Chapter Text
“Adolescents are not monsters. They are just people trying to learn how to make it among the adults in the world, who are probably not so sure themselves.”
-Virginia Satir, The New Peoplemaking, 1988
Bakugou was losing time.
Because he was standing on the street just a second ago. He’s sure of it. With so many people...watching...watching All Might...
Finishing that thought aches in a way he’s never experienced before. So he doesn’t.
But now he’s sitting in a metal chair in an interrogation room? It looks like one at least from the countless iterations he’d seen on TV. When he tries to shift the chair it doesn’t move. Bolted down like the table then. There isn’t a one way mirror but a camera in the corner of the room blinks red and he can see the lens as it racks focus every few minutes.
It’s cold even though it’s the middle of August. Probably the air conditioning. He almost wishes he’d taken Yaoyorozu up on the offer of a sweatshirt. Before his classmates had left to go home she’d offered. He didn’t remember what he’d said but it was probably enough to get her to back off. He was good at that.
What time was it?
A detective had come to ask questions at one point. About the villains. What they said to him, what they wanted. Descriptions of their quirks. Who outranked who. What All For One wanted.
He tells them everything he can. Then repeats it when they phrase the questions differently.
Normally he’d be so pissed about having to repeat himself.
But he hasn’t slept in at least thirty six hours. And everything feels strangely numb and distant. Even anger.
A sergeant tells him his parents are flying back from London. They were supposed to come home next week Bakugou remembers. Meeting with clients and prepping for New York fashion week he’s pretty sure. Unless it’s been longer than that? What day is it? He’d tried to track how long he’d been held but it was impossible to be sure how long he’d been unconscious.
“When?” he manages to get out.
“They land in six hours. Once they clear customs an officer is going to bring them here.”
“Can I talk to them?” He hates how his voice almost quavers.
“Once they land we can make sure you get a chance to talk to them. Until then…” the officer trails off. Bakugou nods into the ground. Of course. Right. 11,000 meters in the air going 700 kilometers an hour.
It’s sudden, sharp and all encompassing but he wants to go home. He wants the four walls of his room and the tiny yard just off the kitchen. His dad had hung fuurin outside when they first moved there. Bakugou hadn’t thought of the thin glass domes in years but he wants to hear them now, clinking unevenly in the tepid breeze. He swallowed down the lump in his throat.
Someone brought him a water bottle and he sipped his way through about half of it. It made him nauseous but he was dehydrated. The villains had offered him a bottle more than once. Tampering had been a high possibility so he’d refused.
He kept shivering in spasms.
“Can I go home?” he asked when the first detective came back.
“We can’t release you to anyone but a parent or an emergency contact. Once your parents get here we can. But unless someone else they authorize is available, you’ll have to stay.”
Bakugou remembered glancing into the bullpen when he’d been led into the building. Controlled chaos would have been putting it lightly. His classmates had left him with a medic near the outskirts of the police cordon probably halfway across the city. His phone was long gone. No one would know he was here.
He didn’t dare ask about All Might. Or about Best Jeanist. He’d caught a glance of the thread hero on a TV monitor being loaded into the back of an ambulance, a medic doing chest compressions. Watching Deku cry as they’d witnessed that insane fight, he knew something was very wrong. Maybe permanently wrong. If one of them...if any of them...
His fingers gripped the material of his pants.
A knock on the door derailed the cliff his thoughts were tipping over. It was probably another detective. He’d answered so many questions already. What were twenty more?
The quiet way Eraserhead slipped into the room was distinctly not what he’d expected.
“Mr. Aizawa,” he almost stuttered, instinctually halfway to his feet out of habit.
“Bakugou,” he acknowledged with a tone that was equal parts nonchalant and genuine relief. It was so utterly, mundanely normal that it made the teenager sag just a little. Finally, a competent adult who would understand just a little bit if nothing else.
The man looked exhausted, worn thin like the early days after the USJ incident. Honestly the blonde couldn’t remember ever seeing an adult that seriously injured before. It had been sobering to watch him barely make it through a basic lecture. He didn’t think Eraserhead had been part of the rescue team, but he couldn’t be sure. Had the man been hurt again?
His teacher’s words during that broadcast had given him the steel he’d needed to brace against when he’d been so sure he was going to die. Even now they were taping some vital part of him together. He was a hero. If someone else believed it then he could too.
