Chapter Text
“So,” Hawks says into the still air. The quiet room. “I guess this is the part where I finally have to talk about my feelings or something equally horrible.”
He’s trying for flippant, but the moment the words leave his mouth, he already knows that he’s only gone and shown his hand like a complete amateur. There it is now: the entirety of his heart worn on his sleeve like it’s a badge of honour, never mind how he’s metaphorically bleeding out around the metaphorical pin, getting his metaphorical shirt all metaphorically dirty.
Quelle surprise, it turns out that sharing your emotions can be real fucking messy sometimes.
Water is wet and the sky is blue.
Also, it hurts to think about some things ― perhaps even more so when he says the words out loud.
Has he belaboured the point enough?
Rally, then. Regroup.
Hawks clears his throat because it seems like the right time to do so and picks the rest of the thought back up, as if he hadn’t even paused.
“There are these, like, fancy movies, right,” he continues. “You know the ones I’m talking about – the arthouse kind, with the nice camera work that looks the way it does because the director went to one of the good film schools. Fucking…Tisch, or whatever. And you know it’s one of Those Movies too, because none of the characters will actually speak to each other like normal people. It’s all wanky analogies or something. Metaphors inside metaphors inside a circle-jerk.”
Hawks allows himself a private little smile at this. It’s about the small joys, y’know?
“That, or a third of the film’s made up of completely silent close-up shots of the most random objects, and each one lasts for like, five minutes each time because it’s supposed to be art or some shit.”
He folds his hands a little tighter over his chest as he speaks. Splaying his fingers over the arch of his ribcage so he can feel the steady rise and fall of his own breathing, all while resisting the urge to look anywhere but straight up.
“Anyway,” he says slowly, leaving some breathing room between each syllable. “The point is, there’s sometimes this…scene that shows up at the very end of the movie. Where the camera zooms in to focus on the main character and you think oh, finally, the big reveal, but they’re only doing like, the most basic, most unremarkable thing.”
There’s no real harm in admitting it at this point: Hawks would legitimately kill for a feather to send skywards right now. Just a little one, that’s all. Probably a filoplume if he had the luxury of choice – anything for him to keep his eye on, rather than continue staring at the pale cream of the ceiling above.
“It’ll be something like drinking a coffee, maybe. Reading the news. Eating a sandwich or walking down the street, standing under a hot shower, but either way, what I’m trying to say is they’re doing this super ordinary thing that everyone who’s watching knows isn’t actually ordinary because of course it isn’t. They’re the main fucking character and this is the end of the movie. Which of course means that exactly when you expect it, there’s this–“ he lifts a hand to snap his fingers, the punctuation of it as loud as it is sudden, “– beat, before they’re interrupted.”
He lets his hand hover mid-air, half a second too long before he lets it fall back down with precious little grace.
“There’s a knock on the door.” Eyes still trained right up, never mind how his gaze feels even more untethered than before. Man, he really has made it up in the world, huh? There’s not even a water stain to look at. "The phone rings,” he says quietly. “Someone calls their name and they’re this close to looking over their shoulder, they’re going to turn around and see someone they’ve been hoping to see, but…"
Hawks allows the sentence to trail off and breathes in instead, as controlled as they come. Holds it for one, two, three seconds, before exhaling it back out again as a long sigh.
"You know how the rest of this goes, right?”
He shouldn’t look over. Not yet, at any rate.
It’s not quite time.
“The scene cuts to black.” A little softer than before. A little more careful. “And the movie just…it just ends there, and you never really know what happens next because that’s the whole point of it. You’re not supposed to know."
Lying on the floor like this is almost laughably uncomfortable, and if he’s being honest, it’s probably not great for his back either, but that’s fine. It’s okay. Let the record show that Hawks isn’t one of those limp-noodle Heroes who’ve gone soft immediately after the war. Let it be known, now and always, that he can grit his teeth and deal with pain just as well as anyone else.
