Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ochako knows, before the bite of the brick even reaches her fingertips, that this is going to cost her.

She doesn't hesitate. In a flash of pink the weight of the collapsing building vanishes and sinks like a stone into her stomach instead.

For one terrifying moment the world wavers. Black spots dance across her vision, threatening to take over, but Ochako grits her teeth and claws her way back to reality. No self-respecting Hero just gives up with lives on the line.

She won't, either.

The pain in her stomach doubles. Triples. Ochako retches, only barely managing to keep her fingers wrapped around the building's edge. Bile dribbles over the edge of her lips, but she digs her nails deeper into the rough texture instead of wiping it away. She is the only thing keeping this building in place. The only anchor keeping it here — not floating into the sky where it poses a danger to unsuspecting masses.

Not dropping onto the pedestrians they haven't yet evacuated.

Here.

But she can’t hold it forever.

“MOVE!” Ochako screams.

She doesn’t have time to specify who the order is for before her stomach rolls again, but that’s okay. Like they’d been waiting for her say-so, the frozen forms around her spring into action. She can hear shouts, orders, and instructions from familiar voices, and she catches a glimpse of what must be Igenium’s blue flames out of the corner of her eye.

Relief cuts through the vice-like grip her Quirk has on her stomach. She's got backup. Her classmates are backing her up.

They're not prepared. No one's in costume. This had been a group trip to the arcade before the sirens called them here. Then again, had any of them ever been prepared for the challenges — the disasters — they'd faced? Ochako doesn't think so. Still, they'd stood together as the world burned down around them and walked through the fires, well, not unscathed, but together.

And they're here with her now.

Ochako readjusts her grip and turns her head enough to spit some of the foul taste from her mouth.

They can do this.

A window on the second floor shatters, and Ochako is reminded that the fire that burned through the support beams still rages on inside. She closes her eyes against the shards of glass that pour down. They bounce off her shoulders like raindrops — individually insubstantial pinpricks notable only as part of a whole. Cacophonous crashes add to the imagery Ochako builds behind her eyelids, but she knows better than to open them. This thunder splinters on impact, showering the street in thousands of slivers that shine and scratch.

Not ideal. The visor has long since been removed from her costume, overusing her Quirk in uniform quickly unveiled that design flaw, but Ochako fervently wishes for the long sleeves of her jumpsuit. The tank top she picked for today doesn't protect against cuts and burns — even if it wouldn't have gotten in the way of her skee ball windup.

Nothing to be done about it now. The cuts on her arms sting, but they're not deep. A couple bandaids and Ochako'll be brand-new. She shouldn't have to hold out much longer. Right? She'd been holding this building for how long, now? Almost a minute? Even if it's only Iida working on evacuation, it'll take another thirty seconds, tops.

Easy.

Ochako's stomach cramps, worse than anything she’s ever felt in her entire life, and she folds in on herself. Standing up straight becomes an impossible task as her insides tear themselves apart.

Not easy, she quickly amends.

She doesn't have thirty seconds. Ochako grinds her teeth angrily — a pointless act of defiance in the face of her absolute limit. This isn't something she can fight, not even for the civilians still under the building's shadow, and the knowledge burns hotter than the blistering bricks against her skin ever could. Defeat tastes like ash and vomit on her tongue, but there's no denying it any longer.

No one's called the all clear. If someone could stabilize this building, they would have. She has seconds before the decision is out of her control.

So what's her move?

"Down in five!" Ochako calls out, desperately warning everyone in earshot. Communication first. At the very least, she can get everyone on the same page.

Inspiration strikes in the nick of time. It's barely a complete thought, definitely not a plan, but it'll have to work.

"Four!"

Maneuvering hunched over like this is difficult. She twists her grip, painstakingly rotating the building so that it fits in the street like a giant Tetris piece. If Ochako guides its fall, none of the surrounding buildings will take a scratch. It's a poor consolation prize if her classmates can't clear the fall path, but that's completely out of her control. She trusts them. There's no other option.

"Thre—!"

The word breaks on a gag. Dry heaves cut off her ability to speak, so Ochako keeps time silently instead. Everything's in position. Once she releases, the building should land directly on the street in front of it and not a foot farther.

Two.

Where's the all clear? Ochako will hold the building past the countdown if she can, but her legs already quiver with the strain of holding a weightless object aloft.

Green lightning reflects off the glass at her feet.

"Clear!" Deku shouts. His voice rings loud and clear over the blood roaring in her ears, ensuring she hears the signal she's been waiting for.

"Release," Ochako croaks.

Gravity's return sends the building hurrying towards its delayed collision. Sero's tape wraps around her waist once, twice, three times, and Ochako jumps backwards with the last of her strength. Their combined efforts yank her clear of the resulting debris. Heavy thuds permeate the air as the deteriorating building settles into its new position, and it's another few seconds before the mini meteorite storm subsides. The last brick clacks against the street as it tumbles, finally skidding to a stop against her sneaker's sole.

Silence reigns.

Ochako ruins the peace by hurriedly twisting onto her side. There's nothing left to throw up, but her stomach is determined to ignore this small detail. It's awful. She has no energy to fight the convulsions that wrack her. By the time it's finally over, she wants nothing more than to collapse onto the pavement.

She doesn't.

Contrary to popular belief, Heroes aren't done when the danger is. The people around her have lost their homes. It's uncertain if they'll be able to salvage anything from the wreckage — precious memories and belongings up in smoke in an instant. Ochako can't fix that. There's not a quick solution she can offer, but there is something else.

Trembling arms push her upright. Ochako fights the self-conscious urge to hide — they all saw her throw up! — in order to give the group a push in the right direction.

"Phew!" She draws the exclamation out until it's almost a whistle, low and vibrating like wind whipping through a tunnel. Eyes swivel towards the noise, just like when Daddy does it, and Ochako makes sure to smile extra wide as they settle on her. "That sure was heavy! Is everyone alright?"

General noises of agreement echo, some softer than others, but Ochako tries to acknowledge each one. I'm glad you're okay, she says with each nod — each smile. You can get through this.

Not everyone answers her, but that's fine. They turn to each other instead, checking in on family members and neighbors alike. Good. The important thing is that these people remember they're not alone.

Only when her surroundings fill with noise again does Ochako consider flagging down one of the wandering paramedics for herself. Doubtless she's going to be told to go home and rest, but she knows none of the police will let her leave the scene until she gets checked out and gives her statement.

Walking away under her own power is...probably not going to happen.

Her stomach is still in knots, cramping and rumbling mutinously as if she's actively using her Quirk. The way her elbows threaten to buckle under the task of holding her torso up don't exactly inspire a lot of confidence, either, so she hasn't even tried to move from where she landed. Better to accept a little help and avoid making a scene.

Sero's no longer on the other end of her tape harness. She spots him crouched next to a soot covered elderly couple. As she watches, he helps the pair towards the back of an ambulance — probably for the oxygen tank if the old man's cough is any indication. Most other professionals are similarly engaged.

That's fine. Ochako's not in any rush, even if she does feel a bit silly sprawled out in the middle of the street.

A burp bubbles up her throat. She presses the back of her hand to her mouth in case it turns into something more. It doesn't, but the back of her hand still comes away wet. Gross. Ochako's nose wrinkles in distaste as she surreptitiously wipes it off on her jeans. What she wouldn't give for one of the mints she keeps in her utility belt...

