Chapter Text
“Dude, you really need to update your hero costume.”
Bakugo gives a half-hearted snarl in response. He’s hunched over one of his bracers, trying and failing to pop one of the tiny screws out of one of the eight million plates it’s made of. He gives up with a half-muttered curse and sits back, catching himself on his hands.
He glares up at Kirishima, who is still standing above him, hands on his hips. Kirishima doesn’t glare back at him. He never really does. Just gives a sad, disappointed shake of his head that is somehow a thousand times worse.
“I fucking know,” Bakugo mutters eventually. “I just-” like every time, his reasons catch and die in his throat.
“It’s okay if you want to keep the design!” Kirishima says, sort of but not really reading his expression. “That’s important, and you want to stay at least sort of consistent, you know? But it’s been almost two years since you had any sort of update.”
“I know,” Bakugo says. It’s gritted out through clenched teeth.
Kirishima frowns down at him, and then crouches on his haunches next to Bakugo. “What is it, bro? What’s so important that can’t be changed? Because I’ll be real with you, man,” he reaches out one hand and pokes a bracer gingerly. It wobbles, and he and Bakugo both stare as a stray spark suddenly floats out.
“Those things are less and less reliable as the years go on,” Kirishima says, and his face is set in such a way that Bakugo knows he’s serious, and that means Bakugo should probably listen. Damnit.
“And there’ve been crazy advances in body armor and other tech recently, and like, if you get hurt, you can’t do your job.” Kirishima claps a friendly hand onto Bakugo’s shoulder that nonetheless is a little like a boulder coming down.
“The support class is killer, dude. There’s this one dude there- he’s got a literal waiting list, that’s how good he is- but he did my new upgrade, and even you thought it was sweet.” Okay, yes, Kirishima’s new costume was pretty good. He had these new gauntlets that-
“Bakugo,” Kirishima interrupted his thoughts, a little exasperated. He had a small smile on his face however, as he said, “Seriously, this guy will change your life. You can’t tell me you won’t do something that’ll make you a better hero.”
“Yeah,” Bakugo sighs and leans back on his hands, staring at the bracer. “I know. I’ll go,” his mouth twists a little. “I’ll go tomorrow. This is just- this is my design you know?” he’s not explaining himself very well, and refuses to look at Kirishima.
“It can be hard to give up your first hero design, and you did a great job,” Kirishima said. “You definitely had the best one out of all of us when we first got our costumes.”
Bakugo hunched his shoulders. “I didn’t design it,” he grumbled.
Kirishima blinked. “Wait, what? But you came in with-”
“And it wasn’t my fucking design, damnit,” Bakugo snarled. His shoulders are still up around his ears. “My- an old- god damnit, someone else designed it for me in middle school.”
“Jeez,” Kirishima said. “That’s a hell of a design for a middle schooler.”
“Yeah, and I-” Bakugo cuts himself off.
“Can I ask-”
“No,” Bakugo says, feeling his palms start to sweat. “No, you can’t. I don’t want to talk about it.” He pushes a hand through his hair, grimacing at how the thick, globby sweat pushes his hair up into crazier spikes.
“Hey,” Kirishima says gently. “Do you still have the original plans?” Bakugo gives a short, frustrated nod. “Then bring those into the support department. Say you’d like to stick to those as closely as possible with new tech developments. They’ll work with you man,” Kirishima gives a short little laugh. “It’s literally their job.”
“Yeah,” Bakugo says, thinking about four year old blueprints, worn soft by constant handling, the creases deep as valleys. “Okay. I’ll go.”
Bakugo pulls the blueprints out again that night. It’s late- for him- and the lamp in the corner of his room makes the room warm and gold, with long shadows for things to hide in. Bakugo wants to be one of those things, for a split second.
But that’s not hero behavior, that’s not number one behavior, and so Bakugo grits his teeth and pulls out a cardboard tube used to store posters. He bought it sometime early in his first year, after a tear began to wear in one of the creases from constant refolding.
He pulls the blue prints out gently, sheets and sheets of thin, translucent paper, covered in scratchy, near schizophrenic writing, like the author couldn’t contain themselves.
As sheet after sheet settles on top of the other, a clear, comprehensive guide to Bakugo’s current hero costume builds.
