Archive of Our Own

Strobe lights flash across a drunken crowd, illuminating the club in short bursts of white light. Hawks’ eyes burn as he fights the tide of bodies that press against him on the jam-packed dance floor. He clutches his and Miruko’s drinks tight to his chest and prays no one has epilepsy.

It is a Saturday night, and Saturday nights are party nights, according to Miruko.

He slowly makes his way through the teeming floor, dodging wild kicks and loose elbows and, once, a spray of vomit from an unfortunate young woman with skin like ash. Music hammers a drumbeat against Hawks’ ears until he feels like they bleed. Strobe lights flare once more. People keep petting his wings—they always do, despite not asking first—and the feeling is too weirdly intimate for Hawks to enjoy it. He grits his teeth and concentrates on not letting his drinks spill, pretending to ignore the phantom hands that curl through his feathers like snakes.

When he finally reaches Miruko and the cluster of people surrounding her, his sleeve is wet with some foreign drink and he has a dark bruise forming on his hip. Miruko just laughs when he tells her and presses a playful kiss on his cheek. Someone behind him sneaks a lingering caress of the lower feathers of his right wing.

“Anything for the drink, amirite?” Miruko bellows, swiping her glass from Hawks’ hand and downing it in one gulp. Ten minutes he spent getting that drink, and it’s gone in a second.

Miruko lets out a loud belch, followed by a whoop and a deep cackle of laughter. The crowd gathered around her cheers. Hawks forces a grin.

Miruko is a happy and oblivious drunk, constantly laughing, unashamedly flirting, and doing all kinds of things to embarrass herself, but Hawks doesn’t mind. He’d stick around his best friend—his only friend—even if it killed him.

Besides, the last few months have been stressful for both of them. The increase of villain activity means more patrols, longer hours, and piles of paperwork to file. He and Miruko have needed a break for a while, and partying is his friend’s favorite pastime.

The people surrounding her quickly swallow Hawks among them. They’re admirers, each one of them looking for a quick conversation or a good fuck, probably so they can brag to their friends about it later. You got a promotion? That’s cool. I know the size of pro-hero Hawks’ dick.

It makes Hawks uncomfortable but not surprised, and the Commission would want him to play along anyway. So, he plasters on a familiar fake grin and fights to keep his wings still as more greedy hands claw at them. A pretty woman sidles up to him and squeezes his bicep and laughs at everything he says, and he allows it, even though he’s completely uninterested. He prefers his partners tall, gangly, and most decidedly male, with skinny ankles, hideous purple scars, and slight homicidal tendencies. One partner in specific.

A man is telling a story about a time he saved his friend from a speeding Chevy Camaro on a residential road, a model infamously known as the douchiest douchebag car ever invented. Hawks forces a laugh along with the rest, ignoring how the woman’s grip on his bicep tightens and how the man’s eyes flicker to Hawks for approval. Hawks resists a sigh.

It’s the same story every time. He never misses the hope in some fans’ eyes, the way they look at him as if he’ll hand them his card and hire them on the spot if they tell a story impressive enough. But Fans like them miss the point of being a hero, seeking the job for fame, glory, and money. They’re attention-seekers, unconfident and greedy, and this man reeks of insecurities.

Lost in his thoughts, Hawks nearly misses it when the woman clutching his arm leans into his ear and murmurs, “We should find someplace quiet.”

His stomach rolls. The thought of ducking into a secluded corner with this woman, of hands on his skin and in his feathers and of clothes dropping to the floor, fills him with quiet disgust.

“Yeah,” Hawks agrees with a flirty smile. “Lead the way.”

It’s what the Commission would want him to do.

It’s surely what the woman wants him to do.

And Dabi . . . Dabi is not here to tell him what he does and does not want Hawks to do. Nor does he have the authority. It’s not as if their relationship—if one can call it that—is exclusive.

So, Hawks waves his goodbyes and allows the woman to lead him from the crowded dance floor, passing an oblivious Miruko along the way, who is victoriously crowned upon someone’s shoulders, chugging a can of beer.

Miruko loves attention. She is loud, boisterous, and the life of every party. Hawks once saw her slice open an IPA with a knife and shotgun it in a heartbeat, to the appreciative screams and shouts of the partygoers on the beach. Another time, she’d grabbed a woman around the waist and kissed her senseless, until the woman’s lips were swollen and her eyes were glazed and she could barely stand on her own two feet. Hawks offered to take her home, but she almost collapsed in a dead faint when he did, so he called her an uber instead. The next day, Twitter was roaring with a video of the kiss, captured by a shaky cell phone video, and the woman, safely recovered after a good night’s sleep, revealed her name to be Miiko and asked Miruko to DM her.

On both occasions, Miruko positively preened.

Hawks loves her—loves her so much it hurts—but they are complete opposites in some things. Including this. Especially this.

They are in a quiet corner, and the woman releases his bicep and is on him in an instant. Her lips are hot and wet, her hands cool against his abs and the base of his wings. She slots herself between him, grinds her hips against his knee, and releases a long, wanton moan. And Hawks—

Hawks feels nothing.

This kiss is boring, lifeless in a way it never is when he’s with Dabi. There’s no heat, no passion, nothing but flat monotony. It’s simply another woman thrusting herself upon him, considering herself lucky to be in the arms of pro-hero Hawks. Another woman feasting on his skin, his lips, and the false intimacy of the drunken moment she’s created in a crowded club. Another woman, another kiss—another moment he will forget.

He’s grateful when, in her eagerness, she crushes herself against his hips and feels his disinterest. With an angry hiss, she shoves herself off him, sneers at his half-assed sorry, and stalks away, shooting him a horde of profanity and a vulgar gesture as she does.

All Hawks feels is relief.

Finally, finally, he is alone.

The feeling is better than heroin.