It's as she returns her attention to the crowd that she spots him.

He’s glowing — bright enough to cut through the hazy, dust filled air. That’s not what catches her attention, though. Deku radiates a quiet confidence, and Ochako is once again struck by the transformation her shy classmate undergoes in the field. She can't quite put her finger on what heralds the change. Perhaps it's something in his stance — something in the set of his shoulders that communicates his determination to protect every person in his line of sight. Maybe it's personal experience. Maybe she just knows Deku won't hesitate to destroy himself for another person's safety.

Being the sole focus of that determined gaze is a novel experience that kicks a wasp's nest of emotion in her belly — or maybe that's another side effect of overusing her Quirk. She offers a tentative smile and small wave to acknowledge his attention.

Something softens in his expression. He's too far away to hear, but Ochako can make out the syllables of her family name on his lips. Then he's jogging, cutting through the chaos to kneel by her side.

"You were amazing!" are the first words out of his mouth. "That was—! I mean it's near impossible to calculate the weight of the building without the building plan and comprehensive list of materials, but that was easily your personal record!" Some of his excitement dies as he processes what exactly that means, and his brows furrow in concern. "How are you feeling? Well, probably not great since I saw you—uh, uhm. Yeah. Umm, can you stand? Do you need help getting to the paramedics?"

Her instinctive response is to brush off his offer. Not that she doesn't need a hand, because she absolutely does, but because it's so quintessentially Deku to ignore his own wounds in favor of helping others. She'd rather not create more fuel for her nightmares.

"Mmm, I s'pose it depends," Ochako decides after a pause. She cocks her head, considering him.

Deku isn't acting hurt. His smile and tone are genuinely happy, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything. She's seen him smile with shattered limbs.

"Uhm—?" Deku blinks, rocking back on his heels under her scrutiny. "D-depends on what?"

"On how hurt you are." Ochako clarifies, still scanning him for hidden injuries.

He's definitely dirty. His fluffy, green hair is weighed down with dust and debris. Sooty streaks swipe across his face and drip down his neck where the ash has mixed with his sweat. There are charred spots all over his shirt — his right sleeve is particularly bad — but the only injury Ochako spots is a shallow cut on his face that's already stopped bleeding.

"Oh!" Deku's eyes go wide, like he didn't even consider that as a factor. He checks himself over, lingering for a fraction of a second too long on his charred sleeve, before turning back to her with a smile. "I'm okay, Uraraka."

Ochako frowns. She caught that hesitation. "What about your arm?"

She's prepared for a lot of responses — deflections, empty reassurances. She is not prepared for him to lift his chin and meet her gaze dead on.

"I'll get it checked out when you do." He lays his response at her feet like a challenge. He's still smiling, but that familiar spark of determination gleams behind his good humor.

Her mouth drops open in surprise. She closes it when she realizes she doesn't have a ready counter for that.

Deku's expression gets more smug as the silence drags on, and it's such an alien look on his face that Ochako has to laugh. He's so polite all the time that she forgets how witty he can be.

"Fiiine," she groans, holding out her arms like she's waiting for him to handcuff her. "Have it your way."

Deku beams at her before he stands, and wraps his hands around her wrists.

"You say that like this was my master plan all along," he complains good naturedly. One small tug is all it takes to pull her to her feet.

"Don't try to deny it," she cackles, enjoying their banter. "I kn—"

The rest of her retort dies on her lips the moment she's fully upright. She presses her lips together tightly, hoping this is just another burp that will pass, but it doesn't.

Oh no. No, no, no, no.

Ochako pivots in his hold, desperately trying to avoid splattering his signature red shoes with the contents of her stomach.

"U-uraraka?"

Deku still hasn't let go of her wrists, and Ochako is mortified. It's not the first time he's seen her puke, but it's different when she can feel the pressure of one hand shift to her elbow, stabilizing her. Only her parents have been this close to her when she's sick. They're basically obligated to love her, though. It's different.

Is he — is he disgusted? That doesn't sound like the Deku she knows, but she wouldn't blame him.

"Sorry," Ochako whispers. Tears sting her eyes. She ducks her head — too embarrassed to meet his gaze and too weak to move away under her own power.

"Hey, it's okay." Deku's voice is painfully gentle. "The paramedics will know how to help, and I can carry you ov—"

"No." She surprises herself with her own forcefulness. Ochako winces, but her eyes remain glued to the pavement when she apologizes, "Sorry, Deku, I just…"

She wants to be a Hero.

It's dumb, because it's not like the two things are mutually exclusive. Heroes can be carried. Hell, Ochako has carried Heroes herself. They're just people, at the end of the day. People who need help as much as the next person, and Ochako knows this. Really, she does. She was willing to ask for help, to accept it, but…

"I don't wanna be carried." She exhales forcefully, frustrated she can't explain it better, then forces herself to meet his eyes. Worry swims there, which isn't unusual, but Ochako hates knowing she's the cause. "Could you help me walk there, though? If we go slow, I can do it."

Ochako has to bite her tongue to stop herself from adding the desperate 'please' that threatens to slip out. She won't beg — that's a line she refuses to cross.

She's scared it shows on her face anyway.

"Okay."

The easy acquiescence catches Ochako by surprise. Deku's face doesn't hold the condemnation she expects. He doesn't ask if she's sure or try to talk her out of it. Instead he adjusts his hold on her wrist and pulls it over his shoulder in one smooth motion.

"I'll let you set the pace."

It's not a long walk.

It's not a long walk, but every synchronized step reverberates with the weight of their exchange. Something has shifted between them. Though… no. Shifting implies unsteadiness, and that isn't the case here. The arm slung around her waist — the hand gripping her wrist — is steady. A constant to count upon when she stumbled.

Something had solidified, then.

A foundation poured years ago finally set.

They'll have to decide what to build together, eventually. This isn't the time to do so, and Ochako still isn't sure what the end result looks like, but knowing the foundation is strong enough to support whatever they choose eases some of her tension.

Three ambulances have gotten as close to the site as debris and crowds will allow, so help is less than a block away. Each vehicle is well stocked — a mobile medical unit courtesy of wartime practices that have yet to fade away. Someone has spread chairs haphazardly about, giving people somewhere to wait as medical professionals triage patients.

True to his word, Deku takes the seat next to her. It doesn't take long for them to draw a medic's attention, and he placidly offers up his arm for inspection as another medic bombards Ochako with a barrage of questions she struggles to follow.

"Bedrest until you can keep something down," her medic eventually declares, sanitizing the last cut on her arm. None of them were deep enough to require stitches, thank goodness, but her arms are starting to look a little mummified under all the gauze and bandages. "Take just one sip of water or clear liquid — tea, vitamin water, whatever you prefer — every hour until you can keep that down. After that you can increase to one sip every half hour, then fifteen minutes, and so on. I'm sure you're familiar with this process because of your Quirk." Ochako opens her mouth to tell him she's never continued to throw up after overusing her Quirk, but she's distracted when the gloves and swabs the medic used to clean her cuts vanish with a flourish of his wrists. She blinks, startled by their abrupt disappearance, and he must misunderstand Ochako's silence as agreement because he continues, "If you start getting confused or loopy, or you haven't been able to keep anything down in twenty-four hours, it's time to seek medical attention. Other than that, you're free to go once the police get your statement. Sound good?"

