Archive of Our Own ^beta

i.

It’s late (or early, depending on how you look at the clock) and Hawks has just managed to get to sleep when something wakes him. He takes a few critical seconds to catalog his surroundings even as he shakes off the fuzziness from too many hours awake.

His room should be empty. It is, after all, the middle of the night. Though he can’t hear breathing, he knows someone is there.

The sharpened feather is already in his hand; point out, as he rolls from the bed and lands on his feet. His bare feet hit the plush carpet, digging in. There’s a split second of resistance, followed by a muffled curse, and a hand curls around his wrist.

Even in the dark, Hawks can see the scars rippling across said hand, and the staples glinting in the moonlight of his large bedroom window.

Dabi.

His grip is firm, but not tight. Hawks could break it if he tries.

“If you want to stick me with something,” Dabi says, far too close in the near total darkness, teeth flashing white, “I can think of far more pleasant things.”

“What the hell, Dabi?” Hawks snatches his hand back and reaches for the bedside lamp.

Dabi beats him to it.

As blue light floods the room, Hawks blinks against it, sharpened feather still firm in his grasp as his eyes adjust. Heat washes over him in a wave, a welcoming embrace, a dangerous siren call. Dabi’s just fucking standing there, watching him, wearing a loose pair of sweats and a white tank-top, visible beneath an unzipped, tattered hoodie he’s practically drowning in. There’s a small red spot just over his heart.

Even in the dark and half-asleep, his aim had been true.

But it’s the look on his face—in his eyes—that makes Hawks set the feather down. The expression reminds him of a child he saved from a villain attack just the other day. Not the openness and vulnerability, but the confusion, like he’s lost and he’s not sure how it happened.

“Dabi?” He says quietly, watching as the other man rubs at his chest where the feather had pierced skin. “Why are you here at—” he pauses to glance at the clock “—3:30 in the morning?”

Dabi’s shoulders ripple in a shrug, but it’s the only sign that he’s heard him. He’s still got a faraway look in his eyes, and the shadows on his face aren’t just from his scars.

It’s not uncommon, exactly, for him to be here at a late hour.

He’s certainly done it before, more and more as of late. He’s stayed over before, too. But usually Hawks has more warning when he shows up, looking to blow off steam, his frustration with the day’s events a hiss of breath against Hawks’ neck and a burn of hands against skin.

And he’s only looked as haunted as he does now on one of those nights.

The one, just three weeks ago, when he’d told Hawks everything. Whispered truths and half-aborted sentences, spoken amongst the quiet rustling of sheets and feathers.

The reason he’d joined the League.

The purpose of his adopted name—cremation.

The reality of who he’d been, and who is father is.

Hawks would never admit it, but he’s sure as fuck lost sleep over it. After all, finding out what his number one hero—the man he’d looked up to, since he was just a little kid—had been like behind closed doors, away from prying eyes and the media… What he’d done to his wife and his children, some of them so young… It had been world shattering, to say the least. It had made Hawks rethink a lot of things, and not all of them had been good.

And although he’s tried, he can’t even begin to imagine what it must be like for Dabi. For—

“Touya."

The name, still foreign on Hawks’ tongue, seems to do the trick and the fire starter blinks his way back to present company. The flame in his hand stutters out, plunging the room back into darkness.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says gruffly, eyes darting away from the blond. Hawks steps in front of him, putting himself squarely in Dabi’s line of sight. It earns him the slight curling of an upper lip, and a half-baked snarl. “What?”

The last several months have more than acquainted him with Dabi’s caustic nature. Not simply in working together, a pair of double-edged swords, but in… whatever it is they’ve become in the process. Something that evolved from yet another explosive argument to a flurry of feathers, hands and mouths. This dangerous, inexplicable trust fall they’ve found themselves in, entirely on accident.

They’ve also taught him one crucial thing in dealing with him: if the situation grows uncomfortable or awkward, he clams right up. He steps into the shoes of the cold murderer Hawks met all those months ago, the one that had wanted to burn him to ash rather than give him a chance to plead his case—to beg a villain to let a hero join their little club.

Dabi’s known it was a lie right from the start. He’s told Hawks this a hundred times. But somehow, they’ve made it this far all the same. He doesn’t often stop to think about what might’ve changed his mind that night, and convinced him not to roast Hawks alive, convinced him to let their game of cat and mouse play its course.

So, not for the first time, Hawks stands there, arms loose at his sides, and looks at him. Dabi looks back, stubborn and defiant. The silence stretches out.

Then his gaze drops.

“What if it doesn’t work?”

His voice is low, so low that Hawks isn’t sure he hears him at first. He doesn’t exactly manage to keep the shock from his face. He’s normally the one nervous about plans, and outcomes, and missions—his brain a rapid-fire, constantly racing thing who doesn’t think about things before he does them, operating on instinct—not Dabi.

Dabi, who is ruthless and precise, like a surgical knife. Dabi, who is always in control of a situation, who knows every exit and has three backup strategies before he enters any building. Dabi, who never has any issues getting his hands dirty as long as it brings him closer to the outcome he wants, even if he boils himself raw in the process.

Hawks likes to think he knows him pretty well by now, inside and out, but sometimes he still catches him off-guard. And vulnerability isn’t something he’s trained himself to handle, coming from a live grenade.

But this plan they’ve cooked up together, well—there’s a lot of variables. And a lot of them outside of either of their control. After all, publicly tearing down a monster’s career is a little bit more difficult than simply burning him to ash with years of slowly simmered rage, isn’t it?

Dabi is a pressure-cooker, rattling at all the edges, being asked to wait. To simmer down just a little.

“If it doesn’t, we’ll try something else.” It’s all Hawks can offer, but it’s the truth.

Dabi flinches. It’s small, more a quick spasm of his spine, but Hawks still sees it. He always notices the little things, now. He has for months, ever since this thing between them changed and shifted and became something a hell of a lot complicated than he ever intended.

“It’ll work,” Hawks assures him. “Dabi, look at me.”

He doesn’t, and so Hawks takes a careful step into his space. His wings flare out, a soft whoosh of air, tips touching the ceiling before he brings them back down, encircling both of them gently. Blocking out everything else.

“Touya.”

Like before, the name does the trick. It takes a few seconds, but the other man finally lifts his gaze. And it’s not confusion that Hawks sees there, but fear, burning so brightly in his turquoise eyes. Stars in a sea of dark waves that threaten to swallow him whole.

“Touya—”

“What if it doesn’t?” he repeats, voice low and harsh. “What if he—”

He stops, fists clenching and unclenching. Brow furrowed and lips curled in a snarl.

He’s supposed to draw Endeavor out into the field, the same way he did months before to face the Nomu. But this time, he’ll just be facing Dabi. Alone, once he stages a blow with enough force to “knock” Hawks out. Then he’ll have to keep the old man distracted, long enough to attract media attention, and press buzz, so that everyone’s watching.

And then, his contact in covert ops, Cypher, will flood the airwaves and upload the package Hawks slips away to deliver to him. A media file full of Touya’s medical records, and those of his siblings and mother—all of Endeavor’s home exploits will be leaked to the public over the footage of their fight, exposing him raw. All Dabi has to do is keep him busy.

Last time, it had been fairly easy, considering the man had been whittled down to nothing by the Nomu. This time, he’ll be full strength, and Dabi won’t have the element of surprise.

The plan is a dangerous one, but that’s always been how Dabi likes to play things. High stakes and close to the chest for the best results—otherwise, what’s the point?  

There’d been a time Dabi had been willing to die for his plan. He’d been ready to tear himself apart, burn the skin from his bones and go out in a blaze of glory if it meant taking the monster of his childhood down with him. If it meant showing the world that not all heroes deserved their titles and their pedestals. But now, well…

“I don’t want to die,” Dabi shudders, and his shoulders sag. “Not before…”

Before he sees Endeavor’s public fall.

Before he can enjoy the victory he’s been waiting years for, hungry and quiet and burning, a submerged volcano looking to erupt.

Before he sees his family again, one last time, and tell them it was all for their sake.

“You won’t.” Hawks reaches out, hand catching his, holding fast when he tries to pull back. His thumb rubs a small, soothing circle over the other man’s knuckles. The staples that pull his scars into place on the back of his hand are cool to the touch. Then again, his whole hand feels like ice, so cold it often burns. He’s only ever warm on purpose, both literally and emotionally.

Hawks would like to think he had a hand in changing his mind, honestly. After all, he’s spent the weeks since Dabi told him the truth checking up on his family, and feeding it to the other man when he least expects it, when his defenses are low and easy to slip past. It’s a selfish thought that fills the yawning cavity in his chest with more twisting snakes than he’d like to admit, but he still thinks it’s the truth.

Especially when it’s so easy to step back and tug Dabi with him, not stopping until he’s seated on the edge of his bed. Neither of them speak as Hawks pulls him down beside him. Instead, he falls back against his pillow, wings stretching out to cover the expanse of the mattress like a safety net. His arms lift, open and inviting.

Dabi hesitates for only a moment before he stretches out beside Hawks, body stiff as the hero wraps his arms around his shoulders. His right wing curves up, coming to rest gently against Dabi’s form like a blanket. The man reaches out, stroking at the feathers nearest him with one scarred hand. It always helps him relax, and soon enough, he’s scooting closer, cuddling into Hawks’ embrace as the other man rests his cheek on the top of Dabi’s head.

It’s not the usual kind of comfort Hawks offers—very rarely do they tread into this territory, given just how dangerous it is—but from the way Dabi’s breathing evens out, his hand dropping gently from Hawks’ feathers to his chest, well, he figures it might just be what he needs.  

ii.

The plan works, but it sort of blows the whole world of heroics wide open, turning it into a raw, gaping wound that can’t easily be closed. The public absolutely loses its mind, vultures picking at the metaphorical carcass of Endeavor. His children and wife are protected as best they can be by the hero commission, and their friends, but the man himself is ostracized. His public image ripped apart, his legacy splattered with the stain of his toxicity and burning truth.

