Archive of Our Own

So, it’s going to be one of those days today.

The only company Taishiro should be getting on a Sunday afternoon is the occasional pigeon cooing through the ventilation, or a game of hide and seek with a spider. Tamaki no longer works during the daytime, Eijirou is still an intern, and the only reason Taishiro’s at the Agency is because he can’t switch off. 

What he doesn’t expect--or any sane person would--is a human crashing through the window at top speed and plastering himself against the opposite wall. For a few bated breaths he just stares at the crooked outline of Hawks sprawled out on the floor, and then decides he should take a break if his reflexes are that slow. He should also make sure that their resident number two hasn’t broken his neck. 

Except he’s so exhausted that all he can do is keep staring. The only progress he makes is pushing his oversized office chair away from the desk so he can crane his body to look. That’s definitely Hawks and he’s definitely planted his face into the new paint job, but he’s having a hard time piecing it together.

“Huh,” Taishiro says and Hawks’ eyes flutter open.

“Huh,” he replies. “You aren’t Endeavour.”

“Nope. Yer a few blocks off.” 

“Huh.” At least Hawks has the energy to lift his head. He still turns it at an angle that shouldn’t be possible, but he’s a bird, so Taishiro supposes he’s exempt. 

It’s then that he notices the wing closest, the right one, is much darker around the joints. Though Hawks’ wings are a vibrant red, the unnatural angle should have been his first clue and, finally, Taishiro’s brain catches up. “Whoa, hey, are y’okay?! Yer wing is, uh--” He gestures frantically, finally getting to his feet. 

Hawks lifts his head again, this time to look at his wing, before it falls back onto the hardwood with a resounding thump. “I’m going to miss the meeting.”

“That’s th’ least o’ yer worries!” Taishiro searches for the first aid kit automatically, behind the various pots and pans in the kitchen. He’s not sure how much help it will be seeing as this is meant for scratches not fractures, but Taishiro figures he’s had enough practise. Working with two martyrs has given him muscle memory reaction. This isn’t the worst to come in.

By the time he returns Hawks is already sitting up, carefully skipping over his wing and checking for scrapes and cuts. His visor is cracked but otherwise undamaged, his clothes have smatters of blood on but, aside from that and a bruised ass, he seems perfectly fine. 

“Yer lucky that window’s open,” Taishiro huffs as he gets to his knees, sitting so he can see that enormous wing properly. “I keep it shut.”

“I’ll count my blessings.” A little shaken, but blessedly free from a concussion. Taishiro hopes Hawks understands how lucky he is. 

“What’re ya doin’ smashin’ up my agency anyways?” He continues, level and calm. As much as he wants to get upset, screaming at an injured person is never a good idea. Top hero or not. 

Hawks’ voice tightens. “Looking for Endeavour. I missed a turn somewhere.”

Taishiro drops it. He shouldn’t press into a hero’s business, not even when it’s a blatant lie, but there’s still the matter of Hawks quite literally dropping in. There’s paperwork that will have to be filled out somewhere.

As if Hawks can tell by the crease between Taishiro’s eyebrows, he clicks his tongue and pays no mind to the disinfectant being spread over the break. “I’ll take care of the paperwork if you pretend this never happened.”

Taishiro glances at him between a thick wad of bandages. The situation is messy, and he hates lying, but he doesn’t have a choice. If Hawks doesn’t want it to get out, it won’t. It’s not like Taishiro will be spouting it to everyone who walks by, anyway. Besides, who wouldn’t jump at the opportunity to pass on paperwork?

“Sure,” he replies. “But on the condition that, when yer better, ya actually look where yer goin’ next time.”

He feels the hesitation behind those sharp, calculating eyes, the same ones he’s been watching on television for years. Taishiro’s a master at pretending something isn’t there when it very evidently is, so he finishes patching him up instead.

