warning for a most-likely inaccurate portrayal of dissociation. please let me know how to improve it.

the meeting of class 1-a and tommy prolly won't go like you think.

===

Tommy wakes without nightmares, for once, at exactly six in the morning. Considering how he fell asleep at three, it's decent enough. He lets himself bask in the grogginess that blankets his body, his muscles relaxed instead of stiff and twitching like usual. There's no yell on the tip of his tongue, no sweat or fear crawling down his back, no dawning horror that settles like an anchor in his gut — he feels... okay.

Tommy shifts, hand blindly gripping his blanket to cover him more. Nights without nightmares usually feel like this. They were rare, and if they happen, he enjoys them as much as he can. When he'd truly gotten adjusted to this world, they'd lessened a little.

Wait. Shit, fuck — this place doesn't smell familiar.

Immediately the blond tenses, blue eye shooting open and scanning his surroundings. White walls, dark wood floor, no pictures, empty — this wasn't the Midoriya's apartment. Prime, he needs to start analyzing his surroundings when he wakes up, he's become too soft, because where the fuck was he? Who fucking kidnapped him? What do they want? Oh no no no no no, is Izuku okay? Where is he? And what about Inko? Where are they, where are they —

A single thought cuts through his rising panic: yesterday, remember yesterday.

It takes Tommy an embarrassing amount of time to remember what had happened just the day before, but when he does, he lets his body sag. He lets out a harsh breath, a trembling hand raking through his now-sweaty hair.

Right. Moving.

That's it. That's literally it. Everything's okay.

Tommy lets his eye slip shut a little longer, body sinking back into the mattress. His chest still feels tight. Breathe. Just breathe, just focus on that. In, out. In, out.

Slowly, Tommy feels himself become stable again. He grimaces when all of the panic is finally gone, eye cracking open to stare at his calloused palms. Yeah, no, he's not gonna be under that sleepy haze for the rest of the day.

...Wait. The day, what day was it —

Oh shit, the fucking job!

Tommy's eye goes wide as he practically leaps out of bed, a different kind of anxiety already riddling his nerves. Fuck, how did he forget that? Doesn't he only have around two hours to get ready?

...No, wait, fuck, that's for students! They have, like, their uniforms 'n' shit already at their disposal, too! Tommy's like a literal faculty member now! What time do they go to school? What does he even do when he's there? Help the students? Help the teachers? Oh, Prime, he should've asked Aizawa on what to —

— his communicator pings.

Stalling his pacing (when had he started?), Tommy grabs it. He checks the notification; it's a message from Nedzu.

Hello, Tommy! I would just like to inform you that at around 7:00, Eraserhead will take you to U.A.'s grounds. Then, they and the rest of the staff will show you what to prepare for.

Oh fuck, Tommy only has an hour?

What the fuck does thta mean

Whyd you use "prepare for" ??

Don't worry about it. :)

Tommy forces his fingers to be steady.

?????????

That doesb't fuckibg help

Tf do i wear?? Howndo i act???

Just be yourself.

Tommy stares at that for a moment. Then, he's typing questions as fast as his mind whirls and his fingers can move to catch up. What the fuck does that mean? What does that detail? Can he just stop being on his secretive bullshit for one second?

...Fuck. It's clear Tommy isn't getting any more than that, because the principal hasn't added anything to it. He sighs, heading to the bathroom. He could just... wear his signature shit. And his costume.

Ah, wait. Did he even sew it up from the attack?

Tommy plucks it out of his inventory. He grimaces; sure enough, there's a large tear at the back. Yeah... he won't be able to fix that cleanly. Not with his sewing skills, at least.

...New hoodie? New hoodie.

But — fuck, the job, he has to start the — his job, first.

Tommy frowns, pondering. Speaking of that... didn't Izuku say once, in one of his trillions of intense rambling sessions, that U.A. has a support department? That made hero costumes for the heroes-in-training? Couldn't they just make his? They could make it more durable 'n' shit, with whatever the fuck tech they have. And they don't know Tommy's Dusk — he thinks. Plus, Izuku hasn't died due to his outfit yet, and he's like the most reckless person ever. (Tommy, the Biggest Man ever, reckless? Why, he'd never!)

