On yet another day that passed her by, Rumi was lying in bed, mindlessly watching TV.

Once, she'd had a seemingly endless supply of manic energy, been so hyperactive that sitting still or relaxing had been unthinkable. She'd leapt from challenge to challenge, fight to fight, moment to moment like the rabbit her quirk made her imitate, overpowering everything with the force of her attacks and her wild-eyed grin.

Now, she couldn't even muster the willpower to do much more than lie motionless in her bed, watching meaningless shows that did nothing but remind her that there was a whole world outside that was now denied to her.

Rumi imagined that she could feel her muscles atrophying, feel her body weakening as she was slowly weaned off painkillers and the dull throb of her missing arm and leg dominated her mind more and more. She couldn't bring herself to care.

What was the point of worrying about it? She still hadn't been able to even leave the bed without being carried , let alone start any sort of workout regimen. Besides, it wasn't like she'd ever be in a position where being in shape mattered ever again.

Again, grief filled Rumi's chest. God, she still couldn't believe her career was over. So much work, so much suffering, so much success...all undone by a single fight, by charging ahead into a situation she was arrogant enough to believe she could handle alone, confident like Icarus before his leap.

Rumi had been a hero for less than a decade; she would be a retired hero for far, far longer than she had served. She knew what happened to retired heroes, had seen it happen to no less than All Might himself; they were forgotten, faded into nothingness, left in the dust. Sure, they were taken care of, and generously, too, but what was a comfortable life compared to the thrill of fighting villains? What was safety compared to the awed smiles of the people you protected when they saw you?

Rumi had thrived as a hero, reveled in the attention and the admiration. She loved having fans, having people who praised her and admired her. She'd become a hero for other reasons; mostly just a desire to become the strongest, to prove her strength to the whole world. But the perks had been nice.

And now they had all come to naught, and she was lying helpless and alone in a hospital bed.

Rumi was jolted out of her despairing thoughts by the creak of her door opening. Her ears, previously hanging flat and lifeless against her hair, perked up, swiveling towards the door along with her head.

A man entered, one who Rumi had never seen before. He was tall and lanky, though surprisingly muscular-looking under the doctor's coat he was wearing. Rumi's eyes tracked up the man's body until she saw his face. Cute freckles and surprisingly well-formed features, green eyes that seemed to dance with an inner light she couldn't quite place, mouth set into a neutral line, yet twitching up into the ghost of a sarcastic smirk. And of course, achingly soft-looking green curls that tangled and curved over his head, bushy and dense, that looked like he almost never brushed them.

Honestly, Rumi admitted to herself, he wasn't bad-looking. Hell, he was pretty cute, actually. Not that Rumi had time to think about that, or even wanted him to be here. He was probably another one of those fucking therapists who wanted her to talk about her feelings, as if understanding how shitty she felt would change the fact that she was never going to be a hero again.

Annoyed at the intrusion, Rumi demanded, "Who the fuck are you?"

Seemingly unbothered by her rudeness, the man replied, "I could ask you the same question."

"Ha, ha," Rumi growled, her mood souring even further, "don't play cute with me. Who are you?"

The man's lips curved upwards into a grin, which surprised Rumi; she was so used to doctors and nurses looking at her with pity and sympathy and other things that pissed her off royally that the sight of this man in a lab coat smirking at her nearly threw her off.

At last, the man-the young man, Rumi realized, he couldn't be older than she was-began, "My name is Izuku Midoriya. I'm a doctor."

"Good for you," Rumi said coldly, "hi, nice to meet you, now fuck off."

Midoriya's face didn't change in the slightest; Rumi felt a pang of surprise.

The green-haired doctor responded, "Hmmm...no, I don't think I will."

This man's nonchalance, the way he seemed to brush off her rage like nothing, only made Rumi angrier. A sudden rush of energy filled her and she managed to, with effort, haul herself upright to meet Midoriya's gaze head-on.

