Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Shouto shows up at the address that his previous boss texted him and tries to channel calm.

The worst part about starting a new gig is the awkward, overbearing intensity of wealthy mothers. They always want to know everything about him and see in detail how he plays with their kids before they disappear forever and let him do his job.

The one thing he does appreciate is that moms talk. They recommend each other toys and tutors and restaurants and playscapes and sugar free candies and, most importantly for him, nannies. The last few years he’s followed a string of loosely connected recommendations from one family to another, helped along by a foot already in the door and the fact that all of his other kids loved him.

His own father, on the other hand, appreciates very little about his job. Even with the initial recommendation coming from his dad himself—connecting him with the first family he nannied for—his dad would much rather he go into business or finance or stocks or something.

Shouto does not want to do that. At all.

His dad respects his decision, albeit very begrudgingly.

There’s a lot of sighing and quiet grumbling and trying to bait Shouto back into the business world that falls on deaf ears.

He got his fancy degree from his fancy college, learned all of the necessary languages, put up with the drudgery of business for as long as he was personally capable, then turned around and realized that he would rather hang out with kids and make snacks and cut sandwiches all day.

This is what he wants to do with his life, at least for right now. He likes kids. Likes their odd thought processes and weird senses of humor. He likes playing make believe and watching animated movies and cleaning up messes. He’s good at it, even though he knows he doesn’t seem like he would be.

His social skills may not be specifically calibrated toward scoring him many friends, but kids don’t usually clock that kind of thing.

And they like him. Kids appreciate how blunt and straightforward he is, how he never micromanages the little ones or pries into the older ones' lives. How he never tries to hide anything from them.

It’s a good job. Niche, maybe. But he makes, in his honest opinion, pretty good money. Enough to pay his rent and buy groceries and feed his cats. More than enough.

It pays to be in with the wealthy families. The men with wives and kids at his dad’s firm, all of the other business partners and “connections” that spool out from there. For the last few years, he’s been big with the affluent stay at home moms who organize charity events or whatever they do in their free time.

They like that he’s calm and can speak three languages. It’s also a plus that they think he isn’t actively going to sleep with their husbands. Though that’s more of a presumption on their parts than anything he’s purposefully doing or not doing. Which is neither here nor there, regardless.

Right now, Shouto isn’t anxious exactly. Nervous doesn’t fit right either. Excited, a bit. Apprehensive, perhaps. Ready to get past this initial hovering meeting and to get to know the kid he might be watching from here on out.

Expectant, he settles on. He’s expectant. Eager.

After shuffling up the walkway and taking one single, solitary deep breath, he knocks politely at the front door. While he waits, he smooths his hair back away from his face. It’s getting long, long enough to touch his shoulders. Almost too long, where it gets caught in his shirt collars and gets stuck in his chapstick when it’s windy out.

When the door swings open, Shouto expects yet another diminutive, beautiful woman. Well dressed and slim, with thick shiny hair and expensive earrings glittering in her ears.

He does not expect a worn green t-shirt stretched across broad shoulders or a shock of short blonde hair. He really does not expect a jawline so sharp he could cut himself on it, or a face covered in light blonde stubble. This is not the usual mom.

This is the most beautiful man he’s possibly ever seen. What the hell is going on here?

Is he at the right address? He tries to subtly glance at the street numbers without being obvious about it.

The blonde man in the doorway looks him up and down, twice, then scoffs. Loudly.

Shouto blinks.

Said man scrubs a hand down his face, displacing the clear wayfarer frames sitting nicely on his nose, and rubs pensively at his jaw. The burr of his stubble against his fingers makes an odd little noise in the silence between them.

Shouto kind of wants to rub his own face against this guy’s, like a cat. He wonders if it’s possible to get beard burn between his thighs. He’d like to find out.

Shaking those thoughts out of his head, Shouto says, as calmly as he’s able, “I’m sorry, I think I might be at the wrong address.”

“Nah.” Oh. Deep voice. Gravelly and low. Shouto suppresses a shiver. “You the nanny?”

Is this the husband?

Shouto usually deals with high strung type A mothers at the initial screening, only seeing fleeting glimpses of dads a few weeks in. Never really seeing them interact with their kids, let alone field an interview for a nanny. But he will not be upset if he’s coordinating with this dad today. Not one bit.

Shouto is almost too busy looking at this guy’s well muscled arms to remember that he needs to reciprocate to keep the conversation going. “Ah. Yes. That’s me.”

“‘Kay. Well, I’m Bakugou. Kid’s name is Kota. You are?” Blonde eyebrows raise in a way that’s clear that this dude thinks Shouto is an absolute idiot.

“Todoroki,” He offers, attempting to get his wits back about him. “I was expecting—”

“Yeah. I know what you were expecting, but that ain’t what this is. Come on.”

Bakugou turns, his t-shirt just as nice from the back, and Shouto follows. He toes off his shoes in the genkan and tries not to fidget when Bakugou eyes the cat print on his socks with disdain.

He starts talking before Shouto is fully prepared, speaking in short clipped sentences, voice still rough.

“He’s five. Just starting kindergarten, on the younger side. We’re already having issues, but what can ya do. He started talking late and doesn’t talk much now. Speaks real quiet. Got some trouble with emotional regulation. Tantrums, that type of shit. Doesn’t like people much.” Bakugou runs his fingers—sturdy and broad, Shouto notices—through his wild hair. “Likes cars though. And trucks. And superheroes. And Disney princesses.”

Shouto nods, tucking all of these facts into the new Kota folder in his brain. All he knew from the initial recommendation was that it was a younger boy who needed a full-time nanny due to his parents having high stress jobs.

He understands the high stress job bit, maybe.

Bakugou seems full of energy, always subtly moving. Never settling into a resting position. Shifting from the shoulders, adjusting his glasses, running his hands through his hair. His bare feet shuffle on the nice wood floor. Constant motion.

Restless.

He looks like he’s never relaxed a day in his life.

“If you’re gonna do this, you gotta know he doesn’t put up with any shit,” Bakugou continues, not even stopping to check if Shouto is listening. “He’s good with rules most of the time, if you talk to him straight he’ll do what you want. Usually. Explain it to him, tell him why. He’s quiet ‘til he’s not. Kid’s got a set of lungs on him. Strong too.”

Bakugou looks at Shouto, up and down and up again, stopping to squint at his biceps.

Shouto forces himself to not feel put off by the clearly derisive look. He resolutely doesn’t tug the short sleeves of his button up down further to cover his arms. Yeah, he’s not especially muscled, but most people probably wouldn’t be compared to this guy.

He’s not weak though, either. Shouto can pick up a five year old, which is what truly matters.

“Anyway. He’s a good kid, but a handful. My perpetual problem child.” The words themselves are negative, but the way Bakugou says them is nothing short of fond.

It makes Shouto smile. He gets it.

Bakugou catches his smile and his own expression morphs into a scowl, seemingly put off by Shouto’s...whole face? Unclear.

“He’s been through three nannies in the last six months, so good luck.”

That is definitely not something you say to someone you’re tentatively going to hire.

Bakugou turns on his heel and walks away without saying anything else. Shouto hurries to catch up. At least his stride is longer than this guy’s. Small victories.

He tries not to overtly look around at their home, but he can’t help it. The house is big, smacks of money but isn’t ostentatious. No flashy shows of wealth, just the humming undertone of being well-off.

It’s nice. Clearly lived in. Homey.

There are hints of a child living here around every corner. A comically small jacket hung up on a hook near the front door, a Paw Patrol backpack dropped carelessly on a bench in the entryway. Toys, toys, toys, spread out everywhere. Colorful books stacked up on end tables and shaky, bright art framed and hung on the walls.

Shouto appreciates that this house isn’t a museum, isn’t white or empty or soundless. Not filled with things sticky hands aren’t allowed to touch.

Bakugou is stomping down the hall in front of him and Shouto scurries after him, trying not to blatantly check out his ass.

God. This is already a lot for him to deal with.

“I wouldn’t get too close,” Bakugou advises as they round the corner. It’s a warning but definitely doesn’t sound like one, especially not with the schadenfreude-laden smile he aims at Shouto. “He kicks.”

At least Shouto is pretty quick on his feet, he can probably dodge a five year old coming at him with bloodlust if it comes down to it.

They slow to a stop in the doorway of what is likely a playroom. Big open windows, a brightly colored rug, buckets of legos and figurines and stuffed animals. A little kid is on his knees in the center of the room, surrounded by toy cars. Bakugou makes a soft humming noise at the sight of him, then turns to squint at Shouto.

