"Y/N!" By the time he's caught your body, you were long passed out.

     Whether from the exhaustion or some weird side effect from the drug he just saw get stabbed into you, he wasn't sure yet, but your body felt like ice under his hold. It made his heart race in a way he didn't exactly appreciate, the peaceful look whenever you fell asleep no longer present as, even in slumber, your whole body showed pain.

     "Fuck, fuck, fuck," He chanted under his breath as though that would somehow help his case, lowering himself to the floor to catch and support your weight a little more comfortably. "Oh my God, what the fuck," By then you two had arrived a little closer to civilization, many lights from nearby shops being the only source of light for the phoenix as he scans over your face. All his life he'd been surrounded by dead people, or at least people who died quicker. But this? A possibly dying person in his arms that he didn't want to die? It made everything he's ever known in his life a lie and something he can't turn to for some sort of advice. 

     In true New York fashion, all passerby's simply did just that; passed by. It relieved Dabi enough, that people were nonchalant and gave about enough zero fucks to not draw attention to himself nor you. 

     He sends a glance to your building, one hand subconsciously moving to shakily move stray strands of hair off your forehead and face. It. . . it couldn't have been that serious, right? This was a drug he didn't know, and he didn't know how much it'd do to your person. Was it gonna work immediately? Will the process of you turning be quick and easy enough to watch, or a horror show that showed each and every gory detail there was to possibly show?

     Quickly sending a panicked glance, one hand tilted your chin to try and see. No obvious signs of change, at least. No scales, feathers—hell, he even tugged your lips upwards to see if you had grown fangs!—or even skin discoloration. That eased his nerves, but not enough. It wouldn't be enough unless he saw you awake and well and telling him that you were fine. Your face contorted and changed in looks Dabi could only describe as suffering. Your brows furrowing and then not; your lips quivering as hushed, groaning moans escaped your lips—he was absolutely lost as this point. 

     The idea of taking you to a hospital briefly crossed his mind, but before he could finalize on that decision, he was already heading towards your apartment.

     "Come on, Y/N, don't you fucking dare," He mumbled more to himself than anyone who might hear, your form limp and tugging along with each step he took. He was visibly in a rush, anyone who'd care enough to send him a glance and take note of his panicked look alongside your body that looked dead to the untrained eye no doubt probably feeling pity for the poor guy. 

     Sneaking past prying eyes and intruding lights was no doubt a tricky task with you in his arms, grunting as he heaved himself up a staircase up a nearby building. As much as he'd love to take the elevator up to your room, he wasn't exactly one that would be in any way ready to explain why and how you were passed out. The building was too bright, there were too many people in the lobby, there were cameras everywhere—so he had no choice but to use his 'secret entrance' that he was surprised you didn't ask about any more than you initially had.

     A humorless laugh passes his throat as he got to the tricky part, the jump he was so used to doing now a bigger risk.

     His foot teased the edge of the building, small, stray debris crumbling as it fell down into the busy streets below. The roof he was on was dark, brooding in his wake—while the bright lights everywhere else contrasted that. As much as he would love to make a metaphor on how that described his life and how depressed he felt in a world overrun with party animals, this wasn't exactly the right time and place for that. 

     He gave one small squeeze on your arm, adjusting you to lift you higher up his arms. He tried his best to bridal carry you, head tucked by his shoulder and body held as close as he could. The jump was risky, the risk was stupid—he could easily just use the stairs! 

     But he insisted, taking a deep breath as he eased himself into it. Giving one last kiss to your forehead as a sort of advanced sorry and possible last goodbye had he ever failed—the entire idea morbid but uncomfortably fitting to this situation—he took a few steps back, before running towards the edge of the building in full speed.

     He braced himself as he leaped, the usually short and easy jump ironically looking a lot farther away the more he neared it. This was a make or break, and he was damn sure he wasn't going to be causing you harm.

     The small part of the fence around your balcony he had so generously removed for his midnight escapades served to be of good use when he was alone and had more freedom, but now serving to be a nuisance as his leg caught itself in it and the damn thing didn't fall over as easily as it usually did. 

