Chapter Text
There were a few things that told Izuku this was the wrong kind of place.
It’d been out of the way, past a few shady alleyways and partially underground. Hell, the only reason he’d come to it is because he’d looked up bars that wouldn’t profile him based on his quirk—or otherwise lack a quirk. His local bar, also out of the way like this, had closed down, health code violations or whatever. He supposed that internet strangers' recommendation of bars that don’t ID was bound to be trouble.
Perhaps he’d been too optimistic; seeing phrases like “doesn’t ask questions” and “bartender minds his business” gave Izuku hope that people like him’d be welcome. The unquirked, people with shitty quirks, or otherwise people of his class. Not—the other kinds of people who society ignored.
Second, the atmosphere of the place. His nice, uncomfortable work shoes that weren’t made for his anatomy stuck to the vinyl floor, and he’d gotten a face full of smoke, drugs, bleach, and cheap alcohol when he’d opened the door. Underground—of course it was unventilated.
As he stood stupidly in the entrance, nobody spared him a glance. Not the bartender, not the gang of scary men playing cards in the corner, not the creepy lady to his left smoking a cigarette. The gentle undercurrent of conversation ignored him. He would never admit this out loud, but he might’ve preferred this to immediately being kicked out or being stared at.
Despite his apparent invisibility, he looked chronically out of place. He’d come straight from work, in his suit and tie (he never figured out how to tie correctly) and backpack, briefcase and all. He’d lazily looked up this bar on the train; in hindsight, it’d been a mistake. The people surrounding him didn’t look like textbook supervillains with their costumes and flashy superpowers, yet they were not civilian by any means.
He should leave immediately.
He just wanted a drink to make the day wind down a little easier.
Izuku hadn’t been having the best time these past few years. Obviously denied from U.A., he’d picked a local high school and seen it through until graduation. His life wasn’t that miserable; Katsuki and the Bakugous managed to pull a few strings to get him a steady job that paid enough to live comfortably, but not vicariously. A data analyst at a job that dealt mildly in heroics, mostly in the schematics of collateral damage, costume costs, and support items.
It gave him just a smidge of heroics in his life.
Sure, he knew Kacchan, but their relationship was strained at best. Katsuki got this strange look in his eye upon seeing Izuku stop chasing his dream, which confused Izuku to no end.
After All Might’s retirement, part of his spark died down. Endeavour, despite being a phenomenal hero, never could represent a beacon of hope like All Might could. Since then, he’s seen heroes rise and drop the ranks, with Lemillion taking the first spot as All Might’s successor.
It left Izuku feeling empty, ashamed as he was to admit it.
His hobby of hero analysis simmered down with time, no gasoline or wood to stroke the fire of passion in Izuku. Besides, it wasn’t like anybody enjoyed Izuku’s analysis anyway.
He wasn’t a big drinker, but on nights like these, a drink seemed right.
It landed him here, a place that was most definitely a villain's bar.
Despite not being much of a hero fanatic anymore, he definitely didn’t identify as a villain sympathiser either, meaning Izuku was most definitely in the wrong place.
He’d turned his heel abruptly, spinning to leave. He only realised his mistake when he fell, tumbling to the ground after barreling into somebody hard, back first to the floor.
The stranger didn’t fall over, stumbling but holding the doorframe of the bar above him.
“I am so, so sorry; I wasn’t looking where I was going.” Izuku blurted out as he climbed to his feet before he could even look up to face whoever he bumped into, cringing at the unwashed floor he landed on. His briefcase slid across the floor, backpacking near falling off.
Above him, Izuku heard a hiss.
Midoriya looked up to stare at what he might describe as the scariest person he’d ever seen.
Tall, much taller than him, lean, intimidating, masked, and utterly drenched in blood.
A grey scarf hung off his shoulders, and a mangled leather jacket, shredded open from the left shoulder down to the collarbone and leaking an obscene amount of blood.
Lavender hair, deep eye bags, and an ever-deeper laceration, at least a few inches.
As Izuku took in the stranger, the other took one glared down with a predatory gaze, as if considering if killing the man would be worth the energy and inconvenience, never meeting Izuku’s eyes. Not that he’d noticed, but some of the blood had splattered onto parts of Izuku’s shirt and tie, having rubbed off in the collision.
Izuku felt like prey, like an idiot, like he’d just served himself upon a plate for a starving villain to eat.
Finally, through the terrifying electronic mask that concealed the bottom half of his face, came-
“Move.”
“Oh my god,” Izuku muttered before he returned to his muttered apologies, scrambling to grab his briefcase and get out of the way of the injured man.
Finally standing up on his feet, the wounded man brushed past Izuku with that same bloodied shoulder.
