Chapter Text
Izuku doesn’t wake up during his first full day in the hospital.
Dr. Seikakuna warned Inko this might happen ahead of time. The nature of the Quirk they used during and after surgery drains a significant amount of energy from the patient, often leading to a natural coma that could last somewhere between two days and a full week depending on the injury. With Izuku's physiology and the state of his spine, they used that Quirk to the maximum limit. Dr. Seikakuna predicted he'd be under close to a week because of that, maybe even longer, but Inko mentally cuts that time in half. Saiyans are a hardy species, and Izuku's already inherited so much from his father. It wouldn't be wishful thinking to say he got that from Tichouk, too, but it doesn't make waiting any easier.
With nothing but free time on her hands, she uses that first day as a chance to familiarize herself with Izuku’s care team. Nurses, doctors, anyone who so much as opens the door to her son’s room, she memorizes their names, faces, roles, even the cartoonish patterns on their scrubs.
Inko sees the nurses most often. They come in every two hours to refill the IV nutrients being pumped into her son’s body. They smile at her and make the usual polite gestures and small talk, but they never linger, swiftly finishing their task and leaving when they're done. Inko looked up the brand of IV on her own to check the nutrient composition. It’s specifically formulated for those whose Quirks give them a heightened metabolism. She can only pray that it’s enough.
The doctors she meets are limited to the ones assigned to Izuku's recovery, and Inko should be fine with knowing that much, but her anxiety is a persistent creature. It keeps coming up with ridiculous scenarios ranging between the doctors managing to connect the dots about Izuku's ancestry to villains launching a full scale attack to get at her son specifically. Some are so implausible she feels insane even entertaining them, but they're not impossible, so she keeps looping back to them.
She doesn't know what she'd do without Sichord. He figures out that she's trying to memorize the staff some time between breakfast and lunch and has a list in her hands by mid-afternoon, neat handwriting detailing the names and job titles of everyone on the whole floor of the pediatric ward. She's able to recite the list back to herself perfectly before dinner.
Sichord is not Tichouk, that goes without saying, but he brings his own sense of security as a strong protector and confidant to of her son's heavy heritage. His very presence is grounding, a cave she can duck into to hide from the downpour of her own thoughts. He never tries to make her talk, yet when she initiates, he holds quiet conversation until she runs out of steam. He never goes far the few times he leaves during visiting hours, always hovering in case of an emergency. She doubts she'd get any sleep at all if she didn't know he was nearby.
The second day is when the gifts start, heralded by Naomasa struggling to squeeze through the door with all the bags hanging from his arms. The contents are a range of things: home made meals and snacks from Oyu, electrolyte solutions to mix with her water and crossword magazines from Umishu, an annotated encyclopedia of marine life from Negan, a handful of murder mystery novels from Naomasa, and a small tablet logged into all of Ratsuka's streaming accounts.
Over the course of three days, the once bland and sterile hospital room has steadily filled with gifts.
Inko helps herself to the crosswords, she doesn't have much of an appetite for the snacks. Sichord doesn't eat, so they start to accumulate — likely to be donated to Izuku once he wakes up. The namekian picks up one of Naomasa's mystery novels and doesn't put it down until he's three-quarters of the way through, and that's only long enough for him to grab water for himself and Inko. He finished it on the same day he started it, and one day later, he's already halfway through the third book. With how many prayers he has to read through, maybe it's not so surprising that he can tear through novels at such incredible speed.
When her brain grows weary of word puzzles, she opens up Negan's encyclopedia. The scientific jargon is lost on her, but the pictures look nice enough. She takes her time flipping through each one, only to laugh when she lands on the page about sea slugs. Negan’s neat handwriting rates each subspecies by how similar they are to Umishu’s hair in the margins, accompanied by crude doodles of a sea slug with sunglasses.
