TW: none for the first chapter! enjoy :D

Denial

When Aizawa's phone rang at three-thirty in the morning, startling him out of a rare good night's sleep, he was tempted to let it keep ringing.

Years later, of course, he would be unfathomably glad he did pick up. But in that moment, he wanted to smash the device to bits. Tiny, tiny little bits.

Then put those bits in a blender and watch them swirl around for awhile. Maybe drink whatever was left, just to spite the universe.

Instead, he heaved a sigh and rolled over, snatching the phone up and pressing it to his ear. "What."

"O-oh," the voice was light, decidedly feminine, and sounded entirely too chipper for the early morning hour. "Who is—is this Shouta Aizawa?"

God, how he wished it wasn't. "Yes."

"Oh, that's perfect." There was a rustle of paper followed by the faint, rhythmic sound of a train bumping over rails. "Our information states you have an emergency foster license with the district, correct?"

Aizawa pulled the phone away from his ear and squinted at the caller ID. The words Musutafu Child Services blinked balefully back at him.

Ah.

This was beginning to make a little more sense now.

When applying to his first Underground hero agency, the higher ups had offered a course that would grant him a Musutafu district fostering license. They'd also informed him that most pro-heroes said no.

Aizawa said yes.

He was contrary like that.

So far, there'd been a few kids to pass through his home. Mostly no longer than a week, a couple nights at the very least. His charges were almost always unruly teenagers on the brink of being too old for the system, the type no one else wanted because they were 'rebellious' and 'beyond saving'.

He gave them food and safety and let them have their independence, then they were gone.

It wasn't always easy, but at least none had run away yet. All-in-all, Aizawa didn't think he was a half-bad caretaker.

Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose for a second—mourning the amount of sleep he was about to lose—then pushed himself out of bed. "Where do you need me?"

"Musutafu General Station." That wasn't too far, maybe he could even catch a few more minutes of slee— "In ten minutes." Right. Aizawa remembered the universe hated him.

He nodded, not particularly caring that she couldn't see the action. "I'll see you there."

Relief was audible in the woman's voice. Apparently she was a lot more tired than she'd been letting on. "Perfect. And Aizawa, uh, sir?"

He shrugged on his coat, not bothering to change out of his black, cat-hair-covered fleece sweater or the faded pink joggers he wore around the house. "Yes?"

"Just," she hesitated, fingers tapping against the receiver, "keep an eye on this one, 'kay?"

Aizawa frowned down at the boots meant for his hero costume. They were well worn and comfortable, and it's not like anyone would recognize them as part of his hero outfit. Perks of being an Underground-pro. He slipped them on. "Why?"

There was a rush of brakes and a surge of voices from the other side of the phone, "Oh, we just arrived at the station." He didn't think he was imagining the nervous edge to her chuckle. Or the way she was dodging his question. "We'll see you soon!"

He pulled the phone away from his ear as the dial tone sounded, narrowing his eyes at its too-bright screen. That had sounded very. . .ominous.

He scratched Mochi behind the ears. Not even her purring was enough to soften the confused edge of his frown.

Just who was this kid?

The train station was surprisingly full despite the early hour, hosting a few families tiredly draped over benches with sleeping children on their laps and a couple rumpled looking businesspeople carting briefcases.

Aizawa glanced down at his phone again, quickly realizing he had no idea who he was looking for, when a voice spoke out from behind him.

"Mr. Aizawa?"

He tensed, before recognizing it as the woman who'd been speaking with him earlier.

He turned. She was unassuming, with a pencil skirt and mid-length brown hair. Her gaze was kind, if not a little tired and stretched around the edges.

The pro-hero was already forgetting what her face looked like five seconds after seeing it. Was he really that tired? "Yes?"

The woman stared him up and down. Her eyes seemed to linger particularly long on the vertical 'Juicy' that emblazoned his thigh in sparkly neon thread.

He wore these pants for comfort, not style. Her opinion meant nothing to him.

Besides, this wasn't the eighteen-hundreds. Men could wear pink juicy jogging pants if they wanted.

He frowned, and made a mental note to never think that same combination of words again in case there were any mind-readers around.

The last thing his colleagues at U.A. needed was more blackmail information.

