Emergency Contact
Bakugo x Reader, hurt, comfort, angst, the whole shebang. Listen to Emergency Contact by PTV on a loop while you’re reading for enhanced pain
A/n: I was lowkey possessed by the emo demon when I wrote this. I think I may have edited it once, apologies for any grammar mistakes or if things don’t make sense lol.
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Bakugo Katsuki was your childhood best friend. You lived next door to each other for years and attended primary school together.
Your family moved when you were nine. You didn’t attend the same school after that, and you fell out of contact. When you both turned up at UA high school, you ran up to Katsuki and threw your arms around him. He hugged you back. It was like you’d never stopped being friends, never been separated. He laughed at your weird jokes, and you cheered him on at every opportunity.
It freaked everyone else in the class out, how good you were at breaking down those walls he’d put up. Decimating his tough guy exterior with a smile and a wave.
You started dating in your last year of high school. It seemed so natural; after all, you’d been so close your whole lives. Everyone was expecting, cheering on, the progression of your relationship. Your friends were all thrilled for you, your parents ecstatic.
You dated for the whole year past graduation. Something in the background of your relationship never quite clicked. He was your best friend, the person who knew you better than anyone, but it seemed to pause there. That thing that kicked it from friends to lovers never pushed either of you that last step.
The breakup was amicable. He was pulled into the spotlight, burning bright, on the fast track to the top. His priorities shifted. The fancy agency he started, the apartment in the middle of the city, the fame of it all.
You took a job in a rough neighborhood on the other end of the city and kept a low profile. You did your best with where you were. But you were both so busy. You hardly saw one another, and the relationship came to a natural end. There were no hard feelings, just an honest conversation and promises to keep in touch.
It didn’t last. Your parents died in an accident within months of your breakup. He called. You didn’t answer.
Bakugo became the number two ranked hero. He had more commitments than ever. Your patrols got more dangerous as criminals kept clear of his side of the city, migrating to your end where pros were less willing to work. It wasn’t as glamorous, after all.
You saw each other here and there over the years. Big events. Unofficial high school reunions with old friends. Birthday texts once a year.
Gradually, you lost contact altogether. He thought about you. Wondered how you were doing. You didn’t answer when he called.
Something changed one night. You knocked on his door at three in the morning. It was pure luck he answered the door, not out on patrols or at a party. You pushed past him without a hello, making a beeline for the bathroom.
“Still keep your first aid kit in here?”
He cursed when he saw all the blood.
“Shit. Why the fuck didn’t you go to the hospital?”
You shrugged, already dousing yourself with disinfectant and threading a suture. “Don’t trust them.”
“But you trust me?”
Dark, tired eyes met his.
“Always.”
He helped stitch you up. Didn’t comment on how different you seemed. How drained. He was different too.
He got you to drink some water, take something for the pain. He turned the couch into a bed, but by the time he made it back to the bathroom, you were gone.
He didn’t see you for months after that. Couldn’t get through to you by phone.
You showed up again, pounding on his door in the middle of the night. You were drenched from the rain this time, lip split and swollen.
“You should see the other guy.” The joke fell flat when you collapsed against his wall, blood smearing against the pristine white paint.
He stitched you up again. Didn’t give you a choice this time, got you cleaned up and put you in his bed.
“Sleep.”
It wasn’t a question. And you didn’t fight him on it, didn’t try to go. He insisted that he sleep on the couch. You laid in his bed all night, awake.
You were gone before he woke up.
The pattern repeated. Not a word for weeks or months, then you’d show up at his door. Sometimes you were physically hurt, hands clutching wounds, blood pouring from between your fingers or pooling under your skin.
Sometimes you just pushed past him and rummaged through the cupboards until you found a bottle. You’d sit, stare blankly out the window. He’d sit beside you, silent.
Once you picked the lock. He was already asleep, and you let yourself in rather than wake him.
You cleaned yourself up and fell asleep on the couch, Katsuki passed out in the back, unaware you had crashed his apartment.
On nights he convinced you to stay over, he remembered how the nightmares came for you.
He’d never fully understood your quirk; he hadn’t asked. You’d never offered the information, even when you were young. But he remembered how he’d hold you at school as children. How you’d shake, silent sobs wracking your body.
How even before you started dating, you’d knock on his dorm room door at school and ask him to keep you company. He’d make room in his bed and hold you until you fell asleep.
