Work Text:
Izuku Midoriya's fingers were calloused and stained with machine oil, a far cry from the untouched, notebook-filled hands he'd had when he first arrived at U.A. The Support Course workshop was empty this late in the evening, the only sounds the gentle hum of machinery and the scratch of his pencil against paper as he sketched yet another design.
The fifth one today. None of them good enough.
He crumpled the paper and tossed it toward the already-overflowing bin in the corner. It missed, joining a small colony of discarded ideas on the floor. The failure was a fitting metaphor for his life—always aiming, always missing.
"Pathetic," he muttered to himself, the word familiar on his tongue. It wasn't Kacchan's voice in his head anymore—it was his own. Somewhere along the line, he had internalized every insult, every jeer, until they became the background noise of his thoughts.
Izuku glanced at the clock on the wall: 2:17 AM. He should go back to the dorms, try to sleep, but what was the point? His dreams were filled with the same thing anyway—visions of himself in a hero costume, saving people, being someone who mattered. Then he'd wake up to the reality of being Quirkless Deku, the Support Course consolation prize.
He reached for his thermos, finding it empty. His fifth coffee of the night, gone. With a sigh, he stood up, stretching muscles that protested from hours of hunching over his workbench. The motion sent pinpricks of pain through his back, but he welcomed it. Physical pain was easier to deal with than the constant ache in his chest.
"Just one more try," he told himself, settling back down and pulling a fresh sheet of paper forward. His eyes burned, vision blurring at the edges, but he blinked hard and forced himself to focus.
The new gauntlet design for Bakugou was giving him trouble. It needed to be perfect—not just functional, but exceptional. Anything less and Kacchan would reject it outright, probably with a sneer and some cutting remark about how useless Deku couldn't even do Support right.
The door to the workshop banged open, and Izuku flinched so hard he knocked his toolbox off the desk. Wrenches and screwdrivers clattered across the floor in a metallic symphony of failure, the noise amplified in the late-night silence.
"Still here, Deku?"
That voice. Izuku didn't need to turn around to know who it belonged to, but he did anyway, his body responding before his mind could stop it—a Pavlovian reaction from years of conditioning.
Katsuki Bakugou stood in the doorway, his U.A. hero costume slightly singed from whatever battle training he'd just completed. His blonde hair was damp with sweat, his crimson eyes sharp and alert despite the late hour. He looked powerful. Confident. Everything Izuku wasn't.
"H-hey, Kacchan." Izuku hated how his voice still trembled. After all this time, after all his efforts to prove he belonged here despite being Quirkless, his body still betrayed him. Old habits, old fears, rising to the surface whenever Bakugou was near.
Bakugou's eyes narrowed as he took in the disaster of a workshop—parts strewn everywhere, failed prototypes hanging from walls, the dark circles under Izuku's eyes that looked like bruises in the harsh fluorescent lighting.
"Power Loader said you've been sleeping here."
It wasn't a question, but Izuku answered anyway. "Just working on some stuff. Hero support equipment isn't going to build itself." He tried for a light tone, but it fell flat, his exhaustion bleeding through every syllable.
Bakugou scoffed, stepping into the room and kicking a piece of metal out of his way. It skittered across the floor, coming to rest against a half-assembled jetpack. "You look like shit."
"Thanks for the observation," Izuku muttered, turning back to his desk. He picked up his pencil and started a new sketch, hoping Bakugou would just leave. He didn't need to be reminded of everything he couldn't be, not tonight, not when he was already teetering on the edge of a darkness that had been his companion for weeks.
But Bakugou didn't leave. Instead, he walked around the workshop, examining Izuku's creations with critical eyes. His gaze lingered on a prototype shield, a pair of hover-boots, a communication device disguised as a simple earpiece. Despite himself, Izuku felt a flicker of pride. Those were good designs, innovations that had earned him reluctant praise from Power Loader.
"What's this supposed to be?" Bakugou asked, picking up a half-finished gauntlet from a side table—an early version of the one Izuku was currently struggling with.
"Put that down, Kacchan. It's not ready." Izuku's fingers tightened around his pencil.
"Looks like junk to me." Bakugou turned it over, his expression dismissive.
Something snapped inside Izuku. The pencil broke between his fingers with a crack that echoed his fraying composure. "I said put it down."
Something in his tone must have surprised Bakugou, because he actually did as asked, setting the gauntlet back on the workbench with unusual care. But then he leaned against the table, arms crossed, red eyes boring into Izuku with an intensity that made him want to squirm.
