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If fate had the ability to choose the perfect time to toss proverbial thumb tacks in your path, you were damn sure it had decided that the day had come.
Absolutely drenched from head to toe, sheets of rain fell with audible crashes to the ground, the strongest monsoon of the year you'd had the luck to experience in full swing. “Hm, there’s only a twenty percent chance of rain today,” you remembered from earlier, a foolish thought. “I probably won’t need my umbrella.”
That’s how you ended up here, in the dark, a dumbass huddled in the sparse shelter of a slightly rundown-looking bus stop (a few stray cardboard boxes and peeling advertisements adding to the aesthetic) at 5 o'clock in the morning. Absolute daggers stared at the weather radar mocking you from the screen of your phone. A bright, angry red covered almost the entire map, dragging itself south at a mere crawl.
Another hour. Another hour was predicted of this bullshit.
Fuckin’ hell.
Your head fell back against the back of the stop’s metal bench with a hollow thunk that reverberated through your skull, jacket pulled taut around your shivering body — such an intense downpour absolutely stripped the air of its prior warmth, an abrupt clap of explosive thunder causing your shoulders to jolt in reflex. Yeah, you definitely weren’t going anywhere until this calmed down. Your overdue paperwork at home would have to continue being overdue, for the time being.
At least the storm hadn’t stolen your data signal along with your morning. With nothing else to entertain you, you could… catch up on emails, or something? It would have been a good use of an otherwise wasted hour, but you also had a visceral hatred for typing long messages on touch screens, especially if they happened to be of the important business-like sort. Autocorrect had betrayed your trust one too many times.
So, it was time to fill the void with internet videos.
You’d forgotten your headphones at the agency in the mad dash you’d attempted to beat the rain home (and that turned out stellar), but you seemed to be the only poor sap stuck out here in the weather. At least you wouldn’t be that guy with their phone blaring nonsense at anyone unlucky enough to be stuck nearby.
It didn’t take much more than a flick through your subscriptions to settle on something, a cooking channel you could lose some time on. Unfortunately, you didn’t often have the time to actually attempt any of the recipes. Someday, you told yourself, watching the boisterous host quite nearly lose their brows in a wash of flame — too much cognac splashed into the flambé. Maybe you’d skip that one.
A few more dull minutes crept by, and it was upon watching the chef meticulously plate their creation that you became aware of some strange noises in the background, ones that recaptured your limited attention. More specifically, it was what almost sounded like tiny mewls, just barely audible above the storm beating the top of the metal canopy.
That was peculiar. You’d certainly never heard it in any other videos, and you were relatively positive that you’d never missed an upload. Odder still that their typically flawless editing hadn’t caught such a blatant error.
You pause the video, prepared to dig a few weeks back for any updates you might have missed introducing a little furry friend —
Mew.
It’s become your own turn to pause, head whipping from side to side to try and pinpoint the source of the noise, or at least confirm that you really heard what you think you did and it wasn’t just the monsoon playing tricks on you. You weren’t certain how a deafening rainstorm could possibly imitate such a barely perceptible little sound, but —
Mew.
That’s the sound that brings you to your feet, phone screen darkened and slipped into a pocket as you crouch low to the ground. It sounded like a cat… no, a kitten, you self-corrected. A full grown cat wouldn’t have such a tiny voice, would it? You’d never been allowed one growing up (your mother quickly nipped that dream in the bud), but you were fairly sure there would be a clear difference.
The tiny cry sounds once more, louder this time, and you awkwardly shuffle yourself in its direction, towards the slightly soggy collection of carelessly discarded cardboard boxes. It doesn’t take you long to find the source of the noise — your mouth opened in a silent gasp.
Two shivering little scraps of fur, one solid black and the other what appeared to be a soft brown tabby. They huddled close together against the box pile, so small that they would no doubt fit snug in one palm, and hardly moved aside from their constant trembling. A second passed, and the tabby's head rises, tiny pink mouth opened in the most pathetic little squeak.
Those sharp thumb tacks in your path were suddenly and mercilessly slammed into your heart.
“What are you — poor things, what are you doing out here? Where’s your mama?” You spoke unconsciously to the helpless little bundles, a numb beat passing before you could mash back together the rattled pieces of your train of thought. Certainly no expert on pet care (but knowing that it was probably not great for the little guys to lay on cold wet concrete), you gently grasp a kitten in each hand, bringing them close to your chest.
One, the tabby, opens its mouth and gives a loud cry of protest the moment he’s hoisted into the air, expressing their displease loud and clear at this new situation. The black one, on the other hand, does little more than give a soft squeak and a half-hearted wiggle. That was concerning, right? Babies were supposed to be loud when healthy, and that wasn’t exactly what you would describe as loud. God, you knew absolutely nothing about taking care of tiny living creatures — there was a reason for the collection of dead houseplants you’d not quite gotten to throwing out of your apartment. Saving lives was one thing, sustaining them was a whole other ballpark, and one the academy hadn’t exactly trained you for.
