A/N: Hello lovelies ~ I'm so sorry about the delay in getting this chapter out. This last month has been rather crazy. :)

I would like to take a moment to express my tremendous appreciation to those of you who have followed and favourited, with a very special thanks to everyone who has left such wonderful reviews. Truly, you make my day. Please enjoy, and continue to let me know your thoughts!

v. drowse

she spends those first few days in a state of half-consciousness: the bedsheets, a tangle of sleeplessness and wet with sweat; the curtains, drawn, so that the room takes on a twilit glow. her body is pinned beneath the effects of the painkillers and of exhaustion – as though in the place of bones she has sand, and in the place of muscle she has tissue paper. she passes the hours with her face pressed to the pillow, inhaling guiltily upon a smell that makes her stomach ache – a dirty, sleepy smell that no amount of washing could dispel – and listening to the cautious shuffle of feet in the room just next door.

every now and then, the bedroom door creaks open. she can feel the way he looks at her. it is just a cursory peek, just to make sure she hasn't died in his bed. and then he leaves again, and the empty spaces inside of her overflow with mocking emotion.

he was so close.

he was too close.

he was so far.

he was too far gone.

and all she could bring herself to do was lie there, the room bathed in fog before her eyes. the more the day wore on, the more shadows stretched across the walls like vague, faceless figures. sometimes, she would dream, but mostly she wouldn't, and instead she would drift through an altered state of awareness with the bed as her boat and the dim light an encroaching storm. the darker it got, the more the painkillers would wear off. the more her chest would begin to feel like it was being pried apart, strings of flesh and muscle clinging together hopelessly, blood swelling beneath the surface of her skin in anticipation. breathing began to scrape her throat raw. her spine became a branch of thorns – no matter which way she lay, it was agony.

and that was when memories would slap against her like stones being thrown from all directions.

Those first few days, Aizawa saw surprisingly little of her. Sometimes, he would glimpse a dream-ridden face making for the kitchen or would hear the fleeting sound of the shower being run. At night, he heard her tossing and turning in his bed; in the early hours of the morning, he heard her rummaging through her bags. Apart from these fleeting flashes of life, Rin was quiet as a stone. She slept. She woke up only to eat – tip-toe to the kitchen, chew through a humble serving of fruit and cold meats from the fridge – and to take her painkillers. Then she slept again.

For a while, Aizawa knocked before opening the bedroom door to check on her. Little bundle of a body beneath the bedsheets, slow breaths, an unfamiliar smell like metal and medicine and flowers. Her suitcases were open at the foot of the bed, their contents overflowing onto the floor. Aizawa never looked too closely, tried not to pay too much attention to the glimpses of Rin's feet or her bare arms – scarred in ways he recognised, scarred in ways he didn't – poking out from beneath the blankets. He never lingered long, and would close the door on her before he'd even had a chance to draw a second breath. Eventually, though, he did stop knocking, always finding her exactly the same way: swathed in silence and fragile sleep, heedless of him as she'd been that first day at the hospital.

What did he do with his time? Pleasantly enough, his routine did not change much. He trained in his living room in the mornings, and drank coffee, and set assignments. He watched the news on TV, napped, trained in the evenings, marked assignments. Every afternoon, Hizashi came by with new work from Class 2A and reports on the days' dealings.

And inevitably – "How's Hiruma-chan?"

"Still resting."

"I told Kayama about her."

"Of course you did."

"You know she had a soft spot for Hiruma."

"I'd prefer you don't tell anybody else."

"Yeah, yeah! My lips are sealed from here on out. Kayama's too, though she wants to come visit sometime."

"We'll see."

It continued this way for about a week. Then finally, one morning at an ungodly time, when Aizawa was awake watching television, the bedroom door creaked open – and with the impish curiosity of a storybook character, eyes wide and moon-like, Rin peered out at him. For the first time since bringing her to his apartment, despite the hour, she looked wide awake, expression clear and crisp through the shadows.

Meeting her stare, Aizawa straightened, reached for the remote. "I'm sorry," he said, turning down the volume. "Did I wake you?"

"No. No, not at all." Rin smiled coyly. "I was awake."

