Chapter 52

Mirio's message brings him running, of course.

Upon receiving it, Nighteye parts ways with Bubble Girl and makes his way back to the spot where he last saw his two interns, with all the speed that he can possibly muster. He curses himself all the while, curses the cowardice that kept him from looking into either of their futures before he left them. If he had, then he might have prevented both of them from encountering Overhaul alone. Outwardly he keeps himself calm and professional as he weaves through the crowds of civilians walking the streets, but his heart is in his throat and he won't feel remotely calm until he sees the both of them in front of him, in one piece.

When he finally nears the spot, he does find both Mirio and Midoriya waiting for him, alive and uninjured.

A third pair of eyes watches him from afar, tucked firmly against Midoriya's side where their owner clings as if she never wants to let go. She's small, poorly dressed, and half-hidden behind his younger intern. When Nighteye looks back at her, she hides her face in Midoriya's costume.

Mirio looks worried as he watches their surroundings. Midoriya looks ready to kill something.

They don't waste time. They've been out here too long and it's liable to attract attention. Calling for a transport back to the agency is the work of a few moments, and he only lets himself start to feel relief when they're all whisked away out of sight, back to the safety of the office. Mirio makes his report as succinctly as possible. The whole time, the little girl makes no sound, and neither does Midoriya—not even to add to Mirio's account, or offer his own. Somewhere between the meeting point and the office, the girl falls fast asleep.

His agency is large enough to have its own on-site medical team, so that not every injury requires a trip to the hospital. They're certainly good enough to assess the condition of a child, and his office has better security than the average public hospital.

Upon their arrival, the medical team is waiting for them. They take charge of the girl, which is easier than Nighteye had feared, because sheer exhaustion keeps her from waking up. Midoriya gives her up without a word, face blank.

Mirio is shamefaced on the way back to his office, Midoriya sullen. At the very least, his protege waits until they're back in his office before speaking. "Sir, about what we—" He falls silent when Nighteye holds up his hand.

"I'm not going to reprimand you for separating," he says. "Because I think you both understand how foolhardy that was, and either of you could have been killed. You're both extremely lucky that Overhaul didn't have underlings scattered throughout the crowd keeping a lookout." He looks at Midoriya as he says this, just in time to catch the end of an eye-roll. "Something to say, Midoriya?"

"We didn't exactly have a choice," Midoriya says.

Nighteye regards him for a moment. "The girl shows signs of long-term imprisonment," he says at length. It's by far the kindest phrasing for the state she is currently in. "Which means that, for whatever reason, Overhaul needs her alive. The same cannot be said for either of you."

"He wouldn't kill her," Mirio says. "He said it himself—if she's his daughter, then—"

"Of course she isn't his daughter!" Midoriya snaps at him. "He's a villain. You think that's not what every kidnapper and trafficker says when they're walking off with someone else's kid? 'Oh, don't worry, she's just my daughter or my niece or my cousin, I'm just babysitting for the day, don't mind her, she has such a wild imagination, doesn't she?' I mean come on, she doesn't even look like him!"

"That's enough, Midoriya," Nighteye cuts him off, silencing him with a frown. Mirio looks a little ashamed of himself, and that's the last thing they need right now. "Mirio, Bubble Girl should be arriving soon. Tell her to report to me when she arrives, then get started on your report." His protege nods to him and leaves.

"I'm sorry," Midoriya says bluntly once he's gone. "But it's true. I've met kids like that before, and it's always the same story. It's the easiest lie in the world, it always works, and for once I'd rather not have to listen to another dead kid tell me where she's buried."

Bile crawls up his throat. "Be that as it may," he says sharply. "Lashing out at Mirio that way helped no one. Such behavior is unbecoming of anyone who would claim to be a hero, and it is unacceptable in this office. Am I clear?"

Midoriya flinches. "Yes, Sir."

"And at least for now, it wouldn't matter if she truly was biologically related to him," Nighteye continues. "Considering Overhaul's status as a wanted villain and murderer, and the state in which she was found, he could hardly make a case for her return legally."

"Can I see her again?" Midoriya asks.

The shift is abrupt, Midoriya's annoyance vanishing to give way to his usual calm, unsettling stare. Nighteye lifts an eyebrow. Midoriya has never quite struck him as the sort to gallivant about with children, frightening ghost children aside. But it does make sense; he might be callous in his words, but that doesn't mean he's devoid of empathy. "The exact logistics for her care will be decided after she's given medical and psychological exams," he says. "It's likely, all things considered."

Midoriya looks relieved. "Good, because she has a ghost with her, and I'm about eighty percent sure it's her actual parent."

