Chapter Text
Shadows spill in patches across the walls of the cellar, interspersed by the occasional lantern. Dabi lets out a curse. There’s not enough light to make out how many assailants are lying in wait.
His eyes flit across the dusty bottles, trying to chase the right shadows amongst the hundreds of deceptive reflections. He can’t afford to waste bullets on rats. The place’s too cramped to allow any real freedom of movement with his sword, and he left Hawks’ blades behind on the Cremation. Hawks won't be able to cover his back even if he wanted to. Dabi has to make his first shot count.
Hawks seems to realize their predicament at the same time. “Not that way,” he whispers, close to his ear. He lets go of Dabi's bicep to close his fingers around Dabi's wrist, silently directing his arm a little to the right. “The closest one's behind that barrel. There's three more that I can see, but they're hiding further behind.”
Dabi bites back on the instinctual wariness. Hawks' grip on him burns even through the fabric of his coat. Can he trust Hawks' call? It feels a little too much like a gamble, but Dabi doesn't have much better options.
“You sure?” he whispers back. He feels more than sees Hawks' nod. His breath is warm on the back of Dabi's neck. Tense.
Dabi takes aim.
Those keen eyes of yours better be spotting the right target.
There’s no time to dwell on that thought. The second Dabi cocks the gun, the shelf in front of them lets out a groan and starts falling forward.
“Fuck,” Dabi curses, all but crashing into Hawks to urge him to move.
They take off at a run, Hawks only pausing to grab a lid and hold it out like a shield. They narrowly miss the brunt of the attack, and Dabi’s forced to thank his quick thinking when the floor goes slippery with spilled wine and shards fly in every direction like deadly projectiles.
His relief is short-lived. The air resounds with the distinctive click of a loaded gun. One of the assailants has propped up a rifle between a row of bottles, and it’s pointing straight at Dabi.
“Cover,” he yells, throwing himself down without checking if Hawks is doing the same.
The bullet ricochets over a metal shelf above him, sending more glass shattering. Wine sprays over Dabi’s head as he rolls behind a stone counter stacked with mugs. He wipes his hair away from his eyes with a growl. His hand comes away wet with blood, and that’s how he realizes that he landed on the shards. He hadn’t even felt the sting on his scarred skin.
Fucking hell, he hates this place already.
His eyes find Hawks and take stock of his condition. He’s crouching a few feet away, hiding behind the stone pillar of a vault, and he’s bleeding from superficial scrapes too.
Shit. There really is no other choice, is there?
“You need to get out of here,” Dabi tells him with a rigid set of his jaw. He doesn’t need to peek to know that the rifle is still there, waiting for them to come out of their hiding place.
“Believe me, I’d love to,” Hawks mutters, “but how?”
“I’ll cover for you, but you need to be quick.” Dabi’s mind runs a mile a minute, thinking of a plan of action. “Go back to the ship and call for help,” he orders, knowing even as he’s saying it that Hawks won’t come back for him.
Hawks seems to know it too, because he visibly hesitates.
It’s for the better, Dabi reasons. Hawks’ presence here is dead weight. Dabi can’t keep guard over him while also planning the most effective way of putting a bullet into each of these bastards.
Unfortunately, Hawks is a stubborn little shit. “I’m not leaving you behind with four people who want you dead, Dabi.”
How fucking noble of you, Dabi thinks scathingly. He would laugh too, if his muscles weren’t so taut with tension.
“Good thing I’m not dying here, then.” There’s only one way he’ll allow himself to kick it, and it’s with a smile on his face as he ruins his father’s empire with his own hands. “I have a ‘vendetta’ to act on, remember? Now fucking go before I change my mind.”
Hawks’ jaw flexes, but Dabi’s already looking around for a suitable diversion. He studies the reflections on the still intact bottles facing his attackers. The shooter’s hiding between two aisles, his vision partly obscured by the vault they passed on the way to this clearance. Dabi can exploit that blind spot. He stares at the stacks of small barrels a few feet away. If he could just tip them off their stands—maybe they won’t be enough to solve the shooter problem, but with some luck they’ll create enough of a ruckus to throw him off his game. That’s all Dabi needs to get the jump on him and slit his throat. Mindful of the glass on the floor, he starts crawling his way to the closest pyramid of casks.