Perhaps there was a nearby shelter you could take them to…? No, you that idea was quashed as soon as it came. The only one you knew of was outside city limits, and you didn’t exactly have a way to get there as soon as these little guys probably needed help.
A different idea came to mind, but… well, you weren’t certain how realistic it was. An acquaintance of yours from your academy years that you’d kept in touch with, if only due to working in similar environments, Aizawa had always seemed quite fond of cats. You were relatively certain, anyway. He often had cat-themed stationary, and he had a pen topper of a cute little cat head that he somehow kept through all three years of school.
That was… admittedly a loose thread to base your judgement on, and a weirdly specific detail to still remember about someone years after graduation. But, it was the best idea you could dredge up while busy tucking tiny kittens into the folds of your scarf. They gave lethargic little wiggles of rebellion at first, but the allure of your body heat soon calmed them, pressing flush to your skin. You secured them tightly (double checking that it wasn’t too tight) and pulled your phone from its pocket, slightly numb fingers fumbling for the correct contact.
Actually, you couldn’t remember the last time you'd called someone instead of just shooting off a text. This was probably going to come straight from left field for Aizawa, but you tapped his name, listening to the rings while doing your damnedest to ignore soft fur and sharp little claws trembling against your skin.
One ring. Two rings. Three.
It got to the fourth, and you had the sinking feeling that no answer would come. He could easily be somehow braving the storm on patrol, or already asleep, or —
“Hello?”
The realization that your answer had come snaps you out of the anxious inner monologue, greeted by a familiar gruff, brusque tone. Hints of perplexity lingered in that one word, something you found yourself unsurprised by. You’d likely be confused as well if he’d called from out of the blue like this.
“Aizawa-kun! Sorry for calling without warning,” you gave your name, hero and civilian, in case this saved contact was not a mutual one, “but I’ve got a —”
“Hold on,” he interrupted in the midst of your sentence, immediately stilling your explanation. “You’re gonna have to speak up, I can barely hear — are you outside right now?”
“Ah,” you did as he said, hoping the increase in volume wasn’t going to irritate your nearby passengers. “Yeah, it’s —”
“In this storm?”
There was evident judgment in his voice. You had a feeling he thought you were either doing something foolish like chasing a criminal in the inclement weather, or had been caught otherwise unprepared. Or perhaps it was just due to the fact that you were calling him. Outside. In a monsoon. It would be easier to explain if he’d stop interrupting you.
“I’m not standing in the rain, I’m under a bus shelter right now.” The words came out a bit defensive; there were more important things than your less than stellar weather predictions to discuss. “I might be on a time limit, so I’m gonna get to the point: you like cats, right?”
There’s a beat of silence. Likely Aizawa processing that you were indeed outside in a monsoon, calling him to ask if he liked cats. It sounded even more ridiculous when you thought about it.
“... Yes. You could say that. And the reason you called to ask me that is…?”
“Uh — well, I think I should’ve asked first if you knew how to take care of them. Like, little ones. Kittens.”
“Did you get one?” Aizawa replied, voice a tad less gruff but no less perplexed. “If you need to know how to take care of a cat, you could probably just look it up.”
“It’s uh, not quite that conventional, unfortunately.” You wince as a sharp needle of a claw digs its way into your skin. “I found a couple kittens at a bus stop when I ducked in to try and wait out the storm. I wouldn’t have bothered you about it, but they look really young and I have no idea what to do. It was kind of a long shot, but I figured you might have better advice than some random Wikihow article.”
“Oh,” his tone has lightened considerably, at least compared to when he’d first picked up the call. “How young?”
“Like… babies?” That came out sounding dumber than intended. “I mean, I can hold both of them in one hand, they’re tiny.”
“Are their eyes open? Ears?”
A quick peek is taken into the folds of your scarf. “... No. Eyes are closed, ears look flat.”
Over the rain (calmed just enough that you weren’t having to practically yell your words), you hear an odd sort of rustling through Aizawa’s end of the conversation. “Sounds like newborns. Have you seen any adult cats nearby? The mother might be waiting to come get them.”
“I don’t think so. I haven’t seen any, at least. They were cold and shivering when I found them, I’m trying to warm them up and it feels like I’ve tucked ice into my scarf.” The phrasing might have been more amusing in a scenario that contained a little less child endangerment. “I think the job’s fallen to me now, for better or worse. So, do you have any like, basic info you can pass on? I’m still kind of far from home, but I can probably make a mad dash to the store if I need anything. If anything opens soon, at least...”
You’re back to that long beat of silence Aizawa seemed so fond of, another quick bit of rustling. “Where are you right now?”
“Oh, uh, the bus stop. On...” You peer around a wall to take a peek at the nearby sign, getting the splash of a few raindrops to the face for your troubles. “Street block Nakamura-6. Why?”
Aizawa gives a soft grunt of acknowledgement before answering. “That’s a few minutes away from where I live. Wait there, I’m gonna head in your direction.”
“I — wait, huh?” You speak on reflex. “Really? It’s still pouring out here.”
