Chapter Text
The cold is harsh and unforgiving.
The chilly air bites at Hitoshi’s face, stinging his cheeks and turning his ears red. He huddles into his hero costume, newly equipped with padding underneath the purple accented jumpsuit to combat the windchill. He tucks his ears under his hood, buries his nose within his capture weapon, and rubs his gloved-clad hands together to preserve the warmth.
Hitoshi leans against the alleyway and plays with the muddied snow that sits on the ground with the heel of his boot. Aizawa is in the twenty-four-hour convenience store not far from where he waits, buying coffee and donuts for their much-needed midnight snack. He braces his head on the brick wall behind him and sighs, watching as his breath disappears into the wind, shuffling against the cold uncomfortably. With the cold, harsh wind and the soon-to-be presence of a carb-filled snack, Hitoshi cannot stop the nagging voice in the back of his head that tells him this is reminiscent of the time when they first met Q.
Admittedly, Q has been on Hitoshi’s mind since they found the child. It’s been two months since the incident and yet Hitoshi still struggles with the gruesome visual that keeps itself buried behind his eyelids and haunts his memories. Every time he closes his eyes, the scene of a small child sitting on his counter, with a toothy smile, as blades and barbed wires are plucked from their skin replays over and over again. So vivid, and so frequent, that Hitoshi has lost sleep over it.
There are small pieces of information that Q gave. Tiny details that gave a glimpse into their home life, but nothing concrete. Chuuya didn’t give a surname—“You’re looking for the wrong thing” Shouto had told him one night “That’s his given name. Chuuya isn’t a surname”—and why would he? Q’s own name had to be falsified. If they did have a full name, they didn’t give it. The only member of their trio whose name sounded remotely believable was the detective whom Hitoshi found more troublesome than Chuuya had been.
Dazai Osamu, shockingly, did not bring up any searches. No birth record, no criminal record, no diploma, or indication of employment—current or previous. It was as if his existence was completely wiped clean, it was as if he never existed in the first place – a sick fragment of Hitoshi’s imagination. Searching the Armed Detective Agency only gave him a few sporadic webpages of past accomplishments within Yokohama—yet no names of the members, no location, no address, no hours. As mysterious as its employee, the ADA didn’t seem to be real.
So, in short, Hitoshi had nothing.
Nothing but decreased mood, increased insomnia, and a raging headache, really. His deteriorating mental state worsened as weeks passed after the incident and accelerated quickly until Midoriya found him one day passed out on the dorm’s kitchen table at four in the morning. That quickly lead to an intervention, and Hitoshi was placed on house arrest for two weeks for some much-needed rest. (He didn’t get any, but he wouldn’t dare tell that to Aizawa).
Hitoshi leans back, shutting his eyes and exhaling.
He had asked Aizawa about the situation briefly, but Aizawa had stopped him, quickly. Despite the agency’s lack of media presence, the stamp of Yokohama’s Government Seal in the top right corner of Dazai’s ID was unmistakable—Aizawa had explained. He had continued to explain that keeping Q would have been akin to kidnapping at that point, regardless of the affliction they arrived in. Agencies can flick their wrist and the bad press, negative attention, and any wrongdoing simply go away without a thought. Hitoshi has seen it with Shouto and realizes the same is probably for Q.
Hitoshi even asked to go to Yokohama himself which earned him a glower from Aizawa and a, “Don’t go messing with things bigger than you, you feel?” from Hizashi over lunch one day. But Hitoshi’s worry and morbid curiosity didn’t waver, instead, it burned even brighter, like pouring gasoline on an open flame.
Lost in his own mind, Hitoshi doesn’t hear Aizawa approach him until he smells the scent of bitter coffee underneath his nose and hears Aizawa scoff a laugh.
“Gonna end up missing a report like that,”
Hitoshi cracks one eye open and stares at Aizawa. Despite the comment, Aizawa’s eyes lack the usual mirth, instead, he looks concerned. The worry etched deeply behind the scowl and aged lines on Aizawa’s skin. Aizawa studies Hitoshi, almost imperceptible in the way he takes a once over, but Hitoshi can tell by the way he shifts he isn’t satisfied with what he sees.
“I’m fine,” Hitoshi says eventually, the lie rolling off his tongue easily as he takes the warm Styrofoam cup into his hands.
“I didn’t say you weren’t,” Aizawa replies.
Hitoshi’s frown deepens, and he plucks one of the two outstretched donuts. Chocolate glazed, no filling. He peeks his nose from where he hides it behind his own capture weapon and takes a sip, immediately grateful for the bitter tang on his tongue and the warmth that floods his belly.
When he stops, he sighs.
Aizawa is still watching him, he knows. Probably regretting taking Hitoshi off house arrest and allowing him on patrol. Hitoshi wants to ask more about Q, about Yokohama, about everything that eats away at his brain until he receives the answers to sate them. He turns to look at Aizawa, and the only thing that comes out of his mouth is, “Why aren’t you worried?” He winces slightly at how harsh the question tumbles from his mouth, but Aizawa seems unfazed. Almost as if he’s been anticipating the question.
“About?” He replies smoothly, and Hitoshi feels his eyebrow twitch in annoyance. He knows about what.
“Q. Chuuya. That detective. The Armed Detective Agency. Yokohama. The barbed wires. That doll. Their quirk.” Hitoshi rattles off easily, everything that’s been infecting his brain spilling from his mouth. “Why aren’t you worried about any of it?” Hitoshi sighs, takes a defeated sip of coffee, and the comforting bitter now tastes sour.
Aizawa simply shrugs a shoulder and takes a sip of his own coffee. “I am,” is his smooth reply. Hitoshi hates to admit it, but the two words comfort him far more than they should. Aizawa continues, “But I’ve had years of experience at hiding it. You haven’t. But you need to,” when Hitoshi opens his mouth to argue, or say something smart, Aizawa smoothly continues his lecture without batting an eye. “You can’t save everyone,” is what Aizawa ends on, and Hitoshi’s heart feels like a rock behind his ribcage.
The silence that settles between them is not comforting, and he almost squirms underneath its weight. So, Hitoshi doesn’t reply, he averts his gaze to the ground and takes sips of his coffee periodically. Finally, Aizawa gives him one last pat on the head before walking towards the entrance of the alleyway to watch for any villains or drunks too confused to get home safely. He knows Aizawa is right. A hero cannot protect everyone. But Q didn’t need protection. Q’s quirk could destroy hero society instantly, their nonchalant personality makes them appear confident in all situations, and their sadistic tendencies that appear in moments of destruction are worrisome. Q was not scared and did not cry or shake or beg to stay. Q was obedient, followed directions when given like a soldier, and knew when to talk and what to talk about. Q didn’t need protection, and that’s what worries Hitoshi.
After a few more bites, Hitoshi finishes his donut, licks his fingers clean of the residue, and pockets the wrapper to throw away for later. He approaches Aizawa, footsteps crunching beneath the snow when Aizawa’s personal phone rings in an alert. Only a select group of people has access to Aizawa’s personal number—limited to members of the Yamada-Aizawa household, some staff at U.A., and most of Class 1-A for emergencies. Aizawa’s eyebrows twist in concern, and he shares a look with Hitoshi as he fishes his ringing phone from his pocket.
As Hitoshi peers over his shoulder, he sees ‘Shouto’ across the phone.
“Is everything all right?” Aizawa answers, thumbing the speaker button.
