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Over and under and around—wait…no—under and over and…under again—no, fuck! Bakugou heaves a low snarl as he angrily undoes his tie and glares at his red-faced reflection in the mirror. His reflection glares back, eyebrows furrowed and lips curled in an angry scowl as he crushes the material of the tie in his clenched, shaking fists.
“Here,” Ochako offers with a small smile as she approaches him from behind and holds out her hand. The sight of his wife deflates his anger but he hesitates, unwilling to admit to defeat, but finally relents with a sigh and slides the tie into her open hand.
She steps closer as he turns to face her and she pops the collar of his dress shirt before winding the tie around his neck and setting to work. He rakes his eyes over her smaller frame and watches as she licks her pink lips and tucks a strand of her short, chestnut brown hair behind her ear in concentration. Her nimble fingers work their magic as she loops and weaves the flimsy material of the tie in various formations and he notices that she is also careful not to touch it with all of her fingers.
“You shouldn’t have to do this,” her quiet voice shatters the silence and he can see the pain reflected in the windows of her eyes, “you did nothing wrong. If anything they should be the ones apologizing. The government, they tricked you! They’re the ones—! ”
She stops as his rough, calloused hands settle on hers. Her eyes lift up to meet his gaze and she notices that there is still a fire burning in his red eyes, an unyielding desire to fight. He doesn’t say anything but his touch tells her that that’s enough, that it doesn’t matter whose fault it was. He would fight until the end.
Her eyes shine with unshed tears and her eyelashes flutter to hold them back. She lets the material of the tie slip between her fingers as she rests her forehead against his chest and wraps her arms tightly around his torso.
“I just don’t want them to look at you like that. Like you’re a monster.” Her voice is broken and tearful. “I just want to protect you.”
In that moment, as he silently winds his arm around her in response, he is reminded of why he loves her. He is reminded of the girl from his high school days: of the girl who commanded meteor showers, of the girl who danced on air. Gravity, science, physics, logic; none of it applied to her. The earth, the moon, the stars, and the sun, they all revolved around her and not the other way around. And then he thinks of the woman – his wife – who unraveled like twine at his touch, who wrapped herself around him and reminded him that not all fire burned. He is reminded of the woman who made a hearth of his inferno, who saw his wreckage and destruction and called it home. And he knows she is strong – she is forged of iron, not porcelain – not just for herself but for the both of them. But not today. Today he’d be the one to carry the burden for the both of them.
“You can’t,” is his quiet reply, “you can’t protect me.”
He feels her tense against him. She is reluctant to let go and so is he but he knows he must. He is the first to pull away but her hands hold firm to material of his dress shirt in protest.
“Ochako,” he starts. He is neither annoyed nor angry but there is firmness in his voice and she knows her husband well enough to know that once he’s made up his mind then heaven help the poor soul that tried stopping him. So she lets out a sigh before letting her hands fall to her side.
“Ok,” she relents, lifting her head to shoot him a teary-eyed smile, “ok then.”
The silence returns as she backs away and goes to fetch his suit jacket. He watches her retreating back before he turns to face his reflection in the body-length mirror. He tightens and slides the tie knot up to his collar before pressing his collar back down.
“Here.”
He turns at Ochako’s approaching voice and she gives him another sad smile as she holds up his suit jacket; his armor for the approaching fight. He takes it with a quick word of thanks and the hem flares around him as he quickly throws it on. Again he looks at his reflection as he fastens each button. He had aged since his high school days and the contours of his face had hardened with the years but the reds of his eyes are the same. They yearn for blood. They yearn to fight and to win and that’s just what he’s going to do.
“You look nice,” she comments and he has to admit he does. He is dressed from head to toe in a midnight black suit paired with a matching tie and if he didn’t know better it looked like he was going to a simple evening party. But he did know better. He knew where he was going was no party but instead his public execution.
“I support you no matter what,” he hears her blurt out from beside him and he turns to see that the tears had managed to escape and coast down the slope of her red cheeks. “I don’t care what anyone says! I love you more than any—!”
