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The weather is awful. Hawks pulls his thick coat tighter around him, hiding his face in the collar to try and stop the icy air stinging his lungs. There’s not long left to go until he’s finished his patrol, but it’s still too far away. After hours out in the severe winter weather he wants to head home and curl up under the covers for the rest of the night, perhaps the week.
He picks up speed, reasoning that it will both get his patrol over with sooner and help keep him warm, and it’s not long before he spots something to distract him.
It’s not unusual to come across a drunk or two this late in the evening – one of the less glamorous sides of being a Hero is directing intoxicated troublemakers towards the police – but Hawks is alarmed by the figure he sees slumped, unmoving, in a doorway. Even in this relatively busy part of town the severe cold has cleared the streets, and Hawks senses no one around as he rushes towards the figure.
He didn’t expect to recognise him. He falters for a moment when he realises that the idiot collapsed in a doorway, his jacket nowhere in sight, is Dabi.
“What the hell?!” Hawks asks, fluttering across the remaining of the distance between them. He can tell Dabi is alive: his chest rises and falls shallowly, little clouds of air forming as he breathes out. “What are you doing here?”
“Is that any way to greet me?” Dabi slurs, his head lolling dangerously as he tries to pick it up and look up at Hawks. “I came to see you.”
Hawks, agitated by the sight before him for a reason he elects to ignore, crouches down and pulls off a glove so he can reach out and feel Dabi’s skin. It’s cold, the staples pulled tight. “You came to see me? You didn’t even know I’d be here. If you wanted to see me you should have sent a text.”
Dabi gives a dry, rasping laugh, his head tilting back and eyes falling shut. “Lost my phone. Lost my jacket. Lost my will to live.”
“Have you been drinking?
“A little.”
“Have you got a death wish?” Hawks demands.
“My Quirk keeps me warm.”
“You feel like a corpse,” Hawks argues. “Come on, sit up.”
And, for some reason, he finds himself removing his jacket, inhaling sharply when the biting cold slices against his chest. The thick layers of sheepskin and leather are immediately missed, and he shivers as he reaches out and wraps his beloved coat around Dabi.
“You’re going to have to move,” he says firmly. “I’m not waiting around to develop hypothermia on your behalf.”
“Aw, are you going to save me, Hero?” Dabi slurs, thankfully following Hawks’ guidance and trying to stand. He falters, sways, and then, to Hawks’ relief, doesn’t fall back down. Hawks’ wings wrap protectively around them as he tries to shield himself from the worst of the cold – and from anyone who might so happen to look out their window or pass by and see who he’s with.
“I should dump your ass at the nearest police station with the rest of the drunks,” Hawks mutters, taking Dabi’s weight over his shoulders and wrapping an arm around a now nicely padded waist. “But unfortunately for me that would be more trouble than it’s worth, and I’ll lose my in with the League.”
“Is that all I am to you?” Dabi breathes, smelling of frost and whisky in the close space created by Hawks’ wings. “A means to an end? You’re gonna break my heart.”
“What, and I’m something more to you?” Hawks shivers almost violently. “Pull the other one. We’re only in this together because we’re useful to each other.”
“That’s cold,” Dabi mumbles, struggling to coordinate his feet. Despite being taller than Hawks, he’s light enough not to be a burden. Hawks is used to carrying people, after all, and he’s grateful that Dabi isn’t particularly hard to handle.
“No,” Hawks bites out, “this is cold, and if we don’t get inside soon I’m taking my jacket back and leaving you for the street cleaners to find in the morning.”
Dabi presses closer to Hawks’ side. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
“Or what, you’ll burn me? There are far worse things I could be threatened with right now than fire.”
A hand appears before them, blue flames flickering to life.
“Stop that!” Hawks hisses, startled by the complacency. “Do you want to get caught?”
“Aren’t I already?”
Hawks hesitates for a moment. “No,” he says with more surety than he feels. Taking Dabi back to his own place – which is the closest and only option – is dangerous. Dabi could very easily be caught if someone sees them. There’s no way Hawks can explain not turning in one of Japan’s most wanted immediately; it’s a risk for both of them. “You’re lucky it was me who found you, or you’d be in solitary by now,” he continues. “Unless you have a whole roster of Heroes eager to join your ranks that I don’t know about?”
