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revenant-ao3 · 16 days

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The Hounds of Fate - Ch: 2

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Time crawls on like a fever dream.

Each waking and sleeping moment is haunted by that girl. He traces his fingers across the yellowed, peeling wallpaper of the convenient store’s office he fleetingly calls ‘home’ to distract himself from the memory of her terrified cries. An infinity pattern takes shape as he rakes his nails in a smooth swooping manner over and over until his nails are worn to nearly nothing and a groove is left in his wake.

It doesn’t help.

All he can think of is her face as she tried to cling to him. She was scared, so goddamn scared, to leave the safety of his arms. Scared of those vermin who attacked her. Scared to be left alone. Scared of Eraserhead. And yet, despite her fear, she tried to save him. It’s a thing of devastating wonder to witness the heart of hero take root in a child so young.

She hit a pro to help him, and he handed her right over to that very hero.

It feels like such a fundamental betrayal that it makes him nauseous. He feels like a monster.

His makeshift cot creaks like it’s on its deathbed as he turns on his side and drapes an arm across his face.

He sees her behind his eyelids, yelling and swinging.

When he presses his arm against his eyes until spots dance across the darkness, he sees himself, small and helpless, screaming as he stands between Endeavor and his mother. No one had been there to save them from that hero’s hands.

He’d been there for her, and he failed. Young him would be so disappointed.

He clenches his fists until his arms tremble. It’s nearly a surprise his teeth don’t shatter from the force of his grinding jaw.

Despair has tilled his mind and left behind acres of slow budding anger.

That’s what it always comes back to.

Because anger is what he knows, what he’s comfortable with. Anger is safety, and oh, does he hate that he equates those two things. History has taught him little else. Those that are larger, stronger, full of rage and on the offense, don’t have to fear. They are what should be feared and that spells safety. He hadn’t been strong enough. Fast enough. Enough enough.

It girdles the cold stalks of misery and seeps into his core like poison. He feels it start in his chest and spread out like a swarm of locusts. It rages with a heat that could shame Prominence Burn.

Aggravation strums his nerves.

I should have tried harder.

How could he allow such failure when he was trained to be better? Created to be better? What’s the point of his existence if he can’t even protect a child?

The guilt and rage make him restless. He wants to get up and go. Find some trouble on his own and make himself useful for once in his fucking life.

But he can’t.

He’s stuck in self-inflicted isolation.

Eraserhead’s warning plays like a backing track to his thoughts. He’s not so far gone in his rancid emotions to forget his situation and he certainly doesn’t want to test his abysmally bad luck. So, he just lays on his makeshift cot, staring at the peeling wall and flexing his battered, aching hands.

Useless, useless, useless.

His fists tighten again. Skin stretches thin over popping knuckles, the only sound that breaks the quiet. He prays to gods he isn’t sure he believes in that he made the right choice trusting that pro. If he didn’t… If he finds out Eraserhead lied like so many heroes do and that girl is hurting, he’ll—

He’ll what? Hunt down Eraserhead?

Shota Aizawa, he recalls from the man’s license, graduated from UA. Born in Tokyo. Resident of Shinjuku. Underground. Independent of an agency. Thirty years old.

Cycling through the information like he’s filing a report is pointless. Even if he wanted to entertain the extremely laughable idea of fighting Eraserhead, he already knows where he stands in that outcome. (He’s too stubborn to admit that his pride and anger might still drive him to violence. It makes him sound too familiar, too much like the monster under his bed. He swears he smells smoke as he pushes that thought away.)

The best he can do is wait and hope – two things he’s not exactly well-practiced at.

He’ll go back to the spot and see if it’s an ambush. If luck is on his side, he’ll have a civil conversation with a surprisingly agreeable hero and be on his way, blessedly free of confrontation. If not, then he’ll deserve whatever happens, but he’ll make damned sure to give them hell first.

In order for any of that to have a chance of happening, however, he knows he has to keep his head low for a few days.

That shouldn’t be too hard. If that isn’t incentive enough to hide away for a few days, then the backlash of his little quirk stunt should be. That ice wall hadn’t been subtle in the slightest. If Endeavor isn’t skulking around this ward right now, Shoto would be genuinely shocked.

He turns back over and starts tracing the wall.

Infinity edges on and on and on.