His lips silence her and at first she is surprised before she relaxes against him. He pulls her flush against his body, one arm wrapped around the curve of her waist as he feels the timpani of her heartbeat match his. He tastes the salt of her tears – the tears she sheds for him. His tongue teases the seam of her lips and when she grants him access, their tongues dance and twirl as he savors the sweet honey of her kiss. He feels her hum hungrily against his lips, her fingers clenching the material of his suit desperately and something red-hot and sinful churns inside of him and he knows he must stop. Breathlessly, he pulls away and he feels her fingertips trace the line of his jaw as her lips continue to brush the column of his neck.
“I’ve gotta go take care of these fuckers,” he mutters and she murmurs a soft “I know” against his neck before dropping her hands and stepping back. She looks to him with tears and worry in her eyes but her gentle smile reassures him that she believes in him. And that’s all he needs. That’s all he needs to win.
He heads for the front door and steps into his dress shoes before placing his hand on the doorknob. The hollow click of the opening lock and the whine of the door as he pulls it open signals his funeral march.
Immediately, he squints his eyes as he is greeted by the burning sunlight and is swallowed in a harsh sea of bright camera flashes and a chorus of shutter clicks as he takes the decisive step outside. The onslaught of sounds and voices continue to disorient him as he tries to blink his blurry eyes into focus and soon he can make out the crowd of cameraman, reporters, journalists and other interested parties bustling in front of his doorstep.
“Bakugou-san!” “Bakugou-san!” “Bakugou-san!”
It’s the sound of hell and oddly enough, it’s also the sound of his name.
“Do you have any comments on the recent allegations against you?”
“Bakugou-san, recent reports have stated that infamous villain, Cacophony, is now in a chemically induced coma and is unlikely to regain consciousness. Your comment?”
“Bakugou-san, is it true that your personal grudge against Cacophony is what led you to such extreme actions? Do you think you were right in your actions? Do you still think your actions were heroic?”
“Are allegations that you tortured him true? Did you intend to kill him, Bakugou-san?”
“There are some people demanding for the revocation of your hero license! A majority of the public think that your actions make you no better than a villain! Your comments, Bakugou-san!”
“Bakugou-san!”
“Bakugou-san!”
He thinks that his own name sounds like a curse as his insides twist and churn with vibrating turbulence. His eyes sweep over the sea of reporters and journalists and he notes the hunger in their eyes, their desperation for the latest scoop as they thrust their pens and notebooks and cameras in his face. They are thirsty for blood, poised to devour him as their gnash their teeth and clamour for a comment – any comment –and the crowd morphs right before his eyes to something inhuman until all he sees is fire, hellfire.
He seethes silently, fists clenched at his side as the rage kindles inside of him, sending heated embers sailing through his veins and smoke curling in his lungs. A part of him – the somewhat rational part of him – considers bowing his head in apology for the sake of the people and family he loved and wanted to protect, but the thought of bowing to these shitbag journalists makes him want to vomit in his mouth.
Fuck it then, he thinks. The only way he knew to fight fire is with fire.
And so Bakugou Katsuki – rage incarnate, all bark and all bite, and all sound and all fury – hoists the nearest mic closer to his face as his crimson eyes flash with his unhinged temper. His teeth look more akin to fangs as his lips pull back into a haughty sneer and he glares into the nearest camera.
“I’m a fucking hero!” He declares confidently, his free hand clenching tightly into a fist, “the fucking best and all I did was win against a villain who thought he could measure up to me! And that’s what I’ll keep on doing.”
He points a decisive finger at the camera and the crowd recoils in both shock and fear.
“So mark my words,” he continues. “I’ll keep on winning! And if anyone’s got a fucking problem with that or if any shit faced fucker wants to stop me from being a hero,” he bends his finger in invitation, his sneer growing, “then let them fucking come!”
The cameraman lets out a terrified squeak as Bakugou drops the mic with a huff and the crowd is shell-shocked into silence at the unabashed display of his confidence. He loosens his ties and stuffs his hands into his pockets, content that a heavy load had finally been lifted from his chest. He casts another haughty glance at the crowd.
“So I won’t say it again. Hurry up and fuck off.”
He turns on his heel, a smirk growing on his face as the crowd erupts with sounds of indignation, protest, and cries for more comments; none of which he will grant them.
He doesn’t owe them a damn thing.