Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The day started off well. All Might still loved to save people, even when he wasn’t able to as much anymore. Ever since giving his quirk to Izuku Midoriya, All Might had less and less time for his Symbol of Peace form. Still, he often got distracted on his commute to U.A., pulled toward the sound of sirens and raised voices like a reflex he could never quite unlearn. Today, there was a particular amount of trouble going on in the city. He saved a family of three from a hostage situation, stopped a hit and run before it could turn fatal, and then crossed half the city to defuse another hostage crisis entirely. Each rescue chipped away at the invisible clock inside his chest. Each smile he gave—wide, reassuring, unbreakable—cost him more than it used to.

By the time he reached U.A., he was spread too thin. He’d used up nearly all the energy he’d carefully saved that morning, the reserve meant only for his students. The irony wasn’t lost on him. He had protected strangers with everything he had… and arrived where he was most needed with almost nothing left. Of course, he felt guilty for having a time limit at all. A hero shouldn’t count minutes. A symbol shouldn’t weaken. He was supposed to be with his students—guiding them, watching them, and teaching them how to be true heroes. He was supposed to be beside his colleagues, Aizawa and Thirteen, that way the students had more support to look up to. Instead, he sat alone in a private office, shoulders hunched, forcing his breathing to steady as his body fought to reclaim even a fraction of strength. It felt like hiding. It was hiding. And he hated himself for it. Then the unease set in.

Something was wrong. He knew it immediately, a pressure behind his ribs that had nothing to do with exhaustion. He checked his phone again. No calls returned. No messages. Aizawa and Thirteen were teaching, yes—but neither of them would ignore him like this. Not Aizawa, who never missed a potential problem. Not Thirteen, who understood the stakes of timing better than anyone. At least one of them would have stepped away. At least one of them would have answered, even if only to say busy. The silence was too complete. All Might stared at the screen, his reflection faint in the glass. For the first time that day, fear outweighed fatigue. He had trusted that things would be fine. Trusted that the world would wait until he was ready. And the world, as it always did, refused. Soon enough, Principal Nezu entered the room just as All Might had finally convinced himself to stand and at least check on the students. The decision barely had time to settle before it was interrupted. Nezu greeted him warmly, as he always did, already moving to prepare tea as if this were a perfectly ordinary afternoon. With his usual sharp smile and deceptively gentle tone, the principal insisted All Might stay a little longer—just long enough to rest, just long enough to enjoy a cup of tea. All Might hesitated, caught between politeness and the restless pull in his chest.

After all, Nezu reasoned, All Might had already overextended himself that morning. Pushing his limits further would do no one any good. Better to recover now, to be ready later. Neither of them knew. They sat together in the quiet office, porcelain cups steaming softly between them, entirely oblivious to the horrors their students were facing at that very moment. The calm felt unnatural in hindsight—too still, too contained, like the pause before something shattered. Nezu began to lecture, launching into an explanation about hero psychology, stress responses in developing minds, and the importance of controlled exposure to danger. His words were intelligent, measured, and insightful, as they always were. On any other day, All Might would have listened with rapt attention, nodding along, even taking mental notes. Today, he only caught fragments. His attention drifted again and again to the clock on the wall. To the door, to the silence of his phone. He smiled and responded when expected, laughed when appropriate, but it all felt rehearsed—automatic. The unease wouldn’t leave him alone. It pressed against his ribs, heavier with each passing minute.

You’re being paranoid, he told himself. There was no reason to worry. Aizawa and Thirteen weren’t answering because they were teaching. Of course they were. Neither of them would be foolish enough to check their phones in front of impressionable students, not during a lesson that involved real-world heroics. Especially not Aizawa, who took classroom discipline seriously, or Thirteen, who understood responsibility better than most. There were explanations. Perfectly reasonable ones. And yet. The longer All Might remained seated, the more the air itself seemed to tighten around him. His grip on the teacup grew too firm, the ceramic warm against his palms in a way that felt grounding and wrong all at once. He felt like he was wasting something precious—time, maybe, or opportunity. He had the overwhelming sense that every second spent here was a second he would regret later.

Nezu’s voice continued, calm and steady, filling the room with logic and reassurance. All Might nodded again, forcing his shoulders to relax, forcing the smile back onto his face. But the feeling did not fade. It only grew. Nezu noticed it almost immediately—the tension in All Might’s shoulders that never fully relaxed, the way his gaze kept flicking toward the door, the clock, his phone. The Symbol of Peace was very good at pretending. Toshinori Yagi was not. Nezu did not ask what was wrong. Asking would only slow things down, and he had long since learned that instinct, in heroes like All Might, was often more valuable than certainty. Instead, he adjusted the focus of his lecture, shortening what would normally have stretched on far longer. He wrapped up his analysis neatly, as if the conversation had reached its natural conclusion rather than an abrupt, necessary end.

