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"He's watching TV," Mom announced in lieu of a greeting, back turned as she chopped vegetables on the counter.
Izuku put the grocery bags down in the corner of the kitchen, "I can help with—"
"Dinner is almost ready. And you don't know where I keep the groceries anymore."
He could hear the almost static from the other room, some monotonous narration turned just quiet enough to tune out. Maybe the subtitles were on. "I—okay. Call me if you need me though."
Stepping around the wall, Izuku made his way to the living room, steps automatically quiet. Now that he had learned stealth, he was only more awkward at entering rooms, still unsure how to announce his presence in a social situation. The TV was turned to a news channel, a recap of the disaster site he had been at yesterday. For a moment, he thought he saw a pale flash of color in the corner—that might have been Uraraka's costume—but then the screen changed.
"Who's there?"
A grey haired man sat on the couch, face still turned towards the television. Neither of them were paying attention to it anymore.
"It's me," Izuku explained, hesitant. "Midoriya."
"You don't sound like Mrs. Midoriya.”
Something clanged in the kitchen—a pot lid slammed too forcefully. "He's my son!" Mom yelled from the other room. “He visits every weekend!"
The old man turned to look over the back of the couch, eyebrows scrunched in confusion. "Oh—Young Midoriya. I'm sorry."
He was crying.
"It's okay," Izuku said, walking forward to stand awkwardly at the arm of the sofa. "Why are you sad?"
Turning back to face forward, the man crossed his arms. "It's so sad—so many people hurt, and I can't—I'm just a stupid old man."
Izuku snatched the remote from the empty couch cushion, changed the channel to the disk drive setting so that the screen went all fuzzy. "Let's watch something else."
Striding across the room, he began his search. There was a basket here somewhere, hidden wherever he had put it last week. Izuku kept strange hours in his patrols, and sometimes over the weekends he woke alone at strange hours. That was when he watched movies no one else was interested in seeing—most of them old and corny All Might shows he had recorded in elementary school.
Finally finding the box underneath the coffee table, Izuku reached in and drew out the first thing his hand reached, held the cover up for approval. "What about this one?"
The man snorted. "That looks stupid."
"Excuse me?" Izuku demanded, turning the cover around so that he could read the title. "This is Mighty Quest: All Might vs. the League of Super Evil—I once watched it eight times back to back it's so good—I'm going to need some evidence to back up that claim."
The two of them stared at each other in silence. Izuku was beginning to think he had not been heard when his companion dramatically stuck out his tongue, then burst out laughing at his own gesture. Izuku sat quiet, pensive. There was something there, in and behind the laugh. Sometimes he thought he could hear the memory of it.
"I'm sorry, young Midoriya," the man chortled, "that was silly. I meant—I mean—it's inaccurate. Those shows." He paused, smiling mischievously, as if he had just stolen a fresh cookie without being caught. "See, young man—I used to be a pro hero."
"Really?"' Izuku asked, voice tilted incredulously, as if he were not in on the secret.
"Yes—well, it's a long story. You wouldn't want to hear it all."
"I do." Izuku insisted.
"Oh no—you don't mean that."
Izuku stood up, only to sit down on the couch next to him. "Tell me." Again.
"Well, it was a long time ago," the man said, biting his lip in concentration. "When I was in middle school—I wanted—well my mentor. Shimura Nana. She believed in me."
Izuku nodded. "What was she like?"
"She smiled. And—and I'll never forget. July 18th was the day she died. I went to class that afternoon, and I sat there at my desk and cried. I don't think I took very good notes." He stopped again, face twisted in concern. “And then—I went to America—Oh, I don't remember when that was."
"That's okay," Izuku said, "the dates aren't that important."
"Dinner's ready!" Mom yelled from the kitchen again. Nothing clanged this time.
Izuku stood up, stood there, waiting for All Might to complete the slow process of getting to his feet.
"It's good of you to visit your mother," All Might said absently, still staring at the space between the coffee table and the television, as if he were trying to parse through it to find the path to the table. "What did you say your name was?"
Izuku grabbed his elbow lightly, guiding him forward. "It’s Izuku. Midoriya Izuku.”
All Might looked up. His face was changed, brightened more than it had been all evening. "Oh,” he stammered. “That's my son's name."
"Yeah," Izuku said, voice thick, "I know."