Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

What a shame.

Nedzu stared at the paused footage of the sludge villain attack—again. The screen’s frozen image of a green haired child mid-leap, eyes wide, arms outstretched, made his blood boil.

He’d seen that look before. On students who were too brave, too desperate, and too alone.

This wasn't just a failure. It was a disgrace.

Death Arms and Kamui Woods—both his former students—had been there. So had other heroes, though thankfully not from U.A. Still, he'd be paying each of their agencies a visit. There would be no brushing this aside.

Because what he’d witnessed wasn’t a matter of bad luck or poor matchup.

It was negligence.

A child had nearly drowned on dry land.

And the so-called professionals had stood by, waiting for orders or a better angle, while another child—the quirkless one, and how fascinating to see those red shoes on a young person—had charged in and saved the day. Not because he could. But because no one else would.

And then they scolded him for it.

Nedzu’s claws curled against the wood of his desk.

The rescue comes first. That was Heroism 101. Every single one of them should have recognized the villain’s weak point. Even Nedzu—who hadn’t fought on the front lines in years—could see that the eyes and teeth were the only “solid” parts of the creature. It wasn’t rocket science. It was instinct, or at least, it should have been.

He scheduled meetings with each relevant agency. Then, rather than calling a driver, he opted to walk. He wasn’t above letting those “heroes” stew in anticipation. Besides, a brisk walk would help cool the righteous fire burning in his chest.

Still, one thought clung to him.

Who was that boy?

A quirkless teenager who had analyzed the situation, acted with initiative, and made the difference when actual heroes had failed. Chiyo would scold him for even considering it, but the temptation to dig into the boy’s background, to find out more, was strong. He hadn’t been this intrigued since Aizawa Shouta had wandered into his office, angry and full of potential.

He barely registered the intersection until he stepped off the curb—and was suddenly shoved from behind.

“Sorry, mister mouse!” a small voice squeaked out behind him.

He turned to respond, intending to wave it off. But his limbs wouldn’t move. His voice wouldn’t come. Even his lungs felt still.

Panic clawed at the edges of his mind. He was paralyzed.

A second voice piped up. “What are you doing here?”

Nedzu was lifted off the ground.

No no no.

He hated being picked up. Loathed it, even. It was undignified, humiliating—he was not a pet.

“Wow… what a weird plushy.”

That did it. Internally, Nedzu screamed.

Izuku Midoriya was not having a good day.

After the sludge villain incident, after the crowd’s whispers, after the way Bakugo had glared at him like he was the problem, he’d finally gotten a private word with All Might.

And it had gone… poorly.

“You can be a hero,” All Might had said. “But only if you accept my power.”

So it wasn’t you can be a hero as you are. It was you can be a hero, if you’re someone else. And yet he hadn't said no. He was going to accept the quirk All Might offered because he'd be stupid to say no. All Might wasn't wrong, he'd only said what everyone else said. That he was wrong to be born the way he was. That he would never achieve his dream the way he was. That no one would ever accept a quirkless hero. It still didn't make him feel very good. So as soon as he was sure All Might was gone, and he had the 'plan' of meeting him tomorrow at Dagobah beach, he texted his mom he was going for a walk.

Izuku walked without a destination, fists in his pockets and heart pounding too loud. He hated that he felt ashamed for not being grateful. But all he’d ever wanted was to be a hero—as himself. Not as someone else’s legacy.

He was just about to turn toward home when something on the sidewalk caught his eye.

A plushy. Small, furry, weirdly detailed. It looked… real. Unnervingly so.

He crouched beside it.

“What are you doing here?” he murmured, tilting his head. It didn’t move. But its eyes—was that a flicker?

He picked it up carefully. It was heavier than it looked, and warm, not like a regular toy at all.

“You look like you’ve had a rough day, too,” he whispered. He tucked it close to his chest and started the slow walk home, completely unaware that the plush in his arms was very much not a toy—and very much aware of him.

Chapter Text

Aizawa Shouta wasn’t expecting to be summoned.

Certainly not by a cleaning robot.

He blinked blearily as the tiny assistant bot bumped repeatedly against his foot, beeping in an almost impatient tone. He shifted the sleeping bag he was half-curled in and gave the thing a long, unblinking stare.

“Go away.”

The bot beeped again. Then again. Then zapped his ankle.

“Fine,” he grunted, getting to his feet. “You win.”

He assumed something had gone wrong with the security system. Maybe one of the first years had tripped a sensor—again—or the lunchroom had flooded—again. Instead, the bot led him on a winding path that ended in front of Nedzu’s office.

It chirped cheerfully.

The door swung open on its own.

Aizawa narrowed his eyes. Nedzu never left the door open. Unless…

No. No, no, no. That furball was too annoying to go missing.

Still, the chair behind the desk was empty.

Cautiously, he stepped inside.

The first thing he noticed was a stack of files organized so neatly it had to be Nedzu’s work. The second thing was the note in the center of the desk. In calligraphic strokes that were way too smug to belong to anyone else.

“This does not mean you can expel all the students, Shouta.
Just keep the timetable running, keep the HPSC from taking over my school, and try not to give another class reason to visit the psychiatrist. You’ll do fine. Probably.
~N”

“…What.”

There was another note under it, sealed in a crisp white envelope with his name scrawled across it in delicate blue ink.

He stared at it.

Then sighed.

Then opened it.

To: Aizawa Shouta, most trustworthy and least likely to destroy everything on impulse
Subject: Contingency Protocol 7: In Case of Ratnapping

If you are reading this, then either I have been abducted, incapacitated, or gone on an unapproved sabbatical to investigate something that has captured my tiny, insatiable curiosity.

(Statistically, it’s one of the first two. Don’t worry, I’m working on the third.)

Since I find myself too important to let the Hero Public Safety Commission stick their claws into U.A., I have preemptively chosen a replacement to act in my stead.

Congratulations!

It’s you.

