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Agreeing to wingman for Uraraka was a mistake.
Bakugou repeats this thought in his mind over and over again as he sits next to Uraraka at the bar, glaring at his cojito and wishing he was literally anywhere else. Fuck, he’d even rather be outside. It’s practically a goddamn blizzard out there, but getting smacked in the face with a snowstorm sounds a lot better than having to voluntarily initiate a conversation with strangers.
Jesus Christ. He really hates this.
You owe her, though , a voice in his head reminds him petulantly. Last week, Uraraka covered for him for the entire weekend at the company benefit, telling everyone he was at a funeral and that he didn't want to talk about it. Not only did no one bug him about missing the benefit, but they also didn’t ask him about his weekend, or any kind of small talk whatsoever. Fucking genius, honestly. He got to play FIFA all weekend with no repercussions.
Well. No repercussions except this.
Bakugou really, really hates owing people shit. That was the only way Uraraka managed to convince him to do this—and she knew it. When she approached him at his desk this morning she didn’t even try to convince him that it would be “fun”. Instead she just walked up to him with that sugar-sweet smile everyone but him seems to buy and said, “Can I cash in on a favor?”
So here he is, drinking shitty coconut rum or whatever the fuck and trying to talk himself out of setting the whole bar on fire.
“Stop pouting,” Uraraka says, patting his arm a little harsher than necessary. He scoffs and slaps her arm away. “Ugh, you're like a 13-year-old.”
“Am not,” he replies immediately. This earns him an unimpressed look—and yeah, okay , he knows he's not exactly disproving the preteen comment here, but he’s past caring at this point.
“You're so dramatic,” she sighs. “You're practically just a glorified bodyguard. It's not like I'm making you go canvassing door to door for my next hookup.”
“If I'm just a glorified bodyguard, why'd you even need me to come? You can handle yourself.”
“Maybe in fisticuffs, but the dating world isn't safe for a lady nowadays. Shit happens.”
“Then ask Deku next time, Round Face.”
“But if I asked Deku, I'd be missing out on all this titillating conversation.”
“Fuck you.”
“No thanks, I don't fuck co-workers.”
He doesn't have a good response for that, so instead he just grabs his drink and takes a long, furious sip. They sit in silence for a good thirty seconds.
“All I want you to do,” Uraraka says eventually, “is sit here and look pretty. Redirect anyone who talks to you my way, and don't say anything mean about me. If I bring you into a conversation, try not to be too antisocial—unless I'm talking to a creep. Then just be yourself. Sound good?”
“I wish I'd gone to the benefit,” he mutters.
“Oh boohoo, you'll survive. Now, I'm gonna run to the ladies room. Try not to get yourself thrown out until I get back.”
“No promises.”
Uraraka glares at him, hard, until he rolls his eyes and relents. “Jesus, fine. Just be quick about it.”
“Don't worry, I won't leave you alone for long.”
“Whatever.”
“Be back soon.” With a little wave, Uraraka hops off the bar stool and heads off towards the other end of the bar. Bakugou watches her go. As soon as she's out of sight, he grabs his drink and drains it, then drains hers for good measure. If he's going to be stuck here, he may as well get drunk.
“Woah dude. Rough night?”
Bakugou turns. Standing next to him at the bar is a guy with the reddest hair Bakugou's ever seen, dressed in a hideous muscle tank and shorts, of all things, as if it isn't below zero outside. Bakugou stares for a long moment before he processes the guy's question. He must have seen him chugging those drinks.
“I'm only here—” Don't be antisocial, Uraraka's voice reminds him. Don't say anything mean about me.
Fuck. He starts again. “Just a long day at work, that's all.”
“I hear that,” the guy grins. His teeth are sharp and pointy. “Need a refill?”
Bakugou studies him.
The guy doesn’t look creepy. Despite his weird teeth and poor fashion choices, he’s probably one of the friendliest-looking people at this bar. Plus, Bakugou acknowledges grudgingly, the dude is ripped. Those biceps are something else.
“Sure,” Bakugou says finally. “I could use another drink.”
“You got it,” the guy smiles. He flags down the bartender. “Hi! Could I get him another one of… whatever that was?”
“A cojito.”
“A—cojito?”
Bakugou shrugs. “They’re fucking good.”
“No, I mean, no judgement here!” The redhead waves his hands quickly, as if to physically dispel any misconceptions. “I think beer is gross and my drink of choice is Sex on the Beach, so I’m like, the last person who could judge you.”
The fuck.
The bartender hands Bakugou a new glass, whisking away the two old ones. He and the other man sit in silence for a few moments.
“My name’s Kirishima, by the way.” The guy offers his hand, and Bakugou takes it. “Nice to meet you.”
He shakes his hand slowly. “I’m Bakugou.”
“You..come here often?”
Bakugou almost laughs. “Are you serious?”
Kirishima shrugs. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.” Then he gestures up to the TVs on the other side of the bar. “But also, this is one of the only bars in town that airs UA University games? And I noticed, your phone case…”
Bakugou looks down at his phone on the bar, the familiar red UA Baseball logo covering the back. He looks back up at Kirishima. “You watch UA?”
Kirishima’s eyes light up like a kid’s at a waterpark. “Yeah!” he says, scooting his bar stool a little closer. “I’ve watched UA since I was a kid. They’re the best.”
“Of course they are,” Bakugou agrees with a smirk. He takes a sip from his new drink. “They’re not quite as good as when I used to play for them, though.”
