The problem was: there wasn't.

"—hey, kid . . . what's your problem?"

None of her damn business, that's what. If anything, there was something wrong with her face: a swollen bruised cheek, a bloody nose, and a busted lip. There's a couple of All Might band aids on her exposed shins and was that a broken heel? Tch. It's pathetic. Bakugo hadn't bothered staying away from a complete stranger because he's not afraid of a fight if it went that way and he's not stupid to not mistake the woman in question as a Pro Hero. Whoever she was, it didn't matter. He never gave a shit about weak heroes.

In the suburban playground, Blue Hair stood out like a sore thumb with her ruined get-up as she sat on the old swing with a can of cold coffee on her cheek. Her presence was already rankling his foul mood more than it should; there's already the slightest tingle of sparks in his palm. Why Bakugo was still sitting next to her, he didn't need a reason. This was his turf, which meant that was his swing she's sitting on.

Fucking trespasser, that's what she was.

Her head tilted to the side, which did manage to make her flinch from the livid bruise on her throat. Clumsy idiot.

"You know," Blue Hair drawled out, opening her canned coffee with a pop, "if I were you, I'd let someone treat that elbow to a clinic. You can get an infection with that."

Instinctively, his left arm moved and Bakugo didn't let himself wince, not even once. It wasn't bleeding anymore, but how did she notice that? It was all covered up by the thick sleeves of his jacket. No one knew about it. Not even fucking Quirkless Deku.

Flashing small explosions from his hands, Bakugo gave a guttural growl. "How did you—"

And then suddenly, Bakugo blinked. He felt . . . calm.

"There." Blue hair smiled, unfazed by his violent outburst, as she leaned casually on her palm before giving in to a wince. There's an ugly bruise on her wrist, a roll of bandages wrung on her neck. "Feeling any better?"

"Yeah . . . wait a second, fuck no," Bakugo carped, shaking his head in the wild manner his mother always scolded him for. "What the hell did you do?"

Blue hair blinked with those wide annoying amber eyes of hers. Lifting a one-shoulder shrug, she pressed a finger to her lips. "That's a secret," she said before snapping her fingers, as if she's doing some stupid magic trick—because the abnormal feeling resurfaced again, "and wow, that's a short fuse you got there, kiddo."

His shoulders became lax, as if he'd taken sedatives. But Bakugo wasn't the sort to give in to a daze for too long; he hated the feeling just as he started to hate what she'd been doing to make him feel so tranquilized right under his nose. It only took a matter of seconds for the unusual calmness to subside with his flaring familiar fury. He cracked a knuckle.

Gritting his teeth, Bakugo warned, "Fucking stop that," and in the off chance she wasn't in the mood to listen, there was the conspicuous threat of explosive palms to send the message. Pro Hero or no, he wasn't adverse to idea of blowing up someone away. He hated the lack of control and the control of some blue-haired freak.

"Colorful language," Blue Hair retorted, drinking in large gulps of coffee from its can. "You kiss your mom with that mouth?"

Oh, Bakugo never did like the smartasses. Especially the ones that kept running their mouths.

Bite your damn tongue or something. His lips jutted out into a snarl. "Shut up!"

Blue Hair shrugged insouciantly. "Just trying to help."

"Didn't ask for it, shit face."

And he never will, ever.

Not seeming to take the hint—which made Bakugo consider if there was something wrong in her head—Blue Hair grabbed another can of coffee from her grocery bag. It was the same one she drank; chilled, black brew, and some kind of foreign brand that had a distinct strong scent. "Want one?" she grinned, her feet swaying under the creaky swing, "Well, unless you're highly sensitive to caffeine, that is," she told him before muttering to herself: "hm, that's a big no."

"Stop talking already, dammit," Bakugo grumbled under his breath.

"So you are," Blue Hair shrugged. "No coffee for you then."

"That's not what I meant!"

"I'll take that as a yes then," her hand shot up, reaching the canned coffee to him. "Here."

It'd been a second or two, when a burst of smoke and flame blasted from his hand and the explosion hadn't even dented a single scratch on her. Blue Hair was quick, Bakugo would give her that. Although he would rather lean on the conclusion that she was just lucky and that the killing intention that gushed out of him was giving it away. Just a lucky weak bitch.

Untroubled by his assault, Blue Hair tutted. Like a fucking parent. "Now, now, I know you're upset, kid," she said, cradling the canned coffee to her chest. "But the least thing you should do is pass the offer. It won't do good if you waste coffee by blowing things up." Now Bakugo was really tempted to set off that damn coffee again, in front of her face.

"I don't give a shit about your shitty coffee," Bakugo said, wearing a deep scowl. "Besides it tastes terrible."

There was the slightest look of offense on her battered face. Good. He hit a nerve. "Different tastes, kid," Blue Hair interjected before hooking her thumb under her chin. "For an eight year-old, you sure have some bad temper there," she hummed for awhile—he even counted the seconds—because those amber eyes were less obnoxiously bright and more speculative and analytical. It made him want to badly hit her for the long unwanted suspense. For the way she appeared like she just assumed she knew what his problem was, how he ticked and turned.

