“Do you know why you’re here?” Hizashi does know. He knows why he is currently sitting inside a freezing cold, plain grey room that has quirk-reducing effects from the system in the ceiling. The metal chair is like sitting on a block of ice and he is afraid of what germs the table may carry, his wary hands resting in his lap with his fingerless gloves long abandoned. His reflection in the two-way mirror is less than appealing, his makeup runny and flyaways escaping his hairspray. Hizashi is not dressed for this room; the hot DJ booth is a far cry from the dull, chilly room he was led to.
“No.” Hizashi lies, pulling his eyebrows together and twisting the ring on his finger anxiously. It’s not an act, the nervousness. He feels secure in his ability to keep the truth from coming out yet nervous about the questions they may ask. He isn’t prepared to answer them.
“Okay.” The detective is cool and collected, her attitude far easier to handle than the previous officer that had been grilling Hizashi on things from his club to his parental status, his eyes burning and hand slamming into table in front of Hizashi. He is not afraid of being hurt here, yet it made his nerves flare.
He wishes Shōta were here.
“We.. Hm.” She pauses, soft eyes considering him for a moment. “What kind of work does your husband do?” Hizashi comes up with the first answer that enters his mind, truthful enough to pass should her unseen quirk detect larger lies, “Oh, he writes in his spare time, he’s something of a househusband.” She hums and looks to the paper in front of her.
Her heel scrapes the concrete below and Hizashi stops fidgeting with his ring, instead twisting a strand of his hair around his fingers. “And how did you meet him?” He isn’t sure how they picked him out, or what they even may know. Hizashi feels like he is floundering since the shouted questions earlier, and ponders for a moment.
He knows this police station is close to All Might’s agency, he knows one of the detectives here does have a lie detector quirk, and he knows someone in his club has said something to land him in this spot.
“At my work.” Another half-truth. She doesn’t seem suspicious of the answer and skims through the papers, shifting them around inside the manila folder. “What does he do when you’re out? Say, when you’re working or running errands?” Hizashi stops twisting the hair around his fingers and swallows before speaking up, leaning forward in the too cold seat. “I’m sorry, detective, why am I here? My husband writes or naps when I’m not home. Plays with our cats, does dishes — it isn’t..” He sighs, pushing back in his seat and shutting his eyes to rub softly at his eyelids; his contacts have been in for too long after his shift.
“We have a villain description matching your husband’s appearance,” She pulls two black and white, grainy images from her folder, slipping them side by side across the table. Hizashi twists his ring again, frowning down at the pictures. One of Shōta, dressed in all black excluding the capture devices on his neck and forearms, mask wrinkled off to sit at the tip of his nose and the razor-sharp weapon of the wraps on his right arm raised to a hero.
Hizashi’s heart clenches and his stomach rolls. The next photo is Shōta in civilian wear in the very early hours of the morning leaving a convenience store, bag in one hand and a donut in the other, peering at what appears to be a cat on the sidewalk from the terrible quality of the photo. That wasn’t too long ago, Shōta had come home merely two hours after Hizashi had left his last Saturday night shift.
They had eaten waffles, then, both of them sleepy with their feet nudging beneath the table and hands brushing to pass syrup. Shōta still had a stranger's blood in his hair, and the scars on his biceps and shoulders seemed irritated from the cool, dry weather. Hizashi remembers getting up to bring his husband lotion, that the gentle massage had brought them to the bedroom yet it had not turned into more.
They had cuddled, Shōta always so careful with how he was holding his husband. Hizashi wants to go home, to be there back in that sweet moment. He doesn’t want the detective pointing out a blood splatter.
“The hero in this photo,” Her red, acrylic nail taps the one with the barely recognizable hero, dark black blotting their face. “He was found severely injured in this alleyway. We had his description of his attacker's physical appearance, and it fits your partner very well. Now,” She shuffles the pictures back into the folder then shuts it, setting it on top of the table and folding her hands on the cover. “We are not accusing your partner.”
Hizashi almost snorts — that is the opposite of what her male counterpart said. “We just.. want to be sure you know your husband.” He jolts out of his seat, face twitching and the itch in his throat rising high, tamped down by the overhead electronics. “Be sure I know my husband ?” He snaps at her, fists curling and face itching, the ruined eyeliner dripped into black streaks down his face suddenly irritating again.
“I apologize,” She says soothingly, a hand drifting to her belt as she stands. The detective tucks the folder beneath her arm with stiff movements where she then raps her knuckles on the door and a low buzzing sound echos before the lock opens, the door swinging open. “You may go. I didn’t mean to offend, but, sir,” She sighs, a tense line appearing on her forehead.
“Eraserhead is a dangerous villain. We are being exhaustive.” Hizashi nods once, wringing his hands, thankful he decided to leave his equipment at work tonight — today, now. He stretches the stiffness in his body from sitting in the harsh chair for too long. “I’m sorry I reacted that way, I didn't mean to..” He knows he has a height advantage on most people, including a woman that is just doing her job, annoying or not.
He knows Eraserhead is dangerous. But Hizashi has never felt safer, never felt happier with anyone but Shōta.
“It’s alright. I understand. Thank you for your patience, Aizawa-san.”