Chapter Text
“That is not my son’s X-ray.”
The doctor casts a sympathetic look towards the small green-haired boy sitting before him. His huge cerulean eyes swim with unshed tears. He trembles beside his shaking father. But while his father’s lips pull back in a vicious snarl, the boy looks ready to flee, not fight.
Dr. Tsubasa bites his lip. His resolve wavers in the face of such unbridled anger. Parents all react differently, but this young man’s anger has all the righteousness of someone who thinks they knew better than him.
Best to tread carefully. The young man will pull back if his son cries openly. These young parents always doubt themselves. Only nineteen, this father is particularly young, though the horrific burns marring his face and his raspy voice make him look and sound older.
“It can be very hard for families to adjust to this news. There are resources I can refer you to. In addition, we would like to more closely examine Izuku–”
“Like hell you will. His mother has a crooked pinky toe. He inherited that from her. Shoes for quirked kids fit him.” Midoriya slams his hand on the exam table. Smoke rises from his fingers. Blue sparks shoot off. “Tell me, who are you really, Dr. Tsubasa?”
Tsubasa fights the urge to ask Midoriya the same question. How does someone with a fire quirk have all those burn scars? Fire quirk or not, it takes more than a few sparks to rattle him. He makes a show of rustling the paperwork. Drops his jaw in surprise. Thinks about his fifth grade bully and brings a flush to his cheeks.
“Sir, I am so sorry. My nurse must have mixed up the X-rays. Young Izuku, can you remove your shoe so I can see this crooked toe?”
Izuku fumbles for his laces. His dad reaches out and snatches the kid’s wrist. The kid goes still.
“We’re leaving,” Midoriya bites out. He rises to his feet, half-dragging his tiny son towards the door. Before he leaves the examination room, he looks over his shoulder. Those blue eyes are unnerving. “I might have knocked a girl up when I was fifteen, Tsubasa, but I’m not a fucking idiot.”
Six months later, Tsubasa’s algorithm alerts him to a former patient’s quirk registration. He fumbles for the computer. Midoriya Izuku’s grinning face appears on his screen. His mother registered him with an elemental quirk. Cryokinesis. The ability to manipulate ice. The quirk specialist also notes that the boy has been resistant to extreme temperatures in the past, even those exceeding 2500°C to 3000°C. They almost listed temperature resistance as a second quirk, but the boy’s father insisted against it.
Tsubasa already knows, but he checks the Internet anyway.
A flame must be at least 2500°C to turn blue.
He presses one on speed dial.
“Sensei, I have an interesting case for you.”
Tomura scowls at the quivering kid before him. Under the watchful eye of the school receptionist, Izuku sits hunched in a plastic chair. A long cut slopes down his nose. His right eye is blackened. Tears stream down his face. He refuses to look at Tomura.
Tomura barks at the receptionist, “I’m his uncle. What happened?”
“He started another fight,” she says.
Izuku’s fingers grip the fabric of his blazer. His knuckles are unmarked. Tomura bites back a sigh.
“I’ll get him sorted. Sorry for the disruption,” he says. “Izuku, get up. We’re leaving.”
The kid springs to his feet. He shoulders his backpack with a wince–there must be marks beneath his shirt. Tomura exits the front office without a word. Thankfully, the exit is right there; he doesn’t have to parade a sniveling kid through crowds of his peers.
The street outside Naboo Middle School is deserted. Past lunch rush and before the evening commuter traffic, Tomura could walk side-by-side with Izuku comfortably. Not that he bothers. Izuku’s little legs make the kid lag behind.
Tomura turns down an alley between a laundromat and an apartment block. Izuku hesitates for only a moment. This whole neighborhood is ridden with crime. But Tomura would be a disgrace if he couldn’t walk down an alley alone. God knows Izuku wouldn’t offer him backup.
Tomura stops suddenly. The kid skids to a halt, narrowly avoiding soaking his shoes in a puddle of this morning’s snowmelt. Too busy looking at the ground, he can’t dodge Tomura’s hand and gets clipped on the ear.
Izuku hisses in pain. He rubs his ear, finally meeting Tomura’s gaze.
“Don’t give me those fucking puppy eyes, kid. You knew that was coming,” Tomura says.
“Yeah, because hitting me for getting into a fight makes so much sense. You punched someone, Izuku? Let me punch you–”
Tomura grabs the kid’s shoulder. Squeezes. Not enough to hurt, but enough to remind him. Izuku grits his jaw and says nothing more. Tomura shakes him for good measure, then shoves him away. Izuku scrambles back a couple steps.
“One, I didn’t punch you. Two, you weren’t doing any punching, either. Three, I really don’t give a fuck about what you do at that shitty school. I do give a fuck when I have to be called in to pick your little broccoli ass up.”
“I didn’t start the fight. I never do.”
“And you never win them either, do you?”
Izuku balls his fists.
“How many times do I have to tell you–don’t fucking call me, kid?” Tomura finally asks.
“Block my number, bitch,” Izuku replies. He unclenches his fists in favor of rubbing his shoulder. “Dad works late tonight.”
“He wouldn’t care–”
“Yes, he would! Then he'd make me train in the park for four hours and downgrade my data plan so I can only text you and him,” Izuku says. Hisashi can be strict when he wants.
“There are better ways to rebel than throwing fights with bullies,” Tomura says. “You could kick their asses quirkless. Besides, if you chicken out last minute and have the school call me instead, the rebellion doesn’t count. You only look like a dumbass.”
The kid kicks at the ground and says nothing. Stubborn fucker. Just like his old man. Izuku says, “Look, can we just bust the kids out of daycare and say we sparred?”
“So we’re going to do all the things you’re supposed to do? Train, get your siblings to and from school? You’re really rocking this teen rebellion thing, Izuku–”
“Like you don’t do everything Daddy says, Tomura.”
Tomura blinks, and his palm cracks across the kid’s jaw. Izuku holds a hand to his cheek and glares at Tomura with smug vindication. The kid has Hisashi’s creepy fucking eyes. The Midoriya boys always figure out more than they should.
“Sort your shit out yourself, Izuku. And if you go bitching to your old man, you’ll get what you really deserve.”
Tomura leaves without looking back. They’re gambling too much on these Midoriya kids.