xeveryxstarfallx

[xeveryxstarfallx]

I LOVE BED

[xeveryxstarfallx]

Grace, every time I read your work, I think, "this is it; this is the best thing she's written." - but then you post something new and absolutely blow me away again!

the one (part ii) - a shigaraki x f!reader fic

You made a deal with Fate to grant Shigaraki Tomura a long and happy life, but that came at a cost - in the world your wish created, the two of you never met. But his life isn't the only one your wish changed, and as you struggle to carry the burden of a past that exists only in your memory, you find your path crossing with old friends and former enemies in a way you never expected. Can you build a life worth living in the aftermath of everything you've seen and done? Can you do it without the person you changed everything for? Or will you and Tomura, against all odds, find your way back to each other one more time?

For Challenge Friday @pixelcafe-network! Fixit-ish, angst, tw for drug use/addiction, recovery. 21k in part 1. Dividers by @cafekitsune.

part i

ii. could everything be different

You thought your memories of the world-that-was would fade as you spent more time in the world of your wish. Hoped for it, maybe. Hoped that it might get easier, and in daylight, it does. In daylight, you can see everything you’ve fought for here, see a life that matters. In daylight you’re with the people who’ve become your friends, the ones you think you might be able to call your family. At night, alone, it’s different.

Maybe that’s why you always take the night shift. It definitely doesn’t have anything to do with the hero who likes the night shift, too.

You’re not sure why Endgame likes the night shift, given that he’s got a wife to go home to, but at least one or two nights a week, he’s out there with you, trying to solve problems without immediately resorting to violence. You knew he had this in him, this ability to see without judging, this desire to help and not hurt, but watching it in action night after night is something else. If you’d needed any reminder at all of why you love him, this would work, and spending so much time with him is all kinds of bad for your mental health. Almost enough to make you wish for a hit of neuroin to take the edge off.

“Why not switch to the day shift?” Midoriya asks when you own up to it. “If being around him this much is endangering your recovery, it’s not a good idea.”

“I can’t just hide from anything that endangers my recovery. Some of it, I have to suck it up and cope with,” you say. “I’ll be fine.”

“Hiding is one thing. Avoiding something that reliably triggers you is something else,” Midoriya says. He’s right, but it’s annoying you. You roll your eyes. “Let’s play the tape to the end. The fact that he’s married to someone else is difficult for you. What if he told you he was going to be a father?”

“Like – kids?” You lock your facial expression down tight. “Not my business.”

“No, but you look like you’re going to throw up.”

“Neuroin’s not going to fix that,” you point out. “It doesn’t help with nausea.”

“The nausea will fade, but the thoughts and feelings that triggered it won’t disappear as quickly,” Midoriya says. “And for five years, your response to painful thoughts and feelings was to get high.”

“If I did that, I’d lose everything.” You know that deep in your bones. “My friends. My job. My future. All of that matters more to me than neuroin.”

“It’s not the neuroin that matters to you,” Midoriya says. These days, he won’t let you get away with shit, which is reassuring – and annoying. “What do you think about when you’re spending time with him? Don’t just say work.”

You were going to just say work. “I’m not thinking about trying to win him back or something stupid like that. I know the deal I made. I know he’s gone. I just –” You’re hoping Midoriya will interrupt you, but he just looks at you expectantly. “I think about all the things I loved about him before. How I can see so much more of them now that he’s happy. I love him so much. And he’s happy without me. So watching him be happy should be enough.”

“But it isn’t,” Midoriya says, almost gently. Your eyes burn. “If I can use a personal example, the expectation for General Studies students at UA is that they go into hero-adjacent fields as adults. I didn’t. It was too hard for me to be that close to something I couldn’t have.”

“You don’t get to use yourself as an example of dreams not coming true anymore,” you say. “How’s One For All treating you?”

Midoriya looks embarrassed. “It’s fine.”

It was sort of a foregone conclusion that Midoriya would accept One For All and become All Might’s successor, but he’s going about it in a weird way. He works out a lot, and you found out that he does martial arts on the side, but he’s not making any effort to train as a hero or pass the licensing exam. As far as you can tell, his hero activities have mainly consisted of going out at night, rescuing people from themselves, and doing it all in disguise. Every so often, the vigilante people call Savior makes the news. The news seems more confused about him than anything else.

You’re pleased with the outcome. It’s better than All Might giving his quirk to some asshole who just wants to punch people. But that doesn’t mean you’re going to let Midoriya get away with pretending you and he are still the same. “Your dream came true. Mine won’t. And I accepted that a while ago. Now I have other stuff that makes my life worth living. If he was still the only thing that mattered to me, I’d be worried like you, but he isn’t. Okay?”

“We’re going to keep checking in about this,” Midoriya warns. Whatever. Your answer won’t change. “Let’s get back to the old history. I think we left off at –”

“The Meta Liberation Army,” you say, and Midoriya’s face darkens. “What?”

“I read Destro’s book.” Midoriya taps the cover of a copy sitting on his desk. “And with All Might’s and Sir Nighteye’s help, I’ve been looking through every official record we have. There’s no record of the Meta Liberation Army. Anywhere. Are you sure –”

“Yeah, I’m sure they exist. They tried to kill me,” you say. “Hard to forget that.”

“In the old history, they acted almost fifteen years ago,” Midoriya says. “Why would they stay quiet this long?”

You don’t know why rich quirk supremacists do anything. Liberation ideology only made sense to you on the surface. It fell apart if you breathed on it wrong, and you used to irritate the MLA lieutenants by asking them really pointed questions and watching them try with all their might not to blow up at you. “Can I borrow that book? Maybe it’ll help.”

“Sure. I highlighted some stuff,” Midoriya says. He slides it over, and you set it aside to read if things get slow tonight. “What else was happening in the old history around the same time as you and the others were facing the Meta Liberation Army?”

Your memory of that isn’t as good. You were too focused on Tomura’s recovery from his injuries, and after that, too focused on the handful of weeks you spent with both of you healthy and safe before he left to claim the power Dr. Ujiko offered him. It occurs to you suddenly that those were the last weeks you spent with Tomura just as himself, that when you saw him again, it was barely him – shreds of him, everything else swallowed up by All For One. When was the last time you talked to him? The last time you kissed him? You realize all at once that you can’t remember.

“Okay. It looks like thinking about that brings up some stuff for you,” Midoriya says, and you focus with an effort. “Tell me about it.”

“The guy who makes the Nomus,” you mumble. “Did I tell you about him?”

“Not yet,” Midoriya says. “Who was he?”

“We called him Dr. Ujiko. But that wasn’t his real name. He was –” Your stomach drops so fast that it makes you dizzy when you realize you don’t remember. “Do you think he’s still alive? If he’s still alive –”

“Let’s hit pause on this,” Midoriya says. “If the doctor was involved with All For One in your history, then All Might should be here when we talk about him.”

“Can it wait?” You don’t think so. “You don’t know what I know about him. The things he did – to Tomura –”

You break off, struggling to find the words. Your pulse is beating loudly in your ears, so loud that you have to read Midoriya’s lips as he tells you to breathe, to count out your inhales and exhales to force your nervous system to regulate. As soon as you have your breathing under control, you explain yourself. “He took people’s bodies and quirks and turned them into monsters. He did the same thing to Tomura so All For One could possess his body. What if he still has it? All For One’s quirk?”

“We’ll talk with All Might,” Midoriya says again. “First thing tomorrow morning. But you’re working tonight, aren’t you? Do you know who you’re with?”

“I never know until I get there,” you say, which is true. True, but not honest. “There’s a good chance it’s him.”

Midoriya nods. “If you get triggered out there, if you feel out of control at all, call here,” he says. “Whoever’s on the night shift – I think it’s Arai tonight – call and they’ll talk you through it. This job is important to you, but it’s not worth your recovery.”

“I know,” you say, and you stand up. “Good luck out there tonight. If you’re going out there.”

Midoriya glances guiltily away, which means yes. “Good luck to you, too.”

You’re slow to leave, mainly because you’re trying to figure out how to store your borrowed copy of Destro’s book inside your coat, and you have to jog to make your usual train, then to make it to the street corner on time. You know you’re on time, but the hero you’re working with tonight is already there, leaning against a streetlight with his arms crossed and a grin on his face. “You’re late.”

“No, I’m not.” You pull your phone out of the pocket to show Endgame the time. “I just wasn’t early.”

“Yeah. I beat you here,” Endgame says, his smile going lopsided. “Finally.”

You and Endgame work together often enough to have a running joke, something along the lines of you being so early to everything that you make him look late, which you counter by pointing out that he’s usually late by five minutes or so anyway. You’re not willing to cede ground just yet. “How long have you been here?”

Endgame’s satisfied smirk slips a little bit. “Longer than you.”

“If your heart rate’s below one-fifteen right now, I’ll climb the tree the next time we have to rescue someone’s cat.” The thought occurs to you to reach out and check for yourself, but it’s easy to suppress. After so much time spent with him, it’s more natural to hold yourself back than it is to act on your old impulses. “Did we get any instructions for tonight, or is it just a standard patrol?”

“Standard to start with.” Endgame rolls his shoulders, then sets off, leaving you to follow him. It doesn’t escape your notice that he’s breathing a little harder than normal.

No night on the job is exactly the same, always a mix of brief moments of excitement and long moments of boredom. The nights that start off the quietest can go wild in a heartbeat, and even nights where you can feel tension simmering in every interaction can go from dusk until dawn without breaking. Depending on the hero you’re working with, you wind up in different parts of town, but Endgame almost always defaults to the rougher districts. You’ve never asked him why.

You want to, but you’re not sure you want to hear the answer. This is already enough of a balancing act for you. You don’t need to make it harder.

On balance, you prefer the busy nights when you’re working with Endgame, but tonight isn’t one of them. The two of you end up wandering, not quite aimlessly, keeping to the streets where trouble’s most likely to start. “It’s not usually this quiet,” Endgame remarks. “Think it’s working?”

“The de-escalation thing?” You want to say yes, but it’s just one quiet night. “I think it’s just the rain keeping everyone inside. If you’re already on the street, there’s no point in being cold and wet at the same time.”

“We should go inside, then,” Endgame says. “If that’s where the people who need help are.”

“Isn’t that against protocol?” You remember something from training about not going into unsecured areas, staying mainly out in the open where you can see what’s going on and escape through multiple routes. “I’m up for it if you are, but I’m not going to be much use to you if there’s trouble.”

“If there’s trouble, we’ll get out of there,” Endgame says. He scratches lightly at the side of his neck, and you avert your eyes. “Are you up for it? I can’t do it without you.”

Now you’re rolling your eyes. “Yes you can.”

“No way. You’re the one who knows where to look.”

You do. That’s why you’re here. That’s why you come out here, night after night, knowing you might see Tomura and spend hour after hour looking at what you lost. There are things you’ve found here, too. And every night you’re out here is a chance to find some more. “All right,” you say after a moment, and the way Endgame smiles at you almost breaks your heart. “Follow me.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Eri asks you as the two of you wait in line for the doors of the bookstore to open. “Honey said I shouldn’t ask you, since you worked last night. But nobody else can leave without permission and they said I can’t go alone.”

If you were in Eri’s spot, you’d be losing patience with the rule about not being allowed to go out in public alone, but Eri seems okay with it. She only gets frustrated when it gets in the way of her doing something that any other nineteen-year-old would be allowed to do without question, which is why you’re here, even though you were on patrol with Eraserhead last night and he ran you ragged. “It’s no problem. Tonight’s my night off anyway, so I’ll get lots of sleep. There was no way I’d let you miss something this cool.”