“I know, I have windows,” came his flat rebuttal. The next rustle makes a more legible sound, the slide of fabric. He must already be putting on his coat. “The rain isn’t going to kill me. Besides, we don’t know how long those kittens have been alone. I can stand a little humidity for their sake.”
It was a little thing, but for some reason, hearing that from such a persistently dour man was some of the cutest shit you’d ever heard.
“I’ll be there soon. Keep them warm in the meantime.”
“Got it. Thanks, Aizawa-kun.” You weren’t entirely sure what you were thanking him for. His time, maybe? Either way, once you hung up there was little else to do than sit back on the uncomfortably chilled bench and peek in at the little hairballs, curled up safe and warm.
And, sure enough, a mere few minutes are spent gently stroking gradually-warming kitten fur before you a telltale sound catches your attention, footsteps splashing through the puddles gathered on the sidewalk. It’s faint beneath the torrential rain, but easy to hone in on when already listening. Peering around your makeshift shelter once more, you spot the dark canopy of a black umbrella, held tight against fierce winds that buffeted loose hair and clothing. For a moment, it looks like Aizawa had come decked out in his full Eraser Head gear, as if he'd thought there’d be heightened criminal activity in such weather. Then, as he draws near, you realize otherwise; apparently his costume just didn’t differ much from his regular attire, all tones of grey and black. You idly wonder if you’d seen him in casual attire even once since high school.
“Right on time,” you quipped, finding yourself oddly reassured by Aizawa’s usual disheveled appearance as he steps into your makeshift shelter. God knows you must look like a drowned rat yourself.
“I just had to walk around the corner, really,” came Aizawa’s reply, his gaze traveling to your currently empty hands. “Where are they?”
Wordlessly, you pull open the fabric of your scarf like a kangaroo’s pouch, Aizawa leaning in to better look at its contents. The kittens, resting in curled bundles, tiny bodies trembling but gradually recovering in their temporary shelter.
Was it just you, or did you catch his expression softening the moment he caught sight of them?
“They’ve warmed up a little. I figured it would be better for them here than stuffed in my coat pockets or something.”
The look that crosses Aizawa’s face informs you that your assumption was correct. Regardless, it melts away after a beat, and he lifts a steady hand. A fingertip strokes ever-so-gently over the sleeping tabby’s back, tiny paws (and claws) kneading against your pin-pricked collarbone in response.
“So, did you come out here to take them back home with you, or..?”
His gaze is torn from the resting bundles. Like many other times, a reply comes only after a couple seconds have passed, now inquisitive. “You mentioned that you lived pretty far from here, didn’t you?”
You nod. “It’s about a twenty minute walk. Easy most days,” your gaze travels towards the sky, mocking you even without the help of your radar, “and annoying on others.”
Aizawa snorts — it’s the closest thing to a laugh you think you’ve ever heard from him. “Then that was half the plan. You're welcome to come with, if you want.”
Caught off-guard, you gaze snaps up just a bit too quickly.
“Or not, it’s up to you.”
“I mean — sorry, I wasn’t trying to look that shocked.” You gather the words you'd so gracefully spat to the pavement. “I’d be glad to come with, it’s better than waiting out here in the cold. I was just surprised you offered.”
“It’s not like I’m inviting a complete stranger into my home,” Aizawa countered, scarf adjusted to cover the exposed bodies of your cargo. “Besides, two kittens, two people. Might as well split the workload.”
Fair point. Still, being classmate acquaintances and occasionally partnering for a stakeout didn’t automatically mean you were close by any terms. A strange sort of warmth rises in your skin, regardless, but is something quickly pushed away without much conscious thought.
“Come on, we’ve wasted enough time. They really need to get in something a little warmer than a scarf.” Aizawa gestured towards the garment, chin jerked in the direction he’d come from.
You agree, and he waits for you to take cover under his umbrella, doing your best not to stand too close and rub against him with your already-soaked sleeves. It was a little inevitable, otherwise your entire right shoulder would be bearing the brunt of the storm, but Aizawa keeps the discontent to himself if he noticed at all. Your worry is hardly mitigated.
The trip is near silent, quick enough that neither of you feel much of a pressing need to fill the air with mindless conversation. The rain was plenty noisy enough as it was. Small talk was the figurative bane of your existence, something that likely applied even more for Aizawa, so your silence probably came as a relief.
After a very soggy trek, Aizawa turned a corner so suddenly that you quite nearly ran him over, paying more attention to your young wards than where you were being led. “Sorry,” came your chagrined mumble, path corrected after a pretty solid bump. “I’ve been staring at them the whole time, I keep worrying that they’re gonna get smothered in there.”
“The fabric is too thin to smother them,” came his nonchalant reassurance, giving his closed umbrella one or two quick shakes once you step beneath the apartment building’s overhanging marquee. “This way.”
More aware of where you were walking now that you had the threat of falling down a flight of stairs to contend with, you follow him to the second floor and all the way to the end of the walkway where you presumed he lived, railing directly to the side that blocked a sheer drop to the opposite street. His key rattled in the door, clicked open after a quick turn, and you trailed after as he walked inside.
