Chapter Text
This time, you follow Aizawa off the roof willingly.
Your body feels heavy with each step, but you don’t have it in you to complain when Aizawa completely ignores the elevator and instead opts to take the stairs, just like he had the first time. You trail behind him, welcoming the cold night air the moment you emerge from the building and step out onto the street.
Aizawa pauses as you inhale deeply and crane your head backwards to face the sky, your eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. The wind isn't nearly as biting compared to being on the roof, but it was better than nothing. You turn to look towards Aizawa when you’re ready to continue, and after nodding softly, he sets off down the street.
A part of you recognizes that he’s going in the complete opposite direction of your apartment, but you don’t care enough to ask questions. In the same way you keep a spare key underneath your welcome mat and stand with your feet past the yellow line at the subway, you follow him without protest.
A few minutes into the walk, Aizawa is the first to break the silence.
“What is it about the roof that comforts you?” he asks earnestly. There’s not an ounce of judgement in his voice when he glances at you from his peripheral, eyes peering over the hem of the scarf pooled high on his shoulders.
You have to fight against the reflexive urge to snap at him or lie. Instead, you look down at your feet and take a moment to think. There’s still a part of you that is violently repulsed by the idea of any sort of vulnerability– too jaded by everything you’ve seen to really open up to anything or anyone. It’s why you’re closed off at the office and all of your text conversations from the last six months have to do exclusively with work. To you, openness is the same as baring your throat to a blade and begging to be killed– but maybe that’s what you want right now.
It takes more thought than you anticipated to gather your response. How do you say “I like the awful feeling I get in my stomach when I look at the drop” without sounding like an adrenaline-addicted freak?
“It’s hard to think up there,” you finally answer. “I don’t feel like anyone. I stand up there and I just exist. I’m powerless by choice.”
A small huff escapes your lungs as your face heats. You don’t feel as though you’re making any sense, but Aizawa hums like he understands anyways. He doesn’t respond, letting the silence draw on like he can somehow sense that you have more to say. The bastard.
“I know it’ll hurt to be up there, and I want to hurt,” you continue. Your wings shift at your back to curl around your sides; the more you speak, the more exposed you feel. “A part of me wants to rot– feels like it’s all I deserve.” You force a casual shrug, counting your steps in an effort not to let your eyes gloss over once again. It feels weird to say this stuff out loud— to be speaking with someone so honestly.
“Do you really feel like that’s what you deserve, or do you just feel like it’s the only option?” Aizawa pushes gently, his voice carrying itself in a way that leaves you teetering on the edge of flight.
Your wings bristle in a weak annoyance. Aizawa is unfortunately good at reading people, and it pisses you off to no end. You’re not even consciously trying to lie, and somehow he seems to have an even better understanding of you than you do. If you hadn’t read about his quirk in Kuroda’s police report, you’d probably have guessed that he had some sort of telepathy quirk.
“How am I supposed to do anything but rot in a world like this?” you retort. “Trying to chase happiness is a fool’s errand. There’s no point in looking for it when I know what I’m going to find.”
Aizawa doesn’t let up, insistent in his questions. “And? What would you find?”
“What wouldn’t I find?” you spit before you can stop yourself, that same indignance that gets you so far in court rearing its head once again. Anger is a tool– one that you’ve learned to use to a near deadly degree in your career and nowhere else. “I’d find a seven year old covered in blood. A man walking free after assaulting yet another woman despite a criminal history longer than a dictionary. And I’d see it everywhere– you can name any street in this entire godforsaken city and I’ll tell you all the horrific things that have happened on it.”
The bitterness in your voice has your throat constricting in on itself as you grit your teeth. You think that at this point your head must be occupied entirely by evidence, and what is evidence if not a lawyer’s best friend? Aizawa is truly fighting a losing battle; you know what the world is– more than you ever wanted to in the first place. There’s an endless amount of proof backing up your dreary outlook on life– and it’s only a matter of time until he realizes that and gives up on you. You’re doing him a favor by being open enough to expedite the process, and you wonder how much more of this he can take before he runs, too.
“Someone was killed in my apartment building last year and I prosecuted the man that did it,” you continue. “The unit that lady died in had the same layout as mine. She put her couch in the same spot I did. I looked at the crime scene photos and saw myself in her place. How am I supposed to move on after that?”
Aizawa stops abruptly, and you stray a few steps forward before you realize, the image of familiar hardwood stained with blood lingering in your mind. When your brain finally processes that he’s not next to you anymore, you pivot to look at him, his gaze lazily pinned to you.
“Wait here,” he says simply.
Before you can question what’s happening, Aizawa turns towards a small apartment complex on the right-hand side of the street, approaching one of the ground floor units. You watch with a hazy confusion as he slides the balcony door open and disappears into the suite, his figure morphing into the shadowed interior. You’re so caught off guard that you almost want to laugh– you were being more vulnerable with him than you’d been with anyone in years, and he’d all but fled to the safety of what you assumed was his apartment.
You’re not sure why you wait for him instead of taking your chance and running, but you do— lingering in the middle of the street with a misplaced awkwardness. A minute later, Aizawa reemerges with a shopping bag clutched against his chest. He doesn’t return to you, instead taking a seat on the sidewalk and casting you an expectant glance. You stand in the middle of the street dumbly for a moment longer before you reluctantly join him, shifting your wings to one side as much as you can manage before sitting down next to him. You pull your knees to your chest, resting your cheek on your knee as you observe the hero.
