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pleathewrites · 9 months ago

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bellow the fire into my deadened lungs

chapter 1 excerpt — what are your thoughts on child abuse? + burncare read full story here

September

Meeting semi-regularly with Hawks has been… ‘Strange,’ Dabi thinks.

The Number Two’s got a bad temper, hates being out of the loop, and hates it more when Dabi can’t be bothered to spare more than a few words at him. Dabi mostly makes Hawks do small jobs — gather bits of mild information and tail certain lower-ranked heroes. Dabi doesn’t ask for any top secrets because he has a feeling Hawks would only feed him lies. ‘Why?’ Because that’s what Dabi does.

But the Bird has interesting thoughts.

Dabi will admit — seeing Hawks’ speech during the Hero Ranking ceremony was wildly entertaining. Dabi assumed the hero had a flair for the dramatic, but he never thought the guy would be so bold to make such a scene on national live television.

“Who’s gonna be happy hearing that? Stain?”

Dabi remembers Spinner’s spit-take at Hawks’ interruption of Edgeshot trying to seem oh, so humble.

“You don’t think we need to change how we do things?... Why are those less accomplished than me playing it safe?”

Dabi remembers the way Toga’s eyes sparkled, the way even Shigaraki started to tilt his head in consideration. Dabi thinks the raining feathers were a bit over the top since the guy was already fucking floating, but he’ll admit it was a nice touch.

But his favorite — “Now, go ahead, Number One Hero, with a lower approval rating than me.”

Dabi actually let out a snort, at that one.

It’s been a few weeks since that broadcast, but ever since, Dabi’s interest in the hero has been considerably piqued.

He sent Hawks a set of coordinates and a time to meet about an hour ago. He’s late himself, but only by thirty minutes, and, well, he’s a villain.

He immediately spots the stupid little bird because, in an industrial town full of grey, that stupid yellow suit is an absolute eyesore.

“You don’t own any other clothes, Hero?”

Back turned, with only crimson wings in his view, Dabi hoped the guy would have jumped. Dabi’s been told he can be as quiet as a ghost, but then he remembers Hawks telling him something about telepathic feathers and sound vibration.

“Dabi!” Hawks twirls halfway with that stupid grin of his, “You’re actually early. For you.”

“Say my name louder, would you. Might as well dial up the Commission right now and let ‘em know you turned, while you’re at it,” The words are worried, but Dabi’s tone stays neutral because they both know the Commission is already informed about every single one of their meetings. It’s just Hawks who thinks Dabi’s dumb as rocks.

“We’re in a literal alleyway in one of the sketchiest towns in Japan, dude.”

“Tch,” Dabi’s nose scrunches in a sneer, ‘Of course he’d consider this town to be sketchy, just because it’s a little run down.’

Hawks scratches at the back of his head, “Though, I guess you got a point. I — uh, heh, I didn’t have time to change. Patrol and all.”

Dabi deadpans, “You can spare ten minutes. It’s not gonna kill you,” and Hawks still looks weirdly apologetic so he adds on, “Birdy, you’re acting like I’m the one who’s gonna be waitin’ up on you. Has that been the trend, so far?”

“You know, now that you bring it up…” And Dabi just thinks, ‘oh, Gods, no,’ while Hawks puts a gloved finger to his chin, “Why are you always late?”

Dabi doesn’t answer.

Hawks puts his hands up in mock surrender, “Alright, fine. Be mysterious, whatever,” Then clasps his hands behind his back. Dabi thinks that’ll be the end of that, but Hawks loves the sound of his own voice too much, “You villains are so dramatic.”

Dabi gapes, and lays his hand over his chest in offense, “I’m dramatic?” He scoffs — he cannot stand half the shit that comes out of this smart-ass’s mouth. His hand leaves his chest to point at the Number Two, “This coming from the guy that not only interrupted a rank ceremony but made it rain feathers while he did it? Braggin’ about his own approval rating while floating in the fuckin’ air?”

And — ‘oh shit’ — Dabi should have kept his mouth shut.

Because he sees the bastard’s golden eyes fucking gleam, and crimson feathers ruffle, “Eh? You keepin’ tabs on me, Hot Stuff?” and he starts to lean in, close enough for Dabi to feel the need to reel back, his nose a mere inch away from Dabi’s own, “Ya like watchin’ me?” Pale eyelashes flutter.

Dabi’s had enough.

He hears a muffled ‘oomph!’ as his scarred hand pushes Hawks’ face away, “Don’t fuckin’ flatter yourself, the ceremony was national news.”

