Chapter Text
Shōta’s pretty sure he must have been a bad person in a past life. A real kitten kicking, doesn’t refill the coffee pot kind of bastard or something equally horrible.
Or at least that’s what he’d think if he believed in that kind of stuff beyond the obligatory cultural practices that’re drilled into everyone’s heads as children.
‘Of course,' an all too familiar loud and wry voice chimes up in the back of Shōta’s head, 'it’s not like you’ve tried too hard lately to be all that great of a person in this life either, huh Sho?’
Shōta waves his mental-Hizashi off with the ease of long practice. It’s true but that doesn’t mean he needs to think about it.
He’d made peace with his life choices a long time ago and no amount of nagging, real or imaginary, from his too loud best friend is going to change any of that.
But then, Shōta can’t help but admit as he nudges the body at his feet with the toe of one combat boot, it’s not like mental-Hizashi is wrong either.
Shōta had stopped trying to walk a virtuous path and had settled rather comfortably into a world filled with shades of grey more than a decade ago.
Either way, current lives and reincarnation taken into account or not, Shōta knows one thing for sure.
He’s entirely too tired for this bullshit.
And, staring down at the unconscious form of what can only be number one pro-hero Deku sprawled out on his supposedly secure apartment’s balcony, Shōta has a horrible feeling that his current set of problems have only just begun.
~~~
Izuku wakes with a swallowed down groan.
He feels kitten weak, his body aching like a bruise, his head pounding, and his mouth bone dry. It feels as if he’s gone back in time and went ten rounds with Gran like he used to back when he’d first started training.
He probably has a concussion if the slight nausea he can feel churning away inside of him is anything to go by. Again.
His memory feels a bit fuzzy too and he can’t quite remember what he’d been doing but whatever it is that landed him in this shape he’s sure he’s going to have to apologize to his mom a lot over it. Like always.
And possibly the public if he’s managed to get thrown through a building somehow. Again.
That’s why when Izuku finally manages to pry his aching, sandy eyes open and blink his vision clear he’s more than a bit surprised to find himself blinking up at an unfamiliar, shadowed ceiling.
It’s obviously not his normal room at the hospital, it’s missing the All Might doodle he’d drawn above his bed in a fit of boredom years ago. It’s also not his room at his parent’s house either because Toshi-sensei had painted it a relaxing blue years ago. And it’s missing the glow-in-the-dark stars of his own bedroom back at his house.
And those are the only real places he ever sleeps at.
So where …?
All at once Izuku’s memory comes rushing back in around the edges.
The call-in, the villain, the woman who’d been taken hostage, the tense rescue and the fight that had followed, long and drawn out. And then the exhaustion and vertigo that had come once he’d cleared the scene.
Three days of almost nonstop action had obviously finally caught up with him only to cause him to black out in midair.
The last thing Izuku remembers is the weightless sensation of falling, Float failing him as black closed in around the edges.
So, again, that just leaves him to figure out where he’s ended up.
But, given the fact that he’s obviously been tied up and he can’t feel his quirk but can feel the set of heavy duty quirk suppressant cuffs clasped tightly around his wrists, Izuku’s already pretty sure it’s nowhere good.
“Finally awake?” A rough, unfamiliar voice snaps Izuku’s wandering mind firmly into place.
It’s second nature to push through the lingering pain and do his best to focus, head turning in the direction of that voice as he catalogues his surroundings and the situation he’s somehow found himself in.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Izuku manages to croak, tongue thick in his mouth and throat sore.
The room he’s in is mostly bare, all cream colored walls and dark floors. The only real bit of personality is a small TV resting on top of a milk crate against the far wall, the tall three prong lamp sitting beside it, and the laptop resting on the hardwood floor.
Well that and the large, obviously expensive cat tree in the corner. Which is an interesting choice of décor but Izuku’s been in enough temporary hideouts and barren fallback locations to have seen weirder by now.
And there is, of course, the man sitting slumped down against the wall across from him, elbow resting on one raised knee, one hand fisted in a length of fabric, and eyes fixed in his direction.
