Chapter Text
Things are about to change in dramatic and bitter-sweet ways. Aizawa will have no way to prepare for it. No way to stop it.
This change will be swift, and it will be shattering – and really, it will be nobody's fault, much as the characters in this story might play at being villains and heroes. Quite frankly, people in this story make bad decisions. All of them. As humans do. Aizawa himself will make bad decisions, damaging ones, fueled by dangerous confusions of passion and ambition, of hurt and love and fear. By that very same sort of confusion, this story starts in a place Aizawa hadn't ever expected he'd be.
He was in Tokyo General Hospital. There was nothing particularly extraordinary about that though. The thing is, he was there with a girl. A girl who was wholly unfamiliar even though it had hardly been three years since Aizawa had last seen her. A girl who was actually a woman now: whiter than the bedsheets and breathing like the pull of the tide in the evening. She had high cheekbones and shadowy features. A mass of white hair was splayed across the pillow like lily roots through a pond. Her name was Rin – Hiruma Rin – and she'd been one of Aizawa's first students not so long ago.
Now, she was under heavy sedation in a hospital bed, unaware of Aizawa as he puzzled over her. This face he remembered and yet… didn't. Not really. Maybe it was the swelling and the stitches that stretched across her jaw and beneath her left eye, the plum-toned bruises that blossomed alongside them. Her lids fluttered restlessly. Every now and then, her fingers twitched. She looked pasty and worn under the room's harsh light, face bloodless beneath the damage. Bloodless – Aizawa sighed at the word. At least he remembered that about her. Rivulets down her wrists. Droplets down the school hallways. A mess. She'd always been something of a mess – at least he remembered that about her, even if it came back to him in sudden, swift flashes like badly rendered film reels.
There was never anything about Rin in the news – she'd gone on to become an underground hero, after all – and Aizawa had never kept in contact with her after she'd left school. And yet, he remained her sole emergency contact. It made him feel a little guilty, a little sick somehow, though he could hardly say why.
As a student, Rin had no family in Musutafu. Actually, she'd had no adults to rely on at all. Her only guardians had been her grandparents, who lived far down in Miyazaki, and the school. From what Aizawa could recall, Rin had been a mousy, solitary girl; maybe she'd had some friends, a boyfriend… he wasn't sure. Whatever the situation, as her form teacher, he'd volunteered his number after taking her to the emergency unit for the first time in her first year at UA. Always in and out of hospital, pale girl in pale walls streaked with scarlet, crimson, oozing red. Really, it was a mystery that she'd ever been granted one of the few rare scholarships to UA.
Aizawa listened vaguely as the doctor explained her condition. "I'm of the view that she used her quirk to stop the bullet," the doctor said, sounding faraway. "It was lodged close to her heart. The operation ran smoothly, all things considered, but it's sure to take a toll on her. Considering the nature of her wounds, it's likely that her quirk will be affected."
"Affected how?"
"Should I say, extended use will be to her detriment if she's using her own blood. Of course, it was risky to begin with. Now she's much more vulnerable to bleeding out or, best case scenario, severe anemia."
Aizawa hummed. "I see." He rubbed at his nape. "That certainly is inconvenient."
A pause passed between them. The doctor glanced over the folder he held, flicking through forms and graphs while Aizawa looked to Rin again. "Further to all that," the doctor said eventually, "she sustained soft tissue damage. Also a potential moderate traumatic brain injury, as she presented with a GCS score of 11 upon arrival this morning." When he returned his attention to Aizawa, an unspoken something was weighty in his gaze. "She will require care during her recovery. Even if it's just supervision. You know how she is, Eraserhead-san."
The meaning of the statement was not lost on Aizawa. Still, he side-stepped it. For now. "Has her agency been reached?" he asked.
The doctor didn't answer for a while. When he did, his voice was tinged with caution. "Forgive me, but I'm not sure how much I'm permitted to say in that regard."
