Archive of Our Own

Back when things were simple, when he was just Touya, just a boy who wanted to be a hero, he'd spend hours sitting in front of the mirror. He'd turn his head, looking over his shoulder at the mirror, at his back and the mark that covered it.

From his shoulders, right down his back, almost below the waistline of his trousers, was an intricate drawing of wings, held tight to his skin. The tips gently touching against the base of his spine, the top curling and shifting as he moved his shoulders. Feathers, strong and detailed, covering his skin, a few floating in the skin around the wings, separated from the whole. Thin, black lines wrapping around each other to create the whole.

Sometimes, the feathers would turn a deep red. Those were the times he'd sit in front of the mirror the longest. Sometimes they'd stay red for hours, his soul mate using their quirk for an extended period of time. Whenever he caught a glimpse of red over his shoulder, he'd sit, watching as the colour came and went for as long as he could before his father would call him in for training.

His father had been so proud of his mark. A larger mark means a stronger quirk, or so they said. Touya's soulmate was someone powerful, so Touya must be, too. He'd be just as strong as his soulmate one day.

Rei had chuckled when she'd found him in front of the mirror again, watching his soulmark turn red, then back to simple lines. Fuyumi had smiled and said his soulmate would be great. Natsuo had beamed and excitedly rambled about how Touya's soulmate must be just as amazing as Touya, to leave a mark like that.

He'd be just as powerful as his soulmate.

He'd be amazing.

***

Keigo would try his best to be good enough. His mother would yell and his dad would hit, but he just needed to be better. Curled in his small bed in the corner of the rundown place he was yet to learn wasn't a home, he'd run his fingers over the lines that covered his arms. They swirled and circled together into licking tongues of flame that reached up his arms.

He'd smile when they turned orange, glowing faintly. He'd run fingers over the burning mark, imagining the heat leaking from his skin, warning the air around him. A gift from his soulmate. The person who'd help him be good enough.

Things changed. He watched his father taken down, dragged away by heroes and his eyes fixed on one person. Endeavour. The hero covered in bright flames, as bright as his soulmark.

He looked down at his mark then, running his fingers over it in the dark and thought of those flames. Endeavour wasn't his soulmate, of course, but it was still flames like his soulmate's that had saved him. Maybe his soulmate wasn't the one to do it, maybe his soulmate had nothing to do with it, but that didn't matter.

Flames like the ones that covered his arms had saved him. So his soulmate must be like those flames he'd seen on TV. The ones that had saved him. Scary, but warm and safe, freeing.

When the Commission saved him, he looked down at those flames marking his skin, remembered those he'd seen on the TV and made himself a promise.

He promised that he'd provide that same warmth to others. That's he'd save others.

Just as the fire on his arms had saved him.

***

Defective.

Broken.

Discarded.

Touya's quirk didn't work right. That's what the doctor had said. That the way his skin screamed and reddened when he used his quirk wasn't right. That it meant he was wrong . That he couldn't be a hero like his father.

He was broken. His body was made wrong. He couldn't do what he wanted to do. What he'd been told to do. What he needed to do.

They had to be wrong, right? Sure, they said he couldn't do it, that using his quirk was dangerous, but they had to be wrong. This was what he needed to do! If he just tried harder, he could do it. The doctors must have just meant that it would be bad for a normal person, right? But Touya wasn't a normal person. He was going to be a hero. He had to be a hero. That was what his father said.

That he was better than everyone else because he was going to be the perfect hero.

Maybe he'd discarded Touya when the doctors had said that, but he had to be wrong too. He didn't understand either. Hadn't he always told Touya he was going to be the perfect hero? That he was better than everyone else? That he was going to have to work harder than everyone else? He could work through this. He could prove that his father was wrong.

That he was still worth his attention.

His first trip up to Sekoto Peak was scary. The woods were dark, only the moon to light the path he made. He kept looking back at the house as it disappeared into the distance and the dark, part of him still saying that it wasn't too late to go back. To get into bed and pretend this idea never happened.

But each time he turned around, he spotted a sliver of red on his shoulder. His soulmate was still up, using their quirk. And didn't he say he wanted to be as powerful as them one day? That he wanted to be as amazing as the person who covered his back in red wings? If they were training their quirk, then he should be, too.

His family might not want him doing this, they might have discarded him the moment the doctor said he wasn't good enough. The moment Shouto came home, his red and white hair showing he had everything Touya didn't. But he wasn't alone in this.

As he finished his journey up to Sekoto Peak, lighting a fire in his palm, watching it dance at his command, he saw it light up the red over his shoulder, covering it in flickering orange light. He wasn't alone. His soulmate was there with him. He'd be as amazing as them one day.

And they'd support him as he worked.

***

It was dark, but Keigo's arms were still glowing orange. No, not Keigo — Hawks. His handler had told him that was his name now. That was his name now. He was Hawks. The hero, not the boy who needed orange flames to save him but the hero who saved people like those flames had saved him.

He had to work hard. But he'd be good enough one day. One day.

At least he wasn't alone in it. Even when his handler would make him train late into the night, he could still see the orange glow of flames over his skin. His soulmate was working just as hard as he was. They were training late, too.

Maybe they were going to be a hero, like him!

His handler told him off for looking at the flames so much, though. They said a hero couldn't rely on anyone else, not even their soulmate. Hawks knew not to argue. They were right, they were always right.