Whatever it was that let you step through shadows like you were made of the same stuff, it cost something. Something deep inside of you cracked every time you used it, and instead of it affecting you less as time went on, it seemed to get worse.
He asked you about it once, at UA. You choked on your words. Swallowed them. Didn’t say a thing. He didn’t ask again.
Sometimes you’d stay until the morning. He’d see you on his way to the bathroom and come out to find a thank you note on the counter.
You still disappeared after you left. Still didn’t have a phone number he could reach you at. He didn’t push.
One night you knocked on his door and he stood there, first aid kit at the ready. You gave him a cracked little smile and told him you just came to see him.
Something inside of him burst, and it felt like he’d won.
You talked for hours that night. Finally told him how bad things were getting during patrols. How useless your agency had been. As if he didn’t know; as if you didn’t show up covered in blood at random.
Something in your eyes shifted then. He made up the couch, but you left anyways. He didn’t see you for six months.
He looked for you. He found your agency. They told him you hadn’t worked there in over a year. He checked the patrol routs he could remember you telling him about. Saw for himself how bad that part of the city had gotten.
You were just gone.
He stayed busy. Tried to move on. Being the number two hero wasn’t just his job hours. It included galas and parties and politely shaking hands with irritating rich people. He was terrible at it. Every event made him miss you more.
He thought of how you could share a joke with just a look. The way you’d gotten him through every boring high school class you’d shared. You could make anything interesting.
He got home late that night, suit coat slung over his arm.
He startled at the odd shape slumped against his front door.
Nearly screamed when he realized it was you, knife plunged deep into your gut, blood pouring from your body onto the floor, pooling around you. He called your name, scooped you into his arms. You didn’t move.
You weren’t breathing by the time he got you to the hospital.
He paced the sterile white floors for hours while they worked on you, blinking in the too bright light. Caught sight of himself in the glass hospital doors; crisp white shirt soaked through with crimson blood. Your blood. Hair disheveled, face pinched with worry. He’d run the whole way here with you in his arms.
When they finally told him you were stable, he excused himself for a moment. He stood outside, let the cold air ground him. Pushed the emotions away and pulled the stoic mask back into place.
When he came back, the doctors and nurses gave him information- so much information. Pills, instructions, directions. Follow up appointments he knew you’d never keep. Exercises, creams, endless fucking information.
He had to fill out paperwork. He knew everything about you. Listed his address as your own. He added himself as your emergency contact.
When you were finally discharged, going home wasn’t an option. Katsuki took you back to his place. He’d had the front door professionally cleaned. You could barely see the bloodstain anymore. He still couldn’t stand looking at it.
He broke down that first night when you tried to slip out, halfway between a shadow and his living room. You hated the way he cried, the way he cared.
You stayed.
He took care of you. Called out of work. Gave you your medications and took out your stitches when it was time. Asked you to forgive him for taking you to the hospital.
“I know you hate them. But I couldn’t have saved you.”
“I know.”
Something shifted a week into you staying together.
The nightmares were worse. You asked him to lay in bed with you, to hold you. He’d been staying on the couch up until that point, but he didn’t hesitate.
You talked that night. Fell asleep together. Woke up with his arms still around you.
You began to open up. You started telling him more about your quirk. He was supportive. Kind. Understanding when you drew back. He asked questions and he listened, never telling you that what you felt was wrong.
His actions made you take a long look at what you’d become.
Slowly, you healed. Bruises faded. The wound on your stomach scarred over.
He started to see it, too. You laughed during breakfast one morning and he dropped a glass. Glimpses of his best friend, that happy girl he knew. She was peeking out, scratching the surface for a moment here and there.
Somewhere along the way you both found it. That thing you’d been missing the first time around.
Now he kisses your forehead and makes you breakfast every morning. You quit vigilante work, quit the reckless, self destructive behavior you’d fallen into. The therapist you see twice a week has been helping you work on…everything, related to your quirk. You’re reapplying for your hero license in the fall.
Bakugo Katsuki was your childhood best friend. You lived next door to each other for years. You went through more than you thought possible, and came out of it together.
It’s still new. Calling it love feels scary. And calling him your boyfriend, after everything, feels silly.
But for now, he’s your emergency contact. And you’re doing your best to stay away from emergencies. At least for a while.