...The engineers should be fellow students, not adults. Tommy can trust them. Maybe.

Opening his closet door (holy shit, his still somewhat-sleep-addled brain registers, he has a closet now, what the fuck) that's actually kind of organized (??? He must've been real out of it last night), Tommy grabs whatever gets his eyes first. This results in him holding his signature t-shirt that had a small nick near the bottom, as well as some baggy, sort-of dark beige cargo pants that closed in around his ankles and some red shoes with bits of white that Inko bought.

Standing in front of the mirror by the closet, Tommy twisted himself around a little. He looked fine, besides the fact that his hair was now long enough to reach his shoulders. He grasps the ends lightly, remembering that he hasn't had time for a haircut in a bit. Usually, he'd just chop it off with a blade because Niki and maybe Techno were the only competent haircutters, but (— they aren't here and he shouldn't be, either — )

Honestly, it kinda looks good. Tommy continues to toy with the strands.

He'll keep it.

There's just one more thing to deal with, now.

Tommy's eye zones in on his arms, where lines and blotches of shades of dull red coat the skin. The scars...

He'll be teaching people a little younger than him. And — it feels a bit weird to acknowledge this, maybe only to him, but they don't know war. They're not like Tubbo, not like Fundy, not like any L'Manburg child nor citizen. They'll ask about them, the marred skin, where he got them when his "quirk" doesn't have to do shit with fire or blades from his skin. They won't let it go if they see the scars. Izuku's different in the sense that he knows about the scars a little, knows what a mental war feels like because he's still in one, but...

They're curious. Even with the USJ, even with how All Might subtly grows weaker, they're... young. Young, dumb, bright, and unafraid. Besides the USJ, they haven't really... seen the repercussions of being heroes. Of what it means, and how thin the line between hero and villain actually is.

Tommy, too, is young in terms of statistics, but he feels so fucking old. Sixteen or seventeen shouldn't feel so aged at all, but he's fought in shit that the students will hopefully never be through themselves. He isn't like them.

He starts shrugging his shirt off before he knows it, wincing at the slew of ragged, discolored skin that shifts with his every move. Pausing, one of his hands moves to softly run its fingertips over the skin. It feels rough.

Prime, he feels so much fucking older. Tommy despises it.

Throwing the t-shirt on his mattress, Tommy drifts towards his closet again. There, he roughly shuffles through the articles of clothing hung up, eye analyzing the sleeves and thumbs momentarily tugging or brushing some, before pushing past and continuing. Most of them were too short or too long, too thick or too thin, not comfortable, not flexible enough —

This one. Tommy tugs the long-sleeved shirt off its hanger with ease, using both of his hands to hold it up. It's completely white which is very fucking bland, so he makes a mental note to sew something on it. Maybe he'll learn how to embroider, instead, because Prime-damn were the designs that one man in Tari's showed him fucking poggers. For now, he has shit to test.

The teenager slips a few fingers into the sleeves and wiggles them around; it isn't thin enough to be see-through, and as he moves his fingers to run along the width of the fabric, they aren't thick enough to hinder his movement when fighting. Then, he holds the shoulder of the shirt and pulls on the sleeve. It's flexible enough to stretch the majority of the way before it forces Tommy to stop at a certain point. The distance is good enough, even if he would like it to be a bit more stretchable. Finally, Tommy slips his arm into the long-sleeved shirt from the bottom of the sleeve. The texture's nice enough.

The blond hums in satisfaction, soon slipping it on. He twists his body and arms, grinning when it doesn't feel too uncomfortable and plenty breathable. Tommy reaches for his signature shirt and puts it on, grinning wider when it still doesn't feel too overbearing or uncomfortable.

He looks at himself in the mirror again, nodding while his grin dies down and his anxiety flares once more. Yeah, he looks okay.

