Author's Note: I'm cross-posting this from my Ao3 account. I rarely come on this site, so I apologize ahead of time if I miss any questions or comments. I'm easier to reach on Ao3. You can find me on there under the pseudonym The Revenant.
Set: Several months before the start of the show/manga.
Other: Suspension of disbelief highly recommended. Canon is peripheral and barely acknowledged. It's a purely self-indulgent story that handwaves a lot of stuff. If you're looking for canon-compliance, you're in the wrong place.
Ships: None atm, potentially Todobaku. Shipping isn't a big deal for me. However, it might sneak in eventually. If that's upsetting to you, then perhaps this won't be the story for you. If it does crop up, it won't be central to the story.
Tags: (Since FF doesn't have a tagging system, I'll do this.) Shoto-Centric, Vigilante Shoto, Runaway Shoto, Enji's Shit Parenting, Implied/Referenced Assault, Violence against a Child, Endeavor's Morally and Ethically Questionable Eugenic's Agenda, Protective Aizawa, Shoto's many issues involving heroes and the hero system, Protective Shoto, Powerful Shoto, Quirk Trafficking, Stalking.
Minimum revising done. If you see any glaring issues, please let me know.
Chapter 1: It's Gnawing Teeth
Shoto was born to be a hero in the most literal sense possible. It's a fate he thought he escaped when he ran away from home some months ago. He'd chosen to forfeit a life in a manor, never wanting for anything material, to scrape the back alleys for even a hint of food. It was a worthy trade, in his opinion, for no luxury item or amenity was worth the expectations and heavy hands, the lack of love, of hope, of self-identity. If he had stayed, he'd lose his humanity, a notion that frightened him far more than death ever could.
He'd thought he had escaped the path laid out for him since before his conception.
Fate, however, does not like to be denied and his is a fate that seems intent on finding him.
He doesn't mean to be a vigilante. That is the honest truth. In fact, that's so far from what he's trying to do that it's starting to annoy him. He's a teenager on the run from one of the most powerful and influential men in the country – nay, the world. He has identifying traits that are exceptionally hard to hide and a quirk that is unique to the point of being troublesome. The last thing he wants to do is to risk being caught because he trips up 'heroing'.
It's just that he can't help but help.
Fate and its hounding teeth, alright.
The first time it happens, it's because someone attempts to mug him mere hours after arriving in Shinjuku. That had been nearly worthy of a comedy skit. The man with an unfortunate but intimidating – well, intimidating to others – heteromorphic quirk had cornered him in an alley; as stereotypical as one can possibly get.
When he had demanded Shoto turn out his woefully empty pockets or else, Shoto had stood there and stared at him, utterly dumbfounded under his cheap mask. He knew it was not a prank but it caught him off-guard nonetheless because it was such a mediocre attempt. In the end, the man was left unconscious and Shoto put in an anonymous tip from the man's phone to the police. He didn't stick around to see the aftermath.
Then, it happened again, only it was a young couple being targeted and Shoto just happened to be walking by. He couldn't stand the sight of the couple being cajoled and threatened, the leering looks, and the way one of the thugs lunged at the young man even after he handed over his wallet. So, Shoto did what Shoto does best.
He acted.
Perhaps a little rashly and a little violently, but passivity was never in his repertoire.
The couple thanked him profusely and asked his name, thinking him some underground hero. Shoto had grown skittish at that and just shrugged. He made sure the ragtag group was secured with their own ripped shirts as restraints before he slunk off into the shadows, thanks following him like applause.
Then it happened again.
And again.
Once is happenstance, twice is a coincidence, three times is a pattern. Four times? Well, now, that's just fate fucking with him.
Like a cat batting around a mouse for its own amusement, the world sees fit to keep dropping crimes in front of his eyes.
The most frustratingly funny part is that he's almost positive that the crime rates in this ward aren't even that high. He just seems to have turned into the embodiment of Murphy's Law of Misconduct. If it can happen around him, it will.
