Chapter Text
Bakugo’s throat screamed in a dry, angry protest as he stomped down the ugly green dormitory stairs.
The clock shone 3:00 a.m, a time too early for the tired blond to comprehend. The blond was just glad it was a weekend—his normal personality plus an interrupted sleep schedule was not a good mix.
Turning his phone flashlight on, Bakugo squinted his way to the kitchen, eyelids heavy, a groan sitting in the back of his scratchy throat.
Bakugo wrestled with the lid on his water bottle, glaring at it as if to warn it not to mess with him. He was already annoyed, and he wasn’t afraid to take his frustration out on his favorite water bottle.
After all, it was all the water bottle’s fault he was in the common area—and awake—in the first place.
Stupid empty water bottle. Stupid need for hydration. Stupid thirst.
The blond screwed the lid back on his black bottle and squeezed, glaring at it as he whispered a quiet “die” toward it. He gave it a small punch (not his best idea, but the boy was tired) and swiveled, stomping his way toward the stairs again.
Relaxation settled along his spine, a happy sigh falling from his lips, and Bakugo rubbed the skin between his neck and shoulder. All the boy could think about was his wonderful bed and wonderful sleep and wonderful dreams—and just as he was nearly to the steps that would lead him back to his sleepy bliss, he heard a sound that annoyed him more than having to get water at three a.m: crying.
Soft whimpers pulled his attention toward the brightly-lit television, and his eyes narrowed once again.
Bakugo fought the anger that bubbled in his chest and turned back toward the steps, gripping his water bottle for support. It wasn’t his business. It didn’t matter if somebody was crying. He wouldn’t call them a wimp—to their face, at least.
But the quiet sniffling turned into loud wails. The sound traveled through the quiet common area like a battle cry, slipping down Bakugo’s spine until his arm hairs stood straight up.
He shut his eyes and breathed—one, two, three.
Bakugo was calm.
Bakugo wasn’t a raging monster who’d scream bloody murder at three in the morning.
He’d mellowed out since his first year, trading the shouts for insults and the bad come-backs for silent threats. Even though he was still a walking red flag—as dunce face so lovingly reminded him last week—he was gentlemanly enough to leave the crying little wimp alone.
So Bakugo lightly climbed the first two steps, leaning his head back to take a sip of his water. He stealthily stole a glance behind him (a sleepy Bakugo is a curious Bakugo) and squinted, narrowing his eyes until he could make out which one of his classmates was crying.
The blond expected Deku or, well, anybody other than the person he saw: you.
You sat crisscrossed on the ugly couches with a bright blue blanket thrown around your shaking shoulders, staring at the crappy moving on the tv screen as tears slipped from your eyes.
Bakugo’s lips contorted with judgment and disgust, and he couldn’t help the scoff that slipped out as he watched you swipe beneath your eyes.
You turned, eyes wide, and the blond jumped out of his skin. Narrowing your eyes, you asked, “Hello?”
He froze. What was he supposed to do? Throw the water bottle at your head and dart up the stairs? No, he didn’t want to leave his water. Blast you to a burnt crisp? It’d probably leave a smell…
He could always… talk to you—a thing he’d never actually done before. Bakugo knew your name, and he’d never been unaware of your presence; he just never got around to talking to you, which was odd considering your relationship with his closest friends.
Half of his friends were in love with you and the other half—well, they were also in love with you. Mina claimed it was a ‘platonic’ affection, but Bakugo didn’t care enough to differentiate.
The blond took one last sip of his water and dragged his wrist along his mouth before turning completely toward you, a scowl in place.
Your eyes widened, and he trailed his gaze down your shaking shoulders as they tensed, fearful. The clear sign of your terror should’ve hurt him, but Bakugo was used to people walking on eggshells around him.
Breathing other people’s fear came naturally to somebody like Bakugo—someone dangerous, angry, and powerful.
He took the pitiful sight of you in, scraping his eyes down your figure twice before his lips twitched with an attempt to comfort you.
Bakugo wasn’t the most sentimental person in the world, but surely he could muster up a few words of encouragement. He felt like he owed it to you—like a friend of a friend situation, per se.
He rested his shoulder against the cold wall, shifting his weight onto it as he looked at you through hooded eyes, and mustered up the courage to comfort somebody as good as a stranger to him.
“You know—“ He cleared his throat, scratching at his cheek as you tilted your head. “Crying’s pathetic. Stop it.”
“Oh,” you said, and your voice was so small, so confused, that it made Bakugo physically cringe.
He crossed his arms, dipping his head in a curt nod. “You’ll wake the whole dorm up at this rate. Shut up and get some sleep.”
Without checking for your reaction, (and assuming it had to be a good one), Bakugo turned, marching up the stairs with a small smile on his face.
As rusty as he was in the comfort department, Bakugo felt confident that his efforts would pay off.
Bakugo kicked his bedroom door open, set his water bottle on his desk, and tucked himself into bed. He hoped his good deed would bring him sweet dreams and a peaceful sleep.
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