MHA sickfics

🤕DekuBaku🤕

The lights in the office were dimmed. They had to be. Katsuki Bakugo had flipped the breaker himself an hour ago and barked at anyone who tried to flip it back on.

His head was splitting.

It wasn't the regular tension headache he could grind through. It wasn't even the kind he could drown out with loud music and pure rage. This migraine was brutal — the kind that clutched his skull in a vice and turned every movement into agony. He'd thrown up in the staff bathroom earlier and had wiped his mouth with shaking fingers, trying to pull himself together.

The only reason he hadn't gone home sooner was because he couldn't. Not alone. Not in this state.

So instead, he'd kept his earpiece in all day. Deku had called him that morning when he sensed the way Bakugo's voice faltered, just a little, on their good morning call. And he hadn't hung up since.

"I'm still here," Izuku's voice whispered gently through the earpiece, a tether through the storm. "Breathe for me, okay?"

Bakugo barely nodded, pressing his temple against the desk. "It's not fuckin' helping."

"I know," came the soft reply, "but I want to be here anyway."

There were long silences. Sometimes Bakugo muttered something — a curse, a whisper, a low growl of pain. But Izuku never left. He stayed on the line as Bakugo finished reports. As he snapped at a junior hero. As he dragged his feet through patrol debrief and only half-listened to updates. He didn't remember most of what happened after 10:00 a.m.

But he remembered Deku humming quietly. He remembered the sound of soup bubbling on the stove. He remembered that voice whispering, "You're doing so good, Kacchan," in a way that didn't feel condescending — just... real.

By the time Bakugo made it to the train, he was staggering. He had his sunglasses on even though the sky was clouded and gray. The crowd buzzed around him, and every sound was a dagger. But Izuku was still there. Still humming. Still grounding him.

"Kacchan?" came the soft voice in his ear as the train rattled beneath him. "You're almost home. I've got everything ready. I promise. 

The apartment was dark when Bakugo stepped inside — blessedly dark. No overhead lights. Just one soft, warm glow from the kitchen under-cabinet lights. The scent hit him before anything else.

Ginger. Garlic. Something rich and slow-cooked. Comfort.

He blinked hard and shut the door behind him. His head was still throbbing, but being home already dulled the worst of it. His knees felt weak. The earpiece had long since died on the train, and the silence left a painful vacuum.

"Welcome home, Kacchan."

The voice came from the living room. Izuku stood up from where he'd been sitting on the couch, dressed in one of Bakugo's oversized hoodies, the sleeves hanging over his hands.

"You made it," he whispered, voice cracking with tenderness.

Bakugo didn't say anything.

He dropped his work bag in the corner and walked straight into Izuku's arms.

Izuku held him for a long time. One hand on the back of Bakugo's head, cradling it gently like he was afraid to worsen the pain. The other curled tightly around his waist, anchoring him.

Bakugo's body sagged forward. His breath stuttered.

He hadn't cried at work. He hadn't cried on the train. He hadn't cried in public since he was maybe thirteen.

But standing here in their apartment, in the dark, with Izuku smelling like chamomile tea and wearing his hoodie... he cried.

His tears were silent at first. Then a shudder. Then a broken sound, a choked breath against Izuku's shoulder.