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optimistic-dinosaur-nacho · 4 years

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Ransom Drysdale x Reader (Dad!AU)

Summary: Ransom Drysdale, a man who didn’t make wise decisions in his teens. Wasting three years of his life in jail, he takes his freedom for another two. Little did he know, a woman he long ago had a thing for, ends up leaving him with a 16-year-old for the holidays. Hazel Rose Drysdale. His daughter.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

This takes place after Knives Out. Family will be mentioned, there will be minor spoilers for Knives Out.

Warnings: Bad parenting, swearing, Ransom being an asshole, minor spoilers for Knives Out, angst, mentions of murder/jail, minor mental abuse, mentions of abortion/pregnancy, Mentions of suicide

I do not consent to have my work hosted on any second party app or site. If you are seeing this fanfiction anywhere but tumblr, it has been reposted without my permission.

There’s a Hamilton reference in here and I couldn’t help but throw it in there.

You always thought San Francisco was a horrible place to be on your own for. Having a job there, you’d be an hour late if you lived outside the city. This year had been tough on you. You felt like your rent was going up or that your job was getting lower paychecks. Your head was spinning every day that you could barely answer anyone’s questions. The lack of sleep you get every night, especially having to wake up every day at six.

You fix yourself a coffee but then end up at a nearby Starbucks to grab one. They always had better coffee for your energy gain. You weren’t really a money maker, you drove a very old red Honda. You have bills coming in through the mail slot that it has you wanting to burn them to ashes. You couldn’t handle enough stress, especially having a 16-year-old daughter.

At that age that’s when you had your only precious little girl, Hazel. You always made sure she never met any boy that could have her end up like you long ago. Being a teen mom wasn’t easy. Even lying to your daughter was something you couldn’t bear to keep from. It was only to protect her.

Hazel never spoke once about who her father was. As a child, she had dolls and those dolls were a family. One mother, one daughter and a father. Hazel made them the happiest dolls in her mind. She never asked anything related to her family’s relations or where they lived.

She was home schooled since, you were too afraid to have her at school and be bullied by boys or girls. It was something you dealt with and you didn’t want that to happen to her. You didn’t have the money for her too. Gas money, bills, dinner and rent were your only priorities. To have a roof over Hazel’s head, to drive her to the library or stores to get new outfits, feed her every morning, afternoon and night. Like you said, it wasn’t easy.

Your parents live up in Oregon for a while now and you would sometimes visit them over the holidays. Their reactions to your pregnancy, it didn’t end well. The few weeks of being pregnant, they were disappointed. The father’s side of the family had been one of the most entitled families in town. You grew up in Massachusetts and when you got pregnant, your parents moved to Oregon after you had Hazel.

And Hazel’s father abandoned you. Being 17 and 16, you were the one scared while he watched you in disgust and asked to abort your child. That decision was one of the hardest decisions of your life. Either live with the pain of delivering your baby girl or painfully lay on your bed thinking you could’ve had a good life with your daughter.

And you did have a good life whether you struggled to keep her happy. You hope no boy or man could ruin her reputation and lose hope in the world to make someone happy. “Miss L/N.” The dark velvet voice made you lose your trance and your eyes darted over to your boss. Or someone who is your guide for three years.

Mr. Charles Leyman. His blonde hair was combed to the side, his piercing blue eyes could have any office women get lost in. His suits were always made fine by a professional and his watches always came in different colors. Surely, they were over a thousand dollars. Charles had been your guide since you joined the large business in San Francisco. He was very kind, charming and he always knew personal space.

He always had a circle around him and it’d smell like his expensive cologne. Out of the cologne you’ve known, this one smelled like Guilty Intense. The Italian lemon, patchouli, amber, mandarin, and orange flower topping aroma was always attracting women. You wondered if he was a mama’s boy just on how much of a gentleman he was.

You saw his side grin creep up to his face, “You must be preoccupied in your own mind palace,” He mentioned towards you. Your hand reaches up to the small strand of hair and you pull it back. “Sorry.” Charles folds his hands in each other and leans on his desk. The man was in his thirties, a couple more years older than you.

“You know, you don’t always have to apologize for everything you do that is no harm. I just didn’t want you to be stuck in your head, Miss L/N.” Your head lifts up to him. He softly grins, “I wanted to discuss your recent report on the Berkeley College. Something about the Science and Technology Event on October 28th.”

