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The Quirk Therapist

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Midoriya Izuku awoke and was confronted with the bleak truth that today was a Monday. Nothing good ever happens on Mondays. He opened his eyes, emerald green as they always have been, and hoisted himself out of bed. He surveyed the flat he had fallen asleep in last night, still in the dishevelled state he had left it in.

Item one: Desk, covered in legal paperwork, finished at an ungodly hour of the morning. Item two: Second bed, neatly made, its occupant already awake. Item three: Bathroom, still foggy from the flat’s second occupant taking their morning shower. Item four: Door downstairs, closed and locked. Item five: Television and accompanying couch, off and empty respectively. Which left item six: Kitchenette with table and chairs.

The smell of coffee struck Izuku’s nose as he blearily peered at the far corner of the flat to see his mother nursing her own cup of coffee over an empty plate. Midoriya Inko looked very different from her youth. Instead of the well-kept figure and dark green hair of Izuku’s childhood, Inko was plump, with worry lines and laugh lines alike scoring her face, restructured as it was, with a loose bun of reddish hair settled at the back of her head. Her eyes were the same, however; bright and forest green. She perked up as Izuku studied her.

“Ah, Izuku, you’re finally awake?” Inko chuckled. “I told you to go to bed earlier and look at you now. You look like death warmed over. Get on up, I made the coffee as strong as I could.” She smiled the bright, blinding smile that Izuku had inherited.

“Mmhad to finish the papersss…” Izuku grumbled, running a hand across his eyes to rub away the crust of sleep, the other hand sweeping a mop of dark red hair off of his face. Both actions highlighted the foreign bone structure he had become accustomed to in his disguise.

The following minutes seeped by in a sluggish haze of coffee and rice until the caffeine finally kicked in. The clarity brought into Izuku’s morning was interrupted by a distant knocking at the door below.

“Ah, the agent is here.” Izuku stood. “See? It was a good idea to finish last night. Well, this morning actually, I guess.”

Inko tsked at her son. “Maybe, but don’t make a habit out of it. I don’t want my son to start looking like that Aizawa fellow.”

“I think it’ll take a lot more than one night to put that caliber of bag under my eyes.” Izuku joked as he gathered the papers into a stack and descended into the lobby.

Izuku emerged from a door behind a small counter, filing cabinets installed underneath and a simple cash register atop. To his right, beyond a second door leading to a drab, grey office, a glass wall separated the lobby from a heavily padded room that would not be out of place in an insane asylum. To his left, a door lead into a much more colorful and comfortable therapy room. Izuku left the papers on the countertop and circumnavigated the obstacle to walk between the glass wall and a row of comfortable couches and chairs to the front door, set between two one-way windows to the outside.

The door opened to reveal a government agent, just as Izuku had predicted. He invited the woman in and the two quickly went over the paperwork to ensure it was all complete and legitimate. Once all of the details were accounted for, the agent took the papers, nodded to the disguised Midoriya Izuku, and left. On her way out, the agent flipped the sign on the front window from ‘Closed’ to ‘Open’ to signify that he was once again free to ply his trade.

The agent passed the quaint green facade of the building that all of Izuku’s eclectic clientele had grown to associate with safety and progress, and under the sign that espoused Izuku’s trade.

Midori’s Multitudinous Quirk Emporium

Consultations and Trades

Quirkless Welcome!

Already Izuku could hear the nice woman passing his first visitors of the day.

“Look, all I’m saying is I saw you eyeing that florist on the way!” A cheery voice niggled, teasing whoever was her companion.

“Shut the ffffffuck up, Round-Face!” Ah, that was Bakugou Katsuki, then, making the previous speaker Uraraka Ochako.

“Hey, it’s only natural to want to get flowers to commemorate someone’s opening day!” A third voice jockeyed over Bakugou’s outcry. “In fact, I was thinking about it myself. I’m secure enough in my masculinity to give another dude a bouquet!” Kirishima Eijirou always was very open with his feelings. Perhaps a tad too open, in Izuku’s opinion.

“Ah-” A new challenger enters the fray, sounding startled.

“What the fu- Where do you think you’re going with those flowers, Half-’N’-Half?” Bakugou shrieked.

“To… Midori’s? I had heard it was, uh… Customary to bring flowers to an opening day?” Todoroki Shouto was an exceptionally bad liar for how well he hid his emotions behind a neutral facade.

“See?” Kirishima crowed. “Nothing wrong with a little floral arrangement between dudes, right?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Suddenly, a Mineta Minoru out of nowhere. “I think someone’s making a move on the reluctant Future Mister Bakugou Katsuki.” He snickered.

“I’ll fucking kill you!” Bakugou lunged. Izuku knew he didn’t mean it, though. For all the vehemence in his childhood friend’s voice, there was no distinctive firecracker noises emanating from his hands.

“What a mad banquet of darkness.” Why was Tokoyami even there?

The sounds of playful tussling, or at least as playful as a rowdy bunch of U.A. Heroics students could manage, played louder for a moment as a man made his way through the door, looking over his shoulder.

“Are, uh… Should someone call a hero?” The man asked, quirking a thumb over his shoulder.

“No need. Just a few patients of mine working out some stress and aggression before they drop in for a session. They’ll tire themselves out eventually, and be nice and calm when they come in.” Probably. I hope. “So sir, welcome to Midori’s Multitudinous Quirk Emporium. I’m Midori Zuko, how can I help you?”

“Well I was hoping for some advice on how to use my Quirk professionally, but now I’m curious. You can trade Quirks?”

“Ah, that’s a very selective service I offer to those who can definitively prove to me that their Quirk is ruining their lives, or if they are Quirkless. The clearest way to simplify the process is if I can tell that merely having the Quirk is traumatizing them. Alternatively, I have had a few elders on their deathbeds summon me for house calls to donate their Quirks to preserve their legacy.”

“...Huh. Well, alright then. So anyway, my Quirk lets me…”

The man was polite, courteous, and utterly unremarkable. Much like the majority of Izuku’s clients. But there were those few who came in to trade their Quirks, or the emotionally constipated wrecks like the U.A. students wrestling on his doorstep, that were the real joys of Izuku’s job. Those encounters tended to make themselves at home in Izuku’s memory.

And it’s these stories noted down here: The bizarre Quirks, the days of interest, and the desperate visitors that were the spice of life in Izuku’s new existence as the Quirk Therapist.