Archive of Our Own

Bakugou had always thought that the people who woke up confused about where they were were idiots. He’d slept in some strange places over the years and never been confused about where he found himself come morning. How hard was that? So, the first time it happened to him, he thought he must have been kidnapped.

His eyes were slow to open, resting under heavy eyelids. They fluttered a few times before opening and, after a couple very dry blinks, he realized he was not in his own bed. First of all, the pillow was purple—a color he was sure he hadn’t ever brought into his own apartment outside the occasional eggplant or head of purple cabbage.

He jolted straight up, suddenly on high alert as a thin sheen of sweat wet his palms. Then, three things became abundantly clear. One, he was not restrained in any way so he, two, had definitely not been kidnapped but rather, three, he was very hung over.

A groan scraped past his lips, mostly air as Bakugou suddenly realized how dry his throat was. How rough his eyes felt. He usually made sure to drink so much water when he drank—so what had happened? He didn’t remember last night at all.

A little piece came back to him, though, when he felt something rustle beside him.

Reflexes still tingling, Bakugou jerked his head to the side, which made his brain—loosened at the brainstem by high grade alcohol—smack against the side of his skull. He held back the groan that time and looked over at the bed just in time to see someone flip over onto their stomach, hiding their face in the pillow.

Well, now he had an idea of what had happened. He just didn’t know how.

And he wasn’t likely to figure it out while his dehydrated brain was continuing to shrivel to the size of the simpletons’ who didn’t have enough cognizance to remember what room they’d fallen asleep in. No, he needed a glass of water, maybe two, and a whiz.

Bakugou slipped out of the purple bed as gingerly as he could. He wasn’t usually one for subtle movement, but he was a pro hero and had been trained in the art of stealth. When necessary, he’d force his boots to land lightly, his mouth to purse silently. And then when the explosions came, all bets were off.

Of course, there were no explosions to be had in this particular scenario, and no boots. No pants either, unsurprisingly, and he had to blink a couple more times in the still-dark room to find his boxers. He snatched them and padded lightly out of the room to find a bathroom.

When he stepped into the apartment, fragments of memory crystallized in front of him before dissolving back into nothing. He thought he remembered the turn into the bedroom—straight through the living room from the front door and a tumbling right turn down a short hallway into the bed. Just missing the bathroom on the opposite side.

He stepped in, closing the door fully before turning on the light and blinking a few more times as his irises contracted painfully. Was that made worse from the hangover? He hadn’t had enough of them in his life to know.

Bakugou peed, washed his hands, and splashed some water on his face, even sticking his mouth under the faucet for a quick gulp of water.

What had happened last night? He returned to the living room and went to the kitchen adjacent, glancing around. All the other doors in the place looked like closets—a single bedroom apartment, then. That was good at least. No one to mind as he rattled around, still quiet as possible, searching for a glass, mug, and teapot. He filled up the first and the last with water when he found them, and set the kettle on to boil. His day always felt more like it had really started after some tea. While the water boiled, he searched through the cabinets for the available options and found a nice green tea. Then, he thought back to yesterday, starting with the easy part—the beginning.

When Bakugou heard he’d been stuck on the afternoon shift, he was pissed.

Bakugou always worked the morning shift, 6am to 2pm. Sometimes it was the most boring—there was more crime in the evenings than midday—but he often found himself part of larger investigations. He was on duty for any necessary police meetings and he’d performed a lot of early-morning stakeouts—technically before his shift, but Bakugou never minded being at work at 4 or 5am.

In the grand scheme of hero work, the afternoon shift was fine. There were the occasional rampagers out during rush hour, drunk idiots losing control of their quirks at happy hour, and muggings gone wrong at you-should-be-home-with-your-family-and-brushing-your-teeth-for-bed hour.

No, it was because it deviated from his schedule. And Bakugou—like any human who cared about a functioning circadian rhythm—worked best when his routine was adhered to. Sleeping right and having some consistency was just as important to his career as working out and honing his quirk. But yet, even though he was one of the faces of this motherfucking agency—it seemed that fact couldn’t be respected.

The shitty candy cane—who had probably never had a solid eight hours of sleep in his life, from what Bakugou had observed—had usurped Bakugou’s morning shift because his sister was getting married that evening. Frankly, Bakugou probably would have preferred just taking the double shift and letting Todoroki eff off to whatever shitstorm event his family was probably going to create, but Todoroki, ever polite, had insisted in simply swapping. Half and half bastard.

So, Bakugou had woken up at the crack of dawn that morning, suddenly having to shift his day on its head. He’d have to do everything he normally did, but backwards, basically. He could do that. Todoroki would get an earful about it, but he could do it.

The fact that his day had been different than was routine actually made it easier to remember as he heard the teapot just start to bubble. He didn’t want the water at a rolling boil, so he took the kettle off the stove and poured it into his mug. As he steeped the tea, he remembered going to the gym first thing, working out some of his pent up aggression on the weights.

