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Hair, once light, is dark, matted with blood and sweat. Bakugo’s costume is in similar condition, still caked in a thick layer of grime from his last rescue. But he can’t stop, not yet. His practiced gaze scans over the rest of the debris, searching. Shattered windows, overturned cars, crumbling buildings–it was all the same stuff he’d expected to see in the aftermath of such a large attack. His heart races, nonetheless. Shit, shit, shit. Curses pour from his lips like prayers, uttered between bouts of panting. He focuses on getting his breathing under control before he moves on, planting a steadying palm against the wall of the alleyway. When he drags it down along the red brick, his gauntlet leaves a smokey trail in its wake. Memories flood in, even as he does his best to shove them back.
The scorch marks marring the dorm wall are obvious, to say the least. Faded grey rings branch out along the white plaster, all stemming from a single, intense patch of soot. One that, suspiciously enough, resembles a handprint,
“You’ve really done it this time, matchstick.” You lean in close, using your fingernail to scratch at the stain. Some of it flakes off, but there’s an obvious film of residue left in the blast zone. “Aizawa is gonna straight-up murder you when he finds out.”
To his credit, Bakugo at least has the sense to look a little nervous, one hand shoved deep into his pocket, the other tucked firmly beneath his armpit. Trying to avoid having another “misfire.”
“You think I don’t fucking know that?” He grumbles. “Just tell me if you can fix it.”
You scratch at your chin, seeming all pensive. But it was bullshit. Really, it was an easy fix–he already knew that, considering the fact that he’d come straight to you after his squabble with Midoriya escalated into a full-fledged explosion. But he also knew that you were going to try and draw this out; You had this thing about “leaving a lesson,” and this seemed like the perfect opportunity to make sure he learned a thing or two about dialing down his bloodlust.
“It’s gonna cost you.”
Bakugo’s mouth pulls off to one side of his face. “How much?”
“A month of cleaning my room–sweeping, dusting, polishing, and mopping. Plus an apology to Midoriya.”
He wants to argue, to barter. But he doesn’t–he doesn’t have the time or the patience to spend trying to convince anyone else to help him. So Bakugo just stands there, chewing on his lip and shifting his weight between his legs.
“Fine.” He sighs, bouncing on his heels. “Just fix it before anyone else sees.”
“What’s the magic word?” You ask, grinning wide and having way too much fun with the whole situation.
“Fix the damn wall before I–” A loud click from the double doors leading into the common area makes Bakugo flinch, twisting wildly, like some prey animal that’s about to be snatched up. When the knob twists, his eyes dart back to you, looking positively wild. You’re still grinning, thrumming your fingers against the stain. Waiting.
Your fingers tap, tap, tap against the plaster. Repetitive and rhythmic. And irritating–like Iida’s pencil sharpener whirring every evening at the same time. Or shitty-hair hitting his fucking punching bag at 3 am when the blonde trying to sleep.
As much as he wants to burn your hand to a crisp–to stop that grating sound–now wasn’t the time to go ape-shit. Bakugo couldn’t risk the consequences of pissing off Aizawa (again).
“Please!” He swallows his pride and hisses the word, even though it feels like it’s burning on his tongue.
Without another moment of hesitation, you tap the wall. It’s like hitting an imaginary rewind button–Bakugo can see the progression of the damage being played out in reverse. Rings sink back into the palm print until even that begins to fade. Within a second, all signs of his outburst have been erased. Dusting off your hands, you turn just in time to wave at Kirishima as he pushes open the common room door, strolling towards you. His lips twist upward when he sees a very relieved-looking Bakugo clutching at his chest.
“Was he being an idiot again?”
Bakugo barks out an irritated curse at his friend and stomps off into the hallway, never once peering back over his shoulder. Even so, your boisterous laughter bounces off the walls, reaching his ears as he turns the corner into the stairwell.
“Yeah, he was. But don’t worry about it; I’ve got him covered.”
The throbbing in his chest doesn’t subside, even after a minute of that “deep breathing” crap, so Bakugo decides to move on anyway. He scales the fire escape up to the roof, anxious to get a better idea of his surroundings. He already knew the area well–he spent more time patrolling the streets than he spent in his own damn home–but knowing where the corner store was wouldn’t help him find what he was looking for. People never stuck around in one place for too long during disasters like this. Not unless they were–
No, Bakugo shakes off the thought as he climbs the final step. He yanks his phone out of his pocket and an alert banner drifts across his screen, screaming at him with bold, obnoxious text.
