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It always had to be something with Aizawa Shouta’s class of first years.
And 1-A movie nights sure were something.
Every other week at 7 pm on Saturday, all twenty of Shouta’s students would pile onto the common room chairs and the overstuffed couch like a heap of laundry. They’d stuff their faces with buttery popcorn (or kettle preferred by Todoroki and Asui) and enough sodapop to take up seventy percent of their bodies, only to inevitably crash into a collective, snoring pile by 10 pm. It was the kind of peace they had to fight for, a rare slice of normalcy in a life so often filled with high-stakes training and near-death experiences.
Usually, the routine was, well, routine. For said ritual to be carried out, someone would volunteer to grab all the snacks, drinks, candy, and most of the time, it’d be a designated pair: one student to carry the heavy lifting and one of the teachers to ensure no one accidentally got hurt, or, you know, died.
And Aizawa Shouta had a sixth sense for when things were about to go sideways, having over a decade of experience of being a hero under his belt. Which is why he tended to play chaperone when the kids went to go on their errand. It usually started with an itch at the base of his neck creeping down to spread over his entire body. So, when he walked into the common room to perform his habitual headcount and noticed one specific vacancy, the itch turned into a full-blown rash.
A single head, one topped with a mess of unruly green curls, was not accounted for.
Shouta didn't bother with a greeting, instead, he just let his gaze sweep over the nineteen students currently lounging in various states of relaxation and asked, “Where’s Midoriya?”
The atmosphere seemed to shift almost instantly. The idle chatter quickly died, and the room went still as everyone paused, exchanging looks that ranged from innocent confusion to mounting dread. How lovely, exactly the reaction Shouta wanted to see.
“He went to go get the snacks, sir,” Uraraka offered, her voice trailing off as she realized how that sounded in the sudden quiet. Shouta’s eyes narrowed, his scarf shifting ever so slightly around his shoulders. He knew the protocol. He’d written the protocol. The protocol existed specifically so he wouldn't have to go out looking for missing students at 7 pm on a Saturday.
“What teacher went with him?”
Silence.
The nineteen students suddenly found the floor patterns of the common room fascinating. Sero rubbed the back of his neck. “He—uh,” he began to mutter, his voice losing its strength halfway through the sentence. “He went by himself.”
Shouta felt a migraine begin to bloom behind his eyes. Midoriya Izuku, the most accident prone kid out of the whole lot, was currently wandering the city streets. In the dark. With a wallet full of snack money. Without adult supervision.
“What teacher,” Shouta repeated, his voice dropping an octave, “was supposed to go with him?”
The class shared a frantic, telepathic look of realization, why, it was like watching a row of dominoes fall in slow motion. Slowly, their heads turned as one to look directly at the man in the doorway.
“Um— you were,” Kaminari whispered finally.
Shouta froze.
What?
Shouta mentally rewound his day through the haze of exhaustion and caffeine withdrawal. He remembered that stupid sign-up sheet Ashido put up after sneaking into the faculty room. He remembered the messy scrawl of Midoriya’s name next to the 6:30 pm slot. And he remembered, with a sinking feeling in his gut, that he had spent that exact window of time face-down on his yellow sleeping bag in the teacher's lounge, convinced he had another hour before his responsibilities kicked in.
Shit.
Then, as if the universe decided to throw him a bone, or perhaps just a very pointed "I told you so,” his phone buzzed in his pocket.
Midoriya was calling.
Shouta swiped the screen with a practiced, aggressive flick. He whipped around, turning his back to the students and stepping away from the class so they wouldn’t be able to hear what was being said.
“Hey, Sensei,” the teen’s voice came through, sounding entirely too casual for someone who was currently a missing person.
“Midoriya. Where are you? You should have been back by now.”
There was a pause, one that was a little too long for comfort, “Heh, uh, about that—I think I might, uh, be a little late back for movie night.”
Shouta’s eyes fixed on a point on the wall as he dragged out each word, his patience hanging by a very, very thin thread. “What happened?”
“The store’s being robbed—what? You’re, uh, kreech, krr, breaking up, kreech... what? Ah—oh, gosh, sorry—okay, talk to you later, bye!”
And then the line went dead.
Shouta pulled back his phone and stared at the screen as it faded to black, Midoriya’s poorly imitated static still ringing in his ears. The kid hadn’t even tried. He had literally vocalized the sound of a bad connection while a very audible, very real crash echoed in the background.
Never a dull moment with that one.
