Work Text:
Eraserhead had never been kidnapped before.
He’d been stabbed, shot, had bones broken, been poisoned—he’d endured most of the horrible things Heroes were forced to encounter on a day-to-day basis. But he’d never been kidnapped, something he had honestly never considered a possibility. He was a grown man with years of training and professional hero work under his belt. He could handle himself.
Except, unfortunately for him, someone had planned out the perfect scenario to flip that confidence on its head.
For Eraserhead, summer meant the same thing as the school year did: Work. Rather than teaching, though, guiding his 1-A students towards a career as pro heroes, he patrolled. Late night patrols let him sleep the day away, and kept the rotten sun out of his dry eyes. It also wrecked his sleep schedule for months after, but that was a given.
The day he was taken he hadn’t slept. Hadn’t had the chance. Eri had a doctor appointment that he had to attend to, groceries that needed to be bought, and just a general busyness that had not afforded him the opportunity to rest. He left for patrol that night anyway.
There was a responsibility that came along with a consistent patrol at the late hours of the night. Criminals were more likely to poke their heads out, to bring their illegal activities to the streets, and people relied on him to put a stop to them. So, he worked.
But someone else knew that too, apparently. He had only just slipped into the dark shadow of an alley after parting with the police, eyes peeled for other dangers, when the bag went over his head. Instinct kicked in fast enough that he almost got away, fully ready to duck and roll out of harm’s way. Then a feeling like he was frozen in place, his limbs locked, his body still, stopped him mid crouch.
He dropped sideways to the ground, and the world went dark.
The quirk did nothing to stop his ability to feel sensations across his body, so Eraserhead was fully aware that he was being moved. First, dragged into a car. Then, what could only have been a few minutes later, dragged back out. He was going to be bruised from the flights of stairs he’d been dragged bodily up; just from the amount of effort it was taking to get him anywhere he assumed it was a solo job.
A few minutes and several more bruises later, he was set onto a bed. It was plush and soft, and he felt, as if moving through heavy water, his arms being pulled behind his back. There were no sounds, but he could feel the bones of his wrists digging into one another as they were bound together. Next, his legs, straightened and tied with the same amount of effort. Finally, he felt a slight pressure against his chest and heard the tearing of fabric. He could only assume it was his jumpsuit.
Something uncomfortably cold was placed onto his chest, and then, with what must have been a determined breath, his captor ripped the bag off of his head.
It was difficult to make out much in the dim light. The only source of illumination was a tv in the center of the room, an ancient box playing an equally ancient cartoon. The sound was just low enough to hear the comic book crashes and exaggerated voices, but not so loud that he couldn’t concentrate.
Whoever had ripped the bag off was young. To be fair, everyone under the age of 25 was a kid to him, but this couldn’t have been anyone over the age of 18. They were barely older than one of his students. Their head was covered by a ratty baseball cap with a hood pulled over it, their mouth covered by a black mask. But their eyes, hard and bright, screamed youth.
“Hello, Eraserhead.” They said, sticking their hands into the hoodie pocket. “Fancy a chat?”
Eraserhead tried fighting off his binds, but the presumed quirk that had put him there hadn’t quite worn off yet.
“That was a joke. You won’t be able to speak for a few minutes yet.”
Trying, Eraserhead found he could roll his eyes.
At least he had that.
“But really, there’s nothing you could say to me that would make a difference anyway. That’s not why I brought you here. You’re here because you deserve to be, Eraserhead. You only have yourself to blame.”
Here being any nondescript apartment building in Japan. Probably not far from where he’d been patrolling, something he hoped the others would catch on to once they realized he was missing, but that would probably take some time.
As that thought crossed his mind, his captor leaned in close.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t even remember me. I’m just another little delinquent you put away, another troublemaker swept off the streets. But my little sister was taken away from me, because of you. She was put into the system, beaten, and killed, because of you. I haven’t slept in two years because of you! And now?" They pulled away, eyes wide and cold. "Neither will you.”
The whole thing made a little more sense with context. He put away a lot of villains. He tried to correct delinquent kids as much as possible, just like he would with any of his own wayward students. Circumstances made it difficult for some to rehabilitate without help, so Juvenile Detention was the next step. But sometimes, something he’d learned the hard way over a long career as an underground hero, things just went wrong.
