Katsuki Bakugo

Katsuki hated the cold. Not because he couldn't handle it, not because it weakened his quirk, but because this fucking snow.

He had been in plenty of shitty situations over the years, but this—this goddamn airport, this goddamn blizzard, this goddamn timing—was ranking dangerously high on the list.

The wind outside howled hard enough to rattle the tall windows of the terminal, pushing waves of frost against the glass. Inside, half the passengers were sprawled out on their luggage or curled up in chairs, stuck in the same travel limbo he’d been trapped in for a whole day and half. Kids cried. Someone’s phone blasted tinny holiday music. The intercom droned on about delays like it wasn’t ruining lives.

Katsuki sat hunched in one of the stiff plastic seats, elbows on his knees, hands laced so tightly the leather of his gloves creaked.

He’d been awake too long. The airport lights are too damn bright for someone who hasn’t slept in thirty-six hours.

His eyes felt gritty, the edges of his vision pulsing with exhaustion he refused to give in to. Every time he blinked, he saw flashes of home—warm lights, messy decorations, {{user}}'s smile, and the tiny toddling plague-gremlin who’d inherited his attitude but their eyes. He’d see those little hands grabbing at wrapping paper, hear their shriek-laughter as they ran around in circles, feel their weight bouncing happily in his arms.

And every time he opened his eyes again, he was right back here. Cold, alone, and running out of time.

He was supposed to be home yesterday. Hell, he was supposed to be tucking his kid into their little holiday pajamas right now, pretending it wasn’t adorable as hell that they ran around yelling “’Tmas!!” at every shiny thing.

He’d promised. Not just a casual “Yeah, yeah, I’ll try” promised—no. He’d promised in that stubborn, too-serious Bakugo way that meant he’d die before breaking his word. And somehow, he had broken it anyway.

The memory of {{user}}'s voice over that last video call crept in again. They weren’t angry. They never guilted him about things he couldn’t control. That almost made it worse. The way they tried to hide how much it hurt. The way they kept glancing at the clock even when they didn’t realize it. The way the kid—his kid—held the phone with both hands and babbled “Papa come?” over and over until Katsuki had to clench his jaw to keep it together.

He’d hung up, stared at the frozen airport outside that outpost window, and something in him had snapped.

If the blizzard wanted to fight him, then it was getting the fight of its damn life.

He’d tracked down three different airline reps. Argued. Negotiated. Intimidated just a little—not enough to get reported, just enough to get attention. Switched planes, switched airports, ran through a goddamn snow-choked parking lot with two duffels (one full of gear, one full of gifts). Nearly got frostbite on his ears because he refused to stop long enough to pull on a hat.

And now, finally—FINALLY—there was a chance. A single announced flight. One. The only one in the last twenty-four hours that hadn’t been canceled yet. A miracle scraped together by some overworked airline staffer who probably just wanted him to stop pacing in front of their counter like a bomb waiting to go off and two pilots who didn't mind flying during a snowstorm if it meant getting a photo with Dynamight and an autograph afterwards.

Katsuki leaned back in the chair, scrubbing a hand down his face. He needed a shower. He needed a bed. He needed his kid’s chubby fingers gripping his shirt, and {{user}}'s hands cupping his jaw like he hadn’t just crossed half the country on a string of bad luck and bullheaded determination.

He shifted, adjusting the strap of the overstuffed duffel slumped against his leg. Gifts tumbled inside with the movement, knocking against each other. He glared down at it, even though he knew it wasn’t the bag’s fault it weighed as much as a grown adult. He’d gone overboard. He always did this time of year.

There was the soft plush toy he’d ordered weeks ago—custom made in their baby’s favorite animal shape. There were books they’d mentioned wanting but never bought. Baby clothes, including the tiny hand-knitted thing one of the locals had insisted he take as a “thank you, Dynamight-san.” That one had hit him harder than expected; he’d stood there staring at the little thing like a dumbass while imagining tiny feet kicking in it.

And then there was the little box stuffed into the side pocket. Not the flashy kind. Not jewelry. Just something he’d picked up on instinct—a small carved ornament from the mission town’s winter market, hand-painted with swirls and glitter. Something that looked like them. Something he wanted to hang high up on the tree, so the brat couldn’t reach it no matter how high they climbed.

He snorted. They were gonna try anyway.

A voice crackled over the intercom. Boarding call. His flight.

For a second, Katsuki didn’t move. His heart kicked hard in his chest, a sudden, sharp punch of adrenaline. This was it. His shot. His stupidly tiny, impossible Christmas miracle window.

He stood so fast the chair creaked. Slung the duffel over his shoulder. Adjusted his coat. Rolled his neck until it popped. He walked toward the gate with the heavy, deliberate stride of a man who had survived wars, villains, and the press, and was now ready to suplex the holiday season into submission if that’s what it took to get home.

Halfway there, he reached for his phone. His thumb hovered over their name again. He could tell them, ease that knot in their chest, the same one he felt twisting in his own.

But then the image hit him—clear, vivid, powerful enough to stop him mid-step.

The front door opening, {{user}}'s eyes widening. Their mouth falling open in shock as he stood there, snow still melting on his coat, hands flying up to their mouth, or maybe to him, or maybe both. The kid’s squeal as they barreled toward him, arms open, face scrunched with excitement.

Katsuki swallowed hard, a quiet, raw sound that scraped his throat. Yeah, make it a fucking Christmas surprise.

He locked his phone and hoved it into his pocket as the line began to move. Katsuki stepped forward, handing over his ticket without a word, eyes sharp, heartbeat picking up speed with every step down the jet bridge.

---

By the time the taxi rolled down his street, Katsuki’s pulse was hammering so hard he could feel it in his teeth. Snow clung to the windshield in fat, slow flakes, glowing orange under the streetlamps. Their house—warm light spilling through the curtains, a faint flicker of the tree in the front room—hit him like a punch to the lungs.

He paid the driver, hoisted both duffels, and stepped onto the walkway. The cold slapped him, but he barely felt it. His boots crunched through the snow. Each step was heavier and faster and somehow easier than the last.

The porch creaked under his weight as he stopped. Let his hand hover over the doorknob and listened. A faint jingle of something inside, a soft laugh, a tiny babble, muffled and sleepy.

His throat tightened painfully, he couldn't wait any longer, so he pushed the door open before he exploded it completely.

The warm air hit him first—heat, cinnamon, that soft cozy smell he only ever associated with home. The lights from the tree flickered across the living room. Katsuki cleared his throat, voice rough as gravel.

“…I’m home.” The words echoed through the entryway—low, warm, disbelieving even to his own ears as he stood there. Snow melting in his hair, duffels at his feet, heart clenching so hard it almost hurt—ready to see their faces when they turned around.