“I promised Skeeter I’d get a copy signed for her, too. And Honey.” Eri is bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, more excited than you’ve seen her get about anything in a while. “Do you think we’ll get to talk to him at all?”

“Spinner? I bet,” you say. You might be dead on your feet tired, but the tension in your shoulders at the thought of seeing another member of the League is more than enough to keep you awake. “He seems like a nice guy. Even if he writes the scariest books anybody’s ever read.”

The book of Spinner’s you read a while back was one of his earliest ones, but since then, he’s evolved into writing horror. Eri likes horror novels as much as she likes horror movies, and she talked you, Himiko, Honey, and Birdie into reading one of them along with her. The other three liked it. You were weirded out, and you’re still weirded out. Something about the way Spinner writes, something about the scary stories he chooses to tell, feels a little too familiar for comfort.

You didn’t run it by Midoriya before deciding to come to the book signing, but in your opinion, it’s nowhere near as high-risk as going on patrol with Endgame every so often. You’re just going to see Spinner. Just going to see how he’s doing. Given that he’s free instead of being locked up in Tartarus for life, you think he’s probably doing okay.

“Do you think his new book will be scary, too?” Eri leans against the wall, arms crossed over her chest. She’s been experimenting, fashion-wise – right now she’s in black and red, with ripped jeans even in the cold and black eyeliner even heavier than Honey’s trademark dark circles. “He said he was inspired by recent events. What’s even been going on?”

There’s only one thing you can think of that would catch Spinner’s attention. “The Hero Killer got captured. Maybe it’s that.”

Eri’s nose wrinkles. “How is he inspiring? He was just as stupid as – as Overhaul.”

She’s been away from him for more than a year, but you know she’s still scared of him. Her voice always catches like that when she says his name. You and the others have been trying to help, with varying degrees of success, and there’s only one strategy you’ve found that works. “You mean, loser Overhaul who’s going to be in prison for the rest of his life? Jackass Overhaul who cried like a baby when the judge read the verdict? That Overhaul?”

“Fuckass loser crybaby Overhaul,” Eri says, with feeling, and you nod in agreement. The two of you are getting some weird looks from the people behind you in line, but you ignore them. “He’s scared of people touching him. I bet his prison jumpsuit gives him hives.”

“I bet you’re right. I swear they use itching powder as detergent in there.”

Eri gives you a curious look. “How do you know?”

“I’ve just heard things,” you say. You’re not supposed to know what Tartarus is like. “If Spinner’s new book is about anybody, it’s definitely the Hero Killer. Overhaul’s way too lame.”

“I bet Spinner’s writing about something cool,” Eri says. “Overhaul’s lame as fuck.”

Her voice isn’t shaking any longer. “Damn right.”

Spinner’s new book isn’t about Overhaul. You and Eri collect two copies each once you get inside the bookstore, and while you’re waiting for Spinner’s talk to start, you scan the summary on the back. You guessed right about the Hero Killer, but there’s a twist you didn’t expect – time travel. The main character’s been transported into the body of his own past self, in a last-ditch attempt to avoid a chain of events that starts with the Hero Killer and ends in the destruction of the entire world. All he has are memories of the way it all unfolded the first time around.

Spinner’s last book was a little too close to comfort. This one feels like a direct hit, even though the main character’s a man, even though the entire world didn’t end the first time around – just your part of it. By the time Spinner’s talk starts, you’re a nervous wreck.

Spinner looks good. Happier than you ever saw him before, and you wonder if he wouldn’t have been all right in the world-that-was if he’d never gotten mixed up with the League of Villains. Would things have gotten easier for him at some point? Would he have found other people who understood him, who cared about what he cared about? Seeing him this way makes you think the answer’s yes. Out of everyone in the League, Spinner would have been the easiest to save, and the heroes didn’t care.

People care now – some people, at least. Spinner’s okay now. The only person who knows it used to be different is you. That’s your burden, you remind yourself, as the echo of your old anger rocks through you. If carrying it is the price for everything that changed for the better, it’s a price you’re willing to pay.

Spinner’s talk is about horror as a genre, and why he’s branched into it from fantasy. The excerpt he reads from his book sounds pretty good – the kind of thing you’d be interested in, if it wasn’t familiar enough to send shooting pains of anxiety through your fingers. Eri is practically vibrating as the two of you wait in line to have your books signed. “He’s so cool,” she says, and you nod. “I can’t wait to tell Endgame.”

“Huh?”

“He likes Spinner’s books, too. You’d know if you ever came to hang out with us.” Eri gives you a reproachful look. “I told him about this thing and he said it sounded awesome, but he couldn’t go.”

“He probably had work,” you say, feeling like you dodged a bullet. “He keeps busy.”

“Not work. It’s his anniversary. With his wife.” Eri rolls her eyes. “She sucks.”

You mark today’s date in your head as a day where you shouldn’t go anywhere or do anything unsupervised in the future. It’s a good thing you’re with Eri. “Why do you think she sucks?”

“Skeeter told me. When I came to visit, she came too, and she was a bitch to you.”

You’re praying that’s all Himiko said. You swore her to secrecy about your feelings for Tomura, and Eri would be the worst possible person for her to spill the beans to. Even if she didn’t, you’re now in the position of having to defend Tomura’s wife to Eri. “She wasn’t a bitch to me. She didn’t know I was there.”

“So?” Eri gives you a weird look. “She didn’t know you were there, so she said how she really felt, and how she really feels makes her a bitch. I don’t know why he even married her.”

You didn’t expect Eri to have this level of feelings about Tomura’s marriage, and a thought crosses your mind. It’s not a thought you like. “Eri, do you – like him or something?”

“Ew. No. He’s old,” Eri says, and you almost laugh. “You’re all old. I don’t have to have a crush on Endgame to think he should marry somebody who makes him happy.”

Your head is spinning a little bit. A timer goes off on your phone, reminding you that you’re due for another dose of suboxone, and you focus on taking it out of your bag, prying open the bottle, sliding a dose under your tongue. “Skeeter can smell when people are in love,” Eri continues. “She says he doesn’t love her as much as he did before.”

Himiko didn’t tell you that. Would you have wanted to hear? Probably not. “I don’t think you all should be gossiping about him like that. It’s not nice.”

“I don’t care about nice,” Eri says. She scowls. “Endgame would have had more fun coming to meet Spinner with us than hanging out with her.”

“Maybe we can do something nice for him anyway,” you say, and she looks at you. “We’ve got four books here. That’s one for you and Honey and Himiko – and I’ll ask Spinner to sign the fourth one for Endgame.”

“But then you won’t get one.”

“That’s okay,” you say. You’re not sure you want to read this book, anyway. “It’s not the same as coming to the reading and meeting him, but it’s better than nothing, right?”

“Tell Spinner to sign it to Endgame,” Eri says, and you nod. “I bet he’ll like it.”

She seems like she feels a little better, which is good. Her moods are intense, and sometimes, all it takes is one bad thing to ruin what’s otherwise a good day. You can relate to that. All it takes is one reminder of everything you gave up to get your wish for you to find yourself wishing you could neuroin it away.

Wishing for neuroin isn’t the same thing as craving it, or needing it the way you used to. It’s almost wistful, almost nostalgic, to remember the days when just this one thing was a little easier, even if everything else was worse. That’s probably something you should process with Midoriya, the next time the two of you hit a dead end trying to figure out what to do with your memories. You’ve been dragging your feet lately. You’re getting to the parts of the story you don’t want to tell.

One of those parts is what happened to everyone who survived – all three of you, you and Compress and Spinner. Eri reaches Spinner’s table first and he greets her, smiling. “Thanks for coming,” he says. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Eri. I love your books,” Eri says. She’s making some pretty intense eye contact. You don’t believe in telling people to smile when they don’t feel like it, but she looks like she’s trying to stare a hole in Spinner’s head. “My friends do, too. They couldn’t come because they’re not allowed to leave.”

“Oh,” Spinner says. He blinks. “Uh – what are their names?”

You realize all at once that Eri doesn’t know them. People go by their treatment nicknames so consistently that she might not even know yours. She glances at you for help. “Honey’s real name is Manami,” you say. “I’ll take care of the other two.”

Eri chats with Spinner while he signs her book and Manami’s, talking his ear off about all her favorite parts from the last book he published, and they’re still talking when you set your two books down on the table. “I’m glad you said that. My editor wanted me to cut that part,” he’s saying to Eri. “She thought there were already enough twists and I didn’t need –”

He glances up at you, double-takes, and startles so badly that he knocks his water bottle off the table. One of the bookstore employees races to retrieve it, and Eri asks if he’s all right, and all the while, Spinner stares. “You, uh – you’re with Eri?”

You nod. Spinner looks good, looks peaceful, looks happy – or he did until a few seconds ago, when he saw you. “And the books,” he says – stammers, almost. “One’s for you, and one’s for –”

“Neither for me. There’s a two-book limit, and I have some friends,” you say. You set the books down and Spinner picks them up with shaky hands. “I can give you their names, if you want?”

Spinner nods. You start with Himiko, using her surname in addition to her given name to see if any flash of recognition crosses Spinner’s face. If there is, he’s hiding it well. “What about the second one?” he asks, and you open your mouth, only for him to answer first. “Endgame, right? Shi – Shimura Tenko.”

“That’s him,” you say. Somehow you aren’t surprised. “You know him?”

“I’m a big fan of his work. Especially that de-escalation stuff he’s started doing,” Spinner says. “Nice to see somebody looking out for the rest of us.”

“She helps with that!” Eri breaks in. You cringe. “Seeker goes out on patrol with Endgame all the time –”

Spinner double-takes again. “You’re a hero?”

“No,” you say. “That’s just my nickname. From treatment.”

“What kind of treatment?”

You want to answer, but one of the assistants taps Spinner’s shoulder, reminds him that there’s a giant line behind you and Eri. Spinner nods. He signs Himiko’s book, then Endgame’s, then picks up a piece of paper off the table and adds something extra to it. He gives you a meaningful look as he tucks it into Endgame’s book and hands it back to you. Something for you. When you open the book to check, well clear of the line and with Eri peering over your shoulder, you find that Spinner’s written his phone number, along with a message underneath: Call me tonight.

“He likes you!” Eri hugs you from one side, which you let her do to prove you trust her ability to handle her quirk. “Are you going to call him? You should. If you date him, he’ll come by the treatment center to pick you up and I can ask him more about the books.”

“I don’t think he wants to date me,” you say. You think Spinner wants to talk. About what? “I’ll call him, though. Just for you.”

Eri elbows you, just like Himiko always does. “That’s not a growth mindset. Why wouldn’t he want to date you?”

Because that’s not who the two of you are to each other. You and Spinner were friends, allies in trying to protect Tomura and make his dreams a reality. Both of you failed, and both of you survived to see the nightmare that a world without Tomura became. Spinner lived, just like you did. If Spinner had been released from Tartarus alongside you, he’d probably have gone with you on your quest to change history and give Tomura the life he should have had all along. If anyone in the new history is likely to know something changed, it’s Spinner. And that means the two of you need to talk. Whether it’s a good idea or not.

Eri keeps needling you about it as you make your way out of the bookstore and into the autumn cold, until you distract her by suggesting the two of you grab dinner out – and dessert. You know the subject will come up later, probably in front of Himiko and Honey and Birdie, but you’re grateful for the temporary reprieve. The need for neuroin, for a quick fix to all of this, is a low hum in the back of your mind, but you’re able to stifle it. Or so you think. As you and Eri are crossing the street, headed for the nearest izakaya, you feel the faintest brush of something warm across your cheek.