"Oh, he did not just 'kreech' at me," Shouta muttered, looking up and turning to the rest of the class. Nineteen students, well, now eighteen, it seemed that Bakugo decided he did not care when everyone started talking about Midoriya and assumedly went to bed, stared at him, wide-eyed and waiting.
"Iida," Shouta then announced, causing a quick, "yes, s-sir!" to come from the blue-haired boy as he stood so fast his knees hit the coffee table, sending a bowl of what should have been full pretzels flying. "You’re in charge.”
Shouta didn't wait for another staple "yes, sir!" Instead, the man spun on his heel and strode out the front door with a cool stride and deceptive calm. He waited exactly until the heavy door clicked shut behind him, sealing the students inside, before he broke into a flat-out sprint.
Shouta didn’t take a car, the campus was too vast and by the time he navigated the winding paths and went down into the faculty parking lot, Midoriya would have probably already pulverized the storefront and likely apologized to the thieves for the inconvenience of their broken ribs.
Unless the robbers got the jump on him.
Shouta shook that thought away, no, for all the problems he caused and the situations he found himself in, Midoriya was a strong kid. He had a good head on his shoulders, and with that knack for getting into trouble, he also had a way of getting out of it.
Hopefully his luck didn’t run out, but just in case it did, Shouta decided, running would have to do.
So his legs began working in full force as his lungs burned with the cool night air, though his mind was already miles ahead. As he ran, he fished his phone back out from his pocket, but he didn’t call Midoriya. The kid had already proven his signal was too poor, (Shouta could not wait to scold the little brat for his poor attempt) so he dialed the local precinct. He needed to get ahead of the paperwork, or at the very least, ensure the local officers knew that the green-haired teenager currently at their crime scene was a hero course student and not a vigilante. Because he definitely didn’t bring his license with him, why would he have? It was a snack-run.
One that Shouta was supposed to accompany him on.
The phone rang twice before a dispatcher picked up, and Shouta didn't waste time with pleasantries. He quickly gave his name, his hero ID, his location, and the high probability that a UA student was currently at a robbery in a corner store.
There was a long, annoyingly long, stretching silence of thirty seconds and Shouta could hear the clicking of a keyboard on the other end continuing as the dispatcher finally said, "Police have already arrived on the scene.”
Shouta slowed his pace just a fraction from surprise, his brow furrowing as he asked, “When did they come?”
“A few minutes ago,” the dispatcher confirmed calmly. “Do you want me to put you in contact with the lead officer?”
Shouta declined, assuring her that he’d be arriving in a few mere moments, and instead, thanked the woman. He hung up, just as he was skidding around the final corner. The scene was full of flashing lights and some shattered glass. He saw three criminals, men who looked significantly more battered than the storefront itself, being hauled away by officers. Nothing permanent, just a few nasty bruises across their cheeks, but they weren't fighting back, in fact, they looked almost relieved to be stepping into the safety of a squad car. Oh, God, this better not turn into a whole thing.
Correction, it already was a thing.
Shouta ignored the yellow tape and rushed up to the store owner, an older woman with gray hair pulled back into a bun, who was currently leaning against the counter and fanning herself with a tabloid.
“Excuse me,” he called, coming to a stop. “Is there a kid here? Green hair, freckles, about this tall?”
The woman nodded slowly, lowering the magazine. "Yes, he was here."
Shouta raised a brow, the itch at the back of his neck returning with a vengeance. "Was?"
The woman nodded once more, continuing, "He took down all three of those men like it was nothing. It was quite amazing, really. But then after they were unconscious and he called the police, he apologized profusely, and said he had to go to a different store. We didn't carry the kind of tea his friend wanted, he said. I offered to cover the snacks he bought, but he was very adamant on doing it himself.”
Shouta closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath that did absolutely nothing to lower his blood pressure. Of course. Midoriya hadn't just stopped a robbery, he had prioritized Yaoyorozu’s specific brand of herbal tea over his own safety, the police report, and the fact that he was currently a fugitive from his own dorms.
“Do you know which way he went?”
“Based on the tea he was looking for, he’s likely headed to the specialty shop across town. It’s called Yamamoto’s. He mentioned a list of snacks his friends wanted, very specific, that kind. A bit of an odd boy, I must say.” She paused, tilting her head. “Is he yours?”
“He’s my student,” Shouta clipped out. He did not stutter, nor did he acknowledge the sudden, treacherous heat rising in his ears.
The woman offered a knowing hum, the sound nearly lost as an officer gestured for her to finish her statement. She gave Shouta a look that was far too sympathetic. “I hope you find your student, then. He seems like a handful.”
