Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Your suitcase is missing a wheel.

That fact becomes extremely important around the third time that you nearly trip again, as it tilts forward, and you manage to catch yourself on one of the pillars just outside the agency.

You can't help but sigh a little heavier when you think back on the entire reason you are in this mess anyway. The commission had deemed you the best fit to replace the last Risk Assessment Technician. You were proficient with the metrics and quickly identified mistakes, offering effective solutions. As much as you disliked being out in the field and working in the shadows of heroes, this was the perfect job for you. It left you away from the public eye, muttering away at various probabilities, and gave you a clear path on how to bring down the risk factor of whoever you were shadowing.

The only problem was that you were tasked with shadowing one of the most significant risks in the industry currently, Pro Hero Dynamight. You mutter to yourself as you try to steady your suitcase and enter the door without almost falling again. The main lobby is bright and un-demanding on the eyes as you take a quick look around. Mostly off white and gray walls, smooth and a low risk factor for injury should you crash into one.

“Okay. Katsuki Bakugou, Pro Hero alias Dynamight, current risk parameter score… 91 out of 100? That’s… absolutely catastrophic. Wow. Love that for me. Maybe I should’ve just become a florist—” you mutter as you look at the tablet in your free hand.
You’re so wrapped up that you don’t notice the heavy footfalls coming toward you until your suitcase catches on someone’s boot and jerks sideways. You yelp, stumble, and find yourself awkwardly braced against a broad, muscled chest that smells like smoke and citrus.
"Watch it, dumbass," a low, gravelly voice snaps above you.
Your eyes snap up, and you come face-to-face with the living embodiment of every ‘Do Not Engage’ warning in your department handbook.
Bakugou Katsuki.
Your voice gets stuck somewhere between your lungs and your tongue. You make an awkward squeak.
He scowls deeper. "The hell you starin' at? Get your shit together."
You stagger back, half because of his push and half because your knees are no longer on speaking terms with your brain. "S-Sorry! My suitcase-uh-it lost a wheel and I"
"Not my problem." He starts to step around you, but then pauses, eyes narrowing. “Wait. Are you the new RAT?”
You straighten, clearing your throat. "Yes! That’s me. Your new Risk Assessment Technician. I-"
He cuts you off with a sharp flick of his hand. "Don’t care. Just don’t get in my way."
You open your mouth to respond, but he’s already storming off, his boots heavy against the polished floor. You stare after him, still clutching your broken suitcase.
"Wow," you murmur. "Ten out of ten on the charm offensive. I can see why the last guy quit."

~~~
It takes you nearly fifteen minutes to find the administrative office to check in. The halls weren't labeled as well as you hoped, and you managed to find yourself on level three of the agency instead of level four. And again, in that time, you managed to lose your pen and nearly face-plant into the door of the admin office by the time you finally arrived.
This office space was the warmest of all the places you had seen so far. Soft lighting, an older white haired woman with her curly hair up in a neat bun, glasses sitting almost perfectly on the bridge of her nose. She offers you a smile as you check in. Her voice was soothing to your nerves, even though you already wanted to run for the hills.
The administrative assistant looks at you with a smile that reads only as pity. “We, uh, prepared a temporary room for you. Up on level five, room thirty-six. It's a little smaller than our other rooms, but with the cleanup still happening in the other Risk Assessment technician’s room going on…” She trails off before she finishes, which you understand.
The commission had stated that the last technician who was placed here quit after a ‘mild’ bad encounter with Dynamight, three days prior.
You force a smile, trying to appear unbothered. "Storage closet chic! Love it."
Just as you’re about to take the key card and thank the older lady, the door to the admin office bursts open, bouncing off the wall a little louder than you anticipated. Forcing both you and the other lady to look towards the door.
"Oi! Stop tryin to assign people to that damn closet."
Bakugou’s sudden appearance makes you jump, your tablet almost slipping from your hands.
He storms up to the counter, glaring down at the assistant, then at you. "You. Follow me."
He is quick to reach over the counter and grab a key card that looks a little different than the one you were given.
Your voice wobbles. "Uh. Okay?"
He doesn’t wait for confirmation, just turns on his heel and stomps away. You scurry after him like a lost duckling.
He leads you down a wide hallway, lined with windows that overlook the city. You notice the details despite your nerves: spotless floors, sleek steel accents, impressive security doors. Finally, he stops in front of a room and shoves the door open so hard it smacks the wall again. This must have been a common occurrence for him whenever he entered a room. But he simply stands aside and waits for you to poke your head into the room, finally.
And when you finally do enter the room… It's an actual room. A decently sized one, with a queen bed, a small desk, a closet, and even a big window from which you could see the skyline. It was simple, but you had to assume it was standard issue for heroes to use in case of long overnights at the agency. It was sometimes far easier to stay than to go home. Their line of work didn’t exactly have long periods of rest. Not to mention, the mortality rate for heroes has gone up in the past fifteen years due to an uptick in villain attacks and mistakes that could have been avoided.
“Bathrooms to the left,” he growls and nods his head in that direction. It was the only other door, besides the closet and the one you had just come through. “Kitchens down the hall”
"...Thank you," you manage, voice soft.
He scoffs and looks away, as if the sight of your gratitude is physically painful. "Don’t get used to it. You Rats are annoying."
You nod quickly, trying not to smile too much. "Understood! Extremely annoying. Noted."
He glares for another long second before turning and storming off, muttering curses under his breath.
When he’s gone, you flop onto the bed and let out a long, shaky breath.
"Okay," you mumble to yourself. "So he’s a complete nightmare… with a weirdly strong sense of forced hospitality. Great."
You scribble notes furiously, muttering to yourself about mitigation percentages and incident reduction strategies. You’re so lost in your data that you don’t hear the door creak open, not even a minute later.
"Oi."
You nearly flung your tablet across the room.
Bakugou stands in the doorway, scowling so deeply you wonder if it’s permanent.
"You actually stayin' here?" he asks like he wasn't the one who escorted you to this room in the first place.
You force your best professional smile as much as you can from lying on a bed. "Yes! I’m required to shadow you full-time. Data integrity and all that."
