Chapter Text
Tsukauchi shuts off the engine to his police cruiser. His keys rattle as he removes them from the ignition and shoves them into his pocket. The cars headlights go out after a few seconds, leaving the street and sidewalk only illuminated by dim overhead lampposts. They seem to be on the verge of going out, flickering off beat and causing an odd, speckled glow on the ground.
The detective grabs the plastic bags in his passenger seat and steps out of his car, careful to avoid trampling the pieces of garbage that line the curb. Food wrappers and cigarette butts sit abandoned on the concrete, some buried halfway beneath dirt and partially rotted.
There is the faint smell of smoke in the air. A car alarm is going off in the distance. There’s a group of young men walking away from him, laughing loudly and spewing foul language at each other.
This scene isn’t out of the ordinary for Tsukauchi. Poverty stricken areas tended to be where the most crimes occurred, and with his position as a detective he was bound to end up in places like this on the regular. Still, no matter how many times he visited this area, he didn’t ever think he would get used to it.
He wrinkles his nose in distaste and presses forward, towards the apartment complex he parked in front of. The complex is largely outdoor—the hallways and staircases all open air. Naomasa doesn’t bother with the elevators, not once in the past four years have they ever worked. The same out of order sign has haunted them since he ran his first call here.
It’s nearly muscle memory by now. Tsukauchi prides himself in the fact that he can now walk up all five flights of stairs and only get partially winded. He isn’t heaving as he reaches the top, he does however, remove his hat using his free hand. He wipes sweat off his forehead.
He carries on down the graffiti marked hallway. The sound his shoes makes echoes loudly due to the amount of cheap concrete surrounding him.
He stops when he gets to the far end, where the rocky balcony squares off, outlining the final door. It’s painted a faded red— the same color as every other door he just passed. One of metal numbers nailed to the side is gone, leaving a sun bleached stamp behind. Another is holding on for dear life, almost completely rusted over.
From inside he can hear music blaring obnoxiously loud. There is a cacophony of voices— yelling and cackling in tandem. All baritone males.
Tsukacuhi knows that a call like this is below his pay grade. Hell, this is probably below most of the officers at his station. His boss would be having an aneurysm if he knew this was how Naomasa decided to spend the last hour of his shift. The detective usually deals in murders and quirk related crimes. He knows people in high places—is good friends with many pro heroes and HPSC agents.
A petty noise complaint is what he’s here for. Not his usual case, but certainly a personal one.
Tsukauchi rolls his shoulders back and shifts the plastic bag in his off hand. He knocks, hard enough that it should be heard from the inside. However, the music keeps booming and the voices still project through the wall. Tsukauchi knocks again, just as heavy as the first time, but longer.
The music does not shut off, but there is a series of grumbles and thumping. The door swings open, too fast to be anything but vengeful. It crashes against the outer stucco.
“The fuck do you want?”
The man who addresses him is tall despite the hunch in his back. His hair is a greasy black, contrasting starkly with his beady red eyes. He’s wearing a stained wife beater with some trashy looking blue jeans. Fitting.
They make eye contact, black meeting crimson, and the man immediately looks irritated. His brows furrow, his mouth curling into a snarl. Smoke blows out of his nostrils.
Tsukauchi schools his face, forcing a sickly sweet smile. He pointedly ignores the smell of alcohol pouring off the man. “Good evening, Mr. Midoriya,” he says as politely as he can manage. He holds his hat to his chest in a gesture of good will.
“Ain’t nothing going on. Brat’s not even here.” Midoriya grits, his eye twitching. The man is blunt, if nothing else. Naomasa can appreciate that; his quirk can, too.
Truth.
“I’m here on a noise complaint, today.” Tsukauchi clarifies easily, straight to the point. He tilts his head. “Though, it is well past curfew. Shouldn’t your son be home by now?”
He doesn’t blame the kid for keeping as far away from this mess as possible, but It does make his skin itch. A small feeling of worry curls underneath his dermis, as it usually does when anything regarding the smaller Midoriya happens.
The mans eyes narrow. “He’s a fucking teenager. All they do is piss on curfew.” He spits sparks as he speaks.
Truth.
“Do you know where he is?” Tsukauchi asks, pushing the man for more information. Knowing Hisashi— he probably has no clue. The man spends most of his days sleeping, and most of his nights on the verge of alcohol poisoning. He doesn’t pay much attention to his son, lest he needs a punching bag or some quick cash.
He is a useless father—useless human being, in all honesty. Tsukauchi doesn’t often use such wording to describe people. He has met a lot of shitty individuals in his life, it comes with the career. He has seen criminals of all variations—thieves, murderers, Yakuza—but it is these kinds of people, the people like Hisashi Midoriya, that rub him the worst. The ones who had no good reason or justification for their actions. The ones were weren’t crazy or unstable—just nasty.
The detective longs to tell Hisashi as much—to spit insults and depravity in the mans face. Tsukauchi sometimes has dreams where he knocks Hisashi’s teeth out of his skull and sends him to Tarturus in handcuffs. As much as he wants to, however, the man has never committed a crime heinous enough to warrant such treatment. Just minor battery charges— domestic charges. Among other things.
Besides, Tsukauchi is a detective. His job is to be impartial and neutral. His personal judgements—as valid and evidence based as they may be—are irrelevant to his work. Professionalism, and all of that.
“Ya’ think I know? Get lost.” Hisashi hisses, fist tightening around the door knob.