He stopped counting how many times he's stopped some goon from harming an innocent or some shady deal from going down that he just so happened to walk into. (He'd like to say that's a metaphor but no, he really did accidentally walk right into the middle of a drug deal before. See: Murphy's Law of Misconduct.)
It certainly doesn't help that, given his mask, it's automatically assumed he's some sort of crime fighter. He can't exactly correct them and tell them it's to hide his rather noticeable burn scar and heterochromatic eyes. If he wanted to be a hero or vigilante, he'd try to do better than a cheap, plain white mask from the local party store. It doesn't inspire the sense of awe a hero should, after all. At the very least he was able to dye his hair. That was exactly one thing he could sufficiently disguise.
Between the bland plastic mask he pilfered from a party store, the less-than-professional dye job from a bottom shelf Daiso-brand box, and the nondescript jacket he got from a donation box, he isn't exactly cutting an impressive heroic figure. How any confused him is well beyond his understanding. Though, he can admit that he may have some rather stylized ideas of heroes and their designs. 'Discreet' didn't really make waves in the charts. The obsession with image isn't one he thinks he'll ever understand, especially when that takes precedent over helping others.
Heroics has become a vanity game and it disgusts him deeply. He'd rather gnaw off his own arm or claw his own face until the burn mark looks pleasant in comparison than ever submit to their egocentric wiles.
No, he's given up the ghost when it came to heroes long ago. He'd waited and waited for All Might to come save them with a bright, I am here! Or for one of them to notice something wasn't quite right when he was dragged to those galas and paraded around like a show dog. But, no, there was no hero to save him. No one rescued his mother or caught his father. His brother wasn't pulled from the flames in the knick of time. All he was left with was a house full of ghosts and a chest full anger.
He's not a hero.
He doesn't think he'll ever become one, no matter what fate is determined to do. He's not selfish enough.
Now, if only the criminal element would get the hint and leave him alone.
Unfortunately, that hint goes entirely ignored.
Shoto pinches the bridge of his nose under his mask as he dials the police again. Two jacked-up crooks and a shattered television lay at his feet. After he gets off the phone, he fixes his mask, drops the device, and is off again. The only bright side is that at least these guys usually have some cash on them. He has to eat somehow. It felt wrong to take from the food bank when he knows others have even less choice and options than him. Besides, he reasons, they won't need it where they're going.
He fails to notice the shadow arrive on the roof just as he turns the corner.
It fails to see him slip into the darkness, too busy focused on the unconscious bodies on the ground.
That shadow is always looming in the distance, just out of sight of one another, when he leaves a scene. It seems to unknowingly edge ever closer with every crime reported.
It's an event horizon drawing him in and he doesn't even notice.
It all comes to a head one night after a meager grocery run.
His shoulders tense and his teeth grind as he hears what he has come to unfortunately recognize as 'trouble' coming from a particularly shady alley. The lamp post at the mouth has been dead for months, casting it in an unnerving darkness. Even the buzzing neon lights of the nearby liquor store do little to help give clue as to who could be lingering inside. A perfect ambush spot.
Shoto breathes deeply and weighs if it's worth it to see whatever the hell is going on inside. He wants to say, Not my circus, not my monkeys. However, the idea that there's someone helpless inside, waiting for a hand to save them, halts his steps.
He didn't run away to become a hero, but he couldn't –wouldn't – weigh his safety and freedom higher than any others. If he can help, if he can be that saving hand, then he has to.
His decision is made all the easier when he hears a whimper.
A child's whimper.
His heart drops and his gut churns. He doesn't even think as he drops his bags and slides into the alley.
It only takes a cursory glance to put it together as he catches the sight of a young girl, no older than seven struggling against the hands of a man much larger than her. She's missing a shoe and her mouth is covered by the man's grimy hand. Two others stand by, lookouts, he'd hazard. Unnecessary and useless now.
The man facing him gets little more than the start of a call out before Shoto is on him, propelled forward by a burst of ice and rage.
