Work Text:
Midoriya Izuku was a constant stream of surprises.
Aizawa Shouta had figured that much out the second the kid launched that fastball, somehow finding the loophole to stay in the game without shattering his entire body in the process. Since then, Midoriya’s growth had been nothing short of relentless—an uphill climb over the course of a single school year. Not even.
It was impressive, sure, but it left Shouta with one nagging thought: if only the kid had bothered with training that power of his earlier in life.
Yet, that wasn't exactly what was eating at him now. It was the middle of the faculty’s meager three-day winter break—a brief window of silence while the students were away for their five—and Shouta was spent. He should have been sleeping. Instead, he found himself staring at Midoriya’s latest analysis from the previous week. It was brilliant, meticulous, and deeply frustrating.
He couldn't wrap his head around how a mind that analytical could consistently make such monumentally stupid decisions.
Shouta let out a long, slow exhale that was halfway to a groan, leaning back until his desk chair creaked in protest.
The report in front of him was covered in Midoriya’s cramped, frantic handwriting—pages of tactical observations that were, quite frankly, genius. The kid could probably dismantle a quirk—any Quirk, in minutes, yet he still hadn't figured out that jumping off a roof to save a cat (that was a whole ordeal that, if not for Uraraka, Midoriya would be a pancake on some random neighborhood pavement) or diving headfirst into an exercise without backup was a one-way ticket to Recovery Girl’s office.
It was a special kind of cognitive dissonance. Midoriya Izuku had the strategic mind of a veteran general and the self-preservation instincts of a moth in a candle shop. What a lovely combination for a sixteen year old boy to have.
Shouta rubbed the bridge of his nose, the yellow glow of his desk lamp making his eyes ache. He really should put the file away. It was break. He should be face-down on a sleeping bag, ignoring the world until his internal clock demanded caffeine. Every time Shouta’s eyes skimmed over a particularly reckless suggestion, he felt the familiar, rhythmic throb of a vein in his temple.
His eye gave a sympathetic twitch. The kid was going to give him an aneurysm before graduation, and the worst part was that Midoriya would probably have a three-page analysis on why the aneurysm happened.
“I cannot believe you’re grading,” a voice rang out, slicing through the heavy silence of the apartment.
Shouta didn’t even bother to look up from the notebook. He knew that specific cadence—a mix of disbelief and fond exasperation that carried perfectly even when the volume wasn't set to ‘Announcer.’
“Hizashi,” he hummed, his voice a low rasp from hours of disuse.
He felt the air shift as his husband stepped closer, bringing with him the sharp, familiar scent of expensive hair product and citrus. Hizashi leaned over the back of the chair, his chin coming to rest near Shouta’s shoulder as he peered at the messy diagrams and frantic scribbles cluttering the desk.
"It’s winter break, Sho. The 'no-work' zone? The thing we discussed over coffee like, eight hours ago?" Hizashi reached down, tapping a manicured finger right on a particularly jagged sketch. "And is that Midoriya’s? Give it a rest, man. The kid's probably at home sleeping, not overanalyzing his own overanalysis."
“Where’s Eri?”
“Tucked and snug, just like you should be,” Hizashi said, poking Shouta’s side.
Shouta finally looked up, his eyes bloodshot and heavy with a bone-deep exhaustion that no amount of caffeine could fix. "Logic dictates that if I don't finish this now, I'll just be thinking about it while I'm trying to sleep. This is more efficient."
"Efficiency is a lie you tell yourself to justify being a workaholic," Hizashi countered, moving from behind the chair to lean against the edge of the desk. He crossed his arms, effectively blocking Shouta’s view of the 1-A files. "Seriously, Sho. You’re looking a little haggard. Even for you."
“Fuck you too.”
Hizashi rolled his eyes, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know what I mean.”
Shouta let out a dry, rattling breath, the tension in his shoulders refusing to break. He glanced back at the notebook, specifically a margin note where Midoriya had detailed three different ways to intentionally break his own arm to escape a hypothetical arm bar. It was written with the detachment of writing a grocery list, which was perhaps the most disturbing part.
"The kid has no off switch, ‘Zashi," Shouta muttered, rubbing his face with both hands. "He’s spent the last year catching up to a decade of missed progress, which—don’t even get me started on that whole issue—and he’s doing it by sprinting until his legs snap. If I don't figure out how to stop him from just this ‘go, go, go’ mindset, he’s going to burn out before he hits his second year."
Hizashi’s expression softened, the teasing edge in his posture fading into something more grounded. He reached out, gently prying Shouta’s hand away from his face. "He’s got a good teacher. One who knows a thing or two about pushing too hard. But that teacher is currently setting a terrible example." Hizashi nodded toward the hallway. "Bed. Now. Or I’m calling Nemuri and I’ll have her use her Quirk on you.”
“Ha, I’d like to see her try.”
"That's a bold claim for a man who hasn't blinked in forty-five minutes," Hizashi snorted, reaching down to finally click the desk lamp off. The sudden darkness left green and white spots dancing in Shouta’s vision, the remnants of Midoriya’s frantic scribbles burned into his retinas.
"I have eye drops," Shouta countered dryly, though he didn't move to turn the light back on.
"You have a problem," Hizashi corrected, his tone shifting from playful to that low warmth he reserved only for the four walls of their home. He rested a hand on the back of Shouta’s neck, his thumb tracing the tension gathered there. "Nemuri wouldn't even need her Quirk. One heavy blanket and a dark room, and you’re out like a light. Don’t make me get the weighted one."
Shouta let his head hang, the weight of the long semester finally settling into his bones now that the artificial glow of the lamp was gone. He looked at the silhouette of the Midoriya's assignment on top in the dim moonlight. The kid was a puzzle—a brilliant, self-sacrificing, dangerous puzzle—but he was a puzzle for next week.
"Fine," Shouta muttered, pushing back from the desk with a heavy sigh. "But if I wake up at 4:00 AM, I’m getting back up and finishing the grading."
"If you wake up at 4:00 AM, you’re staying in bed and listening to me snore until the sun comes up," Hizashi joked, gently guiding him toward the door. "It's the law of the winter break. Logic, remember?"
Shouta didn’t even make it to 4:00 AM.
