Work Text:
“What is that?”
Hawks shifts uncomfortably. He had been hoping that Best Jeanist would have the wherewithal to not be perturbed by this kind of thing, but…
“A corpse,” he answers, mildly enough that it should hide the way he’s sweating bullets over the thought that Jeanist might bail on him at the last minute. “Y’know, so we don’t have to use yours.”
Best Jeanist rolls his eyes, squatting by the black duffel bag that Hawks has summarily dumped on the warm wooden floorboards of his apartment living room. The motion is uncanny. Jeanist’s bodily proportions are disconcerting on the best of days, and have been since Hawks realized that the dramatic flair of his jean collar doesn’t actually account for the length of a proportional human neck, but crouched over half-mummified lump like this? The only thing that comes to Hawks’s mind is a spindly spider getting ready to devour its prey.
Maybe it’s got something to with the way Jeanist is glaring at Hawks.
“That’s not what I meant, you boor,” Jeanist snipes, clicking his tongue. Hawks casually runs a hand through his own hair, feeling suddenly as if he should have brought a comb. “What is it wearing?”
“Um,” Hawks tries, “... jeans? Look, Jeanist, buddy, you really don’t have to—I only brought it here to run everything by you one last time and make sure it matched. It’s already set up, I don’t need you to be making any last-minute edits, y’hear?”
“Are you sure about that?” Jeanist murmurs, looking up at Hawks through his lashes. “Because this… thing—"
“—Hey, now, that’s no way to talk about yourself—”
“I am not talking about myself!” Jeanist exclaims, rising to his feet in a smooth, elegant motion that shouldn’t be possible in a well-loved turtleneck and slippers. “I’m talking about the jeans!”
Hawks stares up (and up, and up, goddamnit, why is everyone so much taller than him).
“The what?”
“The jeans,” Best Jeanist repeats emphatically, grabbing Hawks by the shoulders. The motion jars Hawks slightly, sending his growing collection of baby feathers shivering along the remnants of his wings. His one long primary sharpens for a moment, and he wills himself not to shoot it into his hand. Even if Jeanist is being ridiculous.
“You mark me,” Jeanist cautions. “Nobody in their right mind would ever believe that this is my corpse. I don’t know who is running your operation, here, Hawks, but I hope you didn’t expect me to miss that those are knockoffs of my very own brand!”
Hawks presses a hand against his own eyes, letting the pressure of his fingers dig into his orbits until he sees stars. Then, he drags the hand slowly down his face. His vision is still fuzzy for a good, long moment, which also means he doesn’t have to look at Jeanist for a good, long moment.
“It’s a Commission job,” he mutters. “You know they’re understaffed right now.”
Jeanist sniffs. “Well, they should have asked me for help, instead of an uncouth upstart barely out of his teens.”
“Hey, Jeanie,” declares Hawks cheerfully. “I have a new idea—”
The ensuing scuffle is short-lived, and Hawks barely has time to swing a feather at Jeanist’s neck before he’s strung up by his own unraveled coat. He wasn’t really trying, though he’s not sure if he’d bet on his own speed against Jeanist’s fine control in a real fight, but it still puts a sour taste in his mouth. It’s not exactly comfortable, hanging bare-armed and upside-down in the middle of Jeanist’s hallway, one arm outstretched where his feather very nearly brushed soft barbs against the other hero’s carotid artery.
“Like I said,” says Jeanist from where he’s frowning at Hawks’s clothes. “Uncouth. I’m so relieved I never took you on as an intern. At least young Bakugou was interested in learning from me. All you listen to is your own self, Takami.”
Hawks flinches hard, the motion sending him bouncing in Jeanist’s spiderweb.
“Jeez, man,” he complains. “Kick a guy while he’s down, why don’t you? Or up, I guess—where’d you even get that name?”
The look Jeanist levies at Hawks is unimpressed.
“I’m sorry,” he says, turning his back and walking back to the body. “Was I supposed to somehow miss the connection between the Takami thief’s arrest those years ago, and the rising star young Commission ward with red feathers and an obvious speed quirk? Do you think I am an idiot?”
“Think,” Hawks hums, going over the vague beginnings of a plot to steal next season’s jean mockups from Jeanist and cut them into tiny pieces. “Hope. It’s all the same from where I’m hanging. Hey, d’you mind if I puke on your carpet, or is this dry-clean only?”
