Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He doesn’t always remember, memories blurring and slipping through hairline cracks, but he never forgets just how beautiful it was the day his mother died.

That July day had been warm, gentle winds coaxing only faint wisps of cirrus clouds across a blue sky. Determined to make this year a better one, the good weather had prompted a trip to the park, and then a treat of ice cream on the walk back home. He remembers his little hand held firmly to hers the entire way there and back.

The struggles of the prior year went forgotten that day. How could he possibly have lingered on such things when he had turned five? When Mama was making katsudon for dinner? When a brand new All Might toy was held firmly in his fist?

Little feet rocking on his heels, he’d chattered a storm to his mother as she cooked, an amused and indulgent quirk to her ever present smile.

“Izuku, my love, I know you’re excited, but please go sit down at the table.” The pork had sizzled in the pan, hissing and spitting as she attempted to shuffle the excitable five year old away.

“But Mama!” He’d waved the toy in the air and bounced on his toes. “How’re you gonna hear me from there? The pork’s so loud!”

Ever a veteran to her son’s exuberance, his mother had briefly left the pork to fry alone. She’d crouched down, hands on her knees, and had given him an affectionate hair ruffle. “Well, how about you go make a list of what you want to say, hmm? I’ll finish up dinner, and you can tell me all about it as we eat,” she’d suggested.

His answer had been immediate and in the form of a radiant grin and eager, scampering feet, leaving her to return to her station at the stove.

He’d been served his share of katsudon with a kiss on the head and a murmured “Happy birthday, love.” It had been followed by a giggle, and then an enthusiastic launch into what he’d been dying to say.

His memory fades here, but he knows his mother was patient as always. She’d watched her son ramble on with a distinct fondness, the evening summer sun filtering in through the windows.

The sky had still been blue when he’d picked the film he wanted to watch; The Lion King, to be exact. He’d been unfamiliar with Disney, his attention usually captured by Pro Heroes, but the cover art had caught his attention. Welcoming an interlude in his Hero fixation, his mother had put the movie in without a fuss before settling on the couch.

He isn’t sure exactly how far into the movie they were when the knock disturbed the peace. The downtime of that day is often hazy to him, leaving only pieces of the movie in his memory; a sunrise, a brother’s quarrel, a song of childhood ignorance. It’s only the knock that jolts time and place back into order, his mother’s hand stilling in his hair. On screen, a father rescued his son, and he’d watched from the corner of his eye as she stood and made for the door.

His attention had remained on the television at first. But as the minute wore on, and the scenery on screen changed from rock and bone to open fields, he’d noticed something. Something that twisted his heart with nerves, causing it to stutter anxiously.

He hadn’t heard his mother’s voice when she opened the door.

An apprehensive little head peered over the top of the couch. He did his best to crane his head, but there was no way he could’ve seen down the hall from that angle. He’d worried the inside of his cheek for a moment before, tentatively, piping up with a, “Mama?”

The lack of a response had only strengthened his anxiety. Steeling whatever bravery he could muster in the moment, he’d slid off the couch and, cautiously, tiptoed to the hall. The movie had become nothing but background noise at this point, and he’d stared down the hall at the closed door, his mother nowhere in sight.

A chill ran from his toes to the top of his head, and he’d clutched his All Might figure even tighter. Even still, he’d scrambled for a reasoning to his sudden solitude.

‘Maybe Mama’s just outside,’ he’d told himself. ‘Maybe she just didn’t want to interrupt the movie.’

His body didn’t want to move at first. He had to force it, jolting stiff legs into motion with the self reassurance that she’d be right outside the door.
With a false confidence he hadn’t felt, he’d made his way down the hall, breaths stuttering and his heart racing in his chest. There had been only a moment’s hesitation before a shaky hand turned the doorknob.

“Mama?”

His gaze landed on the clear blue sky when he’d opened the door. Had he looked just a bit further to the right, he may have seen a figure lying in wait.

He doesn’t always remember, but he never forgets just how beautiful it was when fire flickered through the blue; his vision, and subsequent memory, going dark.

“There has been a tragedy today. A fire started only hours ago in an apartment complex right here in Musutafu. The origins of the fire seem to have been from one unit, of which the flames, thankfully, were mostly localized. The two living in this unit, Inko and Izuku Midoriya, are the tragic victims of this fire. Izuku, according to our sources, was celebrating his fifth birthday today, leading authorities to believe that a candle may have been the culprit, but it’s still too early to say. Inko’s body has been recovered, but authorities are still working to find Izuku’s. There have been no other casualties and no major damages to surrounding units. We offer our condolences to those living in the area, and to the Midoriya’s. We hope they find Izuku soon…”

-

A day after being taken, Izuku comes to in a cold, unfamiliar room.

A headache pounds something fierce at the back of his skull and, when he swallows, his throat stings. Blearily blinking his eyes, confusion and pain overrides any possible fear of his predicament. As it is, his unfamiliar surroundings haven’t yet set off alarm bells. His thoughts are slower than usual, and he feels as though he’s been asleep for a while.

The room is small, and empty, save for himself and the thin mattress beneath him. Concrete lines the walls, ceiling, and floor, but the door to the left of him is made entirely of metal. There’s a single light with a pull chain casting a dim, dreary glow.

“..Mama?” His mother is the first thing that comes to mind. The memory of his birthday feels faint in the moment; it’s like he’s attempting to put together a puzzle without all the pieces. He does remember that he was looking for her, though. “Mama, are you-”

Izuku cuts himself off, for he hears the sound of a door creaking open. Wide eyes snapping to his left, he watches as two figures enter. His brief hope of it being his mother dissipates in a flash, and it’s quickly replaced with the chill of apprehension. Wary green eyes watch the two, a man and a boy, as they approach.

The boy can only be six or seven years older than him. He’s wiry, with a hunched posture and hands that never still. Blue hair frames wide, red eyes, and Izuku finds himself involuntarily shrinking back. The man, on the other hand, is tall, very tall, with broad shoulders and white hair. His back is straight, his suit is crisp, and he has a confidence that Izuku has never seen before. Another pair of red eyes stare down at him, but these ones aren’t alight with a frenetic energy. Instead, there’s a composure, one that also frames the lilt of his smile.

Despite himself, Izuku feels some of the tension leave his bones.

“Hello there, Izuku,” the man says. “I’m terribly sorry that we have to be meeting like this.”

There’s an earnestness to his tone. When he crouches down and offers his hand, Izuku, after briefly considering it, shakes it. The twitchy boy stays back a few paces to observe.

“I’ve heard lots about you. You just turned five, if I’m not mistaken?”

Izuku perks up a bit at the mention. He swallows, throat burning, and responds with a shaky, “Y-Yessir.”

The man’s smile widens to a grin. Somewhere deep in Izuku’s bones, some latent animal instinct screams “Danger!”, but he ignores it, for it doesn’t coincide with the kind, friendly man in front of him.

“How wonderful.” The man turns his head just enough to look at the boy behind him. “Tomura, if you could make sure everything is ready.”

The boy, Tomura, pauses where he’d been scratching at his wrist, focus finally flitting away from Izuku. He tries not to show it, but Izuku feels himself relax more without that sharp gaze on him.

Tomura doesn’t give a verbal answer. He simply nods, casts one more curious look at Izuku, and makes his leave with hurried footsteps and a slammed door. Izuku jumps despite himself and the man sighs.

“So energetic, that boy. It’s a wonder that Garaki puts up with him,” he mutters.

“Garaki?” Izuku asks, unable to tamp down his curiosity.

“Oh, he’s simply an associate of mine. You’ll meet him very soon, Izuku. He’s a very talented doctor.” The man grins once more, but the gesture is all teeth. Izuku finds that he feels much less reassured than he had before.

“S-Sir, um…” Izuku swallows around the pain. “..Do you know where my Mama is? I-I was looking for her, and….”

He trails off. The man appears sympathetic.

“No need to get yourself tangled into knots over that, don’t you worry,” he says. “I’ll be taking excellent care of you. Now.” Clasping his hands on his knees, he studies Izuku for a long moment. “You must be sore. Would you like me to take you to Dr. Garaki?”

The crypticness of his response is forgotten as Izuku remembers his headache. He’s unable to hold back a wince, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head.

“I-Yes sir. Please,” he warbles.

The man offers a hand, which Izuku goes to take, but he finds himself pausing just before their fingers brush. The man quirks an eyebrow, clearly intrigued, but says nothing as Izuku fights his nerves and pain to speak.

“I’m, um, sorry, sir. I-What do I call you..?”

There’s something Machiavellian to the grin that curls the man’s face, and the hand that grips Izuku’s borders on too-tight.

“You can call me Sensei, my Little Songbird.”

Five months after being taken, Izuku receives his first Quirk.

Sensei calls it Hollow. He explains that it’ll hollow out his bones akin to a bird’s, making him much quicker and exceptionally light. The pain is so great that Doctor and Tomura are forced to put him into restraints when he starts to writhe and scream.

His night is spent in agony, an ache deep within the marrow of his bones. The very next day, once the pain has gone, it’s put to the test. Sensei declares it a success when Tomura is able to lift him with no effort. Izuku secretly hopes that he never has to receive another Quirk.

Two years after being taken, Izuku begins to lose his name.

Two years after being taken, Songbird receives his second Quirk.

It doesn’t hurt in the same way Hollow did, not all at once with no chance of reprieve, but he does quickly discover just how awful sensory overload can be.

Sensei initially calls it Hyperesthesia, but he changes the name to Heightened Senses when Songbird has trouble pronouncing it. It does exactly as advertised, and Songbird initially hates it. His eyesight becomes much sharper, but bright lights and too much visual stimulation give him headaches. Strong smells seem to burn, and he’s initially only able to stomach bland food. Touch lingers and scrapes in a way it didn’t before. Sounds rattle his brain and make his ears ring.

