Chapter Text
Oh, and first, just have an incredibly brief summary of the kids and their quirks:
* Ryo - Mockingbird - can mimic sounds and voices, has feathers in his hair and sharp eyesight
* Anna - Memory Manipulation - can view, sift through and somewhat change people's memories - requires eye contact
// Ina - Lion - a basic lion mutations, including mane, claws, some fur, heightened senses
() Shi (Shibata) - Photosynthetic Musculature - can take in sunlight and, combining with nutrients and water already in the system, use to boost musculature until the reserves run out
// Kage - Ferrokinesis - the ability to manipulate iron-based metals (e.g. steel etc)
// Setsuna - Corrosion - saliva is corrosive - side mutation of tungsten teeth (tungsten is pretty resistant to most corrosives, contains iron)
() Li - Omen - can sense bad things that will happen to a person via touch, the longer the contact the more clear that sense becomes
() Tanaka - Tired Touch - can force someone to sleep through five-finger contact
* Nabe (Watanabe) - Liquid Bones - can turn own bones into a more liquid, largely gelatinous state - side mutation of smaller, more sturdy organs that can survive more compression
"Oh no, the big scary villain wants little ol' me to be quiet," he sing-songs, the hand that he's quickly weaselled out of his bars making a jazzy little movement. It's deliberately antagonising because he still doesn't like how close they are to the kids. He doesn't like that Shigaraki could decay his way straight into their cage and Izuku would be able to do nothing. So he keeps the focus on him. He'll avoid what injury he can, but he refuses to let the children be the ones hurt in all of this.
Izuku just hopes they won't have to watch him getting hurt. But he knows all too well that he has starlight for hope. It might be beautiful and inviting, perfect for pinning a wish upon, but it is still so cold and distant, and darkness shutters over him when Shigaraki grins like that, all maniacal and far too gleeful. Something is going to happen and it's going to hurt, of that Izuku has no doubt.
He wishes he could tell his Dad that he’s sorry.
There's no room or time for apologies though, because Shigaraki is stepping forwards again.
"I'll make you be quiet, brat. Wouldn't want me to hurt those little kids would you?"
"Oh yeh, because it would be so heroic of me to just say 'go ahead', wouldn't it?" The snark is defensive, Izuku knows. But it's all he can do. There's nothing else short of throwing himself at the bars but that would just show off how desperate he is, and he knows that won't do anything to protect these children from the villain leaning towards them, cracked lips grinning and bloody eyes leering, menacing, promising. It's that promise that has Izuku's spine creaking, ribs that tiny bit too tight around his lungs.
"But you're not much of a hero, are you little Hemlock? Just a brat trying to conform. It will never work."
"Why do you think I'm going into underground heroics?" Izuku asks, actually somewhat serious. Because he's actually pretty curious about how much Shigaraki knows. How much All For One has told him. After all, any breakdown in their communications is a little chip or crack in their walls that Izuku might be able to exploit down the line.
"Obviously because you know that so-called society wouldn't accept a Quirkless into their limelight guild." It's so simple to Shigaraki, such a basic fact, and Izuku boils with it.
So it's easy for his Cheshire grin to slip back into place, the tilt to his head predatory. And Shigaraki might be ignorant and self-absorbed but he's far from stupid, registering Izuku's changing aura and pausing to take him in. Analyse him. Izuku, in return, only lets his malice grow and writhe, standing straight, posture ready and waiting for all that he doesn't yet have anyone to fight.
But then something in Shigaraki seems to change. It doesn't waver or falter, but the manchild's own malice falls back, tucks in close, leaving a derisive sneer in its wake. Izuku knows better. Those red eyes are still gleaming too harshly for his liking.
"Going to come easily with me, Hemlock? Or will I have to take one of these brats instead?" And, well, that isn't even a question. Which is why Izuku steps forward, more submissive than he'd like to be, even as he mutters,
"Not really much of an option, is it?" Shigaraki only sneers, even as he stomps twice on the ground and suddenly the front bars of Izuku's cage melt into the floor and he's left with a hand latching around his throat, not dissimilar to back in the Kiyashi ward mall. And some part of Izuku is hyperventilating already, thrashing and fighting and dying, but most of him is steely and straight-backed, icy eyes glaring up at the villain.
He refuses to show weakness. Not in front of Shigaraki, and even less in front of the kids.