Seems he hadn’t bothered to turn off the light before leaving, and you take a moment to survey your surroundings while struggling out of a boot: Aizawa’s home was… minimalistic, you would describe it as, if asked. He seemed unconcerned with anything besides the basics, a dark couch pressed up against the wall (probably the nicest thing in the room) and a television on the squat entertainment center to its right. A blanket fell halfway to the floor from the sofa, and you spotted a kotatsu table in front of the TV, a half-eaten plastic bowl of what looked to be udon on top along with a glass and scattered papers. You recognize the takeout container from a favorite noodle shop of yours.
“Shit, I dragged you out in the middle of dinner, didn’t I?” You chuckle even though what you said wasn’t funny in the least, escaping as a nervous reflex before you had the chance to cram it down. It felt wrong and awkward to be in a sort-of-friend-but-not-quite’s home for the first time and not have brought a gift, or some drinks at the very least. Granted, these were extraneous circumstances, but…
“It’s not a big deal,” Aizawa said while slipping off his boots, giving them a shove to the side of the foyer. His coat follows, hung on a peg by the door. “I doubt you had some kind of plot going on to inconvenience me.”
Blunt as always. It was reassuring, in an odd way, and your lip twitched in the beginnings of a smile. “Not this time. If that ever becomes necessary though, I’ll know how to do it.”
“Don’t make it a habit.” Aizawa’s tone is firm, but holds none of the bite you might have expected in response. “Here, hand them over.”
Wordlessly, you pull back the wound fabric around your neck, feeling oddly chilled once you remove the warmed kittens from your skin. They loudly protest the disruption of their nice dry nap, squirming in your palms with renewed ferocity.
“They’re a lot more active than they were,” you gently place both protesters in Aizawa’s waiting hands. “I’m pretty sure that’s a good sign.”
“It means they aren’t freezing anymore.” Aizawa turns on his heel with long strides towards the living room, and you quickly hang your coat and shove your boots aside to follow. The dry stint at the bus stop had at least dried you enough to not drip all over his floors, and you trail along as he makes a beeline for the kotatsu. Or rather, what you notice to be an old Amazon shipment box sitting to its side. Seems you’d somehow missed it in your quick look-over of the apartment.
Potentially the gentlest you’d ever seen him do just about anything, the kittens are lowered into the box just as you get close enough to see what was inside: a folded-up towel and what looked like the cord of a heating pad sticking up and out of the furthest side. A temperature dial was visible, set to low.
Well, this explained the weird rustling sounds from earlier. Seems like Aizawa had been prepared far before mentioning he would be on his way.
The tiny siblings do a quick bout of baffled wiggles as they roll and bump into each other, trying to figure out what the hell had warranted yet another change in location. It’s adorable. Really fucking adorable, and you’re relieved to hear the black one's yells almost as clearly as the tabby. You’d been worried about the little guy, quiet as they’d been.
“... So,” you began, after about a minute of the both of you silently peering at the cozy scene. “Should we feed them? There’s no way to tell when they were fed last, they’re probably pretty hungry.”
Aizawa’s head shakes in the negative before you’d even finished your sentence. “No, not yet.”
You throw him a perplexed look, which he somehow catches without adjusting his gaze.
“Kittens this young can’t regulate their body temperature. Feeding them before they’ve warmed up would be dangerous.”
“It would?” you puzzled, finding yourself correct in your assumption that caring for such new lives was far more complicated than an older, more self-sufficient animal. You’d never even heard that before. “You know a lot more about the smaller details than I expected.”
Aizawa shrugs, a roll of the shoulders that audibly pops a joint. “It’s not my first time doing this. I used to help foster orphaned litters back in high school, before I got too busy out in the field.”
You fix him with a bewildered gaze that would’ve been far more fitting if he’d told you he’d won the Nobel Peace Prize. “Really? When did you even have the time?”
“It wasn’t during the school year, just breaks.” The tabby finds itself stuck on its back and frantically cries at the indignity; Aizawa reaches in to gently roll him over. “I didn’t go out much unless we had a class trip or I was dragged, so I thought I might as well. Gave me an excuse to stay at home.”
As if you really needed an excuse, the thought makes its way through your mind. You might not have been particularly close to Aizawa in school, but his friends were certainly boisterous when it came to complaining about how much of a hermit he was.
“Where’d you get the kittens from? The shelter outside the city? Maybe we could take these guys there once this storm dies down.”
For the first time since getting them settled, Aizawa looks in your direction, expression stern enough that it instantly triggers a sort of nervous reflex within you. “No,” he states, tone clearly of something not to be disputed. “That’s why kittens this young end up with fosters to begin with. They need more care than most shelters can give them. If they get newborns and can’t immediately find someone to take them, they usually end up euthanized. Even at no-kill shelters.”
You can’t quite stop the aghast look that creeps onto your face, thoroughly schooled by the apparently dark underbelly of kitten care. “Jesus, that’s… a little brutal.”
