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The first time Shouta holds a baby, he's fifteen. He's at Iida's to study, abandoned in the entryway to drip puddles onto their very nice and clean mat while Tensei vanishes into the depths of the house for towels. There's at least three phones ringing somewhere, muffled conversation bouncing down the halls, and a kitchen timer wailing - Hero's work brought onto the same plate as a fully lived-in household. The overlapping sounds grate on his tired ears. Shouta is content to stand politely in his puddle, where the noise level is vaguely tolerable, until Tensei can take them somewhere quiet.
"Oh Tensei, didn't hear you come in," He's never met Iida's mom before and there wasn't going to be a proper introduction this time either, her arrival another whirlwind amongst the sheer noise that seemed to fill the house. She's holding a baby, juggling them around one of the (presumably) previously ringing phones she's trying keep wedged between her shoulder and ear, and a small flock of paperwork.
"Can you please hold him for two seconds?" She asks, stopping just long enough to bundle the baby right into his arms, despite the fact that the only similarities between Shouta and her son is their dark hair and an affinity for wearing their UA gym jacket outside of school hours.
She's gone before he can even open his mouth. He's alone. Holding Tensei's baby brother.
His mind goes blank for one terrifying heartbeat that skitters into the next and the next, too stiff to even breathe - as if that somehow would hurt the baby in the delicate arrangement of his arms. He's so small, his mind supplies in the harsh, snow blinded emptiness. This is what he's in school for, his mind says next as he stares down at Tensei's baby brother, protecting those who can't protect themselves.
That thought does not help.
Trying vainly to recall what they learned in class about holding babies, Shouta restarts his mind. Babies have weak necks, support them. That's a task he can do. He shifts the boy carefully, using a full open-palm to keep him steady as Shouta settles the baby further into the crook of his arm. Rain water slides down the length of his sleeve as he moves and he winces when it splashes to the mat below. Please don’t seep through the blankets.
The movement is enough to wake Tensei’s baby brother, staring with bleary bright eyes that pin Shouta. He isn’t crying, he thinks rapidly along with his racing heart, so it’s okay that he's awake. Probably. Hopefully. Shouta stares right back, finding the lessons still just beyond his mental fingertips. He reaches for a moment, and instead, his mind clicks forward on its routine of cataloging. Maybe the information will help. Somehow. Wrapped in his family's agency merch (cute), there's no doubt this boy is an Iida. He has the same thick, dark blue hair as the rest of the family, sticking up on one side and the same serious square features, which is honestly quite a funny look on an infant.
“You look more serious than I do.” Shouta tells the boy his discovery. “Tensei will have you teach you how to smile. He’s very good at smiling.”
The baby doesn’t respond, blinking like his words were just random sounds, which they probably are at this point in his development. Shouta feels foolish. Helpfully, Tensei's brother wiggles a hand out at him, hand and chubby fingers flat like a board; his expression still very serious.
“What?” he asks, wary. The hand is wiggled harder, tiny brows tilting.
“Hey don't make that face, that's the opposite of what I just said.” Shouta tries to grab the flailing hand, and Tensei's brother wacks it away once before his fingers curl around one of Shouta's. The hold seems to settle the boy and Shouta isn’t ashamed of the pride that blooms. Holding a baby’s hand probably isn’t in Child Care for Heroes On Duty but he doesn’t care. Baby Iida is comfortable in his arms and not crying. Making Tensei's baby brother cry would probably ban him for life.
“Oh Shouta, I see you've met Tenya!” Tensei's arrival breaks the calm, grin broad and arms full of towels. “Here, I'll take him so you can dry off.”
They swap bundles, and briefly Shouta feels loss before relief takes over. The house had felt pretty quiet with all his focus on Tenya but there was only so long he could stand there not moving in a house as active as this one.
“He might need new blankets. Jacket’s wet.” He offers with the last of the tender feelings, whatever goofy soft expression is on his face hiding underneath the towel as he squeezes his hair out. Tensei laughs, and surfacing from the towel, Shouta catches the final little nuzzle his friend does against his brother’s face.
