Chapter Text
When he was a child, Keigo dreamed of being a hero. He wanted to save people, to be a symbol that things could get better, even if you were at your lowest.
Nowadays, Keigo is more realistic about things.
“I have a large cappuccino!” he calls out, his voice ringing over the low din of the cafe. It’s busier than usual—probably because of the hero conference a couple blocks over. They’re understaffed, as always, enough that even the owner is taking orders right now so Keigo and his co-worker can focus on making coffee.
“If you ordered a large cappuccino, your drink is ready at the front!” Keigo tries again before going to set the drink down and getting back to work. At the last second, a thin, blond man reaches for the cup, startling Keigo enough that he almost drops it all over the counter.
“Sorry, took me a moment to fight my way up here!” He grins, and Keigo reflexively smiles back. Now that he looks more closely, the man isn’t just skinny. He’s downright skeletal, paper thin skin stretching over sharp cheekbones, and dark, near-black circles under his eyes. Geez, and Keigo thought he looked rough after a weekend of doubles.
“No problem,” Keigo says, and turns away to make the next order. The afternoon slips away in a blur, the rush taking hours to ease up. His feet are aching by the end, and he still has a shift to work at the restaurant tonight, too. He sighs as he clocks out for a thirty minute break, intent on sitting down at the small table in the corner that’s usually empty, but, lo and behold, Jack Skellington is already there.
His chin is resting on one of his hands, and even though he’s obviously trying to concentrate on the laptop in front of him, his too-long blinks signal that he’s dozing off. His eyes slip closed for a moment, and his arm immediately wobbles, jolting him back awake. His long-empty coffee rests at the edge of the table.
Keigo holds in his sigh and sits at the next-best table in the cafe, right in front of the customer. His phone is almost out of minutes—not like he has anyone to text anyway—and he doesn’t feel like playing the ancient version of Snake on it, so instead he stares out the window and makes up stories about the people passing by.
The woman with black hair and blazer is on her way to an important business meeting, of course. She’s the first in her family to graduate college and make it to the city. They’re all proud of her, but she doesn’t have as much time to talk to them as she’d like, so she’s planning to take a surprise trip home this winter to spend a week with them.
The man who sprints by in a ratty t-shirt and untied shoes just found out his best friend’s in labor, and her partner can’t make it to the hospital because they’re stuck in traffic across town. He’ll probably get there just in time to hold her hand for the final push.
Keigo is jarred out of his thoughts by the sound of a loudly cleared throat. He turns in his chair to look at the customer behind him, who smiles widely when he catches his eye.
“My apologies. I think my allergies are getting the best of me.”
“Yeah, pollen’s rough this time of year,” Keigo says absently, looking at the clock on the wall. His break is almost over already, but his feet are still throbbing.
“Would you mind answering a question for me?”
Keigo shakes his head, hoping he can use a conversation with the man as an excuse to clock back in a few minutes late.
“Have you noticed anything odd or unusual in the neighborhood lately? Things being slightly out of place, something being a little off? I know it sounds strange, but it would really help me if you know of any.”
Keigo knows exactly what he means, but he has no intentions of giving this guy free information. So instead, he puts on an appropriately sympathetic look with a “no, sorry” before walking back to the counter.
He struggles not to scowl when the man follows him.
“There’s really nothing? It doesn’t have to be something you’ve experienced yourself, but if you’ve heard any guests talking—“
“I’m sorry, I can’t help you. Would you like to order anything?” He knows his smile is twitching, but dealing with one of those nosy journalist types this early in the morning is really getting to him. Hm. Maybe he should have another cup of coffee himself. He’ll really need it before his next shift if he’s already feeling this drained.
The man visibly struggles, opening and closing his mouth a couple times before sighing, “maybe a pastry?”
“Which one? We’ve got scones—blueberry, strawberry, chocolate—and a couple banana muffins.”
The guy inspects the bread from behind the glass like he’s studying God’s secrets, so Keigo wipes down the counter to give himself something to do while he stares. It’s only slightly sticky, but he does have to scrub at a couple spots that spilled coffee dried onto.
“Which one is your favorite?”
They all kind of taste the same to Keigo. After so many years of eating the stale ones that would be thrown out at the end of the night otherwise, none of them are that great. But admitting that would be bad customer service, and would probably get his boss annoyed at him. And Keigo likes this job, so…
“Strawberry scone, but strawberry’s my favorite flavor so I might be a little biased. Do you want me to wrap it up for you, or are you eating here?”
Please take it to-go.
“I’ll have it here. Still got some work to do.”
Fuck.
Keigo opens the display and grabs the smallest strawberry scone he sees with the tongs. There’s only one plate left behind the counter, and he really hopes there are more clean ones in the back so he doesn’t have to wash dishes today.