"Come on then brat, let's go and have some and fun~" It's singsong and all the more sickening for it. Izuku considers the pattern of pressure on his own throat, decides that it's the index finger that's raised, and uses that logic and focus to ground himself. If the pain helps a bit too, then he won't acknowledge that right now. He's a bit busy being dragged along, carefully keeping his footing, even as he takes half a second to sign one last,
'I'll be back soon kids. Promise. It's alright.' He knows none of them are likely to understand, but it's worth it. It reassures him too after all. Makes a good result seem more realistic, or at least one that isn't him half-dead or worse from blood loss.
Only a minute later, he's regretting that hesitant sort of optimism because he finds himself in chains yet again, attached to another chair pretty similar to the one he'd originally been restrained to in the bar, and wow, Shigaraki is doing a pretty good job of trying to trigger him, isn't he? Intentional or not, Izuku can kind of admire the effort. It's pretty effective after all, judging by how he's having to redirect his trembling into tracing his own code against his knee with how his hands are chained at the top of the chair legs with just enough give to stop him from hunching. It's still far from comfortable though.
"Really Flakes, this isn't very good hospitality, you know? I know I'm not a paying guest, but still, this would one hundred percent earn like a one star at bes-" Izuku is rather rudely shut up by five deceptively gentle fingertips tracing down his arm, leaving blood and static agony, each stronger flicker of that static another slightly deeper point, his arm somehow grey and muted but still so ridiculously painful and, truly, Izuku doubts that he'll ever get used to Shigaraki's Quirk.
And by Kami, he really does wish that he could have apologised to his Dad.
"So disrespectful for a little rogue in the making, aren't you Hemlock? Such a busy mouth. And rude too." Shigaraki muses, drawing back away with a self-satisfied smirk that has Izuku feeling a familiar shudder down his spine, all spiders and ice and old needle pinpricks that haven't physically hurt him in a year but still haunt him. Particularly now.
"I do try."
"Oh, but you'll stop soon, brat, let me assure you. Learn to submit to your new guild leader. And me, of course, as his heir." And oh, there's that bit of information again. Izuku has briefly pondered this at some point over the last few days, but he really does need to look at it more. Even more so when he knows that there are some things All For One hasn't told Shigaraki yet. Gotta love something that can be exploited.
"His heir? Sure, I guess. Aren't you a bit, oh, I don't know, shit?" Shigaraki snarls instantly at that, leaning in and settling raised-finger hands on the back of Izuku's chair, hot breath fanning putrid over freckles and dry, itchy hair falling down to brush against Izuku's face, too disgusting and claustrophobic for the greenette to do anything but try and lean back, breath caught in his lungs until it feels like he's about to shake apart with the awful tightness of it.
Yet he simply can't bring himself to breathe. Not when Shigaraki is so fucking close to him, eyes only a few inches from Izuku's and they burn, all explosions and flames and poison in his veins.
Although it's not as bad as the touch that shifts from his chair and onto his shoulder, right over where Shigaraki had caught Izuku at the USJ. And then his last finger descends and Izuku falls away. A draught has the dust of his own flesh eddying and dancing through the air, shifting before his eyes and when Shigaraki leans back a little, Izuku can finally breathe but he regrets that as soon as he does it because sure, his lungs had been burning and his throat had felt like there was a noose around it because he hadn't been able to breathe with Shigaraki so close, the heat of his body and breaths too much and sickening, but now the greenette sucks in a low gasp of air and inhales dust and chokes.
"Aw, little bratty Hemlock can't take a bit of pain?" Izuku barely hears the taunt, let alone registers it, because he's fighting for air but the air is full of that dust and the smell of iron is thick in his nose, bloated and rusting, sea-salt ruined, and he wishes for nothing more than a cool rooftop under chilly stars. Yet he's forced to stay in reality by the fever-warm chains keeping him in place, the hand that now leaves his shoulder but is still branded there, by the knowledge that the kids are only a minute's walk away. He can't scream; they'll hear. He can't snark; Shigaraki will only hurt him more, or get one of the children to hurt. So Izuku bites his lip even as he coughs, cheeks bursting in some poor parody of eating too much (and how fucking ironic that is when he hasn't eaten in what must be at least a day by now) as he tries to stay quiet despite everything in him wanting to snarl and snap back. But he can't. He knows it, knows the consequences all too well, so for now he'll stay silent. Until Shigaraki is in less of a foul mood at least.
