Chapter Text
Katsuki, fourteen years old and world-weary, world-frustrated, doesn't hesitate before opening the door to the roof, but he does hesitate before stepping into the wide open space. Because Izuku isn't crying, isn't muttering, doesn't even look up at him, and the silence beneath the blue sky tells more of his mistakes than anything else could.
But he knows himself, knows Izuku, and knows something of the consequences of his own actions, so he summons all the sick sort of bravery that he can, and steps forwards. He says nothing, at least for now, and instead keeps his footsteps audible and his breathing steady as he comes to sit just out of arm's reach of the too-small figure curled up too near to the edge of the roof.
"I went too far today, didn't I?" He gets no verbal response, and it's all the answer he needs. Everything is too much-
"I'm sorry, Zuchan." He doesn't say the obvious things (that he didn't mean it, that he wishes he could take it back, that he hates things being like this between them even though he knows exactly why they are this way-) because if they're obvious to him then they're obvious to Izuku, and instead Katsuki allows his words to fall flat between them, dead space in dead air, waiting to let them sink in. And they will sink in, he knows, even if Izuku hasn't looked over at him yet. They'll sink in like rocks into rivers, thrown by childhood-chubby hands, and they'll sink in like fists into flesh, thrown when that childhood starts to melt away into the vicious confusion of the world they've been shoved into together, pushed apart and pulled closer all at once. They're part of each at this point, and that makes their hurts all the worse. Makes his words even deadlier.
Knowing this, knowing them, has Katsuki finding a well of patience rather than the ever-simmering frustration, and he waits, still just out of reach.
The cold, soft part of him that always trembles around Izuku is shuddering fit to fall apart, to sink jagged bone-white teeth into his heart, because this is his fault. All of it. (Logically, he knows that it's society and their schools and their parents, it's every-fucking-one around them, but it's still him that said those stupid, shitty words today-) And as it's his fault, the onus is on him to wait for as long as Izuku might need him to.
Because, as much as he pushes and prods and ruins the bonds between them, Izuku keeps them strong until moments like this, when it's Katsuki's turn to hold them both together against the world that seems out to destroy them.
One day, he knows, there will come someone to save them, to give them the space and safety they need to truly repair all that's been broken, to reforge their pieces-scattered relationship into something strong and healthy, but for now they'll have to be each other's heroes however possible. That promise, made under a starlit canopy years ago now, clothes cold and shiver-rushing from river water, is all they have left, except for each other. They'll make it work, though. They always do.
For Aizawa, the realisation of something more, something other, starts to hit when he gets an alert at some time painfully early in the morning - the roof door of the dorms has been opened. And, when he leaves the teachers' dorms, he makes quick work of swinging up to said rooftop, bypassing the inside of the student dorms entirely because it's the rooftop and these are his hellspawn. They're brats.
He finds a rather unexpected sight. Back to back, pressed together as though they have never fought or glared or ignored each other, are Bakugou and Midoriya. Problem Child is silent and shaking, scarred hands twisted around his ankles with all the wrong clothing for a rooftop at night, and Bakugou is the one speaking, a low litany of words that seem to be about... Miruko? Except, without a pause, he switches to the same sort of analysis about Umbra, and how the hell does this kid know about one of the most elusive underground heroes? (He doesn't, is the answer. What he knows is Izuku, and that includes Izuku's analyses, heart for mind and word for word.) It's even lacking his usual expletive version of punctuation. And, after focusing more carefully on the words, the syntax of it, even the cadence, it all sounds like something straight out of Midoriya's mouth, if not for the lower, gruffer voice.
Something is so incredibly wrong here, and the hero shifts to approach the two, only to be pierced with a fierce glare. The red (not blood or rubies, more like a flare signal, calling for help and warning back all at once) is fearsome, yet there's none of the expected anger there, not like usual. No, it's protective. Defensive. And that in itself is very much concerning, let alone the fact that they're on a rooftop at nearly three in the morning, Problem Child visibly distressed about something, and furthermore that it seems to be Bakugou - his rival, at best - who is the one comforting him, albeit in an odd sort of way.
Opening his mouth to speak only has a single finger pointing at him, that scowl deepening, the beginnings of anger creeping in again, and Aizawa simply raises his hands in pseudo-surrender, staying silent and in place, giving Bakugou the chance to do whatever he needs to do.
