Chapter Text
Izuku Aizawa never planned to become a vigilante.
Who knows what trouble his father would get into if he was caught. But he was weak. Incredibly so.
It started when Inko dropped him off in the care of one Shouta Aizawa when he reached five years old and was deemed quirkless. He was the result of a one-night stand between the two when his father turned eighteen.
He never received love or attention from the woman, and the pattern continued with the man. Sure, he fed him regularly and bought things when needed. But never did Izuku’s emotional need ever fill.
And so he turned to the streets.
If love was denied him, then saving others was his calling.
And so he worked hard to save those around him while keeping his identity a secret. But everything came to a head when his father, Aizawa Shouta, Eraserhead, regularly began to look after him. He brought him food, offered to train him, and believed that he, Verdant, could become a hero. And Izuku bathed in it, soaking up every ounce of limited affection from the man, just his father who was acting this way to a strange vigilante kid on the street.
He refused to question it. Refused to understand where he went wrong for the man to ignore him at home. He would accept what he could for now, and if he was ever found out, may the gods help him.
. . .
It had been a long day, that rainy afternoon when Izuku decided to patrol. No sun peeked through the clouds as he scoured the streets for people to help. His father was at UA today, so a solo patrol it was, as his visor kept the rain off his eyes. He decided to go out a bit earlier today, seeing as though the entrance exams were in full effect. He wasn’t taking them. Any at all, and unsurprisingly, his father didn’t react one bit.
And screw Izuku for not taking a hint that his father really didn’t give two shits about him. He’d gotten his hopes up because obviously, he would care for Verdant, his vigilante persona, but for plain, old, forgotten, useless, little Deku, he wasn’t afforded anything.
And so, he dealt with it how he always has, by saving.
It doesn't surprise him when he runs into a collapsing building to save a group of kids from dying. It doesn’t stop him from using his arm as a cushion, regardless of the crunching, and snapping, and the breaking to save a little girl‘s leg. It doesn’t stop the pleas for the children to leave and get out. It doesn’t stop the pounding of his head, the incessant thrum in his veins that kicked his adrenaline into overdrive.
It doesn’t stop the concrete from dropping on his head.
It doesn’t stop crimson dripping out of his mask.
It doesn’t stop the smile on his face as he knows he did well.
It doesn’t stop the thought of how his father will be free of him.
It doesn’t stop.
Until his heart slows.
The color of his eyes fades.
And Izuku Aizawa dies.
It’s all over the news.
Verdant, the up-and-coming vigilante, is dead.
Buried under the unforgiving stone.
And Shouta weeps.
The kid is dead, his vigilante is gone. The child he could look out without visions of blue and clouds is gone. The child, a replacement for the one he can’t stand to see because his heart breaks every single damn time.
And he won’t ever get him back, but perhaps, Izuku, Izuku will take him back. The shitty father who did nothing but ignore his very existence. He’d get on his hands and knees to beg, he wouldn't be a coward anymore.
He will face green and hope to not envision blue. He'll try to salvage whatever is left.
Because that is what Verdant probably would have wanted him to do.
To be a good father.
. . .
When he got home, he called out to the boy for what was probably the first time but was met with absolute silence. He should have expected it, honestly. Has he even spoken in more than clipped speech to the child ever since the mother dropped him off?
The conclusion he came to settled bitterly in his heart.
The kid didn’t deserve what he did, and Shouta completely deserves whatever the kid has to say.
And so he waits. He’ll let the kid come to him. Sure he calls out every hour to remind Izuku that he is present. But otherwise, quiet envelopes the house.
Until the phone sets off with a gentle ring.
One.
Two.
“Hello? Aizawa speaking.”
“Aizawa… you need to come down to the station, now.”
The line clicks dead.
And a cold dread enters his veins.
Something was wrong.
And it involved Shouta.
. . .
He entered the precinct and numbly followed the detective, words floating through the air, refusing to penetrate the haze he was in. He could tell, however, that they were moving further into the center of the building close to the morgue.
And his stomach dropped .
The double doors opened, and on the cold metal bed was a head of green. A bush of curls noticeable from a mile away. The mottled skin was kissed with the paleness of death, the kid's freckles standing like constellations along a lifeless expanse.
Step.
Step.
And then the fall.
Water breached wide eyes as hands crashed to the ground, body crawling back against the wall as he stared at the scene in front of him. Horror gripped his throat, squeezing down its acidic sap, the liquid sludging its way throughout his body. Hands grasped at his arms, but he flung them away. They were scorching him. Those hot iron fingers no doubt left burns littering their point of connection.
And there was screaming, a horrible shrill sound saturating the entire room, ringing his ears. It continued for an eternity until the hoarseness let out croaks, an echo of the piercing cry from before.
When it died and the world began its cycle of silent mourning, Shouta crept closer to the metal coffin. Weak legs were no help to him as he hauled his way to stand, to stare at the face he failed, the boy who was given to him, who he was supposed to protect . And now, another corpse of a child lays in front of him. The body of his child.
He grasps the cold hand, a gesture unworthy of him, bringing it to his chest as he surveys the face he refused to even glance at many times before. And he was met with so much innocence.
The kid’s face still clung onto baby fat, and Izuku hadn’t even grown into himself yet. He was still a child, still so young.
And Shouta curses himself for ever seeing Oboro in him. Izuku was his own person, worthy of love, worthy of Shouta’s attention, worthy of everything Shouta could have provided, and more.
And now, he is gone, and he can’t even attempt to repair the damage he caused.
His head collapsed to his chest, his eyes squeezed shut, willing the tears away before gazing back at the kid.
But, something caught his eye.
A twisted scar, red and nasty, recent. A stab wound with a pattern. One with a jagged blade.
Caused by a quirk months ago.
Then everything clicked.
Izuku was Verdant. His kid was his vigilante.
“Nonononono, Izuku, you didn’t know, you, I, I did this to you. I did this to you!” That was the only answer he could think of. His negligence, his neglect, and his inability to get over himself and take care of Izuku made Izuku go to the extremes. He encouraged Verdant to be heroic, not seeing the martyr behind the mask. He indulged his parental urges and gave repeatedly to Verdant while leaving Izuku with nothing at home.
He was the kid’s origin story and his demise.
A hand smacked his back in a manner that meant to be comforting but felt like a failure to the raven.
“Aizawa, I’m sorry for your loss. I didn’t realize that you had become close with the vigilante, or else I would have waited. However, we need to find the next of kin to inform them, and you were the lead on the case. The kid, despite the legalities surronding his work, was a hero through and through. He got every single one of those kids out.”
Dead eyes stared through Tsukauchi as Shouta wished numbness would swallow him whole.
“He’s my son, Izuku Aizawa, and I failed him. Gods, have I failed him.”