In fact, the clock had barely ticked past 1:00 AM when the sharp, intrusive buzz of his phone sliced through the dark. He glanced at the lump of blankets beside him; luckily, Hizashi had a snore that could drown out a jet engine, and he didn't so much as twitch.
With a huff of annoyance and a heavy-lidded squint, Shouta reached for the bedside table. The harsh glare of the screen stung his eyes, forcing a sharp wince as he tried to decode the digital glow. He expected a frantic student, a work emergency, or perhaps a wrong number. What he found was a cold spike of adrenaline.
A police station. Calling him at 1:00 AM.
It wasn't Naomasa’s usual precinct, either, which spiked a needle of intuition through his sleep-deprived brain. He took a breath, trying to steady the irritation before it turned into full-blown dread. Please, Shouta thought, sliding the thumb icon across the glass to answer. Please let this be anything other than what I think it is.
“Aizawa Shouta,” he answered, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sounded more like a threat than a greeting.
“H-hey, Aizawa-sensei.”
It was Midoriya. Because, of course, it was. At 1:00 AM, during the only three days of peace Shouta was allotted by the universe, the universe had decided to check in and demand a refund.
“Midoriya,” Shouta sighed, the name sounding more like a weary exhale than a noun.
“I should just—uh, p-preface that, uh—I’m okay. Really! I-I'm okay."
“Of course you’re okay. Why wouldn't you be okay?” Shouta shot up in bed, his heart rate spiking in direct contradiction to his deadpan tone. Beside him, Hizashi shifted, let out a particularly loud snort, and settled back into the pillows, blissfully unaware of the impending migraine on the other end of the line.
“Don’t panic,” Midoriya’s voice came through the receiver, sounding small and suspiciously echoed, like he was in a tiled room. A holding cell, perhaps, or a very cold hallway.
“I am perfectly calm,” Shouta replied, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the phone. “Now, tell me why you are calling me from a police precinct that isn't even in the same district as your house.”
“Promise you won’t be mad?”
The silence that followed was heavy with the weight of a dozen broken bones and a semester’s worth of gray hairs. Shouta felt that familiar vein in his temple start to thrum in time with his heartbeat.
“Do not make me lie to you, Midoriya Izuku.”
“Right. Sorry. Bad start,” Midoriya squeaked. Shouta could almost see the kid on the other end of the line, probably vibrating with enough nervous energy to power a small city. “Seriously, this whole t-thing was—uh, everybody’s okay. Physically! Everyone is fine. Uh—well. The property damage is... mostly covered by insurance? Probably?”
Shouta closed his eyes and leaned his head against the headboard with a dull, rhythmic thud. “Property damage. At one in the morning. On your break.”
“Just a bit?”
“What happened?” Shouta drew out the words, each syllable dripping with a bone-deep exhaustion.
“I—” A long pause followed, then a whisper so thin it barely carried through the speaker. “I got into a fight.”
“Where?”
The silence on the other end was deafening.
“Midoriya Izuku,” Shouta warned, using the kid's full name again, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous territory that usually made students scramble for cover.
“A bar,” Midoriya finally whispered.
Shouta sat frozen for a beat, his brain trying to reconcile the image of his most studious, hero-obsessed student with a midnight brawl in a dive bar. The cognitive dissonance he had been musing over just hours ago had officially reached its peak.
“You’re sixteen,” Shouta said flatly. “You shouldn't even be able to get through the door, let alone find someone to fight inside one.”
“It’s not what it sounds like!” Midoriya’s voice was a frantic, hushed scramble. “I wasn’t—I mean, I didn’t go there to drink, obviously! I was just walking past! I heard a crash and someone screaming, and my legs just—they moved, Sensei! I thought it was a villain attack, but it was just a very intense disagreement over a card game that turned into a... well, it turned into a lot of things. And then the table broke. And then the wall broke. And then—uh, yeah.”
Shouta let out a long, pained groan, his hand sliding down his face. “And then the police arrived.”
“And then the police arrived,” Midoriya confirmed, his voice sounding small and defeated. “And they wouldn't let me leave until a legal guardian or a teacher came to pick me up because of the... uh... yeah.”
“Why were you even out?”
“I was at the convenience store!” Midoriya’s voice took on that frantic, defensive edge he only got when he was technically telling the truth but knew it sounded suspicious. “They had a sale on those limited-edition hero notebooks—the ones with the gold foil? And they only restock at midnight! And they almost always sell out by morning.”
Shouta groaned, his head dropping back against the headboard with a hollow thud. Of course. It wasn’t a villain ambush or a secret training exercise. It was a hero-nerd emergency.
“A stationery sale,” Shouta deadpanned, staring at the dark ceiling. “You are currently in police custody because of a bunch of paper.”
“It’s high-quality cardstock, Sensei! There are only four thousand in circulation worldwide! It doesn’t bleed through when I use markers!” Midoriya hissed, though he quickly lowered his volume. “And I didn't use my Quirk! Not even a little bit! I just… utilized the environment? To stop the fighting. Which, a-apparently, involves more property damage than I thought.”
Shouta rubbed his eyes until he saw sparks. No Quirks. If Midoriya had used his Quirk, this would be a licensing nightmare. Since he hadn't, it was just a regular, garden-variety disaster. Thanks, Universe.
“Midoriya,” Shouta said, his voice dangerously level. “Explain to me, using the most concise logic possible, how a card game dispute resulted in you breaking a wall without using your Quirk.”
“Well,” Midoriya’s voice took on that analytical mumble. “The guy with the chair had a very wide, uh, swing radius, and I realized if I didn't redirect his momentum into the load-bearing pillar—which turned out to be less 'load-bearing' and more 'drywall'—that place really needed a revamp. He would have seriously hurt someone. And then the other guy tried to tackle me, and I just… stepped aside? He was moving very fast, Sensei. So he—uh, k-kind of just went flying. But then—this other guy, sort of punched me.”
The air in the room seemed to chill. Shouta’s protective instincts, usually buried under layers of cynicism and exhaustion, flared to life. He was already halfway out of the blankets, his feet hitting the cold floor, this time landing firm, as his mind cataloged the potential injuries.
“Where did he hit you?” Shouta asked.
