genbloo - Tumblr blog

genbloo · 3 months ago

Text

Doing What I Can | Toya (Dabi) Todoroki One-Shot

Requests are open!

Pairing: Dabi/Reader

It was nearly 22:00 when the bell rang above the convenience store’s door, indicating that someone had come in, and it took all of two seconds for you to roll your eyes and let out a sigh. You had been working since 15:00, your six-hour shift somehow turning into a daunting nine, and it took everything within you not to scream whenever you heard the grating bell, your break now being ruined.

“Welcome in,” you called over your shoulder as you placed your phone on the shelf behind the checkout counter. You scoffed when you didn’t receive a response from the customer, watching with narrowed eyes as their black jacket disappeared farther into the aisle. One more hour, you reminded yourself.

You decided to take a seat on the three-legged stool, the wood having splintered and cracked over the years of use. It wasn’t the most comfortable place to sit, but you were thankful enough that your boss had even provided you with something to sit on in the first place. It had gotten increasingly more difficult to stand for long periods of time after your accident, and while your cane provided you some semblance of relief, it didn’t last in the long run.

About thirty minutes had gone by since the silent customer had come into the store, and you had been idly watching them out of the corner of your eye, taking small peeks every few minutes to make sure they weren’t trying to shove anything into the pockets of their jacket and make a run for it, although it made no difference to you. It’s not like you would be able to run after them anyway—maybe swiftly hobble at most, attempt to throw your cane at them—but you didn’t really care all that much; you’d end up falling. So, you decided that if they did try to make use of a five-finger discount, it would be a problem for future you and your boss. However, it did make you curious as to why the individual was taking so long.

You clicked your pen against the glass countertop a few times, running your hand over your face as you contemplated the decision of either staying on the wooden stool or offering the customer some help. You ended up choosing the latter, using your cane and pushing down on the counter to stand up. You carefully made your way through the aisle, looking for the individual, making sure not to bump your cane against any of the corners or boxes left on the floor. When you did finally spot the customer, they were near the back of the small store, their back facing you as they scanned through what looked like boxes of hair dye.

“Excuse me.” You cleared your throat. “Can I help you with anything?”

The person quickly turned their head to the side at the sound of your voice, following through with a complete turnaround a mere second later. They were dressed almost completely in black, wearing baggy pants that rested on top of their shoes, a thick black jacket which was left unzipped, and a forest green shirt which was the only thing that stood out against the rest of the dark attire. You raised a brow, taking in their appearance. The customer was a man, he had pale skin and purplish patchworked skin that looked to be held in place by staples along his jaw and neck, nearing his collarbone. He had other piercings as well, three studs on the right side of his nose, three different piercings in each of his ears, and ring snake bites on his lower lip. You shuddered as you focused on his stapled skin, the mere thought of the sharp staples piercing skin making your jaw ache, and it wasn’t until you felt the man’s eyes boring into you that you snapped out of whatever daze you were in and shook your head.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” the man said, his gravelly voice ringing in your ears.

Your eyes widened, and you subconsciously squeezed the handle of your cane. “Sorry about that. Do you need any help looking for something in particular?” You fell back onto your previous question and gestured to the shelf behind him. It took him a moment to respond, and now that the roles were reversed, it made you feel weird that he was staring at you. “There are a lot of options to choose from, and you’ve been here for a while, so maybe I can help?” You threw a slight jab his way, silently hoping he’d hurry up and respond.

“Yeah.” He turned back around to face the shelf. “Sure.”

You moved forward towards the aisle shelf, the sound of your cane clicking against the floor filling the silence between you and the man. You did a quick scan of the different brands, biting your cheek as you thought about which one might be the best option. If you were being honest with yourself, you didn’t know a whole lot about hair dye, so you were hoping this guy knew at least a bit more than you did.

“Do you want to recolor your hair or just do a touch-up?” You turned your head to look at him, the hood of his jacket obstructing your full view of his hair, but you were able to see a few of the black fringes that hung in his face. Hopefully, he doesn’t want to recolor his hair, you thought as you awaited his answer. Are you supposed to bleach black hair? What if he needs to bleach his hair, and it ends up falling out? Your heart dropped, and you involuntarily scrunched your eyebrows.

“Recolor,” the man finally said simply, and you let out a deep breath.

“Okay. What about…” you trailed off as you turned your attention back to the hair dye boxes, running your hand over a few different brands. “This one?” You grabbed the orange box from the shelf and held it out toward him. When he reached out to take the box of hair dye from you, you noticed that his wrist, nearing the bottom of his palm, was covered in the same purplish skin and stapled. Your eyes followed his hand, and just before he could grab hold of the orange box, it slipped from your fingers and onto the floor.

“Shit,” he cursed under his breath and bent down to pick up the box you dropped, which you also went to do at the same time.

