#onepunchfic

chapter: 3/?? author: N pairing: Mumen Rider/Metal Bat summary: The start of something new. Badd’s little sister is a fan of a different hero. He just wants a date. There are monsters in between. A/N: Guess what N is still alive despite all apparent signs and is posting again. As usual, if you dig it feel free to comment in our inbox here or over at AO3! ***

But he stands there and watches as Mumen Rider stops at a four-way stop, despite the lack of traffic, despite the hour, looking both ways before signaling to turn and disappearing. The last late bus passes Badd by as he watches the city move on.

His phone weighs heavy in his pocket as he stares out the window the next morning, city blurring by. Arms folded and foot bumping against the week’s supply of fruit from the market, meal planning already lost in his mind. A harried bicycle messenger goes by, glasses pushed up as he wipes his forehead on a faded uniform with unraveling hems, and it only deepens the unease in Badd’s stomach. It follows him like the creak of his shoulders, persistent and deep. He’s not known for having the friendliest of dispositions, but even so there’s a wider berth than usual around him in the locker room the next day.

All except-

SLAM!

Metal rattles and his grip loosens enough for the back of his head to meet the back of his locker door.

“Fuck!” It’s met with a short laugh - definitely at, not with - and the shake of the locker next to him being unlocked. He growls as he rubs his head, ensuring his best glare is spared for what passes for his best friend. “Seriously?”

Even through the slits in the door he can see the shark toothed grin of Tanaka. “Happened, didn’t it?” Tape catches on Badd’s hair as he rubs the new sore spot. Tanaka kindly gets to the point. “What’s got you in a funk?”

“Not in a funk until now.”

“Bullshit.”

“As shit as your sport is.” Tanaka’s straight mouth and slow death glare around his door warns perhaps Badd might be wrong in this. “Just thinkin’.”

“Know that’s hard for you.”

That gets a baseball sock thrown at the second-year and forty-two seconds later they’re both out of socks and Tanaka has his head under his arm, knuckles relentlessly drilling his pompadour down. “You got a head under all this?!”

“Not my fault you passed on it!”

Tanaka lets him go after a deft flick of a finger to his forehead. It stings, but he finds himself smiling in between breaths. He gets one in return. “Seriously, though, what is this?”

He wants to say it’s nothing. But they’ve passed notes through the slats in their lockers and more than once he’s worn navy socks to practice when a mending job didn’t hold up. So he sighs as a hand idly fixes the damage done. “You ever get the idea you’re in it for the wrong reasons?”

“Baseball?”

“Sure.”

They both know that’s not really it, but Tanaka is kind enough to give him the privacy of keeping it to himself. “No.” Tanaka shrugs. “Not really.” For a moment, he disappears into his locker. “You like it, right?”

“Yeah…”

“You in it for the money?”

“Wouldn’t say no to a scholarship,” he has to snort.

“Who would?” Tanaka emerges with knee pads, letting the locker bang shut. “Point is, though, what are you in it for?”

Badd has to think for a moment. “I like it.”

“Why?”

“Because…” He likes the adrenaline. He likes the rush. He likes the pay. He likes his name in the paper. But most of all, he likes watching the ceiling at night and knowing it won’t be crashing in. Not for him, not for Zenko, not for anyone.

When he looks up, realizing there was a pause, Tanaka is giving him a grin that has first years skirting them. “Exactly.” Tanaka stands, fingers twisting in his gym bag though they stay right as they curl around nylon handles. “Look, Badd. Everyone second guesses things. Even…” A hand gestures to Badd. “Baseball. Fact is, though, you’re doing it. And hell, man,the only kind of people who question doing...baseball like you are the kind who are doing it for all the right reasons. The people who aren’t get as far as they do because they don’t gotta crack their skull to prove it to themselves, you know?”

