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In many universes, Midoriya Izuku never gets a Quirk.
This universe, too, is one of those. He fights and falls and tries again, clawing his way out from the hellhole that was Aldera, and manages, by virtue of intelligence alone, he's sure, to get into UA. Of course, General Education isn't what he wants. It's good, one of the best general education courses in the entire country with a variety of career paths, even for someone Quirkless, but it's not what he wants. No, Izuku wants to be a hero.
But how is he meant to be a hero when he can't even save himself?
A textbook example of this (although it's the textbook of the most sadistic teacher, perhaps one called life or bigotry or hell, words inscribed in blood and bile, pages the sheaves of skin lost to punches, the pressed-together hatred of an entire decade-) is one Thursday afternoon. It's two weeks before the Sports Festival, before Izuku's chance to finally better his life, to prove himself, and things feel more wrong than ever before. Right now, his lunch has been spilled over the corridor, which will inevitably be his mess to clean up, assuming, of course, that he can even get up once the hand in his hair lets go. He's rather battered already. His teeth are coated in blood, ferrous-tanging at the back of his throat, and he coughs, choking on it all.
Well, fuck this.
A kick crashes into his ribs, and the hand tangled in his curls keeps him from hunching in, from protecting himself. If he hadn't already bitten the inside of his cheek roughly enough to be swallowing blood, he'd be spitting and cursing right now, for all that he doesn't dare fight back. (He knows, in the past, what a bad idea that has been and is likely to continue to be. Well, not likely: guaranteed. Even before Aldera, everything was his fault for being the clumsy, weak one, or for being an attention-seeking troublemaker, or he just wasn't believed at all, no matter how bruised or bloody or burned he was. He was the Quirkless Lace, and he was worse than fucking dirt.) No, he just grits his teeth, keeps his eyes on the lapels of the blazers of his bullies, and takes it all. With every blow, the breath is shoved out of his lungs, the lead in his guts growing another molten inch, and his ire grows.
Izuku has fought to get here. His not-friend told him to take a swandive, and Izuku did the opposite, digging his feet in until his heels bled. All Might told him to be realistic, and Izuku did exactly that: if he wants to be a hero, then he needs to be prepared. Trained. So he started doing exactly that, running and studying and clearing a local beach, and maybe he watched hero fights and underground fighting rings and online martial arts videos, and practiced it where he could. And he did everything he could in that biased entrance exam. He grabbed scrap and knocked heads off, he dragged people out of danger, and he ripped off control panels with his bare hands. There are still two scars on his fingers from it.
He did everything he could, and he still fell short. And now here he is, in his dream school but not his dream classes, being beaten up by some upper years with a chip on their shoulders because how dare a Quirkless kid even get into the same school as them?
Sooner or later though, it ends. Izuku is an expert in that ridiculous lie of "pain is temporary" because it's true, technically or at least in some sort of ways, but it's also a lie, because his scars will never stop aching, his mind will never stop returning to his own suffering, and some attitudes are eternal, ingrained. In society, in him. It's no wonder that he can't fight back here or now either. It would only be him who gets in trouble, and he can't risk getting banned from the hero course, or being expelled altogether.
So he grits his teeth, he takes the pain, and he waits for yet another blow and breath. But those blows have stopped, the hand lets go, and Izuku crumples to the floor, hair and heart knotted, breaths catching on the blood in his throat and the despair in his guts, and he tries to ignore how there's rice getting in his hair. In a minute, he'll get up, and he'll start cleaning, both himself and the corridor, but for now, just for now, he'll allow himself a moment of weakness.
~~~
Aizawa ambles down the corridor, sleeping bag tucked under one arm, and the sound of shuffling catches his attention. If he brings one hand up to his capture weapon, Quirk flickering in the back of his mind, flames against the back of his eyes, then it's only a logical precaution.
He finds a child hunched on the floor, food scattered everywhere. In and of itself, this might not be very notable, just a clumsy first year that could do with a broom or even a mop, if not for the blood and grumbles of pain. There's a lot of things wrong with this scene.
