Archive of Our Own

Hawks’s hands shake where he’s holding the letter.

The letter from his mother. His mother wrote this, he thinks as he stares down at the paper, speechless. His mother wrote this and left it for him.

He knows Tsunagu is still standing behind him, waiting for a reaction - but despite the social skills the Commission had drilled into him since he was a child, he can’t turn around to face him. He’s frozen. His handlers’ voices echo around his head telling him it’s rude to have his back to his superior, it’s inappropriate to ignore someone for so long, you must turn around and act polite, as a hero does-

But, even with all of that noise, he can’t find it in himself to look away. Dear Keigo. She wrote Keigo.

He tries to read it in her voice, eyes skimming over the letter again and again, but he barely even remembers it. He was seven years old the last time he saw her and seven-year-old Keigo wasn’t preoccupied with committing his mother’s voice to memory because he wouldn’t see her again for another sixteen years, maybe ever. Fuck, he hopes it’s not forever.

No, seven-year-old Keigo didn’t know any of that. But how he’s twenty-three and he’s forgetting her voice, forgetting her face, forgetting her.

He doesn’t remember her well. He just remembers the absence of her.

Trauma can make you forget things, Dabi had said to him once. Before the war, before the whole ordeal with Twice, before Dabi exposed him for murder and his criminal of a father. (Before their relationship was irreparably damaged.) Can just leave gaps in your memory.

Hawks’ memories before the Commission are muddled, incomplete, and as much as he doesn't want to admit it - Dabi was right. It breaks his heart because he has barely any memories of his mother and he still yearns for her all the same, still wants her back as badly as ever.

He reads the letter again and tries to imagine it in her voice but he can’t, he can’t because he doesn’t fucking remember. He doesn’t remember his mom. He hates that Dabi saw through him in a way nobody else did, and even after all of that, still went to see his mom, the root of it all.

Dabi probably knows Hawks’ mother better than he does. Dabi saw his mom recently and the last time Hawks saw Tomie Takami was when she sold him to the government.

Now, Hawks doesn’t exactly want to be jealous of the arsonist and murderer who has almost burnt to death far too many times in his life and whose literal skin is falling off - but Hawks is jealous. Dabi was in his mom’s house, Dabi spoke to her, Dabi looked at her-

And Hawks hasn’t done any of those things in sixteen years. Despite all of his training in public relations Hawks wants to scream at the top of his lungs that it isn’t fair, he wants to stamp and hit and make a scene in the empty house because it isn’t fair and it never was.

“Are you okay?” Tsunagu’s words filter through his mental anguish, and Hawks is suddenly glad his vocal cords are ruined. If he spoke now, his voice would crack or he’d end up screaming in his colleague’s face.

Clearly fucking not, he doesn’t say, and just nods instead.

He’s still shaking.

He lets out a quivering breath into the mask, thankful Tsunagu can’t hear it, and slowly starts to fold the letter up; his fingernails trace along the seams where it was folded before and then he neatly tucks the corners back into place. He treats it with the utmost care because this is the first thing his mom has said (well, not said) to him since he was seven.

I’m so very proud of you.

Hawks doesn’t dare put it in his pocket. He’s terrified of crumpling it.

If Tsunagu notices the almost obsessive way he’s holding the letter, he doesn’t say anything. He just holds it carefully in his one hand, getting his phone out with the other so he can communicate.

I think I need to be alone, he types out, letting the automated voice read it for him. He doesn’t look at Tsunagu. He couldn’t bear to.

Nausea rises in his throat and he itches to open the letter, to read it again. If that’s alright.

“Of course,” Tsunagu says quickly, bowing his head. “I’ll wait in the car for you.”

As Hawks treads the empty hallways, he feels even more sick thinking about the villains that were in this house.

It looks so empty. It looks clean, not like the rotting wooden planks and broken bottles of his childhood home - it looks like she might even take care of the place. Or did she get enough money from the Commission when she sold Keigo to hire a cleaner? Or, did they pay her even more to shut up about him and his past?

He can’t imagine his mother polishing these floors or dusting the shelves.

(He can hardly imagine her at all).

A villain has been in here, he thinks as he runs his hand over the back of the couch. Horrible, horrible people walked the hallways of this house. But then he thinks, what place does he have to be calling people villains?