She sends a picture of it to the group chat. Umishu's ingidnant outrage is immediate, as is Negan's heartfelt defense of his ratings. Every time it seems that the chat might quiet down, Oyu, Ratsuka, or, to Inko's surprise, Naomasa, would offer their own rating, setting Umishu and Negan off all over again. It's hard to believe they're all at least two years her senior, seeing them sling playground insults at each other rapid-fire, but she can't help but crack a smile at their antics. In times like these, it's easy to see how Tichouk got along with them so well.
The Bakugous are the next to visit, and like Naomasa, they don't come empty handed — or leave empty handed for that matter, in Mitsuki's case. Katsuki, as the one classmate who is a family friend, appears to have been designated the deliverer of an entire stack of get well soon cards. Mitsuki, on the other hand, brings her husband's well wishes, Inko's favorite tea, and takes her dirty clothes to wash and return on her next visit. She and Inko chat for a time, Katsuki staying noticeably silent off to the side of the room, his eyes glued to Izuku on the bed as his fists curl at his side. He puts on a good act of indifference whenever Mitsuki asks or tells him to do something, but if he looks at Izuku long enough, there's no denying the guilt lurking in his eyes. Seeing Izuku like this hurts him, too, though he would never admit it.
When Mitsuki makes to leave, Katsuki trailing along behind her, Inko adresses him directly. "You're welcome to visit whenever you'd like, Katsuki."
Katsuki freezes at that, his movements stiff as he turns around to look at her with heartbreaking hesitation.
Things have been a bit rocky between him and Izuku lately, yes, but Inko knows Katsuki. She knows her son. If the roles were reversed, Izuku would be sitting with Katsuki at every opportunity, just how Katsuki clearly wants to.
"Well?" Mitsuki demands, "it's rude not to answer an invitation."
Katsuki shoots a deep scowl at her, muttering about meddling hags before clearing his throat. "I'll think about it." A neutral answer, but his face betrays him. He and Izuku are going to be just fine.
Izuku’s homeroom teacher drops by daily. Sometimes it’s just to check in, sometimes to relieve the hero on guard duty for a short time. He keeps Inko updated on the investigation, as much as he can without disclosing sensitive information. He also informs her of Yuuei’s new security measures, and how Izuku’s medical bills will be compensated by the school. Japan isn’t like the US, the bill’s not an exorbitant amount of money, but she imagines that it’s the gesture that the school is focusing on. The motive for said gesture is revealed not long after the offer is made.
“We would like him to keep attending Yuuei,” Aizawa confesses over coffee. “The school is very interested in his future, but you have final say as his mother.”
Seeing her hesitation Aizawa explains his Quirk to her in the quiet of the hospital room. For reassurance, she assumes. Were her son fully human, it would work. As it is, there’s no way to confirm if Erasure works on Saiyan strength. If Izuku wakes up and thinks that he’s in danger, there’s no guarantee that Aizawa will have any sort of upper hand against him. A warning feels in order, but it would only raise further questions. Even if Izuku weren’t so vulnerable right now, the risk wouldn’t be worth it. Guilt loses most of its bite when she’s faced with the safety of her son. But this is not the only issue here.
Hound Dog's business card sits heavy in Inko's pocket. She loves Izuku. Seeing him in this hospital bed is a unique kind of hell, and as a pro hero, this scene might become more common than she ever wants it to be. At the same time, she hasn’t seen her little boy so excited for school… ever. Very little in this world can hurt him, but as a hero, he’d be rolling the dice every time he went on patrol, every time he battled a villain.
How do the families of ordinary humans deal with this kind of pressure? It must be just as excrutiating as it is for Inko, without the worry over their child's extraterrestrial blood. Normal children, even if hero students, don't go battle crazy at their first run-in with villains. They don't kill something a seasoned hero would barely recognize as human.
"Something's on your mind?" Aizawa asks. Perceptive, that's a good thing in a teacher.
