Chapter Text
The first bang rattles the entire door.
Izuku doesn’t need to be told to move back. His body reacts on instinct, scrambling away from the metal as if it’s about to explode. His shoulders hit the opposite wall, arms wrapping tight around himself. The sound vibrates through his bones. He hears the scientist’s voice outside. “Wait! Just a second!”
Another bang answers him. It’s louder
Izuku squeezes his eyes shut. He presses his palms against his ears, but it doesn’t block the sound of the third impact.
And then—
The door gives.
The reinforced slab that normally takes keys, cards, and security codes to unlock tears free from its frame with a screech of twisting metal. It crashes inward and hits the floor with such force that the concrete trembles. The noise is so overwhelming Izuku loses his balance completely and falls to his bottom, staring wide-eyed at the doorway where his barrier used to be.
Dust hangs in the air. Boots step over the fallen door. “Look at the state of this room…” Eraser Head’s voice trails off, but the quiet anger in it is bigger than any shout.
He walks fully inside, scarf dragging across the broken metal as if the door is nothing more than a discarded mat. His red eyes sweep across the space, taking in the thin mattress, the toilet in the corner, the bucket, the broken crayons, the scraps of newspaper, the child curled on the floor.
“The Commission kept a child in this state,” he says slowly. “And for what?”
The scientist lingers in the doorway, pale but still trying to hold authority. “He is bigger than any of us, Aizawa.”
That’s the first time Izuku hears his name spoken like that. Aizawa. The man doesn’t look back at the scientist. “Now, we are willing to look past this if you just—”
“Walk away?” Aizawa asks.
He gives a small shake of his head. No.
Then he turns fully toward Izuku.
For a moment the world narrows to just the two of them. Izuku sits frozen, hugging himself tightly, fingers digging into his sleeves in a weak attempt to self-soothe. His eyes are wide and wet, but he doesn’t look away.
Aizawa kneels. The movement is slow, like he’s approaching something fragile. His voice drops, rough but softer than before. “Let’s get you away from this.”
He doesn’t wait for permission from the scientist. He doesn’t ask for clearance. He simply reaches forward and lifts Izuku up.
There’s no struggle.
Izuku lets out a small, startled sound, but it fades almost immediately as he settles into the hero’s arms. He fits there too easily. His body relaxes against the solid warmth of another person as if he’s been waiting for this exact moment without realizing it. He presses closer, cheek brushing against dark fabric, small fingers curling instinctively into the scarf at Aizawa’s neck.
From the outside, it might have looked cute.
It isn’t.
Aizawa feels the way the child melts into him without hesitation, without fear of being dropped. He knows what that means. He’s seen it before in students who flinch at raised hands but cling to any scrap of kindness. Being so starved for touch that even unfamiliar arms feel like shelter. It’s not adorable.
It’s damning.
He stands, adjusting his hold slightly so Izuku is supported securely against his chest. The boy is lighter than he should be. Too light. Aizawa walks toward the ruined doorway.
The scientist raises both hands as if that might physically block him. “You are breaking several laws, Eraser Head,” he warns. “This is your last warning. Give me back the child, and we can pretend none of this happened.”
Aizawa stops in the hallway, turning just enough that the man can see the flat, unimpressed look in his eyes. “Laws?” he repeats. “Am I breaking laws here?” His voice rises. “Last time I checked, you and your little group are keeping a child in a cage. A cage.” The word echoes.
Izuku doesn’t flinch at the volume. He doesn’t cower at the anger. He’s never seen someone angry like this before. Angry and not smiling. Angry and not pretending it’s for his own good. Angry for him.
Instead of shrinking, Izuku’s hand moves slightly, absentmindedly tracing the fabric of Aizawa’s scarf between his fingers, just to feel it. Just to make sure this is real.
“But he saved your life,” the scientist presses, desperation creeping in. “He saved countless heroes’ lives, and he can save more. I understand feelings getting in the way. Morality. But one life is nothing compared to countless heroes who risk their lives. Little Izuku here—” he gestures toward the child, and Aizawa’s arm tightens instantly in response “—can save more heroes. More heroes mean more lives saved. I’m sure this is not a concept hard for a teacher like you to understand.”
“Yes,” Aizawa says quietly. “It is.”
The scientist blinks.
“And it is exactly because I am a teacher,” Aizawa continues, “that I find this treatment of a child like an animal cruel and unjust. And simply just… insane to wrap my head around.”
He shifts Izuku slightly higher, protective without thinking about it. “I don’t know if you knew this,” he adds, eyes narrowing, “but it’s our job to risk our lives. That’s what we signed up for. That’s what it says in big, bold letters when you decide to become a hero. Risk. Sacrifice. Responsibility.”
His gaze sharpens. “If it takes a child being locked up so we can be saved, then I guess that makes me an outcast for saying I’d rather be dead than keep someone here against their will.”
Izuku doesn’t fully understand every word. But he understands enough. Rather be dead than keep someone here. Izuku clings just a little tighter.