His eye twitches. "You’re not following me home."
"Oh! No, I only stay in the agency dormitories-"
"Good. Stay the fuck out of my way."
He slams the door so hard that your tablet wobbles as it rests on your stomach. You take a deep breath, typing furiously:
"Note: Subject experiences high emotional volatility at close range. Possible triggers: surprise interactions, perceived incompetence, general existence of other humans."

The rest of the afternoon is spent at your small desk by the window, curled up in the chair that was softer than the one you had back in your commission office. After unpacking, there wasn't much for you to do besides review incident reports and familiarize yourself with the agency's protocols.
Sixty days
That's all you had to do. Watch this explosive demon for sixty days. This isn’t your first assignment, but it might be your last if you don’t succeed. Your department has been clear: Bakugou’s risk metrics are sky-high. If you can’t produce a mitigation plan that proves he can operate safely, by his standards, anyway, they’ll pull him off active duty.
And you’ll get the blame.
You rub your eyes, tired already, and lift your head to stare at the ceiling.
"He's just a human. Explosive, violent, and absolutely terrifying. But still... human."
You tap the screen on your tablet and start reviewing his most recent mission logs.
Average collateral damage: 8.3 city blocks.

Civilian injury count: 0.

Property damage claims: ¥63 million.

Number of times he told dispatch to "shut the hell up": 47.

By the time you finally look up from your various mess of notes and manuals, the clock reads nearly midnight. Your head is still spinning with data points and probability charts, as you force your body to stretch and lazily make your way in the direction of the communal kitchen. The lights turn on automatically, causing you to shield your eyes for a moment as they adjust to the new brightness around you. It was just another standard-issue kitchen, just like the one you had back at your office: cream-colored walls, silver appliances, and some newish-looking chairs and tables scattered around. You walk over towards the counter and open the first cabinet you come across, which, to your luck, has a nice stash of tea in it. The process of making tea has become an autopilot response as you move around the area. Spoon in hand, you hold it while your cup steeps, notes of chamomile and…Citrus?
That’s weird, the packaging didn’t say anything about citrus…
“The hell you doin’ up so late, Rat?”
You spin around so fast your spoon flies out of your hand and hits the floor with a loud clatter.
Bakugou stands in the doorway, arms crossed over his broad chest, wearing a black tank top and matching sweats. Your brain immediately short-circuits.
Abs. Biceps. Veins. Scowl.
You swallow hard.
"I-I was just… making tea," you stammer, gesturing vaguely at the mug. "Tea is… good for nerves, which I have. A lot of. Because of you."
Perhaps it was the fact that it was late in the evening and your brain was starting to wind down for the day. But you couldn’t stop your mouth from running wild. Or stuttering, apparently, if the day's events were any clear indication. You didn’t have this issue before now, and your mind tries to rapid-fire off possibilities that didn’t revolve around the fact that he looked attractive, scary, but attractive in such a casual setting.
His eyebrow twitches. "You sayin' that’s my problem?"
You blink rapidly. "N-No! I mean, yes? Technically, you are the source of my elevated cortisol levels, but-"
He stares at you like you’re a particularly annoying puzzle he doesn’t have time to solve. Finally, he strides forward, picks up your dropped spoon, rinses it under the sink, and sets it next to your mug.
"Don’t make a mess," he grunts.
You stand frozen, mug clutched to your chest.
"Thanks," you squeak in reply.
He doesn’t respond, already rummaging in the fridge. You sneak glances at him, studying how casually powerful his movements are. There’s no wasted energy. Everything about him feels coiled, like a grenade pin half-pulled.
When he finally notices you staring, he glares. "What the hell are you lookin' at now?"
Your mouth works uselessly for a moment. "I was… um… analyzing your movement patterns. You know. For risk assessment purposes."
He snorts. "You sound like a damn nerd."
Your face goes hot. "I-I am a nerd. A certified one. Thank you."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Just for a split second. A flicker of something dangerously close to amusement.
Then it’s gone. He grabs his protein shake and strides out without another word.
You sag against the counter, clutching your mug.
"Oh my God," you whisper, thoroughly embarrassed by the fact that he was able to factory reset your brain by just standing a little too close. It doesn't take you long to finish up making your tea and scurrying back off to your room. And even as you huddle yourself up in bed, the blanket idly covering your legs, your fingers hover over the screen of your tablet, you type out the last of your daily notes:
Subject exhibits extreme aggression in verbal and physical interactions.
Initial hostility to monitoring presence, but demonstrates unexpected protective tendencies regarding living conditions.
Potential hypothesis: Hostility as a defensive mechanism. Possibility for trust-building through small, consistent acts of respect and non-interference.
You pause, re-read your own words, and then add:
Also, surprisingly polite in kitchen hygiene.
You smile to yourself. You know you shouldn’t get comfortable. You know you’re here for complex data and mitigation strategies, not personal impressions. But…
You close your eyes and listen to the distant sounds of agency life outside your door. The occasional muffled shout. The low hum of the building settled for the night. Tossing your tablet to the side, you turn off the light and finally rest your head on the surprisingly soft pillow. This wasn't going to be easy, but it was your job to save both of their jobs. One last heavy sigh leaves your lips before you drift off to sleep.
Sixty days.
You can do this.

Chapter Text

You wake up early.

Too early.

You stare at the ceiling in your new room, the thin blanket twisted around your legs, heart already pounding as if it knows today is the beginning of something catastrophic.

Today is your first official patrol shadowing Katsuki Bakugou .

You repeat your new mantra while brushing your teeth: Sixty days. You can do anything for sixty days.

Except… your toothbrush quivers every time you think about the way he looked last night. Tank top, low-slung sweatpants, a scowl sharp enough to slit your throat.

You nearly choke on your toothpaste.

You are in a rush to get dressed and downstairs, since you spent a extra five minutes looking for your shoes.By the time you arrive at the agency's main hall, Bakugou is already there, dressed in his hero gear: heavy black combat vest, orange X straps, gauntlets hanging at his sides like twin threats they are. 

Your knees wobble.

He spots you immediately, and the scowl deepens to something borderline murderous.