     He tumbled forward, his quick reflexes enough to stop you from taking the brunt of the fall but not enough for him to land on his ass weirdly. 

     Dabi groans out in pain as he skidded across the asphalt, you thankfully still in his arms but his grip definitely loosening. This had been a long night, and he didn't expect breaking his butt to be on the agenda. Sending a glare to the makeshift gate he added that didn't serve it's purpose when he needed it to, he heaves himself off the ground and turns towards the entrance to your house.

     The inside was completely empty, devoid of life save for your cat lazily swinging his tail at the phoenix in a mock greeting as the light in the small kitchen remained turned on. There were no signs of your roommate anywhere, and it meant only one thing.

     Dabi curses as, he was right, the sliding doors were locked.

     He glances around your pretty much bare outside area, the couch you had sacrificed to be put outside for lounging purposes serving a great deal of help as he treated that a temporary haven. He carefully lays your body on the cushion, giving you a once-over for any other signs of extra damage that might have been done on you before turning back towards the entrance. 

     The sliding door was simple enough, entirely made of glass save for the framing. He honestly thought he was going to have to break it, but he doubted that the security system, you, your roommate—or anyone in the vicinity, really—would appreciate that. So he had to settle with actually using his brain to think, clicking his tongue with another curse as he taps his foot impatiently. Did you have a spare key? The doors seem to operate with that.

     The last few times he had visited your home where the doors were unlocked were by, of course, pure dumb luck. You and your roommate were a bunch of dunderheads who forgot to lock your shit sometimes, and Dabi never really cared for it because it worked in his favor. But really? You two just had to lock it now?

     He looks at the handiwork done, the lock barely visible as it was blatantly obvious that what had to be it's partner was a relatively small key. Dabi would guess that, by pure eyeball math, it was the size of his pinky. He kneels down, inspecting the keyhole a lot more closely to see if he could open it without having to show his face to your roommate and asking her to open it for him. Their last interaction was bad enough—first impressions do matter, you know—and the phoenix wasn't exactly in a mood to do a retake. 

     He clicks his tongue once again, annoyance bubbling over as he pats his pockets. He wasn't one to bring around lockpicking equipment. Hell, he didn't even own any. Because why the fuck would he? Just because he used to live on the streets and kills people for a living doesn't mean that he was somehow an expert at this, he wasn't a fucking cliché. 

     "Damn you, you fucking. . ." Profanity pooled and spilled from his mouth and into the dark night as he got to grabbing a stray hairpin he had picked up by chance yesterday, bending it the best he could as he tried to recall any advice Kurogiri might have tried to tell him. That man taught them a lot of shit, but it probably would've been a lot more useful had he actually listened to them. 

     "Put this shit here. . . fucking. . ." Patience wasn't exactly a weapon Dabi was all too familiar with, his temper a lit fuse only getting narrowly paused in it's track to a metaphorical bomb each time with a deep breath. But it was only a pause, and he knew that it was going to blow up if he didn't get it right.

     "Fuck!" He cries out, huffing as he sat back in defeat. This thing was hopeless! There was no way he could bring you inside to the comforts of your bedroom without having to break the damn thing. It was just downright impossible, hell, he had better chances of making amends with his father than picking this stupid fucking!— 

     . . .

     . . .

     . . .

     The sounds of muffled shuffling made him turn towards you, guilt immediately on his features as he sees you curling over in a fetal position despite the small space the couch could offer you. Your face was still going through a lot, your thoughts no doubt a train wreck as, paired with that, he felt the mighty, unforgiving nightly winds of New York pick up. 

     His face softens, quickly moving to remove his coat and walking over to you. 

     He stands over your form, sighing as he lays the cloth as a makeshift blanket. It didn't look the best, nor did it smell it, but he felt that it was somewhat enough for now. I mean, would you really care? You were already tolerating him, he doubted that you'd mind smelling like his—frankly in need of a good wash—coat for the time being while you were passed out.

