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It’s late. The shadows of the street seem to blend with the night sky—the same shade of darkness, the same blue-black hue that reaches and stretches infinitely.
And underneath it all, under the street lamp that scatters the after-dark that bobs and weaves at the light’s glowing edge, you sit on the front steps of your apartment, sobbing softly into your hands.
He hears it immediately, catches the sad sound of you on the other side of the street quickly, and he stops in his tracks. You crying beckons to Bakugou like a church bell calling people to the pews—he feels the urgency to kneel at your feet, and he doesn’t even know you that well. You both work for different agencies and your friend group is with Deku and the others, but he sees you when everyone gets together.
You’ve both spoken before. A word here or there. A small phrase or two. A shared joke and under-the-breath-snicker. A curious glance from across the room—from the both of you.
It’s never been more than that, and it’s not enough to explain or justify this sudden need to be by you.
He wonders if he’s the right person to have found you here. Maybe he should call Deku; surely, you’d want someone you know to provide comfort, but even with the doubt that you might not want him, Bakugou can’t help but answer your call.
He steps toward you. He doesn’t hide his footsteps as he crosses the street, allowing the sound of his boots to give warning of his arrival.
“Hey,” he says.
You sniff, wipe at your eyes and nose, and look up at him. Your eyes are bloodshot and puffy, and there are streaks tears on your cheeks.
“…Hi.”
“You alright?”
Of course you’re not alright, Bakugou thinks immediately and irritably. He beats himself up internally for not saying something more profound, or at least less stupid.
“Not really,” you say, laughing. He wonders if it’s in discomfort, or embarrassment, or uncertainty. Are you uncomfortable with him there? Do you feel like you crying is a burden, that others don’t truly want to see it? He wants to tell you that you don’t have to worry about that with him. You can be honest and sad and bawling. You can be whatever you wanted in front of him.
“Wanna talk about it?” he asks.
“Not really,” you answer quietly.
He’s not thrown off by your answer. He understands. Sometimes you’re not ready to talk about it. Sometimes you’re never ready.
Bakugou bends down, leaning back on his heels so that he’s eye-level with you, even though you don’t meet or keep his gaze.
“You want me to leave?” he offers.
You shrug weakly. “I dunno,” you whisper.
“You want me to call someone?”
“No.”
“Can I sit?”
You don’t answer, but you do move over and make space on the front steps for him. He thinks its a good sign that, even if you don’t want him around, at least you don’t mind it. He tucks that away, though, refocusing on you.
Bakugou sits down beside you.
“What are you doing out here?” you ask.
He glances at you. “We don’t need to talk if you don’t want to.”
You lean forward, laying your hands on your knees and then your chin on your hands, staring straight ahead. He sees new tears start to slide down your face.
“I don’t really feel like talking,” you say in soft agreement.
“Then don’t talk,” he says, more gruff than reassuring. “We can just sit here.”
“In the dark?”
“In the dark, in the day, inside, doesn’t matter.”
“…Okay.” Your voice cracks, and then a new heaving starts. You press your forehead against your knuckles, hiding your face as you sob against your skin.
Bakugou’s heart twists at hearing how small you sound. He places a hand on your back; you lean into his side. He doesn’t say anything as you cry. He doesn’t know what to say in the face of such fresh grief. He’s not sure anything he said would’ve changed anything or even helped, but he hopes that his presence there is a small light against the heavy dark.
He sits out there with you for a long time. You cry until there’s nothing left to give except breathless gasps, and that’s when Bakugou steps in, helping you sit up so you can slow your breathing. He tells you it’s okay, and if it isn’t, that it will be. He says he’s sorry—he doesn’t know for what, and you point it out, but he still is anyways. His voice takes on a gentle hum, one that he didn’t know he could achieve.
Bakugou helps you back up to your apartment. When you unlock your apartment, you don’t bid him goodbye, asking, instead, if he’d like to watch a movie. He tells you that he’ll do whatever you want him to; if you think that it’s out of character of him you don’t mention it (and he appreciates that).
You make space for him on the couch, underneath large pillows and soft blankets, and fall asleep by the end of the title sequence. He notices immediately, but lets you fall into a deeper slumber before picking you up carefully to set you down in your bedroom.
Bakugou finishes the movie on the couch, falling into a light sleep himself when the end credits roll.
Sometime before dawn, he feels a pulling—a tugging—a beckoning in his dreams. He wakes up to brightening shadows in your living room and hears you crying quietly under the covers, and he finds himself kneeling at your bedside moments later.