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It all begins on a Friday afternoon, when the best and worst things often do. Bakugou is a mere few hours away from closing time, a few minutes away from shutting down his god damn emails and more importantly, he’s a few seconds away from losing his absolute shit.
Glancing up from the computer, Bakugou scans the office. Nobody catches his eye. But heads buried into screens doesn’t mean diligence or hard work is at play here.
No.
It just means they’re probably playing solitaire whilst misusing the group chat function right under his nose.
Or, Kaminari has downloaded some kind of nostalgic game that has no place in the office.
Again.
“Oi assholes, anyone take the last delivery yet?”
Mina waves a hand dismissively, eyes fixed on her screen. Kaminari continues clicking his pen faster than seconds go by on the fucking clock pinned to the wall. The frantic undertone of the clicks is not appreciated. Eyes narrowed, Bakugou levels him with a glare.
“Do that again, you’re dead.” I dare you-
Kaminari clicks the damn pen again. Just to be a sick bastard and because he clearly has absolutely no qualms with dying young and dumb. Resigned, Bakugou observes the anarchy of a Friday afternoon in an office nobody really wants to be at.
The weekend is coming.
That makes people irresponsible, irrational, and impatient.
Mina is doing god knows what at her desk, but she seems to have garnered the attention of Sero who rolls his chair over. Kirishima is dutifully trying to complete his list of tasks before going home, tongue swiping over his lips and one hand burrowed into his ridiculously spiky hair.
Nobody over the age of sixteen - seventeen if Bakugou is being generous - should have hair that spiky. Unless their ancestry is linked to Guy Fieri, or whatever.
Kirishima is a grown twenty-eight year old man, has absolutely no relation to Guy Fieri.
Tragic.
It’s more tragic because nobody else thinks it’s tragic. Tenfold tragic. And on top of that, being Kirishima’s best friend means the idiot gets to decide whether he listens to Bakugou or not. Apparently.
And maybe it’s dramatic but, fuck it this is Friday, Bakugou stands up with enough force to roll his desk chair back into the wall. Only one of the fools he calls friends and also works with looks over at the noise.
Fine. Alright. Okay. Nice.
“Whatever. I’ll take the hit,” he grunts because some sucker has to go out there into the world where people are no longer people - they’re customers.
They’re rabid, soul-eating shells of what humanity once was.
Nobody wants to deal with Customers. Especially on a Friday. Nobody.
“You’re braver than the rest of us Bakugou,” Sero salutes with a grin that cheapens the gesture.
“Thank you for your service,” Mina chirps in, joining the ridiculous salute for the sake of it.
“Kacchan, taking one for the team like a champ.”
Kirishima wipes his eyes, it’s unclear if he’s genuinely touched or just playing along. Bakugou is past the point of honestly caring.
“A real manly bro.”
God.
“Shut up and get back to work, losers.”
It’s with far more reluctance than he really feels that Bakugou pries the van keys from the wall safe. Getting away from the office and piling paperwork is welcomed. Anything is better than something as mundane and mind-numbing as this.
Even it requires awkward encounters with people in their homes and engaging in smalltalk whilst trying to focus on building a machine and no thank you to the offered beverages.
It’s amazing that so many cannot make a fucking expresso properly, even with those fancy-ass machines.
Regardless, if he plays this job right then he can probably his way back home to devour another shitty binge-worthy TV show whilst making a Real Spicy Dinner.
Better the devil he does, Murder Queen would be pissed as fuck to be kept awaiting again - which is further incentive to get the hell on with this damn shingdig.
So off he goes, driving in the rundown company van that only Bakugou seems to do any kind of maintenance and care for. Figures.
Anyway.
Off he goes, a short trip away from the office, through the suburbs and into a particularly swanky part of town. And voila: he has reached his fucking destination, no satnav required.
Rolling up to the place, Bakugou whistles in the kind of way Sero would if he were in the passenger seat. Nobody has to know.
It’s more on the bastard’s behalf.
Besides, the place is fancy as shit. It has a weird gate and fancy tannoy machine, fancy gates and did he mention fancy because fancy is actually an understatement.
To be honest, a place like this seems like it already has four washing machines and a whole team hired to clean and do laundry and sort out whatever the rich fuck people don’t want to do themselves.
Whoever this dude is, it’s clear he’s loaded.