Hitoshi shifts uncomfortably as Shouto mumbles and ruffles in the background, then his tired voice pierces through and echoes throughout the alleyway.
“Endeavor called,” he says, voice laded with sleep.
“You’re not approved to intern this late,” Aizawa replies. Shouto, despite everyone’s complaints, decided to do his work-study under his father. Perhaps he feels bad that the nomu nearly tore his face in half, or perhaps he wants to rebuild whatever tattered relationship they have left. More likely Shouto wants to outdo him, but Hitoshi keeps these thoughts to himself. Regardless, UA approval is all he needed. Aizawa be damned, it appeared.
“No. Not about that,” Shouto says. “They’re requesting you at his agency, but they didn’t know how to reach you. There’s been an incident,”
“An incident?” Hitoshi repeats.
Shouto sighs, and Hitoshi can see him picking at his scar in contemplation. “He wasn’t very descriptive of what happened,” Shouto replies. “Just that someone is being detained, and they’re requesting Aizawa, specifically,”
Aizawa rubs at his temples, face pinching and annoyed. “Who’s they?”
“Didn’t say,”
“Unhelpful as ever, that man,” Aizawa hisses. He takes a stuttering breath through his nose, exhaling out his mouth before returning to the call. “Thank you, Shouto. We’ll be right over. Get some rest,”
“Yeah. Goodnight Aizawa. Goodnight Hitoshi,”
From the sounds of it, Hitoshi will not be getting rest anytime soon. Both Hitoshi and Aizawa murmur their own goodnights, but Shouto hangs up before they even finish.
Aizawa puts his phone back in his pocket, and gestures with his head for Hitoshi to follow. “Let’s see what Endeavor wants, then we’ll go back to the dorms,” Aizawa says.
“I’ll be able to skip morning class, yeah? Since, you know, I’m doing overtime?” Hitoshi teases.
Aizawa snorts. “Nice try,”
The cold is harsh and unforgiving.
The chill air that hits Q’s face reminds them of the persistent sting of the barbed wires and blades that lay hidden underneath their coat sleeve. Musutafu is colder than Yokohama during this time of year. At least, that’s what they think the Black Lizard members grumbled when they stepped out of the sleek black car in the middle of the night.
Q swings their doll at their side as they prance down the narrow street, skipping delightedly and ticking their head as they try to identify something that would lead them to the Aizawa-Yamada household.
They aren’t entirely sure how long it’s been since then. Time in the Port Mafia passes too slowly and too quickly all at once, and Q has never been too concerned with the passage of time. Until recently. Now, they itch to find comfort in the walls of the ragtag household. They don’t divulge this information to Chuuya, however. In fact, Chuuya made them promise not to tell Mori about their little detour, and Dazai’s smug smile and teasing quips on how “traitorous Chuuya has become,” made Q think that maybe they did something they shouldn’t have.
They didn’t want Chuuya labeled a traitor for their mistake. So, they smiled and promised not to tell. And as Chuuya diligently recited their findings, Q dutifully nodded along as if they had been there the whole time. And Mori was none the wiser.
But in this specific mission to Musutafu, Tachihara oversaw Q while Chuuya was out on a business trip in some foreign country. Q didn’t care if Tachihara was labeled a traitor. They did not care if Tachihara mysteriously disappeared from the Port Mafia one day only to be found dead days later by the stream. So, this time, Q did not hesitate to sneak away from Tachihara, and the dozens of men clad in black suits to wander around the dizzying streets of Musutafu.
Q wanders a bit more and hums quietly to themselves as they think about whether Hizashi would be kind enough to make them ramen again. Probably. Hizashi seems kind enough to do that. They walk a couple more paces until they hear voices. They pause, strain their ears, and silence their hums. It’s not Aizawa or Hitoshi, both voices are too high-pitched to be either of them. Q deflates.
When the two come into view, Q gets confirmation that it is neither Aizawa nor Hitoshi. One on the right is a woman in skin-tight clothes and short hair that curls right at her chin. The other one, on the left, is a man with a cape around his shoulders, and hair gelled into sharp tips. Q thinks they are funny looking, but they decide not to tell them that.
“Hawks seems like a fun hero to work under,” the woman whines, kicking her feet on the snow. “Endeavor always acts so serious, like I shit in his breakfast or something,”
The man at her side laughs sheepishly and rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, but you don’t really do much as Hawks’ sidekick. He does it all, we’re just there. Except for maybe Tsukuyomi, he can keep up,”
“Right, well—”
“Hi!”
Both jump at the sudden noise, and bristle slightly like two frightened cats. Their eyes scan across Q noticeably, before landing on the stitched-up doll in their hand. The two’s gaze remains on the doll for several seconds and Q’s smile widens with every excruciating pause. Q rocks on their heels and holds their doll tighter while they wait for one of them to speak. Eventually, hesitantly, it’s the woman who takes a few steps forward and kneels to their height.
“Hi,” she says, her voice wavers. Her eyes struggle to stay off the doll. “Are you lost? Where’s your family?”
Q ticks their head before answering. “I’m not lost. They’re not here,” is Q’s honest answer. The man takes a few more steps forward and places a hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“What’s that,” he points directly at the doll, concern on his face.
“Don’t,” the woman hisses.
“It’s my doll,” Q says, speaking directly over the woman. They squish the doll close to their chest, smiling wickedly. “Do you like him?”
The two don’t answer, but it’s not that Q minds. Chuuya has said not everyone will love their doll as they do. They rub their cheek against the rough fabric of their doll and keep their eyes firmly locked onto the two. They can tell, as their hackles raise like cornered prey, that they fear Q. Q really does find them reactive. After a couple more tense seconds, the woman reaches for them and grasps their wrist in a gentle pinch.
The razor digs into their flesh, and their skin burns under her touch.
“We should get you to the police,” the woman says, her smile warm.
Q’s own smile drops, their eyes harden and the woman flinches under their gaze. “No police,” they say, so quiet that the two must strain to hear.
The woman’s smile falters just a bit, and her grip tightens subconsciously against their wrist. Blood begins to bleed from the new wound, but she remains oblivious.
“I’m looking for someone,” Q continues.
“We can look for them at the police station,” the man says in the woman’s stead, but Q doesn’t like him, so they ignore him. They continue to look directly at the woman, misshaped pupils bore into her own perfectly circular ones, blown wide with anxiety.
“No police,” Q repeats.
The woman glances toward her friend, perhaps asking for help but he ignores her entirely. Instead, he stares directly at the pale expanse of her neck. Shakily, he points a finger at her neck and prods it with the edge of his fingertips. “What’s that?” he hisses.
The woman brings a hand to her neck, prodding the same spot. “What’s what? Don’t play games right now,” she snaps. “We need to get them to the police,”
“No, no, no,” He walks forward and brushes her hand away from its place on Q’s wrist. He fusses over the purple blotch on her neck that she cannot see. Q blinks, impatient. Their reactivity is becoming repetitive. “What did you do? What’s your quirk?”
Q tilts their head, and gentle strands of white and brown tickle their forehead as they peer at what the man saw. The telltale sign of their special ability marks her previously blemish-free skin. The deep splotch of a handprint curls around her neck, as if she had been strangled. Q grins and brings a hand to the doll’s head.
“You want to play?”
The woman stops prodding her neck and turns to look at Q.
“We should take you to the police,” she repeats.
“No police,”
“We really—”
“No police!” Q finally shouts, patience running thin. They crush the head of their doll with their fish, twist it gently and their eyes turn dark. They’re tired, they want ramen and a bed and these two won’t listen. The two sidekicks flinch at the intensity of their voice. The woman raises her hands and attempts to placate Q with gentle coos and hushed words.
