Chapter Text
Bakugou shoved the apartment door open with more force than necessary. The lock rattled. The familiar click echoed too loud in the quiet space. He didn’t bother taking off his hero boots. He stepped inside still wrapped in scorched fabric and metal, the smell of smoke and iron clinging to him like something alive. His hero costume felt heavier than usual, as if it had absorbed everything he hadn’t been able to leave behind. He crossed the living room in a straight line and collapsed onto the couch. His body hit the cushions and stayed there, spine curved, head falling back against the armrest. For a long moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe properly. Just stared at the ceiling, eyes burning, jaw locked so tight it hurt.
Thirty-five children.
Seven of them hadn’t made it out.
The number repeated in his head like a malfunctioning alarm. Over and over. As if saying it enough times would turn it into something else. As if it would soften. It didn’t. Bakugou brought a hand up and pressed it hard against his face, fingers digging into his eyes. The world went dark, but the images didn’t stop. Small hands reaching through smoke. Screams swallowed by collapsing concrete. The split second where he had to choose—left corridor or right. He had chosen wrong. He dropped his hand and exhaled sharply, more of a growl than a breath.
The silence after missions like this. The way everything slowed down enough for the thoughts to catch up to him. During the fight, there had been clarity—targets, explosions, movement. His body knew what to do. His mind followed orders. Now there was nothing to do but remember. The anger came next. It always did. Hot and familiar, curling tight in his chest. Anger at the villains. At the system. At the world for letting this happen in the first place. His chest tightened. The thought lodged itself deep, sharp and ugly. He swallowed hard, throat burning, and forced his breathing into something slower, something controlled. Shitty Hair had taught him this. It was still stupid, but it worked. In for four. Hold. Out. It didn’t help.
The apartment smelled like clean laundry and something warm—spices, maybe. Kirishima had probably cooked earlier. The familiarity of it made something in Bakugou’s chest twist painfully. He turned his head toward the hallway, half-expecting to see Kirishima there already. Waiting. Watching him with that quiet concern he never tried to hide.
But the hallway was empty. Good. Bakugou didn’t want to be seen like this. Not tonight. He didn’t want Kirishima’s careful gentleness, the way he always softened his voice around him after bad days. Didn’t want the offer of tea or food or sleep. Didn’t want the reminder that he wasn’t alone—because tonight, he felt like he deserved to be. He pushed himself up with a sharp grunt and finally started peeling off his gear. Gauntlets hit the floor with a dull thud. The weight on his arms disappeared.
“You did everything you could.”
The voice wasn’t there. Just something his mind supplied automatically. Kirishima’s voice. Calm. Steady. Always believing in him a little more than Bakugou believed in himself. Bakugou scoffed under his breath. Bullshit. If he had done everything he could, seven children would still be alive. He sank back onto the couch, this time slumping forward, elbows on knees, hands dangling uselessly between them. His head bowed, blond spikes falling into his eyes. The room felt too quiet now. The kind of quiet that made his thoughts louder. Even with the city lights streaming through the window, his eyes could still make out the small picture on the wall. It was a photo from their high school days. Kirishima was grinning at the camera with a silly, sharp smile. Bakugou was looking at him with a slight smile. It was a stupid photo but Kirishima was so stubborn, and even though Bakugou moved it from there, it kept reappearing in the same spot again and again.
Five years. They had been married for five years. On paper. Just a solution. A convenient arrangement. That was all it was supposed to be. It had happened during one of the worst periods of Bakugou’s life. Not the worst—he refused to give it that power—but close enough that the difference didn’t matter. The patrol itself had been hell. One of those nights that crawled under his skin and stayed there. Too many civilians. Too many unknown variables. Too many moments where things could have gone wrong—and some of them had. Even now, long after the reports had been filed and the news cycle had moved on, his body still hadn’t gotten the message that it was over. Every time he closed his eyes, he was back there. The darkness. The screams. The feeling of being too slow, no matter how fast he moved.
