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On the ground, the city looked different.
Smaller, somehow.
Which doesn’t make much sense, considering the size of the buildings looming overhead and the winding streets stretching ahead for miles. But Hawks was used to seeing it from above, for obvious reasons, and quite honestly, he preferred it that way.
In the sky, everything flattened out. There was only him and the open air up there, save for the occasional airplane or news helicopter. From that high up, the city below barely felt real sometimes, almost like looking down at some sort of hyperrealistic map.
But he loves it. The wind tangled his hair into his usual wind-swept style and whenever he flew fast enough, the noise of air rushing past his ears effectively drowned out all outside sounds. It was bliss. Sure, it was strictly his work environment, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy it! Stop and smell the roses.. or.. the air pollution..?
Hm.
Maybe he needs to consider asking his agency about adding some sort of filtered mask to his hero costume. The Commission would probably shut that shit down immediately, though. Appearances and branding come first, always. They didn’t even let him change his flight jacket or the thin compression shirt underneath for something better-suited to accommodate the dipping temperatures. It was all fine and dandy during the warmer seasons, sure, but now..? Not so much. Especially with his whole bird situation. As much as the Commission liked to claim to the public that he was strictly an emitter-type quirk holder, that just wasn’t the truth. There was more to it than just the wings. The cold, for instance, makes him super sluggish, which, to be frank, is not ideal for the fastest hero. Torpor, they’d called it.
Whatever.
None of that matters, not in the slightest. He isn’t just any hero, he’s the number 2! So no complaining. That’d be greedy. Especially for someone like him, who, as his handler likes to say, was handed his career on a silver platter. Heroes aren’t greedy. They’re selfless, altruistic, considerate.
And anyway, he could just fly quicker, exceed all the suffocating expectations, and get everything done before the cold even really had a chance to sink in. Never mind that the gusts of wind only seemed to amplify the bone-deep chill.
Whenever he hit those famous inhumanly rapid speeds, it was usually just a game of where to next? There wasn’t much to it—streets were just lines, buildings became blocks, and people disappeared completely unless he made an effort to fly low enough to keep an eye on them. Or rather, for them to keep an eye on him. Hero ratings and all that.
That was the thing about flying. It was always just there as an option, like second nature, coming to him as naturally as breathing.
Except in situations like this. Here, standing on the ground, Hawks finds himself really missing the sky.
Up there, he could see everything.
Down here, he couldn’t see shit.
Visibility. It was a constant in his daily life, a part of his job as the number 2. Cameras, interviewers, civilians—there was always someone calling his name, asking for autographs, needing soundbites, or help with the occasional cat-stuck-in-a-tree situation.
Though it’s not that he minded too much, he liked chatting it up with everyone! He was an introvert at heart, but while the outgoing persona he has going on is just that—a persona carefully crafted by the Commission—he still liked people.
It was especially nice right before clocking out, before heading back to his soulless beige apartment or some awful Commission assignment. Helping someone, even if it was with something dumb, still made him feel like he was doing exactly what he’d always dreamed of as a child.
He was a hero now! A hero with purpose. He liked having a purpose.
It was just the constant eyes that got to him, is all. Especially in this day and age, eyes and ears were everywhere.
And tonight, he wanted to be anywhere but the spotlight. He couldn’t afford to be recognized where he was headed.
Fortunately, as he slowly makes his way out from the subway station into the swirl of people in the street, nobody looks twice at him. He tries to scoot past a group of salarymen blocking the sidewalk, but to no avail. Seriously, how do people get anywhere on time walking at this pace?
As he passes by a shoe shop window, his reflection moves with him, and he catches sight of the ridiculous lumpy shape his wings are making folded under his puffer jacket. Wow. Maybe he should’ve actually bitten the bullet and contacted his handler about getting his undercover attire replaced. His old ones had been ruined beyond repair during his last assignment, but he hadn’t wanted to upset anyone and get lectured about doing better and being better at his job. With the Commission, you make a mistake one too many times and it’s back to that brutal remedial training. For him in particular, it only took one. He shudders, just thinking about it.
It wasn’t his fault that the material was so flimsy! Besides, he had been a bit preoccupied trying not to get himself killed doing work that he had no business even being remotely involved in as a hero.