“This is Kota.”

He can tell by the look on Bakugou’s face that he’s expecting Shouto to crash and burn. Hoping for it actually, judging by the rude way he crosses his arms and smirks.

Too bad Shouto has a foolproof script he uses to introduce himself to kids. One that hits all the bases. He hasn’t been a nanny for the last few years for nothing.

The little boy turns when his dad says his name, but makes no effort to speak to Shouto. Before being interrupted, he was busy ramming two toy cars together as hard as he could and making explosion noises with his mouth.

"Hi Kota, my name is Todoroki Shouto. I’m twenty four years old. I speak three languages. I have two cats, a big orange one and a small grey one. My birthday is January 11th and my favorite color is purple. I like to eat oranges. And noodles."

Kota blinks at him for a few seconds while Shouto holds his breath.

"Hi Shouto, you're weird."

Shouto nods solemnly, because it’s not like he’s wrong, then asks, “Can I crash cars with you?”

“I’m smashing them,” Kota corrects. He looks Shouto up and down, eerily similar to his dad, then holds out a car.

“Smashing, then.” He crosses the room and folds his knees under himself to get down to Kota’s level. Being tall is fine, but he likes to meet kids on their level.

He doesn’t look behind him. Doesn’t need to.

Shouto isn’t worried anymore.

They play for a while, smashing cars and then flying them around. Kota likes Shouto’s long arms, says that with how tall he is the cars can go to outer space. He crawls all over Shouto like a jungle gym despite what Bakugou said earlier about his...well, everything.

He steps his tiny little kid feet onto Shouto’s thighs, one hand held to keep him from toppling over and the other thrown over his head, and babbles quietly about cars in space for almost a full five minutes. Shouto listens and provides commentary when appropriate.

While Kota is busy building a complex astronaut backstory for each of his cars and trucks, Shouto chances a look back at the doorway.

Bakugou is standing there, arms crossed, leaning up against the door frame. Shouto pointedly does not look at where his t-shirt stretches over his biceps but instead looks at his face. His eyes are on Kota and they’re soft, so soft that it makes something inside of Shouto warm at the sight.

Even though he may be a rude, beautiful jerk of a man, he very clearly loves his son. Which is more than what Shouto can say for some of the other families that he’s nannied for. Seeing it so obvious on his face is a welcome change.

When Bakugou catches Shouto watching, he straightens up immediately. Brow furrowing, mouth flattening. Eyes all intense again.

Shouto blinks once, then turns away.

They smash cars and invent elaborate backstories until it’s time for Shouto to go home.

All three of them file to the front door, Shouto then Kota then Bakugou.

When they get there, Kota fits his tiny hand in Shouto’s, looks up at him with eyes too expressive for his age, and asks, “Come back to play tomorrow?”

Shouto does nothing externally to indicate how victorious he feels. It’s possible that he’s won this “perpetual problem child” over in a single afternoon.

Shouto squeezes his hand. “If I do come back, we’ll play more. And you can show me the race track you were talking about earlier.”

A quick glance at Bakugou’s dumbfounded face is the only thing he needs to know that he nailed this job interview. “And we can throw cars off of it.”

He squeezes Kota’s hand again, leans down to slide his sneakers on, and tosses a wave to the two of them as he slips out the front door.

That went pretty well, he thinks. Even if he was mildly stunned at how good looking Bakugou is, initially. And throughout.

Nannying Kota might be nice. Even with all the warnings, he seems fairly low maintenance. Intelligent and sweet. A good kid.

His phone vibrates with a terse text saying he got the job before he even gets on the train heading home.

Shouto officially starts his job as Kota’s nanny two days from now.

He’s excited. His last set of kids moved abroad a few weeks ago and he’s missed having a domestic routine. Missed being with kids. Before this, he’d been interviewing for two weeks and hadn’t found the ideal arrangement.

But he feels good about Kota. Feels less good about Bakugou, but that’s not the main concern here.

Shouto is looking forward to it, and that’s more than he can say about his various jobs pre-nannying.

He’s sitting at one of those too-low tables in a bar with his friends, squinting at the bare-minimum instructional text Bakugou sent him a few minutes ago about when to get to his house on Monday. The three of them are at the same bar they always come to, a bougie dimly-lit place with food that’s way too expensive for what it is but with drinks good enough to make up for it.

They come here once or twice a month to talk shit. Denki usually comes too, but he’s busy this weekend with some sort of typical Denki-activity that didn’t make any sense when he mentioned it in their group chat. For tonight, it’s just Shouto, Momo, and Kyouka. Ochako may come later, if they’re lucky.

“So,” Kyouka starts, drawing the word out as she fiddles with the straw in her drink. It’s something electric blue and glittery, Shouto has no idea what. “How was the interview?”

“Good.” He takes a sip of his own drink, his customary ginger highball because the bar is so dark that he can’t read the menu and he already knows he likes it. “I like the kid a lot. He’s a little bit quiet, but funny. Excited to get to know him.”

Kyouka nods and Momo makes the same face she always makes when Shouto talks about his kids. It’s a sort of curiously pleased one where it’s obvious she doesn’t know why he likes being with children all day but that she’s glad he does.

Throwing caution to the wind, Shouto continues externalizing his thoughts to the detriment of everyone around him.

“My new boss is hot.”

Across the table, Momo chokes on her swallow of Cabernet and raises her perfect eyebrows up to her hairline. When she stops coughing politely into her hand, she gives him an entirely different look and says, “Excuse me, repeat that please.”

Shouto doubles down, because what? It’s not like it’s not true.

“My new boss. He’s incredibly good looking.”

Kyouka smirks at him and taps her dark purple nails against the table, the motion making all of her bracelets clink together. “Oh, now this I love. Tell us more.”

He describes Bakugou to the best of his abilities, answering their oddly specific questions about what he smells like (Shouto couldn’t tell, as they didn’t get close enough), how healthy his hair seems (fairly), and whether or not his teeth are nice (they are).

Kyouka folds her hands together and offhandedly suggests, like she’s talking about what drink Shouto should get next or what tiny-portioned expensive finger food he should order, “You should hook up with him.”

It’s Shouto’s turn to choke on his drink. “What.”

“That’s kinda sexy, isn’t it? It’s always like, a porn trope, ya know? Dilf boss and twinky babysitter,” Kyouka continues, with absolutely no regard for Shouto’s well-being.

“I’m watching his kid. He’s paying me to watch his kid. Also, is that really a thing?”

Shouto considers the second part of her statement. “And I’m not a twink.”

Momo and Kyouka share a pointed look. The only thing preventing Shouto from being vaguely offended by it is the two drinks he’s already had since he got here.

“I’m not going to hook up with him.”

“But he’s sexy and kind of mean, right?” Kyouka asks, her eyebrows doing something interesting that Shouto can’t quite interpret. “That’s your exact type. And you’re a twunk at best.”

The look on Momo’s face is one of barely-there placation and when he looks at her she shrugs her shoulders. “You have always liked men like that.”

“Plus he has money, doesn’t he?” Kyouka makes a good—although not especially relevant—point.

“Seems like it. I honestly have no idea what he does. Something with consulting and a firm and synergy. Probably some returns on investment.”

“Now you’re just saying business related buzzwords. Didn’t you go to fancy boy business school? Shouldn’t you know things?” Kyouka mutters, rolling her eyes with a smile when Shouto huffs a laugh.

“Should,” Shouto acquiesces, “don’t, though.”

“Could be fun.” Momo says, delicately tilting her glass in her hand. “You’re pretty enough for it too.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be a good influence?” Shouto asks her, unable to hold back his smile when she laughs into her wine. “And even if he did want to hook up with me—which I doubt—I really like the boy I’ll be watching, I don’t want to complicate things by being a thot.”

“Denki needs to stop teaching you words.” Kyouka levels him with a look and says, “Also, that’s not what this is about.”

“Okay, for the two of you that’s not what it’s about,” he mutters. “I’m not going to attempt to seduce my new boss. Thank you for the sound work advice, though. Very helpful.”

“At least we’ll get to hear about how hot he is for the next whoever knows how long.”

Shouto shrugs, because yeah, that’s probably true.

“I’ll be sure to keep you posted.”

When he shows up at 7:30 a.m. on Monday morning like the text he got on Saturday directed him to, Bakugou swings the door open before Shouto even gets close enough to knock.

He would be lying if he said it didn’t scare the absolute hell out of him. Makes him jump a few inches into the air, like a startled cat.

