They Were Supposed to Guard My Bed, Not Share It

The roar of Cementoss shifting the battlefield was a constant, grinding bass note under the sharp crackle of Ectoplasm’s clones multiplying. Izuku’s team was pinned down, Uraraka struggling to stay airborne and Sero’s tape dispensers nearly empty. They were losing. But through the dust and chaos, Izuku saw it—a single, fleeting path to victory. It was a suicidal path, one that would require more of One For All than he could safely contain, but it was the only one they had. The familiar green lightning began to flicker around him, hotter and more violent than usual. He ignored the screaming protest from his own muscles. Saving his friends was all that mattered.

He launched himself forward, a comet of pure, unrestrained power. “Delaware… SMASH!” he screamed, channeling everything into his right arm and both legs simultaneously. The force was astronomical. It tore through the remaining clones like paper and sent a shockwave powerful enough to shatter the final concrete wall, pinning Cementoss long enough for the buzzer to signal their win. For a split second, there was only triumphant silence.

Then came the sound. Not a single snap, but a sickening series of cracks, like a bundle of dry sticks being crushed under a boot. Izuku’s right arm twisted at an impossible angle, the bone protruding from his skin in a shard of white. Both of his legs buckled beneath him, collapsing into a useless tangle. He hit the ground with a wet, heavy thud, the world dissolving into a vortex of blinding agony before fading to black. He was vaguely aware of Uraraka’s horrified scream and the thunder of Bakugo’s explosions as he rushed towards the scene from the observation deck, but it was all distant, muffled by the roaring in his ears.

The next thing he knew, he was staring at the sterile white ceiling of the infirmary. A dull, pervasive ache had replaced the sharp edges of his pain, a sure sign of heavy-duty painkillers. His limbs were encased in thick plaster casts, immobilizing him completely. Recovery Girl stood over him, her expression a familiar mix of exasperation and concern.

“You really did a number on yourself this time, Midoriya,” she said, her voice tired. She adjusted the IV drip attached to his uninjured arm. “Multiple compound fractures in your right arm and both legs. Severe tearing in nearly every major muscle group. I’ve managed to set the bones and start the healing process, but you completely drained your stamina. My Quirk can’t do much more until you’ve recovered some energy.” She sighed, patting his hand gently. “This isn’t going to be a quick fix. You’ll be in here for several days, and you’ll need constant monitoring. You are not to move, understand?”

Izuku could only manage a weak nod, his throat too raw to speak. The weight of his own recklessness settled heavily in his chest, a familiar and unwelcome companion. Several days. The thought was exhausting. He closed his eyes, the image of his own shattered limbs burning behind his eyelids.

The hallway outside the infirmary was crowded with the anxious faces of Class 1-A. They had all seen the devastating aftermath of the exercise on the monitors, the way Midoriya had crumpled. Uraraka was pale, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, while Iida chopped the air with stiff, worried gestures, trying to maintain some semblance of order that no one felt.

Aizawa emerged from the room, his expression as unreadable as ever, though the exhaustion in his eyes was deeper than usual. “Midoriya is stable,” he announced, his voice cutting through the nervous chatter. “But as Recovery Girl explained, his healing will be slow. He needs to be watched overnight. We’ll arrange shifts.”

Immediately, a wave of voices rose up.
“I’ll take the first watch, Sensei!” Iida declared, his voice firm. “As class representative, it is my duty!”
“No, I should do it,” Uraraka countered, her voice trembling slightly. “I was his partner, I should have stopped him…”
“We can all take turns!” Ashido chimed in, with Kaminari and Sero nodding vigorously beside her.

Katsuki Bakugo stood apart from the group, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed, a thunderous scowl fixed on his face. He hadn't said a word, his gaze directed at the floor as if he could burn a hole through it. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, but he hadn’t left. He was still here, listening to the extras squabble over who got to play nursemaid to the damned nerd. A familiar, acidic mix of rage and something tight and suffocating coiled in his gut. Seeing Deku break himself like that… it was infuriating. It was terrifying.

“Enough,” Aizawa’s voice sliced through the din, instantly silencing them. His tired, red-rimmed eyes scanned the group before landing, deliberately, on two students. “Kirishima. Bakugo. You’re first.”

Kirishima, who had been standing quietly, straightened up immediately. “Sir?”

Bakugo’s head snapped up, his red eyes narrowed. “Hah? The hell I am. I’m not wasting my night watching that idiot sleep.” The words were acid, spat out with his usual venom, but they lacked their typical heat. They sounded brittle.