Hawks grimaces, feathers puffing up automatically under the confines of the jacket. Ugh. This coat was not it. He’d actually already sent the majority of his feathers out ahead, scouting, getting in position to surveil the surrounding area, but there was still enough left to make his back look comically bulky. To him, it was pretty damn obvious. But ask anyone who didn’t know who he was, and they’d never guess what was there.. right? They’d probably just think he has something else on underneath. Like, a giant backpack or something!
At least that’s what he decides. It took so much effort to get his wings to fit under this stupid coat. The faster he can get this over with, the better.
He sighs.
Right.
He’s got another meeting with Dabi later tonight.
Hawks hasn’t seen the pyromaniac since that last one, where he somehow managed to embarrass himself yet again. Really, what kind of spy falls asleep on the job? Multiple times, at that..!
He’d miraculously managed to evade the inclusion of those details while reporting back to the Commission. It’s funny, he was using their own teachings against them, then. But as much as the thought of lying to the Commission unsettles him—they always eventually found out somehow—lies of omission included, it was necessary. His head would for sure be rolling if they knew. Or worse, Madam President would stick him back in one of those “training” programs again.
Thankfully, he was at least in better shape today! The HPSC actually let him have the morning off from patrol to allow him to prepare for this little excursion. He’d happily laid in his bed all day! Maybe it was a little lazy in hindsight—he has a lot of paperwork that he could’ve been doing instead—but he needed the rest. And really, at this point, with all the experience he’s built up over the years, this kind of assignment is a piece of cake. He could do it in his sleep!
Not that he was going to.
Ha.
The mission was just simple, is all.
A small business downtown was flagged in the Commission’s databases. Apparently, it was acting as a front for illegal dealings for some sort of new quirk drug that was flooding the black markets lately. His job tonight was to show up, hang out for a bit in the area, maybe take a look around, and determine if the rumors held any water. If he could identify the supplier, even better. He’d even received a description of the guy to reference.
Easy-peasy.
As he turns the corner, he’s suddenly across the street from the place. And wow. It was weird-looking. Who decided that a probably-drug-front should be a flower shop? Seriously? It stuck out like a sore thumb, especially in the part of town he was in.
Just as he determines his next move, maneuvering his surveillance feathers around the building, he hears vibrations running through them—stomping footsteps, getting closer. The guy he’s supposed to watch out for abruptly slams the front door open, bell jingling violently, and steps out into the street. It’s definitely him. He matches the description to a T, long blue hair and an odd gait.
Perfect.
The guy looks around a little, eyes skimming over Hawks, not really noticing him, before marching down the street, hunched over something in his arms. The drugs, if he had to guess.
Not wasting even a second, Hawks starts after him, keeping a comfortable distance as they head down the sidewalk. No need to get too close. He’s got his eyes on the guy and already has a few feathers scattered ahead, keeping track of his every move. They make a few twists and turns through the winding streets before the target suddenly glances behind him and turns sharply into an empty parking garage. The yellow fluorescent lights spill down from the ceiling above him as he slips in right after.
Well, this is just great. Parking garages are creeeeepy. Especially at night. But the perfect place for this kind of thing, probably. A little echo-y, though, no? Hawks mulls this over as he crouches behind a gray van, out of the guy’s line of sight. He’s just standing around, seemingly waiting for something—or someone—to show up.
After about 20 minutes, Hawks’ feathers pick up something new. A voice. It’s speaking hushedly, presumably on the phone.
“..I’ll ask him later, Toga, okay? Stop bothering me about it,” it gruffly whisper-shouts, “I’m hanging up, I'm actually doing work right now,” the voice snaps.
He hears the person on the other line start to whine, but with a tap, the line cuts.
Wait a minute.
He knew that voice. It was familiar. But no, no, no. Absolutely not. That’s ridiculous, it couldn’t be. That had to be some other raspy voice, speaking to some other Toga, not at all involved with the League of Villains. Toga was a pretty common name, right? Maybe. And there’s plenty of guys out there who also sound like they’ve been smoking a pack a day since they learned to walk. Plus, what would the League want with all this? The drug’s effects hadn’t even been properly verified, so it wasn’t like it was being highly sought after yet..
Hawks slowly and stealthily lifts his head to peek over the van’s hood in the direction where the voice was. It’d been only a few yards away from him. He sees a flash of spiky black hair and electric blue eyes, staring directly at him. He practically throws himself back down again.
They’d made eye contact.
Oh.
Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding.
It’s Dabi.