Bakugou scoffs, gives him the same up-down-up look he gave him the first time they met, and mutters, “Good. You’re here, finally.”

Finally? Shouto was exactly on time.

Still standing directly in the middle of the doorway, Bakugou shifts out of the way, but only barely. Shouto slides past him, careful not to touch but still close enough to feel the faint heat of his body like an echo.

He smells warm. Spice and heat, like an old fashioned aftershave. Shouto’s absently curious about what cologne Bakugou wears, so he can report back to Momo and Kyouka and they can decode what it means about his personality or whatever. Obviously.

Toeing off his shoes, Shouto sets down his backpack and is immediately forced to utilize his long legs to catch up to where Bakugou is stomping down the hallway away from him. This seems like it’s going to be a reoccuring theme.

Bakugou stops abruptly when he reaches the kitchen—a bright room with beautiful granite countertops and a full set of pots and pans hanging from some sort of...contraption on the ceiling—and Shouto has to tense every muscle in his body in order to avoid colliding bodily with his back.

He growls low in his throat for a reason that is absolutely unclear to Shouto, then whips around to face him.

Finally getting a good look at him for the first time this morning, Shouto can’t help but notice that he’s dressed impeccably. A nice pair of grey slacks and a white button up that fits so well Shouto almost can’t believe it, his black tie barely done up around his neck. The suit jacket is conspicuously missing.

Bakugou launches into yet another brusque informative speech, “I wrote out a whole list of shit you need to know and left it on the table. He’s gotta be at school by 8:30, s’fine if he won’t hold your hand on the way there but don’t let him slip away either.”

Shouto just nods. He has a feeling that telling this man that he’s never lost a kid in public before probably won’t be the reassurance he thinks it is.

“I’m guessin’ you can make something edible for breakfast?”

“Yes.”

Bakugou squints at him, like he’s trying to see straight through to Shouto’s brain and read his thoughts.

Shouto shifts at the shoulders, trying not to show any emotion whatsoever, and actively thinks about all of the meals he can make just in case this man really can read minds.

Eventually Bakugou looks away, turning to fuss with a stack of papers on the counter. “He’ll wait out front at the weird blue pole near the front entrance at the end of the school day. After that, you two can just hang out around here until I get home. I’ll try to let ya know when that’ll be. Made dinner for tonight already too, s’in the fridge. You can just heat it up.”

“Got it. Do you want me to help him with homework?” Do kindergarteners have homework? Is that a thing? Shouto can’t particularly remember.

Bakugou gives him a look that makes him feel like a legitimate idiot, Shouto does his best to ignore it. “You can sure as hell try.”

Noted.

“Also, if you ever have to pick him up from the front office, his family name is Izumi.”

Oh. Interesting.

Divorce, maybe? Although why wouldn’t Kota take his name?

Shouto, who makes what are essentially the bare minimum of facial expressions in most social circumstances, must make some kind of face, because Bakugou snorts and rolls his eyes.

“Yeah yeah, not my bio kid. Whatever. Izumi Kota, don’t forget.” He scowls and Shouto notices that his eyebrows are a shade or two lighter than his hair. “‘Cause those bitches in the front office will act like they don’t know who the hell you’re talking about even though they know he’s mine.”

Not my bio kid. Hm.

Planting his hands on his hips in a move that reminds Shouto of every stressed maternal figure he’s ever seen in his entire life, Bakugou apparently deems Shouto well-versed enough in his child’s morning routine to stop speaking to him altogether.

“Kota!” Bakugou shouts down the hall, so loud that it makes Shouto’s brain rattle in his skull. The lungs on this man.

A door swings open, feet patter on the floor, and Kota tumbles out of the doorway in that little kid who-doesn’t-have-total control-over-their-own-limbs-yet way that always makes Shouto want to laugh a bit.

The ghost of a smile settles on his face when he sees Shouto in the kitchen and he waves shyly, nothing more than a quick twitch of his fingers. Shouto returns it.

Bakugou leans over, pops a kiss to the top of Kota’s spiky black hair, then pulls back to look him in the eyes.

“Gotta go. Be good,” he mutters, quiet but loud enough that Shouto can still hear it. “Don’t be bad.”

“I won’t.”

He straightens up and narrows his eyes at Shouto, who isn’t doing anything at all aside from placidly staring off into space and trying not to spectate this intimate father-son moment. “If you need anything, you’ve already got my cell and my office number’s on the bottom of the last page of notes.”

And then, in a voice not unlike a threat, he says, “But try not to need anything.”

With that, Bakugou tosses his suit jacket over his shoulder and snatches a leather messenger bag from the side table. He gives Kota one last hair ruffle, glares lukewarmly at Shouto, and rockets out the door.

The two of them look at the now shut door in silence for a few seconds.

“Well,” Shouto starts, vaguely winded from all of the conflicting energies of that three minute conversation. He looks down at Kota, who is looking up at him with his big dark eyes. “What do you want for breakfast?”

“Can you make pancakes?”

Hm. The question isn’t whether or not Kota can have pancakes, he absolutely can. The question is whether or not Shouto can effectively make them.

Shouto’s never tried before, but odds are it’s not rocket science. He can always watch a Youtube video if all else fails.

“Yeah, probably. Let’s go find out.”

Kota holds his hand on the way to school.

Shouto doesn’t even have to ask, he just slips his tiny palm into Shouto’s and leads them there, quietly monologuing about the plotline of the TV show he was watching before Shouto got to his house this morning for the entirety of their walk.

They exchange quiet goodbyes in the school courtyard then Kota makes a determined little face and walks off. He turns around to look for Shouto in the swarm of people before going through the front doors, Shouto waves and gives him a thumbs up because it feels like the right thing to do at the time.

First morning: mostly a success. Kid at school, breakfast made, pancakes only minorly burnt. Though the countertop where they made pancakes is absolutely a mess that he’ll need to clean before picking up Kota at the end of the day.

He has a foreboding feeling that Bakugou absolutely will not appreciate the current state of his kitchen.

Before leaving, Shouto pops into the front office to bow politely to the secretaries and introduce himself, making sure that they know he’ll likely be dropping Kota off and picking him up from here on out. The older ladies coo at him and ask him about his hair and his eyes and he promises next time he’ll bring them some of his favorite pastries from the bakery near his apartment for them to try.

He’s not below bribery.

The walk back to the house is a leisurely one. Shouto takes his time, looks at the shops along the way to see if there’s anywhere fun the two of them can go in the afternoons after school. The neighborhood is nice, quiet, the houses fairly big.

After cleaning up the kitchen and guessing at where everything goes, Shouto thumbs through the relatively light notes Bakugou left him.

There’s the absolutely relevant information: Bakugou’s work phone number, when he needs to pick Kota up from school, a list of foods Kota isn’t allergic to but won’t eat, how to work the TV in the living room, where the first aid kit is.

And little else.

Shouto is used to following intense and overly detailed schedules and complex diets. The older girl from his last family had an extracurricular activity or some sort of lesson four days out of five, and she was eleven. The seven year old before that was learning Korean. And also how to fence.

It seems like Bakugou doesn’t especially mind what activities Shouto and Kota do, as long as no one is grievously injured.

That’s fine with him. They’ll take it day by day.

After doing a deep clean of the kitchen and a cursory sweep of the living room, Shouto settles on the couch to read the book he’s in the middle of for a few hours before heading back out to pick Kota up.

Shouto waits at the blue pole as per Bakugou’s sparse directions and people-watches until Kota comes to find him.

Their walk home is peaceful. They spend a relaxing afternoon throwing cars off of the absolutely gigantic race track that Kota drags into the living room. Dinner is yet another comfortably quiet affair that’s interrupted by the front door opening and Kota immediately darting from the kitchen to the front hallway.

In a truly impressive feat of athleticism, Bakugou has no problem snagging Kota out of the air when he jumps directly into his arms. His bag is hefted over his shoulder and one hand is carrying his keys, his phone, and the travel coffee mug he must have taken to work this morning.

No effort at all is obviously put into the Kota-grab and thinking about it makes Shouto a little weak in the knees.

There’s a minute or two of rapid fire chatter that Bakugou fields with ease then he squeezes Kota tight to him, drops him back onto his feet, and gently pushes him back to his dinner with a palm to the back of his head.

When he’s gone, Bakugou does yet another full body sweep of Shouto’s person. Then asks in a voice that makes it clear he isn’t especially concerned with Shouto’s answer but is asking as a formality, “How’d it go?”

