Chapter Text
Katsuki remembers yelling for help.
He remembers a crowd of civilians surrounding the sight, watching him struggle against the sludge villain, and he remembers them calling the cops on their phones, screaming for assistance—asking for anyone who had a powerful enough quirk to join in on the fight and free him immediately.
He doesn’t remember any of them actually trying to take action, though.
In an alleyway filled with bystanders, each and every single one of them with fear in their eyes and desperation in their voices, he doesn’t recall seeing anybody running in or attempting to get directly involved in the fight.
It’s always the same thing. The public—they stare and stare, and they act like they’re worried for his safety and concerned for his wellbeing and the outcome of the situation, but they never actually do anything. It’s all talk and no show. It’s all meaningless in the end if there’s nothing that comes out of their endless panic and futile attempts at ‘assistance’.
This isn’t the first time he’s gotten caught up in such a situation, and it definitely won’t be the last.
Granted, though, this wasn’t in public for each and every case. Half of those incidents involved him getting kidnapped or abducted somewhere devoid of people. (Tough luck—it was a given fact that there were those out there who were looking to make usage of his quirk when he was younger and not able to fight back as much.) There were no crowds present and nobody watching as he was taken and as he tried his hardest to get himself free of his attacker’s grasp, fighting with everything he had in him, because he is not one for giving up, and he won’t go down without a struggle. He will never willingly go along with something if he doesn’t stand for it.
His shouts definitely aren’t silent, and his explosions less so. Every part of him is loud and noticeable, and yet no one ever seems to understand what he’s trying to convey. He’s always been alone, and his current predicament is no different.
And it honestly makes no difference to him whether or not there are bystanders at the moment, because they don’t do anything. He’s always had to fend for himself, and he will continue to do so until the very end, because everyone else is absolutely useless, and he almost wishes he was alone, because it’d at least be better than being humiliated in front of so many witnesses.
He also knows this is probably being filmed by someone out there, and that it’s going to make headlines very soon. There’s no way it wouldn’t.
The media is stupid like that. They’ll take pictures of him and write up an entire sob story, but they’ll never be there in the present, when he actually needs the help.
He strains against the thick slime coating his arms and legs, wrapping around his entire body. Every part of him aches badly, and his throat is starting to get sore from all the yelling, so he shuts his mouth and focuses on activating his quirk to the fullest, because at least then he might be able to blast a hole into the sludge.
The substance is extremely tough as much as it is fluid, though, and although he can feel the movement of slime shifting to the side and pooling outwards every time he sends out an explosion, it keeps coming back, and he’s not quick enough to damage it further before the gaps he creates are filled once again. The villain is fast, and its body is versatile and flexible. The sludge keeps moving in every direction, dynamic and ever-changing, giving Katsuki no chance to create an opening.
He grits his teeth and tries to inhale, because he feels like he’s suffocating—he most likely is suffocating. The villain has his nose and mouth covered, and he cannot get a deep breath in without completely intaking the sludge as well. He coughs and spits, but more just keeps forcing its way inside his mouth every time. The tears due to exertion are beginning to gather at the corners of his eyes, and that is most certainly not helping the matter either.
He has to work on blinking them away, because he cannot move his arms at all, which are beginning to be bound tighter and tighter by the sludge villain. He’s going to die if he doesn’t make his way out of this immediately, so he directs his entire force into his kicks, shoving his feet around, and he’s pretty sure he dislodges one of his sneakers in the process. He doesn’t mind, though, because that stuff can be replaced, and his life, on the other hand, cannot.
The slime coating him is on his hair too. He can’t move without getting more and more on him, holy shit.
He’s trying to at least keep his head out of the sludge, if that’s the most he can do, when he sees… someone running toward him.
And due to whatever forces are conspiring against him in the universe, it’s the one and only Deku.
Fucking hell, he thinks he’d rather take death over this, because… what the fuck?
The flash of distinguished green hair filters through the crowd and the debris, and gets closer and closer, even if Katsuki has to shut his eyes against the sludge several times. He can see glimpses of Izuku as he runs past all the damaged structures and it’s kind of a wonder how he hasn’t tripped on something yet. He’s suddenly pulling one strap of his backpack off his shoulder, grabbing it with both hands, and—
If he’s about to do what Katsuki thinks he is, then he must be a real dumbass.
And well, because he is a real dumbass, the aforementioned backpack is promptly being flung at a dangerous speed, right toward where Katsuki is.
