Chapter Text
Your first memory was a warning.
You couldn’t have been more than four when your mother’s panicked eyes bore into yours, deep with fear. She had pulled you into the kitchen from the backyard and pressed your little squirming hands between hers, much harder than she probably meant to. It hurt.
The kitchen tile was cold beneath your bare feet, and your little sisters’ cartoons played loudly from the living room. Sun streamed in through the window in the warm rays of morning. It was so perfect to you, the cold air and the wet dirt that you had been playing princess of. But now the world was scary and strange in the kitchen with your mother, and there was no royal command to fix it.
“(Y/n), mommy needs you to pay attention. Can you tell me what just happened?” The words were careful and rehearsed, with the hint of scorn she never could lose from her days of teaching middle school. You were too young to notice the slight quiver of fear. Tentatively, she knelt down to better look at you.
You nodded, but kept your eyes anywhere but her. You hadn’t thought touching that bird was bad or naughty, but now you were going to get in trouble. You were sure of it. Were you going to get spanked? Throat hot and tight (and hands pressed against your bottom as a precaution), you fixed your gaze on the crayon drawing of your father using his quirk, which your mother had begrudgingly hung on the fridge. It wasn’t colorful enough, you thought. Your mother glanced at it and sighed impatiently.
“I was just— I wanted to… Am I in trouble?”
“No! No, of course not!” Trembling, she sat on the tile as carefully as she could with her belly protruding as it was, before pulling you into her lap for a quick embrace. “I just love you a lot, and that’s why we need to talk. What just happened… Your quirk is very special. Even out of all the special things that exist.”
Your heart leapt in your chest and you looked up at her with wide, excited eyes. “I have my quirk? How do you know?? What is it?!” You wriggled like an over-caffeinated worm, all fear of punishment gone. Your bare feet squeaked on the tile.
“Well,” your mother bit her lip and attempted to keep you in her arms. “Your quirk is just like mommy’s.”
You stopped wiggling and looked at your mother in outrage before promptly beginning to squirm OUT of her arms.
"Mommy!" You cried in childish outrage. "You have no quirk"
"Mommy had to tell you that because her quirk is so special that it has to be secret, so shhhh!!" Her words came pouring out like a fountain as she pulled you back into her arms, and that is when she became very very serious. "What happened with the bird just now, that is your quirk. You and mommy can fix people's hurt. From little boo-boos to big ones. We are very rare, and our power can help people a lot. But when people get boo-boos that can't be fixed, or if their family or friends get boo-boos, they will do whatever it takes to make those boo-boos better-- even if it means….” She searched for the right way to phrase it. “…hurting you."
There was silence in the kitchen for a long time after that. It was quite a lot for a four year old to process, even if you were quite smart for your age. As you stared up at your mother and tried to think of a question that wouldn’t make everything more confusing, your mother watched you sadly. She hadn't meant to pass on this burden to you. She had hoped against what her own mother had told her. She had hoped that the world would be different by the time her children had to live in it.
In the end, you didn't know what to say except:
"Why?"
Without thinking, your mother answered:
"Love."
You had never thought of love as anything but fantastic, romantic, sweeping, and gold. You had read fairytale after folktale, stories claiming true love conquered evil. Weren't only the good guys in love? Why would the good guys hurt anybody?
But you didn't say that. You just stared in still awe and fear of all the new things you had learned in such a short time.
"(Y/n)...you can't tell anyone what you can do. A-and especially not what mommy can do. Not unless I say so. Can you do that for me?" She extended a pinkie to you. "We'll pinkie promise, and it can be a secret just for you and mommy."
Never one to refuse a promise, you joined your tiny pinkie to hers as fast as you could, nevertheless, pressed between your baby-cheeks hid a hesitant smile.
"Pinkie promise."
Your first memory was a warning. It was a warning of greater importance than anything you would ever learn or understand at such a young age, save kindness and not to eat rocks: that desperation and love go hand in hand like lovers. And you were the object of that desperation.
A year later, in your first year of kindergarten, the most famous healer the world had ever known lost her daughter -- and the girl's powerful healing quirk -- to the clutches of evil. The betrayal was a staggering blow to everything healers had been working towards in terms of treatment and autonomy. Distrust and coveting spread like wildfire. People talked of how healing quirks needed to be regulated, monitored, kept safe (emphasis on kept). The school the traitor had come from closed their healing course, and in its example so did nearly every school across the globe.
Pulled out of school, you began to see your mother's warning come to life before your eyes. It was a warning that despite all the good they could do, it is no use to anyone if those around them wish to use it for their own gain. And like a princess in a tower, you often compared it, you waited for the day that true love no longer conquered good. Someday, you would find your fairytale, and you swore you would do it without fear of desperate men.