Midoriya paused, then stuttered, "It's—uh, not as—well, uh. It’s not that bad.”
“Midoriya.”
“The face."
Oh, hell no.
“But it’s okay! I mean, it was just a standard right hook. No enhanced strength or, uh, anything. I just didn't want to hit back because, well, I’m a student and that would be an escalation of force, so I just… let my face take the impact? To–uh, de-escalate?”
Shouta squeezed the bridge of his nose so hard he saw stars. “Midoriya, letting someone punch you in the face is not 'de-escalation.'”
He stood up from the bed. He didn't even bother with the light; hell, he didn’t even bother putting on proper shoes. His slippers would have to do, here he was, chatting with instead of going to get the kid.
“He didn't use a Quirk either?” Shouta asked, already pulling on some random pants he picked up off the chair with one hand while balancing the phone against his shoulder.
“No! No one did! It was a completely Quirkless bar brawl,” Midoriya said, sounding oddly proud of that specific detail. “Which is why the police are so confused. They kept asking why I didn't just use my Quirk to scare them off, and I told them that would be a gross violation of the Quirk Restriction Laws. Then they asked why a teenager was in a bar at one in the morning, and I showed them my gold-foil notebook, and… well, now, they laughed at me for a bit.”
“Does your mother know about… this?”
“No, she’s staying at a friend’s house.”
Shouta paused with one boot halfway on, his eyes narrowing in the dark. That changed a little more than just a bit.
“So you’re telling me,” Shouta said, his voice dropping into a register that was more ‘tired parent’ than ‘tired teacher,’ “that you were home alone, decided to go on a midnight stationery run, ended up in a Quirkless bar fight, and instead of calling the woman who actually has legal custody of you, you called your teacher—who is currently on his only break of the year.”
“I—well, when you put it like that, it sounds silly,” Midoriya mumbled. Shouta could hear the distant and muffled laugh from a police officer in the background. “But Mom gets so worried, Sensei! If she saw me in a police station with a bruised cheek, she’d cry for three days straight. You… you don’t cry. You just get scary.”
“I’m glad my impending wrath is a comfort to you, Midoriya,” Shouta deadpanned. “Where are you?”
“East Musutafu Police Precinct."
Shouta held in a groan, snagging his keys off the dresser. He caught his reflection in the mirror—hair a tangled mess, eyes bloodshot, and, in his haste, he had apparently donned a pair of Hizashi’s neon pink sweatpants. Lovely. Truly the terrifying image of a Pro Hero. If any of the officers recognized him, he’d never hear the end of it.
“Don’t move. Don’t talk. And for the love of everything, don't try to 'de-escalate' any more drunks with your face until I get there.”
“I won't! I'm just sitting here—wait, what?” Izuku’s voice muffled as he turned to speak to someone else. “Oh, yeah, sure. Sorry, Aizawa-sensei. I have to go. Takeda-san needs to use the phone.”
“Who?”
“I dunno, I just met him. He says he only gets one call and he forgot his lawyer’s number—he said because he's a repeat offender, so I’m going to see if I can help him look it up in the—"
"Midoriya, hang up the phone," Shouta ordered, but the line had already gone dead.
Shouta stared at his phone for a long, silent second. His student—the boy who possessed a Quirk capable of leveling buildings—was currently playing legal assistant to a repeat offender in a holding cell because he was too polite to say no.
The logic was simple: the faster Shouta got to the station, the fewer criminals Midoriya could accidentally befriend.
Shouta pushed through the heavy glass doors of the station, the chilly night air following him into the sterile, fluorescent-lit lobby. He didn't even give the officer at the front desk a chance to finish his second yawn.
“Hello—can I—”
“There’s a kid here,” Shouta interrupted, his voice like grinding gravel. He stood there, a terrifying vision of sleep-deprived fury, standing tall in Hizashi’s neon pink sweatpants. “Where is he?”
The officer blinked, his gaze dropping to the bright pink fleece before traveling back up to the red-rimmed eyes of the man across the counter. He opened his mouth, likely to ask for ID or perhaps to comment on the questionable fashion choice, but the look on Shouta’s face effectively killed any attempt at small talk.
“Oh, Midoriya?” the officer asked, pointing a thumb toward the back. “He’s in the processing area, sir. He was... helping us with some filing while he waited.”
Shouta’s eye gave a violent, rhythmic twitch. Of course.
He didn't wait for an escort. He pushed past the gate and into the backroom, where a fresh headache bloomed behind his eyes. There was Midoriya Izuku, a massive dark bruise already blooming on his cheekbone and stretching up toward the corner of his right eye. True to form, he wasn't alone; he was leaning over a disheveled-looking officer's shoulder.
"So that's why you should organize the files by alphabetical order first, then sub-categorize by Quirk classification," Midoriya was saying, his voice bright and earnest despite the mottled purple-and-blue swelling on his face. "It would cut down retrieval time by at least 15% for the investigative teams!"
The officer he was hovering over was nodding slowly, looking less like a lawman and more like a student who had accidentally sat through a three-hour lecture on bureaucracy.
"Midoriya."
The boy jumped, spinning around. He was wearing a dark blue sweatshirt and some black shorts, shorts, in the middle of winter, "Hi, Aizawa-sensei! Uh—what are—what are you wearing?"
"I am wearing these because it is one in the morning and I was under the impression there was an emergency," Shouta said, his voice dropping an octave as he stepped into the light. He grabbed Midoriya’s chin, tilting his head back to inspect the damage. It was a nasty hit; the skin was already tightening and turning a deep, angry plum color. "And yet, I find you acting as a volunteer consultant for the Musutafu Police Department."
"I felt bad!” Midoriya defended, though he winced as Shouta’s thumb brushed the edge of the swelling. “Officer Saito was having a really hard time finding the incident reports from last Tuesday, and I was just sitting here being a—a problem—so I thought I’d help! It’s the logical thing to do, r-right?”
Shouta stared at him, his expression flat. Using the boy's own catchphrase against him while sporting a black eye was a low blow, even for a teenager who had just been punched in a bar.
“The logical thing to do would have been to stay at home and sleep, Midoriya. Not to engage in a bar brawl over a card game and then reorganize a precinct’s archives.”
