Chapter Text
A hit and run, of all things, is what changes the course of Dabi’s life.
After having half his skin burned off, after multiple life-threatening infections, after countless death-defying fights... he feels justified in being pissed that a broken ankle is going to be the end of his villain career.
Well. That, and a handful of busted ribs, if the shooting pains are anything to go by. He’d felt the windshield shatter under him, and was just grateful his coat was thick enough to prevent lacerations.
Not thick enough to prevent his bones from snapping, though. Dabi clenches his teeth as he drags himself away from the spray of glass across the asphalt.
The fucker in the van hadn’t even stopped. They’d just flown around the corner, faster than Dabi could react, hitting him full force. He’d been lucky to hop up just a little bit, sending him into the windshield instead of under the fender. Better to roll up over the hood than become a speed bump after all.
Fuck, this hurts, he thinks, sweat drenching his temple as he tries not to make a noise. Road rash has both of his forearms bleeding. Maybe his chin too, if the red splatters down his t-shirt are any indication.
Dabi doesn’t let the pain stop him from rolling over onto his knees. His heavy boot drags on his snapped ankle, and he bites hard on his lip as he balances on his shins, trying to pull his good foot underneath him.
He needs to get out of here.
While not in the absolute nicest part of town, Dabi’s still well within the realm of cops getting called for a man down in the middle of a street. One of the many irritants of working with Hawks - he wanted his meetings held somewhere on neutral ground. Not right next door to an agency, but not in the underground either.
Which means Dabi needs to get out of view, fast. Preferably in a safe enough space he can get a look at his injuries. Call the League for a pickup.
He forces his good foot underneath him, neck straining with agony, then freezes when he feels the crunching inside his pocket.
“Fuck,” he rasps into the night air, more sweat trickling down his temple. That was his phone, smashed to bits by the impact.
So much for calling the League. And he’s too far away to fucking walk. He can’t ride a train, can’t even hail a taxi - not in his villain outfit. He’d been going to meet Hawks - intimidation was a must.
Hawks. He… fuck, he wasn’t too far away from their meeting place. If the hero arrived and started looking around…?
To hell with that, Dabi thinks viciously, his leg shaking as he stands upright, his broken ankle held off the road. His ribs scream, and his ears roar with the rush of blood that edges his vision into black. But he grits his teeth and makes his body hold firm.
Blinking sweat from his eyes, Dabi lets his gaze sweep over the area until he spies the entryway to a narrow alley. It’s less than three meters from him.
Those three meters become his personal hell.
Hopping gets him ten centimeters. Hobbling gets him agonizing spikes of pain all the way up to his hip. But he has to use a combination of the two to get to his destination before he can finally cling to the rough bricks with bloodied, white-knuckled fingers.
The world sways viciously around him, taunting him with its instability. Pissed off, Dabi reaches to the back of his hand, pinches a staple with his fingernails, and twists.
The pain is sharp, biting, and it brings his mind back into focus, unlike the wash of pain from his legs and ribs that threaten to drown him entirely. This is a familiar pain. This is something he can work with.
He props his shoulder on the bricks, hissing as new bruises make themselves known. Fuck, for all he knows, he has multiple breaks and the ankle and ribs are just the worst ones.
Speaking of breaks… he thinks, cupping his pocket with a shaky hand. Glass clinks against itself, and he closes his eyes in resignation before he dips his fingers inside.
His phone comes out in pieces, shattered beyond all repair, just like his slim hope that it was somehow still functional. Furious, he lights his hand on fire, incinerating what’s left of it in a burst of blue flames.
So. No support. No transport. And even he’s not so bullheaded as to think he can make it home in his condition. He was lucky to make it into the alley, and that wasn’t going to be tenable in the next few hours when shops began opening and people began filling the streets.
He could light a fire. See who comes running and if they have some form of transport he can steal. Except the fucked part is, it’s his right ankle that’s broken. Which means he can’t operate the gas or brake pedals.
Stubbornly, he tests his ankle against the asphalt, leaning a tenth of his weight on it.
“Fuck!” he hisses through his teeth, pain radiating through him so fiercely, he can barely keep from screaming. He bites into the back of his wrist, eyes clenched as he lifts his foot from the ground, the lack of pressure almost as painful as the weight had been.
His shoulders shake, first from pain and frustration, then from near-hysterical laughter. Because of-fucking-course he’d get fucked over by something stupid. Of-fucking-course life had to throw another obstacle in his way. As if giving him a shitty quirk matchup, an asshole father, and a burnt up body wasn’t bad enough. Fuck.
