Work Text:
Your husband isn’t known for flowery language or for endlessly letting words flow out of his mouth. You can probably count the number of times he’s said “I love you” on your hands and feet. That’s okay, though. Aizawa isn’t a man of many words, but he shows his love for you every day, through all the little things he does for you.
A cloud of steam billows out of the doorway as you leave the bathroom, gripping the fluffy towel that’s wrapped around you. You’re almost at your bedroom when there’s a click from your front door—keys turning in the lock. You pause in the hallway and watch as the door opens, revealing your exhausted husband.
“Welcome home, Shouta,” you call to him, smiling as he raises his head. You can feel his dark eyes on you, taking in the slight sheen on your skin from your shower.
“I’m home,” he says in reply. His voice is rough after hours of little use, and thick with fatigue from being on patrol. “You have work soon.”
You nod. “I’ll head out as soon as I change and eat breakfast.”
“Did you make it yet?” he asks, shutting the front door and taking off his shoes. He unwraps his capture weapon from around his neck and drapes the bundle of not-quite-cloth on the back of a chair in the dining area.
“No, not yet.”
“I’ll make breakfast, then.”
You open your mouth to protest, knowing that he’s been hard at work on his patrol. He needs to sleep before heading to U.A. to teach his students.
But he interrupts you, already aware of the concerns you have in mind. “You still need to change. It makes sense for me to get it ready for you.”
The steadiness in his voice tells you that he won’t budge on this, so you nod in acquiescence. “Alright, if you insist. Please go to bed as soon as you’re done though, and take your sleeping bag to work.”
His eyebrow twitches at the mention of his sleeping bag. Even though the color is atrocious, it was your gift to him from a few years ago, so he uses it anyway. “I will,” he manages to say. “Now go change.”
You turn away from him and quickly enter your room, unable to hide the smile that spreads across your face. You know he hates the color of his sleeping bag. That’s exactly why you got it (after some unsubtle encouragement from Yamada). If he had said anything about the color, you would have snickered and given him a black one a day later, but he just sighed and thanked you for it when he opened up the present. You’re pretty sure he knows that it was a prank, but he still hasn’t said anything—so neither will you.
Laughing quietly, you slip into comfortable clothes; you can change into your hero outfit once you get to the agency. But first, breakfast.
Sunlight streams through the windows, scattering soft light in the apartment. It caresses your husband’s skin and hair, seeming to wipe away the signs of exhaustion, making your heart skip a beat at his beauty. He’s focused on the stove, watching an omelette sizzle away in a pan. The toaster ticks away as two slices of bread turn golden under red heated coils, and the heavenly smell of buttery toast fills the air.
You walk over to Aizawa and slip your arms around his waist, hugging him from behind. Strands of his dark hair brush against your skin. “It smells good,” you mumble against his back.
He hums once in reply. Defined muscles shift and contract as he moves, using a spatula to flip the omelette over. Both of you stand like this for a few more minutes, and you bask in the warmth of his body.
“It’s done,” your husband says.
You draw back from hugging him and step to the side. As you pull the toast from the toaster and get it onto a plate, he turns off the stove and brings the pan over. He scoops the fragrant omelette on one slice of toast, and you flip the other slice on top of the stack, completing the sandwich.
“Mmm.” You inhale deeply, walking over to the dining table with the plate in your hands.
Aizawa follows, but only after he puts the pan in the sink and picks up an orange. As you eat breakfast, he peels the fruit for you, meticulously stripping it of the white pith in the middle before passing individual segments to you.
You accept them, but for every piece of the orange you have, you make sure he eats one too.
The atmosphere at the table is warm and full of affection. Bloodshot, tired eyes watch you from across the table. Aizawa takes pleasure in the way you eat the food he prepared for you, and his expression softens at the sigh of contentment you let out after you finish your sandwich.
You lean back in your chair, looking at your husband as he holds your gaze. A moment later, you get to your feet and pick up your plate.
“Thank you, Shouta.”
Aizawa nods and rises too, taking the plate from your hands to put it in the sink. “You’ll be late if you don’t leave now.”
“Alright, I’m going! Come say goodbye at the door?” You blink at him with wide eyes, and he agrees with a fond sigh and the slightest shake of his head.
He rarely says no to you.
You put on your shoes and grab your bag. He helps you into a light jacket, holding it up for you to slip your arms in the sleeves. When it’s on, he runs his hands down your arms to your hands, then leans in and presses his lips to your forehead.
