Chapter Text
Shota Aizawa crouched on the edge of a water tower, the rusted metal cold enough to seep through the soles of his combat boots. He didn’t mind the temperature. He didn’t mind the dampness clinging to his capture weapon, making the cloth heavy around his neck. Discomfort was a grounding mechanism. If you were cold, you were awake. If you were awake, you were alive.
He pulled his yellow goggles down, the world shifting into a narrow view.
Below him, in the labyrinth of alleyways that the daylight heroes ignored, a deal was going down. It wasn’t a flashy bank robbery. It wasn’t a villain shouting about world domination. It was a simple exchange of Trigger. A quirk-enhancing drug that was slowly bleeding into the streets, turning petty thieves into mindless beasts.
This was the Underground.
It had been three years since graduation. Three years since he had taken the license, looked at the glittering world of celebrity heroics, and turned his back on it.
His phone buzzed in one of his utility pouches. He didn't check it. He knew who it was. It was Friday night. Hizashi would be finishing his radio slot, his manic energy seeking out an unfortunate soul to target, looking to drag Shota to an Izakaya to unwind.
Unwinding makes you slow, Shota thought, silencing the vibration as ue watched the two figures in the alley exchange a briefcase. Attachments make you hesitate.
He dropped.
The capture weapon lashed out like a striking viper. The first dealer didn’t even have time to activate his quirk—some sort of minor pyrokinesis, judging by the flicker of smothered out flames around his neck—before he was bound, gagged, and slammed into the wet pavement. The second one turned, eyes widening, but Shota’s hair was already floating, his eyes glowing red. The villain’s transformation quirk, spikes jutting out from his skin, retracted instantly, leaving him soft and vulnerable. A swift kick to the temple ended the fight.
Ten seconds. Efficient. Not as efficient as he’d like, but it would do.
Shota exhaled, his hair settling back onto his shoulders. He zip-tied them, called the police on his work phone, and grappled back up to the rooftops before the sirens wailed.
He sat on a gargoyle overlooking the scene, watching the uniformed officers take the trash away. He felt nothing. No thrill of victory. No pride. Just the satisfaction of a job done and the knowledge that he would survive to do it again tomorrow.
This was how it had to be. Alone.
"You know," a voice said, entirely too loud and entirely too close, "you really need to work on your landing. It’s quiet, sure, but terrible for the knees in the long run."
Shota didn't jump or flinch, the instinct driven out of him years ago. He twisted his head a touch, hand drifting to the knife concealed in his boot, eyes narrowing.
Standing on the parapet adjacent to him was a woman. She was... bright. Even in the gloom of the night, she seemed to burst with color. She wore a bandana, a tactical vest that looked like it had seen better days, and a smile that looked like it was a joke away from splitting her face in two.
"Who are you?" Shota asked. His voice was gravel, dry from disuse.
"Ouch. Straight to business?" She hopped down, landing too gracefully for someone who looked like she was better dressed for a renaissance festival than a patrol. "I’m Ms. Joke! The Smile Hero!"
Shota stared at her. "Never heard of you."
"I’m new to the neighborhood!" She winked. It was an exaggerated, theatrical wink. "Just moved my agency’s patrol route over from the next ward. Thought I’d come say hi to the local cryptid."
"I'm working," Shota said, turning back to the street. "Go away."
"Aw, come on! I saw that takedown. Eraserhead, right? I've heard rumors. The man who hates the media almost as much as he hates his well being." She stepped closer, invading his personal space with a confidence reminiscent of Hizashi, when they first met. Or someone with no sense of self preservation. "You’re prickly. I like prickly. Marry me."
Shota blinked. Once. Twice.
The logic of the sentence failed to parse. There was no sense to the statement. It was ridiculous.
"No," he said flatly.
"Not yet? That's fine. I can wait." She leaned against the gargoyle, mirroring his pose but lacking his tension. "So, Eraser. You work alone?"
"Yes."
"Why? Scared you’ll get shown up?"
"Because other people are a liability," Shota said, and for a second, the harshness in his voice was real. He thought of light blue clouds. He thought of a building collapsing. He thought of the silence that followed a laugh that would never be heard again. "They get in the way. They get hurt."
Ms. Joke didn’t recoil. She studied him, the intelligence behind her teal eyes sharper than her loose posture would suggest. "Or maybe you just haven't met the right partner. Someone who can keep up."
"You're loud," Shota noted, standing up. "You wear bright colors. You announce your presence. You aren't underground material."
"And yet," she grinned, thumbing behind her, "I took down three lookouts while you were staring at the main deal. You didn't even hear me."