“Well then,” Nezu said lightly, setting his empty teacup aside. “I have quite a bit to attend to.”

All Might looked up, startled—then grateful. Nezu thanked him for listening, for his time, for his patience, and offered a polite farewell that felt, to both of them, like permission. The moment the door closed behind the principal, the room changed. All Might didn’t hesitate. There was no more room for doubt, no more space for excuses. The smile vanished. He straightened, breath steadying as power surged back through his body, his form swelling into something larger, stronger—necessary. The Symbol of Peace returned, not for the cameras, not for the public, but to get to his students.

He burst from the office and launched himself forward, moving on instinct alone. The closer he got to the USJ, the heavier the feeling in his chest became. The silence was deafening. His mind raced through possibilities, each worse than the last. Please, he thought, a word he hadn’t used in years, let me be wrong. He didn’t have time to finish the thought before he nearly collided with someone running in the opposite direction.

“Young Iida?” he said, skidding to a halt.

Tenya Iida stood rigid, glasses askew, breath uneven. The boy looked pale beneath the panic, hands clenched into fists at his sides like he was holding himself together by force alone. “All Might!” Iida blurted out, relief and fear crashing together in his voice. “Sir—something’s wrong. Villains—they’ve attacked the USJ. The students are—”

The words piled over one another, frantic and broken, but All Might heard enough. The ground seemed to drop out beneath him. I was too late. Without another word, All Might turned toward the USJ, fear burning hotter than any exhaustion left in his body. Whatever waited ahead, he would face it head-on. He had to. For the first time in ages, All Might felt fear. Not the controlled kind—the kind he could lock away behind confidence and a smile—but something raw and choking, curling tight around his heart. He couldn’t stop imagining how terrified his students must have been. Children, really. First-years who had barely learned how to stand in the presence of danger, let alone fight it. And they had been left alone. All because he wasn’t there. The one time they needed him most—the moment villains dared to step onto school grounds—and he had been nowhere to be found. Not standing at the front, not laughing it off, not telling them everything would be okay. He’d been drinking tea, listening to lectures, and convincing himself that time could wait.

All Might grit his teeth, jaw tightening so hard it ached. He didn’t notice how menacing he looked without his smile, how the familiar warmth of the Symbol of Peace had been replaced by something colder, sharper. A hero shaped by regret rather than reassurance. He reached the USJ in a heartbeat. The doors didn’t stand a chance. He burst through them with overwhelming force, metal and concrete giving way as a cloud of dust and debris swallowed him whole for several long seconds. For that brief moment, the world was noise and chaos and the echo of his own thoughts screaming that he was too late.

When the dust settled, the sight before him made his blood run cold. Students were scattered—some shaken, some injured, all exhausted. Near the entrance, a small group had gathered around Thirteen. Uraraka hovered close, face pale but determined. Mina stood tense at her side, eyes sharp despite the fear still lingering in them. Shoji’s massive frame shielded the others instinctively, while Sero and Sato lingered nearby, bruised and breathing hard, but still standing. They looked up at him all at once. Hope flooded their expressions so suddenly it hurt to see. Relief broke through their fear, some of them blinking rapidly, others openly tearing up. For a split second, All Might saw not heroes-in-training, but children who had been holding themselves together by sheer will alone—waiting, praying, for him to arrive. The sight struck him harder than any blow.

Anger flared in his chest, hot and unrelenting. Not just at the villains who had dared to hurt his students, who had invaded a place meant to be safe—but at himself. At his arrogance. At his belief that the world could be trusted to behave in his absence. He had let this happen. These students—these kids—had been forced to face real villains in their very first month of classes. They had been scared, injured, pushed beyond what they should ever have been asked to endure. And he hadn’t been there to stop it. All Might clenched his fists, power thrumming beneath his skin, grief and fury intertwining into something dangerous and focused. He would not fail them again. 

He ripped his tie from his collar like it was nothing but trash, the fabric snapping as it tore free. His voice rang out across the USJ, loud enough to cut through the chaos, loud enough to steady trembling hearts.

“Have no fear, students—because I am here!”