He woke up choking on air, heart slamming violently against his ribs, sheets twisted around his fists like restraints. Night after night after night. Sometimes he didn’t even remember the dream—just the fear clinging to him when he snapped awake, sharp and immediate, as if the danger was still right there in the room.
Sleep became a joke. A few hours here. Thirty minutes there. Sometimes nothing at all.
At first, he told himself he could handle it. He always did. He was Bakugou Katsuki. He didn’t break. He pushed through. But exhaustion was a slow, merciless thing. It dulled his reflexes. Made his explosions come a half-second late. Made his head throb constantly, like a fuse burning too close to the end. Briefings blurred together. Orders grated on his nerves. Every sound felt too loud, every mistake—his or someone else’s—felt unforgivable.
He started snapping at everyone. Shouting during strategy meetings. Biting back insults only to throw them twice as hard later. Even civilians weren’t safe from his temper, and that scared him more than he was willing to admit. People noticed. They always did. Teammates kept their distance. Sidekicks stopped approaching him unless absolutely necessary. Even Deku—stupid, stubborn, always-trying-to-understand Deku—gave him space after one particularly ugly outburst. The green-haired idiot had looked at him with something close to concern instead of anger, and Bakugou had hated that most of all.
He told himself he preferred it that way. There was only one person who didn’t. No matter how sharp Bakugou’s voice got. No matter how late he stumbled in. No matter how many nights he spent pacing the apartment instead of sleeping in the bed they technically shared.
Kirishima stayed.
He didn’t lecture. Didn’t push. Didn’t ask questions Bakugou wasn’t ready to answer. He just… adjusted.
They spent those six months closer than usual. Kirishima never left his side. He'd invite him to dinner after patrol, he wanted to go to a movie he'd been looking forward to seeing with him. Bakugou would just accept it. Kirishima wouldn't judge him, he'd just make silly jokes and talk about his day. He'd relieve him of the thoughts in his head.
It took Bakugou longer than it should have to notice that something was wrong with Kirishima. Not because the signs weren’t there—but because Kirishima was good at hiding things. Too good. He laughed at the right moments, kept up his usual optimism, still asked Bakugou if he’d eaten, if he wanted coffee, if he needed anything before heading out.
But there were gaps. Moments where Kirishima’s smile came a second too late. Where his eyes drifted off in the middle of conversations, unfocused, distant. Where he’d sit at the kitchen table long after his food had gone cold, fingers loosely curled around a mug he wasn’t drinking from.
Bakugou noticed because he lived with him. Because he knew Kirishima’s rhythms. The way he usually filled silence without even trying. The way he normally carried himself—solid, grounded, present. This was different.
“What’s wrong with you?” Bakugou snapped one evening, irritation sharp but uneven, like it had missed its true target. “You’ve been staring into space all week."
Kirishima blinked, clearly startled. “Huh?”
“Don’t play dumb,” Bakugou said, arms crossed. “You’re acting weird.”
For a moment, Kirishima just stared at him. Then he laughed softly, scratching the back of his neck in that familiar, nervous way.
“Man, am I really that obvious?”
Bakugou frowned. He hadn’t expected that. “Tch. So there is something.”
Kirishima hesitated. The silence stretched—thick, uncomfortable. He looked down at his hands, fingers interlacing and unlacing as if he couldn’t quite keep them still. “It’s nothing serious,” he said automatically.
Bakugou’s eyes narrowed. “That’s bullshit.”
That finally got Kirishima to look up. Bakugou didn’t soften his tone. Didn’t give him an easy out. He had spent too many nights with Kirishima sitting quietly beside his bed, asking nothing, expecting nothing. If something was weighing on him now, Bakugou wasn’t about to let it slide.
“Talk,” he said.
Kirishima exhaled slowly. “…My family’s been calling more,” he admitted. “Lately.” Bakugou stayed quiet, watching him closely.