He slams the door shut. The wind from the impact blows hairs out of Tsukauchi’s face. There are cheers from inside. That horrid music begins blasting again.
Tsukauchi sighs and runs a hand down his face. Pleasant as ever, that man. He puts his hat back on and turns to leave, a pit of disappointment growing in his chest. He glances down at the plastic bag in his hand. The smell of grease and spices wafting from it are becoming increasingly pungent.
Naomasa would be lying if he said he came here just for some half-hearted confrontation with a drunk man. He didn’t drive all the way to the edge of his district to exchange all of two sentences with Hisashi Midoriya, of all people. If he wanted to make company with wastes of space like that, he would just go back to work.
“Tsukauchi?”
Naomasa turns, letting a more natural, yet exasperated smile, envelop his lips.
Izuku is halfway down the hallway, his old yellow backpack strung across one arm. He is wearing his usual emerald green hoodie. It’s worn—the sleeves starting to fray from being so well loved by the boy. He looks well enough, considering it is nearly one in the morning and Midoriya has been who knows where.
Naomasa huffs a breath a relief, at least glad to see the boy in one piece. He raises the plastic bag in his hand and waves it back and forth a bit. “Dinner?”
Midoriya’s tired eyes light up.
They end up at the base of the outdoor staircase, sitting on the steps as Izuku digs into the fried chicken Tsukauchi brought. The music roaring from the Midoriya’s apartment had scared them off—they sought refuge down here, away from the aggressive beat drops and ear shredding guitar solos.
Tsukauchi rests a hand on his cheek as he watches Izuku eat. He himself nibbles on a buttery, American style biscuit, trying and failing to prevent crumbs from disappearing into the crevices of his uniform.
“Did someone call in Hisashi again?” Izuku asks, completely unbothered as he chews on a chicken wing.
Naomasa shifts. “Just a noise complaint.” He says.
Midoriya looks at him, raising an eyebrow. “They sent you all the way here for that?” He asks, sounding amused. “I thought they had rookie officers for that stuff.” He takes another bite of his wing.
Tsukauchi chuckles lowly. “They do,” he confirms. Midoriya gives him a look, urging him to continue explaining. “I only had a few minutes left in my shift and was already out this way.”
“Right.” Midoriya responds with a laugh, his mouth stuffed halfway with food. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve, putting down his bare chicken bone and grabbing the next piece. “And I guess you just happened to have KFC with you, too?”
“Yup,” Naomasa lies. He picks up a napkin and hands it to the kid. Midoriya accepts it, wiping grease off his sticky fingers. Izuku makes no comment on Tsukauchi’s obvious fib, he just hums and keeps eating.
Tsukauchi doesn’t usually lie, it kind of messes with his entire moral compass. It goes against most of what he stands for. He prefers honesty nearly one hundred percent of the time, especially when dealing with people like Midoriya— who are so observational and inquisitive that nothing but the truth makes sense to them.
The two of them had walked this line of humorous half-lies dozens of times. It is more of an inside joke than anything else. Midoriya knows that Tsukauchi doesn’t have to be out here— that he has no reason to be. He certainly isn’t obligated to run every call to the Midoriya’s, but he does. The detective is only here because he wants yo be.
That doesn’t stop Midoriya’s pride from welling up time to time. It is the one trait Izuku has actually inherited from his father. The boy didn’t like handouts. Tsukauchi had discovered that the hard way one of the first times they met—Izuku had vehemently refused a bag of chips Tsukacuhi had bought from a nearby vending machine. The detective had purposefully got them for Midoriya to eat, but the much younger boy wanted none of it. He turned his nose up and rejected the snack on principle.
Izuku doesn’t do charity. Not from people like Tsukauchi. The boy had told him as much many times before.
But, if Tsukauchi is conveniently in the area and just so happens to drop by the store or the occasional fast food restaurant—then things are different. He learned that the boy would hesitantly accept the odd snack or meal so long as he believed it was just plain coincidence--that Tsukauchi had just accidentally had some leftovers and was in the general vicinity.
When it became clear that their weekly dinners weren’t by chance, Midoriya became more skittish. He never directly asked Naomasa if the coincidences were real, but the detective knew he had figured it out. He could see it in the kids eyes—the edge of shame and embarrassment that crept in—showing how Izuku didn’t want to accept the food, but was probably too hungry to decline.
It’s all a bit ridiculous, in Tsukauchi’s opinion, but he gets it. He just wishes the kid would accept help a little easier.
“How’s school?” Tsukacuhi asks, partially to change the topic, and partially out of actual curiosity.
Midoriya’s face sours immediately. He scrunches his nose and shrugs. “Fine. I guess.” The boy looks at the ground, avoiding eye contact with Naomasa.
Lie.
Tsukauchi dead pans at him for a moment. He catches the boy’s eye and Izuku immediately goes a little red, knowing that he has been caught.
Naomasa really doesn’t know why Izuku even tries to slip past him. The boy knows, in detail, exactly how his quirk works.
Izuku plucks at the strings of his hoodie nervously. “I don’t really show up that much. My grades are fine, but I’m still skipping a lot.” Midoriya admits.
Tsukauchi resists the urge to groan and instead lets out a long breath. It’s not the answer he wants, but he doesn’t let his dismay show. God knows Midoriya already gets enough negative attention at home— the last thing he needs is more of it. Tsukauchi has been building their shaky relationship for years and doesn’t want to scare him off.
“Have you been thinking about high school, at all? You’ll need to keep your grades up for applications.” He says, deciding that subtle encouragement—a small nudge in the right direction— would probably get a better reaction than a scolding.
