A/N: This was the hardest chapter to write by far, so an extra special thanks to Lin and Ice for helping me out
What a shitty loss.
It was a simple mutant quirk, like Gang Orca, or that American girl from Class B with her own troublesome set of horns. Hers were tiny, though, damn toys compared to the massive, twisted things on this villain's head. But the guy had been strong, fast and slightly too resistant to Katsuki's quirk. And handcuffs.
He'd slipped through Katsuki's fingers. The pursuit had been close—Katsuki would hand over his license if it had been anything but—but in the end the guy had disappeared. Into a building was Katsuki's best guess, and he'd spent a good few minutes barging into every unlocked door down the street that he could, but no dice.
"Not so much as a damn witness," Katsuki relayed to Endeavor, lifting up his mask and wiping off the sweat with one gloveless hand. The afternoon sun soaked the black asphalt and bounced heat up Katsuki's legs in waves. His sleeveless summer costume helped, but the fabric was still thick to resist tears and flame, with heavy gloves and boots for his combat style. His bangs were matted to his forehead, sideburns dripping down his jawline.
"Bad luck, Dynamight," Endeavor replied, likely multitasking if his distant tone was anything to go by. Or already working to undo Katsuki's fuck up.
It didn't feel like bad luck, though. It felt like shit, frustrating in all the ways that brought out his worst instincts, pointing him in the direction of punching a wall, throwing a fit, or otherwise being the sore loser that he'd never grown out of. But heroics was never as simple as luck, not if you were good. And, loss aside, Katsuki was good. If he'd lost, there was a reason.
But for now, the loss was the ungodly focus. When he got back to the office, he'd still have to fill out a report, memorializing his failure to capture the villain, but since he was still on the loose, Endeavor had to disseminate everything Katsuki knew about the villain to other agencies as soon as possible. Well, an intern would.
And then there was Izuku.
"Where's Deku? Is he back?" Katsuki had already texted him, but the bastard hadn't responded.
"He's at the hospital," Endeavor replied, nonchalant in a way that only further fouled Katsuki's mood.
That was weird. Izuku should have arrived at the hospital half an hour ago—more than long enough to drop a baby off and return to the agency. It churned sourly in Katsuki's stomach. He'd seen nearly every moment of Izuku's combat today—he hadn't sustained any notable injuries. He had no reason to stay in the hospital.
"Hope ya don't need my report then," Katsuki said, already pulling his phone away from his ear to thumb in the address. A sweaty outline of his ear lined the glass. "Bye."
Katsuki hung up the phone without another word to his so-called boss. It was a technicality. He'd been a full-fledged pro for two years already—it should have been three, but even with his level of experience, the year spent as a sidekick was mandatory. He didn't need a boss.
With a glance behind him for civilians, Katsuki was off, airborne once more. Via protocol, Katsuki and Izuku's patrols had been taken over as soon as they'd begun pursuing their villain. Usually he'd kick his replacement and get back to work, but not today. His active shift was technically over, but he was still in his costume, so no one would say shit for him using his quirk. He was Dynamight—no one would say shit anyway.
Being in uniform was handy for a great many things, actually. Like being able to see people in the hospital regardless of relation or visiting hours.
"Midoriya Izuku," Katsuki said as he placed a still gloved palm on the front desk. "Where is he?"
"Hero Deku?" the young woman asked as she clacked on her keyboard with nails long enough to tap two rows above her fingertips as she typed. "Ah, he's in the postpartum unit."
"Got it."
Katsuki strode straight for the elevators, not sticking around long enough to ask why the fuck his boyfriend was in the pregnancy and delivery wing.
Not like she would have known anyway. So he might as well just see for himself.
The postpartum room was in one corner of the hospital that Katsuki had never seen in his life, never even heard of. And here he'd thought that he'd been becoming overly familiar with the local hospitals—not so, apparently. And it must have been a slow day for deliveries if this room was available for Izuku, someone decidedly not postpartum. Katsuki had talked to a lot of tired nurses in his day that would have been more likely to assign him a seat in the waiting room. Or the parking lot.
It was suspicious.
"Yo," Katsuki said, barging in through the open door, still in his full hero costume regalia down to the grenade launchers. He made straight for Izuku, who had at some point changed into navy blue scrubs, dark on the shoulders from where cleaned, wet hair had dripped and stained them. It looked altogether too natural against the hazardous waste bins and IV pole and guest chairs that Katsuki knew all too well. It was the antithesis to Katsuki's sweat and dirt. Beside Izuku on the twin chairs was a heap of brochures, with one in hand. "What the fuck, Deku? No text?"
"Kacchan!" Izuku exclaimed, looking up from Formula Feeding 101. "Oh, I'm sorry. My phone died."
He wiped his eyes with his palms, suddenly looking very tired. He was pale, perhaps due to the harsh hospital lighting, or else that dark color he was dressed in. Katsuki was usually the one who dressed darkly, while Izuku was all color. His closet would make for good confetti if Katsuki could shred it as he was often tempted to do. The only time he'd catch Izuku in black or something close to it was when he'd picked from Katsuki's side of the closet.
"You should be," Katsuki said, spotting the phone resting on a little tray table, plugged in with a charger that wasn't his. The nurses were feeling especially generous today, it seemed. "I've told you to remove those battery drainers a million times."
The phone was up to twenty percent. Enough to turn it back on again, at least. Izuku always ran so many apps and had so many articles bookmarked for later that he read during any spare moment, screen brightness no doubt up too high to boot. Once the lock screen lit up, Katsuki fiddled with the options, turning some off as his own text message came buzzing in.
"How'd it die so quickly?" Katsuki asked. There weren't too many unnecessary applications just from the drop down. He typed in the password and brought up all open apps in order to close most of them. The first one was the web browser open to Newborn Screening Tests and Procedures.
