After Recovery Girl retired from U.A. High School, a young doctor has unwittingly taken her place. Her quirk? Bloody awful.
❛ 𝒮ee you on a dark night. ❜
[ rewrite of the original BNHA fic. written in a different perspective and with separate events...
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☤
Her clock kept adding time, shifting from minutes to hours. The constant countdown, the one she crafted so long ago, branded on her brain. May moved between patients as their time increased in her head. Red was fading, but not fast enough.
Thirteen was difficult to appropriately assess due to the positioning of their injuries, but she managed to the best of her ability. May went in with smaller syringes, injecting around the intact tissues. The cells were repopulating.
"Well, Thirteen." May replaced the bandage while she spoke. "You may have some minor scarring on your back. I've tried to mitigate it to the best of my ability. Your arms will have minimal scarring, if any at all."
It was more for herself rather than the patient.
"Infection risk is low; everything should heal properly. You should be good now."
May moved back to Aizawa. She managed to finish the arms, using a combination of bandages and stitching to facilitate the sealing of his skin. Most of his head had healed on its own. Blood was still caked in his hair, scattering the white pillow with dark scarlet flakes.
When May ran her gloved fingers across his head, she no longer felt movement. With the assistance of a flashlight, she was able to see no broken skin. No more fresh blood. A sigh escaped her lips; she pushed back his hair on his forehead to get a better look at his eyes.
"If I weren't nice, I'd shave all of this," she said aloud, her eyebrows raised. "Ever heard of a haircut, grouch?"
His right eye was much worse than his left. The time she spent working on his face moved into the late hours of the night. Syringe after syringe, precise cut after precise cut, bandage after bandage. After the intense portions of her work, where anatomical forms and specific bone structures littered her brain, she talked to the two pro-heroes in front of her.
"You know, I don't understand you," she had said, using dissolvable stitches on the heavily injured part of Aizawa's eye. "Got some sort of emotional constipation?"
May lifted her eyes to the ceiling for a moment, then returned to the task. "I guess I do too. Whoever said feelings were important, right?"
No response. Expected.
The tools in her hand stopped moving, and May stared at the injured man. None of the typical lines on his face appeared. It was all soft against the harshness of the sterile white pillowcase. Aizawa put his entire life on the line for his students.
He was lucky he didn't gain any brain damage, which May had tested for. But he took that chance. Willing to give up everything for them. If he didn't—
May wasn't sure where the kids would be. Certainly not at home in their beds, sleeping soundly. Her hands moved again, picking up where they dropped off.