It’s warm. Your eyes flutter shut and you wrap your arms around him. “Thank you for breakfast,” you murmur. Thank you for showing your love for me, you mean. “I love you.”
He pulls back slowly and opens the door for you. “I know,” he says.
You step outside your apartment. Your smile is bright in response to his words. “Get some sleep, Shouta. You’ve taken care of me enough this morning, now take care of yourself. You have an energetic class of students to teach.”
“I will. I’ll see you tonight.”
You nod. Aizawa waits in the doorway until you get into the elevator, the silver doors sliding closed and concealing you from sight. He shuts and locks the apartment door, then sighs. “I will never grow tired of taking care of you,” he tells the empty room, his voice warm with affection.
A moment later, he moves toward his kitchen. He’ll get some sleep since he told you he would, but first, the dishes are waiting.
–
After a day of patrols, paperwork, lunch, and training sidekicks at the agency, you clock out and head back home. It’s late enough for Aizawa to be done with teaching, so he’s probably home already, grading papers or analyzing his student’s fighting styles.
Your assumption is proved correct when you see his shoes by the door once you open it. You slip off your own shoes and line yours up next to his. A bright yellow roll of the sleeping bag rests not too far away from the collection of footwear. You smile, glad that he took it to work to catch some extra minutes of sleep.
“I’m home!” you call, shrugging out of your thin jacket.
There’s no reply. You scan the kitchen, dining room, and living room. He’s not there. He must be in the office then, hard at work.
The door to the office is cracked open, but you knock against the wood twice. It’s silent, so you hesitantly push open the door and step into the office, a softness in your eyes at the sight before you.
The final rays of sunlight stream through the windows, falling across the two desks—one for you and one for him. Warm colors paint the sky, turning it into flames of reds and oranges, purples of crushed berries spilling close behind.
Though the sky is beautiful, it’s nothing compared to your husband. His dark hair fans out over white papers like raven feathers. Calloused fingers loosely clutch a deep blue pen, but the writing utensil is about to slip out of his grasp and he doesn’t notice at all. Of course he doesn’t notice, not with his whole body slumped over his desk, eyes closed and shadowy lashes brushing against his skin.
Your nose wrinkles at the odd angle his neck is held at. Any longer in this position, and he’ll be slightly irritated the rest of the night. Not to mention, it wouldn’t help his patrol at all.
So you slip out of the office, moving to your shared bedroom. Your jacket goes onto a hanger and into the closet. Then you’re grabbing a pillow from the bed, and snatching a folded blanket off the back of the living room couch, before returning to your husband.
You deal with his pen first; taking it from his grasp and capping it, then placing it on your desk. Papers rustle as you gather them up, and you find amusement in scrawled handwriting from a kid named “Kaminari.” Those go on your desk too, in a neat stack.
Now comes the difficult part.
With one hand supporting your husband’s head, you gently lift him up enough for you to slip the pillow under it. A rumble comes from his throat at the movement, but he settles down a moment later and doesn’t wake up.
Picking up the blanket, you shake it out and drape it over Aizawa. It’s soft under your fingers as you tuck it in around his shoulders, keeping him warm.
Now that he’s more comfortable, you ease yourself into the chair at your desk. A glance at the papers tells you that they’re multiple choice quizzes, and you nod to yourself in satisfaction. You can easily work on this as your husband gets a few more hours of rest.
–
The sky is indigo by the time Aizawa opens his eyes, blinking groggily as he sits up from his desk.
Immediately, he knows you’re home.
It’s obvious by the pillow that his head was resting on, by the blanket that slips from his shoulders as he sits up. It’s obvious by the mouthwatering scent of miso soup and by the sizzle of vegetables stir-frying in the pan. But most of all, it’s obvious by the way his student’s tests are stacked in the corner of his desk, with a baby blue sticky note at the very top.
He peels the note off the tests, taking in the words written in your familiar slant, in dark blue ink from his pen.
You needed the rest, so I let you sleep and took care of these tests. Come join me whenever you are ready, okay? I’ll make dinner.
A finger brushes against the collection of strokes that form your name, and he tastes your name on his tongue before whispering it. The three written words of affection that come after are silent, only spoken in his mind, unable to make it past his lips.
Aizawa pulls open the top drawer in his desk, reaching into the back corner to withdraw a stack of sticky notes, each already written on. He thumbs through them, briefly scanning over the words. Your voice is clear in his head, as if you’re speaking to him instead.
I’m going out to get groceries! I’ll get your favorite snacks too, you deserve it.
Let’s have dinner together when I get home. It’s been a while since we’ve eaten together; things have been so busy.