"Kid-" They've already whipped around to face him at this point, despite his silent footsteps and breathing, and oh. It's Hizashi's Problem Child, or more commonly known throughout the student populace as The Quirkless One. Or rather, as most of the faculty actually know him as, Midoriya Izuku. Even though he's in general education, all of the Heroics faculty have remembered the Quirkless applicant who tried so hard only to just fall short, and the child who Aizawa may or may not have punched All Might over.
Suffice to say, the school year had started off quite dramatically this year.
And now that kid, the one that Aizawa has heard Hizashi worry about for several weeks, who he has intended to see the efforts of at the Sports Festival, is blatantly defensive and even more blatantly hurt.
"Fuck me, kid." The words spill over his lips without intention, and a scowl settles deep in amongst the kid's bruises and eyebags.
"You can-" He pauses, eyes narrowing, and his snarl abates slightly,
"You can go, Eraserhead, I'm sure you have better things to do than pay attention to a student's spilled lunch." Not a surprising response, for better or worse.
"Perhaps so, but this is more than that, isn't it?"
"No." The instant retort might seem petulant on the surface if not for how the kid's head is ducked, hair tangled and tumbling, and they're moving oh-so carefully, very much as though they have injuries, probably to their chest as well as what's apparent on their face.
This is pretty obviously not going to be the easiest conversation to get through. But it'll be worth it, Aizawa has no doubt at all, so he crouches down as well, putting himself at the same level as the kid, dark eyes sombre, understanding,
"You don't have to tell me, kid, but there's clearly something wrong here-" Izuku doesn't flinch, but something in his eyes shatters a little further,
"-and as a teacher, a hero, and just a plain old decent person, or so I like to think, I want to help." Something in that was apparently wrong, because the kid rears back, hissing (it's pain and rage and so much upset, it comes from a fractured place with jagged edges-),
"You're a good hero, Eraserhead, but even people like you shouldn't help people like me."
Oh. That really couldn't hurt much more to hear.
Saying nothing doesn't solve a problem though, nor does doing nothing, so Aizawa takes a second, then another, settling himself, and keeps his hands tucked close to his body, shifting his shoulders just enough so that his capture weapon slips down, far enough away from his face that his entire expression is visible. It doesn't change anything, not directly, but it might just tip the balance.
"Like what, kid?" It's a risk, almost a challenge, and one he has no doubt at all that the kid will live up to. He's too fiery not to. And oh, how he does live up to it, words knotted upon his tongue and slipping free with friction-burn acidity,
"I'm a Lace. A Quirkless burden upon society, didn't you know?" Well this isn't getting any better, and Aizawa's heart isn't splintering any less.
"I knew you were Quirkless, yes, because I saw you during the Heroics exam. You did damn well, particularly in such a skewed environment."
And for all of his mistakes so far, this was apparently the right thing to say, because a gleam comes into those dark eyes, and abruptly they're green rather than unfathomable, bright and cautious and weary rather than unfailingly guarded. Aizawa could almost take a leaf out of Hizashi's book and whoop with the sight.
"Skewed?" The question itself is still guarded, but those flaring eyes are enough for the hero, and he nods without hesitation,
"Fighting the robots is more than biased. There's a reason that I got into the Heroics course via the Sports Festival, but equally there's a reason that it hasn't been changed in the last decade. A stupid, illogical reason, but a reason all the same." The kid leans back a little, levelling him with a look that verges on snide,
"Probably bigoted bureaucracy, right?" Aizawa can only shrug in return because, well, the kid isn't wrong:
"It is, actually. The board."
A derisive snort comes, even as they reach up to shake some of the rice out of their hair, jostling the shoulder-length tangles with a faint grimace of pain,
"The same board that the pervert's uncle is on?"
"...Yes," Shouta admits, confessedly caught rather off-guard by the kid's instant logical leaps and knowledge of Mineta. But Izuku only shrugs, one-shouldered,
"I met one of the girls from your class in the entrance exam. We text sometimes, and she mentioned him, so I did a bit of research. You only need a few more pieces of evidence, right?"