He killed Twice. He murdered him in cold blood after the man trusted him.

He has no right to be thinking about villains in this household. He’s a murderer and he isn’t even meant to be here; his mother is gone and that means he should be too. The only reason she’d ended up with Keigo in the first place was because his father had killed a man and she had hidden him, and now Hawks is following in his footsteps, a killer, becoming the very man his mother hated-

The vision of the room blurs and he has to take a long, deep breath to calm himself down.

The only thing stopping him from clenching his fists is the letter.

It’s still in perfect condition and he sighs with relief, anxiously unfolding it again and burning the lines of Tomie’s handwriting into his brain. Please be well. I’m so very proud of you. Please be well. I’m so very proud of you. Please be-

He feels sick. So awfully, terribly sick.

His feet walk without him even thinking and he finds himself in what he assumes is his mother’s bedroom. (Or, was, now that she’s gone. Now that she’s left him behind.)

It’s nothing special - a double bed with the sheets still crumpled at the end of it, unmade; no pictures on the walls, no keepsake that would lead anyone to believe that Tomie even had a son; a desk with a chair and an open wardrobe and a bookshelf that she’s probably never used - but it’s more than they had ever had growing up.

Her bedroom now has more things in it than their entire house. The windows are without even a smudge and they didn’t even have windows in their old house, just square holes in the walls that looked somewhat like windows but all they did was let the cold air in at night. Hell, none of them even had a bed and now she has one that they could’ve all squeezed onto twice over.

Did his mother think it was worth it, then? Selling her son so she could have all this luxury?

Did she ever miss him?

He drops to his knees by the side of her bed, chest tight with misery and breaths fighting to get out; the sting in his joints is nothing when he reads her letter again through teary eyes. I’m really sorry. I don’t want to cause you any more trouble, so I’m leaving.

A solid half of all Hawks’ problems would be solved if Tomie hadn’t left. If she was here right now to comfort him, to hold him, to do everything he wished she would want to do.

Shit, probably 99% of his problems wouldn’t even exist had Tomie loved him in the first place.

Maybe she would’ve stood up to his father, stopped the constant physical violence against him. Maybe she would’ve liked his quirk and taught him how to use it instead of telling him it was dirty. Maybe she would’ve got him out of that house, sent him to school, dressed him properly, paid attention to him, held him.

Would she have fought against the Commission when they tried to take him?

Hawks knows they would’ve taken him anyway, even if it was against her will. But it would’ve been nice to know that his mother actually loved him, considered him family. Considered him deserving of love. Worthy of it.

Thinking about his younger self makes him sick. Because how could anybody look at that little boy, abused and neglected and unloved, and tell him it doesn’t get better?

He kneels by her bed and it’s half a surrender, half a prayer; he prays that she would love him, that she would come back, that she would actually be his fucking mother.

He prays for the childhood he lost. That he never had. That his mother should’ve given him.

He prays that she walks through her bedroom door right this second. Because he would love a healthy childhood, sure - but since time travel is impossible, he just wants her here now. He’d give anything for her to be here right now. For her to want him how he is now, twenty-three years old and still every bit her son.

The Commission would tell him he’s being stupid. But Hawks knows it like a basic fact - he needs her back. He’d give her a second chance, a third, fourth, fifth chance. He’d willingly forget the entire last twenty-three years of his life for the opportunity to start again with her.

The door remains wide open, the house remains empty, and Hawks remains as lonely and unloved as he ever has been.

He feels exactly like seven-year-old Keigo as he leans his head on the side of her bed and starts crying.

He’d only done it once when they lived together, and he’d been reprimanded for it. None of them had beds back then and so he’d curled up by her side on the floor where she slept, gently sobbing where her back was turned to him, silently begging please turn around, please look at me, please hold me, please - he could only imagine what it would feel like for her to hold him and he wanted it so badly.

Sure, he knew she thought his wings were dirty. But she doesn’t even have to touch them, Keigo had thought; she can shut her eyes and put her arms around my back and she can pretend they’re not there, and, and-

And his sniffling had gotten too loud, turning into full-blown hiccups and sobs, and apparently anything louder than a sniffle was too much, even though he had only been five.

