Archive of Our Own

At the end of everything they’ve worked for, there is fire and smoke and dust, there is love and a public betrayal, there is hatred and anger at a parent and a society that sought to trap a wild bird. In the end, there are scarlet feathers and scarlet blood, and blue flames and ash and laughter and tears.

In the end, there is victory, and in the end, there is death.

There are a thousand things that he wants to say right now, and none of them will probably ever be enough.

God, none of this was supposed to happen, none of it, and it’s all so fucked.

And—shit, shit shit shit, Dabi and Tomura—they don’t know.

They don’t fucking know , and for all that Hawks can claim to be too fast for his own good, he’s so damn slow. He’s a few minutes away, but he had been over fifteen minutes away in the first place and the call came in a little less than five minutes ago. It’s entirely possible that the Commission only called him after the squad had already moved out.

The two men wouldn’t have been expecting this, hell Hawks hadn’t expected this. He was supposed to have been over there in an hour, they would think he was early. All because nowadays he was always early to meet them.

And they would think it was okay and open the door and—Fuck.

Touya.

The Commission called Endeavour in.

The Commission called Todoroki Enji in and Touya—Dabi—he wouldn’t think rationally.

They had just had this conversation the other day, all of them, even Dabi himself, knew that the man’s rational thinking was compromised when it came to Endeavour, how personal it was and how much it clouded the dark-haired man’s decision making processes.

There had been a plan, but with how unexpected this was it would be hard to put into place properly.

(It wouldn’t matter if he didn’t make it to them in time, still so far away and still flying so damn slow.)

He’s flying, soaring through the air and normally it would be so, so, freeing. But right now it just makes him feel sick to his stomach.

He hadn’t been told about this, the only hint of information he’d gotten was from the nauseatingly apathetic voice of his handler, “ Mission’s over Hawks, Endeavour and a squad are moving to bring them in.”

And the wind is whistling around him, loud and damning to his pounding head, and the screech that’s clawing its way up his throat is choking him, wants to be let out and released into the sky. The call of a bird of prey, letting those who have hurt his people, who seek to find them and cage them, know that he won’t allow it, to know to fear for their lives.

But he swallows it down, lets it simmer in his chest and in his blood, because he can’t let them know, can’t risk it. He has to get there in time, before the squad, before the Commission.

(He might already be too late, and he has never wanted to feel the blood of his handlers—of the Commission, of anyone who has wronged him and his people—on his talons and staining his hands as viscerally as he does at this moment. Because Dabi and Tomura—Touya and Tenko, whichever names they wanted and whoever they wanted to be—were his. They had helped him to spread the tattered wings of freedom that he had fought hard to earn, (as broken and frayed as they were,) to know that the mission was never more important than the person, that he isn’t lesser than everyone around him.

They are hurt, and bitter, and shattered, but they are his and he is just as bitter and disillusioned, just as shattered, and every bit the jumbled mess of broken parts that they are. The three of them are a mass of puzzle pieces, and between them, they aren’t quite pieces as much as a completed puzzle, because when they are together things make more sense, they can be solved. And the world doesn’t feel as messy and confusing when they are by his side. So Hawks will choose to be selfish for once in his goddamn life because he can not lose this.)

He doesn’t allow himself to think of all the different ways today can end, high above the ground and closer to the clouds than the buildings, worried and fearful.

No, instead, he dives.

Shigaraki sends Dabi to meet with a potential informant, and after the mess that was Kamino Ward, it’s a relief. He’s finally doing something after so long of just sitting around and twiddling his thumbs, acting as if getting rid of Endeavour—and the toxic system that perpetuates the fucking pernicious way society thinks— isn’t something that fills his entire pain-riddled and aching, scar-covered body, with a connatural need to sate it and the burning desire to satisfy his feelings of angerfearhatredrevenge. And it’s a welcome difference despite what the sneer he throws Shigaraki may say, and no matter how he comes across when he slouches over and makes his way out the door.

But when Shigaraki had spoken of a potential informant, Dabi had been expecting some grunt level worker in the Commission who was unhappy with their pay and maybe had something of a little bit of use every other month.

What he hadn’t been expecting was the fucking Winged Hero to pop up, he was most definitely not a grunt level worker and sure as all hell not fucking welcome.

He glares at the man, “Why the fuck are you here chickenshit.”

And he’s tense, worried, and the muscles and nerves he can actually feel are yelling at him to relax, and Hawks is just smiling, wide and charming and so, so, fake. And it makes Dabi choke on the bile that crawls up his throat.

“Relax, I just want to make a deal.” The hero is holding his hands up placatingly, and speaking in measured and reassuring tones—tones that aren’t working, so much as pissing him off even more—all with that same look on his face.

Dabi could do the sensible thing and let the guy know that the League wasn’t fucking stupid, that whatever plan the heroes had cooked up, and whatever lines the hero had been fed and told to say, would be useless, because the League was already aware that this was an infiltration attempt.

Because everyone with any common sense knew that a hero, a top 10 hero at that, doesn’t just decide ‘Oh I’ll just go join the villains, they won’t be able to see my fake fucking smile and empty fucking eyes and promises.’

Except—except Shigaraki had specifically sent Dabi to meet the hero. Had so obviously set some plan of his into motion, and for all that Dabi hated following orders, there was a reason for all of this.

So he gives the birdy a smirk that probably showed all the sharp, jagged edges of his soul a bit too well, but would also hopefully get the blood-soaked truth of this whole thing across, and huffs.

“Ok then hero, let’s hear it.”

In the middle of it all, just a bit closer to the end then was preferred, there is a sense of happiness, not quite there yet, but oh so close.

Because the heroic system and society were still the same as ever, but there were plans now, and the League were all maybe a bit broken, a bit unconventional, and a lot dysfunctional, but they were each other’s, and that was important, they had more knowledge, more experience, more trust, and now they were so close to finally toppling the Commission and everything they stood for.

And after all that Hawks had shown Dabi and Shigaraki of himself, of his mind and of his soul and of his heart, the last few shreds of doubt that the man might give his loyalty back to the Commission had faded away. And the three men had settled into something that resembled a relationship, something close to lovers, something full of care, and so different from what it had started as.

And the small bit of stability they had fought tooth and nail and talon to build—comforting and solid, with no one threatening to rip it out from under them within a moments notice, no insane diets or training regiments, just the soft press of lips against skin and the warmth of wings around them, snark and banter and the waking hours of morning and quiet hours of night, where words are gentler than even the softest pillow—has kept them level headed and grounded to the here and now.

And with the blind rage gone and no longer dulling Tomura and Dabi’s minds, with Hawks beside them to give them the information they need about all he knows and all that goes on when no one is watching, they can tear it all down.

Their mistake in all of this is forgetting about Murphy’s Law.

Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.

Nothing smells burnt.

That’s his first thought. Nothing smells burnt or seems all that changed, he thinks he might’ve seen a few areas where police were active more than they would usually be, but nothing feels different.

And he’s so fucking close to them, he can see the apartment building right there in front of him, and he’s praying to deities he doesn’t believe in that this isn’t a cruel trick, that he’s made it in time.

He lands on the fire escape, as silently as he possibly can, he looks in and sees Dabi sitting on the couch, and before he can even really process it, he’s knocking on the window so hard that it creaks, and he’s surprised it doesn’t shatter.

He’s shaking, and he doesn’t know if it’s from the adrenaline or the utter panic and terror that’s flowing through his veins.

The knocks startle Dabi, and a narrowed blue-eyed gaze meets his through the window. And Hawks doesn’t know what face he’s making, but the second Dabi registers it, the dark-haired man is yanking the window open and pulling him into the apartment.

Hawks almost collapses from the sheer relief that settles in his chest and leans against the other, choking mixture of sob and laugh that rips its way out of his throat.

But they aren’t in the clear yet, they have to go.

“Where’s Shigaraki? We don’t have a lot of time, we have to leave.” He’s trembling still, grip firm but not quite bruising on Dabi’s arms, his eyes are wide and he can’t catch his breath.

Dabi looks worried, torn between figuring out what the fuck is going on and getting Hawks to calm down, the former wins out in this case, “He’s in his room Birdy, what the fuck’s going on?” Hawks shakes his head, feathers flying off of his wings and through the room, packing things up into bags.

“It’s bad Dabs, we’ve gotta go, we’ve gotta go now, they pulled me off of the whole infiltration mission, they pulled me off of the entire job, they said it was over, they said they were bringing you guys in .” He’s babbling, words tripping over themselves on his tongue and exiting his mouth in a jumbled mess, held together by the string of urgency and anxiety that’s settled over him, with jittery hands and anxious, flickering eyes, moving around the room with paranoia and worry that drowns him in its weight.

He stumbles as he walks, no longer leaning on Dabi. Dabi who is trying to hold onto Hawks and get him to turn towards him. He does, half aware of the movement, pulse still buzzing under his skin, faster than a hummingbird’s fragile heartbeat.