"I was thinking about the recommendation you gave." Inko glances at Izuku's sleeping form. "My Izuku tries to be careful of his strength, but he's not perfect. He slips up, and every time it happens, he beats himself up over it for hours, sometimes days. He sulked around the house for a week over breaking a teacup I liked. If he learns about what he did at the USJ when he's still in recovery..." It would scare him back into the shell he's just started to come out of, it could even affect his recovery.
"I know I can't keep this a secret from him forever," Inko continues. "He'll figure it out one way or the other, but please, don't tell him right away."
Aizawa considers her plea for several heavy moments before nodding. "If you need help at breaking the news, just let me know."
Inko's shoulders drop and she lets out a breath. "Thank you."
One of the classmates keeps sending flowers. Expensive, lush boquets each day. They fill the room with a pleasant, but not overbearing, scent. Inko appreciates the gesture, but she still has Sichord divvy the blooms up and give them to the nurses to distribute among the other hospital rooms on this level. What might be pleasant to her nose can be overwhelming to a saiyan's. Her Izuku's already going to wake up so confused, it would be better if he regained consciousness to the scent of something familiar and safe, so Inko has Sichord go to the apartment and pick up a few things. Her son’s pillowcase, a blanket he always uses for his mid-afternoon naps on the weekend, and one of Inko's cardigans to drape over the back of his hospital bed. It's not perfect. It's not home, but it's as close as she can make it.
The guard of the day, Best Jeanist cuts a tall figure at the door, having to duck his head as he passes through the doorframe in order to preserve his immaculate hairstyle. He has another vase of flowers in his arms — a stunning collection of bluebells and edelweis. “Another gift from the Yaoyorozu family,” he says, his voice only slightly muffled by the high denim collar of his outfit.
Inko sighs. “That’s the third one.” The flowers from the first vase are likely still blooming across the whole hospital floor.
“Indeed. I asked the delivery man and he said it was so your son could wake up to the freshest blooms possible.”
And the most aromatic, Inko thinks to herself. The scent isn’t brutal to her – it’s strong, yes, but inoffensive – her main concern is how they’ll smell to Izuku.
Sichord rises from his seat, taking the large vase from Best Jeanist without so much as a grunt. “I’ll ask the nurses, see if there’s anyone who could use these more.”
"Last time you brought them flowers, they gave you snacks and let you stay outside of visiting hours." Inko teases. "What will they give you now, I wonder?"
Sichord's ears turn a deeper shade of green, mumbling a "not doing this for snacks" under his breath as he leaves. A good portion of the prayers he recieves comes from hospitals, and while he can’t grant every wish, Inko imagines that finding ways to alleviate their suffering, even for a moment, must mean a lot to him.
Kamui Woods rises from his seat stationed against the wall facing the foot of the bed, exchanging a few quick, quiet words with Best Jeanist. He gives Inko a bow with a curt goodbye and well-wishes before exiting after Sichord. Best Jeanist's eyes drift over to Izuku in the hospital bed. “Still no improvement?"
“He’s not in pain,” Inko says. “That’s all I care about, right now.” She’s never done well with seeing her loved ones hurt. Even something as small as a nick on her mother’s finger was enough to make her tear up as a child. Seeing Izuku like this is hell. The fact he can’t feel any of it is her only solace.
Best Jeanist hums and slides a huge denim tote bag off his shoulder. She was so distracted by the bouquet that she completely missed it up until now. The stitches on the side of tote bag unravel, letting the front flap fall forward to reveal two boxes with Crochet your Hero, Yarn and Hook included printed on them. “I brought the kits we talked about." He says, placing the All Might box in front of her before taking his box over to his own seat.
Inko can't help a smile. She mentioned it only in passing that she used to crochet when she was pregnant with Izuku. "You didn't have to."
"I promised. Now it's time to get the rust off those fingers."
She takes a look at the manual, skimming over the instructions. It's nothing too complicated for her mediocre skill and Izuku will love a new handmade All Might merch. "Couldn't you make this right away with your Quirk?" She asks.