“Just you, bird brain.”
A feather detaches from Hawks’ wing, hardening as it settles beneath Dabi’s throat. “Call me that again,” he dares, although the edge isn’t sharp enough to cut. He can feel Dabi’s pulse, the shallow, rapid fluttering beneath scarred skin. If it were anyone else, he’d be calling for medical assistance.
But it’s not anyone else. It’s Dabi, the key to Hawks’ continuing mission to infiltrate the League. He needs to keep him alive, and safe, and do what he can to gain the villain’s trust. He’s not sure he wants Dabi in his home, knowing where he lives and seeing his personal things, but he doesn’t have much of a choice right now. He’s certainly not about to drag anyone else into his mission.
So, with no small amount of relief and trepidation when he reaches his building, Hawks carefully guides Dabi through the door and up to his flat, grateful for the protection the building gives him from the cold.
If only he could have some sort of protection from the man at his side.
Dabi is loose-limbed and compliant when Hawks dumps him on the sofa, and far too quiet. It’s unnerving, and Hawks only leaves him long enough to fill the kettle, dig out two warm compresses from his first aid kit, and pull on the thickest, fluffiest jumper he can find as he discards his thick gloves. He returns to Dabi’s side, sitting next to him and folding his wings tightly behind his back.
“Hey, wake up,” he commands, poking Dabi.
Dabi groans, tightening his arms around himself and, in doing so, disappearing further into Hawks’ jacket. Hawks tries not to notice the way Dabi buries his nose in the collar, shuddering.
“How long were you out there?” Hawks can’t help wondering, breaking the compresses to release heat.
“Dunno. Not long?” Dabi mumbles, barely audible.
“How much did you have to drink?”
The villain gives a weak shrug. “Not enough.”
“Were you trying to kill yourself?” Hawks mutters, before reaching towards Dabi again. “I’m going to put this against your neck. The other one should go against your chest.”
Dabi cracks open an eye to look at the compress with disdain. “You know my Quirk is fire, right?”
“You’re not using your Quirk in my house,” Hawks warns, nestling one compress against the back of Dabi’s neck and holding the other out. “Now take this, or I’ll do it for you.”
A two-tone hand reaches out, taking the warm compress and working it beneath Hawks’ jacket.
“Good,” Hawks pronounces. “Now, do you want strawberry and mango, peppermint, blackberry and apple, or lemon and ginger?”
“The fuck?”
“Tea, Dabi.”
“Don’t want tea.”
“Lemon and ginger it is, then,” Hawks decides, shifting away again.
Dabi’s hand darts out, closing around his wrist and stopping him. His movement is slow, and if Hawks weren’t so unprepared for it he could have dodged.
He expects Dabi to argue.
He doesn’t expect the silence, a weak squeeze, and then for Dabi’s hand to fall away and the villain to turn his head and closing his eyes, as if in pain.
Hawks tries not to dwell on it as he goes to make the tea, adding sugar as he tries to remember what else to do for hypothermia: warm drinks, gentle warming of the core without using anything hot, no alcohol or food… Blankets seem like a good idea. He has blankets. Lots of them.
He has so many, in fact, that he wonders which would be the best. He leaves the tea to cool a little as he fetches a thin, advanced-tech microfiber throw from the closet, and a heavier woollen blanket from the bottom of his bed. He adds to the pile some thermal underwear and the fluffiest socks he can bear to sacrifice, before making his way back to Dabi’s side.
“Pillow fort?” Dabi asks.
“More like first-aid fort,” Hawks huffs. “Anyone ever told you you’re a massive inconvenience?”
“Frequently.”
Hawks quickly decides he doesn’t like the way Dabi says that, and turns towards the things he’s brought through. “Your jeans can’t be warm, so you can use these if you want to change – which you probably should, I strongly advise it and I’ll help if you need. They’re probably too short but they’re better than nothing, and I never use these socks anyway, so you should use them. Can you manage?”
Dabi takes a moment to respond, nodding slowly.
“Okay,” Hawks breathes. “I’m going to get your tea, I’ll give you a minute but I’ll be in the next room so make some noise if you need me.”
“You always make such a fuss?”
Hawks hesitates, staring down at the thin man bundled in his jacket. He realises that’s exactly what he’s doing. “I can stop.”