"Oi. The hell took you so long?"

You fumble with your wrist device. "I-I’m on time! Technically even a minute early!"

"Early my ass," he snarls, turning on his heel. "Move it. You stick behind me, don’t touch shit, and don’t open that big nerd mouth of yours unless you’re about to die."

"Is… is that a common occurrence?" you squeak, jogging to keep up.

He ignores you.

This early in the morning, it feels like the world is a whole different kind of monster. The streets are busier than you are use to, with the sun just barely cresting over the markets and skyscrapers around you. Even the air feels charged. With people drinking a too hot coffe and damn dear jogging just to make it to work on time. 

And let’s not forget the part where your fearless and terrifying hero walks away without even checking to see if you are behind him, forcing you to hold your tablet closer to your chest and chase after him. 

“W-wait up please” you huff out, but your plea falls on deaf ears.

He starts the patrol with a pace that feels like a full sprint to you. Every time he moves, you scramble after him, clutching your tablet and muttering numbers under your breath to calm yourself.

"Property damage averages… 8.3 blocks… but no civilian casualties… statistically improbable, he’s too fast, too precise"

He whips around so fast your nose nearly collides with his gauntlet. "You narrating my stats like a damn sports announcer?!"

You squeak. "It helps me-uh-process your risk trajectory in real time!" you say like that is going to help your case with him.

His lip curls. "You’re a hazard to yourself. Can’t believe I gotta babysit a RAT who can’t even cross a fuckin’ street."

There he goes, using your title like a insult. 

It wasn’t your fault that the letters for your title could be whittled down into something so simple and borderline insulting. The title was never a issue until a few years ago, when the commissions tarted hiring more people to do the same job you do. Various degrees within the field, but the main goal was to control the majority of risks and develop a stragtery to drop those risks as low as possible.

It wasn’t until about half a hour in that you manage to get in the way. Classic of course, but you really did try to stay just far enough away to keep out of the blast zone. Dynamight was blasts deep in thief that decided that the corner store at a cool crisp nine thirty in the morning was the place to commit a petty crime. It was too late by the time you looked up from your tablet to see the rogue quirk blast headed straight for your face from the theif. You react purely on instinct, throwing up your hands and activating your quirk.

Bakugou’s eyes widen slightly as a shimmer of faint, glowing bubbles drifts out of your palms and floats lazily into the air.

"Un-fuckin-believable," he growls, grabbing you by the back of your collar just as a stray energy whip nearly slices across your side. He yanks you behind a car with one hand, palm already igniting as he blasts the attacker across the pavement.

The concrete shatters, sparks rain down, and the smell of burnt ozone fills your nose.

When the dust settles, you’re curled up in a ball on the asphalt, eyes wide. You don’t see much after that, you hear his yells, and the theifs cries for mercy. But you don’t dare lift yourself up to see the wreckage that has been left behind for such a small incident…yet. The police sirens and a abbulance show up in under five minutes and you are thankful that the event is over with. Once a fresh looking paramedic approaches you and asserts you are fine and leaves you to fend for yourself do you finally lift your head to see past the car you are ducked behind. Only for your eyes to quickly scan the area and then land on him, who is already staring you down with a look that looks murderous.

Bakugou storms over and hauls you up by the arm. "I told you to stay behind me! You tryin’ to get splattered on day one?!"

"I-I didn’t mean" you stammer, legs shaking so hard you can barely stand. "I was just-"

He shakes you lightly, eyes burning. "No. Fuckin'. Excuses. You keep your bubbly ass where I can see it, or I’ll tie you to a damn lamppost next patrol."

Your lower lip wobbles. You’ve never felt so simultaneously terrified and… oddly safe?

"I-I’m sorry," you whisper.

"...The fuck was that?" he barks, gesturing to your hands.

Oh, he was asking about your quirk!

You wince. "It’s, um… it’s. They’re… just bubbles. They don’t really do anything. Except they smell nice."

He gapes at you. "You’re tellin’ me you got a quirk that makes fuckin’ scented bubbles?!"

You nod sheepishly. "Peach, lavender, or vanilla, depending on my mood! …I always wished for something cooler but-" you let the words die off before you even finish your statement. He was looking at you like you already insulted his entire family by just mentioning your ability, and quickly you look away from him, heat flooding your cheeks.

His jaw works like he’s chewing nails, then he mutters, "Tch," and shoves you lightly back behind him. "Stay. Put."

The rest of the patrol passes in a blur of adrenaline. You watch him from as close as he allows, which is still somehow too far for your anxiety.

He moves like controlled chaos. Explosions that curve precisely around civilians, hands always ready to intercept attacks, eyes constantly scanning every rooftop, every alley.

People scream his name. Kids point and shout, "Dynamight!!" with shining eyes. Even angry business owners complaining about damage hush up when he snarls at them.

You’ve read every report. You’ve seen every metric. But none of that prepared you for the raw magnetism of seeing him work in person.

By the time he finally rounds back toward the agency, your legs feel like wet noodles. You trip once on a curb, and he grabs you by the elbow without even looking, steadying you automatically before dropping your arm like it offended him.

But he holds the side door open for you with his foot and allows you to walk in before him. 

That’s nice

Inside the agency, you stagger into the hallway, practically wheezing.

"That… was… amazing," you breathe. "And horrifying. But mostly amazing."

He snorts, rolling his eyes. "Shut it."

You bounce on your toes, still buzzing despite your near-death experiences. "Your spatial awareness is incredible! You dodge and reroute like a perfect vector calculation! I have to recalibrate my risk score immediately"

It wasn’t hard to see why he was high ranking as he was. Currently in the top eight with a sliding scale to dip down to five on occasion. You also can see how it isn’t hard to see that he makes the top hottest Pro Hero for three years in a row. Or atleast thats what the online magizaines stated. You didn’t have time to read many headlines, though you truly did love gossip.

"Do you ever stop talkin'?" he barks, glaring.

You grin, a little shy but giddy. "Not really. I process out loud. Sorry. Or… you know… not sorry."

He takes a long, deep breath, glaring at the ceiling as if asking some higher power for patience.

Then he jerks his thumb down the hallway. "Get your bubble shit ass to your room. I’m showerin’. You so much as peek at my paperwork before I get back, I’ll blast your tablet into confetti."