It’s your quirk, letting you know that something you’re looking for is – not close, exactly, but that you’re looking in the right direction, and you come to a stop in the middle of the crosswalk, looking towards it. Neuroin, probably. It’s the first time your quirk’s activated like that in a while. Something else to talk to Midoriya about at your next appointment. Sometimes it feels like you’re going to be in therapy for the rest of your life.

“Come on,” Eri says, and you snap out of it. A car honks at the two of you and Eri, who’s picked up some bad habits from Birdie, gives it the finger. You catch her free hand and tug her the rest of the way across. The warmth of your quirk fades quickly. By the time you’ve stepped into the izakaya, you barely remember it was there at all.

“Have you given it to him yet?” Spinner asks, and you look up from where you’ve been studying a watermark on the table. “Endgame. The book.”

“Not yet,” you say. “I only see him on patrol, and I haven’t been on shift with him in a while.”

You’ve been trying not to think about that, about how long it’s been since you saw him. Spinner’s features, wary and guarded since you walked into the café, settle into a frown. “I thought you saw each other more than that.”

“Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know,” Spinner says. He runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know how I guessed it was Endgame you wanted the book for. And I don’t know why seeing you back there felt like dodging a bullet.”

“Ouch.”

“I don’t mean it like that,” Spinner says. “You know that feeling when something bad almost happens? Like when you step out into the road too early, and somebody pulls you back before you can get hit?”

You nod. “It’s like that,” Spinner says. “A near miss. That’s how it felt to see you.”

“Like I did something bad to you?”

“No,” Spinner says. “Like you reminded me of something that happened. I just couldn’t remember what.”

He gives you an awkward, curious look. “Is that what it was like to see me?”

“Sort of,” you say. “Has that ever happened to you before?”

“Sort of. One time. I needed to talk to a magician for one of my books, and I felt like I knew him even though we’d never met.”

Compress. It must have been. “Did he feel the same way?”

“I didn’t ask,” Spinner says. “It would have been weird. It was weird with you.”

“Yeah,” you agree. You lift your coffee cup off the table and take a sip, remembering all at once why stimulants were never your thing. “Is that why you wanted to meet up?”

Spinner nods, and takes a sip of his own coffee. You came to the café late, close to closing time, but there are still people here, and one of them not-so-subtly snaps a photo of you and Spinner together. You wonder what they’re planning to do with it. Spinner’s famous. You’re nobody. Maybe they think you two are here on a date.

That’s what Eri, Honey, and Birdie all thought, when they found out you were going to meet Spinner before your shift tonight. Himiko was the only one who didn’t get in on it, the only one who didn’t pester you about what you were wearing or why you don’t own any makeup at all. She stuck close, though, and while the others were distracted, she leaned in closer. “It’s not a date. Why are you going?”

“He wants to talk about something,” you said. “It’s not going to hurt anything to go.”

So far it hasn’t, at least – and you’ve learned something. Himiko doesn’t remember anything, Twice didn’t remember anything in the brief moments you saw him, Endgame’s déjà vu when he looks at you is a product of your imagination more than anything else. But Spinner knew something was up when he saw you, and he knew something was up when he saw Compress, too. And the three of you have something in common: You’re the only ones who survived the war.

All three of you lived in the world-that-was until your wish erased it from history, and when you and Spinner look at each other, it’s not hard to imagine that he can see an afterimage of the way things used to be. After his trial, you never saw him again. In Tartarus, you were kept in separate cells, locked down twenty-four hours a day in spite of the fact that neither of you were truly dangerous. It didn’t matter. Spinner was the only one who understood how you felt about losing Tomura. He was Tomura’s best friend, and you were the love of Tomura’s all-too-short life, and even though it never happened here, part of it still remains.

Midoriya has a word for the times when something from your memories happens here, at a different time or in a different way. He calls it harmonization – different arrangements of notes, but still in the same key. It makes as much sense to you as anything else, and you feel it again here with Spinner, just like you did with Himiko, just like you do with Tomura. The only difference is that Spinner feels something, too.

“To be honest,” Spinner says, and you force yourself to focus, “I don’t get along with many people. Not that I start fights or anything – I just can’t connect. It’s like we’re traveling on parallel lines. They might be close, but they’ll never cross.”

Spinner’s got a way with words. You wish he’d found his voice sooner in the world-that-was. “That sounds pretty lonely.”

“Yeah,” Spinner agrees. “Do you ever feel like that?”

“I used to,” you say. More coffee. You’re going to be buzzed for your entire shift tonight, and you’ll still have a hard time sleeping when you get home. “I’m a neuroin addict. I’ve been sober for two years and counting, but some part of me is always going to think that using’s an option, even if the rest of me knows better. I used because I was in pain, and because I was alone. When I got to treatment, I met people who understood. And I’m not as lonely as I was before.”

“I’ve never met a neuroin addict,” Spinner says, and you laugh. “Sorry. I just thought – since you called yourself that –”

“It’s okay,” you say. You don’t mind Spinner using those words. Not the way you’d mind it from a random civilian, or a hero, or Endgame’s wife. “I think you probably haven’t. A while back there was someone tainting the supply, and it killed a lot of people who used. Neuroin’s hard to bounce back from, and a lot of people who used it and didn’t die are in prison right now.”

“Really?” Spinner’s nose wrinkles. “Do people on neuroin get violent?”

“No,” you say. “I spent more time zoning out than anything else. But possession of neuroin’s illegal, so if you’re caught with it, you pick up charges. That doesn’t happen to people whose opioid of choice is a prescription drug.”

“That sounds like bullshit,” Spinner says frankly. You nod. “Hey, um – maybe not tonight, but do you think you’d mind if I –”

“What?”

“Interview you about this stuff,” Spinner says. You don’t know what you were expecting him to say, but it definitely wasn’t that. “In case I want to write about it in the future. I don’t want to get things wrong.”

“Sure,” you say, “but you shouldn’t interview just me. You should talk to a lot of people. There’s more than one story, and if you’re going to tell it, you should tell it right.”

“Yeah.” Spinner smiles halfway. “I like doing research almost as much as I like writing. When I’m asking questions, people talk to me.”

Which is sort of what happened just now. You feel a stab of guilt and a pang of sympathy, all at once. “If you want to hang out sometime, I’d like that. I’m busy a lot, with work and – um, other work – but I think we might get along.”

“Don’t say that because you feel sorry for me.” Spinner says. “I know you feel sorry for me. I can tell.”

You can always tell, too. “Maybe,” you admit, “but that’s not why I said it. Like you said, it feels kind of like we know each other already. So I’d like to catch up.”

“Me, too,” Spinner says. His smile is tentative, and you match it with one of your own. Sometimes it still feels strange to smile. “Can I ask something dumb?”

“Go for it.”

“Did your friends like the new book?”

“They really liked it,” you say. “You should swing by the treatment center sometime. They’d go crazy over you.”

You’re thinking of Honey in particular, but you know Himiko and Birdie would want to meet him, too. Spinner actually blushes. “What about your daughter?” he asks, and you almost choke on your last sip of coffee. “Eri. What did she think?”

You’re too busy coughing to answer, and Spinner watches you with increasing concern. “Are you okay?”

“She’s not my daughter,” you manage, your eyes streaming. “I love her – a lot – but we don’t look anything alike. Do we?”

“No,” Spinner admits. “I don’t know. I just thought – you guys seemed really close. And I figured she probably took after her dad.”

It occurs to you all at once whose features she matches, and you can’t decide whether to take your next suboxone dose early or just throw up. “Sorry,” Spinner says. “That was a weird thing to say. This is why nobody talks to me.”

“It’s fine,” you say. You clear your throat, force down the nausea, and tell yourself you can wait on the suboxone. “She really liked your book. She’s been telling everybody how good it is. If you do come by the treatment center, she’ll talk your ear off.”

You remember something else Eri said, something she’s been saying. “She’s been talking about being a writer,” you say, and Spinner’s eyes light up. “I don’t think she knows where to start.”

“Maybe I could do a workshop or something,” Spinner says. “I do those sometimes – for orphanages or alternative high schools. I don’t know how much pull you have over there, but –”

“Not a lot, but I know the counselors would be really into it,” you say. The idea of bringing Spinner and Himiko back together, of spending time with both of them for the first time in fourteen years, fills your chest with warmth even as it goes tight with sadness. “I’ll talk to them about it. You’ll probably hear about it tomorrow or something.”

“That would be nice,” Spinner admits. Your phone timer goes off, letting you know that you do in fact need more suboxone – and that it’s time to leave for your shift. “Do you have to head out?”

“I’ve got work tonight. And I’ve got the book with me, in case I see Endgame.”

Spinner nods, but his brow is furrowing, and you don’t want to think about why. You drain your coffee, resigning yourself to spazzing out all night, and get to your feet. “It was nice to see you. Let’s do this again. Soon.”

“I’d like that,” Spinner agrees. He gets to his feet, too. “Do we, like – shake hands or something?”

“Let’s hug,” you say instead, and you do, ignoring the picture that’s snapped in the background, ignoring the fact that you’ll be crying the instant you hit the street. This is a good thing. “Missed you.”

“Yeah,” Spinner says. His shoulders relax slightly, and you hang on for another second before letting go. You and Spinner used to punch each other a lot, for reasons that were beyond either of you when Dabi asked what the hell you were doing. This is nicer. “Missed you too.”

You take out your phone and study it, wondering if it’s time to call dispatch. You got to the meeting spot half an hour ago, and whichever hero you’re working with tonight still isn’t here. Are you supposed to run things alone tonight? They’d have told you, wouldn’t they? None of the heroes you work with are great at showing up on time, and some of them are worse than others, but half an hour is a new record. And it’s a problem. When it comes to crisis situations, things can go off the rails in a split second, and while you can’t be everywhere at once, you’d like to be somewhere at least.

Maybe you were paired up with Eraserhead for tonight, and he got hurt or something. He gets banged up a lot, more so than the other heroes. Or maybe you were with Lemillion, who only wants to save some people and tends to look for excuses to get out of his shifts. You don’t know why he’s even here, really. This program is supposed to be voluntary, for people who believe in its mission, and Lemillion likes punching people way too much for that to be the case.

Whoever they are, they’re past late and approaching really late, and you’re starting to get annoyed. You’re an addict and a criminal. You’re supposed to be the unreliable one, and if even you can manage to show up on time, why can’t –

“Hey.” The voice is quiet, out of breath, and it still sends a jolt down your spine. “Sorry I kept you waiting.”

You turn to face Endgame, and almost instantly you can tell there’s something wrong. Tomura always wore his emotions on his sleeve, showed them on his face, and even though Endgame is older with a hell of a lot more self-control, you can still see it in his eyes, in the downturned corners of his mouth. “Are you okay?”

“I’m good. Give me a second.” Endgame’s breathing is slow to even out. Did he run here? Why would he run if he was already half an hour late? “I’m good. Let’s go. You can pick the route.”

That’s not supposed to be how it works – the hero’s in charge, and always picks the route – but you decide not to argue about it. You start walking, the opposite direction from where you and Endgame usually go, and he follows you, still putting on his cape. And his gloves. He’s never this late, and never this off-balance, and after a couple blocks, you can’t help asking again. “Are you okay? It seems like something happened.”

Endgame glances at you, then looks away in a hurry. “Yeah. I’m good.”

He’s acting weird. You haven’t been on-shift with him in two months, and he’s acting really weird. Now that you think about it, he hasn’t come around the treatment center much, either. Eri’s been wondering where he is. So has Himiko. Seeing him now, seeing that something’s wrong, worries you more than a little, and as the two of you start your shift in earnest, you try to talk yourself down. Endgame is your coworker. It’s normal to worry a little bit about your coworker when they’re so obviously out of sorts. It’s not normal to focus on it, to keep asking, to buckle under the overwhelming need to find out so you can fix it. Worrying is fine. As long as you keep it in perspective.