…mass civilian casualties reported. Additionally, over two dozen individuals are unaccounted for in the Dagobah district alone. Counted among the missing is pro-hero, Retrograde, who was last spotted leading rescue efforts in…
Bakugo locks the screen before he has to read any more, running a shaky hand over the bottom half of his face. Reporters didn’t know shit anyway.
You step into the agency training room, following close behind Bakugo. Once the door shuts, you twist the lock to the right. Your partner scowls, folding his arms across his chest in a frustrated gesture.
“What the hell is this about?” He growls, looking down his nose at you.
You inhale deeply, staring into blazing red eyes, unfazed. There’s not an ounce of your usual, goofy self left to be found. He’s grateful.
“This is gonna hurt.”
He blinks, gritting his teeth. “What–”
Before Bakugo can even get a word in, your fist is slamming into his jaw. He stumbles backward, thrown off balance by the force of the impact. Once he regains his footing, it’s less than a second before he’s pouncing towards you. His teeth are bared, his lips pulled back in a tight, animalistic snarl. You hop left, avoiding a full-on hit by a centimeter. Still, Bakugo’s reflexes get the better of you; He throws out an arm at the last second and catches your ankle as he passes, dragging you down with him. You hit the floor hard, landing on your back. Groaning, you fling out your other leg, shoving it into his ribs (too conveniently, in the same side he’d bruised just last week). Bakugo winces, releasing his hold, and after a complicated moment, you’ve got him pinned–held down by his chest and wrists.
“You know why you’ll never be number one?” You pant, pressing more of your weight into him when he struggles.
He growls, feral. “Get the fuck off of me.”
You don’t.
“It’s not ‘cause you’re a terrible hero. Hell, you’re brilliant–everyone agrees on that much.” You lean in close, speaking slowly. “It’s because your image is shit, Katsuki. And it’s shit because every time you do something good, you manage to screw it up by losing your cool and doing something stupid.”
You continue, paying no heed to Bakugo’s eyes as they narrow, murderous. “Silverfish is a hero. He worked his ass off helping us clear out that warehouse, but the second he makes one comment about your way of doing things, you go apeshit. You get in his face and scream and throw a hissy fit right in from of the reporters.” Shaking your head, you stand. “Like they need any other reason to rip into you.”
It takes every ounce of restraint in him, but Bakugo doesn’t lunge at you the instant you give him the opportunity (even though he really wants to). He settles for watching you rub your knuckles as you stare down at him. He hopes they hurt–he hopes you’d shattered every damn bone in them when you’d punched him. People needed to stop telling him how to do his job–how to act, how to be “nice” and pretend that he was some happy-go-lucky do-gooder. He wasn’t, and he didn’t want to be.
Bakugo sits up, scowling. “Reporters don’t know shit. I don’t care what any of those dumbasses say about me.”
You laugh, but there’s no humor in the sound. “Yeah? Then you’re a bigger fucking idiot than I thought.” When Bakugo jolts up, you move in close to him. Too close. “The press can make or break you. Give ‘em an opening and they’ll take it–they won’t hesitate to make you into their seven o’clock special. ‘Breaking news: Hero Ground Zero threatens violence against critics.’ Does that sound like the sort of headline that helps you move up the rankings?”
“It’s a fucking lie.”
“It doesn’t matter if it’s a lie or not! It’s what they’ll say!” You’re shouting now. Red seeps up to your face, coloring your cheeks and ears. “And what they say is what the public will believe.”
You stop and breathe, shallow and ragged, through your nose. Tracing small circles over your temples, you shut your eyes and hum to yourself. Your shoulders slow, their quick rise and fall, melting into something more controlled. Bakugo half thinks you’ve finally snapped–that the pressure of dealing with hero work and him and the media has finally made you lose it. He’s about to shove past you when you finally open your eyes. The intensity is still there, but your breathing has calmed down substantially.
“That’s why,” you begin, holding up your hands in a placating gesture, “If you’ve got a problem with someone, you find me. If I’m not around, you breathe and wait it out.” The words are soft. But they’re also firm. Rational.
Bakugo wonders if you’re still angry. He is. Then again, he can’t think of the last time that he wasn’t pissed off at something. He stares at you, grinding his teeth. He’s surprised to find that the urge to pay you back for the cheap shot you landed on him has faded. Just a little, though.
