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Bakugou Katsuki knew that professional heroism was not what society made it seem. There were injuries, accidents, and pain that came with it. One failed patrol could leave a hero paralyzed or crippled for the rest of their life. Villains weren’t always easy, and the ones that were difficult tended to be psychotic and lethal- the kind that had nothing left to live for and wanted to ensure you didn’t either.
Guilt toppled heroes, dragging them to the ground until they crashed and burned and only the lucky ones fell back on alcohol or drugs. Guilt turned dreams into coffins and Bakugou had seen too many funerals to ever forget what could happen to the strongest of men.
Guilt was a shackle, a thick iron chain with a ball of metal that dragged you further and further until gnawing off your leg seemed reasonable. Bakugou knew that, so he grabbed that fucking chain and swung it around so fast it became a weapon.
Bakugou didn’t quit, he didn’t ever give up.
Sometimes heroes weren’t what life made them out to be.
Keigo Takami was 27 years old, still stuck horribly as number one hero, and nursing a dislocated left wing.
The Fukuoka General Hospital was a nice quaint little building, it’s new renovations and wards loomed tall in the downtown sector. The original base of operations neared the flood fields that looked out over the Naka River and its hydroelectric dam. The original hospital ward now had been focused for a rehabilitative medicine clinic heavily populated with geriatrics learning to walk on a replaced hip, and grumbling teenagers forced to pick up counts from a flat table after a broken hand.
Hawks felt entirely out of place, while also perfectly content. The hospital staff and board nearly named the newly renovated surgical ER downtown after him. He turned it down obviously.
“Alright,” his doctor said tiredly, poking and prodding around the limb with gentle fingers. “You did good this time, I’m surprised.”
“Rude,” Hawks said, clicking his tongue and sipping from his straw and foam cup. His doctor rolled his eyes, pressing gently along the muscle once again before nodding to himself.
“Considering last time you messed up your arm,” his doctor said pleasantly, “you went out and stopped a burglary, and broke it again, let me be a little proud of you.”
Hawks scoffed, his functioning wing lifting into a slight shrug. “Yeah but back then I didn’t have competent allies! Now I can pick up my phone and new guys are drooling to take my patrol!”
His doctor chuckled, spinning on his little swirling stool to type something quickly into his laptop. After a few seconds, he spent an aggravating amount of time clicking his mouse and scrolling to find the next window.
“Okay, you know the drill,” his doctor said pleasantly. The printer in the corner of the room whirred loudly, singing the song of its species. Kuh-chh-chh-chrr-rrrreeee!
“I get to go home and drink beer and watch bad tv?” Hawks hoped.
“Yeah, no,” the man shot him down, “nice try. Look have…”
His doctor paused, grimacing slightly. The printer stopped, depositing a few boring pages of exercises Hawks would pretend to do but never remember. The other resident in the open clinic was an old lady with pointed wolf ears, equally grey as her actual hair, being guided up a small set of wooden stairs. She had no idea who he was, which Hawks found as rare mercy.
His doctor sighed quietly, a heavyweight pressing on his shoulders. Hawks slurped from his straw, feeling the quiet drum of nervous anxiety pound a little tune on his ribcage.
“...Keigo,” his doctor said in a hushed voice, “have you...thought about retiring?”
If he were in public, Hawks would have laughed and shrugged it off. Maybe add in a joke, gesture to his countless assistants and partners, and stay smiling. He slurped again, wishing his plain water was a tad stronger.
He looked down at his fingers, trying not to fidget. “Sorry, I...really can’t.”
Hawks hated seeing his doctor sad. He was one of the good ones, that never threw a fit from the stupid accidents or how he never listened to his medical advice. Hawks had a collection of doctors, a nice line up of geneticists and rheumatologists and physical therapists that were a bit sharp and scathing after the fourth or fifth muscle strain. Orthopedic surgeons weren’t normally nice, but Hawks’ guessed a half-decade of constant medical injuries made the man like him.
“Yeah, I know you can’t,” his doctor admitted quietly, “that doesn’t mean I’m not putting in a strong letter. A very strong letter to your commission.”
“Aw, don’t get too mean at them,” Hawks teased.
His doctor said dryly, “I’ll use an exclamation mark. That’ll show them.”
“Scary,” Hawks confirmed, drumming his fingers on his thigh. “Run me through all of it, I don’t remember that much when pain meds were involved.”
His doctor swore quietly. He was very aware of the elderly wolf-grandmother in the corner. “I saw they put you on Demerol. What were they thinking?”
“I know!” Hawks said, “I get weird on that! I puked on a nurse I think. Or a couple.”
His doctor typed something, then paused. “You puked a few times?”
“No, a few nurses,” Hawks clarified helpfully. “It was a very eventful day I think. I remember watching one of those shows that have the...slow motion compression stuff. Watching that while wasted gives you some really weird dreams.”
“I bet,” his doctor sighed. He sent another document to the printer, getting up off his stool to fetch it. When he returned, Hawks recognized the rough clinical skeleton associated with Four-Extremity: Upper, which had been thoroughly modified and collaged with various X-rays over the years to make his great file.
“This is you,” his doctor said, pointing sharply at a skeleton that Hawk’s couldn’t guarantee was actually him. “You dislocated your left-wing, or in the medical talk, L-2 U.E.”
Left-second, Upper-extremity. Easy, nothing too complex there.
“You had a complete dislocation of your joint,” the doctor pointed out, poking the bone capsule just below Hawks’ human-shoulders. “Of course, you dislocated it in the worst possible way. Instead of simple dislocation of the articular surface- keep in mind you have three articular surfaces, you had significant force pulling it out of your capsule entirely.”
Hawks nodded, he remembered the accident vividly. “Yep, that sure did happen.”
The man professionally did not roll his eyes. “Then, instead of having the force stay in one direction, it began to twist. Quite rapidly. Your bone was pulled out, and then twisted to such a degree you tore not one, but four ligaments, two muscles, and required complete orthopedic reconstruction of one articular cartilage capsule.”
Hawks chewed on his tongue. “Does it uh, say what I said the accident was-.”
“Yes, it does,” his doctor said, “I just didn’t want to use, and I quote, ‘reverse-screwed, with my wing being the screwdriver’ in a medical explanation.”
Hawks could let him have that. “I know the surgery took a long time to fix, but you reconnected all the stretchy bits!”
“Your secondary deltoids looked like corned beef,” the man deadpanned, “how’s that for a medical explanation?”
Hawks didn’t laugh, but he did feel a small blur of amusement. His doctor slid over the file, pointing out the areas where his muscles had been peeled away like overcooked chicken, then painstakingly stitched back on. His nerves had remained in-tact, and thankfully since his flight never actually required musculature to support him, there was no breakage from a weight-bearing-joint. Otherwise, he’d be like the woman in the corner, learning to walk upstairs again.
“You can’t take another hit like this,” his doctor told him, “each time we go in to fix bone, it weakens it. Even with quirks, there’s only so much a body can take.”
Hawks knew that, and his doctor knew that. There was a reason Hawks’ had fired so many previous surgeons- they were convinced they could put him in tip-top shape and Hawks knew he couldn’t ever get there. “I know. How long is recovery?”
“Well, your insurance covered another custom brace, so if you actually wear it, it’ll cut down a bit.”
Hawks wrinkled his nose. The brace was nothing more than a glorified sling, except backward. Sometimes it chafed and other times it cut into the top of his shoulder. It left his wing pinned and flopping at the tip like a little T-rex in reverse. “Yeah yeah, I’ll wear the damn thing.”
“Good,” his doctor said, “then I can say maybe eight months.”
Hawks balked, his jaw-dropping before he hurriedly closed it. “ Eight? That’s- I’ve bused my femur and that wasn’t that long!”
“Eight,” the man smirked. “Or nine depends on what I write for your insurance company. Haven’t you been wanting to get some relaxation? See some sights? Visit an onsen? Except don’t do that, excessive heat will make the inflammation worse.”
Hawks blinked quickly. “You’re going to- to put down insurance fraud? So I get to sleep in?”
“No, I’m writing a very professional medical report because my client, and I quote, reverse screwed himself.”
Hawks had to admit, he walked into that one.
Miruko, legendary hero goddess and reason for an exponential increase in foot fetishes, screamed on the other side of the video screen.
“No way!” she howled excitedly, “you’re going on vacation? My boy is getting a vacation?”
Hawks beamed at the screen, Miruko’s face taking up nearly all of it. She had a tendency to shove her face right up into any camera the moment excitement took over.
“Yeah, no hero work for at least nine months,” he explained, pulling down on his shirt neck. The collar dipped low enough to reveal the black brace that wrapped around his torso like a weird halter top and held his wing snug. “I’m finally going to be able to tan, Rumi.”
“One hell of a tan line then,” she smirked, eyes glowing mischievously. “Or only one tan-line. ‘Magine that, great hero Hawks, spotted butt naked except for that nasty ass brace.”
Hawks contemplated it, then shivered. “You’re right. Technology has gone too far.”
“Damn press is ridin’ up my ass,” she said sympathetically, “yer’ think they’d do somethin’ else.”
“You can’t help it,” Hawks said, dramatically throwing himself over his couch, belly down and squishing his lungs, “you’re just that new pop idol.”
“The only ‘pop’ I got,” she said, “is my foot in yer face.”
Hawks nodded, sagely understanding. “You know, I’m sure a few thousand people would pay money for this sort of treatment.”
Rumi howled in wordless frustration, stalking away from the computer before returning to point threateningly across the hours of distance, “yer on thin fuckin’ ice, chicken.”
“You’re so mean to me,” Hawks moaned dramatically, “I’m just a wounded little birdie. Be gentle with me, senpai.”
“No,” Rumi said.
Hawks laughed, swinging his legs the best he could with his stomach pressed and face-first into a couch. It had been too long since he was able to call Rumi up, too long since they could actually meet. “How long has it been? Since we hung out and just...chilled?”
Rumi quieted, her face twisting into an unreadable expression. “...A while, maybe a few months. Bit more.”
A long bit more. He hadn’t seen her since the grand opening of the Equality, a ridiculously complex organization focused on providing equal standards for heroes and professionals struggling with dysfunctional bodies or the effects of trauma. It...hadn’t been nice, in the world and society, to get hurt on the job and need to retire. There used to be a wicked stigma about it- but after All Might and then Miruko…
Rumi shrugged on her side of the screen, kicking back casually although the same carefree action didn’t meet her face. “Get on down here then, you bug, an’ I’ll kick yer ass.”
She still could, and she had proven it. There were countless heroes in the industry that argued against her return to work- saying that an amputee hero had no place in the ranking. Miruko had been gone for a year, and when she stormed back, she had the remnants of her arm on full display. The rounded end of her amputated arm had been artfully tattooed with big block kanji, suggesting in more poetic words, ‘CHOKE.’
Miruko showed up, casually knocked someone unconscious, and demanded to know if anyone had a problem with her. Her shorter hair took more adjusting to in Hawks’ opinion.
