𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑽𝑬𝑫 𝑨𝑭𝑭𝑬𝑪𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵 ➣ Dabi

healer

"What the fuck happened?!" Shigaraki yells before you can even sit down. You immediately jump up and stand behind Dabi, who stares coolly at him, not even fazed by his temper. Your eyes fall down to the bleeding wound in his arms and legs. Kurogiri holds him up, quickly setting him down on the bar. You were busy escaping the police to watch the screen and help them. Granted, you left the two hundred yard perimeter so you couldn't help even if you wanted to.

You rush to his side, assessing the severity of each wound. Bullets. He was shot with bullets. You can't heal him until you're sure the bullets are out of his body. So there's another reason you couldn't heal him, even if the police never showed up. 

"I need tweezers," you say, ripping his clothing near the wounds. You take a few cloths from the back of the bar and use them to cover his bleeding injury hoping he stays conscious and doesn't bleed out. 

Dabi hands you a tweezer, or a type of tweezer, that he found in one of the cabinets. You immediately get to work, taking your belt off and shoving it in Shigaraki's mouth so he doesn't grind his teeth together. He fights back but Dabi and Kurogiri hold his arms down so he doesn't touch anything. Your murmur, "I'm sorry" and begin the procedure. You take one bullet out and quickly heal that injury before moving onto the next. He might be a villain and he might've just tried to kill All Might but you can let him die. If you let him die, are you any better than he is? Maybe it's your quirk. Maybe it's the fact that your sole purpose as a quirk is to help others heal and grow stronger. You're that little push they need to be better. So your whole life, you've felt the need to heal others. Blood and gore wasn't your favorite in the beginning but you can handle moderate amounts now. Shigaraki's bullet wounds aren't affecting you which makes it easier for you to focus and heal him before he loses anymore blood.

He writhes in pain, jerking his body and making it harder for you to work. You take a deep breath and open you mouth to repeat the words your mother would sing to you when you were afraid.

The room goes silent, the only sound is your quiet voice whispering the soothing words that you used to fall asleep to. It's a surprise Shigaraki was even able to stay conscious after getting shot. He's lost a fair amount of blood. You'll have to get him to rest so his body can regenerate. He didn't lose enough to need a blood transplant but enough that he needs rest and sleep. Plus, with your help, he'll won't need to be bedridden for so long since you can speed up his cells.

You continue to work, continue to sing and gently calm Shigaraki down as you work. Toga and Twice end up walking into the room but Dabi quickly shushes them before they can break out and speak. You need all the concentration you can get.

Finally. You remove the last bullet, dropping it on the ground and somehow managing to break the tension. His wound slowly heals to nothing but a light scar. You let out a shaky breath and step back. He sits up and stares at you.

You storm off, yanking your arm out of Dabi's grasp when he tries to keep you near him.

"Doll", he says.

You shake your head. They watch you leave. They watch you slam the door shut behind you and pound up the stairs to the bathroom. Once you shut the door, you break down in tears. Blood coats your hands and you somehow managed to get some on your forehead and cheeks. When you try to rub it off you only smear it more. Resulting in more tears from you.

Is this your life now? Helping the villains? Staying locked in a room with no escape? Do people even know you're missing? Does anyone? Or are you just a person who no one cares about? How many weeks has it been? Two? Three? And no one seems to be looking. And if they are, they aren't looking hard enough.

You sink the floor with your hand over your bleeding heart, the other clutching your throat as if that would make the hands of anxiety leave you alone. Gasping for breaths, for release, you lie down and close your eyes, dreaming of your life beforehand.

A knock on the door doesn't seem to faze you. You're practically asleep and all the healing has resulted in a headache that's just pounding against your skull. You don't heal large wounds like that often because it results in migraines and your emotions go haywire. So here you are, sobbing on the bathroom floor, half asleep, with a piercing migraine.

You ignore whoever walks in and sighs. You're in too much pain to even think about moving. Luckily, you don't have to.

"Come on, mouse," he says, gently lifting you up. "Let's get the blood off and you in bed."

You groan. He chuckles and helps you to lean against his body as he puts your hands in the sink, the blood staining the water red. Then he grabs a rag and wipes the smears of blood off your face before picking you up bridal style and carrying you to your bedroom. You curl against him, at his warmth. He's so warm. How is he so warm? You weakly lift a hand and grab onto his shirt to get closer to him. He scoffs lightly.

"Long day, huh?" You nod. "Does your quirk do this?"

You nod again. He opens the door, still holding you, and walks in. Gently pulling back the covers, he lays you down. For a guy who murdered a police officer in front of you, he can be surprisingly gentle when he needs to be. He doesn't seem like the type to be that way. In fact, he seems like the type to yell at you to go get him a new pack of cigarettes. Not carefully tuck you in and wipe the blood of your cheek.

He stands to leave, his warmth leaving your suddenly cold and shaking body, so you reach out and grab his hand.

"Don't go," you whisper. "Please."

You don't really know why you reached out. Why you asked him to stay. You don't like him. You definitely don't trust him. And yet, here you are, holding his hand and pleading with him to stay. At least for a little while. And to your astonishment, he does. He smiles softly, just barely but you see the upward tug of his lips, and carefully crawls into bed next you, tugging you close against his chest. At first, he's stiff. And he kind of looks uncomfortable but then you scoot closer to him and hold his hand, gently rubbing the scar covering his wrist.

"You know, I'm dangerous. You shouldn't want me here," he says quietly.

"I know," you whisper. "But you're warm."

He scoffs. "Go to sleep, Doll. I've got plans for you tomorrow." You stiffen. Plans? What plans? "Relax. It'll be fun."

What's his definition of fun? Because you feel like it's not similar to yours in the slightest. 

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