The tension in Hawks’ muscles relax, feathers fluffing, and he leans against the wall as his wing flutters into Taishiro’s palms without a speck of resistance. “This is what happens when you’re too much of a prude to have an obnoxiously bright Agency.”

Taishiro snorts, deciding he’s a little fond of him after all.

“Um, Fatgum?” 

“Yeah?” Taishiro doesn’t bother looking up. Kirishima’s notorious for one-word questions. It’s not that he’s slow, just learning, but it can come at a very inconvenient time, like when he’s up to his neck in paperwork about why the new decor in the agency is ruined, or when he’s trying to explain to administration why there’s a dozen bright red feathers on the floor.

“Hawks is at the window.” 

That snaps his head up. His desk is positioned facing the opposite wall, but the shadowy silhouette of a huge bird imprints across the dented grey like a monochrome photograph. Kirishima’s frozen in his cubby, staring with wide, impressionable eyes like he’s seen the seventh wonder of the world. Hawks probably is to anyone who hadn’t seen him crash land. 

With a sigh, Taishiro pushes back from his desk and turns around, fixing Hawks with a hard stare. His wing’s healed up nicely in the few weeks since they saw each other, and he’s wearing a sleazy, self-satisfied smile that makes Taishiro’s face drop to a frown. He considers making him walk in rather than disrupt this poor window again, but guilt wins over. All he gives is an elongated huff as he lifts the latch and leans out, letting the tailwind from those magnificent feathers ruffle his hair.

“I see yer flyin’ again,” he calls over the rush, frown deepening when Hawks cups a hand to his ear.

“Huh?”

“I said ,” Taishiro bellows, ignoring the flush of annoyance that runs through him. “Yer flyin’ again!”

“Spying? What did I do to deserve the hostility?”

Taishiro shakes his head and turns his back. No sooner than his pen touching paper, there’s a strong gust that sends the stack flying to the floor, followed by a resounding clunk of boots hitting the windowsill. Hawks is squatting in the small gap between the window panes, eyes sharp and posture lithe as he takes in the environment and Kirishima’s staring, then climbs inside. He’s wearing that smile until he meets Taishiro’s eyes, filled with a simmering flame, and hesitates.

Slowly, his gaze drifts to the mess scattered across the room, and the grin returns. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to throw it all over the show. Let me get it for you.”

“Ya keep disruptin’ me whilst I’m workin’,” is all Taishiro says, pointing his pen at him accusingly. “I know yer number two an’ all, but this is still work.” 

Hawks’ hands raise in mock surrender, something Taishiro pointedly ignores as he crouches. It’s quiet for a moment, because he’s stunned or amused, Taishiro can’t tell, but then Hawks stoops and gathers up paperwork in a messy pile too.

“You’re pro hero Hawks,” Kirishima wheezes as he slinks to the floor after them, gathering what’s near him. His eyes stay glued to the newcomer. “Right? Like on the TV and stuff?”

“That’d be me.” From his peripheral, Taishiro sees him rest his hands on his knees and regard Kirishima curiously. “You’re a fan?”

“Sort of. I mean--yeah! Of course I am!” Comes the spluttering reply, flustered by the attention, and Taishiro grins. He grabs the last crumpled papers and puts them on the desk, doing the same with Hawks’ pile when they’re held in his direction. “I just! I--I’m more of a Crimson Riot fan. But you’re an awesome hero, too.”

“Crimson Riot? Wait, don’t tell me.” Hawks pushes up on his knuckles and stands with his knees apart, knocking his fists together. “Manly spirit, manly heart!”

The unfiltered joy that radiates from Kirishima is enough to fill the room. His intern’s eyes sparkle like they always do when he’s excited, engrossed in the conversation in a heartbeat. It’s rare for Kirishima to be so easily swayed, but it’s even rarer to see a domestic side to Hawks; interacting with not just a kid, but a fan. His fondness grows a little more. “You know him?”