She went on, founded a society where disabled individuals could find equal opportunities and now was one of the key figures in social media through a very exhausted publicist, and a very salivating fanbase.
Hawks’ hadn’t seen her in forever, his work kept him busy and when it wasn’t work it was publicity and if it wasn’t that…
“I miss you, Rumi,” he confessed quietly. The weight of being at the top had never felt so bothersome. “It sucks.”
Her face twisted into something strange, “yeah, I know it Keigo. When was the last time ya’ took a break?”
Hawks’ laughed. It wasn’t a pretty sound. “Uh, never? I had my wing ripped out and I finally get a break and just...there’s nobody around.”
Rumi’s face did the thing again. “Why don’t yer go off. AWOL or somethin’.”
“Uh, because my publicist would kill me?”
“Well, fuck em,” Rumi provided unhelpfully, “go do like, a...a spiritual journey!”
Hawks’ blinked quickly. “Is that what Kamui Woods calls it?”
“Oh shut yer trap. When was the last time ya’ went to Howlin’ Mountain?”
Hawks thought, “when was the last time you had that booze from Sweden?”
“Oh, too fuckin’ long ago. Yeah, ya’ should head on up there. Send a message or some shit, do some green-energy stuff an’ the press’ll stay away.”
It...did seem like a good idea actually. “I mean...huh. Yeah, I can hug a tree. I’ll hug two trees. Do you see these arms? These are tree-hugging arms.”
Rumi deadpanned flatly, “oh, wow. Yer’ bein’ rude now. Talkin’ arms to me? I’mma go cry now, gon’ cry real hard you fuckwidget.”
“Bless you,” Hawks said, beaming wide. “When can you get free? We should meet up there, god, it’s been too long.”
Rumi perked up, looking aside and at something out of view of the camera. “I got some shit but yeah, I could make time. Who needs like, charity galas. I’ll jus’ mail em some money, then booze-up with you.”
“I am so hype, you don’t even know it,” Hawks said flatly. “The social media queen, going to grace me with her personal presence.”
“Shut yer trap. I’m hot shit an’ you know it.”
“Rumi, you’re most trending video is just, a montage of you screaming at people.”
Rumi scoffed and flipped her hair, now long enough to trace her collarbones. “So? It’s my finest work.”
“Well, you aren’t wrong,” Hawks agreed. He hummed a flat, gentle sound of ambient contentedness. Rumi was the only person who never made silences seem so uncomfortable.
“So, ya’ put more thought into what yer’ gon’ do about the pesky agency shit?”
Hawks blew air from his mouth with a loud raspberry of annoyance. “God, the amount of fanmail- it’s like- like I mention once I’m looking for a partner and suddenly the world explodes.”
“That’s what happens,” Rumi said pointedly, “yer dumbass started flappin’ yer mouth. You went on TV!”
“It wasn’t TV it was a Livestream!”
“Same difference yer dumbass!” Rumi shouted in her tinny electronic voice, “wha’ ‘bout that uh, lil birdie ya’ had yer eyes on? You took him in three years! Three!”
Hawks muttered grumpily under his breath. “Look, I love that kid and he is my son, but I am never dragging him into this mess! He’s an underground! He isn’t allowed to get on the ranks!”
“Darn, I should’a gone underground,” Rumi sniffed, her nose twitching aggressively. “Can’t ya just...take him?”
“No Rumi, I can’t steal a child!”
Rumi made a noise of frustration. Hawks fluffed his one mobile wing and made an equal noise of frustration. “Why is life...hard!”
“It’s the economy, pigeon-face,” Rumi explained sagely, “Economy’s ‘n fuckin’ shambles.”
Hawks had to argue against that, “actually my paycheck is pretty nice.”
“Look, that’s beside the point asshole. Jus’ get a half dozen desk jockeys. Yer know people would pay to take you for a nice ride-.”
“I’ll stop you there,” Hawks grunted, righting himself from his undignified flow on the couch. “I’ll figure it out. First step, gotta find some trees to hug.”
“Off you go, you stinky little bastard,” Rumi encouraged the only way she could.
The Howling Mountains weren’t a single mountain, but instead a range of cliffs and sharp precipices made from the tectonic grinding of Japan’s continental shelf. The gentlest slopes overlooked Tokyo, made with paved trails and stone picnic tables and indoor plumbing for the occasional rest stop. A weekend getaway, the Howling Mountains were a scenic lookout and a nice retreat from the mad scramble of the city without the necessity of long travel.
The recreational park entrance led to longer trails, the endurance paths marked in orange paint that more extreme weekend backpackers would traverse playfully. The trails beyond that became significantly less marked, defined more by granite shelves and landmarks instead of the industrialized gridwork of rebar and flood drains.
The Howling Mountains became wild, unmarked by civilization, and reclaimed by nature. Animals prowled the occasional valleys and meadows. Professional fishermen hiked for days to reach the crystal rivers where they would catch their prize. The mountain air whispered clear and cold, a breath Hawks never realized he missed so dearly.
He had a house near the flat shelf midway up one of the mountains. It was an early reward and a halfhearted apology, something given to him by the Hero Commissure after his first major surgery where his lung deflated. He was young- barely in the top ten and fiercely vocal of the injustices. They bundled him up in gauze and medication and shuffled him up a mountain via a cablecar and a shoddy map. Freedom hadn’t come easy to Hawks back then, so of course, he jumped on the opportunity. Three complaints and he had plumbing installed, four more, and the gas line hauled itself through the bedrock. He went through hell to get a decent wifi connection.
His humble abode, his favourite home away from home, decorated in gaudy merchandise and the sweet smell of pine.
The modern world demanded a frankly ridiculous amount of insight into the world’s favourite Winged-Hero. Every day his phone remained blown up with requests for interviews and podcasts, photoshoots, and other guest speaker positions. His publicist deserved a raise, but for god’s sake, Hawk’s was tired of it.
Rumi had it easy in a strange way. Everyone knew she was the certified goddess badass- if she posted a video where she swore furiously at a wild squirrel in a city park, then fine. It fit her personality, and luckily her social personality tended to be her actual personality.
Instead, Hawks was trapped unable to take a side in anything. If he had a controversial opinion on a television show, the entire show could be cancelled. If he said he liked one shirt, then he’d impact the entire fashion industry. If Hawks were spotted buying apple-smoked bacon, then pigs were going to die.
Sometimes, it sucked. Othertimes, Hawks really really loved the world of social media.
He pulled out his phone, flipping the camera the best he could to take a spectacular picture of a shrub and his beaming face. Hawks could rock a hat, no matter what Rumi said. He lifted one hand, managing a casual peace sign before beaming in a wide-tooth grin. He made sure that his brace was just visible under his gaudy brand-new hiking backpack (actually made to better support his wing in case he tripped). Snapping a couple dozen pictures, he wasted a ridiculous amount of time trying to find the best one amidst the identical content.
“Mmm,” he hummed, poking a few boring filters to try and disguise a shrub to appear less...shrub. “Okay, here, yes, perfect.”
He uploaded it online, filling out a random crap summary. He looked like a douchebag tourist which, for once, was exactly his intent. Who would think Hawks was an actual hiker when he hadn’t even secured his backpack right?
Already the notifications were filtering in, a few comments and halfhearted barbs from other heroes that stank of their publicity agents. Only a few heroes legitimately ran their accounts- those that were weirdly specific in an area of interest. There was one hero account (Hawks... thought it was a hero? He legitimately didn’t know who it was) who had a ridiculous ability to capture pictures of cats in remarkably unflattering positions. In the middle of falling off a fence, sneezing, getting smacked in the face by a moth. Hawks gained all his cat pictures from that precious gem of an account.
There were a few other ones that went far too in detail on different foods, the one kid that worked for Fatgum who took the exact same mirror selfie in a hundred different places. There was one hero that Rumi followed religiously, that spoke in near code of internet references and constantly trending phrases that apparently sparked a new movement every couple months.
Hawks didn’t get it. Already his phone had surpassed a few thousand comments, all meaningless and shallow. He snorted and turned his phone off. If it wasn’t for Rumi, he would have long since chucked the damn thing off the mountain.
His duffel bag was filled with the essentials- his laptop (because paperwork never rested even when he did), relaxation clothes that looked less than flattering but who would judge him? Some aggressively critical hydrangeas?
Hawks was vibrating with excitement, whistling a jaunty tune by the time the cable car slowed. He dismounted from it, locking up the control box to prevent any curious teenagers from trespassing on his mountain. His wing was sweating weirdly, his long feathers brushing against his left ankle from where they stabbed through the bottom of his backpack. His right-wing flopped about with the speed of his excited bouncing.
“I am so excited,” Hawks whispered. It felt scandalous to confess such a thing out loud, “to watch television... all night.”
One tree on his left looked a bit like a douche, so he scowled at it and thumped it halfheartedly. Hawks giggled a shrill noise like a kid and whooped loud enough to scare a bird.
He saw his house across a clearing overrun with wildflowers. He remembered this clearing, where just beyond the treeline Rumi learned to suplex on poor unsuspecting saplings. He had his name carved into a pine tree somewhere out there when he was too drunk to see straight and wanted to use a feather with his left hand.
“God, I was a moron,” Hawks giggled, “I’m so happy!”
There was a distant bang, a noise like when Hawks threw a moron into a wall. He paused, cocking his ear. A few birds chirped curiously, eying his wings with dark little eyes.
Hawks walked across the valley- the paths pretty distinct after all this time. His house looked...actually really good. Suspiciously good shape.
“What…” Hawks said quietly, pausing to stare at the door, “...has the Commission sent like, a groundskeeper?”
He jerked the door open, unlocked because it would take some seriously motivated hikers to make it this far. The doorway was clean, his house smelled weirdly like vanilla and cinnamon. There was a new rug on the floor, a soft cream shag carpet that looked right up Rumi’s taste.
Hawks did not buy that rug.
“Uh,” Hawks said dumbly, “what the fuck happened to my house?”
Then, someone asked in a low slight growl from the workshop’s direction, “ your house? Excuse me, fucker, this is my house.”
Hawks dropped his bag and swung his right arm around in a punch. He hadn’t the speed both wings gave him, but his attack wasn’t anything to scoff at.
His home invader countered with a low grunt at the impact, Hawks’ arm being countered by a beefy forearm. A low curse and Hawks was on the defensive against one hell of an arm aimed right at his face.
Hawks swung his right-wing around, flaring his feathers. His attacker jerked aside- knowing better than to punch directly into a wall of blades.
“Oi! Get out of here fanboy!” Hawks shouted. He didn’t normally get upset, but he was furious. This was his house. His safe haven. And this dumbass broke in.
His assaulter reached to the side, grabbed the flat of his wing (leaving Hawks a tad dumbfounded), and threw him into the wall.
“Shut the fuck up idiot!” the homewrecker shouted loud enough to vibrate the lampshade, “this is my fucking house!”
“Bullshit!” Hawks howled face-first into the log wall. “I’ve had this house for like, ten years!”
