Chapter Text
Rumi has always been an observant creature. Maybe it’s her quirk, maybe it’s the fact that she has been in the game long enough to understand when someone is falling behind. Her first instinct is to think “weak”, but Hawks is the strongest person she knows. The fact that he’s slowly but steadily drowning under the weight of his workload indicates something more sinister than inherent frailty. He hasn’t even said anything to her, yet, which is not surprising, considering the nature of their friendship. But he’s lagging. His feathers droop to the floor behind the chair he’s sitting in, his eyes are bagged and dark. His eyebrows are furrowing so harshly that she teases him about getting wrinkles early, and he sputters before retorting with a half-baked playful insult.
It comes to a head when Hawks is injured on patrol. He’s forced back to the Hero Commission headquarters because they don’t allow him to receive medical attention on site, for whatever reason, and while Rumi doesn’t agree with that, he’s never received an injury so large that he couldn’t be moved so she keeps her mouth shut. But this is different. One of his wings was shattered, to the point he couldn’t fold it. He flopped around kind of listlessly on the concrete, blood staining his blonde hair and dampening his under-wing fluff. It had been scary to watch, as his friend. As his partner for the mission, it had been an inconvenience. She had said as much, and regretted it when he grinned through clear pain and shrugged off his injury to fight on foot.
Rumi knows that Hawks has been at the Hero Commission for a long time, longer than most. She has suspicions about how much time has actually passed for him, chained up metaphorically by the rules and regulations of living among bureaucrats. The medical center of the Commission is, arguably, one of the best in Japan, so she can’t fault them for wanting the best for their number two hero. But something strikes her as strange in his eyes when he assures her he’ll be okay. Of course he would be…it’s a medical center? Rumi pushes it to the side of her mind because when Hawks leaves and the villain is done for, in cuffs, her girlfriend Yuko calls.
The decision is made before Rumi or Hawks have any say in it. Yuko wants to invite Hawks for dinner, and she knows that Rumi is powerless to her requests. Grinning, she texts Hawks, knowing he will receive the message later, and tells him it’s a mandatory debrief. There’s no way he’ll come, otherwise. Not when he has so much work to do for the Commission already.
Hawks wasn’t able to get anesthetic, this time (when has he ever), so he’s lying on a frigid table while foreign hands examine his back. He’s in a hood, to keep him calm. It doesn’t really work, but it does keep him pliant and docile even as his heart hammers out of his chest. They’ve cauterized the wound already, told him in clinical language that it was just to stop the bleeding and that their healer would attend to the damage shortly. This healing is different to typical - the quirked man is very efficient, but the process is excruciating. Hawks bites down on a strip of leather and nearly loosens a tooth with the clack of his teeth as he tears clean through it. They provide a near-choking bite guard after that. His wing fiber and tissue binding back together is visceral, and hurts so badly that Hawks starts to tear up in earnest pain. He doesn’t usually cry, it smudges his eyeliner and he’s gotten very good at hiding his true emotions. It’s something he has been praised for, how he can keep his cool and always be the hero he was raised to be.
A particularly intricate bone structure is pieced back together, and Hawks moans in agony. The medic’s hand wraps around the back of his neck, and Hawks goes still, pupils blown in fear under the hood, in the darkness. Everything goes comfortably numb after that, because Hawks blacks out. Or maybe he doesn’t. All Hawks really knows is his brain checks out and he doesn’t really feel or hear or see anything for a while. He’s brought back to himself when the hood comes up, except he isn’t. He feels dazed, and confused. One step removed from reality, whatever that may be. His handler and the medic manage to grab both of his (bruised, ow) upper arms and sit him upright in a chair. They shove one of his sanctioned green protein juices into his hand and make him drink it with a straw. It tastes like chalk in his mouth and he has to remember how to swallow.
Sometimes Hawks finds himself in this weird in-between place. It happens more when he’s stressed (Heroes don’t get stressed, Hawks), or tired (Hawks, you’re getting four hours per night - that’s more than enough). He googled it once, out of curiosity, and sat through thirty minutes of his handler lecturing him for looking it up instead of asking the medical center about it. Hawks doesn’t google anything after that, he just asks his handler. Sometimes he doesn’t need to know the answer, and if he asks too many questions there’s extra physical conditioning the next time he comes to the Commission headquarters. It makes his stomach flip when he has questions, so now he just accepts that he doesn’t know some things.
