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It's not often Shouta finds himself in the wrong. He's careful, analytical, and he prides himself in seeing underneath. It had proven to be an unparalleled skill in underground heroics.
People did not often prove him wrong.
And yet, he'd been so blindsided by the problem child. With a quirk like his, Shouta was prepared for arrogance like Bakugo, or a sort of extroverted 'manliness' like Kirishima.
He wasn't expecting an anxious child with a prominent stutter, and he most certainly wasn't prepared for that kid to be one of the most intelligent students Shouta has ever taught.
(Yaoyorozu was a given, Bakugo a perfectionist, but Midoriya?)
So, he has questions, questions that jumbled together into something too interwoven for him to even know where to start.
All Might? Quirk analysis? Those coded notebooks? Deku? That toxic - or at least it was toxic - relationship with Bakugo? Those crippling insecurities that rear their ugly heads whenever he makes even the smallest mistake?
The kid was a wreck and the only reason he'd avoided interrogation was thanks to the simple fact that his physical injuries took priority.
Shouta, loathe he to admit it, put it all on the back-burner.
And then Dr. Tanaka had come and Midoriya exploded.
Or, rather, he flourished, blooming before their very eyes, all smiles, muttering all the while in a way that had Shouta half-convinced it was a quirk of its own.
Aizawa had seen the notebooks in the past. Sometimes, he'd even tuned in to the kids muttering, but, more often than not, he'd missed something crucial and it sounded more like gibberish than anything else. Something that clearly made sense but only to him. Aizawa had chalked it up to a hyper-fixation, or, more accurately, a special interest. Harmless and something Midoriya could write books about.
(Books, plural, and probably better than some learned people.)
Aizawa made a mistake, brushing off the kids muttering. Because now, after Dr. Tanaka had left and Shouta had seen the gleam in Nedzu's eye, he was left with far too much to unwrap.
But, he finally had a place to begin:
Why wasn't Midoriya advanced in his quirk?
By all means, his own quirk would have been one of the first things he would have looked in to. He should have had twelve - ten, if the kid were a late bloomer - years to hone his analysis skills alongside his own quirk. From his (debateably) uninformed analysis of Dr. Tanaka's quirk, Midoriya clearly knew the right questions to ask and the right experiments to try. It sort of reminded him of Hatsume, the chaotic genius of the Support class. He should be far too advanced for anyone other than Nedzu to give advice to.
So why, then, did he use his quirk like a baby dear, wobbling around, all trial and error, mistake after mistake until he was littered in scars and left all the more determined to get it right. Why was he struggling?
Shouta, for how exhausted that hellish class makes him, would never forgive himself for not figuring it all out. It was his job as their teacher, as a temporary guardian, and as the one responsible for turning them into respectable heroes. Protecting those kids included knowing how to best help them, and, in that, how to prevent them from hurting themselves. (Read: it was just Midoriya, and occasionally Bakugo but that was only when Midoriya was involved.)
If Shouta had learned anything from underground heroics, it was how to gather information.
Student records were accessible as a temporary guardian, seeing as they were, for the school year, practically wards of UA. He expects to find minimal comments, something about the muttering, perhaps, and maybe a comment or two about the shyness. He'd seen Midoriya their first year, after all, and while the kid has grown a lot, Shouta could still remember how anxious he'd been. How quiet and terrified he was of, well, everything.
Moments after pulling up the kid's file, his email dings.
It's a special, short sound Nedzu had created and programmed to always and only follow his emails. (Hizashi and Nemuri had put effort into finding the sound elsewhere, trying to pull a prank on the rest of the faculty. It literally didn't. Exist.)
The principal was impossible to ignore.
But why was he sending something at three in the morning?
Did he even sleep? (Probably not, not that Shouta could blame him.)
He rolls his eyes but clicks, knowing full well that 'Nedzu' and 'coincidences' are antonyms if Shouta's ever seen any.