You gently tilted your head, “What about it?” Charles lifted the print of the page and scanned through as if he wasn’t sure himself what the problem was. He clicks his tongue, “You kind of repeated yourself in a couple paragraphs. Even spelling errors. Have you been using-”

You nod, eyes closing slowly out of embarrassment, “Yes, I was. But I think our internet was shut off due to th-”

“That forum doesn’t need the internet to correct your mistakes. It corrects off Wi-Fi.” You sighed softly, turning your gaze away from him and he lowers the paper down to look at you, solemnly. “Look, Miss L/N. I’m not here to criticize you, I’m here to help you. And I know you have a 16-year-old at home and the father’s passing, you-”

“I will say this once and I hope you take it as it is. I’m fine.” Charles leans back a little to your response. Watching you closely to see your hands fidget in your lap. He almost felt like a brother to you, but there were moments where he offered you to dinner and almost walked you over to your car. It was embarrassing to see him and his silver Audi. You were sure he had a Tesla. The invites to his home were always nice. Charles knew your daughter well.

They got along well and never heard a single bad thing from Hazel, saying she had a good time with Charles. Hazel always told you how much fun she had with anything, she walks over to the public library, tells you about a book she read. You know she went to the library when she texted you earlier this morning.

That day, you relaxed at your desk and looked over the recent drafts of your future reports to go on the papers. You feel your phone ring and your hand picks it up from the desk.

Incoming call from Hazel-Bear

You picked up the phone and held it up to your ear, “Hey, baby.”

“Hey, mom. Can you pick me up?” You look over to the wall with the clock, showing the time. You were only a few ways away. “Can you wait for 10 minutes?” You hear Hazel hum in a yes, “Yeah. I’m just sitting in the library.” You began to close your computer and logged off. “Okay, honey. I’ll text you when I get there.” You started to put your papers in your bag and slipped in your laptop. “Okay. Bye, mom! Love you.”

“Love you, too. I’ll see you.”

Hazel was always the type to listen. As a child, she wasn’t spoiled as much because of what you had as a teenager. You were glad she didn’t end up like her father. She was sweet. Her smiles always made everyone welcomed in her space. Gatherings and meetings, your co-workers and friends always chatted about your daughter. Hazel would always keep a conversation lit up and she’d make every interesting comment. Being a book-worm, she would go on and on like a Stephen King book or become William Shakespeare and her words were strong.

You’d do anything for her, no matter what. Picking her up at the library was always a doing for you. The distance wasn’t long but you enjoyed picking her up there.

You pull up to the front of the library and see your daughter come up to the side of the door and jump in. “Thank you, mom,” She says, you greet her with a smile and watch her hold a book in her hand. “You’re welcome, honey. Did you return Hesse?”

Hazel nods and looks over to you, “Yeah. And I found this interesting book called Vulcan’s Den. Everyone’s been reading the author’s books since he died 5 years ago.” You glance over to her, seeing her eyes read the story in her hands. She looked like she was through 10 chapters already. “Hm. Who’s the author?”

“Harlan Thrombey.”

Your face froze into a fit of shock. Your fists twist around the wheel and Hazel spoke the whole time but then realized you had been temporarily deaf. “...he committed suicide.”

You look up to see the red light and you step on the break causing the car to jerk forward a bit. Your eyes lower to your hands on the wheel, “What, sweetheart?” Hazel turns and gently closes her book. “I said, he was found dead in his home. Committed suicide.” Hazel turns back to her book with a grin. “He was a really good author. I’ve been thinking about writing stories, too! He always knew how to make crime and mysteries such a good genre.”

Your eyes stare in front like you just ran over someone but all you could do is nod and say, “That’s... tragic, sweetheart. I’m sure he would’ve loved to hear your stories.” And your way back home was silent for the next 10 minutes. The only name coming to flood your mind like a banshee. Screaming internally, your heart felt like pin needles were jabbing into it and your breathing somewhat became more quite. As if you died in your seat but your mind kept going on.

Harlan Thrombey.

A man who writes like he’s running out of time.

That night, you had just made dinner and sat in the small living room watching television as usual. Glancing over to the kitchen sharing with the dining room, you see Hazel at the table, eating and reading the book she got today. You couldn’t help but grin at her read the book with such concentration.

You turn your gaze over to the TV but you didn’t pay mind to it. The sounds of your neighbors playing music or their dogs barking above you. Hazel closes her book and sighs softly. “Oh mom?” She asks, you turn to her, raising your brows up. “Hm?”

Her hand rests on the table as she turns her body towards you, “There’s this musical coming into Oakland in December and I was thinking we can get tickets? I don’t know if you’re familiar with Hamilton.” You tried not to give Hazel the look of ‘I’m sorry’, you just stared at her blankly, trying to sound less of a bad mother. Sure the tickets were a bit over 50 dollars. You couldn’t even nod as you sighed, “We’ll see, sweetheart.”

Hazel turns away and picks up her book to head over to her room and you tried not to think about Harlan.

Yes, he was familiar to you. A famous author who published hundreds of books based on mysteries and murder. You weren’t there when Harlan was killed. But you knew someone at work who actually wrote the report about him. Police finding out about not only his suicide but his oldest grandchild was in jail for murder and arson.

