Chapter Text
The dorms are quiet when Katsuki returns.
It’s not a particularly surprising observation considering it’s seven in the evening on a Saturday night and everyone’s home visiting family, but—the sight is admittedly odd nonetheless. Katsuki’s grown used to associating this space with loud noises and brightness, and now it’s just… silent.
All the visible lights in the student residence are off, but one window remains illuminated from the teachers’ quarter adjacent to the large building. Katsuki passes it as he trudges towards the entrance, peering inside subtly to see All Might propped against one of the common room chairs and fiddling with a roll of bandages. As if sensing the gaze, the gaunt man straightens, head snapping up to catch Katsuki’s eye.
“Oh, Young Bakugou!” he cries, dropping the roll. There’s blood on his hands, Katsuki observes with a distant horror. He’s become somewhat used to the sight of All Might’s injuries and constant bleeding, but it never gets any less hard to see. All Might follows his line of vision down to his bloodied hands and straightens, tucking them behind him haphazardly.
“Ah, nothing to worry about,” he says quickly.
“You’re hurt again,” Katsuki shoots back, trying to keep the accusation out of his voice. “What happened?”
“I am fine,” the retired hero assures him. “This… this is not my blood.”
“Wh—” Katsuki blinks, rearing his head back as he stomps forward until he’s standing in the doorway of the room. “Then who the fuck—”
“It is Aizawa-san’s.” All Might sounds grim, his lips pressing together in a tight line. “He sustained some injuries during his patrol today. He’ll be fine, so there’s nothing to worry about! What brings you to the school at this hour?”
Katsuki scowls, eyes narrowing.
“The hag was pissin’ me off so I decided to come back early for some fuckin’ peace and quiet,” he sniffs. “Don’t fuckin’ dodge the topic. What the fuck happened to Aizawa?”
“He sustained some injuries,” All Might repeats patiently. “He is fine. Is everything okay with your mother? If you’d like, I can give her a call—”
“Don’t,” Katsuki grits out, “treat me like a fucking kid. I’m not a kid.”
The older man smiles kindly, stooping to pick up the dropped bandages and winding them back together tightly before tucking them back into the first aid box splayed out over the table.
“I would never,” he placates, shuffling over to the sink by the window to meticulously rinse the red from his hands. “I just did not want to worry you. Aizawa was attacked by a villain during his patrol, but she was detained quickly. His injuries are light and few.”
Katsuki huffs, crossing his arms.
“What kind of quirk could she have had to pull one over fuckin’ Aizawa?” he demands.
“She did not have the chance to use her quirk,” the man chuckles, eyes twinkling with fondness at the begrudging respect in Katsuki’s voice. “She caught him off guard when he was preoccupied and I was there to assist with the arrest before any serious damage could be done.”
Katsuki’s arms drop to his sides, his mouth falling open.
“You—what!? Why the hell were you—why were you there!? You shouldn’t be fucking patrolling in your condition, you know—”
All Might laughs again, putting down the towel he’s been using to dry his hands and turning to face him. It’s a wonder how the man can laugh in his face and not sound patronising.
“I was not patrolling. I was passing by, and played a very minor role. I appreciate your concern, Young Bakugou, but you have nothing to worry about.”
The student huffs, crossing his arms again quickly and straightening.
“I wasn’t worried,” he snaps roughly. “Where the fuck is Aizawa, anyway?”
The soft look the taller man is giving him lets him know that he’s not being very convincing.
“He is in the student common room,” he says, reaching out to rest a hand in Katsuki’s hair carefully. “Would you like to—”
Katsuki is already looking away sulkily, the way he always does when All Might does sappy shit like pet him and he has to pretend he doesn’t care about it. But when the man’s words trail off into silence, hand twitching against Katsuki’s scalp once before his fingers curl slowly, the teenager glances upward.
All Might is still watching him, but his smile is frozen static across his face, and there’s a light creeping into his gaze, tingeing almost golden around the edges of his icy irises. Something in the air shifts, an inexplicable pit of dread unfurling slowly in the base of Katsuki’s gut.
“Huh,” he grunts, narrowing his eyes warily. “Old man, you good?”
The man doesn’t respond, still staring. Then, spasmodically, his grip tightens in a twitch, then sharply all at once until Katsuki’s head jerks back painfully.
“Oi—!”
He’s released suddenly, stumbling backward with the force of it.
It feels like he’s been doused in cold water, his scalp stinging persistently and stomach churning with a familiar kind of apprehension that he normally only ever feels on the field.