---

Three Days Later:

If Shoto weren’t brimming with so much anxious energy, he might entertain the idea of splurging on a calendar to mark this occasion. He’s done it. He’s made it a whole seventy-two hours without any major incidents. There had been an encounter with a purse snatcher nearing the twenty-eight-hour mark when he finally ripped himself out of his hovel to get some food. (He never did get his groceries back, something that only served to egg on his horrid mood.)

Shoto tripped the frantic thief as he ran by and handed the purse back to its owner. A solid thirty-seconds of work. A light breeze or misplaced twig could have done it. He’s almost certain Eraserhead wouldn’t fault him for it. The woman had been utterly starry-eyed when he gave her bag back, as if there was something miraculous about him and what he'd done. If that impressed her, he worries for her health if she ever witnessed All Might in person. She'd likely suffer from cardiac arrest.

He can look the hero in the eye – goggle? – and honestly say he hasn’t done a single vigilante-adjacent thing (purse snatcher notwithstanding). The hero had better be impressed. If he gets to the meeting spot and finds himself arrested, he’s going to be sorely upset. The thought of this being a ruse ticks his short fuse just a little bit shorter.

If this turns out to be a trap, he’ll be arrested for something worse than vigilantism, that’s for certain. Treachery will be repaid fiercely.

Shoto pauses on the edge of a roof, just a few buildings shy of that fateful alley, and takes a deep breath. It condenses against his mask on the exhale, making him grimace. He wants to calm his jagged nerves. He’s anxious and that translates poorly for him.

So far, he sees neither hide nor hair of hidden pros or skulking cops.

Wouldn’t be a good ambush if I could see them, he concedes.

What he does spy, however, is a hunched figure looking more like an out-of-place gargoyle than a professional hero. It’d be amusing if Shoto didn’t feel like chewing his own tongue off just a little.

Shoto pauses for a moment to observe him carefully. The hero is propped on the lip of the building Shoto had originally used as an escape. His goggles are in place but he doesn't appear overly tense. It looks as if he might be watching for Shoto's arrival. It makes him uneasy. There is a small consolation in the hero being so blantantly out in the open. If Eraserhead wanted to jump him, he’d hardly station himself in such an obvious spot. That’s not his style.

Then again, Shoto muses grimly, Eraserhead doesn’t really need the advantage against me.

Still, it’s a bit of a promising sign. He tries not to let that hope bud any further than it already has. That anxiety thrumming in his veins slows a hair.

By the time Shoto reaches the edge of the neighboring building, the hero notices his presence. He idly wonders if Eraserhead has any tech to help him monitor his surroundings because he doesn’t think he was being that loud.

Instead of waiting, the hero swings himself over to the roof Shoto is on.

“Staying out of trouble, I take it,” Eraserhead says like it’s a greeting.

“More or less,” he says, voice pointedly blank as he tries to subtly observe his surroundings. Nothing is out of the ordinary so far, and he’s starting to think the inconceivable has happened. A pro may have truly kept their word. His trust might not have been misplaced. Something knocks in his chest that he ignores. He can examine it later, when he’s well and truly sure about Eraserhead.

The hero sighs heavily.

“Not as reassuring as I would have liked to hear.” He sounds exasperated. Tired.

Makes two of us.

“I don’t like lying,” he says bluntly in lieu of an apology. Shoto can’t find it in himself to feel sorry. His sour thoughts do little for his disposition.

Eraserhead notices.

He gets a noncommittal hum from the older man. There’s a slight tension in the hero’s posture now, not threatening but observing. Shoto's frown is hidden under his mask.

“I haven’t gotten into any fights or used my quirk, if that makes you feel better,” he says to ease Eraserhead’s mind. He’d made good on his word even when it felt like glass was under his skin and frenetic energy had him literally clawing at the walls for release. He’d better appreciate that.

It’s quiet for a moment. Then, when Eraserhead seems to find what he’s looking for, his posture loosens a fraction. He slouches, undignified and just this side of exhausted. Shoto wonders if this is his version of ‘at ease’. If so, he almost pities the man.

“As promised, I have an update for you,” Eraserhead says and reaches into one of his zipped pockets.

Any straying attention is dragged back front and center. His body doesn’t betray his sudden burst of nerves, but his heart picks up double time.

“Her name is Kazue Ishikawa,” Eraserhead starts as he passes over a picture to Shoto. “Aside from some minor scratches on her right arm and her distress, she was fine. She’s been safely returned to her family.”

