Chapter Text
“No.”
Shigaraki’s eyes snap up from his game, but the boss music still hammers out from the handheld. “What did you say?” he demands. For a guy capable of screaming like a fucking toddler at All Might himself, Shigaraki’s tantrums can be deceptively quiet, too. He hasn’t paused yet, so that’s something.
Thing is, Dabi doesn’t really give a shit. He’s only got a small range of tolerance for bullshit, and this one takes the damn cake, candles, and decorations. It’s dangerous. “Going deaf in those headphones?” he drawls because he hates repeating himself, “I said no.”
With the flick of a button, the music switches from the relentless beat of boss battle music to the muted, cheery hum of the pause menu. Great. Shigaraki is about a hair’s breadth away from losing his shit and starting an argument. Whatever. Dabi still isn’t budging without a damn good reason.
“Is leading the Vanguard Action Squad going to your head, Dabi?” Shigaraki demands. It’s a light tone for how he looks like he’s the one who can cremate a guy with the flick of a wrist.
(Ash, dust. Does it really even make a difference in the end?)
Dabi snorts because the implication there? That’s a fucking joke, and they both know it. Shigaraki is still holding the game with both hands though, which means he’s not actually as pissed off about it as he’s making it seem. Dabi saunters up and slumps down on the table in front of the couch, next to Shigaraki’s feet. He’s almost surprised the ratty thing holds the weight of Shigaraki’s legs, much less that plus all of Dabi, with only a wobble.
(He wonders if that freak Shigaraki calls sensei ever taught him sticking his feet up on shit is fucking rude. Probably down there with remembering to eat on the list of priorities for raising your ideal villainous successor.)
“If I wanted your job, I’d’ve let that dumbass in to arrest you weeks ago,” Dabi counters, settling his elbows against his thighs, “He’s lying, Shigaraki.”
How much Hawks is lying about, Dabi doesn’t know. Doesn’t really give a shit either. Some of what he says is true—even some of the things good little heroes shouldn’t ever say truthfully—but enough of it’s garbage to raise red flags. He’s fine baiting the hero for all the info he’s worth; bringing him back to the League, where Shigaraki and the others are...
“No shit,” Shigaraki dismisses. He holds Dabi’s gaze another minute, then turns back to his game. The boss music swells, and the quiet click of buttons moves on. “Is that all?”
Dabi scowls. Shigaraki is arrogant, but he’s not stupid. Figuring out which side of that line he’s swaying toward at any given moment has apparently become Dabi’s job as Shigaraki’s new right hand while Kurogiri’s gone and gotten himself caught.
Fuck it all if Dabi isn’t taking that shit seriously.
(This is the last chance he’s got left—what he threw all his bets in with. Too bad for Shigaraki. Dabi has only won one damn gamble in his entire life, and he’d paid out half his fucking hide for that one.)
“What’s the plan?”
Shigaraki doesn’t bother looking up yet. His fingers move in that rapid, precise way that draws Dabi’s attention more often than he’d be caught dead admitting. “That depends on the hero,” he says, “Which is why you’re going to bring him to me.”
Dabi gets it. He reads moods like a damn book—had to learn to do it early, too. He knows when and how far to push to get the information he needs, and he knows when to back off if the heat gets too high. Shigaraki can do the same, but it’s not exactly his favorite thing. Too little patience and a vicious temper when he’s really riled up. He’s getting better, sure, but what Shigaraki’s best at goes way beyond their moods.
And it’s Hawks’ motivations that Dabi just doesn’t get.
Frankly, Dabi personally doesn’t give a damn about civilian casualties one way or another, but it’s usually a good marker of priorities. Hawks acts like a damn hero—saves people even when it might risk this charade and get him burned. But he wants to join the League?
Bullshit.
Then there are days Dabi pushes hard on that, and Hawks snaps back with a spine of steel and real outrage in his eyes—not at Dabi but the system. Things most good little heroes shrug their shoulders at and just sadly accept that that’s ‘just the way things are.’
Hawks doesn’t just shrug it off; he gets bothered.
So maybe he’s just uncomfortable agreeing with villains. Hell, maybe he doesn’t get that not every villain is like Dabi.
("Too much like your mother.” What a fucking joke.)
“It comes down to it?” Dabi pushes, “His quirk? Pretty shitty match up for you.” Shigaraki is tough, but he has to be able to touch his target. Hard to do that when the potential enemy has wings.
Never mind Hawks being strong enough to take the Number fucking Two spot while they haven't even been able to take down anybody in the top ten.
“If it comes to that,” Shigaraki says, somewhere just past irritated, like he’s stating the obvious, too, “then I have you, don’t I?”
Dabi blinks.
That… sounds a hell of a lot like trust that he can take on Japan’s number two hero—fucking Endeavor’s old spot—and win. At least push Hawks back, if need be. That…
“You have high DPS, but your quirk also has a wide spread. Your defense stats are shit, so you’d have to fight smarter,” Shigaraki drones on, thumbs tapping away even faster and eyes shifting around the screen as the music peeks, “Screw up the air currents. Keep him at range. Knock him down. Just don’t go for a kill unless I tell you.”
