He'll take the shove in the only way an inebriated person can--with ragdoll dignity. He stumbles, but controlled, braced with one leg in the bathtub and one arm on the far wall. Neither of them are taking this seriously. This is the harmless shit stirring Midoriya missed, even if they were still figuring out awkward things like timing and how far and how weird it must look to other people, especially when Midoriya was just as likely to give a compliment as a challenge.
"How does that even work?" he asks incredulously, half his hair wet and limp. "You're not even playing the game--Ow-that's-hot!"
He struggles with the knobs--he manages to turn the water off--rather than risk crowding Bakugou and getting pee everywhere. He's in no hurry to reenact, in someone else's home, their awkward house arrest where they had to clean the dorms as punishment for fighting. In a continuing effort to control the splash zone, Midoriya works his shirt off, intending to wring it out.
Reflexes aren't something one thinks about. They're an amalgamation of whatever instinct can cook up on short notice. Twice Midoriya has encountered a temporary erasure of his Quirk. He'd be stupid not to train for that too. For months, Midoriya has been training with the move-reading prediction abilities of his Omen, not to mention Paul's sparring, the best reaction times a human can offer--and that's true without Paul's paleblood (or the other) thing in the mix. Midoriya and Bakugou have more mobility with their Quirks than even a lot of Heroes, but Midoriya has always wondered which of his two friends would be faster in a Quirkless match.
Midoriya thinks of none of these things, not even his own annoyance now chased with a sudden epiphany, except that his balled-up shirt must shoot from his hand and smack Bakugou's head as the sink turns off.
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"How does that even work?" he asks incredulously, half his hair wet and limp. "You're not even playing the game--Ow-that's-hot!"
He struggles with the knobs--he manages to turn the water off--rather than risk crowding Bakugou and getting pee everywhere. He's in no hurry to reenact, in someone else's home, their awkward house arrest where they had to clean the dorms as punishment for fighting. In a continuing effort to control the splash zone, Midoriya works his shirt off, intending to wring it out.
Reflexes aren't something one thinks about. They're an amalgamation of whatever instinct can cook up on short notice. Twice Midoriya has encountered a temporary erasure of his Quirk. He'd be stupid not to train for that too. For months, Midoriya has been training with the move-reading prediction abilities of his Omen, not to mention Paul's sparring, the best reaction times a human can offer--and that's true without Paul's paleblood (or the other) thing in the mix. Midoriya and Bakugou have more mobility with their Quirks than even a lot of Heroes, but Midoriya has always wondered which of his two friends would be faster in a Quirkless match.
Midoriya thinks of none of these things, not even his own annoyance now chased with a sudden epiphany, except that his balled-up shirt must shoot from his hand and smack Bakugou's head as the sink turns off.