You click your fingers against your wrist guard, thinking. After what feels like a century of the nothing but tapping, you finally speak.
“We’re partners, Katsuki. If we don’t watch each other’s backs, then nobody will.” You hold out your hand. “Think we can agree on that much?”
He glances down at your outstretched fingers, then up at your face. If he’d really wanted to, he could’ve knocked you flat on your ass.
But there would be opportunities for that later.
Barely even realizing it, he takes your hand in his own.
Bakugo meets up with one of his sidekicks on what used to be a commercial street–the sort of place that vendors sold overpriced knick-knacks to tourists that didn’t know any better. Now, it looked like a fucking mess, with stalls overturned in the panic to evacuate and banners burned in the blaze that everyone had been running away from. Bakugo lifts the remains of a larger display, peeking under it. To anyone that didn’t know him, it might’ve looked like he was searching for civilians that’d been left behind.
His sidekick knows better. Bakugo doesn’t even have to ask the question burning in his mind before the young woman shakes her head.
“No sign of ‘em. We ripped apart the whole street and found nothing.”
Bakugo clenches his jaw, chokes down the acidic taste in his throat. No news was good news; He tries to convince himself that those words you liked to repeat over and over again have some truth to them. It’s hard to do that when he knows the actual numbers–when he has facts to refute the hopeful little figure of speech. The truth was that with every moment he waited around, the chances of finding you alive decreased. Drastically.
“Clear out these buildings the second you’re sure they’re not going to collapse.” Bakugo commands. “There could be survivors hiding out in there. And don’t move on until you check everywhere.”
He fiddles with his gauntlet, concentrating on keeping his breathing steady–like you’d showed him. In and out. In and out. No need to lose his cool. Yet.
“Rip out the ceiling tiles if you have to. People get creative when they’re desperate.”
“Where the fuck were you?!” Bakugo nearly loses it when he sees you hobbling towards the ambulances, coated in dust and nursing more than a few nasty cuts.
“Sipping piña coladas down at the beach.” You shout with a shit-eating grin that doesn’t seem to fit the situation. “Where do you think I was? I was hiding, Katsuki. That’s what you do when you’re hurt and there’s a baddie trying to murder you.”
Seeing you standing there, hearing the playful tone of your voice–it isn’t enough to convince him. Bakugo pushes past the paramedics, the news crews, his sidekicks. He doesn’t stop until he’s standing right in front of you, grabbing your shoulders and looking over you from head to toe.
Real. Ironically enough, the word doesn’t seem… well, real.
“How?” Bakugo demands as he runs his hands down your arms.
Feeling for broken bones, he convinces himself, even though that wasn’t something he usually did. Usually, he let paramedics handle checking for injuries. But right here, right now, he feels this compulsive need to check you out for himself–to make sure you’re as alive as you seem.
“Everyone was sure you were dead. How the hell did you get out of that tower?”
“Did you know,” you muse, still smiling, “That those old buildings have this space right above the–” You hiss, obviously in pain when Bakugo pokes at a spot between your side and your stomach.
“I climbed into the ceiling and waited around until things got quiet. Then I just scurried out the service entrance.” You admit shakily. “I didn’t think I’d be of much help like this, so I decided to play it safe.”
Bakugo stops his fussing for long enough to peer up and meet your eyes. You looked coherent enough. Tired, but sane–well, as sane as you could be. He remains quiet for a moment, then sighs.
“Good. That’s probably the smartest thing you could’ve done.”
You quirk up an eyebrow. “Wow, ‘smart.’ Don’t make a habit of complimenting me, now, or I’ll start to think I’m actually having a positive influence on you.”
Bakugo groans. “I didn’t say it was a smart decision, I said it was the smart-est given the situation.” Despite his protests, he kneels down to examine your ankles, spending extra time checking the side you’d avoided putting weight on. Not that he’d been paying attention.
“Same, difference. The point is, you were a decent human for about five seconds. That’s progress.”
He doesn’t respond, pretending to be too be too engrossed in his search for injuries. What was he supposed to say? “Thank you?” Was he supposed to hurl an insult back at you?
What if he didn’t feel like doing that right now?
“Does this hurt?” Bakugo asks, pressing on a spot that looks a little questionable.
“No.” You answer without hesitation. But your expression looks odd, strained.
“Are you lying?” He makes no effort to hide the irritation in his voice. He was trying to help, dammit. “Why are you making that face?”