I saw a black cat today. It was avoiding a yellow one that kept chasing after it. Sound familiar
All the notes are similar to these, each capturing a moment that you thought of him. Every single one of them ends with your name, and “I love you” written underneath.
Some of these sticky notes are years old, a couple from a time before the two of you got married. A few of them are more wrinkled than others, from back when he didn’t take care of them as well as he should have. But now, he adds your most recent note to the top of the stack and clamps them together with a black binder clip, before sliding them into the corner of the drawer. A few moments later, the drawer rolls across its tracks before closing with a gentle thud.
Aizawa isn’t one to particularly care about material things, but this collection of notes is one of his most precious belongings.
He sometimes reads through them if he hasn’t seen you for a while—if your hours off work rarely coincide, not giving you a chance to spend time together, except for collapsing into bed from exhaustion at strange hours of the night.
They remind him of how much you love him, although he doesn’t need these notes to know.
But he thinks the most important part is that they make him fall in love with you all over again, each time he sees a square scrap of paper stuck to a surface in the house. They’re little pieces of you, of your love, that you put into words he can hold in his hands, and he loves you all the more for them.
–
One weekend, when both of your schedules line up enough to give you the Saturday off, you’re excited to spend a day lounging around the house with Aizawa, basking in his presence. It would be nice to just lie on the couch with a movie playing in the background as the two of you catch up on some much needed rest.
And you do that, for most of the morning. You make an easy breakfast together, then move to the living room to just sit and talk. His arm is warm around your shoulders, pulling you into him, and you rest your head against his chest.
You ask questions about his class, and patrol, and he tells you stories about his students that make you laugh. He asks you questions too, about the agency you run, about anything interesting you’ve seen on patrol.
Then the conversation slows, falling into a comfortable silence. Your eyelids slide shut, sleep making them heavy.
You must have dozed off, because Aizawa is gently calling your name, pulling you out of a brief moment of rest.
“Hm?” you mumble, disgruntled.
He smiles at you, just a small one, with his lips curling at the corners. You brush your hand against his cheek, dark stubble rough against your hands.
“Let’s go out for lunch,” he suggests.
Your eyes widen, then narrow slightly. “You already have somewhere planned, don’t you?”
He chuckles. You can feel the vibrations through his chest as he speaks. “You know me too well.”
“It’s called being married, Shouta. But sure, let’s go.”
A few minutes later, the two of you exit your apartment. You walk by your husband’s side, and he leads the way, resting a hand on your back when you need to turn the corner. The busy main streets turn to smaller streets, then narrow into alleys that only a few pedestrians walk down.
“You’re not taking me somewhere to get me murdered, are you?” you ask.
“You tell me. It won’t be much of a lunch date if it ends up just being me at the table,” he says, voice a soft rumble.
You turn down one more alley, this one with a few signs hanging off the walls. There’s a small pawn shop on the left, and a convenience store further down. But on the right, a small chalkboard sign bears a doodle of ramen, gyoza, and a cup of bubble tea.
You whip your head around to look at your husband, eyes sparkling. “How did you find out about this place?”
He’s pleased in the way excitement shines through your face, his heart aching at your beauty. “From patrol,” he answers. “Had to chase someone through these streets, and caught him right in front of the pawn shop. I saw this blackboard and thought it was worth checking out with you.”
Your smile is brilliant. “Thank you for thinking of me.”
“Yeah,” Aizawa says, distracted by you. He rubs the back of his neck and glances at the doors. “Let’s- let’s go in."
The restaurant is small, but cozy, with warm wooden tables and seats. You sit down at a table for two, turning to look at the large menu boards hanging up by the cooking area. A few minutes in, you place your orders, sipping on tea and chatting as you wait.
Lunch is delicious; each bite of food flavorful. You steal one of his gyoza, biting into the crispy skin of the pan-fried dumpling, humming as the salty taste bursts in your mouth. He tries a spoonful of your ramen in return, and you feel warm because of the way his tongue swipes across his lips as he picks up the last drops of soup.
When you’re both full and a little sleepy, and your dishes are empty, you pay for the meal and start walking home.
You hook your arm through Aizawa’s, leaning into his side. He looks at you, eyes soft. “Did you like lunch?”
You nod eagerly. “I loved it. We should go again soon!”
“Perhaps on the next day we have off, then,” he says, “if it makes you this happy.”
“You liked it too, though! I didn’t miss you sneaking another spoonful of the ramen soup base.”
His tone is dry, although amused, in his response. “You didn’t miss it because you were staring at my lips.”