“You don’t know the start of it,” Shouta muttered, but then caught himself. “Thank you. I hope you have a good night, er—I hope it improves.” Because it was clear that the beginning half of this night was anything but good.
Shouta gave a curt nod to one of the officers, who was watching the exchange with an awkward, lingering confusion, before his attention snapped back to the shopkeeper. With a faint, knowing smile, the woman raised a hand and pointed a single finger toward the far edge of the district.
"That way," she said. "If you hurry, he left a few minutes ago, so you might catch him.”
Shouta didn't need to be told twice. He pivoted, his capture scarf trailing behind him as he rushed down the alleyway.
“What do you mean he just left?”
The tea store owner finally looked up from the magazine he was reading over, his expression one of bored indifference as he explained, “I mean exactly that. He bought some tea, insisted on the hand-picked bergamot, and then asked where the nearest 24-hour pharmacy was. Said he needed cooling patches and something for migraines.”
Shouta felt a phantom throb in his own temples, “Well, where is that?” And why didn’t he get them at the first convenience store?
The man glanced up, his eyes glazed over. “What?”
“Which way?” Shouta repeated, teeth and fists both clenched.
The man behind the counter didn’t even bother to mark his page, just made a small “oh, yeah” sound as he simply jerked a thumb toward the back exit that led to a secondary commercial strip and he said, “Two blocks down, then hang a left at the light. It’s the place with the neon green sign. Can’t miss it.”
Shouta didn't offer a thank you this time. He was already moving, he pushed open the door and started to run the moment the cool night breeze hit his skin. And by the time Shouta reached the pharmacy, he was breathing harder, the air stinging his throat. He burst through the sliding glass doors, his eyes immediately scanning for a mop of green hair.
But the aisles were empty.
A young clerk was restocking a shelf of bandages near the front, looking startled by the sudden appearance of a disheveled Pro Hero. Well, he doubted the clerk saw him as a hero, Shouta had to admit he did not often give that impression when he wasn’t working, or even while he was.
“A kid,” Shouta rasped out, doing his best not to rush up to the man and shake him by the shoulders, he continued, “Green hair, carrying several shopping bags. Was he just here?”
The clerk simply blinked, holding a box of gauze mid-air, then finally nodded, “Oh, yeah. He bought out half our stock of cooling patches and some high-grade migraine relief. He said people were waiting up on him and he was in a rush.”
“Where is he now?”
“He left maybe five minutes ago,” the clerk said, pointing toward the automatic doors. “I think he went toward the train station. He actually asked me if there was a shortcut.”
“Well, is there?” Shouta asked, his voice tight.
“Uh-huh. If you go through the construction district. I told him it was dangerous at night, but he said he didn’t mind.”
“Of course he didn’t,” Shouta muttered. He fished his phone out as he exited the pharmacy, dialing the boy’s number with a sharp jab of his thumb. He needed to tell him to stay put, to stop moving, to wait for a literal professional to escort him back before he stumbled into another disaster.
The call didn't even ring. It went immediately to voicemail.
“Hi! This is Izuku Midoriya! I’m probably training or—oh, wait, if this is an emergency, please call the nearest hero agency or—!”
Shouta hung up before the recording could finish. A dead battery. Midoriya had been using his phone as a flashlight or a GPS all evening, and now, in the middle of a dark, unstable construction zone, he was unreachable.
Fantastic.
Shouta was going to kill this kid.
He shoved the useless phone back into his pocket, his jaw set so tight it ached. Midoriya’s lack of a signal was one thing, but a dead battery in a dark construction zone was a special kind of negligence. He was going to add "proper device management" to the boy’s training regimen, well, right after he gave him a week of house arrest.
Shouta didn't waste another second, for the third time that night, he rushed out the store’s door and took the turn toward the construction district, his eyes adjusting to the silhouettes of cranes and half-formed skeletons of buildings. He groaned in annoyance as he leapt over yellow caution tape and navigated the treacherous terrain of loose gravel and rusted rebar.
"Midoriya!" he called out, his voice echoing flatly against the concrete slabs.
Nothing.
He searched for about ten minutes, his anxiety rising with every corner he checked, the kid couldn’t have fallen could he? Tripped over a pipe and strained his ankle? Shouta hoped not, though there was some bitter irony in the idea Midoriya was injured due to his own actions instead of being injured during his encounter with criminals. Shouta checked the stairwells of an unfinished high-rise, his capture scarf ready to spring, but the site was basically a ghost town.
Frustrated and running low on breath, Shouta doubled back, cutting through a narrow alley that dumped him out near the elevated tracks of the local station. If the kid was heading back to school, like where he should be, he had to pass through here.
