Unprofessional Conduct

Aizawa didn’t look up when they stepped into the dim conference room, only flicked his wrist to shut the blinds. The city went from gray to charcoal behind the slats, and the hum of the building’s ventilation swallowed the silence.

“Sit,” he said, tone flat, fingers tapping a tablet. Bakugou dropped into a chair with his usual graceless thud, one boot kicking out, arms folding like a barricade. Midoriya took the seat beside him with careful distance, notebook already in his hands, pen poised.

Aizawa slid a file across the table. “This is need-to-know. If it leaks, people die.”

Midoriya’s breath caught as he opened the folder. Photographs, blurry surveillance stills, crisp magazine spreads—the smiling face of Kaito Ishikawa next to charity galas, red carpets, a glass of champagne held just so. Every other photo showed crates, symbols stenciled on metal, shadows passing through warehouse spaces.

“He’s clean on paper,” Aizawa said. “Untouchable. Philanthropist. He funds scholarships, hospital wings. He also runs a smuggling ring that supplies black-market support gear and experimental enhancers to villain cells. The money keeps them mobile. The gear keeps them one step ahead.”

Bakugou’s jaw shifted, a muscle ticking. “So we blow his operation. Why are we in a conference room and not a drop ship?”

“Because every attempt to get close using standard cover has failed,” Aizawa said, eyes finally lifting. “He doesn’t do business with singles. He doesn’t flirt. He doesn’t gamble. He invests. He tells his people he only trusts established pairs, the kind who look like they’re in it for the long haul. Long-term partners. Stable units. He thinks it makes them less likely to flip.”

Midoriya’s pen hovered over paper, his brain already racing. “So—so he’s filtering for predictability. For low volatility. He’ll only open doors to what he perceives as ‘secure bonds.’ That’s fascinating. He’s substituting emotional optics for traditional background checks—”

“Spare me the essay,” Bakugou muttered, but there was a faint furrow in his brow, interest despite himself.

Aizawa angled the tablet so they could see. A map blossomed there—a constellation of event locations linked with pale threads, dates stamped beneath each glittering icon. “He’s hosting and attending a series of galas over the next three weeks. Private auctions. Museum endowments. Quiet after-parties. That’s your entry. You’re both top ten. You have a public history that can be edited into a story that he will believe.”

Midoriya looked up. The room felt smaller. He could hear the faint scrape of Bakugou’s boot against the floor. “You want us to—?”

“Go undercover as a couple,” Aizawa said, unblinking. “You are Deku and Dynamight, long-term partners off the clock. You will attend the events together. You will be seen. You will be convincing.”

Bakugou’s laugh was short and disbelieving. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Aizawa didn’t react. “You’ll have support, but you’ll be on your own at the parties. We need Ishikawa’s trust to access the inner circle, which is where the manifests and payment trails live. You’ll blend. You’ll listen. You’ll get us proof.”

Midoriya’s fingers tightened around his pen. He could see flashes of tuxedos and cameras, of Bakugou in a suit standing too close, the way people would watch them, judge every look. Heat climbed up his neck. “Sir, with respect… we can do an undercover op. But a couple? The optics—how do we establish enough history to pass a surface scan?”

“We’ve been seeding the idea,” Aizawa said. “Your last joint mission reports had redacted segments entered into public record. A few strategically vague photos. Comments you didn’t make but didn’t deny.” He handed over a second packet—screenshots of gossip headlines, a blurred shot of them leaving a training facility together, shoulders almost—almost—brushing. “You’ll build the rest. A timeline. Shared milestones. You’ll be briefed by Ms. Jiro from PR on what to stick to in interviews if you’re caught on camera. We keep it consistent. We keep it boring. He’ll eat it up.”

Bakugou leaned forward, bristling. “You set this up without asking us.”

“I’m asking now,” Aizawa said. “Because this is the cleanest way in, and because you’re the only two available who can sell it. You have chemistry on the field. You know each other’s rhythms. He’ll see that and fill in the blanks.”