You duck your head and let go of his arm, stepping behind him and placing your hands on his back to push him forward. “You didn’t have to say it like that!”
You can feel the vibrations of his laughter through your palms, and you smack one hand against his back in retaliation. It does nothing to stop his laughter, though it turns into quiet chuckles.
Aizawa reaches behind him and wraps a hand around your wrist, tugging gently until you walk by his side again.
The rest of the journey home is relatively silent, both of you feeling a little drowsy from the large lunch. But as your husband unlocks the apartment door, your arms slip around his waist and you hug him tightly from behind.
“Thank you for lunch,” you say. “I loved it. Both the food, and the company.” That makes him smile, though you can’t see it. “You’re always thinking about me, and I love you so much for it.”
Aizawa pauses. His hands leave the key inside the lock, and they rest on yours that are around his waist. The calluses on his fingers are rough, but his touch is soft and gentle as his thumb brushes across the back of your hand.
“I know,” he finally says. “And I know you’re always thinking about me too.”
That is why he loves you.
–
The relaxing weekend ends, and classes and patrols start up again. Aizawa sits at his desk in your shared office, a mountain of papers in front of him. As he scribbles feedback to his students, the TV runs in the background, news headlines and clips flashing across the screen.
A reporter says a word, a name, your hero name, and his head snaps up from the papers.
Dark eyes take in the live stream of a street in downtown Mustafu. A villain—the height of two apartment stories and the width of an elephant—roars and stomps down the busy street. Every step makes the ground shake, evident by the trembling of the camera and the stumbling pedestrians as they scream and rush away from it.
Everyone runs away, except for you.
You run toward it. You cut through the crowd until it gets too dense, then toss up what seems like a rope so one end wraps around the top of a street lamp. With a tug, you shoot through the air above civilians, and another length of rope unfurls from your free hand, wrapping around the next street light.
You swing through the air.
“Like a comic book hero that has come to life,” says a reporter, and Aizawa’s breath catches in his throat.
No, not a comic book hero, he decides. But a free spirit, one who is not bound by the laws of physics; a warrior of the skies.
Without hesitation, you fling yourself into the air, high above the villain. Then you let gravity take hold of you again, and you plummet toward the ground—to crash into the villain’s back.
It stumbles, rampage stopped by the sudden impact.
You are in motion yet again before it can even react, making use of a rope to bind its legs together as you slip another around its neck. Though the villain struggles, its arms cannot reach you.
Aizawa knows the fight is over.
The villain tries to step forward, to jostle you off its back, anything, but your rope around its legs holds tight and it tips over. It leans slowly, slowly, then faster and faster until it hits the ground with an earth-shaking thud. Pavement cracks on impact, scattering dust and debris into the air.
Everything is still. But once the dust slowly settles, you hop off its back, a smile spreading across your face as civilians cheer from the sidelines.
The news reporter steps in front of the camera, talking about your quick actions and the successful capture of a villain.
Aizawa ignores the reporter, focusing his attention on the background instead. You’re still interacting with the civilians, but he notices your hand brushing lightly across your shoulder, and the slight twitch in your smile that follows.
His brows furrow. Pushing away from his desk, he moves into the bathroom and opens a cabinet under the sink, pulling out a red box. Opening it reveals compartments full of disinfectant, cotton balls, wraps, and all other kinds of first aid materials. But the stock of bandages is low—only two sorry band-aids remain, crinkled wrappers clinging onto each other.
Sighing, Aizawa closes the first-aid kit and brings it out to the living room. He grabs the house keys and his wallet, before putting on shoes and stepping out the door.
He has to make a trip to the nearest convenience store.
–
You shut the apartment door behind you and lean against it for a moment, closing your eyes as you let out a breath. Your shoulders throb from the strain you put on them while fighting the villain, although with a good rub and a night of rest, the pain should dissipate by tomorrow. Besides that, there’s a few cuts on you that need to be taken care of. But you’re not sure if you restocked the supply of bandages the last time you used the first-aid kit, and you don’t exactly want to trek to the nearest store to buy some.
“Welcome home.”
You startle, eyes flashing open as you push off the door. Then you shake your head and huff out a laugh, slipping off your shoes before walking to your husband who sits on the couch. “Make some more noise next time you’re watching someone,” you complain. “You’re always so quiet when you want to be.”
Aizawa’s lips curve in a smirk as he looks up at you. His hand is warm around your wrist, pulling gently until you sit next to him.
“I saw the fight with the villain,” he said.
