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It's an undignified end.
That's the thing that really irks him. He's a hero – he's Wing Hero: Hawks, one of the best Pro Heroes Japan has to offer – and his end is neither the grandiose last stand he's sometimes imagined, nor the slow death in some hospital bed following life-threatening injuries.
Instead, he's taken down when he's out on a mission on his own, without back-up or even anyone knowing where he is. He's supposed to be on his way home. There's not even a sidekick racing to catch up with his current position.
This last bit is probably his downfall, really.
He's still trying to talk down the clearly distraught young woman holding a broken glass bottle to her own throat. Tears on her face, mascara running down her cheeks, and her heart going what sounds like a thousand beats per second. She makes for a convincing decoy.
In retrospect, that's most likely because she's terrified out of her mind, and some part of her longs to jab the shards of glass into her body and find her freedom that way.
Someone, having gotten their hands on those terrifying bullets able to remove your Quirk temporarily, simply shoots him in the back, and that's that.
He's tired, is the thing. He's been at work for hours. It's been over a week since he had a proper break, running himself ragged trying to keep up with the demands of his agency, his PR department and his undercover mission with the League of Villains. Tired and sloppy, too focused on what he assumes is someone going through a personal crisis.
He misses the sound of the bullet.
His coat is off, because most of it was covered in dirt and bodily fluids after a particularly nasty fight two hours ago. It leaves him without the thick layer that might've been just enough to repel the needle-like point. Instead, it hits him a little under his ribs on the left side of his back.
A sharp, stabbing pain.
He whirls around, feathers already rising in the air and locating every person in the surrounding area.
The world goes quiet.
His feathers all fall to the ground – and he finds himself grounded.
Without his Quirk, he's still an excellent fighter. This wouldn't normally be a problem, but these people came prepared for him. There's a spray of bullets – the regular kind – covering the alley, and without his wings, he has the speed of a normal man.
He goes down.
He hears the girl's scream of pain cut off abruptly.
There are more bullets, and he can feel the impact as they hit his body.
As he bleeds out in some back-alley of a city that isn't even in his territory, he hears heavy footsteps coming closer.
It doesn't take long, after that.
In a just world, he would've been dead before they started getting rid of his body, but Keigo Takami has never been a lucky man.
The fucking woodchipper was really unnecessary, though.
Keigo Takami has never been a lucky man so naturally, when he dies in the basement of that shitty, dilapidated old building they use to get rid of his body, he's fucking stuck there.
Any attempt to leave the house fails. It's like there's an invisible wall around it, and so there he must stay. He tries his best, meticulously tracing the barrier. He walks the perimeter. He tries to use focus and willpower. He tries everything he can think of, but there's no way out.
He's a ghost, haunting an empty shell of a building.
An undignified end, indeed.
Turns out, being dead?
Really fucking boring.
He can't even relieve his boredom by people-watching. In the beginning, there was the occasional person hiding out for a night or two, finding a dry corner to curl up to sleep, take their drugs, or simply sit there with watchful eyes and nervous hands.
He tried talking to them a few times, and quickly discovered that yes, people can, in fact, hear him. Seeing him isn't as easy, apparently. His current theory is that they have to want to see him, because it takes a lot of wild-eyed searching and suspicious squinting before they finally catch sight of him.
This is where most of them scream, scramble backwards, or simply run as fast as they can out of there.
He can't see himself, so he's not sure if it's finding someone standing in front of them in a room they thought was empty that's the issue, or if he looks, well, dead. It's not like they're sticking around for him to ask them, despite the few times he tries to start with a 'please don't be afraid.'
The few visitors coming by dries up quickly after that.
He assumes rumours have spread about something strange happening. There's not even the occasional adventurous teenager coming to measure their bravery, which is probably a reflection of just how bad this particular part of town is.
He becomes intimately familiar with the rats and the rubble, if nothing else.
Time passes slowly.
The first time Hawks ever saw Dabi, it was after weeks of searching for any of the illusive members of the League of Villains. The firestarter had stepped out of the shadows, clad in his leather coat and a bloodthirst that all but dripped off of him, and after that Hawks' already busy days got even more stressful.
He's wondered, sometimes, what happened with the upcoming war after he died.
There's been no one sniffing around, looking for him. No HPSC agents, or police, or other heroes, and he's not sure if it's because they genuinely don't have any leads or if the Commission simply wrote him off as another lost asset. Even if they hadn't had the manpower to look for him, he would've thought his popularity would've had someone searching the area.