“Sir—”
“We rescue kids from places like this,” Aizawa cuts in. “We kick down doors. We drag them out. We tell them they’re safe now.” His red eyes burn. “And you want me to be fine with it because it’s suddenly ‘one sacrifice’?”
The scientist opens his mouth, but Aizawa doesn’t let him speak.
“Guess what?” he continues, jaw tight. “As a hero, I am the sacrifice. That’s the job. That’s the deal. He didn’t consent to this life. Now,tell me” Aizawa says. “Are there more like him?”
The scientist hesitates. That’s all the answer Aizawa needs.
“You kept a child in a cage,” Aizawa continues, his voice lowering into something far more dangerous than shouting, “and fed him scraps wrapped in newspaper. You better tell me if you’re keeping more like this, or I’ll remind you that I used to operate as a vigilante.” His grip tightens in the front of the man’s coat with his free hand, while the other arm remains firm and protective around Izuku. “And vigilantes don’t follow the same moral code as heroes.”
“N-no!” the scientist stammers quickly. “He’s the only one. The only one with a gift like this. He can heal anyone, Mr. Eraser Head. Anyone and anything. By halting experimentation on him, we could be halting research for cancer, for diseases, for conditions that affect thousands—”
“Then so be it.”
The words land flat and final.
“All logic went out the window the moment you couldn’t provide one bed with proper sheets for him,” Aizawa says. “You don’t get to talk about saving humanity when you can’t even treat a child like one.”
He shifts Izuku slightly higher without thinking about it.
The scientist swallows hard. “I will have to call security.”
“Do it.”
Aizawa doesn’t even break stride. He turns and starts walking down the corridor, following the illuminated exit signs mounted along the ceiling. His steps are unhurried. As if he’s already decided how this ends.
If this is what it takes to rescue a child, then this is what he’ll do. That’s the job. That’s what being a hero actually means. Behind him, the scientist freezes with his hand hovering over a security panel. For a second, it looks like he might press it.
But he doesn’t.
“Don’t tell anyone about this, Eraser Head,” he calls out instead, voice lower now, almost pleading. “Many people depend on the Commission. And it’s not like anyone would believe you.”
Aizawa clicks his tongue under his breath.
Izuku doesn’t care about any of that. He doesn’t care about commissions or reputations or whether people would believe anything. He’s being held. He’s moving away from the room. Away from the door. Away from the cold floor and the bucket and the scraps of paper.
He’s getting out. That’s all that matters.
They pass through corridors Izuku has never seen before. Clean ones. Wider ones. With polished floors and bright overhead lights. They pass doors with frosted glass and people in uniforms who stop mid-step to stare.
The looks aren’t subtle. Confusion. Alarm. Disbelief. They all recognize him. Of course they do. They know the child from downstairs. The asset. The miracle worker. The one who fixes what no one else can.
But they’re staring at Aizawa like he’s the strange one. Like they can’t comprehend why a hero would be carrying him out. As if the idea that he needs saving has never crossed their minds.
Aizawa notices the stares too. His jaw tightens. Without breaking stride, he unwinds his capture scarf from around his own neck and wraps it securely around Izuku instead, shielding most of the boy’s small frame from view. The fabric is warm from his body heat. It blocks out the fluorescent glare.
Izuku curls into it immediately.
The world becomes darker. His eyelids grow heavy. He hasn’t slept properly in days, weeks, months, years. It all blends together. His body is finally warm in a way that isn’t from overusing his quirk.
Some small, cautious part of him whispers that it can’t be this easy. That he’ll wake up back in the room. That the door will still be there, intact. That this is a dream his brain made up to cope.
If that’s true, he should sleep now.
Sleep before it resets. He lets his eyes close. He doesn’t fight it.
*
By the time Aizawa reaches the upper level, the air feels different. The doors slide open into what looks like an ordinary hospital lobby for heroes. Neutral walls. Comfortable waiting seats. A reception desk. Vending machines humming quietly in the corner. Family members sitting with worried expressions, waiting for updates.
No one would guess what lies beneath their feet. No one would guess there’s an underground wing for “severe cases” where they keep—Aizawa grits his teeth, anger flaring fresh.
He steps fully into the lobby. And then he sees him. Hizashi is sitting in one of the waiting chairs, long legs stretched out, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. He looks like he hasn’t left since he got the call about Aizawa’s condition. There’s a half-empty coffee cup in his hand.
As if sensing the shift in the air, Hizashi lifts his head. It’s almost uncanny, the way he locks onto Aizawa immediately, like he has some kind of sixth sense.
He crosses the distance in long strides, stopping just short of colliding with him. “Are you alright?” he asks in a hushed yell. His hands come up automatically, cupping Aizawa’s tired cheeks and turning his face side to side as if checking for hidden injuries. “You don’t have a single scratch on you!”
“It was thanks to him,” Aizawa says quietly.
Hizashi blinks. “Him?”