Ochako quickly replays everything he just told her and decides she doesn't have any questions. They have the rest of the afternoon and all day tomorrow off, so she has time to recover. If she's still feeling bad tomorrow night, she'll go to Recovery Girl like he suggested.

"Sounds good," she parrots, giving him a shaky thumbs up for good measure. She needn't have bothered — the medic doesn't seem to need the extra convincing that Ryuuku or Aizawa or any of the other adults in her life would require before moving to the next patient.

"Do you think the things he vanishes are sent to a set location?" Deku asks, eyes tracking her medic as he moves on to the next patient. His charred sleeve has been torn clean off, and the skin where his scar used to be shines with what Ochako assumes is an antibiotic cream of some sort.

Neither his injury nor the lack of a notebook impedes his analysis. Deku's fingers curl around an imaginary pen, scrawling invisible letters on the inside of his palm. Ochako smiles at the sight. She reclines into the foldout chair as much as she can — not quite comfortable, but content.

“Mmm — or maybe it's limited to a certain type of material?” Ochako suggests. “The only thing I’ve seen him use his Quirk on so far is tras—”

A fresh roll of bandages appears out of thin air and drops straight into the medic's waiting hand, absolutely obliterating her theory in the process.

“—ooor not,” she corrects herself with a laugh.

“No, you could still be right!" Deku's eyes sparkle in excitement. "It could be linked to medical equipment — though, I guess that's a pretty broad category. Would it apply to both medicine as well as equipment? Because if it did, I'd wonder if it would distinguish between different medicinal practices at all? Like — would a vitamin count as medicine? What about equipment? Summoning full diagnostic instruments to the field would be insanely useful if they had their own power source, but…"

Deku rests his chin on his thumb as he considers the possibilities. His rapid analysis becomes harder to understand as he picks up speed, and the words she can pick out are muffled and distorted by his hand, so Ochako leaves him to it. The constant stream of mumbled analysis is kinda nice to listen to. It reminds her of doing their homework in the dorms, curled up on one of their beds as Deku's takes off on a tangent about the applications of geometry to Heroics or how laws shape Hero strategies and how that becomes evident in other countries.

"You saved me."

Ochako's eyes snap open. She hadn't realized she closed them, but that's the only explanation for the sudden appearance of the little girl in front of them. The kid is in a bathrobe, of all things. Wet hair pokes out from under a pink dinosaur hood with floppy green felt spikes. Yellow, pupiless eyes lock onto Deku over the stuffed T-rex clutched in her small hands, and Ochako honestly isn't surprised. Deku tends to leave a lasting impression on the children he saves.

In a perfect demonstration of why that is, Deku immediately leans over in his chair and rests his forearms on his knees to meet the little girl's level.

"I'm glad you're okay," he tells her earnestly. His gentle smile is so wide it creases the corners of his eyes, and Ochako has no doubt the sincerity of his statement reaches her. "Is your mom okay?"

The little girl nods rapidly, but it's the woman approaching behind her who answers.

"I am, thanks to her." A trail of wide spikes that remind Ochako of a stegosaurus, giving new clarity to the little girl's dinosaur theme, start on her head and trail out of view, but those familiar yellow eyes are not focused on her daughter but on Ochako instead.

She saved them?

The little girl twists to squint up at her mother, echoing Ochako's confusion, "She did?"

"She did." One of the woman's arms is in a sling, but she uses her free hand to ruffle her daughter's head affectionately. "Do you remember when I fell and hurt my arm, Anzu?" Anzu nods, hood bobbing as she does so, and her mom continues, "Well, I tripped because our apartment was falling, but she stopped it from falling on us." Those eyes are pinned on her again, boring into her with their intensity. "We are both safe because she bought enough time for us to be evacuated. Because I — I froze."

The last two words are quiet, guilt dripping off each syllable, and it's then that Ochako realizes this story isn't just for Anzu anymore. This is a story for her rescuer, composed of equal parts of gratitude and confession. A story for Ochako, and the weight of that cuts straight into her heart, making her bleed sympathy for the woman in front of her.

Regret is such a heavy burden to carry. It's so easy to get lost under that strain — to lose sleep to endless replays of an event she no longer has the power to affect. Wondering if she could have done something differently. Wondering what she could have done differently.

Wishing she had.

She wouldn't want that for anyone, especially not a mom who clearly did the best she could in a terrible situation.

"It sounds like we all made a great team."

Ochako's response earns twin incredulous looks, and, gosh — that could sound a little patronizing, couldn't it?

"No, really! I mean it!" She assures them, scrambling to put the right words together. "I'm so glad I could help. I'll always help, if I can, but it was Deku who pulled you outta the way, right?"

They hadn't said so, but why else would Anzu walk straight up to Deku? How else would Deku know to ask after her mom?

"And you were the one who got Anzu out of the complex." Anzu's bangs are still stiff with bubbles under the hood of her robe, so Ochako knows her mother didn't waste time hurrying her daughter out of danger. "You reacted as fast as you could. Maybe you needed a little help at the end, but that's okay. It doesn't mean that what you did before that wasn't important." Her self-consciousness slips away as she hits her stride. She means this — every word — and it's important that Anzu's mom knows that. "Heroes are the type of people that step in when we think we can make a difference, that's all. Even professional Heroes work together when they can't solve a problem on their own, so please don't feel bad that you needed help. We were glad to do it, and we'd do it again."

She's out of breath when she finally finishes saying her piece. She inhales deeply as she waits for someone — anyone — to say something. No one does. Her own heartbeat pounds in her ears, adding a steady backbeat that drives the tension higher as the silence drags on.

Shoot…was that too preachy?

"She's right."

Ochako turns sharply in Deku's direction. He's staring right back, and she can't identify the emotion in his expression, but whatever it is, it burns there. His eyes absolutely glow with it — so brightly that for a moment she thinks he might have activated his Quirk

Then his face softens, the bonfire in his gaze dying down to embers, and he smiles at Anzu and her mom. "The most important thing is that we're all okay." He closes his fist and holds it out to Ochako. "Teamwork, right?"

That steady feeling reappears, and Ochako's cheeks dimple under the force of her grin. She taps her knuckles against his, a promise and celebration all in one. "Right!"

Deku beams, and it seems unfair that any one person could have such a brilliant smile. Instead of opening his fist, though, he offers it to Anzu. The little girl's eyes widen, and she almost drops her stuffed dinosaur in her haste to bump her tiny fist against Deku's.

Adorable.

Ochako doesn't think Anzu's mom will be as enamored with a fist bump as her daughter, but handshakes have always been tricky for her. Accidently activating her Quirk right now would be messy, to say the least, so she goes for it. A sheepish shrug communicates Ochako knows she's being cheesy as she holds her fist out.

Thankfully the woman just laughs, brushing her knuckles gently against Ochako's.

"Take care of yourselves."

"You too." With a parting smile, Anzu's mom scoops her daughter onto her hip with her good arm. Anzu herself waves shyly as her mother carries her away.

"So," Ochako starts after the pair are a good distance off, "How much of a hypocrite am I for saying all that after refusing to be carried?"

Deku doesn't respond immediately.

A big one, Ochako fills in, shoulders slumping.

"I think you hold yourself to a higher standard than you expect of everyone else," he finally says. "And maybe that looks a little…hypocritical. At first glance." Izuku frowns as he scratches his fingernails idly over the fabric of his shorts. "But Pro Heroes are always held to a higher standard, right? And people need someone to believe in. I don't think it's bad to want to be that person."