What the hell is he doing here? Is he following this guy too? For the drugs? Something else? Did he see him? Yeah, no, he definitely saw him. But did he recognize him? Hawks’ mind was running a mile a minute, pulse picking up and thundering in his ears.
Fuck. It’s not like he can just up and leave in the middle of this assignment. He does that and he’s in big, big trouble. But if he gets discovered here, then he’s in bigger, bigger trouble. His fingers curl into his palms, ungloved nails digging into his skin until the sting turns sharp enough to draw blood. This was just his luck, huh.
His considerably more significant assignment, the one where he’s been trying for literal months to prove himself as a villain and join the League, could be entirely compromised tonight. Because if Dabi figures out who he is here, then he’d definitely put two and two together. Commission spy. Planted into the League. Months of hard work, completely blown.
Dabi may be a little crazy, but he certainly isn’t stupid. In fact, he’s scary-smart. Cunning.
And Hawks really didn’t need him to be using that intelligence right now.
He lets a slow and deliberate breath out through his nose, desperately trying to calm himself. He presses himself closer to the van, as if it were some knight-in-shining-armor that would swoop in and save him from this nightmarish situation. But, wait. He’s the one who’s supposed to be doing the swooping and saving. He doesn’t need anything else to do that for him. Certainly not a van.
Okay.
Okay, wait. So this is fine, actually.
Dabi saw him, sure, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that he recognized him, per se.
Much to his horror, he hears careful footsteps drawing closer and closer. Suddenly the villain was right next to him, huddled behind the van. Hawks freezes, wide eyes surveying Dabi’s even expression as the villain glances past him, once, at the target—still loitering—before returning his attention on the hero.
Dabi had recognized him the second their eyes met. At first, he’d been a little startled, honestly. Simply because he hadn’t expected to see the bird here of all places. But when he thought about it, it did make sense for the Commission to be interested in what was going on regarding these weird-ass quirk drugs. The League wanted to know more too, about who was buying and selling it. Hence why he was here, in a dingy parking garage at o’dark thirty. With Hawks now, it seems.
Ironically, it wasn’t the wings that gave him away off the bat, either. Though those were practically bursting from the seams of his puffer jacket. He looked ridiculous. Like a turtle. And the black cap he’d thrown on his head did nothing to conceal the mess of blond hair sticking out in all directions from underneath. But no, it wasn’t any of that. It was his eyes that did it. Even with the lower half of his face covered by a mask, they were unmistakable, those sharp black lines framing his brilliant gold irises.
Dabi was wearing a mask of his own, but he at least had his hood pulled up over most of his hair. It looked to him as though Hawks had just thrown on the first few black articles he’d found in his closet and called it ‘good enough’ for a presumably undercover operative mission.
That has to be why he was here, no doubt.
Before him, the hero was peering at him with the sort of rigid, wide-eyed expression that made it painfully obvious that he had no idea whether or not he’d been caught.
Dabi leans in a little. “You hiding from someone?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
Hawks jolts, then goes very, very still, eyes still searching for any kind of hint.
“Uhm, no.. just chillin’,” he answers, quietly. It’s so tame, all the bright energy the bird usually expels noticeably absent.
The villain raises an eyebrow.
“Just chillin’?” he echoes, “in a parking garage?” His eyes flick briefly to the target, then back to him.
“Yeah,” Hawks clears his throat. “Nice ambiance,” he finishes, head lowering to where Dabi couldn’t see his eyes under the brim of his cap anymore.
Oh no, so this is so not fine, actually. Hawks feels like his heart is going to explode in his chest. Could he tell it was him? He couldn't, right? But would Dabi, the wanted villain, strike up conversation with the first stranger he sees in an empty parking garage? Probably not. Actually, definitely not.
Unless.. unless he did?
Maybe Dabi is just weird like that. No. Obviously not. But what other explanation was there? Plus, Hawks has met plenty of weird people before. Weird fans, weird reporters, weird Commission agents. Hell, he’s weird! Or so he’s been told. So.. maybe this was just two weird guys having a conversation behind a van in a parking garage. Totally normal. Yep.
His wings shift beneath his jacket. Nervous habit.
Dabi’s attention momentarily goes to his coat before it snaps back to his face.
Shit.
“Your coat’s moving,” he says.
Hawks feels the color drain from his face. His stomach flips, the protein bar he’d eaten earlier churning in his gut.
