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Though he would never tell them, Shouta enjoyed spending the evenings before patrol watching over his students. With unfortunate regularity, he had to put a stop to fights, elaborate pranks, and crimes against cookware, but just seeing them be kids soothed a part of him often left unsettled.
During especially tough patrols, he reflected on nights spent dozing as the girls taught Eri how to braid hair, using him as a begrudging model. Sitting at the counter with a plate of a delicious, if spicy, dish Bakugou prepared and watching him trade good-natured jabs and copious laughter with his posse of misfits over their meal. Indulging in the sweets Satou routinely stress-baked the night before any major test, paired with a fine cup of tea from Yaoyorozu’s collection at the end of his evening rounds. He even cherished nights spent grading at the table while Aoyama, Hagakure and Kaminari belted along to the fourth sing-along movie in as many weeks.
“Oi! Did you just put that pot down on that fucking cutting board? Does cross-contamination mean nothing to you, Raccoon Eyes!?”
He continued to let them think he only tolerated their antics, because some nights his patience wore thin.
Case in point, Bakugou loomed over the stove, his frustration boiling over as Kirishima, Kaminari, Ashido, and Sero failed to grasp the cooking lesson they begged him for all week long. Shouta watched as he speared a carrot on a hardened spike of Kirishima’s hair, ranting about how he managed to cut it in half with the vegetable peeler. At the sink, Ashido and Kaminari wrestled the rice cooker back and forth, arguing over how much water to add to the pot. Sero, at least, was peacefully peeling potatoes with no — never mind. He just cut his finger with the peeler.
As Bakugou rounded on Sero, ready to beat kitchen safety into him by force, a crash rang out from the sink. Kaminari froze with the rice cooker, its plug pulled halfway free from the wall, shoved under the faucet. Ashido made a face that screamed “broken glass,” reflexively searching for Shouta before ducking beneath the counter with a squeak of fear.
Shouta groaned as he sat up on the couch. The overhead lights were too bright. His pulse thudded in his ears. After a dawn meeting for another dead-end case, a full day of teaching, and no less than two classroom incidents that required trips to Recovery Girl, he was at his limit. His vision swam. Blinking only served to remind him of how dry his eyes were.
He needed to get up and calm them down. He needed to make sure they didn’t injure themselves further, or destroy anything else. He needed to…
“Sit your ass back down before you pass out, old man,” Bakugou snapped, brandishing the carrot at him like a weapon.
“I wouldn’t have gotten up in the first place if you weren’t in the process destroying the kitchen for the second time this year,” he pinched the bridge of his nose, the pressure doing nothing to relieve the ache behind his eyes.
“Hey! The Candy Apple Fiasco was 100% Todoroki’s fault!” Kaminari shouted.
“Don’t be fucking dramatic. We can handle a broken cup and a couple of cuts.” Bakugou waved his hand dismissively in Shouta’s direction, turning down the heat on the stove and shooing the others away from the rice cooker.
Reluctantly, Shouta sat back down on the couch. He closed his eyes, but listened as Kaminari retrieved the first aid kit. Sero accepted his treatment without complaint while Kirishima gathered up the broken glass in his hardened hands. Bakugou poured out the excess water from the rice before starting the cooker, while Ashido washed the remaining dishes.
Once the kitchen was reset, Bakugou continued with his lesson, opting for a less hands-on approach as he tersely demonstrated each step. The rest were relegated to commentating from the opposite side of the counter, safe from harm.
Shouta relaxed back against the couch, drifting off to the gentle clatter of cookware and his kids’ laughter.
~~~~
He awoke to a darkened room, a throw pillow under his head and a soft blanket draped over his torso, roused by the sound of clacking wooden chimes.
A damp rag fell away from his eyes as he sat up, peering around the room. On the coffee table before him, a familiar blast-proof cellphone vibrated, the flashlight strobing in time. Picking it up, he turned off an alarm titled, “Hydrate.”
Next to the phone was a Miruko-brand reusable water bottle, a new bottle of eyedrops, and a bottle of extra-strength pain medicine. Slightly wrinkled from the condensation, a sticky note stuck to the water bottle read, “LEFTOVERS IN THE FRIDGE. EAT OR SUFFER.”
By the light of the microwave, he noted the sink was empty, the faint citrus scent of cleaner lingering in the air. It was soon overpowered by the curry he carried back to the couch. Some of the vegetables and meat were cut into odd oblong shapes, while others were precisely cubed and diced. Taking a bite, a criminal onslaught of spice assaulted his sinuses, bringing tears to his eyes and sending him into a coughing fit. He drained the water bottle in a matter of seconds, opting to eat the rest of his meal at the kitchen counter, where he could more easily refill it from the tap.
As he ate, his headache eased.
He would let the broken glass slide, just this once.