“Okay. Okay. No police,” she says.
Q visibly relaxes and releases the head of their doll. Q is about to say something when the man speaks once more. “We’re taking them to the police. Look at you. You’re bruised, and that doll? We need to find their home,”
“It doesn’t hurt,” the woman says, but the man doesn’t reply. He takes several strides forward and gets in between Q and the woman. He gets so close that Q has to strain their neck to stare up at the man who stands a few feet taller than them. Q realizes that they really don’t like this man.
“You’re no fun to play with,” they state, cold and monotoned. They bump into the man who recoils with a grunt, but other than that remains as unmovable as stone. No matter, Q didn’t need to physically move them. They watch with a bored expression as a bruise appears over the man’s face, across their eye that he doesn’t seem to notice.
The woman stands behind him. “They don’t want to go to the police. We should wait until the pros are done, they’ll be able to help,”
Q thinks, just faintly, it’s upsetting that she has to get involved. Unfortunately, their special ability does not discriminate, and to deal with the man she must become an unfortunate casualty. Q yanks the doll’s head from its body and watches the seams tear and the stuffing spill. The shrill cackle pieces the air and Q listen to its song in relish. The two sidekicks snap forward and reach toward Q in a vain attempt to stop them but the moment they touched them it was too late. Their gaze glazed over, their faces turn wild, and they both open their mouth to scream.
Q takes back what they say. Their new friends are so reactive, and so much fun to play with.
The man lunges for Q, but they sidestep out of reach before he grabs them. Instead, he stumbles forward, trips over snow, and lands on the concrete with a sickening crack of his skull. Q observes as the man pushes himself up with one arm, the arm not supporting him rising to dig under the flesh of his eye. He pierces the skin that lies there with a shriek, wholly ignorant of the blood that bleeds from the wound. The woman isn’t faring better, fingers tangled in her short hair and tearing strands from the roots with a cry of her own. Q blinks at them.
So very reactive.
They spin around on their toes, the head of the doll in one hand with the body in the other. They conclude that Aizawa and Hitoshi must not be here, so they guess they’ll try a different road. They don’t make it three steps away from the screaming adults that lay writhing in the streets when a strand of something wraps around one of their wrists. The string is so thin it bites into the soft skin of their wrist, and mild discomfort makes Q pause.
“Release your quirk, child,”
Q tilts their head, and peers over their shoulder at the newcomer. The two they met before are now wrapped in what looks like denim, thoroughly seized for their protection. Behind them was a man clad in denim, only his stark blond hair and one piercing green eye visible. One hand holds the strands of denim that hold the two, and the other is connected to Q’s wrist. Q gives it a curious tug and watches the strand go taut from the pull. It’s strong and does not yield like most fabric this thin would.
“Are you talking to me, mister?”
Q turns around, voice barely heard over the cackling of the doll.
“Yes. Release your quirk. You’re hurting them,” the man in denim says.
“Hurting?” Q repeats, tilting their head childishly. “We’re playing, mister. Do you want to play too?”
“No. Release your quirk,”
Q’s smile brightens. They tug at the strand hard enough so that it bites around their wrist. The thin slice beads with blood as it bubbles to the surface. The previous mild discomfort turns quickly into subtle pain. But subtle pain is all they need. The man releases control of the denim, releasing Q. The two from before fall to the floor with another smack.
Q finds Musutafu fun.
Aizawa drives while Hitoshi sits in the passenger seat and props his chin on his palm to watch the city of Musutafu fly by in blinding lights. Hitoshi blinks, missing the comfort of his bed. Aizawa really should give him a day off tomorrow. Damn him.
“What do you think the situation is?” Hitoshi asks.
He doesn’t have to look at Aizawa to know the mere mention of where they’re going has him pinching his face in annoyance again.
“Better be important, whatever it is,” is what Aizawa replies. Despite the tense way he spits the sentence out, both know the situation has had to be dire. Not something that could wait until morning, awful enough that Endeavor had to find personal ways to contact Aizawa instead of the standard courtesy call receptionists of each agency do.
“They asked you by name,”
“Not unusual,” Aizawa replies. Hitoshi guesses that’s correct. Many petty criminals like Aizawa, as Aizawa’s type of heroism appeals to them. But those calls usually come from the police station, if Hitoshi recalls correctly, not from the newly appointed number one hero, himself.
Hitoshi yawns. The clock reads a little past midnight. “He’s out late. Top ten usually close at eight?”
Aizawa shrugs a shoulder. “Well find out soon enough, I guess,”
The rest of the ride is quiet except for the lull of the radio. Luckily, the drive manages to go by quickly with the lack of people on the road so late at night combined with the fact that they were already near Endeavor’s agency. Aizawa pulls into the nearby parking lot in front of the obnoxiously towering Endeavor’s agency. Other cars skitter around the parking lot, most of them hardly properly parked.
“Must be serious,” Hitoshi murmurs, slamming the passenger car door shut. Aizawa doesn’t reply.
The two walk into the lobby where they expect Endeavor’s sidekicks to be fluttering around, filing paperwork, or clocking out for the night. But the first floor is eerily vacant, with not a single soul except for a frazzled receptionist that nearly jumps at the sight of the two newcomers. Aizawa and Hitoshi approach, and politely ignore the way she attempts to brush out her frizzy hair with her fingers.
“Hi, uh, sorry, there’s been…issues,” she says, hesitantly. “No guests,”
Hitoshi suppresses a snort.
“We’re not guests,” Aizawa says coolly, “We’ve been called by Endeavor. Says someone he has detained wants to see us,”
The receptionist’s eyebrows furrow together in thought, and she bites on her tongue. “The child asked for you by name?” she says, more to herself than anyone else but both catch on.
Hitoshi perks and Aizawa raises an eyebrow.
“Endeavor is detaining a child?”
The receptionist squeaks, eyes wide as if she forgot they were standing there. “Please don’t get Endeavor wrong, it’s a necessity. Miruko, Best Jeanist, and Edgeshot and their agencies all fell victim to this child’s quirk. I don’t know the specifics, but only Hawks and Endeavor’s combined strength was able to detain them,” quickly, before anyone could reply, she continues her tangent. “Even then, they barely made it out,”
Aizawa blinks and takes in the information. But Hitoshi is immediately snapping questions off. His brain feels frazzled; his body is numb as if he’s been submerged in ice water. Of course, Hitoshi thinks with thinly concealed delight, who else could it be?
“What did the kid look like?”
“Huh?” the receptionist says, dumbly.
“What did the kid look like? You saw them, yeah?”
“Uh. Seven—eight years old, maybe? They were wearing a blue coat, maybe some white tights, I can’t recall,”
“What color was their hair?”
“Brown? Or maybe white,” the receptionist says, more like a suggestion than an answer.
Hitoshi ignores the conflict in her voice, “Did they have a doll?”
“What?”
“A doll?” Hitoshi snaps, more irritated than he expected it to be. “Did they have one?”
The receptionist looks frantic. “I don’t know?”
“You don’t know—”
“—Hitoshi,” Aizawa finally snaps, silencing Hitoshi and saving the receptionist from any more grueling interrogation. Her eyes fill with relief, and her body sags against the chair as she sighs. She twists one of the rings around her fingers, anxiously, looking everywhere but the two of them.
“Sorry,” Hitoshi says, eventually.