“What did you do to my eyebrows?” Jeanist gasps. Hawks continues to hang there and contemplate his place in the universe. He hasn’t even seen the eyebrows. He’s not a huge fan of gazing fondly at dead bodies. He only looked at the bits under the mask, because he’s a consummate snoop and has never actually seen Jeanist’s face.
“Gave you a touch-up,” Hawks deadpans.
“And my jacket—Hawks, I know you’ve done enough modeling work to understand how to pair denims.”
“Shit, man, thanks. I’ll consider that next time I gotta forge a corpse.”
“I think the body might be short a few inches.”
“That’s fine, I’m hacking the legs off to fit it in the flight bag anyways. What’re they gonna do, measure?”
Finally, a moment of silence. When Hawks tips his head up from where he’s gone limp in Jeanist’s jacket-hammock, Best Jeanist is just staring at him offendedly.
“... Well, it’s not like you have to watch,” Hawks mutters, dropping his head to stare at the floor again. Honestly, this position is getting sort of relaxing. He could nap like this.
“The fact that you have to do it at all is very discomfiting,” Jeanist tells him, and Hawks shrugs as best as he can. A moment later, he is being lowered gently to the ground, and his jacket reforms around him.
… Mostly. Hawks thinks it might be a little bit softer, now. And the cut is more tailored to his figure. Nice, but actually the opposite of what he looks for in his jackets, thanks.
“Y’got’ny coffee?” Hawks asks instead of responding to Jeanist’s words, staggering to his feet. Losing his wings always puts him off balance. Also, it’s three am and he hasn’t slept since noon the day before yesterday. “I could go for caffeine and sugar.”
“I have tea,” Jeanist tells him, and waves him over to a couch. It is surprisingly soft, considering it is made entirely of jean materials. This guy really takes his brand too far…
“That’ll do, I guess,” Hawks sighs. “Though I really wish—oh, jesus christ on a stick, what are you doing?”
“Hm?” Jeanists hums, pausing from where he’s got his fingers poised above his own corpse. “Whatever do you mean, dear Hawks?”
Hawks buries his face into the jean couch—the jouch—with a groan, but it’s too late. The sight is seared into the backs of his eyeballs. Best Jeanist, hunched over a corpse like a spidery shade, long fingers hooked through sinuous threads that trail clearly back to the body’s actual face and skin as he manipulates his own facial features like he’s weaving a tapestry.
“I have a new-new idea,” Hawks mumbles, digging his claws into the cushion he’s chosen as his burial place. “Just kill me, huh? I’m done. This is it. Capice. Tell the Commission President that I had a good run, but I was always meant to die young. Bury me with my Endeavor figurines and make sure my obituary says something ni—”
Hawks eeps (well, it’s more of a cheep, but he’s not going to say anything about it if Jeanist doesn’t) when something alights in his hair, and unburrowing from the couch cushions is suddenly only a moment’s worth of work. Jeanist has a hand in his hair, and is gazing down at Hawks with a weird sort of look that makes something squirm uncomfortably in the pit of Hawks’s stomach. Feels a bit warm. Kinda fuzzy. He might be getting sick, which would really be the worst moment possible for it. He still has to deliver the corpse to Dabi and there’s no way he’s getting to bed before the sun rises.
“I’m done,” Jeanist says quietly. “Don’t worry. Do you need help with anything else? Other than your caffeine addiction.”
“No,” Hawks sighs into his cushion, but makes no move to get up. His gloves are pretty sturdy, but even so, it’s nice to just kind of clutch at something that’s sure to put up with the pressure of his talons. “No, you can go.”
“This is my home,” Jeanist reminds him.
“I can go,” Hawks corrects himself.
“Are you sure?” Jeanist asks. “Friendly ribbing aside—"
“That was friendly?”
“—This is a big job, Hawks,” Jeanist goes on as if uninterrupted, “and a lot rides on your shoulders. You are young, and I’m aware of the unique indisposition that I find myself in after the battle at Kamino Ward, but if there’s anything I may do to lighten the load… well, you may at least see it as a way of allowing a pro to remain feeling useful despite my condition, if you like.”
Hawks actually squirms this time, tugging his jacket collar over his face. Hey, it’s taller now. That’s a modification he can get behind.
“Alright, then,” Jeanist acquiesces quietly, but makes no move to go. Actually, he does make a move, but it’s very minor. It almost feels like he's...
“Are you seriously trying to brush my hair right now?” Hawks asks.
“—It’s just such a mess!” Jeanist bursts out.
Hawks flings the cushion at his face.