“Not lying. It’s just,” your voice is thin–from what, he can’t decide, “You’re being so careful, and I couldn’t help but imagine ‘what if he was a nurse instead of a hero?’ Then I imagined you in one of those old, stereotypical nurse uniforms and I–” Whatever self-control you had disappears and you erupt into a fit of laughter. “I’m sorry, I just–”
You flinch, face contorted in pain and hand clutching at your side.
“Ow, ow, ow. Okay, it hurts to laugh.”
Bakugo stands, rolling his eyes. “That’s because you probably cracked a rib, weirdo.”
“And he’s back to being a jerk.” You groan, but a hint of a smirk lingers on your lips. “Then again, ‘weirdo’ sounds much nicer than ‘dumbass.’ So maybe you’re learning a thing or two, after all.”
Gingerly, without saying anything, he loops your arms over his shoulder. Bakugo could’ve used the opportunity to make some snarky remark about you being “dead weight” or “useless,” but he doesn’t.
“I’m glad you’re not dead.” Bakugo mutters under his breath. He doesn’t mean to say it–it just sort of slips out as the two of you trudge along your way.
You don’t reply; You don’t give any sort of indication that this was anything out of the ordinary. Still, Bakugo wonders–if he glanced over at you, would you roll your eyes? Would you think he was being insincere? Or would you look surprised? Happy, even?
“Even though you’re a dumbass.” He tacks it on before he can overthink things too much.
Bakugo kicks over a trashcan, pissed and exhausted and anxious. Nothing even vaguely human-shaped rolls out–just candy wrappers and soda cans. A deep sound bubbles in his throat, growing until it evolves into a full-scale shout. Your name.
Nobody shouts back. Bakugo hears ambulance sirens echoing in the distance, the low groan and clunk of machinery as crews come in to clear out heavy debris, maybe even the creaking of some buildings that had yet to crumble beneath their own weight. Whenever he stops focusing on them for just a moment, they become less industrial sounding–more human. His hyper-focused mind makes it into something it’s not. He hears sobbing, distant and choked, but so familiar it almost kills him to ignore. Throwing his hands over his ears, he shuts his eyes tight and tries to block the sounds out–tries focus and force down the memories they bring.
“Please, don’t cry.” Bakugo pleads even though he knows it won’t do any good.
He’s terrible at comforting people–that wasn’t a surprise–but even that isn’t the reason why your sobs continue to rip through the eerie silence of the alleyway.
Every hero had to go through this at some point–had to grapple with the fact that they couldn’t save everyone.
His had come early on, during his third-year internship nonetheless. An old man, trapped beneath rubble from a roof cave-in. It hadn’t even been a villain attack that did him in, just a sorry excuse for a supermarket and an ill-timed tremor. Bakugo remembers the rush to carry him out to the ambulances, the head-pounding, gut-wrenching feeling of being fucking useless as the paramedics looked over the man. Then, the sinking doubt that crept in, long after the techs shook their heads and made their pronouncements. It was a silent beast that told him he hadn’t been fast enough. Smart enough. Good enough.
Now, it was your turn to deal with the same thing. Months–almost a year–into your career, and you still weren’t any more prepared for it than he’d been. Hearing about casualties was one thing. Looking people in the face, promising them you’d save them, then watching as the light faded from their eyes was something entirely different–something you couldn’t ever be ready for. He knew that as well as anyone else.
“It’s my fault.” You whimper into his shoulder. “My god, Katsuki. It’s all my fault.”
Bakugo tightens his grip on you. His dry cheek presses against your wet one, your hair ticking the edge of his nose as he grumbles into your ear.
“No it isn’t. You did what you could.”
You inhale once, then twice, then a third time, your entire body trembling. “And it wasn’t–”.
“Don’t finish that sentence.” Bakugo warns, leaving no room for argument.
And you don’t. You stand there, clinging to him, sniffling into his costume. When the brunt of it passes, neither of you move for a long time. He keeps his arms around your middle while you cling desperately to his neck.
Bakugo doesn’t know why he pulls his head back, but when he does, you do the same, staring up at him with puffy eyes. He breathes, long and drawn-out. His mind races.
Then, his lips are pressed to your forehead. He doesn’t know why the hell he does it–why he leans forward and kisses your skin like that. You were just standing there, looking upset and it felt like the right thing to do.
That’s what he tells himself.