He watches, incredulous, as All Might turns on his heel with a robotic, jerky kind of stiffness, reaching to the kitchenette counter to grasp the electric kettle there. He yanks at it in one abrupt movement, tearing the plug out of its socket with an unsettling crackle. It’s hot, Katsuki realises dimly as the other turns towards him, kettle held limply at his side as steam rises in wisps from its spout. The water inside it splashes around, spilling over the edges at All Might’s erratic movement. The hero’s wrist turns red where droplets catch on his skin, but he doesn’t flinch, his dark eyes glued to Katsuki.
“Hey, All Might…” Katsuki begins, uneasy. The kettle is lifted slowly, and he realises with a churn of his gut that his teacher isn’t smiling. The sight is disconcerting, and his hands fist at his sides unsurely as he takes a step backward.
Neither of them moves for a long, drawn-out moment. It’s—All Might looks angry. The tall man strides forward, matching each step that Katsuki stumbles back until the student can see the gold ringing his eyes, now pronounced and glimmering in the dimness of the night.
It’s a quirk, Katsuki realises. It has to be, there’s no other explanation for the sudden change, for the inexplicable anxiety rearing its head in his throat.
He’s just reaching in his pocket for his phone when All Might moves. It’s instinct, the way Katsuki ducks to the side. There’s a loud clatter, and then cold tingles crawl up his forearms where he’s raised them to protect his face. He straightens, eyeing the wall behind where he’d just been standing. There’s a dent in the paint, and the surface shimmers with moisture. The coolness pricking at his arms heats to an aching sear all at once, and Katsuki’s wide stare drops down to the plastic kettle shattered at the floor, before shifting to a static All Might. He’d just thrown—
“Fuck,” he breathes, breath catching in his throat. His arms burn. “What…”
All Might is already turning on his heel, arms reaching blindly as he fumbles for his next weapon of choice. When his knobbly fingers close around a butter knife sitting at the edge of the sink, Katsuki’s mouth snaps shut, throat clicking. The knife is lifted, metal gleaming menacingly under the harsh illumination of the room. All Might turns to him again with those dark, glowing eyes, and Katsuki turns and runs.
He’s barely made it into the student building when he catches sight of the light in the main area, and his heart jumps where it’s been hammering in his chest. All Might had said—before… before that—that Aizawa was in the student common room. Katsuki skids around the corner, and when his eyes fall on that familiar black-cloaked figure, he wheezes with relief.
“Aizawa,” he shouts from the entrance. The door has slipped shut behind him already but the sound of All Might’s light, erratic footfalls behind him at the teachers’ building have already signalled that he is being followed. His teacher turns at the call, tired eyes widening at Katsuki’s state.
“... Bakugou? What are you doing h—”
“Sensei, you have to—All Might is going fucking crazy! I think he got hit by a quirk, I—he tried to fucking kill me!”
His teacher looks more fatigued than normal, he realises distantly as he draws closer. His eyebags are pronounced, and there’s a bandage wrapped around his bicep that’s already beginning to darken with a pink tinge at the center. Despite all of this, the man looks as alert as always, dark eyes narrowing.
“Slow down,” he says calmly. “Tell me what happened.”
Now that he’s reached Aizawa, most of the initial tension is rapidly sapped from his body, leaving a muddled mess of adrenaline. “All Might,” he says, sucking in a large breath. He’s not like this; typically, he’s the one who stays calm during emergencies, and the juxtaposition seems to only raise Aizawa’s tension further. “All Might is coming. He was just in the teachers’ quarters, he’ll be here any minute. He—something happened. He threw a kettle at me, sensei, I don’t—he looked different.”
“Okay. Did something happen to trigger it?” his teacher demands, stepping forward to place himself between Katsuki and the entrance instantly. The movement has Katsuki’s chest loosening instinctively, and he shoves down the childish feeling of safety that it evokes.
“I—Not while I was there. He didn’t even say anything, he just—” There’s a rustling outside, and then a dull thud from the other side of the door. Katsuki freezes, and Aizawa stiffens, hair rising slowly.
“Stay calm,” his teacher demands, hand reaching out behind him to blindly grasp Katsuki’s wrist.
“I am calm!” he snaps back, voice terse. There’s another thud, but Aizawa doesn’t move.
“Are we just gonna fucking wait?! ”
He slips lower, hands at his sides as he gears for a fight. The grip on his wrist doesn’t loosen, and he pulls away weakly. Aizawa’s hand tightens.
“Sensei,” he bites out, unable to read anything from his teacher’s turned back except for the tension that lines his body.
He tugs his arm back, harder this time, and Aizawa jerks around with the movement, not letting go. His face is expressionless as usual, but his eyes are—they’re ringed with gold.
Katsuki stares for a long moment, throat dry as his heart drops down to his stomach. The previous relief—the security—he’d felt disappears, replaced with horror.
“Shit,” he croaks. “No, you—no.”
