Chapter 9: Babysitting
The cabin weekend had settled something in Katsuki, a quiet cementing of routine. The world outside their family had always felt vaguely abrasive, a place where explanations were required and judgments hovered in the air like static. Here, in the warm, cluttered embrace of their home, there was only the simple logic of need and care.
It was a Thursday evening. Hizashi and Shouta had tickets to a symphony—a rare, long-planned night out. Hitoshi was at a late studio session, laying down tracks for a class project. Which left Katsuki, sprawled on the living room floor with his culinary textbook open, and Izuku nestled in the nest of cushions beside him, contentedly gumming a silicone teething ring shaped like a strawberry.
The house was quiet, filled with the golden hour light slanting through the bay window. Katsuki had music playing low from his phone—something instrumental, a study mix. He glanced over at Izuku every few minutes, a habitual check. Izuku’s wine-red eyes were half-lidded, focused on the toy in his hands, his white curls soft against the pale yellow cushion. He was dressed in a simple, long-sleeved onesie with tiny ducks on it, his legs covered in thick, footed socks. A light, clean scent of baby powder and oatmeal soap clung to him.
Katsuki reached out and absently smoothed a curl from Izuku’s forehead. “Bored?”
Izuku looked up, blinking. He let the teether drop onto his chest. “Up?”
“In a minute. Let me finish this section.”
He returned to his reading, annotating a paragraph on the Maillard reaction. The silence was comfortable, dense with a familial peace he rarely acknowledged but always felt. It was why he’d volunteered for tonight. The idea of some stranger, even a vetted sitter, in their space, handling Izuku… it made his skin prickle. It was their secret to keep, their rhythm to maintain.
The doorbell rang.
Katsuki’s head snapped up. No one was expected. Delivery drivers never rang; they just left packages on the stoop. He frowned, marking his page with a pencil.
The bell rang again, followed by a series of rapid, impatient knocks.
“Alright, alright,” he muttered, pushing himself to his feet. Izuku made a soft sound of protest at the movement. “Just a second, Zu.”
He padded to the front door, not bothering with the peephole. He pulled it open, an impatient question already on his lips, and froze.
Three faces grinned back at him from the dim porch light. Chris, tall and lanky with a mop of brown hair, held a bulging overnight bag. Mark, solid and square-jawed, had a six-pack of craft soda dangling from his fingers. Noah, the perpetually grinning one, held up a pizza box like a trophy.
“Surprise, man!” Chris said, his voice too loud for the quiet street. “We were bored, saw you were home on Snap Map, and decided to crash your fortress of solitude.”
“Yeah,” Mark chimed in. “You never have people over. We’re invading. Got pizza. Soda. Chris even brought his fucking Switch.”
Katsuki stood in the doorway, his body blocking their view into the house. His mind raced. He could send them away. Make an excuse. But they’d ask why, they’d push. They were his friends from culinary school, loud and nosy and relentlessly social. Sending them away would create more questions than it solved.
He heard a soft, questioning coo from behind him. Izuku had pulled himself to a wobbly stand against the couch, watching the doorway with wide, curious eyes.
Noah peered past Katsuki’s shoulder. “Whoa, you got a kid in there?”
The decision crystallized in a split second. Denial was impossible. Simplicity was the only shield. He stepped back, his face settling into its usual scowl, though his heart was hammering against his ribs. “Yeah. I’m babysitting. My little brother. You clowns are gonna keep it down.”
“Babysitting?” Chris’s face lit up with genuine delight. “Dude, you never said you had a little brother! How old is he?”
Katsuki turned, walking back into the living room without answering, leaving the door open. An invitation. A surrender. He went straight to Izuku, who immediately raised his arms, making a small ‘uh’ sound. Katsuki hoisted him onto his hip, feeling the familiar, slight weight settle against him. He turned to face his friends as they filed in, their boisterous energy suddenly dampened by the domestic scene.
“This is Izuku,” Katsuki said, his voice deliberately flat. “Izuku, these are some noisy idiots. Ignore them if you can.”
Chris dropped his bag by the door, his eyes soft on Izuku. “Hey, little guy.” He had a younger sister he doted on; his affection for kids was immediate and uncomplicated.
Mark and Noah hovered, looking suddenly awkward in the cozy, toy-dotted living room. They took in the playmat, the stack of board books, the pack of wipes on the coffee table.
“So, you’re babysitting all night?” Noah asked, holding up the pizza. “We can still…?”
Katsuki adjusted Izuku on his hip. “Yeah. Parents are out. Hitoshi’s late at the studio. You can stay, but you’re on baby-duty volume. And if you wake him up later, I’m using you both as stock.”