That, apparently, is to warn him off even more because the pointing turns into sign language. The signs are faltering, messy, missing half the words, and Bakugou's face is screwing up into a concentrated scowl, undoubtedly because of the fact he's continuing to recite some kind of analysis, however he still manages to get the message across: Stay place. Quiet. Well, Aizawa can do that. Particularly for the sake of his kids, and even moreso when they look like this. When they seem scared and small and vulnerable.
Accordingly, he remains silent and unmoving, and watches on as Bakugou leans more heavily backwards, increasing the pressure of his body weight, and a quiet whine breaks the star-heavy silence. There's a hint of something on the blond's face then, twisting and unpleasant, and somehow Aizawa can't quite read what it is. He doesn't like it.
"Zuchan, you mind if I talk to Eraserhead?" The change in tone and subject visibly startles the greenette, and the kid flinches into himself, into Bakugou, shaking even more, something distant in what the hero can see of his gaze. (Aizawa finds the nickname almost as startling himself-)
Yet the blond doesn't grab at him, doesn't lean in or move away or snap at him, and instead turns enough to hook an arm loosely around Midoriya's waist, hand angled away from skin, away from contact, carefully weaselled through the slim gap between tucked-up thighs and trembling chest. That has Aizawa's mind whirring, let alone the choice of his hero name rather than referring to him as Sensei or some other appellation or nickname. It's almost definitely a deliberate choice. Neither of these kids do anything without a reason, let alone in tense moments or stressful situations, and this most certainly seems to count as one of just those. But right now isn't the time to think more about that, not when Problem Child is listing shamelessly into Bakugou's hold, not a word or whimper to be heard.
Even though Midoriya is apparently aware enough to process words up to a point, Aizawa refrains from being the first to speak again. It appears more logical to follow Bakugou's lead.
That may or may not be the right choice, because the blond is halfway-snarling at the man, the bite of a cornered stray,
"If we're in trouble, you'd better leave Zuchan out of it. Mental health or some sh- rubbish, right?" There are so many levels of wrong in that.
"Perhaps so. Did you come up together?" That seems like a relatively safe question, and judging by the lack of emotional response, it can't have been too bad,
"He just climbed up," Bakugou comments, perfectly casual as though Problem Child's room isn't on the second floor, he isn't wearing nothing but pyjamas and it isn't a cold, dark night,
"Texted me at some point. I fu- bloody knew something was wrong today so it was easy to come up here and find him."
"Right." There's not much more to say to that. Well, the hero's not sure what more he can or should reply with, really, and the single-worded deadpan is safe at least.
Apparently the lack of reprimand was a good idea as it has Bakugou's tight arm around Midoriya's waist relaxing a tiny bit, an increment akin to a shuffled footstep in a dark hallway, as subtle and quiet as can be, not wanting attention for fear of hurt or reprimand.
Dammit, these kids really are scared of something.
But that's likely not the immediate problem, or at least not what Aizawa needs to concentrate on for the time being, so he crouches down, focusing briefly on the Problem Child. Midoriya is curled up into Bakugou's side, that arm still around his waist with the blond's hand carefully avoiding any contact with the smaller boy, and his breaths are a silent, shuddering thing, wounded-animal jagged, only just steady enough to not be likely as the onset of a panic attack. The green eyes are cracked open, a too-bright sliver focused nigh-on feverishly on the hero. Although they don't seem overly coherent.
"Would you be able to bring him down off of the roof? He - or the both of you - can stay in the common room or my apartment in the teachers' dorms if you'd rather not be in your rooms. It's Saturday now, so you can both sleep in." The offer is genuine, calm, albeit spoken with a desperate heart. Aizawa just needs his kids to be okay.
"Fuc-" Bakugou cuts himself off, looking down at the greenette tucked against him, and grinds his teeth for a few moments before going on,
"The roof- the roof's safe."
"For who?"
"Him." He pauses, waits, something fracturing in his barriers, vulnerability seeping through the cracks,
"Us."
"Is there anywhere else that's safe? Or something I can do to make somewhere in the dorms safe?"
"My room's too close to people. His room... no. No. Outside is good." The clipped tone is concerning, the words themselves even more so.
"Alright," Aizawa drawls, thinking quickly, trying to pull a plan together around the bare minimum of information that he currently knows,
"The teachers' dorms have small flats for each of us with locked front doors, so it's relatively isolated and quiet. Definitely safe. I have a sofa and lots of blankets you can have. I can keep the cat in the bathroom until Midoriya isn't so distant."