Dabi pushes himself up. (Fucking hates that it’s more abrupt than he’s going for.)
Shigaraki is quiet for the couple of seconds it takes Dabi to get across the room. (It’s not the first time one of them has retreated in the face of something so totally alien to their personal demons staring them in the face in each other.) The music shifts into some cheery, out-of-place celebration, signaling he’s won. “Dabi?” Dabi pauses in the door frame. “Bring him in.”
Dabi glances back. Red eyes peer up at him expectantly.
“Sure thing, boss,” Dabi drawls.
He shoves his hands in his pockets and wanders out for a walk.
Dabi barely looks over when Spinner drops onto the good couch next to him. Good thing about Spinner? He doesn’t have pores, so he doesn’t smell like he’s just worked out for an hour and half. Bad thing about Spinner?
“Heard you might’ve changed your mind.”
He’s a little shit when he’s got his teeth dug into something.
Dabi doesn’t bother making a face. Just sits there and shifts a finger at Toga’s prodding. The cool polish against his nail is really more fucking relaxing than it has any right to be. “Changed your mind?” she perks up curiously, “You wanted something different this time?”
Dabi side-eyes Spinner and that shit-eating grin stretched across his face. He glances at Toga and the nail polish, glitter, and shit he doesn’t know the name for spread out on the table. “Whatever, brat.” At her rising cheer, he quickly tacks on “None of those fucking stickers though—didn’t mix well with fire last time.”
Toga cheers and dives for more polish.
(She’s gone through everyone in the Vanguard that has fingernails at least once. Everyone except for Shigaraki, who, one, isn’t technically part of the Vanguard, and, two, nearly choked on his drink at the mere suggestion. “Wouldn’t Father be so much cuter with pretty, red nails?” she’d chirped, and holy shit, Dabi had laughed until he wheezed right along with Shigaraki.
Well, right up until the attempted murder on two fronts meant getting enough air to run until Kurogiri showed up to break it up, but still. Worth the laugh. As much of a treat as watching Spinner get worked up over some wannabe recruit staring obsessively at the Hello Kitty stickers stuck on his bright pink nails last month.
Funny how this is where he’s gotten the best laughs in his life. Hadn’t expected that when he’d banked his last bet on this shit.)
“Seriously though,” Spinner says, nudging his elbow lightly against Dabi’s ribs. Dabi glares until Spinner moves his elbow back where it belongs. Toga doesn’t notice or care, so she carries on, humming and painting away in her own little world. “Shigaraki’s okay with that?”
Dabi, as a rule of thumb, doesn’t answer dumb questions unless he has a smartass answer. This is a prime example, so he keeps his mouth shut.
Luckily, Toga is chatty enough for two. She giggles, “It can be both, you know.” Looks like she’s settling on black and white. At least it matches. “Tomura likes him, too. I can tell.”
For all the bastard has scales, Spinner sure gets pretty damn close to blushing sometimes—over the softest shit, too. It’s weird. But, hey, Dabi’s held together by staples and spite, so whatever. “That’s uh… not… what I meant,” the overgrown lizard mutters. He blinks a few times at Dabi’s non-answer, then makes some weird ass, waving motions with his hands. “Not that it’d be a bad thing if it was like that! You and Shigaraki really need to loosen up sometim—”
Dabi leans back, shuts his eyes, and tunes out the rambling about shit he already knows. (Spinner can be a little shit, but he’s definitely not that kind of asshole, and Dabi’s at least self-aware enough that hearing Toga say it out loud isn’t worth flipping his shit over.) He could probably fool them into thinking he’s asleep. Probably a shitty idea. He might fall asleep for real and wake up with something drawn on his face and down a kidney. His body’s fucked enough as it is, thanks. Let Spinner make whatever he wants out of the silence.
Thing is, Dabi will never agree that All Might is the epitome of a hero, even if Stain believed it. Even if maybe he’s now less sure about saying no real heroes could exist in a world like theirs than when he and Spinner had this talk months ago.
(Maybe All Might saved tons of people. Maybe he’s really worthy of all that praise Stain gave him. He is really just that fucking nice; that’s not just part of an image. Doesn’t really matter though. Dabi just remembers eyes that swept by and didn’t stick on things that weren’t obvious villains or natural disasters or someone shoplifting at the fucking grocery store.
Fair of Dabi? Maybe not. Not really. One man can’t save everyone—shouldn’t be expected to really—but it doesn’t matter.
Fair never really mattered much.)
Spinner goes quiet. Toga stops painting.
Dabi opens his eyes.
Hawks stands there in the doorway of the beaten down building they’re hiding out in while the heat blows over. He’s got an arm wrapped loosely around his ribs. They probably still sting like a bitch, even with the treatment. His hair is a genuine wreck instead of attractively messy, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in the week since shit went down in the city.
He’s staring at them like a wire just broke loose in his head.
(Dabi gets it. At least Hawks didn’t get his ‘villains are people, too’ reality check in the form of listening to Shigaraki bitch about tea.)
“What?” Dabi prods. Huh. Turns out he, too, is a little shit.
Imagine that.