Aizawa places the bag on the ground between your forms, rifling through it to retrieve a tin of some sort. You tilt your head just slightly to get a better look at it, your brows furrowing as a perplexed expression paints your features when you realize that he’s holding a small can of cat food.
“Is this your idea of a dinner date?” you blurt.
You think you see him roll his eyes. “Just watch,” he mutters, taking the pull tab between his thumb and forefinger and peeling the lid off.
The seconds pass by, and you hold your breath as you examine your surroundings, waiting for anything at all to happen. The street is eerily quiet, and you blink rapidly in an attempt to sharpen your gaze; your quirk afforded you night vision to an extent, but you didn’t have all that much practice with actually using it.
You’re in the middle of concocting an escape plan in your head when you feel something soft brush against your calf. You jolt at the sensation, and it takes everything you have not to yelp out in surprise as your head snaps down to look at your leg.
“Motherfucker–”
A grey cat rubs its head against your shin, its eyes closed. Your entire body stiffens and you stare at the creature with wide eyes, lifting your cheek away from your knee as your hands hovering awkwardly in front of you. The animal lazily ambles forward, its tiny nose twitching with each step, honing in on the can of food like a very lackadaisical missile. Aizawa leans closer to place the tin on the sidewalk in front of the cat, his lips twitching into a soft smile.
You watch the display in front of you tentatively, eventually opting to rest your hands on your knees because you’re not sure what to do with them. You’d never had any pets growing up courtesy of your parents both being allergic, and as much as you wanted to adopt from your local animal shelter when you moved out for university, you’d been far too busy with all of your courses. It’d been a long time since you even thought about getting a pet, so caught up in your work that it never seemed feasible. After all, you could barely care for yourself as it is.
“This one comes by quite often,” Aizawa murmurs absently, reaching a hand forward to scratch the cat behind its ear. You notice quickly that a substantial portion of the tip of the creature’s right ear is missing, a jagged edge left in its place. Your brows knit together as a part of you wonders whether the animal lost it accidentally on the streets or if something more sinister occurred.
“Stop that,” Aizawa scolds, snapping you out of your thoughts. You lift your head to look at him like a deer in the headlights; was he really able to tell what you were thinking that easily? He doesn’t meet your gaze, instead scooting the can closer to you so that the cat brushes against your leg once more as it eats. For a moment, you wonder if he was even talking to you or if the cat had done something to earn his ire, instead. “Get out of your head,” he mutters.
“Easier said than done, asshole,” you grumble, frowning as you cast your gaze downwards once again to study the creature before you.
With an abundance of caution, you carefully extend your hand to gently drag it along the cat's back, its fur surprisingly soft. Your shoulders sag just slightly as the cat continues on with devouring the can of food and the prospect of the animal launching an attack on you becomes less probable. The creature rumbles a steady purr, which you assume is in response to feasting on some very expensive cat food– if this is the same cat food from that receipt Aizawa had handed you all those weeks ago.
Aizawa watches you more than he watches the cat, but you’re too focused on the animal to notice. When the tin of food is empty, you retract your hand back towards your form in anticipation of the cat leaving, only for the creature to insistently dig its head against your calf and purr even louder than before.
You look towards Aizawa with a restrained bewilderment, blood rushing to your face as you wonder how long he’s been looking at you. “I–I think it wants more food,” you supply weakly.
Something like amusement flickers in Aizawa’s eyes. “He wants attention,” he corrects, mercifully looking down at the creature and scratching it gently underneath its chin.
With no ground to stand on when it comes to understanding cats, you take Aizawa for his word. Doing your best to swallow back the lump in your throat, you hesitantly begin to pet the animal once again. You scratch behind its neck, heart pounding entirely too fast for a situation as tame as this. The cat lets out a loud meow, startling you enough that you freeze and look towards Aizawa for reassurance.
“Is it mad?” you blurt, wholly inexperienced when it comes to feline behaviour. “I don’t know how these things work.”
Aizawa exhales in a way that sounds like a laugh, shaking his head. “He’s fine, just insistent.”
You nod with a disproportionate amount of resoluteness as you continue to indulge the animal and obey its demands for attention. The cat purrs impossibly loud, eyes closed in near bliss as it presses into your hand. Somewhere in the back of your head, you wonder how a stray cat can be so affectionate.
“Does it– uh, have a name?” you ask awkwardly, seeking to break the silence that hangs in the air.
“Not yet,” he shakes his head. “This guy’s still pretty new– haven’t had any good ideas. Any suggestions?”
You pause, your mind going blank the moment you try to think of anything. How do people normally name their pets? You search your brain for examples, doing your best to recall any of your coworkers who have pictures of their pets hung up in their cubicles. One of your colleagues has a small, crusty little dog named Matcha– named after her favorite drink– and another has an old cat lovingly named Tulip– his favorite flower. You vaguely gather that people name animals after their favorite things– of which you have many.
“Mischief,” you blurt.
