Aizawa moved with slow, surgical precision. “That’s right, Yuki. You’re very important to a lot of people.” A slow, smooth shake of the head. “I won’t be anymore.” “That’s not true.” God, why did the kid have to choose to come this high up? “It is. It’s okay, Mr. Aizawa.” She turned her head to face her teacher, face still horribly blank. For the first time all day, Aizawa wished for a crying child— he knew what to do with a crying Yuki. “You don’t need to lie. I know that I’m nothing. I don’t matter. Never have — it was stupid to think it could change.” The kid twitched, then — not, in retrospect, an actual sway forward, but enough of a reminder that one might be coming that Aizawa moved without thinking anymore. He used his scarf for an extra layer of safety and leaned forward, cinching his arms around Yuki’s waist and throwing the both of them backwards, away from the edge. Yuki was limp in his arms. Boneless like a lack of hope and her wings folded on her back. “I wish I wasn’t nothing,” said the kid, quiet, nearly under her breath. Not a plea; just a statement. “I wish I wasn’t worthless.” Yuki was far too complacent as Aizawa arranged her in his arms and stood, carrying her like a much younger child. Her eyes were still wide, blank, and staring. “Why can’t I just be better?” asked Yuki, as Aizawa started heading back to the gate as fast as he could. “Just enough?” Aizawa needed all of his kids to be safe. He needed to be rational. There would be time to process whatever this was later Hawks looked even worse than he had when Aizawa left. He was curled on the steps of the bus, where the students who were already retrieved were sleeping, like a shaking, guarding gargoyle. His head snapped up when he heard Aizawa approach, and the sight of Yuki in his arms might as well have been a bolt of lightning. He jerked forward, arms reaching out to the both of them and making a wounded sound. “Yuki,” he said, breathless. “Is she— is Yuki— ” “She’s fine,” said Aizawa