Hawks doesn’t know where he goes, exactly, but he knows it’s not home. He hopes it’s in a room backed by iron bars and no light.

The rankings fall to absolute shambles for the second time in a year, and every hero’s motives are the talk of the town. There’s whispers about transparency, and accountability, and a part of Hawks feels bad. After all, some of them are his friends. Some of them don’t deserve the intense, microscopic scrutiny they’re now faced with.

But the other part of him, the one that’s always hated being so high on the rankings, that’s always thought the whole system was stupid and flawed—the part that’s known heroics should never have been about appearances and sponsorships and TV commercials, but really, truthfully, just about helping people. That part is relieved. Happy, even.

And thankfully, Hawks knows the right kind of people to weather the oncoming storm with. He has connections. It’s one of the few good things about being raised by the government, so he might as well use it to his advantage.

So the moment Endeavor’s exposé goes live, he turns in his second thumb drive.

The one with in-depth profiles on every member of the League of Villains, including histories, quirk breakdowns, and usual haunts. Home bases and hideouts. Complex schedules, even. A who’s who list that spells out exactly where they’ll be in the next few weeks, and how to round them up.

A literal goldmine for his boss, hand-delivered on a silver platter.

He asks for only one thing in return.

Hawks strolls through the covert ops facility, hands tucked into his pockets. For someone who’s spent the last six days getting grilled in a small, airtight room by higher-ups and who’s status as the number one hero is entirely up in the air, he’s in a suspiciously good mood. His nerves are shot to hell, and his wings are twitchier than normal, practically vibrating at his back—but his mood is high. Loftier than he expected, all things considered.

The place is mostly silent at this time of night. There’s a muted thump, thump, thump as he passes the gymnasium, and spots two people playing basketball. He tunes them out with little effort, whistling under his breath as he makes his way further in, turning down the long, narrow hallway that leads to the barracks.

They’re usually empty—no one really likes staying here unless they’re working late on a case or recovering from one, preferring the comforts of home—but the last bunk has recently been reopened. Not before the best Support staff the hero commission had to offer had retrofitted and insulated it specifically to house it’s new… occupant? Prisoner? Operative, pending a psych eval and some field tests, maybe?

Cypher’s sitting outside the door, in the same rickety chair they’ve been taking shifts in all week, clicking away at the keyboard on his wrist. Hawks has always found it weird that it makes that noise despite it being made from his skin, but he’s got a pack of feathers with a mind of their own attached to his spine, so what does he know?

“Hey,” the hacker greets him without looking up.

“How’s he doing?”

“Up and at ‘em, finally. Bit restless,” Cypher shrugs. His eyes flick up beneath his lashes, and the corner of his lips curves up on one side. “Asked for you.”

“Oh?” Hawks raises a brow.

Amusement dances like an electric current in the other man’s eyes. “Amongst many expletives and some very colourful descriptors that had nothing to do with the shade of your wings.”

Hawks snorts, laying his hand flat against the palm scanner. It whirs and beeps as it flashes across his skin. “So he’s feeling better, then.”

“Apparently,” Cypher says, lips pursed. Then the door clicks loudly, and the hacker lets out a small snort. “Have fun.”

Hawks does a fairly good job of keeping the grin from his lips as he steps through the door—

And finds a blue fireball rocketing towards him.

“Holy shit!” He squawks, ducking out of the way just in time. There’s a flash of heat along his face, and then he hears the sizzle and pop as it collides with the fireproof padding on the back of the door, hissing out of existence harmlessly.

His heart jackhammering in his chest, Hawks looks across the room at Dabi and scowls. “What was that for, asshole?”

All he receives in answer is a glare, absolutely molten in the other man’s eyes.

So Hawks huffs, unimpressed, and crosses the room to stand at the foot of the bed Dabi’s lying on. It’s a step up from a hospital cot, and utilitarian. Simple, and barely comfortable, but at least it’s better than a slab of metal in a cold, dark room.

There’s a white sheet covering half of him, but it’s askew, like he tried to rip it off. He probably did, and he managed just enough with his lower limbs and torso strapped to the bed frame that his right hand hung loose enough for that fireball.

Hawks had requested, specifically, that no restraints be tied around his wrists or arms because of his scars. Hindsight, it appears, is 20/20.

“What if it hadn’t been me?” Hawks huffs, wings fluttering and cheeks puffed. Dabi raises a brow, as though that’s supposed to matter to him. “Have you attacked everyone that’s come into this room?”

“No,” Dabi says, but its quiet, forced out between gritted teeth. Which is Dabi speak for maybe, but shut up about it. “It’s not like there’s been much in the way of visitors. Just a doc, once or twice. Which, combined with the fancy window and you casually strolling in here—”

Hawks glances up, just now noticing the giant skylight in the middle of the room. Huh.

“—tells me I’m not where I should be.”

That draws his attention back down to Dabi, and he sees a myriad of emotions dance in the burning candle of his eyes. Confusion. Fear. Anger, mostly. Cold and brittle and raw. The fact that he’s leaving it all there instead of stuffing it behind a wall of indifference tells Hawks he’s still not feeling 100%.

“And where do you think you should be?”

Dabi snorts, and it’s a small, dark little thing. “Dead.”

It’s like a knife to Hawks’ beating heart. He swallows thickly. “You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I?” Dabi raises a brow. He lifts his arms, motioning to the patchwork of bandages that cover him. “Old man did a number on me. It’s not like that’s anything new, but still—pretty sure I should be lying in a pool of my own boiling blood, or rotting in a cell.”

He levels Hawks with a calculating gaze, and his voice drops an octave. The hair on the back of Hawks’ neck rises in answer to it. “Where am I?”

The blond’s eyes scan the room. It’s a decent size, but bare of much in the way of furnishings. Spartan in design and concept, with slate grey walls covered in subtle fireproof padding. There’s a TV on the far wall that looks a little melted in one corner, and a bathroom to the left that Hawks knows contains a sizeable shower and tub.

“Hero commission’s covert ops base?” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. He rubs at the back of his neck, chuckling nervously. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that. “Er, one of them.”

“Okay.” Dabi’s face doesn’t change, but the light in his eyes flickers dangerously. His tone is low and flat, and his words are careful, precise, which Hawks knows can only spell trouble. “And why am I not in jail?”

“Well, because I vouched for you.” This, too, is said with nonchalance—but the statement hangs heavily in the air between them.

“Hawks.”

Oops, he sounds pissed.

“And uh,” Hawks averts his gaze, focusing instead on the tip of his right wing, skimming his fingers over it as he hums thoughtfully. “They could use someone with your talents?”

“Hawks.” The word sends a chill down his spine, and not in the fun way he typically associates with Dabi’s voice. Correction, now he sounds pissed.

Carefully, Hawks lets his gaze drift back to meet Dabi’s, and he offers him his most supportive grin. A winning one, really. The kind he’s been told sparkles in his eyes with all the distracting charm of a man who knows he’s in deep shit. “Yes?”

“You really think that’s a good idea with my background?”

And he says it so calmly, so nonchalantly, that it strikes the cold, uncomfortable stone in Hawks’ chest like a match, setting him ablaze.

He steps forward, voice raised a little more than he means to. “I know you’ve done shitty things to survive, but—”

“Not all of it was to survive, and you know it, so don’t fucking do that,” Dabi’s anger is quiet, but trembling in his voice loud and clear. There’s a healthy dose of loathing in his tone, too, and Hawks isn’t sure which one of them it’s directed at.

It leaves him stumbling over his words, his mouth moving of its own free will at this point. A train barreling off the tracks that he simply can’t stop. “Sure, right, but—”

“There’s no fucking buts, Hawks!” Dabi’s brows furrow, his lips twisting into a snarl. The air smells thick with smoke. He thinks idly that the bed sheet might be burning, but doesn’t dare tear his eyes away to look. “I’m not a fucking hero.”

“You don’t have to be.” The words tumble easily, effortlessly from his mouth—because they’re true. But the weight of Dabi’s turquoise eyes presses on his lungs like he’s said something far, far more damning than that.

“What?” the other man scoffs, gaze flicking back and forth between Hawks’ eyes, searching. For what, the hero doesn’t know. A lie? A false promise? He wants to assure him he’ll find none, but he doesn’t know how to put it into words. How to make him understand.

Thankfully, whether he means to or not, Dabi presents him with the perfect opportunity. “I sure as fuck don’t deserve a free pass… so what the hell are you talking about?”

He’s always been good at doing that. At giving Hawks the opening he needs to shift the conversation somewhere he needs it to go, to give him breathing room and keep this dance of theirs flowing naturally, even when Hawks stumbles. Which is fairly often when your mouth works faster than your brain does.

“You’re not exactly getting one,” the hero explains, slowly. As he does, his fingers trail up Dabi’s leg, and he watches the other man physically suppress a shudder at the contact. Hawks fights the smirk begging for a place on his lips, and instead busies his hands with undoing the restraint that rests just above Dabi’s scarred shins. “But this isn’t sponsorships and spotlights and empty titles, Dabi. This is underground—the kind of places heroes don’t and can’t go.”

“This is doing the government’s dirty work, behind the scenes,” Dabi scoffs, disgusted.

“No,” Hawks insists, his wings flaring along with his tone. “They still help people. They still save people who can’t save themselves. And the kind of people they face—the monsters they bury without a trace—it’s people who don’t deserve to rot in a jail cell. People too dangerous for that sort thing.”

He knows this catches Dabi’s interest from the way his face goes just a little bit slack. His contempt doesn’t waver, but the crease lines in his forehead do and that’s enough for Hawks to keep going.