He scanned the platform from the street level, his eyes squinting against the harsh, flickering fluorescent lights. And then, he saw it.
A mop of messy green hair was visible through the glass partition of the upper platform.
Midoriya was standing near a vending machine, looking absolutely frazzled. He was weighed down by several heavy plastic bags, one clearly bulging with the distinct shape of tea tins, another overflowing with snacks, sodas, and candies. He was currently trying to balance a bag against his knee while frantically checking a large wall clock, his lips moving in what was undoubtedly rapid-fire muttering.
He looked fine enough, there wasn't a scratch on him, and there were no bruises or bleeding. The sheer relief that washed over Shouta was immediately eclipsed by a wave of pure, unadulterated annoyance.
"I am definitely killing him," Shouta muttered as he sprinted up the station stairs, his heart hammering against his ribs. He rounded the corner of the turnstiles, eyes locked on the green-haired teen standing on the edge of the platform.
Midoriya was currently fumbling with a bag of kettle corn that threatened to slip from his elbow while trying to adjust the strap of another bag filled with those cooling patches. He looked exhausted, his shoulders slumped as his eyes darting to the overhead monitor.
"Midoriya!" Shouta shouted, his voice cutting through the chatter of the station.
The boy’s head snapped up. His eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, and for a split second, pure terror flashed across his face. He looked at Shouta, then at the train that had just hissed to a halt behind him.
"Aizawa-sensei?" Midoriya squeaked.
Before he could move, a surge of commuters from the back of the platform began to press forward. The crowd acted like a tide, shoving the boy toward the open doors. Shouta lunged, hand outstretched to snag the back of the kid's hoodie and end this ridiculous chase once and for all.
But the universe had other plans, of course. Shouta slammed chest-first into a broad-shouldered businessman, the impact effectively pinning him back.
"Midoriya, stay put!" Shouta yelled, but it was too late.
Midoriya executed a frantic, awkward hop-step to keep his balance as he was jostled. He stumbled backward, his sneakers catching on the threshold as he was swept into the car by the sheer momentum of the crowd.
Chime.
The heavy doors slid shut with a thud, sealing Midoriya inside.
Shouta skidded to the edge, his fingers brushing the cold glass just as the train began to groan forward. On the other side of the pane, Midoriya stood frozen. He was clutching a tin of premium bergamot tea to his chest as if it were a shield, his mouth hanging open in horizontal horror as the gap between them widened. But the kid made no attempt in trying to open the doors, he had simply accepted his fate, offering a shrug so small it was barely a movement, and a mouthed "Sorry?" that looked more like a plea for mercy than an apology.
You’ve got to be kidding me, Shouta thought, his hand slowly dropping from the spot where the glass had been a second ago.
Shouta ended up waiting there for nearly two hours.
He decided it’d be best if he just waited for the kid to hop off the train, get on another, and ride back to the station where Shouta would be ready to strangle him for this whole mess. It wasn’t like there was another train going directly to UA other than this one, so Midoriya would have to return eventually if he ever wanted to make it back to school.
So Shouta simply found an empty spot at the platform, sat down, called Hizashi to let him know he wouldn’t be back until later, and waited.
Waited for so long.
Shouta couldn't remember the last time his composure had frayed so thin over such a ridiculous situation. His leg bounced with a frantic, nervous energy, and his hands were clamped together so tightly his knuckles had turned white. But eventually, the drawl of a woman over the speakers cut through the once busy chatter reduced to a murmur and a train hissed as it glided into the station, the brakes screaming to a stop.
The doors hissed open with a heavy thud. Shouta was on his feet instantly, eyes scanning the sea of commuters when finally, he caught it: a familiar shock of green curls bouncing above the crowd as the boy stepped onto the platform.
Too exhausted for basic courtesy, Shouta shouldered his way through the departing passengers. He ignored the indignant huffs and sharp glares from the people he jostled, his entire focus anchored on the kid, who he heard long before he reached him.
"Aizawa-sensei!"
Shouta broke through the final layer of the crowd, the itch in the base of his neck seemed to crawl up his face and cause his eye to twitch. He stopped dead, his gaze traveling slowly from the boy’s messy hair down to his chest.
"What," Shouta began, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low crawl, "are you wearing?"
Midoriya was an absolute eyesore. Stretched across his lanky frame was a neon-bright, tourist-trap T-shirt that screamed in bold English: I SURVIVED MY TRIP TO TOKYO!
