Chapter Text
Today is a Friday. Hitoshi's birthday is in six days. Currently, he's hanging upside down and suspended from a ceiling hook.
Hitoshi's fairly sure he's not in trouble, though it might be the blood surging to his head that's convinced him. The tips of his fingers brush cold concrete as he sways, side to side to side. The smell of old, musty metal sours the air, and he squints past the pressure in his brain to see iron rails across the room. There are crates stacked haphazardly on top of them, between them. At least he's finally found his objective, Hitoshi thinks, even if it's not the way Aizawa strictly wanted him to.
"I have a job for you," Aizawa had told him, pulling him aside during their weekly Commission briefing.
All the major underground heroes were there, as always, Ivy and Shrike beside Misting and Triple A. Monoma and Hagakure, too, though Tokoyami was missing from their usual newly-minted group. They'd sat through the Commission's lecture on proper protocol and making sure their identities remained under wraps. Hitoshi's ninety percent sure he saw Aizawa napping during that portion, the one publically-identifiable underground hero still allowed to operate. A man with the air of a stagnant office worker stood up and talked in a flat monotone about the use of force and quirks in varying situations, including displaying a pathetically-faded news article about an unknown hero running rampant. Hitoshi recognized the figure as himself, and promptly stayed very quiet for the rest of the briefing.
On his way out, he'd promised Monoma that they would meet up later in the week for ramen. Hitoshi had been neglecting his duty to provide the other man with up-to-date gossip on the Class of Legends, apparently. When Monoma left, satisfied, a hand landed on his shoulder. Hitoshi had turned to see Aizawa there, ready and waiting with a proposition.
"Go on," Hitoshi prompted, raising an eyebrow in the way he learned to mimic from Aizawa's many identical expressions.
"I've been watching a group for a few weeks now," Aizawa said, arms crossed. "I've had my eye on them because of the products they're shipping."
"Products?"
"Trigger," Aizawa told him, voice low. Hitoshi made a face, wrinkling his nose. "The problem is I can't get close. Their security is incredibly good, and I can't risk going in at a time when I might miss half of them."
Hitoshi lifted his chin, comprehension dawning. "So you want someone to go in undercover?"
Aizawa shrugged. "Not necessarily," he said. "Just get information about their rotas, staff, shipping chains. Anything you can extract, I'll use."
Hitoshi nodded. "I can do that. When do you want it done?"
"Are you assigned to any ops right now?"
He thought for a second. The Shibuya operation had ended a week ago in a huge fireball that scorched Monoma's coat. He'd finished working with Misting on the Okazaki case, and his investigation into the Red Circle had come to a halt without further leads. Hitoshi shook his head.
"Fantastic," said Aizawa, looking not at all enthused. "I'll handle the paperwork for the Commission if you're happy to start today."
Hitoshi grinned. "That sounds like a great plan. I hate paperwork."
"I know. This is my payment for the favor."
"You're repaying me by… negating the consequences caused by me doing the favor?" Hitoshi asked.
"Yes."
"So it's the exact same outcome for me whether I do it for you or not."
"Yes."
Hitoshi hummed. "Interesting bargaining tactic."
Aizawa lifted one eyebrow, and Hitoshi murmured classic under his breath. "What makes you think I've told you all the benefits?"
"Have you?"
"The target's name is Ogura Kioshi," Aizawa said, instead of answering. "He's not the leader of the group. I haven't been able to observe them, but Ogura is one of the higher-ups. I suspect second-in-command. If you can get to him and find out what he knows, then remove his memory of the event, I'll have all I need to dismantle the group. We can investigate where they're getting the Trigger from," he added. "Tsukauchi is interested. This could be a big boost for your career if you're involved. But I need you to be careful, alright?
Hitoshi had mulled it over for a few seconds before deciding that yes, any operation that would give him enough clout to move up from long, aching stakeouts handed down through the ranks by the Commission was a good idea. He'd tracked one of the lackeys Aizawa sent him to down, followed him to a small warehouse on the edge of the waterfront, and perched on the edge of a nearby roof to watch their comings-and-goings and keep an eye out for Ogura.
Twenty minutes in, someone spotted him. Hitoshi knows this because, after precisely a minute more, he'd heard footsteps behind him. He whirled, scarf flaring out from around his neck, ready to fight. He caught the glimpse of metal careening towards him before it was over. He'd woken up suspended and dangling by the ankle, the same position he's in now.