There were hands suddenly on his shoulder and it’s the first contact he can remember since grabbing Kirishima’s outstretched arm hours ago.
“I’m so proud of you kid,” Aizawa pronounced sincerely with a force to it that Bakugou feels down to his marrow. “And I’m so sorry .”
The hero’s grip is firm just like his voice and for a brief moment Bakugou almost believes that everything is fine. Is going to be fine. It’s not All Might’s signature catchphrase but it’s so much more than he feels like he deserves.
His throat closes up again.
It’s been a long night. He doesn’t want to do emotions anymore.
He can’t suppress the shivers despite trying as hard as he can. It can’t be that cold in this building?!
He’s grateful that Aizawa doesn’t press further when he can’t respond.
“Did they feed you?” his teacher asks instead.
A practical question.
Those he can do.
Bakugou gives a half shrug half shake of his head. He’s not sure if Aizawa meant the villains or the cops but the answer is no either way. The idea of eating anything makes his stomach turn and ache in equal measure.
A long pause and a deep breath forces the blonde to look up. He’s seen that look on Aizawa’s face before.
“If you’re alright with it, I’m gonna take custody of you until your parents get back. You can shower at my place. Eat something. Get a little sleep. Unless you want to stay here and wait for them. I know they won’t be back until sometime in the morning. It’s your choice.”
It’s an efficient practical offer.
‘He has a house?!’ is the first irrational response that pops into his head. While the whole of class 1-A seems to think they’ve figured their teacher out, Bakugou is aware they actually know almost nothing about him. There’ve been theories widely circulated around the whole of UA for years. Nothing had ever been confirmed. Ashido was convinced he literally lived in his sleeping bag.
Bakugou is exhausted. The covert glances that he knows are being directed his way bite in a way he can’t seem to ignore. Ones that accuse, and pity and wonder if he really is a villain despite what Aizawa said.
Most of all he wants to be able to make a decision of his own. He appreciates that more than anything Aizawa’s offered him thus far. Apology and praise included.
“I don’t wanna stay here for another fucking second.”
Aizawa huffs an amused snort and doesn’t miss a beat.
“Alright then. Let’s get outta here.”
It’s more informal than Bakugou expects and he follows the pro hero out the door with an almost smile on his lips.
No one stops them. He’d had to fill out what felt like fifty forms tonight. The officers probably have more contact info for him than UA did. And Aizawa was a Pro Hero, more than capable if something were to come up.
In any other instance he’d be shouting about being able to take care of himself. It almost bothers him that he just wants someone else to be in charge for a little bit.
Aizawa’s beat up, blue compact car is halfway across the parking garage. At least Bakugou is reasonably sure it belonged to his teacher. The only thing that seemed out of place was a bag of cat food visible in the hatchback’s trunk and a long rectangular contraption that looked like a very unwieldy cage that took up most of the back seat.
The trip isn’t particularly long but Bakugou loses time again.
He doesn’t sleep, just stares out the window unable to process the neon of downtown that gives way to the quieter residential section of town.
The radio is off and he’s not sure if that’s on purpose or not. Even this late, what happened is probably being broadcast across every station in the area. Maybe all over Japan.
The warm humidity feels better than the air conditioning but not by much.
Aizawa lives in a small building at the end of a quiet, nondescript warren of roads. Bakugou prides himself on his sense of direction but he can’t seem to orient when he tries to find a landmark.
The apartment (not house) is small and traditional, the teen notes when he toes off his sneakers inside the door. It feels weird to not have shoes on--better certainly--but it just reminds him it’s been days since he’d been able to do anything normal.
Little details stand out. He’s always been the observant type and it’s automatic to catalogue. Something he and Deku share minus the obsessive recording of those observations in notebooks.
The tatami must have been replaced recently, he can smell the green newness faintly.
A shrine is tucked into the corner of the main living space but there aren’t any offerings out.
Aizawa gives him a brief tour of the small space and digs out an extra pair of sweats to change into after he showers.
It’s 2:32 in the morning.
He doesn’t revel or linger in the hot spray, just washes as efficiently as he can. And if he scrubs harder than he ever has before--desperate to erase something only he can feel--no one will ever know.
Despite the hot water he still feels weirdly cold. The sweatpants and sweatshirt help a little. They’re too big even though Aizawa isn’t much taller than him and certainly isn’t built the same.