A busy shift would help with that, but tonight is painfully slow. The two of you walk in silence, where you would have talked before, and with every step, the tension between you builds. You stopped looking at him a while ago, but you can feel him looking at you, and two hours into your shift, he finally speaks up. “Sorry I haven’t seen you in a while,” he says. “I started picking up the day shift instead.”

“Oh,” you say. “How do you like it?”

“It blows,” Endgame says. “The cops are a lot more active during the day, and they keep interfering when I’m trying to de-escalate. Some heroes are good at dealing with them, but I’m – not. Apparently I have a problem with authority.”

“Sometimes the authorities are wrong about things,” you say. “And the people they’re after need someone like you to stand up for them.”

It’s quiet for a second, just enough time for you to wonder if you’ve said the wrong thing. You try to watch what you say about Endgame, but sometimes you forget. “That means a lot,” he says finally. “People keep saying that I’m making trouble over nothing.”

“You aren’t,” you say firmly. You wonder who’s saying that, and how they’d feel about a private conversation with a former drug addict, criminal, and Tartarus inmate who’s also one of the founding members of the League of Villains. Hero or cop, you’re not scared of anybody. “Maybe the day shift isn’t your thing. There’s nothing wrong with that. And there’s nothing wrong with you for not agreeing what the best way to help somebody is. The whole reason this program exists is because the cops’ way doesn’t work.”

You risk a glance at Endgame, trying to see if you’re getting through to him. It’s hard to say. You could always read Tomura like a book, but Endgame is more difficult. He’s not the same person you fell in love with. You need to remember that before you start thinking you can make him feel better. “I don’t mean to overstep.”

“You aren’t,” Endgame says at once. “I like the night shift. I didn’t want to switch.”

“Why did you?”

“My wife asked,” Endgame says. Your stomach lurches. “She said it was a distraction from what I should be doing.”

You made a policy with yourself not to comment on Endgame’s wife, regardless of who brings her up or when, but this time, the question slips out before you can stop yourself. “What does she think you should be doing?”

“Actual heroics,” Endgame says. You hear the faintest echo of Tomura’s frustration, Tomura’s fury, for the first time since you found him in this world. “Fighting villains. Going on missions where I fight villains and get good press for doing it. Saving people who want to be saved – no, she said –”

“Deserve to be saved,” you say. Endgame nods. His jaw is clenched. “That’s how most people think. It’s not that out of line.”

“Have some self-respect,” Endgame snaps, and you flinch. “You’re not stupid. You know what it means. You’re saying that most people believe I should have let you die. That I shouldn’t have even tried, because you didn’t deserve to be saved. How can you be okay with that?”

You’re not okay with it. You don’t know what to say in the face of Endgame’s anger. Even though you’re not its true target, it still stings. “Kao said it,” Endgame says. His fury’s cut with confusion now. With hurt. “Yesterday. So I’m back on the night shift. For good this time. And I feel better doing this. More like –”

He trails off, and before you can think better of it, you fill in. “More like yourself.”

It’s quiet for a moment. “You always know how to say it,” Endgame says. “I missed that.”

You knew this conversation was a mistake. You should never have said a word when he brought up Bubble Girl – and you’re an idiot, so you keep talking. “You still haven’t cut your hair.”

“I’m not going to,” Endgame says. “Like you said. I feel better that way, too.”

Another silence falls. “What do you think of it?”

“Your hair?” You’re going to tell Midoriya about this conversation tomorrow, and Midoriya’s going to read you the riot act, and you’re going to feel like a moron until the next time you see Endgame and stick your foot in your mouth. “What matters is how you feel about it. It’s your hair.”

“Right,” Endgame says, and for a second you think you’re off the hook. “Do you like it?”

Maybe you should switch to the day shift. Or walk into traffic. You have to say something now, and the longer you wait, the worse it’ll look. If you were normal, if you weren’t in love with him, what would you say? “I think it suits you.”

“Yeah?” Endgame is looking at you. You nod. “Thanks.”

You walk in silence again until your timer goes off, reminding you to take your suboxone and stop acting like a lunatic. You need the reminder if you’re going to get through the rest of this shift, and as awful as it is, you find yourself praying for things to pick up just a little bit. You need things to stop being weird, right now, and the fastest way to get there is for you and Endgame to find something to do.

Tonight’s route takes you through downtown, which can be kind of dead late at night, unless there’s something going on to lure everybody out. There’s some kind of street fair, something you’ve seen posters for around town, and events like that tend to draw everybody, civilians and criminals alike. Endgame hesitates at the edge of the crowd, glances your way. “What do you think?”

“I’d have been all over something like this,” you say. “Pockets to pick. Food to steal. Lots of ways to get in trouble.”

“All right. Let’s do it.”

The street fair is busy. Endgame glances around, confirms there’s no hero onsite, and reports to dispatch that he’s got the event supervised. Then the two of you walk, slowed by the crowd, at risk of getting separated by a single wrong step. Endgame catches your arm before you can protest, draws you in closer. “We need a vantage point,” he says in your ear. Maybe you’re in hell. “How do you feel about heights?”

The two of you end up crouched on a balcony, not particularly high but high enough to get a good view of the fair, and low enough that you can probably jump down without breaking something. You study the crowd, looking for anyone moving strangely, anybody walking against the current, anybody trying to move fast in a street that’s slow. Back in the day, you’d have been erratic at a place like this, trying to decide where to act and when and what you were even going to do. You got pretty good at pickpocketing out of necessity. Somewhere like this, you’d never get caught.

But not everybody has your experience. You spot something out of the corner of your eye and focus in, nudging Endgame to get his attention, too. The would-be pickpocket doesn’t look any older than sixteen, and while he’s picked a good target, he’s not going about it with any confidence. He keeps coming in close, then hesitating, retreating, coming in close again. When he steps off to a safe distance, you wonder if he’s changed his mind – only to see his arm extending through the crowd as he activates his quirk and scoops the wallet out of his mark’s back pocket.

He’s committed a crime, and he’s used his quirk to do it. In the eyes of the law, that makes him a villain, and you decide all at once that you won’t let that happen. You hop down from the balcony, rolling your ankle – of course – and weave through the crowd, catching up to the kid without him ever knowing you’re there. It’s easy to lift the wallet out of his back pocket, and once you’ve got it, you tap his shoulder with your free hand. “Missing something?”

He checks his back pocket first, then whips around, his eyes narrowing, his jaw clenching. “That’s mine.”

“It’s mine, the same way it was yours. Because I took it,” you say. The kid’s arm shoots out, but you switch the wallet to your other hand. “Want to tell me what you need it for?”

“Money. Are you stupid or something?”

“What do you need the money for?” you ask. The kid blinks. “Maybe I can help.”

“Sure you can,” the kid scoffs. “Unless you can find me a place to stay –”

“How old are you?” You can think of a few things off the top of your head, especially if he’s underage. The kid tells you he’s fourteen, which is younger than you thought, and by the time you’ve gotten his first name out of him, Endgame’s caught up with you. The kid takes one look at him and tries to bolt, but you reach out and stop him. “Yuichiro, hang on a second. He’s not here to arrest you.”

“Yeah. This is her show,” Endgame says, nodding to you. “I’m just her backup. She’s going to call some people and see about getting you what you need, and in the meantime, you’re gonna hang out with me. Are you hungry?”

Yuichiro’s expression goes guarded in a way that makes you nervous. “What do I have to give you?”

“Nothing,” Endgame says, puzzled. “I’m hungry, and I’d look like an asshole if I got something for me and not for you.”

“I don’t have to do anything.”

“No,” Endgame says. He’s starting to catch on, and he glances at you, eyes narrowing. You shake your head: Not now. “Just tell me what you want to get.”

You watch Endgame and Yuichiro out of the corner of your eye as they head for the nearest vendor, and as you select the first number on your resource list and place a call. If the first shelter doesn’t have room, you’ll call the next one. And the one after that. You don’t know where this kid’s been staying, but there’s no way you’re letting him go back there. If you can get him into a shelter, he’ll have a caseworker, someone to look out for him. And maybe there’s a chance he won’t wind up back on the street.

By the time Endgame and Yuichiro come back, Endgame holding what looks like a pastry box and Yuichiro tearing into an order of takoyaki, you’ve got good news. “Okay. There’s a shelter here that only takes teenagers, and they’ve got an open bed. There’s a car coming to pick you up.”

“Are they going to call my parents?”

“No,” you say. “Not unless you want them to. They won’t kick you out, either. As long as you’re engaging in at least one of their programs – they have a lot of them – you can stay as long as you need.”

Yuichiro looks wary. “You’re thinking it sounds too good to be true, right?” Endgame says, and Yuichiro startles. “Like there’s a catch somewhere.”

“Yeah,” Yuichiro says. “There’s always a catch.”

“Not this time,” you say. “Everybody there wants to help you. If you want help.”

The car pulls up – always the same car, always the same driver. Yuichiro hesitates again, then glances up at Endgame. “Can you come too?”

“Sure,” Endgame says easily. “Let’s go.”

You watch the two of them walk to the car, Endgame getting in first to prove it’s safe and Yuichiro following him. This is the first time Endgame’s agreed to go along with someone to the shelter, but Yuichiro’s the youngest kid you’ve run into out here, and something awful is going on around him. Maybe Endgame can get it out of him. He wasn’t going to tell you. You’re a lot better with adults than with kids.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, with a number you aren’t familiar with, and you open the text. sorry I bailed

Endgame. It was the right call. How is he?

something’s really off with him. he doesn’t want to talk about it at all. Endgame’s typing bubble doesn’t vanish for more than a split second before he’s off again. want to come meet me at the shelter? we can pick up patrol from there.

You glance around at the street fair. It’s still busy, but some of the vendors are starting to close up shop. This is winding down. I’ll head your way after.

Somehow it’s only four hours into your shift. It feels like time’s picked up, speeding faster to push you away from those awkward moments with Endgame early on. You still can’t figure out how things sideways. He was upset. What were you supposed to do, just leave it alone? Asking was the right thing to do, the thing you would have done for anyone you were about to spend eight hours with. And then he opened up, and you asked the logical follow-up question, and somehow it all ended up with you telling him that you like his hair. This is a disaster.

But he and Bubble Girl are fighting. You shouldn’t care about that at all, but you do – and they’re not just having a little spat. The disagreement Endgame told you about is ideological, intractable. Either a person believes that everyone’s worthy of being saved if they want to be, or they think that some people deserve to suffer no matter how badly they want help. You’re not surprised Tomura has a problem with it. You’re not surprised to hear confusion and hurt in his voice at the realization that someone he loves would have written him off at five years old.

You understand, because you love him. You remember Himiko’s note from the day Eri came to tour the treatment center – She doesn’t love him as much as you do – and for the first time, it strikes you as something other than an inviolable law of the universe that the two of them are together. Bubble Girl doesn’t love Endgame as much as you do. Endgame deserves better.

That’s a thought you shouldn’t have. You add it to the list of mistakes you need to talk to Midoriya about and keep scanning the street fair for other people Tomura’s wife thinks deserve to die.

The street fair winds down without any further incident, other than you returning the stolen wallet and pretending you found it on the ground, and you set off in the direction of the shelter, walking at a more leisurely pace than usual. You know the shelter’s intake process takes a little while, and you need time to clear your head – which you don’t get, because Endgame calls you before you’ve gone more than a couple blocks. “Send me your location. I can meet you halfway.”

“Sure.” You hang up and share it, only for him to call back immediately. “What?”