“Anyone who doesn’t isn’t a true fan of heroes,” Hawks replies easily, tussling the thick spikes of Kirishima’s hair. He takes the last of the papers and slides them over the desk, and Taishiro pretends not to see the wink he shoots him. “Can’t offer you Crimson Riot’s autograph, but I can offer you mine.”

It takes a few seconds for his offer to register, but the following scramble to snatch up a pen is what makes Taishiro give Hawks a second lookover. He’s different from the man who crash-landed through the window. His tone is softer, kinder; his demeanour is relaxed unlike the stiff way he’d spoken before. Taishiro chalks it up to shock rather than pretense, but that violently curious part of him disagrees.

“What’s your name?” 

“Kirishima Eijirou!” Kirishima hands him paper, then shyly pushes another into his hands. “Um, could you sign this one too? My friend is a fan and I know he’d really like your signature.”

The noise that leaves Hawks is very similar to a chirp, and he signs both with a flourish. “And what’s his name?”

“Midoriya, Midoriya Izuku.”

Even from a meter away, Taishiro can see the careful way Hawks writes. His writing is horrifically messy, the kanji barely intelligible, but whatever it is is enough for Kirishima. He hands the papers back and Kirishima’s eyes are blazing in a passionate red that Taishiro knows well. It’s easy to forget his interns are still kids. 

“Well, as nice as this was, I have to get going.” He flicks Taishiro a look like he’s deciphering something. “Keep up the good work, and maybe I’ll see you ‘round.” 

“Yes, sir!”

Taishiro nearly misses Hawks leaving, distracted by the way Kirishima holds his signatures like they’re the most precious things in the world. He all but yelps when the door opens. “Hey! What did’ja even come here for?”

Hawks gazes over his shoulder. His eyes are narrow, and the faint beginnings of a smile play on his lips. It tells him nothing, and the shrug that follows even less. He leaves without another word and Taishiro is more confused than ever.

Hawks descends to the street in a flurry of feathers, clothes and hair messy from the wind. He’s graceful as ever, landing on his tiptoes so softly he may as well be bouncing on a pillow. It’s a sight that could be breathtaking, awe-inspiring to fresh-faced newbies. 

But Taishiro catches himself eyeing his right wing as he always does when Hawks is in motion. Whether it’s the television or the street, descending from the heavens like a rumpled angel, he can’t forget how broken and bloody that wing had been in his hands. Maybe he’s the only one who notices the slightly stiff way it flaps, maybe he’s the only one that cares, but he has to tear his gaze away to meet the sharp judgement in Hawks’ own. 

“‘Sup.”

Taishiro rolls his eyes. “‘Sup yerself.”

Hawks clicks his tongue and waves his phone teasingly, like he’s waving a feather in front of a cat. “Finally took me up on that food offer, then?” 

“Whaddaya mean finally?” Taishiro steps to the side easily and Hawks falls alongside him, cramping his wings against his back and stuffing his hands in his pockets. He’s at ease in the early night. His birdlike mannerisms are still there: the quick whip of his head at every sound, eyes calculating and neck at unnatural angles, but his tone lacks the bluntness of the daytime. “You just text me!”

Taishiro’s first mistake had been giving his phone number to Hawks the next time they bumped into each other, less than four days later. He’d rationalised it by saying it’d be easier since they were seeing each other so often. It also meant he could dump all that paperwork regarding his wing on him too, like he’d promised.

But Hawks had taken it upon himself to text outside of professionalism. Like asking him if he wanted to grab karaage after his shift ends at seven and Taishiro’s at half past. Like he knew that it would take all Taishiro’s willpower to say no. 

“Know any good places for karaage?” 

“Ya mean ya don’t?” 

“No, I do. I just want to know if you do.”

How could a pro be so endearing and so frustrating? Taishiro can only sigh and jab a thumb behind him. His and Tamaki’s quirk relied on food, so of course he knows the best places. He’d be useless if he didn’t. “There’s a stand a few blocks down that’s pretty good, ‘n’ does stuff on the cheap.” 