Your eyes widen. “You were there? I thought you had assignments to grade.”
“I had the TV on and the news was broadcasting it. You took care of it quickly.” A pause, before he speaks again. “You did well.”
You feel warm from the praise, and lean your head against his shoulder, until a spike of pain on your cheek makes you lift your head up again.
“Ah,” you say, “I didn’t notice I scratched up my face.”
Your eyes stray to the table in front of the couch, taking in the red box on top of it. You whip your head around to look at your husband. “You’re prepared for anything, aren’t you?”
He shakes his head and leans over to open up the first-aid kit. “No, I’m just observant.”
He must have seen you brushing lightly at your scrapes or something, then checked the kit and noticed the low supply of band-aids. A box of new ones lays inside its compartment. “Thank you,” you say softly.
He only nods in response as he digs through the box, taking out a bottle of disinfectant, clean cotton pads, and the newly purchased band-aids.
The two of you are silent as you work to clean your wounds. You take care of the ones you can easily reach, like the one on your thigh and the one on your calf. Aizawa cleans the rest with a gentle hand, carefully applying bandages over the deeper cuts.
There’s one more on your face, so you sit back on the couch as your husband stands in front of you. One hand cradles your cheek as the other disinfects the scrape. Though the alcohol stings, you hold still and don’t wince. Still, he must sense your pain, and his thumb strokes across your skin in comfort as he wipes away the blood.
He’s careful as he applies the band-aid, smoothing out the sides so it doesn’t wrinkle on your face.
“You’re done,” he says. All your wounds cleaned and treated, and bandaged up, but his hand doesn’t leave your face just yet.
You look into his dark eyes, warmth and affection shining from within. He stares back, taking in the features that he loves so much.
Reaching up with one hand so it rests on top of Aizawa’s own, you keep it cradled around your face. The small smile you give him makes his heart skip a beat. And when you turn your head to the side, pressing your lips against the palm of his hand in a soft kiss, he loses the ability to breathe.
Slowly pulling away from his hand, you look at him again. His piercing gaze warms you from within, and a tingle runs down your spine. “I love you, Shouta.”
He somehow draws in a breath. His voice is rugged and deep, and he almost stumbles over the two words he responds with.
“I know.”
–
You get the news while you’re finishing your shift at work. It’s noon, and you’re ready to leave for lunch, but a sidekick calls your name in a way that stops your heart for a beat. There’s an unusually solemn air hanging around her the closer you get.
She wordlessly gestures to the TV. It takes a second for the words on the scrolling headline to register, and something starts to ring in your ears as the reporter repeats the news.
“Rescue training gone wrong?” he asks rhetorically.
You can’t hear the next few words that come out of his mouth. But you’ve heard enough.
Your phone chooses that moment to buzz with a new text. You nearly dismiss it, but the words on the screen make your hands tremble as you open up the message from Yamada.
“Mustafu General Hospital” is all it says.
You’re not sure what you tell your sidekick, but it gets you out of the agency and into a cab. You manage to choke out the hospital name in the silence of the taxi, and the driver wordlessly presses on the gas pedal, weaving his way through city traffic.
Once the large building looms in front of you, you toss bills into the front seat and scramble out of the taxi, heart racing twice the speed that your feet carry you.
You stop to sign in at the desk, and you stumble over your words as you ask the receptionist for the room that your husband is in. They’re quick to give you the information, but the look of pity on their faces makes your skin crawl.
He’s okay, isn’t he? It’s not like he’s d-
He couldn’t be-
He’s fine, he has to be.
Someone calls your name. The voice is familiar, but the tone is not; it’s subdued, almost quiet.
“Hizashi!” you cry out, and your voice breaks on the last syllable.
His face is pale and strained, but he holds out his arms and lets you collapse into his chest. He’s warm around you; a slight comfort in the panic and dread that courses through you. Yet there’s something missing in the comfort.
He’s not your husband.
“W-what happened? Why is Shouta hurt?” You swallow hard before asking your final question. “Is he- is he okay?”
Yamada’s eyes shine with unshed tears. His voice shakes as he answers you. “There was- there was an attack on the U.S.J. facility while he was training with his students.”
“An attack?” you parrot back, the words not quite registering. You thought the school was safe. You thought you only had to worry when he went on patrols, not when he was teaching.
“It was–” Yamada glances at the people in the busy hospital, before leaning in and whispering “–an attack by the League.”
Something strangles your lungs. “How badly is he hurt?” Because you know he is hurt. He could never let his students get attacked without doing something, including putting his life on the line if he has to.