Keigo’s mother did turn over to face him. But it was only to tell him to shut up and stop getting so close to her before she turned back over.

Five years old and desperate for love, Keigo had done as he was told, stumbling to the least damaged corner of the house and balling his shirt into his mouth to muffle the crying.

Dear Keigo,

I’m so sorry.

Tomie never apologised to him as a child. Not once.

Why was she sorry in her letter? Hawks truly, genuinely couldn’t care less about her telling people about his name or his father. Why is she sorry for that and not his entire childhood? Why is she sorry for the only fucking thing Hawks doesn’t care about?

Please be well. I’m so very proud of you.

Hawks’ breath hitches and he sobs in his mask, burying his face in the bed. Stifled sobs still manage to filter through the mask, rough and coarse with his damaged voice.

Did his mom see Dabi’s broadcast? Did she see him kill a man?

Even as a child, she’d always been attached to their TV, watching the thing at all times with dead and empty eyes unless she was talking to Keigo’s father or asleep. There’s no way she didn’t see it. It was on every screen in the country.

He lets out a guttural sob and his stomach hurts with the force of it.

He only stops because he feels a hand on his back.

Instead of terror or fear, he feels hope - and quickly squishes it before he can feel it too much, because when he turns around it’s just Tsunagu, crouching down to him with difficulty (given that he’s six foot three and still feels the need to wear boots with inch-thick soles).

To be honest, Hawks isn’t even embarrassed that he’s crying, because it’s Tsunagu’s fault that he saw. If he’d stayed in the car like he said he would then he’d never have had to see this ugly display and- wait, how long has he been in here?

He didn’t mean to but he must have asked the question out loud, because Tsunagu mutters “About half an hour. I was worried the villains came back.”

Hawks can’t speak and his phone is in his pocket so he can’t get it out quickly enough to type a response; a horrible mounting guilt starts deep in his stomach and it piles up all the way to his throat within mere seconds.

In the midst of his involuntary silence, he blinks up at Tsunagu through teary eyes and signs sorry, his hand closing shakily into a fist and making fragile circles over his chest.

Tsunagu gets it instantly. They’ve both been trained in basic sign language since it’s helpful for the field they’re in - and turns out, it’s also helpful for saying sorry to your colleague because you left him waiting in the car for ages while you cried over your mother on the floor.

Not the most common situation ever, Hawks thinks. But it still helped.

“Do not apologise,” he says. “Sometimes one needs more time for certain things, like selecting the right pair of jean-”

Hawks reaches out to bat him in the face. The universal sign for shut the fuck up.

Through his hero costume, a quiet laugh escapes Tsunagu. But, with his face still stained with tears and throat sore from all the loud crying when his voice hadn’t healed yet, Hawks just feels pathetic. Embarrassed. Why is Tsunagu here, comforting him? What are you supposed to do when you take your colleague to his mother’s house, leave to give him some space, and then come back to find him crying at her bedside?

The shame must show on his face, because Tsunagu rests his hand on Hawks’ back again, right between where his wings are meant to be.

A horrible, grating voice in the back of his head reminds him that Tomie would probably like him more without the wings. She’d always said they were useless, asked why he even had them at all - but now he doesn’t have any. And yes, losing his wings destroyed him more than anything, but in a sick and twisted way, he’s almost… proud?

Tomie would be so happy, he thinks, taking a shaky breath in. He would’ve felt wrong using his dirty wings in her house anyway but right now, he couldn’t even if he wanted to, and he wishes she could see.

He can take the physical pain and the emotional torture of losing his wings if Tomie would love him for it.

Tsunagu takes his hand away and then straightens up, towering tall beside Hawks where he’s folded in on himself, taking up as little space as possible. His voice when he speaks is tentative, unsure, like he’s not really sure how to comfort.

Actually, Hawks thinks, he probably is sure how to comfort. He’s the number three hero, after all, and one can’t get there without at least decent approval ratings - Tsunagu just doesn't know how to comfort his adult colleague who’s having a breakdown on the floor over his own mother.

“I-” he clears his throat behind the jurtleneck. “I’m sure your mother is okay, Hawks.”