He's been adamantly trying not to use his quirk because he doesn't want to risk Endeavor even thinking he's possibly around. But at this moment, he can't help it. A deep, unfaltering fury drives him and all he can think of is getting between them and her. Of keeping her safe.
The first punch is coated in a layer of ice, unforgiving in its brutality and crippling when it hits the thug's solar plexus. He goes down wheezing like a sack of semi-sentient bricks. Then, he lunges for the main threat, the one trying to drag the girl further into the dark.
The man had begun to turn at the noise his friend made and only just got time to throw up his arms in defense before Shoto could land his next punch.
Now free of his grip, the little girl rushes away and tucks herself between the wall and a dumpster, curling in on herself with her hands over her ears. Her sobs echo through the alley like the wailing of sirens. It only serves to feed the flames of Shoto's anger. He has to force it down as his left side begins to smoke, a warning to the villains as much as it is to himself.
The fight is brief and brutal and full of blood-soaked teeth. Their quirks would have been useful against many other combatants – claws for nails and venomous breath. Against him, it's nearly laughable. When one's first sparring partner is the current number two hero of Japan, little else can compare.
Shoto has to keep himself from punching and punching and punching because that brute is unconscious and the girl is safe, but the rage in him just won't die. All he sees is the large, looming figure in his mind and the cowering child, sobbing and pleading for help. It's only her stifled cries now that draw him from the murky red of his wrath.
He shakes as he gets up, a mix of disgust and horror at his savagery as blood drips from his gloves. Shoto turns to the girl, trembling hands raised to show he means no harm.
Her eyes dart over his shoulder and widen, face blanching impossibly whiter. It's the only clue he gets.
Shoto dodges out of the way just in time. Something white slings past him. If he hadn't moved, it would have wrapped itself around him like a boa. By the time he spins around to see who it came from, a dark figure darts down from the roof with all the grace and agility of a panther. There's a trained ease in the man's moves that puts Shoto's teeth on edge.
What's worse, however, is that the man placed himself between Shoto and the girl. That flame of anger and, loathe as he is to admit, fear reignites in his gut. It's only worsened when he takes a good, long look at this new opponent.
His outfit is purely economical, little more than a black jumpsuit with several pockets and a utility belt. That long white scarf he wears appears to defy gravity just as surely as the man's shaggy black hair does. Odd yellow goggles hide his eyes from sight but Shoto gets the distinct feeling he's being pierced with a sharp gaze.
Something about this man rings a bell in his head but he can't place why. A pro hero, no doubt, but he can't put a name to a face, which is disconcerting. In all of Endeavor's lessons on powerful quirks and fearsome opponents, it's exceedingly rare he ever mentioned anyone not in the limelight. To recognize this individual despite his seeming anonymity and austere appearance makes Shoto uneasy. He doesn't know who he is or what quirk he has, but instinct tells him he's dangerous.
Even still, he can't let this man – this hero – stand between him and this girl. He stopped trusting pros long ago, especially when it came to the welfare of children.
"Stand down."
It's a command in a deep and gritty voice. One that rankles Shoto's nerves, but probably not in a way this hero would like. It brings to life in him a blaze of wicked defiance.
There is not a hero alive – potentially excluding All Might – that can order him around.
Instead of listening, Shoto darts forward, looking to fake left and swing around the hero. It's unfortunate for him that this hero lives up to his title as a pro.
While the man moved to block his feint, Shoto didn't expect a long leg to fly up and strike at his opened side. The hero effectively blocks either path and forces Shoto onto the defensive.
He manages to duck as the man's boot grazes his mask. Shoto lets out an irritated huff as he aims at the back of the hero's knee, hoping to send him to the ground.
That doesn't go as planned either.
The hero takes the strike and lets himself hit the concrete in a controlled maneuver, spinning around and aiming another kick upwards toward Shoto's chin, something that would no doubt render him unconscious. Shoto has to leap backward and further away from the girl to avoid the blow.