The woman didn't look reassured by his response, but she nodded all the same. The papers tucked under her right arm rumpled as she slid them out, "Here's his file. I would recommend discretion while looking at it, the information inside is. . .sensitive."

Aizawa took it, unfazed. He dealt with confidential documents on a regular basis and lived alone.

No one would be seeing this. Except perhaps his three cats but, last he checked, they couldn't read.

It was then that he clued into the empty space at her side, a stray, scratched black suitcase resting there with its handle sticking straight up.

"And just where is the kid?"

She winced. "He went to the bathroom. He should be back any—"

If it weren't for Aizawas' hard-earned spatial awareness, he would've completely missed the presence behind him.

"Ah," the woman's voice shook, "there he is."

Aizawa wasn't entirely sure what he'd been expecting. In fact, he tried not to have expectations or build profiles of people—especially kids—before he met them.

Partially because he didn't care enough to, but mostly because social workers or case managers might not always have the full story.

From the social workers tone, Aizawa had been expecting some kind of delinquent. Tall, a sneering face, illogically baggy pants.

Seriously, had some kids never heard of a 'belt'?

That being said, this kid was not at all what he'd been expecting.

For starters, they were incredibly short. He had to crane his neck to look down at them.

Aizawa took in the small build, the mess of green hair, freckled cheeks, narrowed eyes, and got the feeling the kid was examining him right back.

The second thing he noticed was their age.

Most kids that got stuck with Aizawa were the absolute worst-of-the-worst. The kind of teens that were banned from group homes and not allowed to wear backpacks into corner stores.

Keyword there being teens.

The individual in front of him looked no more than eleven, thirteen at the most. Definitely not in high school yet.

Aizawa was a last-ditch fosterer. For this kid to get sent to him at such a young age meant nothing good, that's for certain.

It was then that Aizawa realized he'd been staring at the kid long enough for it to get creepy. Curse his tired, sleep-deprived attention span.

And his regular, every-day attention span. It sucked just as bad.

He flipped the folder in his hands open, silently noting how the kid winced at the motion.

It was thick, almost as thick as a small novel. It would take him a good couple of hours to look through everything, but that would have to wait.

All the information he needed was on the first page. Izuku Midoriya, born July 15th. Gender, male.

The accompanying picture was of a much younger looking child. One with a wide, angelically beaming smile, a purple bruise high on his cheek, and criminally large, doe-like eyes.

Aizawa glanced at the kid in front of him, taking in his down-turned lips and cagey eyes, then back at the picture.

Then at the kid, then back at the picture, then at the social worker.

Were they sure this was even the same kid?

Resisting the urge to pinch at the bridge of his nose again (an oncoming stress headache was beginning to press uncomfortably at his temples), he slipped the folder shut and slid it under his arm.

"Alright. Midoriya? Let's get moving." He gestured at the kid's suitcase, knowing better than to grab a foster child's possessions.

Back then, he'd always hated it when social workers grabbed his stuff too.

The kid snorted, then snatched their suitcase by its wobbly handle before trotting after Aizawa's retreating form.

Aizawa glanced back at the social worker, her hand raised in farewell, her eyes troubled. He waved back half-heartedly, already fantasizing about his sleeping bag back home.

"What?" He said as Midoriya slid into step beside him, a calculated arm's length away. Aizawa didn't comment on the distance. That, unfortunately, he also understood. "No teary, heartfelt goodbyes?"

Midoriya snorted again. "Pardon me while I don't give a shit."

His voice was stilted, cracked. Puberty; Aizawa remembered it well.

Too well, sometimes.

Acne had been the worst. He still had nightmares about waking up pimpled and snot-nosed sometimes.

"Language," Aizawa remarked casually, pushing the train station door open and squinting up at an offending streetlight. It would be a couple hours yet till dawn. Thankfully. "I already have a bed made up in my guest bedroom. Anything else you need?"

"A shot at Endeavour and no witnesses."

Aizawa ducked his head to hide his amused smile only to remember, too late, that he wasn't wearing his capture scarf. "You and me both, kid."

Midoriya's pace stuttered, like he hadn't been expecting that a response. The suitcase's rickety wheels screeched as he almost tripped.