Midoriya swallowed, belly tight with nerves and something else he didn’t want to name. Their rhythms. The way Bakugou always seemed to know the angle he’d take, the step he’d make. The idea of converting that into… he pressed his pen to paper to steady his hands.

“What are the rules?” he asked. “Earpieces? Dead drops? What’s our mission scope at the first gala?”

“Light contact,” Aizawa said. “No aggressive moves unless your life is in danger. You’ll have micro-comm units and a panic signal that pings your location to a perimeter team. You’ll be introduced to a liaison who can get a message to us through the catering staff. First goal is observation and presence. You memorize the room. Note faces. Identify who he defers to and who defers to him. Second goal is to get invited somewhere quieter. He likes to test people in private. We aim to pass the first test.”

Bakugou’s hands closed into fists on the table, knuckles pale. “And the costumes? You expect me to wear some peacock suit?”

“We’ll have formal wear delivered to a safe house,” Aizawa said. “You’re moving in tonight. Proximity will be required to sell the cover. You’ll split a bed if you have to. You will figure out the rest.”

Midoriya’s heart skipped. He darted a glance at Bakugou and looked away. “We can do this,” he said, voice low. “We have to.”

Aizawa softened by a fraction, tired eyes taking both of them in. “I know you can. I wouldn’t give it to you otherwise.” He stood, gathering the remains of his files. “You have twenty-four hours to set your story. A stylist will meet you at the safe house at eighteen hundred. Memorize the timeline before then. Don’t improvise unless you’re about to be unmasked. And Midoriya?”

Midoriya jerked his head up. “Yes, sir?”

“Keep your notes in your head. No paper trail.”

Midoriya flushed and closed the notebook at once. “Right. Sorry.”

Bakugou exhaled through his nose, a rough, reluctant acceptance settling like grit. “We crash his parties,” he said, standing in one swift motion. “Fine. We’ll make it look good enough he’ll never see us coming.”

“Make it look real,” Aizawa corrected. He opened the blinds again; daylight sliced back into the room. “Dismissed.”

Aizawa didn’t wait for their assent. He tapped the tablet, bringing up a clip of Ishikawa on some lifestyle show. The man’s laugh was easy, the cut of his suit perfect. He had the kind of face people leaned toward without meaning to. Midoriya registered the details automatically—posture open, gaze level, fingers relaxed on the armrest despite the glare of studio lights. Controlled. Charming. Dangerous.

“He’s not careless,” Aizawa said. “Every meeting is a screening. He won’t get cornered because he never lets anyone close who might corner him. He trusts pairs who present as established. He thinks a long-term bond makes you predictable. He thinks a ‘we’ won’t bolt the minute things get complicated.”

Midoriya’s mind leapt ahead, assembling the logic. “He’s outsourcing vetting to the appearance of intimacy,” he murmured, half to himself. “If both parties are invested, he assumes the risk of betrayal is split and thus lower. It’s a flawed heuristic, but socially it tracks—most people give more benefit of the doubt to couples. He’s weaponized that.”

Bakugou made a low sound that could have been a scoff. “So the trick is we give him what he wants.”

“The trick,” Aizawa said, “is you become what he wants to see. He doesn’t respond to casual flings. He’ll probe for history. He’ll watch your tells. He’ll see if you can’t keep your hands from each other in the right ways and keep them to yourselves in the right moments. He has a security head who lives for this. She’ll be hunting for inconsistencies.”

Bakugou’s eyes cut to Midoriya as if to say, there’s nothing to find because there’s nothing there. Midoriya felt the look like a nudge just under his ribs and pushed his chin up.

“What specifically qualifies as ‘established’ to him?” Midoriya asked, keeping his voice steady. “Time markers? Public appearances? Shared residences?”