Endgame doesn’t answer your question. Of course. “I did some damage control for you with Yuichiro,” he says. “He’s a little intimidated.”

“By me?” That might be the weirdest thing anyone’s ever said to you. “Why?”

“I don’t know. I think that move where you pickpocketed him and then solved all his problems might have done it.” There’s a hint of laughter in Endgame’s voice. Is he making fun of you? “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“Pickpocket people? I couldn’t get a job, and I had to get money somewhere.” You used to use your quirk to guide you to the people who had the largest amount of cash on hand, and you’d ditch their empty wallets afterwards. “Did you get anything out of him about what happened?”

“Little bit. He’s been on the street for two months, and he ran across somebody who offered him a place to stay at night, in exchange for his body. Whatever that means. He didn’t exactly elaborate.”

Your skin crawls. “Sounds like human trafficking to me. Did he say anything else about who it was – or where he was supposed to go –”

“He said they move around. Somewhere different every night,” Endgame says. “Whoever this is, they’re way ahead of us. This city’s not even on the record as a human trafficking hub.”

Was human trafficking something people cared about in the world-that-was? It should have been, but you don’t remember hearing about it, probably because most of the people getting trafficked were undocumented foreigners who came to Japan looking for work and criminals like you. It’s a different story when kids are involved. “Did he say if there were other kids with him? Or – fuck!”

The right side of your face erupts in what feels like a sheet of flames. You drop your phone, then double over, hand pressed against it. It doesn’t help. The burning actually seems to get worse, and the only thing that cuts through the searing heat is the sound of Endgame’s voice. You don’t have him on speaker, but you can hear him shouting through the phone. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

You reach for the phone with your left hand. You need your right, or your face might actually light on fire. “I’m –” Not fine. Absolutely not fine. “I don’t know –”

“Stay where you are. I’m on my way.” Endgame hangs up the phone, and you sink slowly to your knees. The burning doesn’t fade when you look straight ahead. When you turn your head to the right, it gets worse. When you look left, it lessens ever so slightly. You look left, then right, a few more times, trying to confirm it. Left is better. It’s hot, then cold, then –

Hot. Cold. By the time Endgame catches up to you, you’ve figured it out, and you’re already getting to your feet. “My quirk,” you say, as he’s opening his mouth to ask the question. “There’s something I’m looking for. It’s close.”

“Where is it?” Endgame asks. His hands brush against your elbows, reaching out to steady you even though you don’t need it. You nod to the left. “What is it?”

“I don’t –” Yes, you do. “I went to the missing persons database. I memorized some of the profiles.”

“Were any of them kids?” Endgame doesn’t wait for your answer. “If you can’t walk, I’ll carry you. Just tell me where to go.”

“I can walk,” you say. “But we should run.”

By the time your quirk leads you and Endgame to a nondescript office building, closed for the night, the burning of your quirk’s spread through your entire body. Your vision is blurry, and it’ll keep getting worse, right up until you’re face to face with the person you’re looking for. Endgame catches your arm and pulls you off to one side, out of sight. “How many people you’re looking for are in there?”

Maybe that’s why your quirk is activating so strongly. “At least one. I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Endgame says. “We’re going in.”

For a moment, you’re thrown back to the world-that-was, to every time Tomura said something insane and looked at you to follow along. “We don’t have any idea who else is in there. Shouldn’t you call for backup or something?”

“If it’s the same people who had Yuichiro, they’ll be gone by morning,” Endgame says. “I won’t let that happen. Come with me. Tell me where to find them.”

This is a bad idea, but you know instinctively that Endgame won’t back off. And if he’s going in there, the fastest way to get him in and out is to find the people you’re looking for – which is also going to be the fastest way to turn your quirk off. “Fine.”

You don’t spend a lot of time breaking into buildings on hero business, and apparently there’s a procedure – ditch all unnecessary gear, make sure Endgame’s location is visible on the Hero Network, set a fifteen-minute time delay that will send up a red alert if it’s not turned off by hand. While Endgame takes care of that, you store your belongings out of sight, then send a message of your own. Endgame doesn’t want to wait for formal backup, and you understand. But you know there’s somebody else out here tonight, someone who cares more about saving people than fighting villains. You send your location and tuck your phone away.

“Ready?” Endgame asks, and you nod. You must have some kind of look on your face about it, because he takes a few steps closer to you. “Hey. Nothing bad’s going to happen to you in there. I won’t let it.”

It’s not you you’re worried about. You don’t know what it is. You nod again, and when Endgame heads for the building, you follow him without looking back.

Endgame runs his fingers along the wall, like he’s searching for something. The two of you should be searching for an entry point. Your struggle to focus your eyes as Endgame sets his hands flat against the wall – and before his touch a piece of the wall crumbles away, leaving a hole big enough to walk through without ducking your head. “What?” Endgame asks, when he catches you staring. “It’s faster this way. And I’ve never seen this way set off any alarms.”

It’s not that. For a moment, you thought you’d seen a ghost. You step through the makeshift entryway without waiting for Endgame’s permission. Your quirk led you here. You need to lead the way, and your quirk leads you up the stairs. Six flights of them, to a door that’s locked – and barricaded, based on the fact that it doesn’t give even slightly when you shove it. Endgame reaches past you without a word and Decays a path through. The burning of your quirk intensifies further. The person, or people, you’re looking for are here.

Here looks like a doctor’s office, suspiciously well-lit for the fact that it’s past midnight. Some of the rooms are flagged as being in use, while others are vacant, doors hanging open. “Are you sure they’re here?” Endgame asks in your ear, and you give a thumbs-up. “Okay. Be careful.”

You try to step lightly as you pass the closed doors, as you peer into the open ones. One look into an open one tells you exactly what kind of place this is, tells you that your guess of human trafficking was accurate. The victim who must have been in here is gone. But there’s evidence all over the place of what happened to them, and bile wells up in the back of your throat. It’s horrible enough if it was an adult. If it was a kid –

“Fucking hell.” Endgame is peering over your shoulder, his hair brushing against your cheek. “Was the person you’re looking for in here? Can you tell?”

“I can’t track people. My quirk just tells me where they are now.” You look away from the empty room with an effort. Your face is still burning, almost unbearably hot. “This way. I think we’re close.”

You pass open rooms – so many open rooms – and when you reach a closed door, your quirk lights you up with a sheet of agony. All you can do is indicate the door. Endgame tries the doorknob, finds it locked, and Decays the entire thing. You stumble forward, reaching inside for the light switch. It takes you a moment to find it, but once you do, you see who your quirk’s been leading you to. The heat drains out of you, so fast and sudden that it makes you shiver. Just like the five kids in this room are shivering, curled up in a corner of the room, watching you with frightened eyes.

Endgame sucks in a breath at the sight, and you see his hands curl into fists at his sides, only to relax just as quickly. He makes his way through the room in quick, sure steps, crouching down just out of reach from the kids. “Hi. My name’s Endgame. I’m here to help. What are your names?”

Two of the kids won’t talk, or maybe they’re mute. One of them was in the files you memorized – disappeared four years ago, at three years old, never to be seen until now. There’s a second kid from your files, but this one’s older, and she’s able to talk, able to introduce the others. “Okay,” Endgame says. You can’t see his face, but you picture him smiling, putting on a brave face. “You don’t have to tell us what happened here, but it’s not going to happen anymore. You’re safe. We’re going to get you out of here.”

“We are,” you echo. You should have memorized more missing-person profiles. Your quirk should have alerted you to all these kids, not just two of them. “Is there anyone else here? Is it just the five of you?”

The older girl, the one you were looking for, shakes her head. She starts helping the others to their feet, and Endgame does the same. One of them, the youngest one, can’t keep their feet under them, and Endgame picks them up. The sight of him carrying a kid, the kid’s head resting on his shoulder, does all kinds of damage to you. You avert your eyes and usher the kids out into the hall, one at a time.

The older girl, Kitano Arisa, comes out last, after Endgame and the youngest kid. She seizes your arm in one shaking hand and pulls until you lean down. “There are more,” she whispers. “In the lab.”

Your heart sinks, in the same moment as you realize why she didn’t tell you. She wants Endgame to focus on getting her and the others out, not get distracted by trying to rescue others. “You did the right thing,” you tell her, and her expression crumples. “Follow Endgame. I’ll go.”

You don’t check in with Endgame first. You don’t need to. You did your job getting him here, finding the kids you were looking for, and now it’s your turn to find the one you didn’t know about. You make your way down the hall as quietly as possible, picking every lock on every closed door you find. You aren’t as fast as Endgame’s Decay, but you still get the doors open. There’s no one inside except one, a kid who’s been bound and gagged. You untie him, peel the gag off, and tell him where to run.

Finding this place was hard, but you’re aware that the rest of it is too easy. There were multiple prisoners here, and when it comes to human trafficking, people are profit. There’s no way whoever runs this place has left so many people unguarded. Unless it’s not human trafficking. Unless whoever brought these people here has something else in mind. Like what?

The lab is well-lit, glass-windowed, easy to peer into. The only door you can see has a keypad, a fingerprint scanner, and a card-reader, so there’s no way you’re getting in. You peer in through the window, trying to stay out of sight. If whoever’s in here sees you, you’re in big trouble. You activate your quirk, seeking the fastest escape route if you’re spotted. Then, as the warmth of your quirk is just beginning to curl around your cheek, you see something that wipes every thought of escaping right out of your mind.

It’s the equipment. You’ve seen this equipment before, some of it – but unlike what you saw in the doctor’s workshop underneath a hospital in another life, this is downsized. Portable. Easy to move somewhere overnight, with the right combination of quirks involved. Someone is bustling around in the lab. They’re too tall to be Dr. Ujiko, and they’ve still got a face, which means they aren’t All For One. And All For One really must be dead. Otherwise this equipment wouldn’t be needed to implant quirks.

That is what’s happening. The person strapped down to a lab workstation is bound and gagged, and the glass between you and them must be soundproofed in addition. You know from watching even a piece of what the doctor did to Tomura that gags are useless against the kind of screams a person who’s being tortured lets out. For a moment, all you can remember is the horrible morguelike smell beneath the hospital, the doctor’s croaking laughter, Tomura’s convulsions on the operating table as he fought desperately to escape. How helpless you felt. How certain you were that there was nothing you could do.

Fuck that. There’s always something you can do. You turn without thinking about it, break the glass over the fire extinguisher case on the wall, and yank it out. Part of you wants to stop, to look for an ax or something better, but you can’t fathom waiting, just like you can’t fathom waiting for help to arrive. You’re expecting it to take multiple swings for the soundproof glass to shatter. You break it in one.

The torturer looks up, shocked, and you have time to register that it’s not someone you recognize before you leap up and through the broken window. Whoever it is, he’s a second too slow in responding, and before he can grab for a weapon or activate their quirk, you clock him in the gut with the fire extinguisher. You shove him to one side as he doubles over, then race for the workstation and the victim.

You don’t get far. The torturer grabs your ankle and yanks you off your feet, only to catch your boot to his face when you kick back. You actually hear his nose crunch, and blood gushes down his face in a steaming flood. “Who the fuck are you? How did you get in here?”

You’re not going to dignify that with a response. You kick him again, hard enough to shatter his glasses, then scramble up, finally reaching the workstation. The person there is still thrashing in agony, and worse, they’ve still got machines connected to them, plugged into a hole in their stomach. You can’t just pull them out of here. They could die. Like Tomura would have, if you’d tried to free him from the doctor in the middle of a procedure.