Hawks pulls back and laughs a little. It’s a breathy sound, almost a rumble with how deep the guy’s voice is, but it’s always quiet. Tired.

Dabi’s stomach chooses that moment to let out a loud and horrifying grumble.

Hawks’ bushy eyebrow lifts in question, and Dabi can feel the blood gather in his cheeks, humiliation warming his usually cool skin.

“So, there is a reason you look like a bag of bones,” Hawks says.

Dabi knows the guy is trying to be cheeky, but it hits harder than intended because, ‘Yeah, I haven’t eaten all fuckin’ day,’ and the only thing he does remember eating is cheap instant udon, yesterday. He put a boiled egg in it for protein, but that stuff only goes so far.

Luckily, Hawks continues without needing a response from Dabi, “C’mon, I’m hungry, too, and I saw a chicken place around here. On me, the place is probably cheap, anyway, considering,” and waves his hand around broadly, referring to their current location.

Usually, this is the part where ‘Person B’ says something like, ‘I don’t need your charity!’ but Dabi isn’t prideful enough to deny free sustenance, especially since he can’t even remember the last time he ate real meat.

So, he shrugs, “Lead the way. But first, button up your fuckin’ jacket and take off your glasses, for fuck’s sake. I know you can move your feathers, so — I dunno, move ‘em under your jacket, or somethin’. Hide them.”

And Hawks actually has the audacity to pout, “I hate compressing my wings.”

“Gods,” Dabi groans to the sky, “It’s just for the walk there.”

After grumbling some more, mostly to himself, Hawks relents and leads the way to a mostly empty chicken shop with neon signs and shiny wooden floors. They sit in a booth at the farthest corner, and order.

Hawks is somewhat right — food is cheap in a town like this. Dabi’s not well-versed in all things economics, but he knows an underfunded town is a wanted-villain’s safest haven. The residents of such towns rarely call for police — police mean heroes, and heroes mean collateral damage; the residents of this town already struggle to make ends meet with their healthy bodies and standing businesses. One bad fight can end in dozens of collapsed buildings, and an overflow of the nearest already-at-capacity hospital.

‘As long as you don’t cause too much trouble, the residents here won’t even bat an eye at you, no matter how wanted you are.’

Dabi takes off his facemask and hood when their food is served, and Hawks lets his wings out with a ruffle. The hero begins to dig in, but his gloves stay on.

“Isn’t this cannibalism, for you?”

The previous expression of excitement on Hawks’ face drops, “Ha ha. You’re so clever. I’ve never heard that one before.”

“Fuck off.”

“No, seriously, you should be a comedian.”

“Go to hell. It was actually a semi-serious question.”

A smile quirks at the corner of Hawks’ lips, “Just let me eat in peace, man.”

And so, they eat for a bit, mostly in silence, until Dabi decides the silence feels suffocating. Hawks isn’t asking any questions, not his usual, ‘so whaddya got for me, today?’ and it leaves Dabi with his own thoughts.

After finishing about half his plate, Dabi finally asks what’s been on his mind since watching the Bird on television.

“What are your thoughts on child abuse?”

Hawks freezes, a chicken piece halfway through his open mouth when he looks up at Dabi, muffling out, “What?”

Dabi lets his chin rest on his palm, curling his greasy fingers inwards to avoid his seams, “Humor me, Hero. Got a penny if ya need one.”

Hawks swallows and puts down his fork — ‘eating chicken wings with fuckin’ utensils, what a priss.’

“Uh, gonna need a little bit more context here, man…”

He looks so wary.

Dabi sighs and spells it out for the dumb bird, “What would you do, as a hero, if you received a report of child abuse?”

Hawks takes a moment, scratching at his goatee, “Well, investigate, then hopefully make an arrest,” He shrugs, “Abusers should be jailed. I dunno what you want from me beyond that. Random question, dude.”

Dabi, more or less, ignores the confusion in Hawks’ eyes, but he does take note of how Hawks hasn’t continued eating. The hero is sat back, waiting for Dabi to provide the clearly missing context.

Dabi has to know what kind of person he’s dealing with, because meeting Hawks this past month and seeing his actions on live television make Dabi… tentatively hopeful — about what, he’s not sure, but Dabi doesn’t like surprises, so he has to ask.

“Mm. But, what if that same abuser shows kindness to everyone else, outside those few people?”

At that, Hawks lets out a scoff, “It’s usually an act, man. Why are you asking me this? I mean, like, yes, yeah it doesn’t matter if they treat others differently. Doesn’t make up for what they’re doing, the people they’re hurting.”