Aizawa looks away, into the box once again. “It’s the reality of it. There are never enough resources to take care of them all, especially in places where they’re not allowed to turn any animals away. They pick and choose between which ones are more likely to survive and get adopted. Young ones without a mom take too much away from the other animals, so unless they can find someone willing to take over, they’re put down.”
“... Well,” you begin, after a moment’s hesitation, “it’s a good thing the shelter was too far for me to walk to, then.”
Aizawa makes a sound that you took as acknowledgment, but gives no further response.
Another short period of silence passes you by. The air is left feeling somewhat awkward, but you’re unsure if Aizawa finds the atmosphere quite as thick. Finally, he lets out a sigh, sluggishly pulling himself to his feet.
“I’d give ‘em half an hour before they can eat, to play it safe. Make yourself comfortable in the meantime, I’m gonna make some coffee.”
“Uh —” comes out as you take a look at your sodden clothing. It wasn’t making a mess with you just standing there, but… “I don’t know how well I can do that without uh, getting your couch wet.” It was a very nice couch, really. “Should I just sit by the kotatsu? Maybe I should get a towel…”
Hesitating near the kitchen, Aizawa seems to think for a moment. Perhaps pondering the worth of his furniture. Then, with yet another sigh (breathed out through the nose this time), he turns back around, crossing the room and heading through a door to the right of the sofa.
Likely off to fetch the towel you mentioned, were you to make a guess. You occupy yourself with the box of adorable for the minute or so it takes Aizawa to return, glancing up just in time to hear “catch” and see a soft pile sailing in your direction.
You catch it with a startled jerk of the wrists right before it nails you in the face, glancing down to realize you’d been given quite a bit more cloth than a single towel would warrant. A towel was indeed included, but so was a shirt and… hot pink track pants? You’re momentarily too distracted by neon to question the fact that Aizawa has thrown you a set of (presumably) his own clothes.
“You can change in my room,” Aizawa points back with a thumb at the still-open door behind him. “There’s a dryer in the bathroom, toss your clothes in there.”
“Wow, a washer and dryer in-unit?” you teased, deciding to not question the goodwill of getting out of your soaked outfit. “I’d hate to see your rent payment.”
Aizawa makes a rough noise in the back of his throat — you can’t say for certain, but his expression subtly contorted in a way that might have been amusement. “Don’t fucking remind me. I’m stuck in my lease for another six months.”
Ouch.
Then, within an interval of a few minutes, you stood stiffly in Aizawa’s bedroom, dried and in clothing that no longer stuck to you like a regretful hangover. In Aizawa’s clothing. In his house. In his bedroom, which you found to be a fair bit messier than the living room. Scattered mugs and glasses on the nightstand and dresser, a computer desk covered in stray papers, a pile of (clean?) laundry sitting in the chair. His bed was messy and unmade, blankets twisted in a knot and threatening to slide completely to the floor.
It was an oddly… how did you even describe it, intimate? Intimate experience. Personal and familiar, something you hadn’t experienced in a long time, especially not with someone you didn’t feel like you knew that well. Your fingers tug at the bottom hem of your borrowed t-shirt, black with a graphic of a disgruntled-looking bird holding a coffee mug. It hung loosely from your body, a size that you might’ve picked out as the prime comfortable pajama shirt. The pants, on the other hand, you had to roll the legs of a few times to keep them from dragging on the ground. The width of your hips kept them from completely sliding off, at least. You tighten the drawstring just in case.
“Let me know if you have trouble with the dryer,” you hear Aizawa's voice from outside the door as you finish tying a secure bow. “It’s been throwing a fit recently, you might not get it working without a fight.”
“Alright,” comes your quick reply, the soggy remnants of your previous outfit gathered from the ground. It was kind of him to think of you and offer, but you doubted you’d actually need help. You’d battled some stubborn laundromat units in your days.
In the end though, after several minutes of realizing just how fucking stubborn buttons could actually be, you end up full of defeat and asking for his help. Aizawa practically beats it with the side of his fist until it finally relents and churns to life — you give a silent prayer that your “do not tumble dry” bra would survive the experience.
“You need to kick your landlord’s ass,” you remark once back in the living room, dry and no longer too hazardous to be allowed on the sofa, one eye trained on the young wards cuddled together in a content slumber. The abandoned takeout bowl of udon from earlier had disappeared from its spot on the table.
“I’ve been tempted,” Aizawa grunts from the kitchen, separated from the living area by a long bar counter. The udon seems to have been relocated there, next to a semi-abandoned fruit bowl. “Haven’t even seen the bastard in two months, I’ve called the front desk twice about sending a repairman. If I have to call again I’m just doing it myself and sending them the bill.”
You couldn’t blame him for that.
“Coffee’s done, by the way. Do you want any?”
It takes you a moment to give an answer. The sun (or what hints of it there were of it, beyond the rain beating against the windows like angry fists) had already begun to rise, which would have been fine if not for the fact that you both worked the night shift. A caffeine buzz so late in your day was probably a bad idea, but… you’d need to stay awake late to get your neglected paperwork done anyway.