“I’m, uh. I’ve got a backpack on under,” he declares somewhat weakly, still avoiding the villain’s gaze.
It’s quiet for a moment. Hawks briefly glances up from under his hat to see Dabi’s reaction. He’s just staring at him.
“Why?” he deadpans.
“Why what?” Hawks questions, shifting uncomfortably. His knees were starting to ache from the crouched position.
“Why is there a backpack under your coat? Is that, like, stylistic for you?”
“Oh, it’s warmer this way,” the hero mumbles.
He slowly lifts his head. Hawks waits for Dabi to say something, anything, in reply, but the villain just continues staring at him, those cerulean eyes giving nothing away.
“Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it,” the hero says, a little more confidently. “Y’know.. I bet you wanna try it out, too!”
His eyes widen at the thought.
“But, I’ve only got one backpack, so. Sorry!” He makes a face under the mask, some of that usual Hawks-energy creeping back in. “And anyway, do you always go around questioning strangers about their fashion choices in empty parking garages?” he teases, voice raising ever-so-slightly.
Dabi studies him for another beat. His shoulders lift in a lazy shrug.
“No.”
Hawks blinks in confusion.
“No, you don’t want to try it? Or..”
“No, I don’t usually talk to strangers,” Dabi finishes for him, voice flat. His eyes flick over Hawks’ disguise before returning to his face.
“Oh.”
Hawks waits. But it’s just quiet after that.
Nothing. Dabi turns his attention back over to the guy, watching.
..Okay. So that was it? He fidgets with the edge of his coat and forces his tense shoulders to loosen.
Wow, maybe he was actually super lucky after all. Dabi seriously hadn’t recognized him! And the guy was right next to him! The absurdity of the situation almost makes him laugh, but for the sake of the mission, he simply pulls his cap down a little more and turns toward the target.
A few more minutes pass and Hawks keeps his razor-sharp attention trained on the scene in front of them. The man shifts his weight impatiently, checking over the package of probably-drugs he has in his arms. He leans against a beam. Hawks listens for any signs of any other people approaching, but so far, still nothing.
Beside him, Dabi remains equally quiet.
Hm. What’s he doing here anyway?
Hawks sneaks a glance sideways at him. The villain is still surveying the target with his arms crossed and a bored expression.
He shifts slightly, his own eyes refocusing on the mission as well.
If Dabi was following the same guy, maybe the League was involved here. Or.. they wanted to become involved? He should probably figure that out. He’d leave it to future Hawks to worry about, though.
He sighs, subtly.
“Guy’s been waiting for a half hour,” Dabi says suddenly, voice muted.
“Yeah,” Hawks replies, without taking his eyes off the target. He sends a feather forward, closer.
“You think he’s meeting someone?”
A beat passes as Hawks focuses on successfully getting the feather on the guy’s person undetected.
“Probably.. or he just likes standing around parking garages,” he finally answers.
Dabi glances over, giving the hero a long, unreadable look.
“For thirty minutes?”
“Hey, some people have hobbies.”
“Like you? Enjoying the parking garage ambiance?” Dabi retorts.
Hawks tries not to smile under his mask.
“Yup.”
A faint vibration runs through one of his scattered feathers, picking up in intensity moments later. A car engine.
Hawks’ attention snaps forward.
As if on cue, a shitty white sedan pulls around and stops in front of the target. No plates, he notes. The guy straightens and pushes himself off the beam, walking confidently over to the waiting car.
“Hey man, I got what you wanted,” the guy says.
“Yeah? This all of it?” the driver inquires coolly.
“For now.”
The target shifts the package around in his grip, scanning the garage a little before handing it over.
Hawks’ eyes narrow.
There it is. He continues listening to the exchange.
“Payment?”
“Already sent.”
“Good.”
Then, abruptly, the car takes off, making loud squeaking noises against the coating of the garage floor. Hawks watches it disappear around the corner, the target slinking away soon after.
That was it. That had to be it.
He’d seen the handoff, heard the confirmation, even got a good look at the package. Whatever was inside, the Commission was going to love this. His feathers puff up behind him, shifting the jacket again.
Mission accomplished. Hooray!
..so, that was it, huh.
It was so easy..! He could really get used to this kind of job, that was nothing compared to the other stuff they had him doing.
“That what you were waiting for?” Dabi asks, voice at a normal volume this time. The question echoes a little in the wide space.