“Uh-huh,” Dabi’s eyes never leave Hawks’ face, noting the expressive curl of blonde eyebrows, bushed up in earnest to match his glinting frown, “And if other people are, say, ‘counting on them’?”

Those blond eyebrows furrow closer, wild hairs almost touching, “What do you mean?”

Dabi tilts his head away from the palm it rests on and unfurls those fingers one-by-one to count off, “World leaders, presidents, peace figures.... heroes,” and even Dabi knows his voice took a sharp turn at the last item, and he doubts Hawks had missed it.

“I… No, no, it’s still wrong. It’s complicated, yeah, but... it doesn’t matter how much good someone does if that same person is going off to abuse someone else. Especially their own family.”

Dabi doesn’t know why, but hearing that come from a hero does something to him, speaks to a too-short past life, and validates the soft blindspot of his otherwise iron conscience.

Dabi picks off a piece of his own chicken and takes a bite, “Yeah, we’ll see.”

Meanwhile, Hawks looks completely out of sorts. He’s biting his lip, his hand coming up to rub the knuckle of his gloved index right underneath it.

Dabi waits.

“I… I didn’t spend a lot of my life with my birth parents. They were abusive. And they were… y’know, what everyone would call ‘bad people’. Drug addicts, thieves. Probably other things, too, I dunno,” and Dabi is listening to every single word, food completely forgotten. Hawks isn’t looking at him, lidded eyes are directed more towards Dabi’s shoulder, and that’s okay because Dabi hasn’t spoken a single word of his own abuse, so he’s not going to judge how others do it.

The blond’s head shakes, “Ah,” and clearing gold eyes look back to Dabi, “Point is, even they didn’t face consequences for what they did to me. My dad… He’s in jail, but it’s not for what he did to me. And my mom… Commission paid her a hefty check to adopt me, so she's probably off living an even better life — or maybe dead from overdose, I dunno.”

“Sounds hard,” it’s a shitty response, but Dabi doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t want to reveal his own story, but for all that’s broken and wrong and rotted inside of him, he still feels empathy towards this guy, towards the Number Two Hero.

‘Birds of a feather, ‘n all that.’

“Yeah, well. Just makes me think, if apparently ‘bad people’ can get away with the crime of child abuse — people with practically zero social or economic influence — then, how do the same institutions hold someone with real status accountable?”

Against his desire to appear aloof, Dabi feels the sharp tug of his own lips pulling into a small smile, “Askin’ all the right questions. Best ones have no answer.”

Hawks laughs, and it's the same one as the alley, low and quiet. Soft.

Dabi wonders if the guy lets himself laugh often. He smiles a lot, that’s for certain, but smiles are always easier to fake than laughter.

“I have a feeling a lot of villains have this kind of backstory, or something similar, huh.”

“As you?” Dabi raises a brow, the easiest kind of expression he can do to the lack of staples there, a constant reminder of his ‘backstory,’ like he’s a fucking manga character, “Maybe. ‘Cept they weren’t saved by anyone. No one’s jumpin’ up and down to take care of us. That’s the difference between us,” his index finger flicking back-and-forth in the space between them, “Heroes ‘n villains.”

The laugh that leaves Hawks is wrong this time. It’s bitter and booming — dark, and not nearly as lovely as Dabi found the others.

“Saved. Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

Dabi’s stomach churns something sick. He hopes it’s the chicken.

The next time Dabi is supposed to meet Hawks, the skin around the staples of his hands feels like it’s on fire. Red, itchy, and, ‘Oh Gods,’ Dabi thinks he’s starting to see something white seep out the seam of his right wrist.

He used up the last of his supplies two weeks ago. Right now, the only things he has in his apartment are gauze, soap, and tap water that can be boiled.

Dabi thinks about calling one of the League members, any of them, but after Kamino, there’s been wanted posters of their faces plastered everywhere, mostly definitely around cities nice enough to have open pharmacies.

He calls Hawks.

“Hello! Where are ya, hot stuff? I’ve been waitin’ for half an hour, and I even took the time to change my clothes.”

Dabi rolls his eyes at the nickname and grips the phone tighter. It makes his wrist burn. He doesn’t waste any time, “Do you have access to any antiseptics or disinfectants right now? Strong ones. Or maybe even antibiotics, like silver sulfadiazine?”

“Burn cream? Uh… not, like, I don’t have any on me. I could get some? Is everything alright?”