“Eh? You fuckin’ lying to me? I’ve been here for four! The Commission gave me the fucking keys-.”
“ What?” Hawks shrieked, voice breaking an octave. He paused, wilting immediately into the log wall. “... fuck the Commission.”
His unknown comrade snorted a low noise, grasping Hawks’ right shoulder with one large hand. He pulled Hawks back, somehow lifting him by that single grip and unfairly powerful arms. “Yeah yeah, a bunch of pricks. On your feet, you flamingo.”
Hawks pouted, “Hey! Who are you calling a fla-...mingo…” he trailed off weakly.
Bakugou Katsuki let go of Hawks’ shoulder, lifting both eyebrows with a thoroughly unimpressed look.
Bakugou Katsuki. Ground Zero. Social media’s bastard son. The mountain cryptid. The bombastic banshee. The mysterious man who on the cusp of a promising career in no doubt top ten ranked heroes- turned tail and went into rescue. Hawks hadn’t ever seen the man take an interview before. He refused to visit any public events or sponsorships. His identity was public knowledge but the details of his life were a better secret than most underground heroes.
Bakugou Katsuki. Who turned tail to become a Disaster-Rescue Hero after being one of the lead assault forces taking down the League of Villains four years ago- when the kid hadn’t even graduated yet.
“Holy shit,” Hawks whispered with feeling. Nobody knew where the fuck the guy was- he was the world’s feral bastard son screaming like a raging animal on the few fan recordings there were. He was the reason why taking a bomb hiking was a thing.
Hawks wanted to ask why the kid ran away. Why he bailed out so sharply. Why nobody had really seen him in years. Instead, all Hawks could say while his brain short-circuited was: “holy shit what the fuck kind of glow-up is that?”
Bakugou Katsuki was a fucking beefcake.
The man also lifted his eyebrows impossibly higher- the left bisected nearly by a knife wound in the famous League of Villains showdown. The man, a living legend was recognized more by that unfair eyebrow than the explosions he made.
“Eh?” Bakugou asked, rearing back in blatant confusion. He blinked quickly- the left a tad slower from near white scar tissue. Barely noticeable if not for how close they were together.
‘Damn,’ Hawks thought distantly, ‘that knife must have bounced off his eye socket.’
A lucky hit, one that must have been ridiculously painful but didn’t interfere with his sight at all. Hawks had forgotten about the injury, lost to the haze of rushed commotion and panic in the days that followed the League collapse.
Bakugou screwed his face into a pinched expression, the bridge of his nose wrinkling, “who th’ fuck- what’s a ‘glow up’?”
Hawks stared long enough in silent surprise that the other shifted uncomfortably. The house- Hawks’ house, smelled sweet and soft. “It’s like, uh, puberty? Or uh, like when you get a haircut and look totally different?”
“Tch,” Bakugou said, rolling his eyes with a disgruntled expression, “‘s an internet thing, yeah? Fuck that.”
Hawks giggled a tad hysterically. Bakugou Katsuki ignored him and crossed his arms. The way his muscles rippled was horribly eye-catching.
“Stop gawk, Hawk,” Bakugou rhymed- playfully? He padded away, bare feet digging into the soft cream rug. He headed towards the kitchen, Hawks dutifully following.
“So,” the blonde said abruptly, voice deeper than Hawks’ memory told him, “Commission gave me the keys ‘bout four years back. I figured whatever douche left the place tossed it.”
Hawks scowled, setting into the barstool near the kitchen island. The countertop hadn’t been stone when he left it, a recent renovation that admittedly made the place look nicer. “No, just stupid busy.”
“Your fault,” Bakugou deadpanned, stirring something in a metal bowl. The origins of the fragrant cinnamon and vanilla.
Hawks looked around, trying to recognize the differences in the kitchen. Not... that much had changed- and what did was beneficial. The exposed beam ceiling had been stained a richer dark colour. The counters were exchanged for dark granite. The sink swapped for an industrial metal contraption and god bless him, there was an actual dishwasher near the double door fridge.
“Not to be weird,” Hawks said, “but why is there a freezer big enough to hide a corpse in the kitchen?”
Bakugou looked at him. “Ground’s too hard for basement.”
“You were going to build a basement?”
Bakugou set the metal bowl down, abandoning the large wooden spoon. He displayed his hands, wiggling each finger, and thick callous. “You fuckin’ forget I’m a demolition team, you bitch-bird?”
“That was a horrible insult,” Hawks told him on instinct. “Please tell me you’re not a serial killer.”
“Chill your prick,” Bakugou snorted, slamming a glass casserole pan onto the countertop with a bit more force than Hawks would risk. “It’s fuckin’ food. I hate shopping, so I made more space.”
Hawks nodded, mouth dry. Bakugou poured the weird mixture into the pan, slid it into the industrial oven, and closed it with one hip. He washed his hands with surgical precision, drying them on a knitted dishtowel nearby before grabbing two beers from a wooden cooler box near the stove.
“Here,” Bakugou grunted, sliding a bottle across the counter. The man proceeded to clamp his hand on the metal top and pry it open like it was meant to be torn off. Hawks gaped, normally he had to sacrifice a feather for a bottle opener.
Bakugou snorted quietly at Hawks’ expression, taking a sip of his beer before asking a low hoarse, “so, the fuck happened to you?”
“Me?” Hawks yelped, “what- what about you! I- I didn’t know where the hell you- fuck, nobody knows where you went! And you’ve been living it up in my house?”
“ My house,” Bakugou corrected again, “‘s not like where I am is anyone’s business.”
“Okay, fair,” Hawks grudgingly agreed, “but like, you’ve turned into a cryptid-.”
“ Hah?” Bakugou asked, squinting in puzzled curiosity again.
Hawks opened his beer desperately and took a large mouthful. “Sweet god, you don’t know what a cryptid is. I know this place has internet-.”
“Fuck the internet,” Bakugou told him proudly, “I’ll email when I wanna.”
“ Email,” Hawks wheezed, “oh my god you use email.”
Bakugou tilted his head and looked very much in thought. Hawks had a gut instinct it involved bodily harm in some way.
“I’m up here,” Bakugou explained slowly, “so I don’t have to deal with all that bullshit. I don’t give a fuck what a creeptid is.”
“Cryptid,” Hawks corrected hoarsely, “do you- you’re literally a meme. The press was practically going to stab someone at the last rankings gala, they were furious you didn’t show up. Fuck- even Underground heroes are seen more than you!”
Bakugou looked obscenely proud by that. “You’re fuck right I don’t go to that crap.”
“How do you get out of it? Please, tell me.”
Bakugou’s eyes lit with a horrible glow. A maniacal mischievous grin split his face around his beer. He said, quite seriously and with sage importance, “I send the fucker’s the wooden shit.”
The wooden shit, like the yearly wooden artistic decorations that always stood out as the focal point in all hero charity events.
“You?” Hawks whispered in worship, “ you sent the six-foot middle finger?”
“Bitch, I made the six-foot middle finger,” Bakugou said proudly, “took me a week.”
Hawks thought, ‘I’m in love.’
Bakugou had...done a good job.
After a point, Hawks had to admit that the man transformed his property into something else. He kept the best parts and removed the worst. He fixed a crack in the roof by replacing the entire surface. He didn’t change out a lightbulb, he replaced the entire fixture.
There were plenty of things that Hawks had done still showing signs. Bakugou was surprisingly humble, respecting the previous owner and highlighting the shit home repair job Hawks did years ago. He had the original windows, the shitty carved plaster near the ceiling where Rumi dared him to draw pine trees against the vaulted beams.
“I still can’t believe I found the monster of the mountain,” Hawks admitted grudgingly, watching the sunset he missed so dearly. It brought back memories of warm beer and Rumi’s laughter and both of them itching mosquito bites for hours.
“Mm,” Bakugou said, leaning his weight on the railing with forearms braced against the wood. “If you tell anyone-.”
“Oh fuck no,” Hawks interrupted him flatly, “the day I tell anyone about this place is the day I throw myself under Mount Lady.”
Bakugou looked at him with a peculiar expression. He said, slow and cautious, “you don’t like being the Number 1 Hero?”
Hawks looked out over the meadow. The sunset turned the sky shades of pink and bright crimson. He used to fly across the clouds, playing in an isolated oasis of weird humidity and starlight. “Honestly? It sucks.”
Bakugou’s eyebrows lifted higher. “Really? I thought bitches would be crawling all over your scrawny ass. Begging you to sign their faces or take your spot.”
“Take it then,” Hawks said, “I hate it. You know, I kinda get why All Might had a secret identity. It’s like, I can’t have an opinion anymore. I say one thing and bam, half the world is frothing across the battlefield.”
“Wow, must be so hard to be a celebrity,” Bakugou said dryly, although not cruelly.
“It really is,” Hawks sulked, “this is my first vacation in years! And I messed up my wing!”
“Poor you,” Bakugou drolled, tapping his fingers against the wooden banister. “What did you do, run into a tree?”
“Fuck you,” Hawks said immediately in jest, “no, some dickbag grabbed it and bola-launched me into the Crysilis building- it’s the uh, well I guess it doesn’t matter.”
Bakugou hummed a single note. He looked at the sunset with a simple sort of familiarity. “Must suck.”
“A bit,” Hawks admitted, “the villains aren’t what they used to be. Now it’s just...throwing fists behind the corner store. Lot’s of new heroes eager to show what they’ve got, practically outnumber us now in the top fifty!”
Bakugou said politely, “I really could not give a fuck if I tried.”
“Really?” Hawks asked, genuinely curious. “Do you not know your ranking?”
“I don’t give a shit.”
“Because you totally do still have a ranking,” Hawks informed him. “It’s really weird, you’re like, the highest-ranked Rescue Hero, which is ridiculous because I thought Rescue-Heroes use teams for rescue operations?”
Bakugou looked at him from the corner of his eye.
The man had grown, taller than Hawks and uniquely imposing. One-shoulder bulged the near size of Pro-Hero Midnight’s waist measurement. His deltoids and biceps looked like corded rope, skin tan with occasional pinkish patches of scars or pock-marks.
His once messy pomeranian hair had grown out and simultaneously shaved down into a weird not-undercut but not quite lumberjack hair. Long enough to maybe be tied into a short ponytail on the back of his neck, but obviously he had shaved around his ears at some point. His hair was messy, chaotic like a lion’s mane but clearly the forgotten remnants of a style. He wore a loose thick t-shirt, the kind of nondescript clothing a broke university student would wear with similarly old torn sweatpants. Comfortable, and somehow inexplicably decent looking.
“I don’t work on teams,” Bakugou said finally. His voice deepened over the years, the knob of his throat visible but overshadowed by the prominent ridges of his scalene neck muscles. “Bunch of fuckin’ pansies.”
“Uh, I thought rescue teams were required-.”
“‘M not a rescue hero,” Bakugou said a tad sharp. His red eyes glowed ominously with a sharp sort of warning. “ ‘M a Ranger.”
Hawks’ brain scrambled to try and comprehend what that meant. “Wait- wait, like, a Ranger unit? Like- like a police unit?”