He’d only gotten madder as he did so—working out before his shift meant that his muscles would probably be tense and tight when he actually went to work, especially by the end of his shift. Still, he’d done a full workout before making breakfast, not quite allowing himself to enjoy the fact that he could take his time making a real one.

Today was his day off. Today was the day he was supposed to be enjoying making a full breakfast and, while he wasn’t afraid of taking a teabag from a strange apartment, he wasn’t about to start rifling through the fridge to make a proper meal.

He took another glance around the apartment. Aside from the single flash of recollection he’d felt, there was nothing to go off of. He could analyze the space. Aside from being a one bedroom, he was pleased to see that it was rather neat. His shoes were kicked off by the door—much more haphazard than his sober self would have done—and a pair of loafers were the only other pair askew.

There were a lot of books around, as well as magazines—journalism, not fashion—and even newspapers. He spotted a laptop and tablet both on the coffee table, so evidently the digital age had made it somewhat into this apartment, although it seemed to face competition. His eyes lingered on the large digital camera with a strap he suddenly remembered seeing around your neck. Just like all the people out and about in the city with a camera, so often waving them in his face.

Bakugou tossed the teabag in the trash, not wanting his drink to get too bitter. He blew on it a couple times, impatient for the soothing liquid to flatten the angry ridges of his throat. He took a sip and felt better immediately. Despite a slightly scorched hard palate, the psychological relief was worth it, even if it was little more than placebo at the moment. The fog over his brain wasn’t lifting, but perhaps he could begin to drive through it.

The other thing that sucked about the afternoon shift was that people wanted to talk to him. All. The. Time.

Students were starting to come home in the early hours of the afternoon shift, many wanting to get an autograph or a picture from the Ground Zero. After that, adults started coming home from work, acting the same as the kids.

The first hours of the morning shift were blissfully quiet. Everyone was rushing to their commute, not lollygagging home, so no one stopped and bothered him. Maybe a few people bugged him during lunch but, by and large, the shift didn’t call for much more people pleasing than the graveyard shift did. And, regrettably, higher profile heroes were encouraged away from the middle of the night shift, where fewer people would see, recognize, and be comforted by them.

Bakugou hated that.

He’d just gotten through with some kids, thankful that his brand was such that he could get away with scowling in the picture the most daring of the group had asked to have taken, when someone said, “You don’t usually work afternoons.”

Bakugou whipped around, palms spread, then was almost disappointed when he realized the disembodied voice hadn’t been a threat. Just another idiot with a camera.

“Take your picture and scram,” Bakugou said. “Must be a big fan if you have my schedule memorized. Unless you’re a stalker.”

“I’m a reporter, Ground Zero,” you said, a raised brow and some side eye making you look almost as fed up as Bakugou felt. “We’ve met a number of times before, remember?”

“No,” Bakugou replied, arms crossed. “Hard to believe anyway, since there’s nothing to report on here.” You didn’t have a notebook either, and your phone must have been hidden away in a pocket somewhere. Not like any reporter he’d ever seen.

“Well, just like your job isn’t always saving goodies from baddies, sometimes there aren’t any baddies for me to cover,” you said. “But you’re here. And that’s something.”

“A change in my schedule is groundbreaking news?”

“No, but an interview…”

You trailed off as your gaze shifted to somewhere in the middle distance, eyebrows furrowing. Bakugou followed your sightline and wondered, for a moment, what was wrong with you. Before he got the chance, you started speaking again.

“There’s some kind of commotion down the block. C’mon.”

Bakugou followed before he’d even thought it through. Then he eyed your back, wondering why in the world he was following you. He didn’t trust you. And he sure hadn’t sensed anything.

Still, you were a reporter, and he’d be damned if he was mere blocks away from an altercation, hanging around taking pictures with yahoos instead of doing his real job.

He outpaced you quickly, deciding to keep running in the direction you’d indicated. It wasn’t long before his ears picked up on a kerfuffle and he took a sharp turn down a side street, finally seeing the commotion himself.

There were people in the street screaming and gasping, crying for help. They were making a scene, but it was nothing loud enough that one would be able to hear it much beyond the main street. There were no buildings being smashed, no cars being thrown. Bakugou would think maybe these were just a bunch of idiots freaking out over a viral video or something if they all hadn’t been looking up.

Bakugou craned his neck and, at the top of one of the apartment buildings, a woman was being dangled over the railing. Then, the next second, she was over the edge, hovering above the street, multiple arm lengths from the building she’d started at. There was something gray clinging to her, the only thing keeping her in the air, nearly ten stories off the ground.

Bakugou’s hand went to his ear and then he was in the air immediately. He began firing explosions out of both hands as he propelled himself toward the woman, higher and higher. His eyes were watering up from the air nipping at his tear ducts, but as he got closer, he could see a shadowy bird clawing the woman’s shirt as it beat wide wings in the air. The first thing Bakugou thought was that it reminded him of Tokoyami’s Dark Shadow. But this bird was by itself, not connected to anything but the woman in its talons.