The memory washes over you, strong enough to make you wish for neuroin, but it’s not like before. There’s something you can do. “It’s going to be okay,” you promise the victim, and you unhook the gag and lift it out of their mouth. “More help’s coming. I promise I won’t leave until –”

“Behind you!” The victim’s voice cracks with terror, and you turn just in time to see the scalpel being driven down towards your back.

You throw yourself to one side, but not quite fast enough – the blade sinks into your upper arm and drags down, opening a bloody gash that you can’t think about right now. He’s still coming after you, and you can’t leave the victim unattended. Toga taught you how to handle yourself against a knife. Do you remember? You remember enough, maybe. But your arm’s a mess, and you’re hemmed in by the workstation. You manage to turn to face your attacker, to seize his wrist with both hands as he brings the knife down on you a second time.

You aren’t weak. You can hold him back. But he’s got leverage and a free hand, one that he drives into your side hard enough to make your ribs creak. You’re conscious of the victim on the table, how you promised they’d be okay, how you swore more help is coming. You can’t make them watch you die. No one’s here yet. You promised –

Ropes of black and green energy wrap around the torturer, and in the space of a split second, he’s yanked back away from you. You slump back against the workstation, clamping one hand down over your bleeding arm, as Midoriya drags the man back through the broken window. You’ve never seen him in his hero outfit before. It looks homemade, and it looks like someone took an All Might onesie and dyed it green. “You made it.”

“Yeah. Sorry it took me a second.” Midoriya surveys the scene, all the while keeping the torturer restrained. “EMS is on their way up. I’m going to lower this guy down to the police. Is there anybody else here?”

“I don’t know. They only told me about the one here.”

“I’ll search,” Midoriya decides. He glances back at you, his concern evident through the mask. “I’m sorry. If I got here faster, maybe you wouldn’t have –”

“Get that guy out of here, search, and go,” you say. “Don’t get caught.”

You know you’ll be hearing about this tomorrow morning in therapy, but right now, you and Midoriya both have jobs to do. He vanishes back through the window, pulling the torturer with him, and you lever yourself upright with an effort, turning your attention to the victim. You hear footsteps on the stairs and repeat yourself. “See? I told you. Help is on the way. Everything’s going to be fine.”

EMS gets there first. You stammer out an explanation for some of the machines, praying they won’t ask you how you know, then allow yourself to be shuffled back away from the workstation. You’re nowhere near as bad off as the victim – any of the victims – but you’re not in good shape, either. It’s been a while since you got in a brawl like this. The last time was in another life.

You knew Tomura was dead. You didn’t know about Dabi yet, or Toga, but Tomura was dead, and that was enough. You didn’t want to be taken alive, either, so you fought hard against the heroes who tried to apprehend you, and you did enough damage to add two extra years to your sentence in Tartarus. You hurt people. Maimed them on purpose. You got beat half to hell in the process, but you were dangerous, and you weren’t going down easily. You couldn’t figure it out. Why they wouldn’t kill you. Why they’d murder Tomura and make you live.

Your head is spinning, or maybe you’re just getting lightheaded. You turn around unsteadily, looking for something to lean on, only to find yourself face-to-face with Endgame. He’s not out of breath, in spite of sprinting up so many flights of stairs, and he looks furious. “That was stupid,” he spits at you. “Why did you do that?”

“The kids,” you mumble. “I didn’t want them to wait.”

“So I should have gone, and you should have gotten them out!” Endgame snaps. “Are you out of your mind? You aren’t a hero. Why did you –”

The world tilted a few seconds back, and you’re struggling to stay on your feet. Endgame steps forward without hesitating, and for the first time since he helped you sit up after the overdose, you find yourself in his arms. You try to get your feet back under you, and take a shot at answering his question at the same time. “I’m not a hero. You don’t have to be a hero to save someone. All it takes is – is one –”

Nausea swims up and over your head, and the world blurs into grey, then black. Not for long, though. When your awareness comes back, you’re still inside the building, being carried down the stairs in Endgame’s arms, your head tilted against his shoulder, your forehead pressed to the side of his neck. When you take a shallow breath in, all you can smell is sweat and the familiar scent of his skin. You shouldn’t be here. “I can walk.”

“No problem. I’ll let you walk and you can wipe out down the stairs.” Endgame’s voice is oddly tense. Maybe you’re heavy. “Just hold still.”

You’ll never get this again. Maybe you should just enjoy it. Not pretend he wants to carry you, or that the way he’s holding you is different from the way you’ve seen him support other victims. Not to imagine that there’s something special about you. You’ll cry about this later, wish for neuroin to take the edge off the pain, but for now, you lean into Endgame and breathe deep. His hair brushes against your cheek as he walks. That’s familiar, too.

All the emergency personnel outside the building are occupied with the kids, like they should be, so Endgame kidnaps a first-aid kit and treats you himself. You feel like that’s a bad idea, too, but you can tell Endgame’s losing patience, so you don’t push the point. It’s – nice, anyway. Different. This is something you never got in the world-that-was, because Tomura was always injured worse than you are, and you didn’t hold it against him. You knew how things were. He didn’t need to patch up your scrapes and bruises to show you that he loved you.

Endgame doesn’t love you. He’ll never love you. But you find yourself fixated on his gentle touch as he tells you to lie back, props your legs up, slides a makeshift pillow beneath your head, cuts open your sleeve to clean the cut on your arm. You wonder what it would have been like to have this before. To know that Tomura could take care of you, and to be sure that he would.

“What happened up there?” Endgame asks as he applies steri-strips, piecing the wound back together. You’re averting your eyes, not because you have a problem with blood but because it’ll be hard enough to bounce back from this already. “I didn’t hear much except from Savior when he dropped the mad scientist off.”

The mad scientist. That’s a good word to describe him. “He was working on someone. Torturing them. I couldn’t just watch.”

“What did you do instead?”

“Swung a fire extinguisher through the observation window,” you say, and Endgame snorts. “And then I picked a fight.”

“And lost.”

“I lived, so I won,” you protest. “But I could have won the other way. I kept getting distracted. Because of –”

“The victim,” Endgame says. “That’s the hardest part for me, too.”

You look at him then. You’re not sure how you’re supposed to look away, and you find his gaze distant, even as one hand cradles your elbow, as the other smooths a steri-strip down. “I didn’t get into this job because I like fighting or something. I like helping people. I’m not good at focusing on fighting if I know someone’s being hurt, even if I have to fight to make it stop. So I get it.”

His eyes refocus, settling on yours. “I’m not letting you off the hook, though. Starting that fight was a stupid idea.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” It’s harder than it should be to hold his gaze, and with the effort that takes, there’s nothing left to stop what you say next. “I saw something like that before, and I didn’t stop it then. I had to stop it now.”

You wonder if you’re imagining the wariness in Endgame’s gaze. “Do what you have to, but wait for me next time,” he says. And then: “You’re supposed to make it out. None of it matters if you don’t.”

A bolt of lightning tears down your spine, and for a moment, you hear the ghost of Tomura’s voice in Endgame’s, younger and angrier but still carrying that same tense undertone. You’ve heard him say that before. In another life, in the middle of a battle where he was still fighting for more than just himself. Were you ever fighting for more than yourself? Maybe. You’d like to think so. You fought for the League, for your friends. But you would have fought through anything to be at Tomura’s side.

And tonight you were. You wrench your gaze away from his face. “Don’t say stuff like that. I’m your coworker, not some civilian.”

“Just your coworker. Not your friend?”

You can’t read his tone of voice, and you don’t know what to say to him. You don’t know how to tell him it’s a bad idea to be friends, that it might work for him but your heart probably won’t be able to take it – and at the same time, you can’t imagine telling him no. Not when he’s telling you he cares about you as more than just a coworker, more than just a civilian. “We’re friends,” you say, and you glance his way just long enough to see him smile.

An EMT comes by to check Endgame’s work, and confirms that you should be allowed to go home as long as you drink and eat something something first. You’ve got snacks in your backpack, which Endgame gets up to retrieve – but before you can unzip it, he holds up the box of pastries he bought instead. It feels like the two of you were at the street fair a lifetime ago. “I got these,” he says. “So we could share.”

You get your face under control with an effort, but all your efforts go out the window when you open the box. You make yourself a promise never to ask how he knew – what your favorite pastry is, which flavors you like, two of each so you can both try them all. It’s the last detail that makes your head spin. Whenever it was your job to find food for the two of you, you always made sure to get two of everything. Tomura never knew what he liked. You wanted to help him find it.

You can’t do this. “I’m not hungry,” you say. You get up, nudge past him, and start walking home.

You don’t make it far. You get dizzy, and worse, the tears kick up, and even worse than all of that, Endgame follows you. But you’re still a criminal at heart, and you know how to avoid being found when you don’t want to be. You find a place to rest, sit down with your head between your knees, tuck a suboxone film under your tongue, and cry until your head hurts.

The longer you think about it, the worse it gets. You’ve embarrassed yourself. How are you supposed to look Endgame in the eye after that? How are you going to explain why you got up and ran away when he offered you food? Even worse than that, you got a taste of it again – the way it felt to be with him, to be in on the joke, to be on his team and fighting at his side – and a single taste was enough to bring it all roaring back. You’ll love Tomura for the rest of your life, and your ability to pretend there’s a difference between him and Endgame is at an end. You can’t keep working with him. You have to quit your job.

Do you even have a job anymore? You just walked off it, and in the process of finding the missing kids, you used your quirk without a license to do so. They could prosecute you. You could lose everything. Maybe you already have. You definitely have – that’s the way your luck goes, the way it’s always gone. What are you supposed to do now?

Neuroin, your brain suggests, and in spite of the suboxone and your two years of sobriety and all the coping skills you’ve picked up, you’re struck by the need for a hit. And why shouldn’t you take one? Everything’s ruined, again, and this time, it’s all your fault. Why can’t you forget, at least for a little while? Enough neuroin and these past few years will feel like a dream, pretty but distant, something that was never true. You’re useless. Worthless. All you know how to do is –

Somewhere within you, something kicks back. Everything’s ruined – according to who? Your brain might be insisting, might be screaming for relief, but that doesn’t mean it’s right. You force yourself to take a deep breath, then another. The situation with Endgame is awful. There’s nothing you can do about that right now. But your job, and your quirk, and your criminal record. Where’s the proof that you’re going to lose your job? You were basically at the end of your shift anyway, and people are allowed to go home early after hard nights. Your quirk? You didn’t use it to hurt anyone. You used it to do something good, something nobody else could have done. Who’s going to prosecute you for that?

You can think of prosecutors who would, but it’ll be a tough fight, and you know people who will have your back. And there’s something it reminds you of, something you can’t look at too closely right now. You can deal with it later. Right now you have to get on top of the impulse to use, something that’s all but immune to rationality and reason. You can hold it off, sure. Not for long. And not alone.

When you take out your phone, there are messages from Endgame. You can’t deal with those right now, either. Instead you scroll downwards to the treatment center’s overnight line, wiping at your eyes as the phone rings twice. It’s Nakayama who picks up, and you start talking before she can prompt you. “I’m out on patrol. Something happened and I got triggered. Can I stay on the phone with you while I try to get home?”

“Of course.” Nakayama’s voice is soft, calm. You know that voice. You can hear yourself using it, sometimes, when you’re out on patrol trying to talk someone down. “Where are you right now?”

You give her your approximate location, then ask her not to share it. “I can get back on my own. I just need some company.”

“I hear you. Let’s figure out the best way to get you home before you start walking. Where’s the nearest train station?”

“It’s too late for trains.”

“It’s morning,” Nakayama tells you. “If you get to your nearest station, you won’t have to wait too long. Do you feel like you can make it there?”

You wipe your eyes one last time, get to your knees, then your feet. “Yeah. I can get there.”

