Chapter Text
Looking back, you realize you liked your dad from a young age.
It was somewhere between the ages of seven and eight when you were out in the backyard with him. He was providing you with shade so you could mark up the side of your home with chalk, happy to do so while commenting on your work. You had hated the feeling of sunscreen—the lotion, or the aerosol—and he was unwilling to let you burn.
It was a sweet thing.
He was always doing sweet things—for you, for your mom. You noticed it, even back then, even though you’d only known him for a few months. You already knew you wanted a kind man.
(Kind, like one man you know so well already.)
"Are you gonna be sad when I leave?"
"Sad? Leave?" The man questioned, his shadow on the wall tilting its head, "What'cha talkin' about?"
"When I get married," your voice, pitched high, carried a clear edge, "When I leave.”
Izuku sputtered a little, and you remember his shadow shifting so that his hand reached to rub the back of his neck. From discomfort, and maybe the fact that he had missed a spot with sunblock.
"Who are you marrying?" Looking back, he definitely thought some little kid proposed to you during recess. You wonder what he would say and do if that were the case.
Something silly, you're sure.
"A boy. But a boy like you."
Another sound. A cough. An inhale. An exhale. "W-well, uh, isn't it a little early to be plannin' on that?"
"I don't think so," you said, filling a gap of your chalk blob in on your tiptoes.
"But me and mama will miss you," he says, and you remember turning over your shoulder to see his exaggerated pout. Izuku was illuminated by the sun.
(Looking back, your ideation only made the end more obvious.)
"You and Mama say it's good to think ahead."
You remember feeling the sigh of your name more than hearing it. Yeah, what a riveting conversation to have with your stepchild, right? But what should he have expected from his new daughter? You knew then your mom bragged on you every second she got.
"Well, yeah, it is, but still."
"I want a husband that's nice." You said, nodding sagely, picking a new color for your—ah, well, you don't remember what you were drawing that day. You do remember saying, "Like you. A nice husband."
"Yeah?" He asked, laughing a little. You nodded, dipping your chalk in a cup of water you had smuggled from the kitchen. "What—what made you say that, sweetheart?"
"Because you're nice to mama. You like her. You always get her flowers and wash her car and stuff even when she yells at you." Izuku laughed—it was true, even then, at the beginning of their marriage. "I want a husband that’s gonna like me like you like me."
It resulted in another sputter and a coughing fit. You shifted to pass him your Capri-Sun and didn't complain when he drained the little thing dry. You were focused on things above. Your blob, the way your chalk kept crumbling, what snack you would cajole from Izuku, your future husband.
You remember acknowledging Izuku distractedly, only locking in when he said your full name. He knelt in the grass, close to you, setting the scrunched juice pouch down. "Sweet girl, you don't really know what you're saying."
"Yeah, I do," you remember your attitude. "I want a husband that’s gonna like me like you do."
"Wait, okay, look—There are different kinds of 'likes', okay?" he explained, gently, like he might hurt your feelings. "That's not the 'like' you're thinking of, alright, I'm not how you should see your 'likes'. Does. . . that make sense?"
You furrowed your brows, but nodded.
He sighed, hand in his hair. "There's—I—Da—Izuku," He points to his chest, exasperated and trying to get ahead. "Izuku—I will 'like' you differently than your husband, okay?"
(Okay. . ?)
"Or wife! You never know!"
"Okay." You didn't really understand, but you nodded anyway. "That's okay, I'll still find one that likes me like you like me, but, more than you." Inside, you were resolute.
Izuku was too nice, and he didn't counter your words before you decided to live by them. And Izuku was trying to say that he does like you more than whatever imaginary man your young mind could conjure up.
(Even then, he was klutzy.)
(Neither of you knew what that slip would lead to.)
The only other major memory you have from that day was being carried into the house, trapped in the unskippable scene of being chased by a bug. And in that was the making of your nickname.
"You're alright, bug. You're alright."
♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧
You didn't know you liked him until you were eleven.
When everyone started talking about crushes, you were more than a little uninterested. You went along with ‘liking’ the boys your friends nudged you toward, just for show, but deep down, you knew it never really clicked for you.
The only 'like' that had stuck with you was the 'like' of an imaginary man, like your stepdad.
(Which, you still hadn't found a problem with.)