Dabi closes his eyes and rubs his brow, “Yeah, I’m gonna send you some new coordinates. Bring the supplies here. And hurry.”

He hangs up and sets to boiling some water.

Three loud knocks later echo through Dabi’s apartment, and he yells, “Come in!” as he pats his wrists dry with a paper towel.

“Dabi?” Hawks’ voice rings through the apartment and his large wings come into view from where Dabi stands in the kitchen. Hawks takes his shoes off at the entryway — ‘how well mannered.’ — and perks up when he spots the scarred man.

“Hey! So, I got an assortment of things. Hydrogen peroxide, saline, antibacterial ointment, got the silver sulfadiazine like you asked — that shit is expensive without a coupon — and, oh! I got these, like, film coverings, pharmacist calls ‘em ‘nanocrystalline silver dressing’ , supposed to be better for fighting infection,” He shrugs, “I also went ahead and got some other things like gauze, dressing, Q-tips, pins,” and sets the plastic bag on the countertop, “Here, take a look.”

Dabi does, with his eyes because he doesn’t want his freshly cleaned wrists getting even more infected with whatever bacteria could be on the plastic bag or any of these items.

“... Damn. Thanks, Birdy,” He’s honestly shocked Hawks got this much stuff.

He ignores the way his heart beats faster, ‘Might finally be the sepsis.’

When Dabi looks back up at the guy, his feathers are wiggling again, something Dabi has come to understand what the hero does when he’s somewhat pleased, “Uh, can you wash your hands over there in the sink and pull out the… Hm, the silver dressing, white dressing, and the gauze? Just set it on the counter, I’ll be right back.”

Dabi walks over to his bathroom, hearing the affirmative, “Sure!” from the hero, and closes the door with his elbow.

He needs a minute.

‘I can’t believe I just let an undercover hero into my apartment. Am I going to have to move? Fuck… fuck, fuck!’

“Shit,” he whispers to himself as he opens his medicine cabinet and fetches a pair of tweezers and a box of latex gloves.

‘I can’t believe he bought all that stuff. Dude’s loaded, that’s fine and all, but… what the fuck? I only asked for the burn cream…’

Dabi shakes his head, closes the medicine cabinet, and is greeted with the reflection of his own confused expression, etched by a small crack at the upper left side. He takes a minute to look at the man staring back at him, looking at his scars and his freshly dyed roots. He knows he’s a frightening sight, something out of nightmares and horror movies.

He hates looking at himself, sometimes. He knows others do, too.

Some nights, the vulnerability of his upsettingly-human psyche will claw its way out like the vicious beast it is, and force him to understand his loneliness. On those nights, he will understand why people turned away a half-dead teen, why store owners chased him out with their bats and mops, and why heroes will always, always attack on-sight upon seeing Dabi’s face.

He will understand why the League’s bar is really the one place he can ever sip his drink in peace and enjoy the burn at the back of his throat without some prick trying to slip him paper bills in exchange for things he can’t even say out loud. On those nights, the righteous anger will leave his body like steam from boiling water, and leave him hollow and cold and so, very, very alone.

He wonders if tonight will be one of those nights.

“Uh, Dabi? You alright in there?”

Dabi blinks out and away from his reflection, ‘Maybe not,’ and leaves his bathroom.

When he comes back to the kitchen, all the supplies he asked for are out and ready to use. Hawks sits on Dabi’s only stool, waiting.

Dabi didn’t get a chance to really look at the guy, until now. The hero did end up changing his attire for tonight — black sweatshirt, normal jeans that are still on the baggier side, and black boots closer to the kind in fashion magazines than those hideously yellow rainboots he normally tends to wear. When Dabi lifts his eyes back up, he notices the hero’s hair looks a bit different, a little more chaotic, and a little less stiff — it looks soft.

‘Oh, pull it fucking together.’

Dabi clears his throat and hands over the box of latex gloves, “Do you mind helping me out? I just need you to do this wrist, and then I can work on the other.”

Hawks is nodding and stretching the gloves over his hands before Dabi even finishes his sentence.

“Y’know, your place isn’t anything like I’d thought it’d be. ‘S nice. Clean.”

Dabi hears a snap! and a muttered, “shit.”

He opens his mouth to ask what’s wrong before he looks at Hawks’ hand, and sees matte black claws curving out fingers loosely lined with tattered blue latex.

“Oh.”

“Heh,” Hawks laughs, a bit nervously, “Sorry ‘bout that. My own gloves are so thick, I forget I have these.”