Or not. "A ghost," Nighteye echoes.

"It's part of how I knew to get Eri out so fast in the first place," Midoriya continues. "That's her name, by the way—Eri. But anyway, Rei and Ms. Nana went out to keep a lookout for me, and they led me to her. When I found her, there was a ghost with her, and they've stuck with her since. They're too unstable for me to learn anything from them yet—I can't even tell what they were supposed to look like—but they were pretty intent on getting Eri away from Overhaul."

"What do you mean you can't tell what they look like?" Nighteye asks. "I thought you said your quirk was vision-based."

"It's complicated," Midoriya says. "See, ghosts are… they're not like living people. Memories and thoughts and feelings—those are things we have, but for ghosts, that's what they're made of. So if they're… mentally unstable, I guess—if they're frightened or if they've been through something terrible—they don't… look right. Most of the time they just go back to looking however they looked when they died, which usually isn't pretty. But sometimes they just sort of… flicker. Like a TV with bad reception. And this ghost is the worst case of flickering I've ever seen. It's like trying to look at a cloud of static and figure out the image on the screen. I mean, even the Noumu ghosts had more stability than that—"

"You've seen the ghosts of Noumu."

"I was in that warehouse in Kamino for almost four days, sir. And All For One's killed a lot of people. A lot of angry, impatient people." A moment later the boy blinks hard and shakes his head. Something tugs at the back of Nighteye's mind, a wisp of uncomfortable familiarity, but he loses it when the boy speaks again. "Anyway, I'd like to talk to that ghost later. Obviously something bad's been happening to that girl, and it's probably what drove the ghost crazy, so either they're her parent, or they'r'e someone else Overhaul was torturing. They might settle down a little now that she's safe." He smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "There's a lot that I could ask them. Ghosts have a lot of good information."

"I see," Nighteye says, and his mind races.

This is… useful. It's disturbingly useful, even more so than Foresight has ever been, and that's saying something. It keeps the taste of bile in the back of his throat, which is a sensation that usually only bothers him on the occasion that he uses his own power. If Midoriya is going to be offering it up so freely throughout his time here, then… well, that's going to take some adjusting. If he could just frame it differently…

"An autopsy." It's not until he sees Midoriya blinking at him in confusion that he realizes he said it out loud.

"What?"

Nighteye shakes his head, regretting his slip. "Your ability. Gathering information from the dead. It's on par with an autopsy, only everyone involved has a bit more say in it."

The boy blinks at him again, eyes widening. His eyebrows come together in a pensive look. "Oh. Huh. I… never thought about it that way."

Before Nighteye has the chance to say something equally foolish, there's a knock at the door. "Come in," he says, and one of his medical staff enters.

"Sorry to bother you, Sir Nighteye, but could we borrow Deku for a moment?" The woman nods to his intern. "It's the little girl. She's asking for him."

Midoriya shoots him a hopeful look, and he nods. "Whatever is necessary," he says. "Midoriya—once you're finished, talk to Mirio. He'll show you how reports are filed."

"Yes, Sir." Midoriya follows the nurse out of his office.

Alone, Nighteye draws in a deep breath and lets it out. All in all, the day has been eventful. Fruitful as well, certainly. He started the day expecting sightings at most, reports and reconnaissance and confirmation of various suspicions and hypotheses. And instead, they've snatched a girl from his clutches—a witness, if one wants to be ruthlessly practical about it, but the rescue of a child in peril is more than worthwhile for its own sake.

One step closer to dismantling Overhaul's operation, as well—and it can't be too soon. The remnants of the League are still at large, and the possibility that the two entities might come together…

It doesn't bear thinking about. All For One may be dead, but if Shigaraki Tomura gets his hands on Overhaul's resources and manpower, it won't matter.

There is still so much to be done, and no worthy Symbol of Peace to help. Midoriya Izuku cannot take that place—he acts like he doesn't even want to take that place, even though he accepted One For All and the responsibilities that come with it. The pillar is gone, and the only one remotely capable of replacing it has no intentions of doing so. He's a decent hero, if his success today is any indication, but the world is full of decent heroes. Nighteye himself is a decent hero, and so he knows better than anyone that decent heroes are not enough and will never be enough—

His phone buzzes on his desk. Eager for the distraction, he answers it without bothering to look.

He hears silence. It stretches for quite a bit longer than is normally considered polite, but Nighteye knows better than to hang up prematurely. So he waits, until finally—

"It's me."

It's wrong, that his heart sinks at the sound of that voice. The last time he heard that voice over the phone, its owner was delivering a sound rejection, and he's not eager to repeat the experience. He has no reason now to feel reassured by that voice, but he cannot cut out the part of him that wants to.