The kid didn’t bother saying anything else, which was nice. Instead, they disappeared through a doorway and shut it behind them, the sound of footsteps trailing off down a hall until they were gone.
Eraserhead had never anticipated being kidnapped. But he was a pro hero, and he was damn good at his job. And if this was just a kid, he’d find a way out of it before anyone was even the wiser.
But first, he had to wait.
The quirk was gone within an hour, his locked limbs slowly able to wiggle on their own, his taped mouth able to flex, his neck crack as he rolled his head on his shoulders. He hadn’t really realized how uncomfortable it was until he had the movement back.
With the first step completed, Eraserhead took up his next task: observe. Finally able to rotate his head, he noted empty shelves along bare walls, a small window with one red curtain covering him from the outside world, and—not much of anything else. When he looked over his shoulder to check the binds around his wrist, he found they snaked around the frame of the bed and then beyond it, disappearing towards the floor.
Giving a tug, the bed frame jostled slightly, but he didn’t budge. The hold on them was secure. No sharp objects within reach, nothing to cut the ties. He tried to maneuver for leverage to break them, but felt a brief tingle of static across his wrists before they were overwhelmed by a sudden shock. He grunted out, gritting his teeth, just as the door opened again.
“We can’t have that.” The kid tutted. They sounded much more cheerful, as if they’d expected exactly that and were very pleased. “I meant what I said. No sleep for you! Any time your heart rate starts to mellow out? Bzzt! Speed up? Bzzt!”
Eraserhead glared.
“You’ll get a nice, big jolt! Maybe don’t get too cozy.”
The kid patted the top of his head and left again, the clicking of the door much more menacing than before.
It felt a little on the nose, the perpetually exhausted pro being forced to stay awake for some kid’s revenge. The sarcastic part of him secretly hoped it was one of his students playing a messed-up prank on him. Iida had already tried to tangle with a serial killer for revenge; he’d play the role of a sadistic kidnapper if someone told him it was the proper way to become more like Tensei.
Trying to slip his legs off the bed, Eraserhead found them also securely bound to the bedframe. In a normal situation, honestly, he would just go to sleep. Rest until Hizashi realized he was missing, alerted the pros, and went on his heroic rescue mission. But without that as an option, and without any clear way of escape, Eraserhead tried to come up with a more long-term plan.
Hours passed. The same cartoons played on the television over and over, looping until he wasn’t sure where they even began. It dawned on him as dawn began to creep through the top of the curtains that there really was no easy method of escape for him. He couldn’t move. There was currently no quirk for him to erase, no way for him to fight. And, if he was being honest, he was exhausted. The lack of sleep from the day before had caught up to him two-fold, and he kept finding his eyes closing on their own, only to snap back open in an instant.
Which…had the kid known that he hadn’t slept? It seemed likely, and convenient.
For them.
Time continued to move slowly. The cartoons had long since started to run together, a jumbled mess of whacky running sounds and anvils whistling down from the sky. When the light from the sun had disappeared once again from behind the curtain, the door opened again.
Only the kid’s face poked through.
“How are we doing Eraserhead?” There was too much cheer in their voice as they pushed the door the rest of the way open and strolled inside, one hand in their hoodie pocket. “I figure you might want a little snack; you’re probably getting hungry by now, hm? Not trying to starve you out or anything, for the record.”
They produced a jelly pack from their pocket, which, even in his current state made Eraserhead snort. That confirmed that the kid had been watching him, and probably for some time.
With a painful ripping sound the tape was removed from over his mouth. Savoring the big breath of stale air, Eraserhead leveled the kid with a narrow-eyed look.
“I understand you’re hurting, but there are other ways to—”
The shock was produced over his wrists again, making him hiss. Any other words were silenced by the jelly pack being put into his mouth, and he was forced to eat it, or possibly go hungry for hours again. Still, he glared a little more for good measure.
“I already told you once. You don’t get to say anything to me. You got that?”
When the jelly pack was empty a new piece of tape replaced the old. Eraserhead tried to get a word in edgewise, but he just wasn’t fast enough. The kid was gone as quickly as they’d arrived, leaving him with his cartoons, his red, burning eyes, and his intrinsic desire to lay down for a long, well-deserved nap.