It’s a pretty obvious boast, but it is true, and Kirishima’s awed expression is one hell of an ego trip.
“You played for UA?” Kirishima exclaims. If his eyes were lit up before, they’re practically shining now. “Holy shit! What position?”
“Pitcher.”
Kirishima gasps. “You’re Bakugou Katsuki! Oh my god! I thought you looked kind of familiar. Holy shit.”
“I’m impressed you remembered,” Bakugou says. “It’s been at least five years since I played.”
“But you were great!” Kirishima puts his hands on his knees and leans in closer, his smile dazzling. “There was that one game, in the finals against Shiketsu when it was tied, and they called you in to pitch the last inning. And you pitched three strikes in a row—gosh! That was such a good game!”
Bakugou is not above flattery. If that’s Kirishima’s angle, then maybe he deserves a little more credit, because damn— it’s definitely working. He eyes Kirishima’s biceps again, this time with intention. “Did you ever play?” he asks.
“Uh, well. I played in high school—cleanup hitter—and I tried to get on UA’s team, but I didn’t make the cut. I still play recreationally though.”
“I bet you have one hell of a swing.”
“I—I guess.” Kirishima rubs the back of his neck, having the gall to look fucking bashful even as his huge ass arms remain on obvious display. Anyone with muscles like that has to be a fucking beast with a bat. Bakugou could have just been stating a fact—not giving a compliment.
(Even though he had meant it as a compliment. He, Bakugou Katsuki, just gave a stranger a compliment. Maybe miracles really do exist.)
Fuck, it’s been a long time.
Bakugou licks his lips. Don’t chicken out now, you coward. He takes another long sip from his cojito, and says, voice steady, “I bet you’re good at a lot of things, with arms like those.”
Kirishima’s eyes widen, and Bakugou gloats a little. Still smooth as fuck when I want to be. Fuck you, Uraraka.
“Whoops! Sorry I kept you waiting!”
Bakugou jumps. Speak of the devil.
Uraraka hops back up to the bar, a gorgeous pink-haired woman in toe. No wonder she took long—she probably spent the last few minutes chatting her up. Uraraka doesn’t even need Bakugou.
“Ashido!” Kirishima says, addressing the newcomer. “I was wondering where you went.”
“Sorry, I just got caught up in a really good conversation.” The woman—Ashido—grins. “And who’s this handsome man?”
“This is Bakugou Katsuki,” Kirishima gushes immediately. “He used to play for UA. Isn’t that cool?”
“Wow,” Uraraka says, her amusement hidden behind her hand. “Your reputation precedes you.”
Bakugou scowls. “No one asked for your commentary.”
“Hi! I’m Kirishima.” Kirishima extends his hand for Uraraka to shake. “You’re Bakugou’s…?”
“Friend,” Uraraka says.
“Co-worker,” Bakugou interjects. He’s ignored.
“It’s nice to meet you!” Kirishima says, his expression cheery and genuine, like he actually means it. Of all the people in this bar that Bakugou could have taken a liking to, it had to be this sorry sack of smiles. He has terrible taste in men.
They spend the next two hours chatting together. Much to Bakugou’s surprise, it’s actually not terrible. Ashido is a good conversationalist, even if she’s a little more brazen than Bakugou is used to. She and Uraraka make eyes at each other more often than not, which makes Bakugou’s wingman duties almost entirely unneeded.
Not that he minds. He’s a little preoccupied with Kirishima anyway.
Just as they’re gearing up to go, Kirishima asks for his number, and Bakugou gives it to him easily. Kirishima promises to call him tomorrow.
“Sure, whatever,” Bakugou says. “Talk to you later.”
Ashido and Kirishima wave goodbye as they shuffle into their Uber. Bakugou and Uraraka still have a few more minutes to wait as they stand outside in the cold, shivering in the night air. Bakugou barely feels it.
“You’re smiling,” Uraraka comments after a few moments.
“No I’m not.”
“Yeah you are.” She nudges his shoulder. “Admit it—you had fun.”
“I did not.”
“Did too.”
“Fuck you.”
“Are you going to ask him on a date?”
Bakugou keeps his mouth shut. He’s not sure he’d be able to deny it convincingly.
“Don’t say I never did anything for you.”
“You fucking—I was doing you a favor.”
“Hm,” Uraraka taps her chin. “You know I didn’t take you to a UA fan bar on accident, right?”
Shit. He hadn’t even thought of that.
He spends a solid minute fuming silently before shoving his hands in his pockets and muttering, “Thanks, I guess.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I still hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“ You’re an asshole.”
“I can live with that.”
“And so can I.”
The Uber pulls up to the curb and they slide into the back seat. Just as he’s sitting down, Bakugou’s phone vibrates in his pocket. There’s a new text from Kirishima.
Sorry I couldn’t wait until I got home to text, but I really enjoyed meeting you tonight! I hope we can see each other again sometime soon! Maybe over dinner?
“Shit,” Bakugou mumbles.
“Did he beat you to it?”
“Shut up.”
Bakgou starts typing out a reply.
Sure. I’m free Friday night.
That was fine, right? Is he too easy? Should he wait to reply? No, that’s stupid. He sends the text before he can think better of it and puts the phone back in his pocket.
“You’re smiling again,” Uraraka informs him.
“No I’m not.”
“Yes you are.”
He turns away from her, staring resolutely out the window.
Because yeah. Maybe he is smiling.
He can’t wait for Friday.