Work Text:
“You don’t get paid for staying here after hours, you know.”
Shouta’s typical unimpressed voice is what finally gets you to look up from your work. You didn’t even realize the time, apparently not having heard the last bell. The school day is over. The faint murmur of students leaving campus dulls until it’s quiet, solidifying the fact. Your husband leans in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest.
You work as one of the counselors at U.A. High. After the past few years, the school thought it would be a good idea to bring in some extra support for the students and staff alike. Since you’ve started the job and have talked to the kids firsthand, you have to agree. There’s so much stress and tension that goes unnoticed even in these sacred halls. You’re sure doing your fair share of work for your paycheck.
But it helps that you’re now working at the same school that your husband teaches at, of course. A small bonus.
Shouta has made a habit of coming down to your office at the end of the day so the two of you can go home together. Sometimes he’ll stop by and have lunch with you, too, but you both enjoy eating with other friends on some days. He didn’t eat with you today, but you had received a short text from him checking in on you. To anyone else, he may seem rather emotionless, but you know better.
He knows that you struggle with dizziness and fainting spells pretty much daily. He doesn’t outwardly fuss too much, but he does keep an eye on it. So, even when he’s not with you, he likes to text and make sure you’re okay, for his own peace of mind. He really does worry.
Looking at him standing in the doorway now, you nod and sit up in your chair, starting to close tabs on your desktop.
“Sorry,” you say with a laugh. “I guess I got carried away.”
He steps into the office, casually closing the door behind him. It’s unlikely anyone will come bother you at this hour anyway.
“Busy day?” he asks.
“Ugh, too busy.”
He nods, knowing that you can’t talk about the specifics with him and that it would be a waste of time to press. There’s a plush couch in the office, adjacent to your desk. As he sits down on it, he tugs at his scarf, pulling it loose around his neck. You must have not had any in-office session after lunch, because your bento is still on the table, only half finished. He frowns. If you had been out of the office dealing with things since noon, that meant you had been up on your feet for hours. It doesn’t help his worry that half of your food is still in the box.
“You didn’t eat much,” he comments easily.
You glance up, eyebrows furrowed, and see what he’s looking at.
“Oh, shoot, I forgot to clean that up. I got called out halfway through eating.”
As you say that, you shoot up out of your desk chair with the intention of picking up the mess. When you start to stand, Shouta immediately does, too, only taking a few small steps before he’s right in front of you.
His arms shoot out to your elbows on instinct, his eyes glued to your face. You both know that you’re never supposed to get up that quickly.
There's always a moment of hesitation before it happens. By now, he's learned to recognize it. He gently pushes you back down into your chair, keeping a firm hand against your chest even when your head drops down and to the side. He can feel your heart racing under his hand.
With a small sigh, he can do nothing but look at you while you're out. He hates seeing you like this. It has become a little easier over time, just something he's used to, but he still feels the same ache in his heart whenever it happens. Knowing that this happened to you long before him and that you had to struggle with it on your own kills him.
After a minute or so, your head bobs down to your chest, then starts to come up. The weight of it feels heavy, like you're pulling up through water. You're squinting at the light and trying to reorient.
It apparently takes longer for you to come around than usual, if the look on your husband's face says anything. His hands are gripping your shoulders and… why does he look so worried? He's used to your spells.
After several long moments, you realize that his mouth is moving. He's speaking, but you're not registering. That's what's freaking him out.
You squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head, as if to shake away the fogginess. It seems to help, because you can start to hear his voice when you reopen your eyes.
“-heart? Hey, come on. Come back to me.”
“...Sho?”
The sound of your voice makes him give a big sigh of relief. He nods, bringing one hand up to gently pat your cheek.
“I'm here. Can you hear me?”
You give a small nod, which he returns.
“Good. Good, Y/N. Do you feel like you're going to go back under?”
You're quiet as you try to consider, but the silence stretches out just a bit too long. He shakes your shoulder to bring you back to reality.
“Y/N. Do I need to take you to the hospital?” he asks urgently, his hero instincts kicking in automatically.
“...No. No, don't.”
You say that, letting your head dip against the back of your chair as you steady your breathing.
He rubs the sides of your arms, watching as most of the fog in your eyes clears up. The spell was different than your usual, but you seem to be fine. You're just coming back around a bit slower, but nothing more concerning. It eases his worry somewhat, but not entirely. If your spells are changing, he needs to know and adjust.
Shouta gently shifts some stuff on your desk to the side. He sits on the desk, guiding your chair just a bit so you're in front of him. There's a deep frown on his face, but, somehow, it's filled with care.
“Here,” he murmurs, handing you your water bottle once he thinks you're steady enough to hold it.
It takes a few minutes, but you reorient and return to your normal self after sipping at the water and sitting still.
He accepts the bottle back when you push it into his hands, done with it. He eyes you carefully as you sit up a bit in the chair.
“Y/N…”
“I'm okay. I think it passed. Really.”
He frowns but gives a little nod. Your hands are idly feeling the end of his scarf, something that you always find yourself doing after a spell.
“This one was different. Did you feel anything new?” he asks quietly, watching your hands.
For a few quiet minutes, you try to describe what you felt to him. It's always hard, like words just don't describe it well enough. He's patient as you explain, though, wanting to know every detail. He nods thoughtfully when you're finished. He doesn't interrogate you or press for more answers right now. If necessary, he'll bring it up when you're feeling better.
Eventually, he slips off of the desk and moves to help you stand up. He wouldn't admit it, but his own heart is racing as you get onto your feet. He's a little startled by the new developments, but relaxes a bit when you're fine and standing without issue.
He quickly wraps up the bento on the table and grabs the rest of your things. Insisting on carrying it all for you, your hands are free. He has one free hand, so you get on that side of him and intertwine them together.
The two of you take the train home instead of walking your usual route. It's a quiet night after that. He dotes on you in his own way, usually by making dinner or, if you get really persuasive, taking a bath with you.
Some people are put off by him, but you know you've chosen the perfect man.