But it was wrong. Bakugo knows that the moment he takes another look at your face. Your eyes have gone wide. Still wet with unshed tears, they watch him without blinking. Your lips trace imaginary words–probably questions. What was he doing? Why was he being so sweet? Where was the matchstick with the temper that tried your patience nearly every day?
He tries to look away, but your fingers tap at his neck, three times, demanding that he turn his attention back to you. You’re staring, insistent. Demanding answers.
This wasn’t right–now wasn’t the time. Not when you were a mess like this. The thought isn’t enough to keep him from hunching over again, stilling the frantic movement of your lips with his own. You gasp against his mouth, but don’t push him away. In fact, your arms constrict around him, pulling him in closer.
He’s not entirely sure how that makes him feel.
Phone call after phone call buzzes at his side, but Bakugo ignores all of them. Maybe it was one of his sidekicks checking in on him. Maybe it was the agency trying to convince him to do a press briefing. Maybe it was Kirishima, just making sure he wasn’t dead. Either way, answering would be a waste of what precious little time he had left.
Three hours–that’s how long it’d been since your phone started dropping calls. It’d been at least four hours since he’d heard from you last and six since he’d seen you with his own two eyes. If you’d been a civilian, he would’ve told anyone searching for you to go home–let the heroes handle it. Which was code for “they’re probably gone for good.” But you weren’t a civilian, and you couldn’t be gone. That wasn’t how this whole shit-show was supposed to go down. The two of you were partners, dammit. You were supposed to stick together–watch each other’s backs. One of you couldn’t just go off and get killed without the other.
Right?
The thought makes Bakugo’s anxiety spikes again, his hyperventilation returning. He braces himself against the first wall he finds. It belongs to some sort of warehouse, but he barely even notices. His main concern is calming the fuck down–trying to inhale and exhale without focusing on the fact that he might already be too late. He’s terrible at it.
Everything aches. His arms, his legs, his back, even his fucking mind. It’s a dull feeling, lingering. Agonizing and persistent. Not like a punch to the jaw, where you focus on it for a second then move on. With the added pressure of breathing, it’s almost too much.
Bakugo rams his fist into the wall, harder than he should. He can feel his knuckles crack on impact with the cement or concrete or whatever it was they used in buildings nowadays, but the sting that shoots through his fingers is welcome, a distraction from the rest of the pain and, more importantly, from his own morbid thoughts. It fades soon though.
He’s about to do it again–sacrifice more of his fingers to his own, temporary relief–then there’s a sound. It’s soft, like a pin dropping in a loud room. But something about it is familiar–too familiar.
Bakugo freezes, suddenly capable of holding his breath. He catches the back half of something–he can’t decide what–as it fades off into the ambient noise of the street. When he waits for a while and it doesn’t start back up, he smacks the wall again, sparing his fingers by using his palm this time.
Then, he presses his ear to the wall and listens. It begins again and his breath hitches involuntarily. He was right–he knows this sound.
Tap, tap, tap. Groups of three. Faint and weaker than ever before, but unmistakable all the same.
The wall crumbles away with a couple hard hits. Buildings weren’t supposed to do that–to splinter and crack like chalk. No doubt your quirk had some part to play there.
Knowing that doesn’t stop heat from pulsing in his skull when he finds your heaving, broken body nestled into a spot that should’ve been filled with concrete. Your limbs twisted at the wrong angles, eyes glazed over–open, but staring at nothing. Even as he lifts you out of your hiding place, you barely react. Quiet. No wincing, no witty remarks. Just shallow wheezing that grows weaker by the second.
“Breathe, dammit.” Bakugo commands, grabbing you and sprinting towards the triage area. “Come on, you need to breathe. In and out, remember?”
Each time your body stills–every moment your breathing falters for just a second–he finds himself holding his breath with you. Counting the seconds, making sure you’re actually listening when he tells you to inhale. He wishes that were enough, wishes that staying alive was something you could just decide to do–like rewinding damage on an old wall or fixing a bad attitude with a well-timed right hook.
It wasn’t that easy; Bakugo wasn’t stupid enough to think that it was. Still, even if it means babying you, monitoring each breath like he’s some sort of fucking life-support machine, he refuses to let you die. Not now, not ever.
You weren’t getting out of this gig that easily. You were stuck–his partner for life, whether you wanted to be or not.
Sweat pours down his face as he ups his pace.
“I’ve got you–same as always. Just keep breathing with me, okay?”