xxi.

Overhaul didn't have much in the way of routine. He left the house sporadically, often at the unholier hours of the morning or evening like a creature of the shadows, turning off around odd corners and then simply, as if by magic, disappearing entirely before anyone was able to tail him. Sometimes he'd go nowhere, wandering aimlessly in the hazy twilight to the edge of the street and back as though having changed his mind or forgotten something.

Restlessness? Or a diversion?

The only sure thing was that every Thursday night – that which for so long had stood out with promise and splendor in Mirio's mind – he would leave the property from the back entrance at nine p.m. and then return in the passenger seat of the black car (inconspicuous models, always with a different number plate) at roughly two or three a.m. Still, he'd been impossible to follow, and after so many weeks nobody had been able to figure out where he went or with whom.

In all of this Mirio took part from a distance: a removed observer, not a hero but an assistant and businessman above all else. He himself had and would have nothing to do with Overhaul – at least not right now – because he knew, and Nighteye knew, and all the heroes who came and went probably knew that Mirio would try to kill the man the moment no window nor wall nor street separated them.

To simply see him through the window was enough to strike Mirio's heart with an arctic hatred, black in its purest variety.

Somehow, he looked no older than that day thirteen years ago. Thinner, perhaps, and with something more agitated about his ways. No beak. No blood. Still, to see him made Mirio shudder back into memory: how the bullet had felt through his back, the stone spire through his side while Overhaul had told him to die. Die now, Lemillion. Blood going drip, drip, drip onto concrete, as red as the cape Mirio had draped around Eri's shoulders – and Eri! How horrified she'd been; how quiet and shattering the look she'd given him when Chronostasis had swept her up and Overhaul had ghosted her away. Into that darkness. Over the ocean. Away. Away like Mirio's quirk. Away like every precious thing in the world.

Mirio hated him.

But then there was Eri!

He glimpsed her in the mornings, when everything was still bathed in pale light and the sun hadn't quite lost its youthful hue. The smell of night still in the air. Her hair wet whenever she opened the front door and lingered there, thick books in hand, an oversized jersey hanging over her like a blanket. It was never long, and Mirio could never see her after she disappeared into the garden – but he liked to think, or he knew, that she did this for him. That she appeared on that front step every morning knowing he could see her, that he was right there.

On Sundays, she went to the market with the man she'd originally called her brother-in-law, now confirmed to be Chronostasis. Without fail, they walked there and back within two hours. Sometimes, she'd be with Overhaul when he wandered the street. He'd put his hand in the small of her back. She'd let him. And Mirio would squirm on the inside, doing nothing to step away.

He'd learned all this about Eri – little though it was – while watching through a window.

Just as he'd watched earlier this morning, a Tuesday at 08:30, how she'd left the house not with a book but with a new uncertainty which was almost heartbreaking. She'd drifted into the backseat of one of the black cars (new number plate) and Chronostasis had climbed in next to her. Then off they'd gone. That had been two hours ago, with Nighteye and Bubble Girl having dashed out the door to follow. Since then, Mirio had paced the stairs with cups of coffee going cold in his hands.

Eraser Head had arrived two days before. Slouching, a very Aizawa-sensei-esque knowing in his eyes, he watched Mirio hawkishly.

"She's fine, Togata. This is just an unusual hiccup in their schedule."

His hair had gone silvery at its roots, drawn back in a low, scruffy ponytail. After having married one of his former students, he'd gained some weight and some wrinkles.

Mirio sighed. "I don't know about fine… She didn't look good."

"Don't overthink it."

"Do you think he's done something to her?"

"Besides what he's already done?"

There was a certain edge to Eraser Head's voice which made Mirio go quiet. He sipped his coffee, tasting nothing. Paced again.

Eraser Head rubbed at his nape, heaving a heavy breath. "What do you plan to do when all of this over?" He stood from his place, knees cracking, and buried his hands into his pockets. "Because it won't do to simply throw Eri into a normal life. She's going to need counselling. Quirk training, after everything's that happened."

Surprising himself, Mirio smiled. "Has this been on your mind?"

"I only want to make sure you're being logical."

Very Aizawa-sensei-esque.

"I don't know what I want to do exactly, at this point. I just want to be there for her."

"I'm sure you've considered the fact that she could be the key to returning your quirk."

Mirio stared at him for a moment. "I have." Then he looked away. "But that's not what's important to me right now. Honestly, I accepted long ago that I wouldn't – you know, that I wouldn't be able to get it back. My quirk. So I don't expect that from her."

"Are you quite sure?"

"Why do you say it like that?"

Eraser Head laid his hand on Mirio's shoulder. "Don't take this the wrong way. I don't doubt that whatever you feel for her is very real. But loss is a funny thing. After everything, you could projecting a lot of feelings onto Eri which have less to do with her than they do with–"

"Oh, yeah, I get that," Mirio said quietly. "Believe me, I've stayed awake enough nights now to have thought about it over and over. And I'll admit, a small part of me hopes that maybe someday something will work out to bring things back to the way they were. With my quirk, I mean. But like I said," he smiled, "right now I only want to be there for Eri. Regardless of what might happen."