Red wings twitch. Hawks blinks but doesn’t move.
Spinner recovers, grins, and pats the skinny strip of space left on the couch, “Hey, look who’s up. Do you game, Hawks?”
Hawks opens his mouth. Shuts it. Glances at Toga, Dabi, and the little, white skull and crossbones she’s painting on the now black background of his nails. He glances at Spinner, who’s still got his version of a warm smile plastered on his face and opens his mouth again. Dabi lifts his brows, just daring Hawks to say something. After all, it’s the first time he’s been allowed to see the League with their hair down.
The second the hero—because he’s still a hero—decides ‘fuck it,’ he shrugs and strides over to the couch to join the rest of the low-lives. “Dude, I’m shocked you’ve got running water. This place looks like tetanus waiting to happen,” Hawks says. He climbs up to sit on the back of the couch. Huh. Apparently, those wings are pretty damn inconvenient for the weirdest shit, after all. “What’ve you got?”
Dabi is also pretty sure those are pin feathers poking out, too. Probably itchy as hell.
(If he’s honest, he wants to touch them like he wants to trace Shigaraki’s too-precise fingers. There’s probably some ironic metaphor in all that about playing with fire. Mr. Compress might make it sound decent, but Dabi doesn’t care enough to try.)
There’s just enough room for Hawks’ leg to line up against Dabi’s arm, not that he can really feel it—dead nerve endings and all.
“No cars,” he warns. Thinking about Spinner’s driving is just about enough to make him break out in a cold sweat.
Well, half his pours are burnt off, so maybe not.
Spinner laughs at the dumbfounded look on Hawks’ face when he pulls out the collection of games and consoles, “Wait ‘til you see Shigaraki’s good stash back at base.”
“I get to do your nails next, though!” Toga decides, “They can match your pretty red wings.”
Dabi leans back and shuts his eyes again.
Any day he can spend not thinking about heroes and villains is a good one, so he listens to Toga cheer for Hotline Miami, Spinner for fucking GTA Online (because Spinner thinks he’s funny), and Hawks struggle to figure out why the hell no one is stabbing anyone yet.
Joke’s on him.
Toga’s offered to stab someone twice already.
“Not today.”
Dabi frowns because that. That right there? That’s not how this shit goes down. Dabi hasn’t even opened his mouth to piss Hawks off properly yet. The damn hero turns his back to him and storms back inside his apartment like the villain perched on the fire escape near his open window is the least of his problems. Mild inconvenience tops. Dabi hops inside and shuts the window and shades behind him because he’s angry but he’s not fucking stupid.
Upscale apartment complex like this? Someone’ll notice the shady-looking asshole haunting a pro’s floor. Doesn’t matter if all his scars are mostly covered. Somebody’ll call the cops if they see. He’s only risked it because they need the hero for this one.
He turns to glare, but Hawks is already behind the counters that sections off his kitchen space. Fucker’s digging around in his damn fridge. Less than five minutes, and he’s really starting to piss Dabi off. “That’s not how this goes—”
“Actually, it is today,” Hawks chirps. He stands back up with a couple of beers in hand. “My place, my rules.” The cans drop on the counter with a loud clunk. The bitchy grin on Hawks’ face almost drops Dabi’s jaw. “Pick some creepy alley to meet up later, or sit down and give me ten fucking minutes to decompress.”
To top it off? Little shit slides a can across the bar, close to Dabi as it’ll go without falling in the floor.
What the actual fuck?
Hawks doesn’t give a shit about his answer. Just cracks open his beer and turns it up.
Heat licks at Dabi’s hands. Tantrums, he ignores—he’s a veteran of that shit, whole life through. Dismissal though? Now that pisses him right off.
He hates that. Especially from a hero.
Those eyes flick over Dabi’s face. The aggressive hunch. The smoke venting off his skin. The defensive footing. Something gives and breaks. A full-bodied sigh has his shoulders drooping. Red feathers ruffle like an actual pigeon shaking dust off its wings. “Ten minutes,” he says, more of a plea now, “Then we can talk shop.”
Dabi hesitates. Wonders if he should be trying to wreck Hawks’ shit after that little stunt, but—
(Eyes squeezed shut. Pale skin. Shaking in his arms. Too heavy on his lap. Pins and needles in boney legs, but he doesn’t say anything. The smell of smoke drifting down the hall, almost thick enough to choke out the sound of sobs. Watery eyes open, hands bigger than his own gripping his shirt. Tired, despite eyes. Worn down and pleading to a ghost neither of them even realizes is the walking dead yet.
“Just... Just ten minutes. Outside. Please.”)
Shigaraki wants the bird alive, so Hawks he’ll get. Dabi isn’t really sure he wants to try taking Hawks in a fight anyway—especially indoors.
He carefully pulls the heat back under his skin. Saunters up to the stools along counter like he owns the damn place.“’The hell’s eating you, hero?”
"Don’t,” Hawks blurts. It’s softer. Automatic. Like something he can’t quite hold behind his teeth anymore. He winces and sets the can against the counter again. Those eyes don’t watch Dabi. They don’t watch anything, really—just stare off at something already gone by.