When he reemerges into the hallway Bakugou’s stunned to find two cats watching him placidly. One is a calico, almost perfectly spherical in the way she sits. The other is jet black with piercing yellow eyes that remind him immediately of Aizawa’s hero persona.
Huh. Aizawa has cats?
“You’re not allergic are you?” the man asks as he scoops up the calico. It’s effortless and affectionate; these are most definitely his cats and Bakugou isn’t hallucinating.
“No. My parents just travel too much. We never had pets.” The boy holds a hand out hesitantly and the black cat gives it an experimental sniff before butting against the palm possessively.
“Good. You probably won’t see the orange one. He’s pretty skittish around strangers. But these two are curious and Namak there sleeps on heads from time to time.”
There’s a futon laid out in the main room, a low table’s been pushed to the side to make room. It’s the only thing Bakugou has eyes for frankly. Aizawa’s eagle gaze doesn’t miss the laser focus.
“Get some sleep. I’m guessing you’re not too hungry.”
He’s used up all his words for what feels like a lifetime so Bakugou just shakes his head very slightly.
“I’ll wake you up when your parents call. They’ve got my number and the commission is going to let them know once they land that you're here.”
“Thanks,” he manages to eek out. It’s not enough and he hopes his teacher can infer the gratitude he feels.
He pulls the thick duvet over him and fully lays back.
He’s so tired.
It’s a sure thing that he’ll be asleep in moments.
Twenty nine minutes later he’s not so sure.
If anything he’s colder. The more he curls up the worse it gets. His feet are freezing. When he shifts, the blanket seems to leech what little warmth he’s been able to generate. It’s ridiculous but he’s acutely aware of how cold the tip of his nose is. This is my fault intrudes just as he seems to drift. Illogical of course. All For One and that stupid league are solely responsible for kidnapping him, for causing those injuries...some part of him knows that analytically. But every time he gets his breathing back under control the thought shatters his calm.
He just wants to sleep. If he sleeps, then this nightmare will be over.
It’s shocking when he feels the tears slip down his face and pool in the shell of his ear. A line of ice that feels worse than he expects. He almost swallows the sob and mostly succeeds at it.
Aizawa’s probably already asleep.
He can’t stop the tears or the shaking that continues. There’s no bandwidth left to examine where they’re coming from. Is he the only person on the planet awake?
The room is dark though a small night light in the adjacent kitchen spills weird shadows on the floor.
It’s an odd detail he clings to.
There’s a balled up piece of tinfoil under the small entertainment center.
He’s still crying and he hates it.
When a hand settles carefully on his head Bakugou very nearly blows a hole in the bedding. Aizawa had drilled situational awareness into every member of 1-A ruthlessly since day one. On some level those lessons must have stuck or Bakugou very likely would have done something drastic.
The teen takes in a wet gasp even though he doesn’t remember holding his breath. He clings to the edge of an almost blind panic. ‘It’s your teacher. Don’t hurt him. It’s Aizawa. Don’t hurt him. No way he’d let someone into his house he didn’t trust. It’s not a villain. Don’t hurt him. You’re out. It’s safe. Don’t hurt him.’ He manages to get through the frantic mantra twice before he acknowledges the truth of the facts he’s stating.
When Bakugou tilts his head minutely it’s just enough to look up in the dim light of three AM. The edges where Aizawa ends and the wall behind him begins are hard to discern but the man tilts his gaze to meet him after a long moment.
Katsuki struggles to put a name to the complexity of the man’s expression and fails. It isn’t pity at least.
There’s two false starts before Aizawa finds the words to articulate what he wants to. “The adrenaline crash sucks. I usually have to take something to knock me out. A lot of nights I just don’t let myself sleep. They’re both terrible coping mechanisms so I don’t advise them.”
It’s delivered as deliberately and practically as always but Aizawa doesn’t quite sound like a teacher. There’s a frank honesty to his tone that Bakugou can tell would never come out during a lecture.
“You survived a situation that most heroes--most people--will never experience in their lifetimes. It’s okay to not be alright. For however long that is. You can always...” he trails off searching for words. “I won’t let you…” sputters out as well on a suspiciously wet note.
Eventually he settles on something else. “I know you won’t give up on your dream. You’ll find a way to move forward. I found a way to eventually. And you’re stronger than I ever was.”
There is hesitance in his teacher’s quiet tone. It’s painful. Bakugou knows as deeply as he’s known anything that there’s more to that ‘found a way’. But he doesn’t have the words to ask about it.