“I might die if you do,” Dabi drawls, a somehow self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips.
Hawks can’t bring himself to say he won’t let that happen. For some reason, the words get stuck in his throat, refusing to come out. Dabi is going to die, probably one day very soon. That’s the end towards which Hawks is working: the destruction of the League and the incarceration and likely execution of those found guilty of their crimes. He wants to end villainy. He wants to know peace, and not having to wake every day to keep the world safe. People like Dabi are the reasons Heroes are needed in the first place, and the reason he can’t rest.
Hawks turns away and heads into the kitchen, conflicted. Helping Dabi now helps Hawks’ long-term goal; keeping him safe will earn valuable trust and, hopefully, win him a better position within the League. He’s protecting an asset…
But Dabi looks so human and unassuming bundled up in Hawks’ jacket, so vulnerable. As he stares down at the tea, his vision unfocused, Hawks remembers the weight of Dabi at his side, and the sadness concealed by a thin veneer that alcohol and exposure have started to strip away. He questions whether Dabi really cares about his own continued existence. There’s something he lives for, something driving him, but take that motivation away and what’s left?
It shouldn’t matter to Hawks. It shouldn’t matter in the slightest. All he needs to do is make sure Dabi remains useful to him, and then he can hand the villain over to the police to face the justice he deserves.
Betrayal never sat well with Hawks, though. He does what he has to because he must, not because he likes it. He certainly doesn’t like this. When he returns to the living room and sees that Dabi has managed to pull on the thermals and socks he provided for him – and Hawks was right, the thermals are too small and he can see the scars around Dabi’s lower legs where the socks don’t reach quite high enough – something within him crumbles. The man before him should be his enemy, but Hawks’ heart can’t help going out to the broken, rather pathetic figure huddled up inside his jacket. He struggles to see anything more than a scarred, broken young man.
Which is dangerous. This isn’t going to end well, but Hawks can’t turn back now. He can’t back out. He has to keep pushing forward.
He sits by Dabi’s side again, placing the tea down on the cluttered coffee table and reaching for a discarded pair of gloves. “Don’t argue,” he prefaces, “but wear these so you don’t burn yourself or heat the blood in your hands too quickly.”
“It matters?” Dabi asks.
“Yeah, it matters,” Hawks says, for some reason finding himself helping Dabi put the gloves on when presented with an icy hand. “We want to raise your core temperature, not shock you by forcing freezing blood back into your vital organs.”
Dabi gives a weak huff. “So much for my powerful Quirk.”
“So much indeed,” Hawks commiserates, his voice gentle as he realises that Dabi is probably one of those unlucky people whose body isn’t in harmony with their Quirk. It’s not the worst Quirk-physiology conflict he’s seen or heard of, but it makes him wonder at the scars he always assumed were the result of someone else’s actions.
He realises a moment too late that he hasn’t yet let go of Dabi’s hands, and he does so sharply, turning away and clearing his throat, trying to ignore the flush on his cheeks. He hastily reaches for the mug of tea and passes it over, keeping his gaze lowered. “Sip it slowly.”
He senses Dabi’s hesitation, and when Hawks glances up he sees the other man staring at him in disbelief.
“You… care?” Dabi asks.
Hawks looks away again, the breath crushed from his lungs. He reaches for the microfiber blanket and ignores the way his hand trembles, forcing himself to speak in an attempt to put distance between himself and Dabi’s words. “And don’t you dare spill any on my jacket, because I’ll be sending you the cleaning bill and trust me, it’s expensive. That’s premium quality sheepskin and there’s only one place I trust to look after it for me and they’re a hundred and fifty kilometres away, so you’ll be getting the bill for travel costs too.”
He expects Dabi to spill the tea out of spite, or argue that Hawks can fly so he doesn’t need money for travel and he’s a Hero anyway so can meet his own costs or get the government to. He expects a barb, or a huff, or an insult.
He doesn’t expect silence. Dabi stares down at the tea grasped in his gloved hands as Hawks carefully settles the blanket over him, fussing with the edges and wondering what else to say.
“Are you… okay?” he ends up asking rather weakly.
Dabi slowly looks up at him, his gaze glassy and his face lax and unhappy. “I’m cold.”