Speaking of which.
“Yeah? Oh, uh, I mean–no. Well. Maybe?” Hawks’ head bobs uncertainly, hands making a useless little gesture. He cringes internally. Real smooth.
Something faintly resembling amusement flickers across Dabi’s face.
“Alright,” he stands up. “See ya around,” he calls, walking away, toward the mouth of the garage.
Hawks watches him leave, brows furrowing. He absently picks at some of the blood crusted around his nails from earlier. Well. That went well. But the best case scenario here was for Dabi to leave, anyway. He didn’t have the chance to accidentally say something that’d shoot himself in the foot and blow his cover! This was great!
Now, all that was left for the night was to get his ass through his next meeting with the villain and then he could go to bed afterwards.
The meeting he had in.. twenty minutes.
He looks down at himself. And immediately starts shrugging out of the oversized jacket. Finally freed from their confines, his wings twitch in relief, feathers shuffling themselves into place once more after being shoved into such cramped positions for so long. He recalls the feathers he’d scattered around the area and one after the other, they all come zipping back to him. Slotting themselves neatly in place, he stretches his wings out as they rapidly return to their full length behind him.
And then the chill hits. He sucks in a breath.
“Oh, shit.”
Right. He hadn’t really considered that. Now he’s gotta fly across the city jacketless to go grab his hero costume before the meeting.
He gives the puffer lying at his feet one last longing look before he heads toward the entryway of the parking garage.
Outside, Hawks looks up into the night sky. The wind seems to immediately find every inch of exposed skin, threading itself through his feathers and biting at his face. His nose was already running from the bitter temperature. He sniffs, closing his eyes briefly.
Twenty minutes.
He can make it. Probably. In fact, he’d make it in fifteen.
He rolls his shoulders and, with a powerful downbeat, takes off into the air.
The city drops away beneath him. Usually, this is his favorite part. Up here, away from the cameras and crowds, away from all those eyes watching his every move, everything feels so much simpler. Just him, the open air, and a destination.
But right now, he couldn’t think about anything save for how fucking cold it is.
The sudden acceleration as he pushes himself to go faster, faster, faster, sends the chill slicing straight through him, wind whipping violently through his hair and feathers. He grits his teeth and flies faster still.
After what feels like an eternity of just cold, his apartment comes into view. Hawks lands on the balcony, feet stumbling as he hits the concrete. He checks the time. There’s seven minutes to spare. Which, if you ask him, is pretty damn good considering he’d almost become a block of ice on the way over. His fingers are completely numb and his face feels like it’s been sandblasted by the wind.
No time to complain, though.
He roughly shoves the balcony door open, practically tripping over himself to get inside. He kicks off his shoes, tosses his hat somewhere he’s going to forget, and beelines to where he’d left his costume earlier. Shrugging out of the rest of his clothes, he grabs at the hero gear waiting for him, nearly getting his arm caught in the head opening of his shirt in the process. Gloves. Visor. Headphones. Pants. Belt. Shirt. Jacket. Boots. Check, check, check.
He glances hurriedly at the clock on the wall.
Four minutes. Okay. Plenty of time. See? No worries.
He shakes out his hair and wings, trying to get them to settle normally again after that hellish flight, and catches his reflection in the mirror.
Well. He’s certainly looked better. His.. everything was askew.
No time, though.
Hawks grabs his burner from where it sits on the counter and books it out the door.
He makes it to the meeting spot with a whole one minute to spare. Still early! Technically. And besides, after flying across the city in weather that felt personally designed to kill him, he thinks he deserves to be cut a little slack here.
Slowing his descent as he approaches the rooftop, the hero touches down, harder than intended. His wings fold in as the cold continues to cling to him, settling under his jacket and between his feathers.
Hawks exhales, shoulders sagging.
He made it.
He wanders over to the edge of the rooftop and leans against the frigid metal railing. God, why is everything so cold already? It’s not even fully winter yet. He thinks about a nice, warm shower waiting for him after this and focuses his gaze on the city spanning below him, familiar at this height in the way it never quite was from the ground. Hawks settles himself more comfortably against the railing, surveying the streets. There are cars streaking about, white and red lights twinkling up at him as they weave between the infrastructure.
He brightens a little at all the sights. This was nice, he likes being up here, it was making him feel better. Even if it's freezing out. His feathers fluff up behind him instinctively against the cold.
