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He shows up after midnight like it’s routine, like you won’t notice the way his wing hangs wrong or how he won’t meet your eyes.
You make him sit, make him breathe, press your hands to his skin because your quirk needs stillness and Hawks has never been good at that, and for the first time all night he stops moving long enough to feel how badly he’s hurting.
“Doc,” he says, soft and easy, like this isn’t the third time this month. “What are you still doing up?”
You don’t answer that. You never do. You peel back what’s left of his jacket instead, fingers already glowing faintly as your quirk settles in, slowing blood, calming nerves, holding the damage in suspension like time itself has decided to be merciful tonight. Hawks exhales when it takes hold, shoulders dropping an inch like you’ve just unhooked something tight inside his chest.
You snort. “You ever think about using the front door?”
“Ruins the mystique.”
“You’re bleeding on my floor.”
“Adds character.”
You press two fingers to his sternum, a silent warning. He stills. Mostly. His pulse is still racing under your touch, fast even now, like his body doesn’t trust rest. Like if he stops moving something bad will catch up to him.
This is how it always goes. Injuries he pretends are nothing. Jokes that land a second too late. Silence where there should be answers. He comes to you because hospitals ask questions, because the Commission doesn’t need to know every cracked rib and shredded tendon, because your quirk doesn’t leave a paper trail — and because, though he’d never say it out loud, you make him slow down.
You hate how much you like that.
“You’re overdoing it,” you say, quieter now, adjusting your hands as his wing twitches. “Again.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“You say that every time.”
“Still true.”
You glance up. He’s watching you now, eyes sharp but tired, smile softened into something almost real. He always looks younger when he’s hurt, like the speed peels away and leaves whatever’s underneath exposed.
“How bad?” he asks.
You hesitate. That’s answer enough.
“Ah,” he says, lips quirking. “That bad, huh.”
“You tore muscle you didn’t need to tear,” you say. “And if you keep pushing like this, one day I won’t be able to—”
“Hey.” His hand finds your wrist, gentle. Too gentle. “Not tonight.”
You let it go. You always do.
🪽
The next time he comes with more significant damage, almost worst than the last time.
“You locked your door?” he asks, already glancing toward the window.
“Yes,” you say. “Because believe it or not, I’m not fond of breaking and entering.”
“Debatable.”
You give him a look and he grins, crooked and tired, feathers rustling as he eases onto the edge of the exam table. He’s lighter than he should be when you guide him back, bones sharp under your hands, pulse frantic even before your quirk flares to life.
It’s always like this — him pretending it’s nothing, you pretending you don’t see the pattern. Torn feathers. Bruised ribs. Injuries that suggest reckless speed, zero backup, and too many orders barked down a comm he never turns off.
Your quirk settles in like a held breath. Bleeding slows. Pain dulls. His shoulders drop a fraction.
“Oh wow,” he murmurs. “There it is.”
“There what is?”
“The quiet.” He closes his eyes. “You’re like… noise cancellation for my organs.”
“That’s not how medicine works.”
“Let me have this.”
You snort, but you don’t pull away.
He comes to you like this more often than he should. Sometimes badly hurt. Sometimes barely scraped. Once, memorably, with nothing wrong at all except exhaustion so deep it had him staring at your ceiling like he’d never seen one before.
“That’s a crack,” he’d said, pointing.
“It’s a shadow.”
“Sure it is.”
You learn him in pieces. The way he hums under his breath when your quirk first takes hold. How he jokes more when he’s scared. How he never, ever stays once he’s stable — except when he does.
Like tonight.
“You’re hovering,” he says, opening one eye.
“You’re bleeding.”
“Semantics.”
“You tore something,” you say. “Again.”
He sighs. “You say that like it’s avoidable.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“For people who don’t fly into active combat zones at Mach Jesus.”
Despite yourself, you laugh. He beams like he’s won something.
That’s the dangerous part — the way he relaxes around you. The way he lingers longer each visit, wings folding tighter, posture less coiled. The way your hands start finding excuses to stay where they are long after your quirk fades.
One night, when you’re both quieter than usual, you ask, “Do you ever stop?”
He blinks. “Like… medically?”
“Like… at all.”
He thinks about it, which is answer enough.
“I don’t think I’m built for that,” he says eventually. “Stopping’s how you get caught.”
You don’t argue, but something settles heavy in your chest.
It’s quiet after that. Hawks doesn’t fill it with jokes this time. He just watches your hands as they work, eyes half-lidded, wings tucked in closer than usual like he’s trying to take up less space.
“You’re supposed to tell me when it hurts,” you say eventually.
He smiles faintly. “It always hurts.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” His voice softens. “But if I say it out loud, you’ll stop.”
You glance up at him. He’s already looking at you.
Your quirk fades slowly, reluctantly, like it doesn’t want to let him go either. When it’s gone, your hands don’t move right away. You’re still braced against his ribs, thumb resting just under his collarbone, close enough to feel his heartbeat picking up again — faster now, less controlled.
“You okay?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he says, propping himself up on elbow. Then, quieter, “Stay like that for a second.”
You should pull away. You don’t.