Three weeks, and this was the most strenuous activity she could manage to accomplish, with all the strength and willpower and determination she'd been legendary for. Fucking sitting up.

Rumi snapped, "That wasn't a request. Get. Out."

"Now why would I do that? I just got here," Midoriya asked lightly, tilting his head in confusion that felt fake.

"I don't care! Get out of my room!" Rumi repeated, her voice rising in growing fury, "whatever the fuck you think you can do for me, I don't want it. If you're another fucking therapist here to make me talk about what happened or tell me that everything's going to be okay, save yourself the trouble and leave right now."

"What makes you say that?" Midoriya asked. His voice had changed again, Rumi realized; it wasn't quite as amused, but it was still far from the gentle, soft tones of so many of the therapists and doctors who had tried to get her to "open up," using voices like those you would use with a child.

Normally, Rumi wouldn't have responded, but something about that voice challenged her, presented an obstacle she had to crack. Whatever this fucker's game was, he was still just another doctor, and Rumi knew he was just like all the others; he saw her as a pitiful wreck, the remnants of someone who had been one of the greatest heroes in Japan, a charity case. Rumi had had enough; this doctor was one too many, the final straw.

So Rumi roared, "Because, it's not okay! It's never going to be okay! I'm a cripple who can barely even sit up, forget about walking!"

"But you're alive," Midoriya pointed out, "that's more than some people can say."

Rumi's breath hitched a little as she thought about the snippets of news she'd caught over the last few weeks, of what the mission that had cost her her future had done to the whole hero world. Crust was dead, as were dozens of other heroes, with dozens more terribly injured. And that wasn't even counting the incomprehensibly terrible number of civilian casualties.

Even then, it wasn't enough to change Rumi's heart; the pit of crystallized despair that had set like stone in her heart couldn't be broken.

Her voice cracking and wavering more than she would ever admit, Rumi retorted, "It doesn't matter if I'm still alive, because my life is over! Being a hero was all I was, all I ever wanted to be! And now it's gone!"

Rumi fell silent, panting with the feeling of having something ripped from her chest, but Midoriya's face was still stony, unchanging. She couldn't seem to crack him.

So Rumi pulled her arm up from where she usually kept it hidden from view under the covers, and brandished her stump in his face. She hissed, "So unless you have a way to make this magically grow back, don't talk to me like things will be alright."

Still, Midoriya didn't say anything, didn't move a muscle. He just stared at her, his eyes drilling into hers. Rumi felt her ears wilting back down under that gaze, and she felt as though she was being picked apart. Midoriya had the most burning gaze Rumi had ever seen; it almost reminded her of her own, whenever she was in a fight. Rumi had never felt so helpless in front of someone else before, and not because she was currently unable to get out of bed.

Finally, Midoriya spoke, his voice steely, hitting like a sledgehammer. He said, "Funny. I thought that the Number Five Hero wouldn't be such a massive coward."

Rumi's jaw fell open in shock, and she reeled backwards with a choking gasp. Feeling outrage course through her, she yelled, " What the fuck? Y-you can't just-"

"I can't just do what?" Midoriya asked bitingly, his expression as hard and blunt as his voice, "call you a coward? But that's what you are."

"I-I'm not-" Rumi protested indignantly, still in shock.

Midoriya cut her off by asking, "Aren't you?"

"No!" Rumi shouted, "I fought the fucking Nomu, you piece of shit! I lost two goddamn limbs protecting the world from those monsters!"

"And then what did you do after that? What have you been doing since you got hurt?" Midoriya demanded.

Rumi froze, the question burning through her fury and striking her in the hollow center, the emptiness and lack of purpose she'd never been able to get rid of since she woke up. She knew the answer to the doctor's question, but she couldn't say it, couldn't admit that she was weak.

