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On the one hand, the Commission’s take on torture training isn’t so bad.
These gruelling sessions never last an entire day. The longest one to date in Hawks’ memory (and he does remember everything ) was the four hours, fifty-two minute, and twenty-three second joint dislocation exercise on his twenty-first birthday.
(“The villains will break you without mercy, Hawks.”
A sickening pop like poster paper wobbling in shaky hands. It’s his shoulder. No, his leg. No, the section of skin where flesh tangles with feathers; the part of his body that antiseptic-smelling doctors cruelly informed his handlers contained the most nerve-endings of anywhere on his body.
They noted that. Of course they did.
“Be grateful it’s us. We’re trying to help you.” The sound of a femur being reduced to white dust rattles in his ears. It’s almost scary how much he didn’t feel it; couldn’t, around the deafening roar of the rest of his body’s agony.
He would not cry. He’d shatter every molar in his mouth biting down the screams before he let a single one out. They were his. The very last thing that he owned.
“Why are you making it so difficult? Get up, you idiotic child .” They want him to fly. To heave his mangled body from the ground, prove he can escape from a captive situation even broken as he is.
Kneeled on the ground, bracing away from the cold steel of the bloody baton and the even colder latex of the gloved hands, he attempts a flap. He keeps his eyes closed. He grits his teeth. He moves one wing.
The last thing he thinks is it’s a good idea that his handlers took a birthday picture before they beat him to high fuckin’ hell. A golden party hat strapped under his stubbled chin, a cake that they would never actually allow him to eat, and a smile so practiced it could not be anything but perfect.
They’re gonna send it to the blogs. They might even call him pretty.
Snap goes the camera.
Snap goes all the tiny bones in his clenched left hand.)
Anyways. Torture training sessions are few and far between. Only a couple a year. Three, at the most.
And his handlers never tell Hawks when they’re coming. It’s not even that they think Hawks wouldn’t show up if he knew what would happen. No, it’s not about that. Because Hawks is a good little soldier. An obedient pet. A perfect caged bird. Like it or not (and he very much does not) , the Commission is the closest thing Hawks has to family.
He eviscerates the tiny voice that whispers, The League could be your fam--
No. They don’t feel the same way about him. Bad as he may want it, they don’t want him. Impossible.
Hawks might be stupid, and ugly, and useless besides his wings, but he has a good memory. The Commission was just trying to protect Hawks when they told him, but it still stings like peroxide in a wound to recall.
“Hawks. If anyone ever tells you they want you, you know they’re lying, right?”
He’s fourteen. He’s fourteen and he has a dumb crush on the boy that gifted Hawks a chocolate and ruffled his hair in thanks after the hero-in-training swooped through the halls to save him from a burning high school. The second degree burns were worth it to feel the first touch that wasn’t actively trying to hurt him. It made his wings fluff, cheeks almost as hot as the nearby flames. It felt good .
Hawks was never going to eat the chocolate bar. It’s not allowed in his strict vegan, low-cal diet. He remembers, remember?
He just kept it tucked under his pillow because he wanted to remember the boy, too.
But his handlers found out. They always do.
“You’re not human. You’re an animal with purpose. And not a very good one at that.” His handler clicks her tongue, rips out a feather on the outskirts of his left wing. Hawks doesn’t even flinch. What’s the point? Where could he go to get away? Nowhere. He has no one. Nothing. No purpose besides the one the Commission gives him.
She crumples the wretched red thing in his palm. It still doesn’t hurt as bad as the nauseating ache of his chest.
“Don’t forget, Hawks. The Commission is made of the only people who will ever give half a shit if you live or you die. Let that fact slip your mind for even a millisecond, and see if you survive.”
When she drops the feather, Hawks doesn’t bother to recall it. Her angry red fingernails have eviscerated the thing; shredded it to tiny, blood-matted pieces. Dead. He doesn’t want it.
And nothing, no one , wants him.
So, no. The reason the Commission doesn’t tell him about the torture training isn’t because he won’t show up.
It’s because all pain is so much worse when you don’t see it coming.
“Get up.”
He can’t.
It’s a repeat performance. Since he couldn’t do it right last time, his handlers are pain-management training (Hawks thinks it should be more accurately renamed the beat-the-ever-loving-fuck-out-of-you-spectacular) until he can manage to bear it.
They even modified the torture to make it a little easier, his handler told him with a voice full of preemptive disappointment; like she already knew making it easier would do nothing to keep Hawks from failing.
Because that’s what Hawks is. A disappointment. A failure.
Fuck, he hates himself more than Dabi ever could. Is it bad that he feels a bitter sense of relief at that realization?
This time, an angry man with a crumb-flecked mustache straps Hawks to a table and systematically cuts and burns and breaks the most sensitive parts of his upper body. (It was very considerate of the Commission to let him yell. Of course, some sadist in a lab coat struck him with a nightstick on his bruised abdomen every time he did. But they didn’t verbally tell him to stop. Small miracles.)
“Really, Hawks, it’s quite simple.” His handler’s voice is exasperated, and from what he can see through the thick haze of tears, she looks angry, too. A familiar and heavy stone sinks deep in Hawks’ empty stomach. He really can’t do anything correctly. God, he’s lucky that the Commission has put up with his bullshit for as long as they have.