The moment you say the name out loud, you realize how abhorrently stupid it is and immediately flush with embarrassment. Aizawa quirks an eyebrow at you with a curious look, and you’re just glad that he’s not laughing in your face.
“Mischief?” he repeats.
“It’s uh– it’s my favorite offense to prosecute,” you admit quietly, focusing on the cat in an attempt not to read too much into Aizawa’s expressions. “It’s kind of a catch-all charge, so when police know somebody broke the law but don’t know what the hell to charge them with, they’ll just tack on a mischief charge,” you continue, rapidly coming to the realization that explaining your logic is not making the suggestion any better. Despite recognizing this fact, you keep talking anyways. “My most interesting files have been mischief offenses. They’re uh– a palette cleanser sometimes: just a bunch of weird bullshit amidst all the depression.”
Aizawa hums in acknowledgement just as the cat meows once more, rising onto its back feet to place its front paws on your knee and pressing further into your hand. You slowly start to understand more why people like these things so much, your lips tugging into a tentative smile.
Distracted by the demanding creature, you carry on with your rambling before you can stop yourself. “I had this file one time– this guy was doing a hunger strike, but for whatever reason he decided to do it at the courthouse. He laid on the ground right outside the entrance– like, pressed right up against the doors– went on and on about all sorts of things but I still don’t really know what he was actually protesting…” you trail off, forgetting where you were going with all of this for a moment. “Anyways– uh– the police let him do that for a few days while they figured out what they could arrest him for. Every time I went to the courthouse, I had to step over him to get inside– it was a little weird but he was cool about it and made a big show of closing his eyes whenever someone wearing a skirt had to get through. One time I accidentally hit him in the head with my briefcase while I was stepping over him and he just laughed it off but I still felt super bad about it. Eventually the cops got him on a mischief charge and the file came to me, but he was pretty harmless so I let him plead in exchange for a conditional discharge.”
You suddenly realize that you’ve been talking for much longer than is likely acceptable, opting to shut your mouth before you can do any further damage. The urge to spring to your feet so you can physically flee the conversation grows stronger with each second that passes in silence.
“So yeah,” you say awkwardly. “Mischief.”
There’s no need for you to look at Aizawa to know that he’s still studying you, and you have to physically fight the reflex to launch into another pointless anecdote just to keep the silence at bay.
“Alright,” Aizawa finally hums, reaching out a hand to scratch the cat– Mischief– behind the ears. “Mischief it is.”
You force a rigid nod, keeping your eyes pinned to Mischief as the cat returns all four of its paws to the ground and briefly ceases in its purring to nudge the empty tin of cat food with its nose. The can clinks and rattles as Mischief insistently bats at it with its paws, letting out something more akin to a yowl than a meow.
“I uh– I think it wants more food now,” you comment.
“He’s gonna get fat if we give him anymore,” Aizawa responds, pulling the bag of cat food into his lap when Mischief glances towards it. In response, the cat throws itself to the ground and rolls around on its back, meowing emphatically. It swats at Aizawa, claws just barely managing to skim across the hem of his pant leg.
“Surely one more can won’t hurt,” you reason, glancing down at the cat with a pitiful expression. You want to continue on with petting the animal, but it’s writhing around with enough fervor that it’d be quite difficult to do so. “He’s gonna get mad at me.”
The sound of a dry laugh coming from Aizawa prompts you to look towards him. A smile is pulling at the corners of his lips as he regards you with a faint amusement. “I thought lawyers were supposed to have spines.”
“Hey!” you shriek indignantly, slapping Aizawa on the shoulder in a show of offense. “I’m trying to make sure this thing doesn’t starve.”
“You’re just falling victim to this thing’s manipulation tactics,” he retorts, gently pushing Mischief away when the cat nudges against his hand in an attempt to get closer to the shopping bag. Mischief almost immediately looks to you and meows loudly, as if to say do you see this shit?!
Unable to take the animal’s begging any longer, you lean over and snatch the bag out of Aizawa’s hands, who gives it up without much of a fight. You grab the first can you see, fiddling with the tab for a moment before you manage to tear the lid off and immediately recoil backwards at the smell with a gag.
“Jesus–” you huff, holding the tin at arms length as your wings shudder behind you. “That’s awful. You like this shit?” you say, looking at Mischief, whose pupils are blown wide as he zeroes in on the can, his meows much louder.
You quickly drop the tin onto the sidewalk, using the toe of your shoe to nudge it closer to Aizawa as the smell lingers in your mind. Mischief begins his feast eagerly, and both you and Aizawa watch in silence as the cat digs in.
You won’t ever admit it out loud, but you definitely just managed to get manipulated by a cat.
—
Despite insisting that you can make it home on your own, you still find yourself walking next to Aizawa as you begin the trek back to your apartment. Mischief follows the two of you for a few minutes before slinking into an alley and disappearing with one final meow. You do your best to ignore the worry that blooms when you think of the small cat being on its own– at the mercy of the world.
Aizawa seems to notice your pensive expression– because of course he does– breaking the silence between the two of you with a careful tone.
“I’m not going to try to tell you that the world isn’t awful,” he starts, his head tilted just slightly upwards to study the moon. Somehow, he seems to know exactly when he needs to give you space and when he needs to pin you down with his sharp eyes. You wonder distantly how he decides whether to look at you or not– what goes on in his head. “But you need to see more than that– you have to be someone outside of your career. It’s consuming you.”
