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Shouta Aizawa hums to himself, weighing his options of multigrain bread. Normally, he would be happy sticking with the dozens of juice pouches already accounted for on his list, but somebody in the family has to, if nothing else, pretend to be nutritionally conscious.
After all, their cart is filled to the brim, and at least half of those are products where eating the packaging instead of the contents might actually be the healthier choice. He can’t complain, though. It’s not like he didn’t know things were going to be this way when he married her.
The first “food” she ate after legally becoming Mrs. Aizawa was a packet of toaster pastries from the back of the top shelf in Hizashi’s apartment, so old that even he didn’t know they were still there.
Nothing says breakfast quite like a pair of brown sugar cinnamon frosted rectangles.
“They can’t go stale if they were never fresh,” she had said with a full mouth, the solar system’s most baffling defense.
How did he end up with a woman who quotes comedians to excuse eating things that would've been put to better use as skipping stones? It is anyone’s guess. On the bright side, between the two of them, it’s not like the next generation’s meal choices could be worse.
Someone clears their throat behind him.
“Excuse me, sir, is this yours?”
He turns to find a small human being held up to his face by its mother. A wide-eyed, chubby-cheeked, adorable boy with messy green hair, hanging loosely by his armpits, his tongue barely poking out while he thinks about who-knows-what.
Shouta nods an affirmative, confident that the boy in question hasn’t suddenly stopped being his son in the past few minutes.
Considering their resemblance, it’s fair to say that, yes, he is still Izuku Aizawa. Being present at his birth and for the subsequent four years since also leads Shouta to that conclusion.
“Hello, problem child.”
“Hi, daddy!” Izuku waves to him despite being close enough to touch, wearing a big smile. The rows of white are so wide it’s a wonder they aren’t even his adult teeth.
“Hi’ya, Sho-sho! This is the second time I’ve delivered a baby for you!” Emi Aizawa snickers, leaning out from behind Izuku. “Definitely less painful than the first go, though. It sounds silly, but being punched and stabbed and shot at by villains does not prepare you for having a human head come ou—”
“Emi,” he massages his temples at her rambling. The one saving grace about Izuku’s mumbling is that it isn’t quite so loud. Or as graphic.
“Hm?” his wife quirks a brow, as if making him uncomfortable wasn’t her express intent; an uncharacteristically terrific job of hiding her amusement.
“M’not a baby,” murmurs Izuku.
The problem child continues his repeated attempts to climb over and out of her grasp, like his mom is a living jungle gym. Eventually, his wiggling earns him the right to be set down.
“Your mother was using a figure of speech,” Shouta assures him, crouching briefly to tussle his hair. They lock eyes until he’s positive the boy understands.
“You’ll never guess where I found him,” Emi brings his attention back to the adult world, and to groceries.
“Wherever he’s most likely to get hurt or break something,” Shouta figures, finally deciding on a loaf. “Probably near the wine.”
The way his wife cutely puffs out her cheeks tells him he’s right.
“Technically he was on top of the aisle,” she corrects him like that makes Shouta any less right, hands on her hips.
“And how’d he get up there?”
“You tell me. I was gone for three minutes! You were supposed to watch him, babe.”
“Right,” he nods, pushing both the cart and their playful argument along, “I told him to stay next to me.”
Her eyes narrow, looking for any hint of deception or avoidance on his face, before flicking to Izuku, who busies himself walking figure-eights around their legs, and then back to Shouta.
“…What did you say exactly?”
“I said ‘this way’,” he replies. Perfectly clear instructions.
“That’s it? That’s all you—? Oh my god,” her laughter spills out from the aisle and she slaps her forehead, “Shouta, you’re a huge goober.”
Before he can retort, Emi throws her toned arms over Shouta's shoulders, linking her fingers over his nape. His hands naturally find their way around her waist, running on autopilot. She leans in until her breath tickles his ear.
“Lucky for you, that turns me on,” Emi whispers in that certain tone of voice only he’s heard. That nighttime tone. She can’t help but chuckle when a blush betrays his glare.
“Izuku is smart enough to know what I mean,” Shouta ignores the tint of his face, trying to unfocus the mental images of his birthday the year before last, “aren’t you, Izuku?”