“No, no worries,” she tries, but stumbles. “Uh, if Endeavor asked for you, how about you just show me your licenses and I can let you through,”
Aizawa nods. He produces his Hero License while Hitoshi produces his own provisional one. She takes them without any more fanfare and does not attempt to make small talk like most receptionists do. After a couple more taps on her keyboard and the receptionist hands them both back with a wave towards the elevator and a smile too tight to be genuine.
“Everyone’s on the twelfth floor,” she directs.
Aizawa nods once again, “Thank you,” he says before walking towards the elevator. Hitoshi follows closely behind, worrying at his bottom lip. When they make it a safe distance away from the receptionist, Aizawa gives Hitoshi a look that he recognizes that a reprimand is on Aizawa’s tongue.
“You think it’s Q,” Aizawa says, and Hitoshi is only mildly surprised that he wasn’t being chided for giving that poor receptionist a heart attack.
“You don’t think it’s Q? Who else could it be? I saw Q’s quirk. You’ve been under Q’s quirk,” Hitoshi replies.
“I think you shouldn’t get your hopes up,” Aizawa says, eventually. Ever the reality-checker, Hitoshi thinks, bitterly. If only that receptionist could’ve answered the basic questions of “Did they have two-toned hair?” or “Did they have a crazed stitched-up cackling doll?” then he would be freed from the back and forth.
“What other child can incapacitate Endeavor and Hawks of all heroes? What other child knows you by name,” Hitoshi snaps, voice too harsh to be directed at his teacher slash mentor slash father figure.
In true Aizawa fashion, he doesn’t dignify the tone with a remark of his own. He turns towards the elevator and jams the ‘Up’ button with his index finger. “Hitoshi,”
Hitoshi silences instantly, brows furrowing in mild annoyance at the interruption. “Yes?”
He’s met with a flick on the forehead, no doubt blooming the skin red from the impact, and he hisses and glares daggers at Aizawa who only holds concern in his gaze. “What was that for?” Hitoshi snaps, but Aizawa doesn’t complain about the disrespect.
“I don’t want you to be disappointed. You just got off house arrest, everyone’s been worried for you, so you—” Aizawa then knocks onto Hitoshi’s chest with his knuckles. “—need to focus on your mental recovery. If this isn’t Q, and I see you lapse, you’re going right back into house arrest. Am I understood?”
Hitoshi’s frown deepens. This wasn’t Eraserhead speaking, nor was it his teacher. Hitoshi realizes Aizawa is speaking to him as his father. House arrest was long and brutal but necessary, and everyone has been worried about his mental health since. Ashido and Kaminari especially didn’t stop fretting over him over the entire duration of his house arrest. Shouto, Hizashi, and Eri gave him looks of concern that he tried ignoring. Aizawa was the one to put the metaphorical foot down, against the school’s complaints, and place him on house arrest until further notice.
“Whether this is Q or not, leave the worrying to me,” Aizawa says, just as the elevator signals its arrival on the twelfth floor.
Hitoshi nods and rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Yeah,” he says.
Aizawa doesn’t look fully convinced, and Hitoshi isn’t fully convinced himself. Regardless, Aizawa doesn’t say anything else and takes the first step into the twelfth-floor lobby.
On the highest floor, is where all the bustling activity is. Nurses and doctors rush to treat the injured sidekicks, some minor injuries—scraps, cuts, bruises that could be healed with antiseptics—other injuries are more serious. A fractured bone or a twisted limb. Luckily, from the looks of it, none seem to be fatal.
Someone ushers them to the back where the noise turns dull. Each step fills Hitoshi with anticipation. Aizawa told him to keep his hopes low, to not feel defeated with the very likely reality that it isn’t Q. But even Hitoshi knows, by the way Aizawa quickens his pace faster than his usual stroll, that even he finds it difficult to keep his hopes low.
At the very back is a small hallway, where various heroes reside. They all look equally battered and bruised, and a plethora of cuts and scars litter their bodies. Miruko picks off flakes of red from her snow-white ears, and Edgeshot nurses a crudely wrapped bandaged arm. Endeavor does not look at the two when they arrive, but small cuts litter all over his body. Hawks, bruised and wingless, is the only one who greets them with a wave, and it’s clear there’s a bone protruding from his wrist where it should not be.
Hitoshi does not find any of this concerning. Because behind all of them is a steel door the words interrogation room plastered on it. Hitoshi looks through the one-way glass, and sitting innocently in the chair in front of Best Jeanist is the cause of Hitoshi’s worries, the sole reason for his unending migraines. He feels guilty. The sight of the child should fill him with joy, and unbridled happiness that they’re safe and alive. But seeing them now brings him nothing but rage.
They have Q in an interrogation room, their bony wrists bound to the table in front of them. They flex the tendons in their fingers every so often, as if attempting escape, but make no other moves of fear or uncertainty. They fix their gaze onto Best Jeanist, seemingly speaking diligently when spoken to. Hitoshi snaps his gaze at Endeavor, and at closer inspection can see Q’s doll firmly wrapped in Endeavor’s obnoxiously large fist, nearly covering it in its entirety.
Hitoshi doesn’t get to speak when Aizawa snaps from beside him.
“What’s this?” he hisses, his anger bristling off him in waves. Miruko tilts her ears to listen, sparing Aizawa a glance. Edgeshot pauses underneath the scrutinizing gaze of the younger hero but does not give an explanation. Endeavor, despite being the one who called, does not even turn to face them. Eventually, it’s Hawks who scratches the back of his neck with one hand and juts his thumb out at Endeavor with the other hand. That’s all Aizawa and Hitoshi need to piece everything together.
“Detaining a child,” Aizawa directs at Endeavor.
Endeavor still does not look when he replies, arms crossed over his muscled chest as he says. “It is not unlike the situation with the Shie Hassaiaki,” he continues before Aizawa can speak. “Quarantining dangerous quirks is the best way to protect both us and the child,”
Aizawa’s anger spikes with the mention of Eri, but he pushes past that. “You’re arresting and interrogating a child,”
“I am not, and I won’t.” Endeavor replies. “Not until we have reasonable evidence of a calculated attack,”
“A calculated attack?” Hitoshi says, surprising even himself. “What coordinated attack can they do?”
“Attempting quintuple homicide on Japan’s top five heroes is very damning,”
Aizawa is about to snap when Edgeshot finally decides to step in. “Don’t misunderstand Eraserhead,” he says, stopping momentarily from awkwardly fiddling with his bandages. “This was discussed prior to your arrival, after the negotiation of surrender with the child—” Negotiation? Interrogation? At this point, Hitoshi would believe they were dealing with the League of Villains instead of a child with a horrid misunderstanding of their own quirk. “—Until we find the nature of their quirk, we decided for the safety of our team that the child must be restrained,”
“Removing the doll would’ve been enough,” Aizawa says, and Endeavor does finally tear his eyes away from Best Jeanist to stare at Aizawa.
“That does remind me. Do tell us how you know of the child, Eraserhead. If you were aware of a quirk this dangerous it should’ve been reported to the authorities,”
“Ran into them on patrol a couple of months ago. Experienced their quirk,”
“And you didn’t call authorities?” Endeavor presses.
It’s only through knowing Aizawa that Hitoshi realizes Aizawa feels backed into a corner, his fingers coming to scratch at the scar just underneath his eye much like how Shouto does. Endeavor’s eyes narrow at the action—Hitoshi tries not to think too much about that.
