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Aizawa did what he always did whenever he found himself at the threshold of Height’s Alliance.
He braced himself.
You never really knew what was waiting on the other side of those doors. Most of the time, it was normal enough: someone hanging around in the kitchen or common area, someone studying at the dining table. On a few occasions, however, he’d walked into the dorms only to be met head-on with the inevitable consequences of cramming twenty unruly teenagers, each with considerably volatile quirks, into one building. More than once, he'd stepped through the doorway just in time to nearly eat an ice wall, or duck beneath some kid’s stray projectile, or had a panicked student slam into a dogeza at his feet after almost taking his head clean off. Emphasis on more than once.
This time, though, Iida had promised civility. In fact, he’d actually gone as far as to use the word “orderly”, which, frankly, Aizawa was going to wait to see before he believed.
He took a small, steadying breath before opening the door, immediately registering the low hum of conversation and movement, along with the aromas of garlic and onions drifting from somewhere deeper in the dorm. He paused for a moment, suspicious, waiting to see if anything came hurtling toward him or exploded nearby, but nothing happened. Probably safe to proceed, then.
Crossing the threshold, Aizawa noted many things immediately. With his presence still unnoticed, Class 2-A was carrying on normally. At the dining table, Yaoyorozu and Iida were setting out placemats and chopsticks, each arranged neatly in pristine rows. Mina stood by one of the chairs at the head of the table, carefully tying a red balloon to its back and taping to it a handful of grey streamers, the seat’s intended occupant obvious.
Turning towards the kitchen, Uraraka stood at the sink with her sleeves pushed up, drying the dishes Kirishima passed to her from beside the counter. Kaminari had apparently been assigned to wiping down the counters – or, at least, Aizawa assumed that had been the original intention. At present, the boy was talking animatedly to Kirishima flapping around the rag in his hand, contributing nothing to the task itself.
Beside them was Bakugo, bent over a chopping board. His injured arm was secured in a sling while his good hand wielded a kitchen knife, bringing it down in vicious strokes against a pile of vegetables. Aizawa's gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary, taking in the boy's slimmer frame, the paleness of his face, the scar cutting across his cheek.
Bakugo didn't look anywhere near one hundred percent—even now, months after the war, the evidence of his recovery was impossible to miss. Aizawa remembered it clearly still, the hours he’d spent in Bakugo's hospital room. Where wires, IVs, and wicked looking tubes had been shoved into his weak and battered body, through the bandages that covered him head-to-toe. Back then, he'd struggled to move, to stay awake, to talk. The memory of Bakugo on the ground, bloodied and unmoving flashed in his mind for a split second, and Aizawa quickly shoved it aside.
In spite of that, however, Bakugo had indeed come a long way. Although he still remained excused from all practical lessons, he had returned to attending lectures in something resembling a normal capacity. And now, apparently, he could remain on his feet for longer stretches at a time—long enough, at the very least, to cook a meal so it seemed.
Hovering beside Bakugo, in a manner that had become entirely predictable since the war, was Midoriya. To put it simply, he looked absolutely terrified, worried eyes concentrated on Bakugo's hand. Every time Bakugo brought the knife down, Midoriya startled and he bit his lip, looking like he was restraining himself from reaching over and confiscating the utensil entirely. Bakugo, naturally, noticed.
“Quit hoverin.” Bakugo grumbled.
“I’m not hovering!” Midoriya said immediately, which might’ve been more convincing if his head wasn't currently resting on Bakugo's shoulder, bodies pressed together. The sheer normalcy of their closeness was enough to make Aizawa pause in surprise.
“I just–! Um, Kacchan, do you think you could maybe slow down a little?”
“Huh? The hell for?!”
“Because you only have one good arm right now! You might accidentally cut yourself if you keep chopping away like that!”
Bakugo scoffed and the knife struck the chopping board with a particularly aggressive thunk. He grabbed the board and turned away from Midoriya, angling himself toward the stove.
“Can you get the hell out of my way?” Bakugo grunted, looking visibly irritated as Todoroki, who was currently stirring something in a large pot, blocked his path to the counter.
Todoroki glanced sideways at him. “I could,” he responded, and decidedly did not move.
“We’ve been over this, Roki,” Sero called out, sticking his head back out from where he'd been inspecting the fridge. “When someone asks you something like that, they aren't actually asking whether you're physically capable of doing it. It's an imperative phrased as a question. The correct response is to move.”
Sero shut the fridge with a thwunk and eyed Todoroki, who very quickly took a step away from Bakugo.
Bakugo growled and set the vegetables down in the space Todoroki had just vacated, transferring them into the pot. “I didn’t need your damn help, Sero. Acting like I couldn’t blow his goddamn head off and beat him to a pulp if I felt like it.”
Todoroki looked confused. “You could not.”
“The hell was that, Icy Hot?!” Bakugo's voice rose, the yell rasping slightly as it escaped his still-recovering throat. “I would obviously win in a fight against you!”
Kaminari immediately perked up from where he'd been lingering nearby. “Wait, are we taking bets? Because my money's on Todoroki!”
“So's mine,” Sero added quickly. Kirishima looked up, opened his mouth, and then stayed suspiciously silent. Bakugo glared at all three of them with furious offense, before spinning around and immediately seeking out Midoriya. He closed the small distance between them and flicked Midoriya squarely on the forehead.
“Izuku. Put that stupid nerd brain of yours to use. Who's winning in a fight, huh? Me or Todoroki?”
Midoriya rubbed his forehead, blinking at him. “Like... in a real fight?”
“Yeah.”
“To the death?”
“Why not.”
Midoriya tucked his hand beneath his chin, eyes wandering toward the ceiling as he quietly muttered to himself what was undoubtedly a needlessly thorough and long-winded analysis of their respective quirks and abilities. He abruptly fell silent, then hesitated.
“Um... do you want me to be honest?
“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“...Todoroki,” Midoriya muttered quietly.
“What the fuck! You can’t be serious!” Bakugo exclaimed. He whirled around and glared accusingly at Todoroki, rolling up the sleeve of his good arm. “Let’s hurry up and finish this damn curry, Icyhot. And then allow me to show our classmates exactly how fucking wrong they are.”
“I will not fight you to the death, Bakugo. I value your life too much.”
“THE HELL DOES THAT MEAN?! You wouldn’t be able to lay a fucking finger on me, Icyhot—let alone take me down in an actual fight!”