Yes, really.

I know you’re currently frowning. Possibly sighing. Likely muttering something impolite under your breath. That’s fine. This is why I chose you.

You are methodical, fair even when grumpy, and you care deeply—though I know you’ll deny it—to an almost reckless degree. You’ve never once backed down from protecting a student, even when the odds were against you, the paperwork was endless, and the consequences were career-ending.

You are, in short, the only person I trust to run this madhouse until I return.

Please do not let Mic into my tea collection.

Warm regards,
-Nedzu

P.S. I left you a “starter kit” in the top drawer. You’ll need it.

Aizawa set the letter down slowly.

He stared at the desk.

Then opened the top drawer.

Inside was a “World’s Sleepiest Principal” mug, three blackout-grade eye masks, and a folder labeled “Emergency Evacuation Plans (Student Shenanigans Edition).”

There was also another note.

“This mug is self-warming. Don’t fight it.”

He closed the drawer.

He closed his eyes.

And then muttered, “I hate that he’s right.”

The staff room was already buzzing.

“Has anyone seen the principal today?” Snipe asked, turning from the coffee machine. “He’s never late.”

“Maybe he’s doing one of his secret tests again,” Midnight suggested. “Remember the time he replaced all the toilet paper with multiplication tables to ‘test our reaction time’?”

“Don’t remind me,” Present Mic groaned. “That week ruined my digestive schedule and my soul.”

“Could be worse,” Vlad offered. “He could be on vacation.”

The door creaked open.

Every head turned.

Aizawa walked in, hair frizzing with resignation, coffee mug in hand.

“Meeting in fifteen,” he said flatly. “I’ll be acting principal until further notice.”

There was silence.

Then Present Mic raised a hand slowly. “Bro, did you get promoted or blackmailed?”

“…Both.”

Another pause.

“Wait, Nedzu picked you?” Midnight asked, incredulous. “Why not—?”

“He left a letter,” Aizawa cut her off. “Apparently I’m the only one he trusts not to burn the place down or traumatize the students.”

“That’s—huh.”

“You can read it yourself if you want,” Aizawa added dryly, sipping from his new mug. “But you’ll have to get past the eye mask security lock.”

“…He put an eye mask lock on his principal backup plan?”

“Of course he did.”

The bell rang.

Aizawa rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Fifteen minutes. Staff meeting. Bring caffeine.”

Chapter Text

Nedzu hadn’t screamed in years.

Not since the early days—when he'd still thought screaming would change something, when he still believed someone might care that he was in pain. But now, trapped in a body made of stuffing and thread, and held tight in the arms of a boy too familiar for comfort, he would’ve screamed again if he could.

Instead, he stared.

Internally screaming. Externally silent.

This was not how he had envisioned investigating the quirkless boy.

He had tried everything. Twitching. Shifting his eyes to catch the light. Willing his limbs to move, just enough to be seen. But the boy only frowned once, tilted his head, then dismissed the strange flicker in his arms as imagination.

So Nedzu could only watch.

And what he saw was… wrong.

It started when they arrived at the child’s home.

“Mom, I’m home!” the boy called into the silence, voice bright in a way that sounded practiced.

There was no reply. Just a note.

The boy read it aloud with the weary cadence of someone who already knew what it would say:

“Sorry, been called into work for overtime! We’ll be talking about that little stunt of yours when I get home, mister!”

The boy groaned. “Seriously? I should’ve known not even Mom would see that I helped.”

He looked down at Nedzu.

“What do you think, buddy? Should I have just left it to the pros?”

Nedzu ached to speak. No, he wanted to say. You did what they couldn’t. You acted when they froze. That is what makes a hero.

But of course, he couldn’t say anything at all.

The boy’s shoulders slumped. He pulled Nedzu closer.

“Why am I even asking a plushy?” he muttered bitterly. “If you could talk, I bet you’d say what everyone else says: I’m useless. I could’ve died. That I was just getting in the way.”

A beat of silence.

“…And I’d get it. I mean, All Might had to save both of us in the end.”

He held Nedzu tighter.

“But Kacchan wasn’t breathing. He was choking. And I—” His voice cracked. “I remember what it was like. That sludge villain tried to kill me first. I know what it felt like. I wasn’t gonna let someone else drown like that.”

Nedzu froze.

What do you mean, you remember?

Who helped you? Who let that happen?

But the boy was already placing him gently on the bed, muttering something about a shower, too exhausted for theatrics. Nedzu found himself grateful to be left behind. There were still lines of dignity he preferred not to cross.

It was only when Izuku returned, now dressed in a too-big neon shirt advertising some long-forgotten pop band, that Nedzu stopped thinking entirely.

Just barely peeking out from under the shirt’s collar—

A burn. In the shape of a handprint.

Nedzu’s memories surged: scalpels glinting under sterile lights, the sting of acid injections, the cold precision of people deciding if he was “viable.”

“Expendable.”
“Unstable.”
“Not human.”

And now this boy.

Burned. Belittled. Beaten down by a society that told him he had no worth because of something he was born without.

And yet, still kind enough to hold Nedzu gently. As though he were something that mattered. He tried hard not to think about how he felt about being held for the first time in his life.

The next day, the boy climbed into bed, pulled the covers up, and dragged Nedzu onto his lap again.

“You wouldn’t believe what today was like,” he said, voice muffled in the pillow. “All Might gave me my training schedule.”

He lifted Nedzu, staring into his eyes with a frustrated frown.

“Ten months of trash duty. Trash duty! That’s his big plan. Clean the beach. Like this is some movie montage where I get buff while learning the meaning of hard work. Is this Karate Kid? Rocky? What year does he think it is?!”

Nedzu would have snorted if he could.

The boy's hands moved over him absentmindedly, petting down his fur like he was a real animal.

“And he didn’t even ask what I can do. Didn’t ask about diet, sleep, mental health, not even a proper physical check. Nothing. Just—‘here’s your schedule, kid, good luck!’ Like I’m a damn video game character who just got handed my quest marker.”