“We had a good day.” It’s the truth. It was a good first day. He has high hopes for his and Kota’s fledgling friendship.

“Great,” he mutters back, dumping everything in his hands onto the side table and then nudging it all into some semblance of order. “Any screaming?”

“Uh? No.” Should there have been screaming? Bakugou sounds like he was expecting some.

“Huh.” The look of surprise smooths the scowl on Bakugou’s face. Watching it happen is absolutely fascinating.

“I read all your notes,” Shouto says, eyeing the slope of Bakugou’s shoulders when he turns away from him. He doesn’t mention that they were rather bare bones simply because he thinks Bakugou would take that as an insult. “Do you have anything you want the two of us to do after school?”

“Like what exactly?” Bakugou asks. “Aren’t you some fuckin’ super nanny or something? You gonna teach my kid Latin?”

“You want me to teach him Latin?” Shouto doesn’t know Latin, but they could probably learn together if it came down to it.

“Fuck no, god.” Bakugou rolls his eyes into the back of head with enough force that Shouto is worried he’ll hurt himself. “I want him to hang out and read books and play outside and not have meltdowns on the regular. Typical little kid shit.”

“Well,” Shouto starts, considering, “I can do that.” Sounds pretty easy, actually.

Bakugou laughs, but it isn’t a particularly friendly sound. “I’ll believe that when I goddamn well see it.”

The way he says it—cavalier in a way that grates—has an atypical wisp of determination simmering in Shouto’s belly.

Shouto doesn’t care much for challenges, very rarely rising to meet them, but something about the way Bakugou dismisses his ability to legitimately only hang out with Kota and prevent occasional meltdowns is aggravating.

He’s good at what he does. Kids like him, parents too. Bakugou is the outlier in this situation.

Shouto will just have to prove him wrong.

Burying this newfound resolve deep inside of him, Shouto focuses on the task at hand: getting more job-based information out of a recalcitrant Bakugou.

“Is there anything you want me to help with around the house?”

“Like what.” Bakugou’s response should sound like a question, but the suspicion in his voice makes it sound like an accusation. What does he think Shouto is going to do? Burn his house down? Steal his valuables?

“The usual nanny stuff.”

When Shouto first started doing this, there were quite a few household chores he had no idea how to do. Calls to Fuyumi were a staple during his initial nannying stint, her patiently talking him through the right way to wash laundry and how to tell which fruits and vegetables at the store were the best ones and how to not set a pot of water on fire when making noodles.

He had to run everything by her back then, but now he knows most of the basics.

“What’s the usual stuff?”

“At my last job I helped with laundry, grocery shopped, cleaned up their house at the end of the day. Things like that.”

“I take care of all of that shit already. But,” Bakugou tapers off, tapping a finger against his chin as he thinks, unwittingly drawing Shouto’s attention to his mouth. His lips look soft, like he takes good care of them. Chapstick and regular water drinking, probably.

God, Shouto needs to stop that line of thinking immediately.

“You can do whatever the fuck you want with Kota’s toys as long as I don’t step on them at six fuckin’ a.m and trip on them and die. Don’t touch my shit, though.”

Shouto shrugs, fair enough. Not like he was planning to mess with anything in particular.

He does have another clarifying question. “Can I take him places?”

“Whaddya mean?”

“Like the library. Or the park. Maybe that trampoline gym. The zoo...or something.”

Bakugou gives him a curious sort of look, mouthing “trampoline gym” to himself like it’s a different language, then shrugs his shoulders. “Sure, I guess. Go wild. Lemme know when you’re doin’ stuff and I’ll leave you some cash.”

Shouto could probably afford to take Kota places himself, but he’ll never forgo some walking around money. Tomorrow they’ll stop for some snacks at the little bistro on the corner and maybe go for a nature walk or something.

It might be corny to be so excited, but he’s looking forward to it.

The first week goes smoothly. Incredibly smooth, actually.

Mornings are spent challenging Shouto’s breakfast-making abilities and afternoons are spent getting to know one another. Kota, like Bakugou mentioned, is quiet but he talks to Shouto more than he initially anticipated.

Kota’s curious and mostly interested in whatever time-passing activity Shouto volunteers each day. He’s particularly fond of walks to the park, where the two of them sit on benches or in the grass and see what there is to see.

There are plenty of Disney movies to choose from too, some that rotate throughout the week and ones that they only watch once before moving on to something different.

The week closes quietly and with little fanfare. Kota does look moderately excited at not going to school for two days when Shouto mentions it on Friday afternoon, but not by much.

Around dinner time, the customary running into Bakugou’s arms greeting occurs but this time Kota is directed back to playing with his toys for a minute afterward.

“Hey,” Bakugou grumbles, heading toward the kitchen, “come here.”

Shouto goes.

They stand there, a few feet away from each other. At their initial meeting, Shouto had noticed that he’s a couple inches taller than Bakugou, but them standing relatively close together like this without Kota between them draws his attention to it again in a much more poignant way.

His voice is quiet when he leans closer to Shouto. “You still on board with this?”

“With what?”

“Watchin’ my kid.”

“Oh yes. Of course. I really enjoy watching him.”

“Congratulations.” It is not said in a congratulatory manner. Bakugou levels him with a look and says, “Guess you passed the test.”

Shouto wasn’t aware there was a test but is vaguely relieved to have passed it, he supposes.

Apropos of nothing, another memory from the day they met comes to the forefront of his mind. “I thought you said he was your perpetual problem child.”

“I did say that, yeah. What about it?” He asks, like Shouto is the biggest idiot he’s ever met. Which he seems to think is the case. “Is there supposed to be some sorta question there?”

“We’re having a pretty good time. No tantrums so far.”

Bakugou raises an eyebrow, disbelieving.

“He does what you ask?

“Usually, yeah.” Shouto nods. “If he doesn’t, I explain it, like you said. It’s worked.”

“He hasn’t done that buckwild thing where he flops to the floor and screams for fifteen minutes straight, then goes limp when you try to pick him up?”

“I have not experienced that, no.” It’s almost hard to believe that’s something that happens, based on the week he’s spent with Kota.

Bakugou’s eyebrows furrow and he looks at Shouto like he doesn’t understand a single thing about him. “Hm. Doesn’t seem like he hates you. Yet.”

Shouto would argue that Kota likes him quite a lot, but keeps that to himself. He’s getting the feeling that Bakugou admitting to his child “not hating” Shouto is as good as he’s going to get when he considers the previous rotating cast of nannies.

“A ringing endorsement.”

“Damn right.”

Bakugou isn’t rude to Shouto, per se. But he isn’t particularly nice either.

He’s short and gruff and speaks almost exclusively in monosyllables or dismissive scoffs. The only emotions he expresses that aren’t outright annoyance or vague agitation are to Kota, which is fine with Shouto.

There are occasional snide comments about Shouto’s hair and his eyes that sound like compliments if you heard only the words and not the tone they’re said in. He’s also started calling Shouto “Half ‘n half” in his deep, rumbly voice. Which is a new one.

Shouto doesn’t mind, much.

He spent his college career dealing with people who were much worse outwardly but hid it better. Then another three years nannying for moms whose favorite pastimes were talking shit about each other, followed up by talking shit about each other’s kids, nannies, and husbands respectively.

He’s got tough skin by nature and little concern for what other people think of him by nurture. Having Bakugou be a bit gruff with him isn’t really a problem.

It’s also better than him being a stay at home mom who blatantly comes on to him every chance she gets, which has also been the case before.

Bakugou seems like a prickly sort of man either way, rude and loud and full of himself. Hyper aware of his own importance and not afraid to make it everyone else’s problem, judging by the phone calls he takes at home occasionally that involve a lot of shouting and disparaging remarks on his coworkers’ general intelligences.

The confidence is definitely abrasive, but the surety in himself sometimes leaves Shouto envious.

Shouto isn’t particularly concerned with Bakugou’s opinion of him, so long as he gets to keep watching Kota. Or at least that’s what he keeps telling himself.

And admittedly, almost all of Shouto’s Bakugou-related misgivings are assuaged by how sweet he is on his kid. It’s almost comical the way his scowl wipes clean off his face when he looks from Shouto to Kota at the end of every day.

Something about it makes Shouto warm from the inside out. It’s probably his own deep seated daddy issues, but that’s neither here nor there.

Bakugou’s a dedicated father and Shouto can easily acknowledge it. Clearly devoted, with how he makes a point to speak quietly—almost gently—to Kota at every opportunity. With how he pays rapt attention to Kota’s quiet recountings of his days, asking questions that show that he’s both listening and interested.