"Ah, just caught up doing research."
He stared Izuku down. Izuku dripping in his ridiculous outfit, cheeks cherry pink topping some cocktail of emotions. Katsuki, straight from the battlefield, trying to gain the upperhand as it slipped through his gloves. A long time ago, Izuku had admitted that Katsuki's face like that looked like a glare, like he was angry, but that he'd learned the difference. If Katsuki was angry, he was spitting, he was loud, he was yelling. If he was quiet, he was just looking. He waited for more information to be volunteered, and when it wasn't, he just grunted.
Izuku still held the pamphlet in front of him, but his eyes went past it. They weren't squinted in their usual voracious concentration—they were wholly unseeing. Katsuki walked into his field of vision, and when that didn't spark recognition, he crossed his arms. "Deku."
He broke immediately. "I'm sorry, Kacchan," he burst out, shaking his head, clutching at the poor paper in his hand. "I'm so sorry."
The words echoed over the pamphlets and the very room they were in with its lucite bassinet set up beside the fully made bed—plusher than any hospital cot Katsuki had known. They swept over the Milk Up Blend lactation tea bags, the donut pillow on the chair beside Izuku and the diapers stacked just beside. They went back to Izuku and how—scrubs aside—out of place he was here. And yet this was where they were. It crawled over Katsuki, turning over his stomach until it felt not only tight but hot. Hot like stomach acid was burning through the lining to his skin, leaving his innards vulnerable and visible.
Everything was too obvious.
"What's the quirk?"
There were dozens of known procreation quirks—Izuku had shoved many an article in Katsuki's face over the years, eyes sparkling when clinics would open for surrogacy or fertility, muttering into his fist as he considered the moral ramifications that came with each one. If it were a more common brand of quirk, Katsuki was willing to bet there'd be reality shows or some other grossly corporate misuse. It was a good quirk for media, not just nerds like Izuku. And each seemed to work a little differently.
It was a roll of the dice. And yet. Quirk accident. Quirk baby. Genetically…well, it had to come from somewhere. And he'd seen that tuft of green hair.
"I don't think there's anything they can do to figure that out for sure," Izuku said with another head shake. "All they can do is test for health."
Katsuki's molars ground, jerking his jaw to the right, then the left. Of course. It was their job as heroes to find out about the quirk. It must have been that woman Katsuki had grabbed by the neck, the woman he'd let go right before letting the villain go. Some fucking hero.
"Right, fine."
"I'm…" Izuku continued, his voice hesitant. "I'm operating under the assumption that this is permanent. The alternatives are terrible. Even thinking about those is just…cruel."
"Cruel?" Katsuki asked, latching onto the word. "Cruel means intention. You're not hoping it'll just—"
"Don't say it," Izuku whispered.
Disappear.
It was a hateful thing to wish for, but God, would it make things simpler. It happened sometimes, and the news media always pounced when it did. Just like any other quirk effect that wore off with time, so too did some of these babies, disappearing spontaneously or worse, rapidly deteriorating because of ill health.
"Okay," Katsuki agreed as Izuku's stare tore through him. "It's…permanent."
Katsuki might have thought that jumping into the line of fire meant that he understood the ramifications of permanence. He'd continued heroics after the war, understanding acutely what it meant to put one's life on the line. But there was a difference, wasn't there, between that kind of permanence—a loss, a consequence he didn't personally have to face—and this. A change. An upending of one's whole life. Katsuki shifted his weight, boots suddenly uncomfortably heavy.
"So…what's the plan?"
Izuku was almost trembling at this point, head shaking once more—Katsuki wasn't even sure he knew that his body was saying no, no, no over and over again. "It's…It's…Kacchan."
The sobs swallowed up Izuku's voice and Katsuki was over to him in three long strides. He dropped to his knees in front of his boyfriend, hard kneepads clanking against the speckled hospital tile. His gloves and gauntlets couldn't come off fast enough, tossed to the side the moment they were detached, Katsuki pressing his hands onto Izuku's thighs. With Izuku's head bent as it was, they were almost eye to eye.
Not the moment to push—understood. Katsuki rubbed his palms lightly on Izuku's lower thighs, his own stomach sinking. The answer came to him unbidden, even as the words stayed trapped behind Izuku's throat. His mind scrambled to prepare him, to gear him up mentally for his life changing forever, but it stuttered and clicked, because who could prepare for this? Of all the life-altering quirks to prepare for in combat, why would either of them have a plan for this?
He pushed it to the back. Those same creaking pegs were turning in Izuku's head too, his body giving away his instability. Those, Katsuki could crank back.
"Deku, hey," Katsuki said, grasping firmly above Izuku's knees, remembering briefly when a quick squeeze there would send Izuku into hysterics, gasping at how it tickled. Katsuki held still and stable. "Deku. We'll figure it out."
Izuku finally looked up at Katsuki, but it only hollowed the ache out more. Those eyes were filled with tears, fresh ones falling with every blink. Some landed on Katsuki's hands, already chilled by the air and leaving a cold trail before rolling to the ground.
"His eyes are yours."
His.
A boy.
Katsuk breathed. He breathed low into that treacherous stomach, trying not to let his chest heave too much as he fought to keep his body under control. He didn't know what reaction Izuku needed, so he'd give him none. Until he figured it out.
"Okay," Katsuki said carefully, measuredly. "Is he…okay?"
"He's being tested," Izuku explained. "It hasn't been long—they just wanna make sure that being outside like that didn't do any obvious harm. And then there are standard tests, I guess."
"Okay," Katsuki repeated. "Okay, that's…good."
"Yeah," Izuku laughed dryly, almost sardonically. His gaze was back in his lap. "Kacchan," his eyes finally sharpened, damp, but keeping it in, "you should break up with me."