Aizawa doesn’t respond, tilting his head to the side as he stares heavy and dark at Katsuki. The gold around his irises shimmers, glowing sinisterly.
“Sensei,” he breathes. His teacher’s grip tightens, fingers digging unforgivingly into the flesh of Katsuki’s wrist until the skin turns white.
There’s dread sinking into Katsuki’s stomach, and he gathers all the strength he can muster, before yanking his arm from his teacher’s hold and turning to the opposite exit.
He makes it all of three metres before there’s an unyielding hand at the back of his head, fisting in his hair and wrenching him back. He makes a choked sound in the depths of his throat, and his head is slammed forward against the granite of the kitchen counter.
The impact alone is enough to make pain erupt in his temple, ears ringing loudly in the brief disorientation that follows. He wheezes, legs giving out from under him as his forehead throbs sharply. His limbs scrabble beneath him, futilely seeking purchase on the smooth tiled floor.
The hand tugs him up harshly by his hair, almost pulling it out at the roots, and he makes a low, keening noise as he’s pitched forward another time, the counter catching his face this time. His head spins, and his nose pulsates for a long moment before warm wetness begins to drip from it. Katsuki sucks in a wet inhale, letting the vertigo settle briefly before he drops down and rolls away, ignoring the sharp sting of his hair being ripped from Aizawa’s ruthless grasp.
He manages to get to his feet, stumbling to a crouch and careening towards the opposite outer door without looking back. His mind is scrambling, body moving on autopilot. It takes him a beat to realise there are no footsteps behind him, and he furtively glimpses back to see his teacher stalking toward him leisurely, gold-lined irises stark against dull eyes. He walks soundlessly, unhurried, like a panther tracking its prey, and for the first time in his life, Katsuki feels pure, unadulterated fear fill his body.
For all his bluster and determination, he’s under no illusions about the gap in skill and experience that still exists between himself and a seasoned pro like his teacher. Aizawa overpowers him on a daily basis without even needing to exert himself, and he’s taken out dozens of high-level villains singlehandedly. There’s a reason that the students—Katsuki included—respect him as much as they do, and normally this overwhelming strength is a source of comfort for Katsuki, but right now—
Right now, Katsuki doesn’t stand a chance.
He turns tail and runs once more, self-contempt thrumming low in his gut.
He finally stumbles out to the exit, only to come face to face with All Might, who’s standing in the garden a few feet from the door and swaying slightly. He stands stagnant, like a puppet being held taut, but the second Katsuki shoves the door open, those glowing amber eyes turn to him unnervingly.
He’s still gripping that butter knife tightly at his side, unsmiling lips pressed together and rumpled white shirt hanging loosely from his frame.
Katsuki opens his mouth to speak, before closing it again. What the hell would he say, anyway? Pleading obviously won’t work, considering the man doesn’t even appear to be lucid.
Instead, he lets his teacher charge him, ducking away from the knife with little effort. If there’s anything to come from All Might’s retirement, he thinks morbidly, it’s that he doesn’t put up much of a fight in his weaker form. Not even against Katsuki, whose head still spins with the impact of Aizawa’s actions a minute ago, nose bleeding sluggishly. It’s cruel, and Katsuki feels bile rise bitter in his throat as he realises he’s essentially exploiting a weakness that he caused to the man in the first place. Without his muscular form, his attacks lack substantive force, and all he has to propel him is his experience in hand-to-hand. Considering Katsuki has spent a good decade of his life avidly studying every one of All Might’s fights—every technique and habit he has, both good and bad—and is currently being fuelled by an inordinate amount of adrenaline, the fight is over quickly.
He weaves past the next lunge, before grasping the taller man’s outstretched arm and using it to pull him into a sharp strike to the neck. All Might drops like a sack of rocks, and Katsuki jolts forward to cushion his fall subconsciously.
It feels wrong, in every sense of the word. All Might is everything Katsuki has ever respected, and now, after months of being afraid to hurt him by even breathing wrong, Katsuki has struck him down mercilessly. He’s taken advantage of the weakness that he caused, and now All Might is lying limp in his hands and Katsuki feels sick.
He swallows his guilt, sitting back on his haunches and reaching to unravel the compression bandages he’s had wound around his wrists since a particularly nasty spar with Deku a few days earlier. He wraps the first around the man’s wrists, binding them together tightly enough not to give, but not so tightly to cut circulation entirely. He then, after a moment’s reluctance, winds the other bandage around his teacher’s ankles, panic making his hands tremble, before lifting his frail form and propping it against the wall.