He gets a pass for how much he loves his kid. Even if he’s kind of a dick in every other context.

Whatever. At least one person in this family is pleased to see Shouto every day.

Thankfully, all of Shouto’s hunches were correct—Kota is a sweet kid.

Kota likes Shouto, if the quiet way he follows Shouto around during the mornings and afternoons is anything to go by.

They’ve started playing make believe in the backyard or the park—Kota’s imagination a beautiful, expansive thing. What they play occasionally varies, but it’s superheroes and villains, mostly. Kota gets a kick out of Shouto doing a monotone evil laugh and there’s a lot of running and hiding behind trees and chasing each other until they flop to the ground, exhausted.

The voice in his head sounds only slightly smug when he thinks about how Kota definitely likes him, much more than Bakugou anticipated, at least. And he doesn’t really seem like he minds that his dad isn’t particularly fond of Shouto.

Shouto only wishes he could say the same.

The quiet desire to get Bakugou to like him might be a problem, actually.

He elects to ignore it.

Shouto doesn’t yell much. Not in his personal life and almost never at kids, unless it’s an emergency.

It’s not where he gravitates naturally, he sees no practicality in yelling at a child who doesn’t understand why you’re angry.

There’s probably a lot to be said for the home he grew up in, the way that his dad spoke, or didn’t, to he and his siblings. Manifestation of past experiences and direct and indirect cause and effect. Becoming your father and becoming the opposite.

Either way, he doesn’t raise his voice when things go wrong or when kids misbehave. There are other ways to solve problems and he’s found that his calm demeanor and quiet, steady speaking voice typically endear children to him.

Kota is no different.

The first time Kota throws a full blown screaming, wailing tantrum is a few weeks into Shouto’s tenure as his nanny.

Before this, Shouto hasn’t seen much of what Bakugou initially talked about in terms of meltdowns and kicking. Their time together has been filled with pretend play and odd conversations. Snacks and movies and sitting together on the couch. Just the way Shouto likes it.

Kota’s sitting in the living room, playing idly with trucks and what looks like an Elsa doll. Shouto calls out to him to come sit down at the kitchen table to eat their after school snack and doesn’t think anything else of it until Kota replies.

“No.”

Okay, well, yes.

“It’s time to eat, you can bring your toys.”

“No.” This time it’s louder, his voice edging into a whine Shouto hasn’t heard from him before.

“Elsa can watch you eat. Or she can have a snack too, if you want.”

Then, before Shouto even finishes speaking, Kota is screaming.

Absolute bloody murder howling. For a split second, Shouto’s worried he’s hurt, that something’s wrong, that he’s somehow broken himself while sitting alone in the ten minutes that Shouto wasn’t watching.

He darts out into the living room and practically tosses himself onto the floor.

“Hey, hey,” Shouto murmurs, “what’s wrong?”

The screaming doesn’t stop. If anything, it gets louder. More distressed.

He can tell that Kota is used to being yelled at. Maybe at school, by teachers who don’t have the capacity to manage his outbursts. Maybe by previous nannies who just wanted him to stop screaming. Maybe by Bakugou himself, but something about that doesn’t feel as likely.

Shuffling onto his knees in front of Kota, Shouto doesn’t yell.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” Shouto swipes the tears streaming down his cheeks away with his thumbs. “Explain it to me.”

Through his tears, Kota tries.

Nothing comes out for a few minutes aside from more hiccuping sobs.

“I broke it,” he heaves out eventually, tiny shoulders shaking. His fists are clenched tightly around the Elsa doll. “I broke her.”

“Can I see?” He gently peels Kota’s fingers open to see Elsa’s head completely removed from her body.

Well. That’s a simple fix. Hopefully. Probably.

“I can fix her.” He says, quiet and gentle, as Kota’s sobs peter off into pitiful sniffles. “Do you want to watch me?”

He nods, the tears on his face making his cheeks shine.

Shouto helps him up and then leads him into the kitchen, where he pops Kota into a chair at the table.

“Watch,” he whispers, then squeezes Elsa’s plasticky head and shoves it back onto the peg of her neck in the least horrifying way he can manage. “See, all better.”

“Next time come find me and I’ll do my best to fix whatever breaks for you, okay?”

Kota nods and doesn’t even fuss much when Shouto wipes his entire wet face down with a damp paper towel.

“Dad, Shouchan fixed Elsa.” is the first thing Kota says after he catapults himself into Bakugou’s arms the second he gets home that evening.

All three of them are hovering in the entryway like they do at the end of every day, Kota with Bakugou’s face in both of his hands so Bakugou can’t look anywhere aside from at him and Shouto standing passively a few feet away.

“What was wrong with her?” He shoots Shouto a baleful look, like he was the one who beheaded Elsa on purpose to make Kota cry and he should be prepared for the consequences of doing so. Which look to be death, apparently.

“I popped her head off.” There. Resolutely not Shouto’s fault.

Nice try, Bakugou. Shouto won’t be dying at the hands of the hottest dad he’s ever seen. Not today, anyway.

“Mm, you are known to do that, yeah.”

Kota nods, accepting that blame readily. “Shouchan did surgery.”

“I bet he’s got steady hands, huh?”

For some reason, this makes Shouto flush. It might be the entirely different look Bakugou aims at him from over Kota’s head. One that’s considering, curious almost. Like he’s sizing Shouto up and not finding him completely lacking.

The look sends heat coursing through his entire body, but Shouto won’t be the first to look away.

That night, he sits on the train and sends an impulsive text to the group chat that he almost immediately regrets.

Shouto: I’m going to get this insufferable man to like me if it’s the last thing I do

Denki: sounds kinda horny but okay

Kyouka, Momo, and Ochako exclamation point react Denki’s reply.

Fuck.

It takes a month or two, but they get into the swing of things. All three of them.

Shouto and Kota spend their mornings debriefing the latest episode of TV that Kota watched and their afternoons doing bootleg science experiments that Shouto copies from Pinterest, going for walks, and taking naps together on the living room floor.

Bakugou continues to be lightly rude to him in a way that Shouto can’t help but like.

Perhaps like is too strong of a word. In a way Shouto can’t help but...not hate? Tolerate begrudgingly because he’s incredibly attractive? Bemusedly indulge because the back and forth is more fun than he’ll ever let on?

Those may be better options.

He even starts to lazily smirk at Shouto every once in a while, like he’s having fun too. Even though it’s usually at Shouto’s expense.

Shouto might be a legitimate idiot, just like Bakugou thinks he is.

Because it feels like progress.

Bakugou’s cooking is objectively very good. There’s always a prepped meal or two in tupperware in the fridge at any given point in time. Usually for Kota, topped with a sticky note with his name in neat characters and a subpar drawing of some sort of forest animal that always makes Shouto laugh a little.

Every once in a while, if he’s lucky, there will be a tupperware for Shouto too. Never his name, usually “Half ‘n half” or sometimes just an angry emoticon. But still. For him.

It reminds Shouto of his sister’s cooking in a nostalgic sort of way and he makes a mental note that he’ll probably forget later to text her and check in.

Shouto’s cooking, on the other hand, is objectively not good.

He can make a handful of meals from scratch but usually utilizes something that comes from a box to cook around. He can make pancakes but only if he watches a Youtube video very intently each time. He can pour cereal and cook pre-made noodles and make sandwiches that are alright, if he’s being honest.

Snacks are his forte. Premade things taken out of bright packages or veggies cut up in fun shapes. Arranging them on a little cartoon-decorated plate is fun to him, like he’s one of those ASMR girls on Tiktok with all their pastel colored cups full of beautiful drinks and plates of meticulously placed snacks.

It’s a Tuesday afternoon when Shouto stumbles upon what might be his greatest culinary success of all time. He asks Kota what he wants to eat after school, like he does every weekday, and runs through all of his usual options: an apple, veggies cut into long strips, crackers, maybe? Mixed nuts? Milk bread?

Kota is a peculiar child but Shouto won’t say a damn thing about his tastes.

Said peculiar child shrugs, nothing calling to him. He meets Shouto’s eyes for a few seconds and continues to not offer any other options.

Alright. Shouto turns to the fridge and rummages around until he finds a cucumber in the bottom drawer.

He waves the cucumber behind him from where he’s still tucked into the fridge. “Kota, do you like this?”

Kota hums a vague assent and Shouto figures that a cucumber will do. He grabs cream cheese in a last minute decision before removing himself from the fridge completely.