Aizawa forged ahead, not bothering to help him get his balance back. He knew help, just like touch, wouldn't be appreciated right now.

The car ride back to his place was heavy with silence, but it didn't feel like the awkward kind.

The kid slouched in the passenger seat, his entire body pressed against the door and his fingers never straying too far from the handle, like he was ready to jump out at the first sign of danger from Aizawa.

At least he didn't comment on the tiny Present Mic keychain attached to Aizawa's lanyard—although his eyes did widen the tiniest bit—and he didn't throw himself out of a moving vehicle.

Aizawa counted that as a win, at least.

Maybe this wouldn't be too bad?

This was horrible. This was the absolute worst.

Aizawa would never send a kid back, but this one. . .this one was trying his patience.

Midoriya was crouched in the front hall, two fuzzy bodies pressed up against his thighs and purring under his fingers.

Not even three seconds after entering and the kid had already seduced Mochi and Ramen.

Aizawa narrowed his eyes at them as he closed the door, kicking his boots off with a little less grace than usual.

The cats blinked back at him with wide, innocent eyes. Aizawa didn't buy it for a second.

The little traitors.

They were all but throwing themselves at Midoriya. Hussies, the both of them.

At least Sushi still had some class, her dark fur poking out from beneath the couch where she watched the newcomer with wary, luminescent yellow eyes.

"You like cats, I'm guessing," Aizawa stated, shooting another glare at the offending furballs.

Midoriya's body tensed, fingers freezing where they'd been scratching behind Mochi's tortoiseshell ears. "No. I hate them."

Aizawa blinked down at the hand that remained wrapped in the cat's fur, like the kid couldn't physically bring himself to remove it. ". . .Right. I'll show you to your room."

Perhaps if Aizawa had been a little less sleep deprived, he would've been able to prevent what happened next.

Maybe if he hadn't been in a nearly catatonic state after finishing patrol earlier, he'd have remembered to put his hero costume away before leaving.

But he was sleep deprived, and he had been nearly catatonic early, and Midoriya was definitely staring at the rumpled jumpsuit and capture weapon hanging over Aizawa's kitchen chair.

Technically, Aizawa didn't have to keep his hero identity a secret from the foster children that went through his house. He saw it more as a safety issue, for both himself and the kids.

If a child knew he was Eraserhead, then they'd be in possession of top-secret information a lot of underground villains would kill and/or maim to have.

If a kid told people he was Eraserhead, then his career as an underground hero would be put at risk.

Hard to go undercover when a bunch of high schoolers knew what you looked like, especially when he was often in charge of busting up younger, newer gangs.

Then again, chances of Midoriya knowing who Eraserhead was were slim to none; he was probably making a big deal out of nothing. Aizawa sighed, pressing at his temples again.

Sure, the kid knew about Endeavour, but he was the No. 2 hero. Everyone and their grandma's dog's fleas knew about Endeavour. Aizawa's secret was probably—

Midoriya's suitcase hit the ground as the kid whirled on him. "Eraserhead?!"

—safe.

Shoot.

Midoriya's face, which up until that point had been withdrawn, crinkled into a wide-eyed, starstruck expression. He looked like the boy in his file. "You—you're—" he shook his head, staring at Aizawa. "How are you—how are you even. . ."

Aizawa wasn't sure how All Might managed. Having fans was distinctly uncomfortable.

(A very, very small part of him—that was going to remain unacknowledged—puffed up at the kid's attention, but, again, he was determined to ignore it).

"Take your time, kid," he said wryly, ducking his chin as the kid flushed crimson.

"It's—I just can't believe you're him!" Midoriya's voice came out as a squeak while his hands trembled. "I've been—you're just—" He made a squiggly motion with his fingers, as if that would make things clearer.

It didn't, but it was oddly endearing.

Aizawa had to duck his head again to hide a treacherous smile. "I take it you're a fan?"

Midoriya nodded impossibly fast, voice quietening. "I've—I've been a fan of you since forever."

"How?" He narrowed his eyes, trying to think of how a foster kid would've gotten their hands on that kind of information. "I'm not exactly mainstream."