"I could," Best Jeanist agrees, pulling the end of the yarn out from the center of the skein he chose to start with. She has to supress a giggle when she notices the hero's crocheted counterpart on his own kit. "But there's something meditative to fibre arts. In my experience, keeping my hands busy has always helps me clear my thoughts. It's more the process than the end result."
Inko can't find any fault with that, so she picks up her hook and gets started on her own figure. Even without his Quirk, Best Jeanist is much faster than her, able to look away from the project entirely to chat idly with Inko. Before now, the number 3 Hero had just been a name to her, someone who showed up on her TV screen once in a while to advertise his latest fashion line. She never could have anticipated him having such a genuine, considerate soul. He asks about her day and talks with her about her hobbies, guiding her attention away from the grim reality of the situation. He also appreciates wordplay surrounding clothing, much to Sichord's chagrin. Compared to him, Kamui Woods is a bit more reserved, but he can still ramble just like Izuku if you ask him about joinery.
By the time Sichord comes back, Inko's only halfway through the first row, while Best Jeanist has already turned his work and started on the second. His ears are a deeper shade of green than usual, which makes Inko curious.
"Did everything go well with the flowers?" She asks.
"Yes."
That 'yes' is far too abrubt for her to believe him. "Are you sure? You have a bit of color in your…" she makes a general gesture toward her cheekbones and ears.
Sichord knows he's been caught, shuffling from one feet to the other. It's an odd look for someone usually so forthright.
"Sichord." Inko doesn't want to use the mom voice, but her curiosity is a hungry thing.
He coughs into his fist, the tips of his ears turning an even richer shade of green. "The nurse thought the flowers were for her."
Inko blinks. "Oh." She sets the surprise aside to chase another answer. "Why are you so flustered about that? You're a handsome man, surely you've had people flirt with you before?"
"Your face is quite symmetrical," Best Jeanist adds, setting aside his crocheting to form a picture frame with his thumbs and pointer fingers and squints. "Your bone structure is very strong as well." That last part is more considering, but Inko can't begin to guess what for.
Sichord shuffles back to his usual spot, giving Inko a meaningful look as he says, "beauty standards here are very different from where I grew up."
Ah. She forgets how strange the company she keeps is from time to time, that the people she lives with aren't entirely human. Namek is an completely different planet, with a society and culture formed outside of humanity. Of course they'd have different standards for what makes a namekian attractive, but what kind of attributes would a namekian consider appealing? Inko will have to interrogate Sichord for the details later.
Best Jeanist seems to have made a decison and speaks up. "Have you ever considered modeling, Mr. Senshin? I have a few pieces that would work very well on you with some minor modifications."
The discomfort in Sichord's posture multiplies. Still, he keeps his tone polite. "No, and I don't think I will, but thank you for the offer."
"Of course. If you ever change your mind, however, don't hesitate to reach out. I hear you're acquainted with Hitsuji Ratsuka, he'll know my agent's contact information."
Yes, and the contact information for everyone tangentially related to them. Ratsuka always knows the friend of a friend of someone's cousin. And on the rare occasion he doesn't have some kind of connection, he puts Inko's respectable sleuthing skills to shame.
The look in Sichord's eyes is a prayer of its own, directed at her and completely desperate. We must not let Ratsuka know about this.
Inko smiles and nods, though she wishes she could have seen what Best Jeanist had in mind for Earth's guardian.
Said guardian quietly takes his seat on the opposite side of Izuku's bed, placing his hands on his knees and closing his eyes to meditate. Inko hears Sichord inhale and exhale slowly, after that it's only the sound of the occasional set of footsteps down the hallway as she and Best Jeanist work.
It's quiet. It's… nice.
They spend a full hour like that. When Sichord opens his eyes again, Inko's made decent progress, having entered something of a flow state in the peaceful atmosphere of the hospital room.
"You're very good at that," Sichord says, watching as she turns the piece to start a new row.