Your face goes hot. "I-I wouldn’t peek! I mean-your files, not- I wouldn’t peek at you either! Definitely not!"

He stares.

You realize what you said and want to melt straight into the floor. "I’ll just… go. Yep. Going."

In your room, you collapse face-down on your bed, still half trembling, half buzzing.

You grab your tablet and start typing furiously:

Subject exhibited extremely high-risk combat scenarios with minimal collateral injury, consistent with previous data.

Subject physically intervened multiple times to prevent observer harm, despite repeated instructions to "stay put."

Observer must consider stronger adherence protocols or possible restraint devices (ethical? TBD).

Quirk performance: utterly useless in combat. Possibly useful as stress relief or crowd distraction.

You pause. Then, under your breath, you add,

"Also: Subject looks extremely attractive while issuing threats. Recommend further observation for… scientific reasons."

You feel your heat flush at even writing the last bit down. It was a personal note, strictly off the book. Never something that would make it into the hands of your employer, but still it felt like a good outlet for the current feelings that were starting to infect your brain. But before you can devote any more time to the alarming emotional issue you're having. A knock slams into your door so hard you almost drop the tablet.

Bakugou’s voice booms from the hallway. "Dinner’s up. Move your nerd ass before it gets cold!"

You freeze.

Dinner?

You scramble up, pulling your door open in a panic. He’s standing there in a black shirt, hair still wet from the shower, scowl firmly in place.

"You stand there gawkin’ all night or you comin'?" he snaps.

Your mouth moves without your permission. "You… you cooked for me?"

His eye twitches. "I cooked. You just happen to be here."

You can’t stop the small, wobbly smile that takes over your whole face. "Right. Totally. Makes sense. Thank you."

He groans, stalking off down the hall, muttering, "Can’t believe I gotta babysit a bubble machine who trips on air."

You shuffle after Bakugou, trying not to stare at the way his broad shoulders shift under his black shirt. Despite the slim waist he had, he was built like those Greek gods you've read about in your mythology books. The ancient and dusty ones, untouched in years, were housed in the commission's private library. The shirt he wore might as well have been part of his skin, the way you can observe the muscles move with his body. Gliding behind the fabric in a way the felt damn near crinimal to see this close up. You weren't paying attention to where you were going until you nearly collided with the muscular back of the man you had just been ogling. But he turns the corner into the kitchen at the last second, just like your previous metrics note. 

When you enter the kitchen, your brain nearly short-circuits.

A pot bubbles quietly on the stove, fragrant steam curling into the air. A cutting board sits nearby with bits of green onion and a few stray sesame seeds. Two bowls are already set on the small table, along with a jug of cold water and mismatched chopsticks.

"You… cooked all this?" you ask, your voice a shy squeak.

He doesn’t look at you, stirs the pot and grunts, "You gonna keep askin’ dumbass questions all night or eat?"

You fidget with your sleeves, peeking at the table. "It looks amazing."

"Course it does," he snaps, yanking the pot off the heat. "I ain't servin' up shit."

You try not to beam. He ladles soup into both bowls with a heavy hand, then shoves one toward your side of the table so hard it nearly skids off. You catch it just in time, your fingers trembling a little.

You sit gingerly, bowing your head. "Thank you for the meal," you say, almost in a whisper.

He snorts, dropping into his chair like he’s about to interrogate a suspect. "Whatever. Eat."

The first sip nearly makes you moan. The broth is rich, salty, full of umami warmth that settles low in your belly. You slurp a noodle too quickly and nearly choke, spluttering.

He stops mid-bite to glare. "Are you tryin’ to embarrass me in my own damn agency?"

You cough violently, waving your hands. "N-no! It’s just… so good! I wasn’t ready"

His scowl flickers, something like surprise ghosting over his features before he huffs and shoves more noodles into his mouth.

Silence stretches between you, punctuated only by the sounds of slurping and your occasional timid sip of water. You watch him the casual way he rests his elbows on the table, the clean efficiency of his movements, the controlled strength even in the simplest gestures.

You realize he’s watching you back, eyes narrowed as if assessing every bite.

"You gonna keep starin' or eat?" he finally growls.

Your cheeks go up in flames. "S-Sorry! Just… observational analysis. For my report."

He scoffs. "Don’t write shit about how I eat."

"I wouldn’t!" you squeak, clutching your chopsticks like a lifeline. "I mean… maybe just a line or two about your nutritional habits-"

"I’ll break that damn tablet in half."

You instantly shut up, cheeks puffing out with a hurried mouthful of broth. Thinking it wiser just to shut up than to test his already thin patience. When you finally finish, you set your bowl down carefully, patting your stomach.

"I haven’t had a meal that good in… maybe ever," you confess softly. "Thank you again. Really."

Bakugou rises abruptly, picking up both bowls and moving to the sink. "Tch. You eat like a stray cat."

"I…I do?" you stammer, blinking.

"Scared to even chew loud," he mutters. He starts rinsing the dishes, his back to you. "No wonder you can’t handle patrol. You gotta do everything like you mean it."

You shrink a little in your seat, tugging your sleeves over your hands. "Sorry…"

A beat passes. Then he sighs. Actually sighs .

"You don’t gotta apologize for every fuckin' thing," he mutters, voice lower now.

Your breath catches. You stare at his back, watching the tension shift through his shoulders, the slow, deliberate way he stacks the bowls to dry.

He finishes, turns, and catches you staring again.

"Oi," he snaps. "Creepy stalker look ain’t doin’ you favors."

You squeak and jump to your feet. "I-I’ll go! To my room! Uh-yes."

He clicks his tongue, wiping his hands on a rag. "Good. I’m headin’ home."

You pause at the doorway, turning back. "You don’t live here?"

"Fuck no," he says, rolling his eyes. "I got a place. Peace and quiet. Away from noisy bubble machines."

Your heart weirdly sinks at the thought of him disappearing into the night alone. You fidget, unsure what to say.

"Thank you again," you manage softly. "For the room… for dinner… for not letting me die today."

His eyes flick over you once, quick and sharp. Then he mutters, "Don’t get used to it," and strides past you, heavy boots echoing down the hall.

You watch him go until he’s completely gone, the silence swallowing you whole. You wait just a few extra minutes as you go over the entire dinner in your head. He didn’t have to save you today, but he did automatically. He also didn’t have to cook you one of the best dinners of your life either…he just did. Like it was just another thing he did. 