Aizawa lowers his gaze.
For the first time, he really sees the bundle wrapped tightly in Aizawa’s scarf and bandages. At first it looks like extra medical supplies. Then a small hand shifts. A curl of messy green hair slips free from the fabric. It’s unkempt, uneven, the kind of curls that haven’t seen proper care in a long time. Dry at the ends. Tangled near the roots.
Hizashi blinks.
“…Shota,” he says slowly. “What is this?”
“Let’s talk in the car,” Aizawa replies.
Hizashi nods slowly; nobody would guess the Commission was keeping a child underground to heal heroes. It sounds insane. Conspiracy-level insane. They move quickly toward the exit. Hizashi retrieves the car from the parking structure and pulls up to the curb. Aizawa slides into the passenger seat carefully, adjusting the scarf so the child stays secure.
As Hizashi drives, Aizawa tells him everything.
“They did what?!” Hizashi’s voice spikes in volume.
Aizawa’s eyes flash red on instinct. “Quiet,” he snaps. “He’s sleeping.”
Hizashi clamps his mouth shut mid-protest, coughing awkwardly as his quirk is erased.
The boy hasn’t stirred, not even at that. It would take something much louder to wake him. The rest of the drive is filled with tense conversations. Fragments of plans forming and reforming. Izuku sleeps through it all, his small hand still loosely fisted in Aizawa’s shirt like he’s afraid it might disappear.
*
*
Izuku stirs when the motion changes.
The car stops. A door opens. He feels himself lifted again, still held securely. His eyes flutter open just enough to see blurred shapes and color. He peeks out from the scarf. They’re entering a building. An apartment.
“Good morning,” Aizawa murmurs softly, the words meant just for him.
Morning. The word feels strange.
As they step inside, Izuku is hit with sensations he isn’t used to. Warmth that isn’t artificial. The faint scent of coffee and laundry detergent. Something cooking earlier, maybe. Sunlight spills in through actual windows, bright and golden, not fluorescent and harsh. It touches his face and he squints. He’s so used to controlled air and constant cold that the natural warmth feels almost overwhelming.
“Here, can you hold him for me?” Aizawa asks. “I need to shower. I stink. And then we can find the things we used for Eri when she was younger. Bath stuff and towels. They should be in the closet.”
His expression shifts in an instant from sleepy curiosity to /fear/. He grips Aizawa’s shirt with sudden desperation, small fingers digging in. He lets out tiny, panicked sounds, shaking his head.
No. Not gloves. Not another stranger’s hands.
“Hey, hey,” Aizawa says gently, trying to steady the wiggling child without dropping him. “What’s wrong? You can trust him.”
Hizashi’s hands slowly lower. His jaw tightens as he mutters under his breath, too low for Izuku to catch fully. Then his expression changes. It sours. His smile drops completely. “I hate them,” Hizashi says, voice low.
“Zashi—” Aizawa warns quietly.
“No. Look what they did to him!” Hizashi’s anger rises fast, unfiltered. “You told me how they kept him. Like an animal. It makes me want to go down there and show them exactly what I think about it!” It’s the same edge he gets when reporters cross lines at U.A., when someone disrespects his students. That protective streak that runs hot and loud.
Hizashi inhales and looks down again. “I’m sorry, little one. I—” He stops.
Izuku is smiling. Not a big smile. Not loud laughter. But his eyes have softened, and the fear has ebbed slightly. He’s watching Hizashi with something close to fascination.
Both adults freeze. Hizashi processes it first. “…Is that what you like?” he asks slowly. “When I get angry?”
Izuku’s fingers loosen just a bit.
“Oh, I’m angry,” Hizashi continues, this time deliberately leaning into it, though his tone shifts into something exaggerated and playful. Mock anger. The kind adults use when pretending to scold kids for stealing cookies. His voice training makes it controlled. “I’m /very/ angry.”
Izuku’s shoulders relax. His hand lifts hesitantly toward Hizashi. Aizawa exhales as Hizashi carefully takes the child from his arms.
“It’s okay. I’ve got him, Shota,” he says softly.
Izuku sinks into Hizashi’s hold almost as easily as he had into Aizawa’s earlier. He’s still wary, but the anger, the real kind directed outward, seems to reassure him more than any bright smile ever could.
Aizawa nods once and heads toward the bathroom. As the water starts running, he stares at his reflection for a long moment. Even if nobody believes him. Even if the Commission denies everything. He’ll bring it to light. He has to.
Because if there was one child in that facility, there could be more in others. Other cities. Other basements. Other cages.
He pauses at the bathroom door and glances back.
Hizashi is on the couch now, gently rocking Izuku, muttering half-playful, half-furious commentary about corrupt officials in a tone that somehow keeps the child calm. Izuku’s fingers are tangled lightly in his shirt. His eyes are already drooping again.
Aizawa exhales slowly. He is a hero. And whether the world likes it or not, Izuku is no longer the Commission’s asset.
He’s family now.