"All-Might," he says, and his voice is steady.

His former partner goes quiet again for a moment. "It's been a while," he says at length.

"Not that long," Nighteye says evenly.

"R-right… right." All-Might clears his throat. "Are you busy, at the moment?"

"I'm always busy."

"I would like to talk." He says it in a rush, as if he lacks the patience for small talk and politeness, and simply forces himself forward to reach the endpoint as quickly as possible.

"I assumed so," Nighteye replies. "Considering that you called me."

"I mean, in person," All-Might says. "I would like to speak with you in person. At your convenience. I-if that's all right, of course. I'm—I'm entirely at your disposal."

It's been over six years, Nighteye realizes absently. They've been apart now for longer than they weren't.

Out loud, he says, "Let me look at my schedule."

The worst part of all of this is how quiet Eri is.

The nurse makes Izuku change out of his hero costume before he goes to see her. Thankfully he has a fresh change of clothes ready, on Togata's advice—if the office medical staff think anything of him coming in wearing a faded All-Might hoodie, they don't show it.

She hasn't said much, not since creeping out of the corner she had crawled into, climbing into his lap, and clinging to a handful of his jacket while they continue her check-up. She offers no resistance, not even a squeak. A needle comes out to take a blood sample, her face turns pale, and Izuku is sure she'll struggle. But instead, she closes her eyes and goes dead-still, accepting the poke without so much as a sound.

The doctors have been kind to her, of course. The first thing they did, before Izuku even got there, was give her a bath and a clean hospital gown. Their treatment of her speaks of gentle efficiency, and Izuku does his best, holding her and humming a nursery song he learned in kindergarten as the needle goes in and out. But Eri stays silent and still. No questions, no crying, nothing that a little girl her age might do during a check-up. Izuku keeps an eye on the flickering ghost, letting its frightened static wash over him as he watches for any sign of lucidity.

Eri's eyes track the vial of blood the nurse carries away, then tugs at one of the strings dangling from his hood. When Izuku leans down, she whispers into his ear.

"Tell them not to take too much."

He looks to the nearest nurse as she places a hot pink band-aid on the spot where the needle went in. It's one spot of color amid the bandaging that covers most of her arms and legs. "Is that all the blood you're taking?"

She smiles at him kindly. "That's all. We just need to run a few tests." Reaching out, she gently brushes Eri's white hair out of her face and tucks it behind her ear. "Just need to make sure you aren't sick, dear. No more needles, unless it's to treat something nasty. I promise."

Instead of answering, Eri goes back to hiding her face. She tugs at Izuku again until he ducks down to hear her speak.

"Is that really all?"

"That's all the blood they need, I think," he whispers back.

"They can't take too much," she says. "He's not here. He can't fix me if they take too much."

Distantly, Izuku can hear Rei growling.

"Nobody's going to take too much of anything," he says. He's not really sure what he's saying. "You're safe now. No one's going to harm you." He realizes belatedly that that might not be a promise he should make; he has no idea how healthy Eri is, and if she isn't, he has no idea what it would take to make her better. "I mean, sometimes going to the doctor isn't fun. Like shots and stuff. But it's to make you healthy. No one's going to hurt you just to hurt you." He looks to Rei, who sits cross-legged on the nearest chair and watches Eri and the flickering ghost. "No one's going to hurt you to use you, either."

"They might," Eri says softly. "When they find out."

"Find out what?"

"I'm cursed." Some small, absurd part of him almost wants to laugh at that; that's something people joke about, being cursed. But this little girl says it like it's a fact as simple as the color of grass.

"Who told you that?" Izuku asks. "Was it Overhaul?" She nods. "Well, I'm sure he says a lot of things. My—my friend says Overhaul told him you were his daughter. Was that true?"

She looks up to stare at him, wide-eyed. She shakes her head.

"Well, there you are, then. Sounds to me like he's a big fat liar."

"No," Eri says. "Not about that. He's right. I'm cursed." She's trembling now, from the tip of her horn to the tips of her toes. "I have something. It's in-inside me. And it's bad, and it hurts people. Maybe it'll hurt you too. I'm sorry. I'm s-so-sorry." Her face crumples, fat tears rolling down as she ducks her head and curls in on herself again. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

The nurse tuts and fusses, though with Eri clinging so closely to Izuku, there's not much she can do besides push a box of tissues into his hands. Izuku casts a pleading look toward Rei, but he's more or less alone in this.

"It's okay—"

"You're nice," Eri whimpers. "You're nice and I don't want you to disappear and I don't want him to find you and—"

"He won't find me," Izuku assures her, or he tries. "He never even saw me."