“It just…” he sighs again and slumps his elbows against the counter. Now he looks at Dabi. Hesitant. Like he’s not so sure opening his mouth again is a good idea. Like he can’t stop himself anyway. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Do you even have anybody you look up to?” It’s not condescending. He almost sounds curious under all that exhaustion.
But no. He doesn’t. Dabi doesn’t remember what it felt like—having heroes. He remembers a bitter hole left behind after that bubble popped though, so he must’ve had one at some point. “Say I did,” he coaxes anyway. He pops his own can open.
Color him curious, too.
(He’s been curious since that first meeting because Hawks is nothing like what he knew to expect. Some days that pisses him off, too. Dabi long since learned to distrust unpredictability. Hawks has that in spades. Sometimes he just wonders if Hawks even knows where the hell he stands anymore. And that?
Well, Dabi might know a little something about that. He was the odd one out even in the League, after all: not a career criminal, no record, nothing. A ghost with a grudge and not much else.)
Hawks frowns. He thinks for a minute, then trudges his way around the counter to sit next to Dabi. It’s… bizarre, really. They snap at each other. Push. Snarl. This? This whole sitting and talking thing? This isn’t how this goes either.
Hawks’ thumb brushes the condensation on the can. Dabi watches it like it’s somehow important. “We booked this couple for trafficking. The hard shit, you know? Some really nasty stuff.” Hawks shakes his head, brow bunched up and lips turned down. “So then we find out they have a kid with this really nifty quirk. ‘Perfect for hero work,’ I think is what the guy from the Commission said, right before they cart this kid off. ‘Protective custody’ is what they’re calling it, but that’s bullshit: it’s a one-way track to some Commission grunt and a hero program.”
He trails off, weary and angry and softer now. “The kid doesn’t say anything ‘cause of course she’s freaked out. I tried thinking of everything in the book, but I couldn’t come up with anything.” He shrugs. Laughs with a sad, bitter edge on it. “And that guy I look up to? I called him for advice. He just asks me why I’m upset because ‘it worked out for the best.’ He didn’t even get why it pissed me off. Nobody did.”
Dabi looks at him. Really looks at him, past the handsome face and sheen of Number Two Hero. Hawks has a face made to smile, really, and he uses it constantly, but there’s usually something off about it. He’s a shitty lair, but he’s still hard to get a good read on otherwise. Somehow, he looks more like a person now, when he isn’t smiling.
“Why’d it bother you?” Dabi prods.
The can creeks in Hawks’ grip, “She’s eight. She can’t even go to a fucking movie by herself, but it’s fine to just sign her life away for her? If anybody should get how dangerous this kind of work is, it’s you.”
Heh. Funny. Dabi knows. Probably better than Hawks implies, too. He waits until Hawks gets tired of sulking and looks up at him with those angry, amber eyes.
“So what’re you gonna do about it, hero?” Dabi drawls. It comes off as lazy even if there’s a dull pang of an old roar growing in the back of his head. He knows what his own face looks like these days. Thing is, lazy is better than bleeding, aching, and tearing at literal seams, so anybody that doesn’t like it can just fuck right off.
He’s got Hawks’ attention now. Not the same way as usual—not the half-baked threats and vague warnings. No snapping and snarling. He wonders if maybe Hawks is really looking at him for the first time, too.
Dabi takes another drink. It’s not bad beer, really. The cool can feels good against his palms. He’s always too hot these days. “Nobody else is gonna give a shit about what some villains’ kid wants,” he points out, “Hell, they’ll all pat themselves on the back and call it a charity case well done. So what are you gonna do about?”
Those amber eyes sure are watching him now, round and surprised, and way too pretty for Dabi’s last bits of sanity.
(It’s easier with Shigaraki. They’re both the same kind of rotten inside and wear their scars with morbid pride. Both broken, angry, empty, and clinging at old rage like the last foothold over a long drop. Hawks is…
Dabi’s got no context for what the hell Hawks is.)
“Nobody’ll give a shit unless someone tells them why they should.”
What…?
Is he…?
Is he fucking serious?
What kind of Number Two Hero gets worked up about some no-name criminals’ kid?
Hawks breathes deep and lets it out. He sets his shoulders and nods. Red feathers ruffle back into place. That smile of his is back in place, but it’s… different. Softer. “So it kind of turns out I’m probably gonna spend my night on a long call with an angry press team,” he announces, “What’d the League need from me?”
There it is. So he’ll back out by morning once they explain just why, exactly, this is a shitty idea for his image. Typical.
“Boss has equipment coming through,” Dabi explains, slipping him an address, “That place needs to be hero-free when it does.”
It’s easy enough to slip back into their usual roles. Dabi pushes—goes back to tying up Hawks’ motivations as collateral. Hawks takes any inch he can get, but the League holds more cards than he does for now.
It takes less than ten minutes before Dabi is pulling his hood back up and slipping out the window.
He doesn’t think much about it until he passes Shigaraki watching some interview on TV when he drags his ass out of bed the next morning. He pauses because it’s Hawks’ stupid grin on the screen. His PR manager is right there with him like a hovering parent watching their problem child. Something about some comment the hero made on social media causing a proverbial uprising.