He turned his gaze to the officer, who was currently trying to hide a smirk behind a coffee mug. “Is he clear? I have a very limited amount of patience left before I let him stay here and finish the filing.”
“He’s clear, Eraserhead,” the officer chuckled—Shouta vaguely recognized him now as a regular on Tsukauchi's perimeter teams. Saito waved a hand dismissively. “The bar owner isn't pressing charges since the kid technically stopped those guys from trashing the place—erm, mostly—and he didn't use a Quirk. We just needed a guardian to sign him out. Honestly? He’s been more help in thirty minutes than our last intern was in a month.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Shouta grunted, signing the release form with a jagged, aggressive scrawl that nearly ripped through the paper. He grabbed the back of Midoriya’s hoodie, steering him toward the door like a stray kitten. “Let’s go. Now.”
As they walked toward the exit and the cool night air hit them, Midoriya trotted to keep up with Shouta’s long, agitated strides. The boy kept glancing down at the neon pink fleece, his shoulders shaking with the suppressed effort of holding back a laugh.
“Sensei?”
“Do not say a word about the pants, Midoriya. Not one syllable.”
“I wasn’t! I just… they’re fun.”
Shouta stopped at the side of his car and leveled a finger at the boy, his expression lethal. “Get in the car. Before I decide that the precinct actually does need a permanent filing clerk.”
Midoriya scrambled into the passenger seat, clutching a plastic bag that presumably held the infamous gold-foil notebooks. Shouta climbed into the driver’s seat, the neon pink fabric of his stolen sweatpants glowing mockingly in the light of the dashboard. He sat there for a moment, hands gripping the steering wheel, forehead resting against the backs of his knuckles.
He got in, slammed the door, and for a long moment, the only sound was the rhythmic clicking of the cooling engine.
"Sensei?" Midoriya asked softly, his voice losing the frantic edge and turning genuinely apologetic.
“Not a word,” Shouta hissed.
The car was silent. For about twenty seconds.
"Sensei?" Midoriya’s voice was small, hesitant.
“No talking.”
“But—”
“Hush.”
Shouta stared straight through the windshield, watching the distorted reflection of the station’s neon sign in the glass. He was acutely aware of the boy beside him—the bruised face, the bag of notebooks clutched like a lifeline, and the sheer, exhausting earnestness radiating off him.
"I really am sorry about the break," Midoriya whispered, finally ignoring the command for silence. "I know you don’t get much time off.”
Shouta leaned his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes. "If you were actually sorry, you would have stayed in your house.”
Midoriya winced at that, “Sorry.”
Shouta gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white against the black leather. He didn't turn the key. He just sat there in the dark, the neon pink of his borrowed sweatpants glowing mockingly in the peripheral of his vision. He let out a long, weary sigh as he finally pulled the car away from the curb. The city lights flickered across the dashboard, highlighting the sharp contrast between his black shirt and the neon pink fleece bunched at his waist.
"I don't need an apology, kid," Shouta said, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that usually signaled a lecture was coming. "I just—I don’t want to have to pick up one of my students at 1:00 AM at a police station."
“I know,” Midoriya whispered, looking down at his knees. He looked small in the passenger seat, the heat of the December night finally cooling into the realization that he had effectively dragged his teacher out of bed. “It’s just… when I saw those guys starting trouble, I didn't think about the time or the place. I just thought about what would happen if I didn't do anything.”
“Do you? Know, I mean.” Shouta countered. He finally turned to look at the boy, his red-rimmed eyes narrowing. "Because the 'logic' of going out at midnight for a notebook and ending up in a brawl is a bit beyond me. You’re lucky that precinct is staffed by people who are too tired to file the paperwork for a minor involved in a bar fight."
“They were really nice about the filing tips, and I wanted to help,” Midoriya offered weakly.
“That’s your problem, Midoriya. You think about everyone except yourself,” Shouta countered. He kept his eyes on the road, but his grip on the steering wheel relaxed slightly. “There were officers on patrol. There were staff members. You aren't a Pro yet, and you aren't on duty. You’re a kid on winter break.”
“I know,” Midoriya whispered again, his voice barely audible over the hum of the engine.
“No, Midoriya, I don’t think you do.” Shouta pressed, his tone devoid of its usual sharp edge, replaced instead by something much quieter. “Because knowing something intellectually and actually internalizing it are two different things. You’re currently carrying a bag with a convenience-store notebook that cost you a bruised skull and a trip to a precinct. If that had been a villain with a high-level Quirk instead of a drunk with a bad attitude, I wouldn’t be driving you to school. I’d be meeting your mother at a hospital. Or worse.”
“I— I know, I really do,” Midoriya said once more, his voice dropping so low it was almost lost. He looked down at the plastic bag in his lap, the gold-foil notebook shimmering mockingly under the streetlights. “I just... I didn't think.”
“Exactly,” Shouta said. “You didn't think. You reacted. In the field, that reflex saves lives. In a bar in East Musutafu during winter break, it just gets you a police record and a concussion.”
He turned off the ignition, he couldn't lecture him like this, and pulled off of the street to turn to Midoriya. Shouta looked at the kid—really looked at him. Midoriya looked exhausted, his hair even more chaotic than usual, with a bruise that was starting to turn a sickly shade of yellow-green at the edges.
“Your actions have consequences, Midoriya. Tonight, the consequence is that I’m awake, you’re injured, and your mother is going to be worried sick when she eventually finds out. Next time, the consequence could be your career. Or your life.”
Shouta’s voice was cold, the words cutting through the cramped silence of the car. Then, fueled by a cocktail of raw exhaustion and the lingering spike of adrenaline, he added—words he knew, even as they left his mouth, he shouldn't say:
“You just don’t think. If you used your head half as much as you used your heart, you wouldn't be constantly finding new ways to be so reckless with your own safety.”
He had meant to say reckless, or perhaps illogical, but in his sleep-deprived state, the edge of his frustration sharpened into something meaner.
“If you actually stopped to think, maybe you’d stop being so useless to yourself in these situations.”
The car went deathly silent. Midoriya flinched as if Shouta had actually swung at him. The boy’s grip on the gold-foil notebook tightened until the plastic bag crinkled loudly in the quiet. He didn't even look up. He just shrank into the oversized passenger seat, his shoulders pulling inward.