A voice calls out on the intercom.
“Hello?”
They sound confused, as if unsure whether to expect another human being and trapped in a bunker away from humanity in some kind of apocalyptic setting.
For a moment, Bakugou has a feeling he ought to fucking check his wing mirrors. But this ain’t the purge or some shit like that.
It’s fine.
Maybe he shouldn’t. But the guy sounds like a rich snob with a silver spoon lodged in his butt that never came out, so he leans forwards and pushes his luck. He’s watched enough crime dramas, seen the godfather a few times. He’s got this - hook, line, sinker.
“I’ve got the goods.”
“Oh,” Pause. Bakugou waits, but nothing comes.
“Thank you.”
The gate opens and Bakugou drives up, nonplussed and also confused as fuck. Maybe the guy really is a drug dealer. There’s a really nice car parked outside, and a motorbike. The garage is closed and Bakugou wouldn’t be surprised if the bastard had another sports car he didn’t drive stashed in there too.
This has to be the most extra home delivery he’s done, probably ever.
It’s not cool to be judgemental or make assumptions about shit but Bakugou already can’t help visualise the fucker who will open the door. Bald and a little plump, probably wearing a tacky gold chain made from actual gold wasted on such an awful thing.
When he is greeted by the most beautiful ethereal person he has ever laid eyes upon, well. Mark him down as completely and utterly wrong and completely floored. It certainly exceeds all expectations and leaves him floundering for words.
Shit. The dude must be some kind of model or something.
No human being that exists in this mortal plane of existence is this pretty. They just can’t be.
“Hi,” Bakugou says which is really embarrassing. Ducking beneath his hat, he heads to the back of the van.
Real smooth.
“Hello,” The customer says, seemingly unfazed and unaware of the Predicament that he is fucking too beautiful, that he is brighter than the sun. “You must be the guy I’ve been waiting for.”
There’s no trace of anything besides an offhanded remark there, but Bakugou’s mind jump downs all kinds of avenues which is unfair and stupid. Alright. Sue him - it’s not everyday he gets a house call like this and someone so catastrophically attractive is Right Here.
Everyone needs to indulge sometimes.
“Yeah,” Bakugou flashes the grin he knows is killer, teeth and all. “I’m the guy.”
“With the goods,” confirms the handsome rich guy, who according to the print on the box is Todoroki Shouto.
There’s something almost playful there swirling in that low voice. But the gleam in Todoroki’s eyes is gone and his expressions is unreadable once more as Bakugou seeks it out.
“Please,” gesturing, Todoroki widens the door. “Come inside.”
Bakugou at this point half expects the gorgeous bastard to turn into a bat or swish a fancy cape and bear fangs that could leave one hell of a mark before draining you.
Todoroki remains human, but no less incorporeal.
The house is less of a conventional home and more of an extremely efficient living space. The walls are as pale as Todoroki’s skin, the cabinets as expressive as his face. It’s definitely not the kind of scene Bakugou is used to.
He gets to work. No drinks are offered, and for the first time on a callout Bakugou is a little irritated at not receiving a bad cup of coffee. It’s just polite, common courtesy.
Twenty minutes pass in a breeze, and that’s when Bakugou realises the shadow hovering over him is born from a person not the room. In his peripheral he sees it. Red and white hair, blazing eyes and the sharpest jawline known to mankind.
Clearing his throat, Bakugou strives for professionalism.
“It’s done. You should be good to go,” he says as he turns, pointedly ignoring the eyes that are shamelessly trailing down his body.
Subtlety is a thing that most people have and clearly this guy has absolutely none.
Shameless.
Bakugou waits for the handsome bastard beyond belief to get his head back to planet earth and stop ogling him so openly. Unbelievable.
Todoroki nods, the line of his jaw something Bakugou follows avidly. When he swallows, audible and fucking delicious, Bakugou is sure a weaker person would have crumbled on the spot.
But no, not him.
He’s stronger than that.
“Thank you, Bakugou.”
Hearing his name in that voice has Bakugou reaching for the pen in his pocket. It’s with hasty scribbles scratched onto the back of his company card that he makes a very stupid move. So what if it’s the biggest cliché in the fucking book.
Nobody has to know.
He’s never done this in all his life. Ever. People give him numbers, people approach him.
