Hello again! Thanks so much for the positive feedback for the last chapter, it really does lift my spirits to get them! So let's move on with the next chapter!

Enjoy!

"So, am I supposed to call you Eraserhead?" Youmu asked, tilting her head, as the car began to slow to a stop. "Or would you prefer something else?"

Aizawa regarded her for a moment before answering, his expression unreadable.

"Just Aizawa will suffice, unless I'm in my gear," he said eventually. "Look, we're here."

Youmu glanced out of the window on her side to see a nondescript building about three stories high. Well, she couldn't have expected a palace, but her lack of enthusiasm showed when she got out of the car without speaking. The blonde was rather surprised that Aizawa followed her through the gates and to the building block - he seemed so apathetic about everything that she almost thought he might just drive off and leave her to it. The look on his face screamed 'I would rather be doing anything else than this', and Youmu supposed she couldn't blame him. She'd rather not be here either, but it was better than nothing. She wrinkled her nose as she peered around the lobby - there was a faint scent of chemicals lingering in the air, probably cheap floor-cleaner.

Aizawa glanced at the 'Out of Order' sign slapped on the doors of the elevator, hands shoved into his pockets. That somehow summed up the exact aura of this building, but he didn't comment on it further, aside from to tell her;

"Seems like we're taking the stairs. Come on."

They walked up the stairs in relative silence, Youmu going at a slower pace than Aizawa - he was quite a bit taller than she was, so his naturally longer stride and the fact Youmu had spent the majority of her time in a little cell meant that keeping up with him was quite a challenge. By the time they reached the door, Youmu's thighs were aching and she was slightly out of breath. She straightened up as Aizawa unlocked the front door with his own key, following him in warily. Upon entry, she saw her things had been chucked into a haphazard stack of cardboard boxes, all of which were waiting to be unpacked.

"Welcome home," Aizawa said, dryly.

Youmu looked around. Well, it was a step above a prison cell, at least. The living room and the kitchen were separated by a little hatch in the wall and there was a bedroom and bathroom - much to Youmu's relief. She'd hate to have to stumble down the hall in the middle of the night, only to encounter a strange man and unable to use her Quirk to defend herself. The very thought made her shudder.

She turned to Aizawa, who was still standing there with his hands stuffed in his pockets. She'd find the box that had her make-up and a decently clean outfit, then perhaps she could speak to one of her downstairs neighbours and see if they might be persuaded into "helping" her unpack if she wheedled enough - that definitely seemed like a much more sensible alternative to doing all this heavy lifting herself. After all, she had just come out of prison, the very least thing she wanted to do was manual labour. She wanted a hot shower - hot enough to take off the top layer of her skin, if necessary. And a big glass of red wine.

"Well," Youmu said, after a moment, "I suppose that's that, then."

When Aizawa didn't make a move to leave, she raised her eyebrows. What now?

Aizawa himself wasn't looking at Youmu; he was looking at the teetering stack of cardboard. Technically it wasn't part of his job description to help Tanaka unpack - he wasn't a removals man - but what else was he supposed to do? He needed to make sure she was settled in her temporary accommodation and frankly, he didn't think it was a good idea for her to be interacting with her neighbours just yet. He huffed and picked up the box on the top of the pile.

"I'll start in the kitchen," he said, tossing the words over his shoulder at a puzzled-looking Youmu.

She stared after Aizawa as he swept into the kitchen as if this was where he was going to live from now on. Frowning, she approached the nearest stack of boxes and opened it up to find her make-up. She slowly lifted out her make-up bag - it seemed like a lifetime ago since she'd laid eyes on it. She unzipped it and started inspecting the contents, pleased to note that none of it was missing or stolen. Her eyeliners were blunt, the lip glosses and nail polish a little gloopy, but all of it was here. Even her little compact mirror was intact. She could finally feel like herself again with her tools at her disposal.

