Chapter Text
Dabi pretends not to listen, but Shouto knows that his visit is the highlight of his month.
It has to be, because Tartarus ignores pesky things such as the isolation minimums in human rights laws. If Shouto thought Dabi looked gaunt during their final battle, it’s nothing compared to the living corpse chained on the other side of the enforced plastic divider.
“Midoriya and Uraraka set a date for their wedding,” he says. Dabi stares at a spot over his shoulder, but Shouto doesn’t miss how often his eyes flick back to him before jerking away. (Against the glossy white walls, burnished metal doors and offensively pastel visitor’s chair, Shouto is the only colour in the room. It would be hard to miss him.)
“Don’t know who that is,” Dabi rasps.
“You once described Midoriya as ‘the broccoli that Shigaraki had a hate boner for’,” Shouto says, with nothing but patience. Dabi knows exactly who Midoriya is, because Shouto’s monthly life updates are the only outside news he’s allowed, and therefore has little else to dwell on—but he allows Dabi this small modicum of power.
“Oh,” Dabi says. “Heh. Yeah.” He looks almost fond.
“Bakugou’s annoyed that Midoriya beat him both to the top ten and to getting married. New-Bakugou-annoyed, not old-Bakugou-annoyed. There’s a difference.”
“Bakugou?”
“You kidnapped him once,” Shouto says, and pretends he doesn’t see the twitch of Dabi’s lips.
“Doesn’t narrow it down.”
Shouto switches the cross of his legs, slowly, so as not to spook Dabi. “Shigaraki almost killed him.” Dabi gives him an exhausted, long-suffering look. “Right. Uh.” More specific. He raises his hands, palm up, and mimes explosions. “Die, villain bastards, die,” he says in his best Bakugou imitation.
He stares at him for a long moment, and Shouto thinks he’ll have to do better, until a snort escapes Dabi. Shouto feels himself smile, and lines up his next Fun Real World Fact, but Dabi doesn’t stop: his snort turns into a chortle, and then a reluctant wheeze, and finally into a full, genuine laugh.
Shouto has never heard him laugh without malice or mockery. Even as the movement threatens the skin around Dabi’s staples, hollows his gaunt cheeks further and elicits an unsettling creak from his chest, he wants to hear it again.
“I’m sorry,” Shouto says, abruptly. Dabi’s eyes snap back to him with a startling clarity.
“Why?”
Shouto wants to think about this. He wants to have a concise, accurate answer that conveys everything he wants to put across, but he’s coming up to the end of his allowed hour-long visit and this is important.
“I didn’t have the strength to kill you out there.” Shouto doesn’t need to elaborate. Dabi understands. Dabi knows that Shouto’s referring to what’s become of him here: a lifeless, empty husk, unable to see a human not in a uniform, or have a hobby, or breathe fresh air, or have anyone gentle to replace his staples and tell him that everything’s going to be okay. On a good day, he’s allowed two hours of free movement, but Dabi can go weeks without being allowed out of the restraints that bind him to his bed. On his very bad days, they put mittens over his hands, a catheter up his dick, and feed him through a tube to keep him alive.
The last two years have all been very bad days.
Dabi tips his head to the side as though considering Shouto’s apology, and when he answers, his words are careful and measured.
“Still got time to correct not killing me.”
“Don’t joke about that,” Shouto says, as though brushing aside the truth will make it any less painful.
Shouto shouldn’t feel bad, they tell him. He detained a vicious mass murderer dedicated to his hit list with no care for collateral damage. Dabi would have killed Shouto, and then their father, and then himself if he hadn’t stopped him. Overpowered him, restrained him, done the honourable thing and given him up to the authorities: everything a good hero should do, down to the letter.
Which means that Shouto is responsible for this.
“You should come home with me,” Shouto says, and Dabi’s manic laughter is mangled by the poor quality speakers that connect the two rooms.