He hears the buckles of his restraints loosening; freeing him from the cold metal table that never warmed despite his body heat.
“If you can get out of the facility, you’ll be done for the night.”
That gets his attention.
Before she can get in another word, he’s off and sprinting towards the door, gritting his teeth and shouting (not screaming, he doesn’t scream) through the bursts of agony which engulf him at every step.
But they still left his lower half untouched. So he focuses on the feeling of wholeness in his kneecaps; the repetitive and easy impact of his left foot against the hard-tile.
As he goes, he wrenches his shoulders back into place one after the other before giving himself time to even think about what it would feel like. (The answer? Not good. Does not feel good, Hawks can confirm.)
Next are the junctions of his elbows. In and out. White lights briefly eclipse his sight. Mercifully, or perhaps forgetfully, they left his wrists untouched. Great. Functional arms. His bruises are gonna look like tattoos, and the hot blood down his chest is more a gush than a trickle, but at least it seems all his bones are intact.
His wings are fucked. More than dislocate them, his handlers purposefully fucked with the feathers, too. They’re gonna take a stupid amount of time to fix. Time Hawks doesn’t have.
He will do this right. He failed once. He will not fail again. He can be good. He knows he’s bad, knows that he’s worthless. He’s never been anything but. But he can do this for once, and maybe, just maybe, someone will feel something like pride towards him.
Oddly enough, the indifferent and beautiful patchwork face of Dabi’s enter his mind.
Maybe. Just maybe.
With his quirk on the fritz, it’s a sloppy hand-to-hand with the two guards posted at the door. Let it be said that Hawks is made special by, but not utterly dependent on, his feathers. Even though they’re strong, and their nightsticks manage to clip Hawks’ in the jaw and forehead (that’s a concussion, Hawks is sure of it), he’s still got them incapacitated before the minute is up.
When they both slump to the floor unconscious, Hawks wastes no time. Practically heaving from the force of his desperate breaths, he throws open the door; steadfastly neglecting to acknowledge the searing pain echoing up his arms.
He knows it makes him bad, but he doesn’t turn around and ask for permission to leave. In a way, they already gave it to him, right? He’s earned this. He has.
(He’ll still get punished. He’s certain. But right now, he just doesn’t care. Can’t.)
His apartment is only a half-mile away. Even without his wings, it won’t take him too long. Busting out the backdoor exit of the Commission Headquarters with the grace of a water buffalo escaping a pool of hungry crocodiles, he inhales sharply at the cold night, and the wind of late fall licking against his open wounds.
“Shit,” Hawks gasps, stumbling into the (thankfully) dark alley. No shoes. Crunchy gravel collides against his sensitive soles. Even though the handlers didn’t touch his legs (so as to make the training easier for poor stupid fucking Hawks), they left him exposed to the elements. Just as he would be in a real kidnapping escape attempt. But when he spares a brief glance down, he’s thankful to see that the tips of his toes are still wrapped in bloody gauze; shielding his talons from sight.
A rush of relief pulses through him. It’s unspoken, but Hawks is certain that the Commission doesn’t want Hawks to be seen on his way home from torture training. And he won’t --- fuck, he’d rather a reporter brutally kill him here and now than take a picture of him like this for the press. Still, he’s grateful the Commision took precautions. It’s good to keep the worst parts of him under quite literal wraps. A quick look at his fingertips assures that they’ve been similarly concealed. Thank fuck.
Now undistracted, he resumes his quick, stumbling pace through the backstreets. There’s nothing he can do about his wings, can’t even disconnect them in their broken state, so he’ll have to be fast and sneaky enough that no one could see the mangled red feathers long enough to question them.
Stubbornly ignoring the constant thrills of pain zinging through his chest and arms, he’s halfway home when something starts buzzing in his pocket.
His phone, must be. Huh. It doesn’t make sense until it occurs to Hawks that the Commission would never risk being out of contact with him. Hawks needs their guidance; needs them to lead him down the right path. Of course, they would keep his phone on him even in training. Right.
But even if it’s his handler, he can’t stop and answer. Can’t check and lose focus or momentum or whatever the hell it is that’s keeping him moving like a man possessed through twisting alleys and vaulting over splintered packing boxes.
It hurts. It hurts so bad . Obviously, that was the point. So he bites his lip until the stupid thing splits, and he doesn’t stop.
Maybe stupidly, Hawks hopes that the cold will eventually kick in to numb his aching wounds, but all it does is make the pain sharper, impossibly worse . He has to fight the dumb bird-brain instinct that wants him to tuck his chin to his chest; huddle down for heat.
Again, Dabi’s face enters his mind.
He keeps going.
In the state that he’s in, going through the lobby is absolutely not an option. As his apartment building comes into sight, he forces himself to eye the fire escape near his balcony with determination (and, why not admit it, a little bit of dread.)
The stairs aren’t so bad. They jostle his bruises and wind him a bit, but at least it’s mostly legwork. That is, until he has to climb onto the railing and make the one story jump upwards to reach his waiting outdoor patio.
Don’t be a coward, Hawks , he berates himself, shaking his head a little. Even that small action sends aches down his body. Just do it.
