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Dabi is sick.
Nothing new to that.
His quirk is prone to overuse, prone to overdoing it, but the effects are never immediate. They wait, bide their time, bite back with twice the power. Just long enough his body never learns.
So when Dabi wakes up, tangled in his bedsheets and coated in a fine sheen of sweat, he knows he burned too bright on his last mission. And that’s before he notices the pounding in his head, the scratchiness of his throat, the way his body feels like sludge. When he does, he makes the decision then and there, he’s not getting out of bed today. Not for anything.
Dabi rolls onto his side and hugs himself. He holds tight, or else his hands start shaking. Like once he’s used up his fire, nothing is left but the cold—some lingering piece of his mother he was never able to train out of his quirk. And if not, well, he’s never needed much of an excuse to resent his family.
He’s not sure how long he lies there, fighting to regulate his breathing. He’s likely dehydrated, which only makes him feel more nauseous, more sludgy, but he can’t get up and fix it. Just lifting his head from the pillow prompts a dizzy spell strong enough to bowl him over, and each time, the contents of his stomach shift dangerously. You’d think all his skipped meals would stop him from feeling like he’s gonna puke, but he knows from experience it doesn’t matter. Instead his body feels like a squeeze bottle, crushed aggressively for what little is left inside.
It feels like hours, or maybe it’s not very long at all, but the silence is broken by a knock at Dabi’s door. His body jolts, familiar fear rushing in, as if its decade of absence meant nothing. Dabi’s heart races, pounding in his ears, too loud, too much, too aware of his own body.
He can’t move.
“Hey, what’s the holdup?” Hawks’ voice is muffled by the door, but still too loud. Dabi resists the childish urge to cover his ears. “Everyone’s been looking for you after yesterday’s mission, man.”
Dabi didn’t mean to disappear without warning—at least, not this time. He knows he should’ve stayed to debrief, knows he should’ve had someone look at him afterwards. Maybe then he wouldn’t feel like absolute shit, “caring about his future self” or however you wanted to word it. He hates that guy on a good day, and on the heels of an exhausting mission, he just wanted to sleep off the jet lag.
Which, as always, has come to bite him in the ass.
The silence only emboldens Hawks. The knocking gets a little louder. “Dabi? You in there?”
Go away. Fuck off. The words are dancing on the tip of Dabi’s tongue, but his jaw is made of lead. His fire dampened and weak in more ways than one. Even if he could speak, it’s not like it’d make a difference.
When Dabi was a kid, privacy was an illusion. If he didn’t answer his dad, Endeavor would just let himself in—and with a much shorter fuse. Being sick was no excuse. Hawks doesn’t get mad—in fact, Dabi’s biggest pet peeve with the guy is that he’s terminally unbothered—but the bones are the same. Whether he wants it or not, that door is going to open, and the only thing Dabi can do is lie there and wait for it to happen.
Another knock. Here it comes. “Dabi?”
There’s familiarity here, as soothing as it is panic-inducing. Makes it feel like life is just one big spiral, like things will never change, but even he knows those are dangerous thoughts. At the very least, they can wait until he’s not sick and helpless.
“Dabi?” Hawks pauses, and Dabi can feel the change before it happens. A pitch into something softer, general concern giving way to capital C Concern. The kind that stays just between them. The kind Dabi’s too scared to put a word to. “You okay, Hot Stuff? Can you hear me in there?”
We’ve removed the pretense of acting like he’s not here. Of course Dabi’s here. Where else would he be? No, Hawks has found a much more interesting question to probe.
“Little guy? You up?”
Dabi can’t explain what happens to him. He’s lost in the same looping patterns, but they move outward. Further away from his past, further away from the stupid, scared kid. It makes the loops less scary that way. But sometimes the spiral moves in reverse, undoes his progress, takes him right back to where he began. It only happens when he’s at his lowest, like the universe has to kick him while he’s down. And it only makes everything worse. Dad always hated it when he cried.
“Can I come in?” Hawks tries. “Gotta make sure you’re okay, little dude.”
He’s rationalizing what he’s about to do, giving himself a verbal paper trail so he can claim Dabi’s best interests. No one has Dabi’s best interests at heart. Some people just pretend better.
“Can you answer me? It’s okay if you can’t, but I have to make sure you’re alive in there.” The joke falls desperately flat, and Hawks puts his media training to good use. Stop, reassess, change plans. “You alright with that?”
This pause is twice as long, or it feels that way knowing Hawks is about to see him. Dabi tucks his face into his pillow, squeezes his eyes shut, and waits for the room to stop spinning.
The door creaks open, and just enough hallway light creeps in to burn at his eyelids. Hawks’ gaze is heavy on Dabi’s back, and for a long moment—too long, honestly—Hawks doesn’t say anything. Dabi should know better, but he can’t resist peeking.
