The waiting room smelled like antiseptic and new carpet, the kind of clean that felt sterile and impersonal. Izuku's fingers twisted in the hem of his shirt, his knee bouncing as he sat in the plastic chair. Katsuki stood beside him, one hand resting on the back of Izuku's neck, thumb tracing slow circles against his skin.
"You're gonna wear a hole in the floor," Katsuki muttered, but his voice was low, almost soft. He crouched down, bringing himself level with Izuku's face. "I told you. Best doctor money can buy. He's gonna take care of you. Both of you." His hand slid down, palm flat against the curve of Izuku's belly through his thin sweater.
Izuku let out a shaky breath, leaning into the touch. "I know. I just—" He swallowed. "I've never done this before. The whole... pregnancy thing. It's real now. We're really doing this." His green eyes flicked up, searching Katsuki's face for any hint of doubt. He found none.
"Damn right we are." Katsuki's thumb pressed a little harder against the swell of Izuku's stomach. "You're carrying my kid. I'm not gonna miss a single appointment. Not one." He straightened, his hand moving to cup Izuku's jaw, tilting his face up. "Whatever they ask, you answer. I'll be right here."
A nurse called their names, and Izuku stood on unsteady legs. Katsuki's hand found the small of his back, a steady pressure guiding him down the hallway. The exam room was small, paper-thin walls, a table covered in crinkling white paper. Izuku sat on the edge, his hands gripping his thighs.
Dr. Aizawa entered a moment later—tall, dark-haired, with tired eyes that held a sharp intelligence. He introduced himself briefly, his voice a low, professional rumble. "Mr. Midoriya. Mr. Bakugou. Let's get some basics down first." He pulled out a tablet, scrolling through questions. "Family history. Any genetic conditions, chronic illnesses we should know about?"
Izuku's throat tightened. His hands twisted in his lap. "My mother—she had some... anxiety issues. Depression. Nothing physical." The words came out thin, brittle. Katsuki's hand found his, fingers lacing through, squeezing once. Steady. Grounding.
"And your father?" Dr. Aizawa asked, his pen hovering over the tablet.
"I don't know him." The words came faster, practiced. "Never met him. It's just—it was just me and my mom." Izuku's voice cracked on the last word. "Inko. Inko Midoriya. She—" He stopped, his jaw tightening. "She's not in my life anymore. Hasn't been for a while."
Katsuki's hand tightened around his. Something flickered in his red eyes—not anger, not concern. Something else. Something that made his thumb stop its slow, soothing motion. "Inko," he repeated, the name low in his throat. Almost testing it. "Midoriya."
Katsuki's jaw tightened. The name—Inko Midoriya—kept circling in his skull, a fly in a jar, but he forced it down. Not now. Focus. "What about your father's side?" he asked, his voice rougher than he intended. "No history of—"
"No," Izuku cut in, a brittle laugh escaping. "Whoever my father was, he left before I was born. No name. No nothing. Just—" He gestured vaguely at himself. "These freckles. This hair." He swallowed. "Guess I got the green from her."
Dr. Aizawa made a note, his expression unreadable. "And your mother's current health? Is she available for—"
"No." The word came sharp, final. Izuku's hands twisted in his lap. "She's not. She—" He stopped, his throat working. "She doesn't want anything to do with me. Hasn't for two years." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Not since I told her I was her son."
The words landed in the sterile air, raw and bleeding. Katsuki's hand found the back of Izuku's neck again, fingers pressing into the tense muscle, firm and grounding. "Okay," he said, low. "We don't need her. Got everything we need right here." His thumb swept across Izuku's nape, once, twice. "You, me, the kid, the one growing in you. That's the family history that matters."
Izuku's eyes were wet when he looked up, but he nodded, a shudder running through him. "Okay," he breathed. "Okay." He turned back to Dr. Aizawa, squaring his shoulders. "Ask me whatever else you need. I'll answer." His hand found Katsuki's where it rested on his neck, fingers curling around his wrist, holding on.