Aizawa didn’t even flinch. He pinned Bakugo with a look that was part exhaustion, part absolute authority. The kind of look that promised detention for the rest of the semester. “Kirishima, you’re reliable. You won’t panic,” he stated flatly. Then his gaze shifted back to Bakugo, and his voice softened just enough to be insulting. “And you, Bakugo… you’ve known him the longest. You’ll notice if something is wrong before anyone else.” He didn’t phrase it as a question. It was a statement of fact, a weaponized piece of their shared history that Aizawa wielded with surgical precision.

The jab hit its mark. Bakugo’s jaw tightened, a muscle twitching violently in his cheek. He opened his mouth to retort, to unleash a string of curses and refusals, but Aizawa’s glare intensified, his hair beginning to lift ever so slightly. The threat of Quirk erasure was implicit. Bakugo snapped his mouth shut with an audible click, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. A low growl rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure, caged frustration.

“Of course, Sensei,” Kirishima said, stepping forward. His voice was steady and earnest, a stark contrast to Bakugo’s silent fury. He gave a sharp, determined nod. “You can count on us. We’ll be here for him.” He glanced at Bakugo, his expression softening with an understanding that only made Bakugo’s anger burn hotter. Kirishima was too good, too damn straightforward. He didn’t see the mess churning inside Bakugo; he just saw a friend who needed help. Aizawa gave a final, curt nod and turned away, leaving the two of them alone in the now-quiet hallway as the rest of the class dispersed, casting sympathetic or wary looks in their direction. The infirmary door loomed before them, a silent promise of a long, tense night ahead.

Bakugo shoved the infirmary door open with more force than necessary, letting it swing shut behind Kirishima with a soft click that echoed in the oppressive silence. The room smelled of antiseptic and clean linen, a sterile scent that did nothing to cover the underlying aura of pain. In the center of the room, Deku lay unnaturally still in the narrow bed, a pale figure lost in a sea of white sheets and plaster. The only sounds were the faint, rhythmic beep of the heart monitor and the quiet hiss of the IV stand.

Kirishima pulled a chair up to the bedside, his movements slow and deliberate. He sat down, his broad shoulders slumping slightly as he took in the sight of their friend. The green lightning scars that usually traced Deku's arms were hidden beneath casts, but the exhaustion was etched deep into his peaceful face. He looked small. Breakable.

Bakugo refused to look. He couldn’t. Instead, he stalked over to a metal cart laden with supplies, his boots making sharp, angry sounds on the tiled floor. He began to rearrange bandages and disinfectant wipes, his movements jerky and precise. He lined up rolls of gauze with military precision, creating order in the one small corner of the room he could control.

“He looks… peaceful, at least,” Kirishima said, his voice low, trying to fill the void.

Bakugo grunted, not looking up. He slammed a box of cotton swabs onto the shelf.

“Recovery Girl said the first night is the most important for his stamina to build back up,” Kirishima tried again, his gaze fixed on Midoriya’s slack features. “It’s good we’re here.”

“Shut up, Shitty Hair,” Bakugo finally bit out, his back still turned. “I don’t need a running commentary.” His voice was low and rough, a serrated edge of sound in the quiet room. The tension thickened, becoming a tangible thing that pressed in on them from all sides. Kirishima fell silent, his jaw tight, respecting the fragile boundary Bakugo had drawn. For what felt like an hour, the only sounds were the beeping monitor and the quiet, aggressive clinking of Bakugo organizing medical supplies he had no intention of using.

Then, a sound from the bed cut through the silence.

“Kacchan…”

It was a whisper, a faint, breathy murmur from Midoriya’s sleep-drugged lips. His brow furrowed in pain, and his head shifted restlessly on the pillow.

In an instant, the carefully constructed walls between them shattered. Kirishima was on his feet, leaning over the bed, his hand hovering just above Midoriya’s forehead. “Midoriya? You with us?”

But Bakugo was faster. He crossed the room in two long, silent strides, his previous task completely forgotten. He was at the other side of the bed before Kirishima had even finished his question, his body coiled with a fierce, protective energy. His red eyes were wide, fixed on Deku’s face, all pretense of indifference gone. The anger was gone, replaced by a raw, naked concern that mirrored Kirishima’s own. They stood there, one on each side of the bed, a silent, unified front against the shadows that flickered across their friend’s face. The argument with Aizawa, the tension, the angry silence—it all evaporated, leaving only the shared, desperate hope that he would be okay.