Archive of Our Own ^beta

(Izuku is sleeping. He sleeps often he thinks, and he might just know that this time, he's been sleeping for a long while. Too long, even. But he is asleep, and all he can see is gold-tinged darkness, palms hot, and there's a steady, trudging pull in his gut, laced along his spine.

And so he walks.)

Aizawa has been worrying about Crandall for several months now. Some of that has been lost to the new school year, to an odd pattern in the local low-level crime rates, and to life being life, but he still often falls asleep thinking of the spirit-stroke-vigilante, because he has watched that spirit grow up, as odd as it might sound, and for all that he has never been able to see more than a glimmer of what might be their face. (He remembers hair curling with non-existent flames, what might be freckles but could just be the play of shadows and lights and blink-gone consistency, the bitten-short nails of fingers loosely clawed to cup the candle in safety. For safety.)

And for all that he lacks certain details of Crandall's features, he would recognise them anywhere.

So when he's in the USJ, his kids scattered across the facility to face up against villains, and a monster is facing him down, he knows exactly what, or rather who, it is that steps into half-faded existence before him. Before the villains.

Crandall, the not-child, not-spirit, is flicker-standing in the middle of the plaza, and his hair is an unburning flame, curling in unfelt heat, and Aizawa can't see his eyes, not when he's behind him (protected, guarded, guided-) but he can already feel the weight of them. (The spirit has never opened his eyes before, yet today, there is an abyssal gravity that must come from exactly that. It must.) It's surely a dark-bright gaze, surely smoke and fire and molten wax dripping to sear-in scars, and Crandall is here. There are children here too, hellspawn-kids, and if there's one thing that Aizawa is certain of, it's that Crandall will be here to protect them, somehow and someway. It gives Aizawa hope.

He isn't to be disappointed. No, because the villains have faltered, the pale-hands figure calling a pause for the hulking brain-exposed monster, and Crandall takes one single breath's pause of his own, for all that his chest doesn't move, head twitching, swivelling, blinking briefly out of sight, the waver of a lit candle. The scent of vanilla-sandalwood-familiarity is thick enough that it should be cloying. Instead, Aizawa breathes more easily. Enough so that he dares to step both forward and to the side, enough to not truly be approaching Crandall for fear of disturbing the vigilante, whilst also enough that he can actually see that Crandall's eyes are closed again, the heat-wave magnetism fluctuating only to bloom forth once more. 

The candle in his hands begins to brighten. It's not a tiny sun, nor a small hearth, no, it's something ineffable. Incredible. Something bronzed and blushing seems to overtake the visage of the vigilante, dawn-gentle, solarflare-strong, and Aizawa barely even thinks to register how the pale villain is starting to shift, to speak-

And flames, what might be will-o'-the-wisps or Hitodama or something else entirely, flare out from Crandall's chest and palms, the heat-light-bright of the candle billowing up into a blaze as big as three hearts all beating together, and then that single fire bursts out into smaller, firefly-buzzing flames. These wisps bob and blaze and burn, all the way until they touch flesh.

There are screams, then. One is an outraged howl, the fractured words of no-no-get-away-stop-no, and another is a pitiful thing, the whining wail of something not permitted to speak yet in incredible pain all the same. Metal pops and sizzles, the hot-iron scent pervading beneath the acrid sting of charring flesh, and the three villains are falling, writhing, grasping at the burns bubbling upon their skin. They're hurt, badly so. Even the shadowed figure, Kurogiri, is in clear pain, his metal chest plate scorched and his shadows withering, billowing, weaker than any candle flame.

Despite this fact, the obvious weaknesses, there's the croaking warble of a name, what might be Shigaraki Tomura or perhaps something similar, and a bruise whirls into existence beneath the pale villain, dropping him right out of sight, and by the time Aizawa has looked back to Kurogiri, not even a blink later, it's too late. The villains are gone, a good hundred grunts and one monster left behind.

The vigilante, too, is left behind for now.

