Chapter Text
It really shouldn’t come as a surprise, considering the man is a walking trap for infections. Keigo took one look at him when they first met and immediately named five ways Dabi’s violating public health code by just existing.
He looks like he’s the reason the First Geneva Convention was drafted. Keigo wouldn’t put it past Dabi to be a time traveler. Maybe he started the Bubonic plague.
Keigo remembers telling this all to him. He hadn’t gotten much more than a venomous glare for that. Tough crowd.
He’s since had time to acquaintance himself with Dabi’s never-ending list of health problems – he gets seasonal allergies – which is why it’s even more baffling he never realized the true extent of his suffering. He’s literally stapled together. Like, his skin is actually only holding on because of few pieces of metal.
In his defense, Dabi hides it pretty well. His face does this funny thing where it never moves. Every day Keigo welcomes him into his apartment and it’s a race against the clock to figure out what mood he’s in that particular day before his furniture gets set on fire.
(Keigo analyzes Dabi’s blank face. “You’re pregnant.”
It’s the second time that month his couch catches flames. Worth it.)
Really, the only reason he even finds out is by accident. Keigo’s pretty sure Dabi had been ready to go to his grave without ever telling anyone he experiences pain. God forbid he has a functional nervous system. Which is actually really funny to Keigo because him having a functional nervous system probably goes against every biological law to ever exist. The man is fried.
The point is, he does have a functional nervous system and Keigo finds out after the stake-out he was meant to participate in falls through and the Commission sends him home for the night. What a nice surprise, right? Time to buy take-out and watch the latest season of Grey’s Anatomy on Netflix, right? Right?
Wrong. He comes home to a sweaty villain in his bed trying to kill himself with a pillow.
“A lovely surprise,” he speaks out after a minute of watching Dabi wrestle with his sheets. “Though I do have to ask, do you always sneak into the homes of the men you talk to in the middle of the night, or is that just me?”
Dabi stills, one leg still outside the blanket. He’s staring distrustfully at Keigo, like he’s the one breaking into someone’s private property and not simply existing in his own home. It’s obvious Dabi hadn’t expected Keigo to be there and well – he did tell him he’d be gone the entire night.
“Convenience,” he croaks out and Jesus, he sounds like shit. Looks like it too. “Was closer than the hideout.”
Also has a bed with actual sheets, Keigo thinks but doesn’t say it. “I never gave you a key.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Dabi says and then grimaces. He groans low in his throat and it’s like he’s swallowed nails. “Fuck.”
“Dabi, what’s going on?” Keigo frowns and pushes off the doorframe. “Are you hurt?”
The villain chuckles, bitter, and raises his arms. “What do you fucking think.”
Keigo looks at his arms, nothing out of the ordinary to how he always looks. Realization sets in and his lips part. “Your scars. They ache?”
“Like hell,” Dabi confirms and lets his hands fall. Sweaty hair sticks to his forehead and his lips are tightly pressed together. “Couldn’t even fuck up my own body properly. Dad would be proud.”
“Is there something I can do?” Keigo asks quietly. Seeing Dabi likes this unnerves him. He doesn’t know what to do with the knowledge that Dabi came to his apartment with this. Of course, he hadn’t anticipated Keigo actually showing up, but still. It’s a huge sign of trust.
Or maybe he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. Keigo wonders where he usually rides out the worst of his pain, if he huddles in a corner of some dark alley or lies on the rock-hard sorry excuse of a bed in the hideout, no blankets to cover him.
Keigo’s fingers twitch.
“Nah,” Dabi rasps. “’m used to it. It’ll pass.”
Keigo stands there, feeling stupid but unable to move. He can’t just walk up to Dabi and tuck him in like a mother, brush back his damp hair and tell him it’ll be alright. The thought isn’t entirely unpleasant to him, but he suspects he might end up with charred feathers if he tried it.
“Stop looking at me like I’m dying, birdie,” Dabi tells him. His eyes are unwavering like always but they’re tinged red and quite honestly, he looks exhausted.
“Maybe I’d stop looking at you like that if you stopped looking on the verge of death every time I see you,” Keigo snorts, makes an unconscious move towards the bed before pausing. “Warm helps with pain. Cold? You look sweaty enough, I’m going to be honest–“
Dabi gives him a look that manages to convey everything he needs to say despite him not moving a muscle in his face. That’s exactly what Keigo means, it’s impressive.
“Radiant as always, of course, not to worry,” he reassures him. For the first time, he wonders if making faces hurts him and suddenly it doesn’t feel like such a funny joke anymore.
“Go get your warm shit,” Dabi gives up, rolling his eyes and sinking into the mattress. He looks oddly fitting there, in Keigo’s enormous bed, surrounded by fluffy pillows and soft blankets. Keigo’s feathers ruffle against his back, satisfied. “But you’re not touching me with your fucking claws.”
Keigo ends up soaking towels in hot water. Dabi eyes them for a moment before nodding – like he has the privilege of being choosy – and kicking Keigo out of his room. He manages to coax a pillow from him and takes the couch for the night.
It’s late when Keigo stares at a spot of blackened fabric close to his head and wonders why exactly he feels safe enough to fall asleep with a wanted criminal in the other room.
Or why the thought of Dabi wrapped in Keigo’s sheets makes him smile.