After all, this is the entire point of Floor Time, is it not? Self-flagellation disguised as mindfulness, or some other similarly pathetic nonsense. Mera would be so proud.
In any case:
"Sometimes," Hawks says, deliberately slow. “I think the rest of my life is just going to feel like one long version of that moment.” He has his fingers laced together again and he flexes them now, ever so slightly. Just to have something to hold onto. “Like I’m either going to lose my mind waiting to see what happens next, or accept that the credits are going to fucking roll, whether I want them to or not.”
Miserable. Dramatic. Miserably dramatic.
Why not both?
Either way, it’s finally time. He’s made it through the hour, which means Hawks can finally indulge himself and look over now.
There, to his left: the floor to ceiling windows of his living room and the sky so very blue, so perfectly cloudless beyond them.
The unoccupied armchair sitting in the patch of afternoon sun, so plush and undisturbed, but still perfect to imagine where a Commission-approved therapist might sit during these whimsical little sessions. Maybe he should get himself a chaise lounge one of these days – really commit to the bit. It’ll likely defeat the ultimate purpose of Floor Time but hey, surely he’s earned himself a little luxury at this point.
Attend nine imaginary therapy sessions, get the tenth one at a slightly more comfortable rate?
“Good talk,” he eventually says to the empty room. “Same time next week?”
And, as always, silence.
There had been a psychologist at the Commission.
That’s it.
That’s the joke.
He’s on lap forty-seven of his apartment when Mera’s text arrives, the sudden, unexpected buzz of his phone making him come this close to dropping the accursed thing right onto the floorboards.
Am downstairs, it simply reads. Expectant, like Hawks is supposed to acknowledge it as the blatant order that it is. Or is it merely a request, these days? Fucked if he knows, honestly, and doubly so if he can find it in himself to care right now.
Either way, the temptation to swipe the message away is overwhelming.
I know you’re home, comes the next text just as Hawks is trying to work his way up to a decision. The lights are on, I can literally see you.
Briefly, Hawks has to contemplate whether it’s worth flashing a fuck you back down at Mera in Morse.
What makes you think I’m going to let you in? he finally settles on.
You haven’t been outside in almost two weeks.
The indignation that flares up at this is almost instantaneous, hot and not a little angry – so much so that Hawks doesn’t even want to dignify it with a reply just yet.
So?
He declines Mera’s call out of sheer spite. Even goes to stand by the glass sliding doors so Mera can see him all the more clearly – maybe even make out how Hawks is holding his phone up, just to make a show of how he’s clearly declining the next one, too.
So what if it’s rude and childish. So what if Hawks really should know better. It’s a brave new world that they’re living in now; a weird and wonderful place where someone like him actually gets the luxury of saying no for once.
Whether or not that’s actually respected is a completely different matter, of course. Jury’s still out on that one, but what Hawks does know for a fact is this: he’s still four thousand and a few steps short of his daily goal, give or take, so it’s about high time he resumed pacing the length of his apartment.
Back to walking, then. Waiting. Walking some more while trying not to watch how the three dots at the bottom of his phone screen keep starting up and stopping, Mera evidently caring enough about this next reply to think it through.
How very flattering.
But also: should Hawks be concerned?
Just spit it out, he finally types after Mera’s fifth failed attempt. Patience had never really been a strong suit of his. What do you want?
A conversation, comes the reply, too quick.
This couldn’t have been an email?
Brought food if you want it.
Hawks has to pause at this just to scoff at the words, a quiet heh under his breath that nevertheless ends with him walking towards the front door.
So it’s going to be one of those talks.
“What do you have?” he snaps into the intercom. On-screen, Mera holds a takeaway bag up to the camera.
“It’s going to get cold,” comes that familiar drawl, and goddamn the man, it’s curry from the good place, Hawks’ finger already moving to hover over the button that will buzz Mera in even though he should really just tell him to go away.
Try coming back again in three years or never, maybe.