Katsuki held Izuku's hand tighter, the name still burning in the back of his throat. Inko Midoriya. He'd kissed a girl with that name once. Held her in the back of his car. Promised her things he never delivered. But he pushed it down, buried it under the weight of Izuku's warmth against his palm, and kept his eyes fixed forward.
The house was quiet when they stepped through the front door, the afternoon light slanting through the windows in golden streaks. Izuku held the ultrasound photo like it was made of glass, his thumb tracing the tiny curve of the spine, the blurred shape of a head, the flutter of a heartbeat captured in grainy black and white.
"Look," he breathed, holding it up. "That's the head. And those little dots—those are fingers, Katsuki. They can see fingers already." His voice cracked on the last word, wonder bleeding through.
Katsuki stepped up behind him, his chest pressing against Izuku's back, his chin dropping to rest on Izuku's shoulder. His hand found Izuku's, guiding the photo steady. "Yeah," he said, low and rough. "I see it. Got your fucking hands already. Probably gonna be grabbing everything you don't want him to."
Izuku laughed, wet and bright. "Or her. We don't know yet."
"Him." Katsuki's voice was certain. "It's a boy. I can feel it." His palm slid down, spreading over the swell of Izuku's belly. "Another son. Gonna be fucking perfect."
They stood like that for a long moment, the photo held in front of them, the weight of the day settling around their shoulders. But something was off. Katsuki's hand was warm, but his breathing had changed—shorter, tighter. His jaw brushed against Izuku's temple, and Izuku felt the muscle jump.
"Hey." Izuku tilted his head back, searching Katsuki's face. "You okay? You've been quiet since we left."
Katsuki didn't answer right away. His red eyes were fixed on the photo, but Izuku could tell he wasn't seeing it anymore. His thumb stopped moving against Izuku's stomach. "Your mom," he said finally, the words rough. "Inko. You said she—she was the one who raised you. Just the two of you."
"Yeah." Izuku's voice went cautious. "Why?"
Katsuki pulled away, turning to face the counter. His hand dragged through his hair, gripping the blond spikes. "Do you have a picture of her?" He didn't turn around. "Of Inko. From when she was younger. College age, maybe."
Izuku's heart dropped into his stomach. "Katsuki. What are you—"
"Just answer me." Katsuki's voice was harder now, a crack in the control. "Do you have one?"
Izuku's hands trembled around the ultrasound. "I—yeah. In my phone. There's one from her old Facebook before she deleted it. I saved it a long time ago." He swallowed, his throat dry. "Why do you want to see my mother?"
Katsuki finally turned. His face was pale under the tan, his red eyes burning with something Izuku had never seen before. Not anger. Fear. "Because I dated an Inko Midoriya twenty years ago. In college. Green hair. Green eyes." His voice dropped to a whisper. "And I need to know if she's the same woman who raised you."
Izuku's blood turned to ice. His hands went numb around the ultrasound, the edges digging into his palms. "You—" His voice cracked, fell apart, came back smaller. "You dated my mother." It wasn't a question. The pieces were already snapping together in his skull—the green hair, the green eyes, the way Katsuki's jaw had locked at the name in the doctor's office. "Twenty years ago. You were in college. She was in college." His breath came faster, shallower. "I'm eighteen. I was born—"
He stopped. The math was simple. Too simple. His stomach lurched, and for a horrible second he thought he might be sick right there on the kitchen tile.
"No." Katsuki's voice cut through, sharp and hard, but his face was the color of bone. "Don't fucking go there, Izuku. It's not—" He stopped, dragged a hand down his face. "It's probably some other woman. Same name. Fucking common name. Midoriya. There's a million—"
"Show you the picture." The words came out of Izuku's mouth before he knew he was saying them. His voice was hollow, distant, like someone else was speaking. "If it's not her, you'll know. You'll recognize the face." His hands were shaking as he pulled his phone from his pocket, fingers fumbling over the screen. "I saved it a long time ago. Before she deleted everything. Before she—" He swallowed, hard. "Before she stopped being my mom."