“I might be able to.”
“MIGHT?!”
Todoroki considered this. “No. You're right. I probably could.”
“..You fucking—”
“No one is fighting anyone to the death!” Iida suddenly called out, chopping the air with his arms.
“Mr. Aizawa graciously accepted our invitation to dinner so that we might spend quality time together as a class! He is giving us his valuable free time, which I would like to remind everyone is something he is not obligated to do. Considering everything we've endured over the past several months, I believe we are all in need of a peaceful evening together. Can we attempt to remain on our best behavior for at least the next few hours?”
Okay. That seemed as good a time as any. With a loud clearing of his throat, Aizawa stepped further into the kitchen area, and immediately felt the attention of twenty pairs of eyes turning toward him.
“Oh! Mr. Aizawa!” Iida exclaimed, straightening at once and then bowing low. “Thank you very much for accepting our dinner invitation! We’ve been wanting to treat you to a proper homemade meal for some time now, and we hope this will be an excellent opportunity for everyone to spend time together in a more casual setting. Though, I should warn you that you are rather early—the food will not be ready for another fifteen minutes or so.”
Aizawa nodded and gave the class a brief greeting, looking across the kitchen as he did. It landed just in time to catch Midoriya abruptly launching himself away from where he was pressed against Bakugo’s side, eyes wide with panic like he’d been caught, somehow.
Before Aizawa could think anything of it though, Ashido hurried forward. “Mr. Aizawa! Sit here! I decorated your seat all nice for you!” she announced, gesturing enthusiastically toward the chair at the head of the dining table. It was covered in streamers and balloons and….glitter, it looked like, now that he was closer to it. It was damn ugly.
Still, Aizawa took the seat. And before long, several members of the class had begun filtering in around the dining table to join him. The energy picked up almost immediately, and soon the room was abuzz with bickering and storytelling and laughter. Kaminari, who had abandoned his duties in the kitchen, along with Mina were the loudest voices, cycling through increasingly questionable topics of conversation: resurrecting the details of Tokoyami's unfortunate training accident from several weeks earlier, loudly judging Sero’s taste in manga, and then speculating with entirely unwarranted confidence about the love lives of several of their classmates—provoking some very opinionated reactions from the table. Through it, Iida's brow grew progressively more strained and Yaoyorozu sighed with weary patience, but otherwise they were content to observe the growing chaos from the other side of the table.
Aizawa himself contributed to the overlapping conversations only sparingly, which never discouraged them from attempting to involve him. If anything, the occasional dry remark or deliberately unhelpful observation only riled them up further, dragging half the table into an argument Aizawa had no intention of mediating— he was off the clock, after all.
For the most part, though, the class seemed genuinely happy. And Aizawa found himself, not for the first time, both relieved and impressed by the sheer force of their resilience. His gaze drifted unconsciously from face to face, lingering on flashes of skin, bare forearms, exposed stomachs, each marked in some way with mottled flesh or raised scar tissue. It twisted something unpleasantly in his stomach, his appetite disappearing with it, but Aizawa stubbornly pushed the feeling aside.
Back in the kitchen, it seemed the rest of his students were finishing up. Kirishima was taking plates from the cupboards and laying them out, while Uraraka and Sero cut up pieces of parsley for garnish. Bakugo and Midoriya were plating the rice and curry, their shoulders nudged up against each other as they took up their positions side by side, chatting easily, unaware of Aizawa’s attention.
The sight is a little bit puzzling, perhaps even a little shocking, though the feeling itself was hardly unfamiliar. Within the past two years, Aizawa had never really been able to make heads or tails of Midoriya and Bakugo’s relationship. After everything they had been through, the closest word for it was probably friends, but calling it that doesn’t seem quite right. It was more like they simply didn’t know how to breathe without each other, for better or worse, and their history and feelings for each other were too tangled and complicated to even try to put into words.
They knew each other better than they knew themselves, trusted each other more than they trusted themselves, and would die for the other without hesitation. And yet, at least from what Aizawa’s seen, they don’t really hang out like friends do, don’t talk like friends do. It was a relationship that seemed to exist entirely on its own terms, one Aizawa had long since given up trying to understand.
As Aizawa continued discreetly observing the pair, however, he noticed something was off about Bakugo. He swayed ever so slightly where he stood, his good arm straining beneath the weight of the serving spoon. His lips looked pale. Midoriya glanced anxiously at him before placing a subtle hand against his lower back, leaning closer to Bakugo’s side in a way that felt strangely intimate as he murmured something under his breath. Bakugo’s head snapped toward him, and he immediately shook his head, vehemently denying whatever suggestion Midoriya had made. His face tightened with irritation as he stubbornly returned to scooping food, sweat beading along his brow.
Aizawa stood.
He made his way toward them, watching Midoriya suddenly jump away from Bakugo’s vicinity once again, and then offering an excuse about wanting to escape the conversation at the table for a while and help serve the food instead.
“Your friends are calling for you anyway,” Aizawa added, nodding toward the dining room. “Go sit down, Bakugo. I’ll take over for you.”
When Bakugo looked back at him, he did so with the same angry expression often wore, right before he detonated somebody into oblivion. Before he could do so, however, Midoriya spoke up brightly.
“Yes, that would be awesome! Thank you Mr. Aizawa!” Midoriya graciously said, nodding his head toward Bakugo. Aizawa then watched the silent conversation that was exchanged in the expressions of Midoriya and Bakugo's faces, lightning-quick and so subtle the average person would’ve missed it. Bakugo’s lips parted minutely, clearly gearing up for an argument, but then Midoriya’s eyebrows drew together, pleading. There was a few seconds of intense staring until, finally, a shift of Bakugo’s jaw. A twitch of the eye. He closed his mouth again. This was a losing battle, and he knew it. With a sharp tug, Bakugo tore off his apron and stalked out of the kitchen, dropping into his seat at the dining table.
Taking his spot, Aizawa took his place beside Midoriya. They scooped the food in silence for a little bit, and as they worked quietly, Aizawa saw a noticeable lack of vibrancy in Midoriya’s movements. Not a fidget, tap, twitch, or restless shift. He just stood, calm and still.
Midoriya was worried.
“How are you?” Aizawa asked, and felt Midoriya stiffen beside him. He continued scooping silently for a few moments before answering.
“Okay…ish,” and his honesty caught Aizawa a little off guard. He’d never heard Midoriya answer that question with anything other than I’m fine. I’m great. I’m happy. Don’t worry about me.