“I wouldn’t be surprised! It sure is monsoon season, huh Tenya?” Tenya doesn’t exactly giggle at the affection as most babies (he assumes) would, but there's a smile on his face that matches Tensei’s. Looks like he’s getting his smiling lessons after all.
Tensei continues as he gestures them further into the house, holding his brother in a way that shows habit, mindful of any exhaust from his engines. “We're all pulling a bit of double duty with Hero work and babysitting while the agency repairs get finished. Looks like mom decided it was my turn, hah! We can take him to study with us. His room is the quietest place to work anyways.”
“Okay.” Shouta agrees. And if little Tenya ended up sleeping in Shouta’s lap, that was alright with him.
“Give them here, you’re going to drop them at this rate,” is what brings the second baby into Shouta’s arms, hands gentler than the grumble of his words. He sees Shirakumo’s paled expression, one he’s sure was on his face with baby Tenya, and takes action. They were specifically here to help with the kids, so his friend should’ve been prepared for this to happen. Shouta tells him so.
“I could’ve figured it out,” Shirakumo mock-complains, clearly relieved when he steps in close to waggle a finger in the baby’s searching face. Neither that nor Shouta’s bouncing rock seems to help with the trembling lower lip. Uh-oh. Baby Tenya didn’t really cry and when he did, Tensei always took him before it spilled over. “Wait, how do you know how to hold a baby correctly?”
Shouta snorts, “I study with Iida, and I pay attention in class.”
“Says the habitual napper, please!” Shirakumo drapes an arm across Shouta’s shoulders, the movement jostling them both. Don’t drop them, Shouta’s mind says. Before he can readjust and snap at his friend, the baby hics and starts to cry. Loudly.
“Now look what you did.”
“Me? You offered to take them.” There’s no venom in either of their replies, needling at each other in a familiar internship routine. With a fussy baby thrown into the mix, right. “So uh, how do you take care of this?”
“...I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?? You just bragged about paying attention in class.” Shirakumo laughs, loud and fast with the drama of his disbelief. Still leaning on his friend, he taps his fingers together over the baby. “Hey little one did you hear, Shouta doesn’t know something so I’ll- oof!”
“You are not helping.” Shouta says, jabbing an elbow into Shirakumo’s side. A shadow falls over the pair. They freeze, heads tilting up.
“Boys,” Mr. Purple says, arms crossed in disappointment. His voice is gentle with them. “We're here to take care of the children, not mess around. These are important lessons, use soft tones and a smile, alright?”
The second baby didn’t stay in Shouta’s arms for very long after that, their mentor taking them when neither teen succeeded in soothing the cries. It looked entirely natural for the Hero, baby tucked against the velvet of his jacket, features softening as Mr. Purple spoke gentle nothings with a familiar smile. Even if the child wasn’t his, he used every bit of love he had to make them feel safe. I’ll do that next time, Shouta thinks.
He’s pretty sure someone is pranking him the third time it happens. The situation certainly lines up with the rest of the garbage in his currently shitty life. There had been some sort of battle, or some sort of struggle at the very least, and now he’s protecting a little girl, with the softest peach-colored hair and splotchy cheeks and lungs that rivaled Hizashi’s capacity. Her cries had drawn him off his usual path home to the deserted street so Shouta was here, keeping her company until the police or a Pro-hero came back from fighting whatever villain took the parent away.
The screaming though. He tried every trick on the list - gently rocked the carrier, checked for hunger and fussiness, hushed in soft tones. He isn't like Shirakumo was, who had whipped out smiles and comforting phrases. He isn't His Purple Highness who had calming people down to an art form. Shouta is neither. He is alone, out of work per Mr. Purple's kind suggestion to take time off after his friend's death. He is alone with a screaming baby and has only his logic and his few practical lessons in child care to help.
