Chapter Text
The following two weeks, Midoriya Inko called her son’s school to declare him ill and absent, voice cold, eyes frigid, always vigilant as she watched her child, her beautiful and bright baby boy hold a tiny glass ball in between his fingers, slowly, ever so carefully letting it roll between his fingers, eyes growing glassy, losing their customary color to turn a soft, almost wintery grey-blue for a second, maybe two, before going back to their normal emerald green.
Over and over again.
She called her work as well, asking for a few days of leave against her son’s wishes after she found him sitting on a park bench as she walked home after work, his head downcast, his eyes set on his shoes or rather the ants slowly walking over his shoes.
Izuku had warned her that the smallest thing would trigger his memories until a total meld of Mochizuki-san and Izuku was complete, but watching her son blink tears out of his eyes, then slowly stare at his watch with disappointment and then suddenly rub a hand over his belly in obvious hunger made her realize that, at least for a few days, Izuku needed someone to make sure he didn’t get lost on the past that had made him who he was…
The past that once killed him.
Mizuki called after the first week, much to Inko’s surprise, said Katsuki-kun mentioned Izuku had been absent and wanted to know if her son was okay.
Inko felt anger so powerful it could probably consume her clog the base of her throat. She had wanted to scream and cry at her best friend, wanted to tell her that her darling Katsuki had pushed her Icchan off a second floor window, had almost killed her sweet child…
… had triggered something in Izuku that made her feel she was slowly losing her son.
However Izuku had warned her, that very first night, that she couldn’t tell anyone about his quirk, that Mochizuki-san had died because he knew too much and if someone were to find out he was back…
Izuku didn’t want to elaborate and that frightened Inko far more than any details her son could share with her.
So she had shaken her head, taken a deep breath and, being the petty woman she was slowly realizing she was, simply told Mizuki she should ask her son for more details, as Katsuki had been there the day her Icchan had been hurt.
Mizuki had screamed, shocked.
Inko simply hung up the phone and did not pick it up whenever the other woman called.
56 missed calls and 105 unread text messages and counting.
She didn’t have time for whatever Mizuki felt was important to say - she hoped so much her best friend had done something about the monster of a child she had unwittingly raised - because she was too busy sitting by Izuku’s side, notebook and pen in hand, ready to note down whatever her son would whisper, all the information that he seemed to discover about this new self he was becoming, she needed to note down, if only to read over before bed and make sure she could come to terms with the differences before Izuku ever did.
She needed to be ready for him.
Some were simple things.
Izuku would stand by the kitchen door for twenty minutes, slowly blinking his eyes and he would whisper: “I don’t think I want to eat tomatoes anymore.”
‘Izuku doesn’t like tomatoes.’ She wrote.
Or more profound things like: “I’m going to cook this celery soup I learnt while interning in Paris for you, Mom. I only make it for the people I love.”
‘ Buy celery.’
Heartbreaking things like: “I am so grateful you are here with me, Mom. I don’t think my other parents would have loved me very much.”
She had wrapped her arms around her child and told him she loved him, that nothing was going to change that and bit her tongue when her child dissolved into soft, almost soundless sobs against her chest, small hands clinging to her clothing as if afraid she would disappear.
She had thought Mochizuki-san’s parents had died in the car accident that had triggered his quirk.
She didn’t dare ask her son if she was wrong.
She had stared in shock when Izuku mentioned: “I kissed a girl for the first time when I was 13 because Mai and I wanted to see what it felt like.”
Inko had smiled, grabbing her pen.
“Did you like it?” she asked.
Izuku shook his head, his curls fluffing.
“Not really. I thought it was because Mai and I were bad kissers,” he said, his nose wrinkling with mirth, despite the vacant look in his eyes. “Turns out I was a lot better kissing boys.”
“... boys?” she gapped.
Izuku nodded, his lips curling fondly.
“Yup,” he said, even when his fond smile tinged with sadness. “I also had a horrible taste in boys, it turned out.”
Inko stared at her son, at his sad yet fond smile and the way his eyes seemed to settle into a soft, muted green.
She grasped his hand in hers, sighing.
“Am I going to have to throw a bus over a bad boy soon?” she asked, hesitant, but felt instantly gratified when her son snorted, curling against her side, fingers tightening against her.
“Can your quirk even lift a bus?” he asked, shoulders shaking.
Inko blinked innocently.
“Who said anything about my quirk?”
Her son’s unbridled laughter was reward enough.
“I don’t think so, Mom,” he giggled. “It was a long time ago. If he’s still alive he would be nearing 40 and I am a 14 year old. Not even an option.”
Inko opened her mouth, but then closed it immediately.
It hadn’t occurred to her that the precious people Mochizuki-san might have had in his former life might be dead. But he was a hero, it was normal for heroes to die. She had done her research when Izuku had told her of his former name. She didn’t have to be a genius to know that the Mai her son spoke so fondly of, always part of his stories and memories, an integral part of his life, was Hikawa Mai, the heroine Contort.
She had held her son as he screamed in anguish when he himself read of her death, only two years after his own.
Watched him hold the faded picture he had downloaded from the internet of the woman in question, bright grin on her face, arm wrapped around a smiling, silver haired, pale eyed young man while the two posed at a Hero Convention.
The two of them were so young to Inko’s eyes, even if she intellectually knew they would have been her age, if not a little older, had they survived.