"Explain."
"Something's happened to The Voodoo Agency. The police are investigating."
"Something?"
"You'll have to ask the police. Or Hiruma-chan herself. It's not my place to speak on that."
Rin's hero name was Chi. She'd always been hesitant to let her teachers or her work-study mentors refer to her as such though. It seemed the trend had continued with her doctors.
Aizawa frowned, brooding. On the topic of names, Voodoo was one that mainstream heroes either didn't know or avoided uttering – one of the murkier figures in hero society, whose agency worked in a purely underground capacity and whose dealings were much less glamorous than the sort high school students aspired to. Of course, it was impossible to lead one's career without coming across one of the Voodoo associates or even Doctor Voodoo himself. It was just that they worked so completely from the shadows, slinking unheard and unseen as myths down the line of history, that most people didn't know they were there at all. Indeed, Voodoo's heroes were good at what they did. Frighteningly good. And they were doing work that big-shots like All Might or Endeavour or Hawks didn't even think to do. Aizawa respected that. He respected that they wanted no one to know what they were doing or how they were getting it done.
Rin was the only UA student to ever sign a contract with the Voodoo Agency. No, more than that. She was the only one who'd ever been offered one.
And now here she was, laid in tense and defenseless sleep beneath the glaring illumination of a private ward like some sort of relic for probing. There was all the usual machinery, an IV nestled neatly in the back of her hand. Could she feel him standing there at her bedside? What did she dream about that made minuscule shocks of expression cross her features? Why did such unease throb through Aizawa to think of it?
The doctor interrupted his line of thought. "Eraserhead-san," he resumed. "While I can't really give you more information than I have, it is within my jurisdiction to say that Hiruma-chan is likely to be in a very vulnerable position. She was only brought here this a few hours ago. But already the police are looking to move her to a more… secure location." Once again, Aizawa knew what was coming. He could hear it in the subdued, beseeching tone the doctor adopted. "She trusts you."
"I haven't spoken to her in some time."
"Even so, I believe you're the only person Hiruma-chan can turn to."
"Why would you say so?"
"Perhaps that's simply what I want to believe."
There was another silence, this time saturated with looming expectation. When Aizawa had gotten the call in the still-dark hours of the morning – it was lighter now, grey and tight with the threat of rain – he had left the UA dormitories in a blind rush. Rin was something of a ghost to him; she lingered in his mind's recesses and made herself known to him only occasionally, only in the most abstract ways. Still, Aizawa cared for her as much as he cared for any former student. Likewise, when he'd gotten the call – Hello? Is this Eraserhead? Yes, please don't panic, but Hiruma Rin has been admitted and is currently in theater – he'd felt a sickening jolt all through his spine, as though it might have broken. The mention of her name. Hospital. Shot in the chest.
Looking at her now, he felt peculiarly numb. The sort of numb that's a side-effect of adrenaline. He had experience enough not to become swept up in the sensation of it; he wasn't about to allow his judgement to become clouded by instinctual response. Here was this girl who needed somebody. Outside of her, he had other responsibilities. She was not one of them, Aizawa reminded himself. Not anymore, at least. Not in the way the doctor was asking him to be.
But here was this girl who needed somebody. Apparently she only had him.
Aizawa checked his phone. Hizashi had sent him two messages: everything was okay with 2A; was everything okay with him? The screen read 09:42. There was a reminder to submit 2A's permission slips for this year's training camp.