He grows used to it after a couple months, but the learning curve is steep and painful. Tomura laughs at him more during that time. It’s accompanied by spiderwebbed scars of cracked glass.

Three years after being taken, Songbird learns the reasoning behind his nickname and his Quirks.

He’s been hurt a lot during his time with Sensei, he has the scars to prove it, but he doubts he’ll ever feel a pain that compares to That Day again. It’s a long process. Excruciating, too, due to a purposeful lack of pain medication. Doctor only takes pity on him and allows him to drift in and out of anesthesia when shock threatens to kill.

He’s unable to move from his spot on the floor for the first week, agony lancing through his shoulders and spine whenever he so much as twitches. He only discovers what Sensei did when, once he’s able to lift his head again, Tomura eagerly shows him his back with a mirror.

Two massive, steel structures jut out from the back of his shoulder blades. There’s a permanency to the disfigurement that makes him want to cry.

A year after his surgery, and four years after being taken, his first set of wings are installed to the mounts.

Two months after that, Songbird takes his first flight.

Most of the pain is gone, only some residual achiness that will fade with time, but he’s become good at blocking out pain. It helps as he fumbles with his new appendages; he’s used to moving the mounts at this point, but wings are entirely foreign.

Still, he puts knowledge and instinct to the test and manages to take off briefly, fluttering and flapping just above the ground before he tumbles over himself in a messy landing. Tomura claps and Sensei’s eyes glimmer with self satisfaction.

Songbird misses his mother.

He learned what’d happened to her from Tomura. Sensei had allowed Songbird to keep hope of seeing her initially, but when he began to try and rebel a few months in, Tomura was allowed to tell him the truth. He’d decayed some of the skin of his upper arm in the process, but it’d hurt less than the overwhelming anguish.

He doesn’t remember her well. Only glimpses of her face and voice, her soft smile, her warm hands. She had kind eyes, he’s sure of it, and green hair just like his. When he thinks of her, he envisions an angel.

His memory can be fickle sometimes, particularly when it comes to That Day, but he misses what he used to have. He misses it with a grief that gnaws at his very core. He misses the blond haired boy that he used to call Kacchan. He misses the sky above his head, the crash of the ocean, the smell of grass after rain. He misses the comfort of his bed, the taste of katsudon, the warmth of his mother’s embrace.

He misses being Izuku Midoriya. The name slips from him often these days, but he does his best to cling to it.

Sometimes, when it’s just him and his mattress and the light with the pull chain, he’ll pretend he’s back home. He’ll play back that July day, trying to etch every last detail into his brain, and when he misses something he’ll go back. He’ll repeat until he gets it right.

He doesn’t have his mattress today, or the light with the pull chain. Instead, he has metal bars and too tight chains and a long, dark hallway of cells just like his. If he were younger, he may have imagined getting rescued. A Hero coming to save him, to take him home.

But he isn’t little anymore. Not in the way he used to be. Dreams of Heroes have been long stamped down. Freedom is nothing but a fleeting thought.

Nine years after being taken, Izuku gives up hope of ever being rescued.

Chapter Text

“Down low!”

The knife whistles as it cuts through the air. He only catches a flash of silver before he moves, but based on the angle and the direction of the sound, it’s, decidedly, not aiming for “down low”.

He tips his left wing down, angling his torso so the knife just barely glances off the tip of his right primaries. Barely milliseconds after, he’s tucking into a short corkscrew to avoid another, wings swinging out to keep from crashing into the wall. Flapping to maintain a hover, he hears the culprits snickering down below.

Songbird ignores them; he’s well used to jabs from Tomura, and the immaturity of these strangers hardly compare. Even still, he can’t help the brief heightening of his heartbeat when he hears them daring each other to aim for his torso.

They aren’t allowed to do lethal damage, and are mostly supposed to target his shoulders, but that won’t make any stab wounds pleasant.

He watches one of them lean down to the small weapon rack at their feet. It’s mostly just variations of knives and daggers, but he doesn’t miss how their fingers linger on one of the pistols. Songbird narrows his eyes, focus zeroing in on the Villain pondering a Springfield, and misses when the door creaks open.

“Oi, Songbird!” Tomura’s shout startles him from his concentration. Wings beating unevenly for a moment, he drifts to the left, his attention turning to the newcomer. “Get down here, Sensei’s asked for you.”

They’re simple and relatively normal words, all things considered, but that doesn’t stop the chill. Sensei hasn’t personally asked for him in over a month, and there’s something shadowing Tomura’s tone that, while he can’t decipher it, sends red flags a-waving.

Still, Songbird is a well trained lap dog, and he takes only a moment to process before tucking himself into a dive. It’s a short one, the distance from ceiling to floor is only around 40 feet, but it’s the quickest way to reach the ground, his body tilting back and wings flaring to catch the air once he’s near.

Flapping once, twice, three times, he lands, standing obediently before Tomura. He’s wearing his costume of hands.

“You can clear off now, he’s done training for today,” Tomura barks at the strangers. Folding his wings, Songbird tunes out the ensuing conversation.

Feathers rapidly, and mostly silently, shift and interlock, steel framing shortening in a series of small motions. In seconds, wings larger than him are tucked snugly against his back, allowing Tomura to take position beside him with four fingers at his throat.

They march from the room, used to this song and dance. It’s only when they’re just clearing the doorframe that Songbird hesitates. It’s only for a fraction of a second, not enough for Tomura to become annoyed, but he can’t help the instinctual response when he hears the weapon rack shift.

He glances over his shoulder. Songbird is greeted with a Villain’s smile, a pistol raising to point tauntingly just as the door closes.

“Eyes forward,” Tomura snaps, fingers tightening. Songbird hastens to comply.

“Sorry, Tomura.” The response is automatic. Tomura and Sensei both like him best when he’s quiet and compliant.

The grip loosens, and Songbird clenches his jaw when Tomura’s arm shifts square over his shoulders. He keeps four fingers pressed to his upper arm. It’s a common position for them, a mimicry of friendliness, with both aware of the threat behind the gesture.

Tomura lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Oh, Songbird, it’s a shame that we have to find these nobodies for you to train against,” he laments. Songbird doesn’t dare to look, but he can feel the weight of Tomura’s stare.

‘He’s prompting me.’ “I-I don’t mind, Tomura,” Songbird replies. “Any training is, um, good.”

There’s an amused huff of air. Tomura had never been able to beat the stutter out of him, despite his best attempts, but he’d always found Songbird’s nerves to be funny. Even when they were both children scrabbling for Sensei’s attention.

“Hmm, I suppose you’re right. I still hate having those nobodies around. They make me itch.” Songbird risks a glance when he hears nails against skin.

As expected, Tomura is scratching his neck with his free hand, pale skin raw. Red eyes roll down to meet green and Songbird quickly looks away.

“Don’t stare” was one of the first lessons he learned from Tomura. Songbird could be stared at, the older boy had absolutely taken advantage of that, but he couldn’t return the gesture, not if he didn’t want blunt nails clawing at freckled skin. Thankfully, Tomura lets the transgression slide.

“Your council awaits.” Tomura’s voice has shifted to a shady purr, fingers tightening as they come to a stop before a door.

It’d be unassuming to an outsider, but Songbird knows better. Ever so faintly, he can hear the humming of machinery beyond the door, the mechanical breathing he’s come to know intimately accompanying it.

Tomura releases him. “Sensei has places to be after this. Get a move on.” Songbird doesn’t move immediately, prompting the previously cordial tone to fall away. “Now.”

Songbird’s flinch manifests in the ducking of his head and the slight flare of his wings. Without another word or look at Tomura, he heads through the door and into the lion’s den.

Shouta Aizawa has known about the possibility of this mission for weeks, and yet he’s still caught off guard when, early in the evening, Hizashi shoots him a message.

He was halfway through cooking dinner when he received it, a cut of salmon half seasoned and the rice cooker trucking along. He’d had to throw the rice out and save the salmon for another night; time was of the essence, and the gist of Hizashi’s message was that he needed to get over there now.

A brief meeting at the closest police station to the site had taken place. There the team corroborated information both new and old.

Apparently, only earlier that day, an officer had gone missing, and his last known whereabouts were only blocks away from their target. It’d given more than enough reason to infiltrate, which is how Shouta finds himself perched on an abandoned building just outside the warehouse.

It’s unassuming from the outside, but the simple exterior and secluded location are prime hunting grounds. And considering the tip that’d notified them of this place, accompanied by the now-missing officer, he just knows there’s more going on here.

“Eraserhead.”

His comm crackles to life, Toshinori Yagi’s wearied voice filtering through. All Might had been an odd addition to the team, particularly from the sidelines, but his connection to a detective Tsukauchi had proven invaluable.

“Hmm,” Shouta grunts. It’s impolite, but he’s tired and hungry, sue him. Plus he’s always been a bit rocky with the current Number One.

“Be careful out there. And lay low, you’re our-”

“Your eyes and ears as everyone else kicks ass, I know, I know,” he interrupts, flicking his goggles on. “There’s no need to freak out. I always lay low.”

There’s a snort from Hizashi’s end as he springs from the building, one he elects to ignore. The scarf pooled around his neck flutters in the wind, black hair trailing behind him, and he lands with a cat-like grace on the warehouse roof.

His job is simple enough: Enter through the vents, shut off the security system, and look for any prisoners while the others clear the building. There’s also the lesser task of looking for anything suspicious, any evidence to get Villains behind bars, but the tip had implied captives, and they take precedent.