Then, he considers his options. Until now, he’s been running on pure instinct, but… this is important. He’s made it to the rear entrance of the school, which means that he could—if he really wanted to—just book it out of the school, maybe to a police station or to attract the attention of some hero nearby. There must be someone on patrol. Or he could call someone… but the question is, who? Aizawa is the teacher he’d typically call in a situation like this, and calling anyone else runs the same risk that leaving the school grounds would: danger to civilians. If he calls one of his classmates and they inevitably come to try and save his ass, he has no idea if Aizawa would hurt them. If he runs into the streets and Aizawa follows him? The teacher may well even kill a civilian. Extending this situation to anyone else, in any context, means by default that the risk will be extended beyond Katsuki’s safety alone. And he’s not willing to do that—not again. Not while he doesn’t know the scope of the quirk: whether it’s only him that’ll be targeted, whether it wears off, what it’ll take to stop it… how far it will go.
If Katsuki just stands back and accepts it, exactly what will Aizawa do to him? The strength with which All Might had thrown the kettle suggests an intent to kill, and Aizawa’s lack of restraint in the common kitchen area suggests the same. But… does that mean they won’t stop until he’s dead? Or is there a time limit to the quirk? He sincerely hopes it’s the latter, but as of now, it makes no difference to him. Either way, Aizawa is after him and seeking help is out of the question.
Of course, this choice is taken from him moments later anyway, so the point is moot. He’s just standing, staring at All Might’s prone body when there’s the silent click of a door sliding shut from the other side of the patio. Aizawa steps out smoothly, eyes glued to Katsuki even from the distance. Katsuki braces himself to run, but the teacher doesn’t move any closer to him. Instead, he reaches into his pocket, before tugging out and thumbing a device hanging from a keyring. Almost immediately after the button is pressed, there’s a metallic grinding from Katsuki’s side, and he watches with wide eyes as deep grooves slip open in a line from the ground, circling the perimeter of the dorms. Then, within seconds, thick metal partitions rise from the gaps, rapidly vertically expanding to creep upward and over the building until they meet at the center above the dorms with an ominous clang. Katsuki blinks up at the silver that encases them, before dropping his gaze down to where Aizawa has tucked the button back into his pocket, watching Katsuki silently. Still, the man makes no move, tilting his head once more as he appraises his student with darkly glinting eyes. With a sinking feeling in his gut, Katsuki realises that Aizawa is toying with him. He’s trapped Katsuki in this dome with him—a dome that was created, Katsuki remembers from the briefing when they’d first moved into the dorms, to protect the students, ironically enough—and now he’s toying with him.
Numbly, as he turns and darts back into the dorm building, he hopes that there is a time limit to this quirk. Because his teacher is circling him with the languid complacency of a predator that has long since ensured its kill and is now enjoying the chase, and Katsuki knows that if he dies tonight, it will undoubtedly be long and painful.
By the time he makes it into the dorms, all of the security alarms have been triggered by the activation of the protective dome. The entire interior of the common area is washed in a blinding, unfamiliar white glare, almost clinical in its starkness. The red lights blinking from the devices at the corners of the ceiling indicate a livestream to the nearest active patrolling agency. Katsuki wonders who is seeing them right now, through the grainy feed of UA’s security cameras. He wonders if they’ll watch him die tonight.
He ducks into the sleeping quarters, where the corridors too are lit by harsh lights. He contemplates going to his own room, before rethinking it and pushing open the door for some other bedroom on the second floor. It’s a pathetic attempt to throw Aizawa off his track, but it’s an attempt nonetheless, and he’s hoping the code-locked doors will win him at least some time to gather his thoughts. Worst case scenario, Aizawa gets in and he can escape through the windows.
The room he’s in, he realises almost instantly when his eyes adjust to the lights, is probably Tokoyami’s. The bright white emergency lighting does nothing to dull the goth memorabilia that spans the space, from a glowing crystal ball to a number of ornate purple candelabras scattered around. Even in this bedroom, a security camera blinks from the corner of the ceiling incessantly. Katsuki knows of the presence of these cameras, which are present in all dorm rooms; Aizawa had already informed them that they would remain inactive unless any alarms were triggered. The feeling of being seen, while something that would typically invoke discomfort, is strangely comforting to Katsuki here.
He tugs his phone from his pocket, hesitating for a brief second before he pulls open his conversation with Best Jeanist. He has to scroll a little for it, with a good few weeks having passed since their last exchange.
Bakugou Katsuki
jeanist
7:28pm
Bakugou Katsuki
?
7:28pm
There’s no response for a moment. And then—
[Incoming call from Jeanist]
Katsuki declines the incoming call mercilessly, unwilling to test his luck by speaking out loud right now lest Aizawa hear it and come find him. The dorms are pin-drop silent, and even with the soundproofing, voices could still carry depending on how close his teacher is.
Bakugou Katsuki
don’t call just text
7:29pm
Jeanist
Bakugou? What is it?