“Hi,” Izuku forces his body to shift around just enough that he can wiggle his fingers in the man’s direction. It makes his head pound and his vision swim but it’s nothing he’s not had happen before so he ignores it.
“How’d you find me?” his captor asks, hand flexing and causing the material currently cocooning Izuku to tighten in obvious warning.
Capture weapon, the analytical portion of Izuku’s mind that not even his obvious concussion can shut up automatically notes. Nanocarbon fiber maybe? Possible nanotech embedded? Need to see more, see how far he can control it. Obviously hero level quality. Too strong, too well made. Not back alley support tech.
“I asked you a question,” the capture weapon around him jerks again, refocusing Izuku’s wandering attention and sending a fresh wave of throbbing through his head. “How’d you find me? Who’s coming after you?”
“Oh,” Izuku blinks, head swimming and a wave of sadness abruptly crashing down on top of him as tears well up in the corners of his eyes. “No one’s coming after me.”
“Didn’t call it in did you?” the man drawls blandly. “Pretty reckless. It would’ve been more logical to call for backup. Maybe you wouldn’t be in this situation if you’d called in a few friends.”
“Don’t have any of those,” Izuku admits more than a bit wretchedly. It feels as if, for some reason, everything he normally keeps bottled up in the center of his chest has begun to leak out onto the surface. For a split second Izuku’s pretty sure this is what dying feels like.
But then he remembers his first internship and basically all of middle school and realizes he’s probably in the clear on that issue.
“Any of what?” Another painful jerk of that capture weapon.
“Friends,” Izuku sniffles, head now deep sea diving. “Haven’t ever really had those. Not ever.”
There’s a moment of silence.
“Are … are you crying?” The dubious sort of puzzlement in the man’s voice hits the eject button on the last bit of Izuku’s already tenuously grasped dignity.
“Y-Yeah,” Izuku chokes out around his tears. “I-I d-do that a-a lot.”
“What the fuck is happening right now?” The man's whispered question sounds a shade off desperate.
Izuku, unable to help himself now that he’s started, just cries harder.
~~~
Staring at the sobbing pro hero currently trussed up in his capture scarf and laid out on his sleeping bag, Shōta wants a cigarette.
Desperately.
Which is strange because, multiple vices and reportedly generally poor self care habits aside, Shōta doesn’t actually smoke.
Besides the issue of reduced lung capacity being illogical in his profession, Hizashi, always protective of his own voice and lungs, would have screamed Shōta deaf on purpose by now if he’d ever taken up the habit.
But this?
This shit right here?
This feels like a nicotine kind of situation.
Resigned to this being his life for the moment, Shōta pushes himself to his feet and goes to take care of this problem.
Drastic times call for drastic measures.
And a tied up pro-hero sobbing his heart out in the middle of Shōta’s living room ranks right up there on the drastic scale.
~~~
“Feel a little better?” The man asks, free hand coming up to scratch idly at the short buzzed hair just beneath his long, dark ponytail.
“Y-Yeah,” Izuku mumbles around the straw of the lychee flavored jelly pouch the man’s holding to his mouth. “Thanks.”
The crying jag, while not doing his aches and pains any favors, has somehow left him feeling a surprising level of clear headed for some reason.
For a moment the only sound is him slurping at the straw and the loud, vibrating purring of the cat on his lap.
“What’s your cat’s name?” Izuku finally asks when the pouch is empty.
“This one?” Scar littered knuckles nudge lightly at the cat’s forehead and then trail over its one remaining ear. “His name’s Dog.”
“Cute,” Izuku snorts out a half laugh because it’s true. Ridiculous yes, but also still true. “What about yours?”
The man just stares at him, dark eyes undercut by darker circles intense as they take him in.
“You,” the man finally says slowly, “can call me Eraser. And then you can tell me how you ended up at my apartment.”
“Wait,” Izuku blurts as the second half of that sentence registers in his mind. His eyes dart back across the barren landscape that is the apartment he’s currently being held hostage in. “This is your actual house? Like your residence and not a fallback location?”