"The fuck is your problem?"
Izuku laughed, a hollow sound that didn't contain a trace of humor. "My problem? You want to know my problem?" He stood up suddenly, his stool clattering to the floor behind him. "My problem is that I'm stuck here making gadgets for people like you while you're out there living my dream."
The words hung in the air between them, raw and honest in a way Izuku had never allowed himself to be with Bakugou. Not since they were children, before Bakugou's Quirk manifested and changed everything.
Bakugou's expression hardened, his jaw clenching. "Not my fault you were born useless."
The words hit like they always did, but Izuku was too tired to flinch this time. He was just... tired. Bone-deep, soul-crushing tired.
"You know what? You're right." Izuku's voice was quiet now, all the anger drained out, leaving only resignation. "It's not your fault. It's not anyone's fault. But that doesn't make it any easier to watch you—all of you—become heroes while I'm stuck on the sidelines."
"So that's it? You're just giving up?" There was something beneath the challenge in Bakugou's voice, something Izuku couldn't quite identify.
Izuku's hands curled into fists at his sides. "I never said that."
"You didn't have to." Bakugou gestured at the workshop, at the mess, at Izuku himself. "Look at this place. Look at yourself. This isn't the Deku I know."
"The Deku you know?" Izuku's voice rose again, emotion flooding back into it. "The Deku you know was a punching bag. A stepping stone. Someone you could mock and belittle to make yourself feel stronger."
Bakugou's eyes widened slightly, but Izuku wasn't done. Years of repressed feelings were bubbling to the surface, and he couldn't stop them now if he tried.
"But guess what, Kacchan? I'm still here. I still got into U.A. I might not be in the Hero Course, but I'm making equipment that saves lives. So no, I'm not giving up. I'm just taking a different path."
Silence fell between them, heavy with years of unspoken words and buried feelings. Bakugou looked away first, his gaze falling on the pile of discarded sketches near the bin.
"What are you working on?" he asked finally, his voice gruff but lacking its usual edge.
Izuku hesitated, then sighed. There was no point in hiding it. "Upgrades for your gauntlets. They're inefficient. You're wasting too much energy on the recoil."
Bakugou's head snapped up, genuine surprise flashing across his face. "My gauntlets? Why the hell would you—"
"Because I can see the weakness in your technique," Izuku cut him off, something he would never have dared do before. "You're favoring your right side after big explosions. Your tendons are getting strained. You need better shock absorption and weight distribution."
For once, Bakugou seemed at a loss for words. He stared at Izuku with an expression that wasn't quite anger, wasn't quite surprise, but something in between.
"You're still analyzing me," he said finally, and there was an odd note in his voice.
Izuku shrugged, looking away. "Old habits."
Another silence stretched between them, but this one felt different. Less hostile, more... contemplative. Bakugou walked over to the desk and picked up Izuku's latest sketch, examining it with a critical eye that reminded Izuku of their teachers during practical exams.
"This could work," he admitted reluctantly, pointing to the diagram. "But you need to adjust the weight distribution."
Izuku blinked, not quite sure he'd heard correctly. "What?"
Bakugou grabbed a pencil from the desk and began marking up the sketch with bold, confident strokes. "Here and here. Too much material. It'll slow me down."
Izuku found himself moving to stand beside Bakugou, their shoulders almost touching as they bent over the design together. He was acutely aware of the proximity, of the faint smell of nitroglycerin that always clung to Bakugou's skin, of the way the other boy's hands moved across the paper with precision that belied his explosive personality.
"I hadn't considered that," Izuku murmured, watching Bakugou's rough but surprisingly precise adjustments. "But you're right."
"Of course I'm right, nerd." There was no real venom in the words, just the ghost of their old dynamic, stripped of its cruelty.
For the next hour, they worked in a strange harmony—Izuku explaining his ideas, Bakugou critiquing and adjusting, both of them creating something better than either could have alone. It was the longest they'd spent together without fighting since they were children, and Izuku found himself slipping into a rhythm that felt both foreign and familiar.
"The ignition system needs work," Bakugou said at one point, pointing to a section of the design. "It's too sensitive. One wrong move and I could blow my own hands off."
Izuku nodded, making a note. "What about something like this?" He sketched quickly, years of hero analysis giving him insights that even Bakugou had to acknowledge.
"Not bad," Bakugou admitted, and coming from him, it was high praise.
Izuku couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his lips. "Thanks."