7:30pm
Bakugou Katsuki
u have access to hpsc records? need info
7:30pm
Jeanist
Can this wait until tomorrow morning, Bakugou? I’m off duty and I’m not even entirely sure I’m authorised to give you the information you want. Come by my office and we can chat.
7:31pm
Katsuki curses silently, clenching his phone tightly in his fist. Jeanist’s eloquence has always pissed him off, but right now his anger is replaced by frustration, and he feels like he’s moments from tears.
Bakugou Katsuki
can’t wait
7:31pm
Bakugou Katsuki
eraserhead n all might arrested a villain earlier tonight. need to know her quirk specs
7:31pm
Jeanist
What is this about? Has something happened?
7:32pm
Bakugou Katsuki
please
7:32pm
His message is left on ‘seen’ for an excruciatingly long pause.
Jeanist
I’ll trust you just this once. Give me five minutes to make a call and I’ll see what I can find out.
7:34pm
Katsuki sucks in a low, trembling breath as he slumps back against the wall of Tokoyami’s bedroom, clutching his phone to his chest. In any other situation, he would take the time to appreciate the gaudiness of his classmate’s decorating, but right now all he can do is try to swallow his anxiety and wait. He makes sure he’s pressed flush against the wall in such a way that he can watch both the door and the window, gaze flitting between the two sporadically. It’s exhausting, his head still throbbing. His bloody nose has slowed to a dull trickle, red pooling warm at the seam of his lips and the curve of his jaw. He absently tugs two or three tissues from the box on the desk at his side and swipes it away messily, not looking away from where he’s watching the window. It feels like five minutes have long passed with the way his heart pounds in his chest, but when he clicks his phone open, the homescreen blinks a ‘7:36’ at him mockingly.
He chews his lip, turning his screen off again and watching the red glare reflect from it. He goes to tuck the device away and resume his watch when his gaze catches on the reflection, and the light glowing in it. It’s—he should be keeping watch like he was, but he can’t tear his eyes from it, for some reason. It’s just the security camera reflection, so why…
The security camera light is blinking. Katsuki swallows thickly, glancing up at the device as if to confirm the fact, before returning his gaze to the steady, unchanging red glint reflecting off his phone screen. If the security camera isn’t what’s reflecting, then—
Then—
With his breath caught in his chest, Katsuki slowly tilts his head upward, wide eyes meeting the glowing crimson gaze of his teacher, watching him from feet away in the air vent above him.
Katsuki feels like he’s been paralysed, the shock rooting him to his spot stiffly. How long has his teacher been here, watching? He’d thought he’d at least bought himself a few minutes, but Aizawa’s known the entire time, and—he has no idea what to do. The chasm between their skill levels seems wider with every passing minute, and the sheer helplessness of his situation is dawning on him.
He finds it in himself to shift, moving his weight to his left leg imperceptibly. His teacher tracks the movement with a slant of his head, expression blank.
“Can,” he swallows thickly, watching as Aizawa’s gaze snaps back to his face with disconcerting intensity. “Can you hear me?”
Is there any of Aizawa left?
He’s met with silence.
Then, with a soft sliding sound, the grate is lifted and the man drops from the vent to crouch on the floor. He rises from it slowly, eyes glowing and hair floating at his shoulders.
With the proximity, Aizawa is even more intimidating. There’s no tired slouch to his shoulders or haze in his eyes. Here, he stands at his full height, eyes bright and intense and viscerally hungry. Raw power radiates from him in waves, lining his muscled build in a way only years of experience could breed.
He’s faced villains bigger than Aizawa, and god knows this isn’t the first time someone’s wanted him dead. But it’s different, because villains are villains and Aizawa is—was—
Katsuki is facing down an almost guaranteed death once more, but this is the first time he’s felt truly helpless in the face of it. Fighting villains, there is transparency; an end goal. He sees a villain and recognises them for what they want, and why they want it. Here, there is no line drawn in the sand. Aizawa is Aizawa, but there is no kindness in his eyes, and he’s looking at Katsuki like he wants to eat him alive.
But still, despite it all—if there’d had to be just one teacher that Katsuki had to pick, had to trust—
It would’ve been him.
The feeling twists at something low in his gut. Aizawa was, despite Katsuki’s outward denials, probably the only teacher he could say he truly believed in. Not just in his work, or his integrity as a hero, but in his person. Katsuki could stand behind him and feel safe, because Aizawa was the only motherfucker who’d shown that he’d bat for Katsuki, time and time again. And now, Katsuki is here, and he’s fucking scared, and for once he thinks he’d be willing to shove aside his pride and pick up the phone and call for help if he could, but the only person worth calling is the one who he needs to be saved from.