But here he is, leaving his personal number for someone truly out of this world. In their own home. Representing his company.
Great.
“Here,” handing it over before he has enough sense to stop himself, Bakugou meets Todoroki’s eyes. “If you have any questions give us a call anytime.”
Give me a call too . He almost says. Almost.
Granted, Todoroki is hot shit but Bakugou isn’t that pathetic, or desperate. No way.
He leaves with a wave of his hand, making a conscious effort to swing his hips more than necessary.
He doesn’t walk to the van, he struts.
It proves to be worth it, because as he climbs into the car and glances in the wing mirror Bakugou can see Todoroki doesn’t leave his spot at the door.
For sure, without a doubt, he’ll get a call tonight.
He doesn’t.
The weekend flies by, uneventful and uninteresting. Monday crawls into existence nobody wants, and Bakugou prepares himself to take the first call of the day.
Customers gripe, customers grumble. Lunchtime comes, and then it goes by in a flash.
“Good afternoon,” Bakugou grumbles into the customer phone when it rings.
Taking the phone is not a task he should have to put up with anymore but here he is because his damn idiots got too excited about the new hamburger place across the street and barely made it to lunchtime to bolt out the door and order.
“Oh. Hello,” the familiar voice says both surprised and confused in a way no customer should be.
Bakugou waits, breath hitching. It sounds like him, but there’s no way. He hates himself a little for checking his mobile phone. No notifications.
“This is Todoroki Shouto, I’m new to the neighbourhood and I work down at the museum but I ordered a washing machine with you which arrived just yesterday and it was delivered and assembled by a prickly blond-”
The idiot explains needlessly and Bakugou absently wonders what kind of wild trip it must be for other people dealing with this guy on the phone.
It makes sense someone as enigmatic and out of this world as him would be unconventional about this-
Wait a fucking minute.
“Oi! Who the hell you calling prickly?”
“Oh, good. I suppose I am speaking to him right now?”
Bakugou clicks his tongue for good measure. he’s a fucking delight, thanks very much. “What do you think?”
“Wow. You’re really rude on the phone. But it’s good you answered because I was going to ask for you anyway.”
Bakugou purses his lips. Damn bastard didn’t call him but still had the nerve to call here. It’s unfair how fast his heart rattles in his chest.
“How can I help you?”
“There’s a problem.”
No shit. You didn’t call you bastard.
Todoroki continues, explaining the situation in a voice that sounds raspier over the phone. It’s… distracting, to say the least. Bakugou revels in it too much, almost forgets the silence means it’s his turn to speak.
Fuck. The words had all melted into one mellow, beautiful wordless tone.
He goes for the best option.
“Turn the mains off and then tell me what happens next.”
“Okay. I’m about to press the switch.”
A few awkward seconds pass.
“...I’m pressing the switch now.”
The line cuts out, a dull hum spinning into his ear.
Bakugou stares down at the phone in utter disbelief.
No - no way.
Moments later, when the phone rings again, Bakugou risks bypassing the formal greeting. But he doesn’t get the chance to speak, Todoroki laments into the receiver.
“The phone cut out too, so I’m calling you via mobile now.”
“...Did it - did it work?” Bakugou manages, somehow.
Pulling the final dregs of tolerance he has for this situation up into the limelight, he waits. Todoroki is hot and gorgeous but he is the worst possible customer and that makes Bakugou just want to flip his entire shit.
Maybe a few tables.
“I think so,” Todoroki hums, sounding pleased with himself. “It’s okay now.”
With that, the idiot hangs up. Bakugou keeps the phone pressed to his ear, partly in abject horror Todoroki thought that was an okay thing to do and mostly because he yearns to hear something from that voice again.
Oh dear.
It becomes a routine.
Todoroki calls with a "problem", requests Bakugou and then promptly hangs up when he decides the situation is under control.
Spoiler: this situation is so far from being under control.
As expected, the office soon catch wind of this routine. Todoroki is a name that flutters by in hushed whispers and leers sent Bakugou’s way. His name is recognised for all the wrong reasons.
Bakugou has never been more active on the customer phones.
He hasn’t said a damn thing, but they all know that this thing he’s calling a crush is far past that.
They all know, and it sucks.