Tanaka hoists his bag up with a huff. “Don’t know what’s got you dragging, but it sure as hell isn’t the wrong reasons. Know that for sure.” The canines are back in Tanaka’s smile now. “Though might want to lighten up on the hair gel. Could help with that whole ‘drooping’ thing you’re perfecting.”

Badd rolls his eyes and flips him the bird. Tanaka cackles and turns, unphased, waving his hand. “Hey, Tanaka?” When Tanaka glances over his shoulder he knows he should say thank you. “Lemme know what the trash heap tastes like, yeah?”

“I’ve eaten your cooking; you already know.”

He’s proud of the fact that he manages to launch his last dirty sock right into the back of Tanaka’s head.

Baseball gives him a reason to put aside Tanaka’s words and his own unease, however, and focus on his number two love in the world. It’s a satisfying strain, a sign that he’s not just a prodigy rising quickly. More than a poster child of succes. An in the flesh high school student with perhaps slightly more calloused than normal hands, a competitive streak with eyes on that national title, and dreams of maybe, just maybe, being the one Tanaka and Ennoshita catch in the locker room after hours.

The crack of a wood bat sustains him through the evening, long after Tama has left for the night through Zenko’s window, howl of a tom beckoning, and the apartment is quiet. Thunder rolls in the distance but echo as it may if it makes it past the mountains he’ll be surprised.

The sheets whisper as he rolls over, sofa creaking. As tired as his limbs are, he finds himself still staring at his clothing covering the floor and he knows he’s avoiding something when he reaches a hand out, considering folding a shirt.

His hand falls and he huffs at himself. He’s ridiculous. There’s no way he’s getting cleaning done without waking Zenko and there’s no way the sudden concern for his own clothes is at all born of actual regard for their well-being.

Even worse, he even knows why he’s still up.

His fingertips brush paper. For a moment he reconsiders going down this route. But thunder echoes and a foot finds cold air and fuck it all. The paper’s in front of his face even before he can resettle on the throw pillow that still smells of soy sauce even three weeks later.

‘PURI-PURI GIVES FIRST INTERVIEW FROM JAIL!’ ‘BLIZZARD GROUP INDUCTS NEW MEMBER.’ ‘JUST WHO IS BLAST?’

There’s no mention of him, but more importantly there’s no mention of Mumen Rider. It shouldn’t give him the satisfaction it does, but he can’t help it. His shoulders sag and his head rests heavily against the sofa arm. No mention means no comparison and maybe just maybe there’s long term credence to Tanaka’s assertions.

Pathetic, get yer’self together, man. But it doesn’t make him any less relieved. Though it makes him wonder, as he does his best to not tear our Puri-Puri’s picture and chuck it in the trash, what was Mumen Rider in it for?

There was really only one way to answer that question.

Just like that, he finds himself waking up three hours earlier to trace the foggy park of City R, the stained canals in City M, the suburbs of outer City J. Never has he been logged into the forums more, and if Zenko notices his sly questions regarding her current favorite hero obsession she says nothing.

Mumen Rider has a route, he figures out. A looping, ambitious route that follows a predictable pattern of deviations. It’s far more area than any one man should be able to manage, but the guy does.

He watches from a bench as Mumen stops a purse thief, throwing himself off his bike and plowing into both thief and a rather full trash can. Mumen is unwavering in his arrest, even with over ripe peach oozing down his goggles. It’s only when the overenthusiastic purse owner thanks him that Mumen looks flustered and downright embarrassed. Blushing behind his goggles and stammering over his words.

It never makes the papers, but it sticks with Badd.

He also realizes it’s a pattern. A pattern he can’t talk to anyone about as he isn’t ready to admit he may or may not be following the rather reclusive hero. For a week he questions his judgement regarding his fascination. There’s a thousand excuses he could uses, does use. He’s clearing mysterious beings. He’s asserting his rank. He’s trying to do good.