It's disconcerting to not truly know what's happening out in the world.
The first time Hawks sees Dabi after he died and got stuck is quite a different matter; the firestarter drags himself out of the shadows of the alleyway towards Hawks' building, clad in a torn and dirty coat and an even paler complexion than he used to have. His cheeks are hollow. Even the scar tissue under his eyes can't hide how tired he looks.
He looks, to put it mildly, like death warmed over.
For one second, Hawks thinks the man must've tracked him down. It becomes apparent real soon that this is not the case. Dabi makes his way inside the building, one hand supporting himself on the wall. His head is lowered. There's no blue fire dancing on his fingertips, or manic grin making the staples tear the skin of his cheeks.
Dabi doesn't speak.
Hawks trails him as the villain finds himself a room deep in the bowels of the old building. It's one of the dry ones, where the window is still whole. Dabi of old would've inspected the area. He'd map out weak points, and have a plan for anything.
This Dabi simply sinks down in a corner. He leans his head against the wall, and with a sigh that looks bone-deep, he passes out.
"Man, you look fucking terrible," Hawks says, because he simply can't help himself.
Dabi woke up a few minutes ago. He's slept for about nine hours, give or take, and Hawks spent that time cataloguing everything he could see of the villain – especially the changes from their last meeting.
He's way too thin. It's not just his hollow cheeks, either: his wrists look like Hawks could snap them with two fingers, if he could touch them. He has the hands of someone old, or terminally ill, or something like that, all skin and bones and tendons and little else. Both his skin and his hair look even more dull and lifeless than it used to, and he's clearly sweating more than Hawks honestly thought the man able to, with so much scar tissue.
He reminds Hawks a little bit about those cancer patients he's met whenever the HPSC wanted to raise his public image.
Maybe it was always like this a little bit? Dabi's presence was largely due to his forceful personality, not his looks – but the weightloss is undeniable.
The way Dabi's breathing is also different. Short, rapid breaths, interrupted by coughing that seems to rattle the entire man.
It's one of these coughing rounds that finally woke Dabi up. He coughed, and coughed, and coughed, and when he finally stopped, there was blood on his lips and on the floor.
It doesn't look like he heard Hawks, which is honestly just as well.
Dabi pushes himself into a sitting position, leaning his back against the wall. He tilts his head back, eyes closed, and sighs with a lot less irritation than Hawks has ever heard before.
He sounds so tired.
"What the hell happened to you?" he says, mostly just to himself. He's gotten used to talking to himself here, just to pass the time.
It's either that, or the rats, and they're not the best conversationalists.
"What the fuck," Dabi slurs, before another round of coughing interrupts him.
He doesn't stop coughing until he passes out.
Hawks deliberately stays quiet the next time Dabi wakes up. He lets the man orient himself a little, taking a few swigs of a flask he pulls out from a pocket before taking a few, deep breaths.
Stabilizing himself, Hawks thinks. Breathing through the pain, maybe?
Once it looks like Dabi's pulled himself together, he takes a chance.
"Been a while, Dabs," he says from where he's sitting next to the man.
Dabi startles, whipping his head from side to side before groaning and holding a hand over his eyes.
"Sorry," Hawks says again. "It's Hawks. Didn't mean to alarm you."
"What the fuck," Dabi says, again, and Hawks is almost starting to wonder if this is the only words the man knows anymore. Dabi's looking around, keeping his movements slow and careful.
"Right here," Hawks says. "To your left? I'm sitting right next to you."
The moment Dabi catches sight of him is almost funny. There's a widening to Dabi's eyes, and his eyebrows lift. His mouth opens a little, and for once he looks at a loss for words.
"Never thought I'd see the day where I'd be able to shut you up," Hawks laughs.
"Hawks?" Dabi asks. Confusion and suspicion holds a war on his face, without Hawks being able to discern the victor.
"The one and only," he says, giving a wink and a salute.
Dabi doesn't respond. His eyes have lost a little of that unfamiliar dullness, showing instead a glimmer of his old cunning as he studies Hawks intently.
Hawks waits. It's a better reaction than he usually gets, and he doesn't want to jeopardize his first chance of a real conversation in however long he's been here.
"Well, I guess this explains a few things," Dabi finally says. "So what are you?"
"Dead?" Hawks answers. "I would think that was obvious."
A new silence as Dabi absorbs the answer.
"Huh. Who got you?"