“They keep bringing up the same thing,” Kirishima continued, voice steady but tired. “That I’m twenty-six now. That I should be thinking seriously about marriage. About settling down. About not waiting forever. They don’t mean it in a bad way,” Kirishima rushed to add, habit kicking in.
“They’re just worried. You know how they are. Traditional and all that.”
“But,” Bakugou said flatly.
Kirishima smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “But I guess I didn’t realize how much it would get to me.”
He looked away again, gaze drifting toward the window.
“It’s stupid,” he muttered. “I know I’m not late. I know there’s no real deadline. But hearing it over and over makes it feel like there is. Like I’m doing something wrong just by… living the way I am.”
Bakugou felt something twist uncomfortably in his chest.
“So you’re letting them get in your head,” he said.
“Yeah,” Kirishima admitted quietly. “I guess I am."
The room fell silent. Bakugou stared at him, irritation bubbling up—not at Kirishima, but at the faceless pressure pressing down on him. At the idea of someone making Kirishima feel inadequate. Like he was falling behind.
It didn’t sit right.
“You’re fine,” Bakugou said roughly. “They don’t get to decide shit about your life."
Kirishima blinked again, clearly not expecting that. Then he smiled—small, genuine this time.
“Thanks,” he said. “I knew you’d say something like that.”
Bakugou looked away, scowling. “Tch. Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.
Bakugou hadn’t planned on getting involved. That was the truth of it. He didn’t usually interfere in other people’s lives—especially not in things as personal and complicated as family pressure and expectations. But once he realized how deeply it was getting to Kirishima, once he saw the way it lingered behind his smiles, ignoring it stopped being an option. The solution came out blunt and unceremonious, the way most things did with Bakugou.
They got married on paper.
Nothing more.
It was practical. A signature. A legal status. Something solid enough to quiet Kirishima’s family without forcing him into a future he didn’t want. Only a few people knew. The media never caught wind of it—Bakugou made sure of that. His public image stayed untouched. They visited Kirishima’s family together a handful of times. Enough to make it believable. Enough to stop the questions. Bakugou endured the polite smiles, the congratulatory remarks, the way Kirishima’s parents looked visibly relieved. He hated it—hated the expectations hanging in the air, hated how easily people accepted things when they fit into neat, familiar boxes—but he said nothing. Kirishima looked lighter during those visits. That was enough. To avoid drawing attention, they started living together. It wasn’t technically necessary. They could only stay in their own separate apartments, staged appearances when needed, kept the rest of their lives untouched. But the idea of inconsistencies, of slipping up, of giving anyone a reason to look closer irritated Bakugou more than the thought of sharing space. So he didn’t object. They lived like roommates. Separate rooms. Separate routines. They respected each other’s space without having to talk about it. Kirishima cleaned more often. Bakugou cooked when he felt restless. Bills were split evenly. Schedules overlapped just enough to coexist without friction.
There was no pretending behind closed doors. No forced affection. No expectations. And yet, slowly, inevitably, Kirishima became part of Bakugou’s daily life in ways he hadn’t anticipated. The presence of another person in the mornings. The sound of someone else moving around the apartment late at night. The quiet understanding of shared exhaustion after long days.
They stayed married. One year turned into two. Two into three. Five years passed like that—unremarkable on the surface, deceptively calm. Nothing happened between them.
No lines were crossed. No rules broken.
When nightmares hit particularly hard, Kirishima would sit on the floor by the bed again, back against the frame like an anchor, presence solid and unyielding. Sometimes he talked. Sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he just breathed—slow and steady—until Bakugou’s own breathing followed without him realizing it. It was infuriating. And it worked. Bakugou hadn’t asked for the help. Had never said thank you. Had never acknowledged out loud how much those quiet nights mattered.