“Yeah,” Hawks breathes, seeing Dabi give a shiver. He reaches blindly for the second blanket. “You don’t look so hot. I can stay close, if you like? Body heat and all that.”
“Okay,” Dabi sighs, his eyes falling closed.
There’s not much Hawks can really do, given that Dabi is already wrapped in his heavily insulated flying jacket, but he shifts a fraction closer all the same, pulling his knees up and turning towards Dabi. The big, heavy woollen blanket is large enough to cover them both, and Hawks starts by wrapping it around Dabi’s shoulders and then his own, the rest of it puddling in Dabi’s lap. “There,” he pronounces, sending a feather out to collect the TV remote. “Want something on in the background?”
The TV is on before Dabi can reply, some Quirk contest flaring to life in the room with them, and Dabi huffs. “Were you going to give me a choice?”
“I can change it,” Hawks says, already scrolling through the menu while a girl with glittery skin dances around on stage to a pop song.
“Leave it,” Dabi insists.
Hawks raises an eyebrow, and then shrugs, turning the volume down. “Sure.”
In the silence that falls, the TV barely audible in the background, Hawks can’t help tuning into the man beside him, hearing Dabi’s quick, shallow breathing and feeling the soft fluttering of his heartbeat in the air around them. His view is of his own jacket, a thin sliver of pale cheek, dark scar tissue, and an unhappily squeezed shut eyelid. He sees the creases in the delicate layer of skin and can only imagine the downturn of Dabi’s mouth.
“What were you doing out there anyway?” he can’t help asking.
Dabi gives a feeble huff. “Trying not to exist.”
“In my neighbourhood, not even a block from where I live?”
“Coincidence,” Dabi breathes, and Hawks instantly dismisses the lie.
“You wanted me for something.”
Dabi falls silent again, and Hawks doesn’t push, able to see the tension radiating from the other man’s jaw.
“Well, I’m here,” Hawks says, turning his head and resting his cheek against his own jacket. Even through the layers of insulation he can feel the sharpness of Dabi’s shoulder. On the TV the next contestant is dazzling the audience – literally. It must be some sort of light-Quirk category. “I’m all yours right now.”
He feels Dabi shudder, finding his voice again. His words, when he speaks, are dry and brittle. “Well aren’t I lucky?”
“The luckiest,” Hawks says without thinking, because if he thinks too much about Dabi’s words he’ll discover something he’s not ready to face. “Now drink your tea. You’re starting to hurt my feelings.”
Dabi snorts, the mug trembling in his grasp despite him using two hands to hold it. “Don’t you ever get tired of saving people?”
“No,” Hawks replies easily. “But who says I’m trying to save you? I’m pretty sure you’d incinerate me on the spot if I tried.”
Dabi’s silence is telling.
Hawks turns towards him, struggling not to let his jaw hit the floor. Dabi’s gaze is fixed on a point somewhere within the grain of the coffee table, and Hawks stares for a moment, lost in the vulnerability he can see. Dabi’s posture is all wrong, tired but tense, as if waiting for a judgemental blow. His usually flippant nature has been replaced by something silent and melancholy, the look in his vivid blue eyes haunted rather than sharp and discerning.
“Hey, um…” Hawks falters out.
And then Dabi turns towards him, the weight of his gaze hitting Hawks squarely in the chest. It’s not hard to remind himself that Dabi is drunk as well as hypothermic, the lingering smell of alcohol bitter in the sliver of space between them, but even with the way Dabi is looking at him, the quickness of his breathing and the weak shuddering of his body, Hawks doesn’t expect… this…
Cold lips press against his, the distance between them gone in an instant. Hawks remembers it happening, the way Dabi’s gaze fell longingly to his lips for a moment, the shifting angle as he leaned in, but he can’t remember why he didn’t stop it. He could have. Easily. It’s not as if he’s defenceless. It’s not as if he has to endure this.
But fuck, does he want it. Even if Dabi is cold against him, a little hard, his lips both rough and soft, needy, there’s a spark to the touch, something that catches and kindles a longing within Hawks. Dabi tastes of turning-stale alcohol and ash as he tries to deepen the kiss, the breath that leaves his nose and gusts against Hawks’ upper lip cool. It should be unpleasant, an unwanted advance from an adversary, but it’s so human and vulnerable, so full of fault and longing.