. . .You dated a boy from twelve to fifteen. A nice one. He brought you chocolates, traded his snack cup at lunch for your favorite pack of cookies, and let you copy his homework. There was something familiar about him you couldn’t quite place—until that day.
You had a project together before Spring Break, and when he came over to work on it, you realized what it was after seeing Izuku's picture over his shoulder.
At fifteen, it had transformed. 'I want a husband like dad' transitioned into, '. . .I think I want Dad.'
It should have been frightening—scratch that, it was frightening.
You stayed holed up in your room that whole break, never coming out when Izuku was around. Only after hearing the door close behind him on his way to work would you creep out like some reclusive creature. Your mom had yelled at you about it once, and terrifyingly, you overheard Izuku calming her down from taking your door.
(Your heart warmed at the thought, your stomach sinking at the notion.)
He would come back, knock on your door, and wait before leaving. Part of his nights were dedicated to waiting outside your door, listening to your movements to see if you were alive. He'd report back to your mom before saying goodnight and sleeping for work the next day.
It cycled like this for five days; you refused all contact.
Until Izuku sat down outside your door and asked if it was something he did.
"I miss you, bug. I'm—I'm sorry if it was me."
It hurt you to hear him that way. It wasn't him, it was you. Your mind is making you want things you shouldn't have, and your heart is encouraging it. It hurt, yes, but you hurt you; he didn't.
"Talk to me when you're ready."
(You were planning on it.)
"Dad loves you, baby girl."
(. . .Who are you kidding?)
At two in the morning, you crawled to the door and unlocked it. Izuku was still there, and when you twisted the handle, he didn't barge in.
You projected your voice around the corner and asked him to come in. And he did, slow like he was scared of scaring you, but you weren't scared. Not of him.
You knew you needed him at that moment. He and his ugly fuzzy socks and action figure sweatshirt and red eyes were all welcome into your messy room, huddled in a nook by your desk and a hamper full of clothes. He opened his arms with hesitation, and your face twisted.
It's your Dad, your Izuku. You love your Izuku.
With all the grace your self-loathing, growing limbs, and aching joints could bestow you, you crawled over to him, sprawling into his lap with a sob as he held you. He cried longer than you, sad, fearful tears shifting to relief. You let them soak into your shoulder.
When he loosens his hold, you tell him you just needed a moment to think, and he says that’s fine, just let him know before you slip away. You turn in his arms, leaning in to kiss him—nothing unusual—just the corner of his mouth where tears linger in his smile line. He kisses your cheek, then, softened by the comfort of your affection and relieved enough to forget himself, he brushes his lips against yours.
You don't move, eyes fluttering closed a second later as you revel in his mouth softly prodding before his breath hitches and he starts to cry again. You get one more peck to his top lip before he gathers you closer, mouth pressed to your neck as he breathes you in and rocks you.
Your mom finds you from your finally open door and hears your sniffling, and joins you, petting your heads as she catches up.
Warmth spreads through you while she takes the moment to talk at you, and you try to make yourself content with the taste you got. You think then that you'll have it as that; two presses of the mouth from the one you love deeply. It should be sufficient.
You don't understand how it couldn't be.
♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧
It was a foolish thought. A person like you can't just be content with crumbs. And because of it, a war raged in you for the next year.
Days spent firing munitions to leave behind your love in search of a somewhat normal life only made the fall harder. You ended up tripping over the spent shells, and when the battle was over, you realized there was nothing left to bring you peace.
Even worse, the war had reached its zenith when your mom snuck into your room at O'Dark-Thrity, telling you to pack a bag with the essentials.
The war rages: your birth mother or your adoptive father?
. . .You don't want to leave.
You tell her such, and she spends a minute trying to convince you before she curses you, digging her hand into her bag and flinging papers at you with a hiss. Your birth certificate, your social security card, your vaccinations, everything, fluttering around her as she points at you with a grimace.
"No one will have your back like your mother, you know that?"
It stings when she talks to you like that, but you endure it, swallowing your pride and taking her anger.
"I'll still have Izuku—"
"And whatever woman he brings into this house after me won't give a damn about you." She continues, teeth gritted, mouth turned down, "No mother would leave their child behind, and when she finds out you were left by me, she will treat you terribly."