A soft click sounded behind him. The hum of the range hood came to life, its light spilling into the open kitchen that connected to the living room. The sudden glow cut through the dim apartment, warm and yellow against the shadows. Kirishima was there.Bakugou hadn’t heard him come in. His hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction, clearly the result of sleep rather than styling. He was still wearing that ridiculous Christmas knit pajama set—red, patterned, and far too soft-looking to match the seriousness of the man wearing it. Bakugou had mocked it relentlessly when Kirishima first bought it.
Kirishima didn’t seem to notice him at all. He moved slowly, half-asleep, steps quiet against the floor as he reached for the pitcher on the counter. His eyes were unfocused, heavy with exhaustion, posture loose in a way Bakugou only ever saw late at night or early in the morning. For a second, Bakugou just watched. The domestic normalcy of it hit him harder than expected. This—this quiet, unguarded version of Kirishima—felt too intimate for something that was supposed to be nothing more than an arrangement.
Kirishima lifted the pitcher with a soft clink of glass, then paused. He turned slightly, as if something had finally registered. His gaze landed on Bakugou. His expression softening as he took in the sight of Bakugou still in his hero costume, slumped on the couch, looking every bit as wrecked as he felt. He reached for a glass, filled it with water, and took a slow sip before glancing back at him.
“Long day?” he added, tone casual, almost teasing—like this was any other evening, like Bakugou wasn’t still half-buried under the weight of it all.
Bakugou huffed quietly, somewhere between a scoff and a breath. “You could say that.”
Kirishima nodded, as if that answer told him everything he needed to know.
“You know,” Kirishima said after a moment, a faint grin returning, “most people at least take their boots off before they dramatically pass out on the furniture.”
Bakugou shot him a sideways glare, but there was no heat behind it. “Don’t start.”
Kirishima chuckled quietly. “Hey, I’m just saying. Aren't you the one who's meticulous?"
He pushed himself off the counter and grabbed the pitcher again, pouring another glass before setting it on the low table within Bakugou’s reach. Just placed it there like an afterthought.
Then he stepped back, giving Bakugou space without leaving the room. “There's food in the oven, I know I'm not the best chef, but it's still edible.” He said, He slumped down on the couch next to Bakugou. The man's feet touched his thighs.
They sat like that for a while, the apartment settling back into its quiet rhythm. Kirishima start talking about nothing in particular—about a new bakery that opened near the agency, about Kaminari complaining that his coffee machine was cursed, about how cold it had gotten so suddenly. Bakugou answered when necessary. Short replies. But he listened. Eventually, Kirishima’s voice softened.
“I heard about the rescue,” he said, gaze dropping to the glass in Bakugou’s hand. “The kids.”
Bakugou’s jaw tightened. “…Yeah.”
Kirishima nodded slowly. “I’m sorry,” he said, simply. “You did everything you could. I know that doesn’t make it better. But… I know.”
Bakugou didn’t respond. He stared at the water, knuckles white around the glass. For once, he didn’t argue. The silence stretched again—heavy, but not unbearable.
Suddenly a sharp ringing cut through the apartment. Kirishima stiffened instantly. He knew that sound. It wasn’t a normal ringtone—it was the emergency alert. The one assigned to his work phone. The one that never went off unless something was seriously wrong.
“—Shit,” he breathed.
He turned on his heel and bolted toward the bedroom, bare feet slapping against the floor. Bakugou was already on his feet, the shift in Kirishima’s body language enough to tell him everything he needed to know.
“What is it?” Bakugou demanded, following.
Kirishima didn’t answer right away. He burst into the room and snatched the phone off the nightstand, the screen lighting up his face in harsh white. His expression sharpened as he read.
“Shit...Mina.” he said tightly. “Emergency call.”
Bakugou’s jaw set. He was already reaching for his gauntlets. “Where?”
Kirishima looked up. “Downtown. Civilians involved.”
As soon as Kirishima left the room, Bakugou followed him. He grabbed his jacket and followed—no hesitation, no second thought. The alarm was still echoing in the room as they left it behind, the sound swallowed by the slam of the apartment door and the rush of what came next.