But his soulmate was working so hard. And the Commission had told him that heroes needed to be self-sufficient, but also needed to know how to work together. That must be how it would be with his soulmate. Both strong and able to work on their own, but better together. Stronger together. Working side by side as heroes.

They gave him clothes that covered the mark, dampened the glowing so it wouldn't shine through the fabric. They said it would help with stealth and would stop him becoming too reliant on the connection. They were right. He knew they were right.

Still, some nights he would take off the long sleeves that covered his arms, slide the gloves off his hands and run his fingers over the lines as he used to, back before he was saved. Sometimes the mark would glow even as he lay in bed and he'd smile. His soulmate was working hard. They'd be heroes. Together.

He ran fingers over the lines one night, watching the orange light. It lit up the room around him, the only source of light. The firelight made his wings look almost orange too and, as he stretched them out, the light would move over them so they almost looked like they were made of fire themselves. Each feather flickering with flames.

Like he carried with him the saving fire. Like his wings, his quirk, were made of that same fire that had saved him. That he'd use to save so many.

Then his wings looked black.

Hawks' eyes widened and he turned to his arms. The mark had changed. The orange flames had turned blue. The whole room was now bathed in blue light, brighter than the orange had ever been.

It burned bright and brighter. The light covered everything. Red wings looked black against white walls lit up blue. His arms began to heat. Warmth following the lines, now glowing bright, and growing hotter. The lines of his mark being branded into his skin.

Hawks stared at the blue until he had to turn his face away from the right that burned behind his eyelids.

He didn't notice when it went dark for a few moments. His eyes still lit up with the memory of bright blue echoing through the room.

He blinked, looking down at his arms, his mark now reduced back to just lines across his skin. He reached for the lamp by the bed, eyes still fixed on the mark.

Some of the lines were... smudged, broken where they weren't before. From the wrists up, the marks looked less like the detailed design of flames they had been and more like ash had been smeared over his arms in the vague shape of flames.

Something had happened.

He ran to find his handler.

***

Sekoto Peak burnt.

Touya Todoroki is dead.

***

Hawks had stopped looking at his soulmark. He wore the clothes the Commission had given him to cover them up. He didn't peak at the smudged mess that lay underneath.

It had been almost three years since those flames had lit up. Since they'd burnt blue then went dead. The flames cut out in a single moment and never lit up again.

He knew what it must mean.

His soulmate was dead.

He avoided looking at his body, at his arms, as much as he could. He knew there was nothing left to find in the smudges that remained of his once beautiful mark. Looking at them only reminded him of how he'd failed.

He'd said he'd be the saving fire he'd been on TV, wrapping around his arms. Yet he'd failed to save his soulmate.

He'd failed to save the one person he thought would always be there.

But he had to move past it. His handler always frowned when he saw Hawks bring a hand up to his arm. When he started to abort that gesture halfway through, accepting there was no comfort left in the flames. They had told him not to get too attached. That a hero needed to be able to work without any help. Without any connection. That relying on his soulmate would only slow him down.

He should have listened. He should have known not to get too attached to the faceless flames that covered his arms. To the nameless person they represented.

They were dead now. And all he was left with was grief for a person he'd never known. Never met.

On those nights he couldn't resist the urge to run his fingers over those smudged lines, he'd wonder who they'd been. He was pretty sure they'd been working to be a hero like him, as they trained late like him, but what would their hero name have been? What kind of hero would they have been? How would they have met? What would they have looked like and how would those flames have saved people like him?

He never got answers. Sometimes he wondered if that was better. To forget a person he'd never known rather than remember one he had.

But it was okay. Even if they couldn't be a hero anymore, he would. Even if their flames had gone out, he'd still save people in their name.

It was the only consolation he thought he'd ever get.

***

Touya wasn't sure who he was anymore.

He'd been in a coma, he'd been told by the nurses before he burnt the place down around him. He wasn't sure if he'd meant to. He had panicked, and that place was bad. They'd said his family weren't coming. When he asked what had happened, they'd just said he'd lost control of his quirk.

But he remembered.

He hadn't been alone.

There had been a man who stood over him as he'd burned. Who'd made him burn.

The nurses had played ignorant to his questions. And they'd looked at him with kind smiles but dissecting eyes that scanned him, searching for something.

His body was bigger than he remembered. He could barely move it without tripping. His legs were too long, too weak. The floor felt too far away. His arms didn't catch him when he fell against the wall, scraping his face along brick and collapsing to the floor.

He didn't know how far he'd run. It had felt like miles, but his body was strange and new and his head was still spinning from the changes and the smoke that still felt like it filled his lungs.

He could hear the sounds of sirens in the distance. He could see smoke over the rooftops. He could feel his eyes burning, too dry. His throat burnt, too dry. His skin burnt...

His skin...

He finally took the time to look down at his arms. From the back of his hands up his arms was marked with deep purple scarring. As he put his hands to his face, he could only feel more scarring. As he ran his hands over his legs, there was only more scarring.

How much of his body had he burnt? If he'd been damaged, broken and useless before, what was he now?

His eyes felt drier than before. He should be crying. He felt like he should be crying. Why wasn't he crying? He ran his fingers under his eyes and felt more scar tissue.

The few parts of his body still able to hold him somewhat upright finally gave out.

He could barely feel it as his knees hit the hard floor. Barely feel it as his arm dragged over the concrete, ripping open thin skin, beginning to leak a deep red.

Red like wings.