Shouta’s near silent as he crosses to the nearest vent. It isn’t even bolted down, and he resists a scoff when he’s able to lift the grating with ease.

“Going in.” Shouta shuts off the microphone to his comm and slips through the opening.

The security system is laughably easy to locate, and even easier to shut off. It clearly isn’t meant to keep anyone out. There aren’t any cameras on the outside, and the ones inside are placed at odd angles and locations. In fact, as Shouta studies the feed, he’d argue that it’s meant to keep something in.

That thought sits uneasily, fingers coming up to his earpiece. “Cameras are off, party’s on,” he says.

“Excellent, Eraserhead.” It’s Tsukauchi, tone pleased and to the point. “Anything of note so far?”

“No hidden cameras on the exterior; they really did have that much confidence. There is one thing-”

He’s interrupted by a yell that rattles the front of the warehouse. Distantly, Shouta catches an unknown voice shriek “The FUCK!?”, accompanied by the sound of a body meeting the floor. ‘Seems like Mic got first dibs.’

“Eraserhead?”

“Later.” Hizashi’s entrance shook him from his mild stupor. He’s got a building to case, he can worry about cameras when they’re done. “It’s nothing urgent.”

Tsukauchi hums. “Alright then. Keep us posted, Eraserhead.”

Off goes the mic once more, and Shouta does what he does best: sneaking.

The shell may be your standard warehouse, but the interior is anything but. Long, winding hallways, and rooms of varying size and roof height. He avoids the very front, leaving that to the Pros knocking heads together, and begins his journey through the bowels of the building.

While the outside fits the worn down area, the inside is oddly well kept. Rusted metal and chipped concrete, sure, but there’s a cleanliness that doesn’t suit the wear and tear. He even spies a few plants.

The rooms are equally as odd. The first one he comes across is a living room of sorts. A couch, table and chairs, and an old tv. A fraying rug and a bookshelf devoid of anything other than Quirk and Hero theory. He almost misses the tub of crayons and colored pencils.

The next screams obstacle course, or arena. It appears standard; hurdles, net walls, balance beams, monkey bars, a climbing wall. There’s a short section of wall dedicated to weapons, mostly bo staffs and spears, and also a smaller, portable rack filled with knives, daggers, and guns.

He passes by a large room with a ceiling that reaches as high as it can go, bare hooks in the roof for the large rings sat next to a box of electric cattle prods. Another is empty save for a raised section of flooring akin to a pedestal.

He purposely tries not to think much of it. That is, until he reaches what he can only describe as an operating room.

The presence of an OR is enough to make him pause, but it’s the equipment accompanying it that sends him reeling. Leather restraints are built into the operating table, and there’s some sort of crude support just above it; two long, metal fixtures stretching out above the right and left of the table. Surgical equipment and a sink are shoved in one corner, a welding station in another. Against an otherwise bare wall, there’s a desk, lamp, and a multitude of drawings he can’t even begin to comprehend. The only commonality is the presence of wings.

A chill of foreboding courses through him. He doesn’t understand the story being told, not yet at least, but it’s more than they anticipated.

“Heads up, there’s a room that screams medical malpractice.” Shouta flicks the mic back on. Conversations have been taking place in his ear, but they give pause when he speaks.

“Medical malpractice?” Tsukauchi’s voice is hard.

“Mhmm.” Shouta eyes the wall of drawings. “It’s like a makeshift OR. It’s complete with an operating table, surgical supplies, and a welding station. Every surgeon’s dream.”

Tsukauchi’s leaned away from his mic, meaning Shouta can’t catch anything from his distant conversation. From the detective’s inflection, though, he can make a wild guess that he’s reporting the finding to his officers.

“Duly noted.” The detective is crisp and clear once more. “Once the building is clear, I’ll send in forensics to take a closer look.”

There aren’t any other questions, so Shouta moves on. There’s only two doors left to check, and he’s growing more uneasy the further in he goes. There’s something extremely off about this place.

The second to last door leads to another troublesome sight, although this time it’s for separate reasons. It’s a small room, with concrete walls, ceiling, and flooring, and an old mattress tucked away in the corner. There aren’t any windows, but there is a light with a pull chain. The darkness, save for the light from the hall, makes it difficult to make out fine details, but Shouta does catch dark staining on the mattress.

“Got a possible hostage room, too. Just a mattress and a light,” is all Shouta says. Tsukauchi says something in affirmation, but the Hero is already at the end of the hall. Unlike the others, this door has a window, albeit small and yellowing with age. Even still, he can clearly spy the long row of cells when he peers through.

“Found the holding cells.”

“Oh, good!” Yagi is back on the line. “D’you see anyone?”

“Not yet.” Shouta tests the door handle. It opens with ease, although the door does squeal. Clearing his throat, he announces, “This is Pro Hero Eraserhead. Is anyone here?”

No answer. A newer Hero may have turned tail, but experience propels Shouta on. He walks down the aisle, scanning each cell he passes, but after the fifth empty one, doubt settles like a stone in his chest. He can see signs of old blood splatters and empty shackles, and it doesn’t paint a pretty picture.

“I don’t think there’s anyone here. If there was, they-”

He almost misses it under the sound of his own voice, and the clamor of battle in his comm, but there, at the very end of the hall, he hears the shifting of metal on concrete.

“Hold on,” Shouta murmurs. There’s spoken confusion that he blatantly ignores, marching quickly toward the noise. As he nears he hears it again, and his pace quickens. Finally, he reaches the very last cell, and what he sees knocks the breath straight from his lungs.

The entire team had been anticipating a hostage. They’d prepared for multiple just in case, but in each and every scenario the captive was fully grown. Quirk user or Quirkless, man or woman or otherwise, young or old, it didn’t matter. Every missing person’s case had been eighteen or older, and the missing officer had seemed to be the final nail in the coffin. They’d been prepared for an adult.

The prisoner in the cell is a boy that can be no older than fourteen.

Distantly, Shouta’s aware that someone’s trying to speak to him, but none of it processes. He can only stare at the boy huddled on the floor, terrified eyes staring right back.

He can instantly tell that he’s small for his age, and also too thin for his own good. The kid is shirtless, ribs pressing against pale skin, although he looks more well fed than the rest of his appearance would indicate. There’s odd shapes behind both shoulders, but he doesn’t have good enough lighting to make them out.

His shorts are baggy and torn, his hair is wild, and there are shackles on his wrists and left ankle that must be rubbing skin raw. But what really captures his attention is the scarring.

There’s just so much. In all sorts of shapes and sizes, they’re mostly consolidated to the torso, upper arms, and legs. A few thin, clean scars that could only be made with surgical precision, a multitude of healed gashes. Old cuts from possible knives, maybe even a sword or two, and, oh god, were those stab wounds?

Long, jagged scarring from some sort of bladed weapon mar his chest, but the most curious of all is the patterns of cracked glass. They scatter across his forearms, elbows, sides, shoulders, the base of his neck. Even a few spots on his stomach and legs.

There are too many to count, too many awful stories here, too many clearly old and fading, and Shouta feels faint as he takes them in.

‘Jesus Christ, focus, Eraserhead,’ he snaps to himself.

Swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat, he reaches for the cell door, but stops dead in his tracks when the boy flinches so violently he crashes against the wall.

There it is, that sound he’d heard; metal scraping against concrete. But he can’t figure out for the life of him where it’s coming from. ‘Maybe there’s something behind him? But what the hell could be making that noise?’

There’s still a voice in his comm; several, in fact, and they’re all asking him about what he’s found, if he’s with a hostage. All Shouta can focus on is the boy in the cell. Tsukauchi’s rises above the rest, but he can’t bring himself to listen.

In a decision that he’d chew one of his students out for, Shouta turns off the comm entirely. The voices disappear, leaving only the boy’s fearful breathing to cut through the silence.

Shouta continues his motion to enter, but he slows his movements drastically, telegraphing every tiny thing he does to try and ease the palpable fear. It seems to work, if only a bit, for some of the tension lessens.

Those eyes never leave him, though. There’s an intelligence there that Shouta seldom sees in kids his age.

The door, thank god, is unlocked, and it swings outward. The Hero side steps it and steps inside. This triggers another reaction, this time eliciting what he can only describe as a hiss. There’s a faint sound of metal shifting, of a quick series of clicks, and Shouta finds himself floored once more when wings partially unfurl.

It’s clear that these are not the cause of a Quirk. He can finally make sense of the top of those surgical scars that disappear behind his shoulders, and, suddenly, the arenas and the OR are given clarity.

His immediate thought is ‘I’m gonna vomit.’ It’s followed by hot, heavy rage, a fire that tears through his bloodstream, and the twisting of horror that briefly stutters his heart. He wants to find whoever did this, whoever had the gall, and ruin them. He wants to do horrible, horrible things to this boy’s monsters, but it’s that look of terror that helps him keep his head.

He pushes those feelings down. He can deal with them later like an adult. There’s a kid that needs him.

“Hey.” His voice is soft, as though he’s gentling a wild animal. Pulling his goggles down around his neck, Shouta slowly lowers to a squat. “Hey there, kid. The name’s Eraserhead. I’m a Pro Hero.”

There’s some recognition of his Hero name, curiously, but it’s the mention of his status that truly sparks interest.

“I’m here with a bunch of other Pro’s. We’re gonna get you out of here, okay?” Mind racing through his catalogue of items, he makes note of the fact that he did, indeed, bring his lock picks. “Is it alright if I come closer?”

The boy’s brow furrows. He’s considering something, that clever gaze searching Shouta’s, and the Hero goes perfectly still.

Eventually, he gives the tiniest nod of affirmation. His body is as tense as ever, but he does tuck his wings in, so Shouta will call it a win.