Extending his crooked wings nearly makes him black out. The pain is so bad that, for the briefest moment, he can’t hear or see anything at all. Every other sense is obliterated by the sensitivity of touch. But then the agony shifts; turns into something anchoring rather than releasing.
He bites down on his broken lip again when the mangled wings are finally fully extended. At least they appear to have healed a bit on the flight over. Thank you, experimental healing drugs. Just one flap. He couldn’t do it last time, but he’s better now. A year older, and stronger.
Not again. He won’t fail a second time. He won’t .
He tenses.
“The hell you doin’, birdie?”
And nearly falls forward off the rail.
“Well shit, don’t do that.”
Two points of heat encircle his chest, pulling him backwards and down. Hawks has half a mind to start flailing, bruises and bleeding be damned, before he catches sight of scarred purple skin and glinting silver staples wrapped around his waist.
“Dabi?” His mouth moves without his permission.
Heart still thrumming, Hawks feels more than sees the deep answering laugh in his back as he’s pressed from behind to the other man’s chest.
“I came to collect when you didn’t show for the League meeting. Now I see you were booked solid being a complete and utter dumbass,” Dabi rumbles. “Next time I’ll check with your secretary. You think they’ll be jealous?”
And maybe it’s the adrenaline crashing that makes him lose control of his usual facade, but Hawks can’t quite hold back his eye roll at that.
Or the simmering blush in his cheeks.
“Hawks. If anyone ever tells you they want you, you know they’re lying, right?”
“Sorry, hot stuff.” As much as Hawks doesn’t want to (and he really doesn’t want to) he rocks forward on his heels so he’s again standing apart from Dabi. Shifting in the tight space remaining between the other man’s body and the fire escape railing, he turns to look up at him. “Got distracted.”
And, boy, is Dabi a sight for sore-fucking-everything. Only inches away, Hawks indulges himself long enough to drown in vibrant teal and angry lavender and the smooth pale skin of everything in between. He wants to feel the difference, wants to know the distinct texture patches by touch instead of sight, wants to---
“The fuck happened to your face?”
Oh. That’s a real mood killer.
Hawks isn’t sure what he looks like, but it probably isn’t good. The handlers definitely slapped him around a little bit, he’s sure. It’s for his own good, of course, but it doesn’t exactly look good.
“What’s the matter, baby?” Flashing his best smile, Hawks fervently hopes the metallic taste on his tongue doesn’t mean there’s also blood leaking through the cracks of his teeth. If nothing else, the Commission surely beat the importance of an attractive appearance into his little bird-brain. Laughing shakes his bruised ribs, sending shockwaves of white-hot agony up his chest. But he does it because he doesn’t know what else to do.
“Aw, come on,” he goads when he doesn’t get an immediate reaction from Dabi’s frozen expression, tossing in a suave wink for good measure. Fuck, even that hurts; pulling at the open wounds in his forehead. “You don’t think I look pretty like this?”
Against all odds, Dabi does not follow their usual script. Does not lunge to light his ass up with blue flame while he’s too weak to even stand, or kick him in the stomach where he’s so, so, so stupidly exposed that he’s hurting.
Instead, Dabi’s warm breath ruffles a few strands of Hawks’ messy hair (and fuck if that doesn’t kick Hawks’ poor heart into a gear that can not be healthy holy shit ) when he murmurs all too earnest and all too quiet, “No, birdie. Not like this.”
Oh. Well. Hawks goes to swallow, only to choke around a little bit of blood. Get it the fuck together, almighty No.2 , he berates himself.
Going for levity, he quips in a voice that’s raspy-not-in-the-sexy-way, “But every other day you find me irresistible, is that right?” His voice shakes, still rattled by Dabi’s closeness. The proximity is making his head spin and heart thrash like a wild son of a bitch.
But Hawks isn’t the only one off their guard if the slightly surprised opening of Dabi’s mouth is anything to go by. The other man recovers quickly though, huffing, “Whatever, bird brain. You get bashed upside the head, too?”
And Hawks is so fucking stupid, because he is so eager to please, so obedient to the wants of others, that he’s earnestly answering “Yes” before he can half think it through.
The blush of embarrassment on the pale sections of Dabi’s face shifts to something redder at his admission. Maybe even redder than Hawks’ own cheeks feel.
It’s more than a little shocking for Hawks to process the look on Dabi’s face as barely concealed rage .
A millisecond later, the indifferent mask is firmly back in place, leaving Hawks to question if the anger was ever really there at all.
“C’mon then,” Dabi drones, as if suddenly bored by their conversation. Not entirely impossible, knowing him. “It’s cold as balls out here. Oughta get someplace warm.”
Squawking is undignified. Humiliating. And it’s totally not what Hawks does when one of Dabi’s scorching hands (which feels so much better than it should) snakes down to lift him by the back of his knees and the other encircles his waist, cradling him with a gentleness that the hero genuinely didn’t know the villain was even capable of. Dabi’s above average body heat not only counteracts the cold, but also effectively soothes the wounds sluggishly throbbing and oozing between his thick coat and stained shirt.
Laundry is gonna be such a nightmare.