He swallows down the lump in his throat, straightening as they appraise one another slowly. At his side, Aizawa’s capture weapon inches out, trailing down the floor and up Katsuki’s immobile form. It takes everything in him not to jerk away from it, but he knows indubitably by the look in his teacher’s eye that resisting will worsen his situation. Instead, he allows the cloth to twist its way up his left arm, winding around the limb slowly until it’s fully encased in white.
“Sensei,” Katsuki breathes, more desperate than angry.
The cloth loops one more time, seemingly pulsating around his bicep as it shifts back and forth over his skin. Then, slowly, it begins to tighten.
“Sensei,” he tries again, voice cracking. “Don’t—”
It tightens further, painfully, until he feels his skin bulge around the seams where it presses into him. Katsuki doesn’t realise he’s holding his breath until he tries to inhale and his too-full lungs spasm. The cloth only presses further into him, constricting as it pulls taut, and his bicep begins to go numb.
Aizawa watches the display idly, eyes glinting as his head tips to the side slowly. The fabric is pulling so tight that Katsuki has to grit his teeth not to cry out, feeling like his arm is being put through a hydraulic press as it creaks and throbs under unrelenting white bindings. His phone drops from his now-lax grasp, clattering to the floor.
“Don’t—ghh!”
The fabric pulls so tautly that it creaks, and Katsuki wonders dimly which will snap first, between the cloth and his own arm.
His answer is given not even a moment later when Aizawa leans forward and the binding cloth loosens for a glorious moment, just long enough for the prickles of circulation to creep back into the limb. Then, all at once, it coils in so sharply that Katsuki’s vision explodes into white, a low cry tearing from between his gritted teeth as there’s an audible crack from his side. His entire arm goes so cold that it burns.
It’s broken; he’s broken enough bones to know what it feels like, but that doesn’t make him any more prepared for the way Aizawa’s capture weapon hoists him up by the mangled limb, wringing another weak, wounded sound from low in his chest, before it flings him across the room with it. He’s thrown straight into the wall, paraphernalia and trinkets digging into his back as he slides into a heap on the floor, winded.
Almost immediately, he’s being yanked up again, this time the weapon sliding up to cross its way around his neck.
“‘zawa—” he manages to rasp out, eyes squeezing shut as the fabric pinches against his trachea. There’s the warm pulse of blood beginning to drip from his nose again, and the excruciating pain in his arm saps his ability to think properly. When he cracks his eyes open again, Aizawa stands in front of him, face inches from his. Glowing gold-ringed irises drill into him, the pressure of the fabric pushing him back until his back is driven into the sharp edge of the desk painfully. He wheezes, his vision blurring and his head filling with cottony dizziness as his air supply is severed. His right hand flails wildly, left swinging limply at his side. It takes a moment’s fumbling for his hands to finally find something, wrapping around a round and hard object tightly. His vision is beginning to black out at the edges when he finally musters the strength to swing the object into Aizawa, what appears to be a human skull colliding with his head hard enough for the capture weapon to fall loose at Katsuki’s feet as the man staggers.
He takes advantage of the reprieve to throw himself out of the room through the window. His momentum is disrupted, initially, by the sputtering of explosions from his uninjured hand, but it appears that his teacher recovers fast, because moments later he feels the familiar tingle of his quirk fizzling away, and he crashes into the ground hard before he has time to brace for it. The brunt of the fall is cushioned by his left shoulder, waves of excruciating pain coursing down his already-broken arm. He’s glad he still has one arm to use unhindered, but he knows before he scrambles to his feet that his left shoulder is dislocated. When he finally straightens with a pained grunt, he sees Aizawa standing on the balcony of Tokoyami’s room, looking down at him.
Katsuki sucks in a whistling, short inhale before setting off into the common areas at the ground level again, left arm hanging low and limp at his side. It jolts with every step he takes, sending pain shooting through his shoulder. There are no footsteps behind him, the sliding door to the back exit hanging wide open. The issue with having all of the emergency lights on in the building is that with the metal protective dome cutting off all light from the outside, the brightness of the dorms only serves to cast the area outside the building in pitch-black darkness. Aizawa could choose to follow him out through the window, but he may well choose to enter through the front entrance or one of the two elevators leading the sleeping quarters to the main area. Katsuki has no way of tracking him, and with one arm completely mangled and unmoveable, and a pulsing ache wracking his body from being thrown into the wall, he has no means of protecting himself either. It’s already been established, however, that there’s no point trying to keep his guard up because if Aizawa wants him dead, there wouldn’t be much he could say about it. Fuck, the asshole is probably watching him from the vents now. He glances up furtively, but this time there’s no red glow above the grates. He doesn’t know if that’s better or worse. If Aizawa’s not here, then where the hell is he? Now that Katsuki’s realised there’s not really any way to hide from him, he’d rather have the man where he can see him.