A knot tightens in your chest as you swallow and your wings shift at your back to curl around your shoulders. You think that Aizawa may be telling you this too late– that you’re already all gone and have been for years. It doesn’t feel like you have anything left– can’t even remember a time when you were more than this. You almost feel bad for him; he truly has no idea what kind of mess he’s trying to put back together.
“I don’t think it’ll do me any good,” you mutter, your shoulders sagging. “One positive experience doesn’t mean anything– it doesn’t do shit against all that’s wrong.”
“It doesn’t need to,” Aizawa responds. “But you still have to see it.”
You stay focused on the street ahead of you, mentally calculating how much longer it’ll be until you reach your apartment and can collapse in your bed. When Aizawa recognizes that you’re not going to respond, he draws out a long breath.
“What are you doing this weekend?”
“What?” you turn to look at him, thoroughly confused once again. Does this guy take joy in being unpredictable or something?
Aizawa regards you with a neutral expression as he repeats his question. “What are you doing this weekend?”
Guessing at where this is going, you feel a vehement defensiveness overtake you. You open your mouth almost immediately to sputter out a response.
“Well– I’m sure you’ve seen in the news that Kuroda is pleading not guilty. There’s a date to set a preliminary hearing next week, but I want to apply for a direct indictment so the victims don’t have to testify twice, and then I have to–” you stop abruptly, realizing that none of this is his business and that you really have no idea why he’s asking you this in the first place beyond trying to make you look like a loser with no life. “Are you trying to take me on a date or something?” you blurt, your lips moving before you can think.
Aizawa sighs. “Just meet me outside your apartment for 9am on Sunday.”
You open your mouth to protest, but Aizawa continues on before you can get a word out.
“When’s the last time you spent a weekend doing something other than working?” he asks, his delivery pointed in a way that makes you want to punch him in the face.
“That’s none of your business,” you assert, narrowing your eyes into a glare as your feathers ruffle at your back in a mixture of exasperation and embarrassment.
“9am. Sunday.”
You roll your eyes with a scoff, increasing your pace in an attempt to get out of this situation more quickly. The nerve.
He can go fuck himself; as far as you’re concerned, you’ll be spending your weekend safely holed up in your apartment, like you always do.
—
“A farmer’s market isn’t going to make me want to kill myself any less.”
Aizawa sighs from where he stands beside you, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. Your wings shift apprehensively at your back as you linger beside him, the sight of the busy market across the street igniting a steady anxiety in your chest.
“That’s not the goal here,” he huffs, moving to cross the road as the crosswalk light illuminates. You begrudgingly follow after him, tugging the sleeves of the turtleneck you’re wearing down when they start to ride up. The asshole could’ve at least given you a dress code– instead, you’d floundered about your apartment and gone through nearly half of your closet trying to pick out something to wear because he’d given you no information whatsoever.
“Then what is the goal?” you push, skipping a step forward in an attempt to keep up with his brisk strides.
“The goal is to get some fresh produce,” he answers, a feigned annoyance in his voice.
“And why am I needed for that?”
“Because you should be buying some stuff here, too. I don’t even want to think about what the inside of your fridge looks like,” Aizawa retorts.
You feel rage bubbling up in your throat, but when you open your mouth to fire back a defense, the mental image of your nearly empty fridge shuts you up and the words die before you can speak them. You’ve been living off of the same bulk order of instant noodles for a pathetically long amount of time now– so busy with work that anything with an unconcerning expiry date goes bad before you can get around to cooking an actual meal.
Aizawa quickens his pace once again, and you distantly think that he must be trying to keep you quiet by making you nearly run to keep up with him— that or he’s just really excited for this farmer’s market. You grit your teeth, your wings snapping flush against your back at the sight of the crowd ahead. Even as you cross the street, a handful of people inevitably brush against your feathers in their haste to get to the market, and your wings jolt each time, repulsed by the slightest contact.
An anxiety that you don’t want to face swirls in the pit of your chest as you struggle to keep a hold of your surroundings. Your eyes can’t pick a spot to focus, instead restlessly darting around. The sheer number of people means that you can’t maintain your normal hypervigilance, and you wonder how the hell anyone derives even a modicum of joy in coming to these things.
As the two of you enter the market– which is being held in one of the city’s parks– Aizawa finally slows down. He glances over his shoulder to look at you, keeping his expression neutral before he continues forward for a minute or two more and then drifts towards a gap between two stalls, stopping briefly in the clearing.
The market is loud enough that he has to lean down and speak next to your ear. You do your best to ignore the way your face heats when he’s so close.
“Do you have any allergies?”
Your brows furrow together in confusion as you give him a bewildered look and dumbly shake your head no. He nods in response, and before you can ask for any sort of clarification, he’s already heading towards one of the stalls.
You keep as close to him as you can, the air feeling thinner the deeper you get into the market. Aizawa operates with a calmness that makes you jealous– effortlessly weaving through crowds and attentively picking out different vegetables while paying no mind to the people around him. You do your best to keep your head down, an awful nausea twisting in your stomach whenever you notice someone staring at your wings.