The words echoed, familiar and reassuring, even as something darker burned behind them. As he shrugged off his suit jacket and cast it aside, he could hear the villains below him erupt into frantic chatter—shocked voices, panicked curses, disbelief turning rapidly into fear. All Might didn’t look at them. They weren’t worth his attention. In a blur of motion, he dropped into the fray. Each movement was precise, efficient, and merciless. A single strike sent bodies flying. Another ended a fight before it could begin. Villains crumpled around Aizawa—those still conscious, at least—before they even understood what had happened. The battlefield fell silent far too quickly.

He knelt and caught Aizawa’s body before it could hit the ground, the man had fought hard. Blood stained the capture weapon, bruises darkened his skin. The sight twisted something sharp and painful in All Might’s chest. I should have been here. The apology never left his thoughts, pressed there like a wound he couldn’t tend to yet. He carefully shifted Aizawa, holding him with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the destruction he’d just unleashed. Then he saw it.

An ugly creature—massive, grotesque—had its grip locked around Midoriya’s arm. The boy looked impossibly small in comparison, fear written plainly across his face even as he tried to stand his ground. All Might’s breath caught, his heart lurching painfully in his chest. He hated the fear that surged through him at the sight. He had only recently met Izuku Midoriya, only just begun teaching him—but the boy had already carved out a place in his heart. Not just as his student, not just as a symbol of hope, but as a child who trusted him, who believed in him. What happened here? What did they put you through before I arrived? The questions crowded his mind, sharp and insistent, even as he knew there would be time for answers later. For now, another thought gnawed at him with brutal clarity. What if I had been any later? The idea made his blood run cold.

All Might moved. In one swift motion, he freed Midoriya and gathered Mineta and Tsuyu as well, lifting them effortlessly and landing with a force that cracked the ground beneath his boots. He positioned himself between them and the battlefield, placing every student—and Aizawa’s unconscious form—securely behind him.

Only then did he straighten. Only then did he finally look at the villains.

Chapter Text

All Might had faced monsters before. Villains who twisted their bodies beyond recognition, abominations stitched together by malice and arrogance, beings who thought raw power could eclipse the meaning of heroism. But the creature waiting for him at the center of the USJ was something else entirely.

It stood tall and wrong, its deep purple skin stretched tight over bulging muscle, a beak-like face fixed in an expressionless snarl. Its eyes did not burn with hatred or ambition—there was nothing human in them at all. No fear, no doubt, no hesitation. It was a weapon, not a conscious creature. 

“So,” All Might said, forcing his voice to boom with confidence as he planted himself between the students and the thing called the Nomu, “you must be the one they built to kill me.”

Inside, his stomach sank. It absorbed his punch. The first blow should have sent the creature flying—should have shattered bone and concrete alike. Instead, the impact rippled uselessly through its body, the force dispersing as if he had struck water. The Nomu skidded back only a few inches before snapping forward again, faster than something that large had any right to be. All Might barely had time to block before the counterattack slammed into him, driving him through pillars and stone. Shock absorption, he realized grimly as he rose from the rubble. And regeneration. Of course they had prepared for him. Each exchange chipped away at the precious minutes he had left, the invisible timer ticking down in his chest. His lungs burned. His smile—his mask—never faltered. The students were watching. That alone meant he could not fall. He pushed harder, faster. Punch after punch, each one a thunderclap meant to overwhelm the Nomu’s defenses through sheer volume. The world narrowed to motion and impact, to the sound of flesh colliding with power. The creature’s body twisted and snapped and healed again, over and over, as if mocking the very concept of consequence. And yet—slowly—he felt it. The resistance lessened.

“PLUS—ULTRA!”

He grabbed the Nomu and leapt, rocketing skyward through the shattered dome of the facility. Higher and higher, until the air thinned and the world below shrank to insignificance. Then he unleashed everything he had left—every ounce of strength, every second of borrowed time—into one final, desperate blow. The Nomu vanished into the clouds. Silence followed. All Might landed hard, his knees buckling for just a fraction of a second before he straightened again. The timer had run out. He could feel it—his body screaming its refusal to continue. But the battle wasn’t over. As the remaining villains fled and the pro heroes arrived, All Might stood tall, arm raised, smile blazing like a promise. He stared directly at the leader of the group, the man with hands. The man didn't do much but complain about being defeated, but All Might was there to make sure the man didn't get any stupid ideas about attacking the children. 

Inside, however, his thoughts had already turned elsewhere. Midoriya Izuku. The name struck him harder than any punch. He hadn’t seen the boy when he arrived. Hadn’t heard his voice among the frightened cries of the students. And now—now that the immediate threat had passed—fear crept in, cold and unwelcome. He had only seen the boy after rescuing Aizawa. He had been in a bad spot, the monster—Nomu, as the villain called it—had its large hand gripping Midoriya's entire arm, the creature's other hand was dangerously close to the boy's face. Asui also had her tongue wrapped around his waist, and the hand villain had been in front of her, and Mineta, who looked terrified. What struck the old pro, was that Asui was looking at young Midoriya, which could never be a good signal. She was in danger herself, but she was trying to help Midoriya instead of saving herself and Mineta? It left a bad taste in All Might's mouth. He would have to ask about that later. 