Bakugou shrugged, still watching him with sharp eyes. Hawks felt a weird sort of panic flutter in his ribs. “That- that’s bullshit. You...you’re a goddamn professional hero.”
“Maybe,” Bakugou said flatly.
“You can’t have- have just tossed that off a cliff to go to the police!” Hawks shouted, “you said the Commission gave you my house! So you aren’t the police! You’re the Hero Commission!”
Bakugou sighed a heavy, low noise of exhaustion. “Look, bird. I’m here an’ I do shit here. I don’t pay taxes or have to deal with fuckin’ neighbours. I don’t care what you think-.”
“The Hero Commission can’t keep you here.”
Bakugou said, “nobody is keeping me here. You know my numbers then? They’re fuckin’ perfect. I don’t do a team, I work alone and I fuckin’ get whatever dumbass hiker got lost then I go the fuck home.”
It made horrible perfect sense. The Howling Mountain was the largest hiking destination in all of Japan. With steady technological and construction extending into the natural landscape, the number of visitors to the mountain grew exponentially. Hundreds if not thousands of hikers visited per weekend- you could see the mountains from the tallest tower in Tokyo.
And never had Hawks been called in for a search and rescue on the mountain, despite having a house and knowing the slopes. He didn’t know of any heroes getting called in to search- but there must have been numerous cases over the years.
“You don’t...do rescues…” Hawks tested slowly, “because...you only do the Mountains. You aren’t policing you’re- you’re the Howling Mountain’s hero ranger.”
“Got it in one,” Bakugou confirmed dryly. “Nobody fucking bothers me, and I haul dumbasses down the mountain.”
And nobody had ever realized it was Bakugou’s only location, because phone service didn’t stretch all the way up. All the lost hikers likely used up their phone batteries and couldn’t get any pictures to begin with, and it fed into the legendary cryptid identity of Ground Zero.
“But…” Hawks felt numb in the wake of all this concerning information. “...But all the mandatory events…”
“Eh, I get out of them if I send shit,” Bakugou said disinterestedly. He waved one hand to the side, namely towards where the garage and workshop attached to the side of the house. “Fills the time between calls.”
It was shaping up into a horribly quiet and lonely picture.
Hawks couldn’t help but ask horrified, “why did you give up on being a ranked Hero?”
Bakugou’s body tensed, his face shifting into something cold and flat. He looked at Hawks indifferently and said with a dry level of warning, “it wasn’t for me.”
There was a show that Rumi liked to watch, where iron-strong civilians would leave the industrial world behind and create a settlement in the middle of a godforsaken vast expanse of nothing. One season focused on the trials and troubles of one couple, living America with nothing more than a small vegetable garden and a handful of goats. The following season focused on a travelling rancher, shushing caribou along old permafrost, and following the moose-tracks where he hunted for the big game. Another season followed a lonely man with a beard like a literal bird’s nest. He chopped down trees and burned out their inner core to create primitive aqueducts to water his plethora of raspberries. The usage of quirks wasn’t common- people tended to have severely incompatible quirks. Instead, they thrived off luck and a weird collection of knowledge and skill that somehow led them to survive in the middle of nothing.
Bakugou was sort of like that, but entirely different. He had the pleasures of the modern age, he didn’t need to use a giant contraption to catch rainwater to have a morning shower. Hawks went out of his way a decade ago to install a wonderfully elaborate bathroom just behind the kitchen. He got shit for placement, apparently, people couldn’t fathom the delicacies of eating leftovers while chin deep in hot water. One of the best decisions Hawks ever made, as well as the ceiling shower since shower stalls and doors tended to dramatically explode due to a feathery situation.
“I don’t understand what you have against hot water,” Hawks said on the second morning, watching Bakugou pad inside thoroughly soaked and dripping water all over the nice wooden floor. “I personally know there’s an amazing soaking tub in there.”
“Eh?” Bakugou asked, squinting one bloodshot tired eye. He dripped water near constantly, his hair holding onto moisture like a priceless ink brush. “The fuck you on about?”
Hawks gestured with one hand towards all of Bakugou, who was wearing something plain and well-worn with a single stained towel around his neck.
Hawks watched in open disbelief as water trailed down Bakugou’s forehead to the tip of his nose, then fell right onto the hardwood floor. “You know the towel? It’s supposed to stop the water from getting on the ground.”
“Shaddup,” Bakugou said without any heat. His hair kept dripping, turning his plain grey shirt, black. “Only so much water.”
Hawks scoffed openly, “well that’s some bullshit. It comes up from the city.”
“Chlorine,” Bakugou grunted, shaking his head and sending water everywhere. “The water outside ‘s fine.”
“Outside,” Hawks said, “you mean, that shitty ass waterfall? The dripping leaky faucet by the cliff face?”
Bakugou looked at him, hair now a dark straw-gold mess standing up in every direction. His bloodshot eyes stood out brighter against the weird paradox of translucent skin with a prominent sun-tan. “I blasted the fucker open.”
“You did not.”
“Go look then, ‘m not a fuckin’ liar.”
Hawks never thought he was, but the idea was... ridiculous. Bakugou went and blew up part of a cliff? That used to drip water? So he would have a morning shower cold as ice to avoid dealing with chlorine water? Wow, and Hawks thought he was picky.
“I don’t think you are,” Hawks said carefully. Finally, Bakugou used the towel and ran it along his hair. When wet, his hair brushed the middle of his shoulder blades and left wet marks all the way to the small of his back. Bakugou scoffed, a quiet ugly noise that matched his equally pinched expression.
The man grabbed a metal kettle from below the counter and placed it on the metal gas range. He followed suit with snatching a glass jar from somewhere near the fridge, sliding it towards the kettle. It was joined by a ceramic mug with a partially chipped handle held together with something yellow like amber.
“You want some?” Bakugou grunted, his voice a low growl. Water clung to his jawline, his red eyes focused on a sharp intimidating gleam.
Hawks said a tad hesitantly, “I...don’t really know what you’re making.”
Bakugou’s mouth split into something that could have been a smile but looked more like Rumi’s deranged grin before she curb stomped a loser into the grass. “What? You Red-Feathered-Freak don’t trust me?”
“Don’t uh, pin me like that!” he complained with a shrill tilt to his words. “I mean, I just don’t want to die from like, weird mushrooms.”
Bakugou snorted again, turning on the gas until there was an audible hiss. Bakugou flicked his wrist and snapped, the friction accompanied with a very careful pop! The gas caught fire and burned cheerily from a careful ignition.
“Holy shit,” Hawks said, openly gawking. “That’s like- I thought you blow stuff up?”
The expression he got in return looked offended. Hawks scrambled to correct his mistake- one wing lifted defensively as the other met the resistive grip of his brace. “I don’t mean that like- I’m just impressed by your control!”
“Uh huh,” Bakugou said deadpan and sharp. “Surprise, ‘m not totally fucking insane.”
Hawks flinched, Bakugou’s frown carved itself deeper. “Wow. Real nice of you, Hawks.”
The number one hero genuinely couldn’t remember a time where Bakugou ever said his name. There was something cruel about the usage of it now- like Hawks didn’t deserve an insult.
“I didn’t mean that,” Hawks said quietly. “I just...I heard about you from Rumi and I got more the impression that you were a heavy hitter.”
“Doesn’t mean ‘m fuckin’ haywire.”
“You’re right,” Hawks agreed instantly. “It was really rude of me, like, I just meant I didn’t think you could uh, light a stove.”
Bakugou’s nose wrinkled, the lines of his forehead shifting a little smoother. “I just make fuckin’ nitroglycerin, dumbass. Doesn’t mean It has to be big.”
Hawks cringed and Bakugou huffed again. He said nothing else, although did pour two cups of mountain tea that smelled weirdly floral. There were bits of dried flowers circling in Hawks’ tea, but he didn’t dare ask what it was.
Bakugou settled on the furniture with a heavy weight. The entire chair shook from his landing, holding steady and secure. Hawks didn’t remember the chairs or couch, or the thick blanket on the back of it.
“So uh…” Hawks said awkwardly. Bakugou lifted one eyebrow, his eyes closed as he drank his tea silently. Somehow, Bakugou’s single eyebrow was more intimidating than his glower. “I...like what you did with the place?”
“Uh-huh,” Bakugou said.
Hawks shifted uncomfortably, his wing throbbing deep from the spinal joint. “Uh...so you make wooden profanity?”
“Yep,” Bakugou deadpanned.
Hawks wanted to scream. How the hell did Rumi deal with this guy for a month? “It uh, was a nice piece? Really good craftsmanship. Did you uh, take lessons?”
“No.”
“Uh, right,” Hawks said, wilting visibly. His wings prickled, but he lifted the functional one over the back of the couch to avoid puncturing it. “I...I’m really sorry for upsetting you.”
“Y’didn’t,” Bakugou said in his low growling rasp, “‘m watchin’ you squirm.”
Hawks suddenly perfectly understood how Rumi dealt with him for a month. “Huh, okay yeah, that’s fair. Rumi does that too.”
“Mm,” Bakugou said, finishing his tea, flowers and all. He set the cup on the coffee table, stretching his bare feet onto the table and cracking his ankles. Hawks marvelled in a mixture of awe and horror at how thick Bakugou’s calluses were on his feet. He really was like Rumi.
“Okay so uh…” Hawks paused, thinking quickly of how he’d normally deal with her. “What’s best way to beat some time?”
Bakugou said flatly with no threat, “you askin’ for me to beat up your face?”
“Nah, my journalist would kill you,” Hawks said. ‘Don’t get caught up on it, just keep rolling,’ “Is there like, a good uh, tree punching spot?”
“ Tree punching?” Bakugou asked, eyes opening in surprise and sheer confusion. “The fuck you on about? You- you think ‘m a lumberjack or some fuck?”
“Uh, no?” Hawks said, trying very hard not to look at the man’s ridiculous hair and bulging muscles. Somehow, Bakugou noticed and flipped him off with a scowl.
“Oh, go jump off a cliff, bird.”
“Can’t busted wing,” Hawks said, gesturing to his one limb. “I’d die.”
“Ain’t that a pity,” Bakugou said, once more without heat. “What you do, run into a carousel?”
Hawks fluffed his feathers up, pouting. “No! A uh, I got grabbed and spun around a bit.”
Bakugou boggled, looking a tad perplexed. “Why didn’t you spin with?”
“What? Like barrel roll- oh, wait. Actually, that...may have worked.”
Bakugou looked at the ceiling and sighed slowly through his nose. “You are a fuckin’ idiot.”
“Nothing new then,” Hawks said with a wide smile. “Damn, look at you. How the hell did you grow up?”
“The fuck?”
“Like, look at your muscles,” Hawks said, gesturing again, “you can’t tell me weird mountain juice made deltoids like that. ”
“Oh, naw,” Bakugou said, relaxing subtly into the chair. “Grew from spite.”