It's something of a gamble, and he very carefully tries to avoid any possible insinuations of triggers - of separation or beds or other adults because Kami knows what's going on here - and the carefully chosen words seem to earn him some measure of trust. Or, well, Bakugou nods stiffly at least.
"Fine. Just- no touch. He'll freak." Aizawa raises an eyebrow, because the kid very much isn't freaking out over contact with Bakugou, but he won't push. Not now. Not yet.
"Sure. Can you walk?" The flat glare and derisive scoff are answer enough, and Aizawa struggles not to roll his eyes in return. Honestly, his hellspawn. Such brats.
"Hey, Zuchan, you gonna be alright with me picking you up? We're going somewhere safe with Eraserhead." There's almost no reaction for a long second, those slivers of star-tinged chlorophyll disappearing under a final wave of dark eyelashes, freckles seeming to fade with the silver lighting over pale skin, and the whole washed-out look is only piling onto the sick-solid ball in Aizawa's guts. Despite that, despite every single thing here that screams trauma and dissociation and secrets, Midoriya shifts one hand from clutching at his own ankles to cling onto Bakugou's hand, grip white-knuckled (as bloodless as his face, ashen and aching-) and strong enough to have the blond visibly wincing.
"I'mma take that as a yes, got it?" Another little whimper, one where Aizawa can pick up exactly zero inflection but Bakugou can apparently hear a lot, because he looks up to the teacher and nods, beginning to adjust his hold on the smaller teen.
Aizawa stays back, giving them space as he stands up and watches critically whilst Bakugou does the same. Well, more accurately, whilst the blond curls around Midoriya, gathering him in close to his chest, pushing to just-staggering feet with the greenette still clinging to one of his hands. The kid's clearly heavy, weight poorly distributed, yet Bakugou is just as clearly careful with how he holds Midoriya, considerate, something soft and worried to the curve of his mouth and the tension in his shoulders. This is not what Aizawa sees of the two in class.
It's a bittersweet sight, really, beyond the confusion.
"Tell me if you need to pause at any point," the hero offers, knowing that the actual walk from the student dorm roof to the teachers' dorms isn't the shortest one ever, particularly not with another teenager to carry. Luckily, Bakugou doesn't seem to bother taking offence at any perceived slight from the offer, only wordlessly grumbling at him as Aizawa skirts around the pair with what might be too much caution, leading the way down into the dorms, holding the roof door open long enough for the blond to catch it with his foot before moving away, trying to leave them with lots of space, lest anything warrant a so-called freak out. Problem Child's clearly already in bad enough a headspace without any triggers or the like.
The hero leads them down through the student dorms, keeping eyes and ears peeled for any other hellspawn, not wanting any of them to be nosy and disturb the distressed teens following after him. He keeps note of Bakugou's gait, the slightly unsettled beat to it from the different weight distribution, which means that the man notices as they get to the genkan the boy's steps stutter more noticeably, a slight stagger. Aizawa glances over his shoulder, hand upon the front door handle. He doesn't say a word, knowing that the battle between Bakugou's pride and self-control can be a finely tuned one, so he simply raises an eyebrow, gaze flickering down to the greenette still curled up in the taller teen's arms. The reminder seems to be enough for Bakugou to resort to a mere scowl, readjusting Midoriya a little and toeing on his shoes, a few deeper breaths seeming to steady him.
"M'fine." Aizawa doesn't press, doesn't challenge, instead simply scooping up Midoriya's distinctive shoes and shoving open the door. The chill of outside hits him all over again, and he idly registers the hope that Problem Child hadn't been up on the roof too long before contacting Bakugou, because a cold will be the last thing he'll want on top of whatever is already happening and he's only wearing a top and some work-out shorts.
They make quick work of getting to the faculty dorms, and Aizawa is silently glad that none of the his co-workers are down in their common living spaces, and also that his own room is on the first floor, and therefore a minimal lift trip for Bakugou to keep ahold of the barely-coherent greenette. Anything to make this whole mess of a situation even the tiniest bit easier is more than welcome right now.
"We're in here," Aizawa murmurs, swiping his key card to unlock his front door, immediately adding on to that,
"Don't worry about your shoes just yet. Get P- Midoriya settled first."