“Also,” Mera adds into the growing silence. “The beer’s getting warmer by the second.”
Ah, fuck it.
“You look like actual shit,” Hawks says by way of greeting when he opens the door.
“Have tried looking in a mirror lately?” Mera snipes right back, not missing a single beat. He’s stooping to tug at the laces of his shoes, but even after all these years, Hawks knows that he’ll still wait to be invited in. God, it had felt like such a novelty at first – why bother when the Commission owns the apartment and everything, not to mention everyone in it?
Why wait for permission?
They never did, for everything else.
“Hold this, will you?” Mera’s trying to work on his other shoe and while he’s shifted his satchel to rest against his back, there’s still the matter of the takeaway bag.
“Brave of you to assume I’m not going to shut the door in your face now that I have this.”
And yet, Hawks keeps the door open. Holds the bag for Mera and feels the heft of it tug at the muscles in his arm, the weight both familiar and not all at once because the last time he’d done this, Hawks had been leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. Hawks had simply let one feather effortlessly–
“Well you’re still here, aren’t you?”
“Despite my better judgement, yeah.” A sigh, then. Resigned. “You’d better come in before I change my mind.”
The magic words, finally out there in the open. No take-backsies now, even if Hawks has to turn away before he can see the look on Mera’s face. Walk back into the apartment with his shoulders purposefully loose and relaxed, just like how he’d been taught.
Call it a force of habit or something – it’s not like Mera won’t be able to see through the facade almost immediately anyway.
Here, now: Hawks’ grip is a little too taut and his back, too rigid. Gait still too wooden.
Nonchalance just doesn’t come as easily anymore these days, but damned if Hawks doesn’t continue to try though.
(Here, too, a secret: Sometimes, when these things used to matter more, all he needed to do was remember Mera’s then-broad hands gently pushing his shoulders down. Moulding his posture into something more acceptable, the gentleness of his touch at startling odds with how all of this was ostensibly to make Hawks a better liar.
Relax, Mera had said each time. Good. There you go. Now try again, better this time.
If Mera tried that now, Hawks genuinely thinks he might just end up screaming, never to stop.)
“Had I known that the President of the Commission was going to come round today,” Hawks says all casual-like when he sets the bag of food down onto the kitchen island, “I might have considered cleaning up a bit more.”
“Oh?” Mera had been following behind him at a semi-polite distance. Hawks can just about hear it from where he is – the quiet shuffle of socked feet on vinyl flooring, the sound of Mera’s familiar footsteps nearly too soft to register. That said, it doesn’t require any additional close listening for Hawks to know that Mera’s gaze has been settling on the general state of the place while on his way in.
Look, it’s not that bad if you gloss over some of the more glaringly obvious things.
The deep gouges down one side of the couch, for instance.
The small collection of takeaway boxes stacked (neatly!) by the bin, ready for whenever Hawks finally loses recycling Jenga and has to take them out.
The pack of cigarettes lying half empty on the coffee table.
All things considered, Hawks thinks he might even warrant some praise for keeping things this clean.
“Don’t look so surprised,” he says despite knowing that if he looks up from where he’s peering into the bag, Mera’s face will hold nothing but the usual inscrutable tiredness. “What else am I going to do with my time?”
It’s not even an untruth. There’s something…quaint, about having to do the physical act of cleaning with his own two hands. Everything takes thrice as fucking long, for one, which in turn only makes the cigarette at the end of it feel all the more deserved.
“You can hire a cleaner, you know.”
“I know.” Hawks reaches in for the beers, which are still passably cold. The takeaway boxes come out next, disposable cutlery slipped under the rubber-bands holding the lids shut. “But maybe I want to slow down for once. Try living in the now.”
“By cleaning,” Mera deadpans.
“It makes me feel like a real boy, what can I say?”