The woman’s mouth was open, surely crying or screaming, though Bakugou couldn’t hear it over the sounds of his explosions. He fired off one more to get right above her and the bird, who suddenly moved to dart away, but Bakugou managed to get one arm around the woman before sending an explosion at the bird.

Bakugou couldn’t be sure if the bird had let go or not, but the next moment, he and the woman were both falling. As loud as he could, he shouted, “Grab on!” and felt her desperate arms cling to his neck. He needed both hands free if he wanted to land both of them without having to angle his explosions into a building.

He let them fall for a few moments before sending off blasts in quick succession with both hands. Once again, Bakugou was endlessly grateful for the foresight he’d had in designing his costume, fitting himself with the gloves that he had. Without them, it would be nearly impossible to fire off anything but the tiniest explosions while falling through the air; the sweat would have slicked off his palms from the air screaming past his body. But the gloves kept all of that in so that he could blast exactly what he needed.

Despite his control, the landing was rough. Bakugou crashed to the ground, falling forward under the weight of the woman on top of him. Thankfully, the idiots on the ground had all moved out of the way, so he had room to try to stumble up as the woman on his back refused to let go, clinging to him like her life depended on it.

Bakugou didn’t get it. The moment was over, and she needed to get off so that he could try to see about that bird thing. The embodied shadow. The next thing he knew, you were running up, helping the woman off of him and getting her legs under her. Then you were gesturing at him, “Go, go,” and he nodded, throwing his explosions at the ground once more.

He had better control this time as he flew parallel to the building’s face, all blasts directly under him until he got to the building’s top and sent one angry explosion behind him to shoot him onto the flat roof. He landed running on synthetic rubber, ugly and gray like squished gravel but with enough give that his landing was stable. He looked around and saw the bird heading for a door. Bakugou blasted it, but that only dazed the bird for a moment. He ran for the door and pushed past the bird, firing another explosion at it before yanking the door open. A man tumbled to Bakugou’s boots, looking up in horror. Bakugou grabbed the front of his shirt.

“You control this bird?”

The man said nothing. Obviously he was just trying not to incriminate himself—if he wasn’t guilty, he would have just said no.

“You better hope so.”

Bakuguo dragged the man to the railing where he’d first seen the woman dangling. Then, with an explosion behind him and a yank on his grip on the man, he sent both of them over the building’s edge.

It wasn’t the gamble it likely felt for the man who was now probably wetting himself. Bakugou could just use his explosions to get them down, even though he didn’t want to with one hand. It would just likely leave cosmetic damage on the neighboring buildings. But he didn’t have to, as the bird suddenly gripped its talons around Bakugou’s neck brace. Then the bird’s slow flaps sent them both to the ground, slow like a parachute. When they landed, the man was trembling and fell to his knees, but this time Bakugou landed strong.

Bakugou was about to drag the man to his feet again when suddenly the guy fell to the ground, out cold. Bakugou stared for a moment and then shrugged. That would make things easy until the police came to cart him away.

The woman was in with the crowd of spectators now, who were comforting her. Someone had wrapped a sweater over her shoulders and there were middle aged women holding and stroking her. Nothing Bakugou was especially interested in. But, now that he’d returned, you were running back over to him eyes wide.

“Are you—”

“How are you not deaf?” he cut you off.

“Excuse me?” you asked, stopping in your tracks as you recoiled slightly from him.

“Your quirk. You have heightened hearing,” he explained. “So how aren’t you deaf?”

“Oh, yeah, I have super hearing,” you said, running a hand over the shell of your ear. “But I have super dampening as well. So you talking next to me is a normal decibel, but so are those people talking across the street. The only problem is I have no, like, auditory depth perception. So I have to look around to know if someone’s talking right next to me or far away. And then I just have to be good at filtering different discussions. I’ve gotten good at it because of my job. But nothing deafens me.”

Bakugou’s own hand went up to the hearing aids he’d started buying at the end of high school when his own quirk had started doing auditory damage. He’d turned them back up upon landing, figuring he was done with the explosions for now. It was lucky that you were protected from your own quirk like that.

“It’s really helpful for journalism,” you continued. “I get a lot of good quotes from scenes, too fast for me to write them down. So I have to have a good memory.”

Your eyes went over Bakugou’s shoulder and he reflexively turned his head, seeing the villain’s bird rustling again. This time, Bakugou wrapped his fist around the thing’s neck and fired off another explosion as his other hand adjusted his hearing aids. The villain himself was just barely pushing himself up and Bakugou knelt down, knee on the guy’s back as he cuffed him, muttering in the man’s ear. When he stood up again, he was mumbling about how slow the police were to do their job. This guy should have been in a paddy wagon the moment he and Bakugou had landed on the asphalt.

“Threatening to melt his hands together isn’t very heroic,” you said.