"Whatever," Bakugou grunts, brushing past the hero, but he doesn't push into him or glare, and Aizawa will take that for the minor victory it is.
The blond doesn't ask before crouching in front of the man's sofa and carefully depositing the greenette on it, one hand still clutched in Midoriya's, and he doesn't fight that, instead rubbing a thumb over scarred knuckles, perhaps a bit on the rough side if not for the gentle curve to his lips and the faint furrow between pale eyebrows.
"Can I have my hand back, Zuchan? I won't be long." Green eyes blink open for a few seconds, and from the entrance to his own home Aizawa can make out the haze over them, mist marring aurora, and the sight almost viscerally hurts to see on a student usually so emotive.
"Zuchan?" The prompting nickname has the pretty eyes slipping closed again, Midoriya curling in close around the hand he's still clinging to, fingers spasming around Bakugou's, and the blond winces a bit again. Problem Child really does have a strong grip.
But then Midoriya does let go, curling tighter into himself again, trembling hands tucked up against his collar bones, tapping a sporadic pattern there. It seems to be working to ground him and it gives Bakugou the assurance to shift back, staying crouched rather than looming over the smaller boy. Aizawa idly approves of that, even as he beckons the blond over to him, ambling towards the kitchen where there's a little bit of separation and privacy. As he rounds the counter, already reaching to turn on the wireless speaker that Hizashi shoved at him a few years ago, he looks back at the two teens, glad to find that Midoriya seems to be drifting again, perhaps to a point close to sleeping even. Good.
"Would some instrumental music have much chance of waking him up or triggering him?" His quiet question has Bakugou crossing the last bit of distance between them, arms crossing on the counter, still stood opposite the hero, and his scowl is growing.
"'S fine." Wordlessly, Aizawa sets to doing just that, putting on something fairly quiet and inoffensive from one of the many playlists his friends have bombarded him with over the years, and gives it a moment to ascertain that his Problem Child doesn't seem to have been disturbed by it. And, luckily, he hasn't, so they have a bit more cover for speaking freely.
"Kid, can I ask what this is about? Something is blatantly wrong with Midoriya." Bakugou scowls properly now, the furthest from restraint possible, and there's an absolute blaze sparking in those eyes, something ready to consume. It's almost enough to be intimidating.
"What, you concerned or some shit?"
"Yes, I am." That visibly startles the kid, tension snapping along the lines of his shoulders, a fact which has yet more bloody alarm bells ringing. These kids didn't expect help. Didn't expect care.
Well, Aizawa's going to need to change that. Sooner rather than later.
"Bakugou, kid, you don't need to tell me much, or even necessarily anything, but if there's something endangering either of you, I need and want to know." The man keeps his tone even, verging on neutral, hands in sight and letting a tiny bit of his earnestness creep in, just enough to not seem forced in comparison to his usual stoicism.
And whilst Bakugou rolls his eyes, there is something in slackening in the steel of his spine, molten hesitance,
"We're not in fucking danger, hobo-sensei, we're just- We're just the same as fucking always." Which doesn't manage to be the slightest bit reassuring.
"And the same as always has Midoriya dissociating on a rooftop in the dead of night?" The kid shrugs, almost perfectly careless,
"I mean it's shit, but it's what we're used to." And now Aizawa is the one scowling fiercely,
"Bakugou, to be entirely honest, I don't like that. This. You two are..." Trying to describe the prickly blond as scared will undoubtedly only incite anger, so he skirts around that,
"You're both unsettled for a reason, and I want to deal with that reason. Or at least be aware of it so I can have some level of being able to help. That being said," he tacks on, raising a hand to keep the blond from bursting out again,
"If you'd rather it be someone else, that can be arranged, but as both a hero and your teacher, I cannot leave this alone. Not entirely."
There's a long pause then. Bakugou is visibly working his jaw, muscles jumping and hands clenching into sporadic fists. Yet, despite his typically loose usage of his Quirk, there's not a spark in sight or a pop to be heard, and the teen pivots on his heel to fold his arms and glare at Midoriya, breaths a bit too heavy. Somehow, the sight of his back hurts.
