Plot Bunnies and (rarely) One Shots

How had no one figured out just how big of dorks these guys were?

He was starting to think he had gone temporarily blind during USJ and the camp, mostly he was currently perched on the sofa, on his third apple juice box from Kurigori, watching Spinner and Shigaraki argue over which Fall Out game was better, Vegas or Four (or something to that degree) while Toga and Dabi were bonding over their shared medical issues (apparently the girl needed blood to stay lucid, sparking a fascinating concept of quirk theory in his brain, the possibilities, the effects-) and Compress, Magne, Mustard and Twice played a spirited game of cards with only a little obvious cheating. The main betting material seemed to be ramen packets, bathroom privileges, a single ten-yen note, and a napkin with the words ‘do what you want -1 time’ scribbled on it. It was quite competitive.

No one had tried to hurt him or kill him since they had untied him from the chair. He had been given back his stuff, bar any weapons, and patched himself up in short order. Dabi looked like he was physically holding himself back from asking about how good he was at treating burns, and Izuku prayed his stubbornness would hold up: he was not up for that right now.

Though, the known villains had been nicer to him than most people he’s met in his life-

Nope, not going there, nada. Not happening.

He hopes his mom isn’t panicking too badly. Aizawa had been good at calming her down when they came around for permission for the dorms, maybe he had pulled it off again?

The TV in the corner had a strange air of malice. Everyone gave it a generous three-feet birth, and some conversations happened in sign language instead of out-loud.

Izuku wasn’t an idiot; he put it together rather quickly.

The League weren’t the real enemies here. Maybe they were being manipulated, or blackmailed, or had no other choice, or being used as scapegoats but they weren’t the real threat.

Whoever was on the other side of that TV was one, though.

He resisted the urge to put his foot through the screen in a fit of frustration and did something that had helped him massively over the last few months; subtly working out. Finger and arm exercises, sitting-but-not, pushups and curl ups in the bathroom.

Speaking of the bathroom, it was disgusting. Black hair dye stained the sink, blood spatter in the shower, mold in the tiles.

He sighed, and stood up. It was going to keep bothering him, might as well do something about it. “Kurogiri, do you have cleaning supplies back there? The bathroom is driving me nuts.”

They ended up supervising him while he cleaned, which just consisted of Dabi playing pokemon on an old vintage switch, glancing over every few seconds, while he scrubbed. Nothing was particularly bad- though he did exhaust Kuriogiri’s lemon supplies for a bit until he popped out for more a half hour later in the vicious battle against the brown-copper stains.

It was almost meditative; he had cleaned often. It was a common punishment at school, (discrimination, whispered something small and tired in the back fo his brain) and he and his mother had always appreciated a clean space. The mindless motions of the scrubbing and spraying were good to clear his head, give him a bit of normalcy and some time to think.

Were his classmates missing him? What was Kachan thinking? What was he thinking? Why wasn’t he trying to escape, or panicking? Why was he focusing on the state of the bathroom or the mystery of why Kuriogiri had so many juice boxes within easy reach rather than the building’s structure of whether the door was locked?

Nothing made sense. But then, when had it ever?

He had been so confused, at UA, those first few days. Why was he being treated so well? Why was no one even trying to intimidate him, sneer in his direction, nothing? Why was AIzawa so forgiving, so… un-discriminatory?

His old math teacher had picked him out every day, week after week, month after month, for the smallest of things. A stutter, a slip of the tongue, tapping his pen against his desk, muttering under his breath, looking out the window, looking at the clock, speaking up, not speaking up.

His head hurt.

His bruises healed, his burns wiped away by Recovery Girl, (why did she refuse to heal him when he messed up one too many times? She was supposed to be safe-) his scars stayed untouched.

But then it occurred to him; of course no one was bothering him. He was quirked now; and powerful to boot. The premiere hero class, one of the top in it, (according to grades, definitely not according to him) winner of the sports festival.

He remembered how Kachan treated those under him in the social hierarchy, and had promptly had a mental breakdown in his room for an entire afternoon.

He wouldn’t be Kachan. But who would he be?