"Correct." The kid pauses, head tilted as he blatantly and unashamedly assesses the hero in front of him, taking in the shallow frown and heavy gaze, the loose posture and deliberate capture weapon placement. (Aizawa's eyes look kind, look like he's genuinely listening, and Izuku almost doesn't know what to do with that information because it just seems wrong, too good to be true and things that are too good, too bright, they burn-)
And something in all of that must inspire some level of confidence, because the kid goes to bite at his cheek, freezes with a flood of dark water through his gaze, before settling somewhat again,
"I'd take it to Principal Nedzu at this point, he'll have enough footage to back up otherwise circumstantial claims." That... is reasonable. Frankly, trying to deal with Mineta on top of Sports Festival preparation and a heavy investigative case has been a lot, and if the kid thinks that taking this to Nedzu now is a good idea, well, who is Aizawa to say no?
"I might just do that then. Thanks, kid."
"Whatever," he dismisses, except there's another layer lurking in the undertone to the word, one that Aizawa can't parse.
"Uraraka and her friends don't deserve being harassed at school."
For better or worse, there's only one obvious response to that:
"You don't either."
The kid visibly startles, then promptly neutralises his expression, only a faint tension belying his unease,
"I'm Quirkless, so good luck getting it to stop. I can't fight back anyway." Aizawa's own frown deepens at that, and maybe right now isn't the time but he can't help but ask, to see how the kid reacts because he very much wants to know about this kid's future, about how strong his convictions are,
"Physically can't? I find that illogical." Izuku scowls for a long second before dragging in a shuddering breath, one that wheezes and grates more than worryingly, and Aizawa's urge to bodily scoop the kid up and ferry him to the infirmary is growing ever-stronger.
But he has an answer to listen to, a child to respect, and so he stays still and he listens. He tries to understand them.
"It's not worth my only chance at the heroics course." And that, on a largely-selfish level, is a relief to hear, because he doesn't want to think of a kid this fierce giving up here. Not when he's so close to his potential.
"So you're still trying," he affirms, and lets some of his pride and relief seep into the words, hoping that it won't come across as forced or condescending. Luckily, he must have succeeded on some level, because there's a bitter little scowl but no vitriol, not towards Aizawa at any rate. No, there's just a frustrated eyebrow scrunch, a vicious little shrug that must hurt more than it helps,
"What else am I meant to do? Just give up, let them all win? Prove A- Prove them all right about what a fucking Deku I am?" Aizawa has a bad feeling about that cut-off word, has a bad feeling about nigh-on all of it, but he forces himself to focus on the positives of this, on the kid's grit and fire and determination, and takes a deep breath of his own, pulling his words around him like a blanket, a comfort that he hopes to offer this oh-so strong child.
"No, kid, Izuku, you're meant to do almost exactly what you are doing."
"Almost?" It isn't as angry as before, bitter-through frustrated. No, there's an edge to it, but it's a wavering one. Vulnerable.
"You won't get in trouble for defending yourself," he emphasises, although he shrugs slightly,
"Unless you use excessive force." There's a flash of a glare at that, as though the thought itself isn't even feasible, and that, in itself, is rather reassuring for the hero. This kid is still a good person, despite everything.
They both fall silent. It takes a long, aching minute, and Aizawa gets to watch the tiny expressions flicker and flash amongst the freckles, how Izuku reaches up at one point to wipe at his lip, a thin smear of blood left along the base of his thumb.
The kid swallows, something thick and undoubtedly ferrous-tainted, and shifts, uncomfortable,
"I always used to. Fight back, that is," he adds, moving to crack some of his knuckles, eyes a tad distant, sea mist over dusky moors,
"Until I got into too much trouble over it. I couldn't get expelled." The fire of before is dampened. Bruised. And that's awful to hear, to know that this kid hasn't even been able to protect himself because of whatever awful school he's attended in the past, but here, with Nedzu and himself and Hizashi and so many of the general education teachers, it shouldn't be like this. This kid shouldn't be targeted here as well.