Shouta absurdly, feels for her, left on the side of the road with no understanding of what was happening, the future unknown. Who knows what of the conflict she heard, he sympathizes; it must have been startling. He doesn’t know if her parents left her out of safety, or tried to protect her before they were swept away, but it had certainly scared her. She was only asking for help, for safety. Who wouldn’t scream when their world fell apart?
Sweeping raw and bandaged fingers against her cheeks as gently as he could, Shouta cleans another track of tears off her face. He sighs. His head hurt, before he even found her from the sadness that his system couldn’t seem to shake, aggravated now by her cries that seemed unending. The rocking wasn’t working, he realizes; she probably needs physical comfort. Carefully taking the top blanket inside the carrier, he bundles it around her flailing fists, a dry “valiant effort with those punches,” when she resisted with another shriek. But he is bigger, and stronger, and soon he has a squirming baby propped against his thighs as he slides down a nearby wall to sit. He read swaddling helped, but her cries only became hiccuped between inhales, no sign of stopping in sight. Why wasn’t it helping? Maybe he didn’t do it right? More importantly, where was everybody? Surely someone would have heard them by now and come to help.
He didn’t know what to do.
“What do you want?” Shouta asks, a plea tight around the calm tone he tried for. It was closer to his standard snap. “You don’t need water, or food, or your diaper changed. You’re not hurt, why are you still crying?”
She couldn’t answer. It was stupid to talk to her, as if she’d suddenly go ‘yes I want my mom’ and stop crying and be content to wait quietly with him. But his logic was failing him.
He went through the list and had nothing else.
He was trying to help but all he felt was useless.
He wants the girl in his lap to stop crying. He wants her to stop struggling against his poor swaddling job, rubbing tender skin on the too rough fabric of his jumpsuit. He wants the girl’s parents to be here, not him, not ‘maybe dead, hopefully just missing’. He wants his hands to not feel so clumsy and too large holding her, pads and palms all torn up from training extra hours after classes. He wants the wet sheep’s wool in his brain to go away. He wants his eyes to stop aching from all the tears he passed off as quirk overuse or sweat when asked. He wants his friend to be alive, to keep working alongside him and Mr. Purple until they graduate and open that dumb (incredible) agency they planned up on the rooftop, the four of them. He wants his world to stop falling apart.
“Stop,” Shouta pleads. “Just, stop crying. No one’s coming, okay? It’s just us and you’re going to be sick from crying so hard and it will be my fault because I can’t help you.”
She inhales thickly, wails rising in tandem with his own rising volume.
“Stop! Please, you can’t just keep crying, it won’t solve anything!” Voice cracking, his hands dug into his pant legs, keeping the girl steady in his lap with his arms like brackets. “Stop!”
And suddenly between blinks, she did. Shouta stares. Please tell me yelling at her wasn’t the solution, he thought, anguish like bile in the back of his throat; what a horrible way to calm a child down. Then she reaches a tiny freed hand out towards one waving lock of black hair. His quirk was active, keying into his distress, hair responding as it always did, and that had been what she needed.
A short hysterical laugh barks through a sob. Of course. Of course that’s what she needs. Shouta deactivated his quirk, just to be sure, then activates it. Her face lights up in surprise, sobs petering out to sniffs heavy through her nose.
“Really?” he asks, voice faint. “Floating hair is what does it for you huh?” He tips his head down, deactivating his quirk so his hair flopped down onto the girl. She giggles, a small gasp when it wooshed up and off of her.
It’s like peek-a-boo, Shouta thinks, scraping one hand over his cheeks between activations. Peek-a-boo with a quirk. Quirk-a-boo.
They probably looked awful, stuffed and rubbed-at noses, and tear tracks dark on their skin. But, he feels a smile form when both the girl's hands reach up, touching his dark strands with a tender curiosity as they fall back into her range. I can do this, Shouta thinks. It wasn't really what he mentor said to do, but it was working. His own form of comfort. His eyes would burn for the rest of the day, but the smile of the girl below, wobbly edges smoothing to genuine happiness, was worth it.