Turning to look at herself in a nearby mirror, which had a shard missing from the bottom half, she began applying her favourite shade, the some bubblegum pink as her eyes. She smacked her lips together to spread the shade evenly, and then looked at her reflection in satisfaction.

That's so much better.

Setting the bag aside on a nondescript sofa, she walked into the kitchen, watching Aizawa with confusion as he stood beside an open cupboard.

"Why are you unpacking my things?" she asked, though given he'd started in the kitchen, he wouldn't be unpacking for long, Youmu didn't really do a lot of cooking and her kitchen was likely woefully under stocked. "You're meant to take me to the parole office once a week and make sure I go to see the shri- psychiatrist- aren't you? Nothing in your job description requires heavy lifting."

Not that Youmu intended to do any herself, of course.

Aizawa had already found the box of kitchen utensils and put them away. There was another box with a small, mismatched collection of chinaware. He was stacking them in one of the cupboards when his charge entered the room. He looked over his shoulder. She looked flummoxed. As well she should. He wasn't going to be helping her out like this often. It was merely more efficient for him to make a head start rather than watch her struggle with the boxes, which would take far longer than he wanted.

Aizawa shrugged.

"That's my job description." He opened another box, found shoes, and put it aside. "However, it's also my job to see that you are properly settled here. I'll leave your personal items to you. Somehow-"He glanced at her clothing and hair- and had she just put lipstick on? "-It seems like you'll give them priority over essentials."

He pulled another envelope off the top of the fridge, spreading documents on the counter.

"Tenancy agreement, emergency contact numbers, your schedule of parole meetings and psychiatrist appointments." With a grim smile, he reached into the drawer, and flopped down a wad of bright pamphlets. "Takeout menus, since I wouldn't take you for the cooking sort."

He opened the last box - pots and pans that looked suspiciously clean.

"I'll put these away, and then you're on your own."

Youmu's eyebrows arched, just a fraction. Well, wasn't he presumptuous? And was he implying that she was in the wrong for wanting to look nice? She didn't have the luxury of really any aspect of how she looked for the past year and a half - whereas Aizawa apparently always chose to dress like a homeless man in his spare time. Had he decided she didn't cook based on what he was unpacking? She didn't like being analysed - he should just accept what he'd read on her case file.

She glanced at the papers on the table, eyes skimming the names printed there.

"Emergency contact number?" she echoed.

Well, wasn't that rich. Aizawa should know full well she had no family to call in an emergency. That would be going straight in the bin once he left - preferably ripped into shreds. There was only one person who would likely be listed there that she could think of - she had to see Dr. Miyawaki because the courts said so, but she'd be damned if she spoke to that woman when she wasn't legally required to do so. Dr. Miyawaki was an idiot.

She didn't leave the kitchen, though. Instead she leant against the door jamb and watched him, her arms folded.

Aizawa resisted the urge to smirk. He could read her like a book. His dry comments had irked her, just a little. He tried not to feel a flicker of amused satisfaction at that, and failed. She just seemed so very certain of herself. Bordering on arrogant. She was a convicted criminal, but still walked and talked like she was some high-society girl who was being mildly inconvenienced. Not, in fact, remorseful for her crimes at all.

Hnn, she's just a brat. Again, he reminded himself, he couldn't jump to conclusions. He was supposed to be impartial, and get her to her appointments.

"Landlord's number, psychiatrist's number, my number. Sorry the hairdresser isn't on there. You'll have to add that yourself," he intoned.

Still. He could prod a little when she acted like a brat.

"Are you going to stand there and watch, or are you going to unpack?" he asked. 'I'm not doing it for you."

Oh, that's a good one. Does he even know what a hairdresser looks like when he sees one?

Youmu smirked in reply.

"Yet for someone claiming they aren't going to, you seem to have unpacked two boxes already," she remarked in a light, airy, tone, pointedly letting her gaze drift to the empty boxes to Aizawa's feet - most of the kitchen stuff had been put away. She cocked her head as she looked at the emergency number booklet again. "And why on earth would I call you?"