Izuku should leave now.
The undercurrent of conversation, which had lulled for a moment, continued. This time, Izuku felt the atmosphere of the room take him in. Take in the stranger, who’d hobbled to the bar, and where the bartender made his way over.
He looked down at himself, taking note of the blood on his own shirt and tie, unwrinkled, pristine white and now stained, smudged from when they’d bumped into each other.
He turned to look at the back of the stranger.
A small trail of blood followed him; nobody besides Izuku noticed.
Nor did they notice the set in the villain's shoulders, the pained posture, or the barely visible laboured breath.
Izuku should definitely leave.
His feet finally moved, closing the door behind him and walking up to the bar.
…
Hitoshi hadn’t been having a good night.
He’d describe himself as nocturnal, only coming around the underground deep into the night, but here he was, sleep-deprived and out and about so early.
Sure, it was dark, but barely even 8 pm! Musutafu was still wide awake, and he should be out cold. Depending on who you asked, he should be out cold in terms of decreased. Luckily, people like that never manage to even get a hit on to him.
Still, a few hours of sleep had to be sacrificed. It’s been obvious he was being tailed by a vigilante; he had been for some days now.
He’d heard some chatter about the young vigilante, who apparently the police had sent to stalk him. It was a shame; they were probably using him to get information, only to arrest him after most likely. The vigilante had, from what he’d heard, a promising quirk and good skills.
Too bad his body is sitting in a dumpster a few alleys away.
It wasn’t like Shinsou was so heartless as to want to kill some random kid, but what choice did he have? Move permanently to avoid him? Too much effort for some high schooler.
He didn’t feel too bad, considering Shinsou was only a few years older. Besides, it wasn’t like the kid was giving the police good information anyway.
Hitoshi noticed him immediately, which forced him to move spontaneously. He’d suffered without returning to his crummy apartment for a few days, even if nothing waited for him besides a good night's rest.
The vigilante gave him a good fight, though, fighting tooth and nail and, at some point, even calling for police backup that didn’t arrive on time, or at all, for that matter.
Makes sense; he’s got a bit of a reputation, one that spooked even police officers. It makes sense why no backup came – the vigilante had been dead in less than two minutes. The hungry alley rats and cats would feast on the kid's corpse before police would find it.
The stupid kid nicked him. A nasty, jagged cut sliced across one shoulder, across his chest to the opposite collarbone.
It was a dumb injury in hindsight; he obviously could’ve blocked the hit, but Hitoshi was tired and in desperate need of 10 hours of uninterrupted sleep.
Regardless, the vigilante had been taken out quickly after that, with a final blow to the back of his neck. It wasn't exceptionally quick or clean, but he found himself too exhausted to care. Shinsou dumped his body into a nearby dumpster and made it quick to climb the fire escape.
Despite being very tempted to go straight back to home base for his rightfully earned sleep, the cut across his chest felt deep, the sting turning slowly into agony as the adrenaline wore off. Blood leaked down his chest and soaked uncomfortably into his villain costume as he strayed from his path home.
He dropped into a narrow back street and motioned to the entrance of a bar he frequented.
It wasn’t like he liked to drink, but in most scenarios where Hitoshi found himself wounded, he found that alcohol numbed the pain a bit, making cleaning and dressing his wounds easier.
As he walked down the stairs to the underground bar, he wasn’t quick enough to stop the stranger from slamming into him, who Hitoshi had been too out of it to notice. He’d nearly been knocked over himself, unintentionally opening the wound further as he stretched both arms out to catch himself, which he admittedly hissed at.
He really was out of it; he should’ve been able to dodge him or something, despite the narrow entrance.
Already in pain, sleep-deprived, and admittedly in a foul mood, he glared down at the person in question.
Some nerdy-looking guy, probably his age and dressed fairly nicely, scrambled and stuttered as he stood up, rambling off apologies. Hitoshi couldn’t be bothered to pay any mind. As he finally stood up, Hitoshi lazily took him in, green hair and freckles and pretty obviously civilian, before deciding this wasn’t a situation he would deal with.
Hitoshi had a certain type of disdain for civilians. Hell, he might even dislike them as much as heroes. They panicked, stared, screamed, and usually tried to call the police. He’s lucky, only being forced to kill a few witnesses in his entire career.
Fortunately for Hitoshi, this one didn’t seem like it’d be a problem on his way out when he’d slammed into him.
Hitoshi stared down for a few seconds, almost on his very last nerve, as the guy stumbled on the gross floors and muttered apologies. Hitoshi tuned out.
Shinsou might’ve bumped into him a little too hard as he walked past him without a word, if the stumble he’d heard behind him was any indication.