“All of the above,” Aizawa said. “He’s seen too many fake rings and stiff smiles. He trusts the quiet stuff. Familiarity. The way you move around each other. The way you get lazy with boundaries. He’s big on anniversaries and scars. He’ll ask for stories he thinks only you would know.”

Scars. Midoriya’s gaze flicked to Bakugou’s hands without meaning to, to the rough skin, the small nicks that never fully faded. He knew where some of them came from. He knew the ones on himself Bakugou could point to with the same certainty. The thought landed, heavy and intrusive. Too easy.

“You’re saying,” Bakugou said, voice flattening, “we pretend to make heart eyes for a month and he rolls out a red carpet.”

“You pretend convincingly,” Aizawa returned. “You sell it so well he wants to believe you because you make him feel clever for spotting a ‘real’ pair.”

Midoriya’s pulse thudded in his throat. “We’ll have to be seen between events,” he said. “Cafes, sidewalks, training facilities. A pattern of unguarded moments.”

“Already in motion,” Aizawa said. “But you’ll need to fill in the gaps with a backstory that reads true. You’ll build a timeline starting from when it could have shifted. When the rivalry turned. You’ll pick an anniversary. You’ll choose a song. You’ll decide who moved in with whom and when. You’ll remember what you fought about and how you made up.”

Bakugou’s lip curled. “This is disgusting.”

“It’s necessary,” Aizawa said, not unkindly. “You think taking a beating in an alley is the only kind of sacrifice? You’ll make people believe in you two as an ‘us.’ That’s the job.”

Midoriya exhaled, slow, counting the beat. He tried to picture how it would look, how it would feel. Bakugou’s hand finding the small of his back without having to think. His own smile tilted a few degrees softer when Bakugou said something cutting in a room where everyone else laughed too loudly. The camera flash catching them close enough that their breaths mingled. His stomach turned and warmed at once.

He realized Aizawa was watching him, measuring. “I can do my part,” Midoriya said. It sounded thin to his own ears. He straightened. “We’ll rehearse.”

“You’ll have to,” Aizawa agreed. “He won’t be fooled by the first gala’s photo call. He’ll check how you stand when no one’s looking. He’ll bring up an old sports festival moment to see if you both remember it the same way. He’ll test how you react when someone else flirts with one of you.”

Bakugou’s gaze sharpened. “He tries that, I won’t be acting.”

Aizawa’s mouth twitched before it smoothed. “Save the heat for the target. The point is, he’s not buying a ring. He’s buying the way your shoulders relax when you think you’re safe. He’s buying the way you share a glass without thinking about it. He’s buying that you don’t flinch.”

Midoriya’s hands wanted to fidget; he forced them to stillness on his thighs. He thought about the way Bakugou always took the step to his left, leaving Midoriya’s dominant side open. The space they already made around each other. Maybe it wouldn’t be as far to stretch as his nerves insisted.

“How far do we take it?” he asked, careful. “Public displays?”

“You flirt,” Aizawa said. “You touch. You keep it classy. You don’t make it a spectacle, you make it inevitable. You look like two people who forgot how to be separate when they got tired.” He let that hang a second. “You will be convincing enough that Ishikawa invites you somewhere quiet. That’s the only way we get past the outer ring.”

Bakugou breathed out through his teeth. He looked like he wanted to argue, but his shoulders were already squaring into the work. “Then we start now,” he said, rough. “If we’re doing this, we’re not half-assing it. I’m not getting benched because you two want a cute narrative.”

Midoriya met his eyes and didn’t look away. The room buzzed with the hum of the vents and something brittle easing by a notch. “We’ll get it right,” he said. The words felt like a promise with edges.

Aizawa slid two slim black cases across the table. Midoriya opened one to find earpieces, slim rings with hidden tech, a compact with a mirror that doubled as a comm relay. The other case held two simple bands—plain metal, unremarkable. They looked heavier than they were.

“If you’re wearing rings, wear them like they belong to you,” Aizawa said. “If you don’t, your hands better be just as sure without them. You have twenty-four hours to stop looking like you’d rather be anywhere else.”

