Chapter Text
The lesson has just ended, the entire class drained and lethargic from the hour of math they have just endured. The second the bell for lunch rings, Ochako slumps in relief, head spinning from all the numbers and symbols in her head. She’s been tired all day, her exhaustion stemming from a combination of the intense training they had done yesterday in class, and the cramps that seize her stomach every few minutes. Periods, Ochako bemoans internally, suck. And while she loves her friends dearly, sometimes when Mina talks about how she herself very rarely gets cramps on her period, Ochako kind of wants to punch her in the face. Painless periods are a privilege which Ochako has never been awarded, much to her immense dissatisfaction.
She sighs as she pushes herself to her feet to trudge to the cafeteria, blowing a strand out of her eyes irritably. She’s left her painkillers in her uniform jacket pocket in her room, and doesn’t want to take the 10 minute trek to the dorms to go and get them. The classroom lights are too bright, and the students are too loud, and she honestly thinks that if anyone even tries to interact with her today she’ll-
“Oi, Uraraka.”
“What.” she snarls sharply, whipping around to face a very unimpressed Bakugou. He raises an eyebrow at her, and she shrinks slightly. The classroom is empty, and now she’s left with a killer migraine, a stomach that feels like it’s trying to turn itself inside out, and (for some reason) a standoffish classmate who looks like he’d be anywhere but here.
She blinks, staring at him in confusion.
“W-what,” she repeats, slightly meeker this time. His expression turns vaguely uncomfortable, and he looks away and huffs, muttering something unintelligible under his breath. The silence in the classroom prolongs, and she shifts awkwardly, before slowly reaching to pick up her bag.
“Well, Bakugou-kun, this has been a very enjoyable conversation. I’m just gonna… yep.”
She backs away from him, heading to the door before a soft, lumpy mass makes contact with the back of her head. Ochako turns to catch it on instinct, mouth opening in indignation as she goes to throw back the… jacket? She blinks again, before staring back at Bakugou, whose cheeks are steadily darkening. Her gaze returns to the balled-up jacket in her palms, and she stares at it in confusion.
“Thank you. For this jacket…? I think? But I already ha-”
She’s cut off by an even redder Bakugou, who coughs loudly.
“Your skirt.” he grunts out, looking anywhere but her. He’s blatantly uncomfortable, but Ochako can’t say he’s the only one.
She blinks again.
“This… this is a jacket? I’m- I’m wearing my skirt. Already. Like…” she gestures to the skirt that she’s been wearing for literally the whole day, and wonders if Bakugou’s finally lost the plot. He growls under his breath, kicking at the linoleum floor awkwardly.
“Your skirt. It’s. Ugh. Just put the stupid jacket on.”
He pushes past her with a loud huff, and just as he reaches the door her brain makes the connection, and she feels the blood drain from her face.
“Oh my god.” she says. He halts, looking physically pained and slightly constipated. With a horrified resignation in her heart, Ochako turns to glance at the back of her skirt, seeing the darkened stain which she’d very much dreaded.
“Oh my god, Bakugou-kun.” she says again, quietly, wanting to curl into a ball and cry. He coughs. She whimpers, hands raising to cover her heating cheeks.
“This is so embarrassing. I’m going to die. I- oh my god. Oh my god -”
Suddenly his discomfort makes sense, and she realises what he’s been trying to do this whole time, feeling the prick of tears at the corners of her eyes. This is so humiliating, as if her day hadn’t been bad enough already. She’s about a second from bursting into tears when another projectile connects with her head. This time it’s a pencil. She glances from the gaps in her fingers to see Bakugou glaring at her, an expression on his face that is a mix of irritation and embarrassment.
“Stop fucking stressing. You’re gonna have bigger things to worry about as a hero than a bit of blood.” he snarls, before turning on his heel and stomping out of the classroom loudly. Ochako stares at the now empty doorway blankly, before looking down to gaze at the jacket on the floor, which has now unravelled to reveal a strip of painkiller tablets bundled up inside.
When she leaves the classroom ten minutes later, the (oddly nice-smelling) jacket wrapped securely around her and her migraine receding rapidly, a jacket-less Bakugou ignores her pointedly, and she fights back a small smile. Bakugou is, she thinks idly as she joins Midoriya and Iida at the table, quite sweet, despite his vehement avoidance of any behaviour which could be construed as vaguely respectable or mannerly.
And when she turns up to class the next day with a freshly-washed jacket folded in her hands, dropping it on his desk neatly, she feels a lot more confident in giving him a warm smile.
“Thank you, Bakugou.” she says happily, and he glares at her. “Fuck off.” he says. She pats him on the shoulder and skips to her own desk, a blissful smile forming on her face. Ah, she knows they’re going to be the best of friends.