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There's a single faint freckle on the bridge of Dabi's nose, and Hawks can't seem to quit staring at it.
You can't sleep here, he thinks. You can't relax on my couch. Can't feel safe in my home.
Yet, inexplicably, Dabi clearly does.
The villain is sprawled out like a fallen scarecrow—limbs awry, clothes askew, and breath coming out sleep heavy and soft. A bit of scar peeks out from where his shirt's ridden up, and spiky bangs are settled in a slice across both closed eyes. He's peaceful, he's snoring, and there's a tiny brown freckle on the bridge of his nose.
He'd looked more battered than usual when arriving for their meeting that evening. Hell, the fact that he'd insisted on coming to Hawks' apartment was an admission of exhaustion in and of itself.
Hawks could tell from their first meeting that Dabi likes anonymous places and environments he can control. He likes walking out of the shadows, finger always on the flint, desperate to let you know he can spark it. He doesn't like raptor eyes on purple, or fresh skin left open to examination.
At least, not unless he gets to lounge on a hero salary couch while it happens, apparently.
And it is. Happening. Happened. Certain to happen again in the future.
Though considering Dabi's ongoing recruitment efforts, perhaps this is just a calculated show of relaxation. The more relaxed Dabi seems on the outside, the more Number Two Hero Traitor Hawks will let his guard down.
"Dabi."
A snore.
"Dabi," Hawks repeats, a little louder. One of his feathers curls in a brush against Dabi's cheek.
An image flashes in Hawks head of scarlet knives tearing at those staples, one by one. Of feathers dropping them from a height, then rushing back in to staunch the resulting red. Of black gloved hands ripping apart everything they were supposed to hold together.
He thinks about that too much, too often, but he has to reassure himself it's ok. He can't forget to not feel bad about it.
A different puff of air escapes villainous lips.
"Shut up," Dabi mumbles. "Tryin'... sleep."
"Go use my bed, then," Hawks replies, voice quiet. "You'll get a cramp out here."
"Give you," Dabi whuffs from where he's shoved his face into the cushions, "a cramp."
Hawks laughs lightly in lieu of examining potential implications.
"Come on, Dabi," he tries again. "Move it."
"Move me yourself, coward."
The words are spoken in a voice actively attempting to go back to sleep. It presents Hawks with a choice. He can back off and leave the villain to his dozing, or he can do as Dabi asked.
Hawks likes doing what Dabi asks.
One arm under the shoulders, another under the knees, and one of Japan's most fearsome villains is cradled in Hawks' arms. Shock holds Dabi captive for a few bleary seconds, then blue eyes are no longer tired. Hawks realizes his mistake seconds too late.
You see, Dabi is a wounded animal. An alley cat—a junkyard dog. Hawks is an unknown, a predator. A liar. Unlike the citizens Hawks swoops up into safety, this is the last place Dabi will feel safe.
Something like regret cuts through Hawks in a gasp. He had Dabi melted in a pat of butter on toast, happy and content on the couch, safely under the heat lamp of golden eyes. Now, he has an armful of briars.
"What—" Dabi starts, and full body tenses. One of his legs jerk out in a straight line to catch Hawks' thigh mid-step. It smacks him off kilter immediately.
"Shit—!" Dabi's hands grapple at Hawks' shirt in a wild bid to stay upright. It's laughably unsuccessful—they both drop like stones as a loud rip joins Dabi's yell.
Hawks isn't the fastest hero for nothing, though, and he flips his wings down and around lightning quick. They spread in a literal and telepathic cushion to catch both hero and villain a few inches from the floor.
Dabi's weight smushes ungracefully onto Hawks' whole body, and that errant leg smacks into the ground regardless. There's a long moment where nobody breathes.
A clock tick tock tocks in the background. Black hair lifts with fire in blue, but Dabi freezes as their noses brush.
Hawks holds them there, mere inches off the ground. He shouldn't have caught Dabi like this—shouldn't have picked him up at all.
This isn't professional.
This isn't...
"Put me down," Dabi chokes.
Hawks rotates them like little chickens on a spit. He has to make this funny if he wants to survive, because this is... He thought he knew how it felt to hold someone in his arms. Turns out, he did not.
Dabi breathes out shakily as Hawks finishes the rotation and sets him down. But there's still so much of Dabi in his arms, and Hawks should pull away faster if he wants to make this a joke.
You're not lonely, you don't need this, what could he give you that won't be ripped apart later?
Dabi's hand brushes across skin laid bare by Hawks' ripped shirt. Hawks wants to think of a quip, but his heart stutters, and he's trapped. Dabi's hand clenches tighter on his sleeve so he can't pull away.
Despite appearances, it's difficult to hold oneself horizontal in midair.
Hawks lowers his legs to the floor. One knee brushes the outside of Dabi's. The other plants itself between both of Dabi's. Hawks isn't sure who put it there. He's hyperaware of everything, everywhere, all of the time. He can hear Dabi's heartbeat thundering through his feathers, and the pounding rhythm is intoxicating.
Hawks lets his arms settle on either side of Dabi's head. He's close enough to stare at the tiny brown freckle on the bridge of Dabi's nose.
It's cute; incongruous with the rest of him. It's worth noticing.
Dabi's breath coasts across Hawks' lips.
Oh, he wonders. When did I get this close? Did I push, or did he pull?
Metaphors aside, he thinks, maybe it's actually possible to get drunk on the way Dabi sounds.
"Hawks."
It's a wisp of air breathed out in a way Hawks' feathers read as obscene.
He looks up into burning blue.
"Do it," Dabi demands in a whisper.
And you know... Hawks kinda likes doing what Dabi asks.