“Heroics should be the things people do, not their lousy words. Anyone can talk.”

“You never seem short on things to say.”

Bakugou’s eyes narrowed. Why were you even still here? “Words come out. Not usually asking for any response, so that’s not really talking. It’s just…saying some shit.”

“Does that mean that I shouldn’t count on ever getting an interview from you?”

“Exactly.”

“Not all of us can hear like you.”

The words fell off Bakugou’s lips as his eyes lifted from where they’d been stuck in his now half-empty mug of tea. He could feel the rasp of the early morning words delivered, but they were quiet in his ears—still louder than whatever you had just said.

Your brows were half-furrowed but, other than that, your face was oddly expressionless. You’d said something, he’d heard soft words traveling through too-thick air, but they’d gotten lost just outside his ears. You held up his hearing aids that he suddenly remembered taking off before falling asleep and he pushed off the counter to take them from you. So he hadn’t been that out of it last night.

When he had them in again, he looked at you again. “What did you say?”

“I said I thought you’d left,” you repeated. “Then I saw these and figured you hadn’t.”

“Not that much of an asshole,” he muttered.

It must not have been the encouragement you were looking for, because your expression was still unchanged. Maybe you just weren’t a morning person. He’d probably been louder than he’d thought, all his noises muffled to his ears while washing his hands had probably sounded like a waterfall to you. And, despite his sleep schedule being destroyed yesterday, he’d still awoken in the wee hours. A glance at the clock on your stove informed him that it was still only 5:30am.

He was being cagey and he didn’t know how to break out of it. Hazy memories of the last parts of the night before came back to him as he looked at you. You’d thrown on a t-shirt and shorts, but he could remember roving his hand over the curves of your side, kissing down the column of your neck. The intimacy that had felt so good last night was overwhelming now. Like the too much too fast was only just catching up with him.

You were probably expecting more of last night’s affections. He didn’t remember how they’d happened.

“Do you, um…remember everything?”

“I told you I have a great memory, didn’t I?” You were keeping your distance, the words neither joking nor accusational, not bragging nor humble. They just were. “Do you…not?”

He didn’t say anything, just took another sip of his tea. It was growing tepid.

“Oh.”

After the police finally came and Bakugou could leave the scene, you were still following him. And his preferred strategy of ignoring you wasn’t working.

“I still have the rest of my shift and I can’t be entertaining you,” he said curtly.

“I don’t need your entertainment,” you said. “You can pretend I’m not even here.”

“Gladly,” he grumbled.

“Although,” you said, forcing yourself into his line of sight with an irritating smile on your face, “I’m actually a boon to you.”

Bakugou snarled and you went back to walking by his side.

“I helped you back there, with my hearing. So, if we talk a little bit, it won’t actually get in the way of your work, because I’ll still be able to hear better than you.”

You had a point there, although it was flawed. Yes, your quirk was useful, an asset even. But having civilians around villain attacks was always a hazard, and Bakugou had needed to interrupt his advantage in a fight in order to save stupid reporters in the past. He wasn’t excited to do it again.

Everyone had been lucky that the villain back there had been such a coward, using a quirk where he didn’t even have to show himself, passing out as soon as Bakugou had forced him to face consequences. If he’d been more dangerous, everyone on the ground, including you, would have been in real peril, and that would have put Bakugou at a severe disadvantage as the only hero on the scene.

“No.”

He didn’t remember if you’d actually asked a question or not, but he wanted to make it clear he was dissenting whatever you were putting forth. He was not a part of whatever game you were playing.

“Ground Zero, this could be helpful for both of us,” you said, your tactic change evident in your lowered tone. “People don’t know who you are. They want some personality from you. A casual, easy interview could do that.”

“This is my personality,” Bakugou snapped. “God, you’re always this annoying.”

“Oh, so you do remember me.”

Your smile popped in front of him again and he upped his pace, frowning purposefully.

He did remember you. Not your name or anything, but he’d gotten used to seeing certain reporters around his agency. There was red cheeks and long limbs and plastic hair. He’d never come up with a name for you because you looked so, well, normal. Not a single feature out of place, not a flaw that he could call you by and people would know who he was insulting. So he’d filed you away as “reporter girl” for the time being.

But you were always this annoying. He’d seen you after villain altercations talking with Icy Hot or Deku or whoever else was around and, unlike the other reporters who were so serious and pressing, you made people laugh. You were chatting them up, never taking notes—now he knew why, of course—and always having a good time. You never seemed serious and he brushed past you just like all the other shitty members of the media.

“Well, you’re right at least that you’ve never been shy about your personality,” you said. God, he wished someone would blow up a freaking building or something just so he’d have something to do. It was hard to ignore you when there weren’t any adequate distractions. “Even when critics have said you should change. That’s admirable.”

“Hmph.”

“But you don’t seem happy,” you continued. “You just put away a villain without any civilian injuries and saved a woman’s life. And yet you’re scowling like something went wrong. Usually when people do something good, they want to share it with someone.”

