ShuraZero
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Chapter 10: Post Combat Care
🕑 Added 2025-09-08 23:11:51 +0000 UTCThe last trace of Mirko's laughter faded, leaving behind a silence as vast and heavy as the Dome of Destruction itself. The rabbit hero's departure had sucked all the chaotic energy from the place, leaving Yu and Izuku alone amidst a landscape of wounded concrete and twisted metal. The adrenaline, that glorious, burning drug that had made her feel invincible, retreated from her veins like a tide, and what was left on the shore was the pain.
It was not a sharp pain, but a deep, dull protest from every muscle, every tendon, every bone in her body. She tried to take a step toward the exit and her right knee, the one Mirko had struck in her giant form, buckled with a gelatinous weakness. She leaned on a chipped concrete pillar to keep from falling, the cold of the surface seeping through her suit. A low, pitiful groan escaped her lips before she could suppress it.
"I'm fine," she lied, more to herself than to Izuku, her jaw clenched. Pride was just another muscle, and at that moment, it was the only one that didn't hurt.
She tried to take another step, dragging her foot, and the world tilted dangerously. She closed her eyes, bracing for impact with the ground. But it never came. A firm hand had grabbed her arm, steadying her.
Izuku looked at her, his face devoid of analytical intensity or social awkwardness. What she saw in his eyes was simple, plain concern.
"You can't walk to your apartment," he said, his voice calm and firm, a point of support in her world of pain. "It's more than twenty blocks away. You'll hurt yourself more."
"I'm a professional hero," she retorted, though her voice lacked all conviction. "I can handle a little muscle soreness."
"This isn't pride, it's inefficient," he replied, using his logic in a way that, for the first time, sounded more like care than analysis. "Forcing your muscles in this state will only prolong recovery time and increase the risk of serious injury. Wait here."
Before she could protest, he gently let her go, making sure she was stable against the pillar, and jogged toward one of the warehouse's side exits. Yu watched him, confused. Where was he going? To get a taxi? The thought of getting into a vehicle in her suit, covered in dust and sweat, was almost as humiliating as the rest of the day.
He returned five minutes later with a small plastic bag from a convenience store that must have been on the next street. From it, he pulled a pair of large, plastic framed sunglasses, a plain black baseball cap, and a disposable face mask.
"Put these on," he said, offering them to her. "We can't risk someone recognizing Mt. Lady needing help to walk down the street. The narrative would still be negative."
Yu stared at the objects in his hand. It was a simple disguise, almost insulting in its lack of sophistication. But the foresight… the fact that he had thought not only of her pain, but also of her public image, of protecting her from more gossip, disarmed her. Silently, she put on the sunglasses, the cap, and the mask. She felt ridiculous, but also, strangely, protected.
"Good," he said, satisfied. "Now, turn around."
She looked at him, confused. "What for?"
He didn't answer. He simply turned his back to her and crouched down, presenting his back.
The realization hit her with the force of a punch.
"Oh, no. No way," she said, taking a step back. "No! Absolutely not! I can walk!"
"Takeyama san," he said, his voice calm and patient, without even turning. "We can spend the next thirty minutes arguing here while your muscles cool, lactic acid crystallizes, and the pain becomes unbearable. Or we can be halfway home in ten minutes. It is the most efficient solution."
His logic was a hammer that shattered her pride. Every word was true. She could already feel her muscles starting to stiffen. With a groan that was a mixture of defeat, frustration, and unfathomable humiliation, she gave in.
"I hate you," she muttered, approaching him.
"I know," he replied, without emotion.
Getting on his back was one of the most awkward acts of her life. She felt clumsy and huge, even at her normal size. How was she supposed to do this? Wrap her arms around his neck? Hold onto his shoulders? Finally, she put her arms over his shoulders and held on awkwardly as he stood up.
She expected him to stagger, to groan from the effort. She was tall and, while fit, she was not exactly a feather. But Izuku rose with a fluidity and a solidity that took her breath away. There was not a single hesitation. His shoulders were firm and broad under her hands, and his back was a solid wall. She felt the tension of his muscles through the fabric of his uniform, a quiet, contained strength she never would have suspected he possessed.