Where were you, my boy? What happened to you while I was not here? All Might scanned the ruined facility, his eyes darting from injured students to collapsed structures, to pools of water still rippling from distant explosions. His heart pounded—not with exertion, but with dread. He had entrusted One For All to a child. A child with courage too big for his own body. A child who leapt into danger without thinking, without regard for himself. A child who would never, ever run away if someone else needed help. What if I had I arrived too late? The thought clawed at him, merciless. Images flashed through his mind—Midoriya standing alone against villains, bones breaking under borrowed power, that familiar, reckless determination in his eyes. All Might clenched his fists. This attack had been aimed at him. Every villain here, every trap, every second of chaos—it was all because of All Might’s existence. And his small, stupidly heroic successor had paid the price.

He moved as quickly as he could without drawing attention, shedding his towering form the moment he was out of sight. The transformation left him hollow and shaking, but he forced himself onward, asking questions, searching faces. Midoriya lay on the ground, battered and unconscious, his costume torn and his body wrapped hastily in cloth. His arms—his poor arms—were swollen, bruised, and unmistakably broken. He knelt beside him, suddenly small, suddenly just a man staring at the consequences of his choices.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words trembling out of him. “I should have been been here. I should have protected you.”

Midoriya stirred faintly, as if even in sleep he could sense his presence. As the sirens wailed and the sun rose over the ruins of the USJ, All Might understood something with terrifying clarity: This world would keep coming for Izuku Midoriya. And one day, All Might might not be there in time.

Recovery Girl’s voice drifted in and out of All Might’s awareness, clinical and calm as she directed the injured toward medical teams. Stretchers rolled past him in a steady stream, each one a reminder of how close catastrophe had come. Children—children—who had been sent here to learn how to save lives had instead been forced to fight for their own. This was not how it was supposed to be. All Might remained rooted near Midoriya’s side long after the boy was taken away, his gaze fixed on the empty space where he had lain. The image of those broken arms refused to leave him. He had seen that damage before—far too many times for someone so young. Each injury felt like a tally mark against him, proof of his failure as both mentor and symbol. He had told Izuku to smile. He had told him to believe. But belief did not stop bones from snapping. As the professionals secured the area, All Might retreated further into the shadows, his small, gaunt form hidden behind the remnants of a shattered wall. The adrenaline faded, leaving behind only exhaustion and a crushing weight in his chest. His hands trembled uncontrollably now, no longer steadied by the necessity of battle.

The villains had planned this carefully, too carefully. The warp gate, the timing, the Nomu engineered specifically to counter him. This was no random attack—it was a message. We know who you are. We know where you’ll go. And we know how to hurt you. Not by killing him. But by reaching the people who stood behind him. A bitter laugh bubbled up in his throat, quickly smothered by his hand. For decades, All Might had carried the burden of being the strongest. He had believed that as long as he stood at the front, others could live in peace behind him. That if all the hatred and violence were focused on his broad shoulders, no one else would have to bear it. Yet today proved the flaw in that belief. Strength drew danger like a beacon.

And Izuku—bright, earnest Izuku—had followed that light straight into the fire.

All Might closed his eyes, memories pressing in unbidden. A freckled boy clutching a notebook, eyes shining with impossible hope. A question asked on a rooftop, trembling but sincere. A choice made that could never be undone. He had given Izuku power. But had he given him protection? No. That part, he had selfishly assumed would come naturally—as if destiny itself would shield the boy simply because he was worthy. As if good intentions were enough. They weren’t. When All Might opened his eyes again, his fear had hardened into something sharper. Resolve, edged with responsibility. He could not undo what had happened today, but he could learn from it. Izuku could not keep charging forward alone. And All Might could no longer afford to arrive late. The age of relying solely on his presence was over. If he was to be a true teacher—if he was to honor the legacy he carried—then he would have to do more than inspire. He would have to prepare them. Especially him. As ambulances pulled away and the sun climbed higher, All Might straightened slowly, pain flaring through every muscle. The world still needed its Symbol of Peace. The students still needed reassurance. And Izuku Midoriya—whether he knew it yet or not—would need guidance far stronger than blind faith.

All Might took a breath. Then another. This battle had been a warning. And All Might intended to answer it.