With an annoying loud screech of your chair being pushed back, you leave the kitchen and head back to your room, flipping on the light and turning on the TV before you shower and finally crawl into bed. Pulling the sheets up to your hip and propping yourself up so you can still make your final notes for the night. 

Your mind races in every direction at once: the heat of the patrol, the electricity of his presence, the unexpected tenderness in small moments he probably doesn’t even realize he gives.

You pull your tablet onto your stomach and start typing, fingers moving on autopilot.

Subject demonstrates contradictory behavioral patterns: extreme aggression juxtaposed with quiet acts of responsibility and unexpected hospitality.

Physical proximity elicits strong emotional responses (terror, awe, warmth, attraction?).

Observer requires further data to confirm long-term mitigation feasibility.

You pause, then add in tiny text:

Observer may be developing personal bias. Recommend self-assessment before next evaluation.

You cover your face with your free hand, muffling a groan. "Oh, God. I’m so screwed."

Your gaze drifts to the dark window. You imagine him stepping into his own home, shaking off the day, maybe collapsing on a couch. Does he think about you?

You shouldn’t think about him like this. He’s your subject. Your mission.

But your mind won’t stop.

You curl under the blanket, eyes wide in the dim light, and finally whisper to yourself,

"Sixty days… is going to feel a lot longer than I thought."

Chapter Text

Fucking commission.

He shoves another spoonful of rice into his mouth and chews like it might make the bitter taste in his mouth disappear..

A RAT. Another one.

It still pisses him off.

He’d barely finished chewing out the higher-ups last week when they stuck her on his docket, "her" being that skittish, floppy-limbed, constantly muttering mess who nearly got flattened by a delivery bike before he even started patrol.

Useless.

And yet… she’s still here.

Day one started like any other. He was up before sunrise, hitting the gym in the agency basement, ignoring the stares from sidekicks and interns. The day was meant to be a quick patrol, clean sweep, no collateral.

Until she waddled in.

Suitcase missing a wheel. Talking to herself like she just escaped from the hospital or something.

"Risk parameters… trajectory curves… vector correction… maybe I should’ve become a florist…"

Who the fuck says shit like that out loud?

He’d tried to ignore her. He wanted to ignore her. But then she nearly flattened herself against his chest, staring up at him with those big, glassy eyes like some stray cat who’d wandered onto a battlefield.

He can still feel her forehead practically colliding with his pec when she tripped.

"Tch. Not my problem," he’d snarled, shoving past her.

But it was his problem.

She was assigned to him. Officially. By the commission.

And the worst part?

He’d chased the last RAT out on purpose. Too nosy, too condescending. He didn’t need some pencil-pusher telling him how to do his job.

But this one…She was different.

When he had heard about the poor excuse of a broom closet they wanted to shove her in, he snapped. He didn’t even think, just grabbed a set of keys for a decent room off the desk and barked at her to follow him. 

Then she opened that stupid mouth of hers again.

"Thank you," she’d squeaked, all wide-eyed and attempting to look small, hugging her sleeves like he’d just handed her the moon.

It pissed him off.

It pissed him off so bad he almost wanted to throw her right through the damn window.

Oh, and for fuck’s sake. 

Patrol was worse. She ran her mouth the entire fucking time.

"Spatial awareness vector curves… property damage metrics… if we recalculated the quirk trajectory as a logarithmic spiral"

What the actual fuck did any of that mean?

He didn’t even know how she’d survived school, much less landed a gig following people into literal combat zones.

Then she tried to use her quirk.

Bubbles.

Scented fucking bubbles.

When they drifted into the air, peach-scented that day, apparently, he nearly blacked out from rage.

"Un-fuckin’-believable," he’d snarled, yanking her away from the blast like she weighed nothing.

The worst part?

She clung to him like it was natural. Like she belonged in the curve of his arm.

When they got back to the agency, he should’ve left her to eat with the sidekicks or scrounge up a meal from a vending machine.

Instead, he cooked.

He didn’t even think twice; he was halfway through prepping broth when he realized what he was doing.

And her reaction?

She looked at him like he’d built her a house from scratch. Eyes all shiny, lips parted, trembling fingers on her chopsticks.

He couldn’t even look at her properly. He had to keep busy, doing dishes, chopping, wiping counters, anything just to keep from combusting on the spot.

Then she squeaked out that shy, genuine little "Thank you" again, and he nearly broke the damn dish in his hand.

Why the fuck did it matter?

He didn't want her gratitude. He didn't want her soft eyes or her weird sleeve-fidgeting or her nervous babbling.

Except… some traitorous part of him did .

That night, at home, he sat on the edge of his bed, scowling at the floor like it might magically change the path of destruction he partaked in on the daily.

She was in that agency room right now, probably typing out one of her endless reports, calling him a menace or a hazard or a "subject."

He knew the commission would be up his ass again soon. Another "evaluation." Another threat to suspend his license for "reckless behavior."

They didn’t understand.

Collateral damage was a small price to pay to make sure no civilians got hurt. To get the job done right.

He protected people. That was all that fucking mattered.

And yet… here she was.

Typing metrics and probably thinking up ways to "fix" him.

She didn’t get it. Nobody got it.

But then, images of her flashed in his head:

Her squeaky voice babbling about logarithms while practically getting smacked by quirk blasts.

Those peach bubbles floating in the air, delicate and ridiculous and… kind of mesmerizing.

The way she’d looked at him over dinner, cheeks pink, eyes too soft.

He didn’t want her to get it.

He didn’t want her to get close.

He wanted her to leave.

But when he thought about her tripping over a curb again, or wandering into an alley with her stupid tablet, or getting taken out by some low-level thug while he wasn’t there…

His chest burned.

Worse than any explosion.

He dragged a hand over his face, growling.

Sixty days.

He’d run the last RAT off in two. This one? He should be able to scare her out by the end of the week.

Easy.

Except she was still there. Even after the shouting. The danger. The insults.

Still there.

And some part of him, some dark, stupid, primal part…didn’t hate it as much as he should.

Bakugou shot to his feet, nearly knocking his chair over.

"Fuck this," he muttered.

Tomorrow he’d do better. Be harder on her, Scarier if it was needed.

He’d make her quit before she got under his skin any deeper.

Because if he didn’t?

He knew exactly where this road led.

And it terrified him more than any villain ever could.