That uncomfortable heat in Katsuki's belly spilled out the edges, tingling down his extremities in a rush of adrenaline. The same stinging burst he'd feel upon seeing a civilian falling or in the wayward path of a villain.
"Fuck you," Katsuki spat immediately. His grip through Izuku's pants became tight, sharp. "Fuck all the way off. Shut up. Try again."
"No, you should," Izuku insisted, his tone pitching upward. "You should—this isn't what you wanted!"
"This isn't what you wanted!" Katsuki volleyed back. "You don't get to take me out of the equation just because you want to fall on your own sword. As usual."
"But it's my fault!" Izuku cried. "I should have been more alert! I should have been quicker back on the villain!"
"Every hero gets hit by quirks," Katsuki rebutted. "We just got hit by a fucking serious one. Both of us. Now you don't get to say what I do or don't want."
"But Kacchan, I do know!"
"You know shit!
"Kacchan!" Izuku exclaimed, his voice a yell trapped behind clenched teeth. "Neither of us wants this."
Katsuki's jaw clenched. Clicked on the right side.
He didn't want this. He didn't want this and who would want this? A baby, barely out of high school, with fledgling careers they were challengingly managing to raise—much less another human. Too young, too new a relationship—less than three years. Only since graduation. Long for their age, maybe, but short in the span of their history. Short enough that next steps hadn't even been on the table.
"We're heroes," Izuku said, all the volume from a moment before having been vacuumed out, leaving his voice unsteady. "This would…it isn't…"
"It's not what heroes do," Katsuki completed.
All Might and Endeavor had been the veteran heroes of their time. Most heroes had followed All Might, who hadn't lived to have children, having passed a few years ago with Izuku as his closest thing to an heir, even if One For All no longer connected them. And Endeavor…Katsuki didn't want to think about Endeavor.
"Right," Izuku breathed. "It's not…what we planned."
"Planned?" Katsuki scoffed. "What plan? We've never talked about this."
They'd hardly spoken of the future on any level, much less children. It was hard to plan for the future when you had no idea how long your career would last, whether it would die or take you with it. It took all the focus they had just to survive living in the moment.
"Right," Izuku said, another dry chuckle making its way out. "There wasn't even any plan about this."
"But did you…" Katsuki swallowed. "Have you ever thought about it?"
Izuku's thumb had made its way to his mouth, chewing the dull nail as he considered the question.
"I was never good at imagining the future. I could only picture being a hero, which was supposedly impossible, so it was never a good picture. Not a lot of specifics—just a vague idea," he admitted. "But I guess I thought…maybe someday…I don't know. I guess it was nice to think of a world where it was something more heroes could have." He turned to Katsuki. "What about you?"
"I…"
No. No, he'd never considered it. Never thought about children beyond saving them, returning them promptly to their families. His dream had been a simple one. Difficult but straightforward. Become the number one hero, and forget everything else.
Of course, Izuku had never been in that dream either.
Katsuki's face fell to Izuku's knees, letting out a groan of frustration as he landed. "It's such a bad idea. It's unsafe and unrealistic. It's…It's…"
A hand fell to Katsuki's hair, exposing his sweaty roots to the cold, clean air of the room as it carded through flattened spikes.
"I don't know," he muttered into Izuku's knees. "It's not something I can even imagine. But…"
Speak, Katsuki willed him, willed himself. Where were all the ends of their sentences? Their whole thoughts? Since when did they half-ass anything?
"But…?"
"But I think you'd be good at it," Katsuki admitted, bringing his head up. "You've always been sneakily good at everything, so why not this too?"
Izuku sniffled—the first sign of the waterworks starting again. His nose and eyes were still red from the previous bout, so Katsuki couldn't be sure, but the rapid blinking was as much a sign as anything.
"Kacchan," Izuku whimpered. "That's so nice of you to say…because I'm gonna do it. You can not be involved and do your own thing, but I can't…I can't risk…It has to be me. I already told the hospital I would."
It had only been four years since Izuku had defeated Shigaraki, the villain whose very ideology had been born from a hero choosing their job over parenting. A hero that, even without One For All, Izuku would always be tied to. Of course he'd see no other choice.
"Stop saying that shit."
Izuku looked at him, sniffling a second time. The tears had only made it to the corners of his eyes, beaded but hanging on. "What?"
"How many different ways do I have to say it?" Katsuki asked, letting a bit of anger bubble up. "You're not doing this without me. Yeah, fine, maybe I won't be fucking good at this—"
"That's not what I was s—"
"—but you don't know how to do this either. So don't fucking…" Katsuki clenched his teeth, clenched his fists. "Don't fucking freeze me out."
Izuku's eyebrows curled up and Katsuki couldn't bear to look, so he turned his gaze to Izuku's knees. That only left him surprised when two arms wrapped around his shoulders, and his head was covered by Izuku's long neck.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to freeze you out," Izuku said, his voice vibrating over Katsuki's skull.
"Don't say fucking sorry again," Katsuki mumbled.
"S—right."
They stayed like that for a moment more before Katsuki pulled out of it.
"Goddamn idiot if you think I'm leaving you alone with the runt. You're gonna just turn him into a mega dweeb, and I can't let any kid with my eyes end up like that."
Izuku smiled, the broad curve of his lips still a little wobbly. "What are you saying, Kacchan?"
Katsuki stood up, both knees popping from too much time on the ground.
"I'm saying buck the hell up and hand me one of those nerd pamphlets."
He pushed Izuku's shoulder to get him to one side so there was enough room to share, but, unexpectedly, Izuku stayed firm. Katsuki was about to chew him out again when Izuku went a different direction than Katsuki had anticipated.
"No," Izuku said, taking the stack of pamphlets. "You have to shower."
Katsuki squinted. "Why?" Then he put up a hand, quieting Izuku before he could answer.