Hitoshi wonders whether he got a mild concussion from the blow to the head that knocked him out in one try. It would fit with the faint ring in his ears, but he would rather pretend he's in complete control of all his faculties still. It makes the thought of escaping an easier one to attempt.
Straining with effort, clenching his core, Hitoshi twists and pulls himself upward to look at the mechanism he's held by. There's a metal cuff around his ankle, one he's not going to be able to break by himself. The cuff is linked by a thick chain to a loop welded on to the ceiling, and when Hitoshi looks closer he sees the telltale marks of welding bubbling up around the loop. He's not breaking that, either. He squints closer at the cuffs, and then he realizes that there's a lock on the side of it. Hitoshi can unlock that.
He can still feel the small protrusion inside his boots; they didn't confiscate his emergency tools, though his capture weapon and mask are missing. Hitoshi knows the mask's blueprints are with Hatsume, easily replaceable, but he still hopes he manages to find it again. He feels the same, stronger, even, towards the capture weapon he's become so synchronized with over the past years. He'd hate to lose the greatest gifts Aizawa's ever given him, the one thing he trusts to save his life over and over and the other he trusts to let him use his quirk.
Hitoshi reaches up to tap on the side of his boot and shoves his free hand inside, making a face as his hand scrabbles around for the mechanism to let his kit free. His fingers brush a latch — there — and then he's gripping the small, loose box. He clicks it open with his thumb. There are his lockpicks, his army knife, his emergency comm. There's only a select people that's connected to, his mental list of trusted emergency contacts, and Hitoshi decides to use it first. He brings the box up to his mouth and curls his lips over his teeth, then grabs the comm with his mouth. He stuffs the box into his boot for safekeeping and passes the comm to his hand, navigating to the right contact. Hitoshi presses down. He raises the comm to his ear. The dial tone rings, clicks off, and a voice says —
"Who is this?"
"'Sup, dad," Hitoshi says flippantly.
"What do you need, secondary problem child?" Aizawa asks. He sounds vaguely distracted, though that could be Hitoshi perceiving it wrong from his precarious position. "Why don't I recognize this number?"
"I may have got myself into a little bit of a situation," Hitoshi tells him. "It's very fixable, but I'm just letting you know I might be delayed on that intel. Gotta get out first. And this is my emergency number. So. Going to need a new one after this."
"Get out?" Aizawa repeats, voice snapping to alertness. "Where are you?"
"I'm inside their warehouse," Hitoshi says. "A bit tied up at the moment. Ha."
"Hitoshi -"
He cuts the other man off. "I'm reasonably sure I can escape, no problems. Just wanted to let you know. You know, protocol and everything."
Aizawa doesn't say anything for a long pause. "I'm coming to get you."
"No!" Hitoshi blurts. "Wait, I can handle this."
"It doesn't sound like it." There's a thread of angry worry running through Aizawa's tone.
Hitoshi swallows. "You'll jeopardize your position in the operation if you come."
"I'd rather not lose one of the only reliable underground heroes the Commission has."
Hitoshi hears the words and recognizes the badly-disguised concern, and huffs. "Don't come. I have this under control."
He ends the call before Aizawa can reply.
"I have got this," he says aloud, the words ringing in the empty space, and gets to work.
Hitoshi takes a breath and flings himself upwards, reaching out to the chain. He scrabbles and seizes it and then he's up, bent double in the middle of the air. He lets out a rushed exhale as the blood flows back the right way round, feeling a vein at his temple throb. Hitoshi stays folded in two for several moments and lets himself breathe, ignoring the ache in his back where it curves round.
"Shit," he swears. "This is so much harder off a gym mat."
Shaking his head, Hitoshi anchors himself with one hand wrapped firmly around the chain and reaches for his box. He takes his lockpicking tools in his mouth, grimacing at the strong, metallic taste, and replaces the box.
"Thank you, Tooru," he mutters to himself past the metal in his mouth, grateful for all the time he spent learning how to pick a lock from Hagakure.
The lock in the cuff is a normal one, it looks like, a basic tumbler. Hitoshi grips his tension wrench between his fourth and fifth fingers, praying that he doesn't drop it, and holds his pick with the remaining fingers. Slowly, so slowly, he pushes the tension in, keeping himself as still as he can. His core aches as he anchors his body, unyieldingly, in the same position. He takes a breath to steady himself.
Hitoshi slides the pick inside and pushes upwards — the pin sets instantly. It's an easy lock. He prods at the second pin, grinning to himself when it binds, and promptly goes through the rest of the lock smoothly and successfully. When he's done he removes the pick gradually, putting it back in his mouth, and turns his tension wrench.