“Some people don’t need validation to tell them what to feel.”

Those words felt bitter coming out, because that was something he’d actually had to work on a lot in the past. Not peacocking every time he did something right and pouting every time someone did it better. He was still working on that, actually.

“If I’m ruining your day that much, I’ll go,” you said, your voice annoyingly tender. “But I wasn’t planning on attacking you with a hard-hitting interview. I just wanted to, I don’t know, talk a little bit. Get a better sense of you than the big bad wolf huffs and puffs I’ve gotten in the past.”

Bakugou didn’t reply. He’d noticed that since you’d been trailing him, no one had come up to bother him. So maybe you following him around wasn’t the worst thing.

“Say the word and I’ll go.”

He didn’t say anything.

But he also didn’t say to go.

The energy was immediately awkward in your apartment. Bakugou was washing his mug out with soap while you were reheating the kettle for your own mug. He wondered if the silence was as loud to you as it was to him.

This was exactly why Bakugou didn’t do this. He didn’t know the protocol for one night stands, even if he did have all his faculties the morning after. Evidently leaving first thing would have been the wrong thing, but should he leave now?

He didn’t want to. Not until the rest of the night came back to him, at least. The shame of not remembering was sticking to him making him cling to this space like if he looked around enough the lost thoughts would come back to him. He could always ask you, but he was too proud for that. Plus, the fact that you hadn’t volunteered your knowledge worried him. Had he said something shitty he didn’t remember? Had you not enjoyed…it? Did you regret it?

“I have eggs,” you said suddenly, your face placid.

Bakugou, now drying his mug, turned to you. Was that an invitation to stay? Were you telling him what you wanted?

“I’m a good cook,” he said.

“I didn’t know that.”

A smile slowly lit your face from the inside out, starting with the eyes and ending with your curling lips. And then he remembered more.

He was wrong about you keeping the rabble away. People still came and wanted pictures, wanted to chat. But, soon, you were talking for him. Someone would ask for a picture and you’d turn to him, eyes meeting behind his mask for a moment before you’d tell the fan that he’d be happy to. Then you’d talk all throughout taking the picture and the person would leave looking happier. It was easier. Easier than being angry all the time.

The middle hours of his shift passed, and you stuck around. Mercifully, you didn’t talk the whole time, but he didn’t mind it terribly when you did. When he didn’t answer something, you didn’t push and when he gave a coarse response, you usually laughed. You weren’t asking more of him, like reporters usually did. Like everyone usually did. You were taking him for who he was and that was…unsteadying.

“I’ll walk you home,” he said when the sky turned from dark blue to the muddy brown it often was in the city. He was still on duty for a couple more hours, but hopefully one of his idiot sidekicks would call him if something came up. Hopefully they wouldn’t have to call him.

“That’s okay,” you said. “I’m used to being up at all hours.”

Well, Bakugou certainly wasn’t. He could already feel his vigilance dampening as tiredness fought for his attention. But it was coming up on the hour at which the city was the most dangerous, and he needed to be more attentive than ever.

He yawned.

As soon as his hand went up to his mouth, jaw practically unhinged as he ho-hummed, he froze. The breath left his throat as suddenly as it had come and he looked at you, caught.

You giggled. “Approaching your bedtime, Ground Zero?”

It actually was not that that was of any consequence to you. He looked away sharply as you continued laughing and he wished he had a quick retort that was more than just telling you to shut up. Having no response was always his tell.

“Well, then you need me here to keep you awake, don’t you?”

“Shut up—I’m plenty awake.”

“Me too. So we should be able to have some fun.”

Bakugou looked at you again, eyes narrowed. “I’m still working.”

“What a coincidence,” she said, lifting her camera. “I am too.”

They weren’t the best rolled omelets he’d ever made, but they would do.

In his own apartment, he could have rustled up some dashi and made them a little fancier for you, but he was still happy with them. Temperature was always tricky on an unfamiliar stove and his hangover—better though it was—was still fogging his brain. Still, it was nice to have a familiar task to focus on, one that he was good at.

You smiled again when he brought you your plate and he felt warm at the memories of last night. He remembered you smiling a lot—it hadn’t just been about the touches and the pleasure, but rather enjoying each other. He couldn’t remember ever sleeping with a woman who laughed in bed—but you had. He remembered that clearly now.

He covered up his smile as he put his hands together and said, “Itadakimasu.”

You said the same and you moaned at your first bite. Bakugou flushed at the sound and hid his face in his plate.

“Wow, you weren’t lying, were you?”

Bakugou ate up the praise as he took a bite of his handiwork. It wasn’t bad. He wondered if you cooked a lot or if you ordered takeout. If you preferred dinner in or being taken to a nice restaurant.

Had he thought about any of those things last night or had he just been caught on your pretty smile? He wasn’t usually the type to hook up with people he just found attractive. As a pro hero, he had no shortage of options, but he didn’t really enjoy the reality of that life. He didn’t like taking extras to his apartment and, usually, he didn’t like waking up in someone else’s. That was what made all of…this so hard to reconcile.