Midoriya sighed, eyes finding Bakugo across the room, sitting down at the dining table and sulking amid the chatter of their classmates. “Kacchan is... well. He’s been doing much better now. Physically, at least. I’m glad to see him standing again, going to class and all.”
Midoriya’s attention lingered on Bakugo, his eyes becoming alive as they so often did when they were directed at the blonde. Filled with worry and longing and admiration and fear and affection, all tangled together in a way that was impossible to miss.
“His physical therapists say he’s made almost a whole year’s worth of progress with the mobility in his arm and torso in just a few months. And while that’s obviously amazing... I don’t know if it’s necessarily a good thing. He pushes himself too hard and never really takes breaks. He’s so focused on getting himself back to normal, that I think he’s kind of neglecting himself in the process. He says I’m being overbearing, but...” He hesitated, swallowing hard. “I don’t know. I’m, uh... really worried about him.”
His voice shook a little towards the end, and Aizawa placed a hand on his shoulder. Aizawa gets it—and he might be one of the few people who actually understands the extent of it. After all, Aizawa had witnessed firsthand the exact moment Midoriya’s face contorted with shock and realization seeing Bakugo’s lifeless figure on the ground—-an expression filled with such overwhelming emptiness and heartbreak, that Aizawa will never forget it as long as he lives. He’d watched over Midoriya through those first weeks in the hospital after the war, sneaking out of his own room half-drugged and injured, just to sit vigil beside Bakugo’s unconscious form. Green eyes anguished and watery, a scarred hand gripping onto Bakugo’s wrist, feeling his pulse with crazed attention.
“It’s okay to be worried,” Aizawa soothed, not for the first time. “You don’t have to pretend you aren’t,” and Midoriya’s shoulders relaxed slightly beneath his hand.
“What you both went through... was an extreme. It’s normal to have good days and bad ones. You might push too hard, he might pull away, but at the end of the day, what’s important is you keep looking out for each other. And I’m glad that you're reminding him to take breaks, but don’t shoulder his recovery for him, Midoriya. Have some trust that he knows his own limits, too.” Aizawa gave his shoulder a light squeeze. “Don’t worry too much about it though. You’re both doing great. I’m... proud of you two.”
Aizawa doesn’t say it often, he knows that, and so it's not a surprise Midoriya turns to him in shock and surprise and wonder, gaping like a fish.
“That—” Midoriya squeaked, then swallowed, collecting himself. “That means so much coming from you. Thank you, Thank you Mr. Aizawa.”
He broke into a beaming, genuine grin. But it didn’t quite reach his eyes, and the worry in them remained, still.
Aizawa sighed. “I’ll talk to him, too,” he added quietly.
Midoriya’s eyes widened again, equal parts grateful and conflicted. He looked away, swallowing and croaking a quiet, “Thanks.”
They finished plating the food, and with the help of a few other students, carried the dishes into the dining room. And once again, Aizawa's senses were met with the familiar sounds of the dorm: chairs scraping against the floor, bursts of laughter, the sharp hiss of a soda can opening.
They barely had the plates down before the table erupted in excited chatter over the food. Midoriya, meanwhile, immediately tried to slip a fork beside Bakugo’s plate in place of his chopsticks, who quickly scoffed and shoved his hand away.
“The hell are you doing? I can use fucking chopsticks, you idiot.”
“I know you can. But you don’t have to overexert yourself—”
“Using a damn chopstick?! Izuku, are you out of your mind?!”
“Listen Listen! You’ve already been on your feet all day standing and cooking for longer than the doctors say you should and you’re still getting used to doing everything left-handed and also now that I think about it you need to eat more too so using the fork would be more efficient so just use it for this one time for tonight—”
“Jesus Fucking Christ, Izuku, you are so unbelievable!”
Aizawa sighed—so much for his earlier advice. Teaching these problem children, he’d learned firsthand, was less like handing down a hard-won, carefully drawn map and more like flinging countless noodles at the wall and hoping that, one day, one of them finally would stick.
“Hey, lovebirds, shut up already!” Ashido called from across the room. “C’mon, dinner’s ready!”
Tokoyami, eyeing his plate with undisguised hunger, lifted a hand. “I second that sentiment. I am ravenous. Make me wait much longer, and I may be forced to consume the table itself.”
Despite several attempts from their classmates to defuse the situation, the problem children paid them no mind, their voices steadily rising as they fell into a familiar loop of Stop being fucking ridiculous and I’m not being ridiculous I’m just trying to look out for you and Stop treating me like I’m going to drop dead any second and Name one time I have ever done that and Fucking alphabetical or chronological?
Aizawa was half a second away admitting defeat and using his binding scarf when Kirishima suddenly slammed his glass of water onto the table with a loud thwunk, finally getting their attention.
“Bakugo!” Kirishima cut in, his voice amused and loud as ever as he shot them a knowing side-eye. “You’ve known this guy for what, over a decade, and you’re still letting him wind you up like this? Cool your blasters, dude. And Midoriya, come on, sit your ass down. The food’s gonna go cold!”
The problem children paused for a moment, and there was a string of continued muttering, but begrudgingly, the pair found it in themselves to follow the order. Bakugo didn’t even blow up when Midoriya left the fork on the table within easy reach.
As it turned out, though, the next half hour with Class 2-A proved to be a surprisingly quaint affair. Free from their usual impatience and frustration that accompanied the drier subjects of their lectures, nor the typical chaos and recklessness they brought to practical lessons. There was still, of course, an energy to them that regularly veered close to downright unhinged—which Aizawa supposed was only fitting, considering the sort of people they were. Every single one of them brought something distinctly odd and unique, whether it was Yaoyorozu’s unnervingly casual intellect or Todoroki’s blunt and strangely timed observations. Their personalities collided and intertwined in predictably chaotic ways, the chatter picking up almost as soon as everyone had settled, no conversation ever quite reaching its conclusion before three more had begun in its place.
Despite that, however, they hadn’t struggled in including Aizawa into their casual circle, welcoming him as though he had always belonged there. They seemed eager to have him among them, peppering him with questions about his life, his experiences as a pro hero, his favorite class to teach, and whatever embarrassing stories he could be persuaded to share from his own days as a student. They pestered him frequently and shamelessly, but surprisingly, it made for a rather nice change of pace—enjoying their company simply as individuals, rather than a collection of troublesome teenagers he was responsible for keeping alive. Plus, the curry ended up being delicious, and Aizawa had to hand it to Iida: it really was orderly.
