Work Text:
As a hero, Hawks was no stranger to getting hit in the head. He’d crashed into buildings, he’d been thrown at concrete walls— you name the surface, Hawks had banged his head on it on the job. Most of the time he was able to cushion his fall, at least a little, to avoid any unsightly brain matter exploding from his skull and being out in the open to be gazed upon in horror by onlookers.
Sometimes he was profoundly unlucky, and a particularly quick-footed villain walloped him in the back of the head with a metal baseball bat.
“Your X-rays don’t indicate any fissures or other breaking in the skull,” his handler said as she looked over his file. She always spoke like that, as did his other handlers; the skull. Not his . Because it wasn’t his, when you got right down to it. He was a public figure. He was property. He was real estate.
And he knew what she meant when she said your x-rays don’t indicate any fissures. It meant, you’ve wasted our time. It made him sweat.
“I’m sorry,” he said, a simple reflex. He felt exposed in his hospital gown, his wings and spine visible with the open back. He hated the examination rooms in this building. It wasn’t a real hospital; just doctors hired by the Commission to perform procedures off the record. Hawks had never been to a real hospital.
“These things happen, Hawks,” she replied with a light sigh, and closed the file. She wasn’t mad. That was good. Even now, as a grown-ass man with his own hero agency, he feared her anger. “Rest before the gala this evening. I expect you to make an appearance as planned.”
“Ma’am,” he began uneasily, and sure enough she silenced him with a wave of her hand.
“You’ll be just fine with a few hours of rest and some pain relievers,” she said. “This isn’t a discussion, Hawks. This gala is vital in securing donations. Don’t be selfish.”
It hit him like a gut punch. Don’t be selfish. It was the worst thing he could do. That, or looking tired, or gaining weight, or forgetting to file down his talons, or—
“I’ll be there, ma’am. You can count on me.” The throbbing in the back of his head begged to differ, but he swallowed his doubts and plastered on a smile.
Hawks’ hands shook as he applied his eyeliner in the bathroom mirror. He had natural markings already, but the additional liner was supposed to make him look exotic. He despised that word. It made him feel like a tropical fruit.
He liked the liner, though. At least he could look pretty while his head was pounding in rhythm with his heartbeat. All his handler had permitted was Tylenol, which only took the edge off, but anything stronger would risk bleeding. Hawks did not want a brain bleed, and he did not want a brain bleed at a gala.
“Rumi,” he called out into the main room. The volume of his own voice hurt. “Can you do my liner?”
Her hands were steady and strong as she filled in the wings on the inner and outer corners of his eyes. Her breath was warm and gentle on his face. He wanted to sleep.
“You’re not nervous, are you?” She asked.
“Not nervous,” he confirmed. “Just tired.”
The ride to the venue did not help, nor did the mental exercise of remembering all of these rich people’s names and delivering the proper script of dialogue. And half an hour in, Hawks detected the beginnings of nausea curdling in his belly. He couldn’t leave, not yet. It would be rude. It would be selfish.
Instead, he weaved through the groups of guests and found the bar, where he perched on a stool and waved down the bartender for a glass of water.
“What’s someone so charming doing over here by himself?” A voice came up behind his left ear, followed by a far too intimate touch at the small of his back. He almost choked on his water, but recovered quickly.
“Waiting for you, of course,” he replied. Flirting was always on the table, especially at events like this where the guests were responsible for lining the Commission’s pockets. But, truth be told, he didn’t even recognize this man. He was generically handsome— handsome the way rich men tended to be. Superficial.
“Let me buy you a drink,” the donor said, then did so without waiting for Hawks’ agreement.
Not drinking it— what was it, an Old Fashioned? A Manhattan?— would be offensive. Ungrateful. Selfish. So Hawks drank it. He knew the exact moment the first sip reached his stomach because it settled so poorly. But he continued to nurse the drink, watching the large cube of ice slowly melt in the glass as he made small talk with the donor. When that drink was done, it was replaced by another. Hawks didn’t think he asked for one. It didn’t matter.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re trying to loosen me up,” he joked. The donor laughed and put a hand on Hawks’ knee. No. Hawks’ thigh . Oh, and moving higher.