“Sure,” you concede in the end, watching Aizawa fill a second mug and careen around the counter. You accept with a nod once it’s held towards you (white with a cute blue flower pattern, you notice), then watch as he more or less collapses back against the couch to your side, just far enough to give you your allotted personal space. His head leans far back against the headrest, eyes closed, expression one of pure exhaustion. The coffee in his cup was half gone, even though you were relatively certain it had finished brewing just minutes prior. It felt boiling-hot against your fingers, even through the ceramic.
Gently blowing the surface to spare your tongue an injury (and wondering what sort of heat-resistant superhuman Aizawa was), you’re acutely aware of the sudden sensation of being stared at, attention turned ever to slightly to the left. Truth be told, Aizawa’s head tilts towards you, still laid back with half-lidded gaze focused in your direction.
“Let me ask you something.” His voice was a touch gravelly, in that I’ve-just-woken-up sort of way even though you were sure he'd been awake all night.
“Yeah?”
“What made you call me? Out of anyone else you could’ve gotten help from, anyway.”
“Oh —” A stiff, slightly awkward chuckle follows as you try to think of the best way to explain. “It’s uh… a little dumb, honestly. I was kind of in a panic. I’ve never really taken care of animals before, so…”
“You’ve never had a pet?” Aizawa interjected after you paused to think.
“Nope. I mean, nothing that wasn’t a goldfish that died in a week. I wish I did, every kid begs for a puppy at some point, but my mom’s allergic to basically everything with fur. So that dream was killed pretty early on.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah. It’s made me pretty terrible at taking care of… most tiny, dependent living things. Seriously, I’ve killed three succulents in a row,” you emphasize, at your own expense. “I wasn’t about to try keeping a couple newborns alive on my own.”
From the incredulous look that crosses Aizawa’s face, you can assume that he’s relieved you didn’t.
“Anyway,” you grasp at loose strings, dragging your train of thought back to the rails. “I mean, it was 5am, nothing helpful would be open, and I didn’t really know anyone else that would still be awake. I knew the little guys needed help, and that was about the extent of it.”
“And that I liked cats?” Aizawa jeered, the hint of a smirk twitching at his lip. You shoot him a derisive look.
“I already said that it was dumb, I don’t need you rubbing it in.”
He gives a fleeting chuckle, which felt like a continuation of him totally rubbing it in, but follows up with just a bit less sass. “It is. Either way, it worked out for the best.” His mug (also white, but looking like it’s been dunked in purple watercolor) is pulled to his lips, a quick sip of what you still thought to be boiling-hot coffee taken before he proceeds. “Still, I’m curious — we’ve never really talked enough for me to think you’d remember something like that.”
The curiosity was valid. It was true, the two of you spent three years together in school sitting right next to each other, but were both so introverted that conversation never really happened. The only friends you ever really saw around Aizawa were the loudmouths too determined to be chased away by his surly exterior.
“I guess it’s because I sat behind you everyday in class. Remember how you had that one pen topper? The little black cat head? I think it just made me associate you with cats by default, you kept that thing for years.”
It seems to take Aizawa a moment or two to even remember what you’re talking about. A beat follows. Then, he reaches down towards the tabletop, moving aside a couple stray papers and retrieving something hidden beneath.
He holds up a pen, a familiar little face smiling at you from its end. It’s begun to show its age, showing fair hints of discoloration, but it’s familiar nonetheless. “This one?”
“Holy shit,” you startle yourself with your own sudden laugh, reaching out. Aizawa hands it over and you give it a hearty twirl between your fingers, wondering just how many pens the little guy has outlasted. “I can’t believe you still have this thing. It’s funny how something so small can bring you right back in time.”
Aizawa drains the remainder of his beverage as you lose yourself in the strangest form of nostalgia, which makes you suddenly remember your own mildly forgotten cup. You place the pen safely back atop the papers, mug retrieved and a small sip taken to test the temperature — eugh. It was just cool enough to drink, but god, it was bitter. You’d nearly forgotten just how much you hated straight black coffee, but steeled yourself to force it down anyway. No sense in being rude.
His empty mug placed among the scattered pages (which looked to be his own unfinished incident forms), Aizawa pulls his phone from his pocket, glancing at the screen and then leaning forward to stick a hand into the kitten’s box. His fingers relax on top of the black one’s body, who merely twitches in response, then moves to the tabby who reacts with a slightly more violent jerk. He then nods, pulling himself from his seat with a low, rattled groan.
“They feel warm enough to try feeding.” Taking a moment to twist and pop his back, you watch as Aizawa slips a hair tie from his wrist, previously hidden by long sleeves. His hands tangle with dark, messy hair, pulled up and away from his face in a haphazard ponytail.
A stray piece in the front didn’t quite make it in with the rest, but he seems unbothered. You find yourself watching him just a bit more intently than was really necessary, and visibly jolt when he speaks, the pace of your heart becoming rapid for several beats before settling.