Bakugou plucked up one of the bands and spun it once on the table, watching it wobble to a stop. He slid a glance to Midoriya that dared him to flinch. Midoriya didn’t. He reached for the other ring with steady fingers.

It was cool against his skin. It warmed faster than he expected.

Bakugou shoved back from the table so hard his chair skidded and rattled against the wall. “This is the worst idea I’ve ever heard,” he snapped, voice cracking through the room like a blast. “You want me to play house with him?” He jabbed a finger in Midoriya’s direction without looking, like the point itself burned.

Midoriya’s face heated. He forced his hands flat on the table so he wouldn’t start cataloging counterarguments out loud. “It’s not ideal,” he started carefully, eyes on Aizawa, then flicking to Bakugou’s rigid stance. “But if Ishikawa’s pattern holds, the couple requirement is our fastest vector. We’ve worked together for over a decade. We have a believable history to spin. It’s—”

“Believable?” Bakugou barked out a laugh with no humor. “In what universe are we believable like that? People who know us will choke on their drinks.”

“That’s kind of the point,” Midoriya said, trying for steady and landing somewhere near breathless. “People who think they know us aren’t the target audience. Ishikawa’s circle thrives on curated narratives. We present a version of ours they can accept. Rivalry to something else. It… tracks if we adjust the beats.”

Bakugou’s eyes narrowed, hard and bright. “I am not adjusting anything to fit their soap opera.”

“You don’t have to,” Midoriya said, because the only way through was to keep his tone even. “We choose what’s true enough to sell. We already move like a pair in the field. We know each other’s rhythms. We can build from that.”

Bakugou leaned in, bracing his fists on the table so the muscles in his forearms flexed against his sleeves. The ring caught the light on his finger and flashed like a dare. “You think you can just grin and put your hands on me and I’ll melt into it?” The word came out like it tasted foul.

Midoriya’s throat tightened. He swallowed and made himself hold Bakugou’s stare. “No. I think we can do our jobs. We don’t have to like it. We have to execute. I can handle… the proximity. Can you?”

The twitch at the corner of Bakugou’s mouth was quick and sharp. “Watch your mouth.”

“Enough,” Aizawa said, but it came like background noise. The room had shrunk down to the space between them.

Midoriya forced himself to look away first, scanning the packets spread on the table. He needed air. He needed data. “We’ll set parameters,” he said, voice thinner than he wanted. “Rules, so we don’t overstep. A list of acceptable contact points in public. The backstory timeline—”

“Of course you want a list,” Bakugou bit out. “You gonna bullet-point when I’m allowed to breathe near you?”

Midoriya’s lips parted. “If it keeps us from freezing up in front of security, yes,” he said, the spark in his chest surprising him as it hardened his tone. “If knowing you’re going to put your hand on my waist in a corridor means I don’t jump like I’m getting ambushed, then yes. I’d like to know.”

The air went hot. Bakugou’s eyes cut down, then back up, the smallest hitch in his breath betraying that he’d heard the word waist and felt it somewhere he didn’t want to name. Midoriya felt the echo low in his own body and hated that it didn’t feel purely hypothetical.

“We don’t need to like each other,” Bakugou said, straighter, rebounding into scorn as if it were armor. “We just need to fool a smug bastard and his hawk-eyed lapdog.”

Midoriya nodded quickly, relief leaking in like light under a door. “Yes. Which means we’ll need practice. Small things. Walking close. Sharing space. Eye contact that isn’t—” he gestured helplessly at the electric glare between them—“this.”

Bakugou scoffed and looked away, throat working. “Like hell I’m making heart eyes at you.”

“You don’t have to,” Midoriya said. “You just have to look like you don’t want to bolt when I stand next to you. You have to look like touching me isn’t a punishment.”

Bakugou’s gaze flicked back, something raw and unguarded there for a breath before his sneer snapped back into place. “I don’t bolt.”