“Mhmm.” Izuku says, the bulk of his attention focused on making his shoes rub noises out of the grocery store’s glossy flooring.
“Izuku is also smart enough to know you’re a big softie and that he probably wouldn’t get punished for walking away. Isn’t that right, Izuku?”
“Mhmm,” the boy repeats.
Shouta huffs, very much doubting Izuku had thought into it that consciously, yet he is nonetheless forced to stare down a woman with a bright, self-satisfied grin.
“… That’s it, the Super Choco-Choco Blast milk is going back on the shelf,” Shouta turns the cart back toward the refrigerated section.
“Nooooo!” whines his son, latching onto the metal grid of the cart.
“Nooooooo!” whines his wife, imitating and equalling Izuku’s passion.
At the risk of (again) being labeled a softie, Shouta rolls his eyes and flips the cart back around before any real pleading begins. If they want the stupid chocolate milk, fine. Izuku, however, maintains an iron grip until he’s presented with his one true weakness. Ticklishness.
It is a well-observed fact that tickling Izuku Aizawa is analogous to picking a kitten up by the scruff of their neck. A few seconds of fingers against his ribs is all it takes for the laughter to begin and for him to fall into Shouta’s arms, before being unceremoniously lugged over the man’s shoulder like a sack of flour.
“Well, that’s one way not to lose track of a kid,” the woman to his side chuckles, “but let’s still keep an extra close eye on them ‘til we’re out of here and they’re both— wait a second,” Emi blinks, head on a swivel, “where the heck is the other one?”
“Beats me. You were supposed to watch him. I was just on problem child duty,” Shouta shrugs, holding Izuku up to a shelf to use like a human metal detector.
‘Metal’, in this case, is ‘whichever brand of instant rice the detector and its brother like best’. It must be malfunctioning though, because it keeps getting distracted with flicking the ON SALE tags that hang from the various products like tiny flags.
Unfortunately, neither Shouta’s snark nor the effort he put into sounding disinterested seem to amuse the Mrs.
“They get this from you,” she groans, dragging a hand down her face. “I oughta put bells on all of you.”
As Izuku concludes his rice-based decision-making, Shouta nonchalantly watches Emi retrace her steps until she rounds a corner, escaping from view. His first thought once she’s gone—beyond internally acknowledging that his wife does indeed still have an astounding butt—is to jiggle the cart.
“You can come out now.”
Out from under pasta and bananas pops a purple head of hair, and with a bit of help, the rest of the boy beneath it, too. Tall for his age and paler than Izuku despite their equal time in the sun, his appearance hasn’t a hint of Emi in it.
He does, however, shares enough features with Shouta that one could easily be forgiven for not realizing he was adopted. They prefer it that way, in truth; it’s not like the boys don’t already know. Failing to correct people just stops idiots from implying they settled.
As it stands, Emi has a few jokes to pull out whenever someone mentions Hitoshi doesn’t look like her:
“Turns out men can impregnate themselves, they just have to be really, reeeeeally accurate.”
“Ha! That’s a good joke. What’s next? Are you gonna tell me my hair isn’t purple? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“That’s just ‘cause I’m sleeping with Shouta’s brother. He’s got strong genes, but lemme tell ya’, having an affair with someone that doesn’t even exist is a lot harder than it sounds.”
“Brilliant work, Captain Obvious. You broke this case wide open. Your next assignment is to find someone with glasses, ask to try them on, and then act surprised when things look blurry.”
Izuku seems to find Shouta and Hitoshi’s little prank especially funny.
“’Toshi!” Izuku throws his hands in the air at the sight of his brother, aka the most likely reason he wandered off in the first place, and thus why he’d climb a wine shelf for a better view of the area.
That’s Shouta’s fatherly instinct, anyway. That, and simple deduction, considering that the sole reason Hitoshi had drifted away from Emi’s side was to get back to the cart where Izuku had been, by his own admission.
The irony is worth laughing at. Shouta does not, but it is worth it.
“Did I do okay?” Hitoshi looks up, hopeful.
“Even quieter than me,” Shouta smiles softly, seeing a grin spreads across Hitoshi’s face as he’s taken out of the cart.
Like a canary in a coal mine, when Izuku’s bouncy chuckles stop, the jig is up. He and his brother both freeze, looking behind their father. Shouta’s educated guess for the sight that stopped them in tracks is an annoyed spouse.