~~~

You wake up early. Again.

This time, you lie there for a moment, clutching your blanket to your chest, replaying yesterday in your head: the explosions, the narrow misses, the dinner, the look he gave you before leaving.

You’ve already started thinking in risk parameters and predictive trajectories, trying to re-map his behaviors. Your heart stutters every time you remember his hand grabbing your elbow, yanking you to safety.

Fifty-nine days , you remind yourself as you force yourself out of bed: one day down, only fifty-nine to go. Projections already show you with a higher success rate than the other technicians who came before you. Of course, you had done the math…that didn’t stop the way your confidence was still wavering harder than a napkin that was about to fly out of a window, or the way your heart felt like it was going to leave bruises behind your ribs at the accelerated rate it beat. 

You get dressed in clothes that left you with the ability to move more freely, uselessly hoping that you will be able to keep up with him today. The fabric is stretchier, softer, and easier to move in. Still, it's Professional and standard issue from the commission for field work. As you head out the door, you can’t help but notice a small yellow sticky note attached to your door.

"Eat before we go. Kitchen. Don’t pass out on my watch.”

You stare at it, heart squeezing in a way that feels so embarrassingly teenage you almost want to scream into a pillow. It’s just a note, not a confession of love or something important. But that doesn’t stop you from flooding it up neatly and placing it into your pocket to keep. 

Instead, you shuffle to the kitchen, where a container of rice balls sit waiting. Simple, the inside Soft and filled with a meat you determine to be fish, and the outside just slightly crunchy from being pan-fried. 

You eat every grain, cheeks flushed, repeating your mantra: This means nothing. He’s just making sure you don’t slow him down. Nothing else.

When you meet him at the agency entrance, he doesn’t say a word. Just jerks his head in a sharp “let’s go” motion.

You trail behind, tablet clutched to your chest, muttering data points under your breath.

Today, though… something feels different.

His steps are sharper, more aggressive. His scowl is deeper.