“Want me to heat it up for you?”
“Yes, please.”
God damn, this guy is needy. Keigo flips on the toaster oven and turns back to the man while he waits for the timer to ding.
“So what paper do you work for?” Keigo asks, idly picking at his cuticles.
“Excuse me?” The man looks confused.
“Aren’t you a journalist? You probably don’t work for any of the big news companies if you’re looking around here. People aren’t usually too interested in Fukuoka.” He shrugs, pulling the scone back out of the oven and plating it. “Sorry if I’m wrong though. I figured you must’ve been asking questions for some kinda story you’re writing?”
“Oh, no.” The man takes the plate and sets it back down on the counter before rooting through his pocket. “I’m not a journalist. I actually work for a hero agency.” He pulls out a business card, embossed with gold writing and a name that reads Toshinori Yagi.
The stumps of Keigo’s wings twitch under his bandages.
“Ah,” he takes the card gingerly before stuffing it in his pants pocket. “You might not wanna tell people you work for a hero. Fukuoka’s not the most…” He trails off, unable to find the words.
“I appreciate the warning, young man.” The man—Yagi—smiles at him. It doesn’t make Keigo feel reassured. “I’ll be careful, but I feel like I was right in trusting you.”
Keigo gives an awkward smile back. The bruise on the back of his leg throbs.
The bells above the door chime as another customer walks in, and Keigo could kiss them in relief. Yagi walks back to his table with his scone, and Keigo ends up so busy for the rest of his shift that he barely notices when Yagi leaves.
“Mom?” he calls softly as he opens the creaky door to their apartment. He shoves his shoulder against it as he pushes it back, forcing it to shut all the way so he can actually lock it. The wood itself is rotting, splintered from too many people trying to shove their way in, but it’s still better than nothing. “Are you home?”
He’s not sure why he asks. She’s always home.
Today, she’s in her bedroom, staring at the television screen. The picture’s worse in here, but the sound is better than the one in the living room. There are a few beer cans on the floor by the bed. Thankfully, they all look empty, no evidence of sticky, smelly beer spilled on the floor, so Keigo just kicks them under the bed to deal with later.
“Keigo, how was your day,” she asks, not looking away from the TV. He strips his shirt off before grabbing the top to his other uniform out of the dresser. He takes the bottom two drawers, while Mom has the top two.
“It was fine. Made a few tips. Think we should spend them on getting the fridge fixed.” It’s been broken for months now. It doesn’t bother Keigo too much, since he usually just eats at work anyway, but his mom needs it. Keigo used to try and make dinners for her sometimes that she could just heat up in the microwave, and he can tell she’s lost weight since he’s stopped.
She hums in response, and Keigo finishes up changing. His restaurant shoes are clunky, plain back with rubber slip guards shoved over the bottom. He uses them partly because the kitchen floor is always covered in water from melted ice, and partly because the shoe soles had started wearing off and coming apart months ago.
His uniform is black, so it hides stains pretty well, but he can smell sweat and kitchen odor from it already. He doesn’t have time to go to the laundromat this week, so maybe washing it in the sink will do for a while?
But not right now. His shift starts in 30 minutes and he still needs to walk to the restaurant.
“I’m gonna head back out, Mom. Time for my other shift. Try to eat something while I’m gone, okay?”
She doesn’t acknowledge him, but that’s fine. Her favorite soap opera is on.
He pulls the door shut hard behind him, and fiddles with the key for a few moments before the lock finally catches and clicks. Hm. Maybe he should use his savings for the door instead.
The walk to work is nice, even if Keigo’s old, worn-out headphones finally died last night, so he has to go without his work playlist. More than a few people around the neighborhood recognize him, either because of work or because of who his parents are. He waves at them, makes sure to give them a smile.
Keigo loves his hometown, and the people in it.
Even if he hates his job.
He hangs up his jacket and keys in the manager’s office, which is blessedly empty for once. Keigo’s two minutes late, and he really doesn’t feel like listening to a lecture from the guy who just sits on his ass and yells at him for most of the shift.
The host stand tonight is decent—they’re all college students who’re usually pretty good at helping out. Keigo wrinkles his nose when he sees his section buddy for the night.
“Takami! Looks like it’s us again!” Tomoe slaps an arm around Keigo’s shoulders hard enough to make him stumble forward into the POS. “Dream team, am I right?”
Keigo struggles not to roll his eyes.
“You know it,” he smiles easily. “Wanna grab the silverware while I get the menus and fill us up on ice for the night?”
Tomoe agrees easily, since Keigo gave her the easy job. She hates carrying heavy ice buckets through the restaurant. Which is why Keigo ends up doing it every time they’re on shift together.