Smoke unfurled from his fingertips, a crackle of fire licking at the edges, Bakugo was pissed off; she should be sorry for that.

Blue Hair finally opened her mouth. "I bet you've blown up other kids with that quirk."

That's because they fucking deserved it. Bakugo didn't bother denying it.

"Why'd you care?" Bakugo snapped, torn knuckles flushing white. "It's not like it's your goddamn business."

And then Blue Hair smiled. It was an easy smile, nostalgic almost. "That's the thing, kid," she said, helping herself with another cold can of coffee. "It's a hero's job to meddle with someone's business," and then she took a swig, as if she'd been drinking hard liquor, "or that's what they say, anyway."

Bakugo scoffed. "Some fucking hero," he told her in a low mocking tone, partly satisfied that she seemed to be taking his words to heart. That it must have hurt—because if it hurt, it served a bloody good reminder. "Must've been why you're all battered up and bleeding," this time, a smirk stretched out his lips; cruel and menacing. She was just a weakling and she should know her place at the bottom. How could a weakling know what it's like to be a hero, to be the greatest? "I bet you couldn't even handle the meddling part."

Blue hair drew a quiet breath. "I guess you're right," she admitted, catching him off guard. "But does it matter, in the end?"

For once, Bakugo found himself at a loss of words. He listened, despite himself.

Her hands were pale and trembling from the strain, but Blue Hair held her can in a firm grip as if the bruises on them never affected her. Her eyes flashed a burnished gold from the gaslights. "I'm beat up, sure. Doesn't mean I don't try," she said with conviction; strong and steady, reminding him of fire. "Saving someone, anyone really, as much as you can . . . that's," then she must have held a breath, seized a sentiment, from the words that spilled from her lips: "that's what matters."

His fists clenched at that, intense heat pooling from his palms. There's still a dull ache on his elbow. "Tch," Bakugo averted his eyes away. The look in her eyes annoyed the shit out of him. "I don't need saving, shitty hero."

Blue Hair blinked at the comment. "Sure you don't. You're a tough brat," her mouth curled into a genuine smile, "but, seriously, if you don't let someone treat that wound, an infection might get to you first and it's in it for a world of pain for you, kid," and then she offered her hand, beckoning him. "At least, let me patch it up."

"No way," Bakugo practically barked at her, leaning as far as he could. "Piss off. Leave it alone."

Sighing, Blue Hair rolled her eyes. "Here," she tossed a small plastic pouch at him. "Catch."

Bakugo looked down at the item on his palms. It was a first aid pouch.

"If you're going to keep it from your mom, then you better patch it up yourself then," Blue Hair stated. "Clean it up first. Then apply the plaster. It's your problem now when you bandage it up. Well, there's the internet for you, real lifesaver."

His brow twitched. "I'm not an idiot."

"Didn't say you were," Blue Hair stood up, heels kicking back on the filthy sand. With a grocery bag at hand, she turned back to glance at him. "Oh, and thanks, I guess?"

"For what now," Bakugo demanded, despite losing his patience with her. He would have stuck with the idea of cussing her until she left for good however a small part of him—perhaps, the quiet nagging one—was curious of her answer. He was certain she wasn't going to praise him or anything, but there was suddenly a strange weight in her eyes and he considered the thought that maybe she wasn't going to spout out some kind of stupid bullshit before she'd disappear.

"Pep talk," Blue Hair said, pushing back a blue lock of hair behind her ear. "Some self-reflection helped me a bit," she admitted, and then slowly, surely, gave him a knowing look, "hm, but I think you'll need it too, kid."

Bakugo was about to storm after her. "What's that supposed to—"

This time, it wasn't the calm. Bakugo was left with the feeling of steadfast assurance. Of support and confidence that strove to build him up and raise him till he could reach the sun from the palm of his hand. In different circumstances, he would have claimed he'd always known the feeling like a second nature, but it didn't feel as vain and shallow as it should have, like the times he'd been praised in a classroom full of talentless idiots.

This felt earned. This felt fleeting. Maybe even, almost underserved, but he'd never admit it. Because this must have been what triumph tasted like, when motivation was just at the tips of your fingers, and for a second, he was left believing he'd known what it felt like, screaming out All Might's famous words: Have no fear for I am here!

I am here. Bakugo was half convinced he referred the line to himself, living in the moment where fear feared him, but the manic smile on his face didn't last long when he found himself staring at the distance, catching the spindly figure of the woman limping away, torn and beaten shitless. He wouldn't really acknowledge it, but it's almost as if she stood tall and proud, the shadow beneath her feet like a great mantle.

It echoed again: I am here. She wasn't All Might, but she did feel like a hero. Sort of. Whatever.

Well, it's not like she'd hear it from him anyway.

A/N: Not sure whether to continue this or not. I just had to get this out somewhere because I'm just curious of the idea of Bakugo having another figure to look up to, from a weakling at that. Though, really, I should be more anxious if I got eight-year old Bakugo's character right. Anyway, thanks for reading!

Disclaimer: I do not own Boku no Hero Academia