“You push,” Midoriya said, softer, before he could stop himself. “You always have.”

Bakugou’s jaw went tight. The ring on his finger clicked against the table as he straightened. “You keep your commentary for your reports.”

Midoriya exhaled, ashamed of the way the truth had slipped out, of how it had landed. “Right. Sorry. Look—if we agree on cues, we won’t step on each other. Public displays can be minimal. Fingers linked. A hand on the shoulder. Leaning in.” His voice thinned again. “We don’t have to kiss unless it’s necessary.”

At that, Bakugou’s mouth flattened. He didn’t look away. “It won’t be.”

Midoriya nodded, pulse hammering anyway. He couldn’t stop remembering the heat of Bakugou’s palm against his shoulder in a fight last month, the brief solid weight of it anchoring him. Stupid, unhelpful. He cut the thought down.

Aizawa cleared his throat. “You’ve both made your positions clear. Here are mine: the cover is set. You’ll make it work. Set your rules. Practice enough that you don’t freeze. Use the next twenty-four hours. If I see you two flinch from each other in public, I pull you. Understood?”

Bakugou’s nostrils flared. “Understood.”

Midoriya managed, “Yes, sir,” though the words scraped on the way out.

They stood at the same time, instinct pushing them to mirror without meaning to. For a second they were too close. The heat of Bakugou’s body bled across the inch of air between them. Midoriya’s breath faltered. Bakugou’s eyes flicked to his mouth and away so fast Midoriya could have imagined it.

“Don’t make me regret this,” Aizawa said.

Bakugou grunted. “You won’t.”

Midoriya nodded, fingers curling against his palm where the ring had warmed, trying to ignore the way his skin still remembered the idea of a hand at his waist. They moved toward the door, not touching, careful with their steps like two people learning to walk a narrow line without falling.

Aizawa’s stare cut between them, flat and unyielding. “You’re done arguing,” he said. “You’re the only two in the top ten with the right mix—public history, fight patterns that complement, an easy through line from rivalry to relationship. Everyone else is either too new, too obvious, or already embedded. The timing doesn’t allow for substitutions.”

Bakugou opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. The muscle in his jaw ticked. Midoriya felt a coil low in his stomach unwind a fraction at the certainty in Aizawa’s tone, even as his pulse climbed.

“You have twenty-four hours,” Aizawa continued. “The safe house is set. The handlers have your itinerary, the wardrobe team is on standby, and Snipe will be monitoring the bug channels while you two get your act together. I don’t care if you sleep. I care if you stop looking like you’re on opposite sides of a line.”

Bakugou huffed something like a laugh and didn’t meet Midoriya’s eyes. “We’re not.”

“Good,” Aizawa said. “Be smart enough to use what you already have. You know each other’s tells. You know how to stand without shadowing. You know how to read a room and each other. Turn that into something that sells.”

Midoriya nodded because it was the only thing to do. “We will.”

Bakugou’s ring clicked lightly against the case as he shut it with a decisive snap. “Where’s the address?”

Aizawa slid a slim folder across. “Top sheet. Codes for access, cover story bullet points, a timeline suggestion. I expect you to refine it. Your call signs won’t change, but in public you answer to your names and whatever pet names don’t make me want to retire.”

Midoriya nearly choked. Bakugou swore under his breath.

“Caretaker will drop your formal wear within the hour,” Aizawa added, ignoring them. “You’ll check in every six with a nonverbal signal on the band. If something goes off-script, you do not improvise something stupid because you’re embarrassed. You stick to the plan.” He paused. “If either of you sabotages this because of pride, you won’t like the fallout.”

Bakugou lifted his chin. “We get it.”

Aizawa’s gaze softened by a millimeter. “I know you do. That’s why it’s you.”

The words landed heavier than Midoriya expected. He crossed his arms to ground himself and felt the faint scrape of the ring against his bicep. It felt like a line drawn tight.