Dabi’s eyes are worried and gentle for all his jaw is clenched, “Breathe, Pretty Bird, breathe. C’mon, you remember the exercises right?” Hawks nods, and breathes in the familiar pattern of in for 4, hold for 6, out for 8.

When his breathing was easier and his chest didn’t feel like it was being crushed, he continued, “Firefly, they’re sending Endeavour in. They’re sending him in with a few of the other Pros and they’re sending them in now. We aren’t ready for this yet, we have to go, I only just got here in time.”

Dabi looks shattered and so, so, fragile, and Hawks hate that he put that look on his Firefly’s face, because Dabi’s personal nightmare was going to be here and Dabi had to do his best to hide from him, as if he had never gotten out of that house, never stopped being the scared little boy who wanted his father to just stop hurting him, to love him.

But there’s nothing he can do about it. So instead he cradles Dabi’s face in his hands and places a gentle kiss on his forehead and whispers.

Quietly, so, so, quietly, “I love you.”

And it doesn’t stop the trembling of Dabi’s lanky, burned limbs, or get rid of the glassy look in his Ember’s eyes, but for now, it has to be enough.

The bags are packed, and he grabs two of the three and leaves the last one for Dabi to grab. Hawks doesn’t know how much time they have left, but he can already tell it isn’t going to be nearly enough.

He spins on his hell, walks down the hall as quick as he can and tears the door to Tomura’s room open, and does his best to convey as much of the overwhelming urgency and panic that still sits, coiled within his heart, into the acerbic message and clipped words.

“Heroes are on their way, we have to leave.”

Shigaraki looks up, sharp-eyed and deadly and startled, and Hawks sets one of the bags down, opens it and motions for the man to put whatever he needs inside.

Shigaraki makes quick work of it, gloves that cover three of his fingertips letting him move fast without having to be too careful.

“How long do we have?”

Hawks bites his lip, unsure, his fingers twitching and feathers ruffling, “I don’t know, not or sure at least.”

He shifts and Dabi enters the room, eyes more present than they were before, hands steady as they move to still Hawks’ own glove covered ones with a gentle grip, “I got a call pulling me from the mission and then got here as soon as I could.”

He tries for a smirk and a laugh that falls just short of genuine, “I think that was the fastest I’ve ever flown,” and he sounds more shaken than he wants to, but it’s something closer to normal at least, “I got here in about 10 minutes versus the 25 it should’ve taken me, but I don’t know when the heroes actually left. Only that they were sent out and still on their way when I got the call.”

Tomura nods, closing the bag, “So we can assume they’ll be somewhere nearby if they haven’t already surrounded this building or a different one.”

Dabi runs a hand through his hair in slight agitation, the other hand still holding onto Hawks’, and sighs. “We need a plan that isn’t just barging outside blind, but limited time means limited options, you’ve got a plan though right ‘Mura?”

Tomura nods absentmindedly and raises a hand to his neck. Hawks reaches out, slowly but purposefully, and intercepts it, holding it instead. Dabi moves to Tomura and settles up against the other man’s side just the slightest, providing something steady and comforting and grounding, without making the blue-haired man unsettled.

Tomura breathes out, soft, and rushed—with so many different meanings and words hidden inside that Hawks doesn’t think he could ever unravel all of them—and squeezes the hand Hawks is holding once, tightly, before letting go and standing up straight. No longer just their ‘Mura, but also the League’s Shigaraki, preparing himself to face off against the heroes with everything he has.

And Hawks looks at his lover—sharp and jagged around the edges, harsh, and deadly, and beautiful, full of glares and love that sits in his heart, closely guarded. With sharp words and loving ones, random phrases that mean lovely things, and vulnerability that is hidden from all the world but his people, a precious treasure, barred for them to see and to hold him close—and thinks, ‘ I would follow him into hell’ , because, given the chance to, he would.

Every time.

But right now they have to get to the League and move them from their current safehouse before everything they had worked so hard for comes crumbling down, Hawks and his lovers would have to wait for a different time to be PrettyBirdFireflyTreasure.

And it is the leader, his right hand, and his spy, (who isn’t so much of a spy now is he? Not with him being taken off the mission and all,) who will see this thing through to their very ends if that’s what it takes.

Hawks stand straight, drawing his wings up against his body, and smiles, “What’s the plan boss?”

Tomura hum, looking up at the ceiling, head tilted as if he was reading the details of his plan straight off of the ceiling plaster, “Get through to the others and get them to move to another safe house, make sure they have the backup plan ready in case the worse happens, be prepared to take down as many heroes as we need,” he sends a quick glance Hawks’ way before adding softly, “try to have as little collateral damage as possible while ensuring the heroes suffer heavy hits.”

The words cause a warmth to grow in his chest, bubbling up like spring water and leaving him feeling giddy and happy and so loved despite everything, because Tomura knows that Hawks—Sora—will always be a hero at heart, always want to help others too much for his own good, and this is his treasure’s own little way of trying to comfort him.

Shigaraki clears his throat, “We’ll need to be prepared, and move as quickly as we can, we aren’t letting them win.”

Dabi smiles, a macabre grin that slashes across his face, and Hawks thinks that Firefly—his little Ember of happiness and joy—is another one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen, “Oh this’ll be fun.”

And Shigaraki Tomura stands in front of them, with a wicked smile that softens just the littlest bit when he looks at them, and Hawks can’t stop himself from pressing gentle lips against that smile. He pulls away, grinning, and turns to Dabi for another kiss, one that the taller man gives freely, soft and loving, with his own smile curling at the corners of his lips.

And they leave the apartment behind, exiting the building with the bags in hands, and pile into the car that waits for them outside.

None of them are really get away drivers, but desperate times call for desperate measures, so Shigaraki gets behind the wheel while Hawks gets in the front and Dabi settles into the back seat.

Shigaraki starts the car while Dabi calls the others, because they might be going in with a half-assed strategy and some healthy amounts of insanity, but they’re still somewhat following a plan.

A vague outline of a plan but still, ya know, a plan.

They get as far as the next block down before they hear the shouts and see the heroes, who look to be storming one of the buildings, and Hawks has a brief sense of ‘ Oh thank fuck they’re checking the wrong building’, before he realizes that the building they’re checking is the one they had just finished moving the rest of the League out of not even three days ago.

His mood, not so unexpectedly, drops.

The three of them should probably be hiding their faces or something, but the only one with any hope of hiding is Shigaraki, and all of that hope went out the window the minute someone saw the bright red wings on Hawks’ back or the scars that marred Dabi’s skin.

Too focused on the possibility of their targets being within the building to care about their surroundings, the heroes aren’t paying much attention to the street. So there isn’t too much worry, though Tomura drives at a normal enough speed that they don’t tempt fate unnecessarily and gain the hero’s attention.

Still, passing the building leaves Hawks’ heart hammering, skin crawling and uncomfortable. And out of the corner of his eye, he notices that Dabi—though his voice remains calm—is more twitchy than he was before.

Shigaraki isn’t faring much better, hands clenching the steering wheel so tightly it’s a miracle it hasn’t broken yet,  the gloves on his hands the only thing preventing the car from being disintegrated.

The sooner they get to the hideout the better, and when they get past the building and Shigaraki steps on the gas, Hawks breathes a sigh of relief.

Dabi hangs up the phone and runs his hands through his hair—still as dark as it can be thanks to the fresh dye job that Hawks had helped to do just a few nights ago—and huffs out a breath. “Well, they’re moving to a different location, but they just got everything settled again this morning so they still have to get another truck.”

Hawks snorts and Shigaraki scoffs, Toga had been in charge of driving the last truck during the move and she had gotten just a bit too excited.

It hadn’t ended well for the vehicle, or the people in the vehicle at the time…..or the tree.

May it rest in sapling heaven.

He grins and coughs into his arm to disguise the laughter that bubbles up within his chest that doesn’t feel quite sane, it’s actually probably a stress response or something, but fuck was this entire shit show just hilarious.

Dabi continues on, ignoring Hawks’ brief break from sanity with a fond eye roll, “Anyways, I told them to hurry their asses up and to refer to plan ‘Fuck shit up as you go’ and cross-reference that with ‘Avoid capture at all costs’ and ‘Plan as if you were filling in for the Boss’.” Shigaraki sighs and Hawks grins.

That was basically Dabi telling the group to go wild—as long as they were smart about it and didn’t get caught— so they could carry out the rest of their mission.

Dabi looks quite pleased with himself as he continues, shit-eating grin still splitting his face, “So Toga, as crazy as that little shit is, will probably work with Twice to fuck something up. Mister said he would look after things and help keep them on track, and that Spinner was getting the tech stuff packed up. So they should be able to move soon enough, and worse comes to worst, they’ll call us if they need a distraction or something.”

Shigaraki sighs, longsuffering as he laments, “You are all enjoying this far too much.”

Hawks shrugs, tugging gloves off of talon tipped hands, and tossing aviators that didn’t do anything his third eyelid didn’t do, off to the side, “What can we say, when you’re gonna die you do it in style.”

