Chapter Text
The locker room was quiet.
Late evening hush settled into the concrete and tile, punctuated only by the soft clatter of armor being unlatched and fabric rustling into place.
Todoroki peeled off the last piece of his hero uniform with practiced ease, folding it neatly on the bench beside him.
A clean T-shirt waited to be tugged over his head, but he paused for a moment, catching his breath from the patrol.
His shoulders still ached. He’d taken a pretty hard hit earlier.
Nothing serious—nothing he hadn’t dealt with a hundred times before. He reached back, rubbing at a tight muscle near his spine.
And that’s when he heard the door creak open behind him.
“I swear we’re not being weird,” came Midoriya’s voice immediately, just a touch too chipper for the dim, echoey room. “We just—uh—we needed to catch you before you left!”
Todoroki blinked over his shoulder. “You do know this is the men’s locker room, right?”
“Totally aware!” Ochako chimed in, bouncing on the balls of her feet just behind Midoriya. “I promise not to look.”
Midoriya had already turned around and was inspecting a very interesting spot on the ceiling.
Todoroki sighed and reached for his shirt. “If this is about helping with another training seminar, the answer is no. Kat bailed on the last one and left me with twenty third-years and one busted air conditioning unit.”
“It’s not that,” Midoriya said quickly. “It’s actually... kind of personal.”
That made Todoroki pause. He pulled the shirt down over his head, smoothing it into place with a slow hand. “Alright. What is it?”
Midoriya and Ochako exchanged a look. It was the kind of look people gave each other before doing something reckless. Or sacred. Or both.
Ochako stepped forward, wringing her hands. “We have to go out of town next week. There’s a long-term mission—high risk, high security, limited comms... but we can’t say no.”
Midoriya added, “And our usual babysitter backed out at the last minute.”
Todoroki’s brow furrowed. “You want me to…” he trailed off.
Ochako finished for him, hopeful. “Babysit Koharu.”
A long pause.
Todoroki stared at them, unmoving. Then, very slowly, he said, “You know Katsuki doesn’t like children.”
“He doesn’t not like children,” Midoriya said, a little too quickly. “He just—he hasn’t been around them much.”
Todoroki raised one very unimpressed eyebrow. “He called a kid at the agency a ‘screaming feral gremlin’ and then asked where its leash was.”
“Okay,” Midoriya admitted, holding up his hands, “but you’ve always been great with her. And I know you—you’ve said before you’d like kids one day, right?”
Todoroki hesitated, with a slight wince. “…I said I thought about it.”
Ochako stepped in gently. “That’s enough for us.”
He looked down at his hands. Still faintly red from earlier—healing but tender.
“I don’t know if I’d be any good at it,” he said after a beat. “My childhood wasn’t exactly a model for good parenting.”
The words tasted bitter as he said them, but he didn’t look away. He owed them honesty.
Ochako’s expression didn’t falter. “That’s exactly why you’d be good at it.”
He blinked.
“You’re thoughtful. You’re patient. You listen. And you’d never, ever let her feel small or scared.” Her voice was soft now, warm with quiet certainty. “That’s all it takes, really.”
Todoroki swallowed. “I... I don’t know.”
Midoriya added, “We’d be one call away. Literally. If anything felt off, you could always call.”
Todoroki didn’t answer right away. He sat down on the bench, running a hand through his hair.
The weight of it settled over him slowly.
This wasn’t a favor. This wasn’t about trust as a teammate. This was everything. Their daughter. Their world.
And they were offering her up—for safekeeping—to him.
Finally, he nodded. Just once. “I’ll talk to Katsuki,” he murmured.
Ochako beamed. “Thank you.”
Midoriya looked like he might cry with relief. “She’s gonna be so excited.”
*
The apartment smelled like garlic and steam by the time Todoroki walked in.
Bakugo was already in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up and brow furrowed, focused on two simmering pots like they were about to betray him.
“You’re late,” Bakugo said without looking up.
Todoroki stepped out of his shoes. “Got cornered by Midoriya and Uraraka.”
Bakugo snorted. “What, they rope you into another support group panel? Please tell me you told ‘em no.”