“What’s your point?” Eraser asks.
Which, Izuku’s quick to notice, is not a denial.
Unfortunately.
“So you really just live like this?” Izuku winces in an undeniable mix of sympathy and pity. “I’m so sorry.”
“What.” It’s less of a question and more of a statement.
“How long have you lived here?” Izuku asks, eyes drawn back to that sad little jumble of electronics that aren’t even settled on a proper stand.
“Six years,” Eraser bites out like he doesn’t want to answer but feels compelled to somehow. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Six years?” Izuku can’t keep the thread of pity mixed with awe out of his voice. "Really? That’s just so ... sad.”
The silence that descends between them is thick and heavy.
“Are you brain damaged?” Eraser practically demands after a long, drawn out moment.
“Not any more than usual,” Izuku reassures him as earnestly as he can manage. Occasional head trauma tends to be a part of the job description after all.
“You realize I’m holding you captive don’t you?” Eraser sounds more exasperated than Izuku feels is necessary at the moment. “You’re aware that you’re under heavy quirk suppressants and at my mercy right?”
“Yeah, well, you’ve been here for six years and you don’t even have a couch,” Izuku can’t help but point out. “So, really, which one of us is actually the issue here?”
“Gods-fucking-damnit, ” Eraser groans, a hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Deku, what the hell?”
“Oh hey,” Izuku smiles just a bit in delight. “You know my name.”
“You’re the number one hero,” Eraser says dryly, head lolling back to stare up at the ceiling. “Everyone knows your name.”
Which, point.
“First thing I do when I get free is get you some throw pillows or a chair or something,” Izuku tells him solemnly. “I know I’ll probably have to arrest you at some point since you’re obviously not a normal civilian and if you were a hero you wouldn’t have tied me up, but I’m probably gonna make you breakfast first. To thank you for the jelly pouch and because you obviously need it.”
“I can’t believe I’m having to repeat this,” Eraser cuts in, “but you. Are. My. Captive.”
“...Maybe so,” Izuku admits after a brief pause. “But I still want to do something for you because this,” Izuku nods pointedly at the barren apartment, “is just making me sad.”
“Oh yeah well what about you then?” Eraser jabs a finger into Izuku’s chest. “Mr. Number One Hero who apparently has no friends? Hell, even I’ve got friends. Unfortunately.”
“Nobody really liked me when I was a kid,” Izuku admits, shoulders hunching up just a bit. “I was … awkward. Yeah let’s go with that. And then I went pro so fast and pretty much shot up the charts and most people just kept their distance. The ones that didn’t … well they didn’t want to get to know me for the right reasons. Which was hurtful but I’m used to it.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Eraser grumbles, dropping out of his crouch to sit down beside Izuku on top of the sleeping bag he’s been settled on. “I tied you up and you still want to buy me pillows and cook me breakfast. You should have friends.”
“You have friends but I have a fully furnished house,” Izuku shrugs as best he can given the level of tied up he’s still operating under. There’s really not much in the way of give to whatever this is made of. “Look at that, it’s like together we almost make an entire functioning adult.”
Eraser huffs out what sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
“I’m still not untying you though,” he points out a few seconds later. “Not until I figure out what to do with you.”
“That’s fair. Besides, if I'm being honest?” Izuku does his wiggle-shrug again. “I normally hate being restrained like this but I'm actually pretty comfortable somehow? Your capture weapon’s kind of cozy. Plus I’d hate to move Dog and it’s not like I’ve got anywhere else to be.”
~~~
If anyone had told Shōta his day would end like this he probably would have tipped them over the side of his eighth floor balcony and been done with the situation.
And yet here he is, in his apartment sitting side by side with Deku watching cat videos on his phone while Dog, Bastard, and Trash curl up around them. Or as is the case with Deku and now Tree, on top of them.
Shōta’s honestly not sure what he’s going to do about this entire situation but, for the moment at least, he’s not going to worry about it.
It’s all going to be a problem for future him.