The image of that first glance of Izuku holding the baby, away from his body, came unbidden to Katsuki's mind. The reality of it nearly made him shiver. Cleanliness, right, safety for the baby. He would shower.
"Fine," he said. "But you get me scrubs, and stop reading ahead. You're not getting in front of me just because I was stuck on the field longer."
Izuku grinned, the first expression that was at all warm that Katsuki had seen since starting their shift. It wasn't the surest smile Katsuki had ever seen on his face, nor the biggest or the happiest. But it was a start.
"You'll just have to try to catch up, Kacchan."
When Katsuki stepped out of the shower, towel around his hips, he was met with dark blue fabric thrust in his face. It smelled of nothing. No detergent, just the crisp, almost papery smell of unscented clothes.
"We'll match," Izuku said through a thin smile.
"My nightmare." Katsuki took the garment on top—the shirt—and flapped it once. It unfurled immediately, but deep creases remained in the fabric.
The banter was tawdry, an attempt at normalcy in perhaps the strangest situation they had yet to find themselves in. It was hardly like the two of them to playact, though. Even when things had been bad between them, pretending had never been a part of the equation.
"Kacchan," Izuku started, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot. "I really am sorry."
"Good," Katsuki said, snatching the pants and giving them the same treatment. "This color is too close to Half 'n Half's costume, and I don't appreciate the association."
"Sorry," Izuku replied. "And sorry about all of this."
Katsuki pressed a thumb under Izuku's chin and forced them eye to eye. "Did I hit my head in the shower or have we already been over this?"
Izuku blinked at Katsuki. "I'm sure Kacchan didn't fall in the shower."
"Exactly. So stop apologizing or I'll punch you. Then one of us'll have something to be sorry about. It's not your fucking fault—it's both of us."
Katsuki's hand reached for Izuku's shoulder, the starchy material of the scrubs folding against his palm as he pulled him close. God, they hadn't touched like this since that morning—everything was strictly professional at work. But they hadn't even managed a combo move on the field. Katsuki slid his hand down, touching the bicep that had only grown more developed in the time since Izuku had lost his quirk. His skin was dry—a product of the hospital soap and no lotion. No doubt Katsuki's would be the same in a few minutes, once the steam-soft glow left him and the sanitary air of the hospital dried him out.
"You wouldn't punch me," Izuku said, leaning into Katsuki's touch, his whole body tilting to the side. His damp hair flopped over, rendering it even messier than usual.
Katsuki took a step closer, both arms drawing toward Izuku now. "Try me."
Izuku chuckled into Katsuki's neck and it felt like mornings. A light sheen had covered their bodies ever since they'd moved in together only a year ago. Both of their big, dense bodies ran hot, and despite having invested in a queen-sized bed, their limbs always ended up tangling. When they'd woken up one too many times with one man's fist twisted in the other's shirt, they'd gone shirtless. Now hands clutched arms, hair, shoulders. Most mornings, one of their noses was in the other's neck, waking up to a gusty sigh borne against a sticky neck.
The tension that the hot shower hadn't been able to pound out seeped from Katsuki's shoulders as he slumped against his boyfriend. The powdery smell of Izuku's head pushed through the antiseptic smell in the air, still there after the also scentless shampoo. Even though it was probably just dandruff, Katsuki pressed his nose into it and inhaled. He returned to a familiar affirmation that was usually there even when nothing else was: they were safe, so all was well.
"Talk," Katsuki said, imagining that the proximity of the words might help them get through Izuku's thick skull. "Anything but I'm sorry."
Izuku hummed, and Katsuki waited for something more to come. He'd never been an especially patient man—neither of them were—but if the moment passed was in Izuku's embrace, then the virtue came temporarily.
"I feel selfish," Izuku whispered, the sound barely carrying the scant distance to Katsuki's ear.
"You are selfish."
Izuku laughed. "Right. Yeah. I just…this is asking too much of you. It's asking you to change your whole life."
Katsuki shrugged. "Same for you."
"Yeah…"
"Look," Katsuki pulled back, but only from the neck. Their arms remained tight around each other, "It'd be worse to split. Whatever happens…we have to stay."
Katsuki wasn't prepared for the way the words tightened on the way out his throat. The swallow that clicked and got stuck halfway.
Their relationship wasn't that long, nor that reliable if history was anything to go by. They'd broken apart before, and Katsuki had visions of it happening again, all the ways that this could be taken from him. It had been a year since they'd moved in together, well over two years since they'd shared their first I love yous. This was something vital, irreplaceable.
"We have to stay," he repeated. "Fight me on that again and I'll kill you."
Izuku chuckled and it rumbled across the tense muscles of Katsuki's shoulder, loosening them just a bit more.
"Then we'd better get to work while we wait."
For all Katsuki had said about Izuku getting ahead on research, if Izuku tallied up his knowledge in newborn care as a test score, it would be abysmal.
The pamphlets were good—he was keeping them, they were going to be folded into the pockets on his utility belt and smuggled out of the hospital for future reference. Once Katsuki was through with them, of course, but Katsuki had always been the faster reader, so he was nearly through.
There was so much to know. Izuku had bookmarks on bookmarks, living in folders within folders on his phone. Each article came with a big hero header of a sleeping baby all snuggled up in pastel knits or a parent's arms. He sucked up all the information like mother's milk—although they'd obviously go with formula. He'd have to ask the doctor for recommendations; that's what the articles had suggested.
Pictures aside, it was almost enough to keep him distracted. So much to learn, all completely new. Almost enough to lose the feeling that there was supposed to be a third person in the room—and there would be, soon. Almost enough for the panic to ebb, but instead it simmered. Bubbles popping quietly under his skin by the moment, tracking time.
It passed slowly.
Katsuki was not a patient man.