"Ah, look at that, you're learning already. Maybe you'll level up some of your skills like this!" Well, the villain's in a good mood anyway, so surely that makes it alright to offer a little bit of defiance?
"At least I've got skills to level up." It's rasped, choked, but the words are more than clear enough to have crimson eyes flashing and bloody fingers lurching forwards, an almost careful touch to Izuku's chest, all five of his fingers spread and barely touching, almost poised to shove him back, and Izuku freezes in place, knowing that if he writhes with the renewed, redoubled pain, then it will only make it worse.
Particularly when Shigaraki is retreating the touch almost instantaneously, his grin some maniacal thing, bloodlust so strong and so far from satisfied, and Izuku pushes past the agony, past the static numbness that spreads his burning chill across the front of his ribs, the hot trickle-flow-waterfall of blood (he can't tell how much blood he's losing because everything is too numb and distant and present all at once, but he can tell it is far more than he'd like as it scalds down into his lap, tracing his outline in something more macabre than he wants to consider) pooling against him and everything's so incredibly hot it's unreal.
This happens more than once. It's not quite a repetitive loop, interspersed with taunts and rattling laughter, by Izuku tasting naught but blood and dust, with tiny variations in how the manchild hurts him, longer or shorter or deeper or shallower, and Izuku takes to analysing every injury to ground himself. He counts the seconds as though they were panic-attack breaths, tries to tell how many rivulets of blood fall or which finger is first raised before falling and he's swept in the ever-greater tides of pain that crash against him, cresting around his throat and neck with dust thick in the saltwater and he's drowning and burning and nothing is right but everything hurts even though he can barely feel half of his body and he wants to be home (needs to be, craves comfort and warmth and everything being alright when nothing is) but he wants to protect those precious kids even more, so he bites his lip until the blood in his mouth swells to match the waves of his agony and he half-blurs out. Coherency is over-rated, right?
Eventually, maybe in response to Izuku being so close to some kind of dissociation, maybe simply die to his own obligations or boredom, Shigaraki stands back a pace, one bloody hand tucking into his hoodie pocket, the second coming up to scratch idly at his own neck, blood flaking off alongside dry skin even though Izuku hardly registers the fact, barely aware enough to sneer up at the villain, trying to regain control of his own mind and body.
"Oh, little Hemlock, not so chatty now?" Izuku giggles, the sound grating and bubbling with something far from mirth, a groan hidden in the hysteria,
"Y-you're jus' a prissy lil' bitch tha' wan's his Daddy, aren'cha?" And even though Shigaraki scowls, kicking viciously at Izuku's shin with an irony that has Izuku snorting, despite how he nearly convulses with the spike in pain the abrupt movement causes him. Still though, the manchild really must have tired himself out or something, even with the sadistic glee tugging at his cracked lips, because he simply latches a hand around Izuku's throat and disintegrates away his chains with the other. Any dammit Izuku wants to say something, anything, to put the safety of words between them, but he hardly dares to. Not when they're going back to the kids now.
The greenette nearly blacks out when he's tugged to his feet by the neck, stumbling and struggling behind Shigaraki, vision grey and spotty and swirling in a monochrome kaleidoscope, so that he barely keeps his feet under him when he's shoved back into his cage, staggering but still glaring at Shigaraki, unrepentant and unyielding regardless of the absolute fire in his veins, licking at his muscles so that they shake and shudder and screech at him. It hurts, but Izuku refuses to give in to it. Not until Shigaraki has sneered, snickered and left, disappearing back through the walls of crates, and then Izuku takes one painfully deep breath, a second, then lowers himself to the ground in something closer to a collapse than he would ever admit. The whine that stings in his throat isn't allowed to escape. No, Izuku is far too aware of the kids only a metre away, no doubt watching on. His vision is too blurry to check though. It- they can wait. They'll have to, just for a minute, until he's- until he's alright again. Until he can face them with a smile.
It takes him longer than he can comprehend before he manages to roll to his side and then into a rather pathetically hunched sitting position, offering a red-lipped smile to the kids. Their eyes are wide but not surprised, even with the fading horror to be found there.