His shoulder twinges as he walks to the back, reminding him of how he pulled something last night. He slams up the lid of the ice machine, and looks for the scoop, only to realize it’s nowhere to be found.
“Hey, Sato?” he calls, hoping the man is close enough to hear him.
Silence.
Keigo sighs, and walks back to the kitchen, dodging through the cooks that yell at him for being back there. He finds the scoop on a shelf beside a full ice bucket, so he dumps the ice into the bin and takes it with him too.
Once he manages to fill up both buckets, he lifts one in each hand, so at least he’s not tilting over to one side, even if his shoulders scream at him. The small feathers he has wrapped up underneath his shirt twitch, begging to help, but he can’t risk getting caught here.
He’s sweating slightly by the time he’s done, and customers are starting to filter in the door. Tomoe’s standing by a pile of silverware at the host stand that she hasn’t bothered to bring to their tables yet, so Keigo grabs it and walks past her.
It’s gonna be a long night.
His first few tables are fine, even if they’re shitty tippers. He falls into a routine for the night easily enough.
Greet them. Ask their drink orders. Offer an appetizer. If they order alcohol, make sure to check IDs. Extra ice. Low ice. More bread for the table. Check on that table’s order. Run Tomoe’s food since she’s in the bathroom again. Smile. Grab their drinks from the bar. Make sure you have enough straws for everyone. Ask for their orders. The kitchen’s gonna scream at you for that substitution. Remind them that costs extra, even though it clearly states that on the menu, so they won’t complain later. Get refills for table 6. Try to find the server for table 12. Extra sauce on the side. No sauce at all. Extra tomatoes. Run the food. Don’t cuss when the new guy drops a rack of glasses on your foot. Ask Tomoe if she—
He blinks, and the night is over. He swapped his cut time with the closing server hours earlier, so when the last table of customers filters out the door, Keigo starts sweeping up.
Sato’s in his office, counting the registers for the night, so Keigo chances on playing some music on his phone as he cleans up. He sticks to something non-offensive—classical music—so if Sato catches him it’ll be one less thing to scold him for. He hums along to the violin and spins a few times on his aching feet, debating inwardly if he should really go out for this third shift tonight.
His feathers tingle.
Keigo does a final wipe down of the tables before heading to the kitchen and covering all the sauces and condiments in plastic wrap, before wheeling them back to the freezer. Unfortunately, Sato’s back there, doing a final count for the night.
“Moving pretty slow tonight, kid.”
“Sorry,” Keigo bites back a harsher response. He’s not sure why Sato insists on calling him kid. He sure doesn’t look at him like he’s a kid. Fucking perv.
“Everything okay lately? We’re not working you too hard, are we?”
“Everything’s fine. I’m done with all my closing work, if you can come check it.”
Sato eyes him for a second, and Keigo refuses to wriggle uncomfortably under his gaze. “Give me a sec to finish up here first. Be patient and wait for me out front, okay?”
Keigo nods and speed-walks out of the freezer. He sits down at the host stand and swipes through his phone. His screen cracked a few weeks ago when it fell out of his pocket at the cafe, and the crack catches the skin of his thumb with every swipe. The local news site hasn’t posted much from around town today, which is nice. Only a single break-in.
“Kid, you awake?” Keigo jumps when Sato slaps a hand on his shoulder. The manager just laughs, smacking him again. “Man, you’re a jumpy one, huh? Come here, I’ve got something to show you.”
Keigo follows him, Sato’s hand staying heavy on his shoulders as they walk over to Keigo’s section. The restaurant feels huge when it’s just the two of them in there, their steps loud in the silence of the building.
“Did you sweep under the tables like you’re supposed to?”
Keigo nods. “Yeah, I went through everyone’s sections again, too.”
“Look again.”
Keigo squats, even sticking his head under the table slightly to see better, but all he sees is a clean floor.
“I don’t see anything.”
Sato sighs loudly. “The corners, kid. Look at all the crumbs in the corners.”
Keigo inhales and exhales carefully, jaw tensing up. “I can’t get those with a broom. I’m sorry, sir.”
“That’s why,” Sato grabs Keigo’s ID card from where it’s attached to his shirt, tapping it against his chest. “You use this. Just crawl under the table and pop pop any crumbs you see out of the corners with this. Then you can sweep ‘em up.”
Keigo’s mouth twitches, but he takes the card back and crawls under the table, feeling Sato’s eyes on his backside as he does so.
Keigo feels dirty from more than just the grime of the restaurant floor when he leaves later.
Keigo’s mom doesn’t ever notice when he lies to her, doesn’t ever care, but Keigo still feels like he’s taking advantage.
“I’m headed out to my night shift, Mom. I’ll bring back groceries!”
“Kay.” She’s sitting on the couch. The blanket he’d tucked across her lap earlier has fallen to the floor, and she doesn’t seem to notice. It’s cold, so he makes a quick detour to pick it up and place it back in her lap.