And, before Aizawa can run out of patience or get too worked up himself, the kid spins back around, fingertips digging into his own biceps, a vicious glower in place. The man doesn't even get the chance to open his mouth when the teen starts spitting words, every single one screaming reluctance, dripping vitriol with a bile-drenched venom, despite how low his tone is,
"Look, the Izuku you know is only part of him. There's a shit-tonne of fucked up shit that you're missing." Ah, yes, that's also not concerning at all. Wonderful.
"Such as?" Aizawa dares to ask, knowing that he might well be pushing the limits of their conversation some, but also knowing that the possible result is worth the risk.
"Not my place, hobo Sensei." It isn't a surprising result, though the hero is simply glad it had, if anything, helped the blond to calm down a little, restraining himself again.
"Alright," he gets out, not able to help that the tone grates at least a little, because he's hating almost every moment of this, even if he can't regret or begrudge it either,
"So what can I ask you? How can I help you both?" That second question seems to get more response, something brighter in those red eyes.
"The fact that you thought about it like that is good. It- It's fucking good." And oh. There's vulnerability there, something raw-edged and nerve-ended, a wound newly-revealed and throbbing, blighted with an infection long since set in, and it hurts to hear. There's a lot to unearth with it.
And Aizawa fears that much of what he discovers next, even all of it, might well have the same rotten stench, bloated corpses brought to light. But if revealing it helps his hellspawn, then it'll be worth it.
Underneath the vulnerability though, there's a layer of exhaustion. It's not sleep-deprivation sluggishness, no, it's weariness and soul-ache, and Aizawa couldn't miss it, particularly not in one of his students, so the hero makes the executive decision that this conversation should probably be over and done with now.
"Kid, why don't you go and sleep? Midoriya could probably do with being close to you still, and it's late. Or early, whatever." There's a lot of words unspoken there, a lot lost to the roiling sea of teenage pride and respecting boundaries and waiting for all involved parties to be awake and aware, and Bakugou clearly picks up on at least some level of those words. Still though, he only shoots a sceptical glance at the hero before nodding, hands getting shoved in the pockets of his pyjama trousers.
"You said you got some blankets or whatever." What should probably have been a question comes out as a demand, and Aizawa can't even be bothered to glare at or chastise the kid. Now is most definitely not the time.
"I'll grab some clean ones for you both. Don't forget your shoes." The blond huffs and grumbles, but he does kick off his shoes in the vague direction of the genkan and, by the time Aizawa's back from retrieving half a dozen fresh blankets, Bakugou has weaselled his way onto the sofa alongside Midoriya, the blond's back to the room and one arm draped over the shorter boy's waist, hand delicately angled away from contact yet again. It's protective once more, and there really are so many jarring elements to this entire scene.
But Aizawa is a pro hero, and an underground one at that, so instead he takes it in stride, rounding the sofa to stand in Bakugou's sight-line with a single grey blanket raised, unfolded, in question.
It takes a fraction of a second, but a short, sharp nod grants the man permission, and he steps closer, staying where the kid can see him, and flicks the warm fabric over the two boys. If there's a quiet, wordless grunt of gratitude, then it doesn't have his heart warming like marshmallows near a fire, threatening to burst aflame, because maybe these two are scared, maybe they have something to fear that they haven't felt able to come to him with before now, but for tonight he has them safe and sound, and come morning he can make sure they'll stay that way. They're his kids after all.
True morning dawns far too bright and early for a certain hero's tastes, but within a few moments of vague consciousness realisations snap against his ribs, teeth-nipping and elastic-rebounding, and it has him stumbling out of bed far too quickly, judging by the slight headrush, but he couldn't care less because he needs to make sure the kids are still in his living room-
They are. One hand clutching the corner of his hallway, hair falling as his Quirk settles back down, the man allows himself to begin to relax because Problem Child and Bakugou are sleeping, curled into each other. The blond is still the protective outer shell, but with the way that Midoriya's hands are settled, he could be just as quick to attack or defend upon waking up, and whilst it isn't a pleasant realisation, it is right as well. Kami, these kids need some bloody self-preservation. At least they have each others' backs, if nothing else. Until he can get them in therapy, or trusting him properly, whichever comes first, that much will have to be good enough.
Two steps into the main room, despite his nigh-on silent footing and breathing, both boys are suddenly scrambling up, a mess of too-bright eyes and arms pushing each other back where there might be some sort of safety. Except they're both completely safe here, with him, and it takes several seconds for them to be fully aware, to be cognisant enough to register exactly who is around them, and then all three of them are just staring at each other awkwardly.