He turns his head enough to get confirmation.
Yep.
That’s an annoyed spouse alright.
“Scatter!” Hitoshi yells, running in a random direction once he gets a good grip on Izuku’s hand, displaying the little known fact that the actual scattering part of ‘scatter!’ must be strangely negotiable in his head. It doesn’t end up mattering either way, as Shouta easily snatches them both up before they make it anywhere.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he turns to Emi holding a giggling boy under each arm, “are these yours?”
“Shouta Aizawa,” She grumbles at the callback, trying desperately (and failing) to stay entirely annoyed.
Shouta sets Izuku and Hitoshi back on solid ground with simple instructions that send them immediately crashing into Emi, arms wide:
“How about a mission for two young heroes?” he quietly asks, both boys ecstatic at the prospect. “Giving your mom a hug right now might actually save my life.”
Emi grunts from the force of two small bodies running right into her legs, and Shouta bides his time until all traces of irritation are thoroughly erased from her expression.
“That should be enough. Excellent work, boys. Now go grab as many energy bars as you think can still fit into this cart. I need work food.”
Before he even finishes, Hitoshi and Izuku are already eagerly sprinting down the wrong aisle.
“Other way,” Shouta points out, watching them change course and head down a different, but equally incorrect aisle, “No, the other-other—” he gives a heavy sigh, recognizing an uphill battle. “Just stick together!”
His wife sidles up to him, having recovered from the earlier mega-ultra-super-hug she’d received.
“That was a dirty trick—eep!” Emi pouts, only to be caught off guard when she’s pulled in by the waist.
“I thought you liked those?” Shouta asks in the huskiest tone he can manage, so close their noses touch.
She blinks.
Then cackles.
She laughs so loud it’d give Hizashi a run for his money, and so hard that Shouta’s arms around her are the only thing keeping her upright. Her body tilts back with what seems like never-ending amusement. It looks as if he's dipping her at the end of a very peculiar dance routine.
“Alright, maybe I do,” Emi admits once she’s had a minute to calm down, “now and again.”
“Now and again?” Shouta scoffs, his grin incredulous. He knows her better than anyone, which means knowing that the redness of her cheeks isn’t just from laughing.
“Don’t push it,” she playfully punches her husband in the shoulder, making him wince from the power behind the blow.
That’s my girl.
Their semi-sarcastically intimate moment cuts to an abrupt halt when the boys come barreling in with energy bars practically spilling from their arms. Izuku uses his shirt like a bowl for the excessive amount of snacks they haphazardly throw onto the pile, quickly filling any room Hitoshi had left post-hiding.
The Aizawa family’s grocery tank is dwarfed by the food in it— not to mention the kids latching onto either side.
Oh god, the poor cashier.
“I think that’s enough for today,” Emi tells them, moving to push the cart after she grants Shouta a peck on the cheek.
“Maybe U’cle Hizashi can come next time!” Izuku suggests, chewing on his lip.
“Yeah, yeah! And Aunt Nemuri, too!” Hitoshi agrees, so engrossed in the conversation he barely registers being plucked off the cart.
“Uhhhhhhhh—” Shouta stares straight ahead with glassy eyes, mind filling with horrifically overwhelming potential scenarios. He fights to keep pace and not stop to the rigid standstill his brain is asking him for. “I’m not sure that’s such a goo—”
“That’s a great idea!” Emi shouts.
A problem child wanders without direction to burn off the excitement.
A boy usually known for his stoicism hops with glee while tugging his brother back on track.
A spouse gives them both high fives and waits for Shouta to participate. Her hand stays raised in the air as an utter refusal to be left hanging.
Why.
Why.
Why do these people—his family, by both blood and by choice, whether they’re present or elsewhere—have to be the ones he finds so very much worth loving? Why couldn’t he have been the type of person who’s attracted to some quiet wallflower and has no friends? It could’ve been so simple.
That’s not what he wants, it’s not who he is, but damn it, it would’ve been easier.
Surely, in another world, some version of Shouta Aizawa is living a calmer life.
… A more boring one.
Aw, hell.
Shouta slaps Emi’s hand hard enough to make her squeak.
Because why not?