Midoriya looked down at himself as if he’d forgotten he was wearing it. His arms were still overflowing with bags, which seemed to have multiplied in the short time, (no, not short time, Shouta’s been here for hours) they'd been apart.
"Oh! I didn't actually go to Tokyo, obviously!" Midoriya chirped, offering a brand of reassurance that did absolutely nothing for Shouta’s blood pressure. "See, when I got off the train, the next one wasn't for an hour. I thought about finding a place to charge my phone, but nothing was open! So, I did some walking and ran into this really sweet street vendor. She gave me the shirt for half-off!" The kid grinned, radiating a level of sunlight that felt illegal for this time of night. "And look!"
He scrambled to set the bags down, digging through them with frantic energy before pulling out a small black container. He flicked it open to reveal a kanzashi, the delicate fabric flowers a vibrant blend of pink and yellow hues.
"It’s pretty, isn’t it? I thought it’d be nice for Eri. I doubt she’s ever had the chance to wear something like this, and I just—" Midoriya finally looked up, trailing off as he processed the terrifying, stony silence of his teacher’s expression. The light in his eyes flickered as his voice died, "Do... you... like it?"
Shouta didn’t answer immediately. He couldn't. His brain was busy processing the sheer, concentrated absurdity of the boy standing before him and the twitch in Shouta’s eye migrated to his jaw. He looked at the delicate kanzashi, then at the neon English letters on the shirt, and finally back at Midoriya’s hopeful, terrified face.
"I like the fact that you're alive," Shouta said, his voice sinking into a dangerously level register. "Anything beyond that is a luxury I currently cannot afford."
Midoriya searched Shouta’s face, his brow furrowing as a frown replaced his nervous grin. "Oh—you—I’m so sorry for making you wait. I didn't think you'd stay. Or—or that you'd actually come for me."
Shouta stopped rubbing his temples just long enough to stare at the boy in flat disbelief. "Why wouldn't I? Midoriya, do you lack basic situational awareness? You called to tell me the store was being robbed while you were inside it. And then you left. For tea."
Midoriya’s cheeks burned a brilliant scarlet. He looked at his shoes, mumbling, "Sorry for that, too. I just felt bad not getting Yaoyorozu her specific blend. She didn't have it last time, and I didn't want her to feel like she had to use her Quirk just to make a cup of tea."
"And the second drugstore?" Shouta asked, his voice weary. "The one that led to you the construction site, then swept onto a train bound for the suburbs?"
Midoriya didn't answer with words. Instead, he rifled through the plastic bags yet again, his hands shaking slightly as he pulled out a box of high-grade cooling patches and a bottle of migraine relief.
"They’re for you," he answered, holding them out like an offering. "The phone call I left you... it, uh... well, I realized after I hung up that I'd probably given you a massive headache. I thought you'd need something."
I need a drink, Shouta thought, the mental image of a very large, very cold glass of something, anything, flitting through his mind. That’s what I truly need.
“And,” Midoriya mumbled, his voice wavering with fatigue as he tucked the migraine patches back into a bag. He reached into the depths of his plastic hoard and pulled out a small red gift bag. “I got this for you, too.”
Shouta took it and opened it carefully, half-expecting something along the lines of another "I Survived" item. Instead, he found a small, handcrafted orange cat figurine, its tail curled contentedly, paired with a set of thick, high-quality socks patterned with the same feline.
Shouta looked up, really looking at the boy's face. The harsh fluorescent lights of the station didn't do Midoriya any favors. Underneath the neon glow of that ridiculous T-shirt, the kid was pale. There were circles under his eyes, his curls were matted with sweat and humidity, and his hands were trembling ever so slightly from the weight of the bags.
The realization hit Shouta quickly, when he realized the kid had probably spent the entirety of his day off training, and then he volunteered to go off on his own for the sake of movie night, deal with some criminals, race around town, and make his way back all while carrying six bags of stuff.
Kettle corn for the common room. Tea for Yaoyorozu. A gift for Eri. Migraine relief and a cat figurine for the teacher he was currently terrified of.
The irritation in Shouta’s chest didn't vanish, how could it have? Yes, it was still there simmering, but it was being rapidly overtaken by something he dare not name.
“Only you, Midoriya,” he murmured, pretending the look in his eyes was anything but fond.
"Uh, Sensei?" Midoriya squeaked, his shoulders tense and already bracing for the inevitable lecture. But Shouta didn't yell. He didn't even sigh. He carefully tucked the gifts back into the red bag, nestled it securely inside a larger one, and simply reached out. With a grunt of effort, he commandeered the four heaviest bags from Midoriya’s arms, slinging them over his own shoulder without a word.