“Their guardians picked them up, with authorities from Yokohama. There was nothing to report,”
The silence that hangs is heavy, and Endeavor and Aizawa stare at each other for a few more tense moments. Endeavor looks like he wants to argue, Aizawa shifts impatiently at Hitoshi’s side, and Hitoshi wants nothing more than to run into the interrogation room and finally see Q again.
His thoughts were heard, apparently, as Best Jeanist emerges from the bolted shut door not even moments later, slamming the door closed behind him. He looks years older, with deep bags under his eyes that are barely visible over the denim, his usual bright green eye now dull with fatigue, his fingers are each wrapped individually with a bandage soaking red with blood, and there’s a visible stain in his hair from someone’s blood (Hitoshi would rather not ask who’s). Hitoshi realizes quickly that Best Jeanist must’ve taken the brunt of Q’s quirk.
Aizawa must’ve come to the same realization because he winces in sympathy. Hitoshi never went under Q’s quirk, but did see Aizawa succumb to it, easily. Is this what would’ve happened if Hitoshi didn’t intervene when he did? How long was Best Jeanist under for? How long could someone survive when they’re ripping themselves apart with their own fingers? Hitoshi shakes his head, and banishes the thoughts from his head, fast.
Best Jeanist sighs and gives no formal greeting. “They are asking for you,” he says towards Aizawa and Hitoshi.
And that’s all Hitoshi needs to hear before barreling through the door.
Q thinks Musutafu is stupid.
Bonds pinch at their skin, their bony wrists so small they had to custom make a crude puncture in the leather to strap the metal through it to keep it in place. The chair they sit in is two times too big, and the harsh metal feels mildly uncomfortable but still much comfier than the basement of the Port Mafia. Someone has their doll; a large burly man took it from them the moment they were detained. And in front of them, sits one of the very first that Q decided to play with. Still covered head to toe in that denim, which now has tatters throughout. He introduces himself as Best Jeanist—dumb hero name, Q thinks—and sits in the chair opposite of Q. All things considered, Best Jeanist does not look malicious in his gaze, defeated and exhausted, more like.
After playing with so many people they grew bored, it wasn’t until someone with wild green hair and a special ability that allows her to produce fire asked what Q wanted in exchange for letting everyone free. Without a doubt or a moment’s hesitation, they replied they wanted to see Mr. Aizawa.
The promise was granted to them immediately.
But now they were here, and they were beginning to think the heroes were lying.
“When will Mr. Aizawa get here, Mr. Jean Man?” Q asks, ticking their head a few times
“You incapacitated five of our top heroes,”
Q frowns. That was not the answer to their question. “In-cap-tated,” Q tries the world, repeating it several times, incorrectly. “I don’t know what in-cap-tated means, sir,”
Q makes a mental note to ask Chuuya was in-cap-tated means.
“It means you debilitated five of our top heroes,”
Q puffs out their cheeks. They make a mental note to ask Chuuya was de-bi-tated means.
“What’s your quirk?”
There’s that funny word again. One that big brother Hitoshi asked last time they visited Musutafu, the word those two cried about when they saw them. Q still, somehow, has no idea what a quirk is. Q cocks their head to the side, genuine confusion marring the innocent child’s features as they say, “I don’t know what a quirk is,”
Best Jeanist blinks, slow and methodical. And he sighs, beaten. “How old are you?” is the question Best Jeanist settles on eventually.
Q ticks their head a couple of more times. “At least five,” they say, which is true! They’ve known Chuuya for at least five years, so they can’t be younger than five! Best Jeanist doesn’t seem to like that answer, since he closes his eyes and gives a very quiet groan that Q barely manages to hear. Q thinks their own deduction skills are on par with that agent from the Armed Detective Agency, if they do say so themselves.
“Where’s your guardian?”
“Trip,” Q quips. When Best Jeanist narrows his eyes, Q takes this as a signal to expand. “Business trip,”
Best Jeanist face falls. Q thinks they said more than necessary so the hero should be grateful.
“What kind of business trip?”
Q, genuinely, doesn’t know that answer. Chuuya goes on business trips frequently, leaving them in the care of other Port Mafia members. Usually, Ozaki or Akutagawa. It’s just an unfortunate (or fortunate for Q) case that Tachihara is looking after them tonight. But Q knows it’s Port Mafia-related, and Q knows not to speak about the Port Mafia. So, they smile and wait a few seconds until Best Jeanist takes the hint that they won’t be answering any more questions.
“I want to ask you a serious question, child,” Best Jeanist says eventually.
Q nods, still smiling.
“Are you in danger?”
Q’s smile drops, and the ticking habit returns. Q doesn’t think so. Chuuya is kind, Ozaki is nice, Akutagawa is fun to annoy, and Elise colors with them on the playground. Maybe the barbed wires on their arms and the razor blades that dig into their flesh hurt a little, but a small price to pay to play with so many people!
So, Q returns the smile to their face, eyes crinkle as they say, “Nope!” and they pop the ‘P’ for emphasis, “I’m not in any danger,”
Best Jeanist looks conflicted, his retort only stopped by a loud deep shout and commotion coming from outside.
“They must be here,” is what he offers as an explanation. But Q requires no explanation, as they excitedly pull on the binds on their wrist and squirm in the metal chair. They know who’s here.
Hitoshi nearly pushes past Best Jeanist (He’ll get an earful about that from Aizawa later) and heads straight through the steal door. He barrels through the door and immediately feels relief when he sees Q sitting in the seat. Q tilts their head, and pure white hair mixes with mute brown as they meet Hitoshi’s gaze with childlike wonder. And Q’s face splits into a smile.
“Big brother Hitoshi!” They shout, and they pull instinctively on the bonds as they attempt to rise from the chair. Even when they fail to free themselves, their grin does not fall from their face. In fact, they beam impossibly brighter, and they giggle. “I’ve been looking for you!”
And despite the five battered heroes outside and the fact that Q is strapped to the table, Hitoshi matches that smile easily.
“Q,” he breathes and walks around the table to step towards Q, crouching down to their eye level. When he reaches them, he ruffles the two-toned hair causing Q to giggle more. “You’re very good at getting into trouble, Q,” Hitoshi says, beginning to remove the straps from Q’s wrist.
“It wasn’t trouble, big brother Hitoshi,” Q pouts, rolling one of their wrists when it’s free. “I wanted to see you and Mr. Aizawa and Mr. Yamada and Eri and big brother Shouto!” They cheer, grinning. Comically, their face falls and they look to the side, almost bashful. “But I didn’t have a phone,” they admit.
The idea almost makes Hitoshi laugh. Q, instead of asking for directions on how to get to the Aizawa-Yamada household, instead goes on a manhunt targeting the top heroes until they got what they wanted. It was smart, albeit for sure about to put Q on a watchlist. Hitoshi decides he’ll let Aizawa deal with that, later.
“Sure, sure,” Hitoshi says, removing the other strap. He pauses momentarily before asking. “Where’s Chuuya?”
Like a switch, Q beams at the mention of their guardian and kicks their feet out in excitement. “Mr. Chuuya is on a business trip!”
Hitoshi frowns. “What kind of business trip?” Q continues to smile, eyes crinkling at the corners yet makes no move to answer. Hitoshi figures that that’s a secret. He decides to ask, “Who’s watching you while Chuuya is away? Dazai?”