Mera lifts an eyebrow at this, Hawks countering it with a shrug of his own. Honestly, it’s all bullshit anyway. Hawks knows it, Mera definitely knows it, and they only play this ridiculous game because it’s marginally better than acknowledging the barren spaces in the room.
“So are you going to tell me why you’re actually here, or is this one of those things where I should get drunk first before hearing what you have to say?” He slides one of the cans over to Mera, who’s eased himself into one of the low-backed stools at the island. Absently, and not for the first time, Hawks has to wonder if Mera had had a hand in furnishing this place. “Because if it’s the latter, I want that back. You know what my metabolism is like.”
Instead, the can is opened without fanfare, Mera taking a long drink from it like the uncaring bastard that he is.
“You should know I’m only here in a half official capacity,” he says after he’s set it back down. Hand still wrapped around it, because oh boy, this really is going to be that kind of conversation.
“Yeah?” Hawks is toying with the tab of his own can. Lifting it up just enough to feel it strain, but never quite all the way. It’s a kind of metaphor, surely. Woo, art! This should probably be a close-up shot. “And what’s the other half, then?”
When he looks back up at Mera, the expression on Mera’s face is one that says Hawks is being very, very stupid. It’s a familiar one though, which means Hawks can just take most of it in his stride. Continue to blithely push Mera’s container of takeaway curry over (mixed vegetable, extra spicy like always) and tamp down on the increasingly wild, rapidly growing urge to protest.
Loudly. With feeling.
Contrary to popular belief, Hawks isn’t a child anymore. Mera hasn’t been his handler in years.
And if anything, Mera had technically forfeited the right to give a flying (ha) fuck about Hawks’ wellbeing the moment he flew the metaphorical coop – even moreso now that he’s the president of the same fucking organisation that coaxed him into it to begin with. Locked the door behind him right after.
Yeah, yeah, so what if it was a roof over his head. So what if they fed him and clothed him and kept him safe from the wolves and the foxes and whatever else was out there. Hawks is terrible with metaphors.
Maybe that’s why none of this ever makes sense.
“Well then,” Hawks ends up saying instead. He’s shaken the biodegradable fork and spoon out of their packet, and when he lifts the takeaway lid, it twists his stomach to see how his curry comes with an extra serve of pickled ginger on the side. Next to it, the torikatsu is perfectly golden, still wisping its last few tendrils of steam into the air. “Have we come to the part where you ask whether I’m okay? Or can we skip ahead to the stuff that actually matters?”
It’s cruel and irresponsible, yes, but he knows he’s spoiling for a fight just for the sake of hurting now. That, or he’s merely looking for something to do. Potayto, potahto.
“I’m not in the business of asking questions with obvious answers,” Mera says coolly. Of course he doesn’t rise to take the bait. He never does.
This, at least, makes sense.
In response, Hawks just stabs at the torikatsu with a bit more force than strictly necessary. Says, as he moves it off to the side to get at the rice underneath: “Mmm, god, I just love it when you talk all caring to me.”
The crumb on the torikatsu could stand to be a bit crispier, but even then, the curry is good. Real good. And the gari, it’s still as radioactively pink as Hawks remembers it being – tangy enough to make his mouth water at the taste, just how he likes it.
“So you’re here to what, share a meal for old times’ sake?” Mera hasn’t said a single word, seemingly too preoccupied with eating. That’s a stalling tactic if Hawks has ever seen one. “Reminisce about the good old days?”
Hawks lets his chin fall into one waiting palm and sighs, the sound of it intentionally heavy enough to be borderline obnoxious.
“Anytime now,” he prompts. In the time it’s taken Mera to eat one broccoli floret, Hawks has already inhaled at least three chicken cutlet strips. “Anytime.”
Mera, damn him, takes his time to swallow. “I have an offer to make,” he says as he goes about selecting a piece of grilled capsicum. “But you only have to consider it tonight. No commitment required yet.”