Maybe he'd thought so for a moment earlier, but he was not. Ever.
He needed to move. The urge had brought him to the window. The room was shit—nothing but a view of another brick wall. He supposed that the rooms with a decent view—not that most windows in the city had a good view—went to patients suffering from illness or injury. Not new parents who probably just wanted to look at their baby.
Their baby.
He swallowed. Considered running to one of the nearby rooms, and asking one of those parents how they had decided, how they had planned. What they'd done given the chance to plan. But he stayed put, feet heavy like they were still in his boots instead of socks. Skin itching in clothes that weren't his.
He swiped to another article and read on.
His mom would be happy.
Scared to death, of course—Izuku had gotten his nerves from somewhere. But she'd be happy, he thought.
Not that they'd ever talked about it—obviously they hadn't talked about it. Of course not. But it seemed to be the kind of thing she'd be pleased about, at least after it sunk in.
It would be good news.
It would become good news.
Izuku wasn't looking at him. His brows were furrowed toward his phone, eyes crossed in a way that'd ruin him for seeing far-off villains in battle before long. He hadn't even glanced Katsuki's way as Katsuki paced the short, narrow length of the room.
Katsuki suspected that was about to become the norm.
There was about to be someone new to look at. Someone at home. Someone between them.
Between. Both keeping them apart, and connecting them together.
"Break."
Izuku blinked harshly as Katsuki snapped twice in front of his eyes. He squinted like curtains had just been opened in his face. But the postpartum room's blinds had been open the whole time, and in the long hours they'd been waiting, the sun had grown gradually dimmer.
"That was the first time you've blinked in two minutes. Break. Water. Stretch."
Izuku stood up automatically, his legs sore with the reminder that he hadn't done any proper cool down after the afternoon's fight that already felt days, weeks removed from where they were now. His mind was pleasantly focused on the popping of his joints, the relief of his eyes as he blinked and widened them. Then Katsuki stood before him with a little paper cone of water, and he startled.
Katsuki…would be a wonderful parent.
Izuku downed his water and watched as Katsuki chugged his. And when he finished, he watched for a while longer.
"We need help."
The break had been short lived—Katsuki should have known he wouldn't be able to get anything more out of Izuku than a breather. Despite the fact that a clock had been present in the upper righthand corner of his phone the whole time, Katsuki had still managed to lose track of how long they'd been going now, how long they'd been waiting. So it was a surprise for Izuku to be the one to drag them out of it. Not that Katsuki liked what he was saying.
"Hah? What are you talking about?"
"We won't have time to buy everything we need," Izuku continued, completely unbothered by Katsuki's tone. That'd been the case for years now, though. "We won't be able to leave the hospital without a check that a car seat's been properly installed. But we don't have a car and we definitely can't risk public transportation. Not to mention everything else we need, even just the basics to make it through one day."
Katsuki sighed. Even just the first few articles he'd read had made yen signs dance in front of his eyes. Babies needed so much damn stuff.
"Fine," Katsuki agreed. "Call Auntie. I am not telling my parents about this—they'll have a million things to say and they'll never get around to buying anything."
Izuku laughed. "You can't just not tell them! They'll find out and you'll never hear the end of it. And besides, they'd want to know!"
"That the woman that keeps getting mistaken for my goddamn sister is a grandmother?" Katsuki crossed his arms.
"Yes," Izuku insisted, pulling out his phone. "Besides, I think we need all the help we can get. I'll call my mom about buying things, but yours are the ones with a car."
Katsuki didn't lose his skepticism. "What're you gonna tell her?"
Izuku blushed, scrolling through his recent contacts. "I'll…figure it out."
"Fine. The hag gets the car seat and Auntie gets whatever the fuck else."
"Sounds good," Izuku said, putting the phone up to his ear and walking across the room.
Katsuki took out his phone as well, thumb hovering between the starred contacts for his mother and father. Bakugou Masaru was the easier option, always. He didn't ask so many questions, didn't interrupt, didn't yell, didn't judge—outwardly at least. His mother did all those things, but the whole conversation would take a whole lot longer if she caught wind of anything Katsuki was talking about and didn't get the chance to hear it directly from him.
Preparing himself for the onslaught, he called his mother.
One ring in and it occurred to him that she might be working, or on another call. He might have to deliver this revelation as a voicemail or a text. Two rings and he was already wording a milder excuse that could pass over text. Have to transport a baby from the hospital. Need the car and a car seat ASAP. Not a lie, technically.
On the third ring, she picked up.
"Brat?" she said, and Katsuki was already listening for the telltale noises of extra voices or traffic in the background, trying to clock if she was at home. There was nothing but a slight hiss in the background, like water running or a bit of static between connections.
"Hag," Katsuki greeted, his voice free of any fire for now. "You home? Is dad there?"
"Cooking lunch, as we speak," she replied.
"Great, can you go on speaker?"
"Ooh, something serious?" Mitsuki's voice suddenly became a bit more distant as the sizzling sound in the background grew louder. Katsuki realized he hadn't eaten anything since before his shift.
Katsuki scowled by default, looking over at Deku who was gesturing wildly with one arm. He wondered how he was wording this.
"Everyone's fine," Katsuki said to begin with. Most of his serious calls home were because either he or Izuku had been injured, so he supposed at least that was playing in his favor. "But something did happen on patrol today."
He waited for a moment, thinking that maybe the words would come to him in a burst of inspiration. That the words he and Izuku hadn't even managed to say to each other would come out now in front of the critical audience of his mom and dad. They didn't.
"Well, spit it out, kid!" Mitsuki probed. "I'm getting old over here!"
It wasn't inspiration, but it was a flash of irritation, and that was enough. "Okay, then, well, congratulations, grandma! You're officially old!"