He slams the door behind him after reading the headline.
(Dabi really doesn’t know what the hell to do with a guy willing to take a hit to his public image for some brat he’d met for maybe ten minutes.)
Dabi ends up drifting off anyway. Wouldn’t be the first time he made a shitty choice. Sort of his MO as much as his quirk at this point, he guesses.
He wakes up slumped against the side of the couch with both kidneys probably still where they should be. It’s dark already, and most of the lights are off. He has no idea where Toga’s run off to, but the table is missing all her shit, so she’s probably off bothering Twice or something. He’s got no idea where Spinner is either, but the gaming shit is pushed back up toward the TV, and the news is on.
Hawks is still there. Still awake, too, eyes glued on something on TV.
Dabi almost frowns. It’s some late-night talk show. Going off the footage, they’re still hung up on that fight last week—at least the fallout from it. Hawks has been watching it for days now.
“Too much TV’ll rot your brain, y’know,” he drawls, voice rough and raspy with sleep.
Hawks jumps just enough that Dabi feels it. That smile is hollow—really more of a grimace around the edges. Dabi knows. He wears one sort of like it sometimes, but he’s long since ditched the grimace bit. “Yeah?” Hawks laughs, “I mean, if we’re being honest here? I kind of figured Shigaraki would dust me for all this, so I think I’m doing pretty good for myself.”
Dabi doesn’t roll his eyes. He kind of wants to. First off, Dabi is the king of doing dumb shit that pisses Shigaraki off, and he’s still got his face. Well… the half he had when he joined the League, anyway. Shigaraki’s bite is as good as his bark, sure, but he barks more than he bites around League members. Mostly, Hawks still looks too damn miserable to go throwing around words like ‘pretty good.’
Dabi looks back at the TV. It’s the end of the fight. The footage is pretty shit—too hot for anybody sane to get close when it was shot. There’s just a red and black blur dropping over the ledge, out of sight. There’s a close up of that flaming fucker’s face, too. He looks sort of like a dumbass, there on national TV, with his jaw hanging open and eyes wide.
Dabi had almost figured that it might be worth a laugh the first time he watched it.
It’s not though. Just hollow like a dream. Like that isn’t his coat casting a dark blur on the footage or the two of them dropping over the high rise on barely enough feathers to slow them down. Like he doesn’t know for a fact now that Hawks had to purposefully flip them in mid-air, or it’d be Dabi nursing sore ribs.
“Then why do it?” slips out. Much as he’s known for his smartass mouth, Dabi knows he pisses people off. Thing is, he just doesn’t give a damn about offending. He doesn’t usually hold back much that isn’t mired in ten layers of fucked up, so he just bites the bullet and asks what’s on his mind. Drown in lies and half-truths long enough? Makes even the most brutal honesty seem pretty good by comparison.
“Because you were in trouble,” Hawks says, flat and brutally honest.
That…
It’s not a surprise, but it still packs a punch like one, hearing it out loud.
When he looks over, Hawks is hunched in on himself, feet pulled up to hug against his chest. He’s perched far enough forward on the couch that his wings have room to fold up behind him. He’s not looking at the TV now, even if his eyes are pointed at it.
He looks miserable, and he’s still too shitty a lair in too deep to hide it.
(Poor fucker made a shitty trade. He’s probably already regretting it. Dabi doesn’t blame him.)
Dabi shifts. The heat from that fight is still a bitch on his scars, so it takes a bit of doing to get his feet up on the couch without drawing attention to just how tight the fucking things are over everything underneath. Hawks still isn’t looking, so Dabi nudges his leg with a foot, “Hey, hero.”
That gets Hawks’ attention. His head snaps over, all slack-jawed, indignant shock like he’s about to bitch about how, clearly, he’s already proven his loyalty and shit—about how that ‘hero’ title isn’t his anymore. He stops short at the smirk on Dabi’s face.
(Not the psycho one, all wide-eyed threats, blue flames, and pulled staples. Just the one he saves for rolling a nat 20 on something ridiculous and throwing Shigaraki’s precious campaign into total chaos just to see the look on his face.
Really, he’s pretty shit at flirting, he guesses in hindsight. Not that he ever really planned on getting in the middle of anything like that. Probably just making up lost time for missing the whole pulling pigtails phase, but Shigaraki never tells him to cut it out—he just pulls right back.)
“Change the channel,” Dabi says flatly. No room to argue and no reason offered to argue with.
Hawks blinks a couple times like he’s still processing. Dabi stares right back because he wasn’t the one who went and upended the whole dynamic first. “Uh… okay.”
Dabi leans his head back against the arm of the couch. He’s too tall for a good fit, but he’s slept in worse places. He listens to Hawks flipping through the handful of channels this TV gets. It’s quiet. Nice, really, with just enough soft noise to fill the space. Thing is, he doesn’t really have to keep an eye on Hawks the same way he has to with a couple of the newbies. Pros of a former pro that still acts like a hero, he guesses.
Naturally, the little shit has to go and ruin the quiet.
“I’d do it again, y’know.”