As the night wore on, so did his will to stay awake. Multiple times he felt himself drifting off, his eyes feeling warm and heavy, but the shock to his wrists would always jolt him awake, making his heart jump and race. They would be looking for him by then, of that he had no doubt. Hizashi would have been suspicious as soon as he was late coming back from patrol, but things happened. He had late nights. Being missing a full day? Hizashi would be in full search and rescue mode.
The thought kept him from panicking, even when the world began to pitch and sway. He’d pulled longer stints of no sleep in his early twenties, back when he was doing the whole underground Hero business. Back when he was still internalizing Shirakumo’s death. But it had been a long time since then, and, despite being mocked for being an insomniac in his day to day, Eraserhead slept as much as anyone else. Just in…fits and starts, rather than full nights of sleep.
So, as he began to drop off more, as the shocks continued to wake him back up, as the stupid kid and their stupid jelly packs kept him from passing out from starvation, things started to get a little dire. The shadows were moving on their own, despite his brain intellectualizing that they were just normal shadows and nothing more. The door had been left open when the kid came in to feed him, and he swore he could see sharp eyes peering at him through the darkness. But when he’d blink, shake his head, mutter behind his piece of tape to get it together, they’d be gone.
The last time he saw the kid the room was dark. The tv had turned to static hours ago, although he hadn’t noticed. A shock had just woken him for the fifth time in an hour, and the kid seemed to be interested in how things were going. Clearly they were looking for something.
Eraserhead wished he knew what the point of any of it was. Maybe then, at least, he’d consider not wringing the kid’s neck the second he was free to.
“How are things, Eraserhead?” They asked, getting in close again. They were only half of a shadow against the flickering light of the tv screen; a looming figure that flared quiet rage in Eraserhead's chest. On instinct he tried to bash his forehead into the kid’s, but was met with a palm against his skin. The kid sighed. “Still kicking, I see. Well, we’ll see how you’re doing in a few more hours, hm? Nighty night, Eraser.”
He couldn’t move. Again. Two hours later it wore off, his body slumping at the lack of pressure holding him tightly together, and he’d fallen asleep 3 times while he waited to regain control of his locked limbs. Blinking sluggishly, he wondered how long his body could go before it just gave up on him. He felt like it already should have.
More hours passed. If he’d had the energy he would have tried again to fight against his restraints, but that time had long since passed. Days ago? He had no clue how long he’d been in the state of perpetual consciousness, but he was also long past the point of caring.
The next time the door opened, Eraserhead didn’t bother to look in its direction. He expected the tape over his mouth to be removed, the jelly pack shoved into his mouth, just like all the other times. And, just like the last time, he tried to headbutt the kid as hard as he could.
This time, though, he made contact, and a distraught voice immediately began cussing under their breath and shouting, “Hey! What the hell!”
When another took its place, nothing but a blur in front of him, he wasn’t surprised when the tape came off. He waited for the jelly pack, the mere thought of it turning his practically empty stomach. It didn’t come. Instead, he felt soft leather slide across his cheeks, and the press of fingertips into his skin.
“Eraserhead. Are ya with me?”
Though he tried to weakly protest, the grip held steady.
“It’s okay, hey. It’s okay. It’s Mic.”
“Mic?” He asked like he didn’t believe it. He didn't believe it. He blinked through the fog, his eyes trying to scan familiar features, his body debating whether to go into fight, or flight, or both. If anyone had put a hand on his chest they would have felt his heart trying to desperately flutter its way out. He couldn’t even question the lack of shocks to his still bound wrists.
It didn't stop when the fingers just gently threaded the space around his ears, digging into the tight muscles of his neck.
“I’m here. I’ve got you.”
Mic felt as much as saw the tension in Eraserhead trickle out. When he slumped forward, his dark, disheveled hair curtaining his face, Mic caught him with a shoulder and supported his weight with the one knee he’d pressed into the bed.
“I can sleep now?”
Eraserhead’s voice was rough enough, despondent as he rested his forehead against the leather of Mic’s jacket, that it made the other man’s face crumple.
“Yeah, honey.” His thumb ran gently along the side of his temple. “You can sleep.”