“What the hell, Deku?” Katsuki yells, his throat burning. His voice comes out muffled and unclear, but it’s enough for Izuku to hear. The backpack ends up narrowly missing Katsuki’s head, thank fuck, and lodges itself in the villain’s body instead, richocheting and flying straight back onto the ground after making a futile hit.
Izuku them promptly runs toward Katsuki, tears in his eyes and expression showing panic, as reaching fingers grasp at the slime, and if Katsuki wasn’t stuck right now, he’d smack some good sense into the kid, because how the hell is this supposed to work? Does he really think that clawing mindlessly at the villain’s body will do anything of use? Katsuki has been struggling the entire time, and to no avail, and this dumbass thinks he can perform a weaker version of the same action and hope something will happen?
“Why the fuck are you here?!”
Izuku looks up at him, wide-eyed and upset. “Kacchan! My legs moved on their own—”
And then, because life is wild as shit and makes no fucking sense whatsoever, several things happen one after another.
1. The clamoring in the crowd grows louder, and there’s a bunch of excited shouts mixed in with the panicked screaming.
2. All-fucking-Might comes out of absolutely nowhere, materializing out of thin air to come and rush forward. Katsuki blinks for a split second, and the man is immediately in front of him.
3. He’s grabbed by the arm, and he’s pretty sure Izuku is shoved to the side, too.
4. There’s a fucking loud-ass yell of “Detroit Smash”, and then there’s a whole damn whirlwind.
5. He’s pretty sure he passes out for a bit after that.
When he comes to, there’s a bunch of police officers carrying some trash bags, which Katsuki presumes are filled with pieces of the sludge villain. The bags are being hauled into some sort of truck.
Izuku’s a few ways to the side, being reprimanded for his attempt at being heroic, or whatever, from what Katsuki can hear and interpret.
Katsuki himself is sitting down on the ground, his knees drawn up to his chest as some random hero he doesn’t know the name of is going off about how he wants Katsuki to intern for him sometime in the future.
And okay, this is useless and stupid.
If he doesn’t need a medical checkup or anything, then he’s out of here.
He raises one hand and sends out a warning blast, causing some of the extras surrounding him to jump out of the way. He doesn’t hesitate to get up from the asphalt and make his way the fuck out of that alleyway, searching for his possibly-destroyed backpack.
After that whole overdramatic, stupid ass thing, Katuski goes and chases after Izuku. The damn nerd. The amount of nerve that idiot has, to be jumping into the fray like that, without a second though and without any plan in mind. What the actual hell was he thinking?
He’s not magically going to become a hero just by tossing his backpack into a villain’s body. No. He should know this by now—he’s quirkless. He’s at the bottom of the hierarchy, and if he believes that he can ever match up to the level as all those pro-heroes he looks up to, then he’s a fool.
Katsuki thought he made this clear. He was so sure he had reiterated that same concept over and over again to the boy, and yet, Izuku doesn’t relent. He is either extremely stubborn, or extremely moronic, because no logical, rational person would ever pull the stunt he just did today.
And well, Katsuki needed to tell him that he didn’t need help. He. Did. Not. And Izuku didn’t even help—All Might did.
God, that makes Katsuki pissed off.
That was a stupid, life-endangering move on Izuku’s part, and he made sure to let the kid know as he was making his way back home. He had yelled that he doesn’t need the idiot to interfere, and he told him not to do it again.
And well, if Izuku doesn’t listen, then whatever kind of trouble he ends up getting himself into in the future is not Katsuki’s fault, because the blond has spent his entire life trying to deter the boy, but to no avail.
He doesn’t care anymore—if Izuku wants to be a martyr, then Katsuki will leave him to it.
It’s fucking fine. He’s done with that conversation. All he wants to do now is go home and pass out on his bed. He’s exhausted after that.
The sun is beginning to set, and his house actually isn’t too far away from Izuku’s, so he should be able to get there in no time. All of his limbs still ache, the image of the struggle still fresh in his mind. That was fucking embarrassing. He should’ve been able to handle himself—his explosions should’ve worked.
And yet, he ended up being the victim, needing someone else to save him. The number one hero in all of Japan, no less.
Dammit. Today has been too strange and terrible of a day, and he wants nothing more than to just get inside his house and ignore his mother until the next morning.