Katsuki didn't move. His red eyes were fixed on Izuku's hands, on the phone trembling between them. "Izuku—"
"Just look." Izuku turned the screen around, the photo already pulled up. A woman in her early twenties, standing on a college quad, green hair loose around her shoulders, green eyes bright with laughter. The same constellation of freckles across her nose. The same soft curve of her jaw. The same smile Izuku had seen in the mirror every morning of his life.
Katsuki stared. His hand dropped from his face. The color drained from his skin, leaving him gray, carved from stone. His lips parted, but no sound came out.
"It's her." Izuku's voice was barely a whisper. He knew before Katsuki confirmed it. He knew from the way the air in the room changed, from the way Katsuki's chest stopped moving, from the way his own heart was trying to pound its way out of his ribs. "Oh god. Oh god, Katsuki, it's her."
Katsuki's hand shot out, gripping the edge of the counter. The wood creaked under his weight. "I—" His voice was raw, scraped clean of everything. "We were together for six months. Junior year. She broke it off. Said she was moving. Said she didn't want to do long distance." He wasn't looking at Izuku anymore. He was looking at the photo, at the ghost of a girl he'd fucked in the back of his car. "I never asked if she was pregnant. She never told me."
Izuku's legs gave out. He hit the floor before he felt himself falling, the phone clattering beside him, the ultrasound photo crumpling in his grip. His hands went to his stomach, to the swell where Katsuki's baby was growing. "You're my father," he breathed, the words tasting like ash. "You're my fucking father, Katsuki."
The silence that followed was absolute. The kitchen clock ticked. Somewhere in the house, Natsuki made a soft, sleeping sound.
Katsuki slid down the counter, his body folding until he was on the floor beside Izuku, his head in his hands. "I didn't know," he said, and his voice broke on the last word. "I swear to god, I didn't fucking know."
Izuku looked at him—at the man who had fucked him, filled him, claimed him, promised him forever. At the man who had put a baby in his belly. At the man who was also his father. His hand moved before he could stop it, reaching out, fingers brushing Katsuki's knee.
Katsuki's arms moved before he thought, hauling Izuku off the cold tile and into his chest, crushing him against the thud of his own heart. "I'm sorry," he said, the words rough and broken, spilling out like blood from a wound. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" His hand fisted in the back of Izuku's shirt, the other pressing flat against the curve of Izuku's spine, holding him like he might dissolve if he let go. "I didn't know. I fucking swear I didn't know. If I'd known—" His voice cracked, died, came back smaller. "I wouldn't have—I never would have—"
Izuku's face pressed into the hollow of Katsuki's throat, his tears hot and wet against the salt of his skin. His body shook with silent, ragged sobs, his fingers curling into the fabric of Katsuki's shirt, twisting, clinging. "You're all I have," he whispered, the words muffled, desperate. "You're all I fucking have, Katsuki. I don't have anyone else. She left me. My mom left me. And now—" His breath hitched, a raw, ugly sound. "Now you're the one who made me. You made me and you put another one inside me."
Katsuki's arms tightened, his jaw grinding against Izuku's hair. "I know." His voice was barely a rasp. "I know, baby. I know." He pulled back just enough to look at Izuku's face, his thumbs brushing the tears from his freckled cheeks. "I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I should have known. I should have remembered her face. I should have—" He stopped, his red eyes burning, his own breath shaking. "I was twenty. I was a fucking kid. I didn't know she was pregnant. She never told me."
Izuku's hands came up, trembling, and cupped Katsuki's jaw. His green eyes were red-rimmed, swollen, but they held Katsuki's gaze. "It doesn't change it," he said, his voice thin and raw. "It doesn't change that I love you. It shouldn't. It's wrong. It's fucking disgusting. But I—" He let out a broken laugh, wet and hollow. "I still want you. I still want this. I still want our baby. I still want Natsuki. I want all of it, even knowing what I know now."
Katsuki's forehead dropped to Izuku's, their breaths mingling, hot and ragged. "I love you too." The words came out like a confession, like a wound. "I loved you before I knew. I love you now. And I don't know how to fucking live with that. But I can't—" His voice broke. "I can't lose you. I can't lose either of you. You're my—" He stopped, the word father hanging unspoken between them. "You're my everything."