Hawks choked on his tea. His eyes watered and clouded his vision, but he noticed how Bakugou smirked smugly. Hawks coughed, trying hard to breathe. Bakugou reached out and thumped the back of his chest, above his wings, and nearly broke his ribs.
“Jesus man, careful,” Hawks wheezed. “My bones are hollow!”
“So is your head. Tea’s for drinking, not breathing.”
“You are a dick,” Hawks confirmed, smiling and hacking. Bakugou chuckled low, and somehow, Hawks found himself forgiven.
The mountain was gorgeous, forged by heavenly hands and moulded into something breathtaking. Hawks never thought Bakugou would be the person to find equal respect in such a thing, but they were kindred souls.
The trails were paved carefully, small dangerous lips had been carved away with something gentle and precise. Dynamite engravings that lead the way up the cliffs to were the wild animals didn’t normally climb. Bakugou pointed out the small markers- little patches of scar tissue on birch trees and wooden carvings from old stumps.
Bakugou didn’t talk much, instead, he pointed out his findings and bounded about like a mountain goat. His pack- a well-worn leather bag secured to his left thigh with four harnesses, stayed firm even as he flipped backwards off one high boulder. Playful, Bakugou was playful.
Hawks couldn’t imagine anyone thinking of the legendary cryptid like this. Bakugou was- he was terrifying. A screaming banshee, a hardpressed demon that came to your campfire with glowing eyes and the shrill cackle of, ‘only you fuckwards can stop the fucking forest fires!’
Ground Zero was- well. The last time there had been a popular list of heroes ranked by intimidation, Ground Zero was second. He was beaten by Gang Orca, who built his legacy on looking terrifying. The man joked regularly that he ate villains.
And Bakugou was leaping off boulders like a gymnast, playing with secure low branches with a sort of impish delight. Nobody had seen a picture of Ground Zero in years, especially not like this. He and his grenade gauntlets were synonyms, not hiking boots and a little thigh bag.
“Oi!” Bakugou shouted, sounding like rocks banging into one another. “Hurry up!”
Hawks wondered if he should mention the fact he could... maybe scramble up a cliff with one wing. It would be a bit ugly, and demeaning, but well within his abilities. “Don’t get your fanny pack in a twist!”
Bakugou, impossibly, laughed and flipped him off. Hawks found a smile on his own face, threatening to spread further as Bakugou bounded ahead like an energetic puppy. Bakugou wasn’t a terrifying threat, he was just an insane maniac scaling a tree like he had wings.
“Wait, how the hell did you get up there?” Hawks shrieked, one wing flapping. Bakugou twisted, hooking one knee behind a branch to rotate upside down and squint at him perplexed.
The man, seemingly unaware that he resembled a professional trapeze performer hanging by one leg, asked: “eh? I fucking climbed?”
“Dude, you didn’t climb you ascended.”
“Oh,” his face smoothed over easily. “Practice.”
“No shit,” Hawks said, laughing breathless as the man proceeded to twist free and weave between all lower branches like a cat. Entirely fluid and boneless- without using his quirk once.
Bakugou landed with a quiet thump, muffled by pine needles and leaf debris. He brushed his hands together, shedding sticky sap and a few needles that clung. “Don’t you climb?”
“Uh, not without my wings,” Hawks said.
Bakugou clicked his tongue, looking at Hawks with a partially displeased look. He beckoned with one hand along the trail, some of his playful energy gone. “Your loss. Hurry the fuck up.”
Somehow, Hawks messed up. Again. His wing slumped, feeling heavy on his back. He walked after, the silence between then feeling heavy and uncomfortable.
When they reached the destination, a cliff, Hawks looked around for something. Had Bakugou built something? Had he constructed something impressive in the clearing-.
“You asked ‘bout what I do?” Bakugou grunted, expression steely and sharp. “ This. If you can’t climb a fuckin’ tree, this isn’t in your skillset.”
“Rude,” Hawks said.
“ It’s true,” Bakugou said flatly. He walked right up to the cliff, eyes scanning the surface, and grabbed a small protrusion.
Defying gravity, Bakugou began to climb. Each movement smooth with equal pause before a step. He resembled a prehistoric reptile, knowing the ancient laws of energy conservation as his shoes caught the tiniest lip and his fingertips supported his bodyweight.
Rock climbing. Not only that, but rock climbing alone.
Hawks had a rough idea on what normal people needed. Normally there were ropes and helmets and harnesses involved- he hadn’t used them personally but his teammates always needed special supervision. Being able to fly tended to negate any sort of risk for falling.
Ground Zero could fly, use his explosions to fuel his movements like that of a rocket or missile. Falling from a cliff wouldn’t kill him, but there was a risk to it. There was also safety in it, where a fall wouldn’t kill him but could potentially strain his shoulders.
Ground Zero, the mountain monster, climbed gracefully with the ripple of exposed muscles. His skin gleamed slightly under the sun, a slight waxy tint of explosive residue that dripped off the lethal fall. Further, until the fine details began to blur.
The man reached a point of some difficulty, his movements slowed until he rested with his right arm jammed elbow deep into a fissure. His legs braced the crack, somehow balanced in the strangest contorted movement.
Then, he looked down, face flushed from the effort and hair clinging to his face. He tugged back his hair, flashing a white toothy grin and bright red eyes. He shouted down, breathless and every bit as young and wild and free as Hawks remembered the young intern, “oi! Getting too old for this, chickenshit?”
“Holy shit,” Hawks whispered, knowing the other couldn’t hear him. “I am so gay.”
Something broke that day, shattering what remaining tension there was. Bakugou appeared cautious at first, eying Hawks once he descended from the cliff. This time, in his famous flashy style. Hawks waited until he landed, then applauded enthusiastically.
“Dude, I take it back. You are so badass.”
Bakugou laughed, the noise erupting from him in his surprised weakness. From then, all tension slid away.
“I’ve like, never had a roommate, but I imagine it’s like this,” Hawks told him confidently. The winged hero laying over the back of the cough like the world’s longest cat with his single-wing drooped to touch the floor and the other bundled back.
“Nah, it’s shit,” Bakugou said immediately. He was reading something, a heavy stack of paper bound together inside a leather folder. “Fucker’s eat your food, shit on your stuff, steal your shoes.”
“I’m talking about humans, not a dog.”
Bakugou looked at Hawks with a dry look. “I know.”
Hawks hid a giggle into the back of the couch, his body vibrating from it.
“‘Sides,” Bakugou said, carrying on without any real interest. “I thought you and that rabbit lived together.”
“Rumi? Oh hell no,” Hawks said. He twitched a little, longing stirring from the pit in his stomach. “We haven’t...hung out in a long while. I haven’t actually seen her in a while. Life, you know?”
“Tch,” and the other resumed reading. He didn’t turn the page and his eyes didn’t move, somehow contemplating Hawks’ words deeply.
When Bakugou spoke, he put extra effort into making it seem disinterested. Hawks looked away to grant him that illusion, trying not to convey how much Bakugou had been paying attention.
“So...you have like, schedule problems?”
“Eh, a bit,” Hawks said. “I’m...busy. Honestly, never really wanted to be busy, but…”
“Huh,” Bakugou said again. “Thought living it up as Number-1 would be easy.”
“It isn’t,” Hawks said.
He let something slip, even though he had genuinely tried to keep his expression flat. Bakugou snapped his head around, face fixed in an eerie state. He watched Hawks wordlessly for a handful of seconds, then closed his folder with a muffled thump.
“Okay,” the blonde said simply. He dropped the folder on the waxed floor, nudging it aside. Then he crossed his ankle over his knee and looked with rapt attention. “Just fucking do it.”
Hawks tried to keep his face flat. He failed.
“Do what?” Hawks asked, voice wobbling enough to make him wince.
Bakugou’s jaw shifted sideways. “The fuckin’ pitch. The dumb fuckin’ speech the Commission threw you here to hurl out so you can- can leave an’ go on your real vacation or- or…”
Bakugou trailed off, eyes widening slightly as Hawks failed to understand. The younger’s face scrunched oddly, looking gnarled and sideways and somehow exposed.
“...Bakugou…” Hawks said, his voice twisted a tad. “...I-I’m honestly here for vacation.”
“Bullshit,” the blonde deadpanned sharply.
“No! I mean it! I really didn’t know you were here!”
Bakugou looked at him, then slid his eyes away to look attentively at a single spot on the wall. His jaw clenched hard enough to bulge the muscle along his temple. Hawks swallowed, slowly sitting upright, his feathers scraping along the floor with a soft rasp. “I’m...I didn’t know. Nobody knows where you are- or uh, were.”
Bakugou didn’t change his focus. Hawks felt very unsure. “I...like, they kinda...stopped telling us? I mean, Rumi asked a while ago but nobody really...yeah.”
“Figures,” Bakugou said hoarsely. “Fuckin... fuck.”
There was something fragile there, a careful pause and wariness that made Hawk stay put as Bakugou got up and left. He walked quietly across the floor, vanishing into the master bedroom although the sun hadn’t set.
Hawks made food- nothing fancy, but the aroma failed to rouse Bakugou. The sun set and crickets began to chirp. The blonde didn’t emerge until sunrise the next morning, marching off to his personal icy waterfall to douse himself in the frigid water and scream himself hoarse.
Hawks politely pretended he never heard the cry.
What could be lonelier than trying to communicate?
“You know, there’s something special about this.”
Bakugou’s hands shifted slightly, not quite shifting but withdrawing enough to carefully remove the power tool without threatening the integrity of his project. Once the loud noise of the disc grinder shut off, Bakugou pushed his safety glasses up over the peak of his crown to sit atop his skull. His hair mostly pulled back into an incredibly messy topknot, had a few strands slipping free that the glasses pinned in place.
“Eh?” Bakugou asked, eyebrows lifting in dry curiosity. Hawks shrugged, one wing lifting and flopping about.
The shed had transformed as all things had. The various contraptions in various states of disassembly had vanished years ago, now hauled away to scrap piles. The wooden walls became elaborate pegboards with metal rods pinning power tools into place. Hammers and chisels in abstract shapes slid into leather sheaths under fluorescent lights- currently turned off. Three sawhorses folded and hid below a burned worktable, a small anvil resting as a walking hazard near the side door. The windows, a pathetic dark mistake of Hawks, had been ripped out in favour of massive hinged slaps of wood panelling. It looked a bit like a food truck awning, pulling and lifting up to expose the fresh mountain air.
Bakugou fished around beside the worktable which Hawks perched on, digging out a refillable metal water bottle from the small minifridge.
“Alright, what are you yapping about now?” Bakugou asked flatly. He looked strangely peaceful, even with sweat on his skin and faint safetyglass creases on his cheekbones and a woodchip sticking to his upper lip. “Saw you flapping over here.”
Hawks mused his words while gazing at the wooden monstrosity. It was too soon to really tell what the geometric wooden chunk would be, but Bakugou tackled it pretty happily. Hawks drummed his fingers on the worktop and said, “just, it’s pretty...cool? About this?”
Bakugou blinked owlishly and looked at the wooden statue. “It’s going to be a fuckin’ bear trap on that animorphing weird fuck. The one with the tentacles.”