Hawks shakes his head, cheeks still streaked with tears. It’s not that, he doesn’t say. He can’t say.

“We have no reason to believe the villains would harm her,” he says, voice calm and collected. He takes a seat beside Hawks on the floor since it’s clear he’s not ready to leave anytime soon. “We’re aware she gave them the information, because Dabi was in possession of it - she did what they asked of her, and now she has left.”

That’s the fucking problem, Hawks wants to scream. She left!

“She has not been hurt.”

Maybe Tomie hadn’t been hurt. But Keigo had.

Tsunagu doesn't get it. He wouldn’t get it. Yes, he knows Hawks’ father was a thief and a criminal - everyone and their mother does, thanks to Dabi - but does he know Hawks couldn’t give less of a shit about all that? Does he know that even after the turmoil and abuse his father put their family through, he still only cares about his mom?

Hawks hasn’t thought about the man at all in the last sixteen years. He was glad to be rid of him. But it’s different with Tomie and he can’t place a finger on why.

You’re a mama’s boy, his father had told him once, looking at him with resentment as he said it. You’ll turn out just like her, y’know.

He just presses his face back into her bed like if he tried hard enough, he could actually erase all memories of his childhood. Tsunagu pats his shoulder in an awkward attempt at consolation.

Hawks feels sick with his comfort, almost, because for some reason it feels wrong - and then he feels awful, because he was deprived of comfort his whole life and he’s getting it so he should be happy, he should be grateful-

But Hawks doesn’t want Tsunagu. He wants his mom.

“I’ll… I’ll drive you home now, alright?” Tsunagu says, helping him stand and then brushing off his shoulders. “It’s not doing you any good to stay here. Do you have people you can reach out to?”

I did, Hawks thinks bitterly, but he was the one who ruined my vocal cords and also threatened my mom, which is why we’re even here in the first place and having this conversation right now.

Still making sure the letter is secure and undamaged, Hawks takes out his phone to type.

Let me clean myself up first? I won’t take a while this time, I swear.

Tsunagu nods. Hawks thinks he’s far too understanding for a job like this and watches as he leaves Hawks in the bedroom, alone, then listens out for the shutting of the car door.

With hands that are slowly starting to stop trembling, he runs his fingers to push his hair out of his face, plastered to his skin with tears. He inhales as deep as his now weak chest will let him and steps into the en-suite bathroom to peel off the mask from his tear-sticky skin and splash his face with cold water, removing any evidence of his tears, his weakness, and making it more comfortable to put the mask back on now his nose isn’t blocked up and his cheeks aren’t wet.

Tomie had an en-suite. That’s how good she had it since giving him up. He finds it hard to imagine his mother living in such a place.

He steps back into her room, desperately willing himself not to cry again because it’d be much too rude to make Tsunagu wait any longer for him. He just… stares, looks around the place, because chances are he’ll never come back here. Tomie won’t, so what reason would he even have for it?

This house is the most recent thing left of his mother and Hawks can’t help but feel guilty for leaving. He’s been yearning for anything of her for sixteen years, getting nothing, and now he feels disgusting for just… walking out. Abandoning his mother’s house like his mother abandoned him.

So before he can talk himself out of it, he’s walking to her already open wardrobe and snatching something out of there. Maybe it’s fucking weird and maybe Dabi and Rumi and yeah, probably even Tsunagu would make fun of him for doing it, but when has anything Hawks done ever been normal?

His mom sold him to the government at seven years old and then went completely no-contact. Sue him for taking some of her stuff.

It’s a grey pullover, probably too big for her so it’ll be too big for him, too; it’s knitted but threadbare in some places and it’s the same grey as the dress she used to wear. Hawks feels guilty and weird and still upset and he holds the fabric, bundling it close to his chest-

…

…It smells like her.

It takes every ounce of self-control within him, every little shred of discipline that’s been forced into him from a young age, not to cry.

He tucks it under his own jacket and just hopes that Tsunagu either won’t notice it or won’t mention it out of courtesy on the way back. He zips his jacket up in a hurry not to keep him waiting any longer and rushes out of his mother’s house, not looking at the too-clean floors or the too-organised shelves.

She won’t miss it, Hawks thinks. She’s never going to come back here.

At least, he definitely won’t.