He let out a bitter laugh. “And he wants me to take his quirk. Just—here. Boom. No instructions. No warning. No explanation of how. Or what it does. Or what it costs.”

His grip tightened just a little.

“What if I break every bone in my body the first time I try to use it? What if it kills me? Did he think of that? Or was that part of the training too?”

He buried his face in Nedzu’s fur for a second, breathing slowly.

“Gods. And how the hell am I supposed to explain this to people? Quirkless kid suddenly manifests a quirk at fourteen? The oldest documented ‘late bloomer’ was nine. I’d be a research subject for the next decade if I didn’t fake it properly. I’d end up under observation before I even got to the sports festival!”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“But he didn’t say a word about that either.”

He was quiet for a moment, fingers twitching slightly as if itching for a pen. A journal. Something to make sense of the chaos.

Then:

“I want a quirk,” the boy said quietly. “Of course I do. How could I not? Everyone has spent my whole life saying I’m not even human without one. That I'm less. That I'm nothing."

Nedzu stilled.

"I used to think they were wrong. I used to think, if I just worked hard enough, someone would notice. Someone would say, ‘You matter. Even if you're quirkless.’ I thought if I trained, studied, acted like a hero, someone would believe in me.”

He laughed again. It didn’t sound happy.

“But no one ever did. So eventually… I made peace with it. With being quirkless. I thought—I can’t be a hero, fine. But I can still help. I can still try. I can still save someone.”

He paused.

“But then All Might shows up, and tells me, Izuku Midoriya, I can be a hero. Just not as me. Only if I take his quirk. Only if I become someone else.”

Izuku looked down at him, eyes raw and tired.

“I don’t even know if I want to be his kind of hero. But I don’t want to be nothing.”

There was a long, hollow silence.

Then, in a whisper so soft Nedzu almost missed it:

“Sometimes, I wonder if I should’ve just said ‘fuck it’ and taken Kacchan’s advice.”

Nedzu’s synthetic heart dropped.

Izuku smiled without humor.

“Y’know. 'Take a swan dive off the roof and hope for a quirk in the next life.’”

He pulled Nedzu close, wrapping his arms around him tightly.

“…But I don’t want to die. I just want someone to see me.”

Nedzu could do nothing but stare.

But inside, something shifted.

He saw himself in this boy.

Saw the mind that picked apart hero patterns with surgical precision. Saw the pain of being called subhuman. Saw the intelligence. The cynicism. The hope that somehow refused to die.

This child is mine now.

Nedzu made the vow again, quiet and steel-hard.

You are not asking too much.
You’re asking the wrong people.
But not for long.

Midoriya Izuku is mine now.
And I always protect what’s mine.

Chapter Text

Aizawa Shouta was many things.

A rational man. A minimalist. A chronic sufferer of sleep deprivation.

But today…?

Today, he was the principal.

Temporarily. But still.

And it was going to his head faster than Hizashi on a karaoke mic after three energy drinks.

He sat alone in Nedzu’s obnoxiously plush chair, surrounded by folders, hot tea gone cold, and the deeply unnerving sense that the furniture was judging him. There were tiny ladders everywhere. A custom tea set shaped like a cheese wheel. And a drawer labeled “For when the teachers start crying (again).”

But none of that was important.

Because Aizawa had just finished rereading the specs for this year’s UA Entrance Exam, and he was ready to throw the entire thing into a fire.

Obstacle course.

Robot combat arena.

Scoring system that favors flash over substance.

He glared at the paper like it had personally insulted his sleeping bag.

“Why are we still doing this?” he muttered. “Robots? Seriously? Are we trying to recruit heroes or anime protagonists?”

He scribbled a large, angry note on the margin:

"No nuance. Biased toward flashy quirks. Zero real-life value."

Right as he underlined it for the third time, the door to Nedzu’s office creaked open.

“Yo, Shouta! I brought snacks!” Yamada Hizashi’s voice was a lightning bolt of energy in an otherwise dead room. He sauntered in with a bright yellow bag of chips and sunglasses still firmly on, despite being indoors.

Aizawa gave him a look that said: You are a crime against my peace.

Hizashi grinned wider. “The bots said you were holed up here like a vampire with a pension. Thought I’d check in. How’s interim principal-ing?”

Aizawa held up the exam folder wordlessly.

Hizashi squinted. “Entrance exam? They still doing the robot thing?”

A pause.

A longer pause.

Aizawa slowly nodded.

Hizashi recoiled like he’d been slapped with a textbook.

“Oh come on! Are we seriously still grading kids on how many metal murder Roombas they can explode in sixty seconds?!”

“Apparently,” Aizawa said flatly. "No judgment of restraint. No teamwork evaluation. Just destruction.”

He leaned back, gesturing vaguely at the paperwork mountain. “And now that Nedzu’s missing, guess who has the authority to change that?”

Hizashi blinked.

“Shouta. Buddy. Pal. You’re scaring me.”

“Good.”

“Are you gonna—please tell me you’re not gonna replace the robots with actual villains.”

“I considered it,” Aizawa said with unnerving calm.

“Shouta.”

“I didn’t do it. I just… entertained the idea.”

Hizashi looked like he was seriously reevaluating every decision that led him to this friendship.

“Okay,” he said slowly, sitting across from him. “Level with me. What exactly are you planning?”

Aizawa held up a fresh draft labeled:

“Revised Entrance Exam: Capture and Rescue + Controlled Risk Assessment.”

“They’ll still face obstacles,” he said, “but instead of scoring points for flashy attacks, they’ll be scored on decision-making, cooperation, and problem-solving. Bonus points if they minimize collateral damage. Penalties for recklessness. Oh, and I’m throwing in a no-quirk bonus round.”

Hizashi stared.

Then blinked.

