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Hawks has scars. The only people who know about the scars are Hawks, the Commission, and now Dabi. He tries not to shy away as Dabi’s rough hands trace the faded lines almost reverently. Hawks wishes he wouldn’t; almost wishes he would look at Hawks with disgust. But of course Dabi wouldn’t. The man is walking scar tissue. And Dabi has never flinched away from the uglier aspects of life.
Hawks’ breath catches when Dabi’s fingertips brush over his inner thighs. It would be teasing, but Hawks knows he’s inspecting the myriad faded pinpoint pricks littered there.
“These?” he queries, softly, never pressing for more than Hawks is willing to give.
“I used to have talons. I used to grab onto things when I was stressed. Some raptor instinct or something. They took away everything after I grabbed my handler once. I didn’t even have a bed. I had to… I had to grab something”.
“You grabbed yourself,” Dabi finishes for him, understanding dawning in his eyes. “It’s the same for these?” He asks as he gently turns Hawks arms over, exposing the pinpricked forearms.
“Yeah,” Hawks whispers. “It’s a stress reaction”.
Scattered throughout the pinprick scars are thin, uneven lines, where his grip sometimes slipped. He remembers bleeding so much, rivulets of red running down his arms and legs, the colour so vivid and matching his feathers.
Dabi is still holding Hawks’ arms and he uses his grip to guide Hawks’ limbs up so that his hands are at eye level between them. Hawks never, ever goes out without his gloves and sometimes even when he’s at his home, he can’t bear to see the scars. He’s not wearing his gloves now, so they can both clearly see his disfigured fingertips. The tips of his fingers are discoloured where his nails should be. There’s no nails, only ugly, black marks where the stitches dug in and left permanent indented scars. He only has partial feeling in his fingertips as a result of the surgeries, but the Commission deemed it a necessary sacrifice.
“These?” Dabi questions softly, almost like he doesn’t want to ask.
Hawks almost doesn’t want to answer. His fingers aren’t very pretty to look at.
“I said I used to have talons,” he settles on, knowing Dabi can put it all together from that.
Dabi, to his credit, gets it, and doesn’t push for any more. His sharp eyes glance meaningly at Hawks’ bare feet, where the same wounds deface his toes. He doesn’t look disgusted, even though he should be. These are definitely Hawks’ ugliest wounds.
“The Commission thought it looked too predatory,” he mumbles when Dabi stays silent for slightly too long for him to be comfortable with. “A Hero shouldn’t look like a predator,” he recites.
Dabi thinks that’s wrong, but he doesn’t argue with Hawks. He knows Hawks has trouble differentiating between the Commission’s treatment of him and the abuse that everyone else would call it as.
He slides his hands up Hawks’ arms and down over his shoulder, skimming his skin, interrupted here and there by various scars, all smooth and puckered at the edges. Scars from his hero work, from not being fast enough. Or too fast sometimes. Too eager to throw himself in harm’s way if it means someone else won’t bear the same scar. He doesn’t ask about them, satisfied at least that the Commission didn’t cause these directly, even though their training is the reason Hawks is so willing to sacrifice himself for others.
Dabi’s fingers settle gently on his right knee, where a neat, obviously surgical, scar remains. He thumbs over it gently.
“Dislocation. A few times,” Hawks answers this one more easily; this one not as mired in traumatic memories. “When I was still learning to fly, I landed wrong. Didn’t slow down enough. Happened a few times before I got better”.
Next is a thin patch of scar tissue, barely visible, that traces Hawks’ hairline. Dabi’s only able to notice it because of how close he is sitting next to the Hero. He tenderly rubs his thumbs over the scar tissue, hands cradling Hawks’ head, and looks into the golden eyes of his partner. They’re wide, staring intently back at him, almost pleading with him, pleading with Dabi not to hurt him, like so many people have hurt him in the past.
“My feathers grow there. My handler says they make me look less human, so they pluck them. It hurts”. He whispers. He feels like his energy is draining quicker and quicker the more scars Dabi finds.
Dabi’s fingers find his last scar. His last visible one, anyway. There are a few on his wings, from where the Commission would force him to use train with feathers that weren’t fully grown yet, ripping them out too early. He would bleed from that too, but the scars are hidden underneath the downy fluff of his full wings.
Dabi’s hand wraps around the back of his neck and settles there, grip light. Hawks’ breathing speeds up, but he doesn’t move, trusting Dabi. Dabi’s fingers fit the shape of the scar tissue perfectly. He doesn’t need to ask where this one came from. He knows; he’s the one that gave it to Hawks. When they first met, and he didn’t trust his little bird so he scruffed him and threatened to set his pretty wings on fire. Sometimes, he can’t feel how hot his skin is to the touch because of his part ice quirk and his body’s tendency to run cold, but he meant to burn Hawks that night anyway. The skin on the back of the hero’s neck is rough, still not completely healed. Dabi doesn’t completely feel sorry for the mark he’s left on Hawks, because he doesn’t let himself feel bad for a lot of things he does. He softly, so softly, brushes his thumb over the raised skin, careful not aggravate the wound.
Hawks’ breathing slows and he lowers his head, as if to give Dabi better access to his neck. He’s so vulnerable right now, so trusting, it almost takes Dabi’s breath away, but there’s still that niggling little worm of doubt underneath all of these new gooey feelings towards the winged hero that he can’t stomp out. They stay like that for who knows how long. As he brushes his thumb carefully over the burn scar that he left, it feels like the closest he will get to sorry. Maybe Hawks will accept it, maybe he won’t. Neither knows as they map out each other’s bodies and scars.