"UA is different. You won't-"
"And yet I'm still being bullied," Izuku retorts, and that sea mist rolls back to reveal yet another blaze, one as ineffable, unquenchable, as aurora. And Aizawa agrees with it, lets his own ferocity creep in, a touch of his own snarl,
"Abused, frankly." There's a tiny giggle in return, one twisted and tainted, sardonic,
"Semantics, Eraserhead. People don't change." That... that isn't right, but it's not entirely wrong either, and he certainly can't blame the kid for the thought. But, equally, he can't let that sit, let it fester into something toxic.
"Some people do, for better or worse. And that doesn't affect the fact that I, for one, would ensure that you weren't reprimanded for self-defence." It takes one breath, two, before the kid reacts at all, and there's the slightest tilt of his head, not quite cynical but verging on it.
"Would they even listen to a Track like you?" It's more accusatory than anything else, the underlying razor-edge one of defensiveness, uncertainty-warped, not anything truly angry. Or not angry towards Aizawa at least.
"They would," the hero returns, easily enough, and fights down the urge to reach out, to hug the kid or ruffle his hair or squeeze his shoulder. Between Izuku's injuries and general atmosphere, it very much doesn't seem like a logical choice. So instead he restrains himself, and chooses his words as carefully as possible in lieu of that,
"Nedzu, for one, undoubtedly would, and he has more sway than the board like to believe, at least when it comes to incidences like this where he has more footage than you can shake a stick at." The kid considers him, then shrugs a little, wavering where he's knelt,
"And if I say I don't believe you? Or that I don't want things to change?"
This kid just keeps on breaking Aizawa's heart, doesn't he? There are so many things piling up, and the hero had known that Quirkless people are treated damn awfully (he has interfered in too many abuse cases, found too many red shoes upon rooftops, has heard too many slurs thrown around and has studied some truly horrendous statistics-), but this is so much worse than he knew.
However, no matter how there are chasms widening ever-further through his chest, teething at the soft parts of him, Aizawa needs to reply, needs to offer whatever reassurance he can for this kid.
"Then I'd do something else, whatever I deemed most logical after consideration and, if given the chance, your opinion." He doesn't quite emphasise that, but it's a difficult urge to resist,
"It might be following you myself, asking some of the more discrete and sensible of my class to accompany you, or dragging those you deem a problem into detentions every lunch time until I have enough evidence for expulsion or the like. Or, equally, pulling you to somewhere safe, if that's preferable for you."
"Oh." That single word, more whimper than syllable, is accompanied by wide eyes and fingers twisting almost violently together.
Finally though, Izuku's eyes narrow, not as suspicious or cynical as before, for all that it's still analytical,
"Why?" Okay, that really shouldn't surprise Aizawa at all.
"Because I can't let you be hurt when I might be able to help. It's not in my nature or my job description."
"Which of those is most important to you?"
"My morals," he returns instantly, not willing for their to be any question in something he feels so strongly about,
"I would kill for my kids, Midoriya, and I have killed for civilians. I'm not proud of it, but it's what it takes to save lives, sometimes, and I live with that." The final lines of tension through the kid's shoulders and face unspools, breaking away, and he manages a miniscule smile. It's brighter than the sun, and Aizawa frankly adores it.
"By napping in a hideous sleeping bag?" It's teasing, a glance thrown at the bag still tucked underneath Aizawa's arm, and there's something bittersweet to seeing a humour to a beaten-up kid.
"It does the job," he shrugs, letting some levity into his own words,
"And short naps are good for not having nightmares."
"Yeh, they are," Izuku murmurs, earnest albeit seemingly unintentional.
"You have nightmares, kid?" That question, finally, is a push too far, and Izuku lurches back just a bit too abruptly, pushing to his feet with a pained wheeze, for all that he doesn't stand up right now, staying crouched. Aizawa has a rather unpleasant feeling that the kid can't fully stand up, not right in this second at least.
Izuku, for his part, is busy cursing himself. He shouldn't be believing this hero, Track or no, because hope is a fool's errand, the pyrite on the road to hell, and he's fallen prey to its allure before, over and over for literal years. Now isn't the time to act the fool. To be the fool.
