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“It’s you again,” Aizawa said, deadpan, leveling Hawks with a look that was halfway between surprised and suspicious.
Hawks grinned, offering a practiced wave that the fans always welcomed with violent screams and snapping photos. Aizawa seemed less impressed, though. “Nice seeing you too. You don’t have to look so excited.”
Scheduling his patrols so he would be paired up with Eraserhead was one of Takami Keigo’s little secrets. He had access to information that was supposed to be kept confidential; biodata, past history, current occupation, and, most importantly, a calendar recording which heroes were assigned to patrol duty, all planned weeks in advance.
Not that Hawks needed a second hero to accompany him: he was more than capable scouring an area alone thanks to his Quirk, flying above even the tallest buildings to take in the streets lying ahead, the people reduced to ants and the lampposts into tiny pinpricks of light. With his heightened vision, he could notice the smallest commotion, the stealthiest of villains. After that, it was child’s play to send out his feathers and trap anyone who dared to disturb the city’s peace. It was routine work that promised little to no challenge to an up-and-coming hero like him.
That was the only reason he wanted company, or so he’d told himself—someone to help with alleviating the boredom. At first, he had no ulterior motives. He just wanted to kill time between chasing the bad guys, and what better way to do that than to chat someone’s ears off? In his position, it didn’t hurt to get to know as many heroes as possible, to build connections, to identify others’ strengths and weaknesses—it all came with the territory, and he was a curious guy by nature. It made sense that he requested to be paired up.
He had not, in fact, calculated Aizawa Shouta into the equation.
Aizawa, with his reserved attitude and one-word answers and total disinterest in Keigo’s charm and youthful popularity. Aizawa, who had already made a name for himself as an undergound hero, but seeing the real deal and hearing about it were two totally different things. He liked Aizawa’s efficiency, the way he immediately took action upon getting an alert and never wasted time with flashy moves that would look good on camera. He was confident in his own abilities, something that Hawks respected and maybe even looked up to. His expectations were clear and reasonable, and Hawks never felt pressured to prove himself beyond what he was capable of.
Aizawa, who hated talking about himself but begrudgingly shared throwaway details about the kids he taught in his class, mentioned annoying pranks and quirk accidents and class-wide birthday celebrations. He remembered everyone’s hero name and favourite food and allergy, and for someone who regularly claimed that they were a handful, he couldn’t hide the fondness in his voice when the topic came up.
Aizawa, who kept cat food hidden under his sleeves and, from time to time, abruptly stopped in sketchy back alleys to feed the hungry strays who haunted the trash bins. Those were the only times Hawks saw the hint of a smile pulling at his lips, and he always waited at a safe distance so as not to spook the animals, while Aizawa petted a furry head or two before returning to work. He’d tried asking him what his stance was on keeping other animals as pets, for example birds, but Aizawa had not entertained his icebreaker.
That hadn’t deterred Hawks, though. He had many questions of a similar vein in his arsenal, and he knew that sooner or later a piece of Eraser’s armor would fall away and he’d crack a real smile, one that he’d sometimes fantasized about late at night when sleep stubbornly evaded him.
There was a dichotomy between that cold exterior and soft insides that intrigued him, that made him want to pry under those stone-hard walls. There had to be a reason why Aizawa kept everyone at arm’s length, just like Hawks did.
He wondered if, beneath their behavioral differences, their similarities ran deeper than either of them thought.
“I hope you know that stalking is a serious crime,” Aizawa said as they fell into step beside each other, melting into the dark shadows of the night.
Hawks glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, but the older man’s face held none of its usual teacher’s sternness.
He realized, belatedly, heart jumping in his chest, that Aizawa was joking. At his expense, but still! Another proof that miracles did exist.
“Noted. So no following you home after we’re done here?” he asked, just to see that disapproving pinch between Aizawa’s brows that signaled he was not down for Hawks’s antics.
“I’d tell you it’s not funny, but I’m afraid you’re not joking.”