Time for a little show.
He finds soon enough that enacting his plan presents an unexpected obstacle. These things are heavy as fuck. Dabi grunts, pushing with his entire weight, but it’s not until he feels Hawks slink next to him and do the same that the barrels finally budge. Two, three, four, they go rolling, gaining speed thanks to the slight slope of the floor.
Dabi grins when he hears the first yell. His eyes meet Hawks’ of their own accord, finding that familiar amber sparkling with complicity. His stomach flips, and he decides he doesn’t want to know what his own eyes are showing. He grunts—not in thanks but not quite in farewell either—and gives Hawks his back, unsheathing his sword with a flourish.
He enters the fray without a second thought.
They’ll meet again, he knows they will. That’s what fate had planned for them—they had met again for a reason.
He doesn’t look over his shoulder to check if Hawks is crawling back the way they’d come—he doesn’t need to. He can hear him moving away, and that’s fine. Dabi can handle himself. That’s how it’s always been.
He finds the first attacker soon enough. Only his upper body is poking out of the overturned cask crushing him, and he’s holding onto his still smoking rifle. His blood is almost invisible amongst the spilled wine caking the floor.
Serves you right, Dabi thinks, not without a certain amount of satisfaction, after the trick you pulled on us.
The other three are unfortunately still alive, but Dabi’s ready to fix that. He rounds a corner and his pistol points at the nose of the nearest one, a malicious grin cutting his face.
“Chrono,” he greets. “Chisaki’s most trusted. I should’ve expected you to be behind this. A good disciple takes after his master’s teachings, and Chisaki sure knows how to play like a coward.”
Chrono snarls, his grip around the hilt going white-knucled. It’s always so easy to rile him up.
“Where’s the girl?” he demands. The tip of his sword points at the muzzle of Dabi’s gun in a defiant challenge. “Tell me where you’re hiding her and I’ll make this painless.”
Dabi laughs. “Not really in a place to negotiate, are you?” His grin turns vicious in anticipation of a victory as he pulls the trigger.
The pistol jams.
Dabi sees the exact moment Chrono’s anger gives way to triumph. His sword comes in a deep lunge for Dabi’s chest, and Dabi just barely manages to throw himself to the side to avoid getting impaled.
Fuck. All that wine spraying everywhere—it was bound to get his gunpowder wet. Dabi should’ve really known better.
“Give up, you uncouth monkey," Chrono spits, going for another lunge that Dabi deflects.
From the corner of his eye, Dabi can see the other two bastards closing in, weapons at the ready, and he switches his sword to his dominant hand.
A question burns at the forefront of his mind. How did the Chronostasis get here before them?
“Were you tailing me?” he asks over the clang of metal on metal. “Or did you plant a rat on my ship?”
He already has an idea. He’d known that his crew wasn’t happy with his way of leading, but the thought that one of them betrayed him—betrayed Eri—for Chisaki’s bloodstained gold makes his guts turn. He wants a name.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Chrono taunts, moving forward with a swing. Dabi parries it with the barrel of his pistol, pushing against it until Chrono is forced to take a step back.
“So that’s a yes,” Dabi says, kicking his opponent’s stomach and cornering him against a wall.
Chrono’s back hits the cold stone with a gasp, and Dabi disarms him with ease.
He points his sword at his Adam’s apple, touching it lightly enough not to draw blood. Yet.
“Who’s the rat?” Dabi demands, his tone chilling.
The shine of light on metal at the corner of his eyes is all the warning he gets before he's forced to duck. Something soars past him, coming to a stop with a dull thud against a barrel.
Knives? Dabi thinks with a curse.
Chrono takes advantage of his distraction to slink away. He reaches for his weapon again, and Dabi has to roll out of the way of a swing.
Should’ve chosen a better location, Dabi thinks when the sword misses and gets stuck on the wooden boards, buying him time. He gets back on his feet. He can hear the knife guy closing in. Or brought more guns. Fucking rookie.
He makes it a few aisles before two more knives whizz in his direction. One of them only grazes his arm, but the other one lands squarely on his right leg. Dabi cries out, almost losing his balance. He grits his teeth, finding momentary support on a rack to turn on his heels. His gaze locks with the guy, ready to parry the next blow with his sword. The fucker’s arm raises, another knife ready to be thrown—
Only for a gunshot to shatter the silence. The knife slips from his fingers, and he looks down at the rapidly growing patch of blood on his shirt. He falls forward with the last remnants of baffled surprise painting his features.