Hawks pushes back, pushing Dabi away. He lost his breath the moment Dabi’s lips touched his, and struggles to find it again as he uses his hand against Dabi’s chest to maintain the almost negligible distance between them. Dabi is still trying to reach him, his jaw angled towards him, begging another touch, and something about that earnestness, that need, tightens a painful knot in Hawks’ chest.
“You’re drunk,” he reminds them both.
“So?”
Hawks gives a soft huff, leaning in in spite of himself. “We shouldn’t…”
“Story of my life,” Dabi murmurs, shivering.
Hawks opens his mouth to answer, but his brain choses that exact moment to remember the mug of tea he’d left in Dabi’s hands, and he pulls back, cursing when he sees that Dabi has spilled some. The front of Hawks’ coat bears a darkened patch that really will need professional cleaning before he’s happy with it. “Fuck.”
“Wha—Oh, shit.”
With a sigh, Hawks brings his hand up to cup the bottom of the tilted mug, stopping Dabi from spilling any more. “Just drink the rest,” he urges.
Dabi gives a disgruntled huff, before finally doing as he’s told. He doesn’t seem to care much for the taste, but all that really matters is that it’s still warm, and sugary. When he’s done, Hawks takes the mug and sets it down on the coffee table.
“Can I check the compress?” he asks.
Vivid blue eyes meet his, Dabi watching him for a moment. “Are we just going to ignore it?”
Hawks can’t help frowning, knowing what Dabi is talking about. He decides to check the compress anyway, carefully reaching up and sliding his hand into the tight space between Dabi’s neck and the soft wool of his jacket. The compress is just about okay. “We can talk about it when you’re sober, or never, if you like. The choice is yours,” Hawks says carefully, trying not to think about how close they are and what he wants from this. He shouldn’t want anything. Dabi shouldn’t be – he isn’t – an option. “Right now I’m more interested in making sure you’re okay.”
“I’m never okay.”
Hawks can’t help snorting at that. “Broody teenager, much?”
Dabi turns away.
“Hey,” Hawks says softly, reaching up and touching Dabi’s jaw. The scar tissue is rough and cold beneath his touch as he coaxes Dabi into looking back at him, and he wonders if warmth ever reaches the damaged skin. “It’s okay.”
Dabi looks haunted, tormented by something as he stares at Hawks. “Don’t care about me,” he breathes.
It’s plain for Hawks to see that he wants to be cared about.
“Too late,” Hawks hears himself murmur, his hand falling to Dabi’s chest. He barely notices the damp patch as he leans his weight in just a little more, resting his head against Dabi’s shoulder again. “I mean, someone has to, and I’m a pretty fucking great choice, if I may say so myself.”
“You’re a dumb, shitty bird,” Dabi mutters.
Hawks half ignores him in favour of readjusting the blankets, trapping his own body warmth against Dabi. “Yeah, yeah. Say it like you mean it.”
“Pretty bird.”
He can’t help smiling at that, gazing idly at the TV. “Do you really think I’m pretty?” he can’t help asking after a few minutes, unable to forget those words.
He feels Dabi shiver, the other man staying silent.
“Shall I tell you what I think of you?”
“No,” Dabi says immediately, his chest rising and falling sharply. He expects bad things, Hawks realises.
“I’ll save it, then,” Hawks decides. “I can tell you in the morning, if you’d like to know just how much I like you.”
Dabi shudders. “You don’t like me.”
“Dabi,” Hawks huffs, pulling away to glare at him, “you’re in my home, wearing my jacket and my thermals and my socks. I’m literally draped across you, trying to warm you up. I could have left you in the street or kicked you out when you spilled tea on my jacket. I could have punched you and told you to go set yourself on fire when you fucking kissed me. But I haven’t. I’m okay with you being here, doing those things. I like you being here, okay?”
The trembling of Dabi’s body is more pronounced now. “O-okay,” he stutters out.
The tension leaves Hawks’ body when he realises that Dabi is shivering. “Let me get you another cup of tea,” he says, before reluctantly extricating himself from the tangled blanket. “Was lemon and ginger really that awful?”
“T-too sweet,” Dabi stammers.
“I’ll try less sugar this time,” Hawks decides.