“I’m going to assume you know as much about that as you do everything else about them.” He continued, words blunt and not seeming to take notice of the oddity that just transpired.
“Uh.” It takes you a moment to find your words again. “Yeah, you’re about on par there.”
He huffs a breath. “Don’t worry, it’s not hard. You just have to be a little more careful when they’re this small.”
“Haven’t quite figured out how to eat yet?”
“Sort of. It’s easy for them to choke or aspirate liquid into their lungs. Try and avoid either of those scenarios.” Aizawa crouches next to the entertainment center, taking a small duffel bag from the open area beneath it. Pulling it open, he retrieves a sealed package of tiny bottles and a can of what was probably kitten formula. Old fostering remnants, were you to take a guess.
He’s back off to the kitchen without a word, returning after a few steps to retrieve the mug left behind before he continues. The package is opened, bottles dumped a little unceremoniously into the sink with the sound of bouncing plastic, aluminum covering stripped from the formula canister with a metallic rip.
You can hear more movement from where he is, but most of it is lost to your attention as you reach your fingers among the half-awake kittens, little heads bumbling towards your warmth. It’s only after you hear a quick spat curse (in English, amusingly) that you look up, Aizawa mopping up a splatter from the counter and the side of one of the bottles. You do your best not to laugh, swallowing the chuckle that threatens to escape, mirthful look shoved aside as he returns and hands you one of the warm containers. It looks even smaller in your hand.
“Alright you two, nap’s over.” Aizawa tugs his sleeves up to the elbow and plucks the first kitten from its rest, a perplexed little squeak popping free as he hands it over — the black one. You settle them against your knee as he picks up the tabby who throws quite the fit in comparison to their sibling, little head turning from side to side and doing little other than look moderately confused.
“We’ve really got a yin-yang going on here,” you remark, watching Aizawa settle against the floor in one smooth movement, long legs crossing to his front. More or less just following the leader, you follow suit, sliding from the sofa while he wrangles the squirming little hellion into accepting its dinner.
“I know, I know, everything is new and you hate it,” Aizawa surmises while gently hooking an index finger and thumb around the kitten’s chin. It serves well to keep the wiggles to a minimum, bottle’s teat prodded against their tiny mouth. “It can take them a little while to figure out what you’re trying to do. A lot struggle at first.”
You watch the tabby move their head in all possible directions, fighting against the sheer audacity that was Aizawa trying to keep them from starving to death. “It’s not really what nature intended, I guess.”
“Not at all. Thankfully, we’ve never really given a shit, as a species.”
Debatable, but you quietly watch as the kitten is gradually coaxed into opening its mouth, soft pink gums gnashing from the side at the rubber. It makes a little bit of a mess, droplets of milk dripping down their chin as Aizawa mumbles bits of encouragement, but eventually serves its purpose. One, two, three awkward sucks before the gears visibly turn in their newly developed little brain. A proper latch is found and they soon drink enthusiastically, tiny paws lifting to knead and wave in the open air.
God, that was so fucking cute.
“There, figure it out? Good,” Aizawa deadpanned at the purring little lump against his thigh, now comfortable and settled, then gives his attention to you instead. “You were watching. Try it with the other one.”
“Ah — right.” You’d nearly forgotten, so entranced by those soft pink paw pads and tiny claws stuck straight out in the air. “So just kinda keep poking them until they get interested?”
“Kind of. Hook your fingers around their head like I’m doing with this one, it’ll keep them focused.”
You do as told, your own charge far easier to contain when not energetic enough to try and somersault from your lap. At first, however, you have about as much success getting that bottle in their mouth as Aizawa did, instinct apparently telling them to move their head away from the odd intrusion repeatedly poking their face.
“No, hold it up a little higher. You’re trying an awkward angle.” Aizawa critiques, making you suddenly acutely aware of the fact that he was intently watching you, honing in on your technique.
An upwards adjustment is made.
“Too much.”
Back down it goes, which seems to be acceptable, if his subtle nod was anything to go by. It takes many more prods and pokes and adjustments, a full thirty seconds of you learning just how damn stubborn a newborn kitten could possibly be. Still, you remember what you were told (that kitten sure didn’t know what the hell you were doing), and your tenacity pays off — a proper latch, and the gentle pressure of tiny swallows passing over your fingertips.
“Oh thank god,” you huff out like you’d just passed the midpoint of a marathon, which serves well to amuse your current partner in kitten care. The light smile he gave was just enough to actually reach his eyes, gaze retrained on the tabby in his own lap once it became evident that you had a decent grasp on your own situation. It didn't take much focus to just hold a bottle as the little guy did the rest of the work, and you found your released attention slowly drifting to Aizawa, his focus otherwise occupied.