“And this team… I mean—”

He cuts himself off with a chuckle that’s warm, and almost fond. He doesn’t get to work with them often, rarely ever, but he knows they’re a good team. He knows they’ll be good for Dabi. “Roulette’s a reformed assassin, and Miasma used to be a drug kingpin.”

Dabi raises a brow. “So it’s, what—a team of bad guys?”

Hawks hums. “Not exactly. Some of them were in hero programs, or in general ed even—until they realized their quirks were far better suited for this kind of work.” He steps closer, hands reaching for the buckle of the restraint drawn across the other man’s chest. It had been just tight enough to keep him down, while avoiding the scars up his sides and the fresh blistering on parts of his torso.

A scarred hand settles over his before he can undo the clasp, and Hawks looks up, frowning.

“What did you give up for this?” There’s something smoldering in his gaze, something uncertain and almost fearful, like he’s worried that Hawks has somehow tarnished himself just to save Dabi from damnation. To save him from himself.

Hawks doesn’t have the heart to tell him they crossed that bridge a long time ago.

Still, he’s careful when he spells it out. “The League files. I gave them to my boss in exchange for—” His gaze slides to their hands, to the contrast of Dabi’s puckered, scarred skin and pale fingers draped over his sun-tanned skin. “You.”

Hawks doesn’t miss the twitch of Dabi’s hand against his own. The way his shoulders tense, discomfort coiling his muscles like a loaded spring.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“It’s my choice, isn’t it?” Hawks throws him a lopsided grin, shrugging. “Besides, until you decide whether or not you’re sticking around—you’re in limbo, hot stuff.”

“Limbo?”

“Yep!” He pops the end of the word against his lips a little too cheerfully. “On paper, Todoroki Touya is still missing, presumed dead. Some people have started connecting the dots in the week since we leaked your family’s medical files to the media, but since you disappeared after the fight with Endeavor—”

Dabi sits up abruptly, there’s a light crackle and pop as blue flames ignite along his arms, snaking their way up to his shoulders. He leans forward, into Hawks’ space, a dangerous smile twisting his lips. “Are you implying you could have me killed and no one would ever know, pretty bird?”

Hawks lets out a puff of air that’s supposed to be a laugh, surely, but it comes out a little more breathless than that. The heat rolling off the other man seeps into his skin, settling somewhere low in his gut. “Ah, hah.” He shivers, wings rustling behind him. Dabi’s eyes are bright, wicked delight shining in their turquoise depths, his face barely inches from the hero’s.

He swallows thickly, eyes flickering between his crooked mouth and vibrant eyes. “I’m saying that temporarily deceased men don’t get to vote on what happens to their shit.”

“Hm,” Dabi hums, lifting his face ever so slightly. His breath is hot against Hawks’ mouth for one long, drawn out moment, and the hero finds himself leaning in, lips parting—

And then the other man is dropping back against the pillow, lifting his arms up and crossing them behind his head. “Clever bird.”

Hawks’ face heats, cheeks and neck scorching like he’s been left out in the sun too long—or maybe burned by the most frustrating man he’s ever had the misfortune of dealing with. The smirk woven across Dabi’s lips tells Hawks he knows exactly what he just did, the little fucker.

He does his best to shake it, rolling his shoulders and fluttering his wings. He huffs out an annoyed breath, mouth clamped tightly shut as he finally unbuckles the restraint still keeping Dabi tied down. “Sorry about these, by the way—they just wanted to be careful.”

“I thought that was the point of the fireproof room?”

Hawks glances sidelong at him. “Is that why the TV looks like it narrowly avoided getting melted into a puddle?”

“Not my fault they were stupid enough to think I’d want to see the fucking news.” Hawks winces because yeah, he can understand that. Which also explains why he hasn’t asked about the outcome of the fight, or what happened with Endeavor after the files leaked. He’s probably already seen. “Besides, you really think I didn’t try to blast my way out of here first chance I got? I had no fucking clue where I was, I was covered in bandages and fucking bleeding everywhere, and you—”

Hawks can practically see the smoke seeping out of Dabi’s ears and nose. “Well, you took your fucking time showing up, didn’t you?”

He quirks his lips in a small smile, wings fluttering happily behind him. “Aw, could it be that you missed me, Dabi?”

“Shut up.” The look Dabi’s giving him is positively murderous.

“Because it kind of sounds like you missed me.”

“Shut up, I said.” He rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest, huffing. “Stop that annoying squawking, will you?”

Bird jokes. That’s easy, familiar territory for them. Hawks practically preens, bouncing back on the balls of his feet. “I guess you’re feeling better, huh?”

He grumbles out a noise that might be an agreement and shrugs. “I don’t feel like I’m going to throw up my fucking toenails anymore, so that’s something.”

Dabi avoids his gaze, staring at the blank wall to his left. It gives Hawks a chance to take a good look at him.

He’s lost weight in the week since he’s seen him. Not that he had that much to begin with, but it shows in the sharp angles of his face and the deep hollows of his eyes, accentuated by his scars. And he’s unsteady, body betraying him as the hand clenched in the sheets at his side shakes slightly. His skin looks far paler than usual; his whole torso a patchwork of taped-down gauze pads covering fresh burns and blisters.

It pains Hawks just to look at him, like a raw wound. He’s definitely seen better days.

But he’s alive. He survived, and that’s what matters.

Hawks keeps the words behind his teeth as he glides up to him. He hovers at the edge of the bed, looking down at him. Waiting.

It’s a few moments before Dabi squares his shoulders and looks back, his gaze wary. Sharp. It’s clear that he’s uncomfortable, rough edges unwilling to bend and fit together with Hawks right now.

So Hawks tries for what he does best—he talks and he distracts, he smooths out feathers. “You know,” he says, lips tilting into a lopsided grin. “Barfing up your toenails might be good.”

“Shut up.” His words lack their usual bite, and it’s far from his best comeback. “Clearly you’ve never thrown up your toenails.”

“Still, I bet there are worse things you could barf up,” Hawks says good-naturedly.

“You’re disgusting,” Dabi groans after a long moment, head leaning back and eyes trained on the ceiling. He lets loose a particularly large sigh, and with it, Hawks can practically see the tension in his body leave as though exorcised.

His feathers rustle as his wings tremble, excited. Dabi shoots him an unimpressed look, but he still shuffles aside slightly, leaving enough space for the hero to climb onto the mattress.

“You oversized chicken—this bed isn’t fucking big enough for us both,” he grunts, leaning forward just enough for Hawks to slide his left wing in behind him, propping him up on something a little softer than his pillows.

“We’ll put in an upgrade request once it’s officially your room,” Hawks winks, and two feathers he’d sent to hunt down the TV remote return triumphant. As one settles back into place on the tip of the wing he has curled around Dabi, he watches the other man gently brush his fingers over it. The touch is familiar, and sparks a pleasant warmth pooling in his chest, the kindling embers of a brighter flame.

Dabi doesn’t look at him when he speaks. “You really think I’m cut out for this shit?”

Yes, Hawks thinks. Because maybe he’s not the same little boy who wanted to be a hero before he learned how cruel some could be, but he’s not the same cold, vicious thing that wanted to raze the whole thing to the ground just to burn the monster of his childhood out of the tapestry. He’s something else, now, and just thinking about how Dabi has let Hawks be part of the change sends a shiver down his spine.

“Better than rotting in jail, isn’t it?” He says instead.

Dabi’s fingers still, ever so slightly. Then he huffs out a laugh, dry and low. It rumbles through him, and Hawks feels it reverberate across the bed.

He tugs on a handful of feathers, wrapping Hawks’ wing around him like a blanket. His back remains facing Hawks, but he presses his bare skin against the man’s shoulder, a sign of comfortable, familiar trust. Hard-fucking-earned, in the hero’s opinion.

Silence settles over them like a warm net, and though he’s got the remote in his hand, Hawks can’t bear to break it by turning on the television. So he sits there, listening to Dabi’s breathing even out; a quiet, peaceful siren song.

He’s convinced the other man’s fallen asleep, until he hears a quiet murmur of, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Hawks whispers, smile tugging at his lips.

Iii.

Years of abuse and living off the streets haven’t been kind to Dabi’s body. None of them, least of all the man himself, had expected anything less.

So no one says a word about it the next few weeks as he recovers slowly, as he gets up every day before the sun’s in his skylight and heads to the training room. As he works himself half to death before his body’s even recovered, torso heaving and slicked with sweat, the doc’s repeated warnings falling on deaf ears. As he eats twice his body weight in meals he cooks himself, quiet and alone in the kitchen at the weirdest fucking hours—ones where no one else is around, really.

Hawks spends more of his limited free time there than he does at home, which is easy, considering his apartment’s typically just a place to crash when he’s done working himself to the bone and can afford to catch a few hours’ worth of shut-eye. If only so his sidekicks will stop pestering him about it.

Sometimes he brings food, sometimes he just brings himself—the only sparring partner willing to meet Dabi on the mats. Half the team don’t want to go anywhere near the time bomb they’ve got living under their roof, and the other half know they could snap him in half without even trying, the state he’s in. And they really don’t want that just yet. They’d rather spectate, visitors flocking to the newest zoo exhibit, exchanging bets on when and how he’ll burn himself out.

Miraculously, Dabi doesn’t kill himself or worsen his condition (and Hawks is sure he manages this out of sheer fucking spite) and by the time his blisters and fresh burns have subsided, he’s put back on the weight he’d lost, and then some. He doesn’t look like a corpse anymore—well, no more than usual anyway—and he strolls into the mission briefing ten minutes late and takes a seat at the end of the table, like he’s been invited.

They’re finally going after the League, using information Hawks’ had gotten from him, so in way, he sort of has. And from the way the cocky little shit crosses his arms behind his head and props his combat boots on the corner of the table, he knows it, too.