The walk home isn’t quite a blur. For some part of you, it’s like you never left the world-that-was, never left the streets. It’s late and you’re tired and you’re hurt and all you want is to not feel for a little while. But it’s different now. You know it’s different, and in case you needed proof, a crisis response team on the daylight shift actually stops you. This time it’s Uraraka Ochako, with a de-escalation specialist you haven’t met before, both of them staring at you with concern. “It looks like you’re having a rough night,” the specialist says carefully. “Can we do anything to help?”

You shake your head. “I’m okay. I’m on the phone with someone who said they’d keep me company for the walk, and I’m not far from home. I can get there in one piece.”

They don’t look like they believe you. You probably wouldn’t believe you – your sleeve is bloody, and you look like you’ve been bawling your eyes out. When you fish your badge out of your pocket, their expressions clear in a hurry. “You were with Endgame at the rescue tonight,” Uraraka says, and your stomach lurches. “I’m going to let him know we found you. He’s really worried.”

Your need for a hit roars back, then doubles. All you’ve done tonight is fuck up. He shouldn’t be worrying about you. The fact that he’s worried about you means you’ve crossed way too many lines with him, like an idiot, and you’ve ruined everything, again – “Deep breaths,” Nakayama says softly in your ear, and you force yourself to count them out. “You’re almost home. Answer them and they’ll let you go.”

Right. If you want to get out of here before you have a public breakdown, you need to answer them. “Thanks,” you say to Uraraka. “Everything’s fine.”

She buys it. The de-escalation specialist doesn’t, but keeps his mouth shut. “Nice work on the rescue tonight,” he says instead. “Everybody’s talking about it.”

Probably because Endgame’s been worrying about you on the team channel. Because you acted like a lunatic and made him worry about you, which you did because you suck. You count out your breaths again before you try to speak. “Thanks. Good luck out there.”

You ask Nakayama to talk to you the rest of the way back to the treatment center, and she does, telling you about what happened in tonight’s art group and how Honey finally finished the voodoo doll she’s been making of Gentle Criminal – and how Himiko handed her a knife she definitely wasn’t supposed to have so she could stab it. She describes how hard Eri laughed, how she decided she wants to make a voodoo doll, too. You won’t be much help with that. You don’t even know how to sew. And if you were going to make one, who would it even be of? Deku? All Might? All For One? Who do you blame for everything that’s gone wrong?

You. What’s happened is your fault. And you’ve spent enough time stabbing yourself with needles full of poison for a lifetime.

When you finally make it to the treatment center, Nakayama comes out to the employee entrance to greet you. “I let the detox side of things know you’ll need the day off,” she says. You’re too drained to argue. “It might be a good idea to eat and get some rest.”

You think so. You shower in the staff bathrooms instead of the patient ones, eat in the staff breakroom rather than the communal dining room, and sneak back into your shared room only once you’re sure Himiko’s left for breakfast. With some food in your stomach and all your crying done in the shower, you’re almost too tired to set an alarm so you’ll wake up in time for treatment in the afternoon. And once you’ve set it, you find yourself fumbling over to your messages, to see what Endgame’s been sending you.

Endgame: what just happened

Endgame: where did you go?

Endgame: don’t do this tonight

Endgame: is it because I said we’re friends?

Maybe you shouldn’t be reading these. They’re making you want to smother yourself. After that, there’s a missed call or two. He called you twice in a row, without leaving messages, and you try to picture his expression as you let them both go to voicemail. Was he angry with you? Probably. You never went dark on Tomura, but if you did and everything turned out to be fine, he’d have been pissed. He’s probably really pissed at you, and maybe that’s a good thing. You keep scrolling.

Endgame: you don’t have to talk to me or anybody. please just let me know you’re okay.

Right – he knows all about your backstory, so he’s probably worried you ran off to get high. Which you would have, if your coping skills hadn’t kicked in at the last second. You text him back, knowing it’s a stupid idea. Still sober.

not what I asked. are you okay?

You weren’t expecting him to text back this fast. Or to still be awake. Maybe he’s been doing press or something – or the end-of-shift documentation, which must be hell after a shift like that. I ran into another team on my way home. They said they’d tell you.

They did. I wanted to hear from you. Endgame’s typing icon hovers for a long time. what happened?

The stress must have gotten to me. I’m just going to sleep it off. You need to get out of this conversation, just like you’ve needed to get out of your feelings all night. You should rest, too.

Yeah. I’ve got one more thing to do first. Endgame’s next text comes in a few seconds later. sleep well.

You mean to say the same thing to him. It would be rude not to. But your mind feels so foggy and exhausted that you can’t figure out how to say it in a way that won’t come across as too familiar, as too obvious, as too big of a hint that you feel more for him than you should. Finally you set your phone aside and fall asleep.

When you wake up, it’s to chaos – Himiko’s in your room, which is also her room, but so is Eri, and when you peer around them, you see the tops of Honey’s ponytails bobbing in the doorway. “Look at this,” Eri says, pushing her phone at you. “You’re on the news.”

“Everybody’s talking about it,” Honey adds. “You have to tell us what happened.”

“It’s in the paper, too,” Birdie announces, shouldering past Honey. “Here, sign this. Since you’re famous now, I might be able to hawk it.”

“There’s a special report on in ten minutes. Sugimura said we can all watch,” Eri says. She pats your shoulder – not your injured one. You’ve been sleeping on that one for hours, and it hurts like hell. “Wake up and come with us.”

You mumble assent, and Himiko shoos the other three out, promising them that she’ll get you there on time. Once they’re gone, she sits down at the edge of the bed. “Somebody stopped by and left something for you,” she says, and she lifts a familiar box into your field of vision. “Do you know who?”

You don’t want to think about it – Endgame, at the end of a long shift, heading home to a wife who’s pissed that he’s back to working nights. Endgame, who’s got every reason to go straight home. Endgame, who stopped by the treatment center instead, to drop off the box of pastries for you. You shake your head in answer to Himiko’s question, and although you’re sure she knows you’re lying, for once she lets it go.

“Okay,” Midoriya says. He looks at you across the table, and you look blankly back. “We’ve got some stuff to go through today.”

“Yeah.” You still feel hollow, in spite of the fact that you ate two of the pastries Endgame left for you. The ones the two of you were supposed to share. “Where do you want to start?”

“First, I wanted to tell you I’m proud of you,” Midoriya says, and you look up, startled. “Not for your work last night. I mean, I’m proud of that, too. But I’m really proud of the part where you asked for help when you felt like you couldn’t cope alone. That’s a lot harder to do than most people understand. It really shows how much you’ve grown from when I first met you.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew what I was thinking about before.”

“Did you use?” Midoriya doesn’t wait for an answer. “I’m proud of you. You’re a lot stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

You’re too tired to argue, and there’s something you’ve been thinking of, something you’ve been turning over in your head as you stumbled through this afternoon’s group treatment sessions. “I think I figured it out,” you say, and Midoriya raises his eyebrows. “What the doctor and the Meta Liberation Army are doing.”

Midoriya nods eagerly. He pulls out his notebook, and you struggle to lay out your thought process. It felt clear to you earlier, and it’s hard to say now. “I recognized the equipment they were using on that kid. It’s the same kind the doctor used on Tomura, to give him the extra quirks. And on the news I heard a Detnerat spokesperson apologizing that someone had stolen their tech and used it like this. Except – the equipment didn’t look pieced together. It looked like it was made that way.”

Midoriya is nodding. “And the Meta Liberation Army – they’d want to be able to give people quirks, wouldn’t they? That way they don’t have to deal with quirkless people. They can take the weak and make them strong.”

“I think so,” you say. “For Detnerat to build that equipment, they’d have to be in contact with the doctor. And with All For One dead, the doctor would have needed a patron who could fund his research off the books. I think they might be working together.”

“I think you might be right,” Midoriya says. “And I think I know how to make them show themselves.”

“Really?”

Midoriya nods. He flips a few pages back in his notebook, scans it, and then looks up at you. “In your history, you said that the Meta Liberation Army provoked the League of Villains on purpose. They wanted to destroy them, so that they could be the ones to lead the revolution against hero society. Is that right?”

You nod. “Since they haven’t done anything in this timeline, I think the only way they’ll come out into the open is if they think they’re losing their chance,” Midoriya says. “Obviously, we can’t just make up a rival group of villains, so our best shot is to do it legally.”

Legal stuff isn’t exactly your specialty. “How?”

“By passing legislation to legalize quirk usage for everyone, not just heroes,” Midoriya says. He flips back to the front of his notebook and starts writing, although you can’t imagine he’s writing fast enough to keep up with the words flying out of his mouth. “The legislation’s been on the back burner for years. Every so often somebody floats the idea, and as soon as it picks up any traction, the HPSC crushes it. Their contention is that ordinary people using their quirks is dangerous and irresponsible, and makes things worse rather than better. But after yesterday –”

He fumbles on his desk, then holds up a newspaper copy, the same one that Birdie joked about wanting you to sign earlier today. “We’ve got proof that they’re wrong.”

You didn’t really look at the headline before. You wanted to go back to sleep. But you take a closer look and see that the cover photo is actually two photos. On one side is Midoriya, lowering the mad scientist safely down to the police. On the other side is Endgame, carrying one of the kids and leading the others out to safety.

That’s the picture that captivates you, but you know that’s not what Midoriya wants you to look at. “Your press clippings look good. That’s a lot nicer than they usually are to vigilantes.”

“I thought they were going to put up a Wanted poster,” Midoriya admits, and you snort. The idea of Midoriya’s bright-eyed, way-too-earnest expression in his tie-dyed All Might onesie on a Wanted poster is absurd. “But it’s not the photos I want you to look at. Check out the headline.”

You read it in silence at first. Then you read it aloud. “Civilians’ quirks aid hero in miracle rescue.”

“Civilians,” Midoriya says, stressing the plural. “They’re talking about you, too.”

“They shouldn’t,” you say at once. “I’m not a hero.”

“That’s not what it says. It says you’re a civilian, and that’s the point,” Midoriya says, his voice pitching upwards with excitement. “Without your quirk, those kids wouldn’t have been rescued. No one would have even known they were there. And under our current laws you could be charged for using your quirk to find them.”

Your stomach drops. “Not that you’re going to be charged,” Midoriya says hastily. He shoves the paper at you again, pointing out a sentence he’s underlined. Something about the district attorney issuing a statement saying they’ve got no plans to prosecute you. “But that’s the thing. There are people all across Japan who aren’t heroes, who could do something good with their quirks. Who could make a difference. And right now there’s no room for people who can do what heroes can’t. All the law allows for is punishment.”

He sucks down a breath, then keeps going. “That’s the Meta Liberation Army’s whole point, right? Suppression of quirks is wrong. It limits people’s freedom and it prevents society from advancing. They think it’ll take a revolution to fix society, but what if it doesn’t? What if we do it on our own? Then it won’t be the HPSC who tries to stop it –”

“It’ll be them,” you say. “The only thing bigger than Re-Destro’s forehead was his ego. He thinks it’s his destiny to lead the revolution. He won’t take it well if someone else does it.”

“And if he somehow does, then we’re still fine,” Midoriya says. “If they don’t revolt, things change for the better, and nobody gets hurt.”

He looks at you, his eyes bright. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s naïve,” you say flatly. “Someone always gets hurt.”

“Maybe,” Midoriya says. “Maybe nothing can change for the better without someone, somewhere being hurt. You probably know that better than I do.”

You do. There’s no change anyone can make that will be better for everyone. There will always be someone left behind. “But think about it,” Midoriya says quietly. He leans forward, like he’s telling a secret, like whatever he’s about to say is too fragile to survive in open air. “What if it didn’t take a war to change the world?”