That’s the kind of man you fell in love in.
Yet that selflessness is the cause of the painful throbbing in your chest.
“B-badly,” Yamada says, flinching at the sorrow that takes over your features. “But the doctors are doing their best, so he’ll be okay.”
You think he’s finished. You’re not necessarily prepared to see the damage, but ready enough to brace yourself, when Yamada mutters out words you weren’t meant to hear. “He has to be.”
That doesn’t help your nerves, and a sickening concoction of fear and anxiety coats your tongue. You attempt to swallow it down while choking out your own words with as much resolve as possible. “Take me to him. Please.”
Yamada nods. He holds onto your hand as he guides you through the halls of the hospital, and the warmth is the only thing you can focus on as the rest of your body goes cold.
So, so cold.
–
You first talk to the doctor outside of Aizawa’s hospital room. Each injury he lists off breaks something within you, piece by piece.
“Comminuted fractures in his arms... facial fractures... no brain damage, thankfully.”
You choke out a laugh. Thankfully? Thankfully? He was already injured so badly; that one small bit of good news does nothing to lift your spirits.
“And,” the doctor says, making you freeze again—there’s more?— “the bones around his eye sockets have been crushed into a powder. There's a chance it might adversely affect his eyesight.”
At this, you stop paying attention anymore. Your grip on Yamada’s hand goes limp, just as his grip gets painfully tight.
“His quirk,” you mumble. The doctor pauses, and asks you to repeat that. “His quirk,” you say again, voice rising in volume. “He needs his eyes for his quirk, he’s a hero, you- you have to heal his eyes!”
The doctor’s smile is sympathetic as he nods. “My team will try its best.”
You straighten up and stare into the doctor’s eyes. “You will not try. You will make it happen.”
Because if Aizawa can’t use his eyes again, it might break the man that you love.
“When can we see him?” Yamada asks, drawing the doctor’s attention away from your glare.
The doctor looks at his watch. “In two hours,” he says. “We’ll finish up with him in an hour or so, and it’ll take another one for him to wake up. In the meantime, if one of you is staying overnight, take the time to go home and pack some essentials. I have to go back inside to see how things are going.”
“Thank you, doctor,” Yamada manages to say.
You don’t say anything at all. All you can hear is the doctor’s report on your husband’s condition, and your heart aches for him. The recovery process will probably be long and painful, but at least he’s alive. And you’ll be there for him every step of the way.
–
When you’re told that he’s awake and that you can go in to see him, you hesitate and ask Yamada to go in first. Of course, you want to see Aizawa, but… you don’t want to get interrupted to let Yamada see him too. He agrees in understanding.
They talk for around ten minutes before Yamada exits the room. He lets you know that he has to go, wrapping you up in his arms to say goodbye. “He’ll be okay,” he tells you, just a bit too loudly in your ear.
As Yamada turns the corner, you stop in front of Aizawa’s door. Taking a deep breath, you pull it open and step in, only for your eyes to grow wide at the sight in front of you.
“Shouta!”
His head snaps up to look at you, and you aren’t quite sure how he can see through the mass of bandages around him. “You’re here,” he says gruffly. “Let’s go home.”
Your mouth falls open and you gape at him. He’s halfway out of the hospital bed, dressed in a hospital gown and a million meters of bandages.
Rushing over to him, you stand in his way. You’d push him back onto the bed, but with the bandages covering nearly every inch of skin, you don’t know where you can touch without hurting him.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Aizawa blinks at you, eyes visible through the smallest gap in the bandages on his face. “I’m leaving.”
“But- but look at yourself! You’re barely standing on your own, and the only reason you can do so is because of the painkillers they gave you! You’re hurt, Shouta. Badly. Let the doctors do their job.”
He stares into your eyes, and you stare back, unflinching. He sighs and gets back into the hospital bed. You see him wince as he moves, and you almost spit out a rather mean-spirited “see?”, but you hold it in. You don’t want your worry for him to turn into venomous words.
You take a moment to move a chair besides his bed. You settle into it, leaning on the armrest. A few moments of silence pass. Then a question tumbles out of your mouth, pain in your eyes and laced in your voice. “What happened?”
He hesitates for a moment before speaking. “My class had a rescue training exercise at the U.S.J. Not long after we got there, a portal opened and a few dozen villains stepped in. They cut off our communication with the main building, so we couldn’t call for backup and we couldn’t leave. I had to fight.”
He says everything so plainly, even though fighting had cost him his body, and quite possibly his eyesight.