"Morning," Aizawa finally grunts, breaking the tense silence because these are his hellspawn dammit, and he's too tired for this shit right now. He needs a coffee. And, turning away from them to instead amble into his kitchen, scratching at the waistband of his thankfully-grey trackies as he fills the kettle, it's easy enough to tactfully ignore how there's shuffling and low murmuring behind him, one voice definitely his Problem Child's. If he takes far longer to dig out a mug from the top cupboard than necessary by any means, then it's only because it's logical to give them some approximation of time and space to settle and steady themselves.
The fact that Midoriya is talking, even if only quietly and to Bakugou, manages to be fairly reassuring. As does the lack of dissociation.
"Se- Eraserhead." Now that he's being spoken to, by a blatantly nervous Problem Child at that, the hero turns around, setting his mug down as he does so, keeping his posture loose and easy. And he really does not like the pair's blatant aversion to calling him sensei.
"You can both call me Aizawa for now. It's easier." There's visible surprise to them then, barely hidden under lingering wariness and sleep-ruffled hair, red lines in their faces and arms from how they've been pressed into the sofa and each other for several hours, but after a second Bakugou scowls, scruffing a hand through Midoriya's hair,
"Whatever. We have to stay here or what?" Aizawa himself nearly scowls himself then, but it's not the kids' fault that the world taught them mistrust before safety.
"Kid, you're not locked in. Neither of you are. But I would rather you both spoke to me or another ad- hero that can help. Something is too wrong here for me to be comfortable or able to leave it alone entirely."
"And if we say no?"
"Kacchan." There's audible reproach in Midoriya's tone, something scolding and familiar, and somehow it seems perfectly natural between them, even as it's noticeably different from their usual interactions. And even more different is how Bakugou actually subsides, fingers still threading through the green curls with a distinct delicacy, careful not to pull or tug.
There's another silence then, not quite comfortable, but Aizawa grows bored of it fairly quickly. He knows these two are stubborn hellions, and if they're not going to start the conversation, he'll have to do it for them.
"We've got to start somewhere, kids. Me, or another hero?"
"You." It's an instant reply, simultaneous from both of them, albeit Bakugou's is a grumble to Midoriya's nigh-on desperate tone. Neither does Aizawa like, even if the answer itself is a relief.
"And what do you need from me? What can I do?" He hadn't missed how the blond had reacted to his different tones of questions last night, and to offer fulfilling whatever they need is a more natural progression anyway. Better to err on the side of caution.
"We-" Midoriya's voice wavers, splintering right apart, and Bakugou tugs him in closer to himself, pushing at curls until the greenette huddles fully into his side, head tucked under Bakugou's chin.
"We need someone safe. We need time to sort shi- stuff out-"
"It's fine now, Kacchan." The murmur is quiet and linger-aching, enough so to warrant only a gentle huff from the blond before he goes on once more,
"We need time to sort shit out, and we need you or Nedzu or someone to keep us safe."
"If I asked what you need keeping safe from, the answer would be...?" Bakugou scowls and snarls,
"None of your fucking business." Yet Midoriya braces his hand against the blond's shoulder, fingertips digging in slightly,
"Kacchan."
"No, Zuchan, I know he helped Half-and-half, but he-" Aizawa doesn't like that they're referencing the mess with getting his student out from under Endeavor's thumb, because that implies a similar sort of domestic situation here, and how hasn't he picked up on any of this earlier? Has he been so blind?
"He's Eraserhead." Midoriya says the single word like it's a saving grace, like a childhood dream weighted by reality, and suddenly Aizawa can barely breathe, dragged back to the conversation with merciless weight.
"Fuck. Yeh. I guess."
"There's no guess about it, Kacchan!" The wilderness in his voice is matched only by how the shorter boy throws his head back, defiant and fierce and so far from the wreck of a child that he's been for most of this that it's beyond jarring.
"Okay Zuchan, just- Fuck it. Okay," he snaps, except it's a brittle thing, a wounded-dog rumble. Midoriya frowns, soft and insistent at once, and continues to press,
"We promised."
"I said okay."
"You didn't mean it though."
"Half-meant it." It's pouting as much as petulant, and that fact is almost enough to cheer Aizawa up. Almost.
"Kacchan, if you really don't want to-"
"For you, Zuchan. We've gone through so much shit already, what's one more clusterfuck, right?"
