#will pluvi ever have a consistent format for their drabbles? stay tuned to find out!

[pluviophile-imagines]

Katsuki calls you when he leaves work every day.

When you started dating him that was the deal. He risks his life constantly; there’s no assurance ever that he’ll return home to you. So even now, years after the tradition began, now that the pair of you wear matching rings on your fingers and the bed he stumbles into each night is the very one you occupy, he still calls.

It’s never anything substantial. Sometimes it’s quick, barely a minute long, a quiet greeting and a simple home soon before he hangs up to change out of his uniform. Sometimes you stay on the phone for an hour; talking about your days as you both commute, planning dinner, discussing your upcoming visit to his parents over the weekend. More often than not it’s at 5:00 almost to the minute—he scarcely likes to dawdle, preferring instead to end the work day and have dinner with you regularly—and you typically know ahead of time when he’ll be working late.

Of course, there is a downside. On the rare (very rare) occasions when you don’t get that call, it makes you panic.

He calls you a dumbass every time, rolls his eyes and scoffs, yet he always holds you tighter afterwards. There is always food in his hands when he opens the door, shoved into yours in silent apology. You always catch him as he’s drifting off, pressing a kiss to the nape of your neck and promising that he’ll always come home safe.

You’re certain that’s what will happen tonight when you don’t get your call at five.

You’re still pretty certain he’s okay at 5:30. You text him a photo of the meal you’ve made, the two place settings, with a caption telling him not to let it go cold.

By the time 8:00 rolls around you’re worried. That’s bedtime—he’d never voluntarily miss it. Yet you assure yourself by turning on the news, aware that if pro hero Dynamight had fallen to a villain or been crushed by a collapsing building it would be talked about and nothing of note was being said. He typically told you when he was going out on more secretive missions, too; not directly, but subtly. He’d implied nothing of the sort today. He’d likely just been dragged out to some bar by his high school friends, the only people able to do it. He’ll come stomping through the door at midnight smelling like booze but stone sober, and you’ll shove him into the shower and sit on the sink while he bitches about Denki and Mina and Hanta with affection in his voice. Yeah, that’s it.

9:00

10:00

11:00.

You’re still in your work clothes, you realize, yet it’s far too late now to change. The lights are off in the living room save for the multicolored display of the television, which you keep on out of a sinking feeling that any moment your fears will be confirmed. An image is ingrained in your mind: his body, broken and bloody. Lifeless.

You wonder what villain could have taken down Katsuki. You think they’d have to be terrifyingly strong to even stand a chance, and still have to play dirty to win. Maybe they’d looked like someone he knew—Izuku or Eijiro, or maybe even you. He’d have gotten a shock from that, a villain strong enough to harm him would have only needed that chance. Or perhaps it had been a building, perhaps he’d charged in after hearing an old lady calling for help. Foolhardy heroics had always been Deku’s thing yet your husband could get caught up in it at times. You blame their shared mentor. All Might had more than enough to spare.

Katsuki would chide you for staying up so late, especially on a work night. He’d take one look at the clock on the wall and bark at you to go to bed, never mind that he could be dying in an alleyway or bleeding out on some rooftop. He’d drag you to the bathroom to wash your face. You wish he were here to do it. Your conjured version isn’t persuasive enough.

But then you get a call. It’s 1:34 in the morning. You’re on the couch, curled up in the corner with the cat pressed into your side and a blanket thrown over your legs, staring sightlessly at the news half dozing off. Your phone is on the coffee table in front of you, and it startles you awake when it buzzes.

You lunge for it, too relieved upon seeing the contact on the screen to care about the sound of your cat scrambling off into some safe corner of the apartment. It’s Katsuki. His name is like a beacon of hope as you press accept, as tears spring to your eyes and your thumb shakes just barely. You can already hear his gruff voice calling you a dumbass for being so worked up, the offended tone as he asks you if you have any faith in him at all.

Except it’s not Katsuki on the other side of the line, not this time.

It’s Deku.