"Ah."

"What are you watching?"

"Just the news."

She stepped slowly, tentatively, out of the doorway. Her feet were milky pale. Her hair was a messy cloud about her face. "Can I join you?"

Aizawa nodded and shuffled aside, making space for Rin on the couch. Next to him, he could smell the warm, sleepy combination of bedding and her clothes – a mannish sweater, oversized sweat pants, hanging shapeless and cozy over her small frame. She sat with her knees drawn up to her chest, toes curling over the edge of the couch, and gazed blankly at the TV. Her hands were tightly knitted in her lap. In the frail light of the television, her features formed a soft, thoughtful mask.

Neither of them said anything for some time, though once again Rin seemed ever on the verge of speaking. Every now and then, she would shuffle or sigh, and Aizawa's body would freeze in anticipation. If there was something he was wanting to hear, what stopped him from simply asking? Perhaps he would've, if only he knew what it was he was waiting for, hoping to know. More bold now than he had been a few days ago, he stared at her, considering with some fascination her strange, cold glow: tight lips and distant eyes, out of reach as a pearl in the deep crush of the sea. After a little while, she looked back at him, a question mark of an expression across her face, and Aizawa felt himself shiver with a fleeting sense of recognition that somehow went beyond memory. Yes, he knew this face. Who was Rin? He didn't know – but something inside of him insisted that he did.

Maybe that was what he hoped to know – what is it that I am missing? – unspecific but, as the days wore by and the feeling grew more insistent, critical.

Rin smiled. "It's cold," she said quietly.

"Yes," Aizawa replied. "Autumn's come quickly this year."

"Would you like some coffee?"

"Let me–"

"Don't worry. I'll make."

She stood and disappeared into the kitchen. The light went on, the kettle began to boil, and in a charmed moment, Aizawa followed her. On her toes, Rin searched the cabinets for the coffee jar. Then she scooped two heaped teaspoons into her own mug, no sugar nor milk, and two heaped teaspoons into Aizawa's, no sugar nor milk. And it may well have been a coincidence that she made his coffee exactly how he normally took it, no questions asked. It probably shouldn't have bothered him; he tried not let it bother him.

Aizawa cleared his throat. "So," he began. "How are you feeling?"

With a hum, Rin nodded. "Alright," she said. "A little sore. But it's not so bad."

"You'll have to attend a follow-up appointment soon, correct?"

"I think I have one next week. Or it could be later this week. I'm not sure."

"Well, let me know."

Rin handed him his coffee, steaming hot and smelling bitterly strong. They remained in the kitchen, holding their mugs to their chests. "Are you normally awake at this hour, sensei?" she asked warmly.

"Generally, yes," Aizawa said. "I normally conduct my patrols around this time. Or I do marking, when I'm off duty."

She continued to smile. "Is it difficult being a teacher and a hero at the same time?"

"Sometimes it's challenging."

"I'd love to be a teacher."

"Is that so?"

"Yes. I love kids."

Aizawa looked down, spoke into his mug. "I see." He paused to blow on the coffee, lingering over his drink. And then – "Are you still in contact with any of your old classmates?"

The question didn't seem to surprise Rin. She shrugged. "Not really. Although, I do feel sort of bad," she said, a little wistful. "I used to get contacted by a lot of people asking to go for drinks and to catch up. Sometimes I did take them up on the invitation, but mostly I didn't. Don't know why." Then she sighed, the sound like a freshly polished bell. "I wish I didn't have to go out and speak to people to make friends. I get so tired!"

"Although you're very talkative this evening, it seems."

"Oh! I'm sorry, sensei… I don't mean to bother you."

"No. Not at all. I don't mind." Aizawa took a sip from his coffee, considering his words. "Making friends is certainly troublesome." Said he, who'd been grasping at any hope and opportunity of having a real conversation with Rin. He looked at her and, in spite of himself, smiled a little. "Perhaps that's why I know of very few underground heroes who have more than a handful of friends."

Her face brightened, eyebrows raised, one corner of her mouth twisting sweetly. "Probably!" she agreed. "Maybe just apart from the fact that it's hard to even find time for it… Most of my shifts are at night, at the time when everybody else wants to get together. Is it the same for you?"