The weight was surprisingly heavy, a physical testament to just how much Midoriya had been lugging through the city on sheer willpower. Shouta adjusted the straps, the plastic handles digging into his hand, and turned toward the station exit without looking back.
"S-Sensei! You don't have to carry those, really! I can—" Midoriya scrambled after him, his two remaining bags crinkling loudly with every panicked step.
"You've done enough walking for three people today, Midoriya," Shouta said, and decided to shorten his stride for Midoriya’s sake. "If I let you carry these any further, I’ll have to carry you back to the dorms.”
Though he could not see Midoriya’s face, he could tell the kid was blushing in embarrassment, but he ignored it. Shouta stepped toward the curb, his eyes scanning the street for the tell-tale glow of a taxi sign. Under the weight of the bags, his own muscles were beginning to protest, but his focus remained on the quiet, swaying figure who had come up beside him.
"Sensei, really, a cab is too expensive," Midoriya started, his voice small and thick with guilt. "If you’re doing this because of me, I promise can walk, it’s only another—"
"Midoriya," Shouta interrupted, not even looking over at the teen. "If you finish that sentence, I’m adding twenty extra suicide sprints onto your training Monday morning. Be quiet."
That did the trick. Midoriya clicked his jaw shut, though the crinkle of a plastic bag suggested he was fidgeting with his hem in a bout of nervous energy.
A cab finally pulled up, its headlights cutting through the humid night air. Shouta didn't wait for Midoriya to move, instead, he opened the door and gestured sharply for the boy to get in first. As Midoriya slid onto the seat, he looked small, swallowed up by the oversized, neon-lettered shirt and the exhaustion finally pinning him down.
Shouta loaded the bags into the trunk with more care than he felt like admitting, then climbed into the back seat.
"UA High," Shouta told the driver, then leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes.
The quiet in the cab was different from the quiet on the platform. It wasn't charged with chatter, panic or irritation anymore, this kind of quiet was much calmer. There was only the hum of the radio at a low volume and the steady vibration of the car as it tracked down the deserted roads. A few minutes into the drive, Shouta felt a soft thump against his shoulder.
He opened one eye. Midoriya had completely caved. His head had lulled over, his green curls brushing against Shouta’s side, his mouth slightly agape as he drifted.
"Sensei?" Midoriya asked softly, his voice thick and slurred with exhaustion.
Well, clearly he wasn't as deep under as Shouta had thought.
"What?"
"Thank you. For... you know. Finding me."
Shouta didn't move his shoulder, in fact, he didn't even open his eyes again. He just let the weight of the boy’s head settle as he murmured, "Don't make it a habit.”
Midoriya let out a tiny, huffed breath that might have been a laugh if he weren't so depleted. "I didn't... mean to. I just wanted... everyone to have a good night."
“I know, Midoriya. And I’m sorry too, I should have been with you in the first place.”
Midoriya mumbled something more, but it was laced with too much drowsiness for Shouta to decipher, so he just exhaled and let his head tilt back. And soon enough, the taxi slowed to a crawl as it approached the gates of UA. The driver glanced into the rearview mirror, eyes shifting between the exhausted Pro Hero and the sleeping teenager slumped against his shoulder.
"This is as far as I can go without a clearance pass, sir," the driver whispered, and Shouta appreciated the low volume.
"It's fine," Shouta muttered as he settled the fare with his free hand, being careful not to jostle his passenger too much.
Getting out was a chore, Shouta would admit. He first had to slide out first, bracing Midoriya’s head so it didn't hit the seat, then gather the small mountain of bags from the back, six in total. He stood on the curb, the cool night air of the campus finally hitting him. Midoriya was barely conscious, standing on shaky legs and blinking blearily at the gate as the taxi pulled away.
"Wha... we're back?" Midoriya mumbled, his knees buckling slightly. He reached for his bags, but his fingers just brushed the air.
"You're done, Midoriya," Shouta said as he dropped the bags for a moment, adjusted his capture scarf, and turned his back to the boy. "Get on."
Midoriya froze, his mouth hanging open in disbelief, and for a moment the kid looked as though he’d topple on just from the idea of his teacher giving his a piggyback ride, "Aizawa-sensei? No, I can't—that's—"
"I told you I’d have to carry you. I wasn't joking," Shouta interrupted, making his voice once again firm. “Get on before I change my mind.”
With a face that probably matched the red of the gift bag, Midoriya leaned forward. He wrapped his arms loosely around Shouta’s neck, and with a grunt of effort, Shouta hoisted him up. He then looped the handles of the various bags over his own arms, effectively turning himself into a human pack-mule. And Shouta could only imagine how ridiculous he looked.
