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Hawks is warm in his hands. Soft. Pliant. Small.
He is a puff of wings, a fraction of the size of the Hawks Dabi is used to, but the marks of his eyes and pair of red on his back is unmistakable. This Hawks is wide-eyed but still, even falling before Dabi's arms into a likely near manic expression.
Dabi's not sure what kind of face he's making.
Hawks jumped out in front of the suspicious light, like he is second to Dabi. A villain.
Dabi is sure he fits the HPSC’s playbook as a prime example of someone better out of this world, but there was no hesitation there.
One minute it's the Hawks he knows, a sarcastic and dry remark upon his tongue as he throws out another feather. Long enough to trip them up, sharp enough to pierce through skin.
Hawks is a formidable opponent, Dabi will give him that. He doesn't look forward to the day they fight on opposing sides, knowing this won't last.
It is this too, that Dabi is admittedly distracted by, because it is Hawks fighting by his side, and it is why he doesn't see it coming.
Hawks does. No matter if he's full of shit, keeping up with Dabi's banter and multi-tasking in a way that kind of makes Dabi envious, he is focused.
Now he's paying the price, body quirked back in time. Tiny, little Hawks, in Dabi's arms.
The lights keep coming. What should've been over fast enough, isn't.
Dabi doesn't wait for it to be either. He books it out of there pretty fast, lest he risks losing whatever fluff that's now in his hands.
It's not worth it—and isn't that a thought?
He's sure his heroic instincts died ten years past and yet… arms heatedly wrapped around little Hawks that barely clings, he sets out an inferno grave enough to block off any pursuers.
Then he's running, faster than he ever remembers, staples protesting against the pull of his limbs to get the fuck out of there.
. . . . .
Dabi's careful. Consciously, his body lets out the steam, gradual and not all at once the way he normally does. He knows how hot he burns, how if he's not careful little birdie in his arms will certainly get burned up too.
If there's discomfort or fear that Hawks feels, he does not voice them. If anything, he's too still. Too quiet. Like being carried away and on the run, is okay with him.
By the time they make it somewhere safe, an old rooftop of another abandoned warehouse, Dabi's over done it. He's not used to holding in all the heat inside of him anymore.
“I won't let them have you,” he reassures, as if there's any doubt from Hawks, who all the while hasn't questioned where they're going. Hasn't exhibited fear. It's not normal.
“Let's just… take a moment.”
There's a small nod against his chest. Acknowledgement. He doesn't seem scared of Dabi, which is also… something.
Dabi winces, body in protest as he slides down against the cool cement, his head spinning from the chase and heat. Smoke seeps from his stitches.
For a moment, the world is still, only the exhale of breathing from Hawks in his arms and Dabi's, his head resting against a propped up knee.
A little hand comes up to his chest. Fingers held out as it presses, barely there onto the staples that peek above his shirt.
Voice soft, Hawks murmurs, “You're hurt.”
Dabi is, but he shrugs as he raises his head, not about to let a kid be concerned for him.
“Nah, I'm fine,” he musters out.
He will be. He can't be certain of Hawks though, who blinks up at him so much younger. There's still the carefully blank look in his expressions, but it's less refined.
Cracks in the surface. Almost like… Hawks grew up hiding himself all his life and only perfected it through the years.
Someone made Hawks this way.
And Dabi knows what it means, what it's like. He holds Hawks closer.
Innocence over the familiar sharp lines of Hawks blinks back at him.
There's a million questions that burn against the state of Hawks. Questions that he could ask, questions that aren't fair or something he should take advantage of, but it's the present one that still bugs him.
There's no telling how long Hawks may be this way.
So when Dabi parts his lips, the words spill out, “Why would you jump in front of me?”
Dabi's not certain if this Hawks can answer the question, if he even retained the memories or understands what Dabi asks, but gold eyes look up to meet his eyes.
There's a shift in his hands, little red wings that curve in closer to Hawks’ body.
Hesitation. Reserved. Careful words.
“It's what heroes do… right?”
It sounds like child logic, and he's not sure what he was expecting, but it is painfully Hawks. Heroic. Even when this Hawks looks uncertain.
Dabi takes too long, Hawks seems to fold in smaller in his arms, before Dabi can agree. Agree, if only because Hawks looks fearful of his own words. Timid, like it is the wrong answer when there isn't one.
“Yeah,” Dabi says, as he lowers himself against the ground. “You're a hero.”
Hawks is, even when Dabi's a villain. One that Hawks had no place taking a hit for.
But unexpectedly too, Hawks adds, “You too. You saved me now.”
Something tight lodges in his chest at the words. Dabi doesn't know what to say to that.
He's never been a hero, never known how to be, but when he curls up now, with Hawks a bundle still in his arms, he doesn't want to let go.
There's something off about the Hawks in his arms that he wants to protect, wants to reassure, wants to be… a hero for. However temporary.
Dabi blinks up into the sky. The clouds are heavy tonight, the stars abysmal.
Everything between Hawks and him seemed to only ever exist temporarily.
He swallows away the feeling as he shifts to get as comfortable as possible.
Instead of an acknowledgement, he opts for, “This okay? Will only be a moment.”
“Okay,” Hawks confirms, almost shy. His head rests against Dabi's beating chest as he admits, “You're warm.”
Dabi almost smiles as he brushes his hand across Hawks’ back, calloused fingers soothing against baby feathers.
“That, I am.”
Dabi holds him, for the temporary that exists.
. . . . .
When Dabi wakes, it's not the little Hawks in his arms, but an entire body and wings that overflow against his limbs. He doesn't let go.
“Don't ever do that again.”
Hawks doesn't fight out of his arms. Doesn't stiffen, and if there's confusion that he feels, it's not any that he shows. Apparently, it's something he's perfected all his life.
The first reply out of the present Hawks comes light, “Do what?”
Dabi's arms tighten around Hawks, holding him closer to the beating truth in his chest. His eyes fall back closed as he says the words aloud. As if he doesn't acknowledge it visibly, it won't be true.
“Save me.”
There's an exhale of a breath, soft. Hawks must be doing something with the curve of his lips, because when Hawks replies, Dabi hears it in his voice.
“Can't promise that, hot stuff. I'm still a hero.”
He is, Dabi knows that.
Dabi is temporary, but Hawks will always be a hero. The only hero too, who's ever tried to save Dabi.