You didn’t know much but you’ve read the report so many times. Harlan was a good author and you were happy to see your daughter read a book from someone who was related to her. Hazel never knew much about her father’s side of the family. You tried your best to keep her silent about it and she never asked once.

You remembered you had things that could make her brighten up. You stood up from your spot and made your way into your bedroom. You walked over to your closet and turned on the light to look up. Seeing a dark box written ‘Books’ on the side, you reach up and slid it off the edge and into your arms. You placed it on your bed and reached in for the book collection with Harlan’s name printed on every book.

You opened one and saw a small message written in cursive with his name at the end. Harlan always gave you the first copy and made sure you gotten them. His books made it into films and he gave you the movies and that’s where these old films laid in. Hazel will like to watch these over and over. “Ro, baby,” You call out.

You hear her call back and made her search around the apartment and met you in the bedroom. You turned and sat on the edge of your bed. “You love books, right?” You asked. Hazel nods questionably, “Yeah?” You placed your hand on the edge of the box, “These are special and old. It might not sound real to you but these are all first copies.” Hazel makes her way over and slightly gasps.

“They’re... Harlan books?” She pulls them out and opens the first book, “And he signed them!” Hazel looks up to you with a smile. Shockingly, it made you smile, “I want you to take care of these really good for me, okay? You can take them to your room and read them.” Hazel slams herself into your chest and hugs you tightly.

“Thank you, mom.”

You wrap your arms around her and held her there, placing a kiss on her head. “I love you, too, sweetheart.” Hazel wasted no time into bringing the books into her room. Her eyes scanned every letter written in the books by the author, himself. He kept calling you, sweetheart. Hazel wondered if you knew him really well. You collected every book from him and they were all first copies. The films were never used and they were amazing. Hazel began to pull each of them out on her bed and reached for the last book that was wider than the others.

Hazel lifts it up and sees the cute designs.

Memories.

Hazel turns around to sit on her bed as her fingers graze over the small stickers that were worn out. She read your name on the front of the cover and flipped the page over. Photos of her grandparents, your mom and dad taking you out to the lake. A couple pictures of you reading books. Your 15th birthday photo was very old and you looked just like her. Hazel flipped the next pages and the photos gotten bigger. And the months grew further on.

Pictures of you in a dress. Your junior year in a blue silk dress, your hair was perfectly done with a bit of makeup. Hazel had not seen you so beautiful with makeup on. With a small grin, she flips the page and there’s a photo of you again at what looked like your prom dance. Her grin slowly freezes when she sees someone stand next to you with a small grin.

His hair was slick back, his tuxedo was a matching blue and his bow tie was black. His jaw was sharp enough to cut paper. Hazel knew you had her at the age of 16, the date takes back a few months before your birthday. Hazel had to think he was someone you were with. A picture of carved initials with a heart around them.

The ‘R’ was carved along with your initial and in between your initials was a plus sign. Hazel grew more into the photos and kept going over the pages. The next photos never had the boy in the photos any more. But you had your hands on your stomach with a grin. You had to be about one month pregnant. But the boy you had in the other photos never appeared in these.

Then you happened to be in Oregon. You said you were born in Oregon and lived there since you were born. Where were you before? Hazel flipped a couple more and her photos came into view. Her baby pictures were old and very nicely situated. Hazel grins softly at the photos and opened the last page to have things slip out.

Hazel catches the piece of paper and small patch from a high school logo. She looks over the patch that must’ve came from a private school. She flipped it over and read it.

Hugh D. MA, Boston

Hazel furrowed her brows at the name. Hugh must’ve been a different boy you dated. She reaches for the paper that was partially ripped in half and placed the two together like a puzzle.

Ransom (xxx) xxx - xxxx

She read the letter and saw the added heart to his name. Ransom. Who was Ransom and Hugh?

“Honey! Did you want to finish your show?” You called out to Hazel. The teenager puts the things back in the book and puts it back in the box. “Uh... Yeah! I’m coming!” And she covered it up with the others and made her way out of her room into the living room. Hazel couldn’t help but think about who her dad was.

The next morning, you made breakfast and Hazel began to eat what you’ve made. Bacon, eggs and some toast. You poured her some juice and began to clean up your mess on the counter and placed a couple dishes into the dish washer. The sounds of Hazel’s utensils scrapping against the plate, she glanced up at you and saw your calm content face doing normal chores.

“Who’s my dad?”

You drop a plate from your hands and it falls into the sink once again and shatters in pieces causing Hazel to painfully watch and you turn to her. It was bound to happen, but you didn’t expect it this soon. You did you? “What?”