It's careful in the way Mera often is, but there's also something that feels a lot like trepidation lurking underneath. An unknown brand of discomfort that’s subsequently setting Hawks’ nerves on edge. Spidey-senses going all tingly because this feels off.
He doesn't like this.
Fuck, he doesn't like this at all.
“Who says I'm even going to consider anything?” he tries, aiming for a lightness that he doesn't feel. The syllables lift into the air to hang over their heads, too easy, but that’s only because he’s gone and cocked up the delivery again. Made the words too hollow. “Come on, you’re killing me here.”
Mera’s only reaction is to shrug and eat another neat spoonful of curry and rice. Wash it down with beer too, because he's a bastard who not only knows the true extent of Hawks’ patience, but how to stretch it to its very limits.
“Come back to Commission,” Mera finally says and if Hawks had been practically on the verge of crawling out of his skin in anticipation before, now it's just…static. All stations gone off-air, nothing but dead space and white noise.
“...what?”
“Only in a consulting capacity, of course. We’ll pay you.”
Hawks doesn’t remember putting his cutlery down but he must have, at some point. The other option was to drive his fork prongs-first into the tabletop like some dramatic madman, so this option – the one where he has a death grip on his beer instead, hand just shy of crushing the aluminium can – is a much better one.
“You’ll pay me,” he echoes, voice flat. “Oh, because that makes it so much better. Do I get to set my own rates too? Hours?” Fuck, he’s still way too sober for this. “Wait, wait, I have a good one. Is the emotional trauma automatically included as part of the package, or do I have to ask for that specifically?”
It’s never easy to tell, with Mera. Hawks only learnt to read most (this is important now, most, not all) of his expressions because there was simply no one more interesting to observe in the grey drabbery of his childhood. Also, maybe there’s the unavoidable, unfortunate fact that Mera was the lucky government grunt tasked with practically hand-raising him from the ages of seven to seventeen, but that’s besides the point. Winner winner chicken dinner, even if Mera might not exactly think the same.
Speaking of:
The man in question has similarly put his spoon aside and placed his hands palms-down on the table, and even though there’s nothing but bone-deep tiredness etched into the lines of his face, Hawks can see how his hands are angled inwards. Note, keenly, how the tips of his forefingers are barely touching each other.
Christ.
“You’re serious,” Hawks hears himself say, disbelieving. “You’re actually being serious right now?”
“I am. We’ve been talking about it for a while, so it’s not like the decision was made lightly.”
“Sure. Of course. What was I thinking?” He deserves a drink. Deserves to tip the entire can down his throat and break out the bad stuff immediately after – really get into the paint-stripping, bathtub-brewed, bottom shelf shit that Rumi had so conveniently left behind the last time she came round. “And you’re just going to sit there and tell me you didn’t veto it? On account of…oh I don’t know, the fucking–” A broad gesture at himself, the empty space around him. The rest of the apartment, all-encompassing. “Don’t make me say it.”
“You know that’s temporary.”
“And you know you’re changing the subject,” Hawks snaps. “Answer the goddamn question.”
“I was the one who suggested it.” Mera’s voice is steady. Calm, even, and the stark contrast of it to his own makes Hawks want to do something stupid. “Keigo sit down, please. Your name was first on the list for obvious reasons.”
Huh, now when did that happen?
He’s gone and stood up without noticing, but now that he does, it’s nice to find that the floor is pleasantly cool under the soles of his feet. The sensation is somewhat grounding even, especially when Hawks realises that from where he’s standing, he doesn’t have to look at Mera anymore.
Good. Great. Absolutely wonderful development, this.
“Don’t call me that,” Hawks mumbles half-heartedly, the fight already starting to leave him as he starts to pace. His anger’s always been a bit like this – burning fast and flaring bright, but never holding out for very long. More of a sprint, less of a marathon. “And by obvious reasons, you mean…what, exactly? We fucked this one up real good, so he can definitely tell us how to not do it again?” He barks a laugh at this, the sound of it holding no humour in the slightest. “Actually no, that’s ass-backwards isn’t it. Maybe you want me to tell you how to do it better?”