Midoriya quieted even further, seeming to shrink in on himself. "There was this really old video of you on the hero forum. You took down this villain who had a knife-quirk and you did it," his hands twisted in his shirt, drawing Aizawa's eye to how bent they looked. Almost as if they'd been broken at some point, "you did it without a—without using a flashy quirk."

Aizawa got the sense Midoriya had been about to say something else, but now didn't seem the time to push for the truth. Especially on his first night here.

"Heroes don't need flashy quirks. I'm technically at a disadvantage when I fight mutant quirked criminals, but I've had that disadvantage all my life." He shrugged. "I've learned to work around it."

He glanced down to see Midoriya staring at him, mouth hanging slightly open. Aizawa was starting to see how he'd used to be the boy in the folder, the wide-eyed one with a beaming grin.

"I always wondered if you could cancel mutant quirks," Midoriya breathed out, his wariness from before seemingly forgotten. "I—I have so many questions. Why did you want to become a hero? What quirks did your parents have? Were they a combination of yours? Did you. . .did you pass the UA entrance exam? And what about—"

Aizawa held up his hands, as if to physically hold off the flood of questions. "One at a time."

Midoriya's reaction was instantaneous. It was as if he'd forgotten Aizawa was there and been suddenly reminded of his presence.

The nervous excitement faded, instantly locked down and turned into something distant. He took a step back, once again hovering a little over an arm's length away.

"Sorry," the boy breathed softly. The clenching hands at his side were the only indicator of his discomfort.

Aizawa tried not to be disappointed at the change. Progress didn't happen like magic, he knew that, but it was still disheartening to see Midoriya tensing like he expected to get hit.

"How about I show you your room first. You might even be able to get a few hours of sleep. You can bury me in questions after breakfast." His head throbbed. "And coffee. Lots of coffee."

Midoriya nodded subduedly, trailing after him down the hallway with his suitcase thumping over the uneven floorboards.

The sudden silence was different than before, weightier. It felt wrong to see the kid shrink after he'd been so animated earlier.

Attempting to break the ice, Aizawa causally asked, "So you're a hero fan, I take it?"

He'd expected an easy 'yes', something they could use to build the bones of a conversation off, but Midoriya's face shuttered.

It was like someone had flipped an invisible switch, like Midoriya was expecting a physical attack.

Then, it was covered up by anger.

"No. I hate them." The boy's lips curled into a grimace, his hand trembling where it was clenching into a tight fist. Any harder, and Aizawa wouldn't be surprised if his palm started dripping blood. "I hate heroes."

The words were spat, venomous.

"You like cats, I'm guessing."

Midoriya's hand curled in Mochi's fur, like he couldn't bear to let go of her. Of a dream. "No. I hate them."

Interesting.

Aizawa stared, then pushed the door to Midoriya's temporary room open, the boy trudging in after.

He watched as the boy took the room in, eyes lingering especially long at the lock on the doorhandle. Like he could hardly believe it was there, like it was a surprise to be able to lock his room from the inside.

Aizawa shooed the cats away as they tried to wriggle towards their newfound master. Usually, he'd let the creatures sleep wherever they liked, but he didn't want them to overwhelm Midoriya on his first night here.

He was also, maybe, a teeny bit jealous of how fast the kid had earned their affection.

(But he would take that fact to his grave).

With the cats retreating indignantly down the hallway, tails waving in surrender, Aizawa watched as Midoriya hunched over his suitcase, like he was worried someone was going to try and take it away from him.

The kid was proving to be surprisingly interesting.

"No. I hate them."

"I've—I've been a fan of you since forever."

"I hate heroes."

Very, very interesting.

He lingered at the door, giving the unpacking boy one last long, investigatory look. Like the truth of the kid's contradictions would somehow be written on his sun-pinkened skin.

Then he turned, closing the door gently behind him.

The first thing Aizawa learned about Midoriya Izuku is that he was a liar.

(A/N): Aizawa, such a drama queen. . .which is why I love him lol

I still need to edit the second chapter for this, but if there wasn't much response for this story I wasn't going to rush it this week (I already have too many fics ongoing as is ;-;) but let me know if you enjoyed! if people are really interested, i'll do my best to speed up the process!

till next time ✨✨