Midoriya gives him a side eye full of teenage attitude. Tsukauchi has to keep himself from laughing at the display.
“There’s not a lot of options for a kid with my track record.” Izuku grumbles. He is glaring at his feet, clearly not wanting to look at the detective.
Truth.
Tsukauchi’s face falls a bit. He tilts his head sympathetically, his grin smothering itself.
It is true enough, he supposes. Midoriya’s middle school reputation is.. shoddy at best. He misses at least a third of his classes and his grades, while not terrible, are unimpressive. It makes Tsukauchi a bit heated. He knows Midoriya is smart enough to get straight A’s. He should be in advanced classes— maybe even pushed forward a year. He is widely clever and posses a kind of intelligence that almost reminds Tsukauchi of Nedzu—in the frighteningly perceptive sort of way. The two would probably get along, if they ever met.
Yet, Midoriya lags behind. He plays hooky and doesn’t do his homework and gets into fights. He does all the things that teenagers want to do, but typically aren’t allowed. Things that parents are typically supposed to control and dissuade their kids from.
Except, Midoriya doesn’t have anyone to dissuade him—to discipline him when he does something wrong or praise him for doing something right. He flies under the radar, just trying to survive day to day life. He isn’t focused on school.
Though, Tsukauchi supposes if he lived with a drunken asshole, he wouldn’t he so focused on his grades either. Maybe all his thoughts would be consumed by paying rent and not getting beaten, too.
Tsukauchi reaches a hand out to grip the kids shoulder. The boy flinches—just barely—but catches himself and goes still, if not a little stiff. The detective gives his arm a gentle, reassuring squeeze.
“There’s always a path, even if you may face more hurdles than others.” He responds. He knows it isn’t much, but it’s the best advice he can offer. Midoriya’s life was never set to be easy and there is only so much people like Naomasa can do. This is something Izuku would have to overcome on his own.
The boy continues to ignore him and Tsukauchi can tell his words are going in one ear and out the other. He sighs, understanding that very little he says is actually going to get through to Midoriya. Izuku has already crafted a future in his head— one where he can never escape the cards he has been dealt— one where he slowly drowns in his unluckiness.
As much as Tsukacuhi wants to change his mind, there is a delicate balance to things like this. If he pushes too hard, it will only cause Midoriya to walk away. It would make it even harder for Naomasa to stay in his corner.
“I have some footage from a theft last week,” Tsukauchi starts, mind wandering elsewhere. “It’s public video, you can access it through the Musutafu communal archive,” He adds, making sure Izuku understands that what he is about to ask is perfectly legal. Maybe a tad unethical, but technically allowed. “Do you mind taking a look for me?”
Izuku immediately perks up, his head lifting. There is a gleam in his eye and he nods excitedly. “You’re on the case?”
“A friend is,” Tsukacuhi counters, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He unlocks it and pulls up the footage before handing it to Midoriya. “This is the second location these two have targeted recently. My officers keep losing them. I think one is using some sort of illusion quirk to mask their escape.”
Midoriya plays the video, glued to the screen in intense interest. His green eyes glint—a blueish haze taking over them. Momentarily, Tsukachi thinks it’s from the brightness of the phone reflecting back, but he quickly realizes that’s not the case. Izuku’s eyes are glowing a dark cyan color—an effect of using his quirk, Tsukauchi knows. The change would be practically invisible in the daylight, but the darkness here made it possible to see.
Midoriya rewatches the video several times, eyes carefully flicking back and forth. He pauses at certain points and replays one of the scenes over and over.
“It’s a light based quirk,” Midoriya states with confidence.
Truth.
Tsukauchi leans over to look at his phone screen as Izuku starts pointing to a specific object. “See these shadows? That isn’t a natural pattern at all— it appears fabricated. If you look at where the light is shining through, that area should be completely visible, but it’s not. Now— look at this guy— as he leaves the building the sun is hitting him from the west side, meaning his shadow should appear right around here, but it doesn’t. It’s gone.” Midoriya’s finger flicks around as he points out small details throughout the video. “And if you pause right here, you can see an off shape peer around the corner. Your officers thought it was the criminals, so they followed it into the back alley. In reality, it was just a result of the mans quirk. Probably some sort of darkness ability— a shadow controlling quirk. He used it lead the police away so that he and his partner could escape from the opposite side. I bet if you pull up footage from the west facing cameras about a block away, you will be able to see them slip by.”
Truth.
Tsukachi blinks at the boy for a few long moments. He has seen Izuku’s quirk work many times, but it’s still impressive no matter how many times he sees it.
The detective pulls out he notebook he always has tucked in his pocket and jots a few things down. Shadow quirk. Got it. That will be his next search in the quirk registry.
“And this one,” Midoriya starts up again. “Is the reason your footage is grainy. The camera only becomes affected after he sees it— so probably some sort of sight based quirk. He is interfering with the electrical waves that transmit the visual signal from live to recorded.” He clicks his tongue. “Their abilities- while affecting different elements— are actually quite similar. I would assume that they are related. Brothers, most likely. Maybe cousins.”
Tsukauchi keeps writing, making sure to hit all the bases of Midoriya’s theories. Izuku hands his phone back to him and Naomasa slides it in his pocket.
“Thank you, Midoriya,” Tsukauchi says, rather genuinely. “That’s very insightful.”
Izuku snorts and shrugs a bit bashfully. His ears are tinted red due to the mans praise as he goes back to picking at his hoodie strings.