He huffs, slumping against the wall of the kitchen as he loosens his left arm out as best he can, letting it dangle lowly. Then, tentatively, he wraps his right hand around a relatively unbruised portion of his upper bicep, lifting it to angle it back towards his shoulder socket. Pulling his bloodied shirt into his mouth, he grits his teeth tightly until metallic salt coats his gums. With a sharp inhale, he jerks back against the wall, slamming the curve of his arm against it hard enough to rip a strained cry from his chest. There’s that odd grinding feeling as the limb slides back into its socket, and the cresting pain subsides to a dull, still-painful throb. His arm is still very much broken, but it’s moveable now. Still, Aizawa is nowhere to be seen.
Katsuki coughs once, the sound rattling in his blood-coated throat, and his ribs creak with the movement. He leans over to flick the kitchen tap on, coughing a mouthful of red into the sink and then wiping more from his lower face haphazardly. There’s a swelling lump forming at his temple, and his entire back feels like one big bruise. He doesn’t even want to think about his arm. He doubts he has time for a full medical check-up, but if Aizawa’s fucked off to god-knows-where, Katsuki decides he’s sure as hell going to milk the reprieve for all it’s worth. He yanks open the cabinet under the sink, dragging out the med kit and splaying its contents over the counter.
He pops a few ibuprofen and paracetamol tablets at once, before shoving his face under the tap again for a long moment. He’d left his phone up in Tokoyami’s dorm where he’d dropped it, so he never got to read any response Jeanist had sent him. He wonders if the man is worried. He wonders if he’s calling, or if he’ll start looking for him when he doesn’t get a response. It was a suspicious question to ask to begin with, and for the answer to go unread is no doubt even more so. He doesn’t dare venture back upstairs to try and retrieve it, on the off chance that Aizawa is still in the room for some godforsaken reason. Instead, he’s a sitting duck, aimlessly waiting under the too-bright emergency lights and trying to resist the urge to fill the eerie silence that’s settled over the building.
Maybe… the quirk has worn off? The clock hanging off the living area wall reads that it’s almost eight, and he has no idea how long it’s been since this entire clusterfuck started but it feels like it’s been hours. Shit, he’s been sitting here waiting for at least ten minutes. He’s getting so restless that he’s actually honest-to-god contemplating going upstairs to retrieve the phone when there’s a rustle from the side exit. Through the pitch black beyond the door, he can’t see a thing, but another rustle follows, and then a figure comes into vision from the inky space outside. He’s here, Katsuki registers numbly as the man steps forward. He’s already stiffening, preparing himself for what will inevitably be another pitiable one-sided ruination.
But from the shadows, the person that advances is not Aizawa. It’s All Might.
The bandages hang torn from his thin wrists, fluttering with his movements as he takes a step into the dorms, and then another. They’re not ripped by force—the tear is neat and straight where they were previously pulled taut at the junction of his wrists is neat and straight. He’s looking straight at Katsuki with those gold-ringed eyes, expression vacant.
“Wh—” Katsuki chokes, shoving himself away from behind the counter roughly.
He’s still—no, that’s not even Katsuki’s main concern… How the hell did All Might get out of the bindings?
“What the fuck,” he whispers to himself, rounding the corner of the island until he’s facing his teacher from a good distance away. He doesn’t want to run, not when Aizawa is still missing. Staying in the common area is a good bet, giving him an open space and a good view of his surroundings and possible entry and exit points. But he doesn’t want to fight All Might again, and—
He dodges the projectile hurling his way instinctively. It’s only when it’s embedded in the plaster behind where his head had just been that he realises the object is the same butter knife his teacher wielded before. He’s still wondering what the fuck happened when All Might lunges at him. It’s a closer fight this time, with one of Katsuki’s arms out of commission and his body creaking every time he moves, but it’s nothing like the helpless feeling he’d felt against Aizawa. Speaking of Aizawa, where the fuck…
All Might’s fist arches out in a sweep, and Katsuki rears back only to wheeze when his chest constricts tightly at the sharp movement, air leaving him all at once. He’s just stumbling away, winded, when his back collides with a hard wall. A wall, even though he’d just been standing in the open space, and—and—
And there’s that familiar slide of fabric crawling up his limbs.
Katsuki’s eyes squeeze shut, wispy breath leaving him in a weak, pitiful keen.
This. This is the closest he’s ever felt to unfiltered defeat. This sense of overwhelming futility.
When his eyes open again, the fabric has wound itself all the way around his arms and torso from behind, unrelentingly constricting around the left limb until that agonising pain flares up again.