All you can think about is how easily this whole situation could go wrong. Villains target events like these all the time, and civilians with sinister intentions love to prowl through crowds, using the sheer number of people to slip away unnoticed. If something were to happen, how many people would be trampled in the scramble to escape?
You’re in the middle of trying to count how many readily accessible exits there while Aizawa finishes paying at one of the stalls when you feel him place a hand on your shoulder. You jump, glancing towards the register where you swore he’d been just a second ago before looking up at him. The moment you make eye contact, you know that you’ve made a big mistake, because he’s able to read you almost immediately.
“Focus.” His voice is gruff, and he leans in so that his face is just a few inches away from yours to ensure that you can hear him over the noise. You hope he can’t recognize how flustered you are as easily as he can with the rest of your emotions.
“On what?” you respond, holding back a wince at how helpless you sound.
“On me,” he answers simply, removing his hand from your shoulder and moving to grab your forearm.
You fixate on the feeling of his grip as he guides you through the crowd and heads towards the next stall. There are so many people that your wings are being brushed against near constantly no matter how tightly you have them pressed to your back, and the sounds of dozens of conversations happening all at once combined with the music playing on speakers overhead makes you want to scream. A part of you thinks that this must be Aizawa’s revenge for your less than stellar attitude towards him and heroes in general.
The longer the market goes on, the closer you stick to him. Aizawa’s height means that he’s seen more easily and people subsequently maneuver around him with much more grace than they do for you. You watch as he picks out all sorts of fresh produce, occasionally chiming in to criticize his choices.
“What an awful tomato,” you scowl, and Aizawa looks away from the abomination to glance down at you. You’re too busy recoiling at the pathetic excuse of a tomato to notice the soft look in his eyes. “This thing is a crime against humanity.”
Aizawa shrugs just slightly, putting the tomato down and casting an expectant look towards you. You bristle under his gaze, and with the pressure on, you fret over the pallet of produce for so long that you’re pretty sure the seller wants to kill you by the time you’ve made your choice. Eventually, you pick what you think is a top tier specimen, holding it up towards Aizawa and raising an eyebrow.
He takes it from you, turning it over in his hands and examining it with a similar intensity before he gives a firm nod and tucks the tomato into his bag along with the other vegetables he’d picked out. You linger at the edge of the stall as you watch him pay, rocking back on your heels and trying not to think about the man who’d ran naked through this park last year on a dare and landed himself an indecent exposure charge in the process.
You think that you’re gonna be stuck here forever as Aizawa drags you to stall after stall. He continues to make awful choices, and you continue to insult them at every turn until finally, Aizawa finishes up at yet another produce stall and checks off the last item on his list. You feel a renewed sense of hope overcome you as you wait for him to begin the trek towards the exit, only for the dreaded hero to continue on deeper into the market.
Unable to protest due to the noise, you reluctantly follow along. Mercifully, the crowd seems to thin the further along you go, to the point that you can relax your wings just a small amount. You force yourself to take a deep breath, still attentively scanning your surroundings as you wonder how long a person can have an elevated heart rate before it starts to become a health concern.
In the midst of your hypervigilance, your eyes land on a quaint stall selling a variety of different houseplants. You pause briefly in your movements, fixating on the display for just a second too long. Even when you force your gaze away and try to pretend you weren’t interested in a pathetic attempt at damage control, it’s already too late, and Aizawa is leading the both of you towards the stall.
The closer you get, the harder it is to resist. You inevitably find yourself breaking away from him to more thoroughly examine the selection, giving the woman running the stall a shaky smile before devoting all of your attention to the types of plants that are available.
When you spot the same type of houseplant that your wings had destroyed all those weeks ago, a whole new wave of grief washes over you. Despite swearing yourself to never owning plants ever again, you can’t help but check the price and turn the pot over in your hands, a frown settled across your lips. You eventually catch sight of Aizawa intently watching you from your peripheral and quickly abandon the plant, returning it to its rightful spot– away from your destructive hands.
“Are we done here?” you ask as you return to his side.
From behind you, a young boy no older than eight runs past, slamming into your wings in his scramble to catch up to a girl who you assume to be his sister. You reflexively jump away from the sensation, which means that you stumble forwards and bump into Aizawa just as your wings snap away from the unwanted contact. In an attempt to wrap the appendages around your form, they also curl around Aizawa– the two of you less than a few inches apart.
You inhale sharply, keeping your eyes pinned to the sheen of your feathers as you recoil away, stumbling a step back. In your haste to create distance, you somehow manage to step on your own wing and lose your footing entirely, careening backwards. Before you can stop yourself, you let out a small shriek and flail to try to catch yourself to no avail.
You’re midway through accepting your fate when Aizawa grabs your hand and abruptly puts a stop to your collapse with an annoying degree of ease. You stare up at him with wide eyes, frozen in shock for just a moment before you avert your gaze and he pulls you back onto your feet.
Pinning your wings firmly against your back, you force a deep breath in an attempt to calm your heartbeat. “Again– are we done here?” you repeat with a loud huff, crossing your arms over your chest.
Aizawa seems to contemplate whether he wants to have mercy on you or not for a moment, and just as you’re about to make the executive decision to abandon him in favor of running all the way back to your apartment, he nods.