He tilts his head back against the wall and lets out a low groan, tucking his wings behind him as best as he can and hoping the dim lighting in the club will hide his features. He feels heavy, as if weighed down by rocks. His thoughts are already murky with the buzz of alcohol, and he’s growing unsteady on his feet. He wants nothing more than to pass out in his bed, close his eyes and sleep late into the afternoon, and wake up warm and cozy under a pile of fuzzy blankets.

Of course, he has patrol tomorrow at nine, and he does not own a fuzzy blanket. But he can dream.

The DJ plays a new song—a popular rap song by a female artist whose name Hawks forgot—and the crowd on the dance floor goes wild. He spots Miruko amongst the crowd, hollering the lyrics with everyone else, another beer in her hand. Hawks wonders how many she’s had. Four? Five? Likely more.

Hawks closes his eyes, allowing himself to relax. Seconds turn into minutes, and Hawks remains where he is. The dim light does the trick; no one bothers him. It relieves him to no end.

Just another few moments, he thinks blissfully.

His phone dings. A text from Miruko:

You hiding in the bathroom?

Hawks can almost see her smirk. No, he texts back, I’m hiding in a corner.

He looks up, his eyes searching the crowd for familiar white hair and tall bunny ears. He spots her just as his phone dings again, an amused grin on her face. He snorts and glances down to read her text.

Lmaoooo ready to go?

Yeah, I think I’m gonna fly out in a min

Cool, ill meet you outisde in five. Sound good?

Of course Miruko would not let him fly home alone. For all her bluster, she is attentive. She picks up on Hawks’ feelings, even when he tries to mask them. And she will do anything, even sacrifice a party or another wholesome “scandal” on Twitter, if it means helping Hawks. After all, she is the number-five hero for a reason: she’s quick-thinking, daring, and strong enough to crush a watermelon between her thighs with ease. (Hawks has seen her do it. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t impressed.)

A soft smile plays on his lips as he replies, Sounds great!

Getting out without being noticed is a daunting process. He keeps his head down as he edges along the wall, hoping his wings get lost in the chaos of the crowd. He doesn’t realize he’s tense until he is outside breathing fresh air, the cool temperature refreshing after the heat of so many bodies in the club.

It doesn’t take long before Miruko joins him. She is sure to wake up in the morning with a raging hangover, judging by how she stumbles on her way up the stairs leading to the street, but she greets Hawks with clear eyes and an easy smile.

“You tire so easily,” she teases, bumping him lightly on the shoulder as they start to walk.

Hawks chuckles. “I was just sick of that woman groping my biceps.”

Miruko makes a face. “Touché. I hate it when people do that.”

“And petting my wings like I’m a dog.”

“I hate it when people do that, too.”

“What, to your ears?”

She rolls her eyes, causing her to lose balance and steady herself with a hand on Hawks’ shoulder. “No, to my devil horns. Of course to my ears, dummy! And my tail. And sometimes my feet, too. You know there’s a website specifically dedicated to fetishizing my feet for foot fetishes?”

Hawks cringes. “Really?”

“Yep.”

“That’s creepy.”

“Yeah.”

“Glad I don’t have one of those.”

Miruko bites her lip. “Well . . . actually . . .”

“I have one?”

She grimaces sympathetically. “Yeah. I came across it once looking at my own. They have, like, your wings and markings and shit on there.”

Hawks doesn’t know how to feel about that. Because on one hand, it’s not overly revealing. But on the other, the thought of people getting off to his wings makes him feel a bit icky.

Then another piece of what Miruko said clicks into place. “Wait, you looked up your website?”

Miruko’s mouth falls open, caught off guard. Then she tips her head back and cackles. “Where else am I gonna get good feet pics?” she jokes.

Hawks bursts out laughing, and somehow that is the funniest shit he’s heard in years because soon he is clutching his burning sides and gasping through mad guffaws. Miruko grins back, wild and feral.

Okay, so maybe Miruko isn’t the only one who is tipsy.

When their laughter dies and Hawks can breathe again, Miruko shoves his shoulder. “So, any particular reason why you didn’t appreciate that woman’s flirting?”

Miruko knows full well why—she deals with plenty of desperate, unappealing men, too—but that’s not why she asks. Hawks groans. “I’m not in a relationship, bunny.”

She had been trying to convince him to date for years. It’s not as if Hawks is prudish—he dallies here and there when he feels like it, even enjoys it sometimes, and being the number-two hero means there is always someone interested. But everything he has done has been short-lived; Hawks always gathers his things and leaves before the first rays of sunlight crest the horizon in the morning.

“Why not, bird? You could have anyone you want. I know half my office alone wants to fuck you. Want me to hook you up to any of them?”

“Hell, no,” Hawks protests.

“I know a guy in tech—you’d think he’d be a huge nerd, and he totally is, but he’s actually super chill—”

“Thanks, but I’m good.”

“Should I set up a Tinder account? Grindr?”

“Absolutely not.”

Miruko rubs her eyes with a tired hand. “You’re impossible.”

“I don’t need to find someone to date,” Hawks insists.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were married,” she scoffs.

Unbidden, the image of Dabi’s scarred face swims before him, lazily tracking the conversation. He raises an idle brow, amusement sparkling in his icy-blue eyes as if to drawl, Married? To you? Imagine that, birdie. A hero and a villain, star-crossed lovers . . . What would the papers say?

“Definitely not,” Hawks croaks.

Miruko hums. “You sure?”

“Positive.” All pretense aside, he and Dabi are nothing close to dating or even just friends—they just do what they feel when they feel like it, and conveniently forget about it during their meetings until the next time they are in the mood.

“Cut the bullshit.” Miruko’s voice is sharp and jarring, jolting Hawks from his thoughts. She levels him with a measured glare. “I know that look.”

Hawks’ mouth dries. “What look?”

“Hawks, I’ve known you for years. I know the look you get when you’re trying to hide something.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. You’re a terrible liar.”

Hawks’ heart rate immediately picks up, and he has to bite his tongue to prevent the concern behind her proclamation from spilling out of his loose lips. Is he that obvious? He suppresses a shiver. Not a good sign for someone currently infiltrating the most dangerous villain group in Japan.