He trembles with a slew of grim emotions. Embarrassment, aggravation, desperation. It presses at the seams of his heart and burns his blood. He's reminded in no uncertain terms just how different it is to fight untrained thugs versus an experienced hero. It brings him back to his time behind sliding doors and vomit-stained tatami mats. He can almost taste the bile on his tongue. All the more reason to get that girl away from this dangerous man.
"I said stand down," the hero says once more, hair no longer in the air but his presence no less menacing. The order is magnitudes heavier this time; more a threat than a command.
Shoto wants so desperately to punch him in the throat.
"Never," he says with just as much force, just as much venom. It drips from his lips and poisons the air between the pair.
The hero's lips flatten into a displeased line.
"Fine," he says as his hair rises once more and that scarf flares out. "We'll do this the painful way."
Shoto dodges that odd weapon again and lunges forward. That scarf is a danger at a distance so he has to close that gap, press in on the other, and give him no room to maneuver it. Easier said than done when the man is just as dangerous in hand-to-hand. It's equal amounts infuriating and frightening to recognize how effective he is at every range.
They trade blows, but Shoto knows he isn't gaining any ground. For every move he makes, the pro counters it. He's being boxed in and maneuvered to his opponent's liking in a blatant and embarrassing way. It's only a matter of rapidly decreasing time until Shoto's keen defense fails. (Perhaps there was a small bright side to Endeavor's manic training. He's gotten quite adept at evasive maneuvers.)
The hero is three steps ahead in strategy. Shoto would be awed if he wasn't so frustrated and on the very edge of panic. He may have been trained well, but this hero clearly specializes in this form of close-range combat. It's a bitter pill to swallow, knowing he isn't going to win this conventionally like he did the other fights. His physical combat skills just aren't on par with the black-clad man who moves like smoke and hits like a truck.
Revealing his quirk to a pro is the last thing he wants to do but now he has little choice. Even if he were to abandon that girl here – and he'd die before that happens – he'd still need it to escape this man's clutches. Using his quirk might out him, but being caught now most certainly will.
With a weight like a boulder dropping into his stomach, Shoto let his desperation take over and aims to freeze the hero on the spot.
Only, it doesn't happen.
No ice comes. Not even a hint of frost coats his fingertips.
That boulder turns into a mountain as he stutters in his movements, shocked and scared.
Realization hits him like lightning.
The erasure hero.
That's why the man was vaguely familiar.
Shoto can faintly recall being passed his public quirk registry record as Endeavor droned on about powerful quirks in unsuspecting hosts. Eraserhead is one such individual. An underground pro with the ability to completely nullify all quirks but heteromorphic. Specialized in hit-and-run and ambush tactics and wielding a dangerous capture weapon. His file was one of the only ones that genuinely unnerved him because he's the exact antithesis of Shoto, his absolute kryptonite; one he thought he'd never be at odds with.
That momentary lapse in confidence and overwhelming shock is all the hero needs to get that scarf around him and slam Shoto into the concrete with unforgiving force.
He nearly bites his own tongue off when his jaw hits the ground. The air is ripped from his lungs on impact and he struggles to wheeze in even the slightest breath when the hero lands on his back. His ribs and spine spasm in pain from the sudden strike. He tries to fight his way to freedom but all that does is cause the scarf to tighten like a constrictor, pushing out of him his already scarce breath. His arm gets wrenched up his back in a painful lock. Shoto grunts in pain, chokes, but ultimately stills. When he struggles on the next failed inhale, the pressure on his back decreases incrementally until he can rip in a ragged, gasping breath. His head aches from the rough landing and the sudden rush of oxygen. He feels dizzy. Angry. Afraid.
No matter how his mind races, it comes up with no solution, no tactic to outmaneuver this particular hero. He would have taken a fight with All Might over Eraserhead. At least then, Shoto could try to use his quirk, even if it would be as effective as building a sand wall to keep back a tsunami. At least then, he could have predicted his failure and not felt so pathetic over it.