And that’s what he intends on doing when he reaches the front door, preparing to pull out the key from… his half-empty backpack. Fuck. That villain completely destroyed most of his school supplies and lesson materials, even if he did manage to retrieve the bag in one piece after the fight.
It turns out that he didn’t really need to do anything, though, because the door swings open two seconds later to reveal none other than his mother, still clad in her work clothes, her eyes narrowing upon seeing him.
One of her hands is braced against the doorframe, and the other contains the TV remote. She tosses said object at him, and he has to react quickly as it’s chucked at his head.
Remote in his grip, he scowls at the old hag.
“What the hell?” he demands. “What do you want? Let me in.”
Mitsuki, however, doesn’t shift an inch. She stands her ground, blocking his entrance into the abode, her crimson eyes scrutinizing him, scanning up and down. Looking for evidence of what she no doubt just watched on the news, probably.
Katsuki suddenly feels self-conscious, because he knows that there are some pieces of sludge still stuck to his clothes. He couldn’t get all that muddy green, sticky material off, so he left it on there. His uniform is ruined anyway, and he has more sets of them, so what does it matter if he tosses one of them out?
“Quit starin’,” Katsuki states, irritated. He’s at the end of his line here—it’s been a long afternoon, and he doesn’t need to deal with his mother’s shit right now.
Unfortunately, that’s not how it works in their household.
Mitsuki utters a small “tch” in exasperation, before sending an open-palmed strike out toward his head. He ducks quickly, knowing how she typically attacks well enough to predict her every move. They’ve done this dance for long enough, to the point where it’s practically impossible for him not to have picked up on her idiosyncrasies already.
The miss doesn’t deter her, though, because she promptly grabs him by the arm and draws him in through the door. He nearly smacks his head against the frame in the process of being thrust forward without warning, and his (single) shoe kicks against the ledge as well as he’s tossed into the entryway of the house.
Mitsuki doesn’t let go even after that, continuing to hold his arm in an unyielding grip as she reaches over to grab the doorknob and pull the door shut, flicking the lock closed. He glares at her, and she does it right back.
“You,” she states, taking his other arm now, so that he’s directly facing her. “You do not speak to me like that. I’m your mother.”
And oh, the natural order of the world falls into place, and the conversation escalates, per usual.
“Shut up!” Katsuki says, raising his voice. “I’ve already told you this before, and I’ll tell you once again: it doesn’t matter who you are to me—If I want to say something, then I will say it! You’re not going to stop me by telling me otherwise.”
“Alright, then, brat,” she huffs. “If that’s the way you want to approach this, then fine. And what’s even wrong with me looking at you, hm? Can’t I take a look at my own son to make sure he’s okay after getting himself in a shit ton of trouble, as he always does? All I want to do is care for you, Katsuki, and you’re making this extremely difficult when you don’t have to. This—this is why we can’t be a normal family.”
“What the hell are you even saying?” Katsuki scoffs, looking at her in disbelief. “The problem here isn’t me, it’s you! If you really cared about me that much, we wouldn’t be here right now, arguing about whatever the fuck we’re arguing about. I don’t want you to stare at me, because all you’re going to tell me is to stop getting myself into fights, and this and that—”
“It’s fucking true, though! If you weren’t causing trouble and if you had just come directly home after classes have ended for the day, you would be completely fine,” she counters, her temper flaring, even if her statement makes zero fucking sense whatsoever.
Just because Katsuki decided to linger around outside a little longer than usual, instead of making his way back immediately, it doesn’t mean a damn thing. How was he supposed to know that there was going to some sort of sludge villain that would appear out of a fucking plastic bottle on the ground after kicking it?
It’s not his fucking fault that he got caught up in this, and she has no right to make that claim. She wasn’t even there—all she found was snippets select parts of the fight, broadcasted on the television. That doesn’t convey anything—only he knows what happened, because it happened to him.
“God, Katsuki,” she says, her voice suddenly lowering by a noticeable amount. Her grip on his arms loosens, and Katsuki no longer feels like she’s trying to crush them. She seems calmer, and almost sad, even. What a two-faced bitch.
“All I want is for you to be okay. You’re always doing all these things that I’m not aware about, and then you come back injured or smelling like some burnt caramel or whatever—and don’t think I can’t tell when you’ve recently used your quirk! You shouldn't have to be doing that under any circumstances if all you’re doing is going to school and coming back each day.”