At each exhale, a cloud of warm air dispels out in front of his face. He blows a few breaths into his gloved hands and rubs them together, but it doesn’t do much to conquer the raw, numb feeling that’d set in.
Dabi should be here soon. The villain wouldn't pull another stunt where he comes, like, hours late, right? He did that a lot, especially in their first few meetings. Probably to test him.. or establish superiority or.. something. Hawks rocks back on his heels, arms still resting on the railing. He doesn’t have the patience for that tonight.
At that thought, though, the rooftop door creaks open suddenly and the villain steps into view.
Hawks eyes the approaching figure with a smile ready and straightens his posture a little.
Okay. Normal, this is normal. Be normal.
They were just two guys, hero and villain hanging out on a rooftop for a super villainous meeting. Yep. Totally not two guys who’d been crouching behind a van together not twenty-five minutes ago.
And Dabi didn’t even know it. Probably. Haha.
Said villain was giving him a once-over. He wears an almost admonishing expression while doing so.
“What happened to you this time? You fly through a tornado on the way here?” he asks, stopping in front of the railing.
“Wow, you sure know how to bring the warmth to a chilly night,” Hawks huffs, golden eyes glinting humorously in the dark.
His hands automatically find the birdsnest of blond hair on his head, strands sticking out in every which way. He runs them through it a few times, finally giving up when it's clear that the action was doing nothing to tame the style.
“Heroes should always remain presentable, Hawks. Civilians don’t want a mess coming to their rescue. Fix it,” he hears his handler’s stern voice, scolding him after one particularly brutal training session left part of his uniform undone.
He frowns at the memory.
Personally, if he were in need of saving from something, he probably wouldn’t mind who came, much less if they were a little roughed up.. but the HPSC knows best..
He looks down at his reflection in the glass of his phone screen and sullens further. Oh. Yeah, Dabi’s right. He looks awful. His hair, despite the futile attempts to finger-comb it, is sticking out everywhere while simultaneously somehow also clumping together in sections. His visor is crooked on his head, where he’d mindlessly shoved it earlier, and his face is practically as red as his wings, flushed from the cold. He adjusts his visor to sit right and tries smoothing his hair again, but it springs right back up.
Whatever. There’s no cameras here anyway, only Dabi. He doesn’t have to look perfect.. right? The villain’s an exception to all those expectations, somehow.
He sniffs, lowering his phone and meeting the other’s gaze.
“Better?” Hawks asks, though he knows he looks the same as thirty seconds ago.
Dabi regards him for half a second too long, staring at the hero’s expectant expression, lingering on his eyes before moving away, toward the skyline.
“Marginally.”
Hawks readjusts his flight jacket, pulling the front together with hopes of conserving what little body heat he has left. He just knows the HPSC would be reprimanding him right now if they saw, he’s covering his compression shirt with the khaki material, their logo hidden from sight. But it’s not like he’s looking to advertise the organization to his current company, anyway.
“..Great! I’ll take it!” he declares cheerfully, after a beat. Even a lukewarm compliment was still a compliment, after all.
The moment lapses into silence. Silence that lasts for approximately three seconds before Hawks decides he’s compelled to fill it.
“So! How’ve you been? It’s been a while, huh!” he says, rubbing his hand together. Play it cool, remember? Totally normal.
At that, Dabi looks back over to the hero, seemingly considering the question.
“Fine,” comes the eventual response.
“Cool, cool, cool.”
His wings twitch, a stiff and convulsive motion. Is Dabi going to actually start their meeting, or..?
But the villain just lets the quiet linger.
Was this another power move he was trying out? It bitterly reminds him of Madam President, just a little. And with her, he knows better than to speak unless spoken to. So he waits.
Dabi’s probably waiting for him to crack first, reveal himself, or say something stupid. Joke’s on him, then. Hawks may seem a little airheaded, but he's just good at making himself appear however people expect him to. He’d trained his life away to observe, manipulate, lie, perform, and survive.
His fingers curl around the railing, the cold seeping through the fabric of his gloves.
A few minutes pass.
Still nothing.
He flexes his hands against the railing, once, then twice, trying and failing to get some circulation back to them. His nose is stinging, the occasional sniffle breaking the silence every now and then. Behind him, his wings give an involuntary shiver, and his usual restless shifting slows.