He instinctually tries to squirm out of Dabi’s grip when he’s lifted from the ground, naturally afraid he’s going to be dropped. When the frankly pitiful flailing does nothing except pull a still-healing ligament of his wing, he’s forced to stop--- just not before a low cry of pain escapes him. Dabi’s hands tighten in response, and Hawks hates how the villain makes him feel safe.
“Hey, hey, what are you doin’?”
It hurts so bad. Fuck, he’s stupid. Failed the training exercise. His entire fate rests in the hands of a man who so clearly despises him. Tears spring into his eyes.
Then a gentle murmur of, “Easy, pretty bird. Calm down.”
Embarrassingly enough, that’s got his attention. He tilts his head back in Dabi’s grip to see the notorious villain’s expression, and again he’s shocked by the softness there. It’s still Dabi, of course. Still the same indifferent set of thin black eyebrows and chillingly analytical eyes, but there’s something assuring about them, too. So shocking that they ground him.
“Beautiful,” Hawks finds himself saying, the word barely a mumble but he’s sure Dabi’s heard it. And with the way Hawks is unable to tear himself away from teal irises, there’s likely no mistaking his meaning.
Well, fuck. Now Dabi’s gonna kill him for sure.
He waits to be incinerated, fully anticipating the agony of blue flame engulfing his body. Briefly, and perhaps self-indulgently, he almost feels a sense of relief. Finally, the Commission will have to find someone new to fail them. Meanwhile, Hawks will be doing what the hell ever oversized birds do in the afterlife.
But Dabi just scoffs quietly, rolls those big beautiful eyes. He seems to take pleasure in the tension he feels permeate Hawks’ shaking body. Sadistic bastard.
“Aw, you poor little thing. Must have hit your head pretty damn hard, huh?”
“I didn’t.” Well, his mouth is just taking all the liberties tonight. No use getting worked up about it, Hawks reasons. He’s always been like this after he gets a concussion. All open and shit. If he were less tired, maybe he’d care more.
He’ll surely care tomorrow. But that’s tomorrow’s problem.
“What?”
“ I didn’t hit my head.”
“Then who hit your head?”
Uh oh. Even hurt and confused as he is, Hawks knows this is treacherous conversation territory. His handlers have drilled into him nearly a million times the importance of their training methods being kept a well-guarded secret. After all, if villains know how the heroes prepare to face them, they have that much more advantage in combat.
He tries not to sound childish when he huffs, “That’s confidential, hot stuff. Sorry.”
“So the Commission then?”
Every molecule of air that Hawks has ever inhaled rushes out of his lungs at once. It’s a rhetorical question if the certain and infuriated twist of Dabi’s mouth is anything to go by.
“Confidential,” Hawks chokes out anyways.
“I’m going to fry every last one of those bastards alive, and then---” Dabi looks like he’s going to press the point, but as Hawks finds himself trapped in a particularly harsh round of involuntary shivers, rattling his sore spots, making him bite back a cry, the other man seems to remember that they’re still standing outside on a freezing autumn night. Psh. Human furnaces and their complete and utter obliviousness to the surrounding world.
Dabi has to be more careful, or he’ll get hurt. Hawks doesn’t ever want to see Dabi get hurt.
Shit. Did he say that out loud?
“Worry about yourself, bird brain,” Dabi admonishes without real emotion, turning them into the vacant apartment that the fire escape connects to.
Huh. Hawks was expecting the movement of Dabi’s steps to jostle his wounds, but the other man seems to be walking especially careful; easily getting them up the one flight of stairs that leads to Hawks apartment.
Dimly, the blond hero is sure he’s supposed to be concerned how familiar Dabi is with where he lives, or the fact that one of his neighbors will see the confusing picture he’s sure they’re making in the hallway and call the police. But he’s too warm cradled against a breathing fireplace to really give half a flying shit.
Closing his eyes and letting his head fall against Dabi’s lean yet comfortable chest, he winces at the rather disturbing sound of his apartment lock breaking.
“Easy on it, Dabs,” he mumbles, not opening his eyes. The fluorescent lights are unbearably bright; sending stabs of brilliant pain lancing through his skull. The thick canvas of Dabi’s jacket protects him when he buries his face into it, and it smells like wintergreen and pine trees and the faintest hint of gasoline. God, Dabi smells so good.
“Uh, thanks birdie. You… too?”
Hawks hums, satisfied as he feels more than sees Dabi step into his apartment and gently swing closed the open door.
Dabi’s uncertainty is palpable from the stiff posture he suddenly assumes, and the fact that he’s not making a move to go anywhere now that they’re inside. Paralyzed by lack of knowledge.
As fun as it is to feel the habitually suave villain tense in awkwardness, unsure of himself, Hawks decides to play nice and put this unusually kind Dabi out of his misery. He did carry Hawks’ broken ass home, after all.
“You can just dump me on the floor.’S’no big deal.”
A beat of silence. Then another. Once the count rises past single digits, Hawks lets out a (painful, holy shit do his ribs hurt) sigh and starts pulling his face from the safe haven of Dabi’s jacket.
Only to feel that wonderfully scorching hand press against the nape of his neck, tucking him securely back in.
“Stop being stupid, bird brain. Aren’t bright lights bad for head injuries?” He was shifting again as Dabi started walking towards where Hawks knew the bathroom was located but knew Dabi was probably just guessing. Good guess. Against his will, he felt the corners of his mouth split into a grin. Aw, bless his heart. He was trying. Hawks had absolutely no idea why he was trying, but he certainly was.