Before Rumi could even say anything, Midoriya answered his own question, saying, "Nothing, that's what. Well, other than sitting around and feeling sorry for yourself, of course. Worse than that, you've been actively resisting anyone who tries to help you. What am I supposed to think, other than that you're too scared to try and get better?"

Rumi felt her last weights snap, making her blood run hotter than it had since she'd been here. She insisted, "I am not scared!"

"I hope so," Midoriya retorted, "the Miruko everyone knows certainly wouldn't be."

Rumi flinched instinctively, her ears hanging helplessly by the sides of her head. She muttered, "Miruko is ... she's dead. I'm not a hero anymore."

"Miruko isn't dead," Midoriya replied, "I'm looking right at her."

Rumi looked back up at this strange, furious doctor, who was standing by her bedside again, blazing eyes meeting hers. She felt her anger boil even hotter at Midoriya's implacable stubbornness, his seeming inability to understand what she was feeling.

Rumi snapped, "Did you hear a thing I just said?"

"I did," Midoriya replied, "but it was bullshit, so I ignored it. You are Miruko, even if you seem determined not to act like it."

Rumi felt the last of her patience evaporate, and she threatened, "I'm going to kill you, you arrogant piece of shit."

Something started glittering in Midoriya's eyes then, a light that might have been victory. Cockily, he challenged, "Come on then, try it. Unless, of course, you're too helpless in that hospital bed."

Rumi saw red, and with her ears flying high, she threw herself at Midoriya with all her strength. Swinging her good leg to push off the bed, she flew headfirst towards him, her good arm outstretched and a snarl on her face.

Only, she didn't quite make it. Instead, Midoriya jumped out of the way, and Rumi crashed into the ground behind him, yelling in pain as she landed on the sensitive flesh of her stumps. She managed to roll onto her back, panting with effort and rage.

Suddenly, Midoriya was standing over her, but the stone-faced fury he had had was replaced with an easy, bright smile. That smile suddenly became all Rumi could see; it chased away her anger and her pain, even just for a second. She didn't know why, but she felt her heart soften and the despair around her heart crack, just a tiny bit.

"Congratulations, Miruko," Midoriya told her, "that's the furthest you've managed to move since you got here."

With wide eyes, Rumi managed to bolt upright, resting her pained upper body on her good arm, ignoring the stings and throbbing of her missing right leg. She saw that she'd managed to make it nearly five feet from the bed in her furious leap.

It wasn't much, not at all, but it was something. Maybe it was a sign.

Her heart beating wildly, Rumi breathed, "I...what? How?"

"Like I said, you haven't even been trying to heal," Midoriya told her, the honest, ear-to-ear smile on his face infecting even Rumi, "you just needed the right push to make you show some effort."

Rumi's jaw dropped as she finally understood Midoriya's gambit. She said, "So, what you were saying, all the insults…"

"I was trying to get you to break through the fear," Midoriya finished, "you had to have some reason to want to move again."

Rumi raised an eyebrow; she couldn't help it, the whole idea seemed ludicrous. She cracked, "So you decided to goad me into trying to attack you? That's a hell of a plan."

"I find spite is a powerful motivator," Midoriya replied, a laughing grin on his face, "sorry about what I said, by the way. I was just trying to rile you up."

"I...okay, then," Rumi decided, dropping the matter.

Then, they both seemed to come down from their excitement enough to remember that Rumi was still lying on the floor, and that spite was, unfortunately, not enough to get her back into bed.

So instead, Midoriya wrapped one hand under her legs the other around her torso, and bodily lifted her back into place. If his face was a little red doing it, Rumi didn't notice.

Rumi's ears twitched as Midoriya's soft hands held her; she had to admit, being carried around wasn't the worst thing in the world, at least when it was a cute guy doing it…

"Aren't you a doctor? How the hell are you doing this?" Rumi wondered out loud.

Midoriya answered cryptically, "I like to stay in shape. Besides, it's not like you're heavy. You're shorter than I expected, too."