Picking the least threatening looking knife from Bakugou’s knife block, Shouto successfully slices the cucumber without accidentally cutting his fingers off. Then slaps some cream cheese in between two slices, shaking a little pepper onto it. For spice. Or something.

After making about five or six cucumber Oreo-like sandwiches, he slides the plate across the counter to Kota and hopes for the best.

He takes a minute to carefully inspect the cucumber sandwich, turning it this way and that, before popping the entire thing in his mouth.

“Mmm,” Kota hums, crunching ridiculously on raw cucumber. “Good.”

Well, he’ll take a win wherever he can get it.

In a typical turn of events, Bakugou is less than pleased.

Shouto shows up on Thursday at the same time he always does, sliding into the house as unobtrusively as possible. He sheds his backpack and pads on socked feet into the kitchen where he and Bakugou usually engage in a light verbal spar every morning.

Bakugou is bent over the counter fiddling with something. When he hears Shouto come in, he looks up, glare already on his face.

He doesn’t even say hi, instead grumbling, “Kota asked for your stupid little sandwich for dinner yesterday.”

“Oh?” Shouto can’t hide how quietly pleased he is at this information. Bakugou sees it and his glare gets even more pronounced. “Did you make it for him?”

“Who the fuck do you think I am?” Bakugou is making his own lunch, chopping an unidentifiable pile of vegetables into chunks and tucking them into his bento box. “I absolutely did not.”

He starts chopping something else, knife a blur, while muttering snidely under his breath, “Crime against humanity, s’what that is. A kick to the teeth of the culinary arts.”

“Okay.”

Bakugou keeps going, only a little louder this time, his volume increasing with his annoyance, “Stupid cream cheese cucumber sandwich. The little bastard doesn’t even like cucumber.”

“Okay,” Shouto says again, trying to hide his smile by looking down at his hands.

“I tried it, ya know? Your nasty little snack. The Shouchan special.” The way he says this last bit is probably meant to be an imitation of either Shouto or Kota, although neither of them sound anything like the nasally voice he uses. “Had to see what all the fuss was about.”

Humming noncommittally only makes Bakugou’s face pinch in a scowl that Shouto tries not to look directly at for fear of audible laughter.

“It was disgusting.”

Shouto isn’t going to take that lying down. If they’re going to play this game, he’s going to be a participant too. And he just might win.

“You can admit that you’re jealous.”

“Jealous?” Bakugou crows, like it’s a joke, swinging the hand that’s holding the knife around in a disbelieving arc. “Jealous of what?”

“That Kota likes my cooking.”

“I’m not jealous,” he says the word like a curse. “I’m depressed that my child lives in this house where I make him delicious shit on the daily and he wants to eat two slices of cucumber glued together with cream cheese instead.”

Bakugou points the knife at him, jabbing it for emphasis. “And to be clear, slapping cream cheese on a shittily sliced cucumber isn’t “cooking,” it’s blasphemy. And you’re a goddamn sinner.”

“My deepest apologies.” He can’t help the smile that cuts across his face, knowing Bakugou can see it even when he turns his head to the side.

“Oh, piss off, Half ‘n half. Go find my kid and get out of my kitchen.”

Weeks pass and the middle of Shouto’s days revolve around Kota while the beginnings and ends start to revolve around Bakugou.

He’s come to find out that he likes the two of them, quite a lot. Like he didn’t know it already.

Kota is an easy kid to get along with, even with the difficulty processing his emotions and the sporadic resulting tantrums. Shouto seems exceptionally predisposed to handling them and Kota in general.

He’s sweet and kind and incredibly funny in a scathing child-without-tact way that is not unlike Bakugou's general state of being.

And god, does Shouto like Bakugou. He’s kind of grown on Shouto over the course of their knowing one another. Even if, as aforementioned, he’s kind of a dick.

Bakugou is different from any parent Shouto has ever interacted with, in a work sense or otherwise. Different from Shouto’s own parents in a way that continues to challenge the tenuous grasp he had on parenting from the get go.

He’s blunt and unashamedly rude and full of himself in a way that comes across as overabundant, arrogant confidence but Shouto can now tell is at least somewhat hard won self-love. He talks to Kota like he’s not a five year old, in a way that innately grants him agency. He lets Kota make his own decisions and experience the consequences of them, always teaching and showing and learning alongside him.

He’s funny, both in a dry way that matches Shouto’s own sense of humor and also in a loud, dramatic way that Shouto knows is meant to elicit some sort of equally dramatic response. He doesn’t give Bakugou the satisfaction.

It’s nice to see the two of them interact, Bakugou and Kota, in the mornings when Shouto gets there. They do their little “be good, don’t be bad” ritual complete with a hair ruffle and a forehead kiss. In the afternoons or evenings, Kota throws himself bodily at Bakugou when he gets home like clockwork.

The care is obvious.

The love between them, where they both genuinely enjoy each other’s company. The way that Bakugou wants Kota to learn, wants to teach him things, wants him to pay attention and look at the world around him and the people in it. Even if Bakugou claims not to like a single goddamn one of them.

They’re an interesting pair and Shouto can’t help but feel just a little bit lucky to be here.

Two months into school, Kota makes a friend.

Shouto is almost beside himself with surprise as they talk about her on the walk home but he tries to tamp down on it so Kota doesn’t get spooked or shy. He’s never mentioned another kid before, let alone a classmate he actively interacted with.

They talk about what she and Kota colored—a few pictures from a frog coloring book, apparently—the rubber of Kota’s rain boots making a dull thumping sound on the wet streets.

It’s a rainy day, cool and crisp, so the two of them settle down on the couch and read simple chapter books and watch TV until the sun starts to set.

Bakugou is barely through the door before Shouto is there, hovering ceaselessly. He can’t help it. He’s excited!

“Bakugou,” he whisper-yells. He doesn’t want Kota to hear him, but he’s too delighted to wait until tomorrow morning when Kota isn’t around either. “Bakugou!”

“What, Half ‘n half? Christ, I just got home.”

Shouto is smiling and he can’t stop it. It makes Bakugou raise an eyebrow at him over his glasses.

“What’s your deal, huh? Why do you look like that?”

He barely waits until Bakugou is finished speaking before he blurts out, “Kota made a friend.”

“What.” Bakugou full body stops, his hands frozen where he’s tugging at his tie. He turns to Shouto to fully focus on him, and his eyes are wide with surprise. It’s a look Shouto has never seen before but quietly appreciates.

“Are you for fucking real?”

“Why would I joke about that?” Shouto would never joke about friendship. “I picked him up and he told me about a girl who colored with him at recess instead of going out to play.”

“No fucking way?”

“Go ask him!”

Forgoing the hurried removal of his tie, Bakugou drops his bag on the side table and walks with purpose to the living room where Kota is lying on the floor like a starfish and watching a wildlife TV show about bugs. At least that’s what he was doing when Shouto last saw him a few minutes ago before he abandoned him at the sound of the door opening.

He can hear them speaking, Bakugou’s soft, “Hey, buddy” and Kota’s answering inaudible murmur.

A few minutes pass and Bakugou shuffles back to the front door where Shouto is waiting.

“I’ll be fucking damned.” He sounds stunned, pleased. There’s a satisfied little smile on his face, the usual snarl of his mouth smoothed into a gentle curve. Shouto wants to sweep his fingers across it. “A friend.”

Shouto attempts to not be obvious about the fact that he’s boldfaced staring. Thankfully Bakugou isn’t paying attention to him whatsoever, so he’s free to look at him as he sees fit.

He gives him a few minutes to drift in the sweetness of his child making a friend before speaking.

“Should I intercept her parents at drop off?”

There’s a beat of silence before Bakugou squints at him, exasperated.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” He pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and pointer finger in the most I’m A Stressed Businessman look Shouto has ever witnessed. And he lived with his father for almost twenty years. “Why are you allowed to say things? Who okayed that? You should be stopped.”

Shouto ignores that last bit completely. “I could talk to her parents? See if maybe the three of us could go to the park or the library or something sometime.”

Bakugou still looks like he doesn’t understand what Shouto is saying, although he’s not sure what Bakugou’s not getting here.

He tries again, to clarify. “So they could hang out outside of school. Isn’t that a thing? Playdates?”

“Fuck, Half ‘n half. Maybe don’t use the word intercept next time, you freak. Soundin’ like a goddamn spy. Or an axe murderer.”