“What look do you mean?” he asks as casually as he can, his tongue like sandpaper. The importance of the question settles over him like a heavy cloud. He needs Miruko to answer, needs to know so that he can amend his mistake and the League won’t find out, so Dabi won’t find out, so that he can survive—but Miruko does not know that.

She chuckles, Hawks’ internal panic lost to her. “Hard to describe. Your eyes kind of sharpen like you’re thinking really hard about something. Or like you’re really angry at me and you don’t want me to know.”

Hawks breathes a soft sigh of relief and tucks away the information for later, praying Dabi has not noticed.

“But that’s beside the point,” she continues. She narrows her eyes. “You’ve been seeing someone, haven’t you?”

And Hawks is caught, a bird in a cage, trapped in the hungry jaws of a rabid rabbit. Under the stubborn intensity of her gaze, he has no choice but to scratch the back of his neck good-naturedly, allowing heat to bloom on his cheeks as he relaxes into his familiar, play-boy act and desperately wills his hands to stop shaking. “Well, I guess you could say . . .”

“You are!” Miruko exclaims, bouncing on her bunny feet and nearly stomping on Hawks’ toes. “I fucking knew it! Who?”

Now Hawks has hit a snag. He lets out a bout of nervous laughter. “Um . . . no one you know.”

Miruko hits his shoulder. “Oh, come on, who? Is he handsome? Strong? Smart? Please tell me he’s not a deadbeat.”

Hawks tries not wince. “No . . . he’s pretty, uh, strong.”

“Damnnnnnn, bestie, get it!” she crows, punching the air. “How long?”

“A few months.”

“And he’s treating you right?”

“Yeah.” The word feels wrong in his mouth, but it’s true—despite his villainous affiliations, Dabi does treat him right.

“You gotta give me a hint, man. Does he work? What does he do? Is he a hero?”

Hawks nearly snorts at the latter bit. “No, he’s not a hero. He works in . . . retail.”

He can picture Dabi’s glare at that as if he stands beside him, sneering, Retail? Really?

“Poor thing,” Miruko laments, and if Dabi did work in retail, Hawks would have to agree. “Is he a barista or something? Were you two once of those meet-cute moments in a coffee shop where he wrote his snap on the cup?”

As if. “No,” Hawks chuckles, “not at all.”

“Then how did you meet?”

In a dirty alley where he almost burned my face off. “We met through work. I saved him during a patrol, one day.”

Miruko snorts. “You made his Wattpad dreams come true, doing that.”

And because it’s Dabi she’s unknowingly talking about—Dabi, the hardened villain of the League of Villains—Hawks cannot contain his laughter.

They reach Hawks’ apartment soon after, where Miruko thankfully gives up on learning a name. They hug goodbye and part, Hawks entering through his balcony door and collapsing on the couch, a strange mix of pleasant joy and intensifying unease bubbling within him.

As much as he loves hanging out with Miruko, she can never know about Dabi. But how much longer will he be able to hide it?

