Age 18
They almost don't survive the July Attacks.
The day passes in a haze of smoke, and heat, and gut clenching fear. When later asked to recall the events of the day, Bakugou will only be able to talk about individual moments, like the sound of the bombs detonating before the morning bell had rung; like running at villains with Deku by his side; like standing between Moonfish and a huddle of civilians and crouching down low like a threatened animal, smoke swirling around his fists.
Bakugou doesn't remember sustaining the injury that eventually takes him out of the fight. He had been collecting injuries all day. He's still not sure how he survived the day with all his teeth in place.
However, for years to come, he will clearly remember sitting in the ER.
The plastic chair is too small to contain all of him, some 6ft of teenage hero, cracked wrist-grenades abandoned by his boots. No one is there to treat him, too busy with the hundreds of injured civilians. He blinks blood out of his eyes, his ears ringing.
The muted TV in the corner of the waiting room plays a live feed of what's happening throughout the city. Bakugou watches through drooping lids as they pan over half-destroyed buildings, showing his exhausted classmates hauling people out of the rubble.
Time passes. Bakugou forces himself to keep his eyes open. The TV is a continuous stream of destruction. They show cars cleaved in half, and tight-lipped reporters in front of a background of smoke, and then the shot changes—
And there's Deku. He's streaked with blood and soot, sweaty bangs plastered to his face, and he's thrusting a fist into the air in triumph. He's smiling.
It's this moment that will stick out in his mind: the moment Deku defeats Shigaraki. The moment the country exhales in relief. The moment Deku takes his first real step as All Might's successor in the eyes of the world. The moment Bakugou realises that things are changing.
Bakugou is given a hospital room, eventually. A trainee nurse spots him slumped in his seat, his eyes still focussed on the TV, and rushes over. She blushes, and bows, and apologises for not waiting on him hand on foot. Bakugou grunts. He doesn't have the energy to tell her that he's fine, and that if they were going to prioritise treating him over saving civilians' lives then they would be making his entire job redundant. What would be the point in working his ass off as a hero if he let the people he'd just protected die because he wanted special treatment?
A more experienced nurse intercepts them. She doesn't gush over Bakugou like the trainee does, but she does purse her lips and find him a private room. When he wakes up in two days time, groggy and exhausted, he'll have a decision to make: what kind of hero does he want to be?
Age 21
Bakugou is on his way back from picking up ingredients for dinner. There's a park near their apartment building, usually populated by kids. Kirishima often says he likes the atmosphere it gives off. It makes their area feel suburban, even though they live less than fifteen minutes from the city centre.
Today, though, there aren't little kids running around the playground. Instead, there's a group of kids surrounding a boy curled up on the ground, protecting his head. The kids are using their quirks. The boy is not.
The sun catches in the boy's curls, turning it seaweed green, highlighting the bloody scrape along one cheek, and for a moment, all Bakugou can see is Deku, laid out on the grass, quirkless and trembling, his skin still smoking from the force of Bakugou's explosions.
Bakugou drops his groceries. Vegetables spill over the sidewalk. He's yelling before he registers exactly what's happening, his legs moving on their own.
"Hey, get the fuck away from him!"
The kids look up, see Bakugou charging at them, and bolt in the opposite direction. Bakugou wants to chase after them and teach the little scumbags a lesson, but the boy is closer. He sees Bakugou and screams, scrambling back on all fours.
Bakugou stops, extinguishing the explosions popping against his palms.
"Hey," Bakugou says in the tone he reserves for spooked civilians, "it's okay. They're gone."
The boy peeks up at Bakugou from beneath his lashes. "I don't have any money."
"I don't want your shitty lunch money." The kid looks even more worried now, like the only two things someone might want of him is money or pain. Bakugou scrubs a hand through his hair, suddenly feeling out of his depth. "I'm not going to hurt you. I wanted to beat up those other brats, sure, but not you."
"Why?"
"They were hurting you. It pissed me off."
The kid looks down at the patchy grass. He's no longer braced to bolt if Bakugou gets too close, but he still won't look him in the eye.
"They were just playing a bit rough," the kid mumbles. "Quirks are like that."
"You and I both know that's not true. Hey, look at me." The kid does, eyebrows pinching together as he looks Bakugou over. "Are you okay?"
The kid nods, and says, before Bakugou has a chance to call him on his bullshit, "Are you the Explosion Hero, Detonation? Is that why you jumped in to save me?"
"I intervened because those kids were picking on someone that wasn't fighting back. It's disgusting."
"No, you're a hero. That must be it. No adult has ever ... "
The kid says it so innocently, with a tilt of his head and a wry smile, but it sends a jolt of ice through Bakugou's stomach. Because this kid is laying in the dirt, blood smeared up one side of his face, smiling and vacant-eyed, and it's so familiar. Tremors work their way up the kid's arms, and his skin is bruised and scorched, and he's struggling to pick himself up because he knows that no one else is coming to help him—and he looks like Deku.
When Bakugou thinks back to his childhood, to the summers spent at the local park, Deku sprawled out beneath him and a pack of cheering, faceless boys behind him, he can't remember anyone ever intervening.
"You need to get those injuries treated," Bakugou says.
He escorts the kid home. He learns that his name is Isao. He learns that a doctor diagnosed him as quirkless three years ago. He learns that this isn't the first time Isao has come home looking like this.
Isao's mother ushers them both inside. She doesn't look surprised to see the marks on her son, but she does look surprised to see Bakugou there, and to hear that he intervened on her son's behalf.
She cleans Isao up before focussing on Bakugou. She looks stressed. She looks like she's used to being stressed.
Did Inko look like this when he beat up her son? She always had been a crier. Deku got that from her. Did Deku's injuries make her cry? He had always been stupidly selfless; he probably hid it from her whenever he could.
"Thank you," she says, reaching for his hand. Bakugou lets her hold it. Her hands are small and dry against his.
"Don't worry about it," Bakugou says.
"Thank you," she says again. Her voice shakes with the force of her words.
Bakugou wishes she wouldn't do that. He likes the glory of heroism, but having civilians come over to personally thank him always feels awkward. And unnecessary.
"You're welcome," Bakugou says stiffly.
He takes the next morning off and goes with her to report the bullying to the local elementary school. The principal falls over herself when she recognises Bakugou, and even as she promises to reprimand the kids at fault, to do everything in her power to make sure it never happens again, Bakugou still leaves with a hollow pit in his stomach. It doesn't feel like enough. He hates feeling useless.