Dabi nods sagely, stretching out along the back seat, “Or when you anticipate death as the outcome. We fucked up before, got too comfortable. Forgot that anything that can go wrong will, most likely, go wrong. à la Murphy’s Law”

Shigaraki rolls his shoulders back, “So the pessimism does actually serve a purpose outside of being depressing, fucking foreshadowing is never as clear as I need it to be.”

Hawks sighs, breath whistling out of him in a way that’s dangerously close to a call or a song, “Nothing is ever as clear as we need it to be, it’s why we’re in the middle of this shitshow in the first place.”

And it’s something almost okay now, the gallows humour and morbid jokes have taken some of the tension from the car, and now they have a—somewhat shambled and pieced together—plan of action.

But alas, Murphy’s Law strikes again, in the form of a fucking police barricade up ahead.

Hawks kind of hates that this is the day they’ve been forsaken by Lady Luck (again).

Which means that the police and heroes have the entire area blocked off, unwilling to let them get away (Kurogiri would’ve been a godsend to have right now).

Shigaraki tenses, muscles pulled taught and jaw clenched, while Dabi looks about five seconds from torching something and Hawks has a hard time feeling anything beyond the hatred in his bones and petulant feelings of unfairness (nothing is ever fair in life). The panic and anger settle heavy over him, layering upon his feathers and coating his hands and talons, dripping with the fear and hatred and desperate yearning that had always flowed through his body like blood, when he was smaller and weaker, and he breathed in the oppressiveness of it all like it was oxygen, instead of poison in his lungs.

He breathes deep and lets it out slowly, the memories of the handlers who shamed him for his blood, for the way he was never quite human—always too other for them—has no place here.

The bubbling, not quite sane, laughter from before rises once again, but somewhere on the way from his chest to his throat it morphs into an unholy half sob half shriek, and he grits his teeth and swallows it back down.

Suddenly the car feels suffocating, too small and too cage-like.

(Too much like the room from his childhood, where he was shut away whenever he wasn’t needed, tucked away like the weapon he is, where he would spend his punishments when he was too unruly, too curious, too Other.)

He frowns, shifting in his seat, the police picked a horrible time to decide to be competent.

Fucking Murphy’s law.

Hawk wants a refund.

Shigaraki smiles though, and it’s wicked, manic and beautiful and just as deadly as he is, “Unfortunately for them, they think we’ll stop.” And he does the exact opposite, stepping on the gas as Dabi cackles, and Hawks feels as if the grin on his face is being cut into his cheeks with how wide it is.

The advantage of the heroes assuming they have the correct building is that, although the police are prepared for a worst-case scenario escape attempt, they aren’t prepared for one so soon with no warning.

And the officers standing in front of the wooden barricades aren’t prepared for Shigaraki to step on the gas and start speeding towards them. So they, fueled by the innate human need for survival, dive out of the way of the truck's path, and are unable to stop them.

Dabi is leaning forward, looking nauseous and Hawks thinks that this is probably the worst time to be carsick.

But he’s also never going to let his Firefly forget that he got sick during a getaway.

Still, Dabi manages a weak chuckle as Hawks whoops, and at least now they knew who Toga learned to drive from.

He’ll have to teach her how to properly drive sometime, for the sake of the trees if not the League’s.

If, of course, they get out of this alive.

Gotta stay optimistic though, someone here has to be.

Especially now that they’ve gotten past the officers and wooden barricades, because the police cars that are stationed as makeshift barricades are getting closer every second. And a car may be able to break through a set of fences and emerge relatively unharmed, but pitted against other vehicles it's chances were not as good.

And by the sour expressions and hissed profanities of his partners he isn’t the only one to realize that this part is probably going to suck.

He tsks, “What’s the plan boss?”

Tomura purses his lips, thinking, and Dabi shifts agitatedly in the back seat, “We’re going to ditch the truck, the crash should work well enough as a distraction and it should provide us with enough time to get out, you should get ready to fly and Dabi needs to get ready to jump and roll.”

Hawks nods, Slapping on a cheeky grin, “You got it love o’mine, you going the opposite way as us?”

The blue haired man hums, “Yes, we’ll be meeting up at the old sushi place a few blocks down, you remember it?” Dabi nods and Hawks makes an affirmative noise, “Good, get there as quick as you can.”

Dabi wrinkles his nose and groans, “This is gonna fucking suc .”

Hawks snorts as he unbuckles and gets into a ready position. “Yup, but it’s a far more appealing option than getting caught, and we’ll be fine as long as I don’t fuck up my wings.”

Dabi glared at him, “You better not fuck up your wings birdy. I don’t wanna have to carry your heavy ass to the meet point.”

And Hawks smiles, eyes focused as he waits for the go call from Tomura, “You’d just miss all of my pretty feathers.” And Dabi shrugs as Shigaraki snorts, Dabi settling in a similar position to Hawks and Tomura driving, unbuckled and watchful of the distance between the police cars and the truck.

(4 meters)

Dabi rolls his shoulders, “Nah, I’d miss your pretty smile too.” And Hawks chokes on a breath, smile stretching across his face and eyes lighting up, (3 meters) and laughs.

Shigaraki’s lips twitch at the corners, just a little ways off from becoming a smile, before he tenses, all serious and back to business, and calls out, “Now.”

And Hawks and Dabi throw open their doors and leap out, Dabi tucks and rolls and Hawks tries to catch himself on the wind. Dabi curses while Hawks catches himself in a glide, coming down to the ground in a stable, if slightly shaky, landing. Wings and rolls don’t work out well and, from the way Dabi was bleeding from ripped seams, neither did burnt and stitched together skin.

The car jumps forward with one last burst of speed before drivers side door is opened and a mop of blue hair jumps out, tucking and rolling on the opposite side of the street. Assured now that Tomura made it out okay, Hawks moves to where Dabi has dragged himself up off of the ground, bleeding and looking battered but still able to stay standing and still breathing.

The two of them burst into motion, Hawks shedding the feathers from his wings and throwing on the black coat Dabi was been wearing before, as Dabi takes his jacket in exchange. And Hawks goes to Dabi’s side, wrapping an arm around his waist and letting the taller lean on him.

Dabi’s eyes narrow at the action, but he grunts and throws his arm around Hawks’ shoulders, accepting the crutch for now.

With both of them steadier, they start to walk,  moving as fast as they can without looking too out of place. They duck into an alley and cut across the street, glancing up at signs to make sure they’re heading in the right direction.

In the distance, there’s the sound of a fire raging.

The first time Hawks meets Shigaraki he is 22 (5) and a (scared) uncertain (child) hero.

He lives in a world with a flawed system and a broken society and he knows this, he also knows that no matter how much he tries he can’t fix a something that refuses to be fixed. He can’t save everyone.

But he tries, god does he try.

And at this moment, that means he has to go undercover to break up the League and bring them in.

Except, he’s been talking to Dabi and, even though some of what the League does isn’t acceptable, or something he can support, (the endangering of innocents,) a lot of their end goals are.

And the longer he stays in cover the more he realizes that he….isn’t really undercover anymore. Not when he hears of how the hero system has to be stopped, because of how toxic and damaging it is, and he agrees. Because he’s lived in it long enough and been a victim of it long enough to know the truth. Not when he learns that Dabi plans on outing Endeavour to all of Japan as the scumbag he is and all Hawks thinks of is the cover-ups that happen behind the scenes. The damage that heroes do.

For all the good heroes manage to accomplish, they never seem to be able to balance out the worst of what they do.

And Hawks has been disillusioned with society for a long time, but this? The things Dabi talks of sometimes, when things are more relaxed between the two? It brings forth the desperate want that resides in a long forgotten, long hidden, fiercely protected part of his soul.  And after spending so much time hidden away with his too fast, too big, too wild heart, it swallows him up. Makes him feel so much that the drifting feeling of dissociation isn’t enough to make him ignore the way he can’t seem to breathe.

He can’t ignore the feeling of being choked into submission, a caged bird who can’t sing.

So meeting Shigaraki becomes a tipping point, and the answers he gives the blue-haired leader aren’t the lies the commission fed him, but the truth as he knows it within his smothered soul.

And really, it’s just his horrible, wretched luck that the way Dabi’s eyes almost glow with emotion and the way Shigaraki moves around a room, graceful and commanding in a way he hadn’t expected, makes the horrible aching want within him rage against the training that was carved deep into him and the lessons that have stayed with him throughout the years. Makes him wants to give in to the need to just hold one or both of them within the protection of his wings and ask them to be his. The terrifying wish to be able to help them through bad memories and the less than positive feelings, to be there to celebrate the good ones.

(Sometimes Hawks remembers a little boy who liked to play cards and to count the people as they passed by the park on quiet days with a tiny winged boy, who loved dogs with a passion and his sister with the fiercer type of love, the type that the little boy Hawks used to be had thought only a bird could possess towards their flock.)

Hawks has fallen and he can’t even bring himself to care, because falling from a corrupt society into the welcoming arms of hope that the League brings him can’t really be considered falling so much as soaring.