For them, anyway.
Midoriya and Bakugo didn’t speak to each other again throughout dinner, despite sitting next to each other. Bakugo was uncharacteristically quiet for most of the meal, poking and prodding at the food on his plate, while Midoriya contributed to the conversation but simultaneously kept not-so-subtly glancing over at Bakugo every few seconds.
Later on, Aizawa would curse himself for not noticing it sooner, having been distracted by the constant commotion of the table—the clamminess of Bakugo’s face, or the way he kept subtly shifting his weight in his chair.
Near the end of the meal, Aizawa had found himself recounting an incident from his second year, when a practical exercise involving Present Mic, a smoke-producing support item, and an ill-advised attempt to sneak out of the training grounds had culminated in half their class setting off the U.A. sprinkler system. He had barely reached the part where they had tried, unsuccessfully, to convince their instructor that the flooding had been part of the exercise when he heard a low, strained groan from the end of the table.
Whipping toward the sound, he saw Bakugo’s face had drained of color. His features were twisted with obvious pain, one hand clenching against the edge of the table as his body suddenly pitched forward. Before Aizawa could even rise from his seat, Bakugo lurched over his plate and brought up the meager scraps of dinner he had managed to eat.
“Kacchan!” Midoriya was on his feet in an instant, rubbing Bakugo’s back and shoulders as he coughed and gagged, bent over his now-ruined plate of dinner. The rest of his classmates immediately erupted into concerned exclamations. Chairs scraped against the floor as they all stood.
Aizawa reached him just as Bakugo finished vomiting. He sagged back into his chair, face pale and clammy, eyes squeezed shut against some unknown pain. His chest heaved with each breath, his mouth still wet as he swallowed hard, looking thoroughly miserable.
Aizawa’s instincts immediately kicked in, assessing the seriousness of the situation. Considering how fragile Bakugo still was at this stage of his recovery, the sudden vomiting could, at best, simply be a passing bout of nausea. At worst, though: Internal bleeding. Or an infection that had gone unnoticed. Maybe even something neurological.
Aizawa pulled the chair away from the table before dropping down onto one knee in front of Bakugo. He reached for a napkin and quickly wiped the last of the liquid from Bakugo’s chin.
“Bakugo. Bakugo, talk to me. What’s happening? What are you feeling?” He reached for Bakugo’s wrist, referencing the heart monitor strapped there. It was a little fast, but to Aizawa’s major relief, not particularly concerning.
Bakugo’s eyes opened, but he didn’t respond. He was still struggling to catch his breath, looking pained and fatigued.
At his lack of response, Midoriya, who was standing behind Bakugo’s chair with both hands gripping his shoulders, began to panic. “Kacchan, please talk to us! Do you need water? Do you need to lie down? Do you think you’re gonna be sick again? Do you need to go to the hospital? Do you feel like you’re gonna pass out? Can you breathe?”
The rest of the class started to crowd around them too, scared and anxious. Their concerned chatter and shouted questions quickly began to fill the room, voices overlapping with increasing volume. Bakugo winced at the sound. Aizawa turned toward them at once, raising a firm hand.
“Midoriya, everyone, quiet. Step back, give him some space.”
Immediately, the others followed his order, and Aizawa exhaled slowly. He forced himself to swallow down his own urge to panic, knowing that while Bakugo was clearly in pain, and no doubt feeling humiliated and vulnerable, he would feed off whatever energy was given to him. So, what Aizawa needed to emit, more than anything, was calm steadiness. He needed to be the ground upon which Bakugo could find his footing, if only for a moment.
“Is the pain in your chest? Your arm?” Aizawa asked, keeping his voice level. “Can you describe it to me?”
There was a long pause. Bakugo blinked slowly a few times. His breathing began to slow, the worst of the nausea seeming to have passed. After a moment, he managed to shake his head.
“M’fine,” Bakugo rasped. His face pinched, one hand coming up to rub at his chest. “Swear. Just feel a little nauseous, sore. Probably just need another dose of my meds.”
“Where is it?”
“In my room!” Midoriya cut in.
Aizawa nodded, choosing to ignore the rather obvious implications of Bakugo’s medications being in Midoriya’s personal dorm room.
“Get it,” Aizawa ordered, pushing himself upright. “Meet us in Bakugo’s room.”
Midoriya could switch from panicked to battle-ready at a moment’s notice, and Aizawa could tell instantly that he kicked into some higher gear. He disappeared down the hallway at once, striding forward in that determined manner of us.
Aizawa turned back to Bakugo. “I’ll take you back to your room.”
Bakugo opened his mouth, looking like he was going to refuse, before his gaze drifted past Aizawa and landed on the expelled remnants of his dinner, scattered across his plate and the tabletop. He cringed and drew his shoulders inwards slightly, looking rather embarrassed.
“I’ll clean it up,” he muttered, beginning to shift forward.
“Nope. Not on my watch!” Kaminari appeared at his side almost instantly, a hand pressing against Bakugo’s shoulder to keep him seated. “You think I’m gonna let you swoop in and take credit for my one assigned job of the evening? No way, dude. I’m gonna wipe this shit down like a total boss. This is literally my moment to shine and look like a total hero in front of Mr. Aizawa!”
Bakugo huffed. “Oh fuck off,” he muttered.
“See? You’re already feeling better enough to be an asshole, so we’re making progress.” Kaminari grinned, already reaching for the ruined plate. “So keep off your feet and get your ass to bed before you face-plant and make twice as much work for me.”
He punctuated the statement with an affectionate pat to Bakugo’s head, earning himself an immediate scowl. Fortunately though, the blonde made no move to fight him on it.
The sudden burst of Kaminari’s energy cut through the anxiety still lingering in the room, and the class seemed to collectively exhale as he shamelessly began singing along to some pop song while wiping down the tabletop with exaggerated enthusiasm, approaching the task with a level of dedication he had noticeably lacked throughout the better part of the evening.
Aizawa huffed quietly in amusement. Since when had Kaminari grown up?
Grabbing a plastic bag from the kitchen, he returned to Bakugo and, without bothering to ask, scooped him into his arms. The complete lack of resistance was deeply concerning. Bakugo’s brows remained drawn tightly together, his face still pinched with pain, but beneath it all, he suddenly looked utterly worn down. His eyes slipped shut almost as soon as Aizawa lifted him, his body going limp with exhaustion as he simply let himself be carried.