“Sounds like my kinda place.” 

They find the stand, making small talk about Kirishima’s training and paperwork and whatever else that comes into Taishiro’s head. By the time he’s on his second skewer, he’s staring at Hawks thoughtfully again. They’re on a bench in a park somewhere, and there’s a small pond stretching beneath their feet full of koi and waterfowl that Hawks has been throwing scraps to. It’s methodical, the way he chews on one chicken cube and throws another to the ducks. Eat one, throw one, repeat again, and he talks like he thinks nothing of it.

He’s strange, Taishiro decides, because he’s not linear. He’s not bright or fantastic, he’s a kid in an adult’s body. So much of what Hawks does is childish, and at the same time more adult than Taishiro’s ever been. There are secrets behind those lips that he doubts he can hold a candle to, yet here he is, feeding birds at the park like it’s natural. 

“Why d’ya keep insistin’ on hanging out?” Taishiro asks suddenly, and Hawks’ head whips around instinctively, eyes narrowing in mirth. 

“Can’t I just enjoy your company?” 

“It’s suspicious,” he points out. Hawks laughs. 

It’s only when they’re parting does he realise Hawks never actually answered the question, and he thinks about calling after him, but he’s already at the other exit. His feathers are distracting in the dying light: like fire, ombre from moulting and slightly jagged. Before Taishiro realises it, he’s rounded a corner and gone. 

It doesn’t take long for Taishiro to realise there are eyes on him, watching with purposeful intent. 

He looks up from his phone, thumbs hovering over the keypad, and meets Tamaki’s gaze from where he sits on one of the beanbags in the centre of the room. Sure enough, he’s staring at Taishiro with dark, maverick eyes over the rim of a coffee cup, a tray of takoyaki in his lap from the breakfast rush. He startles when their eyes meet and nearly spills coffee over himself, but Taishiro just raises an eyebrow. “Y’okay?” 

“Um.” Tamaki checks himself over, then his eyes snap up. He’s always had trouble meeting people’s gazes, and the quick breakaway isn’t a surprise, but the shyness is. “You--are you… Happy?” 

Happy? That’s not the answer he’s expecting. He’d thought the barrier of distrust and awkwardness between them dissolved long ago. “Yeah, ’m happy! Why?”

Tamaki takes another sip of his coffee, the bags under his eyes more prominent than ever. Taishiro wishes he could send him to bed, but he’s far too awake for that, so maybe a scheduled day off. He’d also have to ban coffee if it’s making Tamaki’s anxiety worse, like--

“You’re smiling at your phone.” 

“Oh.” He hates how his mind races, trying to work out what Tamaki’s thinking, why he brought it up. Taishiro settles on clearing his throat and locking his phone instead. “Jus’ pros bein’ pros. Boring stuff tha’ yer gonna hafta participate in soon.”

The face that Tamaki makes has him laughing, but then he eyes Taishiro again and he feels like he’s under scrutiny. Is he being defensive? Is he overreacting? Is Tamaki overreacting?

“Kirishima told me about Hawks,” he continues offhandedly, sipping his coffee again. “He says you work well together.” 

Taishiro all but slumps down in his chair, which is a mistake as he has to spend a few moments dislodging himself again. His fat can be inconvenient when fitting into small spaces, and if he hadn’t embarrassed himself enough already, he feels even worse. Tamaki isn’t judgemental, but he’s sharp; he has no doubts that he’d have picked up on it if Kirishima mentioned it or not. 

“Yeah, ‘m textin’ Hawks if that’s what yer askin’,” Taishiro replies gruffly, setting his phone face-down. “No, he’s not part of the agency now. We just keep gettin’ thrown together.” 

Tamaki’s mouth clamps shut. He nods stiffly, voice wavering. “Just wanted to know if I had to brace myself.” 