Ochako considers that. It sounds justified when Deku puts it that way, but it's still a bit of a double standard. She's not sure how she feels about that.

On one hand, she's thrilled Deku doesn't think poorly of her. She trusts him — since their first training exercise, since their exam — and his opinion means the world to her. He's the source of inspiration she looks to when she hits a wall. He's the image her brain summons when she thinks about Heroes.

But Ochako knows that Deku's statement applies to himself, too. He constantly strives to protect people — their bodies, their hearts — at his own expense, and, as much as she admires that, she can see the behavior isn't sustainable.

She chews her lip contemplatively before ultimately tabling the dilemma for another day. Hypocrisy is a terrible characteristic in an aspiring Pro Hero, but Deku's forgiven her for it anyway, and she appreciates that even if she's not convinced she deserves it.

"Thanks, Deku." She just means to nudge his shoulder, but she can't quite bring herself to move away again. He's warm.

"Y-y-yeah. No problem!" He squeaks. She'd feel bad for embarrassing him, but he leans into her touch despite the sputtering. "But, if, um, it was still bothering you, it looks like you're about to get another chance to accept help."

Huh?

Ochako follows Deku's finger to the police officer approaching them with an unoccupied wheelchair. All hope that it's intended for someone else evaporates as the officer spots them and waves.

She returns the wave, smothering a groan behind her smile.

Chapter Text

Uraraka opens her eyes when their car rolls to its final stop.

They've been closed most of the way, but she hasn't been napping—although Izuku bets she could probably use one. He noticed her lips purse every time they went over a bump. It makes him glad they took a cab back from the site of the fire; with her nausea this bad, Uraraka would have struggled to endure the constant starting and stopping of a bus or train.

But she would have done it.

As he watches Uraraka exchange pleasantries with the driver, her smile stretched tight over the edges of a grimace, he finds the thought isn’t a comforting one.

Izuku unclips his seatbelt as soon as their payment processes on the app, bobbing a quick thanks to the driver as he slips out of his seat. He hurries around the back to Uraraka’s side, though that’s more of an attempt to appease the anxious energy bubbling under his skin than a haste to complete any specific task. He might feel better if it was. It’s not like they have a plan for what happens next. They haven’t talked about how they want to handle the trek to the dorms at all, actually, since Uraraka spent most of the ride pale-faced and absolutely miserable.

Usually, that’s where Izuku would step in. Analysis and strategy are arguably his biggest strengths, and it’s not like he hasn’t had time to think about it. He has! He did! It’s just… UA’s campus is big, nearing a ten kilometers squared big, and the dorms are near the center which wouldn’t normally be a problem for two fit Heroes-in-training, but today it is a problem because Uraraka is hurt and counting on him, and Izuku can’t think of a solution that doesn’t involve Uraraka being carried in some shape or form, and that’s the one thing Uraraka was very clear that she didn’t want.

So, yeah. He’s a little on-edge.

Uraraka’s door opens. She turns in her seat, swings her feet to drop down on UA's sidewalk, then pauses. Izuku watches her fingers tighten against the frame of the door as she contemplates her next step. This transition has been the hardest for her, he knows. Uraraka hadn't thrown up again during her transition in or out of the wheelchair, but he thinks it might have been a close call.

She'd looked kinda green earlier when the police officer guided her from outside the ambulance to take their statements in a quieter area.

Izuku hovers anxiously within reach—wanting desperately to help but unsure how to go about offering it. Pride is important for a Hero, All Might said so himself, and Izuku doesn't want to risk offending hers any further.

Despite his concerns, Uraraka actually looks relieved when she spots him. Keeping her deathgrip on the doorframe, she lifts her other arm up, silently requesting his support. Izuku doesn't give her time to second guess herself, quickly slotting himself into place at her side.

They take the transition slowly, but even still, Uraraka’s blush-marks have disappeared entirely by the time she’s fully upright. Izuku can feel her shivering, full-body tremors that run the length of his side where they’re pressed together, and he’s not sure if she’s cold or exhausted or trying really, really hard not to throw up.

Izuku bites his lower lip, fighting against the urge to say something—unsure if he should. She's over-exerting herself, that much is clear, but he thinks he gets why Uraraka doesn't want to be carried. In their field, pushing through the pain is practically industry standard. The examples are endless. All Might, Mt. Lady, Endeavor, Eraserhead—UA's motto is Plus Ultra for a reason.

People die when Heroes throw in the towel.

Arguably, that mentality should end when the crisis does. But it's just—it's so much easier to pretend to be okay. Minimize the injury, smile, and recover in private, if possible. It's safer, too! Sure, civilians are reassured when the people they trust to guard their well-being don't falter, which is important, but they aren't the only ones watching.

As he learned in his first Sports Tournament, people who wish them harm are always evaluating the ones in their way. Searching for weaknesses to exploit. It’s not something anyone can stop, not when Heroes have their own dedicated news channel and monthly magazines and websites to boot.

Sometimes the smartest move is to put on a show.

The cab driver rolls down the passenger window. “You kids gonna be alright?" he asks. “I’m not sure how much farther you’ve gotta go, but she’s not looking too hot.”

“I’ll be fine!" Uraraka assures the skeptical driver. Her voice is steady even as she quakes against him. “Besides, we’ve faced worse odds—right, Deku?”

“R-right." It’s not a lie, and Izuku finds that settles his nerves more than anything else. They have faced worse odds. His arm twinges, not from his burn but from phantom pains of a battle a year past. The smell of smoke gets stronger, sticking to the inside of his nose and coating his throat, but Izuku smiles anyway. Clears his throat. “We’ve got this.”

And he might not have the particulars of their situation figured out, but Izuku knows it’s the truth.

One way or another, they’ll get through this.

The cab driver shrugs. "If you're sure then." He rolls up the window, flips on his illuminated sign, and slowly pulls away from the curb.

"Well, this is prob'ly gonna suck," Uraraka says, her tone so contrastingly upbeat that it startles a laugh out of him. Izuku smothers it as fast as he can, but she doesn't look upset. Instead she grins up at him as the sedan's tail lights disappear around a corner. "What? It's true! Unless you have some brilliant plan I don't know about?"

He shakes his head. "Not one you'll like," he admits.

Uraraka grimaces and doesn't ask him to elaborate. "Well, we'll call that Plan B." He must make a face, because she continues, "Promise! If I can't make it to Training Ground Gamma, I'll tap out, and we'll go with your plan."

Izuku's still not convinced that Uraraka can be impartial about her own well-being, but it's her call anyway. As much as he wishes she would take it easy, he can't force anyone to accept an outstretched hand.

All he can do is offer it.

"It's not that I don't think you'll be able to make it. I just think you're too hard on yourself, that's all," he tries to assure her because he knows his poker face is crap, and he doesn't want her to get the wrong impression, "But I think I understand, so, um, lead the way!"

Uraraka twists in his hold to better look him in the eye. They're the same height now, which is a little disorienting after being taller for so long, but even more unnerving is the fact that Izuku can't quite pinpoint the expression on her face. Big, brown eyes bore into him—not judgemental or condemning—but… probing, perhaps? He feels strangely exposed.

Whatever she finds makes her sad, but she summons a smile anyway. "Thanks for worrying about me, Deku."