He snapped upright, his mind clearing for just a moment as he pulled off his shirt, uncaring for how it pulled at damaged joints and skin, how it felt like he was ripping his flesh away from bone. He peered over his shoulder the best he could, searching for the lines of feathers, the deep red that had never left him before.

He let out a small sigh of relief as he saw lines over his shoulder — though it came out closer to a whimper. He craned his neck more, ignoring how it ripped open the stiffened skin around his throat and looked further down his back.

Right across the center of the wings was a thick line of scarring, effectively splitting the wings in half. The center of them cut out by jagged lines. The lines around the scar blurred and smudged, looking more like the ash than still lined his hands than feathers.

His joints gave up again and he fell to the floor. The rest of his energy was gone. His eyes were still dry, unable to produce a single tear, but he still whimpered and cried out into his fist until even that became too much and he fell into unconsciousness.

***

Hawks almost lost his balance when he felt his arms suddenly grow warm for the first time in three years. He still got told off by his handler for his momentary slip, but he managed to finish the training exercise successfully. Even if he wasn't fast enough. He still needed to be faster.

He considered telling his handler what had caused his unbalance, but he couldn't quite bring himself to. Maybe he'd been wrong, maybe it would seem like he was still hoping for a connection to his soulmate. He'd given that up a year after his mark had gone dark (well, mostly given up.)

After his training was over, he headed back to his room and removed the long sleeves and gloves covering his mark for the first time in months. He looked over the smudged lines covering his arms, the still detailed lines over his palms and fingers. He sat there, his eyes fixed on those lines.

They still hurt to look at. His mind still relayed questions about why they'd been, who they would have been, only now those questions had echoes. Who are they? Who will they be?

He watched those lines, waiting for any sign of heat. Any sign of orange flaring up. He'd felt heat. He was sure he'd felt heat. Barely echoes of the branding heat he'd felt three years before, but still there. Not the heat of exercise and training and sweat but a heat that didn't come from him. A burning heat.

He kept watching.

...

...

Maybe he'd been wrong?

...

...

...

He fell asleep with his eyes still fixed on those lines. Still waiting for signs of heat and flickering orange light and saving fire.

Hawks had never dreamed much. As a child, he'd sometimes dream of a life where his parents smiled at him from a big, open house, well looked after, with sprawling gardens for him to fly through. Then he'd dreamed of standing tall among flames, Endeavour on one side of him, his soulmate on the other. Then he'd dreamed of standing in a burnt down house, watching blackened support beams collapse until the ceiling gave way in a swift movement of black and grey soot.

Now he dreams of a figure made of flames. Orange flames, flickering blue around the edges.

He recognises the building around him as his parents' house, even with it engulfed in flames. They crawl up the walls, covering a small object in the corner that used to be his bed. Through the window, he can see some of the city beyond and all he can see is smoke rising from blackened buildings.

Among the flames of his parents' house, Hawks can vaguely recognise the outlines of two people, frozen with their hands held out towards him and burning like everything else.

The flaming figure lets out a scream, mixed in with the sound of crackling fire and drawing Hawks' attention back to them. The figure collapses to their knees, fingers reaching up to thread through burning hair. Their mouth is still held open as though screaming but Hawks can no longer hear anything over the sounds of the fire crackling and the building beginning to collapse.

The figure looked up, eyes meeting Hawks' for a moment. They look like they're trying to cry, but all that comes out is steam.

They reach out a hand towards Hawks, their eyes begging for help. And, well, Hawks is a hero. Of course he's going to help.

He grabs the burning fingers, wrapping them in his own and trying to pull the person closer. Only the flames stretch over him instead. They wrap around his arms, burning his skin. He knows without looking at them that they match the shapes of his mark.

He looks back at the figure, and they look at him. The flames change. Those around the figure's eyes turn blue, then it spreads. Blue covers the figure, then the house, the figures of Hawks' parents. Then they reach up his arms, burning their shape into his arms.

Hawks wakes to find his arms glowing with blue light.

***

He's still getting used to being called Dabi. He supposes it doesn't really matter if he's used to it or not, it's not like he really has anyone to call him by that name. He just stays around the edge of society. Walking with long sleeves to cover the scars that mark his arms. A hood drawn low over his face and a mask to hide how his face is mottled with purple and shining with staples.

He finds abandoned buildings to sleep in or places that don't care if you look like you just walked out of Frankenstein's lab or where you got your rent money from so long as you pay it on time and it doesn't have too much blood on it. Still, he has to learn how to show anyone else sleeping where he does that just because he'd more scar tissue than skin doesn't mean he can't hurt them.

He thinks he was used to the smell of burning flesh before it was someone else he burnt, but he isn't sure.

He avoids trouble as much as he can. It's been years, but what if his father came looking? It's a ridiculous fear. The old man barely cared to keep up to date on what he was doing when he thought he was still alive. Why would he care now?

He tells himself it's because he needs to keep a low profile if he wants to destroy him. Get revenge for all that was done to him, but his chest still tightens with fear every time he sees flashes of flames on the news.

At least the types of place he frequents now don't care if someone demands to have the channel changed when a hero shows up. The only reason they put it on in the first place is because some patrons like cheering when the heroes take a hit. Those places smell of blood and booze but no one cares if you don't show your face or give a name. Half those places wouldn't care if you smashed a chair over the head of the guy drinking next to you so long as you paid them for the damage.