Granted, this isn’t any place Hitoshi should be making enemies; it’s a lawless land, for Christ’s sake, but something tells him that being snappish with him in particular won’t be a large problem.
Hitoshi took his place at the bar, patiently waiting for the bartender to serve him his usual, which was anything strong enough to numb the pain.
He’d leant his head down against the wooden bar, weathered by years of villains in his exact spot, tired out of his mind and more wounded than he’d usually get on a normal patrol. Maybe he’d let his eyes rest for a second.
...
Being a victim in his youth and a villain now, Shinsou had learned to sense others around him by the sound of their breathing or their scent, or sometimes nothing more than a gut feeling.
In this case, the spike in irritation indicated to him that somebody had sat down next to him, and given how he feels eyes staring at him, Hitoshi was very tempted to keep his eyes shut and pretend he couldn’t sense whoever made the mistake of sitting down next to him.
Hitoshi wasn’t anywhere near the most violent villain, not a crazed mass murderer with a conviction like Stain, but he hadn’t gained his infamy by sparing anyone he thought needed to die.
So Shinsou had been very close to pulling a blade out of his holster, stabbing whoever dared to bother him, snatching a bottle from behind the bar and sprinting the hell home.
Unfortunately, before he could even open his eyes, a voice spoke—or attempted to over-stutter.
“I- uhm, excuse me. That looks like it hurts super badly, and I bumped into you earlier, which I am so, so sorry about, but uhm—I have some sutures in my bag if you need any help—not that I’m saying I’m a medical professional! Or anything, I’m not, but I think offering some help is the least I can do after bothering you like that."
Hitoshi forced his eyes open to face the same green-haired guy from earlier.
Shinsou was wrong.
This civilian might be worse than anyone he’d ever had to deal with. Instead of screaming, crying, and begging for mercy, this one was apparently deranged enough to intentionally approach a villain and, even more insane, offer help.
He might even be undercover. Hitoshi doesn’t know how he let that possibly slip his mind.
He’s dressed sharply enough to be at least a detective, yet something about the stranger tells him that he isn’t affiliated.
If police were trying to infiltrate the bar, they’d at least have the decency of fronting as a villain, and in the case of them being after Hitoshi specifically, an aloof office-looking guy standing by the door of the bar he frequents once a month sporadically couldn’t possibly be their plan.
Meaning this guy might legitimately be a civilian.
“Fuck off.” Plain, simple, and to the point. He hadn't bothered to peel his voice modulator down, making him sound infinitely more done with everything.
Hitoshi dragged a hand over his face, slumping down onto the bar and praying for the bartender to hand him his shot already so he could patch himself up and sleep until his eye-bags cleared up, which was somewhere between 10 years and a millennium. He’d describe himself as antisocial, more inclined to stab him than even maintain a conversation.
A few seconds passed before the civilian, who clearly hadn’t been smart enough to read the villain's mood, continued, "You're going to pass out really soon; there's probably too much blood loss.”
Hitoshi didn’t answer, trying to find the energy to at least threaten the man, and finding he wasted his last bit of energy trudging to the bar.
“I won’t even ask what happened; I just want to help. You definitely need stitches.”
Hitoshi let his eyes lull shut, not stupid enough to think he’d receive help without a catch.
Hitoshi shutters, feeling the stranger cautiously hold up a hand to his non-injured shoulder. “If you pass out right now, there’s a good chance you won’t wake up," he says, with urgency and care that sound too genuine for Hitoshi to mistrust in his voice.
Finally, Hitoshi mutters, breathing coming a lot harder than before, “What…the fuck is your problem?”
“I’ll tell you if you let me help you.” The stranger, the civilian, fires back.
Hitoshi makes a noise as he forces his arms to straighten, using what remains of his willpower to sit up, and spins the old bar chair to face the stranger.
He wonders where the bartender is with his shot.
He nearly dozed off again until he felt the stranger again, peeling the shredded leather back slightly and pressing an alcohol- and saline-ridden wipe into his skin.
It hurts like hell, and he can’t find the energy in him to mask his reaction or fight back against the stranger.
Somewhere, in his state between conscious and unconscious, he notes the bartender sliding a shot across the bar to him, bumping into his arm as he leans on the bar for support.
He doesn’t feel the needle pierce his skin, or the gauze placed gently on his skin, nor the gentle murmurs of "Please don’t pass out now; this part might hurt. I’m almost done” serve to lull him asleep instead of keeping him up as intended.
Nor does he notice the way everyone around them seems to fizzle out of existence in his mind, the way the room’s conversation makes way for eavesdropping on the gentle nothings being whispered into Shinsou’s ear.
Time passes like a fever dream – half-awake and half-dead.