I’m being groped in the middle of a gala, he thought distantly as he offered a slight chuckle and folded one leg over the other, effectively blocking access to the donor’s clear destination without actually rejecting him.
No matter how long he looked at the donor, his face wouldn’t cement itself in his head. He never stopped being a stranger. Never seemed to stop buying him drinks. Hawks didn’t remember what number he was on, but it was probably not a great one. He probably looked bad right now, he was probably making an abysmal impression, his smile was probably crooked and his handlers would probably be so disappointed—
“Ah, Hawks!”
He turned to the source of the voice with bleary eyes. Two familiar figures came into his swimming view.
Present Mic was dressed in incredibly loud paisley. On his arm was Eraserhead, complimenting his husband with a solid black suit. He’d shaved for this event, Hawks noted dazedly.
“So sorry,” Mic apologized to the donor with perfect grace and a winning smile as he linked arms with Hawks. “We have to steal him away from you for a moment.”
What for? Hawks wanted to ask, but his tongue was too big for his mouth and he was walking before he even realized he’d slipped off his barstool.
“You looked like you needed a rescue,” Eraserhead muttered. That was considerate of him; they were surrounded by people, and keeping his voice down meant no one else knew Hawks had needed help.
He didn’t need help.
“I—” Hawks gulped. He’d been about to deliver his usual line, that he was just peachy, didn’t need any help, all of that. But his stomach had decided to jump into his throat. “U-uh.”
“We’re gonna get you somewhere quiet,” Mic said, and if Hawks didn’t feel like his head was going to split in half, he would have laughed at the irony.
“I don’t—” Hawks hiccupped and snapped his jaws shut as sour saliva flooded his mouth. “I’m gonna be sick,” he managed through clenched teeth.
Eraser swore, and both his and Mic’s paces doubled in speed as they ushered Hawks away from the throngs of guests.
He was trembling under Mic’s touch and covered in a fine sheen of cold sweat by the time they burst into the back alley of the venue. Aizawa pressed his weight against the door to prevent anyone else coming through this particular exit as Hawks stumbled out of Mic’s grip, finding purchase on the brick wall in time for a full-bodied retch to seize him and finally put things into motion.
“Okay, okay—” Mic sounded hurried, concerned. Paternal. His hands had returned to Hawks’ back, rubbing the space between his wings. “There we go, breathe.”
Hawks could not breathe. His head throbbed each time he gagged, pain exploding behind his eyes, and his vomit was nothing but the drinks he’d white-knuckled his way through. Another belch brought up a rush of his stomach’s contents, hot and sour on his tongue, and it made a nauseating splatter hitting the concrete.
“That donor was being incredibly inappropriate,” Eraser quipped. “Pushing so many drinks on you that you become ill—”
“Concussed,” Hawks corrected, swallowing down an aborted belch.
Mic’s hand stiffened on his back. “What?”
“Kinda got—” he fisted another burp— “bonked on the head earlier. But my handlers said—”
“Hawks,” Eraser said slowly, “when you say bonked—”
“It was hardly a bonk if you’re concussed,” Mic cut in. “I can’t believe they made you show up.”
Eraser made a sound that was a cross between a snort and a scoff. “I can.”
“I just need a minute,” Hawks insisted, his voice shaking with the weight of his embarrassment. “I can go back in—”
“Absolutely not,” Mic and Eraser said in unison. And then Hawks’ body echoed that sentiment by throwing itself into reverse once more. He really wasn’t sure where it was coming from at this point.
“It’ll pass,” Mic soothed.
As if it was as simple as that.
Once he was done with his bout of vomiting, Mic eased him onto the ground and guided his head to hang between his knees. This was better; his talons had been digging into the brick to hold himself up, chipping and breaking against the grout.
Eraser jolted a bit from pressure on the other side of the door. Then three sharp knocks rattled Hawks’ brain around in his skull like a pinball.
