Chapter Text
The sterile hum of the fluorescent lights in the UA hallway was a familiar, if irritating, companion for Bakugo. He approached Aizawa's office, the frosted glass door doing little to obscure the blurry outline of his teacher waiting inside. Bakugo paused, knuckles tightening on the cold metal of the doorknob. He hated this, he always tried to avoid vulnerability. It was a weakness he refused to acknowledge, a chink in his armor that he thought would expose him to the world. Aizawa's office was usually a place of swift reprimand or quick problem-solving. This was something different, something…soft.
He shoved the door open, the sound echoing in the quiet hallway, and strode inside, his usual explosive entrance dampened by a reluctant uncertainty. Aizawa was slumped in his desk chair, though his gaze was sharp and unwavering as Bakugo entered. The office was sparsely decorated, a reflection of the hero's pragmatic nature – a desk, two chairs, and a small, potted plant that seemed to be barely clinging to life in the corner.
Bakugo took the seat furthest from the desk, his back ramrod straight, and stared intently at the wall, refusing to meet Aizawa's gaze. The air crackled with a tension that was almost palpable, a silent battle waged between a student's stubborn refusal and a teacher's weary resolve.
Aizawa sighed, a long, drawn-out sound that seemed to chase the tension from the room, just a little. "So, Bakugo," he began, his voice surprisingly mild, "Heard you had a particularly... spirited debate with that toaster in the dorms this morning."
Bakugo's head snapped around, a flicker of his usual indignation sparking in his crimson eyes. "It was faulty, Eraser Head! Almost burned my damn toast. Had to remind it who was boss!" He immediately regretted the outburst. He was here for therapy, not to defend his culinary encounters.
Aizawa raised a brow, a tired smirk appearing on his lips. "Right. And your 'reminders' usually involve property damage, if I recall correctly." He gestured vaguely at Bakugo's still-clenching fists. "Keeping those explosions indoors for now, hopefully?"
Bakugo snorted, a sharp, dismissive sound that was more habit than amusement. "It was a challenge. And yes, explosions were kept to appropriate targets. Unlike some people who can't handle a simple kitchen appliance." He finally risked a glance at Aizawa, a defiant spark in his eyes that dared his teacher to comment further on his "anger issues."
Aizawa simply watched him, a faint, unreadable expression on his face. The easy banter felt thin and fragile, like stretched rubber before it snapped. Bakugo knew it was a deliberate tactic – Aizawa was trying to disarm him, to make him lower his guard before getting to the real reason he was dragged into this room. The feeling of needing to be fixed was especially unwelcome from someone who seemed so annoyingly unflappable.
"So, the toaster," Aizawa said, pushing a little further. "A minor incident, by your standards. But it did escalate quickly, didn't it? From burnt toast to 'reminding it who was boss.' Can you describe that transition?"
Bakugo scoffed again, looking back at the wall. "It's a damn toaster, not a person. It didn't need a psychological evaluation. It needed to work." He punctuated the last word with a frustrated gesture, his hand hovering over his lap as if contemplating another explosion.
Aizawa remained silent, letting the frustration simmer. Bakugo, despite himself, found the lack of immediate confrontation unsettling. It felt like Aizawa was waiting for him to trip himself up, to reveal the cracks he so desperately tried to hide.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Bakugo's impatience began to gnaw at him. He hated pointless conversations. He hated being prodded. He hated this entire situation. Bakugo's impatience mounted. He slammed his hands on his knees, the sudden sharp sound echoing in the small office.
"Alright, Eraser Head, cut the crap!" he snarled, finally looking directly at Aizawa, his eyes blazing with irritation. "Why am I really here? Just spit it out.”
Aizawa's expression didn't change, but his eyes, despite their usual hooded appearance, seemed to intensify.
"You're here because you're struggling, Bakugo," he stated, his voice now devoid of any lightness, becoming the steady, no-nonsense tone Bakugo knew so well from the classroom. "And ignoring it, or taking it out on inanimate objects, isn't going to make it disappear."
Bakugo seethed, his fists clenching and unclenching in his lap. He hated being seen as "struggling." It was antithetical to everything he'd built himself up to be – the strong, the indomitable, the one who would surpass All Might.
The word, hanging in the air, felt like an accusation, a dismissal of his entire persona. He wanted to erupt, to blast away the implication that he was anything less than perfectly fine. But something in Aizawa's steady gaze, devoid of judgment yet full of an unsettling understanding, held him back.
"I'm not struggling," Bakugo bit out, the words laced with a dangerous edge, "I'm just... frustrated. Things aren't going the way they're supposed to. And everyone keeps getting in my damn way." His eyes flickered to the potted plant, as if it too might be conspiring against him.
Aizawa nodded slowly, deliberately. "Frustration is a powerful emotion, Bakugo," he acknowledged, his voice still calm, almost too calm. "It can be a motivator, or it can be a cage. You seem to be leaning towards the latter recently."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk, his gaze boring into Bakugo's. "When you feel that frustration, what does it really feel like? Beyond the explosions and the shouting."
Bakugo hesitated, the question catching him off guard. He'd never really examined the feeling beyond the initial surge of heat and the instinct to blow something up. Now, forced to confront it, a raw, uncomfortable emptiness bubbled beneath the surface.
It was a sensation he actively suppressed, a weakness he refused to name. Aizawa, sensing his hesitation, didn't push. He simply waited, allowing the silence to stretch, a subtle pressure on Bakugo's tightly wound control.
Then, with a soft rasp of material against wood, Aizawa pushed back from his desk and reached for a clipboard resting on a nearby shelf. He picked up a pen and flipped open the top page. Aizawa often takes a direct, question-based approach with students.
"Alright, Bakugo," he said, his tone shifting, becoming more formal, more reminiscent of a classroom. "If elaboration is not provided, a more structured approach will be used." He glanced down at the clipboard.
"Some questions will be asked. Just answer them. Honestly." He looked up, meeting Bakugo's wary stare. "The session will continue until progress is made."