“Alright. Let’s go.”
—
It takes you three tries to get your key into the lock of your front door as Aizawa waits patiently behind you, busying himself with examining the faded wallpaper of the hallway. As you push the door open, you wonder how the hell you ended up in the situation, cursing Aizawa and his ability to rope you into things.
After leaving the market, you’d once again insisted that you could walk home by yourself, and Aizawa hadn’t even bothered to respond to you, instead starting down the street towards your apartment. You’d grit your teeth and trailed along after him, begrudgingly refusing to make small talk for the duration of the journey. When the two of you had arrived at your apartment complex, you’d tried to disappear into the building as quickly as possible, but Aizawa must have sensed your impending escape attempt, because he’d abruptly dropped the heavy bag full of everything he’d purchased at the market into your arms.
You’d looked at him with wide eyes– stumbled over your words and told him that you had no time to cook and it would all go to waste with you. You even tried to hand the bag back over to him, but the asshole stubbornly refused with a stupid, almost smug expression on his face.
“I can’t possibly go through all of this on my own,” you reason, holding the bag out in a desperate plea for him to reconsider his offer.
“I’ll help you cook something,” he responds simply.
“Absolutely not.”
“Guess it’ll all go bad then,” he shrugs.
You feel annoyance boiling hot underneath your skin as you level a glare at him, the bag falling to your side.
“You’re an asshole, you know that?”
And now he’s here– in your apartment that hasn’t seen a guest in god knows how long. You’re lucky that it’s clean at the very least, but you can’t help the embarrassment you feel with how bare your apartment is. Sure, you have all the staple pieces of furniture, but nothing is particularly lived in. Aside from your bed and your office space, your kitchen goes unused for the most part and you haven’t sat in your living room to watch something on the TV in a long time.
You don’t know how to cook. It’s all you can think as you toe off your shoes and frantically scan your apartment for any overt imperfections. You scramble forwards as Aizawa is hanging up his jacket, lunging to snatch your bra off of the side of the couch– which you’d abandoned there a few days ago immediately upon getting home from your late night adventure with Aizawa and Mischief– haphazardly shoving it under one of the throw blankets draped over the cushions.
Why the hell had you invited him up here? You nervously busy yourself with unpacking the bag of ingredients onto your kitchen counter, refusing to look at Aizawa as he starts to dig through your cupboards. The sound of your fridge swinging open fills your stomach with dread as you pivot on your heel just in time to see Aizawa looking between you and the barren shelves with a thoroughly unimpressed look.
“Don’t you dare say anything,” you hiss, huffing in annoyance as you yank open one of the drawers and retrieve a cutting board.
Aizawa doesn’t tell you what he’s cooking, instead handing you a variety of vegetables and supplying you with instructions on how to cut them before he gets to work on literally everything else. You eventually gather that he’s making some kind of pasta, not bothering to guess any further due to your complete ineptitude when it comes to anything food related. The only reason you were able to figure out his meal choice so quickly was because the grievous lack of options in your pantry didn’t give him all that much to work with in the first place.
A surprisingly comfortable silence lulls between the two of you as you put all of your focus into chopping vegetables and Aizawa gets to work on boiling a pot of water and preparing some kind of sauce. You’re so focused on making sure that all of the tiny pieces of celery are the same size that his voice almost scares you when it next cuts through the air.
“UA is hosting a career convention,” he starts casually. “There are a few students who are interested in law.”
A scoff escapes you before you can stop yourself. “I’d scare them away,” you mutter under your breath. “They’d take one look at me and swear off of law forever.”
Aizawa doesn’t bother to entertain your pessimism, continuing on. “No one from the prosecution’s office has responded to UA’s request for someone to run a booth.”
You grit your teeth, rolling your eyes. “Of course,” you grumble, not surprised in the slightest.
Aizawa lets you sit in your fury without interruption, and if you weren’t so busy cursing your colleagues, you’d realize that he’s expertly baiting you into this. You chop the celery with more fervor than before, your brows furrowed together in an angry concentration. Of course nobody responded.
With a defeated groan, you tilt your head back to look at Aizawa, who is in the middle of draining the water out of the pot of noodles. “When is it? I’ll look at my schedule and see if I can work it in.”
“In two weeks– the first Monday of the month,” he answers.
You pause in your slicing, staring at a spot on the ceiling as you mentally assess your schedule. Aizawa watches you with a vague interest, peering at you through half-lidded eyes while you sequentially scan through the upcoming weeks. After cataloguing through court dates and meetings with complainants, you eventually conclude that you can make it work, though it means sacrificing a day of prep at the office for one of your upcoming trials. You tell yourself that you’ll just make the time up over a weekend— pull an all nighter if you really need to.
“I can do it,” you answer with a soft nod, grabbing a new stalk of celery. “But only if you promise to be there for the meetings with Kuroda’s victims.”
As much as you really wanted nothing to do with Aizawa– especially in the context of your career– the complainants on the Wing Stalker file need all of the support they can get. Your first meeting with one of the women is just a few days away, with many more to come in the following weeks. You’ve already been communicating with all of the victims via email and over the phone, but it’s another thing to meet them in person. That first meeting is your only chance to prove to them that they can have faith in you and the system– even if they really shouldn’t– and though you don’t want to admit it, Aizawa’s presence will be useful in establishing that hope, however feeble it may be.