Dabi’s expression mirrors it. His head swivels backwards, his grip on his sword growing sweaty. A third party? It’s a little too early for it to be one of his men. Assuming Hawks had gotten to them at all. The smoke from the shot blankets the newcomer’s silhouette for a couple of tense heartbeats, but when the air clears—
Fucking hell.
“The heck are you doing back here?” Dabi all but growls.
“Saving your life, apparently,” Hawks retorts without missing a beat, his face serious despite the upbeat tone of his voice.
Dabi has about a million questions and about as many curses, but they’re put on the backburner when Chrono makes his presence known again. He throws himself at Dabi, forcing him to go on the defensive again.
Dabi’s brow furrows with the strain of putting weight on his bad leg. He doesn’t have time to warn Hawks about the remaining henchman. He can find him on his own, if he’s that willing to help. At least with a rifle in hand, he’s no longer a liability. As if on cue, the clamor of more gunshots tells him Hawks found his mark just fine.
Something in Dabi’s chest loosens, and he pointedly doesn’t linger on his relief upon seeing Hawks again. The fight takes all his focus, anyway. Chrono was born into privilege, and he knows his footwork. Possibly better than Dabi, who had to pick up the tricks of the trade on the streets. Chrono’s expertise is purely technical, though, lacking in real experience. In a normal scenario, Dabi would’ve already thrown him into the dirt, but his wounded leg slows him down.
Perhaps that's how Dabi fucks up.
Letting his frustration get to him is his first mistake. The second is losing his footing on slippery glass. Dabi lands hard, his arms raising to shield his face on reflex. It’s enough for Chrono to get the upper hand, pointing his sword at Dabi’s chin.
“Last chance. Where are you keeping Eri?”
At his back, Dabi catches a glimpse of a familiar loose blouse. His eyes return to Chrono with affected indifference, playing it off.
“Wouldn't you like to know,“ he echoes the taunt directed at him just moments before. He delights in the way it makes the dimwit’s mouth twitch.
“Any last words?” Chrono spits through his teeth.
The shadow gets closer. Dabi’s smirk grows. Chrono’s attention is entirely on Dabi. It’s almost too easy.
“Don’t worry,” he reassures. “Your master will soon follow you in hell.”
Chrono opens his mouth, but whatever retort was on the tip of his tongue gets swallowed by a surge of blood in his throat. His free hand raises to touch the pointed shard lodged into his neck. He gurgles up more blood, and Hawks takes a step back, letting him crumple to the floor.
It's over.
Dabi's head slumps against the floor in relief.
A hand appears in front of his nose, a mute offer for help. Dabi stares at it, and then at Hawks, like he's seeing him for the first time.
“Why did you come back?” he asks again, tension finally beginning to uncoil. He doesn’t take the proffered hand, but he props himself up on his elbows to get a better look at Hawks’ face.
Hawks folds his arm back at his side. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, looking off to one side.
“I don’t know,” he admits. He seems surprised at his words too, eyebrows knitting and posture stiffening for the barest seconds.
Dabi ponders that for a moment longer, his eyes scanning Hawks’ uncomfortable if open stance. He thinks that’s the first honest truth that came out of Hawks' mouth, and that gives him pause.
What changed, he wants to ask, but he knows Hawks wouldn't have an answer for that, either. His mouth flattens when he finds that he doesn't mind.
Dabi’s life still matters something to Hawks. Whether as an investment or as an ally, only time will tell.
It shouldn’t be enough, but it somehow is. If not his intentions, Dabi can at least trust that single moment of unguarded honesty.
It’s a start.
Main bridge of the Cremation, open sea, five days later
Hawks sits, propped up on the hull, looking at the swarm of activities all around him. His blades are strapped to his back again, a familiar weight against his skin. A peace offering, but one that’s regarded with as much distrust as his presence on deck. Sailors on the Cremation give him a wide berth like he’s carrying the plague, but he ceased being a prisoner after saving the Captain’s life.
Todoroki Touya’s life. The boy from back then.