Hazel nibbles on her bottom lip and gently puts her fork down and pulls her hand to her lap. “I... I want to know who dad was.” You cross your arms and reached to grab your grin and rub the sides. Hazel lowers her gaze, “I saw two names in this photo book. Hugh and Ransom. I want to know who they were. And did my father actually die in an accident?”

It was like your worst fear and the countless nightmares were coming to life. Hazel sat there for answers now. You needed to give her small details in order for her to freak out less. You never wanted to upset Hazel. Just like you didn’t want to upset her father when you first told him the news.

“But I knew Harlan very well. I met him as a kid and he gave almost every first copy of his books. I knew him because I met his oldest grandson at the age of 15. His name was Hugh.”

“So is Ransom my biological father? And Hugh was just-” Hazel noticed the shook of your head, your lips pierced together as if you tried not to spill everything towards her. The fear to see her get scared of the truth. “Those names are from one person, sweetheart. He was complicated between his first and middle name. Hugh Ransom Drysdale. He was just a year older than me.” Hazel turns her head and whispers.

“Hazel Rose Drysdale.”

You hum in response, furrowing your brows. “Is he alive?” She asked, you instantly stand up, pushing yourself off the counter, “Honey, please. Finish eating.”

“I want to know, mom. Don’t I get to say anything about him-?”

“Hazel, please. Eat your food, I’m not in the mood now to discuss your family relations-”

“You’ve lied and I need to know what else you’ve been keeping away from me.” You turn away from her and finished off the last Tupperware and sighed. It was gonna take a while for her to lose the thoughts to go away and have her continue on something else. “Mom-”

“Hazel, please! I can’t discuss this now!” You snapped. Hazel’s fingers curl into her palm and she fidgeted her thumb under them. Her feet kick herself back and she stood up. “Thank you for dinner,” she muttered, leaving her plate on the table while making her way into her room. You sighed out of regret and turned to the window.

You couldn’t tell if Hazel was crying or playing music to calm herself. You never outburst on her like that. Never in your days you’d shout at her. The mention of her father had to come out sooner or later. The truth never made its way over to you. Hazel wasn’t ready to find out. You weren’t ready to give it to her. Maybe never.

You just cleaned up her plate and put the leftovers in the fridge in case she wanted more since she barely ate thinking too much about her father.

You got a shower going and left the house, leaving a note on Hazel’s door. Your drive to work was a bit long but you managed to get there in time. Taking the elevator to the office floor, you set up your stuff on your desk and began to go through your recent reports.

Checking every wording and errors you can spot.

A soft knock hits your wall and a woman peaks over. Your office neighbor. “Morning, babes. How you doing?”

You let out a soft sigh, “Morning, Ciara.” Your fingers worked against the keyboard, writing away till someone takes your chair and spun you around. The red-head lightly glares in your eyes. You turn your head, “What?” You asked, Ciara squints her eyes. “What happened?” She replies with the same questionable tone. All you did was shake your head and Ciara pouts at you. She was never going to let you get away that easily.

“She knows about her dad?”

You nod towards her, raising your mug up to your lips to regain your energy. Ciara pinches her chin to be in a thinking stance and her brows bounce up, “Well, shit.” You look over to her and she lightly laughs. “What am I going to do?” You ask.

Ciara thinks, “Well... I don’t think you can keep her away forever.”

“What do you mean?” You ask once more, Ciara tilts her head at you and that made your heart drop. “No. No! I cannot do that-” Ciara drops her arms from the crossing and sighs. “Y/N, you really messed up the pooch here. If my mom lied about my dad being dead, I would’ve wanted to meet him.”

“You don’t know what he’s like,” You said, “He’s arrogant. A complete asshole-”

“Okay! Okay... but your daughter would have to at least get to know him. Give her a few days. Weeks. Who knows? Maybe he’ll come around. Hazel needs a father figure in her life and every kid would want to have their parents together.” You shook your head softly and raised your glass back up to your lips and took a large sip.

You wouldn’t trust Ransom being with Hazel for who knows how long. You couldn’t trust yourself to stay a day there. You wouldn’t last a minute to be in the same room with him. But you thought about Hazel. You felt more selfish for yourself than for Hazel. You had your dad but she never got to see him once. You kept him under a rock that Hazel couldn’t lift up and now she found his photo.

She found you and him together.

There can’t be a way to change her mind. Unless she stays with him. The holidays were coming up. Thanksgiving was only a few weeks away. Maybe you’d give her that much time with him. Ciara’s face leans down to look at you in the eye. For some kind of response for her to agree or to push.

Your mug lowers from your face and you two just shared looks.

That day, you made your way back home after your work was finished. You felt like you swallowed bees. You didn’t bother to text Hazel you were coming home or that you were going to talk to her. You just needed to be home right away to talk to her. To tell her everything.

You were afraid to give her everything about him. You needed to take it slow every now and then.

