Aizawa Oneshots and More

Three Days Later

HIII GUYS!!!! it is currently (checks nonexistent watch) 2:40 AM. I've not slept. BUT OH WELL! 
I'm bringing you another chapter :) I might do a part two, depending on how well this one is received. 

I hope you enjoy!

Remember, requests are open!

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Three months earlier.

You didn't mean to fall asleep there, not really. You only meant to rest your eyes. Just for a minute. But the faculty lounge is quiet, the lights are low, and the soft patter of rain against the windows lulls you in like a lullaby.

By the time Aizawa walks in, the lounge is dim, lit only by the lamp near the couch. Your body is curled into the armrest, one leg folded beneath you, grading papers still scattered across your lap. One hand loosely holds a red pen, the other resting near your temple as if you're trying to think through something even in sleep.

He doesn't call your name. Doesn't sigh. Doesn't scold you. Just stands in the doorway, half-shrouded in shadow, and takes a long, quiet breath.

You always work too hard. Did too much. Stayed too late, even when your own work was finished. He told you not to, more than once by the way, but you always smiled and deflected.

You stir when he gently pulls the pen from your fingers.

"...I'm awake," you murmur, blinking up at him.

"You've been drooling on Class 1-A's essays for at least fifteen minutes."

You push yourself up with a groggy groan. "Tell them it's a blessing from a superior intellect."

"You think they'll believe that?"

"Definitely not. But it'll distract them from the fact that I used a red pen to draw horns on Bakugou."

That got the tiniest lift at the corner of his mouth. Barely there, but there nonetheless.

He sits beside you on the couch. Not touching, not looking at you, really. Just... sitting. Like maybe he didn't want to be alone tonight either.

And for a while, you both just listen to the storm outside.

You don't speak. He doesn't ask why you stayed so late again. You don't ask about the bruises on his forearms, faint but fresh. You never ask about those anymore.

—-

Two months earlier.

A hospital room. Fluorescent lights. The kind of quiet that only comes after a close call.

You're the one who found him.

The villain's ambush had been a trap. Too clean. Too quick. If you didn't follow your gut – if you waited even five minutes longer – he wouldn't be here.

The doctors said it's a clean cut, but deep. ANy deeper and it might've torn into his lung. You didn't hear the rest, too busy scrubbing his blood off your hands.

When he wakes up, you're sitting beside him, arms crossed and eyes burning.

"You're an idiot," you say hoarsely.

He blinks slowly at you. "Good morning to you too."

"I told you not to go alone."

"And I told you I could handle it."

"You didn't handle it," you snap. "You almost died, Shota."

That name. You never use it unless you're scared.