Behind them, the class called out a chorus of well-wishes as he carried Bakugo from the room.
“Feel better, Bakugo!”
“We’ll save you some leftovers for when you do!”
“Yeah! Let us know if you need anything!”
“See you tomorrow!”
Keeping his pace slow and deliberately even, Aizawa carried Bakugo upstairs. Against his shoulder, he could feel Bakugo breathing hard and swallowing thickly, determined to hold back the nausea. Once they had reached his room, Aizawa lowered him onto the mattress as gently as he could. Bakugo settled flat on his back, his one good arm loosely curled over his middle. His face was drawn tight with discomfort, eyes squeezed shut. He looked absolutely miserable.
Aizawa set the plastic bag within easy reach beside Bakugo’s pillow before sitting down beside him on the edge of the mattress.
“Do you normally get nauseous like this?”
“Nah,” Bakugo breathed, his eyes still closed.
Aizawa stilled.
“Okay,” he said carefully. “I’ll get Recovery Girl to come here and see what’s going on.”
“No, no.” Bakugo’s eyes opened immediately, and he pushed himself up onto his elbows before apparently regretting the decision when his face pinched with pain. He sank back into the pillows with a grimace. “I—I didn’t mean it like that. I’m normally fine. I just...”
He swallowed, one hand coming up to rub at his chest again. “I pushed myself a little too hard cooking today. Felt fine while I was doing it, but when I sat down and stopped moving, it all hit me all at once. Whole body started feeling sore and achy and fucking exhausted, then I got nauseous. That’s it, I swear I’m good. Don’t tell Izuku that, though, he’ll completely lose it on me.”
“...I see.” Aizawa said carefully, considering. He reached over and rested a gentle hand on Bakugo’s shoulder, feeling the tension wound tightly through the muscle beneath his palm. “You know, he’s been worried about you.”
“Oh, really?” Bakugo deadpanned. “I had no fucking idea.”
Bakugo scoffed under his breath. “Always on my ass about something these days. Thinks I need to take it easy all the damn time, terrified I’m gonna drop dead any second.”
“Hm.” Aizawa considered. “Well, considering how you’ve found yourself in this condition, maybe listening to him once in a while wouldn't be the worst decision you've ever made.”
Bakugo huffed, and then went strangely still. Slowly, Bakugo’s face contorted with suspicion, eyes narrowing as though something had clicked into place.
“Did Izuku say something to you in the kitchen earlier? Did he fucking tell you to say that to me?”
Aizawa stayed silent, fighting the urge to sigh. Bakugo had always been perceptive in his own way. ”Not exactly,” he admitted.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake—”
“I’m not saying you aren’t allowed to find it overbearing,”Aizawa started. “But you could stand to be a little more considerate about how you react to it. He’s not looking down on you, Bakugo. It’s coming from a place of care–”
“Don’t you think I know that by now?” Bakugo rasped with a vulnerable tremor that made Aizawa shut up immediately.
Bakugo swallowed, and his scowl turned into something that looked dangerously close to a frown. “It makes me feel so damn shitty,” he said under his breath. “Making him so worried all the damn time, like….like I’m putting him through hell all over again.”
Aizawa promptly stopped breathing, and internally cursed himself.
For all the times he’d watched Bakugo bristle and lash out whenever Midoriya fussed over him, Aizawa had assumed, wrongly, that it was because of Bakugo’s pride: that he saw Midoriya’s outstretched hand as a finger pointed at him in insult. And perhaps that had been true, once, but Aizawa made the mistake of forgetting just how much growing up the boy had been forced to do in the past few months.
The problem wasn’t that Bakugo failed to understand the depth of Midoriya’s concern—it was that Bakugo understood it far too well. And rather than resenting Midoriya for caring, he seemed to resent himself for giving Midoriya a reason to worry in the first place.
Aizawa opened his mouth, then closed it again, finding himself at a loss for anything useful to say.
The door flew open before he could try.
“I’m sorry it took me so long!” Midoriya hurried inside, arms laden with bags. “I got your medication but I thought you probably shouldn’t take it on an empty stomach since you just vomited so I grabbed those protein shakes you like and then some other snacks in case you don’t want that and I also brought some of our favorite All Might movies so you won’t be bored while you rest and—”
“Thanks, Midoriya.” Aizawa said, cutting him off.
Between the two of them, they managed to get Bakugo sitting upright long enough to drink about half the protein shake before swallowing his medication, after which Midoriya promptly tucked him carefully beneath the blankets. They both sat with him until the medicine kicked in. Gradually, the tension smoothed from Bakugo’s features, the worst of whatever pain had seized him began to recede. His eyes slipped shut, though he didn’t appear to be asleep, merely keeping them closed to lessen the nausea. The plastic bag remained within reach beside him, just in case.
Midoriya sat rigidly at the edge of the mattress, his eyes worriedly darting between the rise and fall of Bakugo’s chest and the faint movement of his nose with every inhale and exhale. His attention bordered on unhinged, needing to verify each of Bakugo’s breaths before allowing himself to take his own. Aizawa recognized the habit immediately—he’d seen it more times than he cared to remember.
With a quiet sigh, Aizawa reached over and rested a hand briefly against Bakugo’s forehead.
“Get some rest,” Aizawa murmured. “I’ll finish dinner with the others, then come check on you before I leave.”
Bakugo didn’t respond, his eyes remaining closed. “I’ll stay with him!” Midoriya offered immediately.
That had never been in question. “I figured,” Aizawa said.
The evening went on without any further hitches. After returning to the common room and reassuring the anxious class through what felt like an endless interrogation—yes, Bakugo was fine; yes, he had taken his medication; yes, he was feeling better; no, he was not dying; yes, he really did need to sleep it off—the class soon agreed to a unanimous course of action: they were going to help Sato make a cake. A humongous ten-layer chiffon cake, complete with enough frosting to spell out Hope You Feel Better! to give to Bakugo the following morning.
Aizawa found himself dragged into the endeavor as well, and what followed was several hours of questionable teamwork. Flour ended up on the countertops, the floor, the chairs, and Ashido somehow managed to get an entire streak of icing across her forehead without noticing. By the time they finally finished, Aizawa was covered in various ingredients, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, and he was already mentally preparing himself for the long-winded, scathing lecture the cleaning staff would undoubtedly deliver when they saw the state of the kitchen in the morning.