Some guy stops him as he tries to head back towards the place he's sleeping for the night — he won't call it his home, he won't even call it a house. The guy pulls a knife, or maybe he has some kind of blade quirk, Dabi doesn't care to check before he lets his palm burn blue.

It isn't like it changes anything. One more body dropped.

At first, he'd told himself he was doing what he had to do to get by. To live a life without being dragged back to that hell he once called home.

He doesn't care to justify himself anymore. The guy's dead, whether it was for a good reason or not. Dabi's still the burnt remains of who he once was.

There's no stapling him back together into the innocent kid who wanted to please his dad and be a hero.

Touya is dead. Dabi is just what crawled out of the ashes.

A reanimated corpse filled with nothing but perversions of what the boy he was reached for.

He takes the time to wash the soot from his hands and hopes he didn't get too much on his clothes. It won't show on the black, but it'll still rub off on things, dirty his hands again.

It took him so long to relearn the body he woke up in. Limbs longer than he remembered, the floor further away than he remembered, movement more painful than he remembered.

He remembers when he learnt he has to hide his face. He'd been alone and scared and just looking for somewhere to go. He'd pulled his hood up, but it hadn't been enough. A young girl had walked past him, just happening to glance up at him. The moment her eyes fixed on his face she stopped dead, her eyes opening wide. Her parent had pulled on her hand, trying to usher her forwards, but she'd only screamed.

Dabi had run, even as he heard the parent yelling at him about what he'd done to their daughter.

He remembered when he'd learnt he really couldn't cry anymore. It had been just after he'd woken up for the second time, still curled up in that alleyway. He felt more awake than he had before. Which had meant he was awake enough to really take in the purple marring his body. He'd felt his throat tighten, his features constricting but, no matter how much he whimpered and dug his hands into his burning eyes, nothing came out.

By the time he'd finally run out of emotion to fail at releasing, his eyes were red and felt like they were full of sand. He'd ended up just having to shove his face under a tap in a public toilet to make it stop, though that left a different kind of burn.

He remembered the first time he properly tried to use his quirk again and had discovered that, at the very least, the scarring meant he couldn't feel the burning as much as he used to. The flesh was too dead to register the flames flickering over it.

There was only one part of Touya that remained. When Dabi had a room to himself for the night, he'd light up his quirk or grab whatever light was closest to him and strip off his jacket and shirt, all the layers that hid his mangled body, and look over his shoulder. He rarely had access to a full length mirror anymore, but he wasn't sure he wanted one. Looking over his shoulder, he could see the top of the wings where they reached up to his shoulders but not so far down as to see where scar tissue ripped through them.

He'd look over the feathers he'd could see and he'd take a moment to relax. Let the tension flow from his damaged joints.

He wasn't who he used to be anymore. He wasn't Touya anymore. But didn't they say that a soulmate was someone who would always accept you? Would his soulmate care that he was Dabi now or would they take him how he was?

He left his family behind. He didn't regret it, but it still hurt sometimes. Thinking of how he would never get to see Fuyumi grow up and become a teacher as she always said she wanted to be. How he'd never be able to see Natsuo grow from a cheerful, confident kid into a cheerful, confident adult. He barely knew Shouto and, in some ways, still hated him for replacing him, but even the thought that he'd never see him become the hero Touya was supposed to be hurt.

But his soulmate...

He hadn't left them behind, had he? Dabi wasn't sure he still believed in all the fate stuff people spouted about soulmates, but he still knew that they were supposed to be someone who'd understand him. Maybe they were "fated" to meet some day and connect more than either of them could with anyone else, maybe they were just the one person who'd understand him more than anyone and whether he'd meet them or not was up to chance.

Either way, he still carried their mark on his skin — most of their mark, anyway — and it still turned red when they used their quirk. They were still connected, be it through fate or chance or something else entirely.

He hadn't left them behind.

It was a childish idea. Dabi knew that. The idea that some picture on his skin was the same as a flesh and blood person sat there with him. But he couldn't bring himself to burn that last part of Touya out of himself.

Not yet.

***

Hawks was flying free. His handler had directed him to an area with regular villain activity and he'd found a high roof, watching out over the city below. He watched cars pass by, pedestrians going about their days. The noise of city life filtered up to him and the wind ruffled his feathers.

For the first time in a while, he felt like he could breathe.

He watched from above. Once or twice, he spotted incidents below, but his handler told him to hold back. He needed something big for his debut, something to really make his mark in the hero world. He asked if other heroes would deal with the smaller incidents he saw and regretted asking even before he got that answer that he shouldn't be worrying about that.

Eventually, he heard a loud bang in the distance and his handler instructed him to fly in and do his job.

He found himself looking down at a building half covered in a strange, black goo. Some kind of quirk. Looking over the building, it seemed mostly harmless but captured anything it touched. He was the first hero there.

Hawks dived in, breaking through a window to grab some of the people inside before the slime reached them. He deposited them on the ground outside, instructing them to get away from the area.

On his flight back in, he spotted a man standing on the ground outside the building. His hands were dripping with the goo, falling to the floor to join the mass taking over the building. Hawks looked between the man and a couple people he could still see inside and sent feathers to retrieve the people, flying down to confront the villain.

The fight was over quickly, not overly difficult even with his focus divided between that and sending feathers to get the rest of the civilians out. The man was slow and clearly unprepared to face a hero so soon.