“Suneater?” Hawks guessed.
“Yeah, that one,” Bakugou said calmly. “Gonna snap him right in the dick.”
Hawks opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. “That aside, there is something special about this.”
Bakugou looked at him as if he were insane. Hawks floundered, trying to gesture with his wing towards the open door...wall?
“I meant this! Objectively!”
“Uh-huh,” Bakugou said, skeptically drinking water. “What’s gotten you all squishy and shit?”
Hawks squealed and struggled and shrugged. Bakugou snorted, finally finding the woodchip on his lip. He plucked it off, investigating it cross-eyed before he balanced it on his thumb and popped it into the air. It soared like a coin toss, fluttering around before landing on Hawks’ leg.
“That,” Hawks said abruptly. “This. Just- this is special. I...I feel really privileged to see you here. Like, how Ground Zero, the Monster of U.A. who went around blowing up cars and screaming louder than Present Mic, and now like- you’re getting your life back together.”
Bakugou’s face shifted again. Hawks ignored it and kept talking, “like, I don’t know it’s not like you were stealing or robbing banks but like, even when Rumi and you were running around it wasn’t right and people still complained about you and then you vanished and I didn’t have the time to think about what happened. And Rumi asked around and some people asked me and nobody knew what happened and- and it’s special. Because you’re up here climbing mountains and carving bear traps and now you’re like, happy.”
Bakugou said, “you think I’m happy?”
“I...aren’t you?” Hawks asked. He plucked the wood chip off his leg, rolling it between his fingers until it began to pull and crumble apart. “There’s wifi up here, hell I saw your laptop. Nobody is keeping you here- so isn’t it your choice?”
Bakugou set down the disc grinder, running his thick callused fingertips along his collection of tools that Hawks didn’t know the name of. Finally, he pulled down a hammer with a point on it, looking a bit like a miniature woodchopping axe. He held it, swinging it loosely in his grip before saying in a muffled noise, “it doesn’t fucking matter.”
“Uh, yes it does?” Hawks said. “I know you’ve been invited to galas, and you’re a legend online. Everyone loves you even if nobody hears about it.”
Bakugou’s lip curled into a snarl. He spun around and hurled the hammer, nailing the wooden statue hard enough a section of wood flattened as a crushed can. “Shut up!”
Sometimes Hawks could see flashes of Bakugou when he was a kid. The old footage where he destroyed the sports festival year after year, the recorded crime interactions where he took down a tank of a man after using a lamppost to ricochet around and knock him out with one kick.
There was something wild in him then, and wild in him now. His nostrils flaring and jaw clenched tight, his eyes wide and red as they stared with wordless emotion at something invisible.
“Sorry,” Hawks said quietly. His feathers shifted quietly. Bakugou was shaking from withheld tension. Hawks said subdued, “tomorrow, you should show me rock climbing.”
“ Why?” Bakugou snarled, lips pulled back as he bared his teeth. Hawks faced him and said, “because you laughed last time. And you’re upset now.”
Bakugou growled low, snatching another hammer from the wall before he chucked it at the wood with another scream. This one lodged itself into the wood from its curved outer prongs. Hawks watched, one by one, as Bakugou gradually used his workshop to render his work to dust.
“This is the crux,” he said, “it’s the hardest part of a climb.”
Hawks watched Bakugou Katsuki ascend, the way his body prevailed against gravity and hung suspended by fingertips on the smallest fracture of rock. The blonde grunted once, then upheaved himself into a crevice no wider than a cherry tree.
Hawks had a similar difficulty, instead splitting apart his widest primaries on his working wing to help him with climbing up the cliff and supporting him when he slipped. Piercing the quills into the rock, at worst they left pinpricks along the face and a step for him to catch his breath.
Bakugou of course watched with amusement and took it as a challenge. He ascended, tension leaving him with each step higher. The sun burned on them both, painting Hawks’ feathers near orange and Bakugou’s hair golden even with his sweat.
Hawks watched, marvelling as the blonde inched along a surface polished to glass with blemishes no larger than an inch. Somehow, he clung and climbed and prevailed against impossible odds.
“The crux,” Hawks repeated, tasting the word and understanding implicitly the difficulty. “How are you doing this? There's nothing to hold onto?”
“You force yourself up,” Bakugou rasped, somehow finding footing to pause and rest. One hand came free to wipe away the sweat that dared run towards his eyes. He looked like a baker, his hands coated in a small clumping mixture of chalk and explosive sweat that flaked away like pie-dough. “If you give up at the crux, you’ll never get to the top.”
Every cliff had a crux to it, an impassable point where a lesser climber would turn back and admit defeat. Every climb had something of the sorts, just as life continued to turn everything on itself and fuck them over.
“Is there always a crux?” Hawks asked, his good wing extending to provide shade and help his balance. Bakugou puffed breath, hauling himself higher with fingers pressed so hard into the rock they bleached white. Somehow, impossibly, he climbed.
“Of fucking course...there is,” Bakugou said, puffing for breath and pausing between words. His feet scrabbled, unable to grip the thin hairline grip. The turned outwards so only the inner sides and rolled ankles could provide any friction. It looked painful, suffering and tedious and yet, Bakugou refused to give up. “...if there isn’t...then there’s no fucking point...to trying anything!”
Hawks said, “then why did you give up being a hero?”
Bakugou stilled. His body didn’t tense but the svelt muscles under his skin stopped their careful shifting. He held himself there, suspended so far above the ground the trees were small enough to pluck. Bakugou breathed through his mouth in gentle puffs of air, sweat dripping and falling like rain.
“...I didn’t,” Bakugou said, confessing with a sharp dark growl that felt more a confession than a fact. He breathed, closing his eyes to recover better. He said, “...I don’t fucking give up.”
He pushed on, lunging upward explosively with the powerful muscles of his forearms and core. Somehow, his right hand caught the lip that marked the top of the crux- and Bakugou hung above the world with only the strength of his right hand.
He breathed and pulled himself up as his muscles and tendons bulged in protest. He shouted from between clenched teeth, crying out a suffocating sound as slowly he breached the ledge and hauled himself onto its surface.
Sprawling out, he stared at the sun exhausted and pleased. Hawks struggled after, scrambling with feathers and quills to reach the shelf where Bakugou relaxed in pleased exhaustion.
“Jesus, you’re a machine,” Hawks said, tired from climbing even with help. “How can you do that?”
“Climb? It’s fuckin’ easy,” Bakugou said. “Or are you trying to pry again? Trying to figure me out?”
Hawks shrugged again. He looked over the shelf, finding the sight of the mountain gorgeous and beautiful in ways he couldn’t convey. Instinctively, his free wing arched into half extension, preparation to soar gently on the rising thermals over the mountain.
Bakugou noticed it. He sat up, drawing one knee to support his chin as he too marvelled the sight. Hawks longed to fly. Maybe it was his version of climbing a cliff.
“I stopped picking up the phone because people kept asking questions,” Bakugou confessed quietly. It felt better here, with an understanding between them. They both used the treetops and open sky as a balm to something. It...it was right, special. “Every time I answered the fucking phone they just kept asking.”
The blonde sighed, exhausted deeper than just muscles and ligaments. He ran his hand through his hair, dirtying it with chalk and grease. “They just… ’ Why did you do it?’ or ‘How could you do it?’ and it pissed off me so fucking much.”
Hawks asked quietly, “why?”
“Because they wouldn’t stop,” Bakugou said. “How could I do it? How could a person stoop so low? And just, I kept asking if they were joking. Are you fucking kidding? Are you fucking! Kidding!”
Hawks watched him shout, scream off the cliff where nobody would hear him or see him. Bakugou clutched at the ground, breaking his shattered fingernails further on the rock. “They just- that’s fucking nothing. How could I go so low, eh? That’s nothing, I’ve gone lower than that! And then they ask me why the fuck I could do it, and what are you supposed to say, eh? I expect to do fucking worse, so I walked out.”
Bakugou huffed, curling his other knee up until his body hunched over both legs and somehow, he looked much smaller. “I didn’t fucking give up. I don’t , I did shit, and I stepped away so I couldn’t do it again.”
Hawks felt something horrible in his chest, next to his lungs. The same heavyweight, the oppressive exhaustion. “Sometimes heroes need to do bad things.”
“Bullshit,” Bakugou said.
Hawks watched the clouds pass and craved the chance to open his wings and leave the ground. Soar above, where the air turned thin and even his communicator couldn’t work. Where nobody could talk to him even if they tried, and he pretended every time that he never had to land.
“You remember back then, with the...the League of Villains?”
Bakugou said nothing, but Hawks knew he was listening. Hawks said, “I never told anyone, I’m under a nondisclosure about it actually. Before the...After All Might retired, the League went recruiting for new members and the Commission panicked. They sent me undercover and...I guess I...joined...them?”
“No you fucking didn’t,” said Bakugou monotone.
“I did,” Hawks said simply. “I hated it. I had a handler and everything. I was…they used to call me shit at the Commission. When I had feathers around and they didn’t know I could hear. A bunch of shit, Fastest-Hero-Into-Bed, or Honey-Hawk Pot,” Hawks said bitterly, his words became sharper, “ or Dabi’s-Lovebird.”
Bakugou was breathing very carefully. Hawks hated it, slumping a tad in on himself with a self-deprecating laugh. “Yeah yeah, imagine the scandal if the public finds out that I used to be a Villain’s Bitch.”
“Bullshit, he was too lazy to do anything,” Bakugou said emotionlessly.
Hawks twitched, realizing with a small bit of horror that Bakugou had personal experience with the League. “Oh, I- Shit I didn’t mean-.”
“It’s fine,” Bakugou grumbled bitterly. “They tried a recruitment pitch. Tried to kill ‘em. Got freed. Almost graduated and went on a mission again because the Commission thought I was tough shit.”
Hawks remembered that. The League of Villains were taken down before the famous class at U.A. graduated. Some key players were on internships, Bakugou was the only intern to run solo under the Commission’s umbrella permission. He was contracted out, went on the mission with other big names- Fatgum, Suneater, Nejire-Chan, Eraserhead and his two established Underground interns, Ryuko, Hawks remembered Endeavour being included since his fall from grace happened the year after and Hawks’ hell started.
Bakugou had been in the main fight, Hawks knew that because Miruko was on the front lines paired with one of the Undergrounds that could mix with black and shadows or something else insane. Bakugou had been there without backup because he was independently contracted, and everyone was still reeling from All Might and the Yakuza Incident and fuck that disaster with the Nomu that scarred Endeavour…
“It...it didn’t go well?” Hawks guessed. The reports on the grand event were very biased due to the publicity filter. The Commission had a field day with censoring information, wrapping it up so nice and pretty Hawks couldn’t confirm anything other than what he learned from witnesses.
“It went to shit,” Bakugou confirmed, with a cruel expression on his face. “It...they told me to do something fucked up, and I thought, hey, why not? Because it was the fucking Hero Commission.”