“Why am I just now seeing these?” Dabi wonders out loud, eyes glued to the tips of talons he could have sworn that, for a split second, sparkled at him, “Shit. Those are fucking sharp, man. You’re tellin’ me you don’t fight with ‘em?” He doesn’t really pay attention to broadcasts of hero fights but from the ones he’s seen, the Number Two’s hands were always gloved.

“Ah,” Hawks starts to pull a fresh latex glove over his hand again, leaving some space between the ends of each finger for his talons this time, “That wouldn’t be very heroic, would it? There’d be a lot of… blood. Kids don’t need to see that kind of gore in the news, y’know.”

Dabi raises an eyebrow, “I… guess....”

Honestly, Dabi thinks that’s a bullshit excuse, to not use something so clearly advantageous in serious combat, especially when the hero's life is on the line practically every day, ‘Even if he doesn’t want to use them, why does he cover them?’

He lets the matter be, for now, and looks over the directions on the box of the nanocrystalline silver dressing. He reads it twice, just to make sure.

Hawks speaks up, apparently needing to hear his own voice again, “The directions say that for exudative wounds, you should apply the dressing dry.”

“Yeah, I see that.”

“So... Let’s get started!”

Dabi huffs. He hates that he needs help but he’s always been shit with his right hand, and he doesn’t want to risk dropping anything. He lays his left hand out towards Hawks and critically watches every move the man makes.

Hawks is extremely gentle, and he dresses the wound as if he’s done this a thousand times over. The hero’s eyes never leave Dabi’s wrist, except for the few times he’d go over and read the instructions again to make sure he’s doing everything right. He cradles Dabi’s forearm with one hand as he uses the other to smooth the silver dressing on, the pressure of his fingers light around the staples and firm around the skin. After he applies the secondary dressing, he briefly looks up at Dabi to ask, “You alright?”

Dabi can only nod.

When the gauze is wrapped and firmly pinned in place, Hawks finally lets go and Dabi takes a step back to breathe.

He immediately sets to work on his other hand, moistening the silver dressing with the clean water he’d boiled earlier on.

“You sure you don’t want help with the other hand? I’ve been trained in this kinda stuff, first aid. I don’t mind.”

‘Well, that explains a little.’

Still, Dabi shakes his head, “I prefer to do it myself,” and there’s truth in that, it’s the absolute truth, Dabi likes to do things himself. He likes things done his way, and he doesn’t like being touched.

But the gentle feeling of Hawks’ fingers on his skin urges him to reconsider.

He won’t, but some part of him wishes he would.

As he starts to apply the silver dressing with his tweezers, he hears Hawks ask, “Can I ask you something really personal? Like, probably boundary-crossing?”

Dabi’s eyes never leave his working hands, “You got a lot of nerve, Birdbrain, thinkin’ we’re cool like that.”

He hears a small squawk, “C’mon, dude! I’m in your apartment, per your request! I think we’re along the lines of something, ‘like that’.”

Dabi snorts, “I won’t stop you, but don’t be surprised if I tell you to fuck off.”

Hawks laughs — the same small breathy one that makes Dabi’s own mouth quirk up.

Hawks asks why his body is full of scars.

And Dabi… Well, every passing day, Dabi feels himself getting closer to death and, tonight, it makes his lips a little loose. Maybe he just wants someone to know his story, maybe he wants to try saying it out loud. And if he’s gonna tell his tale, it might as well be in the company of his favorite little double-agent.

When he finishes wrapping up the gauze around his right wrist, he digs for the cigarette packet deep in his pocket, takes out a stick, and lights it up.

“My father,” He begins, “He’s the reason I’m like this, the reason I look like this, act this way. I know the whole ‘daddy issues’ thing is overrated but, well,” He shrugs, not daring to look up from his apartment floor. He takes another puff, the nicotine in his veins calming him, the smoke down his throat grounding him. He remembers his conviction, “That man took everything from me, left me like this, and he only ever got rewarded.”

He briefly glances at Hawks, the man’s gold eyes filled with an empathetic sorrow that only people like them could give each other, “I’m sorry.”

Dabi shakes his head and looks away, because he can’t deal with this, can’t have someone looking at him like that, not after all these years, “Not your fault. Nothing to be sorry for.”

“He’ll burn,” Hawks says, and Dabi sees the man’s fists clench from the corner of his eye, “Wherever he is, one way or another, he’ll burn.”

Dabi doesn’t know what kind of feelings are running through the hero right now. He thinks that maybe if he looks up, he might see.