Shota paused. He looked past her. Indeed, three unconscious bodies were draped over the fire escape of the adjacent building. He hadn't sensed her taking them out. He hadn't even sensed them being there until she’d pointed it out.
"Outburst," she said, tapping her temple. "My quirk. Makes people laugh, or makes them choke if I dial it up. Hard to fight when you can't inhale, hard to call for backup when you're wheezing with joy. It’s the ultimate stealth takedown, if you think about it."
It was logical, and it had worked. Annoying, but logical.
"Stay out of my way," Shota grunted, launching his capture tape to swing away.
"See you tomorrow, Eraser!" she yelled after him, her voice echoing off the brick walls. "Think about my proposal!"
He didn't look back. But the silence of his patrol felt different now.
--
"She asked you to what?"
Hizashi Yamada, better known as the radio host/pro hero Present Mic, nearly choked on his yakitori. He slammed his drink down on the table, his sunglasses sliding down his nose. Even in a dive bar at 2:00 AM, Hizashi was loud.
"Keep it down," Shota muttered, hunched over his coffee. He looked exhausted, the bags under his eyes dark enough to carry groceries. "It was a joke. Obviously."
"Ms. Joke?" Nemuri said, making nearby patrons swoon as she flashed her trademark Midnight smirk. "I’ve met her. Fukukado Emi. She’s actually quite good at her job. Her agency is small, but her arrest record is spotless."
"She’s annoying," Shota corrected. "She compromised my position."
"Did she?" Nemuri raised an eyebrow. "Didn’t you just say she took out the lookouts, without you even noticing she was there?"
Shota didn't answer. He took a sip of the bitter coffee.
"Come on, Sho!" Hizashi leaned over, slinging an arm around Shota’s shoulders. Shota stiffened but didn't shove him off. "Maybe it’s good! You’ve been… man, you’ve been a ghost for three years. You turn down my offers, you turn down Nemuri’s team-ups. You live in that empty apartment and you hunt dirtbags all night. It’s not healthy."
"I'm efficient," Shota said. "I save lives."
"You're punishing yourself," Hizashi said, his voice dropping a bit, becoming the soft, worried tone of a friend who had stood by a grave with him. "Oboro wouldn't want you to be a hermit, Sho."
Shota set the cup down. The ceramic clinked loudly against the wood. "Don't."
"I'm just saying—"
"I work alone because it’s safer. For everyone." Shota stood up, throwing a few bills on the table. "I have a patrol to finish."
"Sho, wait—"
"See you later, Mic. Midnight."
He walked out into the cool night air. The city lights blurred in his vision. He wasn't punishing himself. He was protecting them. If he was alone, the only person who could die was him. And that was a risk he was comfortable with.
--
The problem was, Emi Fukukado did not understand the concept of "no."
Over the next six months, she became a recurring nightmare in his patrols. It wasn't every night—she had her own agency to run, paperwork to file, a life of her own to live—but she appeared often enough that Shota stopped being surprised.
He would be staking out a warehouse, and a bag of jellybeans would land next to his boot.
He would be interrogating a thug, and Emi would lean in from the shadows, offer a terrible pun, and then tickle them so viciously the thug would spill the intel just to make it stop.
She was relentless.
"Hey, Eraser!" She dropped onto the roof next to him. It was autumn now; the wind was biting. "What do you call a hero who works alone and has no fun?"
Shota didn't look up from his binoculars. "Alive."
"Booo. Too dark." She sat cross-legged, pulling a thermos out of her utility belt. "The answer is 'Lonely.' Also, I brought miso soup. You look like you’re freezing."
"I don't want your soup."
"It has pork in it."
Shota hesitated. He hadn't eaten in twelve hours. He took the thermos. "This doesn't mean we're partners."
"Of course not! We're just two colleagues, sharing a romantic rooftop dinner under the smog." She batted her eyelashes theatrically.
"Stop flirting. It’s illogical. We have nothing in common."
"Opposites attract! It’s basic magnetism, Eraser. You’re dark, brooding, and grumpy. I’m sunny, hilarious, and adorable. We balance the scales."
"I am not brooding."
"You are literally brooding right now. You’re brooding at that soup."
Shota took a sip. It was warm. It was good. He hated how good it was. "Why do you bother? I’m not going to join your agency. I’m not going to date you. I’m not going to be your friend."
Emi’s smile softened, just a fraction. "The underground is dark, Aizawa. It eats people up. I’ve seen guys like you. You think if you cut off all the limbs, the heart won’t bleed. But you eventually just turn into a machine. And machines break."
"I'm not going to break."
"Everyone breaks," she said lightly, taking the thermos cap back. "But a little laughter here and there keeps that day away."
"I don't laugh."