In the same instant that Aizawa thinks this, processes this, Crandall turns to him, all a freckled face and golden-green eyes, the hints of a sad smile and dark, smoking curls, before he flicker-fades out, extinguished, a single, final drop of wax falling to the ground.

For now, Aizawa can't afford to focus on Crandall though. In lieu of that, of trying to chase after the impossible mirage of a kind, fierce soul, he makes do with committing that brief sight to memory, and to turning his attention to the rest of the USJ. Only in that fact does he discover that his kids are together again. They're clumped together, every single one of them, at the base of the plaza stairs, and there are a few lingering glimmers of fire around them, a protection and guidance just like Crandall himself was. But those small fires (whether they're will-o'-wisps or Hitodama or pure Quirk, Aizawa still isn't sure, but they're firefly-sweet all the same-) gutter out now, with him starting to approach his students.

"We're alright now, kids."

And that's true. But it doesn't stop Aizawa from fearing for his little vigilante, for Crandall, because that brave not-spirit has ensured that his kids could go home, that he can go home to Naomasa and their cats, and he can only hope that the same will happen for Crandall. 

(Maybe Izuku needs to go home too; maybe it will be Aizawa who will help him to do so.)

It takes time. The rest of the day is spent getting his kids checked over, an initial overview statement given, seeing Naomasa and feeling twenty times better immediately. In a quieter moment, he manages to murmur to his husband about Crandall being here, and that the not-child really does seem to be a child. One with gold-green eyes and the sweetest of melancholy smiles. Naomasa hums, quiet and sombre. After a few breaths though, he smiles, tender and bitter and relieved, and reaches over to squeeze Aizawa's elbow, not daring to do anything more right now, not with so many people around them here. But both of them know how much of a relief this is. (Shouta has watched Crandall grow up, and Naomasa has followed their progress at his side; the vigilante is theirs, as much as such a ghostly, silent figure can be.)  Tomorrow morning, or perhaps even tonight in the rather likely event that they can't sleep, they'll settle in to looking for the kid; a description is a far better start than they've had so far.

It's more than enough of a start, judging by the fact that it's early the next day, Friday morning, when he arrives at Musutafu General Hospital, his husband only not with him because of a shift.

Aizawa takes a single step into the hospital room of Midoriya Izuku and is hit by the scent of sandalwood and vanilla. (The candle at the side of the room refuses to extinguish for more than a single moment at any time, no matter who tries to extinguish it or how they do so, and it burns down yet never quite seems to end, never gutters in its own wax. No, it burns on, endless. Infinite.)

This child, laying too still and too silent, is Crandall.

"E-Eraserhead-san?" The voice, frankly, startles him a little, because he had been abstractly aware of the woman sitting at Crandall's bedside, but equally his entire being had been drawn in towards the child, a moth to a flame that could hurt, yet wouldn't. Oh, how small he looks here. How young.

"Yes, Midoriya-san?" His keeps his voice more neutral than rumbling, not wanting to worry her. His blatant exhaustion and general scruffiness is already probably going to put her off slightly, and he's obviously not a public-facing hero, but when he'd rung the woman last night, she had recognised his hero name, claiming that her son favours him. It was a start, at least.

"I just- Is- is my Izu-kun really Crandall? Our Crandall?"  There's an aching disbelief to her words, yet something almost hopeful, laced with awe, glazing over it, too-smooth.

"I believe so," he returns, not wanting to say for definite when he might be wrong, when their searches might be mistaken despite only one child seeming to even be close to a fit,
"Are you willing to let me use Erasure on Mi- on Izuku, if his doctors give permission?"  She falters, eyes wide and wet like dew on grass; they lack some of the sheer fire of Crandall's, albeit there's still a mother-fierce edge to the teariness. But there's hope buried beneath those unshed tears, and it's enough to have her nodding.

"I... I suppose so, yes. If Nagasaki-sensei says that it's safe!" she blurts, and Aizawa can't blame her, even as he ducks his head in silent acknowledgement.