Inevitably, his path has led him back to the edge of the kitchen island again, Hawks taking the opportunity to throw Mera a look that’s half-wearied, half-exasperated. Full resentment, undiluted and straight from the source.
“Fuck, Mera,” he says, voice low. “What do you even want this time?” A sigh, too, for good measure, though Hawks isn’t about to succumb to cliches just yet and run his hand through his hair as well. “Also, if you so much as think about saying ‘a second chance’ or something equally dumb, I can and will throw you out right now. Don’t think I won’t.”
To Mera’s credit, he doesn’t offer anything that pithy or condescending. Just says, simply: “Despite all our efforts, you were and are the best of us.” God damn the man, he even makes it sound real. “The Commission in its new form would do well to be reminded why.”
Read: Honing your entire existence into a weapon didn’t do as much damage as expected.
Also read: I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.
Apology acknowledged, if not accepted.
At this point, Hawks’ pacing has graduated into a beeline right towards one of the cabinets over the microwave – the one with the good glassware and bad decisions.
“Nagant’s going to be pissed when she hears I’m the favourite kid,” he says when he sets the vodka down. The humour’s the main coping mechanism, the alcohol’s just the chaser. “It’s because I’m the more socially adjusted one, isn’t it? That, or former Tartarus inmate with guns for hands isn’t exactly the kind of visual you want to run with when revamping your public image.”
Mera graciously accepts the shot that Hawks pours and shoves in his direction, even if it’s only to set to one side. “She declined to come on board.”
“No shit.”
It burns like a bitch going down, Hawks immediately topping himself up and daring, just daring Mera to say something about it.
What he gets is silence, which…fine. What’s even better is Mera’s just gone back to eating, as if he hasn’t recently gone and upended the remains of Hawks’ life all over the floor like a box of mismatched Legos.
“You can talk it over with her first if you want,” Mera says between one spoonful and the next. “You were our first choice, but you’re not the first one I’ve asked.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel special?”
“It is what it is and you can feel what you want about it.”
And people wonder why Hawks has daddy issues.
It’s beyond tempting to do the next shot now, but if this is going to keep going the way it is, Hawks should probably pace himself. Think about rationing the rest of the bottle, especially if Nagant deigns to pick up his call tomorrow.
Two ex-Commission assassins walk into a bar – the punchline practically writes itself at this point.
“Who else?” Hawks asks despite himself. “And who was the first?” Not that it matters. The answer really shouldn’t change his own.
Mera is scooping up a piece of kobocha with his rice, looking for all the world like this is just a completely normal conversation to be having over dinner. Hell, given the fact that he’s the bloody President of the Commission now, maybe it is.
Maybe Hawks is just the last thing on his checklist for the day. Is that supposed to be comforting?
“I’m not sure if I should tell you at this point,” Mera says, painfully deliberate. He’s selected a bit of asparagus next, the spear of it cut on the bias.
Hawks has slipped back onto his chair in the meantime. Pushed the bottle away from himself in the process, but he’s keeping the still-full shot glass close at hand. Drink in case of emergency. “Bullshit,” he says. “Don’t play coy, it’s unbecoming for a man your age.”
“I don’t want to influence your decision.”
“You don’t want to–” Hawks would ruffle his feathers in sheer irritation if he still had them. “Really? We’re going there?”
There’s only carrots and potatoes left in Mera’s container, roughly chopped and swimming in lukewarm curry. Hawks watches Mera move the remaining pieces around – probably looking for something more interesting.
“Endeavor said yes when I asked last week,” he says at length. There, he’s finally found it: the last bit of eggplant hiding almost forgotten in a corner. “Jeanist too, if it matters. Yesterday.”
Hawks downs the shot.
Later, Mera makes him put his leftovers in the fridge like a good little boy.