He began to walk, his steps steady and rhythmic on the broken asphalt of the industrial district. The afternoon sun was setting, painting the sky orange and purple. Yu, too embarrassed to look around, hid her face in the crook of his neck and shoulder. She could smell his shampoo, a simple mix of green tea and something else, probably the dog formula he had yet to replace, mixed with the scent of sweat and exertion from his training. It was an odd combination, but strangely comforting. The steady rhythm of his breathing and the motion of his steps began to lull her. The shame gave way to a strange sense of security, of being cared for. It was a vulnerability that terrified her and, at the same time, calmed her in a way she hadn't felt in years.
They had walked in silence for nearly ten minutes when a familiar, tempting smell broke the spell. The greasy, salty, unmistakable aroma of French fries. It was coming from a McDonald's on the corner, its golden arches glowing like a beacon in the twilight.
Just as Yu was about to tell him to ignore it, her stomach betrayed her. A loud, guttural roar emanated from her gut, a sound so loud and embarrassing it seemed to echo between the buildings.
Izuku stopped dead in his tracks.
There was a moment of absolute silence. Then, she felt a slight tremor in his back and realized he was trying to suppress a laugh.
"I'm hungry," she admitted, her voice muffled by mortification and the fabric of his uniform.
"Me too," he replied, his voice tinged with amusement. "Tactical analysis and intermittent Quirk use consume a significant amount of glucose. Replenishment is logically necessary."
He carried her inside, not putting her down, until they found an empty booth in the farthest corner of the restaurant. The sight must have been surreal: a high school kid with messy hair carrying a tall girl in an absurd disguise on his back. But they were too hungry and tired to care in the slightest.
Once they were seated, with two trays full of burgers, fries, and sodas between them, the tension finally broke. Being in such a normal, mundane place, after the madness of the Dome of Destruction, felt like returning to Earth from another planet.
Izuku, after inhaling three French fries at once, was the first to speak.
"So…" he said, his mouth still a little full. "Aside from… my unorthodox methods, what did you think?"
Yu took a long sip of her soda, the cold, sweet liquid a balm for her dry throat. She considered it for a moment.
"It was horrible," she finally said with brutal honesty. "I felt useless, clumsy, and completely outmatched. I hated every second of the first part."
He nodded, listening intently.
"And then…" she continued, lowering her voice. "For a moment, when you gave me that… 'boost'… I felt invincible. I had never felt my body respond so quickly in my giant form. It was the most incredible and, at the same time, the most humiliating feeling I've ever experienced in my life."
She stared at him over her hamburger, her expression serious. "And if you ever use my butt as a turbo button again without warning me first, I solemnly swear I will use you as a projectile in our next training session."
He swallowed the bite he was chewing and nodded seriously. "Understood. An explicit verbal consent protocol will be required for future Quirk applications in non conventional contact zones."
She rolled her eyes, but a small smile played on her lips. "Just say 'I'm going to touch your butt, get ready,' will you? It would simplify things."
He seemed to consider that. "Noted."
They talked about Mirko, about her insane speed and her almost psychotic joy for battle. They laughed about the perverted notes in his notebook, though Yu still blushed remembering them. For the first time, they were not talking like boss and employee, or test subject and scientist. They were talking like two people who had survived an incredibly strange experience together.
When they finished, Izuku reached into his pocket for his wallet. Before he could find it, Yu's gold credit card was already on the table.
"My treat," she said firmly.
"You don't have to. Technically, this is a work related expense."
"Consider it a hazard pay bonus," she retorted with a half smile. "And for emergency transport. And for not letting me starve to death. I'm paying. End of discussion."
He looked at her for a moment, then nodded, putting his wallet away. The small gesture, the simple act of her paying, changed something fundamental in the air. It was a thank you. An acknowledgment. A declaration that, in that moment, they were a team.