Q’s skill at keeping secrets from leaving their mouth does not extend to the emotions on their face. Q wears their heart on their sleeve, Hitoshi realizes, even if they don’t realize it themselves. Their face wrinkles briefly in displeasure at the name, something flashing in their eyes but disappearing as quickly as it came. “Mr. Dazai doesn’t like to play with me,” is what Q finally settles on.
Hitoshi shrugs. He did get that impression also when he came to pick them up.
“So, who’s watching you?”
Q opens their mouth, to reply or to dance around the subject Hitoshi isn’t sure, since they’re immediately quieted by a deeper voice from the door. At the sound of the newcomer Q immediately beams, bright and blinding and with their newly freed hands they clap them together in a cheer.
“Mr. Aizawa!”
“Q. Not staying out of trouble,” Aizawa greets, leaning against the doorframe, stuffing his hands into the baggy pockets of his jumpsuit.
Q blows a raspberry in his direction. “I wanted to see you,”
Amused, Aizawa huffs a quiet laugh under his breath. “I figured,”
“That quirk of yours is quite troublesome,” Hitoshi says, fighting against the urge to prod the soft circular bruises that wrap around Q’s wrist.
Q pouts and kicks their legs impatiently. “Special ability,” they say.
“Sure,” Hitoshi placates.
Q kicks their legs out a couple of more times, squirming in their seat, impatient. “Can I leave now Mr. Aizawa? I don’t want to be here anymore,” they say, the pout on their face growing deeper. Hitoshi looks towards Aizawa expectantly. He’s unsure exactly of what Aizawa spoke about with the others, but from the lack of an immediate response, it was definitely not about Q’s release. That doesn’t stop Aizawa from sighing, clicking the door open, and saying, “Let’s go,”
Q lights up again, while Hitoshi shifts uneasily, mentally preparing for the impending argument that will most definitely occur once Q prances through the door. Q, blissfully ignorant, pushes themselves off the chair and shakily stands on two feet. They latch onto Hitoshi’s hands, tiny hands curling around two of his fingers and begins to sway their hands gleefully. “We’re leaving! Let’s go! Oh wait—” They then stop their swaying, and their free hand begins gripping nothing as if something should be there. “I need my doll. Mr. Aizawa, big brother Hitoshi, I can’t leave without my doll,”
Hitoshi nods and squeezes Q’s hand gently in comfort. “We’ll get your doll,” he says, matching Q’s beaming smile. Aizawa shoots him a look at Hitoshi immediately understands as dissent. There’s no way of knowing for certain that the heroes in the other room will give up the doll willingly. But Q clearly refuses to part with the doll and has some sort of affection for the crudely stitched-up, horrifyingly grotesque thing.
Q continues to stand obediently by Hitoshi’s side, swinging their interlocked hands once more until Hitoshi guides them out through the door, following Aizawa. The heroes in the hallway regard Q with a look of concern, even Endeavor’s face pulls in mild anxiety that Hitoshi has never seen before. The only one that seems undisturbed is Hawks, who is now holding Q’s creepily stitched-up doll in both hands.
Now that he can see it clearly, the doll is just as disturbing as Hitoshi remembers. The dark hollow eyes are unnerving, looking more like two black holes instead of stitched-up patches. The bleeding tears that seep from the eyes trail down the dark face and into the maniacal, split smile that is sewn on with bright red thread, demanding most of the attention. It’s uncomfortable to look at, but Q immediately yanks on Hitoshi’s hand when they see it and points a bony finger in Hawks’ direction.
“My doll,” they say, the demand clear.
Aizawa opens his mouth to ask for the doll, but the words don’t even pass his lips before they get an immediate rejection.
“Absolutely not,” Endeavor says, plucking the doll from Hawks’ curious hands. “And we did not approve the child to leave,”
Edgeshot stands to say, “They’re safer here,” but Hitoshi certainly doubts that.
“They’re safer with me. We can keep them at the dorms until we find more information about their ability and come in contact with their guardians again. I’ll keep an eye out, and if they activate their quirk, I can erase it—” Q huffs a quiet ‘special ability’, but only Hitoshi hears it. “—There’s no need to keep a child up all night,” Aizawa says, the words hang thick in the air. When no one makes a move to reply, Aizawa continues. “I will take full responsibility for Q and their actions,”
A couple more beats, a few more unbearably tense seconds, then finally Hawks laughs, prances towards Endeavor to pluck the doll back, ignoring Endeavor’s huff of indignation. “Now, I think we should figure out what to do after a good night’s rest, yeah?” Hawks doesn’t wait for confirmation from any of the heroes, continues his unprovoked tangent. “Q knows Aizawa, Aizawa clearly can handle children way better than we can. Right, Endeavor?” And then Hawks flashes him a wink, “And I don’t know about you, but I could really use a bath and a forty-hour nap,” He flutters past, kneels in front of Q, and gives them a disarming smile when they flinch back. “So, let’s do this. They take care of the kid, we figure out what exactly their quirk is, and you” Hawks then uses a feather to tickle Q’s nose. They scrunch up their nose, giggling as they do. “Make sure not to activate your little doll, okay?”
Hawks presents the doll, and without hesitation, Q snatches the doll back and holds it close to their chest.
“The Police? Public Safety Commission? What about them?” Miruko asks, perfectly preened and her ears now free of blood. Q makes a curious sound at the sight of Miruko, their head doing their ticking habit, eyes boring straight at Miruko like a predator to prey. No one in the room pays much attention to the act.
Hawks shrugs, pushing himself up from his knees. “I’ll handle them,”
“This is absurd,” Endeavor says.
“It’s fine. It’s a day. Relax. Look, I’m tired, you’re tired, Best Jeanist looks a second away from retiring. Unless you want to arrest the kid, this works best,” Hawks then stretches, and turns towards Hitoshi as he says, “You best be on your way. Classes tomorrow, yeah?”
Aizawa doesn’t wait any longer for any objections to Hawks’ outlandish display. Instead, he bids them goodnight and turns on his heel to stalk toward the elevator. Hitoshi murmurs his own goodnight, respectfully. Q doesn’t say anything, their head ticking becoming more frequent and only tearing their gaze away from Miruko when Hitoshi gently pulls them to follow Aizawa.
After that, they make it into the car without much fanfare. Hitoshi takes the front seat, while Aizawa makes sure Q is fastened securely in the back seat. Away from prying eyes is when Q’s head ticking finally stops, and they finally begin speaking.
“Are her ears real?”
Hitoshi and Aizawa pause.
“Miruko’s?” Hitoshi asks, and Q shrugs. To be expected.
“The bunny ears girl,” Q brings both of their hands to their head to mimic bunny ears. “Are her ears real?”
“Her name is Miruko,” Aizawa states, starting the car. “And her ears are real,”
The ticking continues, and Q blinks a few times while processing the new information. “How?” they say eventually.
“It’s a manifestation of her quirk,” Aizawa replies.
Q sticks their tongue out. “Quirks is a funny word,” is all they say, and the conversation ends with that. Hitoshi doesn’t know many who are unaware of heteromorphic quirks. Hawks and Miruko are just mild examples of heteromorphic quirks, but Tokoyami has a bird head, Ashido is pink, and Shoji has a little too many extra limbs. They’re a minority, but not too secretive that Q shouldn’t’ know what they are.
Hitoshi shifts at the knowledge, suddenly uncomfortable before recalling what Aizawa told him. Regardless of if it was Q or not, he wouldn’t hesitate to put him back on house arrest should he lapse again. And to leave all the worrying to him. So, he breathes and thinks he’ll try just that. Q’s lack of education on quirks will be dealt with by Aizawa. Hitoshi’s focus is getting home, getting Q to bed, and finding comfort under his blankets. And maybe attempting to convince Aizawa to let him take a day off tomorrow.