“What I do with my explosions is none of your business. I can use it however I want, and you’re not going to be able to stop me—this is my life, not yours, and you don’t even let me use it in the house anyway! How else am I supposed to get any practice done?” Katsuki asks,
“I let you do it outside, around the house, and in the backyard. You quirk is not something to be taken lightly, and you know you can seriously injure someone with it if you’re not careful. You can do damage to public property, too. Don’t you remember all of those incident reports when you were younger, Katsuki? The amount of times I’ve had to clear you of the charges?”
“Shut up,” Katsuki growls. He can’t deny that he did have significantly worse quirk control in the past, but he’s not like that anymore. He’s gotten better at these things, and now she’s just trying to use some outdated evidence against him. Always dredging up the past when she wants to make a point.
“There’s nothing wrong with just toning it down a bit, sometimes. God, even your temper is horrible—you should be a little more like your father, you know? He listens to me, and if you could just be like that as well, we wouldn’t have so many disagreements all the time.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Katsuki shouts, yanking his arms away and slipping out from where he's cornered between her and the wall.
He takes off and runs toward where he knows the staircase is a few feet away. Without hesitation, he kicks off his shoe by the first step and then proceeds to run upstairs, his too-light backpack swinging behind him and knocking against his body as he makes his way up.
His room is the closest one when he arrives on the second floor, and he dashes inside, chucking his bag across the air before whirling around to push the door closed, slamming it so hard against the frame that he swears he can hear pieces of wood splintering within the structure.
He promptly faceplants on his bed, taking deep breaths in to calm himself down. There’s no need to get riled up over this—they have these kinds of fights every other day. It’s nothing new, and he doesn’t care about anything she has to say to him, because it’s nothing she hasn’t mentioned before.
It’s always the same things over and over again:
Why can’t you be more normal? Why can’t you just act like all your classmates and practically every other teen in Japan? Just be more like your father, Katsuki—no one likes talking to a kid who’s hard to control and difficult to manage. We could get along more if you’d just calm down.
And what a hypocrite she is for trying to speak about him like that when she’s not very much different. There’s a reason why he’s grown up to be like this. He has to fight fire with fire. If she’s going to be an annoying, rowdy-ass bitch, then how is he going to be able to counter without becoming the same himself?
Fuck that shit.
He just wants to sleep.
So he flips over in order to lie down on his back, grabs his pillow from beside the headboard, and closes his eyes, forcing himself to breathe naturally again.
The old hag doesn’t seem to be chasing after him, because if she was, then she’d be up here by now, banging on his door and threatening to kick it down if he refuses to unlock it right away. This means that she’s leaving him alone for now, he supposes, although there’s no way to predict how long the intermission will last.
Whatever. It’ll be fine in the morning.
Everything will be back to normal very soon, and the two of them will just pretend that nothing ever happened.
Katsuki doesn’t wake up to the sunrise filtering through his window, but rather, a pitch-black night sky.
Which is pretty peculiar, because he was tired enough that he’s pretty sure he could’ve slept for a full fourteen hours before getting up again—
There’s a light knock on his door.
Ah.
So he didn’t wake up on his own then. It makes sense, considering that he still feels really damn groggy, and like he can pass out again any moment now.
The door feels too far away, and he doesn’t have the energy to stand up and walk over there to see who it is, so he decides to do this the easy way, and mutters a quick “what?” from where he’s still lying down. His voice comes out all scratchy, and his throat feels dry.
“Hey, Kats,” the outsider responds, sounding muffled. Mitsuki would never call him by that fond nickname. There’s only one person who does that.
His father.
“Tell me what you want, Dad, or I’m going the fuck back to bed.”
There’s a small chuckle from behind the door, and Katsuki mentally rolls his eyes.
“I’ve finished preparing food with your mother. You can come downstairs, if you’re hungry. I made sure to make everything extra spicy, just the way you like it.”
Katsuki sighs. That’s extremely thoughtful of Masaru, and while he’s grateful for everything his Dad’s doing for him, Katsuki genuinely isn’t in the mood to go back downstairs, right now. He doesn’t think he has the patience to face his mother again in the same day, and even if the prospect of dinner does sound pretty appealing at the moment, it’s not good enough to outweigh the benefits of catching some more hours of sleep.
“Sorry, old man. I don’t feel up to it,” Katsuki says, rolling on his side. There’s some weird feeling he’s getting. It may be just due to the exhaustion, though.