"I don't want you to disappear," she tells him, her voice high and wracked with sobs. "I-I don't want to—I don't want—"

"I'm not going to disappear." His voice doesn't feel like his own. It's like he's standing back, watching someone else cradle this little girl and talk to her and brush a lock of hair behind her tiny horn. "Do you understand that, Eri? I might have to go away, but I'll come back if you need me, because I'm a hero and that's what heroes do. And if Overhaul comes looking for you—if he wants to take you back—" She flinches. "—he's going to have to go through me."

"He'll kill you," Eri tells him.

The smile takes over his face before Izuku realizes what he's doing. "Do I look like the kind of guy who dies?"

There's something about the way she looks at him, all wide wet eyes and gripping hands, curling into tight, tight fists in the sleeves of his jacket. He meant it at least partially as a joke, and she isn't smiling but there's something in her face now where there wasn't before. He's not sure what it is, just that it's something, which means it's different from the blank, frozen despair he's been seeing until now. He hopes it's a step in the right direction, and laments that ghosts are so much easier to read than living people.

Nearby, someone coughs in that awkward way that suggests they're trying to attract attention and avoid it at the same time. Izuku looks over, startled; how long has Togata been standing there? "Oh. Uh. Hi, senpai."

"Hello, Midoriya! Sir said you'd be here." Eri peeks at Togata curiously, and he offers a bright grin and a wave. "Hi there! Are you feeling better?"

Eri just stares at him, so Izuku jumps in to help. "That's Lemillion. He's a hero, too. Don't worry, he's nice. Senpai, this is Eri."

Eri continues to watch Togata, which is probably a step up from constantly hiding her face. "What's a hero?" she asks softly.

Togata launches into an enthusiastic and age-appropriate explanation, and Izuku takes the time to glance back at the flickering ghost. Rei has been sticking close to them lately, circling them but not in a hostile way. That's why Izuku isn't too worried by them; if Rei doesn't find them threatening then there's nothing to worry about.

In fact… he's starting to see something. If he blinks too much then he misses it, but if he keeps his eyes open until they water, then he has a chance of catching it. Just a flash of something—an image in the shape of a human being.

"Anyway, I'm supposed to help you with your report," Togata says, calling Izuku back into the conversation. "Whenever you're up for it."

"Oh." Izuku glances down at Eri. She looks just a little less blank, a little less like she'll fold back in on herself when he leaves the room. But still…

The nurse who put the bandaid on Eri's arm smiles and pats his hand. "Don't worry," she assures him. "We'll take good care of her. We can always call you back again if it's needed."

"All right," he says, a little reluctantly. To Eri he says, "I have to go now. But I'll be back—later. I'll do my best, okay?"

She frowns, but nods and releases her hold on him. Izuku says his goodbyes to her and the medical team, and follows Togata out of the wing. Rei peels herself away from Eri and the flickering ghost to tag along.

Once they're back in the hallway, Izuku's conscience catches up to him. "I'm sorry," he blurts. "For earlier, when I snapped. That was…"

"It's all right," Togata shoots him a rueful grin. "I mean, you did make a good point."

"It's still embarrassing…"

"It's been a stressful day," Togata says with a shrug, and that's the end of it. "So anyway, intern paperwork is a little easier and less involved than it is for full-time sidekicks and heroes. I'm not looking forward to that myself come graduation, but it is what it is. The hardest part is writing up a detailed summary of what happened."

Izuku tries to imagine summarizing the absolute heart-stabbing roller coaster of terror he just experienced. "Cool."

There are blank forms at the receptionist's desk, and a corner of the office set aside for interns and temporary employees to do busy work, which is currently unoccupied. Togata shows him both, guides him through which papers he'll need to fill out, and is just about to sit down with him when his phone buzzes.

Togata winces and pulls it out of his pocket. "Ah, sorry, let me turn this off."

"You can check it, if you want," Izuku says as he fills out the basic information at the top of the form. "It might be important."

"Nah, it's just Tamaki," Togata says. "We usually check in after… we…"

Izuku looks up as Togata's voice trails off. He's staring at his phone, face frozen in a half-formed frown. Rei, reading over his shoulder, lets out a distressed rattle.

His friend is hurt, she says. The quiet one who doesn't talk a lot. He's in the hospital.

"Go," Izuku says. Togata startles at his voice. "You're right, this looks pretty simple, so go ahead and check on—whatever it is. I'll cover for you." Togata looks conflicted, so Izuku presses. "Nighteye'll understand."

Togata's face falters, and he offers a weak, wavering smile. "I think you might be right," he says. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'll be fine," Izuku says with a smile. "If I mess it up, I'll just say I blew you off and insisted on doing it myself. Just go."