Bakugou shrugs, eyes drifting back to where Kota is in the living room. His voice is softer when he speaks, “But sure, do whatever you want.”

Shouto knows that sort of curt avoidance well by now, where Bakugou pretends like he doesn’t care about what Shouto does. But Shouto knows. He knows that Bakugou cares, quite a lot.

Especially when it comes to Kota.

He has his answer then—he’s going to secure Kota a playdate.

Shouto waits at the front of the school a few days later to try and catch whoever drops Eri off.

The two of them, Kota and Eri, have stayed in for recess every day this week, apparently. They both like coloring and strawberry flavored mochi and Disney movies. Kota has fed Shouto a steady stream of information about her on their walks home from school, explaining that her favorite color is yellow, like her raincoat, and sometimes her hair is in braids and that she’s quiet, “like us.”

“Us” meaning Kota and Shouto.

If Shouto were a man slightly more in touch with his emotions, he might have cried. Or said something dramatic about how Kota might be his favorite person in the entire world. Instead, he rubs a fist against both of his eyes and squeezes Kota’s hand a little tighter on their walk to school.

He vows right then and there to be the best nanny Kota has ever had or ever will have and to secure him a playdate with his first school friend. Talking to...other people is not something Shouto particularly enjoys, especially people he doesn’t know, but he will make the sacrifice and do this for Kota.

And he does.

It’s not particularly smooth, but he does it.

Admittedly, Shouto might be behaving in a manner that is less than appropriate. He can recognize that.

He’s been casing the joint, to be frank. And by the joint, he means the school courtyard during pick up and drop off. After Kota heads through the gate, he loiters near the school entrance and watches for the parents of a grey haired little girl.

The second day of waiting he spots her, or who he assumes to be Eri, walking with a man so loud and colorful that Shouto can’t help but wince at the sight of him.

His suspicions are confirmed when the little girl scurries over to Kota, who’s been waiting at the door and periodically waving at Shouto where he’s standing, shrouded in shadows next to the trash can.

Eri’s dad is...bright. For lack of a better word. The banana-shaped blond hair and the leather jumpsuit are enough to cow Shouto into waiting until the morning after to even attempt to speak to him. He needs to muster up the ability to do this.

Shouto’s luck is a bit better the next day, perhaps, because there is a different, less ostentatious man dropping Eri off. He looks tired, long dark hair tucked into a bun at the nape of his neck and what Shouto can only assume are pajamas still on.

He can do this. He will do this. For Kota.

Pep talk complete, Shouto darts across the courtyard as stealthily as he can and skids to a stop in front of the second man to drop Eri off in two days, the rain making his landing less than steady. Sleepy Pajamas Guy barely bats an eye at Shouto more or less materializing in front of him.

He bends at the waist for a quick bow, hands clasped behind him.

When he straightens up, Shouto aims for clear and casual and absolutely normal. “Hi. Nice to meet you, I’m Todoroki. Would Eri like to come to the park with me and Kota sometime?”

Eri’s dad narrows his eyes at Shouto and the look makes him straighten his spine, like he’s a high schooler who’s done something abhorrent during school hours and just got caught red handed.

“You Kota’s dad?”

“Oh. Uh, no.” Do people think he’s Kota’s dad? Is that a thing? He’s pretty sure he looks too young to be a father. “I’m his nanny.”

“You don’t look like a nanny.”

What is that supposed to mean, Shouto thinks but doesn’t say.

“What are nannies supposed to look like?” he says instead, because he’s curious.

The tiredest man he’s ever seen looks vaguely repentant for a second or two, then shrugs his shoulders and mutters, “Point taken.”

They stand there quietly, looking at each other as the last few stragglers head into the school.

“She’s been talking about Kota all week.” he finally says, which makes Shouto smile, just a bit.

“He’s been doing the same.”

“Aizawa.” He reaches out to shake Shouto’s hand and it’s all Shouto can do not to do a victory punch to the sky in response.

“Good to meet you,” he replies.

“Tomorrow afternoon we can go to that park a few blocks away.”

Understandable that he doesn’t want to leave his child with some random nanny in the school courtyard that he just met.

“Sounds good.”

Shouto absolutely means it. It sounds great actually.

He can’t wait to tell Kota.

This may not have been a good idea, Shouto thinks, bordering on quiet hysteria as they stand ten feet from the wet playground in silence.

Rain has been the only thing on the forecast for the last week, steadily coming down for the last two days. Why did they think going to the park was a good idea?

The four of them might be the quietest group of people who have ever occupied the same space at one time.

Shouto doesn’t speak much as a general rule. From what he’s gathered, Aizawa says only the bare minimum, barely hitting the bar of social niceties that even Shouto is well versed in. Kota is anxious, standing just behind Shouto with his hand tangled in the hem of his jacket.

He and Eri are making odd, shy eye contact every few seconds from behind their respective caregivers.

“Kota,” Shouto murmurs, “should we play Fairies and Knights? Or Princesses?”

Crouching down to hear Kota’s quiet request of fairies and knights, Shouto looks to Eri. She tucks herself closer to Aizawa but doesn’t look away.

“Would you like to be a fairy or a knight? I’m usually a fairy but I like to be a knight too.”

It takes a second or two, but Eri eventually quietly says, “A knight.”

Kota shifts from behind him, gravitating slowly toward Eri as the three of them head to the playscape.

Fairies and Knights is a hit. Little kid laughter echoes around the playground all afternoon and eventually Shouto slinks off to stand in quiet solidarity with Aizawa.

The two of them exchange numbers that day and within a week he’s got Yamada’s number as well.

He’d dutifully reported back to Bakugou on his success of scoring a playdate that same day, passing Aziawa’s number along so Bakugou could make sure he wasn’t a “fuckin’ freak weirdo” or something.

He can only assume that they get along well and that Aizawa passed whatever weird test Bakugou likely administered from the moderately respectful way that he talks about him.

Eri starts hanging out with the two of them after school shortly after, tagging along on their park trips and their picnics and even back to Bakugou’s house occasionally, where the three of them spend hours making blanket forts and watching movies and eating cookies Bakugou makes when he gets word of her coming home with them.

Shouto knows that Bakugou meets up with Aizawa and Eri occasionally, on the weekends when Shouto isn’t there. It feels good that these two quiet, shy children can have a friendship outside of school facilitated by their parents. Parents who care.

A few weeks later, a third man Shouto doesn’t know drops Eri off at school. She bounds over to where Shouto and Kota are waiting for her, a tall purple haired guy trailing behind her. He looks even more tired than Aizawa, and that’s saying something.

He doesn’t introduce himself, instead saying, “So, you’re the infamous Shouchan.” in a voice so dry that Shouto can’t tell if he’s being made fun of or not.

“That’s me.”

“A pleasure,” he says, a Cheshire cat-like smile curving across his mouth. “Shinsou Hitoshi. Or ‘Toshi, according to the kid.” He nods his head of wild purple hair down at Eri.

She smiles sweetly up at him and the wide mouthed grin melts into something different altogether.

Kota eventually tugs her away, murmuring something about being late and giving Shouto their patented goodbye wave-thumbs up combo, leaving the two of them standing next to each other in the school courtyard.

Shinsou turns back to him. “‘Toshi and Shouchan, the two musketeers.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how that goes.”

He’s soundly ignored, Shinsou smirking and asking, “You all going to the park later?”

“It’s Thursday, right?” Shouto loses track of the weekdays because they all kind of blend together in a good sort of way. Shinsou checks his phone to confirm, then nods. “Yeah, it’s park day.”

They should probably leave the courtyard before it gets weird, there are no kids out here anymore.

“Would you like to come along?”

“Boy, would I ever.”

Shinsou soon becomes a regular at their park visits. One afternoon he suggests that their little group visit the aquarium and immediately changes the entire topography of their Kota-Eri afternoons.

The train ride to the aquarium is almost comical—two five year olds sitting in the seat across from them them and Shouto and Shinsou sitting shoulder to shoulder next to each other, keeping watch.

Kota is absolutely enamored by the arched wall of fish, spending a good deal of each of their visits standing under it and staring upward. Shouto takes a picture each time and sends it to Bakugou, coupled with a different aquatic emoji.

Shouto gets along with Shinsou well, they’re both quiet in the same sort of way. Their senses of humor are oddly compatible and he derives a special sort of joy from getting the odd huff of a laugh out of him.

He likes Shinsou, likes that he’s dedicated to his little sister, that he loves his parents, that he hangs out with two five year olds at least two days of the week and visibly enjoys it.