He slipped his phone back into his pocket and met the doctor's eye. "I'll do what I can."
there are men waiting for her where there is supposed to be nobody. she pretends not to see them, keeps on up the stairway as though they are not there at all. but she can hear their footsteps, quick and heavy behind her like the falling sound of a heartbeat. she is carrying a bag from the 7/11 down the street – inside is a six pack of beer and takeaway meat buns for dinner. it is dead in the hallways. she and the men are the only souls in the building. she and the men. they are close enough that she can smell the sweat in their necks and the oil in their hair. she and the men. can they smell the blood at her fingertips? would it be enough to keep them away?
she does not stop at her front door. she walks slowly to the other side of the hallway, down the other staircase. past windows. past locks. people's lives teeter precariously alongside hers. hers and the men's. there is a cough. somewhere, with a mechanical whir, a dog begins to bark. and that sound – barking, barking, barking – is more frightening than the sound of a gun being cocked as the footsteps grow closer still. faster. more urgent. get rid of her quickly. or maybe get rid of her slowly, painfully, so that even in death she won't forget.
she leaves the apartment building she returned to only moments ago. empty sidewalk. streetlamps, hurling sick green-yellow light. everything inside of her tumbles – she is an anthill, a hive. she is tired and dirty, and her body aches for some sort of respite from the night that's refusing to end. can they, the men, her pursuers, hear the flurry that goes on between the walls of her ribcage? are they aware? do they know what they're doing as much as she does?
they look at her and think it will be easy. she is thin. she is downward-gazing. she is hardly more than a girl who lives alone in a cheap apartment building, who flinches at the sound of dogs barking and who hasn't washed her hair in a week. little girl. silly girl. their thoughts are intrusive, and their relief is potent. their thrill, even, that she is the one they're here to kill. the hunt is finished now. she is a fox or a pheasant or a hare that's been cornered. when she stops, they gasp, delighted by the game of it. she places her bag from the 7/11 on a bench beneath a streetlight. and when she faces them, she sees in their contorted expressions the type of snarl a well-to-do hunting dog would wear. but they are not dogs. they are but the butt of a horrible joke. she and the men both.
'hey girlie' 'my name is Rin.' 'oh-ho… why don't you come over here and walk with us, Rin?'
she walks to them. she pretends she does not see the gun, that she could do nothing about it if she wanted to, if she tried. in haloes of hazy light, it is as a dream, and she is simply floating through it. she can do nothing else. not yet. to do so would be to violate all the rules of the dreamworld in which she finds herself, to let slip all the boundaries between this and the real. so she simply goes, knowing that she's not meant to know what will happen next.
After two days, Aizawa returned to the hospital. The sky still hadn't broken, clouds lingering in cottony blankets across the horizon, and a dry chill had snuck its way into the air. Aizawa parked as close as he could get to the main entrance – for the occasion, he had borrowed Hizashi's car – and skulked through the parking lot with his hands buried deeply in his pockets and his face sinking into his scarf. It wasn't the cold that made him do this, but rather an inexplicable, mounting anxiety.
Aizawa had spent the last two days thinking a lot about Rin. It was natural that he would. She was coming to stay with him for an indeterminate amount of time – there was a lot to consider. What would she eat? Where would she sleep? Was Aizawa willing to leave her alone in his apartment when, after the two weeks of leave he'd applied for, he returned to the dormitories? She was practically a stranger to him. Aizawa realised the absurdity of it, of so freely inviting her into his living space. But at the same time, she wasn't a stranger, even in her strangeness; and upon seeing her so battered and insipid in that hospital bed… It would have been even more absurd for Aizawa to have turned her away.
The hospital's reception area was not busy. A middle-aged woman at the front desk gestured for Aizawa to take a seat while she remained busy on a call.
He sat. And he continued to think about Rin.
Something about her bothered him. Something vague and, in its vagueness, unsettling. Day and night these last forty eight hours, Aizawa had battled with conflicting senses of the familiar and the impersonal. In it all, Rin slipped from him constantly. The memory of her, that is: little bursts of starlight in his mind's eye. She'd been one of the few students he hadn't expelled, he'd recalled after some thought, though he couldn't quite remember why even though that was the sort of thing he should have remembered without effort. After school, Rin had disappeared into nameless obscurity to become an underground hero. And even though it wasn't anything surprising, considering who Aizawa remembered her to be and the nature of the work she did, Aizawa felt distinctly that he should have known more details. About her schooling. About her life after school.