"I owe you one, Midoriya," Togata says. With that, he hurries out of the office.

Once he's gone, Izuku pulls out his own phone and picks one of his contacts, then keeps an ear out for people passing by as he waits for the call to go through. He doesn't have long to wait; Iida usually picks up after the first ring.

"Midoriya! It's good to hear from you." Iida sounds a little out of breath. "Are you all right? You're out rather late—Kirishima came back, and from the sound of it he had quite the adventure today."

"Is he okay?" Izuku asks.

"He got into a scuffle with some villains—something involving quirk-modifying drugs." Iida huffs. "The nerve of some criminals."

Izuku's mouth goes dry. "Hey, he's interning at the same office as that guy from the Big Three, right? Amajiki-senpai? Is he okay too?"

"Ah…" Iida seems to waver for a moment. "From what I heard, he's still in the hospital. Kirishima says… well, I'm not sure how much I'm supposed to say, but since you'll be out in the field, you ought to be careful too. According to Kirishima, the criminals he faced were armed with quirk-nullifying bullets. He managed to avoid being hit, thanks to his own quirk, but Amajiki-senpai…"

Izuku breathes in sharply. Togata's right to be worried, then. Quirk-nullifiers are temporary, thank goodness, but…

Overhaul's supposed to have a hand in that, he remembers. That's what Nighteye said.

"Midoriya?" Iida says. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he says. "Thanks for telling me, Iida. And—are you somewhere private right now? Could I ask a favor?" He lowers his voice, not wanting the office's other occupants to hear.

"Yes to both! What do you need?"

"It's kind of a gamble, but… just repeat something out loud for me, okay?"

"Yes?" Iida sounds confused.

"Say, 'Midoriya needs a favor at Nighteye's office.'"

"…Oh! Right, Understood." Iida repeats the sentence. "I-I'm… not sure if he's here, but…"

"It's fine," Izuku says. "Like I said, it's a gamble, but—"

"You rang?" Tensei asks from two feet away. Izuku startles and knocks the pens off his desk.

"Holy shit that was fast—sorry, thanks, Iida!"

"It's no trouble at all!"

They say their goodbyes and hang up, and Izuku puts his phone away while Tensei helpfully retrieves the pens.

"You said you needed a favor?" Tensei asks, stepping up to the desk.

"Yeah." Izuku pushes the empty form closer and offers a sheepish smile. "Show me how to fill out paperwork?"

They meet in the evening, on neutral ground. Toshinori isn't sure of a lot of things anymore, especially when it comes to Nighteye, but he knows it has to be neutral ground. If they meet at UA or at Nighteye's office, then they'll start off imbalanced, and that will defeat the whole purpose of this.

He picks a cat cafe. Let it not be said that he doesn't learn from Izuku just as much as Izuku learns from him, so he knows full well that cats are a great equalizer and icebreaker. It certainly doesn't hurt that Nighteye is fond of them, or that Aizawa possesses uncanny knowledge of every cat cafe in Musutafu. His colleague says that this particular establishment is known for discretion, very small crowds, and private corner booths, all of which are a blessing. Public space is the only viable neutral ground, but it's good to limit the number of eyes on them.

Toshinori is there first, of course—nearly an hour before the appointed time, because Nighteye likes to be early to meetings, and because he needs the time to pet a few cats for courage. He ends up somewhat regretting that when the door opens, bell chiming overhead, and his former friend and partner walks in to find him with two cats in his lap, one more draped about his shoulders, and a fourth dangling from both hands.

For a moment the two of them stare at each other. It occurs to Toshinori that this is probably an important moment. It's not the first time they've spoken in six years, but it is the first time they've been in the same room, and he ought to say or do something appropriate for the occasion.

He glances at the cat in the hands, then back at Nighteye. "This one's called Sprinkles," he says.

Nighteye sighs deeply, and—that's almost familiar, that sigh. It's got a touch more exasperation and a touch less fondness than he remembers, but it's there and it feels like an olive branch—or an acceptance of the olive branch that Toshinori himself offered. Either way, Nighteye sits down across from Toshinori, which is quite a bit better than he feared.

"I wasn't sure you'd come," he says, looking away as he places the cat down on the floor.

One of Nighteye's eyebrows twitches. "I tried to picture the sort of scenario that would compel you to contact me for a meeting. I couldn't think of anything short of a disaster, so I came straight away."

"Ah, well…"

"That, or drastic climate change," Nighteye continues. "In hell, specifically."

Toshinori sighs.