Cameras had started showing up part way through the fight, held back with the rest of the crowd by a few police officers. By the time the fight was over, most of the reporters were shouting at him for his name, wanting to know about the new hero in town.

He checked over his hero costume, happy to see it wasn't stained with any of the goo and went over to the cameras, gently moving past the police holding them back.

Charming. Friendly. Flirty. Approachable. Reliable.

That's what the Commission said he needed to be. They'd taught him how to handle interviews, how to woo the cameras and the public. Even with this being his first televised appearance, he could probably answer most of the questions in his sleep; he'd been over this so many times. Done practice interviews until the Commission had deemed him perfect.

Flirty smile, introduce himself, talk about his aims as a hero, show off his wings for the camera, wink, laugh at the reporter's bad joke, half true story about growing up in the city, talk about his inspirations.

As his eyes flickered over that black lens, he couldn't help but wonder: would his soulmate be watching this? Would they be happy to learn who their soulmate was?

***

Dabi nearly punched the TV.

"My soulmate will accept me as I am." What complete and utter bullshit.

Heroes are unavoidable in this society, even if you skulk around the edges like Dabi. He wasn't surprised when the half broken TV in the rundown bar he'd found himself in because at least they had some food that didn't taste like they found it in a bin started talking about some new up and coming hero. He'd nearly yelled at the bartender to turn it off right then and there, but figured he might as well get familiar with what heroes were around if he was going to fight them one day.

Then the screen showed a hero with yellow eyes and a bright smile. And red wings just like those that marked Dabi's back. The footage even showed his feathers leaving his wings, acting independently of the hero, which explained the individual feathers dotted around Dabi's mark.

A hero.

A hero .

If soulmates were dictated by fate, then fate hated him.

He should have burnt out that childish belief when he had the chance. Giving up on his soulmate when he had no idea was much better than sitting here in some bar that smells like blood and piss and facing the fact that his "soulmate" would arrest him on sight.

He couldn't even convince himself that this was some weird coincidence and this hero just had a similar quirk to his soulmate. He's stared at his mark enough over the years to know it was exactly the same shade of red as the wings the hero was showing off on the TV. He couldn't see the hero's soulmark as most of his skin seemed to be covered, not that having confirmation that flames marked the hero's skin would be any comfort.

Then the hero mentioned that one of his greatest inspirations as a hero was Endeavour and Dabi wanted to throw up. Or set something on fire. Or find a way to go to where the hero was and set him on fire.

He must have been looking particularly murderous as the bartender leaned over and informed him of how much it would be if he broke the TV and that he would be made to pay.

Dabi considered punching the guy. Or seeing what he'd do if he set fire to the very flammable bottles of alcohol lined up behind him.

If he was lucky, maybe that hero would come to help with the fire and he could burn him too, be done with the whole thing.

He settled for throwing down some money he was pretty sure was more than the meal and storming out.

A hero.

A fucking hero .

He needed to go burn something.

He never wanted to hear about that Hawks again.

***

Hawks wasn't too worried when reports of a group calling themselves the League of Villains started. Some group that infiltrated UA. It was impressive, of course. UA was heavily secured and any villains making it inside had done pretty well for themselves, but most of the villains present had been captured leaving only the two who called themselves Shigaraki and Kurogiri.

The nomu seemed like a bigger worry, some sort of semi-sentient weapon, strong enough to almost beat All Might.

But it wasn't in his patch, and his handlers had told him not to get involved unless he was approached first. Chances are, the group just seemed a lot worse than they were and getting the number three hero involved unnecessarily would make people panic. Better to leave it to other heroes and All Might.

Hawks still had his own area to worry about, keeping the city he'd been assigned to safe, taking down any villains that showed up in the area. He needed to keep his numbers up and needed to continue as per usual so the general population would continue as usual.

He flew overhead, waving at the civilians who stopped to look up at him. Some pointed and smiled; some waved to him enthusiastically, waving their hands around; some pulled out phones and snapped photos of him. He swooped down to ground level sometimes, letting people come over and talk to him, ask him questions or ask him to sign whatever object was closest or to take a selfie with them. He obliged, enjoying the time he got to spend with the people he dedicated his life to saving, even if it did sometimes feel like he was some exhibit there for their amusement rather than a person.

He was used to it. The important thing was making sure the people felt safe and confident in their local hero. Making sure he kept his ranking up, like his handler always said. Keeping up his friendly and approachable appearance.

He gave some line about having a job to do and a wink and took to the air again, hearing a few fangirls scream in his wake.

He stopped a couple petty thieves, a few wannabe villains, and broke up a fight waiting to happen. Each time a camera showed up, he gave them a bright smile, answered a couple of questions — some about current events or things going on in the hero world, some the seemingly random things people wanted to know about him. He was beginning to wonder if journalists would ever run out of those kinds of questions for him. They asked everything from the contents of his skincare routine to whether he thought pineapple belonged on pizza.

It was a relatively slow day. Those were both his favourite and least favourite kinds of days.

On one hand, people were safe, there wasn't anything big threatening them that he needed to deal with. Just what happened everyday. He could just spend some time enjoying the freedom of flying and chatting with the people who placed their lives in his hands. Reminding himself of just why he loved his city. Just why he worked so hard as a hero.

On the other hand, quiet days made him itch. There had to be something to do elsewhere. There had to be people that needed saving. He could fly out further to find them but, no, his job on quiet days was to stick to his patrol routes, talk with the people and fill out any paperwork that needed doing. But there must be something he could help with!