Your vision blurs with tears, distorting his bandaged figure. “You got hurt so badly, Shouta. And the doctor… the doctor said that your eyesight may suffer because of the injuries around your eyes. Your quirk, Shou–”
“I know!”
The outburst makes you jolt in your seat, eyes wide.
“Then why– How did they hurt you so much? You’re so powerful, and you fight in a way that doesn’t let them get too close to you.”
Aizawa shakes his head, scattering dark hair around his shoulders. “I just-” He swallows, as if the words are hard to get out. “Most of them were weak, and I took them out easily. But three of them… they were deadlier than most. The kind of villains that get locked up in Tartarus. I couldn’t let my students fight them. I needed to stop them, so I gave all I needed to.”
You love that he cares so much about his students. You love that about him, and you’d put your life on the line just as he did, but still. You’re trembling with panic, and it hasn’t quite registered that he’s okay and he isn’t going to disappear on you. And the way you felt when you saw the news flashing on the screen—that dark feeling still lingers, freezing your bones.
So you can’t stop the fearful words that spill out of your mouth, your voice shaking despite your best attempt to keep it steady. “Did you even think about me? As you were throwing yourself into battle, was I ever on your mind? About what would happen if you- if you died?”
You pause. The next words come out quietly, almost lifeless. “Losing you would break me.”
Aizawa takes in the slight tremble of your body, and the wet sheen in your eyes. His chest aches at your pain. “You’re strong though,” he says, grasping for words to comfort you. “I know you’d survive.”
“Maybe I’d survive, but I wouldn’t be able to live!” Your voice cracks on the last word, and the room falls silent. You sit there, shoulders heaving as you start to sob, tears streaming down your face.
“Shit,” Aizawa whispers, eyes stinging at your words and the sight of your tears. Slowly, he lifts up a bandaged arm, reaching out to you. “Come here.” His tone is soft and pleading, wanting you close to him.
You slowly walk to him and sit on the side of his bed, wiping at your tears as even more spill down your cheeks. His arm wraps around your shoulders, and he pulls you into him.
He’s warm around you. Alive. And the comfort feels complete, now that you have him right there beside you. Your hands grip on the fabric of his hospital gown at this realization, and you don’t hold back; silent sobs turn into small wails, tears creating a damp patch on his chest.
Aizawa lets you cry, not minding the soaked fabric that sticks to his skin. He does his best to rub your back, a steadying weight to reassure you that he’s here.
Minutes pass, and your sobs start to quiet down.
He’s found the words that he needs to tell you, so he starts to speak. “I did think of you. You were the one that kept me going, that pushed me to keep fighting for my students, for my life, because that’s what you do every day. And before- before I fell unconscious, the last thought I had was whether or not I’d be able to see you again.”
You sniff hard, uncurling your hands to wipe away your tears. Pulling back slightly, you look into his dark eyes.
He gazes at you like you’re the most important thing to him in the entire world. Because to him, that’s exactly what you are.
“I love you.” It comes out as a whisper. You say it again, louder, as your hands reach up to cup his face. You touch layers and layers of bandages instead of his skin. “I love you so, so much. And I’m so glad that you’re okay. Whatever happens with your eyesight, and your quirk, we’ll deal with it together, understand? I’m here with you every step of the way.”
His eyes narrow, but the corners tilt upward, and you know he’s smiling under the gauze.
A small laugh escapes you. You guide his head closer to yours, and you lean in, gently pressing your lips to where his mouth should be. He’s warm under your touch, even through the bandages. One of your hands slides down from his face to rest on his chest, where his heart beats under your palm.
He’s alive. So, so alive. You didn’t lose him today, and you won’t lose him for a long, long time.
–
You stay by his side the rest of the day and into the night. Aizawa’s hand rests on top of yours as both of you fall asleep, reassuring you that he’s still here.
The next morning, he somehow convinces the doctors to let him go home, spouting nonsense in a deadpan voice about “recovering the best at home.” You roll your eyes at him. He’s only saying this to get out of the hospital, but you go along with it and tell the doctors that you’ll make sure he takes his medicine and gets enough rest.
Your husband’s movements are smoother and not hindered with pain as eases himself into the wheelchair. You’re not sure how he’s recovering this quickly, but can only be thankful to the dedicated doctors and nurses at the hospital.
On the way home in the taxi, you keep glancing at him out of the corner of your eyes. Bandages cover him from head to toe, with a small gap for him to see through.
You hold the apartment door open for him. He takes off his shoes once he’s inside, and immediately walks to the windows in the living room.
