notebook again.
“…I’m not going to explode my arm,” he repeats under his breath.