Shouta felt a pang of immediate regret. He’d crossed the line from "stern teacher" to "cruel," and the sight of the kid—bruised, tired, and now visibly stung by the one person he called when got arrested—made Shouta’s stomach turn.
“Midoriya—” Shouta began softly, the word feeling heavy and wrong in the air.
“No, you’re right,” Midoriya cut him off quickly. His voice wasn’t angry; it was worse. It was hollow, colored by a quiet, devastating acceptance that made Shouta’s chest tighten. “I—I know I’m a lot of trouble. I shouldn’t have called you. It was selfish to wake you up because I… I couldn't handle a simple situation without making a mess.”
He finally looked up, and the sight was a punch to the gut. Midoriya wasn't crying, but his eyes were shiny, reflecting the passing streetlights. The dark bruise on his cheek seemed even more prominent now that the light had gone out of his expression.
“I’ll just… I’ll be better,” the boy whispered, turning his gaze back to the plastic bag in his lap, his knuckles white as he gripped the gold-foil notebook. “I’m sorry for being useless.”
Shouta gripped the steering wheel so hard the leather groaned. The word hung between them like a physical barrier. He had spent months trying to build this kid up, trying to teach him that his worth wasn't tied to how much of his own body he could break, and in one moment of sleep-deprived irritability, he’d used the one word he knew would hurt the most.
“Midoriya, look at me,” Shouta said. His voice was no longer a rasp of exhaustion; it was firm, grounded, and stripped of its previous bite.
Midoriya didn't move. He seemed intent on counting the threads in the plastic bag.
“Izuku. Look at me.”
The use of his given name did what the command couldn't. Midoriya flinched, his head turning slowly, his eyes wide and shimmering with a hurt that made Shouta want to drive the car into a literal wall.
“I was out of line,” Shouta said, his grip on the wheel finally loosening. “That word... it doesn't apply to you. Not in that bar, not in my classroom, and certainly not tonight. You are many things—reckless, frustratingly self-sacrificial, and an absolute headache for my blood pressure—but you are not that. You’ve always been so smart, you just need to slow down and realize that your safety matters, too. Do you understand me?”
Midoriya blinked, a single tear finally escaping and tracing a path down his unbruised cheek. He looked like he wanted to believe it, but the doubt was still there, flickering in the shadows of his eyes.
“I’m frustrated,” Shouta continued, his voice softening. “I’m frustrated because I see you throwing yourself into stupid situations for a piece of paper, and I’m terrified that one day I won’t be able to get there in time to pick you up. I didn't mean what I said. I was speaking out of exhaustion, not truth.”
“But—you’re right,” Midoriya whispered. “I—I should be better by now. I should be able to handle these things without making people come save me.”
“You’re sixteen,” Shouta reminded him. “And—even though I don’t know why you didn’t train your Quirk before this year—”
“I'm a late bloomer,” Midoriya cut in, his voice trembling. “I didn't get my Quirk until… uh, later. L-like, really late.”
Shouta went still. The key was already half-turned in the ignition, but he let his hand drop. He processed the words, his logical brain immediately cross-referencing Midoriya’s file—the one that listed his Quirk as a simple power manifestation, the one that had always seemed so ill-fitted to the boy’s total lack of physical muscle memory.
“Late bloomer?” Shouta repeated, his voice low. “Midoriya, most children develop their abilities by age four. Even the latest of bloomers usually see a spark by elementary school.”
“I was… a false-negative,” Midoriya murmured, his thumb tracing the edge of the gold-foil notebook. He wouldn't look up; he seemed fascinated by the dashboard. “A very, very false-negative. I spent most of my life thinking I was Quirkless. So, yeah. I am—uh—I don't want to be useless. Not again.”
The silence in the car became suffocating. Shouta felt a heavy, cold stone settle in his stomach. He thought back to the Entrance Exam, to the way Midoriya had shattered his limbs to save a girl he didn't know, and the way he had looked at Shouta on the first day of class—terrified, desperate, and fundamentally raw.
He hadn't been training for years like Bakugo or Todoroki. He hadn't grown up with the safety net of power. He had been standing at the starting line while everyone else was already barreling toward the finish, and he had been trying to sprint the entire distance in a single year.
“Midoriya,” Shouta said, and this time he reached over, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. The fabric of the hoodie felt thin under his palm, and he realized the kid was shivering. “I didn't know that,” Shouta admitted, his voice steady. “But it doesn't change what I said. If anything, it makes it more important. You aren't useless. You’re playing catch-up with the rest of the world, and you’re doing it at a pace that is frankly terrifying. But you have to stop treating your life like it’s expendable just because you’re used to not having a Quirk to protect it.”
“I really am sorry,” Midoriya sniffled, the sound thick and heavy with an exhaustion that went far deeper than the midnight hour.
“It’s an explanation for why you’re so hard on yourself,” Shouta corrected firmly. He reached out, hesitating for a fraction of a second before gently taking Midoriya’s chin with two fingers, forcing the boy to maintain eye contact. "It’s okay, kid."
That seemed to be the breaking point. The combined weight of the adrenaline crash, the physical pain, the "useless" comment, and the unexpected warmth of Shouta’s forgiveness finally shattered Midoriya’s composure. His breath hitched, a small, broken sound escaping his throat, and then he started to cry—not the loud, dramatic wailing he sometimes did in class, but quiet, heavy sobs that made his entire frame tremble.
Shouta sat there in the silence of the car, the neon pink of his sweatpants stark against the shadows, feeling entirely out of his depth. He wasn't the "hugs and comfort" teacher—that was Hizashi’s department—but he couldn't just let the boy shake with grief in his passenger seat. He was a man of action, but right now, the only logical action was to be a presence.
Shouta didn't pull his hand away immediately; instead, it slid onto Midoriya’s shoulder, a rare, grounding gesture. He waited in silence, watching the boy’s shoulders rise and fall as the heavy sobs eventually subsided into jagged, exhausted hiccups. Midoriya wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, wincing sharply when his knuckles grazed the swollen skin of his cheek. He looked even more disheveled than he had under the precinct's harsh fluorescent lights—small, battered, and far too young for the weight he was carrying.