When Sero pokes his head into his office weeks later, yes weeks because this has been going on for far too long, a shit-eating grin on his face, Bakugou is certain it can be nothing good. So when he says a customer is asking to speak to the ‘angry Spicy one ’ , Bakugou doesn’t need to ask who it is. He does, however, ask if that really happened.
"Spicy?"
"Spicy," Sero sounds sincere but he's grinning too much and Bakugou cannot picture Todoroki ever uttering such words to a stranger over the phone.
Not that they're close, really. But the 'spicy' seems like a stretch. What a mess.
And just like that, his day is officially both over and also just about to start all over again.
Reaching for his phone, Bakugou picks up the call.
“What the hell do you want this time?”
“Your customer service is exceptional as ever,” Todoroki drawls. He somehow sounds both impressed and delighted by it.
“Well?”
“It’s the washing machine.”
“Again.”
“Again,” Todoroki concurs, either choosing to ignore the dripping sarcasm or entirely immune to it.
“What’s the problem this time?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m calling you.”
Biting down the rude remark on his tongue, Bakugou sighs. Maybe the problem is not the hardware, maybe it’s the gorgeous bastard that is operating it.
The same one who hasn’t called his personal number once.
Not even once.
“I need a little more to work with. Describe the problem to me.”
Forty-five minutes later and the phonecall is over. Unfortunately, so is Bakugou’s life because the shitheads he calls his friends are peeking through the office door. Apparently, they’ve never heard of fucking privacy.
Ushered out the door, Kirishima swings an arm around him. They’re going to the bar tonight which is fine by him.
He could use one hell of a drink.
“Do you think maybe he’s making the problems up?” Kirishima ponders out loud.
“What kind of idiot does that?” Bakugou snorts.
God I hope so.
“Well maybe he’s too nervous to call you.”
Seems unlikely.
Someone like Todoroki couldn’t possibly be anxious about that. Kaminari crowds closer than he needs to, eyes lighting up with what he thinks is a genius idea.
“You could just call him, go through-“
“Nah. I ain’t violating data protection laws for a fucking date. Get a grip, sparky.” Bakugou hisses. Much to his chagrin, it’s met by howls of good-natured cheering and appreciation for him.
He just can’t win.
“Okay. That’s it. You’re either cursed or stupider than I first thought,” Bakugou groans in lieu of the usual customer greeting, recognising the caller ID on the office phone immediately.
It’s been five weeks of this. There is only so much Bakugou can take.
Something close to a small laugh blossoms across the phone. Bakugou cranes closer, chases it to no avail. Damn this.
“It appears the household appliances have a vendetta against me...” Todoroki muses, entirely serious.
"Really?"
"Yes."
“All of them.”
“Yes.”
"Every single one of them?"
"...Precisely."
Snorting, Bakugou readies his best eye roll. The bastard can’t see but he’ll hear it dripping off his tongue well enough.
“How exactly?”
“I couldn’t say… it’s not something I can describe on the phone.”
Well that’s vague. Completely unhelpful. Nothing unexpected there. Just standard customer behaviour, even if amplified by Todoroki.
Yeah, this could be read as a totally normal statement but Bakugou no longer believes in coincidence with Todoroki.
He just can’t.
He’s called almost every day. No customer is that persistent or annoying.
“How am I meant to help you then.” Idiot, goes unspoken but they both hear it anyway.
“You’ll figure something out. You’ve proven to be quite dependable as of late.”
It’s a wonder how Todoroki can be utterly frustrating and enigmatic all at once. God damn this.
Bakugou makes a decision there and then. He decides this game has gone on long enough.
“I’m coming over. Don’t go anywhere.”
“I’d hope so. It’s about time you delivered.”
In that moment, with those words, the world comes to a grinding halt.
What the hell does that mean?
Bakugou does what any rational, sane person would do: he slams the phone down. The spiral of overthinking and gay panic begins.
That sounded like flirting. Bakugou knows flirting when he hears it.
That was definitely a pick-up. It has to be.
As it stands, Todoroki requests him every time despite several of his employees being available - so maybe it really does mean something.
Either way, Bakugou is about to find out what the hell is really going on here.
He’s going directly to the source.
“Oh! Kacchan’s on a booty call!” Kaminari hollers as if he actually has a thousand death wishes all from Bakugou.