It doesn’t take long before trouble finds you.

~~~

A small-time gang has barricaded an electronics store, threatening civilians inside. Dynamight storms in first, barking orders at the police like they’re incompetent interns. You follow carefully, trying to keep out of the blast radius.

"Stay the fuck back," he growls at you over his shoulder.

"Yes, sir," you squeak, flattening yourself behind a toppled street sign.

But the moment he busts inside, the situation spirals.

Shouts echo from inside. You hear controlled, yet violent, explosions followed by screams and more shattering glass. Your instincts as a risk tech override your terror. You dart forward, peeking through the broken door to check for hostages.

A man lunges at you suddenly, wild-eyed and holding a knife. You flinch, fumbling with your quirk. A cloud of peach bubbles bursts out, floating uselessly as he barrels toward you. But before the blade can even nick your throat, Bakugou is there. He grabs the attacker by the collar and slams him into the ground with a sickening crack. Sparks hiss across his forearm as he aims a palm at the man’s face, eyes burning.

"Touch her again and you’re dead," he snarls, voice so low it reverberates through your bones.

You’re frozen.

His eyes flick up to you. They rake over you, your shaking shoulders, your heaving breaths, and narrow at the sight of blood blooming on your forearm.

A steady flow of it. 

He curses viciously under his breath. Dynamight hauls you out of the doorway and practically throws you behind a parked police cruiser.

"Stay. Fucking. Put," he snaps.

Your lips tremble. "I-I was just trying to-"

"I don’t give a shit!" he roars, leaning in so close your noses almost touch. "You want to die? Huh? You wanna be a statistic in your own goddamn reports?!"

You flinch, tears stinging your eyes.

For a split second, something flickers across his face. Guilt? Regret? You can’t tell.

But then he storms off, rejoining the fray with a vicious precision that leaves you breathless.

By the time the building is secure, you’re curled up behind the cruiser, hand pressed to your bleeding arm. Your heart thunders, fingers twitching as you replay every moment.

Footsteps approach. You look up, expecting a medic.

Instead, he looms over you, scowling harder than ever.

"Show me," he barks.

You blink. "W-What"

"Your arm," he growls. "Now."

You hold it out, trying not to tremble. He kneels beside you, yanking a first aid kit from his belt pouch. You watch in stunned silence as he disinfects the cut with quick, practiced movements. It hurt like hell, and clearly, you were too distracted by the incident to notice just how deep the cut was. Blood had already trickled down your arm, and you noticed the dark, bloody patch of blood that was pooling on your sleeve.

It stings, and you hiss, flinching away.

"Stop movin'," he snarls, one hand gripping your wrist so tight you can’t pull back. "You’ll make it worse."

"Y-You didn’t have to," you start, voice wobbling.

He glares up at you, eyes smoldering. "Shut up."

Your mouth snaps shut.

His fingers brush against yours as he wraps the bandage, his touch strangely careful despite his rough words. When he finishes, he holds your gaze for a long, heavy moment. His breath is ragged, his brows furrowed like he’s fighting a war behind his eyes.

"Stop makin' me look after your dumb ass," he mutters finally, voice low and strained.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

He shoves your arm away gently, too gently, and stands, turning sharply so you can’t see his face.

"Don’t move until I say," he throws over his shoulder before stalking off to bark orders at the police.

You stay there for a long while, staring at your freshly bandaged arm, heart hammering so hard it echoes in your ears. You think of his hands. The sparks at his wrists. The fury in his eyes. The way his fingers had trembled, just once, when they first touched your skin.

When he finally returns, he doesn’t meet your gaze. Just jerks his head toward the agency van.

"Come on," he mutters.

You obey, slipping into the passenger seat. The ride back is silent except for the hum of the engine and your shallow breathing.

You risk a glance at him, watching the tight set of his jaw, the death grip on the steering wheel.

You swallow hard. "Thank you," you whisper.

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t even twitch. But after a beat, so quiet you almost think you imagined it, he mutters,

"Peach… today."

Your eyes widen. "What?"

"Your dumbass bubbles," he snaps, still staring at the road. "They smelled like peach."

You stare at him, stunned. Then, against your better judgment, a tiny, shaky laugh escapes you.

He groans, slamming a hand against the steering wheel. "Shut up before I kick you out on the freeway."

But you keep laughing, hand pressed to your bandaged arm, tears finally slipping down your cheeks…not from fear, but relief.

When you finally arrive at the agency, he all but shoves you toward the elevator.

"Go to the medbay and get checked out, then rest. Don’t make me say it twice," he growls.

You pause in the doorway, turning back. "Goodnight… Bakugou."

He stops dead in his tracks, shoulders stiffening.

For a second, he almost turns to look at you. Almost.

Then he storms off, boots echoing down the hall, leaving you alone with your racing heart and the phantom warmth of his hands on your skin. You do as he ordered, you get a quick check-up from the doctor, a total of five stitches on your arm, and you are released with a mild painkiller and a juice box. Once in your room, you strip off your clothes, too tired to do anything else but change and fall into bed. 

You should feel terrified. You should want to run. But instead, all you can think is:

I want to understand him more.

I want to see every side of him, even the ones he hides from himself.

And despite your exhaustion, your lips curve into a small, secret smile.

Your tablet halfway out of your bag as you look at it for a moment, and then grab it. Opening your long list of notes and starting to type, more casually than yesterday. 

Subject: Bakugou Katsuki.

Date: Day 2.

Observation:

The subject's combat efficiency remains consistent with predictive metrics: high aggression, minimal collateral civilian injury, and high property damage.

Protective instincts continue to override self-preservation and protocol.

Engaged in a high-risk scenario involving a barricaded store and multiple hostages. Subject’s verbal aggression appears inversely proportional to actual protective actions.

Public risk: remains high (property damage, intimidation tactics).

Civilian risk: minimal; subject prioritizes non-lethal outcomes.

Personal Notes (unofficial):

Subject cooked breakfast and left a note today.

Subject remembered quirk was scented.

Subject’s hands were warm. Calloused, but warm.

Subject did not leave observer behind despite multiple chances.

Observer currently experiencing elevated heart rate, possible fever (non-medical origin suspected).

End of personal log. Confidential .

~~~

The next morning, you read the official email from the Commission, stating you were needed for an in-person meeting at 8 a.m, wiping at your eye, as you read over the message before sighing groggily and rolling out of bed to get ready. It was a quick process, thankfully. You had already laid out clothes for the next day because you were expecting another long and tedious day of following around Dynamight. But instead, as you adjust your blazer and give yourself a quick once-over in the mirror, you let the present slip away. 

It was a mindless task to trudge to the primary office. On the way, you stop for a coffee and a quick pastry as you hurry down the street, looking at your phone for the time. And as luck would have it, today you made it with ten minutes to spare. You even manage to hold the door open for the receptionist as you enter, pastry hanging from your mouth. 

You manage to make it into the conference room and pull out your papers and tablet before anyone else walks in. 

The commission building is always cold; it's freezing.

You shift in your chair, your bandaged arm stinging under your sleeve, your tablet balanced on your knees. The walls here are stark white, antiseptic, like they’re trying to scrub away every trace of genuine human feeling.

Across from you sits a panel of officials: two men in identical gray suits and a woman with sharp eyes and sharper nails tapping against her data pad.

"Day two, and your preliminary report suggests no significant reduction in risk metrics," the woman says crisply. "Care to elaborate why?"

You swallow hard. "It’s… only been two days."

"That’s precisely the problem," one man chimes in, pushing his glasses up his nose. "We expect progress by now, even incremental. You were selected due to your predictive modeling skills. We need evidence that Dynamight can conform to more sustainable combat protocols. Otherwise…"

He trails off, but you hear the implied threat loud and clear: suspension. Forced retirement. Media scandal.