He stares down at his feet, at the knotted mess of his grey laces, and wishes that he wasn't so tempted to put on white laces this morning instead. It would have been logical, as it turns out.
Izuku can't help the char-bitter snort that grates at his throat though, and is glad for Eraserhead not calling him out on it.
And, finally, the hero can't bear this sight anymore (he remembers being a child with a ducked head, hair falling over his face in false protection, shoulders hunched and breaths catching-) so he speaks once more himself,
"Look, kid, you don't have to believe me, not right now." He draws a deep breath, and stares right back at the ink-swirling eyes, ferns and emeralds and so much strength, before going on,
"Trust takes time, even more so than respect, and I'll take what I can get in that. My priority is knowing you're safe, and my second is making sure you become what you deserve to be. Someone with your intelligence and determination? You'd make a good hero, you just need the right training." It's the truth, nothing short of, and he lets his conviction bleed into it, ichor-golden and sunrise-flowing. It's undeniable, full and heartfelt.
Izuku is silent. Painfully, uncomfortably silent, staring up at the hero with no glare or fear in sight, only something light-fractured shuddering through his fierce gaze.
Aizawa pushes to his feet then, standing straight and hoping that he doesn't seem to loom too much,
"You don't have to reply to that right now, kid. Izuku. Just know that I consider lying illogical and a waste of valuable time."
And the man holds out a hand, fully expecting it not be accepted but needing and wanting and simply having to try anyway.
In response, Midoriya falters, hesitates, before finally moving oh-so slowly, settling a tremble-ridden hand atop the hero's, callouses to callouses, not protesting at all when Aizawa carefully tugs him to stand mostly straight his feet, daring to settle a hand under the kid's elbow once he's mostly standing, keeping the worst of his wobbles at bay.
"Work with me, kid?" It isn't quite the same as letting Aizawa help him, and even if it was the hero has no doubt that such wording would only put the kid off.
"I- Okay, I will. Thank you, Eraserhead." Aizawa can't help his smile then, a Cheshire grin that seeps molten-soft around the edges,
"Thank you, kid."
They fall into a comfortable silence as they walk to the infirmary, Aizawa texting for a cleaning bot to attend that location before tucking his phone straight away again. Izuku's head starts off ducked, eyes darting, but with every slow step (and a kid this clever has undoubtedly picked up on Aizawa's changed pace and gait, but if he takes it as pity then he doesn't say a word or even offer up a mutinous glance-) he straightens a little bit pace by pace, gravitating slightly closer to the hero, tangled hair shifting as he looks where they're walking rather than at potential escape routes. It's more than reassuring for the hero, frankly. This kid is offering him some sort of trust, and he's going to take that and do his best to live up to it, no two ways about it.
(This slow trudge will be the first of many. Aizawa will spend the next two weeks watching over Izuku's training, for all that he doesn't help him directly. Not yet. No, there can't be any risk of favouritism, for all that it would be ridiculous considering the disparity between Heroics and General Education lessons in the first place.
Regardless, he watches the kid train, prompts him with slight comments or looks, and they bide their time. Then the Sports Festival comes, and Izuku triumphs. He doesn't win, admittedly. No, Todoroki wins the first place spot, Bakugou the second, and Izuku takes third. He shudders with lingering fear, with the scars decorating his skin, but he grins, halfway feral and just as bloody as when he first met Eraserhead, and All Might hangs his medal upon his neck with a strained smile. Izuku only bares his teeth, even sharper, and lets his eyes glint with the same knife-edged frost as his expression. All Might doesn't flinch or falter, but there's something to his blue gaze, what could be remorse or disapproval or anything in between. Izuku revels in it. He has triumphed, despite everyone who said otherwise with words and looks and fists, and the weight of bronze around his neck tells a truth far greater than any other.
Izuku is Quirkless. A Lace. He is, by no means, a Deku, and with Eraserhead at his back, he's going to prove that to the entire world.)