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Bakugou prides himself in his cooking, always has. So when Best Jeanist gave him his own department in the agency with various heroes, sidekicks and support under him, he decided he’d build up trust in various ways.
One of them was to cook for his colleagues weekly, gathering them for lunch in the open office at the center of his department floor, only asking them all to provide their own drinks.
It’s popular immediately, everyone gushing over the homemade food by a rising hero like Dynamight. He takes the praise in stride and it motivates him to surpass his own dishes every week. There’s only one issue.
You don’t eat any of it.
It’s not like you choose to be anti-social when this particular lunch break rolls around. You just always bring your own bento box, even if he keeps insisting it’s all free and that he always makes more than needed so that no one needs to hold back.
He makes a variety of dishes; Asian, European, even American styled foods, and whenever he goes directly to your seat to personally present the dishes, you just give him this wide smile that turns his knees into jelly before you say, “that’s so kind of you, Bakugou! Thank you.” before you stab your chopsticks into your own lunch.
It ticks him off, but mostly, it makes him deflate. Of course Bakugou’s not cooking for eight people once a week only to impress you, but it had been part of his 12-step plan to make you fall in love with him. Though he won’t ever admit that he has specific steps set in motion.
First was to get noticed by you in the agency as a whole. Then, to be promoted by Best Jeanist from newly hired sidekick to established hero, and third's to get his own secretary – which you became, because you got along so well by the water cooler. After that was to get this department. A minor step in the right direction was also to get you a new desk that had more space for your trinkets.
His current step, the food, seems to be his Achilles heel. He hadn’t even considered the possibility that you’d have the audacity to be uninterested. You’ve gotten along so well for years now, it’s strange that you don’t even want to taste. He can’t find it in himself to see it as rude, because as earlier established, you dutifully show up and socialize.
He’s in his office, boots on the desk as he contemplates his next move. His food was supposed to have given him an in into your life outside of work, inviting you home to teach you a few cooking tricks, have a nice wine and fluid conversations that’d make you laugh and weak in the knees.
And yet, here he is, dateless.
For a few weeks now he’s been taken peeks at your lunches whenever he passes your desk, but it’s not like anything specific glares at him, like a heavy gluten allergy or lactose intolerance. There’s dairy some days, he’s seen peanuts in your bento, too – and meat. Your diet really doesn’t exude vegetarianism or like you have any other food restrictions. Before weekends, he’s seen you taste the cakes that Himiko, the support secretary, brings with her. But you declined the baked goods he was given once from a rescue mission on a Tuesday. They were both the same type of cake.
Are you just incredibly picky?
He shakes his head and hides his pout in the collar of his suit; he needs to go on patrol soon. He doesn’t have time to think about this all day.
//
A few more grueling weeks of grumbling and groaning over how to make you eat his food, he notices a pattern in your lunches that’s taken him a while to put together. Certain items are never in the bento, like eggs or pineapples.
The other night he ate out with his parents, and his mother loudly talked about her colleague’s stomach issues, not caring that everyone in the restaurant was turning their heads to the conversation; Masaru kept trying to douse her noise level. Not only was the topic sort of awkward when everyone around you is eating (though husband and son were no strangers to such subjects during dinner at the Bakugou household), it’d be a bother if a patron recognized Bakugou.
Of course, Mitsuki paid no heed to anyone else but her family at their table, and explained about the condition she’d just learned about. About certain food triggering reactions even if no official allergy was involved; luckily, the healthcare provided by Mitsuki and Masaru’s company covered some very expensive allergy tests, and she’d then told Mitsuki that she had been diagnosed with IBS.
After being dropped off at his own apartment, he’d sat by his computer and googled IBS, which he learned stands for irritable bowel syndrome. He sucked up all knowledge available on the internet, scientific papers and healthcare provider’s talk about certain diets, testimonials from affected people and watched tons of videos from influencers creating awareness on TikTok. If the bags under his eyes were visible at work the day after, no one commented on it.
//
Now his heartbeat’s through the roof as he puts out the food like usual on the center table, everyone gathering and complimenting him on the smell. His hands are sweaty; more so than normal. He keeps wiping them off on his pants, swallowing excess saliva. In the thermal bag, at the bottom, is a dish specifically made with you in mind. He wonders if you’ll hate it.
You walk in next to Himiko, laughing about a joke she made. You part when you go directly for a seat and Himiko comes up to the make-shift buffet, patting his back in praise.
While everyone is busy filling their plates, Bakugou grabs the last bento box and goes straight to you. He puts it on top of the bento you’re just about to open, “here.”
You freeze for a second, eyes locked on the box. Then you smile up at Bakugou, “that’s so sweet Bakugou, but I brought my own food.”
He almost rolls his eyes before he squats down to lean his arms and head on the table and look up at your eyes. Gently, he says, “it should be safe.”
He hopes his voice doesn't sound as raw as it feels.
The comment takes you back as your eyes are locked onto his. He searches them, drowning in the richness of the color. It’s like he’s at the deep-end of the pool, entranced by a spell, only able to keep himself floating. You raise your brow, “safe?”
He turns away from you with a pout, “I often put pineapple in my curry. And eggs in my bibimbap. This is curry without all the things I’ve noticed you avoid.”
Your eyes travel between the lunch and him, comically back and forth like a cartoon character. “That you’ve noticed I avoid?”
Bakugou blushes; shit. He’d really hoped you wouldn’t catch on to that part. He hides his face in the arms that’s resting on the table edge. “Yeah,” he mutters out, muffled by his hidden face. The silence stretches out, and he’s holding his breath.
After what feels like entirely too long, you let out a small laugh and he hears the lid clicking open. You inhale deeply, and let out a satisfied sigh, “this looks delicious, Bakugou. Did you make it all for me?”
He lifts his head, his eyes still locked to the side. His ears are burning, “mhm,” he nods. You almost coo at him, as you pick up your chopsticks, “this is very kind of you.”
Neither of you notices your colleagues standing around you, various expressions of awe and admiration. You’ve both been the office gossip for some months now.
Bakugou looks at you as soon as you’ve taken the first bite, determined to see your reaction through his embarrassment. Through your chewing you can’t help but smile, stars emerging glittering and shimmering in your eyes as you reach a hand to your cheek, “Bakugou, this is amazing!” you say, taking another mouthful as fast as possible. He loves the way his name sounds when it comes out from your lips; you use it so often it makes him dizzy.
“Can you teach me how to make this? Please?”
Step six completed.
He smirks, “sure. It’s a date.”