Your hands tighten on your tablet. "He… He does minimize civilian harm," you say quickly, heart hammering. "His spatial awareness and battlefield control are beyond what we projected. I need more time to-"

The woman cuts you off with a sigh. "Time is precisely what we don’t have. Public trust is eroding, and Dynamight’s popularity does not excuse the property damage figures."

"Yes, ma’am," you whisper, throat dry.

They dismiss you with curt nods. You leave the room on shaky legs, your mind spinning with conflicting data points and fragments of his face: the scowl, the careful fingers on your arm, the ghost of warmth in his voice.

It’s a blur of worry and downright panic consuming your mind as you make your way back to his agency. You never expected that they would want a change less than two days after the introduction to the assignment. And besides the real-time metrics that you had been able to compile together so far…they were right.

Your mind still reeling with property damage pertences and volatile risk assessments were weighing on you as you pushed open one of the double doors to Dynamights agency. Walking down the hall and past the briefing room, you spot him in his full gear and an angry scowl etched onto his face, his eyes narrowing once you finally come into full view. 

"Where the fuck were you?" he barks.

You flinch. "Commission meeting. They… wanted updates."

He scoffs, turning away. "Useless pencil-pushers. Waste of oxygen."

You try to keep up as he storms toward the garage. "They… They’re not wrong about the collateral data, though…"

He rounds on you so fast you nearly crash into his chest.

"They don't know shit," he snarls, voice low and dangerous. "They ain't the ones in the field. They ain't the ones savin' lives while dodgin' cheap-ass stabs and rookie mistakes."

You open your mouth to argue, to explain, you’re not even sure. But he cuts you off with a sharp jerk of his chin toward the car.

"Get in. We got another sweep."

The patrol is in chaos from the start.

A group of low-level villains starts a chase through a crowded shopping district. Bakugou launches into pursuit like a living missile, explosions lighting up the pavement as civilians scatter.

You sprint after him, breath ragged, every rational nerve screaming at you to turn around and hide. But your legs move anyway, driven by some invisible tether.

At one point, a young woman stumbles directly into the path of a villain. Without thinking, you tackle her out of the way. Your quirk bursts out, flooding the air with a sudden cloud of vanilla-scented bubbles.

Bakugou arrives a heartbeat later, tearing the villain away and pinning them to the ground with a knee to the back.

He glances at you then, eyes wild, chest heaving.

"Stay down!" he roars.

You freeze, arms wrapped protectively around the terrified woman, bubbles drifting all around you like a soft halo.

When the last villain is cuffed and the area is cleared, he storms over to you, grabbing you by the front of your vest and hauling you upright.

"Are you outta your goddamn mind?!" he snarls, shaking you slightly. "Tacklin' some civvie like you're a fuckin' linebacker?! You wanna get stabbed again?!"

You wince. "She would have-"

"I don’t give a shit!" he interrupts, voice breaking on the last word. His grip loosens, fingers curling into your vest like he’s holding on for dear life.

You stare at him, eyes wide, your breath coming in tiny shivers.

For a moment, the world stops. The echo of sirens, the murmuring crowd, even your hammering pulse… it all recedes.

You see him. Really see him. The raw panic under the anger, the exhaustion around his eyes, the way his jaw trembles when he finally lets you go.

 Back at the agency, you trail behind him in stunned silence. He slams through the doors, muttering curses under his breath, and disappears into his office.

You hover outside, chewing your sleeve. Part of you wants to run to your room and hide. The other part. The bigger part wants to understand him.

Without thinking, you knock gently and push the door open.

His office is a mess of papers, folders, and battered notebooks. He sits behind a heavy desk, head bowed, pen tapping furiously.

When he hears you enter, he doesn't look up.

"What," he snaps.

You swallow. "I… I wanted to see if you… If you were okay."

He snorts. "Not your business."

You step forward, tablet clutched to your chest. "I just… I thought maybe we could work in the same space. You know… share data. Correlate field observations."

He finally glances up, eyes sharp as a blade.

"You tryin' to stalk me now?" he growls.

You shake your head quickly. "No! I just… It’s easier to understand your metrics if I can observe you outside of combat, too."

He stares at you for a long, heavy beat. Then he sighs, slams his pen down, and leans back in his chair.

"Do what you want," he mutters, voice low and ragged.

You settle into a chair across from him, opening your tablet. The room is quiet except for the occasional scratch of his pen and your soft typing.

You risk a glance at him. The way his brows pinch when he reads a report. The way his fingers curl so tightly around his pen, they turn white.

You can feel the warmth radiating off him even across the desk, electric and sharp.

At one point, he rubs at his temple and lets out a deep, exhausted sigh.

Your voice slips out before you can stop it. "You should rest."

He looks at you like you’ve just spoken in tongues. "What?"

"You’re pushing yourself too hard," you murmur, tapping your pen against your tablet. "Fatigue increases error rates. Even the best heroes aren’t immune to burnout."

His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t immediately snap back.

"I ain't like 'em," he mutters finally, looking down at a form. "I don’t have the luxury of slow days."

You hesitate. Then, softly: "You don’t have to do it alone."

The pen stills in his hand. He lifts his gaze slowly, and for the first time, there’s no fire in it, just something raw, exposed, almost frightened.

You don’t speak again after that. The room fills with a strange quiet, heavy but not uncomfortable.

You keep typing, and he keeps scribbling, and for a brief, fragile moment, you feel less like an observer and more like an ally.

When you finally stand to leave, he doesn’t look up.

"Goodnight, Bakugou," you whisper.

His pen stops moving.

"...Tch," he mutters, but his shoulders drop slightly, as if something heavy has shifted.

In the hall, your heart pounds so loudly you can hear it echoing in your head. You clutch your tablet to your chest, cheeks hot, breath shaky.

You’ve seen him explode, rage, and threaten. But tonight?

Tonight, you saw the man fighting all of that alone, behind closed doors.

And you know, with absolute certainty, you’re not leaving.

Not in fifty-seven days. Not ever.