Mark laughed, the tension breaking. “Fair enough.” He headed for the kitchen. “Plates?”
“Cabinet to the left of the sink.”
The next hour was a strange, seamless blending of Katsuki’s two worlds. They ate pizza on the floor, the box open on the coffee table. Izuku sat in the circle of Katsuki’s legs, nibbling on a piece of crust Katsuki had torn into manageable strips and a handful of soft-cooked carrot sticks from the fridge. Chris sat cross-legged nearby, making silly faces that eventually earned him a gummy, closed-mouth smile from Izuku.
“He’s so quiet,” Chris observed, sipping his soda. “How old is he?”
Katsuki didn’t miss a beat. “He’s one.” The lie was smooth, practiced in its way. It was the age that fit the size, the demeanor, the needs. It was the label that made the world make sense.
“Awesome age,” Chris said. “They’re just little sponges. He walking yet?”
“Sort of. Cruises along furniture. Wobbly on his own.” Katsuki wiped Izuku’s mouth with the back of his thumb. “Hey. Eat your carrot.”
Izuku obediently put a piece of carrot in his mouth, sucking on it.
Noah, his mouth full of pizza, gestured at Izuku. “He looks just like you, dude. Same eyes. The hair’s way lighter, though.”
Katsuki felt a weird surge of pride. “Yeah, well.”
After eating, they migrated to the couch. Katsuki put on a nature documentary—bright colors, calm narration. Izuku, full and sleepy, curled into Katsuki’s side, his thumb finding its way to his mouth. Chris commandeered the floor, setting up his Switch and hooking it to the TV. The familiar, cartoonish sounds of a racing game filled the room, but kept at a respectful low volume.
Mark watched Katsuki, who had one hand resting on Izuku’s back, his textbook open again on his lap. “You’re kinda a natural at this, Bakugou.”
“Shut up. It’s just watching him. It’s not rocket science.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Noah chuckled. “You’re, like, weirdly gentle. It’s disturbing.”
Katsuki flipped him off without looking up.
The evening unfolded with a surprising normalcy. During a lull in the game, Izuku began to fuss, squirming and pushing his face into Katsuki’s shirt. A low, familiar whine started.
“What’s up, buddy?” Chris asked, pausing the game.
Katsuki knew. He set his book aside. “Needs a change. Be right back.” He stood, lifting Izuku. “Don’t touch my notes.”
He carried Izuku down the hall to the downstairs bathroom, which also functioned as the changing station. He left the door ajar, the routine too ingrained to require full privacy within the family. He laid Izuku on the padded mat, unsnapped the onesie, and went through the motions: wiping, cream, fresh diaper. Izuku kicked his legs, babbling softly at the ceiling.
From the living room, he heard Chris’s voice, low. “...so good with him. Never would’ve guessed.”
Mark’s reply was a murmur. “Yeah. Different side of him.”
Katsuki finished, re-snapped the onesie, and lifted Izuku back up. He didn’t hurry. Let them talk. Let them see. This was just a guy babysitting his baby brother. Nothing to dissect.
When he returned, Izuku was alert again, rubbing his eyes with tiny fists. “Tired, huh?” Katsuki murmured, sitting back down. Izuku fussed, nuzzling insistently at Katsuki’s chest. It was a clear, specific signal. The next need in the cycle.
Katsuki took a slow breath. “Alright, hold on.” He looked at his friends. Chris was engrossed in a game. Mark and Noah were on their phones. “I gotta get his bottle ready. You guys entertain yourselves for ten.”
He carried Izuku into the kitchen. He could feel the slight tremble in Izuku’s limbs, the pre-cry tension building. He moved efficiently, pulling a prepared bottle from the fridge—Hizashi always left a few, carefully measured and labeled. He placed it in the bottle warmer, a small, sleek device on the counter. As it hummed, he rocked Izuku gently, swaying from foot to foot.
“Almost, Zu. Just a minute.”
The warmer beeped. He tested the temperature on his wrist, then walked back into the living room. He settled into the corner of the large, soft armchair that was Hizashi’s usual nursing spot, a faint, sweet scent of milk clinging to it. He adjusted Izuku in the crook of his arm, offering the bottle.
Izuku latched onto the silicone nipple immediately, his eyes fluttering closed as he began to suckle with deep, rhythmic pulls. The room was bathed in the soft light of the TV screen, now paused on a vibrant coral reef. The only sounds were the gentle click of the game controllers and the soft, contented swallows from the chair.
Katsuki kept his gaze fixed on Izuku’s face, on the long white lashes against his cheeks, the tiny movements of his jaw. He was hyper-aware of his friends’ presence, but he forced his posture to relax. This was normal. This was just feeding a baby.