Here, in this little town that’s been rejected by society—surrounded by people who have been thrown away time and time again in all their broken, shattered, pieced together glory—he feels more like a hawk than he’s ever felt before, more hunting bird and human being than caged sparrow and silent lark.

So when his handlers ask for information he lies through his teeth.

And it feels like breathing for the first time.

In hindsight, Hawks thinks that maybe driving the straight into the police cars hadn’t been such a good plan. Mostly due to the fact that, jumping out of a car with someone who has burns so bad half of their skin is burnt up and stapled together probably isn’t good for their health.

Or the further prevention of injuries to said person.

The important part though is that, as far as he was aware, all three of them made it out alive and in relatively good condition and Dabi isn’t as injured as he could’ve been. Both Hawks and Dabi were able to walk, though Dabi was leaning on Hawks, and Tomura had picked himself up and started walking when Hawks had last seen him, so the most pressing thing—other than avoiding the police and heroes—was to get to the abandoned old sushi place that Tomura had designated as their meet-up spot.

They manage it, after a few close calls with people out on the street they had to duck into alley’s or behind something to avoid. And, with how slow they had been going, it isn’t much of a surprise that Tomura manages to beat them there.

He’s leaning against the wall, tense, and Hawks feels a bit lighter now that he can see him, can know he’s ok right at that moment.

‘Mura meets Hawks’ eyes and nods, before his gaze drifts to where Dabi leans against Hawks’ smaller body, lips pursing as he takes in the battered state of their lover.

Dabi just gives a shit eating grin, as if Hawks hadn’t helped his stupid ass walk the whole way here—but Dabi still hasn’t quite figured out how to let himself be completely vulnerable, and the acceptance of help from before was big of him to do—And Hawks, not wanting to discourage it, holds his tongue and rolls his eyes with a fond sigh.

“Let’s go you idiots.” And Tomura sounds fond for all he glares at them.

What an awful time to want to kiss my partners, Hawks laments to himself, but one has to get out of a manhunt alive if one wishes to kiss said partners senseless. So onwards it is.

(At least his sense of humour came out intact from the angst that was his decision to turn on the Commission. It would’ve been horrible if he was feeling torn between his loves and heroism.

But he has always felt more guilty about leaving Rumi and the kids at Yuuei to the Commission than for his betrayal.)

He follows Tomura into the alley, Dabi stumbling even with his help, and is ushered into a door.

The room he walks into is semi-lit and half-heartedly organized in a way that doesn’t make any sense to Hawks no matter how hard he looks at it.

So he turns to look at ‘Mura instead, raising an eyebrow, “So what’re we doing here lover dearest?”

Tomura gives him a deadpan stare in response but Hawks’ smirk doesn’t lessen, and Dabi fails to stifle his laughter as he watches the exchange.

Tomura just rolls his eyes and ignores the endearments, “We’re here for some supplies before we move to a separate safe house. I want to put distance between us and the rest of them until we can get to them without any chance of being traced.”

Dabi nods, “Makes sense, we have any idea how to distract, takedown, or otherwise hinder the Commission and other heroes?”

And Tomura grins, wide, malicious, and calculating, “Well they can’t really do anything without a building, can they? We’re setting some future plans up now before we go out. Get Toga on the phone. And then I’ve got something here I can use that I’ve been saving.”

Todoroki Touya was always too small, too frail, too weak.

Dabi hated everything about Touya, and he had done his best to make Dabi into everything that Touya wasn’t.

And for the most part, Dabi ignored the tiny part of himself that was still the small child who wanted his mother to look at him and be able to see him, not the man who haunted them in waking and in dreaming, the child who wanted to be hugged and loved, to be worth more than his quirk.

But Tomura and Hawks managed to make him feel just as weak and vulnerable and scared as Touya always was, but in a different way, a good way.

Because Hawks called him Firefly and Love and hugged him close, tore through the walls that he’s had up since he was tiny with patience and love and care so genuine it ached.

And Tomura listened to him, was there for him when he was unsteady, stabilized him, focused him, made him feel worth something.

Once, when the three of them were in bed, Hawks with his wings surrounding them and holding them close, Tomura with his hair sleep-mussed and face relaxed and looking gentle in a way that he usually didn’t. Hawks had whispered to them, when Dabi was close to sleep but still conscious, that being with them felt like breathing. And Dabi couldn’t help but think that he was right.

Even now, watching how intent and focused Tomura can get, and the way Hawks goes almost boneless when he’s shown affection, it makes something swell up in Dabi’s throat, almost choking in its intensity and feeling, but so fond and so caring that it almost makes his skin crawl in remembrance of everyone he’s cared for who never cared back.

But then he remembers all the little things they do for him, and the way Hawks holds him when he can’t breathe and Tomura brings him back to himself when he wakes, pale and shaking and drained, from nightmares that leave him with screams locked behind his lips and terror present in his panicked head.

He hates himself, just a little, for loving them as fiercely as he does. But he figures that the world owes him something for all the shit it’s given him, and even if these two aren’t his to have, he’ll take them as they are and keep them safe because they are his and he is a bitter, selfish creature.

And they love the broken shell of a man that stands before them, scarred and battered and burned and burning.

And they whisper words that are so fundamentally contradictory of everything he’s ever been told, everything he’s ever believed. But when they fall from their lips, the words have never felt truer.

Shigaraki Tomura does not remember much of Shimura Tenko’s life.

So when he remembers the little winged boy who used to sit with him in the park, the tiny little bird who always gave Tenko a smile despite the bruises on his own frail wrists and arms and the cuts that sometimes found their way across his face and body. He gives himself a moment to feel baffled.

And then he finds himself intrigued.

And when Giran tells him that a hero wants to turn against the Commission his interest is spiked, even as he acknowledges the high probability of this being a ploy for the Commission.

Because it’s something he can use against the heroes, finding out the hero in question is the number three hero? The little golden child of the Commission?

The little bird with the scarlet wings.

Well, Shigaraki has learned not to let an opportunity pass him by.

( And maybe a small part of him is still infuriatingly sentimental. Because the baby bird who had befriended him despite the other children’s taunts, and the trouble the blonde got into with his parents when he stayed out too long helping little Tenko patch himself up after falling out of a tree, has maintained a spot, however small and battered, inside Shigaraki Tomura’s twisted bitter heart. )

So he sends Dabi to learn more, to dig, and what he learns is that, for as empty-eyed as Sora Hawks has become, and for all the lies that slip past his lips with silver tipped delicacy, somewhere inside the husk of the Commission’s Golden Child there is a spark of something that burns almost as intense as Dabi’s fire, that when given the chance could be beautiful in its deadliness.

It helps when he realizes just how much Hawks yearns to rage against the Commission and those who hold his life in a noose-like vice.

Tomura remembers Tenko’s little bird friend, and all the ways he showed his heritage through instinct and habit, and compares him to the number three hero who is named for a bird of prey and has made his name a running gag, sits straight-backed and doesn’t move his wings unless flying or using his quirk, who hides his raptor eyes with aviator lenses and his taloned fingers with gloves.

Society has never been kind to those who aren’t human enough, who are just a bit too Other. And Hawks, who is just that bit more human passing than most is thrust into the spotlight to be stared at and adored, to show the country how tolerant people are nowadays.

And Shigaraki looks at Spinner who is so obviously part reptile and unable to hide it, who has grown tired of the way people look at him and decided to embrace it, unashamed, because it’s a part of him.

Spinner looks more alive than Hawks in so many ways, and it’s telling that a villain who is on the run from the police is more lively than a top 10 hero, who is worshipped and one of the best and youngest heroes to be in the top 10 lineup.

It’s unfortunate for the Commission that they never stopped to think of the consequences of their actions. But he’s not complaining about it, not when the Commission has basically handed him another asset on a silver platter, and they haven’t even realized it.

A caged bird doesn’t sing, but given a bit of freedom, they will thrive.

Shigaraki has always liked birds better when they were free anyways.

(Like a scarlet winged child who was his most alive when in the park with a young boy with fair skin and blue hair.)

They barely make it halfway to the safehouse before the heroes catch up to them.

It’s bullshit because the heroes shouldn’t have been able to track them that easily, not with Ragdoll still quirkless and the false leads they had planted weeks ago and all the backtracking they had done to keep them off their trail.

And it’s Hawks who, shaking, with fury and rage or fear and horror Dabi isn’t quite sure, whispers that the Commission knows that he’s with them, that the Commission could have found them by tracking the hero.

Something in Dabi’s stomach twists, and he wants to be sick. Because look in Hawks’ eyes is distant and resigned in a way that says he wouldn’t put it past the Commission to have a way to track him without his knowledge.

Heroic Society is still finding ways to make him hate them, and after finally finding a way out of Endeavour’s house, Dabi had thought they couldn’t possibly make him think worse of them.

Endeavour.

Endeavour is here.

Todoroki Enji is standing meters away from him.