He checks his communicator. 6:19 — he has time. A lot of it. Tommy breathes in, swiftly heading out his room and to the living room, where he knows a lot of his chests are. He's gonna prepare for anything and everything.

===

Aizawa, who'd come to his house (!!) at 6:57 in a dark gray car and in his hero costume, looks at him once before his eyes go all squinty. "What're you hoarding."

Tommy raises a hand to his chest, his face showing his sheer shock. He's absolutely affronted, he is, that this literal hobo can judge him about hiding shit when the man probably does too. But he doesn't say that because he's not getting fired before the job even starts. Instead, Tommy flicks his wrist to get his inventory open and gestures to it, like Aizawa could actually see it. "A lotta precautionary shit," he summarizes, because it's literally just a ton of medical supplies, blocks, and weapons shoved in his inventory that take up every space besides his hotbar. He feels like he's gained twenty pounds and then some, but he'll deal.

Oh, and there's also the bandages, the small burn salve container, the petroleum jelly, the antibiotic ointment, and then some in his cargo pants, but Aizawa doesn't need to know that.

The underground hero raises a brow, eyes momentarily trying to look at the inventory, but he wisely doesn't push. Instead, Aizawa just sighs and motions to the car behind him. "Lets go, Tommy."

Tommy settles in the front seat like he belongs there, and then, after he's forced to put the seat-belt on by the underground hero, they're off.

In general, the ride is mostly in silence covered by songs on the radio, mainly because Tommy's focused on his surroundings and not panicking about the job. The buildings and people pass by, going from small suburban houses and neighborhood roads to towering metal and glass buildings and rushing workers. The car takes a few turns, and then they're moving up a road, surrounded by dense forestry. It winds up and up until —

"Oh, holy shit," Tommy breathes, looking at U.A.'s front in its entirety. He feels so, so small. "This is what Izuku goes to?"

Aizawa's already getting out the car, so Tommy does, too, cursing when he fumbles with the seat-belt.

He still gawks at the sheer fucking size of the building once he's out. The glass walls seem to never end, growing higher and higher until Tommy has to literally tilt his head back to look at it all.

(Tommy blinks, and the walls flicker red, lined with gray stone, supported with wood, and he is standing before the entrance, and Sam Nook's gently, slowly grabbing his wrist and pulling him inside with a familiar chitter, a "WELCOME BACK, TOMMY INNIT!" —

Tommy blinks again, eyes suspiciously gleaming, and it's gone.)

...Isn't this like a Top top school? Less than a zero-point-two percent acceptance rate, or whatever Izuku had said once. There's less fuckin' students. So why the hell's this place bigger?

"U.A. isn't just a hero school, you know." Aizawa says. Tommy startles, head whipping towards the man. Had he said the last part out loud? "It offers opportunities for support students as well as management. Even if a student fails the heroics exam, we give them the choice of going into general education or one of the other departments if we see potential in the scores of the other exams they had taken. And, we give all students the best of the best. Now hurry up."

"...Right," Tommy eventually nods, taking one last look at the whole goliath of a building before following when the man starts to go to the back. They end up at a metal door, which, with a key and a keypad code, opens up to some stairs. Aizawa wastes no time in walking up them, and Tommy follows, eye glancing at the name plates on passing doors in long corridors, before —

"'Teacher Lounge?'" He parrots the sign of the door they've stopped in front of. Aizawa nods, briskly entering and flicking the lights on. They practically flashbang Tommy, and he groans. By the time he recovers, Aizawa's heading in a specific direction — a coffee-machine, from the looks of it — leaving Tommy to just observe as he walks in further.

For a school that's probably more fancier than it should be, this place is... surprisingly empty. There's just a green couch, a small wooden coffee table in front of it, a stool (???), a bookshelf there, some other cabinets...

Besides some extra shit like tissues, a full flower vase, and a few pictures, there isn't much else.

"You fucks are poorer than the students?" Comes out of Tommy's mouth.

Yamada, clad in his hero costume, and who had apparently just come in right as he said that, wheezes. Tommy jumps, whirling around to the man who's trying and failing to recollect himself, if the way his body's now full-on trembling as little snorts escape him says anything.