He was used to the best-case-scenario being him, invisible, unremarkable. When he was singled out for something good, when he was placed in the front of the crowd, he didn’t know what to do. (He was only worth something because of the quirk. The quirk, not his, it’s not his, he’s living a lie-)

He was tired.

He stopped feeling sad around two months in. He had no reason to be sad, after all. Look how lucky he had gotten, look how good things were!

He was numb, or he was happy. He wasn’t allowed to be sad. Why would he be sad? He had friends and a future and a quirk and- (depression)

He was fine!

(He wasn’t.)

A fine person would be screaming and kicking and forming escape plans. Instead he blankly ate the cheap ramen they handed him, sadness washing over him.

He was kidnapped. He was allowed to be sad.

It was almost a relief. Why was it a relief?

He doesn’t understand.

Dabi is nice, when he’s not terrifying. But the smoke that comes off him in thin lines like candles sputtering in and out made him twitch with old memories. Dabi noticed, of course, and does his best. More layers to absorb the smell and the mess. A tighter handle on his quirk at all times; careful discussions on if he would like to cook, eyes occasionally flicking over to the stove.

It wasn’t the fire, though. It was the explosions that weren’t real. Smoke brought back memories of being trapped in an endless cloud of soot, of hurt and pain and betrayal-

He avoided Dabi, but he liked him, and was trying to get that point across.

Magne was lovely. She was big, and intimidating, and loud, but was so friendly, and accepting, and communicative. She didn't talk in riddles, she was more than comfortable playing messenger for him to the other members of the league, taught him how to play cat’s cradle when he needed to do something with his hands alongside Shigaraki so the man couldn’t scratch, complemented his drawing even though they only gave him crayons. Originally it wasn’t so he couldn’t stab them with them, but now he was pretty sure it was a running joke.

He managed. It was an interesting experiment of working with a new medium, if he looked at it right.

He cooked because Kuriogiri had enough to do and no one else could. Well, Compress could manage simple things, but he got tired of eggs and rice as quickly as everyone else did.

It had been three days, and he felt… settled?

Twice did impressions at the TV when something annoyed him, Toga had an incorrect quotes blog that were absolutely real quotes, Compress ran an ARG, Spinner brought in a stray puppy from the street.

They named him Smudge, for his spotted coat and how he melted into your side to half-disappear, and he was a class-A cuddler.

(Excellent therapy dog, he heard Compress mutter to Kurogiri. Do them real good, it will, don’t you agree darling?)

Toga started including him in her blog. Compress agreed to include a coded letter to his mother in his latest video. Kuriogiri had switched to peach juice when he discovered he liked those better, but apple ones still stayed under the counter. Beige-orange peach ones right beside.

He did little things, to distract him. Fixed the fridge and heating, because no handyman would serve the quirkless kid’s mother, so he had experience. He tried new recipes, drew more, though no analysis. Despite his brain running in circles with new ideas, he didn’t dare. (He had thought he was safe at UA. Who's to say this was a lie as well? Even so, he’d prefer this place to be like UA. Less danger less of the time. Maybe more danger but on a schedule? Put all the pain in all at once? Doesn't matter-)

The scrapes and bumps from camp disappeared. An underground hero pretending to be a pizza boy was dispatched (They did a blood transfusion for Toga, then contacted someone to mess with their memories, on his request. The idea of someone being dead because of him-)(they had agreed to his plan suspiciously quickly, only adding one extra bit of resistance when the TV sputtered out extra static.)

He didn’t find anything wrong with the TV. Maybe it was quirked to connect to another device? He didn’t know.

He wished he knew.

Life in the League’s bar was an endless stream of distractions and controlled chaos. He did research on proper dog-raising techniques, and for the most part that had gone over pretty well. Getting food that wasn’t byproduct or not puppy food or not enough protein was a problem until Compress disappeared for an evening and came back with a bag full of marbles, each one carrying a three-pound bag of the best dog food brand he had found in all his research.

He didn’t ask.

Smudge rode on his shoulder and gave them all lots of kisses, and everyone was sad that only Toga could walk him using her quirk until she came back with a dozen boxes of sticky buns with a triumphant expression in the middle of the afternoon.