Immediately, attention turns to him like a hawk. Nothing interesting ever happens in this place so of course they swarm towards the slightest hint of gossip.
“Oh?!” Mina cries in delight. “He’s finally hooking up with the guy?”
“Service those pipes.”
“Check over that shaft!”
“Don’t forget the-”
For god's sake.
“Shut the fuck up! It’s a house call. Have some fucking professionalism.”
There’s little chance of that. Which is proven right now. Bakugou knows his fate is sealed, it’s too late to disperse the emanating chaos.
Sero grins.
“Bakugou… this is the plot of so many bad pornos. Accept your destiny!”
“Hm, I don’t know about that.”
Kirishima is a traitor who instead of calling off the vultures picking away at Bakugou actually encourages it by joining in.
“I mean, this is more of a moderate slow burn than a porno. They’ve been having these ‘customer calls’ for weeks now.”
There is absolutely no need for the air quotes, but Kirishima does it anyway.
“But you gotta admit, man, this is like when the pizza guy in Extra Sausage-”
Bakugou slams a fist on the table, hard enough for the noise to instantly bring all conversation to a grinding halt.
Okay - that’s enough. Like hell is he going to listen to another word of this.
“I’m heading out.”
Sero wolf whistles.
“Go get it, Kacchan!” Kaminari shouts out the doorway.
They are all dead to him.
The entire drive, Bakugou grapples with the four shitty demons cackling their devious thoughts into his ear. Even this far from the office, they follow. They persist. They blow up his phone (not literally but honestly had would be better), they send awful tasteless memes.
No matter what they say, this is not a booty call. Real life doesn’t work that way.
If Todoroki was interested in him, he would’ve called the number Bakugou has left him an embarrassing amount of times by now. At the end of every call, on every single email receipt.
But still he calls the company phone, requests Bakugou every time, says ambiguous things, talks less like an average customer and more like an interested party in things far less-
“It’s not a fucking booty call!” Bakugou hisses to himself, and also directly into the intercom because the universe hates him.
Fuck. Shit fucking fuck shit!!
For some reason, Todoroki still buzzes him in. The gates open, and as they close Bakugou feels the last shred of dignity wither with it.
He has never been this uncool. Ever.
At the doorway Todoroki is already waiting. The sun frames his figure in a silhouette that does unacceptable things to Bakugou’s pulse. As he gets closer, a bemused expression sits on that pretty face.
It’s difficult to look away, to focus on the Case at hand.
To Bakugou’s relief, the Intercom Incident isn’t mentioned once as he steps inside.
It's the little things. Really.
“Oh. Yes,” Todoroki says needlessly as he leads them over towards the washing machine. “I haven’t been able to get it working, as I told you earlier on the phone.”
Bakugou blinks, slowly. Just to make sure he’s really seeing this with his own eyes. The foaming washing machine, the expectant look on Todoroki’s face.
“...You’ve gotta be shitting me.”
The joke is beyond Todoroki, and quite possibly himself too. Whilst the universe is laughing, his shitty friends are too, nothing about this will be funny.
That is proven by the way Todoroki now stares him down, point blank and shoots.
“I’m being serious.”
Of course.
His love life is forever going to be non-existent, it's written into the stars by this point.
Something dangerous happens, then. Bakugou’s mouth opens without his permission, words crawling up his throat and winding themselves around his burning tongue. Disgusting.
“I thought you were just… you know."
Everything should shut the fuck up right about now. Including himself.
Todoroki tilts his head upward, the sharp lines of his jaw cut and stark against the sun. It’s a Look, a really good one.
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
Ducking his head, Bakugou averts his gaze. God damn this all to hell and back. Hot prickly embarrassment rises up his skin at an alarming rate. He absolutely cannot let Todoroki see nor give him the satisfaction.
What an asshole.
There is no way he is that oblivious.
“Come on. It’s been five weeks. Nobody is that incapable, not even you.”
The bastard isn’t even trying to hide the ripples of amusement that nestle in the corner of mismatched eyes. Maybe there is a joke somewhere in here, but the only line getting punched is the one drawn across his forehead.
Damn.
Since when has he become such a fucking sucker. Exasperation takes centre stage, dragging him on for an encore just because it can. Bakugou takes a breath. This is a bullet he can’t dodge, and he doesn’t want to. This chain has been yanked long enough.