There's two no-breath moments stretching long and cobweb-delicate before Midoriya heaves a single inhale, head tipping to thud his brow against the side of Bakugou's neck, words reverent,
"Thank you." There's no dismissal, no semi-expected 'whatever nerd' or 'I always keep my fucking word', only a heart-settling silence.
Aizawa, watching all of this, hearing the inflections and hesitancies and insistences, tries to piece things together. Tries to reconcile the at-best-rivals he knows from classroom activities; the boys who can dance silently around each other in the kitchen as though they've cooked together for years, all with just how they fight each other, and that it's been verging on purely productive in more recent months, less awful words and more silent glances.
How much of that relationship has been a farce? A façade? And has it all been for the sake of protecting themselves from someone like Endeavor-
"Eraserhead." He brings himself back to full attention at his Problem Child's voice, and finds both of the teens sitting upright now, hands clasped together and backs straight, eyes flaring. They look ready to fight.
"Kids."
"Can you swear that you'll help us? As a hero, not some shitty teacher?" Oh look, even more to reinforce all of the concerns from this entire last twelve hours or so. At least they make his answer even easier.
"I want you both safe. And you're the kids in this, ones who I know are honest and prone to self-sacrifice before anything that could ever make me disbelieve you."
"Swear?" There's that vulnerability again, this time from Midoriya, underlaid by unwavering determination. A protectiveness.
"Izuku, Katsuki, I swear I will do my best to keep you safe and happy."
Something in that must have been right. Whether it was the avoidance of family names, swearing it without hesitation, the addition of happy on top of something more subjective like safety, Aizawa doesn't know, although he'll take it either way for the near-sacred sight of them both relaxing the tiniest bit.
"Better be fucking good on your word then," Bakugou grumbles, ever-belligerent despite how the planes of his shoulders have sloped, a match and mirror to the slump of Midoriya's posture, the almost-smile that appears between the freckles.
"Kid, lying is illogical under circumstances like this. There's no point."
"Tch." Despite the grumpiness, the blond hasn't disagreed, and the hero knows to take that fact for the success it is.
He also knows that he needs to help his two most problematic of the Problem Children, and hopefully he's on the right path for doing so.
"Before we do anything else, you two need to eat." Aizawa almost surprises himself with the statement, but it's true, and from the look his students exchange, it can't have been a bad idea.
"We're not eating shitty nutrient pouches," Bakugou grumbles, tugging Midoriya to his feet.
"Kacchan, I've told you before, they're actually really good-" Well, at least one person isn't insulting half of the man's sustenance.
Although apparently the blond isn't going to let the matter go that easily,
"Just 'cause your Quirk has some weird metabolism fuckery going on doesn't mean you should eat fucking jelly instead of actual food, Zuchan."
"Just 'cause Uncle Masaru is the best cook ever doesn't mean you have to be prissy, Kacchan."
Aizawa blinks, and his kitchen has been taken over.
There are two mixing bowls - he didn't even know that he had two of them, nor that one of them is bright yellow - on the side, one of them filled with half-made batter that, judging by how Midoriya is still mixing it, hasn't been completely combined, although the fact that they measured out the ingredients without any scales or particular length of time is remarkable. Bakugou is digging through his fridge, pulling out his blueberries without even asking, and dumping half of the pack into the currently-empty bowl. Even as Midoriya finishes folding the batter together, presumably for pancakes or something, pouring half of it into the blueberry bowl, shifting silently to the side so that Bakugou can root around in a few drawers, eventually pulling out a fish slice and taking up the plain batter, a pan on the hob, and then he's cooking pancakes.
Midoriya moves around him, sliding a plate beside Bakugou in perfect timing for the first pancake to be dumped onto it, and then the pouring and flipping of their apparent breakfast is an immaculate miniature production line.
Aizawa watches on the entire time, vaguely shocked at the fact that they've managed to make a decent portion of pancakes for three people out of whatever was in his cupboards, not to mention that they've pulled golden syrup out of the depths of his kitchen. And it all actually smells good too. Logically he knows that the two are part of the only four of the class allowed to cook because never let it be said that his students aren't disaster hellspawn, but to have them invade his kitchen is still rather startling.
But if they can work together like this, can get along so seamlessly and easily, and can try to trust their hero, then Aizawa can have hope for them both.