Everything in Dabi freezes. Locks up rigid like he’s gearing up to run or fight. Hawks probably feels it. How could he not, that close?
That…
He doesn’t know what to do with that.
(How the hell could he? Nobody has ever…
Not until Hawks stood between Dabi and Endeavor—plucked him out the damn sky after his misstep handling a blast of fire sent him over the edge—and Shigaraki risked his own neck a city of heroes on high alert to get them back.)
In the end, he picks the lesser of two evils and pretends to be asleep again.
(He’s always been a bit of a fucking coward when it really counted.)
Hawks is mostly deadweight against his side. His legs and arms move alright. His pupils are the same size. He’s probably only bleeding from scrapes. It’s the wheezing breathing through clenched teeth that doesn’t mean anything good.
Dabi doesn’t really remember much of the fall. Just disbelief on repeat. Maybe he heard something break when they landed. Maybe he imagined it in a haze of near-death experience and all. He doesn’t know. They don’t have time to stop either. That flaming bastard’ll shake off the shock and be on their tail with a city full of heroes soon enough.
(Worse, he doesn’t even know if that fucking spooked look on Endeavor’s face started with Hawks standing between him and Dabi or with Dabi’s demand of “’The fuck are you doing?”
Doesn’t want to think about what that’ll mean if it’s the latter.)
Best they can do is keep moving and hope it’s a cracked rib and not full-on break they’re shaking up in there with all those delicate organs and vessels.
He wonders how long Hawks has been tugging at his shirt before he notices. “Cover,” the hero hisses behind clenched teeth.
Dabi doesn’t ask questions. Just tucks into the nearest back alley with enough junk to hide behind. It’s a bitch trying to get Hawks settled against the wall. The hero is pretty fucking tough, turns out. He barely makes a noise while they move under cover. Just breathes shallow breaths as quiet as he can make them.
Minutes pass. Boots rush by. They wait, partially just to be sure but mostly because Hawks is doing better sitting still. “Fuck,” Hawks grits out, head lulling back against the wall and eyes squeezed shut, “This sucks.”
Dabi doesn’t even realize he’s done it until the half-strangled huff hangs there in the air of a dingy alley. Complaining is good. Probably. Means he can get enough air to manage a couple words. “You cracked some ribs, dumbass. ‘Course it sucks.”
Hawks shivers. Tries to pull himself together. His eyes open, half-hazy with pain and shock. There’s no joke in his eyes now, when he looks straight at Dabi and rasps, “He let us go, didn't he?”
(Worst part about that? Dabi can’t even deny it, and it makes him fucking sick with rage and disgust.)
He moves to get up and pretends he didn’t notice. “C’mon, hero,” he says, “Gotta keep moving.”
There’s a safe house around. Getting to it alone would be a pain, with the heroes probably flooding the city. With Hawks injured like that, it’d be a damn miracle. Whether or not they make it is going to depend on how many heroes get sent out for search and rescue and who’s on their trail.
Hawks tries for a deep breath, grimaces, and regrets it. Dabi waits out that wave before he helps tug the hero up to his feet again from his good side.
That pattern plays itself out more times than Dabi counts: run, hide, breathe, repeat. Hawks’ feathers still pick up more sound than either of them can hear, even if he’s slouching more and more the longer they’re on their feet. More than once, that probably saves their asses. Hawks knows it to, if the way he claws at the last bits of consciousness is anything to go by.
In the end, Dabi’s arms ache with the weight on freshly angered, old wounds, and Hawks’ warnings are just jerky tugs at Dabi’s shirt.
When Hawks finally drops completely against his side, Dabi braces for the worst while he tries to fucking nag Hawks awake again. The alley they’re in isn’t a bad place to go down swinging. There’s enough half-wrecked shit hanging around he might even make another chance to break for it.
(He’s always figured he’d probably go down swinging, but he at least wanted one good fucking shot in first.)
What he gets instead is Shigaraki.
(That’s the moment he realizes just how deep he’s in, too: the second he sees Shigaraki, that cold burn of panic and anger falls away piece by slow piece. Gets switched out for shock and something a little too fucking close to awe because he’s never not been on his own to claw his way out of messes before.
But there Shigaraki stands.)
Shigaraki has a plan and an exit route. Takes Hawks’ slumped body from Dabi’s tired arms and carries him with surprising strength for his skinny frame. He leads Dabi through the wreckage. Tells him Toga and Twice are running the heroes on a chase across the city.
Dabi keeps his mouth shut most of the way back to the stolen van because he’s got no idea what would come out if he opened it.
(He’s almost afraid of what might come spilling out behind teeth he’s clenched over a lifetime of secrets. Because suddenly there’s Hawks and Shigaraki, who give enough of a damn to pull his ass out of the fire even if it costs them. Toga and Twice facing ranked heroes to buy them time. There’s Spinner bitching him out in the front seat for scarring them shitless. Mr. Compress, who doesn’t say much, but grips his shoulder like the ghost of dream that shriveled up and withered in the pathetic, lonely brat that died and came back from the ash and agony as Dabi.
He has no idea what to do with these people, and it fucking terrifies him more than being alone in a wash of fire.