Izuku's fingers slid into Katsuki's hair, gripping the blond spikes, pulling him closer until their lips were a breath apart. "We can't tell anyone," he said, the words fierce and quiet. "No one can ever know. Not the baby. Not Natsuki. Not anyone. This—" He pressed his forehead harder against Katsuki's. "This stays between us. The doctors have my mom's name. They don't need yours. We make sure it never comes out."
Katsuki's hand slid down, pressing flat against Izuku's belly, feeling the swell of their child beneath his palm. "We'll burn the records if we have to," he said, low and hard. "I'll fucking buy the whole clinic. No one will ever know." His red eyes found Izuku's green ones, and something in them shifted—hardened, softened, both at once. "But I need you to look me in the eye and tell me you're still mine. After everything. After knowing."
Izuku's hand covered Katsuki's on his stomach, pressing down. "I've never been anyone else's," he said, his voice cracking but steady. "I'm yours. I'm always yours. Even if it's wrong. Even if it's the worst thing I've ever done. I'm yours." He leaned in and kissed Katsuki's cheek, soft and slow, tasting the salt of his tears. "And you're mine."
Katsuki's breath shuddered out of him, his whole body collapsing into Izuku's, his arms wrapping around him like he was the only anchor in a storm. "Yeah," he whispered into Izuku's hair. "I'm yours. Fuck. I'm yours."
Katsuki's mouth found his again before Izuku could breathe, before the tears on his cheeks had dried. The kiss was desperate, bruising—a claim staked in the dark of the kitchen, in the wreckage of everything they'd just uncovered. His hand fisted in Izuku's hair, tilting his head back, taking his mouth like he was still fighting to own it.
Izuku melted into him, because what else could he do? His fingers found Katsuki's jaw, held on, kissed him back with the same frantic hunger. The taste of salt and copper and something broken passed between them.
Katsuki pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead pressed to Izuku's, his red eyes burning through the dark. "Marry me."
The words landed like a punch. Izuku's breath caught, his hands going still on Katsuki's face. "What?"
"Marry me." Katsuki's voice was rough, scraped raw, but steady. His thumb traced Izuku's cheekbone, smearing a tear. "As soon as the divorce is final. As soon as I'm fucking free of her. I want you. I want our baby. I want Natsuki. All of it. I want—" His voice cracked. "I want to wake up next to you every goddamn day for the rest of my life. Even knowing what we know. Even with this—" He pressed his palm flat against Izuku's belly. "I don't care. I don't fucking care. You're mine."
Izuku shook his head, a choked sound escaping his throat. "Katsuki, you're not even divorced yet. You just—Ochako just left. And we—" He gestured between them, his hand trembling. "We can't just—"
"I don't give a shit about any of that." Katsuki's jaw tightened, his red eyes fierce and wet. "She's gone. She's been gone for years in every way that matters. The only thing keeping that marriage alive was a piece of paper and a baby she never even wanted. I'm done pretending." His hand slid to the back of Izuku's neck, gripping, grounding. "I'm done pretending this isn't the only thing that's ever felt real."
Izuku's breath shuddered out of him. His green eyes searched Katsuki's face—the hard line of his jaw, the fire in his eyes, the tremor in his hand that he was trying so hard to hide. "You really mean it," he whispered. Not a question. A realization.
"I've never meant anything more in my entire fucking life." Katsuki's voice dropped to a raw, broken whisper. "Marry me, Izuku. Let me give you my name. Let me give our baby my name. Let me—" He stopped, swallowed, pressed his forehead harder against Izuku's. "Let me spend the rest of my life proving I'm worthy of this. Of you. Even after everything."
Izuku's tears spilled over, hot and silent, tracking down his freckled cheeks. His hand slid down, covering Katsuki's on his belly, pressing their joined palms against the swell. "Yes," he breathed, the word fragile and terrified and certain all at once. "Yes. I'll marry you. As soon as you're free. As soon as we can make it real." He let out a wet, broken laugh, his forehead falling to Katsuki's shoulder. "I'll marry you, Katsuki."