On a quiet rant, Dabi continued, “Speaking of which, why the hell do you leave all your lights on when you’re not home? You trying to run your electric bill up? God, you heroes and your money. Must be nice to sit on top of the same people you save.”
All these harsh words contrasted very interestingly with the gentle, repetitive stroke of Dabi’s fingers in his hair.
Hawks tried his very best to hold it in, but a small, unbearably fond coo still escaped him.
And that did it.
Throwing himself away from an unsuspecting Dabi, he tumbled down onto the floor. Clapping a hand over his mouth both to prevent any more stupid stupid fucking stupid bird noises and cries of agony (because FUCK does falling on bruised ribs and lacerations in his wings hurt like all living fucking hell , like being dunked in a bath of flames and beaten with fiery clubs), he does his best to crawl away.
God, he’s so bad. They’re gonna make him repeat the training session again and again and again until he gets it right because he will never get it right because
his handlers are right he is stupid and pathetic and useless and he will never hold his own with endeavor or any of them no matter how high his approval rating he will never be better than dirt he will never be a hero he will always be a stupid bird that does not deserve the wings he was
born with and oh god his wings they hurt they hurt they hurt and the commission is going to make good on their threat to clip them because if he isn’t worthy of them why should he have them and
“Please, I’ll do better. I’ll be better, just please— let me detach the wings before you destroy them… Please, please , I know I deserve to hurt but I don’t think I can survive it. Please, I’m begging you, don’t take my—“
Something astonishingly hot burns against his forearm, and abruptly the world snaps into focus.
He blinks a few times, and the sterile white walls of the Commission have been replaced by the cream paint of his apartment ceiling, and his handler looks an awful lot like Dabi if Dabi were scared shitless.
“You with me, pretty bird?”
The villain’s nearly scalding hand is the only thing keeping him tethered to reality, but Hawks finds his head giving a jerky nod anyways. A groan of pain follows, but fuck, he’s here.
Here, and so embarrassed. He feels his cheeks ignite with shame.
“Sorry,” he manages to gasp out, quickly righting himself into a seated position so his back is against the wall. It hurts (of course it does) but it’s better than laying horizontal, completely vulnerable. When his breathing has slowed back to something resembling normalcy, he adds, “Sorry, it’s just been a long night. You can go. I would understand. I mean, I do understand. I … you can go. If you want. Sorry.”
Something heavy sinks deep in Hawks’ stomach when Dabi, noticeably turning down the temperature on the hand still gripping the hero’s forearm (good, it was starting to legitimately burn), just shakes his head. And it’s not pity on that perfect patchwork face. Not what Hawks is expecting to see. Well, before any of tonight’s events, he would’ve expected to only see cool, calm indifference. Pushing that, complete and utter loathing for everything Hawks is.
But tonight, something has shifted. Or maybe something has just been revealed; the curtain pulled back. The thought scares Hawks almost as much as it excites him.
“I don’t want to go,” Dabi says, so earnestly it makes Hawks’ entire being ache. Against his will, he feels his wings give a painful little fluff. Fuck, he’s gonna cut the damn things off himself if they don’t stop giving him away.
“Why?”
At this, Dabi jerks back a bit. Huh. Hawks hadn’t realized how close they’d gotten to one another. He tries his best not to be pathetic, do something stupid like whimper because he misses the other man even though he moved only a few inches away. He succeeds, but it’s a close thing.
“I…” Now it’s Dabi’s turn to be flustered. Hah. Take that. Even though he’s still a bit shaken up from his stupid little freakout, Hawks doesn’t try to stop the small smug smile he feels tugging at the edges of his split lips. When Dabi notices it though, he throws back on the emotionless, bordering on frightening mask. And Hawks, the fargone bastard, can’t even say he minds. Dabi always looks beautiful to him, no matter how pissy he is.
“Shut the hell up and tell me where your bathroom is.”
Letting out a small huff of laughter that hurts a little less than the rest of his breaths so far (again, thank you experimental healing drugs for finally kicking in) he nods towards the door just behind Dabi’s head.
“Thank fuck,” Dabi says, back to his usual monotoned drawl. Slowly, with more care than Hawks would ever have assumed he was capable of, Dabi cradles Hawks to his chest and lifts him back up. This time, Hawks lets his wings just hang--- not attempting escape. If Dabi wants to kill him like this, it wouldn’t be such a bad way to go.
“I’d complain about you being heavy, but really, you just make me nervous to carry. You sure like to wriggle around a lot.”
“Oh, that’s a bird thing,” Hawks murmurs. The burst of adrenaline from his freakout is making him tired again, and he can’t stop himself from talking. He’s always been like this. That’s why his handlers fight over who has to to be stuck with him in the Commission’s infirmary. Turns out, he’s a regular chatty Cathy after a fight. Or training. Or anything really.
He’s never been very good at shutting the hell up.
“What’s a bird thing?”
“Easy to carry. Hollow bones. Makes me light. Good for flying, you know?”