Your first memory was a warning.
You couldn’t have been more than four when your mother’s panicked eyes bore into yours, deep with fear. She had pulled you into the kitchen from the backyard and pressed your little squirming hands between hers, much harder than she probably meant to. It hurt.
The kitchen tile was cold beneath your bare feet, and your little sisters’ cartoons played loudly from the living room. Sun streamed in through the window in the warm rays of morning. It was so perfect to you, the cold air and the wet dirt that you had been playing princess of. But now the world was scary and strange in the kitchen with your mother, and there was no royal command to fix it.
“(Y/n), mommy needs you to pay attention. Can you tell me what just happened?” The words were careful and rehearsed, with the hint of scorn she never could lose from her days of teaching middle school. You were too young to notice the slight quiver of fear. Tentatively, she knelt down to better look at you.
You nodded, but kept your eyes anywhere but her. You hadn’t thought touching that bird was bad or naughty, but now you were going to get in trouble. You were sure of it. Were you going to get spanked? Throat hot and tight (and hands pressed against your bottom as a precaution), you fixed your gaze on the crayon drawing of your father using his quirk, which your mother had begrudgingly hung on the fridge. It wasn’t colorful enough, you thought. Your mother glanced at it and sighed impatiently.
“I was just— I wanted to… Am I in trouble?”
“No! No, of course not!” Trembling, she sat on the tile as carefully as she could with her belly protruding as it was, before pulling you into her lap for a quick embrace. “I just love you a lot, and that’s why we need to talk. What just happened… Your quirk is very special. Even out of all the special things that exist.”
Your heart leapt in your chest and you looked up at her with wide, excited eyes. “I have my quirk? How do you know?? What is it?!” You wriggled like an over-caffeinated worm, all fear of punishment gone. Your bare feet squeaked on the tile.
“Well,” your mother bit her lip and attempted to keep you in her arms. “Your quirk is just like mommy’s.”
You stopped wiggling and looked at your mother in outrage before promptly beginning to squirm OUT of her arms.
"Mommy!" You cried in childish outrage. "You have no quirk"
"Mommy had to tell you that because her quirk is so special that it has to be secret, so shhhh!!" Her words came pouring out like a fountain as she pulled you back into her arms, and that is when she became very very serious. "What happened with the bird just now, that is your quirk. You and mommy can fix people's hurt. From little boo-boos to big ones. We are very rare, and our power can help people a lot. But when people get boo-boos that can't be fixed, or if their family or friends get boo-boos, they will do whatever it takes to make those boo-boos better-- even if it means….” She searched for the right way to phrase it. “…hurting you."
There was silence in the kitchen for a long time after that. It was quite a lot for a four year old to process, even if you were quite smart for your age. As you stared up at your mother and tried to think of a question that wouldn’t make everything more confusing, your mother watched you sadly. She hadn't meant to pass on this burden to you. She had hoped against what her own mother had told her. She had hoped that the world would be different by the time her children had to live in it.
In the end, you didn't know what to say except:
"Why?"
Without thinking, your mother answered:
"Love."
You had never thought of love as anything but fantastic, romantic, sweeping, and gold. You had read fairytale after folktale, stories claiming true love conquered evil. Weren't only the good guys in love? Why would the good guys hurt anybody?
But you didn't say that. You just stared in still awe and fear of all the new things you had learned in such a short time.
"(Y/n)...you can't tell anyone what you can do. A-and especially not what mommy can do. Not unless I say so. Can you do that for me?" She extended a pinkie to you. "We'll pinkie promise, and it can be a secret just for you and mommy."
Never one to refuse a promise, you joined your tiny pinkie to hers as fast as you could, nevertheless, pressed between your baby-cheeks hid a hesitant smile.
"Pinkie promise."
Your first memory was a warning. It was a warning of greater importance than anything you would ever learn or understand at such a young age, save kindness and not to eat rocks: that desperation and love go hand in hand like lovers. And you were the object of that desperation.
A year later, in your first year of kindergarten, the most famous healer the world had ever known lost her daughter -- and the girl's powerful healing quirk -- to the clutches of evil. The betrayal was a staggering blow to everything healers had been working towards in terms of treatment and autonomy. Distrust and coveting spread like wildfire. People talked of how healing quirks needed to be regulated, monitored, kept safe (emphasis on kept). The school the traitor had come from closed their healing course, and in its example so did nearly every school across the globe.
Pulled out of school, you began to see your mother's warning come to life before your eyes. It was a warning that despite all the good they could do, it is no use to anyone if those around them wish to use it for their own gain. And like a princess in a tower, you often compared it, you waited for the day that true love no longer conquered good. Someday, you would find your fairytale, and you swore you would do it without fear of desperate men.