Bakugou grunted in response, but there was a different quality to his silence now.
As they worked, Izuku felt something shift inside him—a loosening of the knot that had been tightening in his chest for weeks. He was still tired, still struggling with his place at U.A., still mourning the hero he would never become. But for the first time in a long time, he felt a spark of the old fire that had driven him to apply to U.A. in the first place.
The conversation stayed mostly focused on the design, but occasionally it would drift to other topics—a particularly brutal training exercise Bakugou had completed earlier, a new technique Aizawa was teaching the hero course, a rumor about a villain attack that had the teachers on edge.
"All Might's been different lately," Bakugou mentioned at one point, his tone casual but his eyes sharp on Izuku's face. "Distracted."
Izuku kept his expression neutral, though his heart skipped a beat. His secret meetings with All Might had continued even after his placement in the Support Course, the former Symbol of Peace insisting that Izuku's analytical mind was a valuable asset. "Maybe he's just tired. Being a teacher is different from being a hero."
Bakugou made a noncommittal noise, but Izuku could feel him watching, assessing. Bakugou had always been perceptive, quick to notice things others missed. It was one of the qualities that made him such a formidable opponent—and such a difficult friend.
Friend. The word felt strange in Izuku's mind, applied to Bakugou. They weren't friends, hadn't been for years. But what were they now? Classmates didn't quite cover it. Rivals implied a competition that Izuku couldn't participate in anymore. Former friends? That didn't seem right either.
The question lingered in Izuku's mind as they continued to work, the design taking shape under their combined efforts.
"How's Uraraka?" Bakugou asked suddenly, the question coming out of nowhere.
Izuku's pencil paused on the paper. "What?"
"Uraraka," Bakugou repeated, not looking up from the section he was working on. "Round Face. You two still a thing?"
Izuku felt heat rise to his cheeks. "We were never—I mean, we're just friends."
Bakugou snorted. "Sure."
"We are," Izuku insisted, though the protest sounded weak even to his own ears. The truth was more complicated. Uraraka had confessed her feelings shortly after the Sports Festival, but Izuku, drowning in his own insecurities and struggling with his placement in the Support Course, had pulled away. They were still close, but there was a tension between them now, an unresolved current that made their interactions awkward.
"Whatever," Bakugou said, dropping the subject as abruptly as he'd raised it. But there was something in his tone that made Izuku glance at him curiously.
Was Bakugou... jealous? The thought was so absurd that Izuku almost laughed. Bakugou had never shown any interest in Uraraka, or in anyone for that matter. His sole focus had always been becoming the number one hero, surpassing All Might, proving himself the best.
And yet... there had been moments, fleeting and easily dismissed, when Izuku had caught Bakugou looking at him with an expression he couldn't decipher. Moments when their eyes would meet across a classroom or a battlefield, and something would pass between them, electric and undefined.
Izuku pushed the thoughts away, focusing back on the design. He was overtired, his mind playing tricks on him. Kacchan had made his feelings clear years ago—Deku was useless, a pebble on the path to greatness, not worth his time or attention.
Except... here he was, in the middle of the night, working with Izuku on a support item as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
"What happens if I use both gauntlets at once?" Bakugou asked, his finger tracing a line on the paper. "Will the recoil double?"
Izuku frowned, considering. "Not if we adjust this component here." He leaned in, their heads almost touching as he made the correction. "See? This distributes the force more evenly."
Bakugou nodded slowly. "Smart."
The simple acknowledgment sent a warm feeling spreading through Izuku's chest. It wasn't effusive praise, but from Bakugou, it meant something.
They continued working in companionable silence, the tension that had marked the beginning of their interaction gradually dissipating. Izuku found himself relaxing, his movements becoming more fluid, his mind clearer despite the late hour.
"Why are you doing this?" Bakugou asked suddenly, breaking the silence.
Izuku looked up, confused. "Doing what?"
"This." Bakugou gestured at the design. "Working on support gear for me. After everything."
The question hung in the air, loaded with years of history. After everything. After the bullying, the mockery, the constant reminders of Izuku's worthlessness. After the day Bakugou had told him to take a swan dive off the roof and hope for a Quirk in his next life.
Izuku could have lied, could have said it was just an assignment, or that he was working on gear for all the hero course students. But something about the late hour, the quiet intimacy of the workshop, the way Bakugou was looking at him—expectant, almost vulnerable—made him tell the truth.
"Because I still believe in you," he said softly. "I always have. Even when I hated you for how you treated me, I never stopped believing you'd be a great hero."