It’s nothing short of a miracle that his hands don’t tremble as he grabs the offered photo. He lets out a shaky breath as he looks at it. That girl – Kazue Ishikawa – stares back at him. True to Eraserhead’s word, she looks much better. Her smile is wide as she holds on to a woman with the same lilac eyes. Mother? Sister? Whoever it is, there’s tangible relief on her bright features as she clings to the child. A bandage around the Kazue's arm is the only clue she'd even been in such a situation.

Perhaps most surprising of all is Eraserhead. He stands just behind and off to the left of the duo. He’s got the same blank, dead-eyed look on in the picture as he does in real life, with a hint more of annoyance. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than taking a photo. Did he stand there so I’d know it’s real? Shoto appreciates the sentiment more than he'd care to admit.

A heavy knot untangles in his gut. Those acres and acres of wrath and guilt begin to wither, row by row. They’re not all gone. It’s doubtful he’ll ever be rid of them all, invasive as they are, but it’s a start.

For the first time in days, he feels like he can properly breathe. This promise held true and faith nurtured feels monumental, larger than just a girl in a picture. It’s slow-moving, like tectonic plates scraping against each other, sending vibrations through his whole being until his very soul starts to quake.

Somewhere, hidden deep in the furthest reaches of his heart, his inner child feels a little less broken.

Shoto doubts Eraserhead has the slightest clue as to what this has done for him or the paradigm shift it set into motion. He doesn’t even know how grand it is himself. All he understands is that it feels like he’s standing at the edge of something great and terrifying.

His eyes flick from the girl back to the hero in the picture; the one who didn’t need to be there but chose to for a vigilante he just met.

Or perhaps he does know.

The start of smile twitches at the corner of his lips. It shocks him to notice it. Before he can fall further into cross-examining these burgeoning feelings, he tightly packs them away and sets them to the side. Those can be dealt with later when he’s safely alone and can process what’s happened.

He feels a tad bit the fool for his earlier melancholia now that he’s here. Though, he wasn’t exactly raised with emotional competency and control as pillars of his youth.

“How’d she end up here anyhow?” he finally asks after staring at the photo for a potentially embarrassing length of time. His voice is softer this time. Content. It put his mind and heart at ease to see her unharmed and happy.

When he looks up, he notices Eraserhead facing his direction, though it’s impossible to tell exactly where he’s looking. It doesn’t stop Shoto from feeling like he’s being examined under a microscope. When he offers back the picture, the hero just holds up his hand. Another silent olive branch. Shoto doesn’t know how to handle this.

He tucks the picture safely into his pocket and lets himself unwind a little more. Being near this hero is dangerous. Shoto can see himself becoming complacent someday. Trusting. It’s almost enough to wind him up again.

“Her quirk,” Eraserhead starts, almost startling Shoto from his thoughts. “It allows her to unlock something she touches. She got out of her house and wanted to ‘pet the kitty’ she’d seen on the way home from school. Likely got turned around and lost.”

“An understandable motive,” he says earnestly.

Shoto can very well see himself having done the same thing at her age. Honestly, he can envision himself doing that today. Shoto never was allowed a pet, but cats always intrigued him. In his months on the streets, he’s taken to caring for as many as he can. It was an absolute thrill when he realized they enjoyed cuddling up to his left side. Every now and again a few cats appear at that shitty convenient store looking for food and affection. Those are the best days.

He’s so busy thinking of the calico cat that looks a bit like himself – he named her Shoto II – that he almost misses the way Eraserhead nods in agreement. A fellow cat lover? Perhaps he isn’t so bad.

It seems the hero got lost in his own musings as he stands there silently, staring at nothing in particular. Maybe he fell asleep standing. As if he heard Shoto’s thoughts, Eraserhead shifts and grunts, like he can pretend he wasn’t off in thought around a veritable stranger on a dirty rooftop.

“Her family asked me to pass along their thanks. And there’s this,” he says, voice gruff but friendly – or, as friendly as Eraserhead gets. He hands over a piece of carefully folded paper.

“Oh,” Shoto says as he takes the paper, curiosity taking over. “Thank you.”

He unfolds the paper carefully and is greeted with a letter written in a child’s messy hand. It’s done in pencil, and he can see where several words were erased and rewritten correctly. The letters are large, a little lopsided, and squished in some areas, but it’s legible.