Katsuki's arms came around him, crushing him close, his face buried in Izuku's hair. His shoulders shook once—just once—and then he held tighter, like he was never letting go. "Thank you," he said, the words muffled, raw, almost lost against Izuku's curls. "Thank you for staying. For choosing this. For choosing me."
Izuku pulled back just enough to look at him, his green eyes meeting red, both of them wrecked and broken and burning. "I chose you the first time I walked into your office," he said, his voice steady despite everything.
The rocking chair creaked under Izuku's weight, a slow, steady rhythm that matched the soft breathing of the baby against his chest. Izumi was warm and small, her tiny fist curled against his collarbone, her lips parted in the slack, boneless sleep of the newborn. The nursery was dim, lit only by the soft yellow glow of the nightlight shaped like a crescent moon. Izuku's hand traced slow circles on her back, feeling the rise and fall of her ribs, the flutter of her heartbeat against his palm.
Six months. Six months since the kitchen floor, since the confession, since the ring had slid onto his finger. Six months of carrying this secret, of building this life, of watching his belly swell until Izumi forced her way into the world with a cry that sounded like a promise. She had his curls—fine and green, already a mess—and Katsuki's eyes, red and fierce even at two months old. And freckles. A sprinkle of them across her nose, like a constellation mapped in miniature.
The door opened, a whisper of sound, and Katsuki slipped through, his silhouette filling the frame. His voice was a low rumble, barely audible, sanded down to something soft. "Natsuki's out. Finally." He crossed the room in three quiet strides, stopping behind Izuku's chair, his hand coming to rest on Izuku's shoulder. "This one?"
Izuku smiled, the motion tired and warm. "Just went down. I think she fought it for a little while, but she lost." He tilted his head back, meeting Katsuki's gaze upside down. Red met green, and the room felt smaller, warmer, full of something that didn't need words.
Katsuki's thumb brushed the curve of Izuku's shoulder, a slow, absent touch. "You should put her down. Your back's gonna kill you."
"In a minute." Izuku rocked once more, twice, then stood, cradling Izumi against his chest. He crossed to the crib, a white thing trimmed with pale wood, and lowered her into it with the careful, practiced hands of someone who had done this a thousand times. Her head touched the mattress, and she stirred, her mouth making a small sucking motion, then stilled. Izuku’s fingers lingering on the soft curve of her cheek.
Katsuki's arm slid around Izuku's waist, pulling him back against his chest. His chin dropped to Izuku's shoulder, his breath warm against his ear. "She looks like you."
"She has your eyes."
"She has everything else of yours." Katsuki's hand flattened against Izuku's stomach, the place where Izumi had grown, the place that was still soft and warm. "She's perfect."
Izuku leaned into him, letting his eyes close, letting the weight of the day settle into Katsuki's arms. "Yeah," he breathed. "She is."
They stood there for a long moment, watching Izumi sleep, the only sound the soft hum of the nightlight and the distant tick of a clock. Then Katsuki turned, his hand finding Izuku's, and led him out of the nursery, pulling the door closed until the latch clicked.
In the hallway, the light was brighter, the hush of the house settling around them like a blanket. Katsuki's hand came up, cupping Izuku's jaw, tilting his face up. His thumb traced the line of his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth. "You're tired," he said, not a question.
"I'm happy." Izuku's smile was small, but it reached his eyes. "There's a difference."
Katsuki's mouth found his, slow and soft, a kiss that tasted like the future. Izuku's fingers came up to grip Katsuki's shirt, pulling him closer, and the ring on his finger caught the light—a thin band of rose gold with a single diamond, catching the light and scattering it. It was beautiful. It was his. It was a promise kept.
When they broke apart, Katsuki rested his forehead against Izuku's. His red eyes were dark, soft, full of something that made Izuku's chest ache. "I love you," he said, the words rough and raw and real. "I love you, and I love our kids, and I love this life. Even after everything. I love it."
Izuku's voice cracked, but the smile never left his face. "I love you too. And we're here. We made it."
Katsuki's hand slid down, lacing their fingers together, the ring pressing warm against Izuku's skin. "Yeah," he said, his voice a whisper. "We made it."