He casts a half-smirk at the rest of the team, offering Hawks a lazy wink before his gaze settles on the woman at the opposite end of the table from him. Mahou—their team handler and leader.

She levels an unimpressed stare at him; one brow raised, but then continues on with her briefing a beat later, not addressing his presence further. When she gets to explaining the mission details and their strategy, however, Dabi perks up at the mention of his name.

He doesn’t say a word, but Hawks can see the way his smirk falters ever so slightly, his head tilting to the side—Dabi hadn’t been expecting his inclusion. Surely, he’d expected to tag along, to force his way onto the mission that was rightfully his one way or another—but not for them to already have him in mind. Especially when they’d all been giving him a wide berth since his arrival at the compound.

Something indiscernible crosses his face; it’s pulled tight at the edges, an elastic stretched nearly to a breaking point. And then it cracks, dry plaster on a hot day, and there’s a hunger in his eyes. An excitement. The thrill of a fight boiling just beneath the surface.

He’s been cooped up in the compound too long, and he’s itching for an outlet.

Less than an hour later, they’re packed up and out the door. The team piles into two nondescript SUVs, while Hawks takes to the skies. He slides his visor down and winks at Dabi before he goes, the other man rolling his eyes and lifting a middle finger as he clambers into the vehicle behind Miasma and Roulette.

He soars up high, fast as a bullet to draw as little attention as possible. He’s been out of the spotlight since the fight with Endeavor. It’s not like he’s been slacking off or neglecting his duty or agency—if anything he’s working twice as hard to keep everything afloat, to do everything he can and help as much as possible.

But he’s kept away from reporters, from interviews and anything associated with the press and public, warned all his sidekicks to do the same. With the rankings in disarray, and the hero society as a whole still sort of up in smoke, he’s keeping his hands clean of it. He’s told his superiors as much. And as loathe as they were to admit it, it was probably best.

So he’d keep doing his job, keep saving innocents and helping people, and they’d give him more leash than they had in years.

Which is exactly how he’d managed to coax Mahou into letting him accompany her team. It is, after all, his mission too. That doesn’t change just because his cover’s blown, or his information’s been handed over. He wants to see the League put away just as much as anyone.

Enough that there’s a fight already singing in his blood by the time he touches down on the rooftop across from the warehouse. He scans the alleyways, easily spotting the first half of the team considering Circe’s bright shock of pink hair. He still isn’t sure how subtle that is for a covert ops team, but last time he’d teased her about it he’d gotten cursed into a wall for his troubles.

He knows the other half are likely crawling towards the back door, and he can’t help but feel a rattle of nerves beneath his skin, because it means Dabi will be out of his line of sight until the fight’s upon them. He doesn’t have time to think about the unease that stirs in the pit of his stomach, a snake slithering through tall grass.

Instead, he locks eyes with Mahou—or Hex, he supposes, since they’re in the field—when she glances up towards him, and nods tightly when she holds up three fingers.

Three.

Hawks flares out his wings, curling his fingers against the railing and bracing himself.

Two.

He kicks off, coiling the muscles in his back and pumping his wings.

One.

A flash of pink and a groan of metal blow the door open ahead of him, and Hawks soars into the warehouse, eyes narrowed and loose feathers flying, nipping at any loose clothing they can find and pinning stunned targets to the wall, to boxes, to any surface they can.

The League has been recruiting. There’s far more people here than he had files on, than any of them expected. It makes sense, considering one of their heaviest hitters had up and disappeared for nearly three weeks. It leaves them outnumbered, but no way in hell are they outmatched.

This is the kind of fight Hawks lives for, excels at. Quick and rapid-fire, a chaos of quirks and shouting and his heartbeat thundering in his ears, his own personal adrenaline-fuelled soundtrack. It’s akin to a horse race, a stampede, lightning striking at the crack of a whip.

He sees a wall of blue erupt on the other side the warehouse, but ignores the urge to look for its source as smoke spills across the battlefield. Hawks trusts—knows—that Dabi can handle himself.

Hawks ends up facing off against Compress, more or less as planned. His wings grant him the movement and speed to stay out of the villain’s range, while pelting him with feathers to keep him busy, whittling down his stamina.

The guy puts up a valiant fight, even manages to slice the shit out of Hawks’ face by compressing feathers he’d sent to pin him down and then sending them right back at Hawks. He’s almost impressed. But Hawks got where he is by being far more impressive than that.

He flings two feathers past the villain in an arc, his feet touching down, his wings blowing dust from the warehouse floor out behind him. Compress takes this as an opening, darting forward, dark chuckle echoing out from his mask—but he never makes it close. Instead, Hawks’ feathers come back, boomerangs screeching towards their target.

One knocks him off his feet, the other loops around his wrist, keeping his grasping hand far from the hero. His fist connects with the side of Compress’ head, and he plummets like a sinking stone, out cold. Hawks zip ties his hands together, dumps him behind a crate, and turns to scan the rest of the warehouse. His wings vibrate at his back with anticipation, ready and willing to dive straight back into the fight.

Circe is juggling the teleporter, trying to pin Ujiko down. Roulette seems to be toying with Shigaraki, dancing around him in easy, slow circles. He doesn’t have eyes on Cypher or Hex, but he knows the hacker must be keeping close to her, considering his limited offensive abilities. And Miasma—

Miasma’s down, curled in a heap at Dabi’s feet.

The fire starter’s hands are up, darkened with soot and smoke, but free of flame. His mouth is pressed into a tight line, his jaw clenched, eyes narrowed but flickering between his two opponents.

A tiny blonde in a school uniform and a man in a mostly black bodysuit. Toga and Twice.

It’s more or less to plan. After all, neither have particularly good range, and their quirks aren’t really a match for Dabi’s. Especially when they both look so fucking floored to see him.

From what the other man’s told him of his time with the League—with the two of them—it makes sense. Hawks wouldn’t ever dare use the term friends, but he knows for a fact that Dabi tolerated them both more than anyone else.

And he can see it in the hesitant tension of his shoulders, the way he’s unfocused between them, biding his time, waiting for one of them to move first. Of course, it could also be because with Miasma at his feet, using his quirk would be risky. At such close proximity, he’d risk burning or overheating the unconscious man slumped on the ground.

And with the way his gaze darts down to the man, the thought has definitely crossed his mind.

Unfortunately, it’s just the opening Toga needs.

There’s madness dancing in her eyes and filthy names tumbling from her pretty lips when she leaps forward, knife twirling between her fingertips.

Hawks’ breath hitches in his throat, and two feathers detach from his left wing—but he doesn’t let them fly. He watches, pulse thundering in his ears, as Dabi’s eyes snap up to meet her, and then he’s in motion. His coat swings out behind him as he parries the blow, knocking the knife from her hands with one of those big, stupid cooling gauntlets of his.

“Traitor!” she shouts at him, kicking a leg out. He sidesteps it, grabbing her wrist and twisting it behind her back. She thrashes in his grip. “Let go of me, you jerk!”

“Toga, please. This would just be easier if you—”

“What?” The girl hisses like an angry cat, spitting vitriol. “Gave up? The way you did on us?”

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” Dabi insists. Toga slams her foot down on his, and he grits his teeth.

“Too bad,” she says petulantly. “Because we wanna hurt you, little prince.”

Little prince?

Hawks watches the same confusion he feels knit itself across Dabi’s brow, but it’s brief. Barely a fleeting moment, a breath or two, before Twice is serving up the answer for them on a flaming platter.

“Always wondered what your weakness was, since you were a blank slate, hard to read,” Twice chuckles, but it sounds strained. “But we wanted to thank you—well, not really thank you, because we hate you—for showing us exactly what it was with that little fireworks display.”

From the towering mass of boxes behind him steps a tall figure. Broad shoulders, clenched fists, and a flames licking along his jaw and brows, across his chest and shins.

Endeavor.

“Fuck,” Hawks curses quietly.

“Always thought you were one of us,” Toga says, stilling in Dabi’s grasp as she glances up, smile far too pleased. “But you were just riches hiding in rags, weren’t you?”

There’s cold fury burning in Dabi’s gaze, his face twisted into a snarl. Hawks isn’t sure if the anger is directed at them, or at the mirage of his father, the ghost of his past returned to haunt him yet again.

“You don’t fucking know shit.”

“We know enough, Daddy Issues,” Toga runs her tongue over her sharpened canines, a hungry gleam in her eyes.

“Once the news broke—and you and your bird didn’t come back—we knew. Well, we didn’t know, but we figured,” Twice shakes his head, arms crossed and leaning against the boxes by Endeavor’s clone. “So I started—I was told to—planning, y’know? And heroes. They got all their deets online, right? Especially for popular heroes like your pops. Everything I’d need for a family reunion!”

“You think this’ll fuck with me?” Dabi seethes, and he adjusts his grip on Toga to free his other hand. He ignites it, blue flame curling over his fingers, casting a light over the dangerous glint in his eyes. “I know how your shit works, Jin. I know he’s not fucking real.”

“No, but it’s gonna feel like it,” Toga giggles, and Hawks realized too late what’s happening. With the men focused on each other, nobody has been watching her.

And she’s swapped out her knife for a syringe filled with something bright green.

“Dabi!”

Time slows, watching the arc of her hand towards Dabi’s thigh. Hawks reacts instantly, sending the two feathers he’d had ready out towards her, but for possibly the first time in his life—he’s not fast enough.

Dabi cries out, and half the liquid bleeds into his bloodstream before a feather knocks it away from him. The second one wraps around Toga’s wrist, replacing Dabi’s grip as he loses it and goes down on his knees, hard. He clutches at his chest with one hand; the other, still flaming, is pressed flat against the concrete. His shoulders shake, his breathing erratic, and his eyes are wide, frozen on the clone. The fear in them stabs painfully at Hawks’ heart, thundering in his chest.