Dear Mr. Hero

Thank you for saving me. All Might was my hero. Now you are my hero. I like cats and I like you. Here’s a cat.

Love Kazue Ishikawa

When he turns over the letter, he can see a very interesting rendition of a black cat with bulbous yellow eyes. He turns the letter back over and reads it again. That great and terrifying feeling returns. A wellspring ruptures in his heart and he’s momentarily overwhelmed.

He didn’t fail. He saved her. He’s her hero.

For the first time in a decade, that title doesn’t feel like an insult or a badge of shame. It feels weighty.

Right.

He doesn’t know what to do with that.

You still want to be a hero, don’t you?

Shoto has to crouch for a moment, head tucked between his arms as he breathes deeply. He wants to cry. Another fracture in his inner child starts to mend.

Even under the weight of this profound feeling, he still takes special care not to crumble the note.

A cool breeze rolls across the rooftop and in the distance there’s the wail of a siren, but between the two is nothing but easy silence.

After Shoto feels like his feet are back on the ground and he isn’t about to tumble into some life-altering chasm, he stands back up. Eraserhead, who’d been politely staring off into the distance looks back at him. Neither acknowledge what just occurred.

“I have a patrol to return to,” Eraserhead says, attention drifting back to that distant siren.

“Right,” Shoto says, head still a little scrambled. He’s on the clock. I’m wasting his time. “Stay safe.”

He finds he actually means it when he says that.

Eraserhead just huffs.

“I should be saying that to you,” he says with no real heat. Was that a...joke? I’m not good enough at these things to tell.

Shoto turns to leave as Eraserhead walks toward the edge, readying his scarf. The hero pauses for a moment and looks back.

“Before I go, what’s your name?”

Of all times… Shoto just tips his head back and sighs in aggravation, ready to tell the hero he’s not giving up his identity that easily. One kind act isn’t enough. It sounds odd reverberating off the plastic mask.

As if he can sense what’s coming, Eraserhead continues on. If Shoto didn’t know any better, he’d say it felt distinctly like Eraserhead rolled his eyes. How he felt it, he doesn’t know but he’s sure it happened.

“Your codename,” Eraserhead clarifies.

Oh. Well, that’d make sense.

“I don’t have one.”

Another huff. Shoto isn’t sure if that was supposed to be a laugh or a scoff. Eraserhead makes a lot of similar noises for a lot of different things. It’s confusing, to put it mildly. Perhaps this is a sort of cosmic karma for all the trouble Fuyumi had trying to decipher Shoto’s expressions and moods.

“You might want to come up with one before it gets picked for you,” the hero warns.

This time it’s Shoto’s turn to huff a scoff-laugh.

“Sage advice, Eraserhead.”

The way Eraserhead folds his arms and tilts his head lets him know how little that’s appreciated.

“Don’t get me started,” he says like it’s a worn-out topic. Fair.

Shoto lets his rather questionable name drop. It’s not as if he has a leg to stand on when it comes to naming things. He has the creative instinct of a particularly blunt rock. And it is solid advice. If any paper picks up his story, he’ll be given a name by whichever desk jockey gets their take published first. He can’t imagine what some might pick for him. Icicle, Snowcone, Frosty. He’d rather go back home, thank you.

“That sounds like you’re encouraging me,” he says instead. It comes out flat, but Shoto had meant it in jest. He’ll get there one day, he vows.

Eraserhead grunts. Shoto isn’t sure if he picked up that it was a joke and it was just that unfunny or if the pro took him seriously.

“Not a chance.”

With that, the erasure hero snags his scarf onto a nearby light post.

“Stay clear of crime,” he says, both as a goodbye and as a final warning. Then, he’s off into the night.

Shoto watches him go, still a little awed by his skill.

“I’m trying, believe me,” he mutters before he turns and leaves. The letter in his pocket feels a lot like he’s carrying a piece of the sun with him; like a long winter is finally coming to an end.

---

That is not the last time they meet, because of course it’s not. Fate has seen fit to tangle their paths together like a ball of yarn.

It’s not his fault. This is a statement of fact. Just like last time, he’s in the right place at the right time. (Or perhaps the wrong place at the wrong time?)

He’d been trying to keep his head low. Extra low, in fact. As soon as word spread of that incident in the alley, he was right in assuming Endeavor would show.