"You lot alright?" His words might be mangled and twisted, warping past pain and still too-tense jaw, but they're out there now, and he receives an almost immediate response, nods and stuttered affirmatives.
"B-but what about you?" And oh, how that question, spoken with the lingering lisp of a five year old, the fear of a captive and the true care of somebody kind, has Izuku's heart squeezing for reasons far beyond any pain or fear of his own.
"I'll be fine. Bit banged up, is all." None of them believe it, but the kids still relax some all the same. That's enough, in Izuku's eyes. More than.
From there, he sags back and sideways, eyes half-lidded as he watches on as the children begin to calm down and settle into whatever approximation of a routine they normally go through. They comb through their shorn-short hair, some of them getting little braids or twisted patterns that slip apart quickly with little notice, and they chatter in low voices, silly little word games or stories being told. Some of the younger ones - Li and Nabe and Shi - will give their own little additions with the genuine exuberance that belongs to kids their age and Izuku finds himself, quite unconsciously, smiling something soft and sweet at them all. It's simultaneously agonising and beautiful to see these little flashes of personality and individuality from these kids. It shows up in little things, in how Li bounces her foot silently, or how Tanaka sleepily clings to whoever is closest, and Izuku adores every little thing he notices. It doesn't matter that his body screams and splinters under his own weight, not when these delightful children need him to help them.
Although it has to be said that their presence isn't all good. It's not their fault though. No, far from it. They're not to blame for how Izuku sees all the bad parts of them too after all. Hears how their voices are still quiet and they stay close together. Watches as they tense, eyes flickering, whenever a loud noise or change in lighting echoes from over the rim of the crate wall. But the worst part? Well, it's how Izuku can see these kids and their Quirks and immediately put together their potential. He can look at these scared, haunted babies and construct Nomus at a moment's thought. And that terrifies him. What does it mean for him, for them, if he can analyse them and pick out the best combinations to turn them into monsters? To take the Quirks, personalities and souls of these children and force them into abominations designed only to kill? It's a nasty insight into All For One's mind. Into exactly what he has been telling Izuku of their similarities.
But still, whenever Izuku falls too far into such thoughts, eyes glazing to match the haze in his mind, there'll be a particular sound or comment from one of the children, never loud but somehow more obtrusive, that will drag him back to reality. Coherency.
And then a thought strikes him. It's a random thing, but watching them all whisper and fidget to each other, taking up quiet games or companionable silence that most young children shouldn't know, Izuku wonders if he couldn't teach them sign language. Well, not the whole language, but surely some things?
"Hey kids, d'you wanna learn something cool?" They all perk up, turning to him with undeniable interest.
That in itself is enough to have Izuku smiling softly and shifting his cracking-stone limbs so that he's sat leaning forwards, forehead against the cool bars, hands tucked loosely against his chest.
"It's sign language. We can talk silently with it, using our hands. I use it when I don't want to talk, when my throat's too tight or I want to keep a secret," he confides, voice a conspiratorial whisper to match his wiggling eyebrows.
"R-really?" Setsuna, her few inches of ginger curls bouncing, leans in herself, a golden glitter in her eyes. Izuku, nodding, signs in return,
'Yes, really.' There are a few little gasps and tiny, muffled giggles hidden behind dirty hands, and then Anna speaks up too,
"Is that wh- what you w-were doing? Wh-wh-when-"
"It is," Izuku affirms, signing along with himself, more sombre now. He feels awful that the children have to see him like this, all bloody and hurt in their name. They're not stupid after all. They understand why Izuku is being hurt like this, and he can only hope that his reassurances will stop them from blaming themselves.
So, to derail that thread of thought before the kids can latch on to it, Izuku raises his hands again, sits up straighter to give himself room to gesture around his face, then signs a simple,
"Hello," speaking at the same time. Several of the kids immediately catch on and mimic him, mouthing to match the simple movement. And Izuku grins, all Cheshire-sharp and joy-gleaming, the first glint of sunrise on broken glass, then starts to show these wonderful, hurting children a whole new world.