It wasn’t like him. And he didn’t remember enough about you to fill in the blanks.

But it was in there somewhere. He just needed to eat some breakfast, drink some water, and gather the pieces. They were there somewhere, in the tinkle of your voice, the breadth of your smile. All he had to do was put them back together.

It turned out you took your job of keeping Bakugou awake quite seriously.

As his energy waned, you were hyping him up, an endless well of vigor. You showed off your quirk, letting him know everything you could hear around the city to put his mind at ease that you both were doing what you could to stay vigilant. But the evening was calm as the two of you walked his beat together.

“Hey, big boy.” You flashed your phone at him, and Bakugou saw the bright numbers 22:00. “Shift’s over, right?”

Bakugou shook his head. “I have to do my villain report.”

“Aren’t you supposed to do that during your shift?”

Of course you knew the ins and outs of hero work. It couldn’t be the kind of thing that made for interesting articles, but you didn’t seem like an average reporter either. “I prefer to be out for my whole shift.”

You were right that he was supposed to do things like paperwork during his shift—heroes usually arranged with their partners and sidekicks a schedule so that some people could do work in the office while others were out on patrol. And Bakugou’s agency did do that—he couldn’t even use Todoroki’s absence today as an excuse for that—but, to him, being on patrol was the work. The paperwork was the extra stuff, so it should be done on extra time. Or he got sidekicks to do it, when possible.

“Why am I not surprised you’re a workaholic?”

Bakugou resented that. “You think that heroes should work less?” he sneered.

“Yes,” you answered quickly, surprising him. “Your job is really serious, it takes a lot of focus and hard decisions. You need off time regularly.”

“We get days off,” he said, his tone implying not so subtly that you were an idiot.

“During which you do paperwork,” you shot back. “Apparently.”

Bakugou huffed, folding his arms and looking at you crossly. He’d been in seminar after seminar that had espoused the same fundamentals that you were parroting right now. Self-care, time off, hobbies, time with friends. It was a balance everyone he knew struggled with. It didn’t help that all his friends were also heroes—everyone had such different schedules that their days off almost never lined up, nor did shifts.

“Fine,” Bakugou said, the challenge rising in him like simmering water quickly catching a boil. A challenge always made him feel almost giddy, his smile stretching into a feral grin as he thought about the feeling of besting someone else, proving them wrong. It was a bit of his childish self that felt too good to shake off.

“Fine what?” you asked, brow raised as you took in his change in demeanor.

“No paperwork,” he said. “And my sleep is fucked anyway, so what did you have in mind?”

“Was I supposed to have something in mind?”

“Unless you’re all talk and no action.”

You stared at him, head quirked to the side and he saw the challenge rise in your face as well. A smirk grew, one corner of your lip quirking up and the other, the slow action drawing his eyes to your mouth.

“I’ll make you a deal,” you said, and Bakugou’s palms sweat at the prospect. “No interview—if you buy me a drink.”

It wasn’t the test he’d been hoping for. No, this was easy, obvious—something he wouldn’t pass up. No challenge at all.

“Where to?”

Bakugou knew the outside of the city by rote. He could name any storefront and what its cross streets were. He could tell you the color of the awning and what building material the face of the shop was made of.

But you knew the inside.

You took him to a nearby bar that he recognized right away. He passed by it most days.

He’d never so much as opened the door.

The inside was dark, as was typical in bars, and it was loud. He adjusted his hearing aids and watched as you expertly pushed through the crowd, dragging him by the wrist. He didn’t know how you could stand it. With your quirk you couldn’t just hear all the nearby conversations, but probably every single person in this building.

You walked right up to the bartender, who was busy peeling a twist of orange and passing its oils over a coup glass before dropping it in a frosty pink drink. Then you pushed Bakugou up against the bar, shooting intense eye contact at the bartender.

Bakugou was suddenly very aware that he was still wearing his uniform. You’d dragged him to this bar so quickly that he hadn’t even thought about it, but he still had his black mask on and his gauntlets, which were taking up valuable real estate in the crowded room. Suddenly uncertain of himself, Bakugou ripped off the mask and the spikes he had behind his ear. The motion caught the eye of the bartender who looked up at Bakugou, eyes widening. Now Bakugou knew why you’d pushed him in front.

“Ground Zero,” the man said. Bakugou couldn’t quite nail down if his tone was reverent or nervous. He didn’t mind either. “What can I get you?”

You put a hand on Bakugou’s shoulder and leaned in. “Vodka tonic, lime,” you said before turning to him.

Bakugou wracked his brain a bit. He really didn’t drink much—it wasn’t good for you and he didn’t like the idea of his reflexes or faculties being impaired in the least. Truthfully, he thought it was stupid that other people did. So he looked bartender and said, “Two,” as confidently as he could.