He's on the verge of hyperventilating now as the hero presses a knee into his lower back.
This is it. I'm done for. I'm going back. I'm going back.
"You're under arrest for vigilantism, assault, and illegal quirk usage. Anything—"
The man is interrupted by a high-pitched wail as the little girl throws herself out of cover and straight at him. Her fists beat uselessly against the hero. Shoto feels like throwing up now. This girl came to his defense. She hit a pro. What's going to happen to her? What's he going to do?
"Get off him! Get off! Leave him alone!"
She's sobbing around her screams as she tries to shove the man off her savior but all it achieves is ruffling the black jumpsuit. Shoto wants to scream but he's paralyzed by the sight.
The hero has fallen silent as he stares at the battered girl. The only sign he's even remotely affected is the slight surprised parting of his lips. Then, he's ducking his face down, like he can hide it in his scarf. Only, that scarf is currently preoccupied, so the grimace is out for the world to see.
He tilts his head and examines the scene again.
Shoto turns his face toward the ground, hoping to keep the now contemplative hero from reaching for his mask. He prays for that dignity, just that small one, to be left for him.
"That's why you were trying to get around me so bad," the hero murmurs, more to himself than to Shoto, as if something clicks into place that had been bothering him before.
Shoto doesn't answer. He doesn't think he can.
So the hero hadn't noticed the girl earlier, hidden away as she was. It was just unlucky that the man chose the position between them.
He can't see what the pro is doing but he can feel him shift minutely before he addresses the girl, gruff voice soft in a way that shocks Shoto.
"I'm not going to hurt him."
Despite the reassurance, the frightened girl still shoves at him, knees trembling and breaths heaving.
Seeing that he isn't getting anywhere on that front, Eraserhead turns his attention back to the 'vigilante'.
"I'm going to let you up. Don't try anything. If you run, I'm taking you down again."
That's a grander concession than Shoto ever thought he'd receive in this situation. He knows that the hero is doing this for the little girl's sake only. It confuses Shoto down to his core. Instead of questioning the man's motives, he gives a short, stiff nod of understanding.
A moment later, Eraserhead huffs to himself quietly, "What am I doing?"
Then Shoto is released. The binding weapon snakes off of him and wraps itself back around the hero. As soon as the pro's weight is gone, Shoto wastes no time rolling to his feet and throwing himself between the girl and Eraserhead.
He knows the threat from the hero is very real, but that doesn't mean he'll cower when this girl needs him. It doesn't matter how his heart rabbits in his throat or anger and shame flare up in his veins. There's something far more important at stake here. He scoops her up with one arm and turns so she's faced away from Eraserhead. His free hand is raised like he'll attack if the hero so much as blinks at the girl. It's stupid, he knows, but he has to try.
Eraserhead doesn't move. He just stands there and stares, hair down around his shoulders. That confusion in his gut churns like a hurricane now.
"Relax," the hero says, posture no longer threatening. "I have no interest in hurting her."
Something in him knows that Eraserhead is being honest but fifteen years of engrained fear keeps his guard up. He remains steady in his defense.
At the standoff, Eraserhead just sighs and rubs a hand over his face like he's insurmountably tired.
"You're that unnamed vigilante that cropped up several months ago, correct?" Eraserhead says instead of trying to calm Shoto down again.
Shoto's eyebrow ticks in annoyance.
"I'm not a vigilante," he says firmly.
Even with his goggles in place, Shoto knows Eraserhead is giving him the flattest, driest look known to man. The hero very pointedly tilts his head down and up again to let Shoto know he's looking the not-vigilante over again.
"Yes," Eraserhead starts, just as dry as his expression, "because it's exceptionally common for individuals to prowl dark alleys in a mask and subdue criminals."
He has Shoto there and it's a little embarrassing because he's not wrong. Still, he doesn't waver.
"I'm not. I just...happen to be in the right place at the right time."
The hero has the gall to snort at that.