There’s a comically angry glare where the eyes are, but a wide smile with too many sharp teeth doodled underneath it. Bakugo meets the drawing’s gaze with an scowl of his own. Even as he stomach roils at the thought of showing the plans to someone else- anyone else- his hands stay gentle, tucked inside latex gloves to protect the plans from stray nitroglycerin.
He lays the last sheet on top, and stands back. Grenade bracers, steel knee pads, thick soled boots. It’s good. It’s really good.
But Bakugo’s older now, less than a year out from graduation and the real world, and he’s got the experience and the critical eye of a near pro, and even he can admit to himself- but only himself- that it can be improved upon.
The bracers are too big, unwieldy in small urban spaces that most heroes work in. The gloves don’t have quite enough padding or cover the knuckles in a way that he’d prefer. His shoulders are bare and unprotected, as is his back. The mask is just…
Bakugo’s face twists. The mask is something a middle school boy would draw, thinking it was the coolest thing ever.
Bakugo lets out a tiny, quiet sigh he would deny to his dying day. His hand hovers over the afterthought of a signature, scrawled onto the lower right corner of the top most page.
Even with gloves on, his fingers don’t dare touch the characters that make up Izuku Midoriya’s name.
Bakugo gets up at six the next morning and goes for a six mile run. As the distance peels away, he keeps his focus on his breathing and on the slowly growing burn in his legs, and not on the fact that today he has to go to the support department.
He brushes even the thought of the thought away and pushes hard through his last mile, finally slowing to a walk and panting. The sun is limming everything a pale gold of early morning, and the grass is damp.
Bakugo rolls his shoulders and heads inside.
The support department workshop opens up at seven thirty, but it’s a Saturday. So there really should be no one there. This thought is not Bakugo trying to hide or get out of his promise to Kirishima. Absolutely not.
He’s going to the support department to give them his plans and talk to Kirishima’s wonder guy- who, fucking hell, never told him the dude’s name. Great.
So Bakugo’s pissed off, hair still damp from a shower, as he walks across campus in the quiet of still early morning. His left hand is popping a little, sparks showering the concrete as his fingers twitch. His right is clothed in a heavier duty work glove, and it carries the cardboard tube with the blueprints secured safely away.
When he enters the building, it’s a ghost town, no one in sight. There’s a faint sizzling sound deep in the building however, and Bakkugo frowns. It sounds like bacon? Maybe someone is cooking?
He’s made it to the main workshop, however, the one that only the third years can use, and the sizzling sound he can hear is now punctuated by small pops. Great. What freak is up and working at seven thirty on a Saturday morning?
Bakugo ignores the fact that he is preparing to go see said freak at seven thirty am on a Saturday.
He shoves the door open with his shoulder, not wanting to get nitroglycerin on the door. It’d probably explode with some support class idiot tried something out if he did.
There’s only one person in the workshop- it’s clean and bright and expansive, wide metal tables in the center and tools and machines crowding the edges.
The only guy in there- and it is a guy, based on the frankly amazing arms he’s got. Who knew the support class was built like that? Like a fucking blacksmith.
He’s bent over, welding something, curly hair almost black with sweat still managing to escape from behind the full face mask. He’s got gloves up just past his elbows, but the rest of his arms and shoulders are exposed by the tight black tank top.
Bakugo wipes his dripping hand on a handkerchief, scowling. He’s pretty sure his face is red. He came here to hopefully not find anyone, not to fucking ogle some built engineer.
“Hey,” he says, and thank god his voice doesn’t crack like he’s some pubescent teenager. “I’m looking for the guy who made Kirishima Eijorou’s hero costume.”
“That’s me,” the guy says, not looking up, voice muffled from the mask. “One sec.”
Oh, fucking great. First try too. Bakugo sighs, leans against the doorframe, scowling at the welder as he finishes up a bead on...whatever’s he’s working on.
The dude flicks his torch off, puts it to the side, and stretches his arms above his head. Bakugo has to avert his eyes away from the sight of his shoulders bunching up under his tank top. “Right,” the engineer says, turning towards Bakugo and shoving his mask up on top of his head, “what can I-”
He freezes.
So does Bakugo.
The mask pushes the dark curls out of his face, where it’s red and sweating from the heat. The face beneath the mask has very green eyes, and is scattered with freckles, concentrated on the nose and high tips of his cheekbones.
It’s also the face of a very cute, very surprised Izuku Midoriya.