He was a hero known for his speed, he wasn't made for slow days. He was made for flitting from one fight, one rescue, one job to another, taking care of all the problems that could crop up in a city as quickly as possible. Flying in circles and waving made him itch to fly faster. To speed up. To go further out. To find something to do .

The Commission had taught him to always be working. That if he wasn't working, he wasn't good enough. He knew that this was work, but reassuring the people and keeping an eye on things was work. But he still felt like he wasn't doing enough.

He was relieved when the day drew to an end and he got to fly back to his place.

Well, he calls it his, but everything from the location to the furniture to the groceries in the fridge were dictated by the Commission. The place needed to work well as a backdrop for interviews or "peeks into the private life of the great hero Hawks" when the Commission gave him permission to accept those kinds of interviews.

Most of the furniture wasn't designed for someone with wings, the backs too high for him to sit in normally without his wings cramping after a while. Most of it was in shades of white and beige with splashes of red to match his hero costume and all in a minimalist, modern style, which looked so boring. A few of the surfaces were decorated with small statues and decorations that Hawks had spent hours staring at over his time living there and still couldn't work out what they were supposed to be. He half considered smashing them all just so he didn't have to wake up looking at something that was either a weird harp thing, a wing or some random shape — given who he was, he would have thought it was a wing, but he knew the other decorations in his place enough to know whoever designed it hadn't been sticking to a Hawks theme beyond the colours.

Just about the only thing in the place he liked was some strange abstract painting placed behind his sofa. It was painted with a mixture of blues, reds and oranges, mixed together into some spiraling shape. The colours reminded him of his soulmark. The blues and oranges his mark had glowed over the years.

He wasn't even sure his connection to his soulmark was about the person on the other side of it anymore. It had been, years ago, when he took it to mean he wasn't alone, that he'd have someone by his side. But the Commission had been right. A hero can't have those kinds of connections. Heroics need to come first and heroes need to be self-reliant. A soulmate is a nice idea, but not important. He doesn’t need someone else to support him.

But his soul mark is his.

Long sleeves and gloves on training outfits had become long sleeves and gloves on his hero costume. His soul mark had never been shown to the public.

A piece of him the public has never been shown. Never been given.

He sighs, dropping his jacket on a chair the same colour as it and throwing his gloves towards some decoration he couldn't work out beyond the fact that it looked like a penis at some angles — he'd been half tempted to turn it before his interviews so a camera would catch it at that angle just to see how quickly the Commission would replace it.

His soulmark felt warm today so he relaxed as best he could on the sofa, looking over the smudged lines that marked his arms. After a moment, it lit up blue, light flowing in to fill the gaps between the lines. He sent the feather to close the curtains so it was the only light in the room.

If there was one good thing about the boring white and beige decoration and walls, it was how it let the blue light that flowed from his arms take over the whole room. His wings were little more than a silhouette against the wall, the gold lines on his shirt blending in with the black. The symbols that marked him as Hawks, the hero, faded to black as the room flooded with blue.

He let out a breath and lay down, running his finger over the lines on his arm.

He never did grow out of that.

***

Why was he agreeing to work for this crusty bastard?

Oh. Right. Revenge.

Dabi was genuinely starting to question if murdering Endeavour was worth having to work for a whiny manchild with the skin of an eighty year old who'd never heard of moisturiser.

Dabi had better skin than this child and half of his had been burnt off.

He spews something about following in the Hero Killer's footsteps. It's half true, at least. Some heroes are "fakes" as Stain had called them and he is aiming to kill one of them, but he really doesn't care about ideals. If he had actually cared about Stain's ideals, he probably would have left when the child started going on a rant about how much he hates the Hero Killer for taking his spotlight. As it is, he discards any idea of telling this Shigaraki who he is so he'd help with furthering Dabi's goals. Clearly, he wouldn't know subtlety if it hit him around the head.

So he sticks to his image of a Stain supporter. It gets him in the door without too many questions asked, at least. Though he has plenty of questions himself. Like why there's a literal middle schooler here.

Shigaraki has power and some insider scoop on UA, he reminds himself so he doesn't do anything rash. Like setting the annoying bastard on fire.

Then Shigaraki explains his actual plan to kidnap a hero student and Dabi reconsiders setting him on fire. You don't need to be an expert on heroics to know violence is common in heroes and doesn't automatically make a person a villain. Basing recruitment on violent behaviour alone is how you end up getting killed.

He half considers suggesting Shouto instead. That would speed up his plans of hurting Endeavour, taking his perfect little masterpiece. Though he would also have to explain why he thinks the son of the number two hero could make a decent villain and have to argue against Shigaraki who seems like the type who'd kill a guy for suggesting any of his ideas are anything less than completely perfect. Not worth the effort.

But, fine. Kidnapping a hero student makes a statement. Even if the student in question is a bad choice. And the kid did beat Shouto in the sports festival... Maybe it'd show Endeavour that even his perfect masterpiece isn't good enough to be worth targeting. Probably not, but Dabi isn't desperate to leave Endeavour his own scars now. He has time to wait.

There is at least some poetic justice in making his first real mark as a villain by burning down a forest and leaving it one child fewer than it started.

Dabi begins how Touya ended.

***

Hawks hasn't been called in for the Bakugou rescue mission, but he had been sent the profiles of all the villains involved afterwards. All heroes had been. They were all supposed to be on high alert for any of them showing up. Everything that happened in Kamino had made the League a much higher priority than they'd been before.