Really, what could Aizawa have she might want, except perhaps an excellent eyedrop dealer? Or a place to be high-quality sleeping bags? She supposed the landlord's number might be useful, and getting to know the landlord personally could be very beneficial if she played her cards right...but the other two numbers were useless to her. If she called Miyawaki while she was being violently murdered, the stupid woman would probably tell her to breathe deeply. Moron. She'd no sooner demand to be in Aizawa's company than she would invite Yamamoto around for tea.

Aizawa closed the final cupboard with a definitive thunk. What a pest. Did she never stop asking questions? He turned his gaze on her, expression flat and unfriendly.

"That's there in case we want to gossip about the latest episode of Real Housewives of Kyoto,' he said, dry as paper. "Or rather, in case anyone learns where Homewrecker is living and decides to come and exact a little revenge. I don't need to remind you that any unauthorised use of your Quirk is considered breaking your parole, so your self-defense is questionable."

She wasn't exactly very athletic or strong. A stray gust of wind would knock her over. Tch.

"I'm done here. I'll pick you up at 11a.m. You have an appointment with Dr. Miyawaki. Be ready."

He nudged past her to get out of her cramped little kitchen. He had other work to do that didn't involve trading verbal jabs with ex-cons.

Ah, and there it is. Took him longer than she'd expected, but Youmu knew her villain name would pop up eventually. She gave him a very patronising smile. Funny, but she actually way preferred being called Homewrecker to Tanaka. At least Homewrecker was the name she'd chosen herself.

"Oh, is that so? You may be Eraserhead, Aizawa-san," she said, her voice perfectly sweet as she glanced over her shoulder at him, a little smirk playing at the corners of her lips. "...but if somebody does want revenge on me, then I doubt a phonecall to you is going to do much to stop them. Do enjoy Real Housewives, though. I hear it's really going to get tense this season."

She waited for the door to slam, which it did, and sauntered over to it, locking it behind him. At last, she was alone.

You were never truly alone in jail. There were dozens upon dozens of other people listening, even if they tried to pretend they were somewhere else. Youmu couldn't remember very much of her first few days in prison – she'd spent them in something of a daze. People had been telling her since she was very small that eventually she'd end up in a place like that, and what do you know, she'd gone and proven them right. That, most of all, was probably the bitterest pill to swallow.

Youmu shook her head, as if that would get rid of such thoughts. Now Aizawa was gone, she could relax for a little while, figure out her new environment and make preparations. She sat down on the little sofa and pulled a small stack of letters out of the pocket of her dress. She'd built up quite a correspondence whilst she was in jail and now that she was out, she didn't have to be quite so secretive about the contents. Of course, she'd make sure to hide them and make sure nobody, especially her sarcastic probation officer; laid eyes on them, but it made her feel better knowing she had a safety net.

Youmu went through the boxes, finding a couple of outfits that were decently clean and wouldn't require ironing, then finally spotted what she was looking for – her jewellery box, stolen years ago from some store that she had no business being in anyway. But Youmu had always had a weakness for pretty things.

She opened it up, smiling as she looked at the rings, necklaces and earrings nestled in the drawers like chocolates in their wrappers, then opened up the little compartment hidden from view- you had to slot your fingernail into a little gap in the wood and pry it open, then a secret panel behind the wood opened. She slotted the letters in there, then popped the panel back into place and shut the box. Setting it on the chest of drawers in the bedroom, Youmu was about to head for a shower when she heard the little phone mounted on the wall separating the kitchen and the living room began to ring.

Puzzled, she approached the phone – it couldn't be Aizawa calling her, not after that dramatic storming out, so who-?

"Hello?" Youmu said, plucking the phone out of the cradle and propping it between her ear and shoulder.

She heard someone exhaling smoke on the other end. Youmu froze – she knew that sound, she'd know it anywhere. A deep voice issued down the phone, curling around her ear like music. Him.

"Hey, baby."