Toga lets loose a loud cackle, full of sick delight, but it’s short lived. Barely two breaths later and Hawks is upon her, hand wrapped around her wrists, pulse kicking up a furious drumbeat in his ears. “What did you do?”

“Dabi, huh?” She giggles, eyes twinkling with a bright, glittering madness. “Not Toooouya?”

“What. Did. You. Do?” He repeats, the words thick and angry on his tongue. They taste metallic.

Toga doesn’t give him an answer, but she doesn’t have to.

A scream rips itself clear of Dabi’s throat. Something vicious and primal, somewhere between rage and fear. There’s flame spilling from between his lips, licking up the sides of his face and across his scarred arms like a second skin. Thick black smoke billows up from his nostrils, drifting up and away from him, framing his shaking body in swirls of blue and black. Hawks feels the temperature rise, feels how hot and heavy his coat hangs on his shoulders.

This is not good.

“Your control is just as pathetic as always,” the Endeavor clone scoffs, stepping forward. He towers above Dabi’s crouched form, his scowl somehow as disappointed as it is smug. “You think you stand a chance of being a hero with that kind of weakness, boy?”

“I’m not—a—” Dabi forces out between clenched teeth. The hand on his chest rips free of his shirt before he burns clean through it, and slams onto the cement next to his other one. When he speaks again, his tone has changed, rattling in his mouth with palpable fear. “F-Father—please—”

He sounds years younger than he is. Hawks knows that whatever liquid Toga hit him with is affecting him, because he’s faced Endeavor twice and let his anger guide him, let his rage lock down his control and burn through the fear of his memories. But now he looks shaken—like a little kid, trapped in a time where he was afraid of the monster before him.

“Begging? Really?” Endeavor rolls his eyes. His voice is deep and booming, echoing off the high ceiling. “A disappointment to the family name, through and through. But then, you always had your mother’s frail resolve, didn’t you?”

“F—Fuck—you.” There’s a flash of blue, and the temperature spikes again as the hue of Dabi’s flames brightens. They envelop him almost completely, and the stench of burning leather is thick in the air. He’s searing through his outfit, which means his flesh isn’t far behind.

“Aw, that’s no fun,” Toga whines, and Hawks glances down at her. She’s pouting, bottom lip stuck far out. “You stopped me before he got the full dose! He’s supposed to be stuck in his worst nightmare, but he’s still got a grip!”

Hawks has heard enough.

He cuts Toga’s complaint off with a hit hard enough to send her crumbling, and then he’s in motion, speeding forward. He sends feathers at the Endeavor clone, trying to push it back and away from Dabi, and skids to a stop between them. He can feel the heat of Dabi’s flames at his back, and uncomfortable sting of the clone’s fire before him.

“Dabi?” Hawks calls over his shoulder, his wings flaring up to try and build a barrier between the two fire starters. He can feel the sweat pooling along his spine, on his sides. Even his visor feels slippery on his face. “It’s all in your head, okay? Whatever you’re seeing—it’s not real. Come back to me.”

“I’m right here, asshole,” Dabi hisses. His voice crackles like campfire. “I know it’s not real—I just—I need a sec to burn through it.”

“You’re gonna burn through yourself,” Hawks clicks his tongue against his teeth.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” The laugh that follows is derisive and ragged. A wheeze, dry as the desert. “Just—fuck—gimme a minute?”  

“Take all the time you need, hot stuff. I got this,” Hawks grins, wings fluttering behind him. He cracks his knuckles, staring down the Endeavor clone.

“Do you?” Endeavor’s smile is vicious, the fight burning in his eyes.

He’s always wondered how things would go, if he and the number one hero went toe to toe. Well, maybe not always, because who dreamed about beating the shit out of their idols—but certainly since he’d found out the kind of man he was behind all that showboating flame.

“Guess we’ll find out,” Hawks smirks.

And then he launches himself at the clone, feathers flying.

He’s read Twice’s file. He knows how this works. The duplicates he makes carry the basic quirk and abilities of whatever person he’s cloned, but without any personal knowledge of them, it’s not like the skill set and memories are there. So in theory, this should be easy. He deals enough damage, and the clone should turn to sludge.

But really, when has anything in Hawks’ life come easy to him?

He goes through half his goddamn feathers, watching the ash of them fall like fresh snow onto the concrete as he twirls through the air, trying to keep the clone focused on him. Trying to give Dabi time to breathe. Twice remains tucked behind the boxes, laughing up a storm, clearly enjoying the show.

Endeavor’s clone doesn’t give him an inch. It keeps the fire up, insistent and annoying, blasting walls into his path at every turn. Hawks remains constantly in motion, airborne and on edge. And seriously fucking annoyed.

His pulse is thundering in his ears, his body is slicked with sweat and he’s missing half a goddamn eyebrow by the time Dabi gets it together. It takes far longer than a minute, but Hawks would give him an hour, a month, a week if that’s what he needed.

“Hawks!” He calls out, and finally, finally his voice is steady. His heart soars in his chest in response. “Now!”

He banks left just as the Endeavor clone unleashes a fireball into the air, and curves around him—aiming straight for Twice. He braces himself for impact, and hears a muffled oof as he slams into him, arms wrapping around his middle. His wings keep them airborne for a handful of feet before they crash to the ground in a heap.

A split-second later, there’s a noise like a jet engine behind them. An explosion of heat and blue light and the screech of metal so loud Hawks has to cover his ears. Even still, they’re ringing when he recovers, glancing over his shoulder to see the chaos left behind.

There’s a hole blown clean through the side of the warehouse. The cement floor is scorched, blackened with the ash of the boxes that have been laid to waste. Cutting through the soot is a massive skid mark of brown-gray sludge, blown flat against the ground, charred and smoking. The air is acrid, thick in his lungs as Hawks stands, surveying the damage.

“Nooo!” Twice wails, clutching at his head and staring at the remains of his fallen creation. “Did you really have to? I mean, of course you did but—he was such a good clone! He wasn’t, really, barely knew him but—”

Hawks lets out an exasperated sigh, and snags his gloved fingertips between his teeth. He gives one good tug, pulling it off and then reaches over, slotting his bare fingers against Twice’s neck. He presses firmly, and the villain’s sentence stops short.

Hawks turns before Twice has even hit the ground, and sees Dabi still on his knees. His eyes are wide, staring at nothing, and his chest heaves with each breath.

He’s wound so tight that Hawks wouldn’t be surprised to see him explode. So he steps towards him, keeping his moves slow and deliberate, staying in his line of sight. When he touches his shoulder, Dabi flinches.

Then a small noise, a strangled sob, escapes him and he lurches forward to wrap his arms around Hawks’ hips. The man braces himself, flaring out his small wings a little to counterbalance the sudden weight, and places his hands lightly on Dabi’s head. His fingers curl into his dark hair, and he feels the other man shudder in response.

“I’ll do it,” he says, voice gruff and strained. His throat is probably raw.

“What?” Hawks says, blinking down at him. Dabi’s hands twist tightly in the fabric of his shirt, hidden beneath his coat. He can feel the whisper of his fingertips touching bare skin where the back of his shirt dips open beneath his wings.

“I’ll join this stupid fucking team,” Dabi snarls, and when he looks up, his eyes are practically glowing with a burning resolve. “If only to clean up my own goddamn mess. The League didn’t die here today—”

And it’s true. Glancing around, Hawks sees only half of the people they’d come here to capture being gathered up in handcuffs. Shigaraki and that teleporter—there’s a handful missing. And the longer he’s loose, the more likely he is the just continue recruiting, after all.

“—and if I hadn’t been so fucking selfish, it would’ve died a lot sooner.”

“I think you give yourself too much credit,” Hawks says gently, his voice low. “Not all of your shared values with them were fake.”

He knows that there are parts to Dabi—the sharpest edges and the darkest corners of the abyss in his chest—that really do agree with Stain’s ideology. The parts that look at the smoldering remains of his childhood, and think about how things would’ve been different had his father not been allowed such freedom, such power.

Sometimes, Hawks wonders how he measures up against those ideals. If he does enough to be considered a true, meaningful hero. Sometimes he worries that he doesn’t, that no matter how hard he tries, the yawning emptiness of his own childhood—filled with government training facilities and stark, white loneliness—can’t have shaped him into a proper hero. That he can’t really help people if he never learned how to be one.

“What I want hasn’t changed, Hawks,” Dabi tells him. “I want to make sure no one else ever goes through what I did—what my siblings did. What she—”

His voice breaks, and he knows without following Dabi’s gaze that he’s looking at Toga, out cold on the concrete barely five feet from them. He sucks on his teeth, then continues, voice like sandpaper. “I want to make sure people like Endeavor pay. And I want the rest of the League to fucking burn.”

iv.

When Hawks wakes, it takes a few seconds for his surroundings to register. He’s in a hospital bed, and his head’s fucking killing him. The only light is a single lamp on his bedside table, but it’s dim, muted. Probably because it’s nighttime, he realizes, when he spots darkness through the crack in his curtains.

He can hear the soft beeping of a heart monitor, and his head throbs with every ping from the machine. No surprise, really, given the way his vision doubles when he turns his head. Definitely a concussion. And he can feel the gauze of a bandage stretching above his left eye.

When he lifts his hand to his head, he sees the plaster covering his arm from his elbow to the base of his fingers.

Just like that, it all comes flooding back to him.

The battle had been short, bloody, but the new guy Shigaraki’s dwindling crew had picked up had refused to go down easy. He’d been massive, easily twice Hawks’ size if not bigger, and he’d been able to toss Miruko aside like she’d weighed nothing at all.

After weeks of hounding him, he’d finally let her tag along on a covert op and she’d gotten her ass kicked immediately. He was going to owe her some serious TLC after this. Probably in the form of a night out, very many drinks, and putting his charm to good use as her wingman. Literally.