Bakugou's expression flickered, something raw and unguarded passing across his features before he got it under control. "I don't need your belief," he said, but the words lacked their usual bite.
"I know," Izuku replied, and there was no bitterness in it. Just acceptance. "You never did. That doesn't stop me from giving it."
Bakugou stared at him for a long moment, his crimson eyes searching Izuku's face as if seeing him for the first time. Then he looked away, back to the design. "Your circuits are crossed here," he said gruffly, pointing to a section.
Izuku recognized the deflection for what it was, but he didn't push. Some things were too deeply buried, too painful to excavate in one night. "You're right," he said instead, making the correction. "Good catch."
They continued working, but something had shifted again, the air between them charged with unspoken words and half-acknowledged truths.
When they finally finished the design, the sky outside the workshop windows was beginning to lighten, the first hints of dawn painting the horizon. Izuku sat back, stretching his cramped muscles, a sense of accomplishment warring with his exhaustion.
"It's a good design," Bakugou said, surveying their work. "When can you build it?"
Izuku considered. "I'll need to get some materials from Power Loader, but I could probably have a prototype ready in a week."
Bakugou nodded, gathering up his things. He hesitated at the edge of the desk, looking as if he wanted to say something more. Then he reached out and tapped the design with one finger.
"Make sure the grip is adjustable," he said. "My hands swell after long battles."
It was such a small detail, such a mundane request, but it hit Izuku like a revelation. Bakugou was taking this seriously. Taking him seriously.
"I will," Izuku promised.
Bakugou nodded again, then turned to leave. He paused at the door, not quite looking back.
"Don't stay here all night again," he said, his voice gruff. "You're useless if you can't keep your eyes open."
It was classic Bakugou—concern wrapped in an insult, care disguised as criticism. But for once, Izuku could see through it, could recognize the gesture for what it was.
"I won't," he said, and meant it.
Bakugou left without another word, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
Izuku sat alone in the workshop, the quiet hum of machinery the only sound. He should feel drained, after the emotional roller coaster of the night and the lack of sleep, but instead, he felt... lighter. As if some weight he'd been carrying had shifted, not disappeared entirely, but become bearable.
He looked down at the design they'd created together—a perfect blend of his technical knowledge and Bakugou's practical experience. For the first time in weeks, he felt a spark of the old fire, the passion that had driven him since childhood.
He might not be a hero in the way he'd always dreamed, but maybe—just maybe—he could still be part of their world.
Even if it was just from the sidelines.
Even if it was just through the tools he created.
Even if it meant helping the boy who'd broken him down, now become the man who might be letting him build himself back up.
Izuku gathered up the design and his notes, carefully organizing them in his folder. He'd come back later, after some rest, and start building the prototype. For now, though, he needed sleep.
As he walked back to the dorms, the early morning air crisp against his skin, he thought about the night's unexpected turn. About the way Bakugou had looked at him, really looked at him, perhaps for the first time in years. About the strange, tentative truce they'd established over technical diagrams and circuit designs.
It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't friendship. It wasn't even the beginning of those things.
But it was something.
And for now, that was enough.
The prototype took nine days to build, not the seven Izuku had estimated. There were complications with the materials, a small explosion that singed his eyebrows, and a recalibration of the ignition system that proved more challenging than anticipated.
But finally, it was ready.
Izuku stood outside the training grounds, the completed gauntlets in a protective case under his arm, his heart hammering against his ribs. He hadn't seen Bakugou since that night in the workshop—their paths rarely crossed now that they were in different courses—and he wasn't sure what to expect.
Would Bakugou even remember their conversation? Would he dismiss the gauntlets without trying them? Would he revert to the cruel, dismissive Kacchan of before?
Izuku took a deep breath and pushed open the door.
The training ground was a scene of controlled chaos. The hero course students were engaged in a battle simulation, groups of them facing off against robotic opponents under Aizawa's watchful eye. Izuku spotted Uraraka floating above the fray, Todoroki creating an ice barrier, Kirishima hardening his skin against a mechanical assault.
And there was Bakugou, in the thick of it, explosions erupting from his palms as he propelled himself through the air. He was magnificent, Izuku thought, a force of nature in human form.
For a moment, the old envy surfaced, sharp and bitter. But Izuku pushed it away. He was here for a reason, with something to contribute. He waited at the edge of the training ground, watching as the exercise concluded.