But in the end it’s curiosity getting the better of him and he knows it. It’s a deep born fascination that has him watching as Mumen Rider gets to a call late (monster steaming in the street, B-Class hero doing an interview) and helps a family stop the water flooding their home. Mumen Rider even stays to help mop up the sidewalk.

He’s rooted to the spot as Mumen breaks up a fight. It’s late enough for street lights, not late enough for the bar to be closed. Colors clash as spectacularly as the teams playing that night. The argument is heated enough to spill onto the street.

It’s late and Zenko’s been home for hours now, as Badd should be. But Badd stands and watches as Mumen steps right in between both men and ignores the bottle that breaks over his helmet with little more than a wince. Glass glints in Mumen Rider’s hair, glinting in the street lights as he’s screamed at three inches from his face, spit flecking his goggles.

It’s not the first time Badd wants to step in. And he almost does, until a man to his right sitting patiently for the bus shakes his head and clicks his tongue. “That boy.”

And Badd stops mid-fist clench. “Huh?”

The older man looks over at him, tipping his hat respectfully. “That boy, the hero.”

“Mumen Rider.” He can’t believe he’s just corrected him, but it’s already done.

“Mumen Rider,” the older man repeats. “I’ve seen him before you know. Do this.” He gestures at the bicyclist, stalwart and steadfast in the face of disorderly conduct. “Remarkable.”

And it comes out before he can help himself. (He’ll claim later it was denial at the fact he was even there.) “‘s just breakin’ up a bar fight.”

The old man gives him a look, hands adjusting on the top of his polished cane. “And yet there are ten others who could have easily done so, and where are they?” Badd follows the gesture of the old man’s hand and counts twelve bystanders watching on. “Anyone could do what Mumen Rider does. What makes him a hero is that he actually does so.”

He wants to pop his lips but stops his tongue against the back of his teeth. All he manages is a huff of air that perhaps skirts the line of proper. Yet he knows the old man is right. “Seen bigger monsters.”

The old man laughs. Just one laugh that has Badd’s gut twisting because he knows what that is. “Yes, well. Haven’t we all. Thank god we have heroes for both occasions, eh?”

The wink and once over the old man gives him isn’t subtle and his ears burn. But he returns the nod with a bow this time. The bus comes with the screech of worn down tires, cane tapping on the steps and just like that Badd’s alone once more.

He turns back to Mumen Rider to find the cyclist steadying one of the brawlers, walking him carefully to a bench as the other is escorted away by friends. It’s over in a blink, with little more than an empty bottle and a few bruises blossoming on the over zealous to show for it. Mumen Rider looks no worse for the wear, though as he sits Badd swears he can see (even from his vantage point across the street) shoulders threatening to hunch and the stiff extension of a leg that’s been peddling for too long.

Go home, Badd. But he’s never been one to listen, not even to himself.

So he stands there in the cold, watching, waiting. And nothing happens. Not really. The brawler gingerly touches his new black eye. Mumen disappears for a moment only to come back with a bag of ice that he offers the grateful man. The two talk, sort of. One of Mumen’s hands rests on the brawler’s shoulder to keep him from falling forward. And in one instance he hears a soft chuckle. From Mumen, he can only assume.

The entire thing is completely...normal. Mumen’s padding is the only heroic thing about it all, and even then he maintains one could argue it looks like a bad Halloween costume. Yet that matters less than the fact that the clock reads late and Mumen surely, surely must have other things to do tomorrow. A life of some kind.

Who did Mumen Rider go home to at night? They all had to have someone. Right?

(Was it bad if he sort of, maybe, selfishly hopes that Mumen Rider doesn’t?)

His fingers are numb even in his jacket pockets by the time a taxi pulls up. Mumen stands to help the now dozing brawler into the car. It’s only after the taxi pulls away, and only then, that Mumen rubs his shoulder. Badd misses seeing just what is under those goggles, as Mumen turns away to run his fingers over his face. (It’s an action Badd also knows well. He’s certain most heroes do and the ones who don’t learn fast.)