“There was a war,” you say. “It didn’t change anything.”

“So it’s time to try something new,” Midoriya says. “What do you think?”

You think it’s crazy. When you think about the doctor, when you think about the MLA, all you can think about is the nightmare they unleashed, a nightmare you never woke up from in the world-that-was. The Hero Killer’s fate was one thing. Overhaul’s fate was another. But this is different. This is worse. You can’t imagine a confrontation with them that ends in anything but disaster, just like it did before.

But it doesn’t have to be like it was before. Tomura won’t be facing Re-Destro and the Meta Liberation Army alone – he’ll have Midoriya on his side, and other heroes behind him, and maybe the MLA will let society change without starting a civil war. The doctor, wherever he is, can’t get to Tomura now, and All For One has been dead for twenty years or more. It can be different. You’ve lived in this world long enough to know how different it can be.

You look up at Midoriya. “The past harmonizes, right?” you say, and he nods. “Maybe it’ll go better this time. I just don’t know how we do it.”

“All Might can help with that,” Midoriya says confidently. “He’s the most respected hero in Japan. If he calls for a change in the laws, people will answer. And the government will have to answer anyway. They’re catching a lot of heat for why they weren’t using your quirk to find missing people the entire time.”

“It was Eri’s idea,” you say. “I wouldn’t have thought of it without her.”

“You should tell her,” Midoriya says, and you nod. It’s quiet for a little while after that, and Midoriya’s got the look on his face that means he’s got something to say, something he knows you probably don’t want to hear. “I wasn’t sure whether to say this, but you mentioned the past harmonizing already. I was wondering if you want to talk about this.”

You don’t need to ask him what he means. You see it when he turns the newspaper to the second page and holds it out. Most of the page is taken up by a photo spread chronicling every piece of the rescue, and your eyes are drawn immediately to a photo in the lower right corner. Endgame���s in it. So are you.

You’re sitting up, upright on the tailgate of an ambulance instead of lying across the back, and it’s clear in the photo that you aren’t steady. You must not be, or else there’d be no reason for Endgame’s hands on you, one on your shoulder and one on your hip, to keep you from falling back. You spent most of the wound-tending session trying to avoid looking at Endgame, but for this single moment, you were looking up at him, your eyes intent on his face. The camera caught you looking at him. And worse than that, it caught him looking at you.

You’ve seen that expression on his face. It’s the one he wore when he asked if you knew each other, if he’d seen you somewhere before. And the longer you look at the photo, the more you see, things you wouldn’t have noticed because you were too lost in your efforts to hide how you felt. You know how Endgame touches the people he saves – hands mostly open, always one finger lifted, even though he has control of his quirk. That’s not how he’s holding you. The hand on your waist and the one on your shoulder both have all five fingers down.

You can’t look at it. You avert your eyes and shove the paper back towards Midoriya. “What am I supposed to talk about?”

“Nakayama told me what happened last night,” Midoriya says, and you let your eyes fall shut. “It’s got something to do with whatever was happening here, right?”

“Yeah. I fucked everything up, and I called Nakayama so I wouldn’t stick a fucking needle in my arm.” The venom in your own voice, the hatred, shocks you. You didn’t think this was in you anymore. “I humiliated myself. I ran away, like some overdramatic, pathetic piece of shit, and I made him worry about me – like I was doing it for attention or something –”

“Were you?” Midoriya asks. You open your eyes to glare at him. “Seriously. If you were really doing it for attention, then we can talk about that. If you weren’t doing it for attention –”

“I wasn’t,” you say. “That’s what I thought it would look like. What people would think.”

“We’re not talking about people right now. Just you,” Midoriya says. “What made you feel like you had to leave?”

You press the heels of your hands against your eyes, even though you’re not crying, trying to force some sense back into yourself. “It felt too much. I felt too much. It felt like it did before, but it wasn’t, and I felt like if I sat there any longer, he was going to see. And he was going to ask. And I didn’t –”

You trail off.  “I snapped over a box of pastries. How stupid is that?”

“That depends. What was it about the pastries?”

“They’re my favorite kind,” you say. You can’t look at Midoriya, can’t look at the picture in the paper – can’t even shut your eyes without seeing the way Endgame looked at you. You look down at your hands in your lap instead. “I never told him that this time. I remember everything we’ve talked about – I have to be so careful, or I’ll – and I never mentioned it. And that could be a lucky guess, right? He could have picked at random and gotten it right.”

“Right,” Midoriya agrees. “It’s good to be able to generate alternate explanations. What else about the pastries?”

“He got my favorite flavors. Two of each, so we could share.” Your voice goes quiet, frail. “That’s what I used to do when I’d buy food for us. Two of each kind, so we could both try them, and he could work out what he liked.”

Midoriya’s quiet. You know you’ve gotten far enough in therapy that you can piece this together out loud, that you can articulate your thought process without his help. That doesn’t mean you like doing it. “If it had just been the right pastries, or the right flavors, I could write it off,” you say. “Even if it was the right flavors and the right pastries. But getting two of each – it felt too close to be a coincidence, even though it was. I just couldn’t take it.”

“Too close to be a coincidence,” Midoriya echoes. It’s quiet for a moment. “You know what? I don’t think it was a coincidence at all.”

Your stomach lurches. “Now who’s got the delusional architecture?”

“You were never delusional,” Midoriya says. He smiles slightly. “We talk about how the past harmonizes – your past, with our present. It happens over and over again – with Eri, with Spinner, with me. It sounds a little different, but it’s the same notes, the same people. Why couldn’t that happen with you and Endgame?”

“Because that’s not the deal I made. I gave him up,” you say. Your voice shakes, even though it shouldn’t. It’s been so many years. “I don’t get him back.”

“Have you been trying to get him back?” Midoriya asks. You shake your head. “Then –”

“They’re fighting. Him and his wife. He was upset about it tonight, and I asked if he was okay –”

“Like a friend would?” Midoriya asks. “You’ve been honest with me, and nothing you’ve told me about your interactions with Endgame have suggested that you’ve crossed lines. If you and Endgame are growing closer, it’s because being closer to you is something he wants – and you’re shaking your head. What about that do you find hard to believe?”

Everything. “I know what I gave up,” you say again. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“You know what you gave up,” Midoriya repeats, instead of backing off. You grit your teeth. “In changing history with your wish, you created a timeline where you and Tomura never met at nineteen. You didn’t meet him then. There’s nothing in the conditions of your wish that says you couldn’t meet him later on.”

“No,” you admit. “When I made the wish, the entity said that I’d live to see every result of it.”

“That’s not the same thing as saying you’d never see him again.”

No, it’s not. Every result of your wish leaves a lot of possibilities open – way more than you’d ever have guessed on that first morning, when you woke up and realized what you’d given away in exchange for Tomura’s long and happy life. You’ve found yourself in a place you could never have imagined that day, or even three years ago, and Tomura has what you wanted for him. A long and happy life. And there’s nothing in the bargain you made that said you could never be part of it.

You lower your head into your hands. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“The same thing we all do,” Midoriya says. “Keep living, and see what happens next.”

You don’t want to hope. Hoping makes you feel sick. “That blows.”

Midoriya sighs and leans back in his chair. “Tell me about it,” he says. “At least we’re not alone with it, right?”

“Yeah,” you admit. Your life, every bit of it but the last three years, scrolls through your mind – moment after moment with no one to talk to, nowhere to turn, nowhere to go but deeper into your own mind. As much as this sucks – “It’s better this way.”

<- part 1

taglist: @f3r4lfr0gg3r @evilcookie5 @lvtuss @shigarakislaughter @deadhands69 @shikiblessed @xeveryxstarfallx @babybehh @atspiss @baking-ghoul @minniessskii @dance-with-me-in-hell @boogiemansbitch @agente707 @handumb @warxhammer @issaortiz @cheeseonatower @koohiii @lacrimae-lotos @stardustdreamersisi @aslutforfictionalmen

[xeveryxstarfallx]

The Cassandra Complex- webweave (a story on grief and the end of the world)

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Demolition lovers as a J. C. Leyendecker painting

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Fairytale Seinfeld. Elaine pretends to be mute to date a guy exclusively into mermaids. Jerry haggles for a parking space with Rumplestiltskin. George gets “Hansel and Gretled.” Kramer inherits magic beans.

[xeveryxstarfallx]

omg can I invite my boyfriend to brunch? he’s like super chill, I promise! 😇🖤✨

should I finish coloring this lol 🤍🤍🤍🤍

[xeveryxstarfallx]

autumn walks 🍁🎃☕️🍂

[xeveryxstarfallx]

THE ENTIRE WEST IS BEING PUT UP FOR SALE AND I AM BEGGING YOU TO CALL YOUR SENATORS

Trump’s budget bill has many, many things in it, but buried amongst it is the MILLIONS OF ACRES OF PUBLIC LAND FOR SALE.

This is the entirety of the Arizona state forests, the entire Cascades mountain range. Swathes of pristine desert around the national parks in Utah. On the doorstep of Jackson Hole.

THIS BILL IS BIG, BUT IT CAN BE AMENDED AND ABSOLUTELY MUST NOT PASS AS IS please.

If you have ever enjoyed the wilderness, we stand to lose it all forever.

CALLING your senators - NOT JUST IN THE WEST. ALL SENATORS, is CRUCIAL.

Outdoor alliance has a great resource for reaching out.

I don’t have a huge following but please, everywhere I have ever loved, the forests I grew up playing in, the land I got married on, is all at risk and I am begging.

[xeveryxstarfallx]

The biggest theme woven throughout the entire story of My Hero Acadamia has always been that everyone, regardless of who they are or what they've done, deserves a second chance.

Izuku Midoriya, despite being born without a quirk, still deserves the chance to become a hero, to save people like he always dreamed.

Katsuki Bakugo, despite being a bully, still deserves the chance to apologize and grow, to become better, and to live up to the image others had of him.

Eri, despite being cursed with a power she can't control, still deserves to the chance be saved, to take back her happiness and smile once again.

Eijiro Kirishima, despite cowering in the face of danger, still deserves the chance to show how brave he is, to stand and defend those he cares about.

Danjuro Tobita, despite his failure to achieve his dream, still deserves the chance to try again, to help those in need and be the hero he always wanted to be.

Enji Todoroki, despite the pain he put his family through, still deserves the chance to make amends, to atone for what he's done and begin to make things right.

Izuku Midoriya, despite losing the quirk that made him a hero, still deserves the chance to be one, to try and fulfill his dream once again, with the support of everyone who cares about him.

So to see that story sacrifice its core theme and deny that second chance to the ones who needed it the most all in the name of being more realistic feels so disheartening. To see it draw a line in the sand as if to say "Sorry. Only some of you deserve this" feels so disingenuous. And to see it treat this outcome like a happy ending, to hint at the idea of making only a few small changes to the world that had a direct hand in creating the ones who most needed that second chance, to imply that the punishment they faced was just because of the actions they took after being denied that second chance, is infuriating.

[xeveryxstarfallx]

🍂 ⊹₊ ⋆ 𝕽𝖚𝖗𝖆𝖑 𝖆𝖚𝖙𝖚𝖒𝖓 ⊹₊ ⋆ 🍂

[xeveryxstarfallx]

Here at the Host Club we account for every possible taste in men: blond, evil, tall, babey, two of them, and girls

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editing challenge vs. @cosettepontmercys ❀ favorite hadestown song

Wait for me? I will.

[xeveryxstarfallx]

WAIT FOR ME (REPRISE)

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“who is linkin park?” - one shot KO by my younger coworker

[xeveryxstarfallx]

foggy days in the fall