     He sighs for what felt like the umpteenth time that night, settling on the floor as he gazes at your features with a solemn look. Today was a mess, and he barely got to save you, much less on time.

     . . .

     And in the end he still couldn't.

     "What'd you ever see in me?" The question fell on unconscious ears, floating out into the night carried away to be lost in the usual city hustle and bustle. It was a question he asked himself each night, one he tried so desperately to deny but ultimately accepted as the truth. What did you see in him? Was it because he saved you that one time? It could've been anyone, it just happened by chance that he so happened to be passing by.

     Dabi didn't deny it, he had feelings. He fell hard, and he damn well knew that that wouldn't be changing anytime soon. The only thing was, he never understood why and how you felt the same way.

     Don't get him wrong, he means well, and he knew that his feelings were genuine enough. But. . . but what if—

     He stops upon noticing the bag that hardly stayed on your person, not even noticing in the entirety of your makeshift trip to here that you had it. You. . . you're the owner of the house! Keys!

     He jumps, quickly grabbing the purse with a quiet apology that he hardly even voiced out. With his luck, he wouldn't be surprised if he—and there it was, the new dilemma of the night.

     In your bag was a heavy bundle of jingling keys, many similar in both size and appearance with hardly any differences. Good God, since when did you even have this many keys? It should physically be impossible!

     Holding back a groan, he goes and grabs them nonetheless, walking over to the sliding doors ready to test them out one by one if he had to. He wasn't stupid of course, he knew that the bigger keys were an obvious no-go, but it seems that whatever heavenly being lived up there hated him with a passion, because the majority of the keys were recognizably tiny. Some gold, some pink, some silver, hell, he was pretty sure one of them had all colors of the rainbow—it was annoying to say the least, the first time ever having to get something without your permission and even then he was stopped.

     He eventually got it using one colored entirely black, failing to recognize how anyone would be able to remember it alongside all the other keys present. He could never understand women, and he gave up on trying long ago.

     He slides open the door just enough for the both of you to slip inside, never noticing how loud it creaked with each tug. Was it always like that? Or was his luck just noticeably more shitty today?

     He doesn't get enough time to think about it as he hurriedly picks up your form again, huddling you close as he felt you shiver against him. God, you were ice-cold, it was unnatural and started to worry him. This made Dabi curse once again, not at you but at whatever fuck-o decided it was a good idea to drag you into this. And not only them but Juan, the melted bitch. Didn't he already kick his ass before? Won't he ever learn? He never did worry about this stuff, oh no, he made enemies all the time, far more than any acquaintances or allies. But now that you were getting dragged into it, it rubbed him the wrong way knowing that you were getting forced into fights that you frankly, probably couldn't survive in without some sort of help or dirty play.

     And sure Dabi was contractually obligated to protect you now, but it didn't mean that he was going to be there all the time to—

     He stops, mid-stride as he hears the front door downstairs opening. "Y/N, you home??" He clicks his tongue quietly, glad that he had already opened up your bedroom door, but pissed now that his chances of escape remaining unseen were no longer an easy possibility. "Ugh, you left the balcony open!" He hears something dropping on—presumably—the couch, a pair of feet lazily stalking towards his only reasonable exit as she closes and locks it with a resounding click, "Whatever, goodnight!"

     . . .

     Earning no response after that, he assumes that she goes off to do whatever.

     He sighs in relief, slowly laying you out on your bed, careful not to let anything creak. New York was loud, but it was loud in the streets. In a penthouse as far up as yours were? Not so much.

     He got his coat back and easily put it on, replacing it with your more comfortable choice of a blanket as you visibly still looked troubled. Cold sweat ran down your forehead, whole body trembling as he sighs in defeat. He really didn't know how to help, and even if he did, he doubt that he'd be able to do it with privacy.

     He contemplated just staying there for a while, to watch over you through the night and leave once your temperature had gone back to normal and right before you'd wake up. He'd nothing better to do, and he was technically your bodyguard at this point so it wasn't really much of a stretch for that to be possible.