"I would like to… not argue with you, to start," he says. "I think we've done quite enough of that recently, and… and less recently. So I'd like to avoid it entirely, at least for now. I know it's not possible in the long run. I know that—that we've had disagreements that were never resolved, and they won't go away just because I wish them to. But, for now…" He pauses to nudge a venturesome tabby away from his tea. "How have you been, Nighteye? The world has been changing lately. Are you doing all right in it?"

"Really?" Nighteye's eyes narrow in confusion. "You called me here for small talk?"

Toshinori strokes the silver tabby's head. "That is what old friends and coworkers do, isn't it? Meet for coffee? Catch up?"

Nighteye spends a moment staring at him. "You're not even drinking coffee," he points out.

"I'm afraid not. It's bad for my stomach." He tries not to wince. "My stomach in the figurative sense, that is. But I have it on good authority that it's excellent."

Nighteye blinks, hesitates, then turns around to flag down a server and order one. It's a start.

"The work never ends, of course," he says. "All For One is gone, but there are many enterprising villains seeking to take his place. But that was always going to be the case, regardless of whether or not you could help fight them. We always knew that."

"You always knew that," Toshinori says quietly. "I didn't want to believe you."

"Well, you were always the idealist." Nighteye's coffee comes, and he accepts it with a nod of thanks. "Not that that was ever a mark against you. I appreciated that. I could never see the world the way you did, no matter how much I wanted to. Working with you made it easier to see the bright side of things."

I can't anymore, he doesn't say, though Toshinori can read it in the air between them. I've lost that bright side.

"All in all, I'd say about a dozen different criminal warlords are vying to fill the void that All For One left," Nighteye continues. "A handful pose a real threat. I'm only focusing on one for now."

"Yes, I heard it's been an eventful day in Musutafu," Toshinori says. The tortoiseshell in his lap jumps down and approaches Nighteye to wind around his ankles. Nervousness tickles the back of his throat, but he takes the plunge anyway. "Young Izuku has been rather tight-lipped among his classmates, so I assume it was something important."

Nighteye stiffens, and Toshinori takes a sip of tea to hide his nervousness. He knows full well this is unstable ground. But a moment later, Nighteye shrugs off the tension and clears his throat. "Yes. His first day of patrol was a bit more eventful than I expected. But it was… fruitful."

"Good," Toshinori says steadily. "I'm glad he's doing well."

The silence that follows that is awkward and tense and stretches far too long for his liking. It could be worse; the background noise of paws and purring keeps it from being too oppressive, but it's still the opposite of talking, which is what Toshinori wants out of this.

"You might as well say it," he says. "Whatever is on your mind, whatever you're holding back right now. We're never going to get anywhere if you don't."

"You said you didn't want to argue," Nighteye says.

"I also said it wasn't possible in the long run. If we keep dancing around uncomfortable things, we'll be going in circles for the rest of our lives." That makes Nighteye wince; he probably could have worded it better, but maybe a little discomfort will move things forward.

"You know I have misgivings about him," Nighteye tells him.

Protective instincts tie his chest in knots, but Toshinori keeps his voice steady. "Yes, I know. You made that much clear, the last time we spoke."

"Let me be clearer," Nighteye continues. "As a potential hero, I'm impressed with his abilities. He's formidable. He has good instincts. But not every good hero is worthy of One For All—"

"And what makes you so much better at deciding who is?" Immediately he bites tongue. The last thing he wants to do is lose his temper so easily.

Nighteye is about to reply when the enterprising tortoiseshell leaps up into his lap, cutting off whatever retort was on the tip of his tongue. Instead he sighs, harsh and irritated but still calm. "You're impulsive. You always have been. And maybe it's because it's saved your life in combat. Maybe you're so used to hearing the future from me that you forget to think about it for yourself. I don't know. But—" He pauses, mouth twisting. "I just don't feel it's a decision to be made lightly."

"I don't understand why you think I did."

"Because you always do." Nighteye puts his cup down. "Even when I was there to give you advice, you did. Even when I spelled out your death, you refused to stop and think of what that meant or how to prepare for it—"

"I'm not going to prepare for it because I'm not going to die, Nighteye." It comes out harsher than he wants it to, but it's the truth. "Not this year, and not the next. I know you have faith in your visions, and I understand your convictions, but I survived Kamino, I survived All For One twice, and I will survive whatever future you foresaw." Nighteye is staring again, eyes widening so slightly that most people wouldn't notice the difference. But Toshinori is not most people. "I'm not going to die. Not when I have so much left to do."

The staring continues, to the point where it almost becomes awkward. And while part of Toshinori is glad of this, glad that he surprised Nighteye when so little catches him off guard, Nighteye's staring hasn't gotten any less disconcerting with time. Not even the tortoiseshell in his lap is enough to soften the intensity of it.