He still isn’t sure why he’d come back for him. It had been dumb luck, finding the discarded rifle of the shooter, and Hawks doesn’t want to consider his motivations for being ready to die next to a pirate. He wants to pretend like he did it to gain an edge on him, to make Dabi trust him. But he can’t lie that readily in the face of the facts. There was no use in proving his loyalty to a man about to get murdered. No, Hawks had come back because—
He hadn’t wanted Dabi to die.
He swallows on a dry throat. No rationalizing will ever be enough to explain why he’d let himself be tripped up by sentiment. It’s unlike him. It’s unlike everything he’s supposed to stand for.
Everything they taught him to stand for.
He isn’t sure there’s a rational way to come to terms with that, either.
Dabi’s feet come to a stop in Hawks’ field of vision. “You could look happier,” he notes in his usual taunting drawl. “You’re still alive after meeting the Vanguard. Not many traitors can say as much.”
Hawks turns to stare at the crashing waves, avoiding those probing, hard-to-read eyes. Water sprays over the sides of the ship, carrying the tang of salt. Hawks breathes it in. Despite everything, it’s comforting. For a time, as he waited his sentence in jail like a common criminal, he thought he’d never experience the exhilaration of being one with the sea again.
It’s a freedom he hadn’t thought he craved until he saw the shackles on his feet for the first time.
He isn’t sure he can ever willingly go back to putting a blindfold on. Not after what happened, and what it unraveled in him.
“What’s our route?” he asks instead. It’s a deflection, but he can’t help it.
Is he happy?
How is he supposed to know what he wants?
Dabi hums. “Got any destination in mind?”
He makes it sound so easy. Like the whole world is at his feet. Hawks supposes it is, for a pirate. His eyes rake across the seemingly endless expanse of the horizon.
A Pirate. How had he loathed that word. Even after his father had been pardoned, Hawks had done his best to separate himself from his shadow. He’d worked twice as hard, climbing the ranks of the Navy and hanging so many people to prove his worth to the staunchly conservative members of the Naval Public Safety Commission. He’d been eager to forge a new identity that would stomp on his past one and cancel it out.
But the past, Hawks has found, never forgets. And sometimes, he realizes, that’s not a bad thing.
“None at all,” he finally answers, chancing a glance at Dabi to gauge his expression. The quirk of his lips tells him he’s chosen the right answer.
Dabi holds out a hand, and Hawks takes it. He gets to his feet, ending up far too close to Dabi’s face than he'd like. Dabi's eyes are the same shade of blue as the waves rolling and battling each other, he notes. An indomitable spirit. They hold the same promise, too. Hawks can’t look away. For a while now, his gaze hasn’t been able to stray from the inscrutable, puzzling man in front of him. Curious. Wary. Intrigued.
There’s nothing rational about that, either. And perhaps that’s the point.
Dabi’s eyes shine. “Good,” he says simply, his voice a pleased murmur. “We need to take care of something first anyway. Those keen eyes of yours better be good at spotting chirping birds.”
He lets go of Hawks’ hand, his gaze sweeping over the crew meaningfully.
Hawks’ eyes don’t follow his lead. They remain fixed on Dabi, that same confusing knot of feelings he’s always felt around him curling in his guts.
It’s anticipation, he realizes.
“And then what?” he enquires, both to give himself a distraction from those dangerous waters and because he’s genuinely curious. They might be setting course for Masutafu, for all he knows.
“Then,” Dabi says, his blue, blue eyes finding Hawks again, “we are free to do what we want.”
Free. Hawks turns that word over in his head. Everything always seems to come back to that, doesn’t it? He’d been so ready to free himself from the shame of losing at Jakku. So eager to give up his freedom to Dabi if it meant having a shot of getting back his life.
And here Dabi is, offering his freedom back, like it’s that easy.
And maybe it is. Rationally, Hawks knows that as soon as they deal with the rat Chrono planted on the ship, Dabi is going to act on his original plans to attack Masutafu’s fort. But the thought of returning to his homeland doesn’t leave Hawks with the feeling of dread it used to. It electrifies him.
That’s new, too, but surprisingly easy to come to terms with. It makes him wonder if that’s what he always wanted. To go back not as a loser begging for mercy, but as a free man choosing his own fate. As a pirate. Somehow, the realization doesn’t shake him as hard as it should.
His future is his own. That, too, is incredibly freeing.