The memory of Uraraka's fake smile from the Sports Tournament comes to him with sudden clarity, practically superimposed over her expression now. Oh. Izuku's stomach sinks. It's not that he'd forgotten how much Uraraka tries to downplay her problems. He could never—would never—forget something so important about someone so precious to him. He just…

He thought they were past that point in their friendship. It hurts to think that the audience Uraraka's putting on a brave face for is him.

"O-of course."

They don't say anything else, each left pondering everything left unsaid as they face their task.

Uraraka's first step is tentative, clearly testing to see if her leg will support her weight. Izuku preemptively tightens his hand around her waist. He's not going to let her fall—not when she's been there to catch him every single time he's needed her.

Thankfully, it holds.

Emboldened, she picks up the pace until they're traversing UA's sidewalk at something resembling a leisurely stroll. They settle into a comfortable rhythm. Walk a couple meters, pause to allow Uraraka to catch her breath and regroup, then continue. It's slow, but Izuku only starts to worry when he notices the frequency of their breaks start to increase.

Training Ground Gamma is in view when their progress halts entirely. Ochako lifts her gaze from the sidewalk and exhales sharply through her nose, glaring down the remaining distance. Izuku can practically feel her steeling herself to rise to the challenge. He's expecting to purse her lips and push ahead—keep going or go down trying—but she surprises him when she slouches into his side, spine and resolve softening.

"I think—I think this is as far as I go," Uraraka admits, sounding like she hates every word. She's sliding down his shoulder, and Izuku tightens his grip on her wrist to keep her upright. "So, I'm open to whatever you came up with for Plan B."

"Oh! Um!" Izuku didn't actually believe they'd get to this part. "You have a couple options! Though, uh, all of them involve being carried."

"I kinda figured." She sighs. "So my choice is how I'm carried?"

"I didn't even think about that, though I suppose that, too! I was actually thinking more 'who.'"

Uraraka stops frowning at the sidewalk and starts frowning at him instead. "Who?"

"Y-yeah! I can do it, or we could call the security bots to bring a stretcher." Uraraka just continues frowning at him, which he takes to mean she doesn't like the options he's listed. "Or, I mean, I'm sure Yaoyorozu could make a wheelchair, and—and if you wanted to call anyone else from our class, I'm sure they'd help. Though Iida, Sero, and Ashido are probably still providing their statements, so maybe avoid calling the—"

"Wait, Deku, stop," Uraraka says, and Izuku's mouth clicks shut mid-word. "I don't understand why it's my choice whether you or the security bots carry me. Shouldn't that be your choice?"

Izuku blinks. "No?"

"B-but, you're the one who's gonna be doing the heavy lifting! I can't just volunteer ya for a job! What if ya don't wanna do it!"

His mouth opens, but he doesn't have the words to formulate any coherent response. Izuku closes it, bewildered, then tries again.

"Wh-what? Uraraka, that doesn't—that doesn't make any—of course you can." He knows Uraraka prefers to deal with her problems herself, but this is—how could she ever think he wouldn't want to help her? Uraraka, the girl who saved a dorky boy for no reason other than the fact that she could. Uraraka, his first friend who told him 'he could do it' and believed in him no matter the odds. Uraraka, the burgeoning Hero who stood upon a rooftop and defended him against a mob of scared civilians. Uraraka, who found him, and—and, Uraraka, the girl who carried him out of…"You can ask me for anything, Uraraka."

Has he really been such a bad friend that Uraraka didn't know that?

"Deku, you can't just say things like that to people! They could take advantage!" She ducks her head into the crook of her elbow like she's trying to hide, but it doesn't work all that well considering she's also half-burrowed into his shoulder. Izuku stiffens when her hair tickles his chin and practically freezes when her breath fans his neck. "Like, what if I asked you to overthrow the government, or—or somethin' terrible."

The hypothetical is meant to trip him up—make him backtrack, make him add a stipulation—but it doesn’t. And that should be concerning, probably, but Izuku is honestly more preoccupied with the thought that Uraraka has misunderstood him than the possibility of some outlandish scenario where she abuses his trust.

“You wouldn't. Which is why I’m telling this to you and not anyone else." Izuku purposefully relaxes into her touch, letting his cheek drop to rest on the top of her head, and tries to convey a world of affection in the gesture. The hammering of his heart is so loud it's a miracle Uraraka can't hear it, but this is important. She's important. "You’re not just anyone, Uraraka. You're my classmate—you're my best friend, and I… I trust you."

He fumbles briefly at the end, because while everything else is true, that's the crux of it, isn't it? Izuku would do a lot of things for his classmates, his friends, but a lot isn't anything. That's what he'd offered, earlier, and it's only now that the depth to which he'd meant it starts to sink in.

…is there a line he wouldn't cross for Uraraka?

There must be.

But he's struggling to think of one right now.

“Okay," he hears her whisper. She repeats it, like she needs to confirm it again before she really believes it—and oh does that make his stomach twist into knots—before picking her head up. Izuku follows somewhat reluctantly, letting her extricate herself from their quasi-embrace. “If you’re sure you don’t mind—”

“I’m sure," Izuku interjects. He doesn't want her to doubt that for even a second longer.

Color rushes back into Uraraka's pale cheeks. They stand out like red flags raised to let him know he's managed to embarrass her. Izuku swallows down the instinct to take it back, even as he feels his own face heat, because—well, he doesn't have a reason, exactly. Just a feeling. He's gotten pretty good at sensing when someone needs to hear something since his first Sports Festival, and this feels like one of those times.

…Or maybe he's sticking his nose where it doesn't belong again. Gah, Todoroki's right, isn't he? He's too much of a busybody for his own good.

"Then I suppose I won't feel bad about asking for a lift to the dorms," Uraraka says. The blush is still there, but it's the shy smile she sends him that makes it difficult for him to draw his next breath. "But you're picking how, got it?"

Oh. Well, that's fine. Izuku has an answer ready, even. Though the idea of actually saying it aloud makes his stomach flip for no discernable reason. It's not like this is new for them. It's the easiest way to catch Uraraka when they train together—they tested it!

"Princess carry," he forces himself to answer, absurdly proud of himself for keeping his voice steady. It really is the best position he can think of; it removes all responsibility of holding her weight up unlike a piggyback while also being more comfortable than, say, a fireman's carry. "On three?”

Instead of answering, Uraraka starts the count herself. Her steady voice triggers a strong wave of relief that renders him momentarily mute. The anxiety of the princess carry versus piggyback dilemma fades away as he focuses, ready to act on Uraraka's signal. This is just another problem they're tackling together.

Nothing more, nothing less.

With that in mind, the next steps aren't as intimidating. Uraraka punctuates the end of the count with a little hop, making it easier for Izuku to scoop her up into his arms. Easier isn't flawless, unfortunately. He doesn't miss her muffled 'umph!' when he initially lifts her off the ground, and he winces.

"Was that okay? Did I move too fast?" Izuku searches her face for any sign that she’s going to throw up again. “How's your stomach? Do you need to get back down?"

"I'm okay." The smile she gives him is real, if a bit small. “Bein' curled up is actually a lot more comfortable than standin' straight." Her face suddenly turns serious as if a thought just occurred to her. “How’s your arm, though? I’m not hurtin’ it, am I?”

It takes a moment for Izuku to realize she's talking about his burn. He completely forgot about it, honestly, which is more than likely why she's asking.

He shakes his head, ready to assure her she's not even touching it, but the motion kicks off a cascade of dust and debris that rains down on Uraraka. "Ack! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to—it didn't get in your eyes or anything, did it?"