And he hates it—he hates the soft look Hawks gives him, his voice soft, barely a breath. “Oh, buddy…”
The sympathy in Hawks’ tone would be enough to send him over the edge. If he had any tears left to cry. If his tear ducts weren’t ashed years ago. If he believed any of it came from genuine care and not the both-sides game Hawks is always playing.
Hawks crosses the room in a few quick strides. There’s a pause as he pulls off his glove, then he touches the back of his hand to Dabi’s forehead. It takes everything for Dabi not to curl into the affection like the whipped dog he is.
“You’re a little warm,” Hawks concludes, a statement so stupidly obvious Dabi would mock him if he had any sort of energy. “Have you been feeling sick since you got back?”
Bingo, dumbass. At the very least, Hawks can put two and two together. Normally, Dabi hates it, because it feels like he’s being picked apart and analyzed, but now, he’s just glad he’s spared the effort of speaking. When he swallows, there’s glass in his throat.
Hawks pats his shoulder. “I’ll get you some water and something to eat. Sit tight.”
No, no, wait don’t— Dabi blinks and he’s gone, and the worst part is how tight Dabi’s chest pinches. That’s how he knows he’s far gone, lost in his own anxiety, when he can’t stand the idea of being alone even for a few seconds. Irrefutable proof of that broken child clawing his way to the surface, begging not to be abandoned for his defective nature. A busted quirk, sickness, it’s all the same. Weakness. Something to hide and bury, not something to make excuses for.
The door creaks open, marking Hawks’ return, but Dabi barely registers it. Not until there’s a figure looming over him, consuming him with its full attention.
“Hey, hey.” A hand combs through his hair, gentle but desperate to soothe. Only then does Dabi realize he’d been whimpering, chuffing weakly into his pillow. Which is not just baby behavior but annoying baby behavior. Why can’t he get a grip? “Easy, chickie. I’m right here.”
And here come the mushy nicknames. The teasing ones are bad enough, but when Hawks starts calling him chickie, baby, or—God forbid—sweet boy, there’s no room for that kind of pretense. How quickly those words threaten to undo him.
“Can we sit you up?” Dabi hates when Hawks does that, inserting we into every sentence. It’s not like Dabi has a say, especially now. He’s too weak and too far gone; Hawks is in total control. “I bet you’ll feel better with some food in your tummy.”
Stop fucking baby talking me, Hawks. The only thing worse than how degrading it feels is how good it feels. When was the last time someone stroked his hair and reminded him to eat? Before Hawks, he couldn’t have answered. And now, the occurrence feels far too common.
Still, Dabi doesn’t fight it. He’s too weak to offer any help as Hawks slips a hand under his back and guides him upright. His head spins, and his stomach shifts dangerously. If he’d had anything to eat in the last twelve hours, it would’ve made a reappearance over his lap. Instead he’s left sputtering and gagging, his stomach trying to force up something that was never there.
“Easy now, easy.” A hand rubs circles into his back, but Dabi pulls away.
With what little energy he has left, he decides to be disobedient, flopping onto his side and pointedly turning away from Hawks. He was fine lying down. Why is the bastard so set on making him eat anyway?
Hawks only chuckles. For reasons Dabi can’t fathom, he finds Dabi’s attempts at rebellion absolutely adorable. “That’s okay. We can hold off on eating for a little bit.” Again with we. “I’ll leave everything on your nightstand so you can get it yourself, yeah?”
Dabi won’t deny his curiosity, but it’s not strong enough to pursue. Plus, on some level, that would be letting Hawks win. He buries his face in his mattress, wishing he’d aimed for his pillow. Now he doesn’t know if he can get up.
“Here. Hang on.” Hawks pads around the bed, footsteps deliberately audible. Dabi’s seen how silently he moves when he doesn’t want to be heard.
Those wings must give Hawks mind-reading powers or something, because the second Dabi thinks a discontented thought, Hawks is already working to fix it. He gently lifts Dabi’s head—the hand with no glove, or maybe he took them both off? He only does that with Dabi—and shimmies the pillow underneath. The pillowcase catches, and the support for Dabi’s neck is weird, but it’s better than nothing. Dabi’s eyes slip shut.
“Rest up, sweet boy. I’ll check up in a couple hours. Can you shout for me if you need anything?”
They both know he can’t. Even if Dabi wasn’t missing his voice, even if exhaustion wasn’t turning his body to lead, it’s not in his nature. That’s all but asking him to announce his weakness to the entire League, to let them know how simpering and small and disgusting he is—
But sometimes a lie is a comforting one. Dabi nods.
Hawks’ hand threads through his hair again. “Thank you, baby. Have a good nap.”
Hawks doesn’t leave—at least, not when Dabi’s conscious enough to notice. He always does that when Dabi’s regressed, always stays until Dabi’s fast asleep. Maybe he stays the whole time. Or maybe he just keeps a feather out for the first sign of Dabi waking. Either way, Dabi rarely finds himself alone when small, and right now his head is too mashed with cotton to remember why he acts like that’s a bad thing.