The sound of wings flapping overhead is just icing on the goddamn cake, and Dabi’s laughter turns loud and manic. What else can he do but fucking laugh when Hawks, number 2 hero and probable traitor to the League, lands in front of him, both eyebrows up in question.
“Well,” the hero says. “At least that answers one of my questions.”
Dabi snorts, uncaring of how it hurts his ribs. “Yeah? Which one?”
Hawks offers him a sly smile. “Whether you’re a boxers or a briefs guy.”
Dabi’s eyes flick down and he sees that he does have a rip in his pants, just across his thigh. Purple scars are visible, along with the edge of his black boxers. He almost snickers at the inanity of it all. But hell, if Hawks is gonna keep up their shitty charade of flirtatious comradery, then Dabi will meet him toe to toe.
“Didn’t know you were interested, birdie.”
Nonchalance. Humor. Match his tone. You’re not fucking vulnerable.
“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone more interesting in my life,” Hawks says easily, with an almost honest expression. “Or anyone in more need of a medic. Like - I know we’re just at the interviewing/testing/posturing stage of our partnership, but frankly, you look like you got hit by a bus.”
Dabi almost smiles at that.
“A delivery van, actually,” he says dryly. “So you’ll excuse me if I call our little meeting off tonight.”
Hawks’ expression shifts from incredulous to concerned to calculating in the space of a second.
“Wait, you actually did get hit by something?” He asks, not waiting for an answer before he digs his phone out of his pocket and turns on the flashlight. Dabi tries to shield his eyes but finds he can’t lift his right arm above elbow level. Instead, he’s left blinking in the light of Hawks’ phone, angrier than he’s been in a long-ass time.
“Hell, Dabi,” Hawks says in a hushed tone, letting the light trail down Dabi’s body. “I thought maybe a bar fight went wrong or something. How bad is it?”
“None of your business,” Dabi shoots back, holding himself as still as he can. His fucking leg is shaking from taking all of his weight.
“Yeah, I don’t think I can do that,” Hawks says, taking a step forward. Dabi can’t even retreat, but he can light his hand on fire, so that’s what he does.
“If you know what’s good for you,” he growls. “You’ll step back.”
Hawks pauses, golden eyes bright in the light of Dabi’s fire. He can see the myriad of thoughts racing through the hero’s mind, belying the doofus person he often paraded out for the masses. It was one of the things that made him interesting to Dabi - the fact that he hid so much from all his adoring fans.
It’s irritating now, though. Being assessed like Hawks is breaking him down to the path of least resistance.
“Fine,” Hawks says, taking a step back and raising his hands in surrender. “I’m not gonna force my help on you.” He gives Dabi an unreadable look. “But I will ask - how do you plan on getting back to your base like that?”
Dabi rolls his eyes. Predictable.
“Without your help, birdie,” he says pointedly. “You’ll meet the League when I say so, or not at all. A little accident isn’t gonna change that.”
Part of him wonders, deep down, if maybe Hawks organized the hit and run specifically for that purpose - to meet the League. Fuck, he wouldn’t put it past him.
Hawks shrugs as if the rejection means nothing to him. “I mean, if y'all have a doctor or something, I could drop you off with them? Or at the very least, you could come with me to my place. I have enough med supplies to last a short war.”
Dabi grimaces, not able to immediately deny the idea of medical treatment. If he’s learned anything over the past decade of treating himself, it’s that ignoring injuries doesn’t actually make them go away. Sometimes, it makes them worse. Sometimes, it puts him at death’s door, burning with fever and infection and pain that rivals burning alive.
He doesn’t ignore injuries anymore. Not to the point of jeopardizing his mission. But he doesn’t take charity either.
Because charity doesn’t exist. Everyone wants something in return.
“What’s the catch,” Dabi asks, gritting his teeth as a wave of dizziness washes through him. Hawks flaps his hand.
“No catch. Just can’t let you die on me before I get the chance to prove myself.” He gives Dabi a wry smile. “Maybe earn a few brownie points for helping out, but otherwise… nothing.”
Dabi grunts, still thinking about it, leaning toward saying no anyway because his pride stings almost as painfully as his ankle. Unfortunately, his standing leg chooses that moment to spasm, and he sets his injured leg down to steady himself, sending pain bolting up his leg. His knee buckles.
“Shit shit shi-!”
He doesn’t catch the rest of Hawks’ cursing as his knees hit the ground and the world explodes with agony.