It’s with this foreboding thought that Hawks closes his eyes and sleeps.

~~~

Dabi knows where Hawks lives, and he lets himself in on the regular. How he ascends four floors onto his balcony and slips through the locked door without a key is a mystery to Hawks, but he’s grown used to coming home and finding Dabi in his apartment at any given time of the night without so much as a text to warn him.

“You know,” Hawks says as he enters and finds him there again, splayed on the couch like a lazy, spoiled cat, “one day I’m going to bring someone with me, and it’s going to be hell trying to explain to them why there’s a villain in my apartment.”

Dabi follows his movements with his eyes as Hawks crosses the living room into the kitchen and rummages around the cabinets for cereal. “Yeah, I bet that will suck,” he says in a familiar drawl.

His dismissiveness causes a flash of irritation through Hawks, and his wings flare. “It’ll probably be a hero—”

“Will it? Shocking.”

“—and they’ll arrest you—”

“Only if they can catch me.”

“—and I won’t protect you from jail,” Hawks finishes, pouring a bowl of Fruit Loops with unnecessary fervor.

“Who’s to say you wouldn’t be in jail with me?” Dabi demurs.

Hawks tenses, recognizing his mistake a moment too late. “I’d be too fast. They’d never catch me.”

Dabi hums, seemingly satisfied. Relief spreads through Hawks in a wave.

Lifting his bowl, a half-gallon of milk, and a spoon, Hawks settles with his cereal at the table. Dabi raises his brows at him from the couch.

“Cereal at night?” he scorns. “Really?”

“You must be very bored if you came here to criticize my meal.”

“It’s a shit meal.”

“Why’d you even come?”

There’s a short silence as Dabi frowns, thinking for one long, unnatural moment, then shrugs. “Guess I was bored.”

Hawks pauses, a spoonful of cereal hovering in the air, the tease he prepared dying on his tongue. “No business?” he asks, perplexed. Usually, Dabi has at least something to say.

But Dabi just shakes his head. “Nope.”

Hawks swallows. “Well, I have nothing for you.”

“That’s fine.”

“But . . .”

Then why come? lies on the tip of his tongue, but he already knows the answer. Hawks lowers his spoon. “Did you come here for sex?”

Dabi shrugs. “Nah. Don’t wanna.”

And that—

That is not what Hawks expected.

Dabi stretches on the couch, shirt riding up a bit, exposing the scarred, purple skin on his stomach. He stands in a fluid motion, shrugging off his jacket and slinking over to join him in the kitchen. He drops into the seat across from him with a sigh, lifting his head and pausing when he meets Hawks’ stunned gaze.

“What?” he snaps.

Hawks blinks himself out of his daze and busies himself with his cereal.

The apartment is silent for some time, broken only by the scrapes of Hawks’ spoon on the bowl and the crunch of cereal. For a moment, Hawks considers offering Dabi a bowl, but the sight of his moody glare at the fridge is enough to convince him otherwise. He mellows in the silence instead, picking at the final, soggy remains of his Fruit Loops.

Eventually, Dabi stands and slinks toward the fridge. Judging by how long he has spent glaring at it, Hawks thinks for a moment that he might punch it, but Dabi just pulls it open and squints at the contents inside.

“Where’s your beer?” he asks.

“Bottom drawer.”

He pulls out a Budweiser and makes a face. “Cheap.”

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting a moody villain to break into my apartment and serve himself to my beer,” Hawks snaps.

“I didn’t break in.”

“What, did you politely pick the lock of my balcony door and let yourself in or whatever it is you do?”

Dabi blinks. “There’s a spare key hidden below the flowerpot.”

Hawks sputters. “I—is there?”

“Yeah, I’ve been using it to get inside, dumbass.”

And Hawks is seriously perturbed by this, because that means he has relaxed his security so much that he forgot a risk as glaringly obvious as that. He squirms uncomfortably, electing to ignore the implications. He, a spy, absolutely does not trust the murderer he is spying on.

Dabi snorts in his silence. “How you manage to still be alive astounds me.”

Hawks clenches his jaw. “I haven’t touched that flowerpot in ages.”

“Clearly. I’ve never seen a plant that shriveled up before. It looks worse than me.”

Hawks actually feels guilty about that. He is a terrible plant owner, so much so that he feels bad for them. “Nah. You look pretty bad.”

“Yeah, but I look better than a plant.”

“Do you?”

Dabi looks like he’s either about to kiss or smack the shit-eating grin off Hawks’ face. He raises his hand and lets it hover as if deciding between the two, before dropping into his seat and cracking open the beer.

Hawks eyes him. Dabi isn’t looking at him, a shadow crossing his features as he focuses on a shallow scratch in the wood. There is a strange look on his face: jaw clenched, brow furrowed, eyes dark, bottom lip curling distastefully. It’s not the look of someone who came here for nothing—there’s a thinly veiled desperation to it, warped with a vicious anger and something else Hawks cannot put a finger on, and he just hopes the emotion is not aimed at him.

After a moment of hesitation, Hawks stands and dumps his empty bowl in the sink. Better to let Dabi bring up whatever it is that is bothering him on his own accord than to get set alight by probing him for an explanation.

“Well,” Hawks says from the sink, “I need a shower and sleep, so if you’re not here for anything . . .” He trails off, letting Dabi fill in the rest.

But to his annoyance, when he turns, Dabi has not moved an inch. He’s glowering at his beer as if it has personally offended him, and Hawks rubs an irritated hand over his eyes.

“Dabi,” he gripes, “I’ve been patrolling all day. I have a meeting tomorrow at six, and then I’m going to be filling out paperwork for the rest of the day.” The day before, he arrested a villain as usual, but the woman decided to make his life miserable by connecting herself to a particularly befuddling kidnapping case. The police need his statement, the Commission needs his signature, several hero agencies need information, and five newspapers have contacted him for interviews. “If there’s nothing you’re here for—”

“What’s Endeavor to you?”

Hawks breaks off. Of all the things he expected Dabi to say, that is not it. “I—what?”

“Endeavor.” Dabi tears his eyes from his beer and swivels around to face him. “You admire him or some shit. Why?”

“I don’t—”

“Don’t bullshit me, Hawks. Your voice gets all moony and your eyes light up whenever you talk about him. I’m not doubting your loyalty or anything, I just—why?”

Hawks is silent for a long, long time. There is a story behind his respect for Endeavor, one he has not revisited in years, but how much truth is he willing to share?

The answer, it seems, is not much.

“Endeavor saved me once when I was a kid,” he replies shortly. “I’ve respected him since.”

Dabi looks as though he swallowed a lemon. “From what?”