Hawks flicked through the stack of profiles during a lunch break. He was already familiar with two of them. Shigaraki and Kurogiri, the villains who had escaped after the USJ attack. Given what he'd heard of the attack, the villains involved this time must be a step up from the low level villains present at the USJ attack.

He looks over each of the profiles one at a time, familiarising himself with the police sketches and photos taken from passports and driver's licenses or other documents connected back to their true identities.

He pauses when he sees one profile that lacks anything but the police sketch. He'd known Shigaraki and Kurogiri were yet to be identified, but hadn't been told there was another member of the League who was still an unknown.

It doesn't take Hawks too long to work out why this villain would be difficult to identify. Most of his face seems to be covered in scars, covering his jaw and under eyes. The description describes the scars covering most of his limbs, from what was seen. Excessive scarring like that would make it difficult for facial recognition to tie him back to his original identity, assuming the scarring was after his disappearance from civilian life, which is probably a safe bet.

Half the villain's skin seems to be literally stapled on which... Well, it sure is an interesting choice. Don't villains at least have access to medical supplies better than a stapler? Given their backing, the League should, at least.

Hawks isn't sure what to think about the idea that it's an aesthetic choice, so decides to just read through the villain's details instead.

Alias: Dabi

Legal name: Unknown

Age: Estimated early 20s

Quirk: Blueflame

That makes Hawks pause. Without meaning to, his eyes drift to his arms, covered by his hero costume. No. No way. A coincidence. His soulmate is not a villain.

He quickly scans through the rest of the villain's profile until he gets to the part listing extra details of his appearance. Soulmarks are an identifying feature, so they're usually listed in villain profiles. Dabi's, on the other hand, makes no mention of a soulmark.

Which is fine. He knows it won't be red wings, like his quirk, so he doesn't need to confirm it isn't. Just because this Dabi has a blue fire quirk like his soulmate doesn't mean his soulmate is a villain. Fire quirks are fairly common, so it's likely a complete coincidence. There's probably another fire user out there who produces blue flames. There are probably hundreds. And one of them will have red wings on them. And it won't be this villain.

The one source of comfort he's always had won't be connected to a villain.

He doesn't think about how the lines where his mark turns to smudges matches where the report states the villain's scars begin.

He doesn't think about how his mark had lit up for ages on the night the kidnapping had happened.

***

Toga has spent the last hour begging Dabi to show her his soulmark and he's getting close to just setting her alight, however useful she is. She pouts, saying that she showed him hers which, first of all, he never asked her to do and, second, her mark changes on a regular basis so means almost nothing. Right now, it's a variety of shapes that float and bob across her skin as though underwater or unaffected by gravity.

Dabi knows exactly who that's referring to because Toga insisted on telling him all about the "cute" UA student with the zero gravity quirk.

Dabi has never wanted to know so much about a teenage girl in his life.

Except maybe Fuyumi. There was a time he'd have done anything just to know those kinds of trivial details about her life growing up without him.

Toga is practically hanging off his arm, begging him to show her his mark. She keeps coming up with guesses as to what if might be, who his soulmate might be. She goes through most of the League first, coming with ideas of what marks for their quirks might look like despite the fact that she knows full well none of them have flames anywhere on them. She even tries suggesting that Mr Compress or Twice might be his soulmate. Like they aren't both at least a decade older than him.

Then she starts naming random people, mostly celebrities, that are close to his age. She starts by naming several singers or actors or somethings that Dabi barely knows about, staring at his face intently the whole time she's doing it. He very much considers just lighting that arm on fire to get her off of him, but she's useful, so he lets her keep her face unburnt.

(It isn't because seeing Toga makes him wonder about how Fuyumi would have been as a teenager. They're nothing alike, of course they aren't. Toga is a noise machine and Fuyumi was always a quiet child. But if their family had been different... if Fuyumi hadn't been forced to be the voice of reason from four years old...)

Then Toga goes into listing heroes. Apparently Dabi's look of absolute disgust at the (correct) idea that his soulmate might be a hero isn't enough to put her off it. She suggests Miruko and Dabi remembers the tips of rabbit ears that poked out of Fuyumi's hairline at the back of her neck. Seems that brand of bad luck runs in the family.

She suggests some newer heroes like Mt Lady and Dabi visibly recoils. That still doesn't put Toga off.

She takes a moment to think, then gives a bright smile that makes Dabi worried that she's about to suggest something stupid like All Might or Gran Torino.

What comes out of her mouth is Hawks.

His arms grow so hot she has to let go. Unfortunately, that makes her just hop around to stand in front of him, looking like the cat that just caught the canary.

This would be so much easier if some cat did go and catch that canary hero.

He shoves her out of the way and leaves. She shouts after him that his secret is safe with her.

He's half convinced the entire League will have heard about this by lunch.

He heads to his room, slamming the door behind him and perching on the edge of his bed. His eyes catch on the mirror leaning against one of the walls. He'd hung his jacket over it to cover most of the mirror itself, only parts of the old frame showing. He'd considered just dumping it or moving it out if his room but the last thing he needed was the League thinking he was insecure or whatever bullshit conclusion they'd draw.

He pulls his shirt over his head and pushes the jacket off the mirror, letting it fall into a pile on the dirty floor.

He stands with his back to the mirror, looking over his shoulder at the mirror, at the mark on his back. Just like he did when he was a kid.