The walk through the campus was oddly peaceful, though the serenity was undercut by the fact that Shouta felt like he was hauling the weight of a dead horse. Midoriya’s chin rested heavily on his shoulder, his damp curls tickling Shouta’s jawline, but for once, the man made no attempt to pull away or demand personal space.
Midoriya mumbled something into his shoulder, the words lost in the thick fabric of his track suit.
“What was that?” Shouta asked, his voice low so as not to startle the quiet of the night.
“The store owner,” Midoriya slurred, his grip on Shouta’s neck tightening just a fraction. “Was she okay? I felt bad... for leaving her like that.”
Shouta’s chest tightened with a familiar, weary ache. Even at the edge of total collapse, the boy was auditing his own conscience. “She’s fine, yes. She told the police you were amazing.” Shouta paused, deciding to omit the part where she also called him “odd.” So instead, he settled for, “You did good, kid. You took down three armed suspects, kept the store owner calm, and nobody got hurt. I’m proud of you.”
There was a long stretch of silence. The only sounds were the rhythmic crinkle of the plastic bags and the soft thud of Shouta’s boots on the pavement. He assumed the boy had finally succumbed to exhaustion, but then, a small, wet sniffling sound echoed right against his ear.
Shouta froze for a second, his heart sinking. He wasn't quite sure why the kid was crying, whether it was the delayed adrenaline dump, the guilt of the train mishap, or simply the weight of the rare praise, but he didn't ask. He knew Midoriya well enough to know that a question would only bring a tidal wave of stuttered apologies instead of actual answers to why the kid was the way he was.
Midoriya mumbled something else to himself, a tiny, almost broken “thank you,” before his body finally went completely limp. His forehead pressed into the crook of Shouta's neck, and his breathing leveled out into the deep, heavy pull of a sleep he’d more than earned.
Shouta adjusted his grip on the mountain of bags, his fingers numb but his resolve ironclad. He looked at the looming silhouette of the Heights Alliance dorms.
"This kid," Shouta began in a low whisper, the words holding no bite, “is going to be the death of me."
Soon enough, he reached the door and, with no hands free, gave the wood a dull, heavy thud with the toe of his boot. The door flew open almost instantly to reveal both Iida and Yaoyorozu, who stared with puzzled expressions that quickly morphed into pure bewilderment.
Shouta shifted the weight of the bags, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. “Is everyone still awake?”
Yaoyorozu nodded slowly, her eyes darting between the mountain of plastic bags and the green-haired boy currently snoring against Shouta's neck. “Almost everyone. Bakugo went to bed, but other than that, yes. We were... well, we were very worried, Sensei.”
“Did you decide on a movie?”
Iida’s head tilted in confusion, his hand frozen mid-chop. “Sir, it’s 10:30 PM. We had assumed movie night was canceled given the—the circumstances.”
“You would not believe the trouble your classmate went through to get these snacks,” Shouta began, stepping into the warmth of the common room. “We’re watching something. Wake Bakugo up if you have to. I’m not letting this effort go to waste.”
He marched over to the main sofa. The rest of the class, who had been sprawled out amongst the space, sat up right as their teacher approached. With careful precision, Shouta sat down and let Midoriya slide into the corner of the couch. The boy didn't even stir, his head simply lulling onto the armrest.
When he was sure the kid wouldn’t fall off the couch, Shouta pried the small gift bag from his scarred hands, then turned and dumped the bags onto the coffee table with a resounding clatter of plastic and glass.
“Tea for Yaoyorozu in the blue bag. Popcorn for the class. Everything else is in there,” Shouta stated, his voice a tired rasp that nonetheless commanded total attention. He leaned back into the sofa cushions and crossed his arms over his chest. He looked at the stunned, wide-eyed faces of his students. “Pick a film. Something long. I’m not moving for at least two hours.”
Ashido was the first to break the trance, a wide, bright grin splitting her face as she lunged for the bags. “Score!” she cheered, snagging a box of imported candies before diving onto an empty beanbag one of the kids must have brought down from their room.
The rest of the class followed suit in a wave of quiet, but still a bit frantic energy despite the hour. The tension that had been found itself in the common room had evaporated, replaced by the rustle of plastic and the hushed debates over which movie was worthy of the haul. Students scattered across the room, some claimed patches of the rug, while others dragged over dining chairs to form a loose semi-circle around the TV.