“Are we going to the dorms?” Hitoshi asks, watching the street signs go by that are not in the direction of the dorms.
“No, we’ll go tomorrow morning, I’ll have All Might watch over the class tonight,” Aizawa says. “I think it would be a little much to introduce Q to everyone,” and Hitoshi can’t argue with that. Wreaking havoc on five top heroes, then being detained, and then rehomed in less than four hours is perhaps not very easy. Hitoshi doubts that, despite Q’s calm façade, they’d do very well being thrown into their mess of a class.
Hitoshi also doubts said mess of a class would do well with Q either.
“We’re going home? Q asks, turning to give their starry-eyed gaze to Hitoshi. Hitoshi smiles at the word, and Aizawa huffs a quiet laugh, and it seems that months’ worth of weight is removed from his shoulders in an instant.
“Yeah, kid.” Aizawa replies, “We’re going home,”
The ride home was filled with nothing but Q’s babbles, although they didn’t say anything substantial just mainly reiterating how they missed the family. Hitoshi wakes Shouto up with a phone call halfway through the drive, giving a grumbling Shouto a brief recount of events that happened and that they would be at the dorms tomorrow. Shouto’s only answer was a quick goodnight and that was that. By the time they get home, the clock strikes two am, way past Hitoshi’s needed internship hours. The moon overbearing overhead casts a gentle glow onto their house. The house, similarly, has a gentle glow originating from the living room window.
Q practically leaps out of the car before Aizawa can even put it into park, earning a quick shout from Hitoshi but it falls completely on deaf ears. They race to the door, doll swinging haphazardly behind them, and they bounce their heels when they reach it.
“You’d think they’d lose all that energy after an interrogation,” Hitoshi murmurs.
Aizawa taps a few buttons on his phone. “I’ll be in a minute,” he says, bluntly. Hitoshi presumes it’s to do with the dorm arrangements with All Might, perhaps even a quick conference with Principle Nezu since he will undoubtedly get involved. Hitoshi, honestly, does not care for the administration side of hero work, so he slams the car door shut and walks at a more leisurely pace to the door. Once Hitoshi reaches it, he clicks the door unlocked.
With more heroes involved, Hitoshi thinks it could be harder to rip Q away. Although the negative to more heroes being involved is they won’t want Q and their mysterious and quite frankly dangerous quirk to slip away.
Q shoves the door open before Hitoshi can even turn the knob.
Hitoshi’s getting another migraine and blinks it away. Aizawa will figure it out. Hawks will figure it out. Chuuya will probably come frolicking for his child tomorrow morning, but that’s tomorrow’s problem.
“Sora!” Q shouts, running towards the family’s white kitten. Sora jumps awake, hair fluffed and ready to hiss but Q ignores all the cues and scoops up the cat, hugging her close to their chest.
“Wait. Let’s not do that—” Hitoshi begins but is cut off by one of Q’s laughs.
“Sora’s gotten so big!” They finally let Sora back on the couch who immediately goes to lick at her ruffled fur. “I told Mr. Chuuya all about Sora,”
Hitoshi is about to ask more about Chuuya when a new voice enters, and footsteps echo down the steps. “Oh?” a voice usually obnoxiously loud, now sedated and riddled with sleep says. Hizashi loiters by the end of the stairs, blinking quickly to see if Q is real or an apparition of his sleep depravity. When he blinks one too many times, he lets out a small laugh.
“I was wondering what took you so long,” Hizashi says to Hitoshi. Crouching down on his knees in front of Q, he puts his fist out. “How’s it going, Q?”
Q blinks curiously at the outstretched fist, then places their own small hand over it. “I missed you, Mr. Hizashi!”
Hizashi laughs at the display of Q’s clear lack of knowledge of the tradition of fist bumping. “We’ll work on that,” he says. Then adds, “We missed you too, Q. I’m glad you’re doing well,” Hizashi stands, and places his hands on his hips. “Are you hungry, Q?”
“Mhm! Very much!”
“Do you want ramen?” Hizashi suggests although he suspects he already knows the answer.
“Mhm! Very much!”
Hizashi uses his head to gesture towards the kitchen, a cue Q immediately understands as they run straight through the kitchen archway without even turning on the lights. Hitoshi goes to follow, and maybe turn on the lights so Q could at least see, but a gentle hand on his arm stops him. He looks at Hizashi who bites at his lip, nervous.
“What happened?”
Hitoshi doesn’t know how Hizashi can feel something is off, a strange sort of sixth sense he’s gained since having a child, Hitoshi bets. “Attacked Endeavor, Edgeshot, Miruko, Best Jeanist, and Hawks on the street. They asked for Aizawa once they were detained,” Hitoshi tells easily.
Hizashi mumbles something under his breath, eyes knitting together.
“Huh?” Hitoshi asks.
As quickly as it came, the look vanishes from Hizashi’s face, replaced with a genuine smile. “I’m glad Q’s okay. And that you’re okay, too,” Hizashi says, but Hitoshi is certain that’s not what he originally said. Before he can’t ask, though, Hizashi easily bypasses Hitoshi to the still dark kitchen where Q is. “Come on, let’s go make some ramen,”
When the lights finally flicker on, Q is sitting in Shouto’s chair at the table, swinging their legs back and forth, sometimes hitting under the table with their toe. They tick their head, questioning. Hizashi begins taking out the pots and pans for the ramen, boiling the water, and preparing the noodles. Hitoshi sits in his designated chair next to Q, slicing vegetables when ordered to by Hizashi, and makes small talk with the man about everything that happened before the incident.
“Where’s Eri?” Q eventually asks, interrupting their conversation.
Not looking up from his cooking Hizashi replies, “Sleep. Hard day today.” It’s Wednesday, which means a school day, which is always hard for Eri.
“Oh,” Q looks sympathetic but does not offer much else in terms of conversation.
The rest of the time is quiet. Like always, Q jumps back from their momentary quietness to begin rattling off questions that are insubstantial. Miruko’s ears are brought up multiple times throughout the conversation (“Are you sure her ears are real?” “Yes, I’m positive her ears are real,”) Unsurprisingly, Endeavor is brought up and Hitoshi, accidentally reveals that Endeavor is Shouto’s father. (“Are you sure that’s his dad?” “Yes, I’m positive,”), Best Jeanist was also brought up, although it took Hizashi nearly five minutes to compose himself long enough to answer Q’s question after hearing him referred to as “Mr. Jean Man,” whom Q “Did not like very much”
When the late-night meal is finally served, the conversation shifts to Hawks.
“I like him,” is all Q says, slurping down noodles. “Are his wings real?”
Hitoshi snorts.
“Hey kid,” Hizashi says, “Where do you live where you don’t know of Heteromorphic quirks? Bunny ears and hawk wings,”
“I’m from Yokohama!” Q says, but Hitoshi has a feeling that’s not exactly the answer Hizashi was attempting to pry out. They all know they’re from Yokohama. Yokohama being such a large city should be bustling with those with various quirks.
“They have heteromorphic quirks in Yokohama,” Hitoshi says, but it comes off more like a question than a comment.
Hizashi nods. “Probably not as much as here in Musutafu, but they should,”
“I usually stay at home,” Q offers, twirling a ridiculous number of noodles onto one fork. “I probably don’t see those kinds of special abilities,” Q pointedly looks at Hitoshi, before taking a big bite of the noodles. There’s so much that their cheeks puff like a chipmunk.