Shouta shifts closer, keeping his movements small and clear as can be as he looks for any negative reaction. When the boy allows it without protest, the Hero shuffles until he’s within arm’s reach.

He begins to lift a hand, intending to remove the restraints, but he pauses when there’s another hiss. Something almost dangerous flashes in those eyes, and Shouta gets the sense that this kid might bite.

“Hey, it’s okay, I just want to get those off you.” He nods at the shackles. “They look like they’re hurting.”

The kid’s brow furrows again, although this time it’s incredibly minute. Shouta only catches it due to how dialed in to him he is. There’s no permission to continue moving, so he switches tactics.

“Here.” Reaching into his tool belt, he pulls out a lock pick. “I’m not gonna hurt you, it’s just a lock pick. You can take a closer look if it’ll make you feel better.”

The offering, after another probing stare, is taken with a shaky hand, and Shouta watches the boy pull it close to study. He only takes his eyes off the Hero for brief moments, but there’s something wickedly clever to them as he turns the tool over. Shouta can’t help but be transfixed.

When he’s done, the Hero is assessed once more. Whatever the boy finds must be important, for some of the raw terror dissipates, the tension in his muscles beginning to unravel.

Carefully, oh so carefully, he sets the lock pick in Shouta’s outstretched hand, and the Hero hardly dares to breathe when smaller fingers linger on his.

It’s a clear extension of trust, fragile as it may be, and Shouta does his damndest to not break it.

Wordless permission granted, he sets about removing the shackles. As suspected, the skin underneath is raw and red, particularly where the edges had met skin. It sparks a visceral anger, one Shouta keeps to himself.

When the last restraint is set aside, the kid lets out a breath of relief. He cradles a raw wrist and continues his observation. This time, curiosity seems to override the fear.

“Let's get out of here, yeah?” Shouta says. Something new brightens those eyes. Hope. “I don’t want you walking on that ankle, though. Is it alright if I pick you up?”

While not as great as before, the stiffness and the panic return. Having anticipated this sort of reaction, Shouta pulls his capture weapon off his neck.

Gently, he presses the cloth against the boy’s hand. “I know it’s scary, but I promise, you’re safe with me. I won’t let anything hurt you. You can hold onto my capture weapon if you’d like; it makes me feel safer when I’m afraid.”

It’s an extension of trust from his end. Shouta loathes to be without his capture weapon, especially in dangerous territory, but anything is worth seeing the kid relax. And to his well hidden delight, the offering is accepted. The boy takes the scarf gently and cradles it to his chest. The corner of Shouta’s mouth twitches.

“Ready to get out of here?” He asks once more.

There’s a few beats of silence, of Shouta’s own anxieties pounding in his chest. The kid’s shoulders lower, and he’s rendered speechless when the boy replies with one shaky, warbled word.

“Please.”

He wastes no time. Ever so gently, he scoops the kid into his arms, one hand under the bend of his knees and the other supporting his shoulders. He’s heavier than he realistically should be, but still lighter than Shouta expected.

The boy goes a bit tenser in his arms, but it’s only momentary, and the second he’s cradled close it all bleeds away.

The boy shuts his eyes, face pressing into the scarf as the two slip from the cell. Exhaustion is evident in the lines of his face. Turning his gaze away from the kid, Shouta carefully reaches up to turn his comm back on.

As expected, he’s met with a barrage of sound.

“Eraserhead!? Are you there??”

“Eraserhead, answer or we’re sending someone in after you.”

“Eraser, I swear on the life of those strays you feed, if you got yourself hurt I’ll scrapbook your capture weapons.”

“Touch those, Mic, and I’ll skin you.” Shouta’s response elicits wordless relief from everyone, save Hizashi who squeals a, “Oh my god, you’re alive!”

Yagi is the first to get a word in. “You’re okay? You aren’t hurt?”

“All good, no injuries from me,” Shouta confirms.

Tsukauchi’s sigh is so long and loud that he feels it. “Please, a warning would’ve been helpful. The cut of contact did not spark confidence.”

Shouta may have apologized any other time, but he can’t find it in himself to care right now. “Tsukauchi, have the ambulance ready. There was one captive in the very last cell.”

“Oh shit, I’m glad you kept looking!” Hizashi pipes up.

From Tsukauchi’s end, Shouta can hear the detective barking hasty orders.

“Is it officer Miura?” Tsukauchi questions. “The paramedics will be just outside, the building is clear so you’re good to go straight there. Do they look like any of the missing persons?”

“No to both.”

The detective mutters a curse. “Alright then, someone new. Have you got an approximate age?”

“Thirteen, no older than fourteen.”

Silence.

Shouta takes the moment to study the boy in his arms again. With actual lighting, he can finally make sense of the kid’s hair color, and is oddly endeared by the green. It reminds him of the greenfinches that nest outside his apartment.

Gaze flicking to pale skin, he can see fading bruises and a few healing scrapes. Mostly, though, his eyes trace the freckles that scatter along his skin.

He almost manages to forget about the age bombshell, but the clear horror in Yagi’s voice brings him back.

“..No older than fourteen?”

“Can’t be. He’s small enough to be twelve, though.” Shouta can’t help it; he lets a bit of that anger he’s been keeping back bleed in.

Hizashi, voice strained, says, “A kid, Sho?” The forgotten Hero title is telling.

Shouta hums an affirmation. Tsukauchi is, once again, a distant voice. There isn’t a peep from Hizashi or Yagi. Knowing that both Pro’s love kids, Hizashi especially, he can only imagine how the news is hitting them.

“I just sent someone to contact CPS.” Tsukauchi’s voice is laced in exhaustion. “I’ll also have to get in touch with the cold case division. There haven’t been any missing kids reported, especially not a young teen, so this isn’t something recent. Eraserhead?”

He picks up on the prompt with ease. “There’s signs of abuse. They’re old signs, too, almost none of this seems recent,” Shouta explains. He eyes the scarring with disgust and shifts the kid closer.

Another heavy sigh. “Alright. Get the kid to the paramedics first, we’ll deal with everything else after.”

Shouta hears the click of the line going dark and follows suit. He doesn’t see anyone being interested in conversation right now, and he doesn’t blame them. Child abuse cases are never pleasant.

His duty complete, he finally allows himself to divulge his full attention to his cargo. He isn’t sure if the boy is actually asleep, but his eyes have remained shut the whole time, and there hasn’t been so much as a twitch. A scarred hand holds the capture weapon close, face tucked against both the scarf and Shouta’s chest.

“I’ve got you, kid. You’re safe now,” he murmurs. The kid’s free hand grasps the front of his costume, almost as though he’s afraid he’ll be let go, and Shouta’s grip tightens.

Something unbidden, something warm and protective and fierce, has settled deep within the marrow of his bones.

If Shouta doesn’t kill them first, this boy’s monsters will have to pry him out of his cold, dead hands.

Typically, Songbird shifts from asleep to awake in a matter of seconds. His mattress has never been comfortable and his room gets cold. If it isn’t his bed or the temperature, aches and pains will be the deciding factor. And after that is stress, nightmares, or Tomura.

Today is an anomaly. Today, consciousness comes slowly.

The first thing he registers is warmth. His room stays at a lower temperature even in the dead of summer, and he’s only given a blanket in the colder months. If he’s consistently warm, this can’t be his room.

His brow twitches, eyes shifting beneath his eyelids. There’s light beyond them. And he can feel fabric; thin fabric across his torso, something thicker and softer cushioning his neck.

There’s the immediate sound of breathing, of weight shifting, of machines beeping and humming quietly. And more distantly, muffled chatter, faint footsteps, children’s laughter.

It’s the registered scent of antiseptic that jolts him from his haze.

His eyes snap open. Songbird regrets it immediately, a low hiss of displeasure leaving him as he squints and blinks against the light. Once his vision stops swimming, he immediately clocks the blue walls painted with dozens of fish.

‘Sensei would never allow that.’ He isn’t sure why it’s his first thought, but it’s all he can really comprehend at the moment. His brain is still catching up to consciousness.

Bewildered, Songbird turns his attention away from the walls. He, instead, stares at unfamiliar machines with incomprehensible graphs. When the information borders on overwhelming, he looks further down. There’s a blanket over his torso, fabric thin and soft, and he’s in a paper gown. He’s also in a bed, a proper bed, with a covered mattress and a pillow.

And there's a strangely familiar spool of gray fabric around his neck. It smells of pencil shavings and, oddly enough, petrichor. Maybe he should be alarmed by the foreign object, but Songbird instead feels something warm fizzle in his chest. He lifts a clumsy, heavy hand to examine it further, and frowns.

There’s a needle taped to the back of his hand, tubing leading to an IV bag standing sentry at his bedside. Confused and mildly unnerved, his immediate instinct is to remove the foreign object, but a larger hand, gently, grabs him by the wrist.

“Leave that in there, kiddo, or the nurses will kill me.”

Songbird goes stiff, wings puffing beneath his gown. His attention snaps to the left, and he finds a man sitting at his bedside.

He can tell, immediately, that he’s tall, even with a slouch. Long hair frames tired eyes, both black, but there’s an alertness to them despite the overt exhaustion. Slowly, the man sets Songbird’s hand back on the bed and releases his wrist.

“It’s just fluids,” the man explains. “Just keeping you hydrated while you slept.”

There’s a small twitch at the corner of his mouth, a hint of a smile playing at its edges, and Songbird is hit with a jolt of clarity. He knows this man.

Like a bullet leaving a gun, the apprehension is gone in an instant. They’d played their game of trust and Eraserhead had won, Songbird has nothing to fear, so he allows his muscles to relax. He instead observes him with unguarded curiosity. It’s not often he gets to stare, especially at an uncostumed Pro.