The moment you stepped into your apartment you dropped your bag and opened Hazel’s bedroom, seeing her on her bed with her laptop on her lap. “Hey, mom,” She says.

You grin softly, “Can I talk to you?” Hazel did not refuse and she watches you sit on the edge of her bed. Hazel knew this certain stance of a parent. “I know this morning was not my morning. But... I want you to know that I love you very much. And that I did not mean to yell. But I am willing... to tell you about your father. He didn’t die in an accident.”

Hazel closes her laptop and gently pulls her knees to cross in front of her. You did it yourself, crossing your leg over the other. “What do you want to know?” You ask in a calm voice. Hazel lowers her gaze to think about the millions of questions already scrambling through her head like a roller coaster.

She finally caught one, “What was dad like?” She says, shyly. This was the question you didn’t want to hear from her. But you had to anyway, “He was... difficult to work with in school. His family was rich and so anything he could do wouldn’t be a problem. He was kind in some moments, I remembered his father always fought with him.”

“Did he leave when... you were?”

Hazel noticed your soft nod and your head lowers, picking at your nails like you were a little girl again. How much you blushed when he came toward you like you saw him for the first time. The way he pulled a strand behind your ear. He never complimented much nor did he say ‘I love you’.

“We were around your age when I found out about you. After I told him, his parents flipped. And after a few days, he yelled and left. That’s when I moved to Oregon with your grandma and grandpa.” You reach for her hair and pushed it behind her ear. Just like he did to you.

Your hand rests on the sheets and you softly sighed. Regretting these words slip out like a load of cash falling out of an ATM. “If I trust you... to call me everyday, every night. I might consider something.”

“Consider what?” She asks, you don’t respond to her and that made her eyes slowly go wide. “To visit him?” You take her hand and gently grasped it. “I am sending you to Boston.”

“You can’t come?” She asked. You shook your head and reached up for her cheek. “I think it’s best to stay here and keep going to work. I have a project and I hate to leave you, but I really want you to call me. I love hearing your voice.” Hazel grins and nods. “Thank you, mom.”

You smile at her and pulled her to your chest. Placing a kiss on her forehead, you trusted her more now. The least of trust was from her father. The most scary thing to do was to call him. Hazel pulls away and she slips something into your hand. “What’s this?” You asked.

You opened the small note and read the similar number with his name written nicely in. “In case you didn’t have it.” You held the paper tight in your hand and turned to Hazel one last time before standing up. “Dinner will be ready in a couple minutes.” Hazel nods and went back to her own things as you left her room and went into yours.

You pulled out your phone and stared at the keypad. His number sitting on the paper, urging you to not call. 16 years apart, you never thought it’d come to this day. His daughter to stay with him for a while. What if he was still in jail? He could be with another woman and it’d be too late for Hazel to be with a man who’s married to another woman.

It’d be awkward.

Your thumb automatically pushes the numbers and your thumb hovers over the call button. Your breath began to get caught in your throat. Your eyes began to water and your fingers shook. You clicked the button and heard it buzz in your ear.

The ring went off.

You waited.

It rung again.

You swallowed hard. “Hello?”

“Hugh.”

“Who is this?”

“It’s me.”

“Who?”

“Y/N.”

There was a long pause.

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yaelathewordsmith · 6 years

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One Moment In A Lifetime

hhhhh okay, first BNHA fic ever, hooray! No clue what the point of this is supposed to be, though, it’s just . . . words. Just ran away from me entirely. Exploring relationship dynamics, I guess? I don’t even know. Hope you enjoy anyway!

Summary: A battle goes wrong in a way it shouldn’t have, and Shouto is not happy. What he ends up receiving, though, is something precious he never expected.

Includes hurt, regret, friendship, and platonic love and care.

(reposted)

Shouto usually isn’t one to lose his temper. On rare occasions, yes, when he’s been pushed way over the edge or been offered insufferable provocation or has found himself in situations he can see no clear way out of. It had turned out, amazingly, that Midoriya Izuku (face like a blushing puppy, body like a Greek statue, voice reminiscent of nothing more than a shy deer, personality of an enthusiastically fanatic nerd) was one person who could actually get him furious and throw him off balance (the determination of a piranha that’s just tasted blood, too). Apart from him, though, no single person from 1-A gets him rattled. Bakugou tries - oh, does he try - but Shouto can easily deal with such overt displays of aggressiveness.

Any tendency to back down, to waver, show weakness, has been beaten out of him long ago. Now, he looks in the mirror and is reminded of a mountain lake - still and undisturbed. That’s not a bad thing, he thinks. If nothing else, it’s certainly a safe way to go through life; unaffected by little upsets, little irritations, reserving all focus and discipline for the things that really matter.