Fuck, this is supposed to bring him relief, getting to fight Endeavour again, to have the chance to be rid of him, to make the world see the truth behind the hero, to make them understand just how much Enji’s family had to suffer because no one was willing to listen, no one was willing to do anything.

But all Dabi can focus on is the fact that he can’t breathe.

There is ash clogging his throat, embers stinging his eyes, Fire singing in his bones and boiling in his blood. He thinks he hears someone near him hiss in pain, but all he can see is the ice blue eyes that pin him in place and tear deep into him, eyes that are so much like his, full of indifference and a sliver and anger, but nothing else. Nothing to show he ever meant anything to the man who was too obsessed with being first to be anywhere close to a good father or husband.

Just disdain and indifference for the failure Dabi pretends not to be, but that Touya has always been, no matter how far he tries to run from it, hide from it. No matter how old he grows or how much he tries to be something else.

He hates looking at those fucking eyes, because he’s always reduced to being a fucking kid again, and he hates it so, so much. He hates the eyes that made his mother look at him and see a monster.

( He hates the way he can't tell the difference in the mirror sometimes, he hates hearing his mother scream and Fuyumi cry and Natsuo and Shouto's terrified and confused questions.)

Someone tightens their grip on his arm, and he focuses on that. Somewhere beyond his ability to process right now, he can hear words being spoken, the tones making their way to his ears but not making any sense.

He breathes.

Endeavour is closer than he was before.

He exhales.

Somewhere far away, someone lets go of his arm and steps away from him, and he sees red, in the corner of his eye, that doesn’t come from a fire but from something gentler and welcoming. Before everything is blue and burning.

And Endeavour is shouting.

Dabi thinks he smiles, but maybe that’s the little bit of Touya left in him, crying.

Someone pulls him away and the red is back again, enveloping him in a warmth that doesn’t burn, and he drops, boneless, into the embrace.

The world fades to black.

Hawks holds Dabi against his chest as tightly as he can, the block is burning down around them in a mass of blue flames and Endeavour is shouting incoherently, his quirk not enough to negate the heat of Dabi’s flames.

The heroes behind Endeavour were far enough away that they didn’t get caught in the burst of fire, as big as it was, and are now evacuating the civilians from the burning buildings.

Endeavour himself though was not as lucky, his skin has blisters on it in the places the blue flame burnt it, his heat resistance unable to protect him against the heat of the blue fire.

He looks furious, glaring at the burns before turning the gaze on the three of them. The harsh words Endeavour had thrown towards Hawks, to try and convince Hawks to do his job and turn on his lovers seem to be the only chance the Pro or the Commission was willing to give him. Because the hesitation from before is nowhere to be seen now.

Shigaraki slips his gloves off and sends Hawks a look that has so many different words written into it, so many things he’s saying in the little time he can, that he wishes he had time to read it all.

As it is, all Hawks can glean in the short time he’s given is the worry and the love that are present in his treasure’s eyes, and the clear order to get Dabi away from the mess until his conscious and a bit more stable.

Hawks nods and summons his feathers, ripping off Dabi’s coat and sending the feathers out to cut, trip, and distract the few other heroes not helping civilians, hoping to annoy and distract Endeavour as much as possible before the Fire hero burns the feathers to ash.

He gathers Dabi up as gently as he can and spreads his wings.

Someone screams as Shigaraki reduces an extended limb to dust.

Hawks flies.

Tomura destroys, it’s easy, it’s something he knows. Written in his bones since he was small, the thing he’s built his life as Shigaraki Tomura around, and the thing he uses to further his goals.

And resting against his hip is a gun that can destroy a hero’s life, take away the one thing that’s most important to someone like Endeavour.

So when the heroes taunt him with their advantage in numbers, he smiles.

Because he doesn’t need strength in numbers when he has 5 clips of bullets that can destroy at least a third of these heroes career.

One of the only things he will ever be thankful to Sensei for is the diligence and the paranoia he was taught. Because saving those bullets came in handy now.

Endeavour and the Commission hurt what was his, and for that, they would pay.

Even if the three of them didn’t make it out of this, the rest of the group had specific instructions on how to carry on.

Giving the explosives to the crazy little demon that was Toga Himiko was going to ensure that the Commission went down in a big way, and Spinner and Mister each had a copy of the tapes with their own instructions on how to deal with them.

And Twice had his orders to deliver the flowers to the Todoroki Family.

He chuckled, things would be fine.

It was a chilling scene that Japan was greeted with when they turned on the evening news. An almost parallel of the scene that had taken place on their televisions all those months ago in Fukuoka.

Except Hawks wasn’t standing with Endeavour.

He was perched on the roof of a building behind Shigaraki Tomura, with a limp body by his side, the dark-haired and scarred covered man wearing Hawks’ jacket, and bearing a resemblance to the very villain the Winged Hero and Number One had encountered after the High-End fight.

In a lonely gargantuan house, that was both empty and freezing cold for all that the training room was kept burning hot, a young woman, who has always been so much like her mother, watches. And she holds her breath because this is the second time her father has been injured by fire this year.

But she only knows of maybe two people who stand a chance of creating fire hot enough to burn her father in spite of his heat resistance.

Both are related to her.

One is 16 and at Yuuei and easy to spot in a crowd thanks to his hair, half white and half red, (everything about him is Chimera-like, half and half, equal,) the other should be dead.

She was told he had died. That his quirk had finally taken all it could from his ill-suited body, burning him up and leaving her without her twin. Steadfast, loyal, kind Touya.

Touya who tried to give her something to smile about every day, who she loved with all she had left to give.

Touya, who mom eventually couldn’t stand looking at, who suddenly had to deal with father’s anger and training and mother’s fear and hatred at the same time.

Touya who held her and sung songs to her when she woke up shaking.

Touya whose skin seemed to be constantly burnt, scarred.

Touya who hated his hair, who wanted nothing more than to dye it.

She takes a shaky breath and forces herself to watch the screen.

Endeavour roars and sends out a pulse of fire, Shigaraki Tomura sidesteps it and raises a hand from his hip, he’s holding a gun.

Todoroki Fuyumi inhales once, sharply, and doesn’t exhale.

There’s a gunshot that rings cleanly over the crackle of flames, and alone in her father’s house, Fuyumi screams.

Natsuo is shaking, unsure how to feel and conflicted, so conflicted and numb. And there are so many people staring at him, just watching him and he wants them all to stop.

Hana looks at him with wide eyes and steps forward, slow and gentle. She grabs his hand and squeezes, tugging him away from the television and the people and outside into the night air.

He follows behind her, lost and floating and he feels like he’s four years old again, being told he’s quirkless, useless. He feels like he did when he was a toddler and Mama would push him out of the room and into Fuyumi’s waiting arms, his sister’s embrace shielding him from the world.

( What you can’t see, can’t hurt you. )

He’s 19—and the most like their father out of all his siblings in build, though his colouring he gets from his mother—and he doesn’t feel anything other than confusion and self-deprecation.

At some point after leaving the room, they end up on the ground, Hana holding him and carding her hands through his hair, humming under her breath to soothe him, like she does when he stays over and wakes without memory of his dreams but crying all the same. And he looks up at her, lost and searching for answers he knows she can’t give him.

“Why don’t I feel anything?”

And the look she gives him is so heartbreakingly lost, because she doesn’t know what to do any more than he does, and Natsuo can’t decide if he hates his father for being shot or himself for not caring.

All he knows is that he doesn’t move from that position for a long, long time.

Todoroki Shouto stands stock still, gazing at the television through a foggy mind.

The gunshot rings in his head over and over, or maybe Shigaraki shoots again, he doesn’t know,  but the noise is all he can hear. And this is so similar to the battle with High End, and yet so different, and Shouto doesn’t know what to do.

And for all he wants his father out of his life, he doesn’t think he wants him dead.

He thinks he might be shaking.

Midoriya is next to him, clutching onto Shouto’s arm with a white-knuckled grip. And when Shouto looks at him properly he can see that though Midoriya’s mouth is moving, he isn’t hearing the sounds that should be coming out.

His hearing rings, the bang going off—either in his head or on the television—again and again, and the words that tumble from Midoriya’s mouth are slowly making themselves known, growing from a muted murmur to frantic whispers, until it’s some semblance of a frantic normal volume.

“Todoroki, Todoroki, he isn’t dead, Endeavour isn’t dead, Todoroki, the bullet hit him, but he’s still alive, c’mon focus please, Shouto he’s still alive. ”

Shouto’s only stares back at his friend, eyes wide and somewhat vacant, mind still replaying the deafening Bang and the moment Endeavour went down, and his throat is dry, but he’s slowly coming back to himself, body no longer floating.

And his crumbling world has just gone back to being stable when he registers the expression on Midoriya’s face.

His mouth is cottony and awkward to move and his tongue feels like lead, but he forces the question out over fumbling lips, “Midoriya? What’s—What’s wrong?”

And Midoriya is looking at him, just as wide-eyed and frantic as before and whispers, “Endeavour’s flames went out and—Shouto, they—they haven’t started back up.”

Shigaraki Tomura smiles, wide and sharp and poisonous.