The hint from before transforms into a small smile, black eyes crinkling with gratification. The smile, unlike Tomura’s and Sensei’s, holds no sharp edges.

“I’m glad to see you awake and alert. You’ve been drifting for a couple days,” Eraserhead says.

Songbird frowns. ‘A couple what?’ A glance at the window behind Eraserhead confirms daylight, so it must at least be the next day, but a couple?

He curls a pointer finger in the scarf, uncertainty darkening his expression. The Pro must see his confusion.

“Today’s July twenty-first. The hospital initially had you on a good dosage of painkillers. You’ve drifted in and out on occasion, but this is the first time you’ve fully come to,” he explains.

July twenty-first… Songbird isn’t always kept up to date, but he never forgets July fifteenth. Doing the math from there is simple enough. Three days post fifteenth, three more after that…

It’s then that he fully processes the word “hospital”. His eyes go wide, his heart beating a staccato rhythm. Logically, everything about his surroundings should’ve indicated this, but hearing it is different. It makes it more real.

Something in Eraserhead’s tired eyes softens. With the same gentle tone Songbird remembers, the Hero elaborates with, “Three nights ago, on July eighteenth, I accompanied a team of Pro’s and law enforcement to where you were being held. I was tasked with search and rescue. You’re safe, kid. I promise.”

Songbird takes a shaky breath, hand fully curling into the scarf. His mind is racing. He doesn’t have all the pieces of this puzzle, so there’s blank spots where information should be. He’s out, he’s free, and yet he can’t help but worry over missing time.

He can feel the Hero’s eyes on him as he goes through that day. Wake up, training, Tomura, cell, Eraserhead. There’s a fog obscuring the in-betweens and his forehead creases, frustration sparking. ‘What am I forgetting?’

“Hey, Greenfinch.”

It takes him a moment to realize that, yes, it’s him being addressed. Songbird blinks, bewilderment overtaking any other emotion, and he watches Eraserhead’s expression shift to.. sheepish?

“Ah, yes, that.” It’s amusing to watch the previously collected Hero fight to find his words. Songbird tilts his head to the side.

“Sorry, kid, we’ve been using a placeholder name,” Eraserhead says. He’s clearly still embarrassed, but he presses on. “We were hoping you’d be able to fill us in once you were awake. There’s.. a lot of missing pieces.”

Eraserhead leans forward in his chair and rests his chin on his hands, his eyes serious. “My name is Shouta Aizawa. I and the rest of the team are doing everything in our power to find these people, but in order to do that, I need just one thing from you. Can you tell me your name?”

His name…

His first instinct, and what he almost says, is Songbird, and yet he pauses. Maybe it’s the walls painted with fish, or the scarf that smells of pencil shavings and petrichor, or the man with tired eyes and tender words, but something stops him just before he blurts it out.

He closes his mouth. Eraserhead, Aizawa, is watching closely, but it isn’t unkind or dangerous, just curious and patient. It’s the opposite of Tomura and Sensei, and the opposite of the name Songbird.

No, that can’t be his name. He’s called that with the cadence of a predator, and he knows, instinctively, that his name wasn’t given with dark intentions.

Aizawa had called him Greenfinch. That also isn’t his name, Aizawa had said so, but it’s closer. He turns it over in his mind. Softer than Songbird, but without familiarity. A nickname. He rubs a thumb over fabric.

‘Greenfinch.’ A fuzzy memory of sizzling oil. A woman with a gentle voice and gentle hands. An All Might toy. A blue sky.

His mother had green hair and an angel’s smile.

“Mi-Midoriya.”

His voice is soft but certain. It cracks and stutters, both due to being unused and the memory. He still presses on, green eyes meeting Aizawa’s black, for he’s found a missing puzzle piece.

“My-My name is Izuku Midoriya.”

Chapter Text

“Alright, so let’s get everything clear.” Shouta pinches the bridge of his nose, one eye cracking open to glare across the table. The interrogation room, previously buzzing with VHS audio, is now silent, save for him. “Izuku goes missing in a fire. The mother is found dead, the cause of the fire is never identified, and the kid seems to have vanished into thin air.

“And then out of the blue, nine years later, he’s found shackled in a warehouse with surgically implanted wings, two Quirks he wasn’t born with, and some of the worst signs of abuse I’ve ever seen.”

Tsukauchi stares back at him. In lieu of a verbal response, he nods.

Shouta’s eye twitches. “So, with all of that in mind, you’re gonna tell me that those bastards you arrested don’t fucking know anything?”

There’s a sigh from Tsukauchi. It’s heavy and tired. “Aizawa, I wish we had more. I really do. But this is all we’ve been able to get out of them.”

The TV behind him remains paused, the arrestee on screen a perpetual irritation for Shouta. The Villain has a cocksure grin, overconfidence bleeding into their posture. It’s driving him mad. The Villain only knows enough to fill in some gaps on the kid’s treatment and, oh, do they know it.

God, Shouta wants to punch them.

He can see Hizashi’s raised eyebrow in his periphery when he snarls, “So, what, that’s it? We can’t even do anything about the ones actually responsible?”

“No, we can’t.” Tsukauchi matches his energy, unwilling to be intimidated. “I wish I could do more, I want to do more, but until we find leads on the ones actually responsible, we’ve come to a standstill.”

There’s a glance at Yagi. Completely suspiciously, Yagi pretends not to pay attention. Tsukauchi continues with, “The one person we could implicate should’ve died four years ago. There’s literally nothing for us to follow.”

Shouta knows he’s right. The logical side of him has accepted this, and yet some part of his limbic system still fires off angry, “not good enough” chemicals.

“Easy there, Shouta, you don’t want to pop a blood vessel,” Hizashi says, stopping Shouta from doing something stupid like punching the monitor. “Little Greenfinch doesn’t need you to kill an innocent detective for him.”

Shouta bristles, ire turning to his friend. “I’m not gonna kill him, Hizashi, what the hell.”

“Mmm, really?” Hizashi props his chin in his palm, grin wide and goading. “The papa-bear act gives you a unique bloodlust, it’s fascinating.”

“Oh my god, shut up-”

“For pete’s sake, you two bicker like children.” Yagi interrupts the squabble, both exasperated and amused.

Shouta stiffens and Hizashi snickers, the former shooting the latter a withering glare.

“Sorry, this whole situation is just frustrating,” Shouta says in chagrin. “It doesn’t help that some people like pushing buttons.”

Hizashi bats his eyes, taking the implication as a challenge. “Who, me? Seems like that F-Rank is the one pushing your buttons, Eraser.”

“Naomasa, you had something you wanted to discuss,” Yagi interjects loudly. It successfully stops the impending argument in its path.

“Yes. If you two are done, there is something that needs to be handled.” Tsukauchi is equal parts stern and entertained.

Shouta, sufficiently chastised, settles back in his seat, as does Hizashi. His friend, however, still looks like the cat that ate the canary, the damn bastard.

“Of course. I am sorry, Tsukauchi, I didn’t mean to snap at you.” As frustrated as he is, Shouta does feel guilty for his attitude.

Tsukauchi waves it off with a flick of his hand. “No need. I understand. This whole case has been difficult on us all.” Tsukauchi eyes a folder, the one containing all they know of Izuku Midoriya. “Since we’ve reached an impasse in this aspect, there’s a decision that needs to be made.”

Shouta lingers on the manila folder. Hastily put together the night he rescued Izuku, they hadn’t known the kid’s identity at the time, hence his legal name scrawled under the original, temporary nickname. Well, it was supposed to be temporary. While not the official case title, everyone in the room refers to it as “Mission Greenfinch”.

“You need to find somewhere for the little listener to go, don’t you?” Hizashi asks.

Tsukauchi’s nod is all the confirmation they need. “As far as we’re concerned, Izuku has no living relatives. The status of the father is unknown, but considering the fact we haven’t been able to get in contact with him, he’s been knocked out of the running. We’ve also been unable to find any will on Inko’s end, so there’s no family friends we can send him to.

“Even then, the officials I’ve been working with aren’t keen on him living with a civilian family. His case is too sensitive to bare to the general public. They think it's best if someone helping with this case fosters him, although they’re open to suggestions. I, personally, would like an actual Pro to be the one. CPS isn’t normally so lenient when it comes to foster care, but this is a special exception.”

Tsukauchi gives them each an imploring look. “If any of you know someone willing, please, now would be the time to share. I want to get him into an actual home as soon as possible. He’s been exceptionally tolerant, but a hospital is not a good place for him to be for an extended period of time. Especially considering all we know.”

Shouta almost immediately volunteers himself without a second thought. He has to physically clamp his jaw shut, pessimistic logic warring with instinct. ‘You’re a homeroom teacher at U.A,’ he tries to tell himself. ‘You work nights for your Pro career. Think about this for a second.’

The negativity loses the battle. Loses the whole damn war, in fact, because Shouta knows he has the time, and he knows he has the space.

He has a spare room he almost never touches collecting dust, and an old bed frame he’s long outgrown. Besides, Hizashi would probably leap to the moon over the chance to keep spoiling the kid.

He pretends not to, but he likes working with kids. His students have been good, all things considered, and he’s enjoyed watching them flourish. He never would’ve entered the education field if he was as cold and callous as he acts.

‘I’m about to do this, aren’t I?’ Shouta asks himself. He isn’t sure why. He’s known the answer since he’d first cradled the kid close.

His mind flashes to inquisitive green eyes, gray fabric cushioning freckled skin.