Hawks’ hand stays loose against his head, fingers idly playing with his hair, and Dabi’s eyes sink shut. A little more sleep wouldn’t hurt, right? Just sleep it off. That’s what Dad always told him.
Dabi drifts and drifts and drifts, until the rest of the world fades and he finds himself in a peaceful limbo.
Only when Dabi wakes does he realize his mistake.
Yes, his head feels clearer. Yes, he doesn’t hurt quite as bad and he doesn’t feel so tired. Some of his fire is back, a flicker of a lighter pulsing under his skin, and his appetite is grumbling its first complaints. The room doesn’t feel so freezing. He can even dare poking a foot out from under the covers to combat the sticky heat.
The problem? He’s feeling smaller. Much smaller.
Dabi doesn’t know what it is about napping that makes him feel like an absolute baby, but when he’s regressed, he avoids sleeping whenever possible. The last thing he needs is waking up the next day still small. Which is especially troublesome considering how much Hawks loves to hover. Dabi’s managed to get lucky a few times, drifting off just enough to prompt Hawks to leave but still able to pull himself up. Dabi doesn’t need a lot, just a little time, a couple deep breaths, and then he’s back in working order. The only problem is how rarely Hawks gives him that. Sometimes it feels like if that bird brain had his way, Dabi would be baby-brained permanently.
But those are big thoughts, way too big for how small he currently feels. All he knows now is that he’s still tired, still hurting, still overwhelmed, and all alone. Being alone only hurts when he’s small.
Dabi rolls onto his side, curling into his pillow. The motion prompts a fresh swell of nausea, flashes a spotlight on the dryness in his throat, then chokes him with the urgency.
But he doesn’t have to wait long, he never does. He had Hawks’ attention the second he shifted in his sleep, and soon the door to his room pushes open, followed by footsteps, soft as a whisper.
“Hey, buddy.” Hawks doesn’t touch him when he’s just waking up. The nightmares don’t happen often, but often enough to leave an impression. “How’d you sleep?”
No words. No energy. Dabi blinks up at Hawks, eyes bleary. Shouldn’t this bird brain have it fixed already? Or is he just all talk?
Hawks, however, is undeterred from the lack of response. He doesn’t need to hear anything; one look from Dabi communicates his laundry list of complaints. “Think we could try something to eat and drink and see if that helps?”
Dabi doesn’t want to eat, if only so he can keep being difficult. He wouldn’t call himself an “easy kid” in any version of his headspace, but the younger he is, the most likely he is to say no for the hell of it. Refusing food when he’s hungry, water when he’s thirsty, affection when he needs a hug, for no other reason than he wants to. Maybe, on some level, he’s trying to find the point where Hawks loses his patience. He has yet to find that limit.
So when Hawks slips his hands under Dabi’s arms, gently prompting him into an upright position, Dabi rolls away and covers his hands with his ears. There’s some base relief in getting to be a nuisance, impeding others, impeding himself, and for it to be no one’s fault. No one gets the blame, no one gets punished. Dabi is still getting used to that.
“I know,” Hawks croons. “A little bit to drink, alright? It’s been a long time.”
Nope. Nuh-uh. No, no, no, no, no. Doesn’t he get what the hands over the ears mean? It means that Dabi doesn’t want to hear him talk. That being said, he will absolutely lose it if Hawks leaves, but that’s a bridge they’ll cross when they come to it.
Hawks doesn’t stop prodding. “Would it help if I got your special cup?”
It would absolutely help, but Hawks doesn’t need to know that. Dabi keeps his hands clamped over his ears, which Hawks takes as the go-ahead it is. Somehow he just knows, and Dabi still can’t decide if he hates it.
Thankfully, Hawks doesn’t have to go anywhere to get Dabi’s special cup. Dabi has only a small selection of regression supplies, all of which are hidden in a shoebox under his bed. It’s a hiding place that’s mediocre at best, but Dabi’s quirk and temper are more than enough to deter any would-be snoops.
Dabi squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to hear as Hawks retrieves the box, opens it, peers through its meager contents. A single sippy cup, a lonely pacifier, and a stuffed phone charm shaped like a penguin that Dabi likes way more than he should. He likes to gently squish the penguin in his fist, the closest thing to playing he’s done in years with the closest thing he’s had to a toy in years.
Hawks has tried, with very limited success, to introduce new toys and comfort items, but Dabi has vehemently rejected each and every one. He doesn’t want a stuffed toy big enough for him to hug, or a bottle, or a security blanket. He doesn’t need whatever’s bugged in his brain to gain momentum, slowly but surely taking over every corner of his room and every facet of his life. It has to stay in the box. It always has to stay in the box.