At long last, the stranger shakes him slightly but gently, cautious not to irritate the wound, pressing a shot into his hands, and gently positioning Hitoshi’s fingers to grasp the shot for him.
Hitoshi’s own hands are gloved, with a noticeable lack of blood caked on them, but he can feel the heat of the stranger's hands wrapped supportively around his, hands thicker and warmer than his own.
His brain lags, but as the civilian removed his hands, he held the glass in his hands at last. Hitoshi shifts slightly to throw his head back to take the shot, strong alcohol burning his throat and waking him up a bit.
When he tips his head back down again at last, however long might’ve passed, the stranger isn’t across from him anymore. Suddenly more conscious, he notes he’s definitely stitched up, fairly cleanly, with some gauze over the wound. The blood that drenched his coat is also slightly cleaned up, even if haphazardly. His hands feel cold.
He glances around, admittedly looking for the green-haired stranger, whom he’s convinced he hallucinated in his blood loss-induced hysteria.
With a sigh, he turns around, flagging down the bartender to pay his tab and get the hell home after what might be his weirdest experience this week.
Or month, or year. Hitoshi doesn’t talk to a lot of people willingly.
Granted, this time wasn’t willing either. If you told Hitoshi a few hours ago, he’d encounter a civilian hell-bent on helping him; he wouldn’t react, but he’d spit in your face if you told him he’d let himself be helped.
Hitoshi patted down his costume, half expecting himself to have been robbed by that guy. “How much do I owe you?” He asked, lazily rifling around his wallet full of crumpled bills, noticing the lack of blood coating his fingers.
“Greenie paid your tab.”
Hitoshi stared deadpan into the black eyes of the bartender, having known the man long enough to know he wouldn’t joke like that. Despite that, "You're kidding me," he stated, equally unlikely to joke like that.
With a nod, the bartender replied, "Left a fat tip too," as he shot him a look, almost as if asking a question of what the hell that was.
The conversation around the room bent around Hitoshi and the bartender, nosy and having watched the entire interaction from start to finish through their periphery and stolen glances now and again.
Hitoshi stared back incredulously, slumping back against the bar to stare at the bartender, trying to communicate, I don’t know what just happened, with his eyes.
Finally, Hitoshi found the strength to stand up and stumble home, mind full of the mysterious civilian who walked into a villain's bar, gently aided a villain and wrapped his wounds, paid a pretty penny, and left with no explanation.
And when he strips, finally shedding the torn-up costume, noting that some parts are lacking blood, probably courtesy of the man, he finds a little Post-it note in his pocket next to his phone. Hitoshi mentally prepares himself for whatever might be in the note, perhaps a threat, a demand for payment, a location and a time, and a stupid part of his mind suggests a number.
" 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑜𝑙𝑣𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒, 𝑠𝑜 𝑑𝑜𝑛’𝑡 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑦 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚, 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑑𝑜𝑛’𝑡 𝑟𝑖𝑝 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚, 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑤𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑎 𝑓𝑒𝑤 𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑘𝑠!
𝑃.𝑆 𝑖 𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑡𝑎𝑏, 𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑦, 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑚𝑠 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑎 𝑑𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛 𝑖 𝑑𝑖𝑑 "
Hitoshi's mouth twitches ever so slightly before he carefully folds the Post-it note a few times and places it next to his phone and wallet.
He stumbles into the shower; water cranks to practically boiling. Perhaps to wash away the touch of a stranger, who he should’ve been smart enough to avoid, strong enough to push away.
That guy should’ve run.
Why didn’t he run?
He’s a civilian in a goddamn villain's bar; absolutely nothing about tonight made sense.
He never did tell him what his problem was, something that makes his skin crawl with irritation, a feeling he can’t scrub off.
Nobody patches up villains with kill counts, pays their tab, and disappears without expecting anything in return or taking anything. It wasn’t something that happens.
Villains kill, civilians run and hide, heroes save people, and vigilantes are heroes in disguise.
He stands under boiling water until it runs cold.
He doesn’t notice.
A bloodstain on a crisp white shirt,
a tie he was certain was wrong,
unruly green hair
and no name for the maybe freckled face Hitoshi wasn’t sure he hallucinated.
If he’s smart, he’ll drop off the face of the earth, never to be seen again.
If they return, they’ll demand ransom, information, something, anything.
Because people don’t do those kinds of things without payment.
If by some miracle or act of extreme stupidity, this green-haired man reappears, he’ll find out his name and his problem and maybe kill him or maybe give him whatever he’s after; he’ll decide later.
He probably won't, though. Any normal civilian wouldn’t.
If he does…
He crawls into his bed of unmade sheets and promptly collapses, refusing to continue that train of thought, days of exhaustion taking him over.