Rumi complained, "Call me short again, and I'll attack you for real."

As Rumi settled back into her bed, Midoriya retorted, "Oh? You weren't attacking me "for real" that time?"

Rumi decided that not answering was her best bet. She just glared at this mysterious, young doctor with her best death glare.

Looking utterly unbothered, Midoriya sat down on a stool next to Rumi's bed. He said, "Well, now that that's done, I think we should try again with the introductions, don't you?"

Rumi, for once, realized that maybe she shouldn't be difficult. She was pretty sure that this doctor wasn't going to go away easily, and besides, he had helped her move the most she had in weeks. She still wasn't sure she believed what he had told her; there was still no path that she could see back into the only life she cared about, the life of a top pro.

But maybe that tiny little spark in her heart was the tiniest, weakest glimmer of hope.

So Rumi agreed, "Okay, sure."

With a nod, Midoriya stuck his hand out and said, "Izuku Midoriya, PhD. Please, call me Izuku, though. I've been assigned to help you with your recovery-which means we're going to be seeing a lot of each other. I'm a big fan."

Rumi took his hand with the only one she had, and they shook.

For a moment, she hesitated, wondering what she should say. Then, she saw Midoriya-no, Izuku's -eyes, which were shining with light and encouragement and faith in her.

A grin crossed her face, a ghost of the ones she'd once worn before the Nomus and the fight and three weeks of suffering in solitude. And Rumi said, "I'm Miruko. But you can call me Rumi."

It was the first time since she'd lost her limbs that Rumi was even willing to entertain the thought of the future, and even if it wasn't that bright, even if she still didn't think she'd ever recover, it was still something.

And something was more than what she'd had before, at least.

When Izuku finally got home from work that day, he threw himself onto his couch and tried to resist the urge to punch something.

He was stupid as fuck.

Sure, he'd managed to get through (he thought) to Miruko-no, Rumi- but he had also nearly ruined his chance to build a connection with her entirely. If it hadn't worked...he'd have been fucked. Rumi clearly didn't suffer fools, or anyone she didn't respect. She'd torn through far more experienced doctors than him for far less than calling her a coward to her face.

Izuku didn't regret saying it, though. It was what she needed to hear, because in the end, Izuku had taken one look at this woman, a hero he had always respected and admired, and knew that she shouldn't look like that, like she no longer cared about life.

The words had spilled out of his mouth, his acid tongue getting ahead of him as he tried to do something, anything, to get her to show the spark, the roaring spirit that was always the first thing anyone noticed about Miruko when they saw her.

For a hopeless few moments, there had been nothing; her rage and anger had come from somewhere else, from the pits of despair that Izuku was...uncomfortably familiar with from working with heroes and others who had been injured so badly.

Hell, part of the reason he'd been thrown so off-kilter in that room in the first place was because he'd walked in there and seen her lying there, empty-eyed, emotionless, her leg and arm ending in stumps, and it had made him think of-

Another hospital bed-

Doctors and nurses and the too-clean smells of the hospital-

Useless, why am I so useless-

With a groan, Izuku pulled himself upright and out of memories he never let out of their cages. This wasn't going to help him with the fact that he had a patient to help.

A gorgeous, like, seriously drop-dead gorgeous patient his age, sure, but Izuku could handle that, handle the way that his heart had started beating like mad when she'd flashed that grin at him. Maybe.

Izuku rose and went to go make dinner. Even as he did, his mind was racing, with plans and ideas and designs for the future.

He couldn't help the smile that spread across his face as he thought of Rumi. Even in the depths of despair, she'd found that spark. It was fleeting, and Izuku knew that it was probably gone again by now, but it was a start.

One way or another, Izuku would help her, even if she had to be dragged into the future kicking and screaming. He'd never failed before, and he damn well didn't plan to start now.

Not when the most beautiful woman he'd ever met (damnit brain, that wasn't why he was helping!) was counting on him.