It's surprisingly fast, actually. All nine of them are clearly eager to latch onto something that breaks the monotony, the painful numbness of being locked in a cage with nothing but themselves and their own minds to entertain them, and they all seem pretty quick-witted, for all that some of them have fingers that fumble and bend awkwardly at first. But even when some of them struggle, Izuku simply slows down for a minute, coaxes and coaches, working his hands through the bars in silent offer and waiting for them to come to him, until he can fold his hands around chilly fingers and soft, dirty palms, physically guiding them through the motions a few times, until that spark flares in their eyes once more, one burning on kindling comprised of hope and joy and understanding, and the greenette revels in adding to that spark until it's a full-on flame. Nine flames. It's one of the most stunning sights he's seen in a damn long time. One that he revels in.
At one point, he says,
"It's alright," gesturing to match, and he doesn't miss how several of the kids tense a little. They recognise it of course. They're not stupid. For half a moment, Izuku regrets his thoughtless choice, but the determination and steady hands of the children reassures him just as quickly. Kami, they're strong. So incredibly brave and resilient and so very, very strong.
His next one isn't so much a teaching point as a genuine comment,
"You're strong. All of you." He only signs the first half, lowering his hands for the second, needing to impress his sincerity upon these kids. He wants - needs - them to understand that their resilience and endurance is beyond admirable and that he might hate the necessity of it, but he can still be so very grateful and awed by how they have survived so far. How they will continue to, undoubtedly.
"Y-you're strong too," Li offers, hands clumsily following along with her own words, and Izuku can't help the faint blush that creeps amongst his freckles.
"A-ah, thanks," he sputters, inexplicably embarrassed.
"Pretty too," Nabe pipes up, grey eyes wide and bright even in the distantly harsh light, sparkling up at Izuku, who blushes even more. Kami, these kids are going to kill him. And in the best way possible.
Izuku doesn't have a single complaint. Not when he segues them back into cheery and useful phrases, simple things like 'please' and 'show me the cats' and other absolutely essential phrases along those lines. Things that make them giggle. Anything and everything that will distract these kids from the blood still clinging to Izuku, the driest parts occasionally flaking off, ignoring the tacky gross pools in the creases of his elbows and cuticles, sticking along the contours of his scars. It's not unfamiliar but it only adds to the overall unpleasantness of his injures.
Regardless, ignoring how disgusting and fucking agonising his body currently is, Izuku continues to guide these kids through whatever sign language that comes to mind, until he's barely able to focus anymore, everything telling him that he needs to stop. Needs to rest. He ignores it though, shoves all of the pain and distraction into a tight knot in his guts, pushing against his spine with a kind of pressure that aches even more, sloshing with blood already spilt, and he refuses to acknowledge it, not wanting to show the kids that he's in pain, for all that it must be obvious to them. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, the greenette eventually he finds himself slumping and slowing, head drooping to settle against the bars, movements sluggish. And the children, without missing a beat, start to shift their attention to each other again, only occasionally signing or speaking directly to him, the elder ones recapping some of their favourites with the youngest and, somewhere between a repetition of 'show me the cats please' and 'could you write that for me?' Izuku falls into unconsciousness.
He rouses from a bottomless ocean of ink and tar, all molasses thick and no-stars dark, to find himself curled awkwardly in the corner of his cage, smears of blood around him barely visible in the dim light, with the needed contrast of a little round of whispers reaching his ears, all along the lines of 'Izuku's awake' and he can't help but feel his shoulders slacken some in relief at the sound of the kids. Hopefully nothing has happened whilst he was asleep - unconscious, whatever - then. Because he's not sure he would ever forgive himself if any of these sweet, precious little people got hurt or worse at this point. Not when he sees them all as his now, in whatever capacity. Bottom line is that they're his to protect and help as much as he can.
With a long, barely-audible groan, the teen levers himself up into something more resembling a sitting position, not daring to stand and stretch like he wants to lest he re-open any of the disintegration wounds that appear to have stopped bleeding, and instead turns his attention to the kids, seeing Anna with her mouth already opening to ask him something.
“What’s your dad like?” Izuku tilts his head in question, gesturing for the blonde to go on, a bit confused, because why would she ask-
“You- I think you were dreaming about him.” And oh. Of course he was. What else would he dream of when he'd been in pain, mental and physical, and feeling such ironic nostalgia over finding hurt kids to nurture and protect as best he could, to teach and bring joy and show care to? Yes, his Dad indeed. Well, no harm to telling them some generic things. The thought alone has Izuku more awake, more aware and grounded, than he had been before his impromptu nap.