"Where was this drive six years ago?" Nighteye asks bluntly.

Toshinori blinks. "What?"

"It's a simple question," Nighteye says. There's a tremor in his voice now, and Toshinori isn't sure what it means. "I asked you to fight with me then—I begged you."

Toshinori shakes his head. "You asked me to give up and turn my back on a world that still needed me," he says. "You didn't ask me to fight, you asked me to stop fighting—"

"I'm not talking about villains," Nighteye cuts him off. "I was asking you, years ago, to fight against the fate I foresaw for you, and you told me no, All-Might." His hands shake until they curl around the cup again. "I was asking you to fight for yourself for once, for the people who cared about you, and you walked away."

His heart sinks. He wonders why he never thought of it that way, when he thought he knew Nighteye so well. "…I'm sorry. I know I can't change that. I wish I could, because I know better, now, and I know—I know that I need help." This is the hard part, the uncomfortable part. The part that he's been dreading and putting off since Kamino, maybe even before then, because he knows how likely it is that he's going to hear a no. "The things that are left for me to do—I can't do them alone. I know now that I can't just keep people at a distance and shoulder everything myself. So I don't know if you're still willing to help me, after all these years, but—"

"I have been willing," Nighteye says coldly.

Toshinori actually jumps. He hasn't heard that tone from Nighteye in… ever. Nighteye lets his composure crack when he's upset. His anger runs hot, not cold.

Nighteye is staring at him, his expression shifting through several in a row—anger, confusion, indignation, hurt. "What… what is that supposed to mean, All-Might? You don't know if I'm—" He cuts himself off, pressing his lips together as he looks away.

"It's been years, Nighteye," Toshinori says softly. "I couldn't just assume that you'd—"

"I already did." The tremor in his voice is back. "I already— I tried already, Yagi. I reached out, and I tried to help, and you made yourself quite clear on what you thought of it."

"I don't—"

"I had a candidate for you. I found someone who I thought might be worthy, and I—five years of nothing, and I wanted to help you again. You were the one confided in me about your power, and what you would eventually have to do with it; did you think I'd forget, after we spent hours talking about it back then? Why else do you think I reached out? I saw my chance to be useful to you again, and you never even bothered to see what I had to show for it. You never bothered to meet him, or ask for my opinion, or just—just talk to me." His voice cracks, like it did six years ago. "I'm not a fool, All-Might. I can take a hint. You made yourself perfectly clear with your silence, just as you made yourself perfectly clear by walking away when I asked you to help me save you."

He stops then, hands curled into fists on the table. The cats have abandoned him, driven away by the raw tension that rings in very quiet word.

"…So don't tell me you don't know if I'm still willing to help you," he says, eyes fixed on the table in front of him. "I'm trying. I have been trying. You can't blame me for taking no for an answer."

Nighteye seems to droop after he says this, as if all the energy has left him after letting out the harsh words locked inside of him. He all but slumps over the table, forehead in hand, toying with the handle of his coffee cup. It's hard to read his face at the best of times, much less this half-hidden angle, but Toshinori sees the dip of his brow and the tight line of his mouth, and it's like reading a half-forgotten language.

"I'm sorry," he says softly. "I don't know what else to say."

"Why did you call me here, All-Might?" Nighteye asks wearily. "What is it you really want?"

"I'm worried," Toshinori replies.

He doesn't raise his head. "About what?"

"That you're letting the bad blood between us color how you see Izuku."

Nighteye stiffens, and it might be the wrong thing to say or the wrong way to say it, but it's the truth, and it's the real reason that Toshinori is here. "I'm not. If anything, it's the opposite."

"What do you mean the opposite?"

"I mean that I respect you," Nighteye says bluntly. "I mean that regardless of the bad blood between us, I have always respected you, and I have always believed in what you built, and what you stood for, and what All-Might represented. And Midoriya… he'll be a capable hero. I'm sure of it. But he can't be what you were. He can't be the All-Might that the world needs. He doesn't even seem to want try—"

"And you think that's a mark against him?" Toshinori interrupts. "It's not. Nighteye, I don't want him to be what I was. I wouldn't wish that on anyone, and if you care about Togata Mirio then you wouldn't wish it on him either."

Nighteye bridles, eyes glinting with anger. "Do not bring that into question—"

"I walked away six years ago because I was trying to be the All-Might that the world needed. You do understand that, don't you? That wasn't just a flaw in my character, it was a flaw in All-Might. And you've seen what the world is like, now that the pillar is gone. Villains fighting for dominance, heroes fighting to keep the streets safe—" Toshinori stops. "It was never going to last, Nighteye. I might not have foresight, but I do have hindsight, and I can see how fragile it was. Maybe having a Symbol of Peace was good for fixing a broken world, but… it was never going to maintain it."

