Chapter Text
It was all over the news.
The papers running the title of: The #7 Hero Ground Zero in Hospital. Big and bold and on the first page. Only twenty-two and already in the top percentage of heroes; he’d been so proud, but still so driven to steal that number one spot—to earn that spot.
His heart monitor steady, oxygen mask clouding with every shallow exhale.
Kirishima brushed the blond’s hair back from his forehead, leaning in to press a kiss to his partner’s forehead. “Morning Katsuki,” he whispered, pulling away with a tired upwards twitch of his lips. Pulling over the seat beside his bed, close enough that the metal of the bed dug into his knees as he sat.
Bakugou didn’t own his own Hero Office but belonged to a rather smaller group that were a lot more… selective in their choices. A lot of his fellow heroes in his branch had what the press would label as temperament issues.
Bakugou had been patrolling when backup was requested from a few heroes belonging to different branches on a large scale brawl between a group named Zeal and the answering heroes. It’s been popping up a lot more since their High School days, after All Might was force into retirement. With the Symbol of Peace leaving in less than stellar times, many had begun to make their move.
It was, in all due purposes, a normal job. Kirishima had heard about Bakugou being on route to the confrontation and stepped back.
While they were from different branches the pair often ended up meeting up on the job; they still worked a great as ever. It was a joint decision to make their debuts through separate hero offices, bring out a bit of rivalry while in costume—pretending that they weren’t married with two parrots and skink.
He cupped his partner’s cheek, thumb brushing over the mask strap with a frown. “What the hell happened?” He worried his bottom lip between razor sharp teeth, the points biting into his skin.
It was just a bunch of thugs; Kirishima’s seen him take out bigger and badder foes. The bits a pieces that he had been relayed didn’t make sense. Was he shoot then battered when the shock had taken root? But no one had had any bullet related quirks, nor did there seem to be anyone with any concealed weapons other than a pocket knife. Did they have someone on a roof?
If so then it was planned. Not just some random Hero Stomping.
Leaning back in the chair, Kirishima reached over to the side table and pulled out the remote for the TV. The device clicked on, a slow mumble pairing with the news program. He flipped through the channels, thumb rubbing the back of the blond’s hand as he did.
--
Bakugou’s been in the hospital for six days; six days of a steady heart monitor and the sounds of him breathing oxygen through his mask, being sustained through tubs and fluids.
Six days and finally he wakes.
Kirishima gets a call the day he finally decided to go back to work. Bakugou won’t’ve liked him lingering by his side the whole time—they made a pact. Four days at most to take off to spend by their hospital bed; Kirishima already bent it and stayed for a fifth, but his hero branch was willing to give him a full two weeks if he needed it.
The hospital had called him shortly before he was going to break for lunch; returning back to HQ to see if they wanted him patrolling a different section. He had immediately called work and requested the rest of the day off.
--
“You better not be taking the day off,” the blond’s voice broke, low and fragmented from disuse. Eyes bagged and narrowed as he glared, watching his lover pull up a chair and take a seat by his bedside.
“They wanted to give me two weeks off, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to check in on my husband now that he’s awake.” Kirishima grinned, taking his partner’s upturned palm in one large hand. “How are you feeling?”
The blond snorted, “Like I got my shit kicked in and they’re pumping me up with another painkillers that I can’t feel shit.” He squeezed back, the corners of his eyes smoothing out as he relaxed. “How’s the animals?”
“Doing good. The birds are a little confused to not see you in the mornings, but other than that they seem to be doing okay.” Bakugou nodded at that, the remaining tension draining from his person. He loved those animals.
--
Kirishima’s boots clunked down the sidewalk, waving to the children that stopped and stared. “Are you sure you don’t need me to come home during my lunch?” He kept his phone tucked in close as he looked up and down the street.
“I’m fucking sure, shithead.” The man on the other end growled, the sound nearly drowned out by happy squawks. “Go do your fucking job, I’m fine. I have Red and Blast out and Momo’s still sleeping in her hammock. I have food and enough to drink, my painkillers are on the coffee table and I have the fucking TV on. I’m fine, Eijirou.”
He couldn’t help but smile; only released from the hospital a yesterday (after another three days of rest on monitoring, and a little help from a quirk user that helped with speeding up the healing process). He still had a long way to go before he’d be back on the street, but he was back home where he could spend his time with his birds, and his lizard—and Kirishima of course, but those three were like their children.
“Call me if you need anything, or if you want me to pick something up on the way home. Kay? I don’t think you should be cooking and I don’t want to. I’m getting off around four.” He got a grunt in return, nearly drowned out by squawks and chirps as Blast and Red started calling for Bakugou’s attention. “Love you, babe.”