Terrifies him because maybe some little scrap more than he’d thought of that pathetic, lonely brat survived. That brat, who knew fear and could still be hurt.)
He doesn’t remember much of the ride out of the city. He’s always been good at reacting—he’s built to do that and honed it in the in-between of survival and failure—but he never quite knows how to come down when there’s nothing left to react to. It’s a fuzzy place with so many thoughts he can never quite catch and hold one for long. The nausea from the ride isn’t even that bad since there’s a difference between Spinner driving to catch up to a police escort and driving to stay under the radar.
He just stares at the back of the headrest and helps keep Hawks as still as he can.
Out of the city, they’re mostly out of danger, and it’s only a matter of time from there before they move Hawks into in a safe house. Spinner sticks around to guard the door. Mr. Compress reports that he’s already got their new healer on call and headed their way. “Based on the looks of it,” he says, a side-glace at the unconscious hero laid out on one of the few beds tucked away in this spare hideout, “he appears to be stable. You should try to rest as well, Dabi.”
Dabi stares blankly, drained, aching, and lost somewhere in his own head. The words don’t really register. Shigaraki’s irritated sigh sort of does. The order of “Sit down, dumbass” does.
Dabi sits down. Doesn’t even really realize Mr. Compress has quietly shown himself out to go watch for the others until it’s just him, Shigaraki, and an unconscious hero, who’s breathing too quick and shallow and smells like singed feathers.
Shigaraki moves to leave. That much gets through.
Dabi grabs his wrist. Only realizes he’s probably crossed a line when he sees Shigaraki lock up. Furious red eyes glare down at him, but that mouth of his is cracked open with fear and surprise as much as anger, “You have a death wish?”
(Dabi gets that. Really gets that after the day he’s had. Fear of the unfamiliar. Mistrust of unpredictable, changing ground. Maybe he’s already soft on Shigaraki. Some part of him might be more sympathetic if he wasn’t so busy fucking drowning in the white noise of it right now.)
Dabi doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to.
Shigaraki scowls. Pulls his wrist back with careful eyes on his deadly hand and Dabi’s scarred one. He complains, but he still sits down on the worn couch anyway.
He’s just in time because the last bits of fight fade, leaving Dabi with nothing to keep himself upright. He doesn’t even realize he’d shut his eyes until he’s opening them again. Takes him even longer to figure out he’s managed to slump against Shigaraki and still has all his vital organs where they’re supposed to be.
It’s not really much of a surprise, he guesses in hindsight. Shigaraki doesn’t seem to give a shit either. He’s already got his phone out to scroll through news feeds and social media accounts, pinkies held far away from the plastic case.
He doesn’t really put off a ton of heat like some people. Feels good by comparison against the bits of Dabi’s side that can still pick up that kind of thing.
“Hey, boss?” Dabi mutters. If he’s already fucked up and cross a line, he figures he better go all in while he’s still too tired and numb to really feel the recoil.
Shigaraki’s thumb pauses over the screen of his phone. Shame. Dabi likes watching his hands work, and he sure could use the distraction to focus on. “What?”
“I owe you.”
(‘Thanks’ never meant much in their world.)
Shigaraki’s shoulder jerks a fraction. Just enough Dabi can feel it tug through the scars onto the good skin. Catches a hint of indignant pink flush across that pale, scarred skin, too. For such a dangerous guy, he’s weirdly cute sometimes.
Shigaraki’s back at work soon enough. He doesn’t shove Dabi over though. That probably means something. He doesn’t know. He’s stuck in some weird breath between danger and relief. “Shut the hell up, Dabi,” Shigaraki mutters.
Dabi doesn’t rest. Can’t. Too many old ghosts and demons rattling around in his head for now. He will, later. He'll retreat and try to shake off the heat pulling against his scars and phantoms haunting his thoughts. They both know it, but Shigaraki doesn’t shake him off either. Just lets him sit there and try and pull the pieces of himself back together bit by bit.
(Thing is, even if the pieces go back in the same place, the end result somehow feels totally different than it did when he rolled out of bed that morning.)
Dabi knows Shigaraki’s up and rummaging around when he hears the door down the hall open and close. Probably on the lookout for caffeine or something. It’s probably late. Dabi doesn’t know. His internal chronometer is about as fucked as Shigaraki’s.
There’s some rummaging around near the minifridge where they’ve been stashing food. Dabi hasn’t asked yet where they get all this shit—the safe houses and mundane supplies. He’s pretty sure it’s got something to do with that freak Shigaraki idolizes.
(Dabi never quite comes out and says that this seems like a pretty shitty life to groom a kid for.)
He waits ‘til Shigaraki’s route takes him around the back of the couch. “Hey, boss,” he says, “You missed Spinner getting his ass kicked at Mario Kart.”
(Maybe he wants to put a stop to that talk that makes his skin crawl and stomach twist for a while. Maybe he wants to see if Toga’s really seeing what she thinks she is.)
Shigaraki’s quiet. Padding steps stop in their tracks. “He beat Spinner?”