The cuff unlocks. Hitoshi's ankle falls free. He hits the ground in a crumpled heap, back slamming against the ground, impact ringing through his body, sound echoing off the walls.
"Fuck," he groans, motionless for a few seconds before he pushes himself up and rubs at his aching spine. For good measure, he turns to glare up at the chain and the still-dangling, open cuff, before shooting his middle finger up at it. "Fuck you."
He spat out the rest of his tools when he fell, so Hitoshi spends a few seconds searching the stone floor for his pick and rake. He finds them, replacing them in the box, and puts his emergency kit back in its rightful place. He's free, now, and his next task is to get the fuck out of this warehouse.
Hitoshi pads over, past the crates he knows are filled with Trigger, and pokes his head out of the doorway. Blank corridor stretches out both ways, and he narrows his eyes. The warehouse looked like one singular room while he watched it, so he supposes he must be in either a different location or in some sort of maze of backrooms. He doesn't know which way to go, though so —
Someone appears at the end of the corridor. Hitoshi hisses and flings himself back into the room, out of view, before tentatively edging back just enough that one eye can see. There are two people talking, one holding a clipboard. He recognizes both of them. They came in at two and three respectively while Hitoshi was staking out the warehouse. As he stares, they continue walking back the way they came, and he lets out a shaky sigh of relief.
If they're lurking that way, Hitoshi should probably stay away. He creeps out of the room as quietly as he can, and stalks down the corridor as fast as he's willing to risk. There are no shouts from behind. Hitoshi keeps his calm, and rounds the corner after checking it's clear. A few paces later, he comes to another door, and readies himself before pushing it open.
It's empty, the same design as the room he was kept in before he woke up. There are less crates in this room, with more random, miscellaneous items instead. Hitoshi sees a half-destroyed painting, peeling and water-damaged, a lampshade stretching up to the ceiling, and a worn couch. It has to be the oddest collection of objects he's seen in a place like this. There's a bit of paper placed neatly on top of the couch. FOR GARAGE SALE is scribbled over the top, the writing sloping downwards. Hitoshi squints at it, decides it isn't worth the mental effort, and turns away.
The rest of the room is decidedly less interesting. The walls are the same corrugated metal, the floor still cold, hard concrete. In the far corner, though, Hitoshi sees a ladder, presumably leading up to the second level of the warehouse. It's red-painted and silver-runged. He moves closer, and that's when he catches sight of the low table in the corner. There's a jumble of stuff piled on top of it, covered by a familiar-looking fabric — resting on top is a mildly battered black mask, and his heart leaps at the sight.
"Bless you, coincidence," Hitoshi says, and scoops up his capture weapon. The weight of it settles around his neck, and he buries the lower half of his face in its smooth folds, inhaling the familiar scent. "Thank god. I missed you."
His scarf does not respond. That's okay; Hitoshi's used to it. He picks up his mask, the familiar cold metal comforting, and hooks and secures it around his ears. He clears his throat; the sound comes through loud and clear. It's not broken, then. Good. Out of habit, he fiddles with the side dials a few times until he's sure it's back in its default position.
Hitoshi walks over to the ladder, patting his capture weapon fondly. He climbs up steadily, keeping silent, and reaches the top. The second level is a balcony, the stretch of sheet metal functioning as the floor stopping abruptly as the warehouse opens up further. There are rafters crossing across, wide enough for Hitoshi to walk on. The entrance is at the far side of the warehouse. The rafters run all the way through to it, over a thin corridor off to the side. Hitoshi creeps over, praying he doesn't make too much noise on the rusting metal beneath him, figuring there'll be less people to look up and catch him out in one corridor. He walks along the rafter, keeping his balance, and then —
"I don't know what to tell you," comes a voice from below. Hitoshi stiffens and peers over the rafter, seeing two people walking down the corridor, rapidly approaching the spot he's directly over. Mercifully, neither of them seem interested in what's above them. "We didn't notice him investigating us until today. It was pure luck we saw him. We have him tied up, but — if people are looking at our operation —"
"Focus, Ogura," snaps another voice. This one's female. The other must be Ogura, and Hitoshi's eyes widen as he stares. He can get Ogura now, and then deal with the woman — "This operation is mine. I'll worry about Pro Heroes. You just do your job, understood?"
Fuck.
There's an audible gulp from Ogura. Hitoshi watches as he wrings his hands. "U-Understood."