With a resigned sigh (he has appearances to keep up), Shouta opens his mouth, but finds himself beaten. Hizashi leaps to his feet and chirps, “Shouta would love to foster! Wouldn’t you, Sho?”

Shouta blanches. “Excuse me-”

“Oh, how wonderful!” Yagi praises. “I’m sure young Midoriya would love that!”

“Wha- Don’t I get a say!?” Shouta splutters.

Hizashi’s expression is nothing but terrifying acuity. “You’re a damn liar if you pretend like you aren’t itching to take him in. You’ve been in attack dog mode for two whole weeks, Shouta. He had a nickname within the first thirty minutes of you knowing him.”

“We needed something to call him-”

“I’ve known you for nearly fifteen years, and the most I’ve gotten is Zashi. Besides, little Greenfinch adores you! You practically have your own gravitational force!”

“That doesn’t-”

Hizashi crosses his arms. “If you can look me in the eye and say, with full conviction, that I’m wrong, I’ll never question you again.”

Shouta glowers with all the venom he can muster, but Hizashi is unswayed. The fact that he’s right means nothing. It’s the damn principle of the matter. He hates when Hizashi reads him to filth, especially with an audience.

“Aizawa?” Tsukauchi prompts. He sounds like he’s been enjoying the verbal beatdown.

An embarrassed flush rises to Shouta’s skin. He barrels through it with a rough, “If I qualify, I’ve got a spare room and plenty of time outside work. I’m more than capable of looking after a kid until he’s ready for a home.”

Tsukauchi, for the first time since the meeting started, smiles. “Excellent, thank you. Considering Izuku’s trust in you, plus your background in Hero work and teaching, you were my first pick.”

Something in him takes immense satisfaction in this; that same something deep within his bones.

“I’ll have your foster license done and sent by this evening.” Tsukauchi gathers his things, tape clicking from the VCR. The rage still fizzing in Shouta’s gut settles without the Villain in sight. “I just need to put some things in the system. Once that’s through, he should be ready for discharge at any time.”

Shouta resolutely ignores both Hizashi and Yagi. He can feel the twin, beaming expressions from them both, and tries to convey “Don’t say a word” through body language alone.

“I’d best be off, the F-Ranks all have preliminary hearings today.” Tsukauchi, folder under his arm and briefcase in hand, straightens. “I promise, if I get any news on the people we’re after, you three will be the first to know.”

The Pros chorus a thank you as the detective makes his leave. Tsukauchi pauses in the doorway, contemplation narrowing his eyes. After a moment, one corner of his mouth quirks upward, smile oddly ludic.

“Good work today, Team Greenfinch,” he praises. And with that, he turns on his heel and strides from the room, Hizashi’s audible delight following him out.

Izuku’s decided that he hates hospitals.

Anything beats his former room, or the cells, or Doctor’s workshop, but that doesn’t mean he’s comfortable.

Antiseptic burns in his nose. The near constant movement in the halls keeps him from fully relaxing when alone. Doctors, nurses, and law enforcement come and go on a much too regular basis. The food, while consistent, is too similar to what Sensei served.

The worst part is the procedures from the medical staff. The questions from police officers he can’t remember the names of. He often finds his heart beating faster, hands shaking despite his best efforts to keep them still.

Save for his terror of being found by the League, he sometimes considers the merit of escaping. Anything to get away from the newfound stressors.

The one thing keeping him sane is Shouta.

Izuku never anticipated him sticking around, especially after the initial rescue and check-in. Maybe occasionally stopping by if he needed something, but his job had been done. There was no other obligation to Izuku.

And yet, he hasn’t gone a single day without seeing Shouta. With school out for the month, he’s often there for hours, a book in hand and a story of his students on his tongue.

His presence now routine, Shouta’s become moral support when the officers come knocking. He voices Izuku’s concerns and anxieties over the various tests and procedures. He talks about his students, his friends, his colleagues, his Hero work; anything that seems to come to mind.

Sometimes they sit in silence, too. It’s a good silence, not tense like with Tomura. He’s never anticipating something bad with the Pro around. In all honesty, he only fully relaxes with Shouta in the room. Izuku’s fight-or-flight reflex, one honed over nine long years, shuts off with him around, granting a peace of mind he’s never felt before.

It’s a curious thing, having someone to trust. He hasn’t trusted anyone else in a very long time.

Izuku ponders his newfound guard from his perch. The hospital windows are nice and big, and the ledge of his is just wide enough for him to sit. Knees pulled to his chest, his head pressed against glass, he watches strangers to pass the time.

For ease of the medical staff, his backless gown has remained, although he has been allowed sweatpants. His left wing is fully locked away, his right folded but still at full size. One hand holds his knees, and the other remains buried in the fabric of Shouta’s capture weapon.

It’s the very same one he was handed when he was rescued. He knows this due to stitching near the middle, a mending from a previous tear. Shouta’s insisted that he keeps it, and Izuku’s not complaining. He loves the scarf, practically never takes it off. It’s quickly become a comfort item.

When he’s having a hard time, be it from the tests, or the questions, or simply remembering his own name, the scarf becomes a vital anchor.

He rubs a thumb over the fabric and frowns, eyes tracking a woman in pink. Pencil shavings and petrichor has become a staple for him. Now, the acute smell of hospital is overtaking it, and that just won’t do.

Izuku pauses his contemplation, gaze flitting from the woman below to the door. He hadn’t noticed them coming, not at first, but he quickly catches a familiar, exuberant voice. It’s followed by an opposingly exhausted tone.

He’d recognize that voice anywhere.

He doesn’t move from his spot, but he does straighten, his right wing compacting alongside the other. Muscles tense, he watches the door.

Soon enough, it’s opening with a squeak of the hinges, the usual visage of Shouta Aizawa shifting into frame. Tired eyes brighten, a small smile overtaking a previously annoyed expression.

“Afternoon, ki-”

“Little listener!”

Ah, there it is. The cause of the annoyance.

Vexation flashes across Shouta’s face when Hizashi elbows past him. To Izuku’s surprise, he also catches sight of Toshinori, the tall man giving a warm smile from overtop Shouta’s head.

Hizashi keeps his distance, positioning himself at the end of the bed, but he still spreads his arms as though anticipating a hug. The two are well aware that he’s not gonna get one, but Izuku supposes it’s the thought that counts.

“It’s been a minute, little man! How’ve you been? You holding up?” Hizashi’s as friendly and loud as ever. Izuku likes him, likes him a lot actually, but he can be incredibly overwhelming.

Izuku doesn’t respond verbally, instead giving a small, tentative nod. Anxiety prickles under his skin. To his relief, Shouta is already striding over.

“Lower your volume, Hizashi, this is a hospital,” Shouta chides. “The entire building doesn’t need to know you’re here.”

Hizashi rolls his eyes, clearly dramatizing the movement. “I’m not that loud, Shouta. Don’t be a party pooper.”

Toshinori has to slouch to avoid hitting the doorframe. Settling into a chair, he says, “I’m inclined to agree with Yamada. His volume control is excellent.”

“Give him an inch and he’ll take a mile,” Shouta counters.

Hizashi squawks in offense, but Shouta doesn’t deign him with his attention. He leans against the wall, focus on Izuku. His eyes have gone soft and attentive.

“Afternoon, kiddo. You keeping yourself busy?” He nods toward the street.

Izuku hums an affirmative sound.

“Ahh, yes, afternoon, young Midoriya!” Toshinori says, all warm smiles and kind eyes. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Izuku waves. He’s getting better at talking around them, it’s just difficult without a script.

Shouta taps the wall, fingers brushing over painted fish. Izuku looks back at him immediately.

“See anything interesting today?” Shouta asks.

It’s not a question he has to respond to. With Shouta, he can be as engaged as he wants, which in turn makes conversation easier.

Izuku’s hesitant and quiet when he says, “There was a guide dog earlier. Labrador, I think.”

An inquisitive hum. “Guide dog, huh? Don’t see too many of those.”

Shouta stares out the window, eyes on the street below.

“It was black,” Izuku adds.

Shouta’s mouth curves upward. “Good color,” he muses.

Izuku nods in agreement, thumb brushing over gray fabric. He hears a soft sound, a fascinated noise, and glances to his right, finding Hizashi’s eyes on him. His expression isn’t negative, but it is odd. It’s somehow both tender and impish.

“How’s the capture weapon treating you, little listener?” Hizashi asks. It’s a sincere question, but there must be something hidden that Izuku doesn’t notice, for Shouta stiffens.

“Oh, um..” Izuku’s fingers worry the scarf. He isn’t quite sure how to answer. “..good?”

“Just good?” Toshinori questions.

Izuku’s gaze has drifted to the floor. He faintly shrugs and hears Shouta shift his weight, but keeps his focus locked on an old blemish.

“It. Hospital.” He knows they aren’t trying to interrogate him, they’re just making casual conversation, but his nerves don’t seem to understand. To try and convey the issue, he makes a vague gesture toward his nose.

He hears Toshinori open his mouth, but Shouta’s the one to respond. “We can wash it tomorrow. If you want, I have some others you can borrow in the meantime.”

“N-No, I-” Izuku pauses. He blinks, words registering, his brows ticking downward. “Tomorrow?”

The boy looks over his shoulder. Shouta’s shifted forward, his posture making him look like a posted guard. Despite a clear vigilance in his body language, his eyes remain gentle.

“You remember Detective Tsukauchi?” At Izuku’s nod, he continues. “Well, he’s been looking for someone to foster you while your case is active.”

Izuku’s heart rate kicks into high gear, wings involuntarily spasming. “Oh. With-With who?” he asks, his voice pitching upward.