His head swims just thinking about it, but he’s not entirely sure it’s just from overthinking. He’s pretty sure he’s paying the price for being incapable of backing down from a fight with the tank of a villain, who’d come straight for Hawks after he’d knocked Miruko out.

A quiet sound, different from the beeping, draws his attention as someone sits up in the chair to Hawks’ right. His gaze snaps up, and his eyes widen when he comes face to face with Dabi, lifting a hand to rub at one shoulder. Like he’s been sitting there long enough to be uncomfortable.

Which is strange, considering he’s not supposed to be out of the compound unless on mission. And Hawks is sure no one would’ve assigned a wanted man as his personal bodyguard in a public hero hospital. Absolutely sure.

“You know, if you’re trying for Sleeping Beauty, you have a few more decades to sleep,” Dabi drawls lazily, but his eyes give him away.

They’re haunted, red-rimmed, and Hawks remembers hearing him scream as pain had exploded through his skull. There’d been a fierce heat, a flash of bright, brilliant blue, and the smell of burning flesh before he’d blacked out.

“Yeah?’ Hawks winks, and then winces as it pulls at the injury above his brow. “And who’d look after you, then?”

Dabi stares at him for a long moment before his lips twitch in the semblance of a smile. “There are easier ways to ask for a vacation.”

“Too much paperwork.” Hawks snickers, and then tilts his head, assessing the other man. The hollows around his eyes look more pronounced than usual; he looks ruffled around the edges, and not in the fun way. He’s still in his edgelord coat—the one he’d refused to give up, despite how much the support tech at base had bitched and moaned about it—which means Hawks can’t have been out that long. Or maybe Dabi’s just been sitting here, for hours, in his work clothes.

The thought tightens in his chest, twists in a way that leaves him short of breath. More than his aching ribcage does, anyway.

“What are you doing here?” His eyes scan the room, which looks devoid of any other signs of life. It’s not like he has anyone who’d visit him, other than Miruko, and if she hasn’t come by to draw something obscene on the whiteboard beside his bed, well he really hasn’t been here that long, or she’s in another room of this hospital. He clears his throat, manages to ask quietly; “Did everyone else—”

“They’re fine,” Dabi nods. “Cottontail’s down the hall, sleeping it off. Boss has the witch watching ove—”

“Boss?” Hawks’ brows rise into his hairline, and he stumbles over his next few words, almost choking on them. “Since when do you—when did—”

Dabi had sworn he was only joining the team until the League was dealt with. Had refused to sign any sort of contract or fancy membership agreement until Endeavor’s trial was over and he was rotting in prison. Those had been his requirements, and Mahou had agreed. Given him a sort of trial run, to see if Dabi was even worth the headaches he caused.

Not once had he referred to the woman with any sort of title or respect, telling Hawks in the dark of his room, in the quiet of night, that he wasn’t officially her lackey and she hadn’t earned it.

Since Shigaraki and a small handful of others are still at large, and Endeavor’s trial isn’t for another few weeks, Hawks finds it hard to believe anything’s changed.

Dabi shrugs as though it’s no big deal, but Hawks can see the stiff line of his shoulders as he scoots the chair closer. “A wanted criminal isn’t exactly allowed to walk the halls of a hero hospital, even one with such tight security—but a covert ops agent?”

Hawks mouth drops open in awe. He did it for him? No fucking way…

“Dabi…”

“I thought you—” His voice is rough, and he stops to take a deep breath. Rubbing a hand over his face, through his hair, he looks away. “You’re going to be okay.”

“I know.”

He nods again and looks over his shoulder, towards the closed hospital door. Hawks would think he were keeping a watchful eye, or maybe that he’d heard someone coming, if not for the way his hands tighten on the arms of the chair.

“Touya,” Hawks says, and every muscle in the other man’s body stiffens, his spine curving forward, his knuckles white. “I’m fine.”

And Dabi’s eyes don’t meet his, not yet, but some of the tension leaves his body. “I know,” he says, so quietly that the words are barely audible. “Too much of an idiot to—well.”

Hawks laughs and smiles when Dabi finally meets his gaze. When Dabi curls towards him, head coming to rest on the edge of the mattress, Hawks doesn’t say a word.

And when his scarred hand slips beneath the sheets to curl around his knee, Dabi’s grip just short of too tight, Hawks simply reaches out to comb his fingers through his black hair until his body relaxes. Tension uncoils from his shoulders, and he callused pad of his thumb scrapes softly along the inside of Hawks’ leg.

It’s a grounding, anchoring touch for them both. It means that they’re here, they’re alive, they’ve survived. Together.

V.

It’s not the idea of facing the public for the first time in years as Todoroki Touya that puts the haunted look back in Dabi’s eyes, the morning of his father’s trial. No, it’s the knowledge that he’s going to have to do it alongside his siblings—alongside his mother—for the first time since he left them all behind. Since their older brother burned to nothingness like a forgotten photograph in the training room and a cold, heartless creature rose from the ashes.

Hawks can’t say he’s surprised. He knows Dabi’s feelings on the matter are complicated.

Just as he isn’t surprised when the other man finds him early the next morning before the sun is fully up, curling into the warmth of Hawks’ bed and making himself as small as possible. He doesn’t ask how he got in, or how he even got here, considering his apartment is several blocks from the facility and he no longer has a teleporter at his beck and call.

He just hums contentedly as warmth washes over him like a wave, as Dabi clings to him (though Hawks would never use that word out loud where Dabi can hear him, because he understands him and his pride. Unless he was purposely trying to piss him off, anyway.) The hero simply shifts and readjusts to accommodate the giant space heater and wraps his wings around them both.

“It would’ve just been easier if I’d fucking killed him,” he says with a voice that’s raw from too many emotions.

“I know,” Hawks replies, even though he has doubts whether or not that’s true.

As much as Dabi hates Endeavor—and he does hate him with every ounce of his being, a hatred that burns bright and clean like the fires of Hell itself—Hawks knows that there is a part of him, albeit a small and unspoken, that still craves what could have been. That still wishes things had turned out differently. And that wants to see him pay for it, publicly, in front of everyone that thinks him a hero or a savior—see his father’s kingdom come crumbling down around him, into the dirt where the ashes of the family he built it on rest.

He knows this, because he feels it, too. No matter how many people he saves and how many grateful, happy fans he attracts, sometimes Hawks pictures the parents that handed him over to the hero commission without a second thought, just a small chick barely able to fly out of the nest, and wonders what life might’ve been like if they’d looked back. Just once. If he’d been worth more to them than the price tag of his fame and success.

Sometimes Hawks hates the parents he’ll never know and barely remembers. And that’s what makes today all the more difficult, because Dabi doesn’t hate the rest of his family. He loves them, with everything he has, and that’s a far more dangerous poison.

He spent years looking out for them, taking hits meant for them and drawing their father’s ire his way to protect them. Years screaming himself hoarse in an enclosed room as flames licked at his body, scalding and blistering his sensitive, cool-to-the-touch skin. Years thinking that nothing he did would ever be good enough for his father—or his mother. That no matter how many times he mouthed off to Endeavor when he made Shouto cry, until heavy hands swung his way, or how many times he braided Fuyumi’s hair and walked Natsuo to and from practice or picked up all their toys before their father got home—it was never enough for Rei.

Rei, who looked at him and saw Endeavor’s red hair and turquoise eyes. Rei, who flinched when he spoke too loudly or argued too fiercely with his siblings. Rei, who recoiled when anger sent smoke leaking from his nostrils and curling from his fingertips.

Dabi’s not scared to face his father in court. He’s not even afraid of his siblings, or how differently they might think of him after all these years.

It’s the thought of his mother, and her fear of him, that has left raw scars still etched into his psyche in ways Endeavor never could. Because the thought of showing up in that courtroom and having his mother look at him like he’s a monster when all he’s ever craved is her love—well it’s the kind of fear Dabi’s only shared with him once, in the endless dark of the night, wrapped together.

“You know,” Hawks starts, but a low sound from Dabi stops his words.

“Don’t.” His voice is little more than a growl in the dim light. “Don’t. I’m going, I just—I need a minute.”

Hawks smoothes a hand over his hair, down the back of his skull, and lets his hand rest on the nape of Dabi’s neck. The grip doesn’t confine him, too gentle to set off his fight-or-flight instinct, and the faint tremors in his muscle vanish.

He doesn’t mention how every member of the Todoroki family has asked about him since the trial date got set. How they’ve reached out through various channels like the kid’s U.A. teacher (the one with too much static electricity in his hair) or the official hero commission medic who’d been sent to assess Rei’s condition at her hospital, or fucking Miruko, who’s somehow struck up an unlikely friendship (and crush, Hawks reminds himself with genuine glee) with the sister, because her niece is in Fuyumi’s class. Even Natsuo, who’d just straight up called the hero commission and demanded to know if they were releasing his brother to them for the trial.

He doesn’t mention it, because it’s the last thing Dabi needs to hear. He’ll see for himself soon enough.

Instead, Hawks scoots down until his forehead rests against Dabi’s. And he offers him what he can, even if it’s just words.

“It’s gonna be fine,” Hawks says as Dabi’s eyes open by a slit, offering the hero a scathing look. “It is! And I’ll have your back the whole time.”

“Shut up,” he mutters, shoving his hand into Hawks’ face. His palm is cold as it pushes them further apart. “Let’s just fucking go already.”

Slowly, they disentangle from one another and get out of bed. Hawks dresses quickly while Dabi hovers in the window, looking down below at the street of bustling people. He’s already in his suit—now a little ruffled from him having crawled under the covers—a sleek, all-black thing that frames his shoulders and ass in a way Hawks can appreciate. (He certainly plans to, later, when they have time to be alone.)