"What?" Tommy questions as the man slowly un-hunches himself. "I'm right, aren't I?"

"L-Little listener," Yamada coughs, a smile still on his face, ignoring Tommy's immediate protest, "this is a Teacher's Lounge for a reason. We don't spend as much time here during school days. Doesn't have to be that fancy because of that, so we don't waste money on it. This is just where we take a break, like to eat lunch or just talk in general. Most of us eat in our respective classes to plan things out, anyway. That's why this place looks bland."

Tommy nods, poker-faced. "Then this place is mine."

Yamada laughs again, especially in the face of Tommy's expression. "What?"

"I said what I fuckin' said." Tommy gestures to the room, "You all don't use this place! A fuckin' waste and an idiot mistake, if you ask me; so, this lounge is immediately mine since I'on' have a class." He crosses his arms, a smile on his face. "I've claimed it since you all didn't, so suck it, motherfucker."

Yamada can't seem to stop laughing. It sounds like he's borderline hysterical, but not panicked. Maybe. "That's — I — that's not how it works," he says, disbelieving.

"It is," Tommy proclaims, nodding, because it absolutely is now. He leaves his head inclined. "I called dibs so I know, Ya-ma-da. Because you can't believe that and are doubting my authority," Tommy steels his voice and resolutely does not think of curling horns and brunet hair and — "I h-hereby declare you a wrongun."

"What's a wrongun??"

"It's what you are, bitch. Especially 'cause of your banana-lookin' hair; who the fuck told you that was a good idea?"

The man looks to Aizawa for help, who's watching this whole debacle with a cup of coffee in his hands. The underground hero takes a moment to just sip his drink before he sighs, switching to grasp the cup single-handedly while his other gets his phone out.

"Can I keep the coffee-maker?" Aizawa asks, fingers hovering just over the screen.

Tommy nods, waving his hand dismissively. "Yeah, sure. You aren't a wrongun, for one," he says, "and two, I'm not taking your lifeline away from you. I can make my own, anyway, 'cause store-bought is shit."

The underground hero starts tapping away. "I'm letting Nedzu know," he says, and Tommy whoops in delight. "Just don't destroy this room in any way."

Yamada just gapes. Tommy looks to him. "You should close your mouth before it falls off, old man," he says.

"I'm thirty-one!" He exclaims.

Tommy frowns, scrunching his nose and shying away. "Ugh, you're really fuckin' old, then. No wonder you don't understand."

"Shouta is thirty!"

"Well, he has coffee to keep himself enlightened."

Tommy's communicator pings. He takes it out, his eyes scanning over the message as he grins wider.

You are allowed to have the lounge to yourself. Please do not destroy anything, however.

You sre so poggers big man

He shoves the screen to Yamada's face and watches the man's face go all weird, like he doesn't know whether he should be confused or crying or hysterical.

"Beat that, motherfucker," he says smugly. Yamada doesn't get that look off his face, even as his phone pings and he reads the message. It actually gets worse when he does.

Aizawa snorts, a once-or-twice-in-a-lifetime thing. "You got the message from him, then?"

"...Yeah," Yamada says, still staring at his phone. "I did."

===

That's how a woman, who Tommy knows is named Midnight due to Izuku, finds them. Or, the aftermath.

Yamada's sat on the sofa that Tommy's already moved, looking like he's having a crisis. Aizawa's on that same sofa, sipping his third cup of coffee already.

Tommy's still setting up shit, moving the coffee table and the stool while adding his own twist with chests, furnaces, and the like. He's thrown out the books a bit haphazardly, a lot of them about teaching and research on education and all, but who the fuck cares about that? No one, that's who, because this is Tommy's area now and he says so. Anyway, they're all over the ground, but the blond is nothing but adaptable so it's easy to maneuver around.

He's careful to keep the vase on the coffee table, as well as the other shit made of glass. And with a quick blur of wooden blocks dragged down on a crafting table, he's already made some more chairs and shit, which he'll have to sand and carve and shit. That's for future him, though.