So it comes as a surprise, to put it lightly, to find that this - this - has upset him.

“You,” he snaps, whirling around, “are a reckless idiot. What the hell did you think you were doing?”

Fire sparks in his left palm - not the best idea when facing Bakugou, but he pays that thought no mind. He won’t extinguish it. If he has to, he’ll beat Bakugou with his own element. He’d prefer to do so, in fact.

Bakugou backs down, though, looks down and away with a sullen scowl. It isn’t much of a surprise - Bakugou may be many things, but he’s not an idiot, and he never refuses to face any mistake he makes head on - but it exacerbates the itch inside Shouto, the itch to break something, burn something, create some outward manifestation of the frustration and lingering shock (not fear, he tells himself, not fear at all - and hates that he knows he’s lying) that’s burning somewhere deep in his chest.

Midoriya is crouched on the ground, wide eyes, anxious, tattered hood pushed back to hang limply down his back. “Uraraka-san, can - can you rate the pain on a scale of one to ten for me, please?”

Uraraka’s helmet is lying on the ground, pink visor smokey and splintered. One of her bracers is cracked, her belt is missing, and her boots are a maze of dirty scratches. The defect that draws the most attention, though, is the large, ragged hole in her costume on her left waist, where the skin is horribly red and blistered.

Still she smiles, as much as she is able, still she offers Bakugou no hint of resentment or anger in her clear eyes.

“M-maybe six?”

Bakugou snorts irritably, edging around Shouto with a defiant glare to crouch by Uraraka, a little away from Midoriya. He’s keeping his distance from her, Shouto realizes, aware of what he’s just done and ashamed of it, and understanding that makes him grudgingly extinguish the fire that was beginning to burn steadily in his palm.

“My explosions aren’t that weak, girl,” Bakugou growls. “They don’t burn me, but that don’t mean I ain’t aware of how much they hurt. I - “

He hesitates, glances up at Shouto, who stares back unforgivingly, and sideways at Midoriya, who still looks antsy and anxious.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, glaring at the dirt. “I should’ve been more careful.”

“You should have looked,” Shouto says, the words clipped, “to see who exactly was in your line of fire instead of blasting away because one villain pissed you off. Both Midoriya and Uraraka were already taking care of him. Do you know what his quirk is?”

Bakugou grimaces. “No, damn you, I don’t!”

“Any object, any tool, anything remotely useful will have an effect opposite to the one intended. Since you tried to roast that guy alive when Uraraka was in the way, and she used her quirk to move him, he had the opportunity to touch her and activate his own quirk. And that means no medicine, no cooling pack, not even my ice will help with the massive second degree burn you just gave her!”

Shouto doesn’t even realize how loud his voice has become until Bakugou gets to his feet, snarling.

“I already apologized, you bastard, what the hell else do you want?! Want me to go back in time and fix it? Hah?!”

“I want you to understand exactly what you - !”

“Kacchan!”

Uraraka’s soft voice cuts through the crackling air like a knife. Both Shouto and Bakugou turn instantly, watching as Midoriya helps her struggle into a sitting position.

She smiles again, weak and painful. “It’s fine, Kacchan, it really is, I swear. I know you didn’t mean to. Thank you for apologizing. And Todoroki-kun, I appreciate your concern very much, but please don’t yell at Kacchan. It’s not -” She sucks in a breath, wincing as Midoriya’s gently probing fingers touch a particularly painful spot. She dismisses his hasty apology with a slight shake of her head, and continues, “- it’s not necessary at all.”

Shouto huffs shortly, and Bakugou jerks his head away, scowling at the ground. “Whatever. I’m going to go check that the last of the fires are out.”

Midoriya looks up at that. “Kacchan, don’t forget to check on the guy with the knife quirk! I don’t think he’ll be able to cut through the rope, I don’t think they can reach his wrists from his fingers, but just make sure - “

“Shut the fuck up, Deku, I know!” Bakugou gets to his feet, hand brushing across Uraraka’s shoulder for a brief, hesitant moment, cheeks dusted light red as he does so. “I’ll check on all those assholes, you don’t have to nag me.”

He gives Shouto a glare, and Shouto gives him a cool look in return, but steps aside to make way for him. Bakugou understands, and he regrets it, and that’s enough for Shouto. For now, at least. Later, he will talk to Bakugou and demand to know what had him distracted, what had him riled up, because it’s not the first time he’s been careless like this. It’s been happening for more than a week now, and if he doesn’t get it together, they may not be permitted to work together anymore, as rookie heroes. He needs to tell Shouto what’s wrong, or he can tell Midoriya, or just anyone, but it needs to be worked out before anyone gets hurt again - including Bakugou himself.