“Where is home?” Hizashi asks.
Q chews a bit more as Hizashi and Hitoshi watch them. They eventually manage to gulp down the rest of the food but don’t speak, regardless. They stare back, motionlessly, at Hizashi and Hitoshi. Another bad question, and another dead end. Hitoshi guesses it would be some time until they figure out where Q comes from.
Hizashi breaks the silence with a snort of a laugh, and that’s when Aizawa enters the room moments later, eyes sunken in and dark. Hizashi and Hitoshi immediately quiet down, even Q, despite their never-ending confusion of social cues, stops their mindless chatter to stare at Aizawa, uncertain.
“Q, I need you real quick,” is all he gives as an explanation for the interruption. Unlike Hitoshi, who knows by now something is clearly bothering Aizawa, Q simply hums their assent. They take a long slurp of their ramen, before hopping off the stool. Obediently, they walk towards Aizawa and stand right in front of him, awaiting another command.
Aizawa kneels at Q’s height. “You need to hurt yourself to use your quirk, correct?” Aizawa asks. Hitoshi frowns as it clicks, way before Q understands what Aizawa’s asking. Hitoshi twists in his chair, ready to stand but is steadied by Hizashi’s hand on his shoulder once more.
“Special ability,” Q corrects as if that’s what’s important. “And no. Someone else needs to hurt me,” they clarify.
“I see,” Aizawa says, ruefully. “Q. Do you have them under your sleeve again?”
The blissful atmosphere in the room cracks. Q looks off the side, twists their hands into their navy-blue coat, and begins shuffling their feet, bashfully. Aizawa keeps his hands firmly within Q’s small grasp, remaining as still as a statue. Hizashi lets out a shuttering breath, and Hitoshi can’t help but feel stupid. He knows how Q’s quirk works and knows how needs an injury to activate (for whatever reason). Hitoshi also knows that, despite everything, these pro-heroes wouldn’t intentionally hurt a child. The skin of Hitoshi’s wrist begins to itch.
“I’m sorry,” Q mumbles, quietly.
Aizawa shakes his head immediately and shuts down the train of thought quickly. “Don’t be. It’s not your fault,” yet, they still couldn’t pinpoint whose is at fault. Last time, Q mentioned that Chuuya was adamantly against using weapons underneath their sleeves but, from the sounds of it, didn’t have the authority to argue. Dazai stated that it’s all Q’s doing, but Hitoshi thinks everything that the detective says shouldn’t be taken seriously.
“We’ll have to remove them,” Aizawa sighs.
“I can get you orange juice?” Hitoshi hesitantly supplies.
Instantly, as if the last minute had never happened, Q lights up once more. They twirl to face Hitoshi and clap their hands together—everyone winces at the motion, now realizing how much pain the little wires and razors are causing to Q’s skin. “Yes, please! I’d like that very much, big brother,”
Hitoshi quickly makes orange juice with a straw for Q to use and gives it to them. With their orange juice in one hand, Aizawa’s hand in another, and their doll pinched between their armpit, Q waits for Aizawa to direct them to clean up, all the while sipping the orange juice.
“You should go to bed,” Aizawa says, “School tomorrow,”
Hitoshi huffs, dissatisfied with the command, but he eventually waves Aizawa’s forlorn expression off. Right. Leave the worrying to Aizawa, lest he gets put back on house arrest. “Yeah, yeah. School tomorrow. Goodnight Aizawa, goodnight Hizashi,” Hitoshi says. He takes slow strides towards the kitchen entrance, ruffling Q’s hair as he passes and gives them a small smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Q,” the words come off hesitant, unsure. Q could be whisked away tomorrow morning before he even opens his eyes.
But all the reservations melt away when Q nods. “Goodnight, big brother Hitoshi!” they cheer. “I’ll see you tomorrow!”
Hitoshi nods, gives one last pat on Q’s head, and leaves.
Aizawa leads Q to the downstairs bathroom, acutely aware of Hizashi following behind him. Aizawa is extra careful guiding Q. Hyperaware that every time Q shifts, moves to take a sip of the orange juice, or simply steps over something leads to hundreds of razors to sink in their skin, a long trail of barbed wire to carve into their wrist. It’s unsettling and takes everything in Aizawa not to regret not looking sooner.
After calling All Might to get him to watch over the children and leaving a voicemail to Principle Nezu about a potential emergency, he called Best Jeanist. He was surprised when Best Jeanist answered, voice hoarse and croaky. It was over this very short two-minute conversation did Best Jeanist mention how Q utilized their quirk.
“Bumped into one of Hawks’ and Endeavor’s sidekicks. That was that,” Best Jeanist had said, exhausted.
The same happened with Aizawa. He was bumped into, and nothing could prepare him for the tearing of his psyche. And from there, he mournfully remembered how Q activates their quirk. Aizawa remembered the horrifying scene that laid a secret behind their sleeve, a secret that one of their guardians must’ve redone once they left.
Aizawa places Q on the counter, meanwhile, Hizashi leans against the doorframe, observing.
Q wordlessly takes off their coat, laying one of their battered arms on their legs while the other continues to sip from the orange juice.
Once Aizawa grabs all the supplies, he turns back to look at Q and forces back a flinch. He doesn’t think a sight like this will ever be easy to digest, Hizashi seems to share similar sentiments because he looks everywhere but Q’s direction. Aizawa, unfortunately, doesn’t get this luxury as he begins by unwinding the barbed wire from their arms. The skin catches on the wires from time to time, and Q simply blinks and sips at the orange juice at the bottom of the cup. Aizawa has to hold back bile.
Aizawa moves to the next arm and begins the process again. He applies hydrogen peroxide onto the open wound. Aizawa wipes off the blood from their arms with a cloth as gently as possible, Q doesn’t even so much as flinch when the hydrogen peroxide touches their skin, does not whine when it begins to bubble, and most definitely stings. Q remains impassive, sipping their juice.
When Aizawa starts to wrap their bandages starting from their wrist is when they finally begin to speak.
“How long can I stay here, Mr. Aizawa?” Q asks, their voice only has a hint of hesitation that Aizawa could easily miss.
Aizawa raises his eyebrows, and Hizashi makes a noise. “How long do you want to stay here?” Aizawa asks, gently. He doesn’t know Q’s home life; not even Hitoshi, despite his efforts, can pry it from them. Aizawa also doesn’t know Q’s guardians. They seem to like Chuuya enough to want to go with them but find themselves separated from them once more.
Q doesn’t have an answer to that question. They’ll have to go back eventually, they know this. Someone will notice their disappearance, and if no one does then Chuuya definitely will when he gets back. And Q knows they will undoubtedly miss Chuuya if they don’t go home. But Q can’t say they dislike the way Aizawa is gentle with their skin, removing the blades and barbed wires that Q put on so carefully so that they can belong in the Port Mafia. They love the gentle teasing Hitoshi gives, and they love Hizashi’s home-cooked food. The warmth of the house far exceeds the cot they’re given in the basement. The words of comfort are better than the sneers they get from those who fear them.
“I don’t know,” they say eventually, voice barely above a whisper.
Aizawa ties the bandage off at their armpit and gives a comforting smile in return. “That’s okay. You don’t have to answer now,” He then stands and outstretches his hand for Q to take. “For now, you are home,”
Home, Q thinks, slipping their hand into Aizawa’s.
Q likes that a lot.