Ponderously, Eraser Head hummed. He looked about to speak again when one of the sensors in the upstairs room began to go off – harsh, muted buzzing which set a shiver through Mirio's soul, which could only have meant that Eri was back.

The entire way back home, Chrono had been quiet and petrifyingly hard to read, staring out the car window with a scrunched look which made him look old and hard as marble. Now, walking stiffly up the path to the front door, he clutched Eri's hand, fingers curling around hers in a near-frantic crush and tugging her sideways into the garden. Eri couldn't explain the panic it left inside her – the motion of it was sudden, a not wholly-welcome rupture in the silence of the last twenty minutes.

Pregnant. She was pregnant. But she didn't quite feel anything for it. Not yet. Maybe not ever, for which she did feel guilty.

Chrono clearly felt something for it though. Something not good, which was why he'd seemed about ready to tear the doctor's throat out when it had been confirmed over and over – with another blood test, with an ultrasound (blue-black splotches which were supposed to be Eri's ovaries nestled comfortably beneath a 'gestational sac') – that she was pregnant. She. Was. Pregnant.

Chrono guided her to the bench beneath the magnolia tree, and they sat down together without a word. The petals had grown paler. They littered the grass in moon-curved patterns like fragments of porcelain or ivory. It was quiet in the garden. It would have been a peaceful morning, were it not for the urgency which bristled in the air. Eri, crushed beneath the weight of Chrono's continuing reserve, shuffled and fidgeted, and thought about Mirio across the street. He wouldn't be able to see her here – it was too sheltered, cornered off behind the wall and the magnolia – and for once, Eri was grateful for it. She felt about ready to crumble. Sick and dizzy and struggling to breathe. He couldn't see her like that. Not now when everything hung precariously in the balance.

Chrono said her name. It was weak, a dying breath. And when he looked at her, pulling down his mask to reveal a thin, anxious frown, he may indeed have been staring death in the face.

"Please tell me it could only be Kai's."

As yet, neither of them had called it a baby.

"I don't know."

"I see." If he was disappointed or surprised, he hid it well. "I see. Well then."

Ashamed, horrified, terrified and spinning with nausea, Eri bowed her head. "I don't want it to be his." She wished desperately that Chrono would hold her hand. Instead, he only ran a trembling palm across his face. "But–" Eri added. "But – would it help? If it were. Would he let me keep it?"

"No."

"But–"

"He'll only do things quickly and quietly if he thinks it's his. But Eri," Chrono's skin had turned a faint shade of green, and he refused to meet Eri's eye, "we're not going to be able to convince him that it's his."

"Why?"

"For one thing, he already suspects something."

Everything drained from Eri's face and chest, and she was sure for a moment she had no pulse.

Quickly and quietly, Chrono continued, "Like it or not, he knows you better than anyone. It's only because he doesn't want to believe that you're capable of… well… this. That's the only reason he hasn't figured it out for sure – but he's seen it in the way you've been acting. How attentive you were a few weeks ago, and how cold you've become since that night I caught you." His expression faltered. "I have to give you credit though," he said bitterly, "it's also because you've been smart. You know him too well too. You've been able to make him trust that you're still his. You've given him no evidence to suggest otherwise. I'm still trying to understand how you managed–"

"I can do it again." Eri was resolved. "He won't know. He won't find out."

"He'll know."

"He won't–"

"He had a vasectomy, Eri. When you got married."

Things ground to a halt. Eri's mouth hung open for a long time, without words, without breath. "Oh."

"Yes. Oh."

"I didn't know."

Not to say she'd had any business knowing. But the fact that he'd done it, and the fact that she'd never been told, came as something of a slap in the face. Or was it a relief? He was just as dysfunctional as she was, in a way.

Chrono made a harsh, uncomfortable sound. "I have been thinking about it though – since that godforsaken doctor asked you about your quirk. He said there was a possibility that you, being of a childbearing age, possibly wanting to – you know. You could have unconsciously rewound your body to a suitable state." He pressed his fingers to his mouth, as though too aghast to suggest any further potentials. "If that's the case… I suppose you could very well have accidentally reversed Kai too."

Eri shook her head. "I didn't mean to." As though it were certain.

"Obviously."

"I want to keep it though."

"What?"

And just like that, she began to cry. She could have stopped it had she felt the tears – but no. Nowadays, there were no warnings. "I don't want him to hurt it – the baby – my baby," she spluttered. "It's not his. It's not. But he'll gouge it out of me and feed it to dogs or throw it into the ocean and I don't want – I don't want him. I want Mirio – I want to go away."

Over the past few weeks, whenever she'd start to cry like this, Chrono would only sigh. He'd only leave the room in an impenetrable hush, as though it was no business of his. And perhaps it wasn't. But really, it kind of was. This time though – and it shocked Eri into near-tearlessness, the pain of it swelling in her chest without release – he cocooned her cheeks in his hands. For the first time in the entirety of their history, he kissed her forehead. Once. Twice, murmuring apologies in between.

"I'll fix this." Four times. Five. "I'll keep you safe. I promise. I'll keep you safe this time."

A/N: This is it. This is the second-last chapter before the end.

What ever could our dear Chrono have up his sleeve this time...?