That it’s I’ll-Crush-You-And-Any-Dreams-You-Ever-Had-Bakugou that this is happening to, of all people, is, of course, a minor consideration, no matter how worrying it is. Shouto is good at leaving personal desires out of the picture, focusing only on the final goal to be achieved.

He learned that a long time ago, too.

Freezing Bakugou into the world’s most bizarre popsicle until he agrees to talk to (to confide in) Shouto can wait until later, though. Right now -

He kneels where Bakugou had crouched, not sure if Uraraka will be uncomfortable with the idea of being around him, his fire, especially when it’s the reason that the buildings around them, in this part of the abandoned town, are scorched and soot-streaked.

“We need to get you help,” Midoriya says, all wide and earnest eyes. “Will you be okay while one of us goes, Uraraka-san?”

The corner of her mouth quirks up vaguely - it’s all she can summon of her earlier smile.

“Of course, Deku, I’ll be fine. It’s really not - as bad as it -”

Shouto reaches out without thinking, to steady her as she sways, but his touch is, of course, unneeded. Midoriya already has one strong arm around her shoulders, keeping her upright, silently urging her to lean back against the rough block of concrete that is part of a fallen pillar. Shouto doesn’t remove his hand from her arm, though. Useless as the gesture may be, it makes him feel like he’s helping somehow, providing her with some modicum of support and comfort, that he’s not entirely useless in the situation. And it - gives him some small measure of comfort.

“You’re exhausted,” he says. “You were fighting longer than we were, and using your quirk almost constantly. The burn is the worst of it, but that’s not all that needs attention. We need medical professionals, or at least transport to a medical facility.”

Uraraka makes a soft sound that’s something between a snort and a laugh, one hand brushing against her useless phone. “And we just had to run into someone with a quirk that disables electrical devices today, didn’t we . . .”

“I could carry you,” Midoriya offers. “We could be at the next town in ten minutes.”

Uraraka shakes her head weakly, brown hair limp over her eyes. “Already - nauseous from Zero Gravity. I - thank you for offering but - bounding up and down like that - “

“Right, of course,” Midoriya says instantly, forehead creasing with worry. “Then, Todoroki-kun? Is your quirk - ?”

“It’s possible, yes, I can do it. But it would be slower, it would also exacerbate the nausea, and I don’t want to take the risk of my ice worsening your injury. If even the slightest bit comes into contact, I think it would feel like - like fire, probably - “

Uraraka shrinks back at that, just a little bit.

Shouto forces himself not to clench his fist, and continues, “And anyway you’re not supposed to apply ice to burns.”

Midoriya exhales, short and sharp. “Okay. Okay, okay, then I’ll go, I’ll get them, since I’ll be faster. I’ll be back as soon as I can, okay? Todoroki-kun, you’ll stay with - ?”

“Of course,” Shouto says before he even finishes the sentence. Of course, because where the hell else would he be?

Midoriya nods and is in the air almost before Shouto can blink. The thuds of his jumps are loud, concussive, and fading rapidly. They only hear three before he’s outside their range of hearing.*

Uraaka slowly lets her head fall back, her breathing going shallow and her features scrunching up in a way that implies that she’s been trying far too hard for far too long to seem calm and composed, and has just allowed herself to break. To stop.

It hurts, in a dull kind of way, because this is someone bright and kind and good, someone Shouto has fought beside too many times to count, has trusted with his life and been trusted with hers in return, someone who is comrade and friend and just - just dear to him, he realizes, she is dear to him in a way few people are. A bond forged in battle is no easy thing to replicate. And so seeing her like this, in pain, and being unable to help feels like something is squeezing his heart, compressing it until every heartbeat is a subdued ache.

But there’s nothing he can do, so he keeps his hand on her shoulder and resigns himself to feeling jittery and uncomfortable as he waits for Midoriya to return.

There are flakes of ash floating by, the air horribly still. Stifling. The only sounds are distant crashes of rubble that’s decided to fall only now, and the faint grunts of the trussed up villains. Bakugou, Shouto can’t hear at all (for once). He’s executing his mission in unnatural silence. Shouto hopes, vaguely, tiredly, as exhaustion sweeps over him in a wave, that he hasn’t run into any trouble - or killed the guy who’d irritated him so much in the first place. That’s an odd quirk, to be sure . . . it seems ridiculous, frustrating, but are there . . . possible uses?

Shouto’s eyes snap open.

“Uraraka,” he says, softly, urgently.

She levers her own eyes open and blinks at him blearily.

“If my ice would burn you - would my fire cool you?”

Her mouth opens a little, shock sharpening the features of her face.

“I - it - it might? But . . .” She frowns a bit, getting that look of furious focus that only appears when she’s trying desperately to think. “But ice isn’t good for burns, so would it - how would it - ”

“I don’t know,” he tells her, left hand already itching to be set ablaze. “Would you - like to try?”