“Huh.” Dabi sounds thoughtful as he nudges open the bathroom door. Curiously, he leaves the light off as he sets Hawks down on the closed toilet seat. “Guess that makes sense.”
Hawks hums, weirdly happy to share this kind of information and not get punished for it. Of course, he should be. Punished, that is. Telling anyone the intimate details of his quirk, let alone a notoriously dangerous villain, puts him at an almost incalculable risk.
But against all odds, Hawks trusts Dabi not to hurt him with it.
Even worse, Hawks knows he’s already failed his mission to infiltrate the League. He’ll never tell the Commission that Dabi carries spare staples in the left side of his coat pocket, or that his hair grows in streaks of white at the roots in between dyeing, or that Dabi seems to know his way around a first-aid kit quite well if the assured, quick movements of his scarred hands rummaging through Hawks’ cabinets are anything to go by.
Or that there’s not a single doubt in Hawks’ mind: Dabi is Todoroki Touya.
“Hawks. If anyone ever tells you they want you, you know they’re lying, right?”
He’s known for a long time. He’s in love with a villain, and even though it’s unrequited, Hawks doesn’t care. He’ll protect Dabi until he has nothing left to protect him with. The one thing he’s good for.
Has to be good for.
Oblivious to the romantic inner monologuing of a pining winged hero, Dabi breaks the bathroom’s dark silence.
“Should we start with your wings or your chest?”
“Huh?”
Apparently thinking he was misheard, Dabi repeats a little louder this time, “Wings or chest?”
Still confused, Hawks presses, “For what?”
Even in the low light, Hawks can clearly see Dabi roll his eyes in exasperation. “For fixing you up, bird brain. Get with the program. Now chest or wings first? Which is worse?”
Oh. Um. Huh. That brings Hawks up short. No one’s ever asked him for his opinion before on this type of thing. He’s not used to prioritizing himself, and he doesn’t even know what it would feel like to have someone who wasn’t a doctor or a handler touch his wings. The thought makes him incredibly nervous, almost nauseous.
So he says, “Chest. But really, if you don’t want to help, you don’t have to.”
At this, Dabi snorts. Wetting a washcloth, he mocks, “Oh, no. Totally. Just leave you here to bleed out in your ugly little bathroom. It’s fine, it’s all cool.”
“No, that’s not what I mean,” Hawks interjects. “I have an enhancement that lets me heal pretty quickly. Even if I do nothing, the bruises and cuts will fade in a few days at the most. Wings, too.”
Yeah, even the slightly damaged feathers will fall off in agonizing red showers before growing back like the stems are made of barbed wire. But he’ll live.
“I didn’t know birds healed so quick,” Dabi says, turning off the faucet and facing Hawks. His gaze feels… intense. Searching.
It’s hard not to feel a little intimidated. (And warm. Like, incredibly warm. Like, does he have a fever ? warm.)
“Uh, it’s not.”
Dabi’s head tilts to the side slowly, and Hawks surprises even himself when the word dangerous comes to mind.
“What do you mean it’s not?” The villain’s voice contradicts everything else about him by coming out ice-cold.
“Uh,” Hawks begins like the eloquent bastard he is. “The Commission… they injected me with something when I was about twelve. Made me really sick for a few months, but now I heal a lot faster than normal people do. Pretty convenient, huh?”
Over the year that Hawks has known him, he thought he knew what Dabi looked like when he was mad. He would have bet all the measly money he owned in his secret bank account that it was his face’s second most common expression following indifference.
And Hawks would have gone broke.
“They experimented on you?” Dabi’s eyes are twin infernos devouring Hawks’ brainpower for fuel. Even when the hero manages the incredible willpower to look away, his eyes are drawn to beautifully scarred hands white-knuckling the countertop.
“Um. Yeah. I guess they did. But it was for my own go—“
“Birdie,” Dabi interrupts, squeezing his eyes shut so hard that Hawks finds himself terribly concerned he’ll tear the stitches in his face. “If you don’t want me to roast everyone in the goddamn Commission alive, don’t you dare finish that fucking sentence. It was not for your own good.” Then those electric eyes are on him again, searing the places that touch Hawks’ skin. “You don’t— you don’t experiment on children for their own good . You keep them safe. You, you… protect them. They should have protected you. You never should’ve needed ‘experimental healing drugs’ in the first fucking place.”
He pauses, biting the purple skin of his lip as if to refrain himself from saying more.
Hawks has never been good at understanding emotions, but he’s sure Dabi is picturing a certain red scar taking up a quarter of a certain young man’s face.
“But we’re here now,” he offers. It’s weak. It’s also all he has.
Ignoring the burning agony that rips through the wounds on his side and arm, he extends his hand out to place over Dabi’s wrist. The purple skin is scalding, and if Hawks had any sense at all, he’d pull away.
But he’s an Icarus at heart. Always has been. And Dabi, who Hawks knows wrongly believes he’s the cold moon, is in actuality the brutal, flaring, beautiful sun.
God. He should get head injuries less often. They make him so sappy.
Staring intently at his wrist where Hawks gently holds him, Dabi mutters, “I hate them for what they did to you. But more than anything, I hate that you believe they were right to do it.”