"Some gang," Hawks shrugs. "Probably not important anymore."
"Probably not."
Dabi exhales, letting go of some of the tension in that thin, sickly-looking body. When he blinks, his eyes take a second before they open again.
"You okay, man?" Hawks asks.
Dabi laughs.
"Hell of a thing for a dead man to ask, birdie."
If there was anyone Hawks would have thought to not be freaked out by his new lack of a body, Dabi would be among the top five. It's nice to be right.
The villain sleeps a lot, but when he's awake, he'll talk a little, in between coughing and taking small sips from his flask.
It's not like Hawks can smell anything anymore, but he'd bet good money the flask contains alcohol, not just water. It's just one of those things he assumes of someone like Dabi – especially considering his current state.
He hopes Dabi stays for a little bit.
It's nice to have someone actually answer when he says something.
"So what," Dabi rasps out. His breathing sounds even worse than yesterday. "Is this what I have to look forward to? Hanging around some shitty-ass broken building forever, watching other people like some creep?"
"Maybe," Hawks shrugs. "Not entirely sure how I ended up like this."
"Thought you said it was the woodchipper."
"I know how I died, asshole. I'm not sure why I'm still here, though. You'd think someone else would've croaked here over the years, but I've never seen any trace of anyone else post-death."
"The fuck," Dabi huffs, clearly choking back a laugh. "'Post-death.' You're so fucking pretentious. Just say 'ghost' like a normal fucking human."
"I'd argue I'm hardly a 'normal fucking human' right now, though."
"I'd argue you never fucking were."
Hawks is about to reply, when Dabi's wracked with another round of coughing. It lasts longer than the previous one, and he doesn't need to be alive to hear the tiny whines of pain Dabi makes as his body contorts.
There's more blood spattered across Dabi's sleeve, once he lowers his arm.
"What's wrong with you?" Hawks asks, once it sounds like Dabi can breathe again.
"Fuck if I know," the villain wheezes. "Not like I can just go to a fucking hospital. Mister Compress reckoned it might be fucking consumption, cause apparently I'm an 19th century tragic heroine now."
It takes him a minute to connect the word.
"Tuberculosis?!" he asks. "How the hell did you even get that?"
Dabi gives him a look, but doesn't bother answering. The only sound in the room is the wheezing of his breath, and the rhythmic patter of rain against the building.
"You know that's treatable, right? Surely staying out of prison isn't worth dying like this."
"Who says I'm dying, birdie?"
"Me. The one who's already done that. Which makes me the most experienced one in the room, and thus the one you should listen to."
Dabi laughs.
It's a hollow thing, devoid of real amusement.
"Not gonna give'em the satisfaction," the villain finally says. It sounds like forcing the words out around his breath is a costly affair, making him wince as he talks. "I'd rather 'Dabi' remains a figure they have to fear, than some toothless dog in a cage."
"Fuck, dude," Hawks says. "You're wasting your life here for your damn pride?"
"Birdie," Dabi sighs. "I've been dead since I was thirteen. Been haunting this world ever since, as much as you are now."
Dabi can't stay awake for long, and that time keeps shrinking. For two days, Hawks watches as Dabi coughs and wheezes and falls asleep mid-word.
It looks like it won't be long until he's back to talking to himself or the rats.
The thought makes him sad.
Dabi's a weird guy, sure. No one normal and well-adjusted goes out to become a villain, but then again – no one normal and well-adjusted goes out to become a Pro Hero either. They're two sides of the same coin, and in a way, it's nice to talk with someone who matches him.
Honestly, it's just nice to talk to someone who isn't himself again.
If he'd been alive, he could simply call someone here to help. Fly the asshole to a hospital himself, if need be, and save a life in the process. Of course, he's not. He's stuck here, and unless the rats decide to start evolving into something like the headmaster over at U.A., there's no one else around to turn to.
Hawks sits by a sleeping Dabi and hums absentmindedly on some song he once heard, while he waits for the man to wake up again. If there's only a little time left, he'd like to get a few more conversations in before he goes back to walking the perimeter of the house and trying to remember what other people's voices sound like.
"'course you'd have a decent voice too," Dabi mutters. "Can't have a single fucking flaw to make it even remotely fair, can you?"
"Well, I'm dead," Hawks says cheerfully. "That's not exactly a strength either."
"Makes you marginally less annoying, though."
"Yeah?" Hawks says, pleasantly surprised.
There's no answer.
Dabi's already asleep again.