Things had been going so well since that second meeting. He’d been feeling lighter, happier. Hell, happier than he had in honest years. A plan had begun to form in his head, like a thicket of brush clearing away to show the path ahead, he felt like he was starting to finally see where he was meant to go.

And then he’d heard people talking about Endeavor and it was like a hurricane opened up over his sunny path.

It’s ridiculous, he knows, melodramatic, and so many other synonyms, but even the hint of a fiery shape so far in the distance it could be a star instead of a man was enough to drive fear into his lungs.

Endeavor came from Musutafu for reasons no one but Shoto knows. He investigated an open-and-shut crime scene, interviewed some underground hero who’d been present, and was left wanting. Even when his mountainous shadow no longer eclipsed the district, Shoto still felt afraid to move. Afraid to leave, even for sustenance. It took him turning that fear to anger once more for him to take action.

One defiant trip proved safe, even though he returned feeling like he was going to heave from a mix of emotions. A second trip helped settle his nerves. On his third trip, he figured he’d be productive instead of just prowling around with his hackles raised and jumping at flaming shadows. He took his meager bits of laundry, shoved them in a torn bag, and decided to spare some of his semi-ill-gotten change for the laundromat.

This, of course, is when the criminal element decided it no longer felt like taking a vacation. He appreciated that they at least waited until he was done having several mental breakdowns about his father being in the same city as him. That was kind.

So, he finds himself locked in combat with several unsavory looking people. They aren’t as easy to take down as the other untrained thugs he’s come up against. Either he’s slipping or these people were waiting for him. Either possibility makes him nervous.

He ducks under one person’s swing and feels something akin to static electricity pricking his skin as their hand narrowly glides past him. A grimace pulls at his lips. Getting tased is not on his to-do list today.

While Shoto was busy dodging one, two more move in for the kill. He fears he’s going to have to use his quirk. That leaves a rotten taste in his mouth for several reasons. Not good enough. Not good enough.

The temperature around the criminals drops as he prepares to freeze this stretch of road. Before frost can settle on the asphalt, a black figure flies in from nowhere like a shrike diving to impale its prey.

Eraserhead lands on one of the thugs closing in on Shoto with a sickening crunch, hair floating and scarf already flinging out to catch the second. Impressive, as always.

“What did I say?” Eraserhead bites out, voice layered with aggravation.

It sparks a flame of petulance in Shoto. He huffs in annoyance as he kicks the electrically charged crook in the jaw.

“I just wanted to go to the laundromat,” he retorts. No, he is not pouting. Children pout and he hasn’t been one of those in a long time.

What had once been a bit of a struggle turns into a one-way curb-stomping. Shoto might be inclined to feel a little bad for the criminals sprawled out, groaning in pain even while unconscious, but he isn’t feeling very charitable as he picks his clothes off the ground. After he finishes shoving the last shirt into his utterly shredded bag, he turns to watch the hero.

Eraserhead is quiet, nerve-rackingly so, as he binds them securely. It makes Shoto anxious. Very anxious.

Once the last one is securely zip tied, Eraserhead straightens up and looks in his direction. Shoto feels a lot like an insect pinned for display.

“In my defense, they jumped me,” he states as he holds up his destroyed bag.

Eraserhead is still quiet. Shoto wants to shift awkwardly but he maintains his firm posture. If there’s one decent trait he picked up from that emotionally stunted household, it’s how to feign indifference.

“How,” Eraserhead finally says. It’s a question and a statement, somehow. It reeks of disapproval. Shoto isn’t sure if that makes him upset or angry.

“The one had a quirk—”

“ How can you be this unlucky,” Eraserhead cuts him off with a sigh and lifts his goggles to rub his tired eyes. “I was convinced you actively sought out crime.”

Ah. Okay. Shoto’s stiff spine relaxes just a bit. He’s just amazed by my luck. Understandable.

“I told you I’m not a vigilante,” Shoto says blandly. It’s just a step off of a full blown, I told you so!

Eraserhead looks less than amused. He slowly and pointedly looks from the unconscious thugs Shoto helped subdue back up to Shoto. With how flat his expression is, Shoto’s almost certain he could use it as a level.

“I’m not trying to be a vigilante,” he amends.

The hero just heaves another sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. Shoto idly wonders if he gets paid commission for helping with these acts.

“I should put a tracker on you. That’s apparently the fastest way to find criminals.”