“Of course,” Aizawa responds. “That was always a given.”
You hum in an absent kind of approval. “I specifically booked them to be after school hours so you could attend, so if you don’t show up I’m going to have some very bad things to say about you to your students at the convention,” you threaten, glancing towards him to gauge his reaction.
Looking away from the cutting board midway through chopping celery is your first mistake. Your second mistake is letting your gaze linger on the way Aizawa’s lips twitch upwards in amusement.
“Shit–!” you hiss, a sharp, slicing pain shooting up the length of your hand. Your eyes are watering by the time you turn to look at what you’ve done, blood already spilling from your finger and onto the cutting board.
Dropping the knife and stepping back, you curl your fingers into your palm and clutch your hand to your chest, holding back another noise of pain and a string of expletives. You blink and Aizawa is at your side, one hand carefully grabbing your wrist while the other gently pulls your hand away from your torso.
A potent humiliation flares in your stomach and you opt to look at the blood spilling down your palm instead of Aizawa. You think that this is exactly why you don’t cook as you grit your teeth when he uncurls your fingers to examine the wound, confirming that you thankfully haven’t cut anything off.
“Where’s your first aid kit?”
Your mind swims as you struggle to think clearly. “Under the bathroom sink,” you grit out, immediately pulling your hand back towards your chest the moment Aizawa lets go.
You lead Aizawa to the bathroom, not wanting to contaminate your kitchen with any more blood. While he retrieves your first aid kit, you sit down on the edge of the bathtub and bite back a groan of embarrassment, holding your hand in front you to glare down at the wound.
Aizawa works efficiently, washing his hands before retrieving all that he needs from the kit and kneeling on one knee in front of you. As he begins to wipe away the blood and the pain slowly wanes into a dull throb, you dare to look at him. His brows are knit together in concentration, and you almost laugh at the way he seems to be taking this entirely too seriously.
Your gaze lingers on Aizawa’s hands as he bandages your finger, moving with a practiced level of skill. When he turns your hand over to fully examine his work, his eyes briefly pause at the sight of the scarring on your forearms, the sleeve of your turtleneck having drifted up your arm at some point during all of the commotion. He looks away quickly– and for once it’s you that catches him trying to hide his reaction. He busies himself with packing up any unused supplies from the first aid kit as you leisurely pull the fabric over your wrists once more.
“I was a stupid teenager,” you sigh. The last thing you need right now is Aizawa treating you like some fragile doll because he thinks you’re one wrong word away from slitting your wrists again. “Traded one feeling for something that felt easier at the time and now I nearly die from heat stroke every summer.”
You wait for the same bullshit that everyone always tries to say when they see scars like yours on somebody– the feeble reassurances that there’s no need to hide. In your second year of university, some guy at a party that desperately wanted into your pants even tried to tell you that your scars were just “proof you won a battle”, and you’d been drunk enough by then that you’d nearly thrown up on him in response.
There’s nothing poetic about the raised skin on your forearms. It’s more annoying than anything, and you really wish that your younger self had picked a better spot than something as overt as your arms. The reality is that people look at you differently when they see them, even if they try to tell you that they don’t. Working in law, you practically had no choice but to cover up. You know with a resolute certainty that if anyone in the office ever caught a glimpse, you’d be accosted by so many pitiful looks that you’d probably relapse out of spite.
Aizawa stays silent, keeping his attention focused on zipping the first aid kit closed.
"Relax,” you huff, tilting your head as you study him. “I’ve got the roof now.”
“I don’t see how that’s any better,” he grumbles in response, straightening his legs as he places the first aid kit on your bathroom counter before turning to look at you.
“It’s less visible,” you counter, quirking an eyebrow at him.
You can almost see the way Aizawa’s exhaustion grows on his face as he draws out a long breath. “Exactly.”
Just as you open your mouth to respond, the shrill sound of your fire alarm going off startles you. Your wings jolt at your back and you curse, quickly pushing yourself to your feet. As you run out of the bathroom, your wings slam into Aizawa hard enough that he stumbles backwards and into the wall– but you’re too concerned with dealing with the alarm to give much of a shit; you’ve got approximately sixty seconds to quell the incessant beeping before the alarm goes off throughout the entire building and you anger a staggering amount of your fellow tenants in the process.
You dash into the kitchen, your eyes immediately landing on the black smoke billowing from the pan on the stove. Turning off the burner and covering your nose with one hand, you quickly grab the pan and haphazardly dump it into your sink, thankful that there’s no flames at the very least. With the threat largely contained as you turn on the faucet, you grab a tea towel and frantically wave it through the air as you stand beneath the smoke detector.
In the midst of your efforts, you catch sight of Aizawa standing a few feet away, his hands in his pockets as he watches with a faint amusement.
“Aizawa!” you bark out, raising your voice in an attempt to be heard over the beeping. “It’s your stupid sauce that nearly caught fire– help me out here!”
Aizawa is in the middle of approaching you when the alarm finally ceases. Relief washes over you as you drop your hand to your side and catch your breath, carding your free hand through your hair.