“Hey, what do you take me for?” Hawks feigned offense, widening his eyes and ruffling up his feathers in mock protest. When Aizawa did not deign this with an answer, he carried on, “You know, most people would be ecstatic at the prospect of me following them home. Not that I’d ever actually offer that.”
“I’d hope not,” Aizawa said, and that serious tone was back tenfold, giving Hawks a look sharp enough to cut. “You should always be careful. Not everyone has good intentions.”
“Aww, sensei, that sounds like you’re worried about me! Is this how you speak to your kids when you warn them about stranger danger?”
“I’m serious. You’re still young and people might want to take advantage of that—”
Well, he wouldn’t mind if it was Aizawa taking advantage of him. He’d volunteer, even, just for a chance.
“I’m not that young,” he retorted lightly, and he straightened his back to appear more sure of himself. “I haven’t been a kid for a long, long time.”
He didn’t just mean the physical years, and he knew Aizawa would understand the message behind his words. Maybe more than he’d even like.
Aizawa was quiet for a while. The only noise breaking the quiet slumber of the night were faraway hum of the cars and their own footfall, muted as a trained hero’s. Hawks could have just flied ahead, could have spared even more energy without walking, but that would have shifted the balance of their eye-to-eye conversation.
“Hawks,” he started, dark eyes even more unreadable in the lack of light. Hawks wasn’t sure where this whole conversation was going--reassurance or rejection or pity or all of the above, resulting in a bitter cocktail that would be too hard to swallow.
But before he could face his fate, a loud crash and bang pierced the night in two, and the two of them barely exchanged a pointed look before they started ahead, as fast as their limbs could carry them. Hawks took off, spread his wings as soon as there was enough room to allow it, red feathers fluttering in the wind. Aizawa was hot on his heels, using the cloth worn around his neck to speed up his movements, pulling himself forward by street signs and traffic lights and trees.
The part of town they were in was scarcely alive at this hour, so it was easy to locate where the disturbance was coming from. Hawks flew higher to scan the area, his position allowing him a bird’s eye view of the situation. He spotted the broken glass scattered around on the pavement, shimmering in the sickly-pale yellow of the streetlights, and he saw the sign above the shop, advertising designer watches in big bold letters.
The usual robbery attempt, it seemed. Not very creative. He glided down next to Aizawa, and they stared ahead at the broken display window.
“No accomplice in the vicinity,” Hawks murmured, even though it made no difference whether he was being quiet or not. Their mission would end in the same outcome anyway.
“He’s alone. Possibly heteromorph with extra limbs, and he has guns.” Aizawa’s scowl deepened at the last part. Hawks shared the same sentiment toward firearms. They had to be extra quick to disarm the guy. “Don’t rush in until I give the signal.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know the drill, sensei.”
“I’m still not your sensei.”
“Spiritually you are.”
Aizawa didn’t respond, which Hawks took as permission to keep advancing forward. He heard muffled movement and more glass cabinets cracking apart, the clink of metal bracelets and watch faces as they were swept off their strands and into whatever bag the robber had prepared. It was a nice and simple plan, Hawks had to admit. The street was lined with shops that were closed for the night, no neighbour to complain about the noise level, and the criminal had even managed to disable the alarm, if there had even been one.
It would be easy enough to send out a couple feathers to pin the guy against a wall, extra limbs or not, but Aizawa didn’t like unnecessary bloodshed. So Hawks waited patiently as they got in full view of the savaged shop and Aizawa activated Erasure just in case, eyes aglow with red and dark hair lifted with a steady pulse of power, defying gravity.
Hawks did not try talking things out. Someone armed with weapons must have come with the kind of resolve that soothing words would do nothing against. A couple feathers surged forward, fast as lightning and sharp as blades, a warning; the robber turned halfway, two tendril-like limbs busy with putting the stolen goods away, another six holding guns of various sizes.