Katsuki can do nothing but brace for the next punch All Might throws. It catches him right across the cheek, hard enough to trigger another wave of nauseating dizziness. The single impact brings back the pain from all of the previous injuries, his nose and temple throbbing with a passion as stars spark behind his eyes. His ears ring in the aftermath.
From the corner of his blurred vision, he catches sight of that security camera in the corner, still blinking away incessantly. They’re still watching, huh? The thought has a hysterical giggle bubbling low in his chest that doesn’t make it past his lips. It’s been at least half an hour, and yet no one has come to save him. Probably not for lack of trying. UA’s security is just that good. UA has always been that good, he thinks as All Might lashes out again, this time striking his stomach hard enough to tear a grunt from him. The school is really no joke.
Behind him, Aizawa’s capture weapon coils tighter, holding him immobile and upright. It even goes so far as to wrap around his throat and tuck under his chin, tilting it upward to present All Might with a clear shot at his face.
He’s all but accepted the next blow, eyes shutting on instinct, and so it catches him by surprise when the scarves withdraw a split moment before the punch lands, sending his now-lax body sprawling into the glass coffee table hard enough to shatter it on impact. Glass crunches under him, sinking into his skin and shifting with a grating noise as he shakily tries to bring himself to his feet. It’s pointless because barely three seconds have passed before All Might is on him again, straddling him roughly. It’s different, this time, though, because All Might—
All Might’s holding scissors. Long, slender silver ones from the med kit Katsuki had left open on the counter. He’s holding them up by his head, pointed tips gleaming where they point downwards towards—
“Wait,” Katsuki bites out, voice too loud. “Wait, are you—”
He’s about to die.
At the realisation, some survival instinct buried deep in his chest reawakens, and he finds himself bucking wildly in an attempt to wriggle out from under his teacher’s grip with renewed energy, heart racing.
Almost instantly, Aizawa’s capture weapon is unfurling out to shove him down into the floor relentlessly, hard enough that he feels the glass shard beneath him cut through his skin like butter. The man slips down to a crouch beside Katsuki’s head, lidded red eyes intent as he leans over him. All Might regains his bearing, lifting himself up and tightening his grip around the handles of the scissors again.
“Wait,” Katsuki breathes again, panic making his vision blur. Every movement he makes has his vision hazing over with a new wave of vertigo, and bile rises at the back of his throat.
“Wait, sensei—”
There’s a pleading note in his voice that he can’t even muster the pride to feel humiliated by. Aizawa is looking down at him with those cold, flat eyes, gold rings glinting in the shadows that his hair casts over his face, and All Might—
The scissors gleam under the clinical white lights, and All Might is looking down at him the way he does in Katsuki’s nightmares: like he’s staring straight through him. His dark gaze bores into Katsuki, cuts through skin and flesh, and his always-present smile is nowhere to be seen.
The vision is jarring, the juxtaposition between his All Might and this one is—he looks nothing like a hero anymore. He looks nothing like the hero Katsuki spent his entire life following blindly.
“All Might,” he whispers. The words come out wet, and he thinks at first that his nose has started bleeding again before he realises he’s crying. “Don’t.”
The man above him doesn’t even twitch, obsidian glare heavier than any weight Aizawa could use to press him down.
Katsuki doesn’t want to be scared. Not of All Might. He doesn’t want to be scared of him, but—All Might is holding scissors above Katsuki’s heart and he looks nothing like the All Might Katsuki knows, but he is him. Even in his withered, emaciated, unsmiling state, he holds the remnants of a semblance. Not much. Just enough to make Katsuki feel like he’s a kid again. To make him feel like he’s small and soft and still so fresh that he’s willing to admit that he’s so, so scared.
“Please,” he whimpers, voice cracking around a sob. “Please, please don’t, please—”
A hand—Aizawa’s hand, he registers distantly as the wetness in his eyes spills over and fog overtakes his head—slides up his shoulder smoothly, inching upward to wipe the tears from his cheeks as they fall. It’s a gentle movement, but his teacher is still wearing that face, those eyes, and moments later those same fingers are moving back down to wrap around his throat deftly.
There’s a movement from the corner of his hazy periphery, and as his body jerks violently with the next sob, there’s icy, biting cold agony erupting from the side of his abdomen. His head falls back against jagged glass, eyes rolling back in his skull helplessly as his body convulses.
He’s still blubbering, begging with damp cheeks and desperation high in his throat when the scissors are raised again, crimson dripping slowly from their curved tip. The pain in his side spiderwebs out, pulsing deep in his bones as it rises to a peak, and from his rapidly darkening vision, he sees the silver gleam as it’s poised to be brought down once more. He doesn’t have time to feel any more as his consciousness fully slips away from him, pleas subsiding stagnant on his cracked lips and eyes sliding shut to the sound of a distant, ringing clatter.