Katsuki bit his lips, wincing at his own words. Izuku glanced over at him but turned back to the wall, words silent under the pulse of blood thumping in Katsuki's ears. Then his mother's voice came in low.
"…Is grandma a new insulting name your creative little mind has come up for me, or did you knock some girl up, because so help me, if you cheated on darling Izuku-kun—"
"Fuck, mom, I didn't cheat on anyone. How would that happen on patrol anyway?" Katsuki's face was hot, sweaty. He had to hold the phone away from his ear to keep from beading sweat on the screen. At least he could control the sweat in his palms and keep his hold on the phone. "There was a quirk accident. Now we have a baby. I need you to buy an infant car seat and drive us home tomorrow." Katsuki paused. One breath. "Please."
His heart pounded to the tips of his fingers. We have a baby we have a baby we have a baby.
"Oh," Mitsuki said, her voice soft, hardly sounding like herself. Maybe Katsuki sounded that strange and unfamiliar when his voice was quiet. He'd have to work on that now. "Honey."
"Like I said, it's fine," Katsuki insisted, the last word coming out harsh, squeezed between unwilling vocal folds as his throat tightened. "We haven't gotten word that he's unhealthy…and Deku wants him too, so it's fine."
His nose was burning, right across the bridge like a bad sneeze that wouldn't come out. He rubbed beneath it, then hastily swiped a hand across both eyes, sweat coming away.
"Are you…Are you sure this is what you want?"
Masaru's voice came on the line next. "We can help you out however you need."
Katsuki shook his head. He could only imagine the pitiful look his parents were sharing over the phone held between them. Letting their lunch burn as their only son begged for help from the hospital. "Just the car seat."
"Okay," Masaru said. It seemed like he'd taken the phone as the sound of a pan scraping over a burner filtered to Katsuki's ears. "Let us know if you need anything else. Congratulations, son."
"Thanks," he choked out.
"Send pictures!" Mituski shouted.
That brought a small, heavy smile to Katsuki's face. "Fine, hag. Talk to you later."
"Bye, dad!"
Katsuki's heart constricted, already moving his thumb to hang up when that last word slipped out. Dad. He was twenty-one years old. He was a dad. He hadn't seen more than a glimpse of the baby yet, but he was a dad.
The burning high up in his nose intensified. His face was hot, but not hot enough to justify the rolling liquid making its way down his cheeks, the tiny yelp that scratched its way out of his throat before he covered his mouth with his hand, squeezed his eyes shut.
That pounding in his ears was still too loud for him to hear anything before a warm, solid body pressed against him, wrapping one tight arm around his back. He heard a soft, "Bye, Mom, love you," against his neck and then there was another arm around his ribs, squeezing tight but not tight enough.
His lungs felt tiny. His heart felt tiny, like everything in his chest had shrunk, organs, bones and all. But he still had to breathe, still had to pump blood and oxygen through his body. Izuku's arms were nowhere near that, like they were holding onto something wrapped around Katsuki's body instead, like there was some kind of barrier between them.
"Kacchan?" Izuku asked, his hold never letting up. "Kacchan, what's wrong?"
"Sorry," Katsuki gasped. He wasn't supposed to be the one to cry. Izuku was the crybaby. He didn't cry. "I just…I don't know."
"Did you…change your mind?"
At that, Izuku's hold lessened a bit, and Katsuki brought his arms up around Izuku, squeezing him with every bit of might that he needed himself. "No," he growled. "It's just…"
"It's a lot," Izuku finished. "It's…It's a lot."
Katsuki nodded once into Izuku's shoulder. This was the biggest shock—grievous injuries aside—that he'd gotten since finding out that Izuku had obtained a quirk. He hadn't been prepared for that then, and six years later, faced with something far more consequential, it turned out he wasn't ready now either.
But Katsuki didn't do things by halves. If he was a dad, he was going to be the best dad there ever was.
"Knock, knock!"
Katsuki bristled. The door was already opening via a small nurse, who apparently needed no invitation in. Izuku looked up at her, eyes wide and vulnerable while Katsuki was—as Izuku would probably put it—glaring.
For a moment.
Because there, in the nurse's arms was a teeny, tiny, blue bundle.
And Katsuki just realized that Izuku, the fucker, hadn't told him nearly enough about what their baby looked like.
A little cowlick of green hair tucked out from the blanket, already curling like Izuku's did. Inko's color—though that was no less damning—and Izuku's texture, at least for now. Chubby cheeks that nearly spilled out the sides of the swaddle, uncontainable even as the rest of him was folded tight like a little egg roll. The glance he'd gotten back on the street had offered none of this.
"So, good news," the nurse began. "So far this little one's doing fine—a very healthy little boy, not giving us any reason to think otherwise. We would like to keep him overnight to see if he develops a fever or any sign of illness from his time outdoors."
Izuku was nodding out the corner of Katsuki's eye, but Katsuki couldn't bring himself to react. He was frozen.
"There are a number more tests to do as well, but now that he's out of the woods, we wanted to take the opportunity to bond."
Katsuki had never taken to bonding exercises particularly well. Forced friendship wasn't exactly in his wheelhouse. What he had been learning was cooperation. That was what he and this little baby would have to agree to work on.
"Kacchan," Izuku murmured, drawing Katsuki out of his stupor as he realized both of them had unconsciously drawn closer to the door, "you haven't gotten to hold him. Do you want to?"
Without realizing quite what he was doing, Katsuki looked to the nurse, as if for permission. Her hair was the same color as Kirishima's, and spiked where it poked from the contains of its low bun.
"Skin to skin would be best. If you're comfortable," Nurse Shitty Hair said, and the dozens of times Katsuki had read that term in articles came screaming back to him.
"It'd be pretty shitty if I wasn't," Katsuki said, already grabbing the hospital garb behind his neck and yanking it up.