It feels a little weird to see him in one, to be honest, given how much of him is covered up. It hugs his body nicely, but it also makes Hawks realize just how goddamn gangly he is—like a giraffe, he’s really all fucking limbs. Dabi’s always hidden himself beneath loose-fitting clothes that offer little friction against his scars; made himself look smaller and less threatening by dressing in thrift-store threads and looking like he’d walked in off the street.

Hawks isn’t really one to judge, considering the look worked on him, but whatever.

Still, it’s almost unsettling to see the other man in formal wear. His unblemished skin looks even paler than usual, while his scars are darker when complimented by so much black. There’s no open white shirt to offset them this time.

Hawks slides into his suit jacket, tucking his wings in tight to fit them through the slits at the back, and then pads over to stand beside Dabi. The man’s eyes are glassy, unfocused, and he’s tugging at his collar in a way that’s shifted his tie slightly, making it hang loose and crooked around his neck.

Hawks sucks at his teeth disapprovingly, then steps between him and the window, fingers reaching for it. Dabi makes no move to stop him, looking down his nose as the hero tightens his tie and fixes his collar. There’s a curve to his lips that looks remarkably like a softer version of his usual annoying smirk.

“Thanks, pretty bird.”

“You clean up nice, hot stuff,” Hawks grins up at him. “Who knew, huh?”

“Don’t act like you didn’t give Honda pointers for my suit.” Dabi raises a brow, challenging Hawks to prove him wrong.

He absolutely had given the team’s support tech suggestions on what to make him, had even helped with the measurements and fit, but there’s no way in hell he’s giving Dabi the satisfaction of that one.

“Well, I would have offered you one of mine, but they’re a little drafty without these,” Hawks snickers. He flares out his wings, feeling them brush against the glass at his back.

Dabi snorts. “Right. And child-sized.”

Hawks scowls at him. “Fuck off.”

“Ooh, did I hit a nerve, half-pint?” There’s delight dancing in his eyes as he steps forward, crowding Hawks against the window. He brings a wave of heat that’s almost suffocating now that he’s stuffed himself into a restrictive suit, and he almost wishes he could wear his hero costume instead. But today’s not about him, and Hawks figures a more reserved appearance suits him better.

At least, that’s what Miruko had told him. Specifically, don’t show up in all your fancy tail feathers, birdboy, but whatever. As if his hero suit was somehow more flashy than hers. Which literally did not have pants.

“I’m of perfectly average height, thanks,” Hawks huffs, blowing a stray lock of hair from his face. “You’re just a fucking giraffe.”

“You don’t normally seem to mind,” Dabi leans in, whispering the words against his cheek, ghosting over the shell of his ear. Between the sensation and implication, Hawks barely suppresses a shiver. It’s not like he’s wrong—Dabi’s height does have it’s advantages considering all the places he can reach.

Like the top shelf in the kitchen, Hawks forces himself to think, because now really isn’t the time.

“What can I say?” He laughs, loose and just a little bit breathy. “Climbable tree was in the fine print of my Tinder match requirements. Right next to boyfriend material.”

Dabi’s shoulders shake with a chuckle that’s low, deep in his chest. His fingers brush through Hawks’ feathers before lifting to tug on his earring. “Kinda missed the mark on that one, birdbrain.”

Hawks shrugs, nonchalant. He’s made peace with the mess his life has become since falling into bed with a villain—since meeting the fucker, really—and everything that came after. “Eh, makes life more interesting.”

Dabi searches his face, one brow raised. His lazy drawl is fairly amused. “You think dating a murderer makes life interesting, huh? Tell me, which one of us is more fucked up again?”

But Hawks can only grin in response, because the other man’s walked right into his trap without even noticing. And he realizes it somewhere between Hawks’ lips curving up so high his cheeks dimple, and the words that tumble from his mouth. “Is that what we’re doing—dating?”

Dabi freezes, fingers stilling around the black stud in Hawks’ left ear as his eyes widen. It’s the smallest, barest flicker of panic he lets slip, before the turquoise disappears in a thin glare. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip before pressing his mouth into a fine, tight line, and Hawks can practically see him mull over response options and how to play his next hand.

There’s the faintest hint of a flush on his cheekbones, beneath his scars, when he tilts his head down towards Hawks. Dabi’s breath whispers against his lips, barely a suggestion of something, and his eyes begin to flutter close in response.

And then Dabi says: “Well, I am taking you to meet my family today—I guess,” before slinking away, satisfied smirk on his face as he leaves Hawks hanging.

What a fucking asshole.

He briefly debates kicking the window open and throwing him down to the ground level as punishment, but thinks he probably shouldn’t. It’ll just attract more attention than they need today. So Hawks follows him out of the apartment, quick and quiet on his feet.

There’s a car waiting out front, which explains how he got there.

As they clamber inside, Hawks tucking his wings as tightly to his body as possible, Dabi slides into the far seat. His chin settles in his palm and he stares resolutely out the tinted window.

It’s not until someone speaks that Hawks realizes why. His pulse ices over, a flash freeze on a cold winter’s day.

“Glad to see you two have finally decided to grace us with your presence,” a voice says to his right, and Hawks tears his eyes away from Dabi to see a woman seated across from them. She’s dressed in a crisp black suit, and an unimpressed look.

“Mahou!” Hawks say, masking his nervous laugh with a grin. “So nice to see you!”

He’s not sure why he’s surprised—of course she’d be accompanying Dabi to his court appearance. As both his boss and handler, it’s her job to keep him in line.

The corner of her mouth curls up slightly, amused, and someone snickers in the front seat. Hawks can just barely see Cypher smirking at him in the rearview. His fingers wave about like an orchestra conductor, and the SUV hums to life, pulling away from the curb.

The courthouse is just a few blocks from his apartment, so it doesn’t take them long to get there. Cypher pulls them around back to avoid the hoard of reporters swarming the front steps and when he gets out of the SUV, Hawks flares his wings high and wide to cover them. Dabi seems unbothered, his face a neutral slate, but there’s a tight coil to his shoulders that suggests otherwise. His lips remain pressed into a thin line, and that’s the only outwards sign of his unease; the only thing that betrays his nervousness.

At least until they step through the doors and into the back lobby—and Dabi pulls to an abrupt halt, so quickly that Hawks slams into his back.

“Fuck,” the shorter man hisses, rubbing at his nose. It connected squarely with Dabi’s shoulder blade, and considering he was so goddamn bony… “Sorry, I—”

The hero looks up, and the words dry out in his mouth. Standing just down the hall, in front of a set of large oak doors, is a cluster of people. Most of them have white hair, except for the youngest, who’s got half a head of fiery red strands.

The other members of the Todoroki family.

Hawks is close enough that he can feel Dabi’s hands start to shake, just a little. It’s the slightest tremor that echoes up his arms and across his shoulders, but standing against his back, it’s painfully clear to Hawks.

So the hero leans loser, pressing his palm against the small of Dabi’s back, and waving a wing forward. It brushes against his shaking hand, and Hawks watches the tremor die in his shoulders. They go rigid, and he huffs out a little breath through his nostrils. He can see the tightness of Dabi’s jaw, clenched so hard the vein on his neck is visible through his scars.

The youngest is the first to move. It’s a small shift, nearly imperceptible, but as he turns to face them, he shuffles half a foot to his left. When he straightens his shoulders and offers his eldest brother a calculating look, he does so standing between him and their mother. Hawks holds his breath, sure that Dabi will notice, and hoping he won’t take it the wrong way—but the man’s eyes are stuck to the person approaching him.

Her steps are strong, full of purpose, and her chin is held high as Fuyumi stalks towards him. There’s something bright glittering in the grey of her eyes, almost defiant and daring. A cold fire, simmering beneath a watery layer of stubborn tears. She stops just short of him, and Hawks tenses as her left hand flies out. He thinks , for the briefest of seconds, that maybe she’s going to slap him.

But then her thumb presses gently against his chin, two curving beneath his jaw, and the hero realizes that she’s keeping Dabi in place. Preventing him from averting his gaze as hers skitters over his face, his scars, his hesitant expression, searching. The longer she looks, the more she softens, until finally, her lower lip trembles, and the fight all but leaves her.

Her voice is a quiet, hushed sob. “Touya?”

Dabi’s eyes slide shut, and he releases a shuddering breath. Tension bleeds from his shoulders, and somehow, he looks smaller. Younger, for only a moment. When turquoise meets grey once more, eyelids fluttering open, there’s a wet gleam to them both. His lips curve into a shaky, uncertain smile. Hawks knows he’s trying for unaffected, that he’s holding onto his calm facade with every shred of pride he has left—but the hero doesn’t have the heart to tell him it’s not working.

“Hey, Yumi.”

The elastic tension snaps, pretenses shattering like glass, and then Fuyumi throws her arms around her brother, crushing him in a hug. It takes him a second, shock clear on his face as it tugs his staples slightly out of place, but then his arms lift, settling gently around her shoulders.

There’s a hoarse, gasping sob ripped from the young woman’s throat, and that’s what moves the rest of them into action. Like water spilling from a broken dam, Dabi’s other family members approach.

Natsuo is first, tears already streaming down his cheeks as he wraps thick arms around both his older siblings. His one hand ruffles Dabi’s hair, and affectionately, he manages to choke; “Finally hit that growth spurt, huh?”

“Shut up,” Dabi snaps, but there’s no bite to it.

“And look at your hair! Take it easy, edgelord,” Natsuo laughs, wet and in his throat.

“Fuck off.”

Shouto hovers an arm’s length away, face pulled into a loose frown, hesitation clear in the line of his shoulders and the way he’s chewing on his bottom lip. His gaze flickers past his siblings, scanning over Hawks, and when he looks back, his eyes meet Dabi’s and widen.

“Hey, kid,” Dabi says, his voice low and gravelly. It wavers with emotion. “I’m sorry.”

There’s an almost imperceptible shake of the young hero-in-training’s head. “Don’t.” He steps closer, near enough now to join the embrace or be pulled into it, if they so wanted to. “You’ll have time to explain and apologize, after we put him away for what he’s done to us.”