Hawks knew enough about them to read between the lines. He knew Bakugou enough to tell him the truth. “You’re a good person, Bakugou.”
“Then go to fucking Himiko Toga’s grave,” Bakugou said with a nearly pleasant voice, “and tell what they found of her corpse that. That I’m a good person.”
“The worst part is that I really used to value heroes and shit,” he said. Sitting after dusk in the security of the shed, a long neck lamp pulled over to illuminate the next stump he was slowly chiselling off the bark. Not all of it came off in clean chunks- some sections peeled away in long curling shreds, spindly ribbons and bits of wooden thread. It was captivating, relaxing with each slide of metal tools that pried apart bark and inner wood. Scraps fell to the floor, some chunks thick and bulky like a carapace. Bakugou ignored it, scraping away pointedly. “What heroes were. Not like, fame.”
Hawks said very quietly, “some people would argue against you.”
Bakugou scoffed, ramming the chisel with a little more force. “Yeah well, fuck them. Heroes aren’t just, some publicity stunt.”
“The public thinks that heroes are celebrities,” Hawks said. “That’s why the Hero-Killer made such a movement a while ago.”
“All those shitty ass villains and wanna-bees always claim that heroes are dead. Or go on a rant about how the world is corporate bullshit and morals have no place when you’ve got freakin’ Mount Lady curb-stomping on your head,” he said sharply. Bakugou didn’t look at him, instead, he pried away the bark and slipped his fingertips into the gap and ripped it off like one would tear open an apple with their hands. “I didn’t give a shit about that.”
Hawks nodded and waited. Bakugou’s hand curled into a fist, lip twitching into a snarl. He said, venomously and furiously rushed, “but I always wanted to be a hero, and I knew I could be the best. I didn’t give up, you hear that? I didn’t give up being a hero, because heroes are supposed to keep the peace and always smile. So maybe you can be a hero and shit, but if I had to put a date to when I realized I can’t, I’d say it was the day you clowns praised me for murdering Himiko Toga! ”
Bakugou pulled his chisel back and slammed it straight into the middle of the stump. It sunk into the center wood, stabbing upwards like a sword in the stone. Hawks swallowed thickly, watching shakily as Bakugou ran both hands through his hair and jerked the chisel out forcefully.
“...Did the Commission make you do it?” Hawks asked shakily.
Bakugou looked at him. There was something in his expression, the pinched edges of his eyes and wounded grimace twisting his temples and jaw. His hands curled around the stump and he breathed forcefully through his nose.
“Why didn’t you join an agency?” Hawks asked softly, “I know Rumi was itching to take you on-.”
“Heroes aren’t murderers,” Bakugou deadpanned flatly. He refused to look at Hawks. “Name one fucking hero who still works, and murdered someone.”
Hawks struggled to think, he couldn’t come up with any names. “It was ordered. It’s expunged when ordered by an agency.”
“That doesn’t matter!” Bakugou argued, “I’m the reason-.”
“Heroes sometimes have to do bad things,” Hawks said quietly. “I...I’ve had to do bad things too-.”
“Oh boo hoo,” Bakugou said aggressively, “so what, you got your feelings hurt? Gonna’ go cry that people called you names behind your back?”
Hawks flinched. Bakugou wasn’t wrong- he hadn’t...specifically done anything on public record that would out him. It wasn’t like he had skeletons in his closets, his secrets were more those marked by personal shame than that of true disgust.
“I took down Endeavour,” Hawks said. Quiet, a little broken confession that nobody besides Bakugou would ever hear. “I’m...yeah.”
Red eyes looked at him, face confused and angry and burning with the remnants of shared self-hate. “You? What are you fucking on about- that was an anonymous source that got cross-evidence-.”
“I was the anonymous source,” Hawks said a tad quickly, “I...I was the whistleblower.”
Bakugou focused his complete attention on the hero, leaving the chisel aside to face the bird directly. “I thought that release was from some woman. They traced back the calls after that bastard was in court.”
“Yeah, I uh…” Hawks struggled to think of words. He hadn’t ever said this, hadn’t ever mentioned it out loud. Rumi didn’t know. “A lot of fans will...hero-worship makes people eager to uh, make you happy.”
“The fuck?” Bakugou said under his breath, looking thoroughly baffled. He asked, warily, “how the fuck did you find out about that stuff then?”
Hawks said, “the witness.”
Bakugou said, “you went whistleblower, for the guy in jail?”
Hawks shrugged. Bakugou blinked rapidly, trying to fathom the exact chain of events. “But- the League are top-level containment, there’s no fucking way that you could have talked to him-.”
“No, it was before,” Hawks said weakly. “He...he wanted to kill Endeavour-.”
“Oh fuck,” Bakugou said, offering a strangled laugh of shared misery. “That fucking nomu? The one that tore his face apart- and you moved in and saved the bastard-.”
“Dabi was so mad,” Hawks said quietly, “he was... so mad.”
Bakugou stared blankly at a wall, looking thoroughly overwhelmed and at a loss. Hawks felt equally off guard- he hadn’t ever admitted this before. It would be the end of him if it got out. The collapse of the Hero Network itself, the idea that the Number 1 was still acting on behalf of a Villain even after being incarcerated. It wasn’t out of coercion- there was no potential blackmail to threaten Hawks into actually aiding a villain.
“Damn,” Bakugou repeated. He let his face fall into one palm. The only reason why anyone would do that was- was blatant affection. Hawks had been compromised.
Now? Likely not. The man shrouded himself in obvious regret and guilt and something that weighed badly. He spoke like Bakugou would turn around and condemn him instantly.
“Well,” Bakugou summarized tiredly, “looks like we both fucked up.”
“Orders are orders, huh?” Hawks said miserably. “The Commission sucks.”
“Fuck them,” Bakugou agreed, “the best decision I made was to get out of there.”
Hawks looked at him, finally evaluating the full consequences of Bakugou’s choice. Ground Zero was registered as a rescue hero, which placed his jurisdiction within missions pertaining to environmental hazards or SOS requests. Because Bakugou established his primary and only location as the mountain, that reduced his field of operation to only the mountain. The Commission couldn’t demand Bakugou do anything- unless it required rescuing civilians, hostages, or recovering heroes lost on the mountain.
Considering the mountain had nothing of value and was a popular tourist destination, Bakugou likely was one of the most bored heroes currently working in the field. Which explained why he was so damn elusive.
“You’re completely beyond the Commission’s field roster,” Hawks realized numbly, “they- they can’t call you in for anything.”
“Best decision I ever made,” Bakugou agreed flatly.
Bakugou being hired by the Commission meant his board was supplied- which was why he took Hawks’ old house. He didn’t pay taxes as a government agent, he had protected employment because they couldn’t fire him unless there was foul play. Bakugou had placed the Commission in a horrible position the moment he graduated.
Hawks couldn’t imagine that level of freedom. Or how lonely it would be.
“Have you done any missions?”
Bakugou huffed quietly. The exhaustion finally showed itself, the tension resting ambient through his muscles. “You would not fucking believe the dumb shit people do. The amount, of fucking birdwatchers.”
“Oh, that may have been because of me,” Hawks admitted. “I mentioned I was going hiking, so uh, oops?”
Bakugou shook his head slowly, “no, normal birdwatchers. Stupid fucks. But, they have air horns. I don’t know why but it makes my life easier.”
“Oh! It’s a meme. You know, take a bomb hiking with you?”
Bakugou looked at him and said, “what the fuck?”
Bakugou found his legend equal parts hilarious, and equal parts ridiculous. They sprawled on the cliff top, peering at Hawks’ phone with eager eyes and slight hysteria.
“No,” Bakugou protested, whining in dismay at the collection of comments and forms dedicated to him. “My hair is not like that.”
“Okay but it’s a fair theory,” Hawks defended, “modelling your hair after explosions would be a realistic fashion choice.”
“It’s just hair,” Bakugou argued. “I haven’t cut it in forever, it doesn’t even look like that now-.”
“Nobody knows that! You haven’t had a picture taken in years!”
Bakugou looked ridiculously proud of that. Hawks scoffed and searched for the Hero Convention cosplays, where a broad assortment of people tended to dress like Ground Zero.
“I heard it’s because they can hide food in the gauntlets,” Hawks conspired with a sly grin, “I once heard this girl apparently knocked out security because she loaded her gauntlets up with sand.”
“Good for her,” Bakugou said, flipping through the pictures intrigued. “Why they dressing like me, though?”
“Well, you’re popular,” the hero said. “I mean, you aren’t on a public Hero Rankings because you’re a Rescue Hero, and those ranks are based on statistics. But in terms of popularity, you’re top twenty.”
Bakugou looked at him in blank shock. “You’re shitting me.”
“No! Honest! People love you, you’re legendary! Last year a group of graduate students came off the mountain swearing they saw you! They sold it to a HeroHack and it was trending for a month!”
Bakugou sulked, crossing his arms. He said, grouchily, “they got stuck on the first cliff. What sort of dumbass climbs a cliff without gear?”
“You don’t use the gear.”
“I’m a fucking hero!” Bakugou shouted, waving his arms pointedly. “Shit’s different! Those dumb fucks got stuck and I had to chuck ‘em over, I mean I caught them but still.”
Hawks gestured pointedly, “ that’s why you’re famous. You showed up in the middle of the night, threw them off a cliff, saved them, and scolded them.”
“Look,” Bakugou said, then promptly had no response.
Hawks cackled, delighted by the change of events. “You’re a meme! Survive! Adapt! Overcome!”
Bakugou looked at him with wide startled eyes, “how the fuck you know about that?”
Which lead to Bakugou telling him awkwardly about the photographer, who apparently ascended the mountain to find a legendary picture of the mountain-monster, and got stuck in a tree. Bakugou came, saved the moron, and shouted at him so loud the poor man took a picture on instinct. This then became the legendary blurred picture that trended for over two years. The catchphrase, born from that poor reporter’s trauma, became the legacy of the cryptid.
“Tch, at least I’m badass,” Bakugou said, preening slightly at that. He poked at Hawks’ phone, squinting at the obscene amount of notifications blinking from the screen. “Damn, you must have pissed someone off.”
Hawks groaned openly, “likely my publicist. I went awol, missing in action. I’m sick of the world.”
Bakugou lifted his eyebrows and absentmindedly clicked on some of the emails, whistling low at the number. “Damn, someone thinks you died since you haven’t updated.”
“Yeah, figures,” Hawks grouched, “I don’t wanna update. People get so needy- like me updating gives them something. What do you want from me?”
Bakugou frowned. He tapped on the camera, shifting it a bit to snap a clumsy picture of the Mountainview. It was nondescript enough it could be anywhere, private enough to assure that nobody could track him down.
Bakugou typed something, huffed in satisfaction, and tossed his phone back. “There, problem solved.”
Hawks floundered, opening his social media to look reluctant at his most recent notification. Already comments and favourites were pouring in, his notifications spiralling on a wheel of endless updates. His post featured a gorgeous shot of the open cliffs, where the trees reached skyward and the sun beamed brightly but not quite blinding.