“Better?” Shouta murmured, his voice gentle.
“Yeah,” Midoriya croaked, his voice raw. “Sorry for… that, too.”
“If you apologize one more time tonight, I’m making you walk,” Shouta threatened, though his tone was devoid of any actual bite. He restarted the engine, the car humming back to life. “Come on. We’re going back to my place.”
“Your place?” Midoriya blinked, his brain clearly struggling to keep up with the shift in logistics.
“You seriously think I’m leaving you by yourself?” Shouta asked, his voice flat. “Your mother is away, your house is empty, and you’ve already proven that within the few hours of unsupervised freedom, you’ll find a way to dismantle a wall with your face. You’re staying in the guest room.”
Midoriya looked like he wanted to argue—to claim he was fine, or that he didn't want to be a bother—but one look at Shouta’s unwavering expression (and the undeniable glow of those pink sweatpants) silenced him.
“We’re going inside. We’re fixing your face,” Shouta continued, pulling the car into gear. “And then, you’re going to sleep until morning, because I am not driving back across town in these pants twice in one night.”
Midoriya seemed surprised by the interior of Shouta’s apartment. He lingered awkwardly at the threshold, his gaze darting between the minimalist decor and the lived-in comfort of the space, looking as though he expected to trigger a trap if he stepped too far. Shouta let out a low, tired groan, moved behind the boy, and gently but firmly took him by both arms to usher him inside himself.
“Keep moving,” Shouta muttered, closing the door behind them and engaging the lock with a definitive click.
The apartment was quiet, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant ticking of a clock. The air smelled faintly of high-grade coffee and the unscented laundry detergent Shouta preferred. Midoriya stood in the center of the entryway, clutching his plastic bag with his notebook to his chest, looking small and intensely out of place in the dim light.
“Go to the kitchen and sit at the island,” Shouta commanded. “I’m going to get the first-aid kit.”
Midoriya gave a weak, shaky nod and shuffled toward the kitchen, his sneakers squeaking softly on the hardwood.
As Shouta fumbled with the latch of the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, a low murmur and a heavy yawn drifted from the bedroom. “Shouta? What’re you doin’ up?”
It was Hizashi, his speech thick and slurred from sleep.
“It’s nothing, go back to bed,” Shouta called back, his voice a frantic whisper as he gripped the first-aid kit. He turned around just as the blonde stumbled into the hall, bleary-eyed and clad only in a pair of low-slung sweatpants.
Hizashi hummed, leaning against the doorframe. "I'm just gonna grab a glass of water..."
Shouta’s eyes widened as he realized the trajectory Hizashi was on—straight toward the kitchen where a student was currently sitting.
"Wait—Hizashi, put on a shirt—"
It was too late. Hizashi rounded the corner into the kitchen, blinking against the sudden light. He stopped dead. Midoriya, who had been staring morosely at his gold-foil notebooks, looked up. His eyes went from Hizashi’s messy, loose hair down to his bare shoulders, then back up to the hero’s confused face.
"M-Mic-sensei?!" Midoriya squeaked, his face turning a shade of red that rivaled the bruise on his cheek. The kid slapped his hands over his eyes so hard that Shouta winced at the smack of palms against skin.
"Listener?" Hizashi’s voice jumped an octave, his brain finally rebooting. He looked at Midoriya, then at Shouta—who was standing there in neon pink sweatpants holding a roll of gauze he had snatched up in his panic—and then back at Midoriya’s bruised face. "Shouta, why is there a student in our kitchen? And... are those my pants?"
Shouta let out a breath that was halfway to a scream. "It’s a long story.”
Hizashi winced at the sight of Midoriya’s face. He stepped forward, his usual loud energy softened by genuine concern. “You okay, kiddo? That’s a nasty bruise.”
Midoriya looked away hurriedly, his face glowing a deeper red than the injury. “I-I’m—uh, all good! Really! Please don't worry about me, Mic-sensei!”
“You’re really not," Shouta deadpanned, his exhaustion finally manifesting as a flat, rhythmic pulse behind his eyes. "Hizashi. Hoodie. Now," Shouta commanded, physically stepping between his half-dressed husband and his mortified student to block the view.
"Right! Right! Going! Putting on clothes! I'll be back in a flash!" Hizashi scrambled backward, his hands up in a gesture of peace, nearly tripping over the doorframe as he retreated toward the bedroom.
The kitchen fell into a sudden, heavy silence, broken only by the distant sound of Hizashi rummaging through a dresser. Shouta sighed and turned back to Midoriya, who was hunched up and his feet refusing to touch the floor.
“Get comfortable,” Shouta said, his voice softer now that the chaos had momentarily cleared. “He’s going to come back with tea and a million questions. I’m surprised you recognized him out of costume.”
“I saw him that one time, we did that special class,” Midoriya murmured, though his eyes were still darting nervously toward the hallway. He shifted in his seat, his voice dropping to a tiny, hopeful whisper. “Is Eri here?”
“Asleep,” Shouta replied shortly. “And if we’re lucky, she’ll stay that way. The last thing she needs is to see her favorite student looking like he lost a fight with a brick wall.” He finally cracked open the first-aid kit and pulled out a small tub of specialized ointment. He leaned in, his expression turning clinical as he dabbed a bit of the cream onto a sterile swab.
“Hold still. This is going to feel cold.” As the medicine touched the bruise, Midoriya let out a sharp, hissed breath but stayed remarkably still. The silence of the apartment was a stark contrast to the thrum of the harsh lighting and phone call from earlier.
"Sensei?" Midoriya asked, his voice muffled.
"If it's an apology, don't."
"It's not. I was just thinking... if Mic-sensei said you're wearing his... does that mean you guys share pajamas?"
Shouta’s hand froze entirely. He stared at Midoriya, the ointment-covered swab hovering inches from the boy’s cheek. He searched the kid's face for a glimmer of a joke—a smirk, a twinkle of mischief—but there was only that wide-eyed, earnest curiosity that made Midoriya so simultaneously endearing and exhausting.
He genuinely didn't know.
“Maybe,” Shouta had started to say, but he cut himself off, his brain short-circuiting at the sheer, blinding innocence of the question.