The woman must be the leader, then. Hitoshi has accidentally stumbled onto her. The information he could get out of her would be significant, and Aizawa would definitely be satisfied. Hitoshi thinks about jobs like these, about deception and stealth and subterfuge, and then thinks about stakeout while Monoma throws a tantrum in one corner and Hagakure spills soup all over a sleeping Tokoyami's outfit in the other. Then, he wishes the second were made-up.
He's taking this opportunity.
Hitoshi freezes like a big cat waiting for its prey, and tracks Ogura and the leader with sharp eyes. He grips his capture weapon in one hand, readying himself. His mask is secure. His scarf is with him. Hitoshi has this. They pass under him, and he leaps.
He angles his knee out, and it slams into Ogura's chest. The man yells, falling backwards, and Hitoshi presses forward and shoves his weight down. Ogura hits the ground hard. The leader shouts something angrily. Hitoshi makes a fist and punches Ogura's jaw as hard as he can. His knuckles connect with a crack. Ogura goes limp. Hitoshi exhales, and climbs off him, turning to the leader. She's staring at him dangerously, something sparking in her eyes, one hand raised. One foot is behind the other. She's in a defensive pose.
Hitoshi waves.
"Hello," he says. "Who are you?"
The woman's face twists nastily. Her mouth clamps shut.
Shit, Hitoshi thinks. Shit, fuck.
"Don't you think it's rude not to answer someone when they ask you a question?"
Her eyes flash. She sneers. Hitoshi swallows, and opens his mouth to speak again, but she raises her hand high and he freezes.
"If you'd just —"
The woman slashes down with her hand. Something rises at the edge of Hitoshi's vision, and he flicks his eyes to the side to see his capture weapon writhing in the air like a sentient snake. Panic shears through him like a razor-sharp, burning blade, and he rears back. The woman's face wrenches into a smile in the corner of his vision. Her hands blur. Hitoshi stares at his weapon with wide eyes, reaching out to grab it and tear it away from his neck. It dodges his hands. He lets fly a curse.
His scarf moves.
Fabric streaks through the air in a blur, and then there's something around Hitoshi's neck and it's squeezing and constricting and he reaches up to claw at his neck, staggering backwards, and his head thumps with pressure. He gasps in a breath, but it's like fighting against a vacuum. Nothing happens, no air squeezes through. He can't breathe. He can't breathe, his weapon is strangling him, his father's scarf is —
He trips over something and falls on his ass, shock jolting through his lower body. Hitoshi's eyes bulge wide — he can feel it, feel the heat and the pounding and the throbbing pain in his skull. Pressure builds and builds and pops with a burst of lightheadedness in his eye, and then there's warmth and wetness on his cheek and the room whirls and spins around him. Hitoshi extends a hand towards the fuzzy image of the woman, clear in half his vision, clawing, pleading.
Please. Please.
"Nice try," says a voice. Hitoshi can barely make it out over the thunderous roar in his ears. White strips whip and flail in the edges of his blurring, darkening vision as it tunnels down narrower and narrower. He can't breathe. Terror surges through his veins. Hitoshi's going to die, he's dying, he can't breathe —
"Hitoshi!"
Aizawa, Hitoshi wants to scream, to call, I'm here, but his throat is closing up and the world is rotating like a ferris wheel —
Huh. Maybe that's just his eyes rolling back in his head.
Hitoshi slumps to the cold ground, his cheek resting against cold concrete, and everything fades to black.
- - -
When Aizawa enters, he's been awake for all of two minutes, breathing heavily through the panic still resounding in his system. Aizawa's carrying two cups of coffee. When their gazes meet, Hitoshi's unsteady and half-blurry, Aizawa nearly drops the cups in his haste to shove them onto the nearest surface.
"Hitoshi," he says, voice hoarse, and nearly lunges over to his beside.
"Aizawa," Hitoshi says. His throat cracks, trembles, rips its way through the sound. He reaches out blindly. "Aizawa."
"Don't try to speak," Aizawa tells him. "Don't. Your throat is in — incredibly bad condition."
As he says the words, it pulses with pain. Hitoshi gasps raggedly. "I —"
"Stop," says Aizawa, uncharacteristically roughly. Hitoshi's gaze snaps to him. His long hair is tangled and limp, even more so than normal, and his eyes are ringed with dark, bruising circles, so intense they're nearly black. "You're going to do more damage to it. Let me — here."
Aizawa takes a cup from the table next to Hitoshi. It's filled with ice chips.