Uraraka laughs, stopping his spiral in its tracks.

"Ow," she moans between giggles, grabbing her stomach. "Ow, okay, laughin' is a bad idea." Despite this, she's still fighting down snickers between words. "We're both a mess. I can't believe that driver didn't turn us away the moment he saw us. I don't even wanna think about the mess we left on the seats."

"Oh no!" Izuku takes a step back, half-considering chasing the driver down to apologize. Uraraka's weight registers before he can go any further, but he still feels awful. "I didn't even think to check!"

She snorts, but manages to hold back another bout of laughter.

"I think he knew. Remember the barf bag he had ready for me?" Uraraka's nose wrinkles, even though she never had to use it. "Anyway, not much we can do now. We can leave 'im a five star review if you still feel guilty."

"...good point." It's not a perfect solution, but it's enough to get him walking in the right direction.

"Mm-hmmm!" Her drawn out hum manages to convey an amused 'told ya so' without having to say it. "Anyway, I'd've ended up explodin' like a shaken soda if you'd taken off after him with me in your arms." She shudders exaggeratedly. "Talk about messy!"

In spite of the graphic visual, Izuku ducks his head to hide his grin.

"Uraraka, that's awful," he complains.

The worst part of not being able to laugh is how much stronger it makes the urge. He presses his lips firmly together, knowing that if he gives in it'll set Uraraka off, too, and studiously looks everywhere but her face. They manage almost a minute like that. Then she makes a sound, just the slightest clearing of her throat, and even knowing he shouldn't doesn't stop Izuku's eyes from inexplicably finding their way back to hers.

That's all it takes.

He makes a noise somewhere between a hiccup and a snort—his throat doing all kinds of acrobatics to tamp down the bubbling fizziness in his chest—but ultimately loses the battle. Laughter explodes like a hacking cough.

Distantly, he's aware of Uraraka laughing, too, like he knew she would. Her fingers curl into his shirt as Izuku fights the urge to collapse to the ground. He doesn't have the air to apologize. Not that he knows what to apologize for. He's not convinced he knows what they're laughing about anymore. This seems like a disproportionate amount of amusement for one joke, but he can't bring himself to stop.

Uraraka seems to be having the same issue.

"Deku," she whines around a giggle, "You hafta stop looking at me like that."

"I'm not—!" His protest dies as he inhales sharply, tongue suddenly glued to the roof of his mouth.

The good news is that Izuku's gotten his laughter under control. The bad news is that he's entirely forgotten what words are and how to use them.

Uraraka's skin is kinda cold and clammy, but knowing she's the reason behind the cool pressure against his neck briefly short circuits his brain. That would pretty much be par for the course his first year, but he's gotten more comfortable with physical contact living in the dorms. Avoiding brushing up against people in the communal living spaces is basically impossible, and hugs are exchanged a lot more freely than they were before the war. Uraraka in particular has started hugging him recently, and he's definitely a fan, even though he thinks he'd rather swallow his own tongue than admit to how much he enjoys them.

So, really, he should be fine. This is totally no big deal.

His heart disagrees.

Vehemently.

It pounds against his ribcage, stubbornly insisting that this is different. This feels personal in a way that a rescue carry shouldn't. Intimate. Logic tries to muscle its way in, claiming something about a natural response to vulnerable vital arteries, but Izuku knows that’s not it either. Fear isn’t what’s turning his legs into jello underneath him.

It’s Uraraka.

“Sorry.” There's a ghost of a laugh at the end of her apology. Like she's embarrassed, maybe, or self conscious. But she doesn't pull away. "Laughing made me dizzy. Is—is this okay?”

She doesn't pull away.

The thought resonates because…because it means something that she stays. Because the gesture might seem small, but Izuku almost can't wrap his head around how brave she’s being right now. For a girl who's carved a mask behind a smile, how much courage must it take for her to let it drop? To let her guard down?

To trust him with her vulnerability.

“Yeah.” Izuku’s throat suddenly feels tight. Oh no, he doesn’t want to cry. Not when she’s tucked under his chin! He blinks hard and tries his best to clear his throat quietly, hyper aware of how close she is. “Y-yeah, that’s fine.”

And it is. It always will be, because he was right the first time. Izuku has no lines when it comes to Uraraka. Because he's turned to her a thousand times. For inspiration. For advice. Support. She's carried him through his lowest points and cheered him on through his highs, and, maybe it's kind of selfish, but he's always wanted to be that person for her, too.

“Mmkay.” She exhales slowly, and her warm breath grazes his collarbone. Izuku manages to resume walking calmly, even though his stomach is going for gold with its floor routine. “Let me know if that changes, 'kay?”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Recognizing the moment as special makes it easier, somewhat. Each fleeting feeling and reaction stops feeling like a deviation from protocol when he acknowledges that there is no protocol. This isn't routine. It's not just 'another day's work for a Hero.' Procedures might exist for carrying unstable civilians to safety, but Uraraka doesn't fit that description.

Izuku doesn't want to be a Hero to her. He wants to be her Hero, like she's always been his.

Oh, wow. The thought heats his face. He can practically feel the steam rising from his head, and maybe that's the reason Uraraka nuzzles into his neck.

"You're…really warm," she hums, content.

“Maybe y-you’re just really cold,” he counters. His voice cracks halfway through, and he winces. Puberty sucks just as much the second time through.

She doesn’t respond. Lame comebacks like that don't really deserve a response, but he gets suspicious when she grows heavier in his arms.

“Uraraka?”

Izuku looks down, and finds Uraraka’s eyelashes have fluttered shut. Lips parted slightly. Breaths steady in her sleep. His heart clenches at the sight. She didn’t fall asleep the whole ride here, but five minutes in his arms and she’s out cold.

He shouldn’t read it into it. She’s exhausted, and it probably doesn’t mean anything more than that.

It probably doesn’t mean anything, but it kinda feels like it does. It feels like trust. It feels like Uraraka—his best friend, the strongest girl he knows—trusts him enough to rest her burdens on him when they’re too much for her to carry any longer.

Heart lodged somewhere in his throat, Izuku tucks her closer against his chest, and steadily makes his way to the dorm.

—x—

The dorm doors swing open to a full common room.

Unsurprisingly, the news that the arcade trip was waylaid by a burning apartment complex has reached the rest of the class. Izuku hasn't had time to check his phone, but he wouldn't be surprised to find their group chat dominated by the news. As is becoming tradition, everyone has filtered into the common room to receive those involved.

Students that took an alternate route to the arcade or weren't planning to go at all fill the couches. The kitchen is similarly crowded. Izuku identifies the repetitive thuds of someone chopping vegetables—probably Kacchan if the rapid speed is any indication. Several of the biggest pots and pans, the ones they save for group dinners, bubble away on the stove, and the pungent aromas of onion, ginger, and garlic fill the air.

They made dinner. They were waiting for them—just like they did after the Hassaiki raid.

Tears well in his eyes. Izuku doesn't think Hero classes are usually this close. But whether their tight-knit group is a product of living together in the dorms or trauma bonding, Izuku doesn't quite care. It's so nice to come home to a show of comradery like this—to know that there's a support group waiting to catch him if he stumbles. The concept is still foreign to him even after over a year together, but Izuku is already dreading moving out after graduation.

"Midoriya and Uraraka are back!"

"Guys, they're back!"