"You've apprehended and turned over nearly two dozen criminals at this point. That is an odd amount of 'right place, right time'."
This time it's Shoto's eye that twitches. Yes, he knows it's far-fetched. That's why he's certain some higher power is determined to fuck with him.
"Circumstantial. All of it."
"You're kidding, right?"
What a circular conversation. He can imagine this going on for a while until the police descend. It's getting them nowhere fast and the little girl's trembling has only marginally decreased. Not to mention, Shoto's getting tired and his back hurts. He needs to get out of here and get her to safety.
"License," he demands, turning his outstretched hand over so his palm faces up. It's an audacious command, especially given his earlier defeat and the clear difference in legality between them, but he needs to see how lenient this hero is willing to be.
Eraserhead is quiet for a moment, head tilting either in amusement or thought.
"Brazen of you," he says but still reaches into one of his many pockets. With a flick of his wrist, a small laminated card is sent sailing toward Shoto.
He catches the card easily and flips it over between his fingers to examine it.
As I suspected. Eraserhead's title greets him on the byline accompanied by a photo of a tired and scruffy-looking young man. Shoto notes his age with mute surprise. Thirty is younger than he expected from the skill he displayed. When he tilts the card to catch it in the moonlight, he can see the faint holographic stamp used to prove it's not a fake. He tries to memorize any important details he can.
Then, he stands in silence, pretending to examine the card further. Beneath the mask, he watches the hero instead, waiting to see if the man will lunge while he's 'distracted'.
He never does.
Eraserhead just waits patiently. After a few more moments, what he's doing seems to click in the hero's head. He huffs out something that might be an aborted laugh, might be a derisive scoff, and tucks his face into his scarf.
"Don't trust heroes, do you?" he asks, though it comes out more like a statement. He doesn't seem offended. It's an observation, nothing more.
"Never been given reason to," Shoto retorts.
Eraserhead just hums.
Shoto finally flicks the card back to him and adjusts the girl on his hip, no longer feeling entirely threatened by the hero. She tucks herself further into his side and only peeks fearfully up at Eraserhead once. He had warmed up his left side now that his quirk wasn't being canceled to comfort the girl. It seems to be working, if the way her whimpers have quieted and her eyes have grown heavy are any indicator. Must be worn out. Poor kid.
The hero is busy tucking his card away when one of the formerly unconscious thugs moves. The first one Shoto had knocked out at the mouth of the alley comes to, far enough away from the duo not to be heard. Unfortunately for him, Shoto can still see him as he pushes off the ground, wavering and disoriented. He's about to warn the hero so he can do his job when that man, whom Shoto doesn't know the quirk of, raises a hand and shoots something.
A loud bang rocks the alley just as the ground shakes. Shoto had twisted to hide the girl again and stomped his foot with a vengeance. With it came a wall of ice that crested up to the roofs of the three-story buildings around them and blocked the thug's line of sight completely.
Eraserhead whipped around as soon as Shoto had started moving, catching on quickly that something was wrong. His scarf flares out but drops when he comes face to face with a mountain of ice. His eyes widen behind the goggles as he tips his head back to see just how high it goes. Even from a distance, he can feel a wave of unfaltering cold rolling in. It's a surprising display of power, one that reassures Eraserhead that he'd been right to erase the unknown vigilante's quirk at the start of combat.
He turns back to Shoto with a grimace.
"That was an unlawful use of your quirk."
Shoto rolls his eyes beneath his mask.
"The first thug I incapacitated got up. His quirk is unknown and he was aiming to shoot you."
That silences Eraserhead for a moment. Then, he turns, readying his scarf as if to use it like a lasso and swing over the ice.
"I've frozen them to the ground and sealed the entrance. You should be free to apprehend them at your leisure," Shoto calls out before he wastes his time trying to give chase to a frozen man. It's only after he says it that Shoto curses himself. That would have been the perfect time to leave. Stupid, stupid decision.
Eraserhead pauses and tilts his head consideringly at Shoto.