What he reads makes something uncomfortable coil in his gut, settling with a heaviness that makes him just know he won't be getting any sleep, not for a while.
Aizawa,
I'm surprised it took you so long to open Midoriya's file, but alas, you finally have! I am certain you will come to the same conclusions that I have. Shall we meet today before classes?
Shouta has half a mind to worry that the stoat had written such an email so quickly. The other half would rather not acknowledge that it had already been drafted. (And then there was the terrifying but very real idea that the rodent was, in fact, not surprised that he'd opened the file when he did.)
A vague Nedzu was as bad as a rambling one, but this had dread seeping under his skin and he can practically feel the weight settle.
Shouta's halfway through the second page when he notices how his teeth ache, grinding together, molars creaking beneath the pressure.
What the hell is this?
There was no 'quiet but sweet,' nothing about harmless mumbling or silly moments of accidental quirk usage and the snapping of too many pencils.
It was all wrong.
"Provokes other students."
"Disrupts class."
"Violent tendencies."
"Detention for talking during class."
"Disciplinary action for banging on doors."
"Detention for starting a fight."
"Disciplinary action for-"
It. Kept. Going.
Shouta had checked more than once to make sure the file was really Midoriya Izuku's and not Bakugo's or some other students.
But no, it was most certainly the file of Problem Child no. 1.
It felt wrong to even read, as if every bitter lie had been submitted almost gleefully, with wicked grins as they tore the boy to shreds.
(If he'd tried to go to any other hero school, they would have barred him before the exam. The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.)
He also notices are there aren't any 'Midoriya-kuns,' no explanations of who he'd supposedly fought or why exactly he'd been 'banging on doors.'
It makes him nauseous.
By the time Aizawa's knocking on Nedzu's door, he'd already read all the files thoroughly and had gone through every record, note, and recorded 'disciplinary action.' There was a disturbingly low number of those, lower than the amount that the teachers had referenced.
He walks into the office without preamble and is speaking before Nedzu has the chance to shove a cup of tea his way.
"They lied."
"Yes, they did." The scrap of glass across wood. Aizawa doesn't take the cup.
"He's a great kid."
"He is."
"Those teachers should have their licenses revoked."
"I agree," Nedzu says, a sharp glint in his eye. It's the maniacal sort of thing that Shouta would do almost anything to avoid.
It feel justified, it calms the raging beast inside for a moment, offering the comfort that justice will be served.
It will be.
He almost smiles back, something stretched and feral, all teeth and no comfort.
But first.
"Midoriya's quirk, they don't mention it." Two pristine paws clasp above the desk, Nedzu's head tilting down. "If they're hiding something about it, I need to know."
Nedzu doesn't respond. He picks up his tea, the thin glass tinking together as he sips a bitter blend.
Shouta waits. He has time.
"Yes, someone is hiding something, but it isn't the teachers," he admits rather softly. "That is for Midoriya-kun to tell, and, personally," the sharpness of his smile eases into something soft, gentle in the sort of way he only was for his precious students, "I hope he does."
Shouta almost barged into Aldera, especially after he'd thoroughly gone through Bakugo's uncharacteristically pristine file. But he knew he could leave that school - could he even call it that with such incompetent teachers? - to Nedzu.
Instead, he continues teaching for the remainder of the week. It made logical sense to wait until Friday to approach the kid, just in case it was emotionally taxing and he needed a few days.
Thursday, he watches as the kid shoos his friends away before slowly, moving at a snails pace, cleans his desk.
The moment Kaminari's out the door, Midoriya's in front of Aizawa.
"Sensei, if- if you're wondering about Dr. Tanaka, I haven't emailed her. Yet. But I- I know I should and I will, I just-"
He wasn't expecting that, but perhaps he'd been a bit obvious in his staring.
"-ane there are some tests I need to-"
"Problem Child, you've been busy, I'm sure she understands. She's a busy person, too, I'm sure." Midorya's jaw snaps shut at that and he quickly nods, cheeks flushing red. But then he just... stares, eyes blinking, the lines of his slowly defining jaw flexing.