“You could do some great things with that quirk of yours, you know.” Tsukauchi adds as he stands up. He leans over to collect the trash from their shared dinner, shoving it all back into the original plastic bag for easy disposal. “For now, though, you should head to bed. It’s still a weeknight and you have school in the morning.”
Midoriya huffs, leaning his cheek on his hand. “We both know there’s only about a ten percent chance I actually make it in tomorrow.” He grins slyly.
Truth.
Tsukauchi rolls his eyes in annoyance, frowning in mild displeasure. This kid is somehow a genius and an absolute idiot at the same time.
“Ah, before I forget—“, Naomasa starts, a though dinging in his head.
He digs around in his pocket for a second, feeling for his wallet. The detective opens it and pulls out a few folded up one-thousand yen bills. He pinches them between his thumb and pointer finger and offers them to Midoriya.
Izuku looks at the bills and frowns. He glances away, running one hand through his fuzzy green hair. “I don’t want money.” He grumbles before crossing his arms defensively.
Lie.
Tsukachi levels the boy with an apathetic look. Izuku scowls, knowing Naomasa is silently calling his fib.
“I don’t want your money.” Midoriya corrects quickly.
Truth.
“Consider it a commission,” Tsukauchi insists, waving the cash around. “For the analysis.”
Midoriya presses his lips together. He glances between Tsukacuhi’s face and the cash he is holding up. Naomasa can almost see the thoughts behind Izuku’s eyes—like a silent argument happening behind closed doors. The corner of Izuku’s mouth pulls down and his brow furrows in a way that may be akin to sadness.
After a few painful seconds of deliberation, the boy turns away to stare at the ground. He bites his lip.
Ah. Not sadness, then. Guilt.
For a moment, Tsukacuhi thinks the boy may refuse, but instead Midoriya slowly holds out his hand.
Midoriya’s hand is covered in scars—marks from what looked like a mixture of grease splashes and cuts. There are a few circular ones on his palm that look suspiciously like the outline of cigarette butts.
The detective does his best not to hesitate. He gingerly hands over the money.
“Thank you,” Midoriya mumbles. He counts the cash and folds it up as small as possible. Oddly, he leans down and tucks the wad of yen into the heel of his obnoxious red sneaker, hiding it from sight.
Tsukauchi makes no comment on the move. He can make a dozen assumptions as to why Midoriya is hiding his money; this isn’t a safe area of town—theft is prevalent. The boy may be trying to make himself less of a target by concealing anything of value from would be muggers. Maybe he is trying to avoid trouble, for once. Perhaps he is making sure his father doesn’t find it. Or maybe it’s just another one of Midoriya’s peculiarities—one of the many strange things the boy did that made Naomasa scratch his head.
“Go get some sleep, Midoriya,” Tsukachi says, nodding to the boy as he began to step away.
Izuku stands up, picking up his backpack and throwing it over one shoulder. “Yeah, sure.” He agrees with a chuckle.
Lie.
“Goodnight, Midoriya.” Tsukacuhi says, smiling to himself. He can’t keep the laughter out of his voice. Midoriya picks up on his humorous tone and giggles in response.
Tsukauchi hovers at the base of the staircase, staring upward and watching as Midoriya darts up the five flights of stairs like they’re nothing. He huffs, silently wishing he still had the stamina of a teenager.
Naomasa lingers as long as it takes for Midoriya to unlock the door to his apartment and slip inside. There is an uproar of music and yelling when Izuku enters—barely audible from Tsukauchi’s position far below—which is quickly smothered when the door closes again.
The detective sighs and traces his steps backwards. He makes the short walk back to his police car and gets in with little fanfare. The doors lock with a click.
He takes his phone and notepad out, pulling up one of his personal contacts. He takes a picture of his notepad—the page full of Midoriya’s comments on the video footage—with his flash on and sends it over.
Detective Tsukauchi: Info on the Resona Bank incident
Eraserhead: Received. I owe you one.
The first time Tsukauchi met Izuku Midoriya was a little over four years ago.
The detective had been working overtime for the past two weeks—waking up at ungodly hours in the morning and going to bed far too late. He was only surviving thanks to the shitty black coffee produced by the ancient, and probably disgusting, coffee machine in the break room. His veins were thrumming with caffeine, the last line of defense preventing his eyelids from sliding closed.
He had showed up at the station at around four in the morning, a case file tucked beneath his arm and a migraine growing behind his eyes. He entered the lobby like normal, expecting only a few people to be there so early.
He was right, for the most part. The secretary—Himari—greeted him as he walked in. Tsukauchi could only nod and try to wipe the exhaustion out of his eyes.
He stumbled toward the back, trying to flee to his office as quickly as possible, but was stopped in his tracks as he reached the door. Sitting in one of those terrible plastic chairs—the ones that lined the waiting area—was a small, green blur.
He blinked several times, trying to wet his eyes and ensure that he wasn’t hallucinating. Sleep deprivation really was a bitch.
But no—Naomasa kept blinking—he was surprised when the figure refused to disappear.
“Why—“ He started before clearing his throat. “—is there a child here?”
Because that’s what the figure was—a young boy. He was small, looking to still be in elementary school. His head whipped up when Tsukauchi spoke. He stared up at the detective with wide emerald eyes.
Tsukachi’s gaze settled downward. He stared at the boy for several long moments, scanning his eyes over the kid’s body.