Morning sunlight streams through the glass and spreads warmth through the room. The rays fall across his hair, making it shine. His posture is unusually straight as he takes in the view out the window, just breathing in and existing in the quiet of the early day.
He’s beautiful. Ethereal.
And he’s home.
You walk up behind him and slide your arms around him, not hugging him too tightly for fear of hurting him. Slowly, Aizawa wraps his hands around your wrist. He tugs gently, pulling you closer until your chest presses against his back. His grip leaves your wrists and a warm weight settles on top of your clasped hands, bandaged fingers cradling yours in his.
The two of you stand in the silence of your apartment. His thumb starts to stroke across the back of your hand, and you can’t help but smile in delight.
“Welcome home, Shouta,” you mumble against his back.
His thumb pauses. “Yeah. I’m home.”
And you are so glad that he is.
Then his stomach growls, loud in the quiet room. You laugh and pull back from him, though his hands are slow to leave yours, as if he’s reluctant to be away from you for too long.
“The bathroom is all yours. No, don’t protest, you’re the one that was in a hospital bed for an entire day. I’ll get started on breakfast so you can eat when you’re finished.”
He sighs but nods, shuffling into the bedroom to grab a clean change of clothes.
You smile after him, before moving into the kitchen. It’s time to make some pancakes, you decide, and you’ll make sure that these are extra special.
–
A bowl of freshly cut fruit catches Aizawa’s eye on his way past the dining table. The sound of sizzling gets louder as he steps into the kitchen, watching you flip something in a pan.
You glance over your shoulder to see him standing there, and he can’t help but laugh at the way you freeze in surprise.
You scowl, though there’s no real anger behind it. “Go sit! It’ll be ready for you soon.”
He does as you demand. A few minutes later, a plate of pancakes slide across the table and comes to a stop right in front of him. He blinks at his plate, then looks up at you.
These are no ordinary pancakes.
They’re round, for the most part, except for two little triangles that stick out from the top. A bit of chocolate sauce is drizzled on each pancake, but it was drizzled with purpose. Circles with a line down the center form eyes, a triangle for a nose, three curves on either side of the pancake are the whiskers.
“They’re… cats.”
You can hear the astonishment in his tone, and you laugh. “Yes, Shouta, cats. You know, your favorite animal?”
He glares at you, and you laugh even harder, but his eyes soften at your happiness. “Thank you.”
“Eat up, okay? I’ll go shower and join you after.” With that, you turn and leave your husband at the table, looking down at a plate of cheerful cat pancakes.
A few seconds after the bathroom door shuts behind you, Aizawa stands up and goes into the kitchen. He may not be able to make cat pancakes for you, but he wants you to eat breakfast with him, so normal pancakes will have to do.
–
It’s your turn to be surprised when you exit the bathroom and move to the dining table.
There’s a stack of pancakes in front of your seat, although your husband is in the same place you left him. His plate is still full though, and you whine.
“Your pancakes are going cold! Why didn’t you start eating?”
“Because I wanted to eat with you.”
Your heart is warm from hearing those words, and you press a kiss to the top of his head on the way to the kitchen. You grab a fork and knife, and a bottle of honey for both of you, before settling down into the seat next to him.
You look down at your pancakes, and a laugh escapes you.
“I’d never thought I’d see you do something this cheesy—but cute.”
Two slices of strawberry rest on top of the stack of pancakes. He placed them side by side, so they form a heart, adding a touch of color to your breakfast.
“It’s nothing,” Aizawa grumbles. He stares intently at his plate. Picking up a fork and knife, he starts to dig into his breakfast, and you follow suit.
The pancakes are soft and fluffy, immediately melting in your mouth. Each of you spoon cut fruit onto your plates, pairing a piece with a bite of pancake. It’s silent, except for the sounds of cutlery clinking against your plates, but it’s comfortable. Just being here—being in each other’s presence—is enough.
“I love you.”
Three words, three words of love that you declare every day. But this time, you’re not the one that says them.
Your head shoots up and you stare at your husband, a brilliant smile spreading across your face. Tears well in your eyes. You laugh once, give him a cheeky wink, responding with the words he always says.
“I know.”
His lips twitch under the bandages. You can’t tell if it’s out of amusement or slight annoyance, but his eyes are soft and warm, as he patiently waits.
“I love you too.”
He smiles.
Your husband isn’t known for flowery language or for endlessly letting words flow out of his mouth. You can probably count the number of times he’s said “I love you” on your hands and feet. That’s okay, though. Because when Aizawa says those three special words, you know he truly means them.