Still, when Hawks presses the penguin phone charm into his hand, he doesn’t resist. Maybe that too is by design, subtly prompting Dabi to take his hands away from his ears. Though, if Hawks thinks that means he can start bossing, he’s got another thing coming. Dabi is more than happy to tuck his toy under his cheek, where Hawks couldn’t take it away, and go back to not listening. It won’t have to come to that, though. It never does.
Dabi’s fingers curl around the plush fabric of his penguin toy, squeezing it against his palm. He’s always delighted by the amount of give it has, how soft and squishy it is. The opening and closing of his fist, the way its face bulges under pressure, captures his entire attention, even as Hawks fills up his sippy cup and nudges half a cracker between his lips.
“See? That wasn’t so hard, huh?”
Dabi scowls. It flashes across his mind that he can just spit the cracker out, creating a mess for Hawks to clean up, but his stomach gurgles with hunger, and as much as he’d like to cause a problem, he’d rather eat. The stupid, sensible half of his brain reminds him his hands will stop feeling so numb if he does, so maybe the bird brain has a point. He gives his penguin phone charm a rough squeeze, just so Hawks can know he’s not happy.
“Can you eat another one?” Hawks asks. “Just one more? Or all done?”
He always does that, burying a yes or no question so Dabi has no choice but to speak. Dabi doesn’t know what he’s trying at now, since Dabi doesn’t have any words left to spare, but he doesn’t feel like playing this game. That, and there’s still a pit of hunger in his stomach. He opens his mouth.
“Oh, you want more?” Hawks’ voice is so irritatingly smug, so maybe this was what he wanted. Dabi thinks he should be mad. Maybe. He’s too small to remember. “Open wide, chickie.”
Another cracker is slipped between his lips, and Dabi chews mechanically. It’s too much effort for his jaw and he craves something softer. Applesauce or yogurt, maybe the ones they sell in the little pouches. That’s baby brain going wild, so he’s lucky he’s too weak to act on his impulses.
“Another one? Or is that enough?”
No, Hawks is definitely doing that on purpose. And Dabi’s still hungry, so he opens his mouth for another bite.
This is how they go, Hawks feeding him one cracker at a time, pushing to ask if he wants more, until the pit in Dabi’s stomach shrinks into nothingness. And by then, the salt coats his tongue and it’s hard to swallow. He looks up at Hawks, hoping the question comes across without him having to ask it.
Hawks grins. Stupid, insufferable, smug bastard. “Why don’t we try something to drink now, yeah?”
Yeah. Sure. Whatever. Part of Dabi still wants to dig his heels in anyway, but he hates the dryness in his mouth. Relief matters more than his principles. And maybe that too is a sign of how small he’s gotten, far too small to claw himself back up.
So when a hand slips under his shoulders and gently pulls him upright, Dabi doesn’t have the energy to fight it. He’s still half-slumped over his pillows, where he can curl up without having to move much. And even that effort is enough to drain what little energy he has left, and he can’t stop the pitiful whine that slips from his lips.
“I know, I know,” Hawks croons. “Just a little bit, okay? Here you go.”
The cup is pushed into his hands, and Dabi’s fingers curl instinctively around the handles. He hates the stupid handles, on both sides like he’d have trouble holding on otherwise. A tremor runs up his forearms, his grip threatening to slacken.
Even worse is when a hand curls around his, guiding the spout to his lips, tipping the cup back until cool water floods his mouth. Water never tasted so good, and Dabi has the urge to drink and drink until it makes him sick. Self-destruction always finds a way to come naturally.
But Hawks catches him, pulls the sippy cup away before he has a chance to make himself sicker. “Okay, okay, that’s enough. Betcha feel a lot better now, huh?”
He does and he’s furious. Not good enough to get out of bed or cause the fuss he wants to, but… with the pinch in his temples disappearing, maybe another nap wouldn’t be so bad. Dabi slumps over the pillows, lets his eyes sink shut. The flames from before are nowhere to be found, the embers left cooling in a desolate fire pit.
The familiar hand resumes its path through his hair. “There we go. Try to get a little bit more sleep, yeah?”
And now that it’s been suggested for him, it’s the last thing Dabi wants to do. But his eyes are so heavy, so Dabi does the only thing left and whines, a miserable sound from the back of his throat. How is it that he sounds even feebler now that he’s gotten some strength back?
No answer this time, which is odd considering how much Hawks loves the sound of his own voice, and Dabi hates the change. The bed dips under Hawks’ weight and Dabi hates that too, the entitlement to his space, the silent sympathy, the calm company. But most of all, Dabi hates how he curls into that warmth, how comforting all those things turn out to be.
Maybe when he wakes up, he’ll feel better, and maybe then, he’ll have the energy to put up the fuss he wants to—he needs to.
But for now, the only thing he needs is sleep.