He had his suspicions about Kurogiri. The memory lapses, the disassociating, the utter devotion to Shigaraki as his carer, the anxious glances at the TV.

The sad look in eyes when he gave an update about Nomu, in whispers, to Shigaraki. The fear.

He had his suspicions about Shigaraki as well. His attachment to those hands, how he talked of his ‘sensei’, how connected he was to Kuriogiri, how touch-starved and alienated he seemed. Utterly unprepared for normal conversation.

Magne was a godsend. (How had she ended up here? Sheer goodwill and bad luck?)

She patiently led through every social courtesy Shigaraki didn’t know how to navigate, lectured them all on proper nutrition, (much to the relief of Kurogiri and Compress) let Dabi and Toga rant about their abusive parents without so much as a sigh.

And eventually, he had the conversation that needed to happen. Before someone got hurt.

In sign, of course, because of the damned ominous TV, ever crackling and omnipresent.

He flagged Kuriogiri down, trusting him to not voice the event more than Shigaraki.

“Kurogiri.” (the sign was K-mist, the name was too long to fingerspell) “I need to talk with you and Shigaraki.” Shigaraki’s sign was dust. He had frowned when shone, but had yet to comment.

Kuriogiri needed calmly, and swept off the Shiagraki’s room under the guise of making him clean it up for once.

Shigaraki stayed in his room for five whole minutes before coming out complaining, but his hands held a serious conversation.

“So it’s time, then. What is it kid?”

Izuku forced himself to not look at his lap- he wouldn’t be able to see their reactions if he did. “I like it here. But I also like it at U-A.” he signed carefully, making sure to not botch anything up or make any mistakes. He didn’t want to be misunderstood with this conversation.

Shigaraki twitched a bit, but smoothly kept up his moaning about not wanting to clean up. Kuriogiri responded so well it almost seemed scripted. (Was it scripted?) But none of that was important.

“What are you going to do, then?”

Izuku bit his lip. Wasn’t that the question. “I want to go back to UA. But- I’m going to change things. How I’m treated. How everyone is treated. In society, hopefully, not just the school. But.” He took a deep breath to battle against the anxiety in his gut. “If things get bad, you could… kidnap me again?”
That sat in the air for a moment before Shiagraki was visibly holding in laughter, instead settling for a huge, but somewhat dissatisfied, grin.

He could tell this wasn’t what the older man (Izuku personally estimated him to be about college age, maybe 22 or so) wanted, but was better than what he was expecting still.

Shigaraki’s head tilts, like he’s considering this. His heart swells; he misses his friends, his mom.

But… he will miss the League too.

He pushes that whisper of a thought away, well practiced in the art.

“How so?”

Izuku blinks. It’s working! “We could set up a signal, for if things get bad, or I need a… break. From everything. Where you guys could come in and… I can’t speak for what you’ll do, but maybe take me again, or stage something dramatic to take the pressure off?” His face screws up slightly in apprehension.

No hit connects, no insults land, of course. (Shigaraki isn’t the type to hit like that anyway. He holds it in until it explodes, and then there won’t be much time to feel pain at all, really)

When he looks up again, Shigaraki is both competitive and concerned. It’s hidden of course- but he can read the body language of just about anyone with ease. He’s had lots of practice, especially under stress.

“That could work.” Shigaraki signs at him with a serious expression. “We can talk it over with the others, and set up a couple for what you’d want to happen next. A signal for if you’re scared of being harmed, if you’re tired, how long you want the effect to last. But it can happen.”

There’s a moment of stillness.

Kurigogiri, having been watching over the silent conversation beinenly, had misty hands appear among the glasses on the countertop. “You are not a prisoner here, young Izuku. You're one of ours, now.”

The League is very much a group of broken people leaning on each for strength. Spinner is nearly as crippled as he is by discrimiantion in his past, Compress is haunted by rocky family history and high, extremely illegal expectations he didn’t meet, Kurigoriri’s past was a blur of tragedies forcibly forgotten, Shigaraki had obviously been groomed from a young age, Toga and Dabi regularly bonded over family-based trauma.

In another world, he would have been more than a half-member. He might live full time in this bar, practicing his analysis and subtly helping.

Leading them away from the influence of the monster behind that TV screen.