“...So, what I’m hearing is: death gauntlet meets philosophy final.”

“Pretty much.”

“And you’re doing this because?”

Aizawa shrugged. “Flashy quirks get too much credit. We need students who can think, not just punch. The current test favors kids with explosive quirks.”

“You don’t even know if anyone applying has that,” Hizashi said, half-laughing.

“I can feel it.”

Hizashi ran a hand through his hair.

“…Okay. I’ll admit. That’s… not the worst logic. Might even be kinda brilliant.”

He tried not to smile too hard.

“Still, you sure you’re not drunk on power? Because I swear if you start issuing personal cloak-and-dagger side missions like it’s Hogwarts, I’m calling Recovery Girl.”

Aizawa raised a brow. “If I’m drunk on anything, it’s caffeine and frustration.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you keep coming back.”

“…Because I’m hoping one day you’ll look up and realize you’re incredibly lovable,” Hizashi blurted.

Silence.

Aizawa blinked.

Hizashi blinked.

They stared at each other in horror.

“I mean respected,” Hizashi said, voice suddenly three octaves higher. “Lovably—respected. As a coworker. With authority. And facial hair.”

Aizawa’s lips twitched. “You think I’m lovable?”

“Don’t quote me in your autobiography.”

“I’m putting it in the exam instructions.”

“I hate you.”

Aizawa turned back to his notes, eyes suspiciously warm.

“You’re still helping me build the course.”

“I—fine. But I’m adding a musical obstacle. You make them suffer through stealth and logistics, they’re getting a rhythm-based challenge in round two.”

“You want to make the kids do DDR for their hero license?”

“Damn right I do.”

A beat.

“Fine. But no dubstep. I’m still recovering from last year's sports festival.”

Chapter Text

It had been almost a month.

Twenty-eight days, to be exact.

Not that Nedzu was counting.

But he was. Of course he was. He counted everything.

He counted the bags under Izuku’s eyes and the missed meals and the number of times Inko Midoriya forgot to ask her son how his day went. He counted the too-long silences that filled the small apartment and the carefully rehearsed smiles Izuku gave her in return.

It wasn’t abuse.

But it was something else. Something heavier.

Something quieter.

Neglect was not always cruel in its delivery. Sometimes it came with kind eyes and absent hands. With soft tones and loud silences. With apologies offered too often and support offered too late.

And Izuku?

Izuku carried it like he carried everything else.

Alone.

Nedzu had long since given up pretending he wasn’t emotionally compromised. It had started the first time Izuku had fallen asleep clutching him like something precious. It had gotten worse when Nedzu realized how many nights Izuku cried quietly into his fur.

But now?

Now it was something deeper.

Now it was parental.

Now it was his kit.

He tried not to think about it too hard.

Tried to ignore the way his little plushy arms fit so naturally under Izuku’s chin, the way the boy unconsciously reached for him when thinking, the way he whispered half-formed theories and wild hopes into Nedzu’s synthetic ears like bedtime stories.

And today?

Today, it was a Kacchan rant.

Izuku flopped dramatically onto his bed, sweaty and sore from another beach-cleaning session, one hand still clutching the Hero Analysis for the Future notebook while the other held Nedzu tight against his chest.

"Okay, I know I said I wasn’t going to let him get to me again, but Kacchan was in rare form today,” Izuku huffed. “He said I looked like a ‘skinny broccoli trying to cosplay as All Might's bicep.’ Which doesn’t even make sense! I’ve been working out!”

He sat up suddenly, holding Nedzu at arm’s length, shaking him gently for emphasis.

“I’ve got shoulders now. Real ones! You could perch a hawk on them. Not even a small hawk! A medium one!”

Nedzu would have raised a very judgmental eyebrow if he had the motor function.

Izuku sighed and dropped back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. “I know he’s just mad because I’m changing. Because he doesn’t know how to deal with me not being quirkless anymore.”

A pause.

“Well, almost not. I mean—I haven’t taken it yet. All Might wants to wait until my body’s ready.”

Nedzu’s mind honed in on the phrasing. 

He had questions.

So many questions.

But then Izuku reached over and grabbed his notebook. The battered, duct-taped monstrosity of hero obsession.

Nedzu had seen glimpses before. Doodles. Notes. Charts.

But now, Izuku flipped to the newer pages. The ones labeled “Speculative Notes – Power Inheritance Theory.”

He read aloud, absently tapping a pen against Nedzu’s paw as he spoke.

“I don’t think it’s a stockpiling quirk like a battery,” he murmured. “I mean, maybe partially? All Might said it was passed down, which sounds like DNA or quirk factors—maybe like Kacchan’s sweat, but internally?” He frowned. “Or maybe it accumulates strength like a momentum quirk? But then how did All Might stay so strong after the injury?”

Flip.

Page after page of diagrams. Genetic theory. Muscle ratio charts. Even risk assessments on the possibility of his body rejecting the transfer.

“I keep running numbers. Trying to figure out the optimal angle. If it’s a strength-boosting quirk, how do I keep my bones from shattering on the first punch? What’s the minimum pressure-to-output ratio for high-impact landings? Would a support suit compensate? Should I ask for one?” He chewed his lip.

Nedzu felt a familiar ache building.

This wasn’t the work of someone blindly chasing a dream.

This was the work of a strategist.

A theorist.

A genius.

And yet—this child still had no one in his corner.

Except… a plush.

Izuku closed the notebook with a tired sigh. His fingers tightened around Nedzu.

“I don’t know if I’m doing this right,” he whispered. “But I have to try. Because if I don’t… then what was the point of surviving everything else?”

He rested his forehead against Nedzu’s soft head.

“…Thanks for listening, buddy.”

Nedzu didn’t move.

Couldn’t move.

But inside?

Inside he was unraveling.

He wanted to speak. To comfort. To tell this boy that he wasn’t just “worth something”—he was extraordinary. That his analysis would make a better strategist than half the pros Nedzu had seen in twenty years.