"Then, Mr. Aizawa, did I... do something wrong?" By the end of the sentence, it's a strained whisper.
His first year, Shouta had chalked it up to anxiety. Seeing it now, however, it makes something uncomfortable settle and twist in his gut.
'Disciplinary action.'
"No, you're not in trouble."
"Oh, um, okay...?" He bites at his lower lip, gnawing at it as his brows draw low and he squints up at him. Shouta almost pinches the bridge of his nose.
He should've just gone with it.
"I was going to wait until Friday to speak with you," he admits with a sigh.
The kid's flinch doesn't go unnoticed.
'Disciplinary action.'
"But perhaps now is best," he says although his throat is tight, possibilities rolling through his mind. Images far too graphic, ideas far too wrong, and yet there was something.
(He wants to scream. Wants to sit the kid down and ask, he needs to know.
He doesn't.)
If he waited, the poor kid would only stew until he was left paralyzed with frayed, anxious nerves.
"It may be better to speak in an office." Shouta stands, back popping and stiff. He'd stayed up all night hunched over his computer, stewing over Bakugo's records of the same school. They were so different it was startling. (It was wrong.)
Midoriya hesitates and Shouta catches how his throat bobs, eyes wide and flicking from the door to the windows. Panic twitching in his fingers, flickering in his eyes.
'̵̨̢̡̯͓͉̯͖̪̰̰̖͍̦͈̓̆͛͑̐̊̋̈́͌D̴̮̤͉͆̀̈́̈́͂̇͗̒͐̕ͅi̵̢͙͖̫̟̜̘̬̙̓̄̂̌̈́͂̔̑͑̚͘s̶̻͖͛͐̍̆̉͋̽̈̒̉͝ç̸̱̠̬͉̦̗̳̗͚̲̀̈͐͜͝i̷̗̘͇̜̭̪͑̏̊̏͑̈́̏͊̚p̴̧̯̖͈̣̬̬̩̼̺̤̊̉͌͜l̷̨̽̓́̽̓̑̆̈̔ï̸̡̢̭͓̙͎̫͖͇̹̩̑̉̐̂ń̵͔̹̘̦̪̙̹̹͍̗̫̠̜͇͉͖͆ạ̶̲̖̳͆̈́̅͗͗̒̏̐̓̒̍̇̅́͑̔͘͜r̸̡̧̤̘̠̫͙̼͚̼̩̙͖͓͙̙͆̓͗͛͊̇͘͝y̸̬̬͐ ̵͙̟͔̘̭͉͇͇̝̥̹̘̭̱̫̈́̀̈́̈́̒̌̌̿͜͠ͅa̵̼͋̈͊̉̎͝c̵̮͖͎͖̙̍̄̈́̔̔͛̇̋̆̾̍͑͝t̶̝̣̳̹͌̓̆͂͂̿͜͝ǐ̶̛̭̲̘̯̮̌̂̑̊̉͋͛̓̐̈̕͠ͅó̶̯͓͈͍̫̺͎̝͕̬̖͈̪̳͋̊̒̀̚̚n̷͍͗̃̐̊͆̄̀͂̊̐̐̚̕͜.̴̡̢͉̫̦̥̩̗̙̫͚̗̞̯͔͚̌̌̽̇̈́̊̾̈́͆͗̒̔̅͗͝'̴̧̝̘͉̺̑͗͑̿̆͆̈́̿̈͗̿̓͝͠ͅ
Shouta swallows something thick, nausea heavy and crawling up.
"Here works just as well." And he slumps back down, heavily, fingers quick to curl around the cheap plastic of his chair until it's a white-knuckled grip, hands hot and plastic bending.
The anger dissipates a little. Not a lot, it still churns and itches beneath his skin, hot and dangerous in his chest, but his face stays calm and that's enough.