He’s wearing a ratty t-shirt when he leaves and moves to swing his duffel over his shoulder before coaxing the key into the door handle to lock up behind him but—shit. The shoulder strap is broken. The bag smacks into his leg instead, and he sighs, moving to tie the frayed mess around the metal latch thingy on the main part of the bag.
It’s a chore to take the stairs up—flying is easier, faster, and funner. By the time he gets to the top, his leg aches bad enough that it’s hard to stand on it. He’ll celebrate the day they get the elevator fixed.
There’s never anyone on the roof at night, but he double-checks anyway, then lets the duffel drop. Before it hits the ground, the feathers inside unzip it and fly out, carrying his jacket and visor to him. He’s suited up in about a second.
Fukuoka’s been pretty neglected by heroes. They visit often, taking turns trying to establish a presence and warn off crime and violence, but there’s no one really… here. Endeavor’s their highest profile visitor. Keigo gets the feeling that he only shows up when the heroes want to make a point. We haven’t forgotten about your city, we haven’t forgotten about you. Where Keigo used to get excited when Endeavor made an appearance, he now rankles at the intrusion onto his turf.
Hawks is probably better for the city than any transplanted hero anyway. With his feathers, he can catch a lot more, do things faster, and be more places at once. Plus, he likes it.
There’s something exhilarating about flying just over the highest buildings. Something about the people and lights below—he’s above everything, but still connected. After years of flying like this, the idea of being spotted no longer makes him anxious. In fact, it’s kind of fun now when people run to their windows to wave at him and he throws a peace sign back.
Someone on the street below has spotted him, but instead of waving, they quickly duck into a concealed alcove.
There could be a number of reasons for that: They’re nervous alone on the streets in the dark and a dark shadow overhead can be concerning. Or, they’re calling the police on Hawks for his vigilantism. That doesn’t worry him; only licensed heroes can use their quirks, and it seems like they’re content to leave Fukuoka to Hawks.
Aaaand there’s a third option: they’re doing something shady and want to avoid the city’s known vigilante.
Two feathers scope it out and tack themselves to the person’s back. Hawks flies on, doling out his feathers wherever there’s a need, then circling back when they pick up on something, which they always do. This part of the city never gets the love it needs— this is why Fukuoka needs a hero. He’d never been under any illusion that Endeavor was going to stay here and take care of Hawks’s city for him, so he’d always planned to do it himself.
Hawks flies over the coffee shop. Although he wishes he could forget, he always knows where it is, and over there, a couple of blocks away, is the restaurant. And there’s the bus stop he always uses to travel.
A feather thrums, calling out to him, and he swoops into a dive-flip to change direction without losing momentum. It takes so much focus to do this, and he’s tired, but he squints his eyes shut and tunes into the noise around the feather.
It’s a reckless driver—no, a car chase, and it’s heading toward a more populated area. Before Hawks himself can even make it there, his feathers are flocking to the scene. The main concern with chases is that anyone on or near the street is in danger, and as a man steps out of his ground-level door to see what the commotion’s about, a feather rudely shoves him back in.
“Sorry, man!” Hawks calls out as he zips past.
He arrives on the scene to see where his feathers have prevented a pretty major crash—the driver was headed right toward a highway that’s still busy even at this time of night. Luckily for Hawks, it’s an older car with only two wheel drive, and he’s able to nip the whole thing in the bud by just using some feathers to haul the back of it off the ground and let the wheels spin themselves around and around.
He pulls the driver out of the car and wrinkles his nose in disdain—she’s very drunk, definitely should not have been driving.
“Hey!” she shouts at him, shaking as he helps her down from her awkwardly suspended car.. “Whaddaya think you’re doing, huh? I thought you were s’pos’t to take care a’ the little guy! I’m the little guy!”
He supports her as he guides her out of the road and onto the sidewalk, and she continues to rant. “I’m just tryna make do here, I know it’s bad to drive drunk and I didn’t wanna but—” she swings her head as law enforcement pulls up. “Hey, listen, you gotta let me go, you, you’re like a guardian angel aren’tcha? Gonna help me? Please? See, I’m a good driver I didn’t hit anyone, can you—”
Hawks sympathizes, but he is absolutely not letting her get back into her car to endanger anyone else.
“Stay out of trouble, okay?” he says in what he hopes is a kind tone as he hands her over to an officer, his feathers finally taking the key out of the ignition and setting the car back down.
“What the fuck!” she calls out to him, tears running down her face. “I thought you were supposed to help us, but if you’re not gonna do that, what are you even good for!? Fuck you fuck your mom fuck your stupid fucking wings fuck y—”
He’s gone without hearing the rest.