Chapter Text
Katsuki used to read poetry on his phone.
They were all sonnets and books that Ashido sent him. For not being particularly studious, she is an avid reader.
Now, all he can think about is rereading the prologue to Romeo and Juliet over and over again, then rubbing away the drops of blood that fall from his hair off of his screen.
He called the heroes an hour ago, and they still haven’t come. There is no active threat, except perhaps Katsuki’s own sparking hands drifting closer and closer to the sides of his head.
He is reminded again of drowning.
He can’t remember what he told the dispatcher, only that perhaps he had repeated over and over again that he was a villain.
He had then called Ashido.
And promptly chickened out and pressed the hangup button the moment she spoke.
She had sent a follow up text, that being another book. Romeo and Juliet .
He reasons that as soon as he can steady his breathing, he will make it past the prologue.
The tear tracks on his face have long since dried, sticky and leaving his eyes crusted and raw.
He sits curled up underneath Dr. Kishibe’s desk.
The doctor’s body lies still in his burnt mustard office roller.
Deku sits with him, knees tucked under his chin and wrapped tightly up in his arms, as if he is the one falling apart and not Katsuki.
After he’s certain he’s memorized that bit, in fair Verona , he hears voices.
“. . . Bakugou?” A deep voice, muffled.
Katsuki looks up, throat dry. Feeling small, for all it’s worth. He feels like a kid, told to hide as soldiers or monsters thunder through a still house. A morbid analogy, but he feels just as exposed as the thought.
Dr. Kishibe’s office door creaks open.
Behind it is Aizawa, and behind him, police.
“Bakugou,” He breathes out, soft or shocked or something Katsuki doesn’t know.
He walks in, steps around the splatters of crimson seeped into the carpet, even as the police behind him tense and another steps forward to grab his elbow.
Aizawa shakes them off and quietly kneels at Katsuki’s feet.
“You need to leave the gun on the ground and raise your hands,” Aizawa says. “Can you do that for me?”
Somehow he sounds softer than he ever has before. Katsuki wonders briefly if this is Eraserhead, and not Aizawa- sensei . Because heroes see shit and suddenly Katsuki is wondering again how many little boys and girls Eraserhead has talked down from the ledge. Too many, probably, because of villains like Katsuki.
Katsuki unhinges his fingers locked around the trigger and raises his palms beside his head. He knows this is just standard protocol. Aizawa’s smart, he’s run them through drills for pretty much anything, and Katsuki is- was so dedicated to being a hero that he’d committed them all to heart.
Then again, it’s also not standard protocol, when Aizawa addresses the villain before the firearm.
“Are you hurt?”
Even as he stares dead through Katsuki’s eyes, he still creaks his head to the side, to Dr. Kishibe’s blue slacks. Not brown, a shame. He hopes they bury him in brown .
“He can’t- can’t answer. He’s- he- he’s dead, sir,” Katsuki croaks. His own voice sounds farther away as his mouth curls around the words, out of breath and repeating words like Deku.
“I’m asking you , Bakugou. You’re covered in blood.”
Oh right, yeah. He probably looks like shark week with how much of the stuff is coating his hair.
“Not- not hurt, sir- sir.”
Annoying. He can’t seem to rid himself of his. . . stutter? Is that what it is?
“That’s good,” Aizawa says. Katsuki can’t help but think he’s acting odd. It’s a little weird to be babied like this. “Do you think you can stand for me?”
Of course- well. Actually.
He can feel Deku’s big-ass bug eyes burning into the side of his face, thinking the same thing he is.
The panic made him shake like a leaf. Cracking bones and wooden ball-joints.
“Yes,” He says anyway.
Aizawa shuffles backwards, standing swiftly and holding out his palm face up for Katsuki to take.
And when Katsuki’s marionette strings pull his fingers to twist around his teacher’s wrist, he can’t help but feel as if the faceless men that stand behind the wooden door turn in unison as he is led to his execution.
. . .
Deku seems more like a ghost than ever. He shadows Katsuki, never acknowledged or addressed. He’d stopped making those snide, dumb comments after Katsuki stopped responding. At least he’d had the sense to leave him alone.
Katsuki wants to talk with him now, maybe. He thinks if there’s one person that understands him the most it would be Deku. Something about years spent attached at the hip and spirits that brush your ears with wooden fingers as you fall asleep.
He’s already crazy, though, and speaking to the air certainly wouldn’t help his case.
“Hey, kid.”