“That’s alright,” Masaru replies. He chooses his next words carefully, hesitant in order to prevent offending or provoking Katsuki in any way. “Are… are you hurt? I kind of heard from your mother what happened today, and….”
“I’m fine. She’s making a big deal out of it, and it really wasn’t all that bad. I made it out of there alive, didn’t I?”
That earns him a contemplative hum in response.
“Okay… well, Kats. Be sure to let me know if you need anything, okay? We’ll discuss this more in the morning, when you’re feeling better.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Katsuki mumbles dismissively. His cheek is pressed up against his damp pillow, and his forehead feels all sticky. He must’ve been sweating, then. “I’ll see you later……. thanks.”
The last word is rushed and low-spoken, but Katsuki says it nonetheless. If he’s going to be stuck in this hellhole for the foreseeable future, then at least he has one good parent he can rely on when he needs it the most. It’d be a fault on his part if he didn’t show some token of appreciation for that fact.
And well, it seems that Masaru must’ve heard it clearly enough, because he gets a small “I love you too,” in return, and he feels like smiling.
There are soft footsteps that fade into the background, and his Dad leaves him alone just like that, because unlike his mother, he actually understands Katsuki and is accepting of him. Katsuki wonders where he learned that sort of patience, because he thinks he’d personally go insane if he had to put up with two family members acting this wild all the time.
It’s quite a skill to admire, so kudos to him for having it.
Katsuki buries his face into his pillow, feeling the lethargy sinking into his bones once again, except this time, his mind is far too awake for him to go back to sleep even if every cell in his body is screaming for the rest. If his brain doesn’t let him relax enough to drift off, then it doesn’t matter what the rest of him says.
Which is truly fucking annoying, so he groans into his pillow, feeling frustrated. He kind of wants to… cry.
Okay, that’s stupid. He doesn’t do crying. This really isn’t that bad—he’s being just as overdramatic as Mitsuki. There’s no reason for him to be feeling this way when (and he even said it himself!) he made it out of that sludge villain’s attack completely fine and alive. There’s nothing wrong with him, so why….
Why does he feel so off? There’s something very weird about the situation, so he focuses.
There are a million little things prodding at him right now, and far too many to decipher all at once, so he concentrates on the more noticeable sensations.
There’s a sticky coating on his skin and over his clothes. Okay, fine. That’s to be expected—he did just come out of a bundle of slime, after all. It’s not like he’s a stranger to feeling uncomfortable and covered in grime anyway. He sweats nitroglycerin, for fuck’s sake. That stuff has a different consistency than normal sweat, and he’s pretty sure he has more tolerance to feeling dirty than most people his age.
So, no, that’s not what’s bothering him. Perhaps, it’s his legs, which are considerably sore and aching after that struggle. His arms, too. Everything hurts from the strain, which, again, is to be expected and is nothing out of the ordinary. He’s also worked out and gone to the gym more times than he can count, so… a little bit of pain in his muscles can’t be the reason he’s so irked, either.
Something else has to be causing this. He has cuts and bruises, and he thinks he may have scraped his knees as well. He’s not bleeding profusely, though, so that shouldn’t be a concern. If he had gotten stabbed, on the other hand, he’d be pretty fucking worried for his life, but this—this is nothing.
His chest feels a little tight. Wait.
His… what? Thinking back, he remembers coughing out a bunch of sludge. Fucking nasty. Just the memory of it makes him want to vomit. It was so fucking weird and violating to be experiencing that. And although he knows how to swim—he’s not an imbecile—he’s pretty sure that was what drowning would feel like if he ever had to go through such a thing.
That was one of the absolute worst, most terrifying feelings. There was sludge in this throat, at a fucking scalding temperature. He’s mostly immune to such a thing, sure, because of his quirk and everything, but since he was using his explosions during the struggle, there was fire all over the damn ground and on the debris surrounding him.
The sludge was heated of his own doing, and it burned, going down. In his desperation to alleviate the situation, given that he couldn’t simply escape it, he’s pretty sure he swallowed some of that shit. He had no choice, especially since it was being forced into him regardless.
And oh, fuck.
His breathing picks up a little, and his heart rate begins to spike. No, no, no…
Is a part of that slime fucker still in him?! What the actual fuck?
He stumbles out of his covers, even though he was never even completely under them in the first place, and knocks his pillow to the ground in the process. He falls off of the mattress, his knees hitting the wooden floorboards, which, ow, fucking aggravates the injuries already there.