That he shouldn’t have to do all of this alone.

But instead, he was held.

Warm, steady, trusted.

And—horrifyingly—he found that he liked it.

That realization nearly made him explode.

He liked being held.

He, Principal Nedzu, PhD, certified menace and high-functioning trauma gremlin, had grown attached to being hugged like a teddy bear.

He would be booking himself for psychological evaluation immediately.

…Assuming he turned back soon.

Because, deep down, he knew this wasn’t going to last forever. He’d been turned into a plush by a quirk. A child’s quirk, most likely—a random, fleeting activation. Those never lasted more than a month or two.

And it had already been almost thirty days.

He was running out of time.

That night, Izuku fell asleep with him curled under one arm, notebook under the other.

And Nedzu just stared.

The boy’s breath evened out. His body finally relaxed. And for the first time in days, there were no tears.

No muttered apologies.

Just sleep.

And that was when it happened.

A sudden jolt.

A twitch in his paw. A flicker of motion. Something inside him shifted—like a gear had just clicked into place.

His arm moved.

Just barely.

A centimeter, maybe.

But it was the first sign that the transformation was unraveling.

That he was becoming himself again.

And he hated it.

He didn’t want this to end.

Because he was going to lose this—this connection, this unspoken trust. He was going to go back to being a principal. A bureaucrat. A professional.

And this child—this brilliant, aching, unguarded child—would be nothing more than a student.

Just another name on a roster.

Except he wasn’t. Not anymore.

Izuku was his kit now.

And if that meant breaking the rules? Blurring the lines?

Well.

Nedzu would worry about the consequences later.

Because no one was taking this child’s dream away again.

Chapter Text

Aizawa Shouta had been principal for exactly one month.

That was thirty days of hell.

Not the satisfying kind of hell either—chasing villains through alleys, dodging media, rescuing kids with a well-timed scarf and a well-placed glare. No, this was the slow-burning, brain-melting hell of emails, board meetings, and budget reports printed in Comic Sans.

He hadn’t seen his capture weapon in weeks. It might be in the gym. Or under the couch. Or possibly devoured by the maintenance bots, which—honestly? Fine. Let it rest. He envied it.

Right now, he was halfway through his fourth caffeine-fueled hour of reviewing HPSC-authorized policy changes.

They’d been quick.

Nedzu had gone missing—still no leads, no suspects, no ransom, nothing—and the HPSC had wasted zero time using the opportunity to "streamline operations." Which was code for: take control of the most powerful hero school in the country.

And they’d tried. God, they had tried.

They tried assigning an HPSC liaison to the staff room.

Tried pushing media-friendly PR campaigns onto the Sports Festival.

Tried slipping in policy edits that made things harder for students with non-combat quirks or trauma histories.

Aizawa shredded half of them, bled red ink on the rest, and sent all revisions back with a three-word note:
"Nedzu would object."

That should have been the end of it.

Instead, they sent help.

No explanation.

Just:
“Pro Hero Hawks will be joining your staff to assist in day-to-day operations until the principal is recovered.”

He met the kid on Monday.

Blonde, cocky, aviators still on indoors. Didn’t even knock. Just showed up at Aizawa’s office with a clipboard and a smoothie.

“Yo! Heard you’re down a mouse.”

Aizawa stared over his coffee, dead-eyed and unimpressed. “Why are you really here?”

Hawks smiled. “They said you were under a lot of pressure. Figured I’d lighten the load.”

Aizawa hummed, low and sharp.

The HPSC didn’t send comfort. They sent tools. Hawks might’ve looked relaxed, but he wasn’t here to help.

He was here to watch. To report. Maybe to replace.

Aizawa hated being watched.

But as he looked at the too-young pro standing in front of him—dark circles under his eyes, shoulders too stiff for someone so used to faking ease—Aizawa’s instincts kicked in.

He saw it immediately.

The way Hawks didn’t flinch at silence, but tensed slightly when the phone rang. The way he scanned the room like he couldn’t help it. The fact that he hadn’t taken off his gloves.

This was a kid.

A tired one.

A caged one.

Aizawa knew that look. He’d seen it in his own mirror more times than he could count.

And so, he made a choice.

A small one, at first.

“Fine,” Aizawa said, standing up. “Come with me.”

Hawks blinked. “What?”

“You want to help? You’re fast. We’ve got a thousand students and one nurse. You’re now her emergency runner. First job—grab Recovery Girl lunch. She hasn’t eaten since Tuesday.”

“Seriously?”

“She’ll stab me if I show up again. You’re new. She might let you live.”

“…Cool.”

“Also, we need someone to vet hero ethics speakers. No more idiots quoting Nietzsche at teenagers.”

Hawks squinted. “That happened?”

“It did. The kids are still traumatized.”

“…Okay, yeah. I’m in.”

And that was that.

Over the next two weeks, Aizawa gave Hawks a list of minor tasks—all internal, all with long-term project labels, all requiring HPSC-signed approvals that Nedzu had “already prepared.”

By the time the Commission realized what was happening, Hawks had been officially assigned to four departmental initiatives, two pilot programs, and one faculty development series. Each with legally binding contracts, and all locked in by the HPSC’s own rubber stamp.

Oops.

The next time they called, demanding an update, Hawks sent them a photo of himself grading midterms.

They weren’t amused.

When they tried to pull him, Hawks casually forwarded the HPSC their own signed documentation with a note:
“Principal Aizawa says if you yank me mid-program, he’s filing a formal grievance for interference with student development.”

They hesitated.

Then they remembered: Aizawa is licensed.
He has tenure.
And he's technically still an active hero with investigative authority.

The silence that followed was glorious.

Aizawa dropped the revised Sports Festival folder onto Present Mic’s desk.

Yamada squinted at the label.

“‘Optional Alias Submission and Quirk Suppression Visibility Clause’? You rewrote the whole damn festival!”