"I've had some practice, but it was years ago, back when I was expecting Izuku. I suppose it's sort of like riding a bike." After the first few stitches, her body recalled all of the muscle memory it stored away and things got easier from there. Another memory surfaces, eking out a smile from her. "His father helped pick out the yarn. He would have helped make it, but for all his strengths, he couldn't crochet or knit to save his life."
Goodness, that was almost eighteen years ago now. It was a long day at work, longer than usual. Going two hours overtime wasn't unusal in the busy season, but she'd had to stick around for four whole hours before she could even entertain going home. Her feet hurt from the stupid flats she decided to wear that morning, the train was overcrowded, and she wanted nothing more than to go home and crack open a beer. But any thoughts about the Sapporo in the fridge evaporated when she opened the door to see her boyfriend — her hardworking, genius, super-strong, literal alien boyfriend — laying on his back in a tangle of unspooled yarn with his head in his hands.
He peeked through his fingers at the sound of the door opening, and the look of pure defeat on his face was enough to make Inko burst into a fit of giggles. Tichouk only wilted further, which didn't help her calm down any faster. The opposite, actually.
When she'd finally calmed herself down to a faint giggle here and there, she joined him on the floor, took his face in her hands, and asked him what happened.
Apparently, Ratsuka mentioned how girls like it when their boyfriends make things for them, and Tichouk had decided on a blanket. He tried everything, following the pattern down to the letter, watching videos on technique, but he just couldn't get it right. The tension on the yarn was either too lose, or he pulled it too tight and snapped it with his sheer strength. No in-between.
It was enough to make her heart flutter, and it earned him a kiss on the cheek, which perked Tichouk up to his usual self in an instant. When they found out they were expecting, Inko gladly took up baby-blanket duty, with Tichouk choosing the yarn and explaining the science behind why that fiber in particular is actually similar to a cloth made on Planet Vegeta while she crocheted on the couch.
He may not have been able to provide her or Izuku with cozy handmade blankets and coasters, but when Planet Vegeta called him back, he threw himself into making sure she and Izuku would be alright without him. He ran calculations on every possible genetic recombination, down to the probability of each trait. Whole nights spent writing down everything someone could think of about the care and parenting of a young saiyan — the biological impulses and their root needs, along with ways to meet those needs in a traditionally human way. She would have dragged him to bed if she thought it would work. He would come along, but as soon as she fell asleep, he'd slip back out of bed to pick up where he left off, using his crazy circadian rhythm to his advantage.
But Tichouk didn't leave his legacy as information alone. Raising a child was an expensive endeavor, and the pressure to provide would be twofold for a single parent. So he laid the groundwork for a comfortable life, taking any and every job that would hire him, coming up with the craziest explanations whenever she asked him where he's been. One time he even joked about working alongside All Might. Even now, Inko doesn't know the full extent of what he did to earn everything he did, but it's enough to let her and Izuku live comfortably. Comfortable enough to provide for her boy's bottomless stomach, to have emergency funds to disappear if needed, and allow god to live in their house rent-free.
Speaking of, it's Paper Day, as Izuku likes to call it. Didn't Sichord say prayers always come in around this time? They should be coming in any—
In a truly divine bit of comedic timing, an entire office building's supply of blank paper appears in the room, stacked on top of any surface it can lay flat and steady on. Best Jeanist, ususally so composed, twitches in surprise, his fingers flexing on instinct to grab any available thread and use it to his advantage. His surprise fades quickly, leaving him to look at the forest of prayers around them with a puzzled expression.
Sichord surveys the work ahead of him and sighs. “Be not afraid," he tells Best Jeanist, "It’s just work."
Best Jeanist splits his time looking between Sichord and all of the paperwork around them. He doesn't ask how it appeared — likely attributing it to a Quirk like so many others — but he still has a question. "Have you been working through a backlog at the office?" He asks instead.
At that Sichord sighs wistfully. “If only. This is just for the last two weeks.”