He was wearing a ratty sweater that had clearly been yellow at one point, but was now a muddy brown. It was covered in various stains and there was a hole near the bottom seam. His green—almost black—hair was knotted in large tangles that were well on their way to becoming matts.
The boy himself looked almost sickly. He had eye bags that rivaled Tsukauchi’s own. His skin was pale, like he rarely went outside, and his cheeks had far too little baby fat for a kid his age.
The most jarring feature, however, was the purpling bruises that traveled down the boys jaw, mapping a line that lead straight to his split lip.
“Ah, this is Midoriya,” the secretary said. She rolled towards the pair while staying seated, leaning over to get a better view of them. “He’s just waiting for someone to come pick him up. Right, Midoriya?”
The boy nodded numbly in response, though his eyes were now fixated on Naomasa. That was until the door that led to the back room swung open. A familiar, cat-headed man entered the room, capturing both Midoriya and Tsukauchi’s attention.
“—aaaaand I am back with snacks!” Tamagawa exclaims, far too animated for four in the fucking morning. His toothy smile falters a bit when he spots the detective—who was staring at him with a half developed scowl. The mans paws were wrapped around various chip bags and candy bars.
Sansa’s grin slowly grows again. “Good morning, detective,” He greets happily.
Midoriya’s eyes snapped back towards Tsukauchi at the address, obviously surprised by the title. The boys mouth opened, before closing again, as if swallowing his words. Tsukacuhi’s eyes narrowed slightly at the kid, before he turned back to Sansa.
“Morning,” Naomasa said back. He ticked his head back, gesturing Tamagawa backwards. “Want to give me a rundown on the graveyard shift?”
His real question was hardly hidden. He wanted an update on everything going on at the station, yes, but he also wanted to know what was going on with this kid.
Sansa’s feline eyes sharpened, picking up on the double meaning. “Of course.” He purred. The officer turned to Midoriya, unceremoniously dropping the packaged food into his lap. “Eat whatever you want! I’ll be back out to sit with you in a few minutes. Tell Himari if you need anything, okay?” He pointed his thumb back at the secretary.
Midoriya nodded again, still not saying anything.
Tamagawa lead Naomasa into the break room. There was a small stack of files on the table and the counter in the corner was rumbling as the prehistoric coffee machine did its job.
“Who’s the kid?” Tsukachi asked as soon as the door shut behind them.
Sansa’s cheery smile immediately fell. He let out a heavy sigh. The cat man stalked over to the table and picked up a thin manilla folder before turning and handing it to Tsukauchi.
The detective flips it open.
“His name is Izuku Midoriya,” Sansa started. Naomasa eyed the single sheet of paper in the folder. It was the childs record. In the corner was a picture of the kid—probably when he was around four or five—looking far more healthy and happy. “We got a call from the outskirts of our zoning area a few hours ago. Someone had reported a child wandering around by himself. Kohima and I drove over to check it out.”
Truth.
Tsukauchi hummed and kept skimming the file. His eyes grazed over the basic information— addresses, relations, schools.
“When we got there, the kid was sitting outside an apartment. His father— Hisashi Midoriya—was drunk and had purposefully locked him out, so we arrested him for neglect. Kohima looked over the kids injuries—the bruises and things—and wanted to take him in for DV, too.”
Truth.
“Okay,” Tsukauchi breathed out. This case wasn’t so atypical, unfortunately. As horrible as it is, they often get child abuse cases. “So Hisashi Midoriya is being charged. Did you call a CGC?”
Sansa winced a bit. “That’s the thing. The kid wouldn’t give us a statement. We don’t actually know if his injuries came from Hisashi. We can get him on the neglect charge, but probably not the DV. The man is supposed to see a judge in the morning, but he will most likely go loose. Since this is his first recorded domestic offense, the kid will be sent back.”
Truth.
“It happens,” Tsukauchi pressed his lips together unhappily. No matter how he may feel about the situation, the law was the law. Things slipped by. They could only hope this would scare the man enough to prevent him from laying hands on his son again, if he even did in the first place. There was always a chance he hadn’t—perhaps the kid had tripped, or got into a fight at school instead. “Who is picking him up now, then?” Naomasa asked.
“A family friend. Hisashi said nobody would take the kid, but Izuku gave us a phone number. She lives a few districts over and is on her way.”
Truth.
“Alright,” Tsukauchi nodded. He looked at the file in his hand for a few more seconds. His eyes dialed in on a specific detail stamped on the corner of the paper.
“Insight?” Tsukauchi said under his breath. Sansa laughed.
“Yup. Kid’s got a hell of a quirk,” He said. “He’s been asking me questions for hours—you would think I was some celebrity.” He laughed again. “I bet he’s already zeroed in on you. You should ask what he’s picked up.” The feline gave him an exaggerated wink.
Tsukauchi rolled his eyes. “Sure.” He said, with no real plans to follow through.
Naomasa wandered back to the front room some half hour later. The boy sat in the same chair, the snacks Sansa had provided were slung uselessly to the side, untouched.
“So, does that mean that your vocal cords are technically cat-like as well|? I mean- you wouldn’t be able to call or purr like you do unless you had pads on them. The low frequencies aren’t possible for the average person.”
“I guess so. I’ve never thought about it that much.”
“I wonder if your hissing and growling works the same way. Someone like me could probably mimic the sound if they tried hard enough, but yours has a different tone to it. Almost like its been—“
Midoriya’s voice cut off the second he spotted Tsukauchi. His mouth snapped shut with a surprising amount of force. Sansa leveled him with a glare.