Over time, he learns Shinsou’s whole story—one exchanged in bits and pieces over the playground table or in the aquarium food court. Learns that he’s a grad student living at home, babysitting Eri whenever their busy teacher parents aren’t able to ferry her to and from where she needs to go. Hanging out with her in the afternoons between shifts at his library job and hours of complex graduate research that Shouto doesn’t even want to understand.

Shinsou reveals that his dads are weird about the whole thing—quietly guilty over him watching Eri all the time but unable to trust anyone else with a little girl who’s been through so much and has such a hard time feeling comfortable. How they want to pay him some sort of wage on top of everything else, but Shinsou refuses.

Shouto makes sure to let him know that if there’s ever an afternoon he needs free for work or for research, that he’ll watch Eri in a second.

The days pass, the frantic quality of the beginning of school melting into a routine well worn. The last bits of summer fade to autumn and he and Shinsou stand at the edge of the playground and make fun of each other as their wards fling themselves off the tallest platforms, shouting about dragons and princesses and knights on the way to save the day.

Six months pass in what feels like six minutes.

He and Kota go to the zoo and the aquarium and the natural history museum on days they don’t spend with Eri and Shinsou. Shouto fields one thousand questions about slugs and jellyfish and how long the sun has been alive. He spends more than enough time sitting on benches with Kota next to him, reading whatever he finds off of a google search to a child who is voracious in his quest for knowledge.

They go to the library once a week and get ice cream every other, even as the weather gets colder, always under the mutual agreement that they won’t tell Kota’s dad.

Shouto wakes him up for school on days Bakugou has to be in early and puts him to bed on days when Bakugou stays late.

Kota continued to hold Shouto’s hand the entire way on their walks to and from school. There’s an easy camaraderie between them, a mutual understanding. They’re both quiet and have trouble recognizing and parsing through their emotions, but they’re working on it together.

He comes home at the end of the day with Kota’s action figures in his pockets, the once-beheaded Elsa doll tucked into the water bottle pocket of his backpack for safekeeping. There’s a whole section on his bookshelf where all the rocks that Kota gifts to him on their walks to and from the park sit.

Bakugou, with his fascinating culinary ability, preps their food every weekend. He resolutely refuses to make the cucumber sandwich that Shouto makes for Kota no matter how much Kota begs.

Along the way, he starts incorporating what Shouto likes, too. Texting him on the weekends asking what he eats, what his favorites are.

The mother-henning makes Shouto want to put his face in his hands and shout into them. He doesn’t. But he wants to each time Bakugou gruffly pretends like he isn’t asking what Shouto’s lunch and dinner preferences are.

There’s still banter. Still ribbing, where the clever way Bakugou makes fun of him has Shouto flipping him off as he slips out of the kitchen in the mornings to go find Kota, crackly laughter echoing behind him.

The snide comments about his hair and eyes are fewer and far between as time goes on. And when they do happen, there is a note of warmth to them that Shouto can’t quite decipher but appreciates nonetheless.

Things are going well, he decides one night, alone in his bed with a cat tucked under one arm and another curled up in the small of his back. He loves his job, loves the relationships he’s painstakingly making with these two people—a problem child boy and a problem child man.

Things are good.

Though there is a run of weeks where something big is happening at work, where Bakugou stays late for days at a time, coming home close to midnight, exhausted and cranky.

Some nights he gets back well after Kota’s gone to bed, far past the time that Shouto’s done picking up all the toys that were played with and tidying all the bits and bobs that need tidying.

He comes home and looks tired.

Shouto can see it on him, so plainly. It makes him want to lead Bakugou upstairs by the hand and put him to bed, to bundle him up in his ridiculous red silk sheets—the ones Shouto has only seen glances of once or twice when Bakugou forgets to close his bedroom door—and turn off his morning alarm so he can get some sleep.

How exhausted he seems makes Shouto ache with sympathy.

He’s sitting on the couch on one of these nights, legs crossed and a knit blanket tossed over his lap, when Bakugou quietly lets himself in.

The lights are all off because Shouto doesn’t want to waste electricity and doesn’t mind sitting on the couch watching mindless reality TV in the dark.

The white noise of Bakugou putting everything away is almost soothing. When he finishes—grumbling something quietly to himself that Shouto can’t quite hear—he shuffles on socked feet into the living room and makes eye contact with Shouto where he’s perched on the couch.

“Why the hell are you sittin’ in here with the lights off, Half ‘n half?”

Shouto ignores him, turning the tables and sweeping his eyes up and down Bakugou’s person in an exact replica of the look he always gives Shouto. The concern pulls his mouth into a frown.

“You alright?”

Dark circles are prominent under Bakugou’s eyes, blonde five o’clock shadow not as shadowy as it could be but still undeniably present. Typically, Bakugou stands like he’s preparing to hold his own in a fight that could come his way at any moment—hips and shoulders squared, posture loose but ready. An ease to his movements that looks practiced, second nature.

Right now, he looks kind of...limp. Floppy, almost. Like the well-loved green stuffed bunny that guards Kota’s bed, the stuffing loved out of him.

Something wildly tender inside of Shouto longs to take care of him.

“M’fine. Exhausted as fuck, but fine.” As Bakugou speaks, he rolls his shoulders, right then left then right again.

“Can I do anything for you?” Shouto means it genuinely, he wants to help. He hopes the intent shows through in the quiet, even way he’s speaking. Sarcasm doesn’t have a place here, not right now.

“Nah. Not unless you wanna give this goddamn presentation for me next week. We can put your two-tone pretty boy ass in a nice suit, get you up there with a set of notecards. No one will be able to tell the difference.” He huffs a laugh, mouth curling into a barely-there smile at his own dumb joke. “Appreciate it, though.”

Bakugou scrubs a fist against his eyes the same way that Kota does when he first wakes up in the morning.

It’s so sweet it makes Shouto’s teeth hurt.

Heading into the kitchen, Bakugou beckons him. “C’mon, dipshit. Keep me company in here.”

Shouto follows, like a moth to flame.

Wrapping the knit blanket around his shoulders, he shuffles after him and forcibly curbs the desire to wrap his arms around Bakugou’s trim waist and drape himself across his broad back. Shouto’s arms are long enough that he could probably cover both of them with the blanket at once, if he wanted.

Plus, he’s tall enough that it wouldn’t be hard to cocoon them.

Bakugou starts plucking pots and pans from the ceiling-contraption as Shouto watches from the doorway.

“What are you doing?”

“The fuck does it look like I’m doing?”

“Cooking?” Bakugou rolls his eyes, but still nods. “Now?”

“Observational skills on one hundred.”

“I’ll get going,” Shouto murmurs, suddenly aware of how late it is and the fact that he’s still here. He shrugs off the blanket and makes to turn around and gather his things.

A quiet “Hey.” makes him stop.

Turning around, Shouto can’t help but stare.

Even though he’s tired, even though it’s late and he hasn’t eaten dinner yet, Shouto can’t look away from him.

Bakugou in the wane kitchen light, his dress shirt rumpled, tie undone and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Hair even more of a mess than usual, from running his fingers through it for hours. He’s so beautiful it’s stupid.

“Stay,” he’s soft, softer than Shouto’s ever heard him. “I’ll make ya a late night dinner, somethin’ not from a box or a cup.”

“You’re tired.”

“Yeah, I know. Doesn’t mean I can’t make you food.” Bakugou blinks, then corrects, “Make us food.”

“It’s late. I should g—” Shouto doesn’t even get his full sentence out before Bakugou reaches out and gently grabs him.

The look he gives Shouto sucks the air out of his lungs, red eyes so damn serious.

“Todoroki. Lemme make you food, it’s the least I can do right now.”

He’s not sure quite what that means, but who is he to not give in?

Wrist caught in Bakugou’s warm hand, Shouto is powerless to do anything else.

“You don’t have to make me anything,” he assures as he takes a seat at the kitchen island. Home cooked meals, Bakugou’s few and far between moments of free time. He doesn’t need to give these things to Shouto, not when he’s so exhausted. So overwhelmingly stressed.

“I don’t do shit I don’t want to do.”

The implication here is that Bakugou wants to do this, to make Shouto food. To eat it with him in the dark kitchen an hour past midnight.

He could just as easily send Shouto home and crawl into bed, or make food for himself in the quiet of his own home. There’s no expectation here. For this. No ulterior motive aside from the quiet desire for Shouto not to go. To share a meal with him. Here, in this kitchen.

It’s an easy choice to make.

Shouto stays.