     . . .

     But. . . then again. . .

     He sighs, exasperated as he just decides that the next best thing would be to let your roommate handle it. They've met once, he's sure that they're on. . . good enough terms for him to just. . .

     He glances off as he sees a stray piece of notebook lying untouched on a desk that looked hardly used, the particular corner in your room a lot quieter and. . . dead—was the best he could describe it as—in terms of atmosphere, and he was right to assume that the notebook was hardly used because when he peeled it off the surface, he saw a small coat of dust.

     Hiding the amusement on his face, he picks up a pen on your bedside—this one definitely not as unused—and writes two letters. One for you and asking of your well-being, and another for your roommate to know about the letter he wrote for you. Productive, I know.

     In the same house, same apartment, same building—Jirou stretches with a small pop as, finally, she was back home. Practice was a mess. It was the same as always, but it was messy.

     She loved her team, she really did, but it was days like these where she sometimes wondered what it'd be like working solo.

     She shakes her head as if that would somehow undo her rude and unnecessarily formed thoughts, throwing off her jacket and grabbing clothes that were more comfortable. She knew that she was going to have to go back again tomorrow to fix the mess left from today, but she couldn't help but feel something was off.

     It was like a looming feeling, maybe something one might describe as someone standing behind you. This figure might be miles away, and seem harmless enough, but you just can't help but feel suspicious of it just. . . being there. Standing, watching your every move.

     Eventually her suspicions were confirmed as she hears the subtle, but undeniable sounds of the balcony clicking closed. With her heart slowly picking up and her feet moving before she could process it, she was already by it, her feet thumping across the carpet as she hurriedly slides it open.

     "What the fuck?!" She calls out, expecting an angry response from a neighbor or something similar, squinting into the darkness as she tries and sees who did it. "Y/N are you fucking around right now?"

     . . .

     . . .

     . . .

     After about a minute of nothing but dead silence and the feeling that she just wasted her time, she rolls her eyes with a scoff and locks it—for real and for good this time. It was probably just her imagination, or maybe it was even your boyfriend that you still insist on keeping a secret. Who knew! Definitely not this musician, she just wanted some sleep.

     She passes by the kitchen easily enough, not giving it a second glance knowing that she'll no doubt be back for a snack after she changes out of her day clothes. She smelled like sweat, and she felt. . . well, sweaty. It wasn't a nice feeling.

     It was only when she noticed the paper did she actually pay attention, taking a few steps back—even having the misfortune of having to lay her eyes back on the cursed icecream cat statue—and picking it up.

'y/n's not feeling good. the pink thing got her. she's upstairs'

     . . .

     "Well how reassuring," She mumbles, turning it over to check if there might've been anything left at the back. No initials, names—nothing. Just a short, straight to the point, ripped off piece of notebook paper left on her kitchen counter.

     She crumples it without a second thought, deciding that, fuck it, she might as well go check. Because hey, nobody else knew about the 'pink thing', and you damn well didn't have this handwriting. Either you'd gotten better at faking your writing, or someone else knew about the drug and what was currently happening to you. Either way, she got off her ass and went upstairs.

     Jirou wasn't really expecting anything. Just you, peacefully asleep, having pulled a successful prank on your gullible—and worrywart—roommate. Just a stupid, harmless, prank, right?

     She opens the door, finding you tossing and turning in your bed with your face noticeably looking paler and veins looking more prominent beneath skin that looked like it had become see-through.

    . . .

     What. . . what was happening?

notes ; hi yeah this chapter was kinda just meh, just a sort of filler so i can gather my thoughts properly for the next. . . 'arc' i guess lmfaooooajxkwnd
ANYGAYS WE JUST REACHED 600 READS WHOOOP—GET THIS TO 1000 AND ILL WRITE A SMUT IF YALL WANT IDK LMFAOOOANXNSN
THANKS GUYS LOVE YALL STAY SAFE