Dabi is still wordlessly spectating the city like he’s got all day out here. And maybe he does..? Fire quirk and all. He doesn't even look cold. So unfair.
Hawks shifts his weight onto the railing, trying to mitigate the heavy feeling settling in his limbs. Ugh. The longer they stand here, the harder it's becoming for him to ignore the sluggishness creeping into his muscles. Even his wings, usually relatively light on his back, were starting to feel thick and weighty.
Alright.
This is getting a little ridiculous.
Was he seriously going to make him stand out here all night? If this really was another one of the villain’s many intimidation tactics, then he was about to win, purely through environmental warfare.
Torpor, the word echoes through his mind.
He ignores it.
It’s fine. He can wait. The Commission had dedicated substantial efforts toward “training” him to remain sound during situations like this. Cold exposure. Waiting, too. Stakeouts, surveillance, undercover assignments, he’d sat through each and every one of them for hours, unmoving and without complaint. This is nothing.
Eventually, Dabi shifts and his eyes flick over to him.
The hero straightens his posture a little, hopeful.
“Anyway, that’s enough for tonight. Keep your phone on you,” the villain states, “I’ll send you another message when we need you again, birdie.”
Hawks blinks at Dabi in confusion, processing.
“..Oh! Yeah, sure,” he replies, slowly.
Thank fuck. That was an unusual meeting, but at least it was over now. He’d finally be able to go back, take that warm shower, and unthaw a little.
Then, Dabi steps closer, closing the gap between them, reaching out. His staples flash in the moonlight.
Hawks’ first thought is this is it. He’s done something to piss the pyromaniac off and now he’s getting turned to ash. It scares him a little, how quickly he accepts it.
But Dabi’s nimble fingers simply catch the edge of his collar, tugging it out from where it was tucked in on itself, grazing the bare skin of his neck in the process. His fingers were warm. They linger for only a moment, adjusting the flight jacket briefly, before letting go, Hawks’ collar now sitting properly.
“There. It was fucked up.”
He looks down at it dumbly.
His heart gives a strange little bu-bum.
Huh.
The hero ducks his head down into the collar a little as his face heats, a sharp contrast to the cold that’d settled over him all night. Hopefully, the cold-related flush already there disguises it. The skin on his neck is buzzing where Dabi’s fingers had brushed it and he feels his feathers puff again.
“Ah. Thanks, hot stuff,” he mumbles.
At that, Dabi gives a small shrug before striding away, back to the rooftop access entrance, seemingly to leave. He stops, right before stepping into the structure, turning around to face Hawks once more.
“Toga asked me to relay a question earlier.”
Hawks stares after him. What did Toga want with him? Does this mean that the other League members are keeping tabs on him now?
The mission is progressing.
“Ask away!” he calls excitedly, unabashedly upbeat at the thought.
“She wanted to know why you smile so much.”
Hawks pauses. What? That wasn’t what he was expecting. Though, he wasn’t exactly sure what kind of question he was expecting from the teen. He didn’t know much about her in the first place beyond the stuff in her case file from the Commission database.
“Oh.”
He pushes himself off of the railing and ponders a good answer to give. He wants to leave a good impression, after all.
“Guess I just like smiling?” he beams, putting as much energy as he can muster into the expression, “It’s nice, right? Makes people feel good. Especially as a hero, I want people to feel at ease around me, y’know?”
There was more to it than that. Of course there was. He was smiling to appease the Commission, the public, everyone except himself. If he thought too deeply about the short expanse of his career, it was clear as day—he was essentially an industry plant, a disposable doll, placed carefully within hero society by the HPSC. To monitor. To mediate. To kill, when asked. They say “jump,” and he jumps as high as he possibly can. He’s not allowed to ask questions. The fastest hero in modern-day Japan, forever hardworking, always smiling. Only Keigo knew him for who he really was. But he’s gone. Swallowed away inside the sterile white walls of the Commission. Smashed into a hero-shaped hole. Now, there was only Hawks.
Dabi’s icy blue eyes remain fixed on him, a blank, unreadable expression settling over his features.
“Hm.”
Hawks' smile softens a little.
“I’ll tell her,” the villain says, stepping toward the rooftop entrance again.
“Okay. Tell her I say hi.”
Dabi pushes the door open.
“Goodnight, tweety.”
“‘Night!” Hawks calls after the disappearing figure.
The rooftop door clicks shut.