He watches emotions flicker in Shouta’s eyes, too quick for him to decipher. Movements careful and deliberate, the man lifts a hand. When Izuku doesn’t flinch, calloused fingers gently ruffle his hair.

The boy blinks several times. Huh.

“Don’t stress it, Greenfinch,” Shouta soothes. “You’ll be staying with me for the foreseeable future. We wouldn’t be so stupid to send you off with a stranger.”

It’s said in jest, but not maliciously. Izuku knows that he’s just trying to make him feel better. And hey, it works; his cortisol calms and green eyes brighten.

“Oh. That’s okay, then,” he replies. Living with Shouta for a bit sounds nice. Peaceful. His facial muscles haven’t been used for smiling in years, otherwise he’s sure he’d be beaming.

“We’re busting you outta here, little man!” Hizashi’s crow is sudden. It causes both Izuku and Shouta to jolt, the boy letting out a startled squeak. He’d forgotten about the other two.

Izuku immediately turns to the Pro, and finds him positively glowing with enthusiasm. Yellow-green eyes are as warm as ever, although they’re also wickedly sharp when he looks at Shouta.

“What a gravitational moment, don’t you think?” Hizashi comments.

Hizashi definitely isn’t using that word right, but that doesn’t seem to matter, for Shouta’s face floods with color. Puffing up like a feral cat, he stalks toward his friend with a snarl on his tongue. Hizashi, wholly unintimidated, responds playfully in kind.

Izuku’s eyes widen at the display. He looks to Toshinori, unsure on how to proceed, and finds the man watching them in amusement. Sensing eyes on him, he sends Izuku a reassuring smile.

‘It’s not a real argument,’ he tells himself, tension bleeding from his muscles. ‘This is okay.’ There’s a lack of genuine anger from Shouta. If anything, he really just seems embarrassed.

‘Wonder why.’

Face nestled into the capture weapon, he mimics Toshinori and settles back to watch. It’s faint, but nestled deep into the fabric fibers, he can still detect cedarwood post-rainfall.

Izuku’s officially released into Shouta’s care the very next day. Both anticipate a learning curve, of which there is, but it’s far shallower than either expected.

In fact, falling into a routine together is the easiest part of it all.

Izuku is exceptionally quiet. There’s a silence to every movement that’s unusual for someone his age. Shouta’s used to teenagers blundering about, loud in volume and physicality, but the boy in his home is the opposite. After the first few times he nearly jumps out of his skin, Shouta learns to anticipate sudden appearances.

Chatter, something the Pro had begun to coax out of Izuku in the hospital, eventually begins to show itself, but their early mornings remain quiet. There may be some conversation, but an easy silence comes to be their norm.

Mid mornings and afternoons are left free, save for Izuku’s therapy and doctor appointments. He finds himself catching up on the world, and on all the Heroes he’s missed. Sensei had been selective with his teachings. Shouta, in the meantime, will plan lessons for his students, or read a book, or catch up on sleep.

Conversation comes easy with lunch. Izuku finds himself bursting with new information, and unlike with Tomura or Sensei, he’s allowed to speak it aloud. Come mid afternoon, Hizashi’s a usual guest, although Toshinori stops by on one occasion. Sometimes Hizashi stays for dinner, but he’s always gone before nine.

Izuku uses his evenings to log all he’s learned in brand new journals. By the time the first week is over, he begins mumbling when he writes.

Once Izuku’s in bed, Shouta’s off on Hero work. He plans to stick close to the apartment for the first couple months, and comes to be grateful for this decision. With the boy’s consent, an audio monitor is set up in Izuku’s room, allowing Shouta to know if he’s needed.

Izuku’s nightmare’s aren’t often audible. When they are, Shouta finds himself at his bedside for hours. He tends to fall asleep in his chair, which his spine comes to loathe, but Shouta can’t find it in himself to care.

Shouta asks, once, if Izuku has anyone he wants him to contact. Izuku’s response, after a long, long minute of contemplation, is eventually, but not now. The topic is left alone after that.

There isn’t much talk of trauma or triggers unless necessary, and Shouta’s rules are simple and few. Conversation is easy, the quiet even easier, and learning how to live together is an alarmingly quick process.

They don’t discuss the routine they fall into. It’s just something they do.

In mid August, the routine changes. Twelve days after his release, Izuku’s bundled into the car under the guise of a doctor’s appointment, a too-large hoodie nearly drowning him in place of his capture weapon. He doesn’t question it at first, focusing his attention on the scenery flickering by, but he soon notices that none of it’s familiar.

They’ve taken the route to the hospital a couple times now, and the memory of being discharged is still fresh. Forehead creasing, Izuku glances Shouta. Now that he looks closely, there’s an air of anticipation to the man’s posture, a restlessness as he drums two fingers against the steering wheel.

“This isn’t the way to the hospital,” Izuku observes. He’s long past beating around the bush with Shouta.

There’s a brief glance at him. “Right on.”

Izuku squints. He’s not worried, but he is suspicious. “I thought you were taking me to a doctor’s appointment.”

“Oh, I am,” Shouta assures. “The person you’re meeting doesn’t work at the hospital, though.”

“..Where else would they work?”

Shouta grins. It’s his mischievous, “I’ve got the upperhand” smile, a rarity without Hizashi around.

“Should-Should I be worried?” Izuku can’t help the concern, the muscles where skin meets steel twitching involuntarily.

“Of course not. You’re gonna like where we’re going, I promise.”

“Alright…” Izuku isn’t convinced, but by this point he trusts that Shouta wouldn’t take him anywhere bad. While he itches to ask more questions, to try and wheedle whatever surprise his guardian has stewing out of him, he turns back to the window and lets his thoughts wander.

Ten minutes later, they arrive at U.A.

Izuku stares as they pull up. He keeps staring as Shouta parks, and as he shuts off the car, and as he rounds the front to open Izuku’s door.

Expression laced in smug, smug pride, Shouta smiles broadly. “Cat got your tongue?”

Izuku gapes at the building, and then at Shouta, and then at the building again. He blinks several times, but the school still stands strong. He hasn’t moved an inch since he first caught sight of it.

“..You’re taking me into U.A!?”

Somehow, Shouta’s smile gets wider. “Damn right,” he says cheerfully. “C’mon now, we’ve got a bit of a walk.”

Izuku’s seldom moved quicker, not without threat of bodily harm. Eyes wide, he presses close to Shouta, and the two make their way up the front entrance and into the building.

He’d thought the warehouse and the hospital had been big, but U.A is a whole different beast. The halls are as tall as they are wide, and they seem to stretch on for miles, even when Izuku’s acute vision finds the end. The two pass more doors than he can count, entryways almost cartoonishly tall. Even as he maps their route in his head, he finds the sheer magnitude of it all astounding.

Unlike the warehouse, or the hospital, the halls aren’t suffocating or cramped. They’re well lit, spacious, and with ceiling-to-floor windows when applicable. The lavender floors and white walls only help to brighten the space.

To Izuku’s relief, and also slight disappointment, there don’t seem to be many staff members around. He catches an occasional humanoid shape behind doors or down distant halls, but Shouta leads him in opposite directions.

They only encounter one person as they make for the nurse’s office.

A woman in an oversized red sweater rounds a corner at the end of the hall, purple hair so dark it looks black. She has a no-nonsense expression, posture confident and tall, and the only acknowledgement she gives Shouta is a small dip of her chin.

Izuku doesn’t miss the way Shouta picks up his pace; even when he, too, nods a greeting. The boy doesn’t question it, quickening his own stride to stay close, but he’s unable to keep from looking back at her when she fully stops in her tracks.

He watches her back peddle, eyebrows shooting to her hairline as she surveys the pair like a hawk. Unnerved, Izuku’s fingers find purchase in the hem of Shouta’s shirt. She immediately zeroes in on the movement.

The distance between them is growing, but Izuku still catches a whip-smart glint in her blue eyes. She must notice Izuku’s unease, for she gives him a friendly smile, but her stare becomes sharp again as she watches Shouta retreat.

Shouta doesn’t look back even once as they round the corner, although from his expression he definitely knows she’s staring.

“Don’t pay her any mind. She’s nosy,” Shouta mutters to Izuku.

Izuku’s steered toward a door before he can even think of any follow up questions. Immediately, he takes notice of the placard, and green eyes shine.

“Recovery Girl?” he whispers with half-concealed delight.

“Is it really that surprising? I thought it would’ve been obvious by now,” Shouta teases.

“I-I didn’t think of it.” His knowledge of and admiration toward Recovery Girl was not born under Sensei’s critical eye. The memory itself is fuzzy, but he knows it’s from Before.

With Izuku’s fingers still hooked in his shirt, Shouta knocks. There’s muffled conversation that halts at the sound; one voice old and feminine, the other a higher pitched masculine. Izuku half shuffles behind Shouta, and as the door opens, the two step inside.

The interior is bright and cozy, with a series of beds lining one wall, various equipment along the other. A small desk sits to the left, various informational posters tacked to the wall above it. Immediately, though, Izuku’s drawn to the two occupants, his caution making way for intrigue.

The desk chair is occupied by Recovery Girl, the closest bed by a creature he can only describe as a mouse. Or are they a bear? The small, clothed creature appears to be an amalgamation of animals, although they do seem primarily rodent, with white fur and a striking scar over their right eye.

Sat primly at the edge of the bed, they fix an extremely intelligent stare onto Izuku, eyes black and beady. Alarmed, the boy shifts just a bit further behind his guardian.

“Ahh, Aizawa, good morning!” the animal chirps brightly. “I reckon this is Midoriya, is it not?”

Shouta’s reply is gruff. Izuku gets the feeling that he hadn’t been expecting an extra pair of eyes. “This is. Izuku, this is Recovery Girl and Principal Nedzu.”