Time to get fucking serious already.
If Todoroki is going to just stand there then Bakugou will dish it all out.
“To be honest, I thought you were just making excuses to talk to me. Even though I left my number, you still called the damn office.”
“Oh,” Todoroki says, almost absently.
Absently.
The expression on his face is indecipherable, which is really tragic for Bakugou. Here the handsome idiot stands, as if he hasn’t got Bakugou’s heart squirming uncomfortably in the palm of his hands, as if he didn’t reach in and claw it out of hiding with his own stupid hands.
Clicking his tongue, Bakugou levels the gorgeous bastard with his best glower. The one he really shouldn’t use on customers but Todoroki Shouto has always been more than just a customer. Special treatment includes pronounced glares and expletives - it’s the least he deserves for this discount romance bullshit.
Bakugou didn’t sign up for this shit. Not even as an employee.
“No. It’s not like that.” Todoroki gestures over to the washing machine. “I actually needed the help.”
Glancing over to the washing machine that is now steaming, Bakugou barks out a laugh. It’s shaky around the edges, closer to a pitiful whine and unbelievably fractured.
What a disaster, in every single aspect.
“Obviously.”
Todoroki is quiet. It sucks. Well.
This is one of the bluntest and most insensitive rejections ever in the history of Bakugou’s life. But at least they can get down to business.
Todoroki will continue to be mysterious as the dark side of the moon.
“Bakugou.”
Todoroki purses his lips. The confusion etched onto his face is almost overshadowed completely by a glimmer of hope.
For what, Bakugou hopes he knows.
It makes it no less thrilling, chasing it down.
“You... gave me your number?”
Mood killer of the millennium delivered in a single hit. Bakugou feels a piece of his soul transcend this plane of existence, shattering into fragments that will be forever lost.
Irritation doesn’t cut it. Not even close.
Christ.
“Yes, I left my fucking number you absolute shithead! And not just once either!”
Bakugou slaps a hand across his mouth. It’s dramatic and a giveaway he’s said far too much to be okay but Todoroki is having his own moment of realisation so maybe he’s safe.
Todoroki blinks, slow.
Bakugou peels his hand back, resigned. There’s not any lower he can sink into this pit of shame. This bastard really is going to stand here and kick him while he’s down. It’s really going to be like this.
He reels off every digit. It drips with scathing judgement that skips right over Todoroki’s head because he appears to be immune to a ridiculous amount of things.
Like, apparently operating a washing machine or cooking a meal or functioning like a human being.
Still, the damn bastard gets the hint with this at least.
Todoroki’s eyes widen in what can only be realisation but it’s just too fucking absurd to be true. Bakugou decides he doesn’t want to hear it.
But Todoroki opens his pretty mouth and says something utterly terrible in a devastatingly low voice Bakugou would probably chase every horizon to hear.
“Oh, I had no idea. I thought it was the serial code.”
Or not.
Fuck horizons and his atrocious taste in handsome bastards. Bakugou is kicking himself off the edge of the earth, to indulge the dumbasses that still believe it’s flat.
After Todoroki’s statement, he might just be one of them so maybe he shouldn’t indulge it ever.
There’s a twitch on Todoroki’s lips that betrays both nothing and everything. That’s enough though for everything burning up in Bakugou to explode into a fiery swell.
“You are such a bastard!”
Turns out, yelling is difficult and far from intimidating amidst peals of breathless laughter. His chest tickles, pulse fluttering. The sound of it all surprises even Bakugou. Nobody has plucked something like this from his lungs before, not so effortlessly.
What the fuck.
Todoroki seems even more intent, inching closer towards him. Their hands brush. It’s stupidly electric. But right. So very right.
“I’ll fix your damn washing machine.”
The engineer in Bakugou cannot overlook the appliance even in a moment as glorious as this.
Pulling the wrench from his belt, Bakugou points it in Todoroki’s face. He’s supposed to be frustrated, but it’s hard to when those eyes are fixed on him and full of fondness.
“But when I’m done, you’re taking me to dinner. Got it?”
Todoroki tugs at the belt with a low hum, until they’re pressed flush against each other.
“I suppose I could live with that.”
And if months later, Bakugou’s fancy ethereal boyfriend still calls the company phone to talk to him, well.
Bakugou thinks he can live with that.