"Well, parenting is different for everyone."
Parenting.
Katsuki and Izuku followed closely as Nurse Shitty Hair walked over to the bassinet and unwound the baby from his blanket. His belly button had been clipped and looked like a nasty wound above his diaper—worse than anything he or Izuku were sporting at the moment, though that certainly wasn't always the case. And the next thing he knew, the baby was lifted yet again, and held out in his direction with a big smile from the nurse.
"Support the head," she said as she passed him over.
One hand on his head, and one on his body was more than enough; both of Katsuki's hands combined were practically bigger than the little thing. Nevertheless, the image of dropping him, of inadvertently causing him harm somehow came unbidden into Katsuki's mind. The best dad ever.
He pushed those thoughts aside and looked at the little smooshy face in front of him. Katsuki had been grateful for a long time now that he'd known Izuku since childhood, toddlerhood, even. Those earliest memories were lost, overshadowed by explosions and rivers and growing up. But pictures both their families had of Izuku, all cheeks and freckles, came to life right here in front of him, softly breathing in his hands.
"He's all you, Deku," Katsuki whispered before pulling the little guy to his chest. "Your face is all over him."
"Just wait," Izuku said, coming over Katsuki's shoulder, his eyes locked on that sleeping face.
It occurred to Katsuki that this was the first time in years that he was shirtless in front of Izuku without the other at least giving a passing appraisal of his body. As he'd suspected earlier—he was no longer the focus. But as Katsuki looked at the little toenails scratching softly against his chest, each the size of ladybugs, he couldn't be guilty or jealous. Izuku'd be an idiot not to be taken with the little guy.
"Kacchan," Izuku gasped. "Look at him."
Cautiously, Katsuki pulled the little baby back into the crook of his arm, resting him just under his left pectoral when he saw. Big red eyes. Katsuki's eyes, his mother's eyes, looking up at him with a Midoriya face. All open and trusting and nothing at all like what he was used to seeing in the mirror.
It was so much better.
"Fuck," Katsuki said, bringing his spare hand to his mouth. Then he winced. "Oh fuck, I shouldn't say that, should I. Ah, fuck."
Izuku giggled, the sound warm and wet as the drool that was making its way to Katsuki's chest. "I think you're fine for at least six months, Kacchan."
That was right—no words for at least six months, if not closer to a year. No real language until later on. Six months, a year, more—Katsuki's head swam. "Fuck," he said again, and it occurred to him that he might need to try and quit now if he wanted any chance of not corrupting this baby six months down the line.
"It's not something to worry about at the moment," Nurse Shitty Hair confirmed. "I'll leave you three for a while to acquaint yourselves, and when I come back there'll be the matter of paternity."
"What matter of paternity?" Katsuki scoffed. "What's there to know?"
"Well," Nurse Shitty Hair started, "since the age of quirks, it's not impossible for parentage to be entirely between two men, no ovum needed. We do have birth certificates prepared with the option for two biological fathers. Of course, we cannot legally require a DNA test out of either of you to confirm paternity, so it's up to you to de—"
"Of course he's ours," Katsuki interrupted. His voice was probably too low and too threatening. He continued regardless. "Look, the kid is a lump. He's wrinkly and colored all wrong and he's squished in all kinds of ways even if he wasn't technically given birth to. But I don't have to be told what's damn obvious."
"Okay," Nurse Shitty Hair said appeasingly. "Then all we need is a signed birth certificate. From there, it's your choice to keep the child, or we can contact a social wor—"
"No!"
Izuku's hands came to Katsuki's shoulders, jostling him and causing a little gurgle to come from the baby as he rubbed his wet mouth across Katsuki's skin. His fingers kneaded deep into Katsuki's muscles, clenched, possessive.
"No, I already said—I'll keep him! We'll keep him!"
His gaze shifted frantically from Katsuki to Nurse Shitty Hair between exclamations. He landed on Katsuki, his face suddenly flushed. Desperate.
Katsuki looked the nurse straight in the eye.
"He ain't going to foster care, I'll tell you that now. Next place that kid goes after he aces his tests is right there." He pointed to the bassinet already set up, cold and empty next to the medical bed.
Izuku relaxed a bit beside him, chest sinking against Katsuki's bare back.
"Okay, then that's all I need for now," the nurse said. "Let us know if you change your mind—I know, I know, you won't," she added, putting a hand up before allowing either man to interrupt her a third time. "But do let us know. I'll be back in a bit with a birth certificate and to show you how to feed. Then it'll be back to testing. Oh, and here's this."
The nurse handed Izuku a small, wooden box, with an irregular but light grain running up and down the long end of the rectangle.
"It's the kotobuki bako," she explained. "We placed a small bit of the umbilical cord in there in case the stump gets lost when it falls off. That way, even if that bit is lost, your baby never will be."
Izuku held the box reverently but Katsuki eyed it carefully. He didn't believe the old wives' tale that some bit of fleshy tissue saved in a nice box would predict this baby's fate, no matter how far back the history went. Izuku had a way of giving fate the slip and it wouldn't be any surprise if his progeny was the same.
Still, if even if it just added a speck of luck towards this quirk baby not becoming lost, who was Katsuki to dismiss it?
"Thank you," Izuku said with a small bow. "We'll take good care of it."
"Once we have the name, we can have it embossed. We can do that when I return with the birth certificate."
"Okay, thank you," Izuku said again, and then it was just the three of them.
Whatever certainty Katsuki had felt while snapping words at the nurse left as she went out the door. The little boy in his arms was a stranger, as unfamiliar to hold as the belly button box Izuku now carried. He was someone Katsuki had met only a few minutes ago without so much as exchanging names. Because he didn't have one. Because suddenly, that and so many other things were Katsuki's job. Well, half his job.