It was hard to equate that confident young man that seemed to be made out of moonlight, surrounded by people that loved him, with her fluffy haired, shy and friendless son.
No, Inko decided.
She didn’t want to cause her son more pain right now when he was so vulnerable, all nerves raw and anxiety barely contained.
Whether this bad boy of her son’s past was alive or dead, she would rather not know.
Mochizuki-san had lived and loved and died.
It was Izuku’s turn to do so.
“I trust you’ll only bring good boys over, Icchan,” she said finally, her hands slowly running through her son’s curls.
Izuku snorted, the sadness pulling at his smile somehow smaller.
“Define a “good boy”, Mom,” he asked.
Inko made a show of thinking about it, one hand under her chin, her eyes set on their slightly cracked ceiling.
“He needs a strong back, wide and warm,” she began. “Eyes that sparkle when he looks at you.”
“That’s rather vague,” he retorted, shaking his head gently, never disloging her fingers.
“He must never raise his voice at you,” Inko continued, serious.. “Also, and this is a deal breaker for me…” she trailed off.
Her darling Izuku stared at her, silent, awaiting. . .
Inko nodded.
“He has to love you at least half as much as I do.”
All sadness in her son’s eyes melted away, leaving a barely there sort of melancholy.
“That one’s hard,” he whispered, almost awed. “You love me so much.”
“Not really,” she argued, giggling. “You are very lovable.”
“I believe you are a little biased, Ma’am.”
“Nonsense!” Inko gasped, feeling warmth pooling on her belly when her son dissolved into giggles once more.
A few moments later, Izuku decided on his own to rest lengthwise on their couch, his head resting on his mother’s lap and Inko suppressed a sob to the best of her ability because that was the most her son had acted like her son in the last few days.
She had done her best to simply relax herself as she slowly carded her fingers through her son’s hair, giving him all the time he needed to collect his thoughts.
It usually took him about five to ten minutes.
This time it was more around half an hour.
“I think I’m going to remain quirkless this time,” he whispered, his fingers clenching and unclenching against her skirt.
Inko had blinked.
“This time?” she asked.
Izuku had nodded.
“I was smart, before…” he said. “Incredibly smart. So smart I could see a pattern or an attack or basically anything and predict its outcome given enough preparation. That’s why last time everyone thought I had a prediction quirk.”
Inko wanted to tell her son that he was still smart, incredibly so.
But she didn’t want to deviate the course of her child’s thoughts.
Somehow she knew she shouldn’t, more so when her son’s warm green eyes grew pale and wintery cold once more.
She bit her lips.
“But you didn’t…” she prompted when no more words left her son’s lips for a few minutes.
Izuku sighed.
“I didn’t, I had the same quirk, I remembered my past life… I think it helped, at least with school,” he continued with a soft sigh. “They never realized I was playing into their prejudice. It was easier for them to believe a quirk had made me able to predict their very movements than to think I was just… smart.”
“Them?” Inko didn’t want to ask but the words forced themselves out of her mouth.
“Everyone,” Izuku said, as if that explained everything. When his mother’s confusion didn’t appear assuaged, he simply snuggled closer into her warmth. “The government, the Commission, my peers… even the teachers at UA.”
“It made things easier… for you?” his mother said, voice cautious, gentle.
Izuku nodded against her skirt.
“Less restrictions, for once, having a registered quirk opened a lot of doors for me,” he said, slowly shrugging his shoulders. “I think I’ve been doing this for a long time… pretending to have an intelligence quirk.”
“And still, you are not doing it again,” Inko prodded.
Izuku shook his head.
“The last time, it made the Commission notice me, made them want me in their ranks… it wasn’t… pleasant,” he said, voice cold, methodical, as if he was describing a piece of trivia he had recently read somewhere. “Another cog in their grand machine.”
“I wouldn’t let them take you away from me,” Inko assured, her shoulders squared.
Izuku huffed, a soft exhalation full of bitterness.
“You wouldn’t have a choice,” he retorted. “They would make you think you had it, that you were essentially doing the right thing, but there wouldn’t be a choice to begin with. Not really.”
Izuku seemed to consider his words, Inko could see. She could see it in the way her son’s shoulders slumped, his knees folding against his chest, as if preparing himself for retaliation.
Inko simply placed a hand against his exposed neck, resting it there so he could feel her pulse against his. She had always done that, reminding him that even at his most vulnerable, she would always be there to protect him.
Izuku’s lips curled upwards.
“I think it is time for a real, Quirkless Hero,” he said, swallowing. “Or as real as I can possibly make it. Because there will be others like me in the future. And I want them to see me and think they can achieve anything as long as they dare to dream it.”
Inko stared into her son’s eyes, watching the palid grey give way to his customary emerald green.
She nodded, her own smile tasting bitter and heavy as she leaned down to lay a single kiss onto her son’s temples.
She would always fear for her darling boy, her sweet little baby.
But she also knew, without the shadow of a doubt, that he would not stop.
And he would make it.
She knew it would be hard and dangerous and there would be many more days and nights like this one, with her child present yet so far away from her, gone into this place of brilliance she might never be able to reach for herself, let alone understand.
She finally realized she could only be there for her Icchan as she had always been, open and careful and ready to envelope him in her arms when he needed it, offering her warmth, her security.
She would be ready.