"But—still," Nighteye insists. "He possesses the world's single most powerful quirk, alongside the one he was born with. Symbol or not, that's hardly meaningless."

"Of course it isn't meaningless," Toshinori says. "I never said it was meaningless. All I'm saying is… what it means isn't up to me, because I don't have it anymore. It's gone. It's his. One For All is his quirk, and what he does with it isn't for either of us to decide."

Nighteye stares at him for a moment more, and it's enough to know that Toshinori hasn't quite gotten through to him. He keeps searching those eyes and that face, and he sees enough to know that Nighteye is frustrated above all else, and Toshinori wishes he knew how to reassure him. But before he can think of what else to say, Nighteye pushes aside his empty cup, pulls out his wallet, and puts down enough money to pay for both of their drinks.

"Thank you for the invitation," he says, but that's not what he means, so Toshinori shoos the cats out of his lap and follows him out.

"Does it matter that much to you?" he asks, once they're out on the street and away from prying eyes and ears. "What happens to One For All?"

"Of course it matters," Nighteye retorts.

"I just don't understand why you keep insisting it's about Izuku when it's clearly not," Toshinori presses. Nighteye stops short, but doesn't turn back to look at him. "I hurt you. I understand that. You were afraid for me and you wanted to do everything you could to help me, and I shut you out. That was wrong of me, and I want to make amends for it, but I can't do that if you keep making it about him."

"It is about him," Nighteye says. He still won't look back. "I know about his power. Do you really think someone so accustomed to death should be wielding the most powerful quirk in the world?"

"I have never met anyone more determined to save lives than Izuku," Toshinori says sharply. "And besides—One For All wasn't created to lift up the world, it was created to bring down All For One. All For One is dead now. Its old purpose is lost." He pauses. "Is that why you're upset? Because the future is so uncertain? Just because your quirk lets you see what comes next doesn't mean—"

In an instant Nighteye rounds on him, cutting him off before he can finish.

"I'm upset that you chose a successor that has so much less to lose if you die, Toshinori! Why is that so confusing?"

The words wither away on Toshinori's tongue.

"For a boy who's grown up seeing ghosts, and talks to them like it's nothing—" Nighteye's voice breaks. "Whether your death comes to pass or not… what difference will it make to him? You told me about Shimura Nana, you told me about what it was like to lose her, how you would have fought anyone and sacrificed anything to get her back for just one day… and you think it doesn't upset me that your student never has to fear that kind of pain?"

And once again, Toshinori can only stare. He tries to remember when he last saw Nighteye cry. It's not easy—but if he doesn't push, if he lets memories drift to him instead of seeking them out, he remembers lingering flashes of fluorescent lights and hospital bedding and two hands grasping one of his—but then he woke up and recovered enough to stand up and walk and fight again, everything went wrong, and he never got the chance to ask if they were dreams or not.

It's been six years now and all of his memories are like that, drifting in without him calling on them, reminding him that the man before him says things that mean others. That language used to fall upon his ears effortlessly, but now it comes back to him piece by piece. It's just enough to understand now, that You're impulsive means Let me help, that I'm trying, I have been trying means I miss you, and that it upsets me means I'm scared, more scared than I have ever been.

He's starting to wonder if it really is too late, if this bridge is just too thoroughly burned now to be fixed or rebuilt. He can try, but if there's one thing Izuku and young Bakugou have taught him, it's that there's only so much he can do when connections between people run both ways.

But he does know this: he knows he can't do it today. He can try again, just not today.

"You… don't understand him," he says quietly. "You don't understand him at all. I just wish you'd try, because—there's a reason he came to you. There's something he needs that I can't give him, but you can. I don't know what it is. You'll have to ask him yourself."

He turns to leave, but there's one more thing he needs to say, one more clump of words that Nighteye's fears have dragged from within him.

"And… for the record, I did." Nighteye blinks at him, confused, and Toshinori continues before he can lose his nerve. "I did get her back. Nana, I mean. Except I didn't have to fight anyone, or sacrifice anything. I just had to put my faith in one boy." Slowly, he lets out a breath. "He saved me, you know. I think, if it hadn't been for him, that fate you saw would have caught up to me in Kamino."

Nighteye doesn't answer.

"Until later, Mirai," Toshinori says. It's more than he gave him six years ago, as he walked away—limped away—down a quiet hospital hallway and didn't look back. But it's not a goodbye.

Toshinori is tired of goodbyes.