“Home,” Dabi says, rolling his eyes—the only movement he’s permitted in his restraints. “Sure, lemme just walk out of here and we can play happy families.” Dabi doesn’t look up when the alarm above his head rings out. “Looks like time’s up, Shou. At least you’re good for a laugh.”
They won’t remove Dabi until Shouto leaves, which he is supposed to be doing now.
“I’ll come back for you,” Shouto says, and he means it.
“Yeah, every month if my schedule allows it.”
“I mean it,” Shouto says, as the door behind him opens for the guard to escort him out, by force if necessary. “I’ll fix this.”
“If you’re gonna, then you’d better make it quick,” Dabi says, and his dark glare burns into Shouto’s soul as he’s marched out.
***
Enji is waiting for him outside Tartarus.
“Dad,” Shouto says, slowly, and Enji perks up. “I need your help.”
***
They decide on a fresh start, in the end.
Shouto attends every single HSPC meeting, court date and mandatory social worker inspection, and he still can’t quite believe they’ve managed to pull this off. His father would like to believe that he put forth a rousing argument that convinced the Commission that, deep down, Dabi is still Touya Todoroki and can be rehabilitated.
Shouto suspects that the costs of keeping a superpowered arsonist locked up for life were exorbitant enough that they were prepared to kick Dabi out, sweep it under the rug, and pay off anyone that notices.
It’s amazing what the Todoroki family can do when they have a common goal: Enji procures a house out in the country, away from the city (and civilian casualties, should the worst occur), Natsuo and Fuyumi use their days off to go furniture and supply shopping, and Shouto works out a deal with his agency to take a year-long sabbatical. Rei is present for every house inspection, plying them with her soft charm—although Shouto likes to make himself scarce on those days.
It’s not that he’s not grateful—he is, because he certainly couldn’t have done this alone—but he hasn’t deciphered the emotions that arise whenever he looks at his mother outside a hospital environment, so he avoids her for the time being. There will be time to figure it out, Fuyumi reassures him when he expresses his concerns. But not right now.
Not when he’s finally coming home.
***
Shouto is waiting outside when they pull up in an unmarked van.
Three armed guards exit the vehicle, check their weapons, and move to the back in perfect synchronisation. Shouto cannot see inside when they open the back door, but he watches a disgruntled Endeavor step out, stretch, ignite the flames on his hero costume and turn back to the van.
“It’s a beautiful day for freedom, Touya!” Endeavor booms in his best ‘I am a good father’ voice.
“Fuck off,” comes the sullen voice from the back of the van, but it’s accompanied by the clink of handcuffs as Dabi’s prison-issued slippers hit the ground.
Shouto can’t breathe, his hands feel clammy, his face is sweating, and he doesn’t know why. Dabi rounds the door, and it’s somehow worse to see him next to Endeavor: without the benefit of the restraints covering him, and beside their giant of a father, Dabi looks as though he’s minutes away from wilting.
He’s haggard, with pallid skin that stretches thinly between his dark scars. They’ve apparently sought some medical care since the request to bring Dabi home, since the staples have been replaced by sutures and the skin on his bony wrists looks less nightshade violet and more opium poppy pink. It makes the thick black metal of the quirk suppressant cuffs more obvious.
One of the guards imperiously hands out a key to Shouto, which he takes with shaking fingers and a promise to wait until they’re far out of the vicinity before he unlocks Dabi.
“You’re unauthorised to remove the quirk suppressant cuffs,” the guard informs him, “but this will unlock the connecting chain.”
“Thanks,” Shouto says dryly, and pockets the key. He looks up to find Dabi’s eyes following the motion, and the pocket he’d slipped it into. “Welcome home,” he says, and it’s dry for a different reason: Shouto’s mouth feels as though it’s full of cotton wool and his tongue is sandpaper. Dabi briefly, insolently meets his gaze.
Well, he didn’t fight for Dabi’s parole expecting it to be easy.