"Oh man, you guys look rough. Are you okay?"

The room's anxiety noticeably spikes as Kirishima's statement sinks in. Side conversations stop. Yaoyorozu's eyes narrow as she scans them, and Izuku winces. He knows what she sees: burned clothes, an ungodly amount of bandages, dusty skin, and an unconscious classmate. No blood or broken bones this time, but they're definitely not a pretty picture.

"Holy shit, dudes," Kaminari breathes, sounding horrified, "Did you lose a fight with an entire building?"

"I'd…probably call it more of a draw."

It's the wrong thing to say. People jump out of their seats with the same frantic energy he'd circled the taxi with earlier. Everyone's talking at once. There are concerned questions and exclamations all overlapping into an indistinguishable wave of noise that hits him like a physical force. Uraraka starts to shift in his grip, roused by the chaos, and he feels inexplicably threatened.

That's all it takes for adrenaline to dump straight into Izuku's veins.

He instinctively takes a step back and half-turns away, trying to shield her with his body. Shield her from what? Other than the noise, he's not sure. They're safe. Izuku knows they're safe, but that doesn't stop his body from moving. The phantom tingle of Danger Sense crawls over his skin, and investigating the validity of that feeling doesn't interest him when Uraraka is vulnerable.

"Everybody shut the fuck up!"

Kacchan's voice cuts through the din like the knife he wields.

Izuku relaxes as the silence stretches. He releases the breath he was holding, exhaling slowly. Each passing second makes it more obvious that the threat was imagined. That wasn't the resurgence of the Sixth's Quirk—just the hair trigger his fight or flight response exists on these days. Tension leaks from his limbs, and he slowly straightens from his defensive stance. Seeing this, Kacchan rolls his eyes and resumes chopping vegetables. The repetitive impacts sound unnaturally loud in the resulting silence, mirroring the rapid patter of Izuku's heart.

"Cheeks is fine," he huffs, not bothering to look up from the cutting board. "No way in hell Izuku brings her back to the dorms without getting her checked out."

Izuku's honestly touched by the vote of confidence. Despite the novelty of his belief, he thinks Kacchan might have forgotten how deep Uraraka's stubborn streak runs. Not everyone struggles with selective memory, though. Izuku jumps when heads swivel to him for confirmation, still a little shaky from the sudden adrenaline rush.

"She's fine," he confirms in a low voice. It probably doesn't carry, but Izuku's positive Uraraka will wake up if he talks any louder, and that's…no. "The medic said she just needed rest."

Another tense second passes as his classmates evaluate the truthfulness of his words. Having been on the receiving end of their attentions before, Izuku's fully aware that they're willing to physically drag them off for treatment if necessary. 2-A can be...protective is a nice way to put it. He's heard descriptors like 'clingy' and 'co-dependent' tossed around, too.

Just another fun behavioral quirk acquired from surviving the war.

Finally, Yaoyorozu nods sharply, accepting his explanation on behalf of all of them. “Do you need me to get the key?”

As Vice Rep, she has access to the master key in case anyone locks themselves out of their room, but Izuku shakes his head. That shouldn’t be necessary. He knows where Uraraka keeps her key, and, if it managed to fall out of her pocket in the previous chaos, he'll figure something out. He’s pretty sure he can jimmy it open with his student ID. They do it in the movies all the time.

That doesn’t seem like the kind of plan to share with the class representative, though, so he keeps his mouth shut.

Whispered well-wishes from the class follow him as he passes through the lounge. He navigates the space with smiles and nodded promises to text if he needs anything, even knowing he probably won't. It's nothing against them. He knows they would come running if he did. It's just…Uraraka hates causing a fuss, and he can't imagine she would enjoy being the center of attention like this.

Plus, she asked him to carry her to her room.

So he will.

The moment the elevator doors slide closed on his classmates, Izuku sags against the wall. Cool metal presses against his sticky, overheated skin. He's probably leaving a mess behind, but Izuku can't make himself move away. He closes his eyes to savor the feeling. Uraraka isn't heavy, but he's exhausted anyway.

This is not how he imagined his day going.

Which is…how it goes sometimes, he guesses. Heroes put the well-being of others above their own. Izuku knew that much when he accepted All Might's Quirk, even if he didn't fully understand the weight of the mantle he was donning. And he's okay with that! It's not like he's the kind of person to ignore a cry for help. He can't. Never could—even before One for All came into the picture.

It's just tiring. Way more tiring than spending the day challenging Uraraka's skee ball score would have been. And people don't usually come home from arcades with bandaged burns, either.

The girl in question snuffles in her sleep, and Izuku smiles softly. She was amazing today. Which is not unusual in his opinion. Izuku always thinks Uraraka is amazing. She's resilient. Strong. Grounded in a way that manages to be welcoming instead of standoffish. Optimistic. Kind to a fault—and Izuku could ramble on forever, but today she was just…

…Wow.

When the building started to fall, Izuku desperately wracked his brain for a plan. He charged at the impending catastrophe, straining to be close enough to…to do something. Destroy it? No. The resulting debris would be just as much of a problem. Blackwhip could have pulled everyone out of harm's way if he still had access to it, but he didn't. And even if Izuku could've held the building up with eight percent, which he couldn't, it would've collapsed under its own weight.

Then the crumbling complex glowed pink.

It was over her weight limit. Insanely, should-not-have-been-possible, do-not-try-this-at-home levels of over her capacity. Yet there she was: saving lives with a determined refusal to accept limitations.

Uraraka's fingers lightly grip the front of his shirt, creasing the kanji, and he reflexively glances down. They look so deceptively delicate. It's hard to imagine these hands keeping an entire apartment building aloft. The bandages don't help; he'd helped her wrap them in the bulky gauze to prevent her from accidentally using her Quirk any more today since she can't control its activation.

And people seem to focus on that—on the things it can't do. Uraraka's Quirk isn't flashy. She doesn't catch reporters' attention like he, Todoroki, and Kaachan do. It isn't versatile. It does one thing, and everything else is a credit to Uraraka's ingenuity and dedication to the absolute mastery of her power.

People tend to overlook her, but Izuku mostly struggles to tear his eyes away.

The elevator lurches as they reach the fourth floor, jolting him from his thoughts. He blinks, then pushes off the wall with a small sigh, shuffling into the quiet hallway.

Uraraka keeps her room key in her wallet directly opposite from her Hero license. He's watched her grab it dozens of times, seen it flash right alongside her license. It's usually in her front pocket, which might've been awkward to retrieve if not for the fact that the whole thing is attached to a carabiner she clips to her belt loop for extra security.

Or, well, it would have been helpful. If he had a spare hand to fish it out.

Izuku's lips purse as he considers the door, the placement of the key, and his lack of free hands. Right. Okay. Okay, so he'd have to get creative after all. Maybe the door would register the key through her pocket? It had worked through his wallet in the past, but the placement of the reader combined with his short stature precluded any further testing.

Well. No time like the present, right?

At least, by some stroke of luck, the pocket with Uraraka's wallet isn't wedged between them. The black carabiner is hooked around an outer belt loop. Maneuvering it into position is a little trickier, however, and he's suddenly very grateful that there's no one around to witness his bumbling attempts to open the door without waking Uraraka up.

There's a telltale beep and whir from the locking mechanism. Izuku manages to squash his triumphant cheer, instead scrambling to push the handle down with his elbow before the system can rearm. It's close, but they make it, and Izuku sighs in relief as the door automatically locks behind him. Thank All Might the new dorms don't use door knobs.