That question leads to dangerous territory, a place Hawks really doesn’t want to discuss. “A man attacked me. A villain, I mean. Endeavor came in and arrested him.”

Endeavor arrested my abusive father, he leaves out.

“How heroic,” Dabi mutters bitterly, a gleam of unadulterated hatred in his eyes. The expression disturbs Hawks more than he would like to admit.

“Look, it was a long time ago, and old habits die hard.” Hawks shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant. “Why do you want to know, anyway?”

Dabi’s lips curl into a snarl. “Let’s just say me and the old man aren’t on the best of terms.”

Obviously, Hawks thinks, but decides not to say it.

“Is that why you came?” he asks instead.

Dabi stiffens. “No.”

“Then why?”

There is a long silence, broken by the steady drip, drip, drip of the leaky kitchen sink that Hawks has been too lazy to fix.

“I don’t know,” Dabi murmurs at last.

Hawks raises a brow. “You don’t know?”

“I don’t know.”

And the silence is suddenly deafening.

Now, Hawks is not the most observant guy. He’s not dumb—the playboy façade he puts on for the cameras is an act, and it’s one that works both in and against his favor. It makes villains underestimate him and allows him to glean information from people who think he’s plain stupid, but it also means the public sometimes has a negative view of him. Hawks doesn’t like this latter bit (the Hero Commission decided on his persona long before he made his debut; they thought it would suit him best, and he was in no position to argue otherwise), but he cannot deny that pretending he is easily exploitable has never worked in his advantage.

Of course, there are times when he is oblivious to something obvious, like when Miruko reminds him to eat, or Endeavor points out a clear sign of danger Hawks missed. But in this moment, Hawks does not miss the way Dabi shifts uncomfortably in his seat, the way he carefully avoids his gaze as if one look will poison him, or the tension in his shoulders and how he instinctively tightens his grip on his beer can. He ducks his head as if he can feel Hawks’ eyes on him, which are widening in abrupt realization.

Dabi is confused.

And, knowing him, probably high.

The beer can pops—Dabi squeezed too hard. His shoulders slump and he lets out a low groan as cheap Budweiser soaks the tabletop.

Yeah, definitely high.

Without a word, Hawks grabs a rag and wipes up the mess. Then he slowly eases himself into the chair adjacent.

He feels abruptly awkward. He’s not sure what Dabi is thinking, and he certainly does not have much experience offering comfort. He’s more of a “ignore your problems until you can’t anymore” kind of guy, himself. But since Dabi came to his apartment, he likely has no one else to talk to. It is not surprising—Hawks cannot imagine anyone else in the League can sympathize with whatever he is feeling, and he doubts Dabi knows many people outside of them. So, he decides he at least has to try.

“Err . . . Dabi?” he begins hesitantly. “You, uh . . . Anything I can do?”

Hawks winces. If Dabi were anyone else, he may have appreciated the offer. But because Dabi is Dabi . . .

Dabi pushes himself to his feet and shoots Hawks a glare. “I’m fucking fine, bird. Don’t strain yourself.”

“Okay, sorry!” Hawks stands and holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m not good at that kind of stuff, anyway.”

“Obviously.”

He ignores the jab and casts a glance around. “How about . . .” His eyes land on the fridge. “Why don’t we share a beer? Or not. Or something. I don’t care. Or maybe—”

Dabi cuts him off with another groan. “Hell, bird. Remind me to never come to you for advice.”

Hawks’ lips spread into a rueful smile. “Yeah . . . I could’ve told you that.”

Dabi snorts. His eyes find Hawks’ in the dark. There’s an unspoken message within them, one Hawks cannot put into words, but it makes him relax all the same, his awkwardness forgotten. He holds his gaze.

At last, Dabi speaks, his lips just barely moving in the darkness:

“I don’t know why I came,” he murmurs. “I just felt like I should.”

The confession drops like a bombshell, ripping through the apartment with a force that nearly makes Hawks stumble in the shockwave. He struggles to form words. “You . . . you felt . . . what?”

Dabi steps forward. He stops just inches away, close enough that Hawks can smell the beer on his breath. “It felt right.”

It felt right. It felt right to a villain, a man who had done so much wrong, who will no doubt continue to do wrong, to come to Hawks, a hero. It felt right.

“That’s . . .” Hawks murmurs. Dabi is getting closer. “I mean . . . you . . ."

Dabi’s close enough that Hawks can count his lashes. He trails off, closing his eyes.

When Dabi kisses him, it’s different than it has been before. The kiss isn’t urgent, or cold, or an indication of what is to come. It doesn’t seem temporary as if they are impatiently building up to the moment when clothes hit the floor and skin slides against skin. It’s slow, and tender, and speaks of now. Just now, only now, in a world where it is just them and no one else.

Time stops as Dabi’s hands cradle his hips, gentle, loose, relaxed—not possessive as he usually is, as if Hawks is simply something to take, to conquer. And that touch feels so much better, so much safer, so Hawks leans in and reaches for his wrists, circling them with his fingers, brushing against sharp staples and rough scars that are somehow familiar but feel so different like this. And Dabi tightens his grip and deepens the kiss, parts Hawks’ lips and fills his mouth with hot breath, and Hawks feels as if he could melt.

There is a story behind this man, Hawks thinks absently as Dabi trails feather-light fingers on his abdomen, tracing fire on his skin. There is a story to him, his staples and his scars, the way he thinks and acts and breathes, the crimes he’s committed, the burning rage that fuels him against Endeavor and heroes. There is a story, and it surely isn’t pleasant, and Hawks does not know if he’ll be prepared to hear it when he does, if he does. Will knowing change things between them? Will Dabi reveal to have done something so vile, so cruel, that Hawks could no longer stand to look at him? Will he sympathize with him? Will he feel closer to him? Will he push him away?

He does not know, and he does not know if he wants to. He just wants this moment to last, the careful trust they have built between them to hold. But Hawks is perching on a tightrope, struggling for balance, and he is one strong gust of wind away from falling.

Dabi’s lips roam, mouthing at his jaw, slipping under his chin, sucking at the sensitive skin of his neck. Hawks lets out a breathy moan at this, a fire in his veins. His head spins, his brain is in a fog, and he feels disembodied, like a leaf carried by the wind, floating through the air on unsteady limbs, and Dabi’s hands under his shirt are the only things keeping him tethered to earth.