There was no answer.
Bakugo glanced over his shoulder, frown tugging at his mouth—but Todoroki had already padded over to the sink, washing his hands in silence.
His expression was unreadable, maybe just a little tired.
Weird.
*
Dinner was easy. Familiar.
They ate on the couch like always—Todoroki tucked in on one side, Bakugo sprawled comfortably on the other, one leg draped over Todoroki’s like a silent claim.
The TV played something neither of them were really watching.
Bakugo griped about some idiotic intern at the agency who set off a sprinkler system by breathing too hard, and Todoroki let out a soft laugh at the exact right time.
But Bakugo noticed it.
The way Todoroki’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
The way he stared just a little too long at his empty bowl before getting up to rinse it.
Something was off.
And Bakugo wasn’t the kind of guy to let off go unchecked.
*
“Alright,” Bakugo said finally, once they’d settled back onto the couch. He nudged Todoroki’s leg with his own. “Spill it.”
Todoroki blinked. “Spill what?”
“Don’t play dumb, I invented that look. You’ve been weird since you got home.”
“I’m not being weird.”
Bakugo stared him down.
Todoroki stared right back.
The stare-off lasted five seconds before Todoroki broke it with a sigh and leaned his head back against the couch. “…They asked me for a favor,” he said quietly.
Bakugo waited.
“They need someone to watch Koharu next week. Their sitter backed out. It’s a big mission, and they don’t want to take her with them.”
Bakugo nodded slowly. “Okay.”
“And I told them we would.”
There it was.
Bakugo sat up like he’d been slapped. “You what?”
“I told them—”
“I heard you,” Bakugo snapped. “You agreed to babysit Midoriya’s kid without even asking me?”
“I was going to ask you,” Todoroki said, frustratingly calm, like he hadn’t just lobbed a parenting grenade into their living room. “I just—said yes first.”
Bakugo got to his feet, pacing in a tight, annoyed circle like he was building up steam. “You know I’m not good with kids. I don’t—why the hell would you agree to something like that?”
“She’s a child, not a bomb,” Todoroki murmured.
“Same difference!” Bakugo barked, running a hand through his hair. “She cries, she talks a lot, she floats when she gets upset! That’s a liability!”
Todoroki looked down at his hands, and Bakugo didn’t miss the way his fingers curled tightly into his lap.
“I didn’t think you’d want to,” Todoroki said quietly. “I told them that. I told them you don’t like kids. But they trust us, and they are in a bind. I didn’t want to say no.”
Bakugo turned to snap back, some sharp thing ready on his tongue—
But the look on Todoroki’s face stopped him cold.
It wasn’t frustration. It wasn’t his usual placid indifference.
It was hurt.
Like Bakugo’s yelling had cracked something open in him, something soft and sore that Todoroki hadn’t meant to show.
For a beat, the room was silent.
“…Shit,” Bakugo muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“I apologize. I shouldn’t have said yes without asking,” Todoroki admitted, voice flat. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like your opinion didn’t matter.”
“Yeah, well,” Bakugo grumbled. “You kinda did.”
Todoroki nodded.
He wasn’t fighting back. Wasn’t pushing. Just—accepting it.
Quiet and sad and too tired to argue.
And Bakugo felt like a total asshole.
He sighed, long and sharp, like it hurt.
Then he flopped back onto the couch beside Todoroki and let his head fall back against the cushions. “…How long?”
“Five days.”
Bakugo groaned. “Goddammit.”
Todoroki spoke up softly. “I hear you. I’ll tell them we’re unavailable.”
“Nope, you already said yes. We’re in it now.” Bakugo stared up at the ceiling, resigned. “Jesus. Five whole days.”
Todoroki blinked. “You’re saying yes?”
Bakugo didn’t look at him, just grumbled, “Yeah. I guess. If it’s what you want.”
Todoroki blinked again. Then—softly, almost shyly—he said, “Thank you.”
Bakugo reached over without looking and hooked their pinkies together. “Don’t get used to it,” he muttered.
But Todoroki was already smiling.
***