Despite appearances, and the generally weird hours he worked, Shouta holding babies was a continuous trend during his time as an Underground Pro Hero. It wasn’t the same as All Might receiving a child. When All Might had a baby in his arms, the parent wanted them to be kissed, to be blessed with whatever made the man their Symbol of Peace. People wanted All Might to hold their kids because they knew without a doubt they would be safe.
The children in Shouta’s arms were more accidental, work-focused; given by harried paramedics when his arms were the only available ones after an attack, toddlers swept out of reach of traffic or dangers, four and five year olds held when sudden and alarming quirk discoveries needed to be soothed urgently by Erasure before they could boil into panic. It happened enough for both his friends to laugh and joke at the stories they heard, suggesting he should start working for a daycare if the softness in his voice was any indication of a secret heart. He scoffed, citing some flimsy reason that none of them really believed.
The fourth time was after many of these previous times, but it stood out as the first time someone had seen this strange situation take place in real time and felt fit to comment on it.
Eraser’s attention is split between Officer Tsukauchi and the girl in his arms; Akihito her mother said before the paramedics passed her over. Apparently these particular medics had crossed paths with Eraserhead in similar circumstances before and knew the drill. Somehow the Underground Hero had become a recognized comfort for the babies in these off-hours.
“The villain didn’t have any named attacks, so - don’t pull on that Akihito -” He pauses, eyes sliding down when a corner of his capture weapon was yanked. She has the audacity to huff when his fingers slid under hers to release her grip - cheeky girl. “He was a newer villain, or someone looking to make ends meet.” Eraser continues, ignoring the slimy feeling of drool on his fingers when they became the next target of interest.
“He had a costume though,” Tsukauchi swept through his notes, dutiful to his round of post-capture questions despite the new addition. “Very similar to the Grenadiers gang. I think he even had the same patch.”
“I saw that too. Were the colors the same?”
“Hmm,” He flips back to the recent page. “No. They were blue instead of red.”
“Might have been inspired by them then.” Eraser offers, pulling Akihito up when her attention refused to settle in the light bounce of his arms. “Look, hey,” He flashes his quirk, hair rising. As usual, the action immediately caught the girl’s attention. He'd never tire of that reaction, children too young to be anything other than awed by his quirk. “The lack of named attacks though rules him out as a copy-cat.”
“The mom said he was... shouting…”
“You’ll have to ask her what she heard, I didn’t recognize it from the Grenadiers speeches.” As if mimicking the up and down of his hair, the longer scales on her head move. Her smile is just as clever as the copying and Eraser raises a brow, a chunkle under his breath; at least she was staying quiet.
“We’ll uh, have to ask her after... the medics are done … uh- Eraser?” He looks up. Tsukauchi has a funny smile on his face like he'd been given a gift he didn't know he needed and the surprise made it that much more enjoyable. “Do you like ah, kids?”
Quirk deactivated, he frowns. “No. They like ‘magic tricks’ though.”
“Ah,” It's a knowing sound, like the answer was believed to be the truth and thus didn't ping his quirk, but the visuals said something else. Placating the glare received, Tsukauchi holds up a hand, grinning.
“No one will believe you,” Eraser vaguely threatens, attention pulled down with another tug. Akihito flared her scales with a tiny pout, wanting their game to continue. Hell, she was cute.
“I'm not sure I believe it.” Tsukauchi’s voice was light, still caught up in the surprise.
“Eraserhead, Officer Tsukauchi,” one of the medics calls, breaking the moment. “Mom’s ready for you now.”
“Let’s go Akihito, play time’s over.” Eraser gives her hand a little shake, leaving the muttering officer behind; whoever he was planning on telling, as long as it wasn’t Ms. Joke he was fine, she didn't need more fuel to tease him. All in all it was pretty routine, something easy he had settled into, arms loosened from the first panicked grip around baby Tenya. The same gentle care stayed though, used to make their day better for a few moments, and it was perfect for him.