“Just hurry up,” Dabi bites out, his eyes squeezed shut and hands clasped against his chest. He’s starting to shiver in earnest now, which is both a good but distressing sign.
“Okay, get comfy, I’ll only be a minute.”
He takes less than a minute. The kettle’s warm setting allows for the perfect drinking temperature, and Hawks carefully measures out two teaspoons of sugar this time, rather than four – a consideration also made because he doesn’t dare fill this mug up as much as the last time.
It was smart not to. Dabi’s shivering is borderline violent when Hawks returns to him. He’s drawn his knees up and sits in a miserable, shaking ball, and Hawks sits carefully next to the suffering man, trying to help him drink a little of the tea.
“Does it taste any better?”
“I g-guess.”
“Well, at least it’s not worse,” Hawks says, mostly to himself. “More?”
Dabi grunts, rather than trying to speak, and Hawks helps him again, biting his lip as Dabi’s hand jerks. The mug chips against his teeth, more tea slopping out onto Hawks’ jacket, and he can see the embarrassment in the tight, unhappy lines of Dabi’s face.
He doesn’t mention it. Neither of them say anything until the tea is almost gone, and Dabi resolutely pushes the mug away. He looks utterly miserable, unable to stop his teeth from chattering or his body from shaking. As Hawks sets the mug aside, Dabi curls up into an even tighter ball, slumping to the side.
“Want me to lie down with you?” Hawks offers.
His eyes still closed, arms crossed tightly against his chest, Dabi nods, his jaw clenched against the tremors shaking him.
“Okay,” Hawks breathes, before assessing the tangled mess of the bigger blanket. He tugs at it, freeing most of it, and then sheds his feathers so that he can fit into the tight space between Dabi and the back of the sofa. He wriggles into a comfortable position, his knees tucked against Dabi’s and an arm looping around his padded middle. “Make yourself comfy,” he urges, pulling the blanket higher so they’re both covered.
Dabi doesn’t move much – not of his own volition, anyway. The most he does is tangle their feet together and turn towards Hawks just enough that he’s lying on his back.
“I feel fucking awful,” he admits, his words close to a whine.
Hawks holds him just a little tighter. “I know. It’ll pass.”
The sound that leaves Dabi’s lips can only be described as a whimper, and Hawks closes his eyes, burying his face against his own jacket as he tries to understand why everything is suddenly so complicated. He didn’t plan to care. He was only helping Dabi because it served his own goal of infiltrating the League, and because he couldn’t have left anyone out there in the cold, villain or not. He hadn’t turned Dabi in because it would have undermined his mission.
He hadn’t started this because he cared about Dabi, but now… Now he can smell the soft fabric of his jacket mingled with the cold, metallic ash of Dabi; he can remember the taste of that desperate, pleading kiss, and the haunted, broken look in Dabi’s eyes. He remembers Dabi’s self-deprecating words and the careless regard he seemed to have for his own life. He can feel the fragility of Dabi’s body, and the heartbreaking longing in the way Dabi grasps at his hand when Hawks offers it. He knows what it’s like to be alone.
He cares about Dabi. He wants Dabi.
Hawks is a Hero. He wouldn’t begrudge anyone the time and patience it takes to keep them safe and warm, but it’s different with Dabi. Hawks is careful when he reaches out, worried about being pushed away.
“It might help if you undo this,” he suggests, tugging at the zipper of his jacket. “I can help warm you.”
There’s absolutely no resistance from Dabi, only encouragement. He reaches for the zipper too, but his gloved, clumsy fingers do nothing to help. Nonetheless, it’s clear he’s okay with this, with Hawks undoing the jacket and easing it aside so he can snake his arms around Dabi’s thin chest, wriggling closer.
“Wait,” Hawks realises, before pulling back and tugging his own jumper off. It’ll be warm enough beneath the blanket. “Traps too much heat,” he reasons.
“Your wi-wings,” Dabi panics, his eyes going wide as he sees that the feathers are all gone.
It takes next to no thought at all for Hawks to raise the feathers from the floor, letting them hang in the air in a spread version of his wings. “Still here,” he reassures Dabi, letting them fall again as he tucks himself back against Dabi’s chest. Dabi is warm to the touch, still colder than he ought to be, but the shivering is reassuring.