It was objectively, one of the best pictures Hawks’ phone ever had. The first one without Hawks’ face in it, but still, kinda nice.
“Whoa, are you a photographer?” Hawks asked, ogling the picture. “There are no filters on this?”
“Nah, I don’t need that,” Bakugou said. “Here, give it.”
Hawks handed his phone back, Bakugou typed and scrolled again- then apparently found what he looked for. When he slid his phone back, it was open to a small social media page with a couple of dozen followers and nearly a hundred pictures spanning back years. Every post featured the mountains or sunrise or micro-res images of granite cracks. It looked like every nature blog Hawks knew, with none of the sponsorship or stupid selfies.
“Dude,” Hawks said in disbelief, “Ground Zero has a blog?”
“If you expose me, I’ll blast your ass to Tokyo,” Bakugou said without any real heat. “It’s your fault you’ve got so many shitty fans.”
“I love this,” Hawks said, utterly thrilled. “Can you take my pics for me? So the world doesn’t implode? The more updates I give, the less likely someone will haul my ass down.”
“Damn,” Bakugou deadpanned, “wouldn’t that be a shame.”
Hawks had never felt so terrified as the sound of the bathroom door opening as he stretched in the tub. There was only one person in the house. Hawks knew Bakugou lived with roommates before, but he expected a level of decency to at least let him soak alone.
“Uh,” Hawks squeaked, wings fluttering around him. His injured wing, supported by a low stool padded with a pillow and three towels, twitched. It took some excessive maneuvering to let it out and stretch without pulling on the healing joint. After spending much time trying to get into position, there was no way Hawks could get out of the tub in a timely fashion.
Bakugou, according to the sound of the amazing walk-in shower turning on, had no care for modesty. He grunted a greeting that echoed off the tile and the hiss of hot water.
Hawks opened his eyes, staring forward tensely as directly behind him, Bakugou showered.
“So uh…” Hawks asked a tad strained, “whatcha doing there, buddy?”
Bakugou chuffed like a large cat, stretching so intensely Hawks could feel the vibrations along his wings. “What, you want a play-by-play, birdie?”
‘Oh god,’ Hawks thought dazed. He squeaked, blinking quickly. “What about the uh, waterfall?”
“...It’s raining.”
“Oh, is it? Huh, never noticed,” Hawks struggled to think. Good god, he was a full-grown adult. This was not the time to have a gay panic.
Bakugou clicked his tongue, his footsteps dangerously approaching. “Are you fuckin’ sick? The fuck crawled up your ass?”
‘Nope nope nope,’ Hawks thought pointedly. “Just, uh...this is...uh...weird?”
“Bitch, I met you with your bare-ass snoozing on a fuckin’ couch.”
“Yeah but I’m in here all exposed!” Hawks argued instantly. “This is- this is my moment of peace! I’m indecent!”
“You’re in a fucking bath!” Bakugou argued, sounding baffled. “Jesus Christ, you weren’t shy flopping on Miruko’s couch-.”
“That’s different!” Hawks whined, knowing he couldn’t do anything to stop the flush on his face. “This is- is- you!”
Bakugou spluttered, obviously unable to understand the situation. The blonde made a single noise of perplexed rage, snatching a towel and storming out of the bathroom with a perplexed stumble. Hawks sunk into the tub, blowing bubbles to mask his cry of misery.
So, that was a thing.
“I have a fantastic idea,” Hawks said, storming into the master bedroom which once was his room, but now wasn’t. Bakugou looked at him skeptically, half-dressed and still wet since the man was allergic to actually drying his hair.
“That sounds like a problem already,” Bakugou deadpanned.
Hawks, too overjoyed to think of potential ramifications, leapt onto the bed.
Bakugou squawked, flailing his limbs about, but Hawks had the superior number of limbs and by that, he meant five. Bakugou swore, got a wing to his face by accident, and somehow kneed Hawks in his hipbone causing more mutual pain.
“Jesus Christ!” Bakugou shrieked, somehow his hair invades Hawks’ face and the two flailed about. Bakugou fell off the bed, his lower half remaining on the mattress but shoulders making clear contact with the floor.
“You’re a menace,” Bakugou informed Hawks pleasantly, “when you’ve finally fucking healed up, I’m going to break your wing again.”
Hawks peered over the edge of the bed curiously, “dude, did your shoulders break the floor?”
“They’ll break your face,” he said instantly. “What the fuck, bird?”
“You know that’s not my name, right?”
“Fine,” Bakugou scowled, “what the fuck, Keigo?”
‘Oh,’ Hawks thought, ‘that was a mistake,’
“I uh, I was thinking,” Hawks said, blinking rapidly, “that like, fuck the Commission.”
Bakugou struggled upright, elbows lifting to support him from the floor even with his legs now trapped under Hawks. “That’s old fuckin’ news.”
“Yeah, and so is that, ” Hawks said, reaching out with one wing to use his largest primary to poke Bakugou in the center of his chest. Bakugou stilled, not looking down, but knowing what it was.
Hawks hadn’t actually seen the man shirtless in all the time they were together. He wore shirts of various styles, but never truly shirtless. Hawks took one glance and recognized the shade of an old tattoo because he had a mirror replica between the joints of his wings.
“Fuck. Them,” Hawks said slowly and pointedly. Eyes locked on startled and timid red, “they are fucking dicks. I hate the Commission and like, I am so amazed that you figured out a loophole.”
Bakugou exhaled a tad shakily, asking, “there a point to this?”
“Yeah,” Keigo said, “I’ve got one too and I’m tired of being a fucking lapdog. I mean, I’ve always hated them but like, I’ve always been their dog.”
Keigo leaned down with a more serious expression. He reached out, replacing his hand for his feathers and poked Bakugou’s sternum firmly. “Not you. You were a kid, and they branded you.”
“You don’t fucking know a goddamn-.”
“I’ve got one too,” Keigo said, shutting Bakugou down immediately. “Between my wings. Right where I won’t fucking forget it and I hate it. So, I saw that and I had an idea.”
Still shaken, the blonde lifted his eyebrows in a wordless question.
“Ground Zero,” Keigo said completely serious, “Bakugou Katsuki. Will you get a coverup tattoo with me?”
“What the fuck are you saying?” Bakugou asked, eyes wide. It wasn’t as simple as that, it was the implications. Hiding the diamond of the Commission’s logo- a fake symbol to be proud in. It was a bold and glorious Fuck You! Bakugou knew that just as well, and knew there was more.
“I’ve been thinking,” Hawks said. His mouth ran dry, wings fluttering in anxious fear. “I uh, I want to uh, retire but I can’t because the fucking Commissure and...and I’m tired.”
Bakugou’s face slackened in pointed surprise. “No, bullshit. You haven’t even fucking seen me. I could be so fucking rusty-.”
“You climb mountains for fun, your muscles are like, the reason I’m having a gay crisis everyday-.”
“Wait, hold the fuck up-”
“Moving on!” Keigo nearly shrieked, “I saw you with Rumi, and there’s no way you wouldn’t let yourself go rusty, and nobody has seen or heard you in forever so you’re perfect- you aren’t a spy or a mole or-.”
“I’m a Rescue Hero,” Bakugou said, blinking in blatant disbelief. “You can’t just- I’m not in your ring.”
“Yeah if you were applying to my agency, which is run by the Commission.”
Bakugou finally seemed to understand. His face slacked into outright disbelief, then something of awe. He sat upright, using Keigo’s weight to pin down his thighs and his absurd core muscles to fuel an impromptu sit-up so he was basically nose to nose with the winged hero.
“Do you have any idea,” Bakugou said in a low murmur that burned loud in Keigo’s ears. “How fucking pissed the world would be?”
“Too bad I really don’t care then,” Keigo said.
“Damn,” Bakugou said under his breath, looking awestruck. “Deku is going to lose his fucking mind.”
Keigo frowned, cocking his head to the side. His hair brushed along Bakugou’s face, “Deku? What about him? Weirdly loud? Too many dramatic speeches then cries after breaking someone’s nose?”
“Yeah, a fanboy,” Bakugou said, oddly breathless. “Fuck, fuck. Okay yeah, lets...let’s get fucking tattoos.”
At the tattoo parlour, manned by a very overwhelmed man with blowfish quills and long earrings, Keigo chickened out instantly.
“I don’t know what to get!” He hissed, pacing and twitching anxiously. “What can- is there anything big enough to even- oh what if this is a bad idea-.”
“Oi,” Bakugou said lazily, reaching out to yank a red feather right off Hawks’ right-wing. The hero yelped at the pain, gaping as Bakugou stripped his shirt right then and held the scarlet feather up with a twisted smirk. “Tattoo-shithead. You cover this fuckup with this?”
“Uh, yeah,” the artist said, squeaking a little bit. “Uh, anything for you Ground Hero-sama. Can I get uh, a picture? Of you! Not the tattoo-.”
“Cover this up and I’ll sign your fucking ass,” Bakugou said pleasantly, practically throwing himself onto the chair. The feather, one of Hawks’ smaller ones, would stretch across the man’s entire sternum. From between both collarbones to the bottom of his ribcage, pressed right between his obscene pecs.
“Sorry,” the artist said, drawing out the template fast and getting the outline down. Bakugou didn’t blink, nor did he look away from Keigo the entire time it took to cover the Commission’s logo with Hawks’ feather.
“And uh, you too?” the artist asked Hawks, looking (rudely) less starstruck by the winged hero.
Hawks, feeling brave and a tad weak in his knees shook his head. “Think a uh..would a explosion fit there?”
“What should we call the agency?” Hawks asked, wiggling his toes in Bakugou’s face. The man ignored him, not protesting even as Hawks stretched further across the bed to be more obnoxious. “I want it to be a pun.”
“No.”
“So mean to me,” Hawks cried in dismay, “Ground Zero cares naught for me!”
“Shut your fucking face, Keigo,” Bakugou deadpanned, throwing a pillow at the man’s face. “Divebomb.”
(“Hey, Rumi? So uh, you know how I break the internet a lot?...no...Okay yes, the world is going to explode...how do you feel about defecting from the bags of dicks upstairs? Yes. Yes... well, I may have found someone along the way…”)
Keigo liked the tattoo, and liked the selfies he could offer to his ravenous fans. They demanded so much of him, refusing to accept his need for time alone or his failures. Sometimes they forgot he was human- but it was alright because at the end of the day, he was happy with what he did.
That, and his pictures he was posting had suspiciously begun to increase exponentially in quality.
Plus the one with him being a red blur falling from a cliff with a horribly funny expression of dismay that Bakugou posted when he wasn’t looking.
That may have made it worth it also.
“What’s the logo going to be? We can’t just have anything!”
“Thank fuck you didn’t go to U.A. If I hear ‘Plus Ultra’ again, I’m gonna kill someone. Again.”
“Oh god, too soon Kats.”
“Fuck off.”
“What about...Divebomb: no more dropping the fucking ball.”
“And fuck the Commission.”
“That’s the fineprint!”