Despite that, the cake itself looked pristine. And once it had been safely tucked into the fridge amongst the evening’s leftover curry, they shuffled over to the couch. The fireplace had been lit as the temperature dropped outside. And as Aizawa felt its warmth, and enjoyed the company of his loud, disobedient, occasionally useless—and, he supposed, rather incredible—students, he realized he felt more relaxed than he had in a very long time. These kids weren’t so bad once you got to know them. And with each other, he thought, they were in very safe hands.
At that moment, Kaminari decided to lean in close to the fireplace with his tongue sticking out, attempting to keep it over the open flame for as long as he was physically capable, and Aizawa hastily rectified that to somewhat-safe before scolding him.
As the night wound down, Aizawa finally straightened with a stretch and a yawn. He made his goodbyes, and was met with an enthusiastic send-off from the class. They crowded around him with cheerful waves and exaggerated bows, already insisting they needed to host another dinner soon. Eventually, Aizawa managed to escape, leaving them behind as he made his way back toward Bakugo’s room. The sound of their chatter gradually faded with every step, though he could still make out the occasional burst of laughter and caught wind of one remarkably immature argument between Iida and Kaminari about whether or not taking a bite out of the cake before Bakugo received it would ruin the thought behind it.
Shaking his head with a quiet smile, Aizawa continued down the hallway. He was feeling unusually calm, enjoying the rare luxury of being somewhat off the clock, and the fact that the evening had gone considerably better than expected only added to his good mood.
He turned the corner and approached Bakugo’s room, already lifting a hand to knock when he stopped suddenly.
Voices drifted through the wood.
“—that's not the point! I know you're feeling better now, but can't we just play it safe? Get a second opinion from a doctor, or—”
“Oh, for fuck's sake, absolutely not.”
“Kacchan—”
“No. No, this is your problem, Izuku. I've been dealing with this shit for months. Months. I know my own fucking body better than you do, and you have no idea what any of this feels like.”
“I–I know that, but—”
“And I'm telling you I'm fine now! I know I'm fine. Why the hell can't you believe me? Fuck, it's like you don't trust me at all!”
“That isn't true! I trust you completely! With my life!”
“And what about with mine, huh?”
“That’s…that's—well…No, listen—”
“No, I'm not listening to another goddamn excuse! I already know the answer. Why else would you go whining to Mr. Aizawa about me so he could lecture me?”
Aizawa flinched at the sudden mention of his name.
“What?! Wha—how did you—what did he say to you?”
“Nothing! He was giving me the same fucking speech you always do, and I worked it out myself. Can't fucking believe you went behind my back.”
“OKAY SO WHAT IF I DID?!” Midoriya’s voice cracked slightly. “Fine! Yes! I told Mr. Aizawa I was worried about you! Because I am worried about you! The only thing you’ve been thinking about these past few weeks is getting yourself back to normal. Why can’t you slow down for once? You're still hurt, Kacchan! And that's okay! Why isn’t that okay?! You can take your time, the world isn't ending anymore, so why can't you just let yourself have that?”
“Why the fuck do you think?! I'm trying to get this shit the hell over with as quickly as possible so you'll stop worrying yourself sick over me and I can stop being a goddamn burden to you!”
A loud gasp, then a long pause. A shaky breath. “Kacchan…. That’s–that’s not….”
There was a loud sniffle that followed, and it took Aizawa a second to realize, with great horror, that it had come from Bakugo.
“Damn it.” Bakugo muttered, his voice tight. “It's stuffy in here.”
Aizawa heard the soft scrape of sheets, then the faint creak of a window being pushed open. A few seconds later, footsteps approached the door directly in front of him. Aizawa moved before he could properly think about it, slipping silently to the side of the doorway and flattening himself against the wall just as Midoriya pulled the door open, leaving it slightly ajar—and, incidentally, just enough of a gap for Aizawa to see inside.
Both Midoriya and Bakugo possessed sharper senses than most, but Aizawa, who had built his entire combat style around stealth, and was regarded as one of the most skilled underground heroes in the profession, knew how to keep himself unnoticed. And against two young boys so completely absorbed in each other, staying out of their awareness demanded hardly any effort.
Through the narrow opening, he saw Bakugo’s bed first, a small assortment of snacks spread across the blankets while one of All Might's old movies played quietly on the television. Bakugo sat cross-legged on the bed, his head bowed and one hand pinching at the bridge of his nose. He looked significantly better than he had earlier, with some of the color returned to his face, though the sight did little to ease the knot in his stomach. Midoriya sat down directly in front of him, his bottom lip trembling.
Aizawa immediately considered leaving. The conversation felt too private for him to be eavesdropping on, but then Bakugo sniffed again, turning his face farther away from Midoriya, and Aizawa couldn't quite bring himself to move.
There was something in the tone of their voices and the way they carried themselves that made it clear their argument—one that had evidently been escalating for some time—was finally reaching a peak. Aizawa had the distinct and deeply unpleasant feeling that whatever happened next held stakes of disturbingly high magnitude. One conversation could make or break a relationship as intense and complicated as theirs, and considering Aizawa had become an unwilling participant in the middle of it, he wasn't about to walk away until he was certain they were both alright. And if something he had said—or failed to say—had helped push them toward this, he needed to know.
Midoriya slowly reached forward, resting one hand carefully on Bakugo's knee.
“You're not a burden.” he said softly. “I don’t think that. Nobody thinks that. I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you were.”
Bakugo stayed shockingly silent. And as Aizawa stared at the blonde - shoulders hunched, gazed fixed down at the sheets, looking like someone was pulling apart his ribs from the inside out - Aizawa realised that he probably knew a lot less about Bakugo than he cared to admit. He’d expected him to bark back, snap, shout, because that’s just who Katsuki Bakugo was: strong, brave, unyielding. He was the type who would fight to the very end, die with the last word in his mouth. But as the silence carried on, and Aizawa continued to watch him, he realized something else.
Bakugo was young. And he was scared.
Midoriya’s frown deepened as the silence stretched on.
“Y-You’re right. I have been overbearing.” Midoriya started again. “I want so badly to do this right, Kacchan. But I’m not… I'm not always going to know what you need, so I’d like the opportunity for you to talk to me. There must’ve been things I’ve done that’ve hurt you, directly or indirectly, and that you’ve been keeping to yourself, because you think it’ll spare me. I really hate the idea of that, you know. I don’t want us to be like that.”