And then he melts into the group hug, easily slipping in between Fuyumi and Natsuo.

Hawks watches them for several long moments as they hold on to one another, lifelines in a tumultuous sea. He doesn’t realize he’s started crying until he feels a light touch on his shoulder, and glances right to see a handkerchief held out for him.

In Rei’s hands.

Hawks inhales sharply, taking in the woman before him. Hair like freshly fallen snow, and smile a little sad around the edges—it’s her eyes that catch him, draw him in and make him follow their dip down, towards her nose. They have the same one, he realizes. Her and Dabi.

“Yes, well, he is my son,” she says, and her voice is soft, peaceful like an early winter morning. “One that I have you to thank for bringing back to us, I believe.”

Hawks gapes at her like an idiot. His mouth opens and closes for words that die in his throat. He thinks he might say something truly stupid in a moment, but thankfully Dabi saves him.

“Mom?” The word is a dying ember, crackling at the end of a campfire and struggling to survive. It sounds heavy and choked, like it weighs nothing at all once spoken, but spent long moments trapped in Dabi’s mouth, begging for release behind his teeth.

Rei’s gaze drifts to him, and the moment it connects, the handkerchief falls from her fingers.

Hawks catches it easily, far too distracted to register just how cold her hand is when it brushes against his. Cold enough that it burns, just like with Dabi. Like—

“Touya,” she breathes, and the weight of his name on his mother’s lips is an instant blow. She takes a half step towards him, and he staggers to meet her on unsteady legs that give out the second Rei reaches for him. “My son.”

His knees hit the tiled courthouse floor, but he’ll never notice, the way he’s shaking. The tears stream freely down his cheeks, catching on his staples and rolling across his scars as his mother’s hands curl into his hair. Gentle, soothing, and he leans into it, wrapping his arms around her waist. “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry, mom.”

Hawks knows he’s intruding, that he’s long past overstepped his boundaries watching this intimate reunion, but as he rubs at his eyes with the soft, baby blue handkerchief, he can’t help but feel he’s exactly where he needs to be.

He’s heard Dabi’s apologies, whispered in his sleep, on fitful nights where he wakes with tears in his eyes and a scream ripped from his throat. He knows what he thinks of himself, what he’s always wanted to say to the woman before him.

Sorry for not being strong enough to protect her and the others. Strong enough to stop the monster in their home.

Sorry for not being kinder, or more gentle.

Sorry for becoming a monster, just like the man who made him.

But Dabi’s apologies are sand in the wind, whispered into the soft sweater she’s wearing and broken only by a loud, gasping sob when Rei leans down and kisses the top of his head.

“You did everything you could, Touya,” Rei tells him, holding onto him tightly. Like he might disappear on her if she lets go of him again. The rest of her kids approach, clinging to each other, forming a little circle around their older brother. “I’m only sorry that I did not.”

Hawks watches them, the careful way they dance around each other like the floor between them is a chasm, a crash scene filled with glass, and he wishes they didn’t have to go through this.

He wishes Endeavor had been better, had been more deserving of the titles he’d worn. Father. Hero. Idol. If he’d just been fucking human, maybe.

He wishes Rei had been a little stronger, and he knows Dabi does too, sometimes. It’s not exactly fair, and he loves his mother with all his heart, no matter how bitter and blackened it became, but if she’d just been there—if she’d stuck around a little longer—maybe things would have been different.

Mostly, Hawks wishes someone had noticed. He almost wishes he’d known them, back then.

But wishes got you nowhere, they slipped through your fingers like moonlight, like time, and they didn’t change a damn thing.

Which left the people that hurt the most—the ones with the most wishes tucked away in their fragile little hearts—to pick up the pieces and change things themselves. To rise from the ashes and rebuild their lives around their tragedies.

Hawks is probably more familiar than most, considering he’d been doing it his whole life.

“Hey, birdbrain.” A raspy voice snaps him from his thoughts, and he looks up to see Dabi’s on his feet now. He’s standing in the middle of his siblings, half-smirk tilting his lips. His youngest brother wears a similar look, while Natsuo’s full on grinning. Fuyumi and their mother wear quieter expressions, but there’s a warmth in Rei’s eyes that’s almost beckoning to him.

Hawks realizes Dabi gets that from his mother, too.

Dabi’s raises one brow slowly, and that’s when he hero notices the hand outstretched to him. “I’m not fucking going in there without you, so hurry it up.”

He rubs at his eyes with the back of his fist, then smiles so brightly it dimples his cheeks before his fingers tangle with Dabi’s, and Hawks lets himself be pulled onwards.

vi.

Doped on painkillers and antibiotics, Touya sprawls on his bed, eyes half-closed. His breath comes easier knowing that Shigaraki is finally dead, a weight off his shoulders. And even if he’s not the one who’d delivered the final blow—his teammate Roulette had been the one with that honour—it’s still a sweet, sweet victory.

He can’t shake the look on Shigaraki’s face when he’d seen Touya’s mask come down, revealing his face for the briefest of moments before he’d set the place ablaze, giving Roulette and Circe a nice, wide ring in which to take him on.

It’s a look he’ll carry to his grave with a smile. Fucking prick.

Most of the League had been idiots, cattle easily herded to slaughter, but harmless if left to graze in an open field. Twice, Ujiko, even Toga—who’d been just a kid, a victim of circumstance like him. Who’d been crazier than a bag of cats, but who’d been the only person he’d let his guard down around, those times where a mannerism of hers, or the way she’d said something would throw him into the past, and for a moment, Fuyumi had been standing in her place. He’d even caught himself helping her with her hair on more than one occasion.

But some, like Shigaraki and that fucking freak with the bondage fetish, had been monsters with human faces, real psychos that he’d hated sharing breathing room with for all those months, for the sake of his plan.

He’s relieved that it’s done and over with, now.

Even if, for a couple of minutes during the fight, Touya thought he might done and over with, too. The heaving sigh he lets loose at the memory aches and burns in his chest, beneath the thick bandage he wears.

Kurogiri had caught him off guard. Because of course the bastard had not only escaped captivity, but lived until the very end, too. A loyal and dependable lapdog, as per fucking usual. He’d been the only one who’d managed to slip past Touya’s wall of fire and get up close.

He’d tried to counter, tried to fling shorter bursts and walls into place, but that didn’t exactly stop a man who could just warp around it—and directly into your fucking chest, darkness curling around your heart.

A shiver runs down Touya’s spine, and he screws his eyes shut as he remembers how for the first time in… well, since his childhood, that he’d felt so fucking cold.

His door creaks, the sound just enough to make his eyes flutter open completely.

Hawks stands there in a loose t-shirt and shorts, one arm in a sling. There’s a patch of gauze applied to his cheek, and his wings look a little droopy at his back, a third of their usual size.

As he watches, Hawks steps into the room, not bothering to close the door. After all, there’s nobody else in the compound at this time of night. Everyone else was cleared to go home after they’d been checked over, and they’d done just that.

Hawks, if Touya remembers right, had also been given a green light.

And a firm slap on his wrist, considering he wasn’t supposed to be on this mission in the first place.

“Hawks?” he croaks, his throat still sore. He moves to sit up, but the other man shakes his head, ruffling his hair loosely around his face.

There’s a soft padding of feet as he crosses the room, shuffling towards the bed. His eyes stay locked on Touya’s, amber burning like liquid gold in the moonlight from the window above. As he crosses into the pallid ray, though, Touya spots the wet streaks on the other man’s cheeks.

Touya’s mouth goes dry.

Then Hawks turns his head, looking away from him. And that won’t do.

“Hawks,” he tries again, this time softer. He shifts over and pats the mattress beside his hip. “C’mere, pretty bird.”

The other man’s body is relaxed, but his fingers tremble as he tugs back the sheets and climbs onto the bed. His hand is light when he rests it over the bandage on Touya’s chest. The one that hides a very nasty wound that’s sure to leave an indent in his chest once it’s all healed.

He’d made jokes, both at the warehouse and during the emergency airlift back to base, that his time was up. To cover the very real, very visceral fear he’d felt as the cold had crept through him like the silent touch of death. That no matter how fast Hawks had swooped in, knocking Kurogiri out before he could crush Touya’s heart between his fingers, it hadn’t been fast enough. That no matter how hard Hawks had begged, jacket stained with blood that matched his wings but wasn’t his, Touya’s wound had been fatal.

From the look in Hawks’ eyes, he believed the same.

When he starts to pull back, Touya reaches out to grasp his hand. Hawks doesn’t speak, gold eyes searching, but neither does he—and that’s okay. They don’t need words. They haven’t in almost a year.

Whatever Hawks needs, he’ll take, and Touya will give. Because he needs it, too, the reassurance that they’re both still alive, that they’re both still here and fighting. He’d give Hawks the moon, if he wanted it. He can’t deny the birdbrained idiot anything.

And he asks for so little, preferring to work hard and do everything himself so that others don’t have to. He’s strong enough not to need Touya, really. But, even the strongest people need someone from time to time.

And Touya’s glad to be that someone for Hawks. He gives willingly. Because Hawks will never ask him for more than he can give. Sometimes, he thinks Hawks knows him better than Touya knows himself. It’s what makes them fit together so well.

There’s a rustling of feathers, and a soft brushing of hair against skin as Hawks lays his head on Touya’s shoulder. His hand’s still covering the bandage, Touya’s placed gently over top. It takes time, but eventually their breathing evens out to match one another.

Hawks wraps his wings lazily around them both, and he can feel the warmth radiating off him, the little space heater that could. Touya can feel the pull of sleep, thick and heavy in the back of his mind, with Hawks’ body softly curled against him.

So Touya presses a messy kiss to his forehead, wraps an arm around his shoulders, and pulls the sheet over them both.