Work Text:
Katsuki has made hundreds, maybe thousands of split second decisions in his lifetime. This is no different, except that he can feel deep in his bones that if he chooses wrong, he will not be the only one who pays for it.
And actually, that simplifies the matter.
It happens like this: first, the guns come out. Then, Izuku starts to move. At the same moment, Katsuki takes note of the movement in the crowd, the way bodies start pressing in from all sides, the sound of guns firing into the air from all directions, and realizes there is no clean way to take down ten, fifteen, twenty armed villains in such a tight space — not without getting someone killed.
In the next breath, he grabs Izuku and pulls him close to his chest. Izuku pushes away, not yet understanding; his instincts are too strong, a trait Katsuki hated once and then learned to love. He pulls Izuku into a crouch, mirroring the panicking civilians.
“There are too many of them,” he bites out under his breath. Izuku stills.
“What?”
Katsuki doesn’t repeat himself. He pulls Izuku closer, hoping they look just like the other scared, cowering hostages. He’s already typing away in his pocket, drafting an emergency SOS text even as the robbers weave through the crowd to keep an eye on their domain.
“No heroes, no cops, and everyone makes it out alive,” one of them promises. Katsuki’s eyes narrow.
He hears the teller’s choked whimper from across the lobby and has to grab at Izuku’s wrist, forcing him to stay down. He can’t risk anything happening to him. His heart skips a beat, literally, at the thought.
“We have to do something,” Izuku hisses, and Katsuki glares at him, willing him to understand. I won’t lose you. Not here, not like this.
A child begins to cry, immediately shushed by a parent who sounds equally terrified. Izuku’s hand curls into a fist, but he doesn’t move. He won’t meet Katsuki’s eyes — but he doesn’t move.
Eventually they hear sirens, and see the faint flashes of blue and red through the bank window. One of the robbers has made it frosty with their quirk, but not completely opaque. Katsuki’s palms are wet against Izuku’s skin, but he doesn’t dare burn away the built up nitroglycerin.
“Change of plans,” says the same robber who spoke before, voice muffled beneath a thick rubber mask. “A few lucky volunteers get to come on a little field trip with us. How’s that sound?”
The child’s sobs grow louder. Katsuki feels the tension building in Izuku’s body, still coiled close to his own. Footsteps echo on the smooth marble, followed by a quiet click.
“You,” says the robber.
“No, no, please. Please, not my daughter — please, I’ll go, please, take me —”
Izuku rises, and Katsuki follows.
“Get down!”
“Stay down!”
“Don’t move!”
“Wait.”
The robber turns. Half or more of his accomplices have their guns trained on Izuku, on Katsuki. Cold fear grips at his heart, dragging it down to the level of his stomach. He feels each second pass by individually; he counts each breath he takes like it’s his last.
Izuku doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. The robber walks, slowly, deliberately, across the lobby, stepping carefully over customers curled on the floor with their hands grasping at their ears, faces, or the backs of their necks.
“Deku,” he says, almost reverently. The temperature in the room drops a degree. Izuku squares his shoulders. “And is that…? Of course. Dynamight.”
Katsuki feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up straight. The whole world seems frozen in amber, the seconds ticking down until confrontation. He curls one hand into a fist, ready to aim, to fire.
“I think we just found our volunteers.”