His breath evens out while you’re there, like your presence is enough to trick his body into thinking it’s safe. One of his fingers curls around the edge of your sleeve, barely there, not quite holding on — just anchoring himself.
“You know,” he says, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder, “most people don’t care to tell me to slow down.”
“Most people don’t see you like this.”
“Yeah.” A beat. “Guess that’s why I keep coming back.”
The words sit between you, heavy and unclaimed.
You swallow. “You don’t have to.”
“I know.” He turns his head slightly, close enough now that you can feel the warmth of him, the brush of feathers near your wrist. “I just… like the quiet.”
Your hand shifts, almost unconsciously, fingers threading into the fabric of his shirt. He stills completely this time — not because you told him to, not because of your quirk, but because he wants to.
For a moment, it feels like something fragile is forming. Like if either of you breathes wrong, it’ll shatter.
“You should rest,” you say, even though neither of you moves.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “In a minute.”
He doesn’t say anything that would make this impossible to take back. He just leans in, forehead hovering near yours, close enough that the air between you feels charged, shared.
Then his comm crackles.
The moment breaks.
He pulls away like it burned, already reaching for his jacket, speed snapping back into place like armor. The smile returns — lighter, practiced.
“Rain check, doc,” he says.
🪽
The night it finally happens, he’s worse than usual.
Not bleeding out, not dramatic — just worn thin, movements slightly delayed, wings dragging like even they’re tired of keeping up with him. You guide him onto the exam table and he lets you, no jokes this time, no commentary about mystique or character-building bloodstains.
Your hands settle against his chest and your quirk blooms to life.
“Breathe,” you murmur, out of habit more than instruction.
He exhales shakily. Then again. Slower this time.
You realize, distantly, that he’s matching you.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Measured. Careful. Like he’s memorized it.
“You do that every time,” you say quietly.
“Do what?”
“That,” you say. “You breathe like me.”
He opens his eyes.
For a second he looks caught — like you’ve named something he wasn’t ready to acknowledge. Then his mouth curves, small and fond and dangerously unguarded.
“Guess it stuck,” he says. “Helps me not bolt.”
Your quirk fades, but neither of you moves. Your hand is still splayed over his sternum, thumb resting where his heartbeat has finally slowed to something human. His fingers curl around your wrist, warmer than you expect, grounding.
“You’re shaking,” you say.
“So are you.”
You hadn’t noticed. Now you can’t unfeel it.
“You shouldn’t keep doing this,” you add, but your voice lacks conviction.
“I know,” he says immediately. Too fast. “We don’t have to.”
And that’s the problem — the way he says we, the way he gives you the out while staying exactly where he is.
Your breaths fall into sync again without either of you meaning to. The room feels smaller. Quieter. Like time is holding its breath with you.
“Hawks,” you start.
He leans in before you can finish.
The kiss is hesitant — not rushed, not stolen, just careful enough to feel real. His mouth is warm and uncertain, like he’s waiting for you to pull back. When you don’t, when your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt and keep him there, he exhales softly against your lips, the sound almost reverent.
It’s over too soon.
He rests his forehead against yours afterward, eyes closed, breathing still matched to yours like he doesn’t trust himself to move yet.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “That’s… that’s not smart.”
“No,” you agree.
He doesn’t pull away right away. Just stays there, wings brushing your arms, pulse steady under your hand — slow, for once.
Too slow.
Eventually, reality creeps back in. His comm hums faintly. The world remembers him.
He straightens, speed snapping back into place like muscle memory. The smile returns — lighter, practiced, a fraction more distant.
“Hey,” he says gently, like he’s the one comforting you. “Thanks for the patch job.”
You nod. You let go.
At the door, he pauses, hand on the frame.
“Hey, doc?”
“Yeah?”
“If I forget how to breathe out there…” His eyes flick back to you. “I’ll remember you.”
Then he’s gone.
🪽
You don’t see him again.
Not in your doorway. Not bleeding on your floor. Not half-smiling like this is just another routine visit you’ll pretend doesn’t mean anything.
Life goes on in small, stubborn ways. You take other off-the-books cases. You replace the tiles he stained. You stop leaving the light on after midnight — eventually.
It’s months later when you catch him on a screen in the break room.
Hawks stands at a podium, wings pristine, smile easy. The man who moves too fast, perfectly composed. Reporters shout questions. Cameras flash. He laughs at something someone says.
You should look away.
You don’t.
He pauses — just for a second. Barely noticeable. His shoulders rise.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
Slow. Careful.
Your breathing pattern.
Your chest tightens.
He doesn’t do it again. The moment passes, grin returning like nothing ever slipped through. The world keeps cheering. The screen switches to something else.
No one else notices.
That night, you wake up around midnight with your hands faintly glowing, quirk flaring on instinct before you remember there’s no one there to hold together anymore.
You sit on the edge of your bed until it fades, counting breaths you no longer need to share.
You wonder, sometimes, if he still remembers the quiet. If, in the split second before a mission goes wrong or a choice gets too heavy, he slows just enough to survive.
You know — and always will — that the pause you offered, the rhythm you shared, was never enough. That man isn’t meant to stop.
And neither was he ever yours.