Aizawa gathered the students for a debriefing, his monotone voice carrying across the space. Izuku waited patiently, the case growing heavy under his arm.
When the group dispersed, Bakugou spotted him. There was a moment's hesitation, then he broke away from his classmates and walked over, his stride confident, his expression unreadable.
"You're late," he said by way of greeting.
Izuku managed a small smile. "Sorry. Had some technical difficulties."
Bakugou eyed the case. "That them?"
Izuku nodded, setting the case down and opening it. The gauntlets gleamed in the artificial light, the product of countless hours of work and a night of unexpected collaboration.
"They look different than the design," Bakugou observed, picking one up and turning it over in his hands.
"I made some adjustments," Izuku explained. "The materials we discussed weren't working with the ignition system, so I had to improvise."
Bakugou nodded, examining the gauntlet closely. "How do they work?"
Izuku launched into an explanation, his hands moving animatedly as he detailed the mechanics, the safety features, the improvements over Bakugou's current gear. As he talked, he found himself slipping into the familiar rhythm of hero analysis, his mind clear and focused in a way it hadn't been for weeks.
Bakugou listened with surprising attentiveness, asking questions that showed he was genuinely interested, not just humoring Izuku. When the explanation was complete, he slipped the gauntlets onto his hands, testing the weight and feel.
"The grip is good," he said, flexing his fingers. "Adjustable, like I asked."
Izuku nodded, a small thrill of pride running through him. "I added a thermal regulator too. It should help with the sweat buildup."
Bakugou raised an eyebrow. "Smart."
He walked to the center of the training ground, looking back at Izuku. "Let's test them."
Izuku followed, nervous excitement building in his chest. This was the moment of truth.
Bakugou took a stance, arms extended, the gauntlets gleaming on his wrists. Then, with a feral grin, he unleashed an explosion.
The sound was deafening, the light blinding, but the gauntlets performed exactly as designed—channeling the force, minimizing the recoil, protecting Bakugou's arms from the strain of his own Quirk.
Bakugou landed lightly on his feet, examining the gauntlets with an approving nod. "Not bad, Deku. Not bad at all."
The simple praise warmed Izuku more than he would have thought possible. "Thanks, Kacchan."
They continued testing, Bakugou putting the gauntlets through their paces, Izuku making mental notes of adjustments for the next version. It was surprising how well they worked together, how easily they fell into a rhythm of action and analysis, test and response.
When they finished, Bakugou was sweating but satisfied, the gauntlets having exceeded even his exacting standards.
"I'll use these in the next training exercise," he decided, removing them carefully. "See how they hold up in a real fight."
Izuku nodded, already thinking of improvements for version 2.0. "Let me know how they perform. I can make adjustments."
Bakugou handed the gauntlets back, their hands brushing in the exchange. A small contact, inconsequential, but it sent a jolt through Izuku that had nothing to do with machinery or Quirks.
Their eyes met, and for a moment, Izuku thought he saw something in Bakugou's gaze—a recognition, an acknowledgment, a possibility.
Then Bakugou looked away, his expression shuttering. "I should go. Aizawa wants us for another briefing."
Izuku nodded, trying to ignore the pang of disappointment. "Sure. I'll get these ready for the next test."
Bakugou turned to leave, then paused, looking back over his shoulder. "Hey, Deku."
"Yeah?"
"You would have made a good hero."
The words hit Izuku like a physical blow, stealing his breath. Coming from anyone else, they would have been a kindness. Coming from Bakugou, they were an admission, an apology, a bridge across a chasm he'd thought impassable.
Before Izuku could respond, Bakugou was gone, jogging back to join his classmates.
Izuku stood alone on the training ground, the empty case in his hands, Bakugou's words echoing in his mind.
You would have made a good hero.
Present tense, Izuku realized. Not "could have" or "might have" but "would have." As if the possibility still existed, as if the dream wasn't dead but merely deferred.
And maybe it was. Maybe there was more than one way to be a hero. Maybe the path wasn't as straight or as clear as he'd always believed, but it was still there, waiting for him to find it.
Izuku closed the case and headed back to the workshop, his steps lighter than they had been in months. He had work to do—improvements to make, designs to refine, a path to forge.
And for the first time since learning he was Quirkless, he believed he might find it.
Even if it wasn't the path he'd always imagined.
Even if it meant helping others shine while he worked in the shadows.
Even if it meant a lifetime of calloused fingers and machine oil and late nights in the workshop.
Because maybe, just maybe, that was his way of becoming a hero too.