Curate, connect, and discover
(Content: Blood and injury, needles, no smut.)
-MHA-MHA-MHA-
It's the middle of the night when you hear a horrendous crash sound from your fire escape, followed by a muffled groan. It's enough of a commotion to draw you from your insomnia-driven TV marathon to go and investigate.
You push the window up, poking your head out into the cool night air. Illuminated by the moonlight is the crumpled, bloodied form of your neighbor and occasional fuck-buddy, Aizawa Shouta, laid out on the landing and breathing harshly.
Well, shit.
You haul yourself out onto the fire escape without grace, your bare feet making contact with the too-cold metal grating. You're not exactly surprised to see Aizawa in this state. You have no idea what he does for work, but you've seen the bruises and scars on his body, how he never seems to be fully healed at any given time. He gets into fights, lots of them, that much is certain. However, this is your first time seeing him faring quite so poorly after coming back from... whatever it is he does when he slinks out of the apartment complex.
"Aizawa," you say, alerting him of your presence in case he didn't notice you come out. From the way he grunts in acknowledgement instead of startling, perhaps he had noticed. You make your way over to his side, crouching down beside him.
He's looking rougher than usual. The blood trickling down the side of his face from somewhere past his hairline is the most eye-catching at the moment, but there's plenty of other cuts and scrapes besides that, and the way he's clutching his bloodied side can't mean anything good. But when his dark eyes meet yours, there's clarity there, you're thankful for that.
"Do you want an ambulance?" you ask him evenly. Maybe you should just call for one, this might be over your head. But you don't know what side of the law he's on.
The question gets him moving, and he pushes himself into a sitting position with great effort. He doesn't look much better now that he's upright.
"I'm fine," he says, not fine. Stubborn, though.
No ambulance, then.
You twist your mouth to side in thought then sigh, pushing yourself up. "Okay, let's get you patched up."
It takes a lot of effort to get him into your apartment through the window. He doesn't protest your offer to help, but you have a feeling it's because he's so focused on muffling his noises of pain. You practically dump him onto your old, shitty couch, not too bothered by the idea of a few more bloodstains on it, and go to fetch your first aid kit.
When you return, Aizawa's managed to maneuver himself onto his back, his strange scarf and a particularly loud pair of yellow goggles set on the floor beside him. You realize, then, that he's wearing some sort of costume. Interesting.
"There a zipper on this thing?" you ask as you kneel beside him, looking over his black jumpsuit. He gestures to a hidden zipper and you're tugging it down, revealing his sculpted torso to you. It'd be a much more appealing sight if not for the nasty gash in his side. It looks like it was made by a knife.
You help him take some painkillers, nothing fancy or very strong, and start on cleaning his wounds, working with a practiced hand. You're mildly aware that Aizawa's watching you as you work, his breathing not as labored as when you first found him.
"You've done this before," it's not a question.
"I have," you confirm, not looking up from what you're doing. If he has any questions, he doesn't ask them, neither do you, and you definitely have questions.
Silence settles over the two of you as you patch him up. You don't think anything's broken, but you're not a doctor. Now that most of the blood has been wiped away, he doesn't look as bad as you'd initially thought, especially the cut on his head. Still, that wound in his side would need stitches.
You have the needle and suture thread in your hand, but you're hesitating. Again, you wonder if a doctor really isn't an option for him.
"You don't have to do this for me," he says quietly, almost gently, probably picking up on your reluctance to continue. He's already trying to sit up, "I can handle the rest myself, you've already done more than enough." Despite his stoic demeanor, the guilt in his expression is easy enough to read.
"I've already done this much," your hand presses to the center of his chest, stopping him from getting up. "I might as well do the rest."
It's clear to you that if you don't help him now, he's not going to go to anyone else. The images of him in his tiny apartment bathroom, an exact copy of your tiny apartment bathroom, trying to stitch himself shut flits through your head and it doesn't sit right with you.
"I'll be quick," you tell him, finding your resolve.
The minutes pass as you carefully suture his wound, sweat beading on your brow as you work. Every flinch and tensing of his body, every concealed grunt of pain, has your stomach turning slightly. It's been a while since you've had to do this for someone, you never quite got over the queasiness it gives you.
"Okay," you practically gasp, sitting back and setting the needle aside. Your hands are shaking.
Aizawa is looking paler than before, sweat coating his body, his breathing rapid. "...thanks," the words are sincere through his labored breathing. He looks exhausted and you don't blame him.
You shrug, awkward in the face of his gratitude, staring down at your bloody hands, the stains on your pajamas. You lick your lips, "...have I just involved myself in something illegal?" you have to ask. Providing aid to vigilantes or villains, even unintentionally, was a decent invitation for the law to step in and fuck you. If you have trouble coming your way, you want to be prepared.
He raises an eyebrow, "no," he tells you, giving a tired shake of his head, "you're fine... I'm a hero."
Your eyes drift from his dirtied costume to the goggles and strange scarf, "huh." It hadn't been your first guess, but it makes sense.
There's an awkward silence, "are you a paramedic?" he asks, and you can't help but snort. "Or a nurse?"
"Nothing like that," as if anyone would let you handle a job of any importance.
His eyes narrow, like you're a particularly interesting little puzzle. "You sure handled all this pretty well. You seemed to have experience."
"Yeah," you confirm, but you don't elaborate. You turn your face away from his curiosity, gathering up all your supplies. "You can crash here tonight if you want. You should probably see a real doctor soon."
You can feel his eyes on you as you stand, but you don't look at him. There's a pause where you think he might protest staying and try something stupid like attempting to get up and walk to his own apartment or some other macho nonsense, but in the end he just lets out an exhausted sigh. "Okay..."
By the time you've washed his blood off of you and changed your clothes, he's out like a light.
(Requests)