The drinks were up quick despite the many desperate bodies pressed against the counter, squeezed between barstools. One of the perks to being a pro hero.

You lifted your drink toward him and said something, but he couldn’t quite hear it. He narrowed his eyes at you, cheek twisting up for the second it took him to realize that you’d said “cheers.” He raised is glass too, repeating it before taking a gulp of the drink. He liked the burn of the vodka, though he’d never understand how people actually enjoyed the taste. Still, it was palatable and hardly anything worse than the drinks his lousy friends had made him try in the past.

When he set the drink down, you were leaning in close, lips almost touching his cheek. Bakugou froze, having nowhere to recoil to, as there were sweaty bodies on any side of him. He didn’t have to worry, though, as your lips came harmlessly to rest by his ear. “I know you can’t really hear me, but I can hear you. So feel free to talk.”

You pulled back with a friendly smile on your face, nothing like the conniving one you’d worn before dragging him to this place. Your face was so open, so ready for joy to come your way that Bakugou couldn’t understand it. You were a journalist. You were in the shit every day just like he was. How were you so…warm?

“I don’t have anything to say,” he said, the words barely making it to his own ears, but feeling like an admission nevertheless. You, on the other hand, nodded, the words reaching you uninhibited.

You gestured with your fingers, and Bakugou could read your lips saying, “That’s okay too.”

And somehow, you telling him that he didn’t have to talk…made him want to.

You were both on your third drink when Bakugou remembered why idiots liked alcohol. Because it started to taste better the more you had and, in addition to feeling less aware and stupider, it was also easier to laugh. Bakugou could feel his lips rising past his gums as you two bent towards each other, breathing the same air as you laughed at something Bakugou couldn’t even be sure he’d heard correctly.

His gauntlets had made it to the floor sometime during drink number one and he kept nearly kicking them over with his heavy boot. The neck brace and his other pieces were in his lap, but the rest of his costume could almost pass as normal clothes in a crowded, dimly lit bar.

But he wasn’t even thinking about that anymore. He was consumed by your hand on his thigh as you moved closer in to shout so that he could hear you, the way that it felt intimate when anything he so much as murmured appeared on your face in recognition. You gestured to the bartender for another round and he was quickly sliding another two rocks glasses in front of you. Bakugou swallowed his third vodka tonic down to the ice, marveling in the feeling of the drink moving from cold on his tongue to hot on the back of his throat. He was sweating, drenched with it around his hairline, plastering the shortest strands of his spiky hair to his face, but those things hardly registered. His eyes were just on you and your lips as he kept trying to read them, or as you chewed on the same straw you’d been passing from drink to drink.

He didn’t catch the next thing you said. He gave a shake of his head and you leaned in closer again, hair brushing against his. “Are you having fun?”

It was strange not to want to admit that he was. If shitty hair or raccoon eyes had been asking—as they so often did, probably just to get on his nerves at this point—he would have snarled and glared at them. Even if he was enjoying himself, he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Was he so tied to his contrarian nature that he would try not to have fun when a good time came his way?

So he gave the tiniest nod—the best he could do—and your smile went wide. You giggled, evidently feeling the alcohol as well and then you slapped his shoulder. “I knew you cou—woah.”

Then you were touching his bicep, eyes wide as your grin went silly.

“Wow, not to be weird, but your arms are incredible.”

Bakugou preened, well aware of how impressive his physique was, but enjoying the praise nevertheless. You took your hand away quickly, your expression shrinking back behind some degree of reserve. You mouthed something, but it didn’t reach his ears. He indicated such and you shook your head, waving the word away.

Bakugou turned to his new drink, squeezing the lime generously over the ice and giving it a swirl before taking a sip. He could barely taste the alcohol now. It was just cold and refreshing. Then, abruptly, he realized the word you’d said was “sorry.” He shook his head, narrowing his eyes at the idea and turned back to you.

“Don’t be sorry,” he said. “If you did anything to be sorry for I’d walk out and leave you with the bill.”

He would too—he’d done it enough to his friends over the years. Sometimes he would throw down some bills before he left, sometimes he’d take pleasure in making shitty hair pay, but nothing would stop him from walking out of a bar or a club, or even someone’s apartment without a word when he decided he was done. No reason to stick around somewhere when he was past his point of interest.

You gave a short nod. “Noted, Ground Zero.”

Bakugou shook his head. “Call me…Katsuki.”

Your smile was back, bright all the way to your eyes as you gestured to yourself, stating your own name.

His growing drunkenness made everything you did into a contagion. Every laugh, every conversation, every touch had him leaning in and meeting you half way. So he smiled too and, with your declaration between you, neither of you left the bar for a while longer.

Not until you left together.

He wasn’t clear on who had asked whom to leave, but Bakugou suddenly remembered everything that happened after that. The two of you had stumbled out of the bar and Bakugou had tossed a hand into the air, hailing a cab by popping a few bright explosions into the night air.