"I'll get you one day," she promised, standing up and stretching. "Mark my words. One chuckle. That’s all I need. Then I win."
"Win what?"
"Your heart, obviously!" She finger-gunned him and backflipped off the roof.
Shota stared at the empty space she left behind. He felt a headache coming on. But the soup had been warm.
--
That day came sooner than he thought, in winter, just a few months later.
A localized drug ring had escalated. They weren't just selling Trigger anymore. They were trying to modify it. A warehouse in the industrial district had been flagged as a distribution center for a new variant that induced berserker rages more frequently.
Shota had planned to go in alone. He had the schematics. He had the element of surprise.
But the intel was wrong.
He shattered the skylight as he fell, landing on a pile of crates, and realized too late that this wasn't a distribution center. It was a testing ground.
There weren't five guards. There were twenty. And three of them were already high on the product.
The fight was chaotic, full of variables he couldn’t contain. Shota was good—he was one of the best, even being as young as he was—but his quirk had a limit. He could erase the quirk of the massive man swinging a steel beam at him, but he couldn't erase the guy shooting spikes from his fingers at the same time. He had to blink.
Blink. The spikes grazed his side, tearing through the jumpsuit.
Blink. A fist connected with his jaw, sending him skidding across the concrete.
He scrambled up, capture weapon flaring, but he was cornered. His eyes darted around the room, calculating the odds. If he took out the structural support to his left, he could bring the walkway down, creating a barrier, but he’d likely be buried too.
Acceptable losses.
He reached for the support beam with his cloth.
Suddenly, the air filled with a sound that didn't belong in a death match.
Laughter.
Uncontrollable, wheezing, gut-busting laughter.
The man about to crush Shota’s skull dropped the steel beam, clutching his stomach, tears streaming down his face. "I—I can't—Stop—It's not funny—!" he gasped, falling to his knees.
Around the room, the villains were collapsing, incapacitated for the moment.
Emi dropped from the catwalks, her orange bandana bright against the gray industrial haze. She wasn't smiling. Her face was set in a mask of concentration, her eyes scanning the threats. She moved through the laughing bodies, delivering precise knockout hits to the necks of the men who were too busy giggling to defend themselves.
She reached Shota and deactivated her quirk. "Can you stand?"
"I had it under control," Shota wheezed, clutching his bleeding side.
"You were about to drop a building on yourself, you idiot," she snapped. It was the first time he had heard her sound genuinely angry.
"It would have neutralized the threat."
"And you! It would have neutralized you!" She grabbed his arm, slinging it over her shoulder. "We’re leaving. Now."
They retreated, Shota’s erasure covering their escape while Emi’s outbursts kept the reinforcements disoriented. They made it to a small, dusty apartment the commission maintained a few blocks away, a communal safehouse for pros in the area.
She kicked the door shut and shoved him onto the sofa.
"Shirt off," she ordered, grabbing a first aid kit.
"I can do it myself."
"Shut up, Eraser." She ripped the package of gauze open with her teeth.
Shota sat still, letting her clean the gash on his side. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a sharp, stinging pain he refused to acknowledge. He watched her work. Her hands were steady. Her expression was tight.
"Why were you there?" he asked.
"I tracked the shipments too. I saw you go in." She poured disinfectant on the wound. Shota didn't flinch. "I waited for you to radio in backup. You didn’t, so I went in."
"I work alone."
"Yeah, I know. 'Less chance to get hurt.' 'Less chance to lose someone.'" She taped the gauze down, perhaps a little tighter than necessary. She looked up at him, her eyes burning. "Do you think you’re the only one who’s lost people, Aizawa? Do you think you’re the only one who knows what this job costs?"
Shota went still. He looked at her face, her ever present smile set in a thin line. Beneath the jokes, beneath the loud costume, he saw the scars on her arms. He saw the way her eyes constantly checked the exits.
"I can't have a partner," Shota said, his voice barely a whisper. "I can't look out for you."
"I don't need you to look out for me!" Emi stood up, throwing the bloody wipes into the trash. "I’m a Pro Hero. I can handle myself. I’m not some sidekick you have to babysit. I’m your equal."
She paced the small room, her hands on her hips. "You push everyone away because you think you’re saving them. But really, you’re just terrified. You’re terrified that if you let someone in, you might actually have a reason to want to survive these fights."
Shota looked down at his hands. The blood on them was his own, and the villains'.
"It’s illogical," he muttered. "To rely on others."
"It’s human!" Emi shouted. Then she sighed, the anger deflating as quickly as it had come. She sat down on the coffee table in front of him, forcing him to meet her gaze.