Aizawa stood and the meeting was over. It dispersed around them like a spell ending. “Keys in the folder. Go.”

They moved in sync without intending to. The hall outside was cooler, quieter. The door clicked shut behind them and sealed the briefing away, leaving the two of them with rings on their fingers and a future that felt very close.

Bakugou stalked toward the elevator with energy buzzing off him. Midoriya kept pace, conscious of the way their shoulders nearly brushed. He could feel every inch of space between them like it had been measured and assigned. He didn’t risk looking at Bakugou’s face. He stared at the reflection on the elevator door instead, catching the cut of Bakugou’s profile in the stainless steel.

When the doors slid open they stepped in together. The cramped space pressed them closer. Bakugou reached past him to jab the button, the heat of him a nearness Midoriya could feel along the side of his ribcage. He kept his breathing even.

“Twenty-four hours,” Midoriya said softly, because silence was worse.

Bakugou snorted. “More than we need.” He braced a palm on the rail and looked at the floor numbers. “We’re not walking into that gala looking like we just met.”

“No,” Midoriya agreed. He tried to keep his voice steady, unbothered, professional. “We should map the beats. First contact, first realization, first—” He hesitated. “First time we told someone.”

Bakugou’s mouth twisted. “Sparks and violins?”

“We can go understated,” Midoriya said, a little too quick. “Private. Kept it to ourselves because of the scrutiny. It fits us. It explains why no one knew.”

Bakugou glanced at him then, quick and sharp. “Us?”

Midoriya’s heartbeat skipped. “The cover us,” he said, and hated that his throat tightened around the words. “It tracks.”

Bakugou let out a breath. “Understated,” he said, like he was testing the fit. His gaze flicked down to Midoriya’s hand where the ring caught light. “We make it look like it’s been there a while.”

Midoriya’s fingers curled reflexively. “We’ll need to get comfortable with touch,” he said, and the elevator seemed smaller for saying it out loud.

Bakugou didn’t disagree. He stepped forward when the doors opened and waited just outside, a pause that felt like an offering. Midoriya moved up to his side and they fell into step together down the corridor, their strides matching.

At the exit, he risked it. He let the back of his hand graze Bakugou’s knuckles. A test. A question. Bakugou’s hand didn’t pull away. It turned, a slight tilt, so their fingers lined up. Not laced, not held. Just adjacent. It was nothing and somehow enough to make heat crawl up Midoriya’s neck.

“Don’t make it weird,” Bakugou muttered.

“I’m not,” Midoriya murmured. “I’m… calibrating.”

Bakugou’s huff almost sounded like a laugh. “Of course you are.”

The car waited at the curb, sleek and black. They slid in, the door thudding them into a bubble of leather and quiet. Midoriya opened the folder and spread the first page across his knee. Lines of text stared back—cover beats, safe house specs, the gala’s date and time. He skimmed, mind already sorting and stacking.

Bakugou leaned back, legs spread, a study in defiance even at rest. “Give me the headline.”

Midoriya didn’t look up. “We met again at a charity event two years ago. Started working more closely. Realized the intensity wasn’t just rivalry. Kept it private because of press, because of safety, because we didn’t want it questioned. The people who matter know.”

“That last part true?” Bakugou asked, voice low.

“It will be,” Midoriya said, and felt the promise settle heavy. “We’ll tell the team leads.”

Bakugou made a noncommittal sound. Midoriya flipped to the safe house page. Top floor, secure entry, one bed listed without comment. His throat went dry. He swallowed and kept reading.

“We can do this,” he said, more to the space between them than to Bakugou. “We just have to decide the story we’re telling and stick to it.”

Bakugou’s hand came to rest on the seat between them, palm down, fingers splayed. Midoriya’s gaze snagged on it, then slid away. The car turned, city smearing past the tinted glass.

“Decide it then,” Bakugou said. “We’ve got twenty-four hours to make it real.” He nudged Midoriya’s knee with his own, small, deliberate. “Start now.”