The juice helps, even though it’s bitter. Maybe it’s because it’s bitter that Hawks slowly starts to refocus. His handler is sitting, bored, in a chair next to him. The room still smells like fear and blood. He can hear the whir of the airlock, in place for potential communicable quirks or illness, and he can hear muted clicks from his handler’s phone. Hawks yawns exaggeratedly, pretends like it’s just an effect of the hood on for so long. Laughs. Bright smile. His handler nods brusquely and leaves the room, but not before giving him a briefing on what they did to his body. Is it really his body, at this point? Hawks blinks, wonders where that thought came from, and leaves the headquarters.
Hawks flies halfway home before he realizes he has a text from Rumi. He opens it, sighs, and diverts his path to swing by her place. He texts her to open the balcony door, and she does with haste. Good, because he would hate to visit the medical center twice in one day. He swoops in, landing roughly in the center of her living room. It messes up the rug, and brings in several leaves. Rumi huffs, and Yuko laughs from the kitchen, visible over the granite island separating the two rooms.
“Nice landing, bird-brain.” Yuko says good-naturedly, and Rumi nods. Then they look at Hawks, really look at him. Hawks doesn’t like the look in their eyes.
“You look tired-” Rumi starts, but Hawks cuts her off.
“What is the debrief you had to share? The Commission didn’t mention it to me at the medical center.” He says, voice tight with exhaustion. He still has so much paperwork waiting for him at home, in a neat stack on his desk. He wants to throw up from how tired he is.
“Hawks. Sit.” Yuko says, demanding in the way that only she can be.
Hawks sits at the bar, glancing over the counter and what she’s cooking. It’s vegan, he can tell from the smell, which is not unusual considering Rumi’s needs. His stomach growls, painfully twisting under the lycra of his suit. He hasn’t changed out of it, and it’s still a little bloody. He hums when Yuko offers him a bowl of the stir-fry she has prepared.
“It’s okay-” He starts, preparing to reject the food.
“It’s Commission sanctioned, you ass. I checked the meal plan. You can eat it.” Rumi glares, and Hawks is forced to take the bowl. He sniffs it again, just to check, but he can recognize all the ingredients and they didn’t add the sauce (not allowed), so he is probably going to be fine. He blinks, owlishly, at Rumi.
“There wasn’t a debrief, was there.” He states, swallowing back drool. He’s so hungry it hurts. He’s so tired it hurts. He hurts.
Rumi shrugs. “You needed to take a break. You’re wearing yourself out, Hawks.”
Yuko nods assent, and Hawks takes a bite of the food to avoid speaking. It’s as good as it smelled, and he moans into the next spoonful in a way that makes Yuko laugh again.
“Rumi, why don’t you act like this around my food?”
Rumi grins, pulls Yuko in by the waist and kisses her deeply. Hawks blushes, ashamed and embarrassed to be there in a space of affection. It feels wrong, and dirty, to be looking at them and feeling...serene. There’s something comforting about how open they are, how much they love each other. Hawks knows the commission wouldn’t approve of their relationship, that it’s only allowed because it’s completely secret. Hawks averts his eyes when Rumi continues to kiss her girlfriend, and bristles uncomfortably. Yuko, perceptive as ever, notices his discomfort and gently pulls away from Rumi, beginning to eat her own portion. Hawks wants seconds, but he is not allowed. His handler would call him greedy, and he just-
Rumi shoves a second portion into his hands, and tells him it would be rude to let it go to waste. Hawks takes another bite. After two servings of the meal, he feels warm and overflowing. It’s almost like love, he thinks, eating a home cooked meal after so many protein bars and shakes, packaged deliveries of allowed raw food to be prepared. He sniffs, head heavy with sleep, nodding forward. He’s falling asleep at the island, and the girls are just letting him. Mortifying. He jerks up, gives himself a shake. Opens his mouth. He’s about to say that he should get going, but Rumi fumbles with the zipper to his costume instead and Hawks’ mouth goes completely dry. He’s wide awake, and tense. Rumi wouldn’t- she would never-
“I’m just helping you get out of these bloody clothes, Hawks.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m gay.”