“Hey.” Hawks is immediately on the defensive. He ignores the increasingly large part of him that questions whether it’s instinct or training (or if there’s even a difference for him at this point) that makes him so standoffish. “The Commission is a little strict with me, yeah. But it’s only because they care. I can’t complain. I know I’m not an easy thing to love, so—“
A scorching hot hand wraps itself around his jaw, effectively ending Hawks’ half-sentence.
When Hawks look up to Dabi in question, the villain looks nothing short of furious . Teal flame practically leap from his irises, the posture of his broad shoulders tense.
An angel of wrath.
“ ‘Not an easy thing to love’, huh?” Dabi spits back at him, confusing Hawks even more.
Where the fuck is all this coming from?
“Mm-hm,” Hawks manages to hum, mouth still clamped shut by the tight (but somehow not at all painful) grip of Dabi’s hand.
“Sometimes, pretty bird, you’re so fucking stupid.”
Then Dabi is diving down to his knees, chest slotted between Hawks’ legs, and the villain presses his mouth to Hawks’ so hard their teeth clack.
For a moment, Hawks can’t feel anything but surprise. The shock paralyzes him; makes him stare blankly ahead, seeing nothing.
It doesn’t make sense.
Dabi wasn’t ever supposed to kiss Hawks. It was never supposed to be possible.
And yet here it is. Happening.
Like everything else about the villain, Dabi’s lips are hot. But unexpectedly, they’re gentle . They demand nothing from Hawks; content to merely give and give and give .
If you didn’t know Dabi, this wouldn’t make sense. Lucky for him, Hawks has spent the better part of a year watching him brave sketchy black markets to secure gallons of safe blood for Toga to drink, replacing Spinner’s heated blankets when the lizard accidentally clawed them to shreds during a nightmare, complimenting Kurogiri’s bartending skills, stroking Shigaraki’s hair to lull the insomniac to sleep.
Of course Dabi is a giver. Of course.
And while it doesn't make sense that he’d want to give anything to Hawks--- a traitor, an unlovable animal, a mistake masquerading as a hero ---- Hawks is selfish.
Hawks is a taker.
So he plunges forward, whine lodged in the back of his throat as he devours Dabi’s lips between his own, taking everything Dabi has to give and then some.
Dabi’s answering gasp sends a thrill of white-hot exhilaration through Hawks. It makes him feel like his skin is two sizes too small; hot and confining. The pleased rumble of Dabi’s groan makes him impossibly hungrier. Winding his hands through thick black hair, he tugs the villain up closer; deepening the kiss, unsatisfied until all he can see, feel, and hear is Dabi .
But when Hawks bites a gentle canine down on Dabi’s lower lip and tastes a metallic pang of blood, he jerks back so hard that his already aching head collides full force with the wall.
He won’t hurt. Dabi. He won’t.
“Shit, birdy! A little fucking warning next time, huh?”
Hawks just groans in response, letting his face fall forward into his waiting hands-- ashamed. Way to kill the mood, number two. Meanwhile, Dabi’s gorgeous (and incredibly elegant) fingers frantically probe the back of his scalp, searching for a wet spot of blood that Hawks knows isn’t there.
The hero rolls his eyes.
“And people call me overdramatic,” he jokes, but the effect is ruined by the utterly wrecked wobble of his voice.
Good on him for playing his first kiss so fuckin’ cool. Fuck.
“Wait.” Dabi pauses his overzealous ministrations, pulling back to look down at Hawks. It sends another pang of hunger through him to see the flushed healthy skin of the villain’s face, a thrill of victory to know he was the one to make such a beautiful man look so disheveled.
But of course Dabi has to fucking ruin it by asking incredulously, “ I’m your first kiss?”
And because Hawks can’t think of a good answer to that, he throws his head against the wall so hard that he does begin to bleed from the scalp.
Being knocked out is no small mercy. Sparkling showers of white explode behind his eyelids, and he slips into the darkness like he’s wanted to all day.
--------------------------------------------------------
When he comes to consciousness, the first thing he registers is the throbbing ache in the back of his skull. When he groans involuntarily out of pain, something answers.
“You deserve that.”
Startling at Dabi’s unexpected voice (what the fuck is he doing in Hawks’ apartment where he lives) , Hawks wrenches himself up; alarmed at first but quickly registering the bedsheets beneath his hands.
Pulled up in a kitchen chair beside him, Dabi’s eyes are a tired, vividly alive blue watching Hawks like, well, a hawk. From his relaxed posture, slouched forward as he is, Hawks has to imagine he’s been sitting here for quite some time just watching the hero sleep. It makes Hawks feel equal parts guilty and warm that the other man would sacrifice anything for him (least of all, as he likes to sarcastically call it, his precious beauty sleep which always made Hawks’ heart hurt because Dabi is already beautiful and Dabi does need to sleep more and--)
Wait. Why the fuck would he be watching---
Memories from earlier abruptly return; bludgeoning Hawks like a baton, and he lets out a horrified squawk before he can stop it.
Just like the chirp he let out when Dabi had stroked his hair, Hawks reacts on instinct to punish himself. It’s what the Commision has told him time and time again--- has had to repeat so many times because Hawks is so fucking stupid.
The bird noises are ugly. Hawks is ugly. The bird noises are not allowed.