Endeavour is down, a single shot, aimed at the torso that hit the shoulder when the hero tried to melt the bullet and missed. One of the lesser known heroes was hit in the leg by another shot when they tried to attack him.

Both were hit by the bullets the League had taken from Overhaul, both were now quirkless, and now the heroes were getting scared. Because two of their own have gone down and haven’t gotten back up again

Not for lack of trying, of course, Endeavour is sitting up, trying to stand as he is wracked with shivers at the abrupt change of body temperature without the protection his quirk gave him from the night chill. All while the younger hero tries to staunch the bleeding from her wounded leg.

And the fact that Endeavour’s flames are out, that they haven’t started up again, is making everyone skittish, worried.

If there was one thing Endeavour was known for, it was the fact he rarely, if ever, let his flames go out.

Tomura whistles, low and mocking, “Well look at what we have here.”

The man known as Todoroki Enji snarls, vicious and hateful, “Shut your mouth Shigaraki, you won’t come out of this as the victor and you know it.”

Tomura tilts his head to the side, smile still gracing his lips, still mocking, gun still held steady, “We’ll see about that Todoroki Enji, even if I don’t come out the victor, you won’t come out of this a hero.”

The taller, bulkier man—who is more a monster than Tomura and his League have ever managed to be—roars in outrage and struggles to his feet, woozy from pain and blood loss but still able to stand.

He snarls at Tomura as if he was something to be scared of, arm hanging limp at his side, “You haven’t managed to kill me villain, and you never will.”

And Tomura looks upon this pathetic man, who cared more about his hero ranking than the family he created, who pushed and pushed his children—until they broke into so many pieces that putting them back together was nearly impossible—far beyond what they could bear, and at the end of it all—position secured and goal achieved—was still just as angry, just as bitter and hateful, as before, still wanting more .

And he laughs, “I don’t need to kill you Todoroki, I’ve already destroyed your quirk .”

The colour drains from Todoroki’s face, and the little choked off, broken cry, that falls spills from his lips makes something in Tomura’s chest fill with joy—the other man’s pain music to his ears—as the soundtrack of crackling flame finally ceases.

There’s a sob then, a heartbreaking painfilled sound, and the younger hero from before is gazing up at him brokenly, “What do you mean? W-What did you do to me? What did you do to my quirk ?”

There’s a rustling, swooshing, sound behind him, and the sudden addition of Hawks’ voice is beautiful to hear.

“You’re quirkless now, you won’t be able to use your quirk and likely never will again.” And the betrayal on the heroes faces at Hawks’ measured tone and shuttered expression is darkly amusing, the heroes still in denial despite the warnings Endeavour had given to Hawks before Dabi’s burst of flame started the fight.

Dabi is silent at Hawks side, but the relief on his face and in his posture makes him look so much younger and so much freer than Tomura has ever seen him before.

Someone, Tomura doesn’t see who, launches debris at them, and Hawks’ feathers intercept it before the rubble makes it any closer than a few meters away. And that seems to be the signal the other heroes need to move in, because suddenly the three of them are on the defensive.

Tomura takes down three more heroes and two interns before the heroes rearrange their attack formation to have the people with more defensive quirks acting as shields.

Close to him, Hawks mutters, “I feel like we’re playing Pokemon, except we’re the Pokemon.”

Dabi wheezes as he throws a ball of blue fire at the group and questions the man, “Really? Now?”

Tomura only snorts, lips twitching upwards.

Hawks sends hardened feathers out like throwing knives and they move through the cracks in the heroes defenses, cutting and stabbing with an enviable accuracy that stays non-lethal, and while Tomura is annoyed at the loose ends, he is understanding about the fact his pretty birdy doesn’t want to kill anyone who is just as much a victim of the society the Commission has created as he is.

Doesn’t mean he has to like it though.

It’s going well enough, or, it was, but then someone gets a hit on Hawks’ wings and the blonde hits the ground with a groan of pain.

Dabi snarls, the sound guttural and full of rage and vitriol, while Shigaraki lunges forward, knife-quick and deadly, all five of his fingers grabbing onto the hero, nails digging into the skin and quirk working fast.

The man screams and Shigaraki wears a twisted smile as the skin and muscles disintegrate from under his hand.

Dabi erupts into flames once again, but this time he doesn’t black out, this time he is a tornado of fire.

Shigaraki takes great pleasure in watching the hero disappear into dust, shooting two more of the fools as they watch in horror while their colleague dissolves in front of their eyes.

He watches Hawks get up from the corner of his eye, red wings and blonde hair illuminated by the blue fire that Dabi has spread across the area indiscriminately.

And the expression on his lover's face is pure predator, dangerous and watchful and striking.

Yes, Hawks is quite the hunting bird indeed.

The three of them were a force to be reckoned with, especially when they fought together. But even with everyone they had taken out, the heroes that had been held in reserve were still heroes with good combat skills, and they were more rested than the three of them. The three were running low on energy and it was making them sloppy, and they were paying for it in injuries.

The heroes could all see it, the way Hawks’ attacks weren’t quite as fast, the way the fire surrounding Dabi would flicker or blaze without the man’s permission, the steam that came off of his body and the way his skin bled and blistered.

Even Shigaraki’s aim had suffered and he’s had to reload twice now, though all of the pesky little reserves had already had their reminders not to let him touch them, and they hadn’t let themselves forget after his rage-driven display.

It wasn’t helping them that Ryukyu was powerful, and her quirk was strong, especially when used as thoughtfully as the woman did. And the three of them were lagging, they had to do something soon or they wouldn’t be walking away from this fight. Not with how out of control the heroes were, there would be no arrests, especially not with how unstable their surroundings were due to the fire eating away at the frames.

Some of the heroes had the type of rage written across the lines of their faces that Tomura most often saw on the faces of thugs who were looking for trouble and willing to kill.

Oh how far the mighty sink when they think they are justified.

Hawks curses under his breath and does his best to keep the heroes from closing in on them anymore, but there’s only so much the man can do, especially with as few feathers left as he has.

It’s more worrying than Tomura will ever allow himself to admit.

It’s also the beginning of the end.

Hawks screeches, the sound piercing and distracting all at the same time, and it’s not one of elation—like the one he occasionally allows to creep out of his throat, on the good days, where no one but Dabi and Tomura can hear it—no, this one is pain filled.

And it’s easy to see why, the man who was too fast for his own good had grown weary and slow, too slow to avoid the spike that had managed to pierce him in the side, feathers depleted and unable to protect him from it.

There’s blood and Hawks looks dazed, Shigaraki ignores it, slots himself in front of his fallen partner and bares his teeth, he shoots the gun three times in quick succession before the gun gives a click, signaling the need to reload again. He has only two more clips before the gun is just a piece of metal in his hand.

He plans on making them count.

Hawks coughs and inhales, wheezing slightly, which is worrying, but Tomura can’t focus on that yet.

Because an unfortunate side effect of having one main weapon in a fight and using it on multiple people is that, your other opponents learn to be wary of it, and eventually learn how to avoid it.

And with bullets, as long as they don’t hit the body they can’t do much damage.

And, quite unfortunately, Ryukyu’s scales act like kevlar, meaning that until the woman stops using her quirk, it’s a waste of the bullets to try and shoot her.

The situation is escalating quickly and Hawks is starting to sound worse and worse.

Dabi shouts then, in pain and tired.

No, things aren’t going well at all.

Hawks thinks, eyelids half-lidded and breath coming in painful gasps, that the only thing that had gone right after the start of the fight, is that Todoroki Enji had been taken away from the scene shortly after the confirmation from Tomura that he was permanently quirkless.

Because, knowing the asshole, he would’ve tried to pull something the first time Hawks went down and this situation would’ve been a lot worse. Worse than Hawks injured and with a spike impaled in his body, and Dabi, drained and tired and sporting a deep cut in his arm, and Tomura, looking battered and slightly worse for wear but mostly fine.

Hawks probably just jinxed ‘Mura now that he considered it. Which would suck because they’ve already gone from three able bodies to one and a half. And that was not great odds.

Dabi and Tomura draw closer to where Hawks lays, injured and unable to really move without possible piercing a vital organ.

Holy fuck, the whole thing has escalated from a plain old shitshow to something else entirely.

Dabi was panting and looked like he would blow over with a strong wind, limbs shaking worryingly.

Hawks coughed, wheezing, and tried to catch his breath, he could taste iron on his tongue but he wasn’t sure if that was because of how much was trickling out of him, or if he had internal bleeding that was choosing to make itself known.

Either way, it was way more blood than he wanted out coming out of his body.

There were black spots on the edges of his vision, he ignored them, not that he had much of a choice in that regard, and tried speaking, “Dabs—Dabs, be—be f-fucking careful. You’re l-leaving yourself way t-too open. Someone’s gonna—gonna get a hit in. You’re,” he broke off, trying to steady his breathing, Dabi’s hands were clenched into fists, and Tomura’s grip on his gun was white-knuckled, he took a breath, finished speaking, “you’re too tired and—and drained, c-careful. Mk? Don—don’ wannt’ya dead.”