Hawks reaches blindly behind him, searching for something to steady himself, but his hand hits air. His other hand fists Dabi’s loose t-shirt, and he stumbles back until he collides with the kitchen counter. The edge digs into his lower back, cold seeping through his shirt, but he barely recognizes it, too busy with the hot mouth roving across his neck, biting and sucking and making him weak in the knees.

“No marks,” he breaths, the first tangible thought he’s had since their lips first met.

Dabi just hums and continues.

Hawks has a story, too, and it’s certainly ugly. The scars riddling Hawks’ skin (the ones Dabi traces with reverence and tactfully keeps his questions to himself) map a grim tale of abuse and neglect. The plain, barren walls of his apartment will remain that way, impersonal and unadorned, because why decorate something that’s not really his? He wonders what Dabi will do if he tells him. Will he scoff and tell Hawks his story is worse? Will he relate? Will he come as close to something like sympathy as someone like Dabi can?

With a final nip at his ear, Dabi meets Hawks’ lips again. Hawks breathes into the kiss, smelling cigarettes and beer and smoke. Loosening his grip on his shirt, he slides his hands up to Dabi’s shoulders, slips them beneath the fabric, and traces the bare skin of his collarbone. He thinks he feels Dabi shiver at that, which strokes his ego in the best way. He can’t help the smile that spreads against Dabi’s lips.

This is wonderful.

The woman at the club cannot compare. No one-night stand or fleeting romance in a dirty, cigarette-stained stairwell could ever come close to what he is feeling right now. For the first time in his life, Hawks has a relationship that is his. Not his fans’, not the Commission’s—his.

They break apart to catch their breath. Hawks is panting, his skin ablaze with heat, and he’s pleased to find Dabi in the same state. His eyes are searching his, icy blue boring into gold, a question swimming in their depths. Hawks tilts his head as Dabi leans in once more and whispers against his skin, “How far do you want to go?”

And the question, sincere and honest and vulnerable, sends Hawks’ blood gushing straight down south.

When will men learn that asking for consent is about the hottest thing they can do?

Despite himself, Hawks replies, “I like this. Maybe some more. No sex, though.”

His words are casual, but in his head, he’s chanting, More, more, more! Still, he stands by them. For so long, sex is all they have been. Hawks wants to know what they can be without it.

Dabi hums. “Just a bit more,” he agrees.

He closes the distance between them.

Hawks isn’t so much of a fool to think that he can save Dabi. These gentle touches, careful assurances, mean nothing, really. In the end, Dabi is still a villain and Hawks a spy, Dabi a killer and Hawks a hero. They are opposites in so many ways, and it makes Hawks wonder what draws them to each other. Why is it that, at their most vulnerable moments, they can find peace with each other? Why is it that Hawks relaxes with Dabi when he should be on edge? Why is it that Dabi is tender with him, treats him with such a level of wordless understanding, as if they breathe with one breath, beat with one heart? How did they construct the fragile trust between them at all?

Dabi tugs at the end of his shirt, and Hawks helps him pull the fabric over his head. It’s a pain to disentangle his wings, something that elicits a mocking snort from Dabi, but Hawks promptly shuts him up with another kiss. He guides Dabi’s hands to the base of his wings and the soft, downy feathers there, his breath hitching when his fingers make contact.

“You like that, bird?” Dabi teases.

And Hawks—fuck his bird instincts to hell—chirps his assent.

Dabi just laughs. “That’s a yes.”

Hawks will never grow accustom to the lack of judgement he receives from Dabi. His whole life, he has been taught to hide the more animalistic parts of his Quirk, warned that he’ll scare children and disgust heroes. The Commission filed down his talons, plucked the crown of feathers on his head until they were bloody and didn’t grow back, and trained him out of his chirps and coos and other bird sounds. But when he let out a little trill one day in front of Dabi and apologized profusely, Dabi only shrugged and said nothing, seemingly unconcerned.

His reaction was the same when Hawks did it again. And again.

Only when Dabi requested Hawks take off his gloves one night, even after Hawks warned him what he would find beneath, did Hawks realize Dabi truthfully, sincerely, does not care. As he slowly loosened up around him, nothing changed. Hawks can trill and chirp and threaten Dabi with his talons and the villain will not even blink.

Maybe this is why Hawks rests his forehead against Dabi’s shoulder and sighs contentedly, a strong sense of utter bliss washing over him as warm fingers card through his feathers. He hums. “I never let people touch my wings.”

Dabi sucks in a breath, fingers stilling.

It is then that the full implications of his words hit him in a rush, and Hawks’ eyes widen as they draw apart a second time.

“I—I didn’t—” he stammers.

Dabi stares at him in disbelief. Then he breaks into a smirk.

“Really?” he croons, drawing out the vowels at leisure.

Hawks’ cheeks heat up hotter than Dabi’s flames. “I—fuck. Yeah. I don’t like it, usually.” He thinks of the greedy hands at the club, the woman’s possessive grip on him as they made out in a corner, and the website he looked up when he got home that night with the URL onlywings.io.

“But you like it when I do, pretty bird?” Dabi says, pressing his lips on the sensitive skin under his ear. He traces circles in his feathers, and Hawks’ traitorous heart skips a beat. Instinctively, his eyes flutter closed.

“Say it, birdie,” Dabi demands.

Hawks hates him, he swears. “Yes,” he grits out.

He can almost see the triumphant grin donning Dabi’s expression.

Despite himself, Hawks relaxes into Dabi’s grip. He buries his head in his shoulder, marveling at how calm he is, how steady his heart beats in his chest. Dabi is a villain, a murderer, a kidnapper, and so much worse. And yet, somehow, with his arms around him and his fingers in his feathers, one spark from setting his wings alight in blue flames, he makes Hawks feel safe.

It’s dangerous, a voice in Hawks’ head warns. It’s terrifying.

Tucked into Dabi’s warm embrace, Hawks can’t find it in himself to heed his own warnings.

They are like this, pressed against the kitchen counter, Dabi with his fingers dipping into the feathers on Hawks’ back and Hawks, shirtless, with his head buried in Dabi’s shoulder, when the front door opens.

Hawks freezes, going rigid as if doused in a sheet of ice. Dabi’s arms tighten around him.

“Hawks? You left your charger at my place and I thought—”

Hawks is not facing the entrance, but he knows who it is. Only two people have the key to his apartment: his handler and—

“Dabi,” Miruko hisses, and there’s a soft clunk as she drops her bag on the carpeted floor. “Get away from him!”

The room is spinning, Hawks’ blood is freezing in his veins, and he can hardly think around a sudden chorus of ohshitohshitohshitohshitohsh—