“Oh god,” Hawks moaned. Then more spit flooded over his tongue and his stomach fell out of his mouth again.
Eraser kept things brief with a simple but commanding “no,” spoken to the stranger on the other side of the door.
“I’m so—” Hawks choked, “ so sorry, I—”
“Don’t,” Mic shushed, tucking a stray piece of hair behind Hawks’ ear and palming the crown of his head where he’d been so badly hit that very morning. “Don’t worry about any of that.”
“We’ll get you home as soon as you’re ready to go,” Aizawa said from his spot. His arms were folded over his chest and he looked upon him with such fatherly concern that Hawks kind of wanted to cry.
They were so lucky to have each other, he thought. Hawks wished he could be lucky like that. But he was never lucky. He was just fast.
“I—” he broke off, tears welling up in his eyes and spilling over his cheeks before he could stop them, and he didn’t go on. He let his head thunk back against the brick. Mic cooed and thumbed his tears away. His blond brows remained knitted in worry as he eased him out of his suit jacket and tie, then loosened the top couple buttons of his shirt.
Hawks couldn’t even articulate his gratitude for them, let alone the deep blue sort of sadness he fell into, full-body, when he saw them together. The way they touched each other without a second thought. Aizawa’s hand fit perfectly in the small of Mic’s back. There was no hand molded to Hawks’, nobody who touched him with such care.
He loved his fans, but they were grabby, their touches thoughtless and overstimulating. Echoed choruses of can you feel this? as they ran their hundreds of fingers through his feathers. Yes, yes, he could feel it, and it was too much. But he always smiled and autographed his name on whatever they wanted. This name isn’t even mine, he wanted to tell them, did you know that?
But those droves of teens who were simply overenthusiastic but well-meaning were better than people like tonight’s donor, who believed their money bought them the right to do anything they wanted with him. The feeling of the man’s hand on his thigh lingered, tingling like a recent burn.
“He was touching me,” Hawks mumbled, spitting into the mess on the ground.
“We saw,” Mic said softly. “That’s why we came to get you.”
“You don’t have to put up with things like that, Hawks,” Eraser said. “If it’s not something you want, you know you don’t have to accept it.”
He really didn’t know that, actually. God, this concussion was giving him a run for his money.
“‘S selfish,” he whispered. “They told me not to be selfish.”
Both Eraser and Mic were silent. Hawks could only hear his own breathing, uncomfortably loud in his own ears.
“Let us take you home,” Eraser said finally, and Mic nodded in agreement.
Hawks lower lip wobbled. “... Okay.”
He didn't fare well in the car, but Mic had given him a plastic grocery bag from the glove compartment before they started driving, so it was fine. Well, not fine, but at least he didn't ruin the upholstery.
“Hawks, it's possible you need to go to a hospital.” Eraser sat with him in the backseat, helping him hold the bag steady while he retched.
“No hospitals,” Hawks wheezed. “Handlers said there’s no… no fissures.”
“That doesn't mean you’re okay,” Mic said from the front. Hawks saw his eyes in the rear view mirror, darting anxiously between the two of them and the road.
“I don't want anyone to see me like this.” He detached a long string of spit from his lower lip and wiped it on the interior of the bag. “Please, just take me home.”
“We can't leave you alone in good conscience,” Eraser said. “Stay at our place for the night. At least then we can keep an eye on you.”
“I couldn't possibly impose on you guys—”
“You're not imposing,” they both said in unison.
“You'd be doing us a favor,” Mic insisted. “Or else we’ll lose sleep worrying about you.”
Hawks couldn't argue anymore. His stomach was still trying to crawl out of his mouth.
“Come home with us,” Aizawa murmured, gentle but without room for protest.
Once Hawks was able to speak, he croaked out a hoarse okay, and tipped his head back against the car seat headrest.
Besides almost vomiting on their front steps, Hawks managed to get into the house without incident.
“Eri should be sleeping,” Eraser said as he and Mic helped Hawks through the front door. “But—”
“You guys are back already?” A teenager with a bird’s nest of purple hair sat on the couch in the main room, illuminated by the light of the television. “... With Hawks?”