Hastily, he scrambles, grabbing onto the nightstand beside him, his fingers knocking against the lamp. The entire thing shakes when he uses it for support and hauls himself up, sprinting past his room, closing the distance between his room and the joined bathroom.
He doesn’t have the time to shut the door there or slap the light switch before he’s leaning over the toilet bowl, his mouth tasting like acid and his stomach cramping as he heaves up everything he possibly can, and then some more.
What the fuck.
He has to actively concentrate on not breathing in until he spits residue from his mouth, because he’s not going to risk choking on that.
Reaching behind himself blindly, he hastily turns on the lights.
And….as he stares back at the fucking nasty ass multi-colored shit in front of his view, he squints at it, trying to make out something in particular.
He’s glad he didn’t choose to give in and head downstairs for dinner when he had the chance, because if he had, there’s a very high chance that all of this would’ve been upheaved right at the table, and he’d have a harder time finding what he’s looking for.
And…
There it is.
What…. the.. actual fuck?!?!?! Holy fucking shit?!!?
The dark green matter can be spotted, interspersed. It’s impossible to miss—he’d have to be either completely blind or excessively stupid not to make the connection, no matter how much he wants to just slip into denial and pretend that the solid evidence isn’t right there, in front of him.
That’s. Part. Of. The. Sludge. Villain. And he coughed it up.
He has to bite the inside of his cheek, hard, in order to prevent himself from screaming right there and then.
He wants to die. Why the fuck does he have to deal with this crap?
He thought it was pretty fucking stupid for the heroes on site and whoever else was there in the aftermath of the attack to not have had any sort of emergency medical response on site, but he didn’t think too deeply about the situation in the moment, especially since all he wanted to do was just get out of there and never see Deku’s stupid face ever again.
There were people praising him on his bravery and his quirk. The news reporters wanted a word from him for the press, and the pro-heroes even tried to offer him internships, dammit. They were looking at him in awe and admiring his courage as if he actually did a single useful thing to free himself from the situation (not that he didn’t try, though), and they were staring down at Izuku in contempt as if all the kid wanted to do was interfere and cause trouble for All Might and other other minor heroes.
Like, no. What the fuck???
The more he thinks about it, the further the situation was screwed up. Nothing makes sense—were they even following proper protocol? Nobody was logical whatsoever; was anyone aware of how serious the situation truly was?
Katsuki made it out without major complications, yeah, sure, but that shouldn’t change how they respond to the incident. Just because he’s able to walk and yell and use his quirk in their faces afterward doesn’t mean they should just take that at face value and act like everything’s dandy.
What is he really wasn’t immediately alright? What if he needed direct help? Would they have done the same thing, made the same choices?
No.
He knows that the answer to that is no. If he had been worse off, he knows that they wouldn’t have let Izuku out with just a general warning and some advice for the future. No, that kid would've been unrightfully blamed, and the consequences would have increased in severity for the nerd, proportional to how bad Katsuki’s status was.
No. This isn’t how it’s supposed to work. He’s missing something, right? He didn’t get the full story? For crying out loud, these are pro-heroes who have been in the field for a few years at the very least, and there’s no way they could’ve just… ignored all of the steps.
Is Katsuki even thinking about this coherently? Are all of the points he’s making even valid? What the hell is he saying?
Tch. It’s not like he’s going to go back outside and go and file a lawsuit for that bullshit, anyway, so he doesn’t know what he’s on about. Maybe he should just make his brain shut the fuck and and go pass out again, because he’s too tired to deal with this right now. He’ll think more about tomorrow, and have that talk with his father he was promised.
Whatever. So what if there is sludge in his digestive system?
They let him off without as much as a medical examination, so.
And he’s not fucking dead yet, so it can’t be that toxic. Or at least he should have some sort of resistance to the effects of chemicals in there, considering that he’s a walking nuclear bomb himself.
Ugh.
It’s fine.
He smacks the flush handle of the toilet with his palm and stands up on shaky legs, holding onto the edge of the sink counter.
In the mirror, he stares at his reflection. His eyes are bleary and the dark circles under them are prominent. His skin is much paler than usual, and it carries an ashy tinge as well. He turns on the tap and cups his hands under it, hoping that the frigid water will be refreshing and make this all marginally better for the time being.
He’s. Fucking. Fine.
(How many times does he need to remind himself of that until he stops thinking otherwise?)