“They deserve a choice,” Aizawa muttered, sipping his seventh cup of coffee. “If they don’t want their quirks seen on national TV, they shouldn’t have to show them.”

“But—Shouta, c’mon—you just deweaponized our biggest marketing event.”

“Good.”

“You’re making it less cool!”

“I’m making it less exploitative.”

“…Wait, is this because the cameras caught you falling that one year and—”

“I DIDN’T CRY.”

“You tried to erase the footage!”

“I TRIED TO ERASE THE CAMERA.”

“And the kid who saw it.”

“He signed a nondisclosure form!”

“Because you told him you’d erase his whole family tree. Not that it wasn’t hot—just terrifying.”

Aizawa gave him a look.

Yamada held up his hands, backing away with a grin. “Alright, alright! I’m not judging! I’m impressed.”

“Good.”

“…Still funny though.”

“You’re now co-chairing the costume revision board.”

“Wait, what?!”

“You laughed. Now you get spreadsheets.”

Yamada groaned. “You’re cruel.”

“You’ve known me for twenty years.”

“And you’re getting weirdly good at this job.”

Aizawa didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

That night, after patrol and paperwork and another godforsaken call with the “Hero Education Board” (during which he’d had to explain—again—why robots were not trauma counselors), Aizawa sat at Nedzu’s desk.

Well.

His desk for now.

He stared at the nameplate.

Then, at a little notebook tucked in the corner. Nedzu’s handwriting was still there, tidy and clipped.

“Fix these if I'm gone, won't you?”

He had.

He was.

And the worst part?

He didn’t hate it.

He liked watching the building run like it was supposed to. He liked knowing Chiyo had an assistant now, one that wasn't just googly eyes stuck on a broom handle on top of a Roomba. That Ryu wasn’t alone anymore. That the students had choices. That the staff had breathing room.

He liked knowing the HPSC had one less bird in their gilded cage.

He liked feeling like things—finally—made sense.

God help him.

He was getting used to it.

Chapter Text

It started during homeroom.

Bakugo made a scene.

Nothing obvious. A muttered insult, a kicked chair, a loud complaint to the teacher about how someone had been "hogging the after-school weight room." The teacher, distracted and overwhelmed, had sighed and muttered something about responsibility. Izuku was slapped with cleaning duty.

Alone.

Or so he thought.

Because halfway through wiping down desks, Katsuki stayed behind.

He didn’t say anything at first.

He just stood there, crackling like a stormcloud.

Then—

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, Deku.”

Izuku froze, sponge in hand.

Katsuki’s voice dripped acid. “Just because you don’t look like a wet noodle anymore doesn’t mean you get to act like you're better than me.”

Izuku turned slowly. “I never said I was better than you.”

“You didn’t have to,” Katsuki sneered. “You think just ‘cause you’ve got some new muscles and whatever freak mentor you’ve found—you’re gonna be a hero now? Like hell.”

There was heat in the air. Literal heat. Crackling at Katsuki’s palms.

But Izuku didn’t move. Not this time.

Because he was tired.

Because he was angry.

Because… maybe he’d finally realized they weren’t friends.

He blinked. Thought of that. Then whispered aloud, “Why did I ever think we were?”

Katsuki snarled. “What did you say?”

Izuku looked up. His fists clenched.

And finally—he let it out.

“I said I don’t know why I ever thought we were friends. Why I thought you were my hero.”

Katsuki’s expression cracked. Just a little.

“If I’m really such a ‘Deku’—if I’m so worthless—why do you keep trying to hurt me? Why do you always need me beneath you to feel big?”

Katsuki said nothing.

“And it’s pathetic, Katsuki,” Izuku snapped. “You don’t even get my name right. It was cute when we were four and still learning how to read, but now? You’re just another bully who can't admit he’s scared.”

The air went still.

Izuku took a shaky breath. “You want to know the difference between us, Kacchan? I’ll tell you. You might be stronger, louder, flashier—but I’m not afraid of you anymore. And if you keep going the way you are? You won’t be a hero. You’ll be Endeavor with less popularity and less soul.”

Katsuki’s hand twitched.

“Deku—”

“I TOLD YOU MY NAME ISN’T DEKU!”

Izuku threw the sponge at him—wet, soapy, humiliating.

“Now get the fuck out. I have cleaning duty. Unless you're planning to help? No? Then leave. It’s not like any teacher would dare punish ‘precious golden boy Katsuki’ anyway.”

Katsuki stared.

And then—for the first time—he ran.

Izuku sank down onto the floor, breath ragged.

“I can’t believe I did that.”

From the corner of the classroom, in a forgotten backpack, a plush mouse watched silently.

And smiled.

That night, Izuku was still shaking.

The fight. The words. The way Katsuki left.

It clung to him, under his skin. And so, after a long shower and a cold dinner, he picked up the mouse plush again and curled into bed.

But this time, it wasn’t a rant.

Not at first.

“Hey,” he whispered. “Guess what. I stood up to my childhood bully today.”

Silence.

“It felt good.”

He paused. Then frowned. "I think I need to tell All Might something too. Thanks for giving me the courage."

All Might blinked at the beach's entrance, mid-yawn, when Izuku stomped up the stairs to meet him.

“…So no offense, All Might,” he growled bitterly, “but I’m gonna say something. And I need you to listen.”

The boy looked determined. Tense.

“All Might,” Izuku said. “You’re the worst hero anyone could’ve sent to help me.”

All Might choked on air.

“Wha—?”

“I said listen!” Izuku snapped. “You didn’t check on me—the victim—after I almost died. You signed my notebook before you asked if I was okay. What the hell was that?!”

“I—”

“And then, when I somehow ended up dangling from your leg—don’t even ask how that happened, because apparently you didn’t care—you told me to let go. While we were in the AIR. I should’ve died!”