Aizawa's breath stilled in his chest as Bakugo, still turned away from Midoriya, went rigid. For several long seconds, he didn't move, expression hidden from view.
Suddenly, he turned back to Midoriya. He shook his head once and gave a short, humorless scoff. “I don't care about this shit. Just...just fuck off, Izuku. Get out of my room.”
Midoriya's face fell as though the floor had dropped out from beneath him. Still, he waited for a few beats, sitting quietly as if giving Bakugo space to take it back. But he only stared back, eyes carefully blank and unflinching. Aizawa bit back a sigh.
Midoriya's lips trembled and he blinked rapidly, slowly scooting toward the edge of the bed and standing up. But then Bakugo did something Aizawa never would have expected.
“Wait!”
Midoriya froze.
“Wait, that wasn't—” Bakugo surged forward, catching him quickly by the forearm before he could get any farther. “Fuck, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that.”
For a moment, nobody moved. This was clearly new territory for everyone involved. Aizawa could hardly believe what he’d just heard, and judging by the faintly panicked look on his face, neither could Bakugo. Angry avoidance came to him as naturally as breathing; this newfound honesty was unfamiliar and new and bold. Bare-faced. Vulnerable. And it very obviously scared the shit out of him.
“Wait, I’m not… Just wait a fucking second, alright? I'm trying to—I’m going to think of the right thing to say any moment now, okay, just… hold on.” Bakugo stammered.
Midoriya’s eyes went wide with shock and hope. He sat back onto the bed and scooted closer, moving with overt caution, as though he were terrified of scaring the moment away. He nodded slowly and patiently, saying nothing.
Bakugo exhaled in distress and ground his teeth, quiet and brooding for a handful of seconds as he attempted to work out the best way to get his message across.
“When I was…. fighting Shigaraki—” Bakugo started quietly, and Midoriya’s entire body instantly grew tense. “And I thought that, y’know, maybe I didn’t have much longer left, I had a lot on my mind. Winning, and All Might, but most of all… you.”
Aizawa saw how Bakugo held back a wince, but chose not to look away from Midoriya, despite the discomfort. He got the impression that these were vulnerabilities which hadn’t been shared to many people - if anyone. Midoriya’s breath hitched, and he looked absolutely gutted, but he kept quiet in favor of giving Bakugo his undivided attention.
“I was thinking about how wrong I had been about you, and how I wanted to keep competing with you, and…for some reason, this one stupid memory of when we were kids. The time I fell and busted my chin open, and you cried the whole damn day, saying you wished you’d caught me. And I was…” A shaky breath. “I was scared that when I died, you’d blame yourself. That you wouldn’t be able to move on, or let yourself be happy again.”
His breath shook audibly then, and he blinked away a few stray tears. He didn’t move to wipe them away though, instead choosing to lay his hand on top of Midorya’s where it rested on the bed as he visibly collected himself. Midoriya looked down at their hands, then back up at him, so scared, and so young, and for all his power, so contradictingly small— saying nothing. Only watching, only listening.
“You’ve been worrying yourself to death for me these past few months, and I hate it. I just want you to be happy, nerd. And when I’m hurt, you aren’t, and that terrifies me so bad that it pisses me off. Thats why I’ve been in such a hurry to get better. That’s all there is to it.”
At that, Midoriya's eyes spilled over with tears. He nodded quickly, looking absolutely anguished, blinking hard as he wiped at them with his sleeve.
“Kacchan...” His voice came out small. He swallowed and tried again. “Can I... can I hug you?”
Bakugo immediately gave a small nod. He reached his good arm out, and Midoriya immediately pitched forward, practically throwing himself against him. He buried his face against Bakugo’s shoulder, one hand rubbing affectionately over his back, while Bakugo hesitated only a second before loosely wrapping his arm around Midoriya’s torso, pressing their bodies closer together.
“Thank you for telling me that.” Midoriya said eventually, voice tight. He pulled back after a moment, though he kept his hands resting lightly on Bakugo’s shoulders.
“I never meant to worry you, I just… I can’t help but—” Midoriya trailed off after that, and from Aizawa’s position it looked as if he’d suddenly lost confidence in what he’d been saying. But Bakugo didn’t interrupt, nor did he pester. He waited patiently (patiently! Aizawa could hardly believe his eyes) for Midoriya to find the words.
He found them.
“You nearly died, Kacchan,” Midoriya whispered. The simple turn of phrase sounded as if it’d gutted him to say out loud. “And that happened because of me—”
“Izuku—”
“I know. I know.” Midoriya gave him a small, apologetic look. “I know you don’t think that, and that's your right. But I do. I’ve been... blaming myself, and I know that’s not right, and maybe that’ll change someday, but that’s just how I feel right now. It’s not an excuse—It’s just... I’ve been so focused on making sure I never fail you again that I forgot to consider how all of this was making you feel. But I want to be better. For you.”
Midoriya’s hand moved tentatively, slowly finding Bakugo’s, and he loosened his fingers, allowing him to take it. Their palms met, and then their fingers slowly interlinked, unrushing, like a flower gradually unfolding its petals, unveiling itself for the rest of the world.
“I can’t promise I’ll stop worrying about you,” Midoriya admitted. “I don't think I ever could. But please know that I am happy. Being around you, taking care of you, fighting with you, worrying over you… that could never be a burden. It’s a gift, and it’s a second chance I don’t deserve, but I’d take it all the same, every time. I’m happy, Kacchan. I’m so, so happy with you. I’m so happy you’re alive.”
Bakugo’s eyes widened, and then softened to a degree that Aizawa had never before thought possible. Midoriya’s fingers tightened gently around his.
“That being said, I promise I won’t let that concern consume me anymore. I’ll try to listen to you more, and trust you when you tell me you’re okay. And I want to get to a place where we can stop worrying so much and just... enjoy being together, too.”
Slowly, Midoriya smiled shyly before leaning forward, his face becoming suspiciously close to Bakugo’s in a way that made Aizawa flinch violently in surprise.
Before anything could happen though, Bakugo unwound his hand from Midoriya’s and promptly covered his mouth.
“Not now.” Not now?! Bakugo muttered. “I just puked, you idiot. I’m gross.”
“What? No!” Midoriya protested immediately from behind Bakugo’s hand. “You’re not gross! You could never be gross!”