Just the thought of that finally breaks Shoto’s stoicism. He shifts uneasily. It’s far too easy to picture how fast Endeavor would be at his door if Eraserhead did just that. In fact, he’s almost positive there’d be no door left. It’d be lucky if the building was left.

“I would prefer if you didn’t do that.”

There’s a blatant distance between them now, one that speaks of Shoto’s discomfort. Eraserhead studies him for a moment, brows slightly pinched.

“I was being sarcastic,” he finally says and fixes his goggles back into place.

“Oh,” is all he says. He feels stupid now for having taken Eraserhead so seriously. It’s hard to tell when the hero is joking and when he isn’t. He has a distinct clinical air about him that makes it hard to believe he even can joke. Shoto has a hard time picking up on sarcasm in regular conversation. With Eraserhead, he has a better shot at flipping a coin and choosing his answer based on that.

After an extended awkward silence in which Eraserhead busied himself with calling in the crime, Shoto finally bites the bullet. “Am I in trouble?”

Because he’d made it abundantly clear in their past two meetings that he should avoid conflict or else. He squeezes his clothes to him a little tighter.

“Not this time,” Eraserhead says. There’s a faint edge of frustration coloring his words, almost undetectable but still there. “You acted in self-defense and there’s no sign of quirk usage.”

Shoto nods, feeling too much like he’s disappointed the man somehow.

“Right,” he says, loquacious as ever. It doesn’t feel like there’s anything else to say. So, he just nods again and gestures to the group. “Well, good luck with...this.”

Eraserhead sighs into his scarf, head dropping a little.

“You give me a headache,” he says, and that’s as good as a goodbye he’ll get, he supposes.

Better than cuffs, so I’ll take it.

---

The third time they meet isn’t his fault this time. Not that it was his fault the last two times either, but he wasn’t even the first one on the scene, so Eraserhead can’t pin it on him.

He’s walking back toward his hideout with a cardboard box in his arms. A kitten, maybe two months old, mews sadly from inside. Shoto just wants to get back and hold it until it no longer looks so sad.

When he walks past a warehouse that he’s positive wasn’t a warehouse just a few days ago (no, he will not question it), he hears noises from inside. It’d be smart of him to keep his head down, and this time he actually does because he has a kitten with him and if it got hurt, he might turn the entire area from here to Tokyo into the new East Pole. But he can’t help it. A flash of white catches his peripheral. On instinct he looks up just in time to see Eraserhead spring on an armed opponent and throw them with enough force to send them crashing into a wall like a shock of thunder.

The only hint Shoto gets that Eraserhead is aware of his presence is that he grabs a man with his scarf that had been trying to ready a gun and flings him at Shoto.

“Heads up,” he calls out, like he just served a volleyball and not thrown an entire grown man at Shoto, and launches himself at another target.

Shoto has scarce enough time to turn and nail the flailing man in the back of the head with a sharp roundhouse. The kitten jostles from the motion and cries out, fur puffed up in fear.

“There’s a kitten in here,” he calls back through gritted teeth.

The only response he gets is Eraserhead dragging someone further away from Shoto. He figures that’s some sort of apology. Or Eraserhead just wants the kitten to be okay too. Honestly, Shoto is fine with that.

He hushes the kitten and sets the box down on the outside of the warehouse with a quiet promise to return on his lips. Then, he goes back to help. Not that there’s much to help with. Once the gunmen were down, it was easy pickings. Really, Shoto played the role of a mascot more than anything. The two he knocked out were more like novelty hits as they were already disoriented from getting smacked together like a pair of oversized cymbals by Eraserhead, but he likes feeling useful.

“Not my fault this time,” he says unprompted. He hears a grunt from off to his right and takes that to mean he isn’t in trouble.

Once the group are down and out for the count, Shoto picks the box back up with his right hand and tries to soothe the kitten with his warm left. He almost forgets Eraserhead is there when the pro suddenly speaks up as he’s securing the goons.

“You’re starting to give some cops and heroes a complex,” he says out of nowhere.

Shoto blinks up at him. If he weren’t wearing his mask, he’s sure Eraserhead would see the confusion on his face.

“Have they tried working harder?”

The detached way he says it makes it sound far more insulting than he meant, though he doesn’t regret it. He isn’t even trying to do their job and he's somehow eclipsing them. It can’t be that hard.