Keeping his eyes open was hard, black creeping into his vision as the power drained from his body.

Wouldn’t ya know it, he had been too slow, and now it’s left him dying and a danger to his partners, impaled and unable to help himself without either bleeding out or cutting into something important.

His loves are watching him too much, paying more attention to him than they should, and it makes him want to scream, to force them to pay attention to the threats around them and not him.

There’s a shout from the heroes then, and all Hawks knows is pain.

He shrieks.

Tomura is aware, in some distant part of his mind, of the pain in his body.

But he’s more worried about Hawks.

Hawks who had screamed, who had shrieked, weak and reedy and broken, before choking off.

The little birdy is unconscious now, pulse weak—so, so weak—compared to the quick, strong beats of a raptor’s heart that Tomura had long grown used to.

Tomura moves sluggishly, shooting at the heroes as he stumbles towards Dabi’s limp body.

Dabi was bleeding, torn open at the seams and steaming from the edges, and he looked so frail like that, shrapnel gleaming from where it sat, digging into the skin and opening up rivers of scarlet iron.

Somewhere—closenearfardistanthere—he thinks he hears shouting.

His side hurts.

He places an arm over it, pinky held away from the rest of his hand, and feels something sticky.

His arm comes away red.

He laughs, speaks, with tar and vitriol on his tongue and bitterness in his heart, “So now look how far the mighty heroes have fallen!” His chest feels like it’s closing in on itself, his throat collapsing, voice rasping, and slurred, but maybe it’s the panic he feels when he thinks of the bodies of those few he loves, “Tell me oh wise ones, are the many so quick to beat down the few because they fear the truth they could tell?”

And his eyes must hold something absolutely wretched, ugly and horrible and too truthful, because the tiny interns shudder, look away, while the heroes shift, uncomfortable.

He finds the one who’s quirk must’ve caused the explosion, he’s standing resolute, for all that he’s shaking in another hero’s grasp.

He stays as he is, baring his teeth in a parody of a smile. Legs shaking with exertion and emotion making his body tremble.

And, a little ways away, atop a building that remains steady and sturdy, a man, dressed impeccably in a suit, holds a  commission issued sniper rifle, already assembled and held in steady hands, expression blank.

He braces.

Aims.

F

i

r

e

s

.

Shigaraki Tomura goes down in a spray of blood.

It takes three more bullets to keep him that way.

Dabi and Hawks’ unconscious bodies each receive two.

None of them get up again.

In her father’s home, Todoroki Fuyumi screams for a second time, tears blurring her vision and choking her.

This scream is not of horror, this is pain and loss and rage all balled up into a singular note of agony.

This is the scream of a twin losing her other half for the second time.

This is the scream of the heartbroken.

Natsuo sleeps, as his girlfriend shakily sets her phone down.

She will let him rest a little longer before facing the world.

She watches him, his face sad as he sleeps, no mask to hide behind.

A tear carves it’s way down his cheek.

The stars are bright tonight.

Shouto watches but doesn’t know what to feel.

Relief?

Anger?

All he knows is that Shigaraki Tomura, Dabi, and Hawks are all dead.

And his father is Quirkless.

Todoroki Rei lays in her room, unaware and at peace.

She sleeps soundly and dreams lovingly.

Following the deaths, there is a week of quiet, where the news reports the heroes forced into early retirement due to their loss of quirk and the heroes who died during the fight.

The location Shigaraki Tomura had taken the quirk destroying bullets from remains unknown, and the ones extracted from heroes and debris alike are unusable.

The country stands still

And at the end of the week, the Hero Commission’s building explodes, filling the sky with fireworks and a torrent of heat and flames.

Toga Himiko smiles her bloodied, grieving grin.

A set of tapes are released to a news station.

On one, Dabi’s scarred face takes the focus of the screen.

On the other, is the ex-pro Hawks.

The news station plays the tapes on the evening news after the producer watches them in her office.

No one comments on the red, puffy eyes or drying tear tracks.

Fuyumi receives a bouquet of Azaleas, Adonis’, White Lilies, Mountain Ash, and Calendulas. Placed upon her desk at school.

Natsuo receives a bouquet of White Lilies, Snowdrops, Mountain Ash, and Purple Hyacinths. Settled against his dorm room door.

Shouto receives a bouquet of White Lilies, Mountain Ash, Purple Verbena, and Amaryllis. Resting in his room at home with Fuyumi.

Rei receives a bouquet of Snowdrops, Mountain Ash, Milk Vetch, Azaleas, and Asters. Placed in her room and atop her bed, reverently.

None of them receive a note.

Only an apology of petals, sorrowful regret spoken through the whisperings of the earth and the softness of nature.

The news is on and the first tape starts.

Dabi’s scarred face fills the screen, fidgeting with his hands and coat and shifting in his seat.

“So uh, this is the fallback plan, for if we don’t make it past the initial phase.”

There’s a shuffling from offscreen followed by indistinct murmuring, and Dabi nods, running a hand through his hair in agitation.

“ This would’ve been a lot easier to do angry, in front of people, in front of Endeavour. But this tape is for if I’m unable to or prevented from telling this in that situation.”

The villain, dead in a morgue somewhere but alive on the television, sighs.

“Let me tell a story, it’s not a happy one, it’s not a story for children. But it’s a story that people have to know, it’s one society has to acknowledge. Because if they don’t then nothing changes and the story can repeat again and again, just with different people. Different variations.”

And Dabi stares through the screen, bright blue eyes burning and serious and face solemn, no smirk or snark present.

“A long time ago there was a boy, who wanted to be the number one hero, he wanted to beat everyone and claim that coveted position for himself. He was willing to do anything to achieve his goal.

But there was someone else who held it, someone who was placed on too high of a pedestal for the teenager to reach. Still, he tried every day to become the best.

And the teenager grew older and became an established pro hero, but he was bitter and angry and selfish. And the older he grew the more he realized that he may be unable to beat the Golden Hero out, but maybe, if he had a child with the perfect quirk, and he trained them hard enough, then they would be able to surpass him. And his legacy would be the sire, trainer, and inspiration for the child to become the best. He could live through his child and see the man he had grown to despise defeated by someone he had raised and trained, who had his quirk but better.”

Dabi chokes, breath catching, and his jaw is visibly clenched. He raises a hand and runs it through his hair again.

It’s shaking.

There’s a beat of silence before the scarred man continues his tale.

“So the man set out to find someone who could birth him a child with a powerful quirk, something complimentary to his own, and he found a beautiful, kind woman who wove flower crowns for the children she met and knew the name and story behind every constellation. Who was as soft as snow had a will the strength of the iron in her blood and as persevering as the ice in her veins.

And he took this woman made of snow and stardust and ice and he made her his bride of ash and sorrow and withering flowers.

She was there only to bear him the child he needed, nothing more, so he took her will and he destroyed it, shattering and melting it in equal intervals until she was pliable and silent.

And she gave him twins, a son and a daughter.

But they weren’t what he needed, the girl was too much like her mother, snow, and ice sprouting from her fingertips. Just as kind and willful as the woman who birthed her used to be.”

And Dabi grows angry, spitting the words from his lips as if they were acid.

“But she wasn’t right, he didn’t need a kind, caring, willful daughter of winter.”

A hand is visible on-screen, grabbing onto the shaking man’s hand with a talon tipped grip.

And Dabi takes a breath, continues, “The boy was closer to correct, almost perfect. Almost enough. He had the fire the man wanted and more, the child may not have his mother’s ice but the little boy’s fire burned hotter than even the man turned monster’s, and the man was ecstatic.

Until he saw how injured the boy grew whenever he used the flames, how the skin would burn and blister and the frail little boy would fall and stay on the ground no matter what he did to get him up again.

Because the boy wasn’t made for the fire he held in his veins.

He was built out of his mother’s love and his mother’s bones, with his father's blood in his veins, the opposite to his twin, who had her father’s bones and her mother's blood.

And it meant he was useless.

Which meant his mother needed to produce another child, a better one this time.

But until that happened, the fire demon would mold the eldest child into something close to useable.

And their mother grows milder and more stressed throughout the second pregnancy, shoulders bowing under the weight of her husband’s expectations and watching as her little boy is beaten down again and again and her daughter is ignored.”

Dabi’s voice breaks and he shakes his head at someone off-screen. His hand grips the taloned one tight enough that his knuckles turn white, arms shaking.

“And so another child is born, and for a while, things are calmer, but the man is growing impatient.

And when the little boy doesn’t show any signs of a quirk at three the man grows anxious, and demands another child, just in case, and pushes the eldest to train harder and for longer than before.

By the time the youngest is four and doesn’t show signs of a quirk their mother is pregnant again and it’s been long enough that the man takes the little boy, who has the same colouring as his sister and his mother but is growing so quickly, to the quirk specialist.

The doctor tells the man that his youngest son is quirkless, and the house is in civil war.