Naomasa tried to make himself look as friendly as possible. He didn’t mean to startle the boy, or scare him.
“Your questions are very specific. You must be very clever,” the detective tried to compliment him. Tsukacuhi smiled, but he knows it must come off as plasticky and fake with how tired he is. The boy simply sputters and lowers his head, kicking his feet. He mumbled something under his breath that Tsukauchi can’t quite hear.
“I’m sorry?” Tsukacuhi asked, urging the boy to speak up.
“I—“ Midoriya said shyly. “Can you—really tell if I’m lying?”
Tsukauchi’s couldn’t stop his eyes as they widened. He stared at the boy for several long moments. He glanced at Sansa, who just looked smug.
“Yes,” He confirmed gently. “Did Tamagawa tell you that?” He asked.
“No,” the boy quickly corrected. Sansa glowered at the detective.
Truth.
Tsukauchi’s brows quirked up. “How did you know, then?”
Izuku paused for a moment, frowning at Naomasa. That was before the boys eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms. He glanced away. “Lucky guess.” He stated.
Lie.
Tsukauchi chuckled. “Try again.” He said, tilting his head at the boy.
Izuku’s eyes light up in excitement, realizing the man really could tell if he was telling the truth or not. “It’s my quirk.” The boy stated.
Truth.
Naomasa nodded in approval. Izuku smiled, a rush of red rising in his cheeks.
“That— that’s so cool.” The boy cooed. “It’s like—the perfect ability for a detective! Does it only work in direct conversation with someone? Like if you overheard someone talking could you determine if they are lying, or does it only work when they are talking to you? I wonder—is it— objective—when people answer? Or subjective? If someone believes something is true will it be true? Does it work as more of a polygraph like you can judge based of heart rates and stuff or—“
Tsukauchi had to keep himself from laughing as the boy rambled, peppering him with dozens of questions all at once. Naomasa could feel himself going a little hot as Izuku repeatedly complimented his power. He really didn’t understand how All Might dealt with having fan boys when all it took to fluster Naomasa was one little kid.
“You have an incredible quirk, Midoriya. It’s very impressive.” Tsukauchi stated after answering an onslaught of questions.
The boy beamed at him, green eyes almost shining.
“You could definitely use it in the police field,” Sansa offered, poking the boy in the shoulder.
Tsukacuhi smiled and looked at Izuku. “What do you want to be, when you grow up?” He asked innocently. A typical question for any adult to ask a child.
The boy looked between Naomasa and Sansa, nearly vibrating with elation. Somehow, the detective knew his answer before he really said anything.
“A hero,” Izuku responded. “I want to be a hero. More than anything!”
Sansa let out an amused snort. Tsukauchi grinned. He reached a hand out and placed it on the kid head, ruffling his hair gently.
“Then I bet you’ll be a great hero, one day.”
From then on, Izuku Midoriya lived in the peripherals of Tsukauchi’s life. He was always there—tugging at the back of the detectives mind. He was an intrusive thought, though not necessarily an unpleasant one.
Hisashi Midoriya was in and out of the police station near constantly—so much so that every officer at the station knew him by first name. They knew Izuku, too, by association. That kid practically lived with them part time. He spent far too many nights eating instant noodles with Tamagawa and sleeping on the couch in the break room.
(That was until Sansa went out and bought a cot, claiming that rest was important and officers could catch a nap during their break time. They all knew who it was really for.)
Hisashi’s record was a mixture of public intoxication, assault, theft and numerous other charges. Some petty, some a little more serious. All were still somehow small enough to keep the man out of jail.
Tsukauchi worried about Izuku to no end. Mainly it was murders or suicides that kept the detective up at night—gory crime scenes and nightmares of the people he failed to save. Izuku was different in that regard, because he was here and he was alive. Naomasa often found himself lying in bed, imagining what kind of future the boy would have, if any.
Every time he saw Midoriya, the kid had some sort of bruise or cut or burn with no discernible explanation. No matter how hard Naomasa pushed him or how targeted his questions got, Izuku always avoided answering. Sometimes he would dance around his questions, other times he would just stay quiet and completely ignore the detective.
Tsukacuhi couldn’t—for the life of him—understand why Izuku was so vehemently against turning in his father. Especially as the abuse grew more obvious everyday.
There was no love between the two of them, so it wasn’t affection. Izuku didn’t even really refer to Hisashi as Dad, or use any other term of endearment. At least in Tsukauchi’s presence.
Initially, Tsukauchi thought maybe it was fear. Maybe Izuku was scared that if he said anything about the obvious abuse that Hisashi would just hurt him worse. To negate that, Tsukauchi, as well as every other officer at the station, reassured the boy over and over again that he would be fine as long as he told the truth— that they would protect him, no matter what.
He still stayed quiet.
Tsukauchi started to think maybe it wasn’t a direct fear of his father, then. Perhaps the boy was more afraid of being abandoned if his father did get sent to jail—that he would be thrown into the foster system and forgotten. It was a rational fear for most kids.
That thought, however, was shattered when Naomasa met Izuku’s family friend—Mitsuki Bakugou.
That woman was fiery and loud—Tsukauchi worried the first time he officially met her that she was too abrasive for Midoriya, who seemed to be blown over by the smallest gust of wind. But the woman easily proved him wrong, always toning herself down around Izuku.
She understood the boy’s desire for peace and was more than happy to provide. She took Midoriya in a countless amount of times and exhibited an infinite amount of patience with the police station, regardless of how often Tsukauchi woke her up with middle of the night phone calls, asking her to come get Izuku.