The closed curtains cloak Uraraka's room in shadows, but Izuku navigates the simple decor with ease. Although she's added a couple features since she moved in, Uraraka rarely reorganizes, and he's spent enough evening study sessions here to be aware of all the tripping hazards. Stepping over the extension cord that runs to her fan is instinctual, as is the pivot around the pile of clothes that tends to accumulate at the foot of her bed.

Izuku braces one knee on the edge of the bed and lays Uraraka in the center as gently as he can. Her comforter is immediately dirty, and he winces as clumps of ash fall off her high-tops onto the pale green fabric. He couldn’t have done anything else, really, but he still feels bad about making a mess. Maybe he should have accepted his classmates’ offer to help, afterall.

"Mmmm." Uraraka's nose scrunches, and she rubs her eyes tiredly before opening them. "Deku?"

"Sorry," he apologizes, squatting until he's level with her laying form, "I should have asked one of the girls to help you clean up." He brushes one of the bigger dirt clods away from her bicep, grimacing as it shatters into a dozen smaller ones. "I kind of made a mess of your comforter."

"You fiend," she accuses, not even bothering to lift her head from her pillow.

Izuku smiles crookedly. He knows he apologizes too much for her tastes, and she’s recently resorted to dramatics in what he thinks is an attempt to remind him that not everything is his fault. He thinks she’s wrong this time—there was definitely an easy way to avoid this, but it’s nice to know that she doesn’t blame him even if he feels like she should. It’s…complicated, like all his feelings involving Uraraka, but he’s thankful for it all the same.

"No use cryin' over dirty blankets," she quips, letting her eyes flutter closed again. "Besides. Layin' down feels…really nice."

“I’m glad. You should get some rest.” He’s not sure if it’s just the lighting in her room, but she looks even more exhausted now that she’s lying down. “If you need me to grab anything, just text me, okay?” Realizing what he’s just said, he hastens to add, “Or, um, anyone, I guess. Everyone wants you to feel better, not just me, so just let one of us know, and—”

Uraraka peeks one eye open, interrupting his self-conscious ramble. "Does that mean you’d bring me the fuzzy blanket?"

He’s about to agree—because of course he will, he’ll bring her anything she wants—when her request registers. Something about her tone—his eyebrows pinch as he tries to place it. Then Uraraka’s eyes widen just a fraction too wide to be natural, and he gets it. Izuku relaxes and shakes his head with a soft laugh. She’s teasing him.

Well, mostly. She probably would use the blanket if he brought it. He swears Uraraka gets more use out of his recent purchase than he does. She makes a beeline for it every time she's in his room, and he may or may not have a duplicate sitting in his shopping cart. They'd made a game of her repeated attempts to 'steal' the blanket, mostly consisting of him swiping it off her shoulders before she could leave his room. It’s ridiculous, and Izuku probably would’ve bought Uraraka her own already if she didn’t seem to enjoy the exchange so much.

“The fuzzy blanket, huh?” he repeats. “You sure you don’t want a different one? That one is pretty small. I don’t think you’ll fit.”

“Sounds to me like you’re not usin’ it right,” Uraraka says, somehow managing to keep a straight face. Izuku snorts. “I should really take it off your hands. Show ya how”—a yawn interrupts her protests, and the rest of her words are muffled behind her hand—“ta use it.”

The game falls away when Uraraka pulls her hand away from her mouth. She smiles sleepily up at him as he straightens up from his crouch.

“Sleep tight, Uraraka,” he says softly.

“M’kay.” Her eyes close again, and Izuku thinks that’s the end of it, but she calls his name when he reaches her door.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks,” she says. Another yawn splits her face, but she pushes through to clarify, “For carryin’ me up here. I ‘ppreciate it.”

He doesn’t know how to explain that he would do anything she asked him to, and he’s not convinced he should. He can’t shake the feeling that that’s not a normal thing for friends, even best friends, to tell each other, so instead he smiles and promises, “Anytime, Uraraka.”

He’s not sure she hears him, anyway. She’s snoring before he closes the door.

His classmates are slightly calmer the second time they see him, but he still has to assure them that Uraraka’s okay, just sleeping, several times before they let him go. He only escapes the same concerned questioning himself by immediately stepping into the elevator for the boys’ dorms, claiming that what he wants more than anything is a shower and a nap.

And he does want those things. The minute Izuku gets to his room, he gathers up his shower caddy, towel, and fresh clothes.

But there’s maybe one thing he plans to do before he hops in the shower that he failed to mention to anyone. The fuzzy blanket hangs over the back of his desk chair, and he gathers it up, too, before making his way to his balcony instead of his door. Even without the use of Float and Blackwhip, it takes him less than a minute to land on the dormitory rooftop. He doesn’t know what security measure Nezu has added, and while he hopes they would be able to distinguish between students and intruders, he isn’t willing to stick around to find out.

No one lives in the center rooms on the fifth or fourth floor, but he tries to be quiet as he drops down off the roof anyway. He needs both his hands for this next bit, though, so he uses the length of the blanket to secure his shower supplies to his back before stepping over the railing. Thankfully heights don’t bother him, or he might’ve hesitated here, holding onto the bar behind him with his heels balanced between the rungs. As it is, Izuku only takes a second to gauge the distance before jumping across to Yaoyorozu’s balcony.

The metal groans as he collides with it. He doesn’t think it’ll give it out, but he’s still quick to loosen his grip so that he slides down the bars until the tips of his toes are barely brushing the top of Uraraka’s railing. If he was a couple inches taller he might’ve been able to drop down, but he isn’t anymore, so he swings his legs to gather momentum and land safely in the center of her balcony instead.

Izuku grins when he sticks the landing and can’t resist punching the air in silent celebration.

Refamiliarizing himself with his limitations has been a painful process. He knows he’s lucky to even still have the option of pursuing Hero work, but it’s hard to be thankful when it feels like he’s right back where he started—especially when his classmates are leagues ahead of him again.

He’ll take any sign of progress he gets.

Uraraka doesn’t respond to his quiet knocks on her balcony door, and he sees why when he quietly slides it open. She’s passed out hard: limbs akimbo and drool gathering at the corner of her mouth. Izuku’s suddenly very glad she’s asleep; he can only imagine how much she would tease him for the face he’s making.

He carefully removes his stuff from the makeshift blanket satchel. It really is too small to do more than cover her torso, but Uraraka immediately snuggles into it when he gently lays it over her. His heart feels overfull, and for a brief moment, he has the strongest urge to kiss her forehead.

Thankfully his bout of insanity ends before he manages to brush her hair back.

Izuku yanks his hand back with a yelp, holding the offending hand to his chest with wide eyes. What is he thinking? Sneaking into her room to tuck her in is weird enough. It doesn’t matter that the sneaking was meant to avoid their classmates instead of her, he can’t just kiss her forehead. Friends don’t do that!

He gathers up his shower supplies and quickly makes his way out of her room, stopping only long enough to push the trash can close to her bed so that Uraraka has it if she needs it when she wakes up.

Izuku’s heart is still pounding when he gets inside the elevator, and he’s pretty sure his face is still red when it reaches the ground floor. If anyone notices anything odd, like that he’s exiting the wrong elevator for the boys’ floor, they don’t say anything as he makes his way to the showers.