“Thanks for the help, asshole,” you grumble, glaring at him for a moment before you trudge your way towards the kitchen sink and turn the faucet off. The sauce is all but irreparably seared into the pan, and you think that even if you didn’t cheap out and actually bought the high-end dishsoap, this pan is a lost cause. Regardless, you fill it with water and an abundance of soap anyways, telling yourself that you’ll let it soak for now– as if you won’t be throwing it out in the morning.
When you step away from the sink, your eyes fall back to the cutting board, which is now coated with a concerning amount of blood. A dejected sigh falls from your lips as you scrape the celery into the garbage, trashing the entire cutting board a second later.
Remembering that there is a very useless hero in your apartment, you look up to glare at Aizawa, a scowl on your face.
“Well? What are your dinner plans now?”
—
“This fucks so hard,” you mutter under your breath between bites, too exhausted from all of the events of today to even bother with having a filter right now. If anything, you hope that your vulgarity scares Aizawa off.
Instead, he huffs in amusement. “That’s one way to put it.”
You fumble with your chopsticks as you shovel more food into your mouth– the shitty takeout tasting even better knowing that you’d guilted Aizawa into paying for it. Your bandaged finger makes it hard to eat with as much grace as you’d like to think that you normally do, but you’re so overjoyed to be consuming something other than instant noodles that you can’t bring yourself to care.
Across from you, Aizawa sits on the other side of the couch. You do your best not to think about the fact that your bra is hiding underneath the throw blanket behind him.
“I used to get takeout from Minase’s all the time in university,” you mumble absently, a fond feeling flickering through you at the memory of the quaint restaurant. “The owners treated me like their own daughter– made sure I ate properly when I was struggling to even stay alive during finals. I had to convince them not to hang my graduation portrait on the wall when I finished law school.”
Aizawa hums in acknowledgment, nodding along.
“They didn’t have any kids, but they used to tell all of their customers that their daughter was studying to become a lawyer.” The soft smile on your lips wavers as you continue. “I– I don’t think I’ve been there since I started at the prosecution’s office.”
“You should go again sometime.”
You frown. “I doubt they remember me– that or they hate me for never coming back.”
Aizawa looks up from his container of food, an unreadable expression on his face. “Do you always do that?”
“What?”
“Talk yourself out of doing anything good– assume the worst,” he clarifies with a dull tone. As you’re in the middle of glaring at him, Aizawa nonchalantly takes another bite of his food. “Do you think the Minase’s are the type of people to hate?”
“Course not,” you mutter, shaking your head. “I had to yell at rude customers for them.”
“Then why are you thinking of them like that?” he counters. “It’s not a very kind outlook.”
Heat rushes to your face as you look away, stabbing your chopsticks into a piece of chicken with much more force than necessary.
“Sorry. I forgot,” Aizawa drawls. “The world is awful. All of it. My bad.”
You grit your teeth, an exasperated huff escaping your lips as you try not to let Aizawa get to you. Stupid hero and his stupid words. The way he picks you apart is infuriating– you’re the lawyer here; you’re supposed to be the one that meticulously dismantles any claim thrown your way. How such an obviously exhausted man continuously manages to best you at every turn frustrates you to no end.
“You look like shit,” you blurt, resorting to provoking him in an attempt to get the upper hand. “When was the last time you slept?”
Aizawa isn’t fazed in the slightest, and you’re unfortunately not surprised by that fact. You suppose that trying to get underneath the skin of someone who teaches a bunch of wannabe hero high schoolers too full of themselves for their own good is not the most sound of plans.
“Deflection. Nice,” He comments dryly, more interested in scraping the sauce off the sides of the takeout container than he is in engaging with your petty insults.
Rolling your eyes, you momentarily stop scowling to shove a piece of chicken into your mouth and angrily bite down. It takes everything in you not to focus on the way you’re fully relaxed, the everpresent tension in your shoulders finally gone for once. There’s a faint fear that sits in the back of your throat– worried that the rigidity in your muscles will return just as it always does if you become too aware of how easily you can breathe right now.
You can’t remember the last time you weren’t hyperaware of your wings while in the presence of another person. The appendages are sprawled around you, one curled loosely around your side and the other stretching across the back of the couch. Your feathers just barely shine underneath the warm light above.
Aizawa doesn’t look at them– hasn’t ever, really. Living in a world where you were so used to being ogled at and accosted by lingering gazes and hungry looks made his complete disregard for your wings jarringly obvious. You routinely find yourself waiting for the act to drop– for the hero to slip up and prove that he’s just like everyone else. The more time you begrudgingly spend with him, the more vigilantly you watch for the facade to falter.
People tried back in university all the time– pretended they liked you for your personality or some other bullshit to reel you in only to get overexcited when they thought they had a chance and give themselves away. You hadn’t been fooled in a long time– partially because you simply didn’t let anyone in anymore, and partly because you’ve gone through it so many times now that you could spot someone’s true intentions from a mile away. You keep your hopes buried underground, telling yourself that Aizawa is just like everyone else– the only difference being that he’s hiding it a lot better than most.
“Your food is going to get cold,” Aizawa drawls, snapping you out of your thoughts.
“Didn’t ask,” you grumble back, reluctantly shovelling another bite of food into your mouth.
You do your best not to think about how you haven’t felt comfortable like this in a long time.