By the time he’s employed at UA, Shouta had given up completely on figuring out why holding babies and kids happened so often and merely enjoyed the purpose behind the action, finally understanding Mr. Purple’s reasoning for all their missions and patrols around schools and daycares. Being in a hero’s arms made people feel safe, that was an unspoken rule in the job description and it had been a good lesson to foster as a Pro Hero.
UA used this lesson differently. Teens didn’t need coddling, not from their teacher, and Shouta was not one to give it freely - only when the situation called for it. Shoulder taps, a hair ruffle, some words to raise their spirits when the world seemed too large for their grasp, when it threatened to fall apart. Those moments helped. Sometimes it was all they needed to stand tall again.
When they were all moved into dorms, suddenly the silent requests were more frequent, becoming outright bold questions; with parents across the city instead of a room over, their homeroom teacher was the closest means of adult support. And Shouta’s okay with that. They’re tough, hero-material the lot of them, a group he can be proud of but even the strongest kid needed some encouragement to continue to chase away the shadows. So he’ll give them that support whenever requested. Class 1-A are his kids, a slip that settles on his tongue like a stolen bite of chocolate he’s ready to savor.
He’s content to have just the twenty teens in his life (plus a few scattered among the grades as this turbulent year continues its rollercoaster climb) then he meets Eri. Small in the hospital room, in the bed itself, she hardly fills the space, neither in presence nor vocally. There is a sorrow that weighs down all her hours, more so when the sun sets. She doesn’t let her cries for help be any louder than the air that passes through her lips and it breaks his heart completely when he first realizes what the sound was. Learned helplessness is one hell of a mindset to recover from, and spending those late nights after the fever broke, hyper aware of any change and every sound, Shouta found himself scraping the bottom of his list for solutions that would let Eri know she is truly rescued.
Her situation is unique enough that most of his ideas and experiences wouldn’t work, the hospital staff reaching the same dead-end conclusion: she just needs time. Make her feel safe, and she will reach for us when she’s ready. Shouta is a patient man, a requirement for underground work, but there is still a small sting whenever she flinches, bringing her hands up to brace against something painful, or when she swallows back tears underneath the general hum of a late night hospital room.
But the fourth night, in a soft yet sure voice, Eri asks for a hug, like Deku and Lemillion gave, and Shouta takes those out-stretched hands and picks her up with the relief of watching the sunrise for the first morning after extensive undercover missions.
Eri fits in his arms like she was meant to be there and old habits flood Shouta’s system. He gently rocks, a stable hand on her back as they move. There is no goal to the movement, just something soothing and repetitive to calm a frantic heart after waking so deep into the night. His capture scarf is off, draped over the visitor’s chair he’d taken up residence in, and her head fits snugly against his neck, face beneath his dark hair. If he tilts his head, his cheek would rest against the nub of her horn.
She is quiet, two breaths for every one of his purposefully slow breaths. Shouta continues to sway, no humming nor quick movements; an acceptance of her bravery to reach out. He doesn't track how much time has passed before her fists finally uncurl from his shirt, tension releasing from her body in an exhale too large to be just air behind it. Eri’s asleep a moment later. Comfortable. Safe.
Shouta holds Eri with the same tender wonderment as he did the first time little Tenya was placed in his arms. He never really wanted kids of his own, but in that hospital room, up too late on too little sleep, he thinks about this one. Her bravery shared in Midoriya’s report, her kindness seen by Mirio. I want to see her grow up, he realizes. He wants to be there when Eri stands tall and smiles. He wants to see her fists raised in celebration rather than accepted fear. He wants to see her find her confidence; when she lives and loves the world with all the heart she possesses despite the trauma.
Shouta leans his head on top of hers, winded by his affection. His injured shoulder will hurt in the morning, his splintered elbow already complaining, but he stays put and continues rubbing circles on Eri’s back until her breathing turns into a snore and his fingertips feel like static. This will be one of many nights, he thinks. And Shouta’s okay with that.