"Yes," Aizawa said. "That's exactly it."

"And it's also hard to meet people during the day. Either I'm too tired or I have other errands to do."

"Me too."

"And anyway," she seemed to be rambling now, almost as though she were speaking to herself – lowered voice, a dainty finger rising to touch at her bottom lip, "it's not ideal for me to see people outside of the agency anyway. Doctor Voodoo doesn't like that very much."

Inexplicably, something dark and metallic settled itself at the pit of Aizawa's stomach. "Why not?" he asked, conscious of keeping the same tone as before.

Rin blinked at him. "Huh?"

"Why wouldn't Doctor Voodoo want you seeing other people?"

"Did I say that out loud?"

"You did."

"Oh." Her expression greyed, and she looked away quickly, as though an answer might be written upon the kitchen walls. "Sorry. It's no big deal. I was just thinking. Doctor Voodoo's just very private about his affairs."

Careful and slow, Aizawa made to close the space between himself and Rin. "Is that all there is to it?" he asked.

Rin sipped her coffee. "Mmm-hmm."

"Did he have something to hide?"

"Not that I know of."

Just like that, she deadpanned, no longer the Rin she was a moment ago. At this, Aizawa sighed and receded. It was fine. Slow progress was fine. They'd started talking, and he'd learned a sliver more about the sort of life she led – inconsequential though it may have been, revealing relatively little more than what Aizawa could have guessed at himself. Taking one more slow drink from his cup, he turned away and began to make his way back toward the couch. He could hear as Rin followed, footsteps delicate like dripping rain. "You know," he said, banishing the silence before it settled once again, "I need to go buy some things tomorrow. Or, no, it's already morning. Later today, then. You can come along, if you like."

Rin reclaimed her spot on the couch, curling up into the same little ball as she had previously. "That would be nice. Actually," she said, a trill of delighted suggestion in her tone, "I was hoping – could I cook dinner for you sometime, sensei? As a thank you." Before Aizawa could object, she smiled and shook her head. "I want to. So I'll buy some ingredients. Do you like beef?"

it is at the start of second year – she is almost sixteen – when the letters start arriving. first in the mailbox, then under the door, then on windowsills and beneath picture frames and atop her pillow. once a week, they come, written in a tidy, adult hand – saying nothing much, just hello, how are things? – i hope you're doing well, Rin. when are you coming back to visit us, Rin? reply soon, Rin.

and she reads these things, at first with surprise, and then with confusion, and then – when the letters and their words become as much a part of her week as school and chores and sleeping – she reads them with a heart that flutters like a wasp under a glass. because somebody is thinking of her. somebody cares enough to write her. somebody is waiting for her.

he always signs his letters with his hero name. yet, he conveys a curiosity and care she recognises only because it is so unfamiliar.

she doesn't think it strange that he asks her not to tell anybody.

after all, underground heroes don't usually have friends.

it is at the end of spring that he comes to see her, on a day where the light is twinkling white through the treetops and the river twists smooth as a murky blue ribbon through the park. they walk together. he is in his hero suit, though nobody knows who he is, and she is still in her uniform – and she does not feel at ease, does not know what to think of meeting with him like this (the boundaries between intern and side-kick a little hazy, the distance between them thin and made thinner when the back of his hand lightly passes against her own). she likes it. she likes not knowing where she stands. a seed has been planted. but what seed? she can grow it into whatever she wants.

when he leaves, he kisses her gently on the cheek. his lips are cold and leave pin-pricks on her skin (later, she will trace her finger in circles against the place he'd touched his mouth, as though engraving the shape of it). then he grins at her like it was a mischievous little thing to have done – their secret, fun and games. when he leaves, she doesn't want him to leave.

the letters come lovelier and stranger the longer they go on. 'i want to see you again, Rin.' he comes to her. she goes to him. 'i miss you, Rin.' she tells him she misses him too. 'remember, it would be better you don't tell anyone about us, Rin.' she doesn't tell anyone. and he keeps writing, and he keeps visiting, and by the end of second year he signs off his letters: all my love, kizashi.