She had gone so far as to give the detective her and her husband’s personal numbers, telling him to call if Izuku ever needed anything. She had even approached Tsukauchi privately—several times—asking what she could do to get Izuku out of his father’s house.
She said that she was more than happy to take Izuku into her home permanently if it meant he was safe and well cared for. Apparently her and the boy’s mother had been best friends for years before she passed away. It helped that Mistuki’s son, Katsuki, was a close friend of Izuku’s anyway.
Midoriya spent days at their house at a time and always looked happier and healthier when leaving. Tsukauchi has asked him several times before if he genuinely liked being with the Bakugou’s and Izuku had always answered in the affirmative, completely truthfull.
So, the boy had a place to go. He wouldn’t be left to the wolvesn if his father was locked away. And even if the Bakugou’s weren’t in the picture—Tsukauchi would never let that boy disappear off his radar. At this point, regardless of how unprofessional it was, he was probably too attached.
Still, Izuku said nothing. He continued to protect Hisashi. He accepted his abuse and shoved away anyone who tried to help him. He would always return to his father’s dirty apartment, despite the Bakugou’s or anyone else’s protest. Then the cycle would repeat. Hisashi would be arrested, Izuku would come to the station, and they would call Mitsuki at awful hours.
They played this game of back and forth—of late night calls and hushed secrets and hidden bruises. The kid was his own worst enemy.
Things started to go sour when Izuku was twelve.
That was the first time Izuku came to the station not as a victim, but as a perpetrator.
Sitting there in the police station, handcuffed and surrounded by angry parents and officers and school officials, the boy had stared directly at his lap, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.
Naomasa had warned him of this. Izuku had told him before about the kids at school who picked on him for having less. Tsukauchi had told Midoriya to stay out of trouble—to go to school and only worry about his grades—to ignore people who would turn their noses up at his hand me down gakuran and cheap shoes. He told him that he was a good kid who could do great things so long as he stayed focused on his goals. What material things he had now didn’t matter, only what he would achieve in the future.
Seeing Izuku like this—cuffed like a criminal—sent sparks of rage shooting through his body, for several reasons. Part of him was angry that kind, good Izuku was being treated like some sort of dangerous villain. He knew Midoriya, and he knew whatever had pushed the kid to the brink probably wasn’t his fault. He had probably gotten fed up after months of mistreatment—both at school and at home.
The other part of Tsukauchi wanted to yell at the boy—to scream until his voice was raw about how absolutely stupid this was. He wanted to screech about how the boy was ruining his entire future over childish teasing—over nothing.
When the detective ordered Izuku to raise his head—to look at him—but he didn’t. So instead, Tsukauchi had knelt down at Izuku’s level and got in his face—anger and disappointment thrumming in his veins—he had expected to let the dam of his emotions burst and let the boy have it.
He abruptly stopped himself when Izuku finally glanced up at Tsukauchi. His eyes were glossy—so full of shame and guilt that it physically hurt Naomasa to make eye contact for longer than a few seconds. He had to look away before the kid started to cry.
Apparently, he had gotten into a fight at school. A bad fight. One that ended up with the another child in the hospital, suffering from a broken wrist and light concussion.
The parents of the injured child wanted to press charges. They said that Izuku was out of control—that he had clear behavioral issues and shouldn’t even be allowed to attend the same middle school as their son.
Tsukauchi did everything in his power to dissuade them. He told that them kids would be kids and sometimes they fight. He nearly begged the couple to let it go—to give Midoriya a second chance because he wasn’t a bad kid. He just—did a bad thing.
No matter how much convincing he tried, though—no matter how much sympathizing he did with the couple or how much emphasis he put on Izuku’s age—they held firm with their decision. It didn’t help that the father worked for the HPSC and had a strong idea of what he thought justice was.
And Tsukauchi—as an officer of the law—had no choice but to comply.
Mitsuki Bakugou was the only one to show up when Naomasa tried to get in contact with Hisashi. The other parents were only more insulted when Izuku’s only legal guardian refused to show his face. They said it was an admission of what his son had done—that the fact Hisashi couldn’t so much as look at his son’s victim was proof enough that the boy was a lost cause.
Mitsuki had done her best to fight for Midoriya, but there was only so much she could do. She wasn’t a relative and she had no legal right over Izuku. She only saw him sporadically and had no good defense to offer on his behalf.
So, that’s how Midoriya was expelled from his first middle school and ended up with battery on his permanent record.
Tsukauchi still remembered the last words that the father of the injured kid had said to Midoriya. He remembered them because he had been looking at Izuku when they were spoken, so he could see the absolute devastation on the boys face when the sentence hit his ears.
“You are a statistical nightmare—a criminal case waiting to happen. You’ll be dead or in jail by the time you’re twenty.”
The words had been said with so much vitriol and hatred that it made Naomasa flinch.
Truth.
Tsukauchi blinked, hard. He looked over at Izuku, silently hoping that the words hadn’t sunk in—that Midoriya would just brush them off and do his best to forget any of this ever happened. That he would wake up tomorrow and start fresh knowing that what happened was a one off an that it wasn’t a testament to who he was or what his future would be.
But Izuku just stared, clenching his cuffed fists and biting his lip. Tsukauchi was sure that the boys look of horror would be seared into his brain for the rest of his life.
Tsukauchi had been the one to drive him home, that day. All the way back to that shitty little apartment surrounded by theft and drugs and murder and all the things that Midoriya wouldn’t let himself escape from.