Like a jolt of lightning, clarity arcs through Izuku. There hadn’t been a lot on Nedzu for him to learn with Sensei, but what was available had been drilled into his head. Although, it has been several years. Now, as he avoids eye contact with the principal, he’s surprised he didn’t recognize him immediately.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Midoriya.” Recovery Girl is delightfully warm, with a friendly demeanor that immediately puts Izuku more at ease. “Nedzu here was just finishing up. It’ll only be me and Aizawa watching today.”

’Huh?’

“W-Watching…?” His stuttered question is only just loud enough to be heard.

“Yes, I’m sure Aizawa’s already told you, but I’d like to see your wings in motion after my examination. It’s a bit tricky to judge your fitness without seeing them work.” She says it offhandedly, clearly expecting that Izuku’s been informed.

Izuku looks at Shouta, confusion twisting his nervous expression. “I- um- I don’t-“

To his growing alarm, Recovery Girl scowls at Shouta. The man shifts, and Izuku can immediately tell that he, too, is uneasy.

“Shouta Aizawa, you better have told this boy what we planned.”

He can’t see Shouta’s expression, but Izuku just knows he’s wincing. “He knows about the exam, I just thought-“

Shouta cuts himself off with a yelp, Recovery Girl’s cane meeting the top of his head with a short thwack.

“You still have the mindset of one of your students, you and Yamada both!” Recovery Girl scolds. “The fact you two haven’t driven me into an early grave is a miracle!”

Her whole attitude shifts back to grandmotherly when she smiles at Izuku. Any initial trepidation has quickly melted away, astonishment overtaking anything else.

“I’m terribly sorry, Midoriya. That guardian of yours isn’t always the brightest,” Recovery Girl sighs.

“That guardian of his takes offense to that,” Shouta grouches.

There’s a light hum of laughter, Izuku’s gaze darting back to Nedzu. Paws clasped, he’s continued his staring, a twinkle of interest alight in his eyes.

Finally looking away from Izuku, Nedzu says, “I’d best leave you three to it, then! Seems like you’re going to be quite busy. Thank you for your time, Chiyo, it’s always a delight to talk to you.”

Beady eyes focus on Shouta. “A pleasure as always to see you, Aizawa. I do hope you’ll have time to chat soon. And it was wonderful to meet you, Midoriya. Until next time.”

With one last brilliant little smile, an expression that still carries a deep acuity, Nedzu hops off the bed and scurries away.

Shouta and Recovery Girl re-engage each other in conversation, but Izuku catches none of it as he stares after the principal with wide eyed astonishment. He only tunes back in when directly spoken to.

“Now Midoriya,” Recovery Girl begins. “I understand if you’d rather wait for some other time on account of being unprepared, but if you’re up to it, I’d like to see you in flight today.”

Izuku blinks. Hope and delight fizzles in his chest, a bright shock of electricity that makes his skin tingle.

“Oh, um. I-I mean, it’s been a few weeks, but, um, I don’t-I don’t mind.” His face flushes as he stutters, but he still barrels on.

“Perfect.” Recovery Girl quickly whirls into motion, patting the now empty bed as she makes for her supply cabinet. “Have a seat now, please, and remove that hoodie and any shirts. I’d like a close look at those wings of yours.”

Izuku swallows around his caution. Briefly tightening his grip on Shouta, he receives a reassuring smile from his guardian.

“It’ll only take a couple minutes,” the man reassures softly.

Taking a deep breath to steel his nerves, Izuku squares his shoulders and steps toward the bed.

The exam, as promised, doesn’t take longer than ten minutes. Recovery Girl is almost frighteningly quick, and equally skilled as she jots down notes and gently presses where the mounts connect to his shoulders. Unlike the other doctors and nurses he’s met, Izuku quickly finds himself at ease in her presence.

Soon enough, the exam is over, and the trio makes their way to the gym.

The smell of concrete is intimately familiar, but that’s where the similarities to his former training rooms end. There’s no equipment of any kind, just a massive, empty concrete room. The windows help keep it bright and welcoming despite its sheer size, and the distinct lack of a long-dried blood smell is reassuring.

Izuku marvels at the vaulted ceiling. “You’re gonna let me fly here?”

He hears the warmth in Shouta’s voice when he says, “Of course. It’s not like it’s getting used for anything else right now.”

Izuku hums a long note of wonder, one finger hooked in the collar of his hoodie.

Recovery Girl leans against her cane. “Midoriya, whenever you’re ready, I’d like you to take a short flight around the room. No need for anything longer than a minute or two.”

Izuku nods and, like he had in her office, pulls his hoodie off in one swift motion. His wings quickly shift to full size, and he ruffles them as he hands the hoodie to Shouta.

“Do you, um…” Izuku picks at the pad of his thumb with a fingernail. “..Do you need me to do anything specific?”

“No, sonny, you can fly however you’d like.” Recovery Girl smiles kindly at him. She hasn’t reacted once to his scars, which only strengthens his growing affection for her.

Turning away from the two, Izuku flexes his wings, a sigh of contentment leaving him as he stretches one and then the other.

It’s been around a month since he’s last flown. Izuku doesn’t anticipate perfection, but hey, neither do the other two. Here, there’s no Tomura, and there’s especially no Sensei.

The lack of a critical audience bolsters his confidence. His wings half unfurl, eyes surveying the space before him. After a careful moment of calculation, he bends his knees, curves his wings upward, and takes off with a boost from his legs and a mighty flap of steel.

It’s pure muscle and strength that carries him skyward. He’s never had the aid of an updraft, meaning that all exercise had to take newfound flight skills into consideration. Tricky and exhausting at first, it’s become second nature.

In fact, settling back into the sky is as easy as breathing.

It’s the most vertical and horizontal space he’s ever had, and Izuku immediately makes the most of it. Powerful downbeats propel him toward the curved roof. He skirts the wall and ceiling, tipping downward just enough to settle into a soar. He’s never had enough space to soar properly, and yet, settling his wings into a wide, solid plane is exceptionally simple.

His heart stutters, but for once, it’s not from nerves. Elation courses through him; an exhilarating burst of adrenaline that kickstarts his thrill-seeking. Body alight with euphoria, he angles into a dive, wings tucking in and eyes squinting against the air.

Distantly, Shouta and Recovery Girl have been chatting to one another, but the man’s voice stutters as Izuku rockets downward. He thinks Shouta tries to say something to him, but he isn’t paying a lick of attention.

Twisting his body into a twirl, wings unfold and he peels away from the rapidly approaching ground, a shrill sound of glee akin to a bird’s call escaping him. Down on the ground, Recovery Girl snickers.

‘I never wanna leave.’ While the circumstances around acquiring his wings were less than ideal, Izuku loves the air. Tomura and Sensei may have ruled the ground, but the sky is his domain.

Here, he makes the rules, and his instincts are screaming for speed.

Izuku’s lapped the room several times over when Recovery Girl calls for him to land. He tips one wing to the side, heavy flapping turning into short, gentle motions, and angles for the Pros.

Recovery Girl’s as languid as before, but Shouta’s stiff, his spine straight as an arrow. Curious and confused about the change, Izuku soars into a landing, tilting his body to touch down back where he’d started.

Taking a moment to catch his breath, wide eyes settle on the older Pro. In what seems to be her natural state, she smiles and says, “Thank you, Midoriya, that was just what I needed.”

She looks like she wants to say more, but she doesn’t continue, for Shouta takes an abrupt step toward Izuku. Too many emotions flicker across Shouta’s face for him to catch them all, but he does notice relief, agitation, pride, and fear.

For the first time since the hospital, Shouta-related worry jabs at Izuku’s insides. ‘Did I mess up?’ Hesitantly, he murmurs an apprehensive, “Was-Was it bad..?”

Almost instantly, Shouta’s expression clears. There’s a brief flash of regret in his eyes, but it’s gone as soon as it came, making way for that soft expression he reserves for Izuku. His free hand spasms at his side as though he wants to reach out, but the man instead offers the hoodie.

“Of course not, kiddo,” Shouta reassures. “You obviously know what you’re doing. You were excellent, in fact.”

The unease lifts, and Izuku’s eyes brighten. ‘Not mad. Just.. concerned.’ He takes the hoodie back. “Sorry for worrying you.”

Izuku pulls the hoodie on to the sound of Shouta huffing, “You’re gonna give me gray hairs in my thirties.”

Back into the easy pattern they fall. Shouta flicks a hair out of Izuku’s face, and the boy warbles a wordless sound in response, hand batting away his guardian’s. The man’s mouth threatens to pull into a smirk.

Recovery Girl shifts. She’s finished writing, posture straightening as she tucks her clipboard under one arm.

“I’d like to take one last look at you in my office before you head out, Midoriya,” she informs. “Aizawa’s right, your flying is excellent. You seem to have exceptional control and energy efficiency. I’d just like to get one last post-exercising exam in.”

Izuku acquiesces, but he hesitates to follow Recovery Girl as she makes for the door. Looking up at his guardian, he implores, “We’ll come back here?”

Surprised laughter bursts from Shouta, eyes glimmering. “Yeah, Izuku. We will,” he says around a grin.

Pleased, Izuku matches the man’s stride. He’s met with a friendly hair ruffle, and he blinks green eyes up at him.

“Seriously, kid, you’ve got a talent for flying. Nice work up there.”

Something affectionate and happy warms Izuku to the core. He doesn’t smile, but he does knock his shoulder against Shouta’s arm.

“Thanks, Sho,” he chirps.

Izuku doesn’t catch it, his attention focused solely on Shouta, but up ahead, Recovery Girl watches them with a warm, gratified smile.