“I–” you're cut off by a sharp pain to your nose and the front of your head. Your hand immediately flies to your face, and you stumble, nearly dropping your cane. “Damn it!”

The now increasingly frustrated man sucked in a breath through his gritted teeth and exhaled loudly as he tentatively rubbed the back of his head. He took a few steps back, putting more space between the two of you. “Listen, I get that you're just trying to do your job, but I’d really appreciate it if you stopped.”

You gently rubbed your nose, your eyes slightly watering from the pain that now radiated throughout the front of your head. “You accepted my offer to help you,” you couldn’t help but snap, irritation overcoming you in your bout of pain.

“That was my bad, I’m sorry for inconveniencing you,” he said sarcastically, crossing his arms over his chest as he eyed you.

You bit the inside of your lip, steadying yourself once more on your feet. “You know what, fine.” You took a step away from him, giving the man a snarky look before making your way, albeit slowly, back to the front of the convenience store. “Hurry up and come check out, you’ve been here for almost an hour!” You yelled across the store once you'd made it back to the checkout counter.

Shortly after your little outburst, the man found his way back to the front, placed the singular box of hair dye on the glass countertop, and shoved his hands in his pockets.

You pulled the box closer to you and ran it over the barcode scanner, then placed it in a bag. “Your total is ¥1,200.”

He placed ¥1,500 Japanese yen on the counter, snatched his bag from your hand, and hastily made his way to the exit. “Keep the change,” he called back to you before pushing the door open and stepping out.

You eyed the money on the countertop, not acknowledging the man as he left, a little unsure of why he didn’t just pay the exact amount, but you chose not to think too much about it. After placing the change in the cash register, you got up from the stool and went to lock the front door, flipping the open sign to the closed side.

You let out a huff as you stopped to lean against the counter. Along with the new pain in your face, your body had begun to ache more throughout the day from the lack of ability to completely use your left leg. It was difficult trying to keep most of your weight on your right side, and your left hip constantly hurt from keeping it raised high to compensate for not being able to fully bend your knee. You silently cursed your boss for making you stay longer than you were supposed to and ultimately settled on the decision to leave fifteen minutes early. What difference would it make? You’d be back to work later anyway.

Time seemed to go by quickly, and before you knew it, 15:00 had rolled around once more, and you found yourself back at the stuffy convenience store, softly tapping your foot against the cracked floor. Not many people had come by; a homeless man had bought a pack of cigarettes and sat around at the front of the store during the first hour of your shift, which you were pretty sure scared away some potential customers. A young girl had come in two hours ago looking for a pregnancy test. You had helped her out the best you could, offering some advice that may or may not have mattered, your heart twisting each time she absent-mindedly nodded her head in response, her eyes not quite meeting yours. In between the two of them, a few non-noteworthy people had stopped by, leaving you disinterested and bored. But that was until the bell above the door rang, and you raised your eyes from your phone screen to the familiar man walking in.

You straightened up on the three-legged stool, tilting your head to the side as you watched him make his way toward the aisle where the boxes of hair dye were. “Did you screw up the dye job?”

The man stopped in his tracks, turning his head just enough to look at you from the corner of his eye. “Shut up.”

You scrunched up your nose at him in response. “That bad, huh?” you teased before turning your attention back to your phone.

The man scoffed and continued on toward the back of the store. It didn’t take him as long as the first time he was in the store to pick out a box of hair dye, and when he came back to the front, he roughly set the box down on the glass countertop, which slightly startled you.

“Will that be all?” you asked blankly, your gaze meeting his briefly.

“I sure fucking hope so,” he responded with a grumble and brought his attention to digging in his jacket pocket for his wallet.

You pursed your lips and bubbled your cheeks after he spoke, nodding your head, seemingly not all that interested. You scanned the box of hair dye and placed it in a bag, following the same routine you did every day, and handed him the bag. “The total is ¥1,200.”

The man threw the money on the counter, the exact amount this time, and took the bag from you. “Do you have a bathroom I can use?”

You were a little taken by surprise for a second, and you pointed to the left, directing him to where the bathroom was before having to call him back because you forgot to give him the key.

Twenty minutes went by, and most likely against your better judgment, your curiosity was once again piqued. You had only heard rustling from the bathroom, stuff clattering against the sink, and quite a few angry noises that made you cringe. So, once you had worked up enough courage, you pushed yourself up off of the wooden stool and approached the metal door.

You used your cane to balance yourself, and you leaned against the bathroom door, pressing your ear against it to listen to the commotion that was still coming from the other side. “Is everything okay in there?”

Another clatter came from the other side of the door, and you almost walked away before you heard the man’s voice from the other side. “Damn it, open the door!”

“What?” you said loudly, your brows knitting in confusion.