They had both been silent the entire ride. There wasn’t much left to be said and Naomasa wasn’t sure he could offer anything of comfort. Izuku stared blankly out the window the whole time.
Izuku hopped out of the car the minute Tsukauchi came to a stop. He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked slowly towards his apartment, not offering so much as a goodbye.
Tsukauchi got out of the car and hovered by the door. “Midoriya,” he called after the boy for whatever reason. Izuku paused, but didn’t turn around. Naomasa’s hands flapped uselessly by his side. He was still riled up—unable to completely squash the displeasure swimming in his gut.
“You need to clean up your act,” He said. He immediately knew that it wasn’t what Midoyra wanted—or needed—but Naomasa was nothing if not honest. “Don’t you still want to be a hero?”
Midoriya was silent for several long moments. Naomasa briefly thought that the boy may turn around and lash out—say something in a moment of heated anger—but he doesn’t.
He just shrugged. “I think I need to be realistic, Tsukauchi.” He stated lowly, voice not betraying any emotion. “Kids like me don’t become heroes.”
The detective was helpless as the boy walked away.
“You still with me?”
“What?” Tsukauchi asks, startled. He is clenching the coffee cup in his hand hard enough to leave the foam indented.
Aizawa snorts, leaning back in his chair. The two of them are in a small cafe just a few blocks from the station. They are regulars there, often stopping by to discuss cases between their shifts. “I was asking about the Resona bank info. Who did you get it from?”
Tsukauchi looks away and takes a long sip of his coffee. “An informant.”
“Clearly,” Aizawa states dryly. He rubs his eyes. “Is he a professional analyst? I could use their contact, if you’re willing to hand it over.”
Naomasa closes his eyes. “Sorry, it’s, uh, private.”
“A freelancer, then,” Aizawa says, as if he just solved a puzzle. “Working under the table, I assume?”
Tsukauchi hums, neither confirming nor denying. Eraserhead is one of those pro’s who works in the gray area between the law, most of the time. The detective has worked with him for years, and while he is always hesitant around certain methods the man used—as he had to be to keep his integrity as an officer—he can’t deny that Aizawa is an effective hero.
“You should bring him in officially,” Aizawa continues. “This is hardly the first time you’ve used his analysis. He helped crack the Shinoba murders, too, didn’t he?”
Naomasa silently curses Shouta’s astuteness. This man was far too good at connecting pieces, and his memory is too sharp to dismiss. “Yeah, but I don’t think that will be possible.” He grumbles.
“He’s got a record?”
“Something like that.”
Aizawa grunts. “That can be overlooked, in certain cases.”
“Not sure it applies to this one.” Tsukauchi responds, trying to avoid Shouta’s gaze.
Eraserhead shrugs. “Let me know if anything changes.”
Tsukacuhi agrees, silently knowing that nothing was going to change anytime soon. Not unless Midoriya suddenly aged four years and completed at least a high school education. Speaking of high school—
“Say, the new term at UA is due to start up pretty soon. Are you excited?” Tsukauchi asks, leaning in curiously.
“I’m dreading every moment,” Eraser states, taking a long swig of his drink. Naomasa laughs in response.
Lie.
He lets his voice trail into silence and pauses for several moments. Midoriya would love UA—the kid had the brains for it and he would enjoy learning there. He would probably make fast friends, too. People would adore his quirk.
“How are the projected score averages?” Tsukacuhi asks. “Seems like they get higher and higher every year.”
“They do,” Aizawa confirms. “Any hero hopefuls are going to be kept on their toes. We have the largest applicant pool in school history this year.”
Truth.
“Oh,” Naomasa deflates a bit. “What kind of abilities is the school looking for?”
Aizawa growls at that, obviously unhappy. “Powerful, flashy ones. As always.”
Truth.
Tsukauchi sighs and bows his head, dreams thoroughly crushed. “No IQ quirks, then?”
Aizawa looks at him, dark eyes narrowing. “Probably not. They don’t usually do well in the physical portion of the exam. A high enough test score and good middle school report cards could place them in General studies, though.”
Truth.
“…what about a criminal record?”
Aizawa arches a brow. “UA doesn’t accept students with criminal charges or any kind of charges, really.”
Truth.
“What if that student had a sparkling recommendation from the homeroom teacher of class 1-A?”
Aizawa paused, crinkling his forehead. He gave Tsukauchi an are you serious? look. “I’m not recommending anyone I don’t know.” He states, firmly.
Truth.
“What about that favor you owe me?” Tsukachi grumbles, crossing his arms.
“Not happening.” Aizawa repeats, not moved by Naomasa’s sad attempt at guilt tripping.
Truth.
Tsukauchi frowns and lets out an exasperated sigh. “Alright.” He gives up.
Aizawa studies him for a few moments. “Who’s the kid?” He asks, voice bit gentler than before.
“Just someone I know, he’s having a hard time right now,” Tsukacuchi says, staring at the ground in contemplation. “He has a few bad marks and doesn’t do all that well in class. He’s whip smart, but comes from a rough area—has a rough family. I know he’s good and can do good things, he just—needs someone to take a chance on him.”
“Huh,” Eraser says, the gears in his brain turning. He presses his lips together and takes another sip of his coffee. “Got a file on him?”
Tsukauchi’s head snaps up. He smiles a bit. “Yeah, of course. I can send it over to you?”
“Do that.” Aizawa nods. “I’ll take a look, see what I can do.”
Truth.
Tsukauchi grins. “That’s all I can ask.”