The rest of the way back was different. The awkwardness was gone, replaced by a strange familiarity. Yu, feeling safe and full, rested her head on Izuku's shoulder, the sound of the city lulling her to sleep. They didn't speak. They didn't need to.
When they reached her building, Izuku carried her through the lobby with the same quiet determination, ignoring the curious stare of the night doorman. Inside her apartment, he deposited her on the sofa with unexpected gentleness. She sank into the cushions with a sigh of pure, absolute relief. Home. Finally.
Izuku stretched, making his back and shoulders crack. He looked at her, sprawled on the sofa, and a tired but genuine smile spread across his face.
"Well," he said, his tone light and teasing. "I think carrying a professional hero halfway across town and serving as her emotional shield against her nemesis definitely counts as overtime. I'll have to add a hazard surcharge to my next invoice."
Yu, with her eyes closed, grabbed the nearest cushion and threw it weakly in his direction. It didn't even make it halfway.
"Shut up and get me a bottle of water," she murmured, but there was no anger in her voice. Only deep exhaustion and a hint of amusement.
He chuckled softly and went to the kitchen. The joke, so simple, so normal, felt like a turning point.
When he returned with the water, he found her trying to take off her boots. They were an intricate part of her costume, knee high, with a series of buckles, straps, and zippers designed for both aesthetics and function. With her muscles stiff and her body aching, she could not even bend over far enough to reach the first buckle. A grunt of frustration escaped her lips.
Without her asking, Izuku placed the water on the coffee table and knelt in front of her.
"Allow me," he said quietly.
Yu sat still, watching him. With methodical concentration, as if he were defusing a bomb, his fingers worked on the complex straps. He undid each buckle, pulled down each zipper, his touch sure and efficient. It was such a simple and unexpected act of service that Yu found herself holding her breath.
Once the boots were off, he did not get up. He saw the state of her feet, red and swollen from the pressure of combat. And then, as naturally as he had offered her the cap or lifted her onto his back, he took one of her feet in his hands.
Her first reaction was pure panic. Her instincts screamed at her to pull her foot away, to tell him to stop, that this was too much. Too intimate. Too strange. But she was so tired...
His thumbs pressed into the arch of her foot. It was not a clumsy or lewd touch. It was firm, expert, finding a knot of tension she did not even know she had and working it out with steady pressure. A wave of pure relief washed over her, so intense it almost brought her to tears.
She leaned back into the sofa, closing her eyes, and just felt. She let the silence of the room envelop her as he worked, methodically undoing the pain and tension in her body. Her mind, however, was racing.
She watched his face through her eyelashes. His head was bowed in concentration, his messy green hair falling over his forehead. There was not a trace of perversion in his expression. Only absolute focus on the task at hand. He was solving a problem: her pain.
And in that quiet moment, Yu understood. This boy, this complete weirdo, this socially inept pervert with a fixation on her butt, was the most genuinely dedicated person to her well being she had ever met. He had seen her at her lowest, crying and eating ice cream. He had seen her be humiliated and beaten by her rival. And at every moment, instead of judging her, or running away, or treating her like a boss, he had only looked for a way to help, to "fix" her, in his own strange way.
As Izuku worked, his own mind was far from blank. Physical contact was a conduit, not just for his Quirk, but for information. He could feel the residual tension in her muscles, the deep fatigue in her bones. He connected the dots from the day: the fragility of her base form, her dependence on her Quirk, the explosion of power when he channeled it directly into her. Her "base," the word he had told her in the Dome, echoed in his head. It was not enough to add power at the top. He had to build something new from the foundation. An idea, a form, a method, began to crystallize in his mind.
Yu did not realize the moment exhaustion finally claimed her. Her breathing slowed, deepened, and she sank into the first dreamless sleep she had had in days.
Izuku noticed the change. He gently finished what he was doing, placed her foot carefully on a cushion, and stood up silently. He looked at her, vulnerable and peaceful in her sleep. He took the blanket from the back of the armchair and carefully covered her.