Shouta didn't move. He remained anchored to the couch, where Midoriya’s head had once again lolled onto his shoulder. The boy was so deeply under that not even the crinkle of the popcorn bags or Kaminari’s loud whispering could rouse him.
Within just a few minutes, Shouta was completely surrounded. Uraraka and Asui had claimed the floor right by his feet, leaning against the base of the sofa while Iida sat in the adjacent armchair, his posture finally losing its rigid, panicked edge as he took up his post. Even a grumbling, half-asleep Bakugo had eventually stomped back downstairs, slouching in a corner chair and aggressively shoveling handfuls of kettle corn into his mouth while glaring at the opening credits.
The room dimmed as someone hit the lights. The blue glow of the screen washed over them, illuminating the strange, very strange, domestic scene: a Pro Hero acting as a pillow, a boy in a tacky tourist shirt, and a class of young heroes finally at rest.
Shouta felt the weight of the cat figurine and socks on his lap and the warmth of the kid leaning against his side. He let out a long, slow breath, his eyes tracking the movie without really seeing it. He was exhausted, his joints were stiff, and he was covered in the scent of station air and cheap popcorn.
He wouldn't have traded the seat for anything in the world.
But he was still going to make the kid run laps on Monday. Absolutely.
TWO DAYS LATER
“Two more, Midoriya, move it!” Aizawa-sensei yelled from the side of Ground Gamma. Izuku was breathing heavily, finishing off the last of the suicide sprints with as much energy as he could muster.
Izuku hit the final line, his lungs burning and his legs feeling like overcooked noodles. He slumped over, hands on his knees, gasping for air as the gym's reinforced floor blurred beneath him.
"Time," Aizawa called out, clicking his stopwatch with a snap.
Izuku managed a weak thumbs-up, too winded to even squeak out a "Yes, Sensei." He straightened up slowly, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. The grueling intensity of the training session was back to its usual, unforgiving baseline, but something felt different today.
Maybe it was the fact that Izuku could see Aizawa was currently wearing a pair of thick, high-quality socks with small orange cats peeking out from just above his combat boots.
They were thick, high-quality compression socks. And they were covered in a pattern of tiny, grumpy-looking calico cats.
Aizawa caught the gaze instantly. His eyes narrowed, and his capture scarf shifted defensively, coiling around his neck. "If you have enough energy to stare at my boots, Midoriya, you clearly have enough energy for another set of weighted lunges."
"N-no! Sorry, Sensei! I was just—" Izuku’s face went a shade of red that rivaled his sneakers, his mind flashing back to the grainy, exhausted memories of two nights ago. "I'm glad they fit?"
Izuku wasn’t quite sure, the lighting in Ground Gamma was notoriously harsh, but he thought he saw his teacher’s lips quirk up in a tiny, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile. It wasn't the usual maniacal grin Aizawa used before a harsh training day, it was something softer and warm.
Before the teen could even react, Aizawa’s hand reached out. It wasn't a grab for a capture scarf or a corrective shove, he rested a heavy palm on Izuku’s head and ruffled his sweat-dampened curls lightly.
“But, Midoriya?” Aizawa began, pulling his hand away as Izuku blinked up through the salt sweat trickling into his eyes. “Your solo snack-run privileges are officially revoked.”
“What?” Izuku exclaimed, his ears turning a shade of red that rivaled his costume accents. “Sensei! I can manage—I was just tired that night! It won't happen again, I promise!”
“Your track record suggests otherwise.”
Izuku huffed, his exhaustion momentarily replaced by a spike of stubbornness. He muttered under his breath, barely audible over the hum of the gym’s ventilation, “Maybe if you’d just gone with me in the first place, we wouldn't have had a problem...”
Aizawa paused. His head tilted at a dangerous, calculated angle as he fixed Izuku with a flat stare. “What did you just say?”
Shit.
“Uh—n-nothing!” Izuku stammered quickly, his hands waving frantically in front of his face like two white flags of surrender. “I didn’t mean that! It was just, the, uh, the adrenaline talking!”
“Back on the line, Midoriya,” Aizawa commanded, his thumb clicking the stopwatch with another snap.
"Wait, but I already finished the set—"
"If you have enough energy for attitude, you have enough energy for a recovery lap. Go."
Izuku didn't argue. He turned and sprinted, the familiar burn returning to his lungs, but as he rounded the first curve of the track, he couldn't stop a small, private smile from tugging at his mouth. Revoked privileges or not, he knew one thing for certain: the next time he found himself out for tea and movie night snacks, he’d have to make sure he picked up a matching pair of cat socks for himself.