“Open the door,” he shouted from inside the bathroom.

“Okay, okay, geez.” You grabbed the handle and slowly opened the door.

The sight that greeted you stopped you mid-step.

He stood hunched over the sink, his jacket tossed carelessly on the floor, revealing a lean figure in a worn black shirt. With his hood off, you could see it—white roots breaking through his black-dyed hair like cracks in pavement. His eyes, sharp and startlingly blue, met yours through the reflection in the mirror. You were sure they hadn’t looked that bright the first time he came in, and your hesitancy quickly melted into something closer to amusement. “Do you need help?”

“What does it look like to you?” He scowled and threw his hands up at his sides.

You shook your head and stepped farther into the room, your left foot somewhat dragging against the floor as you moved. When you made it to the sink, you picked up the box of hair dye, its contents scattered within the sink, and turned it to the back so you could read the directions. First time for everything, you thought.

“The shit didn’t work at all the first time.”

You raised a brow and glanced at the man. “I noticed.”

He scoffed once more, for what you thought was at least the sixth time within a minute, and you picked up the bottle of hair dye, adjusting yourself so you could lean with your back against the wall to use both hands. “Okay,” you let out a sigh and motioned for him to stand in front of you. “How do you want me to do it?”

His black combat boots sounded against the floor as he reluctantly moved closer, acting as if he wasn’t the one who had just demanded you open the bathroom door and accepted your help… once again. “Just slather it everywhere.”

“Everywhere?” you questioned, not sounding entirely as sure as you were trying to be.

“Everywhere,” he said with finality and turned away from you.

You squirted some of the black hair dye into your hand from the bottle, questioning your choices, before rubbing your hands together and reaching forward—then stopping. “Um, can you bend down just a little? I want to make sure I’m doing this correctly.” This is definitely not the right way to do this.

The man bent at the knees, giving you a better view of all the white hairs on his head, and you ran your fingers through the strands, smearing the black dye. You grabbed different handfuls of his hair, which was surprisingly soft, and made sure to color every white piece, even going over the black strands, squirting more of the dye into your hands whenever you felt like you needed more. Once you felt like his hair was colored enough, you draped some paper towels over the back of his neck, which you probably should have done before you started dyeing his hair, and told him to wait forty-five minutes before the both of you attempted to rinse it out. You washed your hands in the meantime, trying your best to scrub off the black dye that had stained your hands, irritation sparking because you had not thought to wear a pair of gloves.

He was surprisingly silent during the process, dissatisfied sounds leaving his mouth whenever you accidentally pulled on his hair. So, as he now stood on the other side of the bathroom, hands crossed over his chest, looking you up and down, it caught you off guard when he spoke. “What happened to your leg?”

The question hit you sideways. Not because of what he asked—people asked—but because of how he asked it. Quiet, not mocking, not even nosy.

Just… curious.

You paused, a little caught off guard. Your hand hovering near the paper towel dispenser. “What?”

He tilted his head, eyes locked on yours. “Your leg,” he repeated. “You always walk like that?”

You blinked, unsure whether to laugh, lie, or walk out. But instead, you dried your hands and leaned back against the wall, staring right back at him.

“Yeah,” you said, voice steady despite the slight tightness creeping into your chest. “It’s permanent.”

The man didn’t flinch. He didn’t avert his eyes or offer up a clumsy apology, he just waited.

You exhaled through your nose, deciding for some reason, maybe because his stare wasn’t pitying, that he deserved the answer. “Burn injury,” you said flatly. “Happened a few years ago. Got caught in a fire. Nerve damage screwed up the whole leg. Walking is... complicated now.” You tapped your cane lightly against the floor for emphasis, the sound echoing in the bathroom.

He stared a moment longer, then nodded slowly. “Is that why you work here instead of somewhere else?”

You raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think I wanted to work somewhere else?”

He shrugged, looking away toward the mirror. “Doesn’t seem like you want to be here.”

You let the silence settle before answering. “I didn’t plan to ever work here, no.” Another beat passed, and you watched him in the mirror, rubbing a black-stained hand over your jaw.

The man’s eyes flicked to the floor. “Sorry,” he muttered, and your eyes widened, brows raising at his sudden change in tone and attitude. “I didn’t mean it like—”

“It’s fine,” you cut in—and, weirdly, it was.

He glanced back at you again, something unreadable crossing his face, maybe it was recognition, maybe it was understanding, or maybe it was just the hair dye finally starting to sting.

You pushed off the wall and grabbed your phone from the shelf. “Fifteen minutes,” you told him, setting it down on the counter.

“Then what?” he asked, clearly having forgotten about the time.

You looked at him and gave a faint smirk. “Then we find out if I just ruined your hair.”

Part One of Two... ?

43 notes · View notes