“Why?" Midoriya pressed, leaning in slightly, his brow furrowed in genuine interest. "I didn't know teachers had to pick roommates, even off-campus. Is it a budget thing? Or for a hero thing? It makes sense, I guess, since you're both Pros and—”
“Midoriya,” Shouta interrupted, his voice reaching a level of flatness that was almost impressive. “Hizashi is not my ‘roommate.’”
Midoriya blinked. “Oh. Then— uh—”
“He’s my husband.”
The silence that followed was so profound it felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. Midoriya’s eyes went wide—impossibly wide—and his mouth fell open. He looked from Shouta’s pink sweatpants, to the wedding band Shouta usually kept tucked away on a chain but the man had pulled out from its place under his shirt, and then back to the hallway where the Voice Hero had just retreated.
“Husband?” Midoriya squeaked, the word coming out as a strangled whistle. “Like... married? In a—a legal, committed, lifelong partnership?”
“That is usually what the word implies, yes,” Shouta said, finally resuming the application of the ointment. He dabbed it onto the bruise with a bit more force than strictly necessary. “Though tonight, I’m reconsidering the ‘lifelong’ part based on his choice of loungewear.”
“I—I just thought you were... really close colleagues!” Midoriya stammered, his face reaching a temperature that threatened to melt the salve right off his skin. “I mean, I see you guys at lunch, and the faulty room, and—oh my god, I’m in your house. At two in the morning. And you’re wearing his pants. I’m so–so sorry! I’ll leave!”
“Sit. Down,” Shouta commanded, placing a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder. He couldn't quite hide the tiny, tired smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth at the sheer absurdity of the moment. “Eri is sleeping, remember? No more shouting.”
At that moment, Hizashi reappeared in the doorway. He had swapped his lack of a shirt for a very large, oversized, and very pink "Put Your Hands Up! Radio" hoodie. Huh, so that’s what made up the matching set. He offered a bright smile and began pouring water into a kettle, the domestic rhythm of his movements clashing wildly with the fact that he was an international celebrity. He caught a glimpse of Midoriya’s shell-shocked expression and paused.
“Whoa, did the medicine sting that bad, listener?” Hizashi asked, his voice dropping to a stage-whisper. He still hadn't quite pieced together why Midoriya was here at 2:00 AM, but his hospitable nature was already on autopilot.
“He just figured out the ‘roommate’ situation,” Shouta muttered, finally securing a piece of medical tape over the gauze.
Hizashi’s grin turned mischievous, his eyes lighting up behind his glasses. “Oh? Did you tell him about the wedding photos in the hallway, or should I go get the album? I’ve got one dedicated entirely to the cake disaster.” He chuckled, turning back to the stove. “So, chamomile for us all, yeah?”
Midoriya, looked like the whole night, the bar fight, a police precinct, the pink sweatpants, and now the revelation that the two loudest and quietest teachers at UA were legally wed seemed to finally kick in. In the car, Shouta was sure the kid didn’t even process everything. It was too much.
“Uh—where’s your bathroom?” Izuku squeaked, his voice cracking. He looked like he desperately needed five minutes and a cold splash of water to stop his head from spinning.
“Down the hall, second door on the left,” Shouta said, pointing the way.
As soon as Midoriya scrambled out of the room, Hizashi leaned over the counter, his playful expression softening into something more serious. He gestured with the kettle toward the hallway, his voice dropping into a low, concerned murmur.
“Okay, Sho, real talk,” Hizashi whispered. “Why is Midoriya here? Is it—” He paused, his brow furrowing as he thought of the dark bruise he’d just seen on the boy's face. “Is it a domestic dispute? Did something happen at home?”
Shouta leaned against the counter, rubbing the bridge of his nose where a fresh tension headache was beginning to throb. “No. Nothing like that. His mother is with a friend, but the kid decided to go on a solo mission for a notebook and ended up in a bar fight.”
Hizashi’s eyes went wide. “A bar fight? Our Midoriya? Huh, my money was always on Bakugo.”
“He was trying to break up the fight apparently,” Shouta sighed, glancing toward the hallway to make sure the bathroom door was still shut. “He took a hit to the face, but he didn't use his Quirk. He called me from the precinct because he didn't have anyone else to pick him up. I couldn't exactly leave him there to sleep on a wooden bench.”
Hizashi’s expression shifted from shock to a pained sort of sympathy. He looked at the two mugs he was preparing, then added an extra spoonful of honey to one of them. “Poor kid. He must have been terrified.”
“He was,” Shouta admitted, his voice barely audible. “And Hizashi? He told me tonight... that his Quirk didn’t come in until the UA entrance exams. He spent his whole life thinking he was Quirkless.”
The kettle whistled softly, but Hizashi didn't move to grab it immediately. He stood frozen, the gravity of that statement sinking in. Hizashi understood better than most how silence and social isolation can do to a kid’s self-worth—especially a kid as heart-on-his-sleeve as Izuku. Hizashi was the same, in his own way, not many people liked hanging out with a guy who could burst their eardrums.
“That explains... a lot,” Hizashi breathed, his heart breaking just a little bit more.
“Exactly. So, keep the 'roommate' jokes to a minimum for tonight,” Shouta warned, though his eyes lacked their usual bite. “He’s had enough for one evening.”
“Copy that,” Hizashi whispered back, his expression softening with that characteristic warmth. “I’ll go grab him some clothes. You set up the couch?”
Shouta nodded, watching his husband disappear back toward the bedroom to raid his drawer for something soft and oversized. Shouta turned his attention to the linen closet, pulling out a heavy quilt and a plush pillow.
Hizashi knocked on the bathroom door a moment later, carrying a bundle of folded fabric—a pair of worn-in sweatpants (thankfully a muted grey this time) and a thick hoodie with a faded radio logo. He handed them to Midoriya. “Here you go, listener. They might be a little big, but they’re soft,” Hizashi said, his voice quiet and comforting.
“Thank you,” Midoriya whispered, giving his teacher a small smile.
The three chatted for a few minutes, the low hum of the kettle and the quiet clinking of spoons finally beginning to settle the room's frantic energy. Hizashi, busy adjusting the mugs, asked Midoriya a casual question without looking up. When no reply came, the silence that followed was heavy and immediate.