After what must only be a second, but what feels like an hour, Dabi forces himself to speak:

“Pro-hero Miruko,” he drawls, but without his usual ire. They’re in a compromising position, Hawks knows—the hypothetical situation they entertained earlier of a hero catching a villain in his apartment is quickly becoming reality. But there’s something in his voice that snaps Hawks back to reality. He leans back ever so slightly to see Dabi’s expression, and when he does, his heart skips a beat.

Dabi’s eyes are wide, the blood draining from his face until he looks like a ghost, and he stares at him like he’s having a mini panic-attack. His hands, Hawks realizes, are suddenly trembling against his back. And it’s not like Hawks is not doing much better—his heart feels like a weight in his chest, and he cannot seem to remember how to form words—but as Dabi meets his gaze with pure, unbridled terror in his eyes, the world around him grinds to a halt.

Ever since Hawks began his mission to infiltrate the League, Dabi has held the cards. Hawks has never been in control of his place in the League—if he wants their trust, he has to follow their orders, no questions asked—but he has always had his one trump card: betray the League and involve the heroes. Always, no matter what happens, Hawks has that one, simple failsafe.

Now, he realizes, their roles are reversed. And this time, Hawks holds all the cards.

Every last one.

“What have you done to him?” Miruko snaps, her voice dangerously low. “Tell me!”

Hawks has two options here: Lie and pretend Dabi is his enemy or try to reason with Miruko. It would be so, so easy to do the former, to betray Dabi here and now and lock him up in Tartarus for good. Hawks can do it. He can be a hero. He will sacrifice his cover, his mission, his end goal of Shigaraki in the process—but in the end, isn’t bringing in a top-notch villain worth it?

But when he makes the mistake of looking into Dabi’s eyes and sees the real fear shining through the folds of fiery-blue and an icy-cold demeanor—

He can’t bring himself to do it.

One look at his expression, and Hawks is certain Dabi knows his situation. He is certain that he knows their two options and that, in the end, Hawks will have to decide. But Dabi has no failsafe. He has no trump card. If Dabi is caught here, he cannot count upon the League to rescue him from Tartarus. Nor can he overpower two top-ten pro-heroes and make his escape, nor count on the League to give him backup. Hawks doubts the League even knows he is here. Which means his only option, his only chance at safety, is Hawks. Only Hawks.

For Dabi to escape Tartarus, he is completely, unequivocally, at Hawks’ mercy.

From the wild, trapped look in his eyes and the silent shaking of his limbs, this thought terrifies him.

I can’t do it.

It’s with this thought that he disentangles himself, slowly, carefully, with his hands in the air, and steps around Dabi to protect him from his friend.

And it’s in this moment that Hawks realizes there may be more to their relationship than just a good fuck.

“Miruko,” he breaths, “I can explain.”

The sharp intake of breath behind him makes Hawks realize Dabi may just now realize the same.

Miruko’s eyes have not left Dabi’s. Her muscles flex as she prepares for a fight.

“Hawks,” she says, her words dripping poison, “step away from him and I’ll kick his ass to hell.”

She could do it, too. In an enclosed space with too many obstacles and too much risk for things to go wrong, Miruko has the advantage over Dabi’s explosive Quirk. The thought fills him with panic.

“Miruko,” he says, fighting to keep his voice steady, “you can’t. He’s not trying to hurt me. He—fuck. You just have to trust me.”

“Oh, I trust you,” she retorts. “It’s him I’m worried about.”

“I know, but—Miruko, look at me? Please?”

Hawks does not mean for it to come out as a plead, but something in his tone must convince her, because she tears her gaze from Dabi and focuses on him. He sees her eyes flicker over him as she searches for injuries.

“I’m fine,” he assures her. “I’m not hurt. Can we—just give me a moment for me to explain before you kick our asses to hell.”

For a while, there’s silence. Miruko stares at him, her red eyes boring into his. It’s because of this that he can pinpoint the exact moment it hits her, the realization dawning in her eyes as if she has been struck by a steam engine. Her jaw slackens, opening and closing like a fish as she struggles to form words. If it were any other situation, Hawks would have laughed.

“You’re working together,” Miruko says at last in a low, breathy voice, as if she is hoping Hawks will tell her she is wrong.

He almost does. If he turns back now, he may yet salvage his career. Things may go back to normal. Dabi will never speak to him again.

Or he can risk everything. He can dive in so deep that he may never resurface at all. He can plunge forward, fly like Icarus in the heat of the sun, and hope he can make Miruko understand, hope she will not report him, hope she will not destroy his career. Because if she does . . . if he loses everything that he built, everything he holds dear to his chest that the Hero Commission does not control . . .

Hawks cannot lose what little he has.

But he cannot lose Dabi, either. Dabi accepted him as he is, all the ugly bits and pieces that makes up who he is, in the blink of an eye. It’s a luxury Hawks has never been afforded, not by the Commission, not by his parents—not even Miruko. The thought of losing it now, of losing Dabi now, somehow terrifies him more than whatever Miruko decides to do to them.

Hawks lets out a long, shaky breath. He forces his arms to relax by his sides. He wills his heart to slow.

“Yes,” he tells her. “We’re working together.”

And he waits for Icarus to fall.

Miruko stares at him. Her eyes flicker between him and Dabi, thinking fast. Hawks can see the gears turning in her head, the ripple of her emotions flashing by so fast, one after the other, that he cannot begin to decipher them. At last, her expression clears. Hawks’ throat constricts. Behind him, Dabi shifts nervously.

“Fine,” she says through gritted teeth. “Fine. Explain it to me, and I’ll decide if I’m going to report you.”

Relief crashes over him in a wave. Hawks sways on his feet, stunned. Her response is better than he could have hoped. It’s unbelievable. It’s too good to be true.

“You’re—you’re sure?” he stammers.

“Yeah,” she grunts, stepping forward. Hawks winces, his wings sharpening instinctively, but she just drops into a chair at the table. “Now hurry up before I change my mind.”

Settling his frayed nerves, Hawks sits beside her. After a moment of hesitation, Dabi slinks forward and sits, too.

There’s a long, pregnant pause. Miruko and Dabi eye each other across the table, a mutual sense of animosity permeating the air between them. Miruko’s ears quiver in anticipation, her hands clenched into fists. Hawks thinks Dabi might be smoking.

