The movie theater had been hosting retro movies during weekday matinee hours for as long as Aizawa had been in Musutafu, and it was something he enjoyed — something that was completely separate from both Hero work and Yakuza business. He would've liked to keep it that way, but the fact was he wasn't sure where else to meet with Momo.
The doctors had had a difficult time bringing her out of sedation; the panic attacks as she'd awoken had been violent. Kobayashi had admitted that Momo's mother had cried. He'd admit to little else though, and turned away Aizawa's questions about what had kept the Yaoyorozu security busy.
He didn't immediately recognize Momo in her disguise when she entered — it was the quick stop in her steps that gave away first that it was her. Guilt struck him. The theater, with its screen illuminating the room and the subtle emergency lights flowing around them, was by no means dark — but he could smell her fear from here. Blood in the water. He was almost ready to get up and go down to her, when she overcame it and got her feet moving. Pride thrummed in his chest as she pushed through to head in his direction.
The blonde pixie wig looked unnatural on her, but he knew it was only because it was the opposite of what he was accustomed to on her. The blonde made her look pale, and her skin absorbed the blue tones of the silver screen.
"Godzilla?" she questioned once she was comfortable.
"Your movie education is severely lacking. This isn't Godzilla — it's Mothra vs. Godzilla. But I didn't tell you to come here to fix your movie tastes."
He'd held the papers inside his blazer, against his chest. The corners were soft. He laid a hand inside his blazer now, and rubbed his thumb into the material like a worry stone, making a new spot warm. He didn't want to frighten or pressure her. He did not want her to think that he lacked faith, not when she had proven deserving.
"You look tired," he said.
She answered with, "Why am I here?"
It would be interesting to know her as she grew. Already she had that clip of no bullshit. The wealthy, no matter how polite, never seemed to shed the directness that they developed from taking charge of the help. He had come from the other side. Born poor, he woke every day to tie his own bootstraps. No kingmaker had blessed him. He'd learned directness through possession; what was his belonged to him alone, and he had learned to stand firm when those who might steal from him or undermine him came too close with their sticky hands.
Aizawa drew his hand from inside his blazer. He held onto the paperwork though, not extending them to her. He didn't look at her either, though.
"You went through a traumatic event. The school is going to have you undergo a psychological evaluation."
"Wha…"
Her words faded into nothing. He let her chew on it, and knew it would take her a bit. He watched the screen instead of her face, the closest to privacy that he could give her in the situation, while she mulled.
"What do I do? You know I'll fail."
"I know you'd fail — but you won't."
He didn't think the truth would offend her if she knew it already herself, but there was no need to be callous. By her admission, though, he knew she would take the papers then, without objecting. He offered them.
"What are these?"
He didn't respond, instead letting her look for herself. He felt the movement of her gaze.
"If I sit there and parrot off these answers, that will be the biggest red flag," Momo stated — but she tucked the papers away inside her jacket regardless.
"Everything you need is there. You have enough information in front of you, and I know how smart you are — you'll know what to do. I trust you."
He didn't have to say more. She could do the rest on her own without him giving it to her one step at a time. She didn't need a play-by-play to understand what she would need to do, and he appreciated that. He turned his head to look at her; she melted into the background of the theater, and he didn't know at first whether he should draw her back. Whether it was even any of his fucking business. But he had this nagging in his gut, like he had responsibility toward her, and it made him ask.
"Yaoyorozu. What's been happening?"
She looked at him, and he immediately knew his eyes had given him away. Knew she saw the concern. Possibly even pity. He'd hate himself for fucking ever if she'd seen his pity. He looked away hurriedly.
"I—"
"Do you want to go somewhere more private?" Aizawa asked guiltily.
"I, uh, I'm having nightmares. I can't be in the dark, I can't."
He heard the ruffle of her clothes as she turned away to cough. Aizawa leaned in closer so that she could whisper if she needed to, and looked at her from the corner of his eye. Watching her face in case she started to break.
"What happens in the dark?"
She covered her mouth with a hand and looked away from him, her head shaking back and forth in small, sharp jerks. Shit. She was about to cry. He began to get up, touched her shoulder to let her know to follow—
She shook her head, and he lowered himself to sit again. He watched, eyes sharp, as she mended herself in front of him. He saw how deliberately she was patching the holes in her armor, riddled and busted though it was, and he willed her to keep going. To keep welding herself back together. She'd broken, he'd seen her break, but if she could patch and mend, she might have a chance.
"You don't to do this now," he offered, then warned, "but you'll need to practice to be ready to get through this during the evaluation."