Because for the first time in a long while, the woman made of ice and stardust stands tall against the man who made her a wife of ash and withering flowers. The willful woman from before shines with all of her motherly fury.

Because the man has started to take things too far with his growing desperation and anger, her eldest is barely out of the hospital bed before he is set to training again and her baby is burning up before her eyes.

She wins, for one of the few times she does, because the man wants the child she is carrying to make it to term and too much more stress will be dangerous.

It’s one of the last times she looks at her eldest and only sees her child.”

Dabi’s voice is shaky, and his eyes are glazed over, distant. And speaking for so long is showing in the way he croaks out his words.

He doesn’t stop, at this point it seems like he can’t, too entangled in the memories.

“And when the final child is born the woman’s will is left on borrowed time, the man looks at the features that are so perfectly split between his and his wife’s and finds his hope for the perfect child with the perfect quirk is renewed.

The day the little boy’s quirk comes in is the worst of the family’s life. Because that is the day that the eldest is finally tossed aside and the little boy, only four, is forced to start a specialized diet and training regimen. And the only daughter is struggling to help her mother who is slipping and drowning in her own mind, all of her will and heart being beaten down every time she tries to shield her children, until she is a meek shell of a woman, and of a ghost of a human being.

The ignored and forgotten son is angry and upset and lost and lonely, but there is only so much his elder siblings can do for him when they’re trying to keep their lives and themselves from falling apart.

And children are like rocks in the sea, the ocean whethers them away until there is nothing left.

Their father is the ocean.

And the ocean rages hard and unforgiving.”

He swallows, inhales, and laughs, a bitter, broken little thing.

“I don’t know if it was obvious, but the monster in this story is Endeavour. Todoroki Enji, who married Todoroki Rei, who gave birth to the twins, Todoroki Touya and Todoroki Fuyumi, then Todoroki Natsuo, then Todoroki Shouto.

Now, sickly, frail little Touya is being pushed and pushed and pushed, until one day, he goes up in flames, and burns himself in a pyre of his own making, and Enji tells everyone he died, or ran away, or whatever story best suited him. And that’s how we got to where we are today because sickly, stupid Touya shed the name his father had given him and dawned a new one, a shield between all he was before and all he was now.

And burnt, scarred, frail Touya became burnt, scarred, angry Dabi.

And hopefully, by this point in time, Endeavour is dead, even if Todoroki Enji isn’t.”

The tape ends, and then the next one plays.

This time, it’s Hawks sitting in the center of the screen.

He isn’t wearing his aviators or his gloves—or really any of his hero costume that the viewer can see—just a baggy, long-sleeved shirt. And, for all that he’s known for growing impatient with things easily, he’s eerily still, shoulders hunched in and biting his lip. The only real sign of movement for a minute or two is his wings—feathers bristling and ruffling—and his eyes, darting in between the camera and whatever, or whoever, lies behind it.

Finally, he relaxes, loosening up in an almost calculated way, muscles very purposefully loose, shoulders straightening. And he gives a tiny little grin.

His eyes are knife sharp and oh so serious, even as he huffs out a little laugh, “I don’t have as sad or horrifying a story to tell, nothing near as poetic as the other one, all I have are the memories of what made me, and all that happened as I remember it.”

A hand moves on-screen, holding a mug of hot drink that Hawks takes with a smile that’s more genuine than the one he wore before, muttering a quick thanks before he turns his attention back to the camera.

“Years ago there was a little kid who is both bird and person and a living, breathing human being.

And society hates him.

Somedays, he thinks his parents hate him more. There are happy accidents and then there is an unwanted drain on resources, and unfortunately for the child, he is the second.

And in a world where Society hates him for not being human enough, and his parents are obvious in their disdain, putting too much pressure in their grips and their pushes, the little boy with scarlet wings makes his escape from reality.

And the little park he chooses to hide away in is so otherworldly and strange, so like him, that he stays there. Secluded away and alone for hours and hours, before night falls, deep and dark and he can’t avoid the return to Earth.

And at some point in time, he notices another little boy there, and he befriends him. And blue and blonde hair is a constant sight for a few, wonderful months, until, just as suddenly as the little bird found him, he loses him. And tiny little Shimura Tenko is gone, lost somewhere in the world, and Sora is alone again.

And he is six years old and watching something awful about to happen and he doesn’t think, just flies and he is fast and young and so starved for any positive emotion to be directed towards him that he stays there a little too long.

And suddenly the very thing that made Society hate him is wanted, coveted even. His quirk, Fierce Wings, is suddenly something to be trained and used to help him become a hero, to stop him from wasting the things around him by living.

The only thing they need from him is for him to put everyone above himself, the less self he has the better hero he is for them, the better pawn.

And the training begins, six years old and the little boy is pushing himself to the limit to make his handlers happy, make his parents proud of him for once. Be useful, be more than wasted air and food and space. His parents are giving him a chance to show them he can be something worthy of things, of love.

He doesn’t find out until he’s 10 that his parents are being paid to give him to the commission, that they haven’t asked about him since they asked how much they would get for him on the day he was too fast for his own good.

But the delusion is nice while it lasts, and heartbreaking when it ends.”

As he speaks Hawks has a sad little smile on his face, paired with distant eyes and hands wrapped around his mug just a bit too tightly. He takes a sip from the mug, and looks into it for a bit as if the liquid inside holds all the answers to the problems he’s faced.

“And he loses himself, becomes something empty and pliable and reduced to nothing but a tool for the Commission to use whenever and however they deem fit.” He continues, voice eerily cold, robotic.

“And the Commission breaks him and builds him as needed, until he is a mix-and-match bucket of personalities and faces and smiles and words.

Now, the little boy with the scarlet wings is close to being an actual Pro Hero, in name and on paper, all he needs is to choose a name.

So he takes the name of a hunting bird. A bird who can fly, who can soar, free and fast and beautiful in it’s aggression.”

The ex-Pro laughs then, and it’s a sound that’s heavy with an emotion that isn’t joy, and isn’t quite awe, but isn’t really anger either. More bitter melancholy than anything.

“The name is something that he grows to both love and hate, something he got to choose, something that was his, not theirs. But in the same breathe it held the hope and freedom he so desperately wanted right in front of his face, day after day, perhaps the real reason he grew to hate it just as much as he loved it is because it was the only name the Commission ever called him by, they needed a soldier not a person, so he went from being Sora to Hawks and only Hawks.

Then the Commission made a mistake, they sent a disillusioned man undercover into the League.”

Here he snorts, and there’s laughter from off screen, a blend of raspy cackling and choked giggling, he sends the camera a wry grin, eyes fond, “ Because for some reason, someone in the Higher Ups decided sending a, very recognizable, Top 3 Pro undercover was a good idea.”

The laughter from behind the camera strengthens in volume before slowly coming to a stop. Hawks is still smiling, but his eyes aren’t anymore.

“So the Commission sent him to be their spy and the bird uncovered his talons for the first time in years and bared his teeth and said ‘I won’t be your tool anymore’.

So hopefully by now the Commission is gone, and Society re-thinks itself. Because otherwise, you’ll find yourselves stuck within the same trap I was.”

The tape ends.

Toga Himiko does not visit the official graves for her people.

Society has laid them to rest in unmarked graves, and it is not good enough for them, they do not deserve to grow forgotten, swallowed up by the Earth’s dreary blood and suffocating hold.

Instead, she visits a little park, otherworldly and full of forgotten children’s wishes and hopes and dreams—the whisperings of which went unheeded and unheard to anyone but to others the same as them—lost and lonely in the world and in need of an escape.

And here is the place where she draws her knife, wicked and gleaming and dripping in memories, and sets to work.

When she leaves that day her knife is duller than when she entered, and the trees, overgrown and wild as they are, hold the souls of three people who needed freedom from the demons that followed them from childhood to death.

She smiles, wide enough to hurt and sharp enough to cut, and, with tears in her laugh and acceptance in her heart, she never returns.

(She leaves behind graves in the form of trees that speak of her three lost people, and give them the recognition they deserve, and when the future lost little children stumble into this sacred Otherworldly place, they will yearn to know more of Tomura, Dabi, and Hawks. The Leader, the Fire, the Spy. The mind, the heart, and the soul.)

The dead are dead, but the living must go on. Ghosts stay in people heads, where they belong.

Toga Himiko has worn the faces of many a ghost, and she knows how to keep one within her soul, tucked away and on the edges of her vision.

She has long since learned how to silence them.

But her people do not need to be ghosts to live fiercely and freely within her heart.

The world continues on.

Endeavour and the Commission are no more.

The living breathe, the dead lay sleeping.

Life goes on, as it always has.

In the beginning, there is dull eyes and vacant smiles. In the beginning, there is a heart full of hatred and longing, a heart full of vengeance and rage, and a heart full of an aching need to be free and to fly and never look back.

In the beginning, there is hatred, deceit, and lies.

(In the beginning, there are three men who, at the core of their souls are still just frightened children, with places in their bitter shattered hearts that want nothing more than to be loved.)