"He- he’s the best person in the world. I was alone and hurting and he was the only person to see it. He listened to me and helped me and he loved me until I loved him too and then he kept on loving me. Because of him I’ve found an entire family that I love. You guys are part of that too now, you know?" He signs along with himself, largely out of habit, ignoring how it pulls and twinges his chest and shoulder, pain flaring like the ugliest fucking fireworks he ever did see. He also conveniently ignores how his voice is creaking and cracking. He's too focused on thoughts of his Dad. On the sight of these children.
"U-us?"
"Yes, kids, absolutely. Yes." The teen injects every bit of honesty and energy into his words that his tight lungs can manage.
And there's a moment then, hanging with all the delicacy of a traumatised child's hope found in the form of lace spiderwebs, and Izuku winds careful fingers through those silk strands and tangles them, balling them up carefully and safely, tucks them all in close, until he has a little flickering bundle of warmth and hopes to hold in his trembling hands, cradling it to his chest.
"We're here together now kids. And all of us will get out, alright? Someway, somehow. And then- then you can meet my Dad yourselves, alright? He'll love you guys." And seeing their grins, less hesitant every time, has Izuku's little bundle of hopes shifting away from dreams and into something more tangible. Because by Kami, he had meant every word, no doubt about it. These kids deserve such promises because Izuku has zero intentions of letting them be false promises. Not whilst there's heat in his body and breath in his lungs and words on his tongue. Not when he still truly believes that his Dad will come for them, if they don't escape first, because that man is his hero for a reason.
Izuku will see these kids safe no matter what.
Aizawa is pacing. Again. Still. Both, whatever, all he knows is that he's restless but the very idea of patrolling alone feels wrong and both him and Tsukauchi have been locked out of the investigation files for ten hours on the fucking stupid basis that they need to rest but what he needs is to find his kid-
"Shouta, c'mere a sec!" Nemuri calls from across the faculty room, huddled up in a sweater with her laptop, Hizashi by her side, hair down, leather replaced by sweatpants, both frowning at him a little. Growling under his breath, because he doesn't need a distraction, it won't solve anything, Aizawa still trudges over, burying too-tight fists in his pockets.
"What?"
"Look at this!" But of course, when he leans down to see the screen, arms latch around him and pull him onto the sofa with them in a tangle of limbs, Nemuri putting aside her laptop quickly enough to help Hizashi keep a hold of the underground hero, manhandling him until he's laid out, torso and head supported by their laps, legs draped over the empty space.
"The fuck you two?" he demands, part indignant, mostly frustrated. But his two idiots only peer down at him, the half-hearted smirk on Nemuri's face answer enough.
"Shou, you need to look after yourself. Baby Broccoli will be heartbroken when he gets back if you've fucked yourself up, and you know it. Don't do that to him."
"Nem's right. The baby needs you healthy and strong Shou, not driving yourself down."
And trust them to hit him straight in the guts with their words, to hit exactly where it hurts enough to make him listen, and to do it through care rather than spite or malice. Kami, he fucking hates his friends. He hates their care and their warmth and their comfort, and that they know him so well, and that all he wants to do right now, if he can't have his kid, is to give in and let them keep him safe for just a little while. He hates it so much.
He gives in.
With a sigh far too close to a sob, Aizawa twists in their laps until he can curl up some, knees pressing up against Nemuri's side, burying his face in Hizashi's stomach, hands clutching at their respective tops and he fights to breathe. Fights to breathe, not to cry, not to fall apart. Because they were right, everything they said is true, and Izuku is out there somewhere, hurt and in danger and so fucking alone, and all Aizawa can do is pace right now. Or, he can try and sleep. So that's what he does. He lets his best friends hold him close, the quiet murmur of their conversation drifting above him, takes in the smell of Hizashi's leather jacket and citrus shampoo, a familiar mix with Nemuri's lavender perfume, all of it thick in his nose, and he breathes, relaxes and, eventually, sleeps.
He wakes up again, drowsy and heavy-limbed, to fairly small hands running through his hair, starting to braid it, and for a long second he relaxes into his son's touch, enjoying the affection. He's warm and comfortable, they're both safe at home, and they're together.
Then reality kicks in. Viciously.