Chris had turned around, watching. His expression was unreadable for a moment, then softened into a smile. “He was hungry.”
“Yeah,” Katsuki said, his voice rough. “Schedule.”
“Can I…?” Chris gestured vaguely.
“What?”
“Can I hold him? After? I love holding babies when they’re all milk-drunk. They’re like warm little sacks of potatoes.”
Katsuki hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then he shrugged. “If he lets you. He’s kinda clingy.”
The bottle was empty a few minutes later. Izuku’s suckles slowed to nothing, his mouth going slack. Katsuki carefully lifted him to his shoulder, patting his back until a small, soft burp escaped. Izuku was now a boneless weight of sleep.
True to his word, Chris had put the controller down and approached, holding out his arms. Katsuki stood and, with a careful transfer, placed the sleeping Izuku against Chris’s shoulder. Chris immediately cradled him, one large hand supporting his diapered bottom, the other spread across his back. He began a slow, swaying walk around the perimeter of the living room.
“Hey, little man,” Chris whispered, his voice a feather. “Out like a light.”
Mark and Noah watched, smiling. The scene was disarming in its sweetness. Katsuki busied himself with putting the bottle in the sink, then returned, hovering near Chris but trying not to look like he was hovering.
“He’s really light,” Chris noted.
“Yeah.”
“Super cute. You’re lucky. My sister was a demon at this age. Screamed like a banshee.”
Katsuki felt a strange, defensive pride. “Izuku’s pretty easy. Most of the time.”
After a few more minutes, Katsuki took him back. “Gotta put him down.” He carried Izuku to the pack-and-play that was set up in the corner of his parents’ bedroom on the main floor. He laid him down on the fitted sheet, tucking the familiar soft blanket around him. Izuku sighed in his sleep, curling onto his side, thumb near his lips.
Katsuki stood there for a long moment, listening to the even breaths. The door was slightly ajar, letting in a sliver of light and the muffled sounds of his friends’ laughter from the living room. The two worlds were coexisting. It was working.
He returned to find Chris, Mark, and Noah setting up sleeping bags on the living room floor. The pizza box was gone, the coffee table cleared.
“So,” Mark said, grinning. “We still having this sleepover or what?”
Katsuki snorted, grabbing his own pillow from the couch. “Guess so. Just remember the rule: you wake the baby, you die.”
The night deepened. They played games, talked about school, about stupid chef instructors, about the future. The conversation was normal, punctuated by the low sound of the documentary now playing again for background noise. Every so often, Katsuki would get up and pad silently to the bedroom door, peering in at the dark shape in the pack-and-play. Each time, the steady, slow rise and fall of Izuku’s back reassured him.
At one point, around midnight, a soft cry filtered through the door. Katsuki was on his feet before the others even registered it.
“I got it.”
He slipped into the room. Izuku was awake, sitting up in the dim glow of the nightlight, face crumpled and wet with tears. Disoriented. Needing comfort.
“Hey, shh,” Katsuki whispered, lifting him out. The diaper was dry. This was just a night waking. He carried him back into the living room, where his friends were in a hushed debate about video game lore.
“Just needs a minute,” Katsuki said, sinking back into the armchair. He didn’t bother with a bottle this time. He just held Izuku against his chest, his hand rubbing slow circles on his back. He began to hum, low and tuneless, a vibration in his chest. It was a sound he’d used a thousand times, a private lullaby.
Izuku’s crying subsided into hiccups, then into quiet, shuddery breaths. His small fingers clutched Katsuki’s shirt.
Noah watched them, his usual grin absent. “You’re gonna make a great dad someday, Katsuki.”
Katsuki didn’t look up, just kept humming, his cheek resting on Izuku’s white curls. “Whatever.”
Chris smiled, his eyes warm in the TV’s glow. “Nah, he’s right. It’s cool to see.”
Katsuki let the comment hang, neither accepting nor rejecting it. He focused on the weight in his arms, the steadying heartbeat against his own. After ten minutes, Izuku was deeply asleep again. He carried him back to bed.
When he returned, the conversation had moved on. They were planning a hypothetical food truck. The moment had passed, absorbed into the fabric of the night.
Eventually, they all drifted off. The TV off, the house dark except for the porch light filtering through the blinds. Katsuki lay on the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes, listening to the symphony of his friends’ snores and, from the other room, the faint, peaceful sound of Izuku’s sleep. The house was full. His secret was kept, not by bars and locks, but by the simple, disarming normalcy of a baby brother, a bottle, and a careful, practiced performance of ordinary care.
He fell asleep with the scent of milk and baby powder on his shirt, and the unspoken knowledge that for tonight, at least, the walls of their world had held firm.