"Look, Shota." She used his given name. It sounded strange in her voice. "I’m not asking you to change your whole life. I’m not asking you to join my agency or… or actually marry me. Yet." A faint, tired smile tugged at her lips. "But you almost died tonight. And if I hadn't been there, there would be no Eraserhead tomorrow. Is that logical?"
Shota ran the scenario in his head. Without her intervention, he probably wouldn’t have made it out alive.
"No," he admitted.
"Right. So." She patted his knee. "Next time you go after a distribution hub, you text me. Not because we’re dating. Yet. But because two underground heroes are harder to kill than one. Deal?"
Shota looked at her. He saw the stubbornness in her jaw. He realized, with a creeping sense of resignation, that she was just as immovable as he was. Hizashi was loud but respected boundaries. Nemuri teased but knew when to back off.
Ms. Joke, unfortunately, did not back off. She was a force of nature.
"Fine," Shota said.
Emi blinked. "Wait, really?"
"It increases the success rate of the mission. It’s… a logical compromise."
Emi stared at him for a second, and then her face broke into that blinding, hundred-watt grin. "I knew it! You like me!"
"I tolerate you."
"You love me! You’re practically writing your vows right now!" She jumped up, her energy returning instantly. "Oh, this is great. We need a team name. EraserJoke? No, that sounds like a weird fanfic ship name. SmileHead? No, that’s weird."
"We are not a team," Shota groaned, leaning his head back against the sofa. "We are temporary allies of convenience."
"I'll work on the name," she ignored him. "Hey, since you’re patched up, want to go get ramen? I know a place that’s open until 5 AM. My treat. Consider it a first date."
"It's not a date."
"Business meeting with noodles. Come on, grumpy."
Shota stood up, testing his side. It hurt, but it held. He looked at Emi, who was already at the door, bouncing on her heels, waiting for him.
For three years, he had walked out of doors alone. He had walked into the dark alone. He had convinced himself that the silence meant peace.
But as he followed her out into the cold night air, and she immediately launched into a story about a villain who looked like a giant broccoli, Shota found that the noise wasn't quite as unbearable as he remembered.
"Hey, Emi," he said.
She stopped mid-sentence, turning back, surprised. He rarely used her name.
"Thanks."
She softened, her smile losing its manic edge and becoming something genuine, something warm enough to ward off the winter chill.
"Anytime, Shota. Anytime."
She turned back around, skipping down the sidewalk. "So, a priest, a rabbi, and a Pro Hero walk into a bar…"
Shota sighed, pulled his capture weapon tighter around his neck like a scarf, and followed. He didn't laugh. He wouldn't laugh.
But he didn't walk away, either.
--
Two Years Later.
The invitation to teach at U.A. sat on his desk. Nezu had been persistent. Hizashi had been annoying.
Shota stared at it. Teaching meant daylight. It meant responsibility. It meant watching kids with bright eyes and stupid dreams try to get themselves killed. It meant seeing Oboro in every student who smiled too much.
He was going to burn the letter.
His phone buzzed. A text message.
Ms. Joke: Heard about the job offer! You gonna take it? Imagine you, shaping the minds of the youth. Those poor kids won’t know what hit them. :D
Shota: I'm declining.
Ms. Joke: Why? You’d be good at it.
Shota: I don't have the patience.
Ms. Joke: Liar. You’ve put up with me for two years. You have the patience of a saint. Besides, think of the logic. You can train them to survive. You can make sure they don't end up like… well. You know.
Shota stared at the screen. She knew about Oboro now. He had told her one night, a year ago, when the whiskey had been cheap and the rain too loud, before he’d built up his alcohol tolerance. She hadn't made a joke the entire night.
Ms. Joke: Plus, if you work at U.A., you’ll be in the same district as me more often. We can get lunch. Actual dates. ;)
Shota: We are not dating.
Ms. Joke: Keep telling yourself that, Eraser. The tabloids disagree.
He snorted. It was a small sound, barely audible, but it was there.
She was right, dammit. She was always annoyingly right. If he taught them, he could weed out the ones who weren't ready. He could cut them loose before they got killed. He could be the wall between them and the tragedy that had defined him.
He picked up the pen and signed the acceptance form.
Shota: I took the job.
Ms. Joke: YESS!! MARRY ME TO CELEBRATE!
Shota: No.
Ms. Joke: See you soon, Mr. Teacher! <3
Shota put the phone down. He looked out the window of his apartment. The sun was rising, casting long shadows across the city. The underground was retreating for the day.
He was still a loner by nature, but now he wasn't alone. There was a difference.
He grabbed his goggles. He had a patrol to finish before the sun fully hit the streets. And if he happened to swing by Emi’s patrol route on the way back… well, that was just the most logical route. Time management and such.
Nothing more.