His response earns him a rare and coveted hidden laugh. It causes Shoto to blink in genuine surprise. He’s gotten a little used to the odd chuffs and huffs Eraserhead makes but anything actually discernible as a laugh is like a one-in-a-million.

“I’ll pass on your words of wisdom. I’m sure they’ll be appreciated.”

His voice is just as blasé. It brings the ghost of a smile to Shoto's lips. He’s quiet, having nothing to add to the unprompted conversation. So, he strokes the kitten again.

After finishing up with his current task, Eraserhead ambles over, acting as nonchalant as possible while still trying to peek in at the kitten.

“What’s its name?” he asks, just as blatantly interested-not interested.

Shoto pauses as he strokes under the purring kitten’s chin for a moment. He hadn’t thought of a name. Again, they aren’t really his forte. A name? What’s a good name for a good kitten?

“Soba,” he declares after another second of thought. He likes soba and he likes this kitten. It’s a good fit.

Eraserhead hums. It seems he has about the same amount of creativity as Shoto, because he just nods.

Shoto finally relents and tilts the box toward the hero. He spies the way Eraserhead tucks his face further into his scarf before he begins to pet the kitten. It’s quiet, amicable. Probably more so than it should be while they’re standing in a shady warehouse in the slums surrounded by the remnants of a failed arms deal and several groaning, broken men. Ah well, so are their lots in life.

With what seems like a herculean effort on Eraserhead’s part, he pulls back from the kitten. Shoto almost feels tempted to give him the kitten because the dejected slump of his shoulders looks so bizarre. Too bad for Eraserhead, Shoto saw Soba first.

“Just take this,” Eraserhead finally says and hands over something.

Shoto opens his hand and in drops a small device.

“...Thank you?”

He genuinely is thankful even though he doesn't know what he was just given. He’s also confused. It takes a little shifting so he can properly inspect the device while holding the box. Oh, it’s an earpiece. There’s a little more life in his smile now. Unfortunate that Eraserhead can’t see it. It’s almost as rare as one of the hero’s laughs.

“Our routes seem to overlap quite heavily,” Eraserhead explains. “If you see something happening, contact me first. I can be on the scene quickly.”

“Oh,” he says and tucks it safely into his pocket. “Alright.”

“I mean it.” There’s that heavy tone again. That warning. Though, there’s less distrust this time. It feels kinder. “So far, you’ve been lucky enough to toe the line of legality – our first encounter notwithstanding – but that won’t always be the case.”

If Shoto were less of a skeptic, he’d almost think Eraserhead wants to keep him out of jail. The thought drives a nail into that painful section of his mind that labels heroes as licensed villains. Everything he’s done for Shoto has been perplexing, and dare he say, caring, all without any ulterior motives or prompting.

“This doesn’t feel like a proper use of agency funding,” he says in an attempt to joke, though his tone is still lacking.

Shoto could almost swear there was a semi-amused look on the tired man’s face. Perhaps he’s hallucinating.

“Good thing I’m an independent contractor.”

And Shoto knows that. Remembers it from his card. Remembers from how he was not going to fight the hero if he’d lied to him earlier. (Still a dumb idea but one he can’t say he’d never do. He’s a glutton for punishment, apparently.)

Shoto gestures toward the exit and tilts the box toward the hero, one last parting pet. His own olive branch. The hero stays firm for all of one second before he’s stroking the loudly purring kitten.

“You know a decent bit about agency work,” Eraserhead states. It’s a little fishing for information, a little bland observation.

“A bit,” he concedes.

It always catches him off-guard how observant the hero is. It feels like for every sentence Shoto says or action he takes, the hero deciphers something but says almost nothing. It makes him want to put his guard back up. The earpiece in his pocket asks for a little leeway.

He considers the hero for a moment before he leaves, and he can’t help but see those clouds roll away and his path start to shine again.

Maybe, just maybe…

The notion follows him all the way home. As he plays with Soba on his rickety cot, he glances at that drawing from Ishikawa and the picture of her smiling, Eraserhead lingering in the background like a particularly grumpy guardian angel.

“Maybe I can still be a hero. A real one,” he whispers to the kitten. He needs to plan. To find his starting point, and he knows just where that is.

“Let’s hope I don’t regret this,” he says and gives Soba one last playful pat before he picks up his mask and earpiece.

#shoto todoroki #shota aizawa #shouto todoroki #aizawa shouta #fanfic #my writing #hounds of fate #vigilante!shoto

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