"There've been no reports on the nature of your quirk. It's powerful. Useful. You seem to have good control of it."
There's an unspoken question in there. Why not use it before?
"Illegal quirk usage, remember?" Shoto says flatly.
It's not actually the reason he refrains from using his quirk, but the hero doesn't need to know that. Elemental quirks aren't rare, so he can feasibly get away with using his ice without raising too many questions. That still doesn't make him comfortable discussing this at length. Endeavor made it very clear what Shoto's powers are when he put out a missing person's report. He'd never miss the chance to brag about my perfect quirk, he thought with no small amount of disgust. If the number two hero got a whiff of a strong ice quirk anywhere, Shoto has no doubt he'd descend on the area like an unholy reckoning. Just the thought makes him queasy.
The hero makes a noise – definitely a huffed laugh this time – and just nods.
"Right."
He eyes up the vigilante cradling a sleepy, distressed child protectively. Then, he looks back at the massive ice wall containing scum waiting to be locked up.
"I'm willing to let this incident slide due to extenuating circumstances," Eraserhead says after a moment of contemplation. "Try refraining from 'accidentally' involving yourself in such situations again."
When he says it, it's already exasperated, like he knows he's speaking to a wall. Like it's going in one ear and out the other. Shoto can begrudgingly appreciate the effort regardless. It feels almost too good to be true, too charitable. He resists the urge to shift in discomfort as he waits for the other shoe to drop, some stipulation or bribe demanded. But an ultimatum never comes. Eraserhead just waits for him to acknowledge the warning. Shoto doesn't know if his shoulders want to tense more or relax at this display of unprompted mercy.
"I can promise I'll try. But, if I see something like this going on…" he trails off. He's not going to make a promise he can't keep, especially when it comes to the safety of others.
The hero heaves a world-worn sigh and rubs his face again.
"Figured as much. If I catch you again, I make no promises you won't be arrested."
That's fair enough. More than Shoto expected, quite frankly. He'd expected immediate detainment at best. This? He's not quite sure what to do with this.
"I understand," he says, and he means it. If he ends up on the wrong side of the erasure hero again, he won't even be mad if he gets taken in. That'd be his fault for exceptional stupidity, honestly.
"Who's the girl?" Eraserhead finally asks and tilts his head to the child, as if Shoto wouldn't know who he's talking about otherwise.
Shoto just shrugs.
"Not sure. I was passing by after getting groceries and heard what was happening."
Eraserhead is quiet. It feels a bit like a judging sort of silence. Shoto gets the distinct feeling he's staring directly at his mask. Grocery shopping in that, huh? He can practically hear the rhetorical question in Eraserhead's dry voice.
"Will the ice hold until the police arrive?" Eraserhead asks instead.
The mention of the cops makes him nervous again, but he masks it with practiced ease.
"It should, unless someone has a quirk that can destroy it."
The hero nods and takes a tentative step closer. Shoto watches him like a hawk, ready to move on a dime. The only reason he's not fully tensed is that Eraserhead's hair remains down.
"Pass her to me. I'll ensure she gets proper treatment and returns home."
That raises his hackles in a split second. He bares his teeth beneath his mask.
"Not happening," he says angrily. His arms tighten and he shifts to put even more distance between her and the hero. There it is, the stipulation. I'm free to go if I give her up.
Eraserhead raises his hands to pacify him, much like he did for the girl earlier. There's a sort of irony there that he glosses over, not wanting to confront it.
"Reinforcements are a few minutes out. If you remain, you will be detained," he says firmly but not unkindly. It's a warning, almost criminal, really. It makes Shoto antsy.
He knows he should take this offer but the idea of passing off a defenseless child to a pro makes his skin crawl. Anxiety creeps across his nerves and the only reason he notices the frost starting to peek out of his clothes is the way the girl now shudders.
Shoto takes a breath and forces his quirk down and warms her back up.
"How do I know I can trust you?" he asks. He ignores how it comes out more like a plea, desperation hanging off each syllable.