Dabi hums in place of an answer and stretches his legs all the way out, across Hawks’ lap and over the other arm of the couch, just to hear his indignant yelp. It’s his own fault for putting his feet on the floor like a decent house guest in a den on villains. Hawks doesn’t push him away either. Funny thing, Dabi doesn’t notice it first, but, when he looks down, a bare hand is curled awkwardly over his shin like Hawks has no idea what the hell to do with it.
Shigaraki comes around the front of the couch with a customary cup of something chocked full of caffeine and probably hellish on vital organs. Red eyes glance between them. That dead hand of his isn’t on his face—isn’t most of the time when he thinks he’s just making a quick run out of whatever space he’s claimed at his.
Shigaraki’s gaze settles on Dabi’s, demanding. Dabi lifts his brows and tips his head, challenging. He sees right through that caution to the flash of curiosity. Turns out the curiosity wins in the end. Shigaraki glares at him, probably pissed about getting called out, but he still drops down on the rug in front of the couch once he grabs the remotes. His back ends up inches from Dabi’s hip. Close enough those soft waves of hair spill out onto the couch.
A controller sticks up in the air, aimed at Hawks, who only hesitates a second before he takes it. His finger brushes one of Shigaraki’s, and he doesn’t even flinch.
Huh. Looks like Toga was right after all.
“Y’know, this is really not how I pictured you guys spending your free time,” Hawks laughs, “I kind of pictured more kicked puppies and murder basements.”
Shigaraki scowls, “I hate small talk.”
Dabi almost rolls his eyes, “Don’t think anybody’d call that small talk, boss.”
“Dabi,” Shigaraki warns.
It’d be a pain the ass to get into some mock fight with how he feels today, so he switches tactics and waits until they’re waiting on the match to load. “Hey, pretty bird,” he says, “Knock this asshole’s ego down a peg for us casuals, huh?”
“Fuck you, asshole,” Shigaraki grunts.
Hawks laughs. There’s something halted and held back in it but less than before. Still a far cry from the hunched in, withered misery from earlier. “Do I get a prize if I win?”
“Stop talking and play,” Shigaraki hisses, thumbs tapping away. His shoulders are hunched up. Looks like he’s actually trying instead of just toying with his food.
“What? Like a kiss from the princess?” Dabi shrugs blandly just to see those amber eyes go wide and surprised, “Sure. ‘The hell not?”
Shigaraki makes a quiet, disgruntled noise like he’s somehow offended by association, “You make a fucking awful princess.”
Dabi doesn’t counter with words. Just tries his shitty luck by giving into temptation and winding a strand of that pale hair around his fingers. Shigaraki tenses up. Nearly loses the game on his own before he catches himself. Those reflexes of his are really something sometimes.
Dabi stops because he’s an asshole, but he’s not that much of a dick. He waits. Doesn’t push or draw attention to it. Just sits there with his hand in place between his side and the back of Shigaraki’s head.
(Doesn’t think about the kind of trust it takes for people like them to turn their back on somebody like that in the first place, comfort be damned. Doesn’t think about how, after the life he lived before, he’d probably set himself on fire again sooner than really push shit like that where it’s not wanted.)
Thing is, it’s subtle. Just barely there. The hesitant shift backwards. Dabi sees it because he’s made a point to learn Shigaraki’s cues.
(Because he knows some part of Shigaraki is even more starved for gentle touch than Dabi, even if he’s still wary of it.)
He’s slow and careful, winding his fingers through those pale, soft strands. There's no tensing up this time.
“Not that I’m not flattered and all, m’lady,” Hawks adds, even if his eyes are glued on the TV, “Maybe buy a guy dinner first though?”
“That asshole doesn’t pay for anything,” Shigaraki bitches.
Hawks spares a glance between the two of them in a breather. Those eyes are every bit as sharp as Shigaraki’s. He doesn’t miss anything between them, and Dabi doesn’t bother stopping. Just stares back at Hawks, curious about those wheels turning in his head.
Amber eyes drift to Shigaraki, who ignores them. There’s a shadow of hesitation that looks a bit too much like memories. Dabi doesn’t know what they walked about when they were alone, but he knows enough about them separately to sniff out a shared core between them. Some base similarity that grew in two totally different ways.
A sly smirk curls on his mouth, “Maybe I should be bargaining with you instead, huh, boss?”
Shigaraki ramps his character right off the track and immediately demands a do-over. Without words.
Dabi chuckles, soft and easy enough it doesn’t tug at his staples.
Laying there in just the light of the TV, he listens to those two too-smart dumbasses bicker and banter. He toys with Shigaraki’s hair. Hawks eventually settles enough that he carefully braces his forearms against Dabi’s shins. He’s so fucking gentle, he doesn’t pull at a damn staple, even when he’s really getting into the third round. It’s…
Hell, Dabi is still sure this is gonna end in a fucking disaster or three. He’s still pretty sure at least one of them will go down in a blaze. He and Shigaraki? They aren’t good people even if he thinks that maybe Hawks is. He knows that, and he learned a long time ago good things burn bright but burn out fast. Thing is?
Even if this is all it ever is, it’s a hell of a lot more than he’d ever expected.
Maybe that’s enough to call it something good anyway.