Hawks nods, tries to un-fluff his feathers and still his jackhammer of a heart. Yuko leaves the room, and then comes back with a large shirt and a pair of sweatpants. When Hawks changes, wiping down some of his grimier areas with a wet cloth from the sink, he asks them to leave the room. They do, without argument. He laughs out loud when he realizes the sweatpants have “juicy” emblazoned on the ass in rhinestones. It’s in English, and a few are missing, so they must be vintage. It still makes him guffaw, loud and rusty from disuse. He’s almost in tears when they reenter the room.
“These pants are the funniest thing I’ve seen in my life, Rumi.” He says, voice filled with mirth.
“I’m glad they’re to your taste. You fill them out well.” Rumi retorts, and pushes him to the couch. “Lay down. Let me groom you. Can Yuko help?”
Hawks stutters out a yes, and Rumi wastes no time making him stretch out his just-healed wings, carding her fingers through crumpled feathers and pulling out loose ones. The gentle scritching motion as Yuko untangles his down and wipes the blood clean from the fluff is so relaxing that Hawks’ eyes lose focus and he leans back into the touch.
“Two beautiful ladies grooming me. What more could a man want?” He jokes, but it falls flat. His inflection is all wrong.
Rumi looks at him for a moment, and Hawks can’t help but feel like he’s mis-stepped somehow. He fights the urge to explain, or to say something else to fill the silence. Yuko seems to sense this, and turns on the television. It’s on some old movie, nothing Hawks would ever really pay attention to, and with the mindless buzz of voices and music he begins to nod off.
He sleeps, and the dark is welcoming in a way that the waking world refuses to be. Waking up is the opposite of a comfort, as recognizing he fell asleep comes with the realization that he has overstayed and now will have even less time to get everything done. He jerks up, yelping when one of his wings stays put. Rumi is resting against it, and shifts as she also wakes up. Yuko is on the other couch, typing into a laptop. There’s a stack of sheets on the table next to her.
“Mm. Hawks. Wait.” Rumi mumbles, blinking to clear the sleep from her eyes. “Before you go. God. Yuko, explain. I’m too asleep.”
Yuko pushes the small sheets into a manila folder, and rests them on the coffee table between the trio. “We’ve been keeping an eye on your rotation schedule for the Hero Commission. You know, the amount of hours you’re patrolling, and the paperwork they’re having you fill. Obviously we don’t know everything but we have an idea of the workload.”
Rumi makes a sour face, and Hawks feels like he’s missing something.
“They’re having you work seventy to eighty hours per week, Hawks. That’s not okay.” Yuko continues, and Hawks feels kind of like he’s been punched. Do his friends really think he can’t handle his work? How embarrassing.
“I can do it. I asked for this. It’s what I do best.” He says, but it falls on deaf ears.
Yuko speaks again. “We drafted a letter of recommendation and discussed the need for you to take one day off a week within it, Hawks. It’s insane that you’re working seven days a week, as a hero. Your physical health isn’t the only important piece of the puzzle, Hawks. You’re suffering and struggling mentally. You’re exhausted, and you’re losing weight. You’re losing hair and your feathers are patchy.”
Hawks bites his tongue to keep from yelling, and sinks his talons into the sofa, nearly piercing through his gloves' fabric to keep from leaving. He isn’t struggling, there’s nothing wrong. He’s fine. Everything is okay.
“I’m molting.” He offers as a weak excuse. Rumi glares at him openly, and shoves the folder into his hands.
“No you’re not. It’s stress.” Yuko says, kindly and quietly. “It’s okay to rest, Hawks. All you need to do is read through this, and sign off on it. The Commission will approve it, they’ll have to. What they’re doing now isn’t right and they know it. You need to speak up.”
“What I need is to be going, but thanks for the dinner, ladies. It was really good.” He says, before he flutters his wings and makes his way to the balcony door. It slides open without protest, and he offers the two a bright smile as he leaves. They remain stoic, and his smile falters.
Hawks takes the envelope with him, just to avoid an argument. He crumples it and throws it in the first alley dumpster he finds. It rests there, on top of black bags, looking back up at him. He groans, and grabs it back out before taking off towards his apartment. It’s going to be a long night.