He clears his throat. They both snap twin, murderous expressions to him, and Hawks fights the urge to cower. Dabi leers at him the same he did when he first joined the League: like Hawks is a particularly large bug and Dabi wants to stomp him. Miruko, meanwhile, looks at him as if she is preparing to swallow him whole. With that expression fixed on him, Hawks cannot begin to see why the media fights to portray her as a cute little bunny. She bears much more resemblance to a feral rabbit.

He shifts in his seat awkwardly. “So. Um. How do you want to begin?”

“Let’s start with the whole I’m-working-with-a-villain thing,” Miruko suggests, her voice dangerously sweet.

Hawks can’t help a nervous laugh. “Yeah! Okay! Well, I, uh—”

“Hawks is a spy,” Dabi says brusquely.

“Yeah, exactly. I—wait, what?”

Hawks must have misheard him. His ears must be playing tricks. Because Dabi—

“Hawks is a spy,” Dabi repeats, and Hawks’ world tilts on his axis. “He was recruited by the Hero Commission to infiltrate the League. I was his point of contact. He’s been trying to pry me for information for months.”

The room is spinning now, and Hawks cannot make it stop. “I don’t—I wasn’t—you knew?”

Dabi snorts. “Of course I knew, bird. You’re a horrible liar.”

“But—then why—”

“I don’t know. Maybe I liked your stupid face.”

Miruko coughs, drawing their attention back to her. Hawks struggles to anchor himself, his stomach doing backflips, because Dabi always knew—

“Let me see if I’m getting this straight,” Miruko says. “Hawks joined the League to spy on the League, and you”—she jabs a finger in Dabi’s face, making him go cross-eyed trying to follow it—“knew about this, and you just let it happen?”

Dabi shrugs. “Basically. Yeah.”

Miruko groans, reflecting exactly how Hawks feels. “I don’t get it.”

“Neither do I,” he agrees, staring at Dabi as if he’s never seen him before.

Dabi sneers. “Hero, we just spent the better part of a half-hour making out, and this is what shocks you?”

Miruko snaps her head up. “You did WHAT?”

Hawks’ cheeks burn hotter than Dabi’s Quirk. “We didn’t—it wasn’t—” He groans and buries his head in his hands. “Why did you have to tell her that?”

He peers through his fingers to find Dabi grinning at him, a maniacal glint in his eye. “Because you’re cute when you’re flustered.”

The table jerks as Miruko starts, banging the wood with her knee. “Is this that boyfriend you were telling me about Saturday night?” she squawks.

“You mean the person you were grilling me for information about?” Hawks corrects.

“Dude, when I asked if you were dating a villain, I was joking!”

Dabi grins cockily. “Aww, Hawks was talking about me? How sweet.”

Miruko stands abruptly. “Okay. I’ve heard enough.”

Hawks’ heart freezes in his chest.

“I’ll keep your damn secret,” Miruko says, and Hawks nearly passes out in relief. “But,” she hisses, jabbing a finger in Dabi’s face again, “if I EVER find out that you mistreat him in any way, I’ll have the cops on your ass before you can say fuck. Understand?”

There is a murderous glint in her eyes as she says it, a look suitable for a villain. Dabi is wise to snap his mouth shut and nod, his arrogant smirk melting in an instant.

“Good. I don’t trust you for shit, villain. I’m doing this for Hawks, not you.” She straightens and composes herself with a sigh. “Hawks, I dropped your charger somewhere on the floor. Call me if he’s ever an asshole.”

He’s always an asshole, a cheeky voice in Hawks’ head replies.

“I will,” he answers sagely.

Miruko nods, once. “Good. Alright, I’m leaving. Don’t murder me on my way out.”

And with the stomping of bunny feet and the snap of the front door, she’s gone.

Hawks lets out a long breath, slumping into his seat. Silence falls.

“She’s terrifying,” Dabi croaks at last.

“Yeah.”

“And she’s your friend?”

“Yeah.”

“You guys aren’t anything alike.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you want for dinner?”

“Yeah.”

Dabi steams at the ears, and Hawks cracks a smile at the sight. “Just kidding, I’m listening.”

He stands and stretches with a yawn, ignoring the tight knot of unease in his chest. He trusts Miruko. She’s been his best friend—his only friend—for years. If she says she’ll keep his secret, she will.

He has to trust that.

“Why didn’t you turn me in?”

Hawks freezes. The question is quiet, almost lost in the silence, but he cannot ignore it. And yet, though he knows the answer, he struggles to find the words.

You were scared. I couldn’t bring myself to betray you. I want you to trust me. I didn’t want you to get hurt.

They’re all answers, but none of them are the right one:

You’re the only thing in my life that the Hero Commission cannot control, and I can’t lose you.

“I—,” he stammers, his mind racing, “I just—it felt right."

Silence again. Drip, drip, drip goes the leaky sink. Far away, a car honks its horn. Hawks thinks he hears the soft ding of the elevator down the hall as Miruko descends to the first floor.

At last, when he can no longer bear it, Hawks casts a glance beside him. Dabi has not moved, sitting rigid in his seat at the table. Their eyes meet.

“I’m going to bed,” Hawks says.

Absently, Dabi nods, his gaze falling on the glass balcony door. He stares at it vacantly, as if he dreads the moment he has to go. His blue eyes reflect the night beyond, mapping a city scape of dark alleys and cold corners, with villains like himself lurking in the shadows. Not for the first time, Hawks wonders how long he has been on the streets. Was it recent? Long ago? When is the last time he spent the night in a place that is his own?

“You know, you could join me,” he offers. He would really like warm fingers in his feathers right now.

Dabi tears his eyes from the window. “After all that?”

Hawks shrugs. “I mean, if we’re fucked, at least we’ll be fucked together.”

Dabi shakes his head. “Dumbass bird.” But he stands and follows Hawks into his bedroom.

Later, when they settle into bed, Hawks laying his head comfortably on Dabi’s chest, he wonders how long this will last. Today was a near miss. If it were anyone but Miruko entering through the front door, would things have turned out differently? Would Hawks be in a pair of handcuffs right now, being led away by the same cops he has worked with to bring in villains more times than he can count? Would he be behind bars instead of beneath his covers, watching cops lead Dabi to Tartarus and a cell of his own? And if not today, then when? How much longer do they have together?

Hawks does not know.

But none of that matters, he tells himself firmly. He’s here now, with Dabi, and today, they’re safe. Dabi’s warm. The heroes are not banging on his door. Cops are not dragging them out of bed in their t-shirts and sweatpants and cuffing them in Quirk-suppressant handcuffs. Miruko is keeping her promise. If anything happens, Hawks will figure it out later.

Dabi shifts minutely, his hand coming up to card fingers through Hawks’ hair. He brushes the spot where his crown of feathers used to be. Hawks closes his eyes.

Yeah. He will figure everything out later.