"I don't care. I'll still have Izuku." She can't refute that. She knows the man she married, knows how he adores you as his own. When your words land, she rises over you, and you lean back with a sharp inhale.
"I knew it. I fucking knew it," you whine, shaking from her higher position over you. "He called me crazy."
You look at her with confusion.
"You always liked him more than me," she nods, knowing it to be true with the information she seems to have found and decided to be true. And while you shake your head, she continues, "You always loved him a little too much. Didn't you?"
You have no answer. And you stare back at a face so much like yours, stricken.
"You did."
"Mom—"
"No, no. You can have what you want."
"Mama—!"
"Good luck. . . I—I hope you're happy."
You don't move from your position on your bed until you hear her leave the front door, and only then after she's started her car and driven off. You don't feel much while you gather the papers she threw at you, stacking them neatly and setting them on the corner of your desk.
Sixteen is a horrible age to be abandoned by your mother, but it stands more as a coming of age for you.
The war is over. You made the hard choice and still stand on your two feet.
When you wander into the living room in the morning, you find Izuku hunched over a crumpled letter, sniffling and wiping his eyes. You wish you could summon a tear or two when he breaks down at the sight of you, but nothing comes. He stays seated, struggling to rise, gesturing for you to come closer until you step into his arms. You know he wants to make it seem like you need the comfort, but it’s clear he needs it more, pulling you into his lap and sobbing into your shoulder. You stroke his hair down to the nape of his neck before rubbing his back gently, offering what comfort you can as he shudders and weeps.
You don't react much past silence, but Izuku keeps cooing over you, despair lining his words as he's telling you it's fine, and you'll be together. He repeats your name like a prayer. It burns your ears.
He presses bloated lips into your cheek, and you hug him tighter around his neck. He decides he's calling you out of school and himself out of work. You don't say anything.
(It's bitter, yes. You think you're a bit horrible for not reacting, yes.)
As the day winds down, with the weekend thankfully just ahead, you wrap up the work your teacher assigned, your feet tucked under Izuku’s leg while he stares solemnly at his computer. He’s been unusually quiet—mourning, you figure—working in silence as he tries to make sense of how things became this bad.
"Izuk—Dad?" He moves his things aside at your gesture, letting you settle into his arms as you crawl over. Today, you’ve found yourself in his lap more often than you ever did as a child when you first met him. He doesn’t complain. He’s always needed more than he could express—needed to care for someone above all else—and you’re eager to be the focus of that devotion. You can’t take your mother’s place—you don’t even want to—but you can make yourself a bigger part of his life.
When you kiss his mouth, he stays still for a few seconds before pulling you back, eyes wide. "It'll be okay," you say before he gets a chance to mutter a reprimand, snuggling into his chest with your hands shaking. You have never been so bold; it frightens you. "We'll be okay," your voice wavers.
Izuku finds himself locked in place for a few seconds, and his heart thunders into you, before he can gather a breath and accept the new things happening in his life. He nods and curls his arms around you, tightly.
You shuffle around, breath pressed from you, and Izuku swallows, looking at your face a second before smiling softly. "It will, bug. We'll be okay." He dips his head to brush his nose against yours, and though your lips tremble, you press them to his softly.
He doesn't move, but doesn't stop you. You stay, tears building in your eyes as he accepts your affection, critically aware of how his hand shifts to cup your hip. Your sniff is what draws him to action, him pressing you into his shoulder when you can't control your breathing any longer. "Oh, my baby girl," he whispers on your lips, hands cradling under your butt to scoop you closer. You can't meld with him, sadly, but it's a nice thought.
You know he thinks it's grief in you, finally coming out, but he knew little about you.
You cry softly, relieved that you have not been rejected or reprimanded, prisoner to his embrace as you accept that a seal has been broken.
The war has been won, and though you don't yet know what to do with your victory, you think you need time to savor the feeling.
♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧
At eighteen, you leave.
(You left only because you believed the absence would help. Help make sense of your feelings, help you understand them, and, yes, you need to win back the years you spent lamenting everything about yourself as a child.)
Izuku and you would message and call daily for the years you were gone, you both needing the connection from your shared trauma. Him more for the trauma. You. . . for ogling your father.
(He shouldn't look so good all disheveled and miserable.)
You'll be back in time. You left something you want.