He feels Dabi sigh, his chest shuddering and a trembling hand tightening over Hawks’. “Your Quirk is p-pretty fucking cool.”
Hawks grins, squeezing Dabi. “Yours is super hot.”
Dabi gives a sharp huff of laughter. Hawks can almost hear the self-destructive ‘unlike me’.
“Hey,” he says softly, lifting his head and looking up at Dabi. Dabi grits his teeth, the loneliness in his eyes the only steady thing about him as his body tries to shake warmth back into him, and Hawks figures it can’t hurt to give Dabi a little something. He looks like he needs it, and as Hawks leans in he hopes Dabi remembers the action in the morning and doesn’t mind the liberty Hawks is taking. After all, Dabi tried to kiss him first, isn’t it only fair Hawks does the same in return?
Although his logic isn’t centred on fairness, it’s centred on showing Dabi that Hawks wants this too. He wants to reciprocate just enough for Dabi to know that the option is there, the door is open. From the way Dabi startles, his eyes going wide and a choked exclamation escaping him, he’s taken aback by Hawks’ action; from the way he gives a low, satisfied moan and closes his eyes, relaxing beneath Hawks, he accepts it.
Hawks is smiling when he pulls back from the chaste kiss, his heart racing more than it ought to. Dabi blinks up at him, the visible skin on his cheek turning a healthier colour as he turns his head away.
“Shitty bird.”
“I thought I was a pretty bird?” Hawks teases, settling back down against Dabi’s chest. He can hear the rapid pace of Dabi’s heartbeat, and feels as much as hears the huff when Dabi wraps his arms around him. “You’re very comfy, by the way,” he adds, changing the topic.
“I should s-say something about y-your standards.”
“My standards are just fine,” Hawks promises, tucking his cheek against Dabi’s shivering chest. He can feel the cool staple warming beneath his skin. “Very high, actually.”
Dabi snorts at that, but falls silent. His teeth chatter when his jaw isn’t clenched shut; Hawks can feel the tension in his body and hopes it doesn’t take long to pass.
Little by little, minute by minute, it eases. He half holds, half hugs Dabi, plastered against his chest and tangled with his limbs beneath the blankets as the shivering starts to ease. He feels nothing but relief when, at long last, all that’s left is a sporadic, solitary shiver.
Neither of them let go. The TV is still on low, the chatter of a talk show filtering into the living room, but Hawks pays it no mind. He’s too focused on Dabi, losing himself in the near stillness of the other man, the comforting rise and fall of his chest and the occasional twitch of his fingers. His heartbeat is steady, his skin warm, and Hawks can’t remember when he was last this close to someone, simply existing with them. It’s nicer than he remembers. He’s in no rush to lose it again.
When he carefully sits up, he sees that Dabi is sleeping, his lips parted and a warm flush on his cheeks. Hawks can’t help smiling at the sight of it, reaching out to feel the heat radiating from the other man. The jacket really is too thick to sleep in indoors, but he hesitates a moment before waking Dabi.
“Come on, sleeping beauty,” he says softly, seeing Dabi stir. “I don’t want to have to save you from heatstroke and hypothermia all in one night.”
“Hn?”
Hawks can’t help grinning at the loose, sleepy look on Dabi’s face as the other man cracks an eye open.
“You should probably take my jacket and gloves off now.”
“Right,” Dabi says, his voice cracked as if he hasn’t used it in years. He doesn’t object when Hawks reaches out to help, no doubt too tired and only wanting to go back to sleep.
Figuring it already needs washed, Hawks isn’t too worried where he drops his jacket once he’s helped Dabi out of it. His wings dump it somewhere out of the way as he takes the gloves and casts them over the edge of the sofa too.
“Warm enough?” he asks Dabi, relaxing next to him.
“Too warm,” Dabi mumbles, although Hawks could tell that from the flush of his cheeks.
Together, they push the blanket lower, exposing their shoulders to the mild air of Hawks’ flat. There’s always a draft coming from the kitchen on the coldest nights, but tonight Hawks doesn’t really mind. Dabi is warm at his side, steady and comforting; reassuring.
Somehow neither of them question Hawks’ continuing presence, even though Dabi no longer really needs him there. They fall asleep on the sofa together, their limbs tangled and a smile still tugging at Hawks’ lips.