"What do you wanna name him?" Katsuki asked, turning his head towards Izuku. Izuku had loosened his frantic grip on Katsuki's shoulders, but had only grown closer everywhere else. His arms draped down Katsuki's sides and the bare skin under the scrubs' v-neck was sticky against the skin between Katsuki's shoulder blades.
"I have no idea," Izuku said, his voice quiet now, mindful above all of the baby in the room, who appeared to be dozing again, though Katsuki couldn't be sure..
"Really? You never thought about it?"
"No."
Katsuki craned his neck to the side, but it was hard to see anything past Izuku's hair as he looked over Katsuki's shoulder at the resting baby. Looking at the two side by side was almost too much for Katsuki, so he returned his focus to the baby.
Finally, he said: "Midoriya."
"Wh…What?"
"His family name," Katsuki stated. "It's a start, at least."
"But—but why?" Izuku pulled away, the small triangle where their skin met detaching like adhesive as Izuku looked over the baby and at Katsuki.
"You found him," he shrugged.
"And—And what? Finder's keepers?"
Katsuki pulled the baby from his shoulder, looking at his soft, sleeping face once before shifting him to the other side.
"Keepers, at least."
It was hours later that they were kicked out.
Baby Midoriya had been taken after both Katsuki and Izuku had taken turns holding him, shiny patches of dried spit on each of their chests to prove it. Despite its novelty, neither man could be overly concerned with spittle when they'd had such worse bodily fluids smeared over their skin on the job. They left with word of more tests, plus overnight observation. And since neither Izuku nor Katsuki was recovering medically from birth, they were given the boot to make way for someone actually recovering from labor. Katsuki had been close to fighting the staff, but when they came face-to-face with a sweaty, exhausted woman in a wheelchair, they'd left, promising a bright and early arrival the next day.
"Shouto's concerned we didn't come back to the office," Izuku said with his eyes to his phone as they both held onto the grab handles on the train.
"Tell him he can shove that concern up his ass," Katsuki replied, feeling a vibration in his own pocket. He glanced at it and saw a message to the same effect. Katsuki supposed that was to be expected when he left every group chat Shouto or Izuku made between the three of them.
"You don't wanna say anything?" Izuku asked.
The train swayed and Katsuki's shoulder bumped against Izuku's; he grounded his stance to keep from making unnecessary contact with any of the other passengers. He didn't want them to hear anything unnecessary either, so he lowered his voice over the squealing of the train wheels. "I think we have enough on our plates right now without bringing twenty nosy assholes into this."
"Shouto wouldn't tell!"
"Then he doesn't have any reason to know, does he?"
Izuku blinked at him. "That's horrible logic, Kacchan."
Katsuki signed, taking a deep breath and exhaling out flared nostrils. "I'm just saying. If we don't even know for sure what's happening yet, let's not involve anyone until they need to be involved."
"…I wish we could talk to All Might about this."
That was a heavy blow. Even though All Might, to Katsuki's knowledge, was no expert with kids, Katsuki would like to talk to him too. All Might had been their secret keeper—or secret giver, more accurately—and it'd be nice to talk to someone who wasn't his goddamn parents about this. But it wasn't an option. They could only imagine what he'd say.
"He'd want us to be cautious," Katsuki offered. "This is a new quirk, and we should take in the facts before we do something else we can't take back."
Katsuki readied further arguments as he looked out the window to take stock of what station they were at. Two more till home. Before he got the chance to exercise any of his potential rebuttals, though, a sweaty hand slipped into his, and Izuku smiled. "You're right. All Might never liked how rash I was. There's nothing to tell until we know what to tell."
The rest of their commute was a winding walk through their neighborhood and up to their apartment complex. Between that and the train, it became abundantly clear to Katsuki that they'd made the right call in bowing to their parents.
It became even more clear once they made it to their apartment.
"None of this is okay," Izuku said grimly the moment his shoes were off. "We have chords on the ground, and all these outlets. And the corners on the coffee table are so hard—and our bed! The bed frame too. And our dresser—we never secured it to the wall, Kacchan!"
"No one does that, idiot—this is a rental," Katsuki said, ripping his shirt off. They'd made the commute still in those scrubs, and Katsuki couldn't wait to get them off. Maybe moisturize too. "And he won't be able to crawl for months anyway. What did I tell you about reading ahead?"
"We should start thinking now, though, Kacchan!" Izuku insisted. "We might have to hire someone to install childproof locks and stuff, and that necessitates an appointment, and who knows how long those take to book? Plus, we're bound to forget things, so it's important to take stock now—mmph!"
Katsuki had Izuku pressed against their dangerous, outlet-riddled wall, navy-clad legs slotted together as he kissed his boyfriend for the first time since that morning. He was squeezing too hard, he knew. Clenching Izuku's shoulders, feeling how hard he'd pushed him into the wall from the pressure against the back of his fingers. The kiss was hard too, lips pushed against teeth, Izuku's head flat to the wall until their mouths opened, tongues meeting languidly, lips caressing with practice.
God, they should have done this hours ago. All of that waiting when both of them were there the whole time. All of the confusion and overwhelm, so many feelings with so few words to express them. At least there was this.
When they pulled back, they were both panting, chests meeting on every inhale. "I needed that," Izuku said, running his hands through Katsuki's hair.
"Yeah," Katsuki agreed, restraining himself from going in again immediately. "Let's just…"
"Live in this one last time?"
A surge of emotion lapped up Katsuki's belly, but he held it down, suppressing it. This was the last night they'd be in this apartment, just the two of them. Yesterday had been the last day of the life they'd known—too late for that now. But they knew what was coming tomorrow this time. It would be a whole new world, a whole new existence. Their last night as just Deku and Kacchan.
Katsuki nodded, drawing back in towards Izuku's mouth. "Yeah. Yeah, let's do that."