Then, though his own apartment address was ready on his tongue, you’d spouted yours off first. In his memory, the car ride had felt long, thick with tension as your hand rubbed Bakugou’s thigh and he tried to split his focus away from you and onto his many accessories he didn’t want to leave in the taxi. He could feel his brain getting stupid and didn’t want to forget his loaded gauntlets in some extra’s car.

He remembered that the both of you had stumbled into your room without pretense, and that his accessories were placed in a corner while his tank and pants were strewn places he didn’t remember as well.

“I liked you,” Bakugou said suddenly, looking down at the remainder of his eggs. Then he thought about how that, plus the scowl on his face probably looked to you and he looked up to see your raised eyebrows.

“I’m not sure if I should be alarmed by the past tense of that or offended that you were questioning if you liked me,” you said, though there was a smile behind the words. “But I’m guessing you actually mean it in a nice way, and that’s just something you don’t have enough practice in.”

Bakugou hmphed, gaze falling back down again.

“Well, I like you,” you said, totally nonchalant as you took another bite of your breakfast. “More last night than this morning, but you’re catching up again.”

You were so honest. Had been the whole time. Things that sometimes pissed him off when other people did them—egging him on to hang out at the bar, following him around all day, insisting on talking to him—had been wholehearted from you. And you’d given him multiple outs over the course of the night. And he’d never taken it. Never wanted to.

“You’re different than people think,” you continued. “Just like I thought.”

“Still writing your interview?” Bakugou asked. He couldn’t control the question coming out through half a sneer—but at least it was only half.

“That was the deal,” you said. “Don’t remember that either?”

Bakugou shook his head, the action not causing the same pain it would have earlier. “I remember everything now.”

“Oh,” you said, a shy smile barely peaking out on your face. “Oh.”

“I wasn’t that drunk,” he grumbled.

Your smile grew. “I didn’t know you couldn’t handle your liquor.”

“Drinking is stupid,” he snapped.

“Well, next time we meet up, we don’t have to drink.”

He looked at you, your face nearly as expressionless as it had been when you’d first come out that morning. Supple lips, slack cheeks, brow relaxed—but your eyes. Your eyes were shining and your chest was risen like you were holding your breath.

“I wasn’t planning on drinking today.”

You blinked, one wrinkle appearing on your forehead as you looked at him. “What?”

“It’s my day off,” he said, hoping a stiff shrug would cover his nerves. “Not supposed to do my paperwork, right? Gonna have to do something with my time.”

“Ooh, you make it sound so exciting,” you said, your tone light and teasing. “What a lucky gal I am.”

“More of that, dumbass, and I’ll just drag you to the gym with me.”

You reached over to touch his arm just like you had last night, wrapping your arm around the half of his bicep that you could and giving it a squeeze, giving the same silly smile you had drunk last night. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

Your touch made Bakugou’s heart squeeze as all the fractured memories of last night tessellated together into one cohesive mosaic of his time with you. His relationship with you thus far. Your hand slid down to his and he spread his fingers, welcoming you to intertwine with him. He looked at your joined hands and glanced back up at your smiling face for just a moment before returning his eyes down. One last memory nestled into place, and it made him hopeful for what the picture of you and him would become.

The two of you were breathing heavily as you both went boneless on the bed. A few of your pants turned to giggles and Bakugou couldn’t take his eyes off of your smile, still so pretty even with your lips bruised and bitten.

“Not bad, Katsuki,” you said.

Bakugou scoffed and looked away. “Fuck off.”

“Alright then,” you said and, to his surprise, you began to crawl off the bed. His eyes were back on you as he started rising up, ready to take it back when you turned back with a smile. “Just going to the bathroom. Don’t want to sully this with a UTI.”

You put a hand on his jaw to keep drawing him towards you and leaned down to kiss him. He met you half way and the bed felt cold when you pulled away.

His mind was still swimming from the alcohol, his eyes feeling slippery in their sockets, but post-gratification, his wits were coming back to him. Was he supposed to leave? Put his pants on and say goodnight, I’mma hail a cab?

You were back quickly, before Bakugou had come to a decision and you pulled back your sheets, a hum on your lips. Then you turned to him. “Want me to get you a glass of water?”

Bakugou shook his head, still watching you. “Nah.”

“Mm, okay,” you said with a sigh once you were beneath the covers, settling in for the night. “Do you like cuddling?”

“No,” Bakugou said surely as he scooted closer to you, wrapping arms around your middle.

You laughed again. “You don’t have to do it just for me.”

He pulled you closer. “Nobody makes me do anything.”

“I’ll bet not,” you said, your voice light, almost a whisper. “See you tomorrow, Katsuki.”

He took out his hearing aids and reached over you to place them on your bedside table. Then his nose was in your hair, face pressed into your shoulder. He could smell the sweat from your activities, but also the sweetness of your shampoo or perfume or something. He breathed it in and could feel his mind drifting to black.

“See you tomorrow.”