(Izuku aches. There's warmth, admittedly, which is both a bite upon his palms and a balm upon his soul, and he's sleeping, he's sure, yet he's tired, Atlas-weighting to contrast the Icarus-melting of his very being-)

So they talk to the doctor, a certain Nagasaki-sensei who is grave and willing to listen, who thinks over the explanation of Erasure, of how it biologically works, and of how this child is believed to have been unable to deactivate his Quirk. The Quirkless diagnosis shocks Aizawa, admittedly, but he would know the face of the child that saved him, regardless of facts like this. Izuku is his little hero, Crandall.

When permission is finally given, the risks judged to be outweighed by the hopeful benefits, Aizawa doesn't hesitate. He activates Erasure upon the child.

(Izuku is lost. He's been wandering (he's been helping-) and his feet are chafed, his hands blistered, his vision dark but for the faintest firefly-glow.

There have been flashes of red for... a time, now. It was inconsistent but there all the same, sunset-flares in the corners of his abyss. They went away again for a while, Izuku left with only his golden glow.

But it's back.

The red is right in front of him, a still-shot sunset, darkness bleeding crimson, Izuku's golden glow flickering out, the sun lost to the distant, flushed horizon. (There is fear and gratitude all at once, a night-breeze chill seeping down his spine.)

Izuku blinks.)

The kid doesn't wake up. Oh, his eyes slide open for a few breaths, gold fading into a glazed green before eyelids cover the dim, unseeing gaze once more, and he is not awake. Not in any truth.

Aizawa is heedless of Midoriya Inko's fluttering, the doctor's rapid muttering. His attention is caught solely upon the child's heartbeat: it's slowed down. Is still slowing. Settling. This whole time, it had been higher than any coma patient's should be, albeit inconsistent in that; the fact that it was closer to a low-activity heartrate so often, along with the high levels of brain activity, are the majority of the reason, apparently , taht taking the kid off of the IV and life support hadn't even been a question.

Either way, the kid's sleeping now. Not comatose, but sleeping normally. For all intents and purposes the kid's vitals are fine and healthy. Izuku is fine and healthy.

Which is slightly disturbing, for a child who has been technically comatose for literal months. And the fact that Aizawa's Quirk, that Erasure, is what has pushed him out of said coma... Well, it's either one hell of a coincidence or a very concerning Quirk effect of some sort.

(Izuku is caught, he thinks. There's an afterimage pressed into the darkness, pressed into his heart and spine and eyes (there are scars embedded upon his palms, a joint ring, not quite an afterimage yet perhaps akin to it-) and Izuku is sure that he's meant to be somewhere. To be doing something.

But he doesn't know what, and he doesn't know how. He doesn't really know anything at all.

So he lets the afterimage overwhelm how much he misses his golden little heart-flame, and he waits.)

It takes two days for the kid to wake up. Aizawa, admittedly, finds himself rather impatient with this. Of course, he repeatedly gets pulled out of the kid's hospital room to give statements to Naomasa and other local police because of the USJ, to have meetings with Nedzu and occasionally the rest of the faculty as well (and oh, how fierce his rage had been for the hero who couldn't say no, too caught up in minor incidences to fulfil a contractual, moral obligation that could've killed his kids-), and to simply sleep beside his husband, their cats around and over them. To be quietly grateful to the sleeping child that has saved so many lives.

(The candle, whenever his mother tries to light it, gutters out every single time. The scents of vanilla and sandalwood linger regardless.)

Despite all of these obligations, desired or not, Aizawa manages to be in the kid's room when he wakes up. It's the machines, yet again, that give this away first, and Aizawa is tense, rising to his feet, as sunken eyes blink open, bleary rather than clear, but open and awake all the same.

"Hey, kiddo, good job there. Try and stay awake for me, understood?"  Internally cursing that Midoriya Inko isn't here (for a skittish, nervous woman, she is blatantly fierce in her love for her son-) the hero hurries to press the call button beside the bed, most of his awareness still upon the kid who is staring up at the ceiling, eyes distant, no hint of acknowledgement for Aizawa's earlier words to be found.