Now it was only the matter of who was the fastest. The red feathers darted forward when the criminal opened fire, slicing bullets in halves that lost their trajectory and buried themselves in walls. Something hot grazed his bicep but he didn’t spare it a single second, not until all the weapons dropped to the ground and the heteromorph was sat wrapped up tight in Eraserhead’s scarf, cursing them and their whole family tree under his breath.
They went back outside while they waited for the police to arrive. It was nice to leave the cleanup to others. Hawks did not like dealing with messes.
“You’re hurt,” Aizawa said, concern lacing his voice, and he reached toward the cut material of Hawks’s jacket, where the bullet had cleaved its way and bit through cloth and flesh.
“Damn, it was my favourite jacket,” Hawks said, mournful. He had spent his first real paycheck on this brown leather piece that had seen better days, but it was something that reminded him of his own agency. It was a small token of freedom and the sign of a life he had finally gained more control over.
“Don’t try to change the subject. Let me see.” His commanding voice sent a pleasant shiver down Hawks’s spine. He took off his jacket, and the cold night air made him shiver in his thin shirt.
There was a bleeding wound on his upper arm, looking dark and sticky and stark against his skin. It wasn’t deep, fortunately, but worry still creased Aizawa’s forehead as he leaned closer to examine the injury, breath warm against the torn surface.
“We should go to the hospital,” Aizawa said, “or drop by Recovery Girl… That may be quicker.”
“Ah, this is just a scratch, don’t worry abo--Ouch! That hurt!”
Aizawa looped his scarf around the throbbing spot and pulled it tight to stop the bleeding, ignoring Hawks’s bitten-off protest, and tied it neatly. His fingers ghosted his skin, feather-light, and Hawks wished the touch would linger a little longer. He cleared his throat in an attempt to dislodge the lump from his throat.
Aizawa stepped back once he was satisfied the makeshift bandage would hold, already scanning Hawks with that tired, clinical focus of his that seemed to bore through every layer of his being.
“You’re already bleeding through it,” Aizawa said matter-of-factly. “That’s not a scratch.”
“Okay, fine, maybe a medium scratch. But I’ve had worse. I’ve got a good ol’ bottle of disinfectant and enough painkillers to knock someone out for a week. I’ll live.”
“That… what?” Aizawa’s sigh was worth more than a thousand words. He massaged his temple as if he was dealing with a particularly hard-headed student that refused to behave. “You got hurt under my watch. I won’t just let you walk away.”
“If you insist… you could patch me up.” At this point, he was just shooting his shot for the love of the game, but to his utter surprise, Aizawa took him up on his offer.
“Okay. Follow me.” Hawks stood there for a few seconds, gaping in surprise while Aizawa already started making his way away from the mess of debris and flashing police cars. Like it was obvious Hawks would follow.
Like he was counting on it.
Hawks felt like he was on cloud nine and he wasn’t even flying. He hurried after Aizawa, wings half-furled to avoid brushing the passing buildings, ignoring the sharp sting of pain in his arm and the ruined jacket clasped between his fingers, barely able to hold back a satisfied grin. He’d decided to try and push his luck, now that he’d got the first sign that Aizawa indeed had a soft spot for him in his tightly-guarded heart.
“My hand is rapidly losing feeling… wanna hold it for me? For strictly medical purposes, obviously.”
Aizawa rolled his eyes, not even going for subtlety, but he complied and interlaced his own, colder fingers with Hawks’s. There were callouses all over his palm, skin hardened with vigorous training and countless fights, but his touch was gentle. Hawks felt light-headed, but it had nothing to do with the blood-loss.
“Sooo,” Hawks drawled, playing it off like another joke, “you do this often? Rescuing injured heroes and taking them back to your place?”
“You should already know it,” Aizawa said, keeping his gaze ahead. “You’re the first.”
Hawks smiled this time, toothy and pleased, knowing he was getting special treatment. Knowing he was special.
And the simplicity of Aizawa’s words, the honesty and care mattered more than any grand declarations he’d ever received.