Work Text:
When Katsuki walks into class one morning, it’s to Aizawa-sensei faceplanted against his desk, body wrapped in his signature yellow sleeping bag. Now this in itself isn’t enough to pique Katsuki’s attention. What is, though, is the minute trembling of his teacher’s slumped figure, so subtle that it’s only noticeable when Katsuki stands still. He halts in the doorway, before edging towards the pro carefully. Aizawa-sensei’s hand is fisted in the edge of his sleeping bag, tightly enough that his knuckles turn white, and when Katsuki looks closer he can see a tight furrow in the man’s brow, eyes squeezed shut.
None of the class seems to have noticed, chatting happily to themselves and waiting for the bell to go.
“Sensei,” he mutters quietly, not missing the teacher’s flinch.
“Wha’?” his sensei grumbles, muffled against the desk. Katsuki squats down to look at him carefully, expression shifting to one of understanding as he finally recognises the behaviour.
“You got a migraine?” he says under his breath, even softer, and his teacher hesitates, before mumbling his affirmation unintelligibly. He recognises, now, the way his teacher’s head is turned away from the classroom’s light stream, and the way he recoils almost imperceptibly at each particularly loud outburst from one of Katsuki’s classmates. Katsuki understands this all too well, feeling an unfamiliar surge of sympathy at his teacher’s pained expression.
He nods to himself, before pushing to his feet and striding over to switch the classroom lights off. This earns the attention of his classmates, who all turn to stare at him.
“What the hell, Bakugou?” someone says, way too loudly, and he snarls out a muted, “Shut the fuck up, losers.”
They start to protest immediately, and he straightens to give them all a rare glare that shuts them up instantly.
“Listen here, fuckers. We’re gonna play a game. It’s called shut the fuck up or Bakugou fucking ends your life. Any questions?”
Uraraka raises a hesitant hand.
“Why does this game require the lights being off?”
“Because I fucking said so,” he replies, turning to draw the blinds and dousing the classroom in further darkness.
Izuku is giving him a scrutinising look, before his gaze shifts to Aizawa sensei and the look turns to one of understanding. The green-haired boy gives Katsuki an approving beam that he promptly ignores in favour of dropping his bag at his desk gently. The students start to talk again, albeit quieter this time, while shooting Katsuki periodic suspicious glances. Iida’s voice raises again, as he sternly begins to berate Katsuki on his actions, and Izuku is the one to lay a hand on the tall boy’s shoulders, whispering a quiet request for him to lower his voice. Iida gives him an affronted look but backs down at the serious look on the boy’s face. Katsuki shoots Izuku what could possibly be interpreted as a grateful look (although he will later deny this).
When they’re all finally engrossed in their conversations, forgetting Katsuki again, he slips out of the room, heading to the empty dorm kitchen and making a flask of ginger tea. When he slips back inside he sets it on Aizawa-sensei’s desk, along with a strip of strong-ass paracetamol tablets.
He then crouches down to nudge the teacher gently, gesturing to the desk. Aizawa-sensei stares at him in bleary confusion, taking the flask wordlessly and drinking a huge gulp. “I don’t need the tablets,” he mumbles hoarsely. “Tablets don’t work.”
Katsuki nudges them into his hand insistently.
“These ones are fuckin’ great for migraines,” he whispers. “Trust me, I know.”
Aizawa turns to stare at him with a new look of understanding, and he gives him a nod of acknowledgement before popping two in his mouth and taking another sip of tea.
“Thanks, kid,” he says. Katsuki nods back, watching as the man raises his hand to knead his temple with his knuckles.
“Here,” Katsuki offers, raising a hand to press the heel of his palm at his teacher’s forehead firmly.
Katsuki’s body has always run hot, with his hands constantly being at almost comically high temperatures due to his quirk. Most of the time it’s an annoyance, but for a family like the Bakugous, where both Katsuki and his father get migraines, it’s a blessing. They like to joke that Katsuki’s real quirk is being a walking heat pack. It’s also lead to way too many instances of Katsuki having to massage his mother’s stomach and back through her cramps, ending up as her personal teddy bear during these weeks. But fucking whatever, he guesses.
Aizawa-sensei melts into the touch. “Fuuuck,” he groans, before raising a groggy head to stare at Katsuki in panic. “You didn’t hear me say that,” he says quickly, and Katsuki snorts. “Hear what?”
His teacher gives him an approving look, before slumping back and letting Katsuki massage his temple with surprising compliance.
“Y’should charge people for this,” the hero slurs. “I’d totally pay for this.”
Katsuki snickers again before glancing back briefly, only to find the entire fucking class staring at them silently.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters to himself, before turning to stare at them blankly. “Y’all didn’t see shit.”
Ashido tentatively raises a hand. “You’re literally still—”
She trails off at the positively deadly glare he gives her.
“You. Didn’t. See. Anything. Did you?”
She swallows, nodding hastily.
The class is silent for the rest of the lesson, and Aizawa gives him a very grateful look for it when he leaves for the next class.
-
Two weeks later, when Katsuki drags himself into the classroom and drops his face onto the desk wordlessly, Aizawa-sensei simply flicks the light switch off knowingly, before walking up and dropping a can of green tea on Katsuki’s desk.
“Y’re fuckin’ great, sensei,” Katsuki mumbles against the table, before cracking the tab on the can and downing two-thirds of it in one sip. “God bless.”
His teacher simply grins at him, giving him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder before heading to the front of the classroom and starting the lesson in an uncharacteristically soft tone.
Ah, solidarity.