Eraserhead peeks back once again, clearly starting to feel the clock ticking down ominously as well. They can both hear the enraged shouts of the thugs from in their ice prison. He looks back at the nervous vigilante and sighs.
"There's no way I can give you tangible proof in the next few minutes," he says, voice tightening with frustration. "But, I can offer this: if you return in three days, I'll have an update on her ready for you."
Shoto almost wants to gape in disbelief. That sounds like a damn trap if he ever heard one. He'll hand this kid over to a pro he only just met so she goes God knows where, then he'll come back in three days only to get ambushed for his efforts.
"No," he says even more firmly this time. What a damn hill to die on. And this certainly feels a lot like dying as he hears the sound of sirens in the distance drawing closer.
Eraserhead grows more agitated as he starts to pace.
"Do you want to get arrested? Because I promise you, that's what's going to happen. There's a warrant out for you."
He very specifically does not point out that Eraserhead just implied he's going to ignore said warrant. It appears the hero was genuine in offering him a stay of execution. That realization only serves to intensify the churning in his gut, that sense of wrongness he can't pinpoint. What the hell is with this pro?
"No, I don't want to be arrested but I don't want her to…" he starts out frustrated only to taper off in a desperate, pleading silence.
The sirens are around the corner now.
Shoto feels sick. He's trembling just like the girl had been. He hopes against hope it isn't visible. The way Eraserhead falters in his steps makes him doubtful.
"Listen, if I wanted to harm her, I would have done that after I took you down," Eraserhead says, calmer this time. "I can't say you can trust every cop or hero, but I swear I'll be with her until she's safe."
It's a blunt admission, shocking in how he doesn't defend his fellow law enforcers. That, more than anything is what begins to let the small roots of hope and trust break through the suffocating ice of fear that's coated his heart. He knows, logically, that Eraserhead is correct. He had plenty of opportunity to hurt the girl, especially after she swung at him, and he never did it. If anything, he became just short of docile after she appeared.
There are cops on the other side of the ice wall now.
Eraserhead hears them and shouts out to halt and that he'll be over in a moment. His attention never wavers from Shoto, though. He extends a hand toward him, an offer. It's the only chance Shoto has now.
He wants to vomit as he steps forward.
When the girl startles awake and clings to him, crying loudly as he tries to pass her off, he feels heat behind his eyes and his breathing grows labored. He feels like he can trust this hero, hopes he can. He needs it like he needs air because if he gives her up and it turns out this was a ruse, Shoto doesn't know what he'll do.
"I'm sorry," he whispers to her, soft and broken. "It'll be okay. A hero has you."
The words taste like ash in his mouth.
The moment she's out of his grip, he uses a small, controlled burst of ice to get onto the fire escape. Eraserhead soothes the girl then tilts his head to look at the vigilante.
"I'll head over and draw their attention. Stick to the roofs."
Shoto can't find his voice, too busy choking down apologies. He just nods in understanding and waits.
Once the hero carefully swings himself and the little girl up and over the large wall, Shoto counts down from thirty and then sneaks onto the roof. He doesn't glance back as he hears her cry.
Those cries haunt him all the way back to his hideout. It sounds a lot like himself several years ago.
As Eraserhead brings the girl over to the ambulance to be examined, he spies two paper bags of groceries abandoned at the mouth of the alley, one bag half-frozen into the massive wall.
"Well, I'll be damned," he mutters in surprise. That vigilante either had a convenient excuse this time or is one of the unluckiest people he's ever met.
End Notes:
Before anyone questions how Aizawa didn't realize Todoroki is a teenager: Shoto is 5'9" / 176cm at the start of the series. That's the size of a grown adult and is fully disguised. He has a deep voice, a strong quirk with obvious control over it, and clear combat training. There is literally nothing to suggest Aizawa wouldn't think he's an adult. The only way is if he saw Shoto's face (which he didn't) or Shoto said something to give it away (which he didn't).