“Long story, little listener,” Mic said with a gentle smile. “Time for bed, okay?”
The teen’s sleepy eyes narrowed in confusion. “What's going on—?”
The anxiety of a whole new person being thrown into the mix, seeing him like this, was enough to give his stomach a good somersault. He jerked in Eraser’s arms with a dry-heave.
“What the fuck?” The kid was on his feet immediately.
“Language, Hitoshi,” Eraser reprimanded.
“Is he okay?”
Thank fuck for the grocery bag. Hawks went more or less limp in Eraser and Mic’s arms as he bowed forward, a gurgling retch bringing up a stream of— god, what was that, his breakfast?
“He's got a pretty nasty concussion,” Mic explained as he hurriedly eased Hawks to his knees so he wouldn't collapse. “We’re gonna set him up on the couch.”
“I can help,” Hitoshi offered immediately.
“I’m really okay,” Hawks rasped. No one in the room seemed to believe him. Fair enough; he hadn't removed his head from the grocery bag yet. But he needed this kid to leave— fuck, a kid was seeing him like this.
“Fine,” Eraser relented. “Go find some pain relievers in the medicine cabinet. And get a glass of water.”
Hawks couldn't track Hitoshi’s movements with his brain so fuzzy, but when he finally raised his head, the kid was gone.
“Can you walk?” Eraser asked, and he nodded without actually giving the question any consideration. The answer, in his experience, always had to be yes.
He would walk more confidently on jell-o than his own legs right now, is what he realized when he got to his feet and took a few steps. But Eraser and Mic remained on either side of him, lending him their bodies to lean into for support.
“We’ve got you,” Mic reassured him. “You’re okay.”
He hadn't realized how badly he’d needed to be horizontal until he reached the couch, and it made him want to cry. He sunk into the cushions and pressed his face into one of the throw pillows. Eraser seemed to read his mind and turned off the television, sending them into comforting darkness.
Hitoshi returned with the water and painkillers. Mic brought over a small metal wastebasket with a plastic liner and set it on the floor by Hawks’ head, then draped a blanket over him. At some point in their migration from the front door to the couch, his grocery bag full of puke had been handed off to someone and had disappeared. He was both grateful and deeply ashamed.
“I can get started on some tea, if you’d like,” Mic said while Hawks took tentative sips of the water to chase the meds down. “Might be good to keep your blood sugar stable, you know?”
“I have a bottle of Pocari in the fridge,” Hitoshi said.
“Hitoshi is very considerate,” Eraser said to Hawks. “He also,” he added with a sideways glance at his son, “has school in the morning.”
Hitoshi grumbled under his breath and shuffled off down the hall. And after agreeing to tea, Mic disappeared back into the kitchen.
Eraser crouched down next to the couch to be at Hawks’ eye level.
“You gotta look after yourself, kid,” he murmured.
Hawks’ eyes stung. “I don't… think I know how.”
Eraser’s expression was somber, but not surprised. Like he’d expected that answer.
“I didn't, either. And for a while I didn't really think it mattered.” Eraser glanced towards the doorway to the kitchen, where Mic could be heard shuffling around. “But you can't pour from an empty glass, Hawks. If you want to help people, you gotta let yourself get help when you need it, too.”
“I’m the number two hero,” Hawks protested. His voice was shot completely. “I shouldn't— I can’t need it.”
Eraser’s eyes looked like shattered glass. “You're a hero, Hawks. You're not superhuman.”
Hawks didn’t know what to say, or if there was anything worth saying in response to that at all. Eraser’s hand settled on his shoulder, as if he could bleed love into Hawks’ broken, owned body, and somehow fix everything that way.
“We’ll have to wake you every now and then,” Eraser said, “but you should get some rest.”
It was different from the way his handler said it. Get some rest not as a means to an end, but from a place of real compassion. It put a lump in his throat.
He drifted off with Eraser running his fingers through his hair before Mic returned with the tea.