But, as a kid, he'd think of all the possibilities for his soulmate, of having a friend made just for him.

Now he sees the mark of an enemy. Permanently branded into his skin.

Where the sight of the scarring running through the wings had first made him grieve for the mark in its entirety, that unsullied connection to the one person who was supposed to understand him, it now makes him smile. At least he's disowned some of the hero who left a mark on his soul. On his body. If he's stuck with a hero's mark on him, he wants it to be marred and damaged. He wants his body to show how he rejects it.

The mark turns red. Towards the scarring, the red fades into the purple, the edges looking like a fresh bruise. Dabi thinks of the hero flying over his city, spreading his feathers out below him. He thinks of watching them burn.

When will the hero finally join the fight? When will Dabi finally get to face the hero who marked him earlier than even Endeavour did? There's no way the number two hero can stay out of this forever. He'll have to face Dabi already. Whether he realises the connection or not.

***

Meetings with the Commission are always a lesson in patience. Sometimes Hawks wonders if they forget he's a hero known for his speed. If they have information for him, they hand him the file then wait far longer than needed for him to memorise it all. He knows from experience that giving it back before they've decided he's had long enough will result in them assuming he didn't remember it all and making him read it again or relay all the information to prove he knows it. Easier to just reread it again himself. If he's there for a new mission, they set out the parameters far more than they need to given that similar missions usually have the same parameters and all they really need to do is state the goal and anything outside the ordinary.

This time he actually feels as though he needs that extra time.

It isn't the first infiltration mission he's been given, though it is the first one since he became a top ten hero. Usually, having a well known face trying to play spy is a good way to fail spectacularly, but the Commission seem to think the League are more likely to let a high ranking hero into their inner circle than an unknown. Hawks is inclined to agree with them. The League are one of the biggest groups there's been in years, in terms of impact, it would make sense they'd see recruiting a top ten hero as both a reasonable possibility and goal if it's offered to them.

Hawks is familiar with most of the information on the League he's provided with. Details on all known members, their quirks, their roles, the known history of the League as a group, known connections, known goals, weaknesses, strengths. All information that's been available to any hero since it became clear the League was more than just another group thinking they were the big new thing. Since it became clear that belief had some truth to it.

What is new is the detail that Dabi is their recruiter.

Hawks tries not to look down at his arm. Reminders of Dabi still make him remember his mark. He knows they're unconnected. The villain has nothing to do with his soulmate, but the coincidence still unsettles him.

He isn't sure he wants to face the villain himself. Especially not if his goal is befriending him rather than taking him out.

But he knew he had to agree to this. Maybe he could tell his handler about the connection between his mark and blue flames, but they'd just ask if Hawks seriously thought his soulmate might be a villain with that look that reminds him that he's supposed to have given up thoughts of soulmates years ago. He has no good reason not to do this and it will help take down the League.

This will save people.

So he just takes the files he's handed and starts reading over the information giving him ideas of where to find Dabi.

***

Dabi brushes ash off his hands. Some idiot had come requesting to join the League. Clearly the guy has no idea what he was doing. New to villainy with no clues about what he was doing with himself so he just went to the only group he knew despite the fact that he had no stomach for violence or blood. The guy looked like he was going to piss himself when Dabi just looked at him.

Dabi is not a villain career counsellor, but he'd told the guy to go find something where he isn't taking on more than he can handle. Then, because he isn't a career counsellor, he set the guy's jacket on fire for good measure. To be fair, it wasn't a bad jacket and kind of fits Dabi's style, and the guy did drop it when it began burning, before he ran. It isn't even that badly burnt, and it isn't like Dabi owns anything that isn’t burnt in one place or another.

Dabi's half considering taking the jacket back with him — call it his reward for not cremating the idiot on sight. He picks it up, examining it slightly, then starts going through the pockets, grinning when he feels the shape of a wallet.

He shoves the wallet into his pocket and goes to throw the jacket over his shoulder when he hears the sound of wings flapping behind him.

He lets the jacket fall to the floor, lighting up his hands. He knows what he's going to see before he even turns around.

Golden eyes and hair, dressed in a black shirt with a golden design and beige trousers and jacket, lined with white fur. A bright, friendly smile across a perfect face.

And two big, red wings covering the width of the alleyway.

Dabi considers just burning those wings off and being done with all of this.

"It's Dabi, right?" Hawks starts, ignoring the fact that Dabi's one wrong move away from finding out just how flammable feathers are. His smile is just the same as the one he uses during his TV interviews, bright and happy and a little flirty. Fake. Dabi's seen people pretending they aren't scared out of their wits to know the hero isn't anywhere near as confident as he's acting.

Then again, neither is he.

He looks Hawks over, giving an unimpressed look as flexes one of his flaming hands. "What, do you want a fucking autograph?"

Hawks chuckles. It seems more real than the smile. Slightly. He takes a few steps closer, seemingly unbothered as Dabi raises his burning hands in response. Hawks gives that same flirty smile again, leaning into Dabi slightly.

He takes a moment to look Dabi up and down. As his eyes fix on Dabi's burning hands his gaze flickers towards his own arm for a moment, then up to Dabi face again, his smile becoming slightly more fake. He moves his arms behind his back, pulling his wings in, trying to look unthreatening, as though Dabi doesn't know his feathers could fly out and stab him at any moment.

"Actually, I just wanted a friendly chat.”