And, as if to reinforce his statement, he peeled Bakugo’s hand away from his mouth and leaned fast in before Bakugo could stop him, giving him a quick peck on the lips. Bakugo let out an indignant growl, but Aizawa noticed the subtle manner Bakugo leaned closer into Midoriya’s space, his body responding unconsciously to the kiss. His shoulders unwound a fraction.
“You moron! I thought you said you were going to listen to me more.”
“I’ll listen to you more, when you’re being sensible.”
“Am I not always sensible?”
“Don’t make me answer that question, Kacchan.”
At that, Bakugo rolled his eyes and reached up to playfully tug at the slightly-too-long hairs behind Midoriya’s ears, then exhaled in quiet laughter. At the sound, Midoriya brightened completely. And in that moment, Aizawa really felt it—the intensity of the love the two had for one another. It happened right in front of Aizawa's eyes: one small, brief grin in Midoriya’s direction, and something in him just released; the tension in his body smoothed over, the world set right again. Aizawa got the impression that Bakugo smiling at him had somehow changed Midoriya’s entire outlook on life. One small show of his happiness was all it took.
Aizawa’s brain suddenly began to hurt, overloaded with all this new information and feeling a difficult mix of pride, panic, confusion, and contradiction. It all jumbled together in a way that left him completely at a loss. Because, sure, there had been rumors, and he’d had his suspicions, but actually seeing them like that—together, clearly in some capacity that stretched far beyond anything platonic—was exceedingly difficult to wrap his head around.
It made so much sense, and yet none at all. And up until about five minutes ago, the sight would’ve actually scared the shit out of Aizawa, because God help them, they’d always been crazy about each other—-and for most of their history, probably for the worse. But there was something so stunningly sincere about them now, that it felt impossible to look across at them and not see how hard they were both trying. There was no deception here. No double-meaning, or reason for doubt. They fought, and they hurt each other, and now they were trying to fix it.
Back on the bed, Bakugo suddenly reached for Midoriya and tackled him backward onto the mattress. Aizawa was half-expecting Midoriya to immediately begin scolding him for moving too around too roughly, but instead, he let out a startled squeak before allowing himself to indulge in a brief bout of gentle playfighting; all half-hearted shoves and clumsy attempts to pin the other down. Their movements were practiced and instinctive, each of them knowing exactly how the other would react, and within seconds they were both trying—and failing—to suppress their laughter. Watching them, it was impossible not to be reminded of the years and years of history they carried between them.
Eventually, they settled, lying side by side with their chests heaving, staring up at the ceiling.
“I wanna be better for you too,” Bakugo said all of a sudden, still catching his breath. “I’ll try to... take a break every once in a while or whatever. And maybe stop biting your head off whenever you start having a fucking breakdown into your cereal because I got a paper cut.”
“Jeez, I’m not that bad.”
“I think the whole world would disagree with you there.”
“Well, then the whole world can fight me!”
Bakugo turned his head, a smug grin beginning to pull at his mouth. “Ah, so you'd fight the whole world for me?”
“You know it.” Midoriya said without hesitation, then turned his head and leaned over to kiss Bakugo on the mouth again. It was another natural, barely-conscious act, as if Izuku Midoriya planting one on Katsuki Bakugo was the most normal thing in the world. And at this point Aizawa figured he should really stop feeling so surprised by their casual displays of affection, but he couldn’t quite manage it.
“You know, I was also thinking...” Midoriya began. “If it’s alright with you, maybe we don’t have to keep hiding our relationship at school. And I don’t mean making some big announcement or anything obviously and I know most of our friends already know by now but maybe we could stop acting like we have to stand six feet apart whenever Mr. Aizawa or All Might or the rest of the students at U.A are around and I know that’s a big step and you’re a more private person than most so don’t feel pressured to—”
“Okay, yeah.” Bakugo cut in bluntly.
Midoriya hesitated. “But do you really want to, or do you feel as if you should –”
“If we’re doing this, then I’m doing it for real,” Bakugo said. “I don’t wanna half-ass this, and I–”
His eyes narrowed suddenly. “Wait. This is because that freshman was flirting with me the other day and you couldn’t do anything about it, isn’t it?”
Immediately, Midoriya’s face twisted into a sullen scowl. “No.”
Bakugo’s smile turned smug. “Oh It so is!”
“No, it isn’t! It’s irrelevant!” Midoriya insisted, and then adding, “Although... I mean, come on. It was right after all the war footage came out, so everyone was whispering about us and there were rumors, and she still thought it was appropriate to make a...it was weird, that was all.”
Bakugo scoffed and rolled his eyes fondly. “She didn’t know we were together, dumbass.”
“She gave me a look,” Midoriya muttered, and damn, Aizawa hadn’t known that Midoriya was even capable of sounding petty. Today really was a day of learning.
“You definitely growled when she put her hand on my shoulder, that’s for sure–”
“I huffed! Huffed!”
“Okay, okay. Whatever, you damn nerd,” but there was no bite behind it whatsoever. This time, it was Bakugo who leaned in first and kissed him. They didn’t separate, however, remaining tangled together as they kissed, and then continued kissing, still sprawled across the bed, and Aizawa rapidly found himself reaching the limits of what he was willing to witness from outside his student’s bedroom.
Aizawa quickly reached forward and knocked on the door. There was a startled squeak from inside, followed immediately by the frantic rustling of bedsheets. A moment later, Midoriya opened the door.
“Mr. Aizawa!” His face was noticeably flushed. “How was the rest of dinner?”
“Good.” Aizawa glanced past him, toward Bakugo, who was now sitting upright against the headboard with a suspiciously innocent expression. “I’m about to take my leave, though. You two need anything before I go?”
“Nah, we’re good,” Bakugo said, with a small smile on his face. Midoriya nodded quickly in agreement, and Aizawa found that he couldn't help but agree with them.
Yeah. They were good. They had it from here.
Aizawa waved one hand, offering them a rare smile. “Alright. See you two on Monday.”
They both offered brief goodbyes, and Aizawa turned to leave. And as he made his way down the hallway, he heard the unmistakable sound of bedsheets rustling from behind him, Midoriya no doubt climbing back into Bakugo’s bed and settling in for the night. That was, technically speaking, very much a violation of dorm policy, but Aizawa couldn't really bring himself to care or do anything about it. He'd let them have this.
And besides, he was off the clock tonight.