Guilt claws at Taishiro’s chest, his stomach squeezing as Tamaki avoids him again, hiding behind his cup that’s either cold or empty by now. He hadn’t meant to sound defensive, and it’s not Tamaki’s fault for questioning. It’s his fault for being obvious.

Taishiro joins him on the beanbags, resting a hand on his shoulder when he’s arranged himself comfortably. “Sorry, s’not yer fault.”

Wariness is still there, he can see it reflected behind those dark eyes. “Sorry for pressing.”

The shake of his head isn’t enough to disperse the anxiety, but Taishiro tries anyway. His smile is wry but sincere, patting Tamaki’s shoulder before settling back and linking his fingers across his stomach. “Nah, don’t worry, kiddo. Jus’ one o’ those things.”

They sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, Tamaki behind his mug rather than putting it down or drinking from it, but then he says, “Mirio worked with him once. Midoriya too. He’s nice. Weird, but nice.”

Weird, but nice. That’s how Taishiro would describe him, too. “Y’think?” 

“Yeah.” Tamaki finally sets down his coffee and returns Taishiro’s smile dryly. “He’s good.” 

Taishiro has his full attention when he stands and gathers his belongings, realising that that’s as much acceptance as Tamaki is going to offer. It widens Taishiro’s smile that little bit more as he goes to the door with his battered rucksack, and gives him a small wave. “See you tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow.” 

Tamaki hesitates. “Fatgum?” 

“Whassup?” 

Another hesitation, and Tamaki wets his lips like he’s chewing on his words and trying to decide the best course of action. Eventually, he settles on: “I wouldn’t mind. If he became part of the Agency, I mean.”

Taishiro’s smile is so big it hurts, and a lightness envelopes his chest as the last billows of Tamaki’s purple and white cloak drift out the door.

A week passes before he hears from Hawks again. He’s the type of person with his phone as an arm extension, a typical Millennial with a cracked screen and a case covered in squishy food. Usually, Hawks responded in minutes, even during the hours when he should be sleeping or working; it’s a quality Taishiro can depend on. 

Then a day passed, then two. Then three and four, five and six. On the seventh day, there’s a knock at the door. 

Taishiro’s at his desk as he always is in the late evening, after Kirishima’s left and before Tamaki begins. A few sheets of remaining paperwork are spread out on his desk and there’s a pen tapping at his lips, but he just can’t concentrate. His phone is laying on the side, and each buzz has him startling to attention or counting the seconds until he looks at it again. 

He should know that working when he’s distracted is futile, but that stubborn, selfish part of him refuses to give in. He’s not worried. He’s not waiting on a stupid text message. Hawks can see to himself: he’s number two, not a newbie. 

And yet.

The pen falls from his hand with a sigh, and he ruffles his fingers through his hair. His usual mop of fluff is flat and stringy from being crammed under his hood, and the place is warm, almost suffocating. He wants to leave but can’t, and it’s driving him crazy. 

The resolute knock is a relief. He assumes it’s Tamaki coming in for his shift thirty minutes early (he’s known him to turn up two hours earlier out of sheer terror of being late), so when he throws open the door he’s ready to lecture try gettin’ here later and relaxin’--

But it’s Hawks, bruised and bloody, smiling meekly. “Look, ‘m usin’ the front door.” 

Taishiro nearly hollers when Hawks falls forward unexpectedly, and it’s his fat that stops both of them going down. There’s a deep, dark feeling curling in his chest that he tries to ignore, at least enough to slam the door shut and haul Hawks onto one of the beanbags. For once, he disregards the trail of blood left behind. 

He snatches up the First Aid kit automatically, eyebrows firm and furrowed, jaw clenched tight as he rummages for antiseptic and bandages. They’re fully stocked from a particularly rough battle the other day, and he rushes back with a wad before either Hawks or himself have anything to say about this mess. 