Where the thought suddenly came from, you weren't entirely clear, however... You’d never really spent time to actually properly look at him before. Like, really look, past quick glances and greetings, as well as the year you spent in class staring at the back of his head. He was easy to describe — a tall, lean-muscled man with permanent untamed stubble and long dark hair that you doubted he brushed more than a few times a week. He always looked tired, dark circles under his eyes a testament to just how little he must sleep; whatever sort of schedule he keeps must be godawful. Overall, you’d describe him as slightly bedraggled, but…
The way he looked now was much more difficult for you to describe, such a rapid transition. Physically he looked the same, of course, but his demeanor was… different. Softer, you supposed. Almost gentle, the way he looked at the little one supported in his hand. That loose strand of hair had been tucked behind an ear and hung down to frame his jawline almost perfectly, and his newly exposed forearms displayed pale skin decorated with a few light scars. Souvenirs from the field, it seemed.
For what felt like just a few moments, you simply watched him. The movement of his breathing and the way his kitten’s ears adorably wiggled with each little suckle. It left you calm, relaxed in a way you don't think you've ever felt before. It's a feeling you bask in... until you hear the sound of your name, anyway, marked and scrutinizing.
“Something on your mind?”
If you didn’t have a kitten resting on your thigh, you would have given quite the violent jolt. Thankfully, you had just enough awareness within yourself to not rocket the poor thing halfway across the room.
Looking up from your trance, you become aware of the sudden harsh thud of your heartbeat, bouncing about your rib cage with a ferocity that nearly rattled the interior. Even more mortifying is the warmth of your own skin, the flush you can feel creeping steadily over your cheeks. Shit, what the hell?
“Ah —” Your voice catches in your throat and you cough, forcing a smile to mitigate any potential concern. Then you realize that you're unsure whether he's concerned, or just trying to figure out what the hell you were staring at. “No, not really. Just zoned out for a sec, the little guy is making me a little too relaxed.”
Aizawa’s gaze lingers for a moment, but if he has further questions (or outright doesn’t believe you), he keeps them to himself. You feel a bit more relieved than you feel you should.
Another few seconds pass before you feel you’ve properly found your voice. “By the way… do you know what we’re gonna do with them? After this, I mean.”
A huff. “Lose a lot of sleep.”
Well, that was short. Honestly, it didn’t even look like he had any to spare, though you keep that thought to yourself. “You plan on keeping them? You said earlier that you stopped fostering because you were too busy.”
“I did, but there aren't really any better options for them.” The tabby makes clear attempts to detach from the bottle after drinking their fill and Aizawa pulls away to put it aside, wiping at the few escaped dribbles down their chin with a fingertip. He then proceeds to wipe it off on his pant leg — ah, how sanitary. “Could try asking the shelter to get in touch with another foster, but that would just be straining their resources. I can manage, it won’t kill me.”
Still… you grimace slightly. Could and should were two entirely different ballparks. Besides, with how often they would need care, he’d be forced home every few hours. Was that really even sustainable?
“How long does it take for them to wean?”
His fingers smoothed down the slightly rumpled fur of the tabby’s back. “A little over a month, about six weeks.”
“Okay. In that case, how about we take shifts?”
Aizawa looks up, the look on his face as surprised as it was attentive.
“I don’t mind switching to daytime patrols for a little while. We can alternate: I’ll take them at night while you’re working, pass them off in the morning and vice-versa. We’ll both be losing some sleep, but it’s better than being on-duty around the clock.”
He mulls it over for just a second, evidently going through some sort of decision-making process before responding, right as your own kitten has eaten their fill. “If you’re offering, I'll take the help.”
“Of course,” you affirmed, setting the bottle aside, fingertip gently rubbing the cheek of your now very drowsy little one. “I pretty much dropped this in your lap, I don’t think my conscience would let me run off without at least offering.”
Aizawa hummed in reply, “I appreciate it. Message me your address later so I know where to take them tonight.”
“I will. It’s kind of far from here, so I’ll try to think of somewhere midway that we can meet up. That way I’m not dragging you halfway across the city.”
He nods in acknowledgment, and you gather the little black furball in your hands, lifting them to your face with a stupidly broad grin. “Now, what are you gonna call you little guys?”
“Don’t,” Aizawa interjects, gathering the lax little body of his lethargic tabby. “Names are how you get attached to —” he takes a peek under their tail, receiving a squeak of protest at the indignity, “him. Next thing you know, you’ve got no self-control and ten cats.”
You scoff, giving him what could be best described as a look. “What do we do, then? Call them Cat A and Cat B for two months?”
“Pretty much.”
“Yeah, no.” Attachment or not, they deserved to be called something at least a little more personal. “Okay, I’ve got a compromise: we give them names, but they’re really dumb ones. Something we wouldn’t get attached to, so we at least have something to call them.”
The look that Aizawa fixates on you is probably the most displeased thing you’ve ever seen cross his face. “That is in no way a compromise.”
“Listen, their new owners can rename them whatever they’d like later. It’s not like they’ll be stuck with it.”
It does little to alleviate that look of obvious judgement, but Aizawa seemingly relents with a slow, drawn out sigh. Clearly, this was not a battle he felt was worth fighting. Later, however, he likely wished that he’d argued his case a bit more firmly.
Years down the line, the two of you would learn that it was pretty exhausting having to constantly explain why your cats were named Chopstick and Udon.