Hizashi looked up from the tea he was stirring, a playful comment about honey-to-water ratios dying on his tongue. “Midoriya, hon?”
Midoriya hadn’t moved. He was still sitting on the stool, but his head had dropped forward, his chin resting heavily against his chest. His hands were still loosely curled around the warm mug, though his grip had gone slack, his fingers barely hovering against the ceramic.
“And he’s out,” Hizashi whispered, drawing out the “and”, his voice barely a breath. He reached over with infinite care, gently prying the mug from Midoriya’s fingers before it could tilt and spill.
Shouta let out a soft, huffed breath that might have been a laugh if he weren't so exhausted. He moved behind the boy, placing a steadying hand on his back so he didn't slide right off the stool.
“He’s spent,” Shouta murmured. “Between the fight and the breakdown in the car, I’m surprised he made it through the front door.”
Hizashi sighed, his heart clearly aching for the kid. He set the mug on the counter and moved to Midoriya’s other side. Shouta’s brow furrowed, his gaze lingering on the dark bruise on Midoriya's cheek. Together, with a practiced, wordless coordination that came from years of being partners, they maneuvered the sleeping teenager. Shouta hooked his arms under Midoriya’s, lifting him easily—he was lighter than a boy with that much power should be—while Hizashi guided his legs. They carried him to the sofa, settling him into the nest of blankets Shouta had prepared.
Midoriya let out a tiny, soft mumble as he hit the pillow, his face scrunching up for a second as he settled into the cushions before smoothing out into a deep—hopefully dreamless—sleep. Hizashi tucked the heavy quilt up to the boy’s chin, lingering for a moment to brush a stray curl away from the medical tape on Midoriya's cheek, patting his shoulder one last time.
Shouta stood at the edge of the living room, watching them. The sight of his husband and his student in the dim, quiet apartment felt surreal, yet grounded. For all the chaos of the night—the precinct, the car ride revelation, and the stationery heist—there was a profound peace in seeing the kid finally still.
“Come on,” Shouta whispered, tugging gently at the sleeve of Hizashi’s pink hoodie to draw his attention.
Hizashi looked up, his expression soft and weary. He stood slowly, his joints popping in the quiet room. He took one last look at the kid nested in the blankets before following Shouta toward the hallway.
“He’s gonna be so embarrassed when he wakes up,” Hizashi breathed, leaning into Shouta’s space as they walked.
“Probably,” Shouta admitted, his voice a low gravel. “But he’s alright. That’s the only part that matters right now.”
As they reached their bedroom door, Shouta paused, looking back toward the living room one last time. He reached out and caught Hizashi’s hand, squeezing it briefly.
“And Hizashi?”
“Yeah, Sho?”
“Thanks for the pants.”
Hizashi let out a muffled, wheezing laugh, leaning his forehead against Shouta’s shoulder. “Anytime, babe. Anytime.”
A FEW DAYS LATER
“Here’s my essay, Aizawa-sensei,” Midoriya said, handing over a stack of papers that was far too thick for a simple reflection.
They were in the faculty lounge, and Yagi, who had been nursing a cup of tea, perked up at the sight of his protégé. “Young Midoriya! What is that essay for?”
Shouta took the papers with a weary sigh, flipping through the meticulously numbered pages. “Your prized pupil got into a little incident the other night.”
Yagi’s eyes widened, his posture instantly straightening with concern. “What—what happened? Young Midoriya, were you hurt?”
Thankfully, Recovery Girl had made quick work of the bruising the day before, leaving the boy's face clear, though he still looked a bit sheepish. “I—it’s nothing, really, All Might!”
“He got into a fight at a bar,” Shouta deadpanned, not looking up from the first page of the essay, which appeared to be a table of contents.
Yagi went deathly still. He stared at Midoriya, then at Shouta, his brain struggling to reconcile “Young Midoriya” with "midnight brawl." He opened his mouth, and Shouta had expected him to give a lecture on hero ethics or public safety, but then his eyes flickered with a strange, unintended spark of pride.
“Did he win?” Yagi asked.
Shouta turned his head slowly, his gaze flat and lethal. If a student hadn’t been standing right in the middle of the room, he would have used language so vulgar he’d have to personally wash Midoriya’s ears out with soap.
“That’s it,” Shouta rasped, his voice dripping with the exhaustion of a man who had reached his absolute limit. “I’m done with you two idiots.”
Yagi had the grace to look slightly sheepish, though the faint, proud glimmer in his eyes didn't vanish. He cleared his throat, trying to regain his professional composure. "I mean—of course, safety first! Fighting is a last resort, Young Midoriya! A very, very last resort! But— uh, in this instance—"
“Thirty-two pages, Aizawa-sensei!” Midoriya squeaked, leaning over the desk as if the sheer volume of his writing could bridge the gap of his teacher's disappointment. “I even included a section on how to de-escalate without using a physical object as a blunt weapon! I– I mean, I do have some experience."
“Get out,” Shouta muttered, rubbing his temples. “Both of you. Midoriya, go to class. Yagi, go find a hobby that doesn't involve encouraging Midoriya's street-fighting career.”
Midoriya nodded frantically, bowing so low he nearly hit the desk before scrambling toward the door. Just as he reached the threshold, he paused, looking back at Shouta. For a brief second, the impossible, reckless, bone-breaking student vanished, and the kid who had fallen asleep on his teacher’s couch in borrowed oversized clothes peered through.
He offered a small, tentative smile—a silent thank you that went beyond the essay.
Shouta didn't smile back, but he didn't scowl either. He just gave a sharp, dismissive wave of his hand.
Once the door clicked shut, leaving Shouta alone with a mountain of paperwork and a very smug-looking All Might, Shouta leaned back and sighed. He looked down at the thirty-two-page report. On the cover, in Midoriya’s neatest possible script, was the title: Structural Vulnerabilities of Commercial Drywall and the Ethics of Non-Quirk Combat.
"If you ever encourage his antics again, Toshinori," Shouta said without looking up, "I'm telling the Principal it was your idea to take him to the bar."
Yagi coughed into his hand, looking genuinely terrified for the first time that morning. "Now, now, Aizawa... let's not be hasty."
Shouta ignored him, opening the report. He had a feeling it was actually going to be a very good read.