Her eyes flick up to meet his, and he catches a glimpse of dark fear in them before she forces it back, swallowing.

“If you don’t want to -” he says immediately. He doesn’t want to pressure her in any way.

But she shakes her head weakly, biting her lip. “I think - m-maybe we should. It- “ Her voice breaks on a rising sob. “It really hurts, Todoroki-kun.”

“Okay,” he murmurs, trying to sound as soothing as he can. “We’ll do that, then. If you feel the slightest pain, anything at all, tell me immediately and we’ll stop, yes? We’re going to take this slow.”

Uraraka nods, pushing herself upright. Shouto allows one small flame to kindle at the tip of one finger, holding it like it’s a baby bird.

“Ready?”

She nods again, eyes screwed shut. He moves it towards her side carefully, the sight of the red-gold light against her burned, angry-looking skin making him wince. But he presses on, moving closer, closer, until he’s less than an inch away, and she should definitely be feeling some heat now, even if nerves have been damaged. But she says nothing.

“Feel anything?”

She shakes her head, relaxing a little. “No heat, but there’s like - a cool breeze?” Her eyes fall open. “I think you were right, Todoroki-kun.”

He moves closer, gingerly, until it’s almost licking at her side. “Now? Is it too cold?”

“N-no, it’s - good. It’s - ohh -” She almost shudders in relief when he allows it to press against her entirely. “It’s like cool water, it’s perfect.”

Shouto sighs quietly. “Good.”

He allows the flames to envelop his hand entirely and, very carefully, lays it flat against the burn. He can feel her skin even through the fire licking at the underside of his palm, rough and puckered and blistered, and his mouth twists without him meaning to.

“Todoroki-kun, could you - here?” She points, and he moves his hand accordingly, thinking about how if he had Kendo’s quirk in addition to his own he could just enlarge his hand to cool the entire affected area. But he doesn’t, and he can’t, and so he ends up absently stroking the entire burn in controlled sweeps, taking care not to get too close to the cloth of her costume because he has no clue as to whether the villain’s quirk extends to the clothes of the affected person as well.

It’s - weird. Once the buzz of his shock and anger has worn off, now that he’s doing something useful, helpful, it’s just odd. The whole situation is odd, kneeling on ashy ground in the middle of a ruined town, stroking a teammate’s burn with a hand on fire. And it’s even weirder that he’s doing this for Uraraka, of all people, because he might not be the most attentive person when it comes to social relationships, but everyone who had been in their class knows that there’s something between Midoriya and Uraraka, something tentative and nebulous and undefined that the two of them are too embarrassed to address; something that lasted through all the years since UA till now. And so if anyone should be - uh, touching (petting, Shouto thinks, and shudders slightly, shaking the uncomfortable thought out of his head) - Uraraka’s waist like this, it should most definitely not be Shouto.

But . . . it’s Uraraka. And since it’s Uraraka (as adept at defusing uncomfortable situations, with soothing words and just the right gestures, as she sometimes is at creating them, with nervous chatter and flustered hands) the smile she gives him and the way she relaxes, peacefully, ensures that he settles down to his task soon enough, the repetitive motion soothing away the chaos of battle still churning in his mind surprisingly effectively.

It’s one moment in a lifetime, one incident among hundreds that Shouto will experience in a lifetime as a pro hero. Yet later, when he’s older and more battle-scarred, when the white has started encroaching onto the red half of his hair, it’s that moment he thinks of when he thinks of tranquility, stillness, peace - Uraraka with her eyes closed, head tipped back against cracked concrete, the rise and fall of her chest gentle and steady (when before it had been harsh, stuttering) because his hand on her waist, his flames, are washing her pain away, keeping it at bay. It’s that atmosphere that he remembers, smokey and heavy and silent but - quiet, and comforting, as the adrenaline in his blood slows to a halt and his whirling thoughts slow and settle around a centre of silence.

It’s a feeling he will only be privileged to experience a few times in his life, that feeling of true peace. And he will never tell anyone, but to himself, Shouto can admit that the reason he watches Uraraka’s back more carefully in fights after that, the reason he listens to her worry about how Midoriya might never like her back, the reason he helps her make horrible Valentine’s Day chocolate and trains with her more and reads the books she recommends and -

- and becomes something of a best friend -

- is that he’s grateful to her for giving him that, that single, precious period of peace.

Even if is just - one moment in a lifetime.

#reposting this because the read more thing wasn't working #au where bakugou lets uraraka call him kacchan #bakugou nearly bursts an artery when he comes back and sees what's going on #there goes the peace whoops #todo is best man at her wedding who's with me #yaelasbnhawriting #uraraka ochako #todoroki shouto #bakugou katsuki #midoriya izuku #family #friendship #care and healing #writing #oneshot #well here goes nothing

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