"What was that song?" Dabi asks, later.
He's getting worse. It's obvious, even to someone who can't check his pulse or temperature, or any of those things you need a body for. Every word Dabi says has to be pushed out, and the time between each word makes Hawks want to put a hand on Dabi's chest, to stop him and tell him to rest.
"Not sure," he says instead. Dabi wouldn't thank him for fussing. "Some old song I heard when I was younger. It kinda stuck."
"Huh," Dabi says.
"How're you feeling?"
Dabi just shakes his head.
There's an audible high-pitched noise every time he breathes now.
"Alright," Hawks says, lowering his voice.
Dabi's still looking at him, though there's a feverish tint to his eyes and his lids look heavy now.
At a lack of anything to do, Hawks starts humming the same song again.
Halfway through his second round of it, Dabi's eyes slip shut.
Dabi doesn't speak a lot.
A few words, here and there.
The worst is when he asks for water, because Hawks can't do anything.
"Sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry."
Dabi doesn't answer whenever he apologises. He just stares, with blank, wet eyes that Hawks isn't entirely sure see anything, anymore.
Dabi coughs. It's worse, now. Wet and raspy, and there's no mistaking the sounds of pain accompanying it. He mutters words, sometimes, too low for Hawks to catch them.
Hawks' hands hover uselessly over Dabi's body, unable to touch.
In desperation, he hums the song again. Sometimes, he thinks it helps. Dabi will blink, eyes focusing slightly on where Hawks is sitting next to him, until he falls back asleep.
He hums the song as Dabi's lungs fight for a breath.
He keeps humming as the villain gives a small sob, despair and frustration and pain too much.
It's all he can do.
Dabi opens his eyes, just as Hawks nears the end of the song again.
There's a moment where he's sure the man's about to say something, but instead Dabi simply exhales. It's a long and rattling sound.
He doesn't take another breath.
Hawks keeps humming.
Keigo Takami has never been a lucky man. It's what he's always thought. A strange, trauma-filled life followed by years of haunting an empty building – it speaks for itself, really. Surely, someone like him would never be lucky enough for something as rare and blessed as a soulmate.
When the building shimmers around him, all he can think is that this is some other, terrible inconvenience to his existence. Maybe he'll just hang out without being able to even talk to the few people who might come by an old, dilapidated building.
"Well. That fucking sucked," a voice says.
Dabi stands there, dressed to the nines in his metal-cuffed coat, heavy boots and pants with that obnoxious stitching he favors. He's staring down at…
Well.
His very dead body.
"Huh," Hawks says.
"Please don't tell me I gotta haunt this fucking place with you now," Dabi continues. "I know I tend towards bad luck, but honestly, there's gotta be a fucking limit."
The building is almost gone now, leaving them in an empty, white space.
"I can't really see the building," Hawks offers.
Dabi rolls his eyes. "Thank you, I would never have noticed on my own, what on earth would I do without your fucking powers of observation."
"Do you think we could leave here now?" Hawks asks instead of commenting on a certain someone's rudeness. "I was never able to, before."
"Gotta stop believing in following rules, birdie," Dabi snorts. "I'm not fucking staying anywhere I don't wanna."
With that, the villain – or is that ex-villain? Hawks isn't really sure what's the right way to talk about someone after death – turns on his heel and starts walking.
"Where are you going?"
"This way," Dabi answers, because apparently, without lungs slowly dying by some infection, he's back to being a grade-A dick.
"I can see that. Did you just choose a direction at random, or?"
"Come with me and find out," Dabi says, throwing a grin over his shoulder. "Not sure how long that doorway's gonna wait for us though. Might wanna hurry."
There is a doorway. Old stone, covered in moss and other growing things, rising out of nothingness. It looks...peaceful.
"Pretty sure it's not gonna let me through alone, either," Dabi continues. "Considering you were stuck here until I came along. Figures I'd be saddled with a fucking hero, but there we are."
…oh.
Oh.
Hawks hurries to catch up, falling into step next to Dabi.
"Did you really have to fucking sing me to sleep as I died, dipshit?" Dabi grumps at him.
"It's a better sound than a woodchipper," Hawks says, which earns him a sideways glance and a snort.
The door is still open when they reach it. He's pretty sure he can smell flowers and coffee drifting through from the other side.
"Ready?" Dabi asks.
Maybe this is what all his luck was saved up for.
Keigo takes the hand Dabi offers him, strong fingers wrapping around his, and steps through.