When the kid's tension dissipates, that discomfort slips from his lungs and he takes in a slow, light breath.
He doesn't tell him to close the door. The next class session had begun and he could keep an ear out, but something told him a closed classroom door was just as bad as an office.
"Do you trust me, Midoriya?"
The kid blinks at that, eyes wide.
"Of- of course I do, Mr. Aizawa! I- you've done so much for us and I-" A simple raise of his hand cuts off the rambling.
"And you understand that it is my job to help you grow here at UA, correct?"
This time, Midoriya doesn't respond with flailing arms and desperation.
His brows fall, hands still at his side, before he sharply turns for the door.
The action makes Shouta's stomach drop but he doesn't move, just watches and waits until the door closes with a soft click.
"You're curious about my quirk." Shouta can't help how his eyes widen but he nods and waits for the kid to return. That was... quick, but he should have expected as much from Izuku.
"I am."
"I'm surprised you didn't ask me about it sooner." Izuku's surprisingly calm, almost as if he'd been waiting for Shouta to ask.
How long had he waited for? Was he disappointed that they hadn't spoken earlier?
Had Shouta failed him?
"Your analysis," he says, catching how the kid jolts, "you should have mastered your quirk years ago and yet it seems like you'd only just started. I find that hard to believe with someone as diligent as yourself."
Had Aizawa approached him even a few months earlier, Izuku would have been terrified. He would have squeaked out that half-believable story All Might had given him and he'd have just prayed that Mr. Aizawa would accept it.
Aizawa was too smart for that, though, and Izuku wasn't so naive.
After the craziness of their first year, however, Izuku had put some real thought into it, weighing pros and cons.
Firstly, and most importantly, he needed good, consistent help. All Might, while kind and trying his best, was not a good teacher. It was a fact the two of them had spoken about before and All Might had said so first, so it wasn't blasphemy.
Second - and biased, he could admit - was that he liked Mr. Aizawa. The man had proven to be the best teacher Izuku had ever had, and while that wasn't saying much, it- it meant everything to him.
He'd begrudgingly always craved praise. He never asked for it, never searched for it, but when he got it? When he deserved it and he got it? He would melt. It was as if whoever was willing to look at him and see something good - that he'd tried and, even if he hadn't succeeded, that he'd done good - was someone he couldn't help but swear loyalty to.
It just... it made him feel appreciated, feel seen.
So of course he'd hold anyone like that in high regard.
(He knows that's dangerous. He knows that he should be careful, that it probably has something to do with lacking the parental figure he needed, but he just can't help it.)
The only con he'd found in telling Mr. Aizawa was that it could upset All Might. And then All Might had told him that it was his quirk now, all his, and he'd decided that, if Mr. Aizawa asked, he'd tell him.
So, he does.
Shouta has half a mind to hunt Yagi down and teach him a lesson.
But he doesn't.
The kid tells his story, that of a quirkless boy that wanted to be a hero and how, eventually, he became one.
He also laughs about how bad of a teacher All Might had been and how they'd already made amends in that regard, so the severe scolding that was coming Yagi's way had been sated.
For the moment.
He's surprised that the kid's not crying by the end, but he'd grown a lot. It's a far cry from the terrified child that he'd wrapped up in his capture scarf and scolded - and didn't that just make Shouta feel like the worst teacher alive? Knowing the kid had had the quirk for such a short time and he'd- he'd almost expelled the kid, someone who would undoubtedly become an amazing hero - and he's...
He's just come so far.
"You could have become a hero," is what comes out of his mouth, "even without the quirk."
He blinks at Shouta, brows furrowed and he gapes like a fish.
When his face relaxes, a watery smile takes its place.
(Shouta gets the distinct feeling that no one had said that before. It's tight in his chest, cold and writhing, and sad. He'd deserved to hear that, deserved to know that.
He wonders if he'd ever given up.)
"Thank you."
Ah, Shouta smiles, hand reaching for hidden tissues, there're the tears.