Aizawa doesn’t speak again. His scarred hand moves slowly, carding subtly and carefully through blonde spikes. It’s a hyper sensitive sensation until it suddenly isn’t.
And somewhere between one blink and the next Bakugou drifts off.
Five and a half hours later he’s shaken awake. There’s weak morning sunlight pouring in through the kitchen window. Katsuki doesn’t feel any better; if anything he’s more tired than before.
Aizawa is gently insistent when Bakugou tries to turn over and pull the duvet over his head.
“Nope. C’mon Katsuki. Your parents are on the phone.”
The groan he lets out seems to amuse the man greatly.
“Just for a few minutes. Then you can go back to sleep. Deal?”
He takes the phone from outstretched fingers and cradles it against his ear almost hesitantly. “Mom?”
It’s harder than he expects to hear her start crying.
The next few minutes are filled with lots of ‘I’m fines’ and ‘I knows’ and ‘it’s okays’ that aren’t completely truthful. He doesn’t know what else to say though. He doesn’t want them to worry. It’s over now anyways. The heroes won. He clings to that truth even though it feels like things are never going to be the same again.
When he hands the phone back to Aizawa it’s with a little hint of relief.
His teacher briefly chats with his parents or with the hero assigned to escort them but it’s hard to listen. Now that he’s finally slept it’s all he wants to do. Surrendering to the urge without thinking about it is easy.
It’s maybe eleven when he wakes again, suddenly too warm under the blanket and pinned down by weights that don't feel human. Sure enough there’s a cat curled up behind his knees and one on his head (the black one Aizawa had warned him about). Sitting up dislodges both creatures. They seem both unsurprised AND pissed about it at the same time. Eight paws imperiously stalk away when it’s clear Bakugou isn’t going to lay back down again.
Aizawa’s seated at the tiny table crammed into a corner of the kitchen. He’s working through something intensive...probably paperwork. Bakugou’s not dumb enough to think he hasn’t been noticed but the man pays no special attention to him when he steps into the room.
“There’s conjee* in the pot on the stove. Bowls in the cupboard directly above the sink. Help yourself. Your parents will be here in about forty minutes. I convinced them to let you sleep a little longer.”
Normally he hates rice porridge. It’s blander than just about anything except maybe water. No one he knows likes it. But there’s a bowl of it next to Aizawa’s elbow, steam curling in the sun.
He wonders if the man slept at all. It’s hard to tell in the best of circumstances.
Overthinking is Deku’s thing and he forcefully pushes the speculation away to dig in the cupboard till he finds an appropriate bowl and a clean spoon. There’s a pile of books and papers that once occupied the other chair that’s been shifted to the floor under the table. When the blonde sits down he’s immediately joined by a lapmate. It’s a little awkward but Namak doesn’t seem to notice or care, sticking his nose into the bowl to inspect the contents and then promptly ignoring it when the investigation doesn’t prove fruitful.
The cat curls into a perfect circle on the teen’s lap and promptly goes to sleep.
Aizawa is still working, though he had slid his own bowl in a way that would allow him to do both simultaneously if he chose.
“I’m not a little kid,” Bakugou asserts stiffly. In the light of day it feels like a failure to have cried in front of his teacher.
“No, you aren’t,” Aizawa agrees mildly as he puts down the pen he’d been scribbling with. There’s a challenge somewhere in the tone that feels important. Waiting for him to take the lead? Maybe waiting for him to curse about how bland the food is.
An imperfection in the wood grain of the table is easier to look at than meeting his teacher’s gaze. He intensely doesn’t want to disappoint this man.
Settling on a default response seems safest.
“I’m gonna be okay. I’ll prove it.”
The conviction is shaky but Bakugou is pretty sure no one would notice. If it’s the answer Aizawa wants he doesn’t let the man comment on it.
“Thanks for the meal.**” He grips the spoon and starts in on the gruel. He still has no appetite but the bland rice does take the edge off a headache he’s been sporting for what feels like days.
A brief glance tells him that Aizawa’s not satisfied by the answer. He’s frustrated but it’s clearly directed inward, not at Bakugou.
“You don’t have to prove anything Bakugou.” It’s painfully earnest and Katsuki knows his teacher means it.
And yet.
It’s not an easy realization to swallow.
Because this was an adult. And adults had answers . They used to have ALL the answers.
And he’s certain that Aizawa was very wrong about what he’d just asserted.