Snarling, Aizawa abruptly tosses himself off of the sofa and onto his sleep-unsteady feet, capture weapon writhing out in all directions, one of his kid's knives ready in hand, posture low and defensive, a genuine grumbling snarl in the back of his throat. His scalp aches because that wasn't Izuku's braiding and nobody else does it right so who-
"Woah, Shouta, darling, it's alright, it's only me-" That's Nemuri; his best friend Nemuri who he trusts with his life. Fuck. Fuck, fuck and fuck again. He might have just slept but Aizawa is exhausted again already, nearly sagging onto his knees as the weight of the world (of his world being gone) crashes over his shoulders once more. It isn't right, having someone else messing around with his hair. Feels too much like replacing his son, even though that's the last thing any of them would intend, and it has more than just his head hurting.
"S-sorry Nem," he manages, somehow surprised at the way that his eyes burn. And it's not because of his Quirk.
"No. Kami, no Shouta, don't apologise. I thought it would help because of how often you've had your hair up recently but I guess-"
"Iz- The ki- He does it." The wavering strength in his voice is nothing in the face of him being unable to actually name his son. Fucking hell, he's being so pathetic about all of this how in the hell does he dare to call himself-
"Shouta, whatever you're thinking, stop it. I bet it would make Izuku stab you." Aizawa does have to snort at that though because there's a decent chance it's true. Although his kid would probably use a fork or something - more pain, less damage.
"There we go. Silly caterpillar man," Nemuri teases, standing to offer a very telegraphed shoulder squeeze. He doesn't avoid it though, despite her giving him time to. Instead, he leans into the warm touch with a lessening of the scowl marring his face. And Nemuri, judging by the way her posture loosens a little, eyes softening and brightening, is very much relieved that Aizawa hasn't pushed her away. It wouldn't have been the first time if he had. Maybe he really has grown some since finally taking Izuku in.
"Right, you, gonna sleep some more or come with me to find Hizashi?" Hands on hips, whip swaying with the movement, she cuts an imposing figure despite the hot pink leggings. Aizawa isn't intimidated in the slightest.
"I-"
"Those are your only two options Shou. I won't use my Quirk 'cause I know the sheer volume I have to use on you gives you a headache, but don't think I won't bash you around the head instead." She might be serious, face straight and without her trademark smirk, but Aizawa only groans,
"Nemuri, you utter idiot, like that wouldn't give me a headache?"
"Collateral damage," she sing-songs, literally waving off his deadpan comment, her smirk creeping in now.
Fuck, why does he have such illogical friends?
"Because you love us, Shouta. Just like we do, you." And her words might have started teasing, but it falls back into serious. Or, rather, into sincere. And Shouta, in silent apology and gratitude and agreement, all in one, takes the single step needed to simply rest his forehead on her shoulder. It's not an embrace, not even close, but it is still an offering. And Nemuri simply lists her head to the side in return, two sets of dark hair blending together, the sides of their heads pressed together, warm and steady weights, counter-balancing. Grounding. It's enough. It's everything.
"Let's go find the loudmouth then," he mutters, a time later, once his chest is a bit looser again, fingers stilling and steadying without effort. And Nemuri easily steps back, stretches a bit, then sashays out of the room, calling imperiously over her shoulder,
"C'mon then darling. Don't get lost~"
"I literally work here Nem." But she's only around the corner, waiting with a tapping foot, and they set off properly then, side by side. It's not the same as having a short, warm body beside him, all busy hands and bouncing curls, bubbling words and blinks of knives, but it's a good sort of companionship all the same. A familiar balm for the meantime.
It's even better, not even ten minutes later, when they come across Hizashi, balancing a stack of Lunch Rush's trays as he hums something energetic, heading towards them. From there, it's easy to all fall into step with each other, heading for the meeting room, their late lunches in hand. It's a companionship that Aizawa sorely needs.
He knows he's going to dream of his kid again next time he sleeps but, for now, he can ignore that and, in the back of his mind, hope it will be a pleasant memory rather than a nightmare. Real or otherwise. He doesn't want to think about the bad things right now, simply the good things, like how he has Lunch Rush's stir-fry for lunch, and how his best friends are either side of him and, in this moment, he doesn't have to dream of the better times because he's awake and he can work towards getting his kid back, so things are fine. They are.
That's his mantra now, it seems. Because everything will be fine, eventually and until then, he'll work to make that dream into a reality.