“I didn’t mean—”

“And the rooftop.” Izuku’s hands shook now. “You told me I couldn’t be a hero. You looked me in the eye and said it. Not ‘it’ll be hard.’ Not ‘we’ll find a way.’ Just—‘no.’ You crushed me. You were my last hope.”

All Might stepped back.

“…I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Izuku looked away.

“You don’t know what it’s like. What it really means to be quirkless.”

“I—”

“Did you know,” Izuku said, voice low and flat, “that of the people considered quirkless, over 80% are senior citizens? That we make up maybe one or two percent of the under-20 population now? And of those? Most of us don’t live to adulthood.”

All Might paled.

“I thought about it. On that roof. I thought, maybe I should make myself part of the statistic. Because everyone already acted like I was dead.”

There was silence.

“I wanted to be a hero so badly. I still do. But you made me feel like I wasn’t even allowed to try.”

All Might sat down, slow. Quiet.

“I failed you,” he said.

“Yes,” Izuku said. “You did.”

But something in him had shifted.

And for once, Izuku didn’t feel small.

In the quiet of the Midoriya apartment, long after Izuku had fallen asleep, something shifted.

Movement came back slowly.

It had started as a twitch—just a faint jerk of a paw—when Izuku had come home from school the night before, still hoarse from screaming at a boy who didn’t deserve to be called friend. Then a tail flick, a toe curl. A breath that sounded almost like a sigh. Now, in the dark bedroom, lit only by the soft silver glow of the streetlights outside, Nedzu's eyes opened.

He blinked once.

Twice.

Then slowly, creakily, sat up.

He turned his head and looked around Izuku’s room—their room. His sanctuary. The green blankets still piled into a nest. The notebook on the floor, half-filled with scribbled notes on Eraserhead, on All Might, on quirks he didn’t have—but still studied.

Nedzu's paw clenched into a fist.

He’d known this moment would come, that his body would return. That he would have to stop being the safe, silent plushie in the corner and do something.

But he didn’t want to leave.

Not yet. Not when Izuku was finally starting to believe he was allowed to exist. To be angry. To be seen.

He flexed his feet, tail curling. His voice was scratchy—unused. But he could walk. Think. Speak.

So he would.

He padded to the door and slipped through the hall, tiny claws soft against wood.

Inko Midoriya stood in the dim kitchen. She could never sleep well now, not while her son still hurt. But what could she do about it? Nothing. Nothing but watch her son's eyes dim every day, nothing but sit by and hope he'd tell her it was okay. She wished Hisashi were here. But he wasn't, he'd never be here again. The apartment was quiet, as it always was. 

So when a throat cleared behind her, she jumped.

And when she turned—and saw a small, white creature with intelligent red eyes standing in the hallway—she screamed.

Reflexes kicked in.

The knife in her hand went sailing.

The creature dodged.

Barely.

But her next move?

That was instinct.

Her quirk, weak and unreliable though it was, yanked every loose object in the room—cutlery, teacups, even the creature itself—toward her like a magnet.

The creature flew backwards, squeaking indignantly, and smacked into the wall hard enough to leave a dent.

Inko, panting, eyes wide, yanked her phone into the air with trembling fingers. “Don’t you dare twitch a whisker toward my son! I have the police on dial, and I swear to god—!”

“Ma’am!” the creature coughed, staggering upright. “Please. That’s—ow—that’s Mr. Principal, or Nedzu if you please.”

The phone paused mid-dial.

“…What?”

“I suggest you cancel that call,” Nedzu said, voice dry. “Use code Intelli-43. Dispatcher will understand.”

Inko stared at him like he’d grown a second tail.

“I—what the hell even are you?!”

“A principal,” Nedzu replied primly. “A licensed hero. A victim of transformation quirk side effects. And, apparently, a very convincing plushie.”

Still blinking furiously, Inko tapped the speakerphone.

“Hello, emergency services—?”

“This is Mr. Principal,” Nedzu said clearly. “All clear. Code Intelli-43. Situation contained.”

There was a pause.

Then, a woman’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Understood, Mr. Principal. Standing down. Welcome back, sir.”

The line disconnected.

Inko sat down very, very slowly.

“…You were the plushie,” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“All this time?”

Nedzu nodded.

“You listened to him. Every night.”

“I did.”

She trembled. “Did you hear… everything?”

“Yes.”

“And you saw how I…?”

“Yes.”

He didn’t soften the blow.

She curled her fingers around the edges of her cardigan. “Would you like some tea?”

“I’d appreciate it.”

They sat in silence.

She served it in chipped mugs. He had an All Might logo. Hers was stained with old sugar.

He took his black. She added milk, too much sugar, and stirred without thinking.

He waited until her hands stopped shaking.

Then, quietly:

“Mrs. Midoriya. I have lived in your home for over a month. I have watched your son cry himself to sleep. Watched him limp from school. Watched him read outdated hero textbooks by flashlight. Watched him fight to keep living in a world that tells him he isn’t meant to.”

She said nothing.

“I’ve also watched you. And what I’ve seen…”

He swallowed.

“…has broken my heart.”

Her shoulders jerked.

“I don’t take sidekicks. I don’t keep an agency. I run a school. But this?” He tapped his chest. “This requires intervention. I’m invoking the Hero Apprentice Clause. Effective immediately, I will take Midoriya Izuku as my apprentice.”

Her eyes shot up. “Wait—what?!”

“He will live with me. Train under me. Learn from me.”

“You—you can’t just—!”

“I can,” he said, voice firm. “The clause predates most modern laws. In cases of endangerment or potential, a licensed hero may take a child into guardianship. No court can override it.”

Tears welled.

“I love him.”

“I know.”

“I tried.”

“I believe you.”

“But I failed.”

He looked at her gently. “You were afraid. But fear does not make you unloving. It makes you human.”

She blinked at him. “Will he hate me?”

“No. He’s far too kind.”

She nodded, hands trembling. “Promise me he’ll be cared for. Loved.”