“Yeah, yeah. You too. Don’t be stupid. And bring home pizza—extra cheese.”
He hangs up with that; with a laugh and a breathless goodbye.
--
The call comes in an hour before he’s off; a block away, a group of thugs had assaulted a few sidekicks and a hero. Kirishima was already hoofing it, yelling for the masses to part. Pushing through the crowd lingering along the outer edge, phones poised and recording, hands covering gaped jaws.
There was always something sickening when a crowd would watch as a hero fell, unable to do anything but weep or stare. Kirishima’s chest heaved, crashing through the first row—ruby red eyes taking in the scene.
Five villains, two sidekicks unconscious and bloodied, a hero clutching at his bleeding shoulder but aware. He kneeled, fighting to stand as the group of five stood around him, watching the hero struggle. Two of the five obviously wielding knives, quirks unknown. He moved, distancing himself from the crowd. “Oi!” Kirishima snapped, the white on candy red writing legible as he neared. Zeal. He barred his teeth.
There were five; he could handle five.
“You heroes are just lining up to die,” one stepped out of position, moving closer the redheaded hero. The villain’s build was sturdy; wide shoulders, thick arms. His waist was slim, as were his legs—he either missed a lot of leg days or he was born with chicken legs. Kirishima couldn’t pinpoint what his quirk could be, but his teeth looked like it might have something to do with it—sharp, elongated teeth that didn’t even out when he closed his mouth.
He eyed the remaining four; one lingering back with the fallen hero as the other three began to creep closer. Kirishima chuckled, “I have a question for you before I kick your ass,” he scowled, “who shot Ground Zero?”
The one with forest green hair broke out in chortles, waving his brandished knife around. “What, you think you’re gonna win some favours? Think you’re tough shit?” He sneered holding his arms out wide. “Well the guy who shot him ain’t here, but that number seven hero wasn’t as tough everyone thinks!”
Sharp Teeth was closest to him; about a meter. He could lunge, take him out and move on to the next. “See I was just going to break all his bones when I got my hands on him, but now you’ve just gone and rubbed a whole lot of dirt in wounds. And if my husband found out you said this shit, he’d be mad fucking angry. So let me save you all the trip to the morgue but just sending you to the hospital instead, kay?”
He lunges, hardening his right fist. Pulling Sharp Teeth in with a tight grip against his shirt collar, Kirishima’s hardened fist collided with his face—the gross sound of cracking pierced the air, the man’s teeth cracking as his eyes rolled back in his head. His body dropping.
Kirishima snarled, “Who’s next?” The tiny one charged; palm sparking with electricity, cutting the air with a flat palm. The hero ducked, catching the man’s arm and slamming his opposite elbow down of the joint. The villain screamed, cradling his broken limb. Green hair bared his teeth, saliva dripping from his lips—it hit the cement with a hiss, a simmer and a rise of smoke.
He came at him with a jap; Kirishima grabbed the blade with a hardened hand a threw it to the ground. It made easier with a quirk like his to go head-to-head. He’s been working on how long he could sustain it since first year of Yuuei—since it came to blows between Bakugou and he. Green hair’s eyes widened, the momentum carrying him forwards.
“Sorry, but I’m gonna break your leg.” Kirishima pulled the man further in, kicking a foot out against the knee the man had planted. He could feel the pop under his boot before he could hear the crack—then the scream, of course the scream.
Sirens approaching; Kirishima sparred a glance towards the crowd still clustered together. Phones raised high to take in the action. He sighed, returning his attention back to the two remaining foes. Their hands already up and behind their heads.
“We surrender, we surrender!”
Kirishima turned away from the scene once the first few officers passed him, handcuffing the two unharmed Zeal members. Ruby red eyes watching as the paramedics rushed by the fallen hero and sidekicks’ sides, strapping them onto gurneys and wheeling them out in a blur of noise and blue.
--
One large meat lovers Pizza with extra cheese and two litre soda later, Bakugou leans heavily against Kirishima’s side. “That fight was fucking brutal,” he grinned, all teeth and pride.
Kirishima groaned, neck bending uncomfortably as he hung his head back over the back of the couch. “Don’t tell me they put it on the news.”
The blond hummed, calloused fingers casually walking up Kirishima’s bared chest. He nipped at the man’s jaw, “it was mad fucking hot, Eijirou. Sexy as fuck.”
Kirishima groaned, pushing Bakugou’s face away from his neck. “Don’t tease me. You haven’t healed enough for sex.” The blond winced, clutching his torso at the jarring. “See! Can’t even handle a little love nudge!”
“Shut the fuck up.”