A plain-looking man in a trenchcoat and fedora clutched to his chest. He presses a manilla folder to the steel table and slides into the previously empty chair across from Katsuki.
Deku’s oak wood finger is locked around Katsuki’s handcuffed pinky. It’s not soothing at all. It feels the same as keys between your knuckles under the flicker of a streetlamp.
“How are you holding up?” The man asks, plastic smile microwaved until it’s drawn up warm and soft. “This is just a formality, really. You’re training to be a hero, you know how it works. I just need to ask a couple of questions and that’ll be it. We’ll send you home.”
Home. Not back to the dorms. Oh, he’s getting expelled.
The man snaps the switch on a box resting on the table and Katsuki flexes his wrist in its handcuffs.
“This is Detective Tsukauchi Naomasa in room three-one-four. Bakugou Katsuki is being questioned and suspected of homicide.”
Technically it would be murder, or, if he wanted to stretch it, it would be justifiable homicide.
He could probably get off with no charges.
Self defense.
Like with Kariage’s mom.
Deku’s cheek pressed against the outside of his thigh says he shouldn’t.
‘ But you are .’
“I am required to state this for the record, so I am telling you now that my quirk allows me to detect lies through touch activation. I will know if you are lying, but I will not know what the truth is.”
What a handy tool for a detective .
Tsukauchi offers his hand, palm up, in the same way Aizawa did. But his face is not at all the same. Intention hidden under his plastic face and clean fingernails.
Katsuki takes it with his free hand, knowing his refusal will be taken as guilt.
Tsukauchi folds open the manilla file and thumbs through sheets of paper with text too small for Katsuki to read.
He balances something between the forefingers of the same hand.
A clicker.
“Did you kill Doctor Kishibe Hiroshi?”
“Yes, sir.”
Deku’s hand wanders to the cuffs of his pants and starts unlacing his sneaker. Katsuki nudges his fingers away with the sole of his shoe and wonders idly if the death penalty is still a thing.
“Did you intend to kill him before you walked in?”
“No, sir.”
He’s thought about it .
Tsukauchi doesn’t blink at his half-lie. Maybe it’s the truth. Katsuki is a coward, certainly.
“Did you intend to kill him when you fired the gun?”
Did he? Well, of course he did. What else did he expect to happen? Point blank into a man’s skull and he would live? Katsuki’s not dumb.
“Yes, sir.”
Click .
Tsukauchi looks up at Katsuki's hesitation and quiet response.
“Could you repeat your answer for me, Bakugou- kun ? In a full sentence this time.”
“I- I don’t-” Katsuki swallows, squeezing Deku’s fingers. “Can you repeat the question, sir?”
“Of course. Did you intend to kill him when you fired the gun?”
“Yes, sir. I- I intended to kill him when I- when I fired the gun.” He repeats himself because he was asked to.
Click .
He thinks, like something burning in the back of his throat, that he’s not making it out of this.
Tsukauchi pauses, eyes flickering around Katsuki’s face like it could hold an answer.
Maybe it does, because he moves on.
“Was this act in self-defense?”
Well. No. Or.
Aizawa’s drills say yes, but Deku’s bug eyes and ball joints say no.
What is it he thought before? He thinks if there’s one person that understands him the most it would be Deku.
Heroes kill. But Katsuki’s not a hero. He’s a villain. A villain kills and it’s not self defense anymore.
But Katsuki’s not dumb, he knows-
“No, sir.”
Click .
“Was Dr. Kishibe Hiroshi the first to attack?”
Yes, yes, yes-
But he wasn’t. Was he? No, he wasn’t. Katsuki was the first to activate his dangerous, combat-centric quirk .
But he didn’t mean to, but he does that all the time. Sparklers from his palm for an empty threat, fireworks to reflect in his friends’ eyes on new year’s eve, sharp pops to clear the sweat from his hands.
“No, sir.”
Click .
Tsukauchi takes a deep breath and then pulls his hand back to fold the file back up.
“Alright, well, this will be all, for now, until forensics are back. Thank you for your time.”
He flicks the switch.
“Bakugou- kun ,” He starts, looking down and then up again to meet Katsuki’s eyes. “I wanted this off the record because it’s not exactly professional, but. . . We’re prepared to fight for you.”
What ?
“From everything I have, you’re looking to get off with no charges at all.” Katsuki watches in a daze as Tsukauchi stands, gathering his papers up. “Aizawa isn’t the only one who distrusts the commission, and with your provisional license and record, it should be easy. Ah. . . should be, but it may prove to be difficult with all the commission interference.”
Holy fuck .