His hands are pressed together, side by side over his heart.

"Kid?" His question doesn't elicit any response, not for a long, aching moment, before the teen blinks, just once, and heaves in a deep, juddering breath.

"'S red," he murmurs, not quite seeming to be aimed at Aizawa, but the man takes what he can from it all the same,

"What is, kid?"

"The darkness." Well, that's not concerning in the slightest. Really.

"Alright. Can you tell me five things that you can see right now, kid?" he asks, pressing the button to move the bed at least halfway upright. The kid doesn't startle, doesn't react at all to the movement, too caught up in a slow blink, mouth already open,

"Candle," comes the instant reply and, Aizawa can admit, there's a tiny thrill down his spine at that fact, full of both excitement and dread. Izuku must be Crandall.

However, he can't let selfish emotions overcome helping the kid right now, so he focuses instead on the grounding exercise that he's started,

"Four more things, kid." Those green eyes slide over to him, still far more mist-tumbling than aware,

"You, a chair, the window, the bed."  

"Good job," he praises lightly, but tries not to lose their momentum, to keep the kid's attention,
"Four things you can feel?"

"My hands. Scars and bandages and wax."  That... that doesn't seem quite right, doubly so with the whimsical tone, words a flame guttering in the breeze, yet it'll have to do. At least eyes that had seemed at first like stained-glass are now beginning to clear.

He doesn't want to address that right now though, not when the kid's finally settling, seeing.

"Three things you can hear?"  Izuku doesn't roll his eyes or sigh or grumble, but he does frown the slightest bit, lips slipping down like melting wax, knuckles wick-pale where they clench the blankets, and it hurts to see.

"I- I'm not having a panic attack."

"I know, Problem child, but humour me." The kid doesn't still sigh or protest, merely ducking his head in a disjointed nod.

"You, the machines, people outside." That's a good list, a more reasonable one. A more realistic one. Which hopefully, in turn, will mean that the kid is feeling better now, is more grounded and present rather than lost to the heat-haze of whatever effect his Quirk has had.

"Two things you can smell?"

"Vanilla and sandalwood." Stupidly enough, Aizawa wasn't expecting that. He really should've been.

(Izuku is not lost now. No, he's surfaced above the abyss except it lingers in his bones, fireflies between his ribs and dancing behind his eyes. But the red afterimage is still there when he blinks, that crimson horizon-swallower, his golden heart dulled yet already beginning to flare once more. Vanilla and sandalwood clings upon his scars and in his hair and behind his sternum, choking on the sheer life of it.)

The door bursts open then, before he can completely finish keeping the kid grounded, but to be entirely honest Crandall- Izuku doesn't seem to need it.

Everything blurs into a bit of a rush, then. It's swinging doors and medical jargon and staying solidly at the kid's bedside in the hope of giving him at least one anchor point in the maelstrom. Judging by how the kid keeps on glancing towards him, shifting slightly on the bed to be closer to him, Aizawa has made a wise choice in this.

Maybe, in the future, there'll be a chance to make more choices with this kid. Crandall deserves a good life, the little hero that he already is himself, and Aizawa wants to make sure that Midoriya Izuku will indeed get that life. If, for now, helping that just means that he needs to be here, then the man is more than content to oblige. And then a hand with burn cream and bandages and a lingering scent grasps for the edge of the bed, for Aizawa. Of course, the hero doesn't hesitate to let the kid hold onto him, to do what he can to support his little Problem Spirit. To be able to hold Crandall like this, to have him safe and here and present... It's more than Aizawa had perhaps believed he would ever have from the spirit-child-vigilante that he has watched grow in size and strength for so long, all fragments and flickers.

Crandall won't wander through the daylight any more, or at least not through such awful means. No, Izuku will be there instead, will be here, and he will bring his own health and hope to it, will be able to be human. To be more than just a fading hero. And Aizawa intends to be at the kid's side as much as he might need, no two ways about it. Izuku-Crandall-Problem Spirit deserves it.

Aizawa just wants to see the kid smile.