“I promise,” Nedzu said softly. “He is my kit now. My son.”

She exhaled—cracked, broken, but freeing.

Then came the silence of acceptance.

Izuku woke to absence.

There was no plushie in his arms.

And that—more than the usual 6:00 a.m. ache or cold city breeze through the cracked window—was what jolted him to full alertness.

The nest of blankets was half-empty.

The green fuzz of his stuffed toy—his constant companion for over a month—was gone.

And then—

There. In the doorway.

Steam curled from a teacup. A silhouette stood upright. Breathing. Watching.

Sipping.

Izuku blinked.

The plushie blinked back.

The plushie. Was. Standing. Up.

“G-GAH—!”

Izuku yelped, flinging himself backward like the mattress had bitten him. Blankets tumbled. His notebook whacked him in the face.

The thing in the doorway raised its cup.

“Good morning,” it said cheerfully.

Izuku stared, heart jackhammering against his ribs.

“You—you—talk?”

“I do,” the creature said politely.

“You moved?!”

“I also do that.”

“You—WHAT?!”

“I’m the principal of U.A. Nedzu,” said the plush rat.

Izuku’s brain did the only thing it could: crash and reboot.

He sat there—blankets tangled around his knees, hair sticking up like a static-charged hedgehog—staring.

“You’re… real?!”

“Yes.”

“You’re the principal?!”

“Correct.”

“The PRINCIPAL of U.A. HIGH?!”

“Yes, my boy.”

Izuku made a strange strangled noise that was somewhere between a scream and a wheeze.

Every embarrassing moment over the last thirty-eight days flashed across his mind like a humiliation highlight reel.

The crying.

The rants.

The whispered “you’re the only one who believes in me.”

The time he kissed it on the forehead.

The cuddles.

The bedtime snuggles.

“Oh my GOD,” Izuku moaned, curling into a fetal position. “I’ve been cuddling the principal of U.A. for a month.”

“And I’ve never been more honored,” Nedzu said kindly.

Izuku sat back up with the wide-eyed stare of a man seeing the abyss—and realizing the abyss had fur.

“…I told you about All Might,” he said, horrified.

“You did,” Nedzu nodded. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.”

“…Handle it how?”

Nedzu sipped his tea.

“I’m an intelligence hero, dear boy. I have ways.”

Izuku’s pupils dilated. “Oh no.”

“Get dressed,” Nedzu said brightly. “We have a meeting.”

“A meeting?! With who?!”

“Your new homeroom teacher.”

Izuku blinked like a stunned animal. “What?”

“I filed the Hero Apprentice Clause,” Nedzu continued cheerfully. “You’re now officially my apprentice.”

Izuku grabbed the nearest blanket and screamed into it.

“That’s real?! That’s not a forum myth?!”

“It’s very real. And still valid law.”

“…I live with you now?!”

“Yes. I had a lovely chat with your mother last night.”

“She KNOWS you’re real?”

“Now she does. She threw me into a wall.”

Izuku made another terrible noise, somewhere between a sob and a hiccup.

“This is a quirk coma,” he muttered. “I’m in a coma. I’m gonna wake up at Aldera in a neck brace with Kacchan shoving gum in my hair.”

Nedzu cocked his head. “Unlikely. But charmingly imaginative.”

“…I am so underqualified for this,” Izuku whispered.

Outside the Midoriya apartment, Izuku stood like a very emotionally compromised stray cat.

He held a duffel bag containing:

• His notebooks.

• Two bentos his mom had made through tears.

• One set of All Might slippers.

• And a keychain of All Might he had once rage-buried in a drawer during an identity crisis.

Beside him, Nedzu adjusted his tie and tapped something into a heavily encrypted phone.

The sound of a murderous engine rattled down the block.

An old, beat-up black car groaned to a halt at the curb, sounding like it hated its life and the roads it drove on.

The door slammed open.

A man stepped out.

Dry, tangled hair. Bloodshot eyes. Eye bags that looked medically unsound.

He stared at Nedzu. Izuku stared at him, Eraserhead.

“You,” he said flatly. “You little gremlin.”

Nedzu beamed.

Eraserhead groaned. “Hope you’re happy. I changed the entire goddamn school.”

“I am delighted,” Nedzu chirped.

“I hired Hawks.”

“Smart.”

“Tripled Chiyo’s staff.”

“Necessary.”

“Got Ryu a therapist. Changed the hero entrance exam.  Gave the kids a mental health week. Rewrote the entire Sports Festival. And gave faculty vacation for the trauma of dealing with your ‘surprise projects.’”

Nedzu preened. “You’re marvelous.”

“You owe me a raise.”

“I’ll have my people talk to your people.”

“I am my people.”

Izuku, meanwhile, stood like a war orphan watching strangers argue over who now technically owned him.

“You’re Eraserhead,” he whispered.

Aizawa squinted. “Yup. Though it’s Aizawa off the clock.”

“…Hi.”

“Hi.”

“…Are you really my teacher now?”

“Unfortunately.”

A long, haunted pause.

“…Please don’t throw me into a dumpster.”

“No promises.”

“I deserve that.”

“You do.”

Aizawa turned to get back in the car. “Get in. The rat says you’re his now.”

Izuku climbed in with the slow, dead-eyed grace of someone who had accepted their fate.

He looked out the window.

He looked at the seatbelt.

He clicked it into place.

“…Sure,” he muttered to himself. “This might as well happen. This is fine. I’m apprenticed to a semi-feral supergenius rodent. Who runs the top hero school. And has listened to my trauma-dump about All Might. And who maybe—probably—has killed someone. But like. Ethically.”

Nedzu settled into the front seat, tail curled over his lap, smiling with the dangerous calm of a creature who once built an international intelligence network out of spite.

“Welcome to the future, my kit,” he said.

Izuku’s soul quietly left his body.

Aizawa started the engine.

It sounded like it wanted to kill them all.