Maybe We'll fix Each Other

Chapter 5

Dabi's knees collided hard with the concrete floor. He nearly dropped Eri from his arms as he dropped down, pure exhaustion coursing through his body.

How he had managed to have enough left in him to grab Eri and run, he had no idea. His hands felt numb, both arms from the wrists to his elbows fried from the intensity of the blast he had shot at Eraser. That wave of fire had given him just enough time to disappear.

Hell, he didn't even know where they were now. Dabi had just...kept going until he couldn't anymore. His feet felt raw, and whatever that fuck from the yakuza had done to him was still lingering in his bones.

Eri slipped herself out of Dabi's hold, standing back and looking him over with tears in her eyes. Dabi grunted and forced himself back to his feet, trying–and failing–to hide his grimace of pain as he did so. He put a hand out and ruffled Eri's hair fondly before turning to look at where they had ended up.

It looked to be some kind of abandoned storehouse. There were rows of empty shelving units lining the floor, with some broken wooden pallets strewn about. If I thought my apartment was a shitty place for a kid...Dabi thought sourly. He took a step forward before freezing and taking in a sharp breath. He pressed his left hand to his right side where the stab wound was. Right. That's still a problem, too.

Eri didn't move from where she stood, wringing her hands anxiously in front of her as she watched Dabi like a hawk. This is all my fault, she thought, desperately trying to keep herself from crying. She could tell he was trying to hide it from her, but the way he was limping, the way she had felt him shaking from the strain of carrying her, the way he always turned his face away from her when he moved. It was obvious. He was hurt badly, and it was all because he was helping her.

When he froze and pressed his hand against his side, Eri felt her emotions suddenly shift. She was angry. Angry at Overhaul, angry at the people in their apartment, and angry at Dabi.

"Stop it!" she shouted at him, dropping her hands to angry little fists at her sides and stamping her foot. Dabi turned his head sharply towards her, expression surprised.

"Stop wha–" he began but cut himself off when Eri stomped over to him and pulled hard on his pant leg.

"Sit down," she commanded. Dabi made absolutely no move to do so, and simply had an unimpressed expression on his face with one eyebrow raised.

"Really?" he deadpanned.

Eri huffed angrily before moving around behind him and suddenly pushing hard on the back of his right knee. Dabi yelped as his leg gave out, and had to flail his free hand to the side to catch himself on an old shelving unit. But not before he was already halfway to the ground. The effort of catching himself used up whatever energy he had left, and Dabi knew he wouldn't be able to stand back up for a while.

Spitting curses, he let himself drop the rest of the way, plopping down into a sitting position with his back supported by the shelf. He glared over at Eri, who was grinning smugly with her arms crossed. She knew him too well to be bothered by that glare of his anymore.

She would make him rest if he was too dumb to do it himself.

"The fuck was that for?" Dabi snapped at her. But Eri was going to stand her ground.

"You're hurt," she stressed, taking a worried step closer. Now that they weren't on the move and he was finally sitting down, she was able to take a good look at him. And he looked awful.

His hair was dirty and grimy, and there were a few trails of blood sliding down from his hairline. His right cheekbone and temple were a mess of blossoming black and purple bruising from where the Bullet had punched him. If his neck weren't so scarred, Eri was sure he would have a ring of bruises there to match, where he had been almost choked to death. The first set of staples on either side of his mouth had snapped, and the skin was slightly torn and bleeding. His hands seemed to be okay, but from the wrists up to his biceps were sleeves of actively blistering burns. And—most concerning—his left hand was pressing hard into his right side where he had been stabbed. His knuckles were white with the strength of his grip, and his side was soaked red.