‘Is he angry? Is it for me? Does he pity me, feel sorry for me? Is he triggered by my story the way I was by his? Or is he just telling me what he thinks I want to hear?’ — but Dabi doesn’t want to see.

Because if Hawks only knew who Dabi’s father was, who made him like this, and did this to him, he doesn’t want to know if the hero would look at him the same way gold eyes do now.

“I don’t wanna talk about this anymore, Birdy.”

Dabi walks over to his worn-out couch and sits down with a tired sigh. Hawks follows.

For the next ten minutes, Dabi relays small bits and pieces of League information to Hawks, and the hero returns with tidbits of hero business.

It honestly just feels like a way to fill the time.

When a moment of silence reaches them, and Dabi’s cigarette has burned all the way through the filter, Dabi speaks up about something he kept quiet to himself last time, “Say, since you asked me a deeply personal question, grant me the same privilege?”

“Sure, as long as I get the same privilege of tellin’ you to fuck off if I want.”

Dabi snorts and ashes his cigarette, tilts his head towards the hero.

“Was I wrong? Back then, about the Commission saving you?”

He sees Hawks bite his lips and sink deeper into the sofa cushions, tilting his head back. He sighs, “You’re an observant fucker, aren’t you?”

Dabi smirks, “What villain isn’t?”

“The ones that get caught.”

And at that, Dabi barks a laugh and is honestly shocked at the sound of it. He thinks Hawks is, too, by the way his blond eyebrows round up, and his previously conflicted eyes soften.

Hawks lifts one of his clawed hands up, and if Dabi didn’t know better, he’d think the gesture was some kind of show-and-tell, but at the way Hawks’ own eyes glaze over his talons, Dabi thinks the movement is more for the hero’s own comfort.

“I lied earlier, about the reason I don’t fight with my claws,” Hawks finally says, softly, almost as if he were speaking to himself.

Dabi knows to keep quiet.

“I do care about wanting kids to live in a safer world, to… spare them. Of the horrific consequences that come from battles, traumatizing images ‘n all that stuff. Of course, I care about that. But… But I know my abilities. If allowed, I know I’d be able to use my claws in ways that wouldn’t end in some kind of, fucking , feral episode.”

Dabi’s eyebrows slowly knit together, “Allowed?”

Golden eyes flick over to Dabi’s and the vulnerability swirling in them makes the scarred man want… something.

To gasp, reach out, put his own wrapped hands over the talons, and warm them up a bit, just — something.

He’s horrified at these new and intrusive thoughts.

Instead of doing anything, he waits.

“The Commission,” Hawks drops his hand to his lap and averts his eyes there, “They have an image of what they believe society wants a hero to look like, along with other things. They… told me they were ‘correcting’ my flaws.”

There’s a beat of heavy, waiting silence.

“They appreciate my quirk — it’s strong and versatile, good for offense, defense, rescue — stuff like that. But they don’t… They hate my raptor genes, the mutations. Like, the only thing I’m allowed to have and show are my wings — everything else has to be hidden or removed. I’m a mutant, but I have to do everything I can to look as ‘humane’ as possible.”

‘What is even considered ‘humane’, in a society of quirked-people?’

Dabi is immediately reminded of his hatred towards hero society, “Shit, what the fuck, Birdy. Is that why you wear those stupid-ass gloves?”

Hawks sends a bitter and sad smile to Dabi, “Was the only way to convince them to let me keep my talons. They used to clip ‘em or file them down, but that fucking hurts and they grow back wrong, so. Yeah, got these gloves and told them I’ll never take ‘em off.”

“Tch,” Dabi feels so disgusted right now, at the people who run this society, “So they make you nice ‘n pretty for everyone to look at while they profit of’a’ya. Sick.”

“Yeah, well,” Hawks huffs a laugh, and it’s the one that makes Dabi feel sick to his stomach, “I’m the Number Two Hero, with my own agency! All at the tender age of twenty-four — oops, sorry, twenty-two, Commission fudged my age to make me look even more impressive. An eighteen-year-old success story is prettier than a twenty-year-old one.”

Bile threatens to well up in Dabi’s throat at that — the effort to make this hero fit into society’s obsession with the ‘barely legal’ trope.

“I should be grateful, right?” Hawks bitterly smiles, “Everybody wants to fuck me and every hero wants to be me.”

“Fuck outta here if you’re gonna talk like that, Birdbrain.”

Pink lips bite themselves into a smile, one so much more shy and on the edge of mischievous, “Wanna see my feet?”

“What the fuck?”

He does. He really does.

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