Rin wasn't a stranger. But she was a shadow.
"Sir," the receptionist was finished on her call. She peered over the front desk at Aizawa. "Sorry about that! How can I help you?"
He stood, approached. "I'm here to fetch Hiruma Rin. She arrived two days ago."
"Ah, you must be Eraserhead-san! Yes, Hiruma-chan is quite excited to see you. If you could just…" The receptionist placed a clipboard before him, with the usual forms. "She should be just around the corner there. Whenever you're done." And then she got back to work, thanking Aizawa cheerily when he handed back the clipboard.
Around the corner, down the corridor. And at the end of it – there she was. Hiruma Rin, looking dazed and dire. At first, she didn't seem to notice Aizawa, eyes locked sleepily ahead. She chewed through a packet of dried fruit, had her legs drawn up to her chest in a compact and curled position like a child. Despite it being the afternoon, she wore grey pajamas presumably provided by the hospital. Long-limbed. Languid. She rubbed at her shin absent-mindedly, plucked another piece of dried fruit from the packet.
Indeed, Aizawa recognised her immediately, but was once again struck by the thrown feeling of looking at a stranger. There was little comfort in approaching her, like two people who'd only met once in passing.
He said her name. It felt strange on his tongue.
Wide eyes, shadowed purple with sleeplessness, turned towards him. For some moments, Rin only stared. She blinked once, twice again, before finally unfurling from her balled position to stand, seeming unsure on her feet. "Aizawa-sensei~" she choked, voice hoarse. She cleared her throat. "It's… really nice to see you. Really nice." The teenage softness was entirely gone from her face. There was something ghostly and gloomy about her. "You really don't need to be here, though. I really appreciate it, but–"
Aizawa waved his hand blandly to shush her. "How are you feeling?"
"Umm – tired."
"Any pain?"
"I'm on some pretty heavy painkillers."
"That's alright."
On the seat next to where Rin had been sitting, there was a canvas bag of medicines and the half-eaten packet of dried fruit. Peaches, or apricots, dull orange and wrinkled. Eying them, Aizawa realised with some horror that he had nothing in the fridge for Rin to eat when they got back to his place. Some beers, maybe, and at best a block of cheese and sachets of protein jelly.
Shifting her weight anxiously, Rin spoke to the floor. "I'm so sorry about the inconvenience this has probably caused you, sensei. Thank you for coming all the way out here just to pick me up."
Aizawa raised an eyebrow at her. "Tokyo is only a forty minute drive from Musutafu."
"That's far to come," she said. "And I appreciate it. But you know, I'll be fine to stay on my own. The doctors are being dramatic."
"Do you have some staying with you? A roommate or boyfriend or something?"
Rin shook her head. "But it's–"
"It's better this way, then," Aizawa said. He gestured to the bag on the seat. "Is that all you have with you? We'll be stopping by your apartment on our way out of here, so you can grab whatever else you'll need. I've made up the apartment for you, but you'll need to bring your own towels."
Rin stared at him again, her eyes an icy shade of green, glazed over in such a way that Aizawa had to wonder if she'd understood what he'd just said. Was it the painkillers or poor sleep that made her look so dopey? Probably a dizzying mix of both. Aizawa would need to get food in her stomach; he'd need to familiarise himself with the instructions for the different medications that she'd been given. Perhaps a little more cautious than he needed to be, feeling like he was handling porcelain, he leaned around Rin to take the canvas bag from the seat. Unmoving, she continued to watch him, gaze setting pinpricks along Aizawa's nape.
"Right then," he said, and turned away. He began down the corridor, back towards the reception, listening for the patter of Rin's footsteps. Nothing came. He thought she wasn't following – but when he glanced over his shoulder, she was right there behind him, gazing ahead with a glossy hue to her features and a dried peach or apricot halfway in her mouth.