Throwing his head back to, again, knock it against the headboard, he’s shocked when he instead feels a kind of whiplash as fingers wind in his hair and pull forward; stopping him from making connection with the wood.
“Would you please stop fucking doing that? You’re gonna give me a heart attack, fucks sake .”
At least when Hawks starts hyperventilating this time, he’s not oozing blood from his chest and arms. A frantic glance downward to avoid Dabi’s prying eyes sees that he’s been all bandaged up, and the bruises which didn’t split skin have already begun mellowing into an ugly yellow.
Good. Endurance training is on Wednesday, and he doesn’t want to be busted up to high hell for it. Fuck, are they gonna beat the shit out of him for the noises , though.
“Sorry,” Hawks manages to gasp out, still avoiding Dabi’s all-seeing gaze. Hah. Like that will protect him. Sometimes it feels like Dabi knew everything about him before they’d ever even met. Still, he has to do something to preserve his pride--- get to sleep at night in the usual two hours he’s allotted. “I just… panic sometimes.”
“I noticed,” Dabi deadpans dryly, but there’s a warmth to it. Concern. Something traitorous in Hawks’ chest tightens in response.
The hand in his hair isn’t moving, even though it’s still in there. Gentle heat exudes from the palm and soothes the incessant ache of his head. Hawks is more than a little ashamed to admit that the hot pressure grounds him; helps to slow his frantic hummingbird heart.
And Dabi… fuck him for noticing. Without saying anything, Hawks feels the villain’s careful hand start to slowly card through his long golden hair. Every so often, he even softly massages the scalp--- chasing away any lingering tension with a patience that makes Hawks’ eyes water. He closes them before he can do something really stupid, like bawl his goddamn eyes out.
Because no one’s ever done this for him, okay? He didn’t know how this could feel. Didn’t know that it was better than the painkillers the Commission sometimes let him have after a bigger-than-usual surgery, or the stinging sensation of a too-hard congratulatory pat at a hero’s award show (but hey, at least someone touched him, right?)
This feels… like the sun has reached down to cradle him. To protect him. It feels like dying and living and everything he’s never had because he’s never deserved it.
“Hawks,” Dabi murmurs, breaking him a bit from his reverie. He has half a mind to be resentful, but considering Dabi is the reason he’s having this revelation in the first place, he’ll let it slide.
“Hm?” he hums, unwilling to open his eyes and wake up from the dream. .
Then, sounding borderline embarrassed, Dabi says, “I, uh. Don’t mind the bird noises. At all. So stop with the whole concussion bit. It’s starting to get old.”
Burning heat rushes to Hawks’ cheeks, and his wings fluff from behind him in a flare of surprisingly pleased shock.
And that’s another surprise. Since the action doesn’t hurt, Dabi must have straightened the crooked bits while he was out. When he peeks open one eye to give them a glance over, they’re still looking a bit disheveled but appear largely functional. Huh.
Hawks is surprised by how angry he is that he missed that. Sue him, he’s a little curious what furnace hands might feel like straightening his sensitive feathers, alright? (Not like how the Commission does it--- threading gloves angrily through the red mess; ripping until crimson is dripping burgundy.)
“I know the noises are ugly,” Hawks croaks out after a moment. “Sorry. I don’t mean to make them.”
“Well, I like ‘em, alright?” Dabi snaps--- harsh voice at odds with the gentle tug of his fingers through golden hair. “How ‘bout that?”
If Hawks blushes any warmer, he’s going to catch the apartment on fucking fire.
And when he lets out an involuntary coo after a particularly good scalp massage, Dabi does the unexpected. Even though Hawks watches him with anticipatory horror, the villain just purrs, “ That’s it, pretty bird.”
And Hawks melts.
“Dabi,” he protests weakly, throwing an arm up to cover his uncomfortably red face.
“What is it, pretty bird?”
He knows realistically that if Dabi were truly activating his quirk, he’d be a pile of ashes right about now. But he feels hot enough to doubt reality for a split second.
To make matters worse, the villain presses, soft smile evident in his voice, “You like that, don’t you? Me calling you pretty bird ?”
And Hawks does like it. He likes it so much that all his insides are turning molten; reduced by the simple heat of Dabi’s fingers in his hair and deep voice in his ear. No one’s ever called him pretty before.
He thinks he loves it.
But he’s got some pride to hang on to, afterall.
“‘S’not so bad.”
Dabi’s whisper of a laugh is a gleaming reward, and Hawks feels his wings fluff again in a proud triumph.
“Well, how’s about this? I’ll keep calling you what you are, pretty bird , and you make all your noises around me, okay? No holding back and no beating the shit of yourself allowed.”
Hawks cracks open his eyes at that; confident the offer is far too good to be true. That this is a sick joke designed to break him (and it really just fucking might). But the blue flame of Dabi’s eyes are clear in their sincerity; burning the truth into Hawks’ skin like a brand.
It’s more instinct than anything else.
Reaching a trembling hand up to the lapel of Dabi’s jacket, he tugs the villain down until they meet halfway. From there, all Hawks has to do is turn his face up in invitation. Offering. A deal.
Dabi, ever the giver, takes it. The kiss tastes like wintergreen, and Dabi’s lips split into a smile when Hawks lets out a decidedly happy coo against them.