"I see the man hanging in front of me, dangling from meat hooks, and as I watch him, he blinks. When I sleep—I see him when I sleep. He-He blinks, and then I see his chest rise. He's still alive. I'm standing there looking at him, and I realize he's still alive. I make a step ladder and climb up. I have to t-touch him."
The gouges were coming through again, he saw her welds breaking, but she didn't meet his eyes. She kept fixing as she broke. She kept going anyway, spilling words now as if venting the steam inside would stop the pressure from rising. Good. She knew what she needed to do then, and he let her keep going.
"He's so cold. I put my arms around his chest and I lift. I swear I can feel his heart beating against my chest. He's heavy, so heavy, and he doesn't come off the hooks. The hooks come off the bar instead. I almost drop him as I try to get him to the ground. I start trying to treat him and he's looking at me. He's just blinking and breathing, watching me. I'm doing everything I can to save him, and he just stares up at me, blue, breathing, and he blinks. He blinks and I just scream—"
That was enough then, even for him. Aizawa put his arm around her narrow, trembling shoulders and tucked her into his chest. In his own mind, he was living his own nightmares again. The ones where she was reaching and screaming, and he was powerless. Where he tried — tried so fucking hard — to save her, only to fail. Again. And again.
She was crying. He felt her hot tears through his shirt, then he was crying, too. He put his chin on top of her head and let the grief, silent though it was, come. He opened the door and gave it a seat inside. He didn't rush it to leave. Momo didn't notice his own tears land on her short blonde wig. In his chest, it felt like an iron grip was clenching tight. It was hard to breathe. In his head she was still screaming, and he couldn't save her. She was holding onto him as though he still could.
When the grief passed, when his lashes didn't feel so wet, when his eyes didn't shine, he spoke; "I'm sorry you experienced what you did. But I want you to know I'm not disappointed in you or your decisions that night."
Momo tilted her head back to look up at him, her nose red, and he saw she was confused.
"Why?"
"You made a decision to keep something from me — to do something questionable, that you know I would've stopped if I'd known," he admitted.
"And you're proud of that?" He nodded. Again, she asked, "Why?"
"Because you proved you can, when you want to, live duplicitously."
He saw on her face that she took it as the compliment it was meant to be. She felt warm against him. His arm was around her shoulders, and she had her palms flat on his chest with her head tilted back to look at him.
Every next thought was chaos. It was a twister inside his head, violent and merciless, and every thought slammed through him too quickly for him to know what came first. She looked beautiful in the flickering light. Her father threatened to marry them. She kept his confidence. All For One was after her. Her screams. He couldn't save her. He could kiss her.
His heart slamming slamming behind his ribs as he realized his thoughts. Realized what had even crossed his mind. And he saw it in her eyes, that same shine when he'd walked her to his apartment with her under his arm. Don't romanticize it, but he saw it on her face that she had, and he was on the edge of the well looking down.
He had made an immeasurable mistake. He had stopped looking at her as his student in favor of looking at her as a peer. Half darkness, half light. One foot in Hero life and the other in Yakuza's door. He admired her. She had proven he could trust her, had shown she would take his secrets to the fucking grave, and Aizawa was unsure of the last time he'd felt he could fully trust anyone. Going after Goro wasn't just about tidying up loose ends anymore, it was personal. He had let her matter. He had let her become a liability.
She was a student. It didn't matter that she was of legal age here; he was in a position of authority over her. He was in a position of trust. UA trusted him. She trusted him. Her father had come to trust him. And, with pretty Yaoyorozu Momo pressed to him, wide-eyed and lips parted, breasts rising and falling with every breath, he couldn't fucking do it.
Aizawa pulled away.
He swallowed hard, averting his eyes from her, and silence laid itself between them. He just couldn't do it. He could not, in any good conscience sway her — toward Yakuza, toward him, none of it. She was too young, too vulnerable. He would be a monster to lay a hand on her or whisper a word that would magnetize the compass in her mind.
"In light of all that's happened, the school will be establishing dorms," he said at last, clearing his throat. "If you don't want to do that, then this eval is your easy way out. That's all up to you."
He drew away entirely then, and packed the moment away in a trunk. He locked it. Bent the key in a vice until it broke.
Never.
He would never open that lock again, he swore to himself. It was gone. The peerage was gone. The doe-eyed, soft look she had given him was all gone. For all that he was, that was something he would not — could not — be. Yaoyorozu Momu was relegated to a place in a corner, out of his direct line of sight, where he could keep her strictly business. A business commitment that would terminate when he found Goro and got his money back. She was merely transactional.
The credits were beginning to roll. The sparsely filled theater remained politely seated, waiting for them to finish, but he stood and gave her shoulder a final squeeze without looking her in the eye. Without looking back as he walked out, adjusting his blazer.
Never.