"Can you move?" says Aizawa. Hitoshi opens his mouth, and the other man silences him with a frazzled glare. "Use your head. Yes or no?"
He nods. The pain he's feeling, the ache, is deep within his throat. The rest of him is surprisingly intact. Aizawa exhales, and then holds out the cup. Hitoshi picks one up with slow fingers and slips it between his teeth.
"Have some of those," Aizawa tells him. He sounds wrecked, exhausted. There's a gruffness to his voice that doesn't appear unless he's stressed. "Then you can talk."
The coldness seeps down Hitoshi's throat, spreading until his chest feels icy and cool. The throbbing throughout his neck reduces, just slightly. He takes a breath, and takes another few chips. The sterile smell of hospital detergent fills his senses
"God," Aizawa says under his breath. Hitoshi watches him as he sits heavily in the nearest chair, and guilt boils like poison in his gut. He did this.
"I'm sorry," Hitoshi murmurs, as soon as the last chip has soothed his ragged throat. "I didn't mean to —"
"I know. I'm not mad at you, Hitoshi, I just — I was so worried. I am so worried."
Hitoshi swallows. "What happened? After — I passed out?"
Aizawa takes a measured breath. "I disabled her quirk," he says, shortly. "Your throat is going to be injured for a while and you have a burst blood vessel in your left eye, but your airways were unrestricted fast enough that you don't have any permanent damage. Those injuries will heal themselves, however slowly."
Hitoshi exhales. Thank fuck. He hadn't considered the possibility, but it's entirely likely that he would have lost something he could never get back, and that — he chokes on a cough, flame flaring through his throat. He winces, and takes another chip.
"I brought you and your gear back here as fast as I could," Aizawa continues. He's one step away from having his head in his hands, slumping forwards. He gestures over to the other side of the room, and Hitoshi follows his finger to see his capture weapon lying in coils on the seat opposite Aizawa, mask nestling in the center. He blinks at the sight of it.
It twitches.
Hitoshi throws himself backwards, pressing himself bodily back up against the pillows. "It's — it's going to — Aizawa —"
Aizawa straightens instantly, and his eyes track Hitoshi's line of sight until he's leaping up and moving to block his view. Hitoshi can still see it, though, whipping and twirling and streaking towards him —
"It's not moving," Aizawa tells him, voice low. "Hitoshi. It's not moving. She's not here."
"I — I saw it —"
"Hitoshi, calm down, you aren't doing your voice any —"
"I saw it!"
He's breathing hard, now, and Aizawa's hands are too tight on his shoulders. Hitoshi shakes in his grip, twisting and thrashing to get him off. He gasps.
"Hitoshi, please —"
"What's going on?"
Another voice, another person, female, and his scarf is moving and that's like her voice and is it going to happen again?
"He's panicking —"
"Please move aside, sir —"
"It's moving!" Hitoshi yells. Everything is black. With swirling panic, he realizes his eyes are clamped shut, and that means he can't see the scarf coming — it's coming for him and he can't breathe, and Hitoshi scrabbles and claws at his closing throat —
"Stop!"
"Hitoshi —"
"I'm administering a sedative —"
"Wait —"
There's a sharp pinch in his arm. Something drains through his veins, then, like liquid lead. His hands go limp, and fall. His eyes droop open. He slumps against the backboard of the bed. He can't quite grasp for the reason he was struggling so much.
"That's better," says someone above him, unfamiliar. They swim into view as Hitoshi blinks up at them, and then someone else appears in his eyeline.
"Hitoshi," Aizawa says, sounding at a loss.
"Hello," Hitoshi responds.
Aizawa works his jaw. "How are you feeling?"
"Pretty bad. I fucked up the mission," Hitoshi says, drowsily. Vaguely, he thinks he wasn't really supposed to tell Aizawa that.
Something flashes across Aizawa's face. He hisses. "Don't worry about that," he scolds. "That really isn't what you should be worrying about."
Hitoshi blinks up at him. "What — what instead?"
Aizawa looks agitated, gesturing around the room. His face twists. "You're in a hospital bed, Hitoshi. You nearly died."
"Oh," he says, blankly. "I forgot."
"You —" Aizawa cuts himself off, stepping away from Hitoshi's bedside. "Fuck."
"Stay with me?" Hitoshi slurs, his awareness starting to slip away. There's a drifting feeling in his limbs.
"Always," Aizawa says, but his mouth is fixed in a downward line.
Hitoshi drifts off to sleep under his watchful gaze.