The only thing Taishiro manages is: “Where’s the worst bleedin’?” 

Hawks gestures vaguely to his broken nose and black eye, and Taishiro despairs at the half-smirk on his face. He pays no mind to those sharp, golden eyes as he cleans the blood from the cut on the bridge of his nose and the lacerations on his cheeks and chin. It’s like he’s weighing the situation based on how Taishiro reacts rather than how bad his injuries are. 

“Why aren’t ya at th’ hospital?” Taishiro hisses, and Hawks’ eyebrows scrunch.

“Can’t.”

He spares him a glance, meeting that gorgeous gaze. There’s a defiance behind them he knows well, has seen more often than not, but he doesn’t let it drop. Not this time. “Why?” 

“It’s classified.” Hawks exhales through his mouth, breath fanning over Taishiro’s forearms. “Can’t tell you.” 

That wrenching in Taishiro’s chest worsens. He tries not to be upset by it.

Hawks’ follows his movements when he throws the bloodied cotton pads to the side, and suddenly his fingers dart out and wrap around his wrist. For the first time, Taishiro meets Hawks’ eyes properly, and only then realises that his jaw is clenched so hard it hurts. “Sorry.”

Taishiro’s laugh is humourless. He doesn’t pull his arm away, but the touch burns. “What are ya thinkin’, Hawks? Y--”

“Keigo.”

“Keigo.” The name curls around his tongue, Hawks’ name. He wrenches his arm away and jabs it in his chest instead. “Ya need to go to a hospital. Ya need to stop this. Every damned time you come here you get injured--” 

“Are you worried?” The sarcastic reply accompanies an easy smile, and Taishiro has never wanted to punch something off someone’s face so hard.

“O’ course ‘m worried! Who wouldn’ be?!” His anger is a hot flash, bubbling up inside him in a way it’s rarely done before. Taishiro doesn’t get angry, and the need to escape to another room to cool down overwhelms him, except he can’t because he has to treat these wounds--

“Lemme ask you something.” He meets his eyes again and feels an ember rekindle in the intensity of it. Hawks-- Keigo’s smile widens. “Can I ask you something?” 

“I could say a lotta things right now.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Keigo’s eyes drop, and so does his hand. Rather than his wrist, they take Taishiro’s own and move it, higher and higher until it’s cradling his cheek. It dwarfs his face, and in any other context he’d laugh, but Taishiro’s eyes are glued to it. “If I kissed you, what would you do?” 

Taishiro almost chokes. 

“I almost died today, and it got me thinking.” Keigo presses his cheek into his palm, turning to plant a kiss on one of the scars littering his skin. “Life’s too short, isn’t it? We haven’t known each other for more than a few months, but I wanna kiss you. Would you let me if I did?” 

Taishiro wishes, in all sincerity, that he could say no. The question isn’t out of left-field, deep in the recesses of Taishiro’s mind he’d known the interest was there. He’d shoved it aside for professionalism. It was in the way Kirishima had been starry-eyed, in Tamaki’s soft and subtle acceptance because Mirio liked him; they’d all known, Keigo too. Maybe it’s too early to think about this stuff, but then Taishiro’s gaze lingers on his broken nose and bruised skin and his heart melts. He doesn’t say a word. 

The smile on Keigo’s lips widens, and then he kisses him, and Taishiro kisses back like it’s the last one of his life, like none of it matters. Like Keigo hadn’t nearly died, because his lips are so warm, coaxing and inviting, and the knot in Taishiro’s chest tightens until he can’t breathe. 

When he breaks away for air, Keigo looks at him half-lidded, sleazy as ever. “So, if I asked you to date me--” 

Taishiro snorts and turns away, gathering up the discarded cotton pads and standing. He ignores the way his heart thrums as he escapes to the kitchen to throw them away. “If ya promise never t’ mess up my agency with blood again, maybe.” 

Keigo’s laughter echoes like the bright chirp of a bird.