“You going to make me clean my room too? Do the laundry?” Hawks is leaning against the counter, watching Mera rinse his container and can out in the sink.
“Take your recycling out first,” Mera suggests instead. He carries both items over to carefully deposit on top of their respective piles and miraculously, recycling Jenga lives to see another game. “This is borderline feral.”
“Yes mom.”
Hawks makes a face at Mera’s back just because he can and swipes the bottle off the table in one fluid motion when he pushes off. Moves to gather up his own glass and maybe bitch at Mera to finish his drink, Hawks doesn’t have an extra pair of hands anymore, except whaddaya know – the shot glass is already empty. Turned upside down on the counter for good measure, too.
Fine.
“I can tell you have questions,” Mera says. He’s moved towards the living room, Hawks trailing after him empty-handed when he really should be showing Mera the door and making sure he’s the right amount of sober to be dealing with this clusterfuck – which is to say, not in the slightest. “You can ask them, you know.”
“I know.”
Hawks flops onto his corner of the couch and Mera takes the one-seater closest to the window, but not before he goes to unlatch the sliding doors. Pulls them apart to let some air in and that first exhale of smoke out, the sound of night-time traffic coming small and distant from somewhere far below.
He should have guessed. Alcohol’s never been Mera’s vice of choice. Far too messy and just too unpredictable.
It’s all about control, with Mera. Restraint.
Hawks should know better than anyone else.
“Alright then, first question.” Hawks has settled in, his head pillowed on one arm and legs stretched out. Seemingly relaxed, but Hawks knows that Mera can see the stiffness in his muscles. The way he’s holding himself a bit too still to be anything but on edge. “Were you even going to ask before stealing one of my smokes?”
“They’re bad for you,” is all Mera says.
Nevertheless, he still lobs the pack at Hawks, a soft underhand that Hawks catches with no effort at all. Lighter next, Hawks missing his feathers like a phantom limb.
How do people live like this?
“Not an answer,” he mutters, “but noted all the same, thanks. Is this how the rest of this is going to go by the way? Because I’m going to save my breath and not even bother asking if you’re just going to answer in non-sequiturs.”
“Ask whatever you want.”
“But also be prepared for lies, am I right?”
Mera gives him another one of his Looks. This one, Hawks likes to call: Don’t be an Idiot, which is a variation on the ever-popular You’re Being Very, Very Stupid.
“Right,” Hawks says into the loaded silence between them. “Question one, redux. If you already have Endeavor and Jeanist on board, what do you need me for?” He shakes a cigarette out, holding it between his teeth with one hand while the other works at the lighter. Again, how the fuck do people live?
“I thought I told you earlier that I’m not in the business of answering obvious questions.”
Et voilà. Success. Hawks takes in that first breath of sweet, sweet nicotine and even the simple act of this tiny, Mera-sanctioned form of rebellion is already making more of the tension bleed out from his shoulders.
“Humour me,” he says. “Maybe I want to hear you say it out loud.”
A deep pull. A long exhale, the end of his cigarette flaring bright.
Mera leans forward to ash his own in the makeshift tray that Hawks has cobbled together from one of those fancy mint tins, unable to quite hold back the distaste on his face as he does. Well lah di da, look who has standards now that he’s the President.
“It was always a mistake to have the Commission run solely by non-heroes,” Mera eventually says once he’s leaned back into his seat. “We all knew it, but no one wanted to be the first to admit the fact.”
“Because acknowledging it would mean having to fix the mistake.”
“Exactly.” Mera lets his head drop back, eyes closed. Cigarette held loosely between his fingers. “And fixing things on a level like this, it’s…messy,” he says. When he opens them again, he’s looking at nothing in particular – just straight up, like he’s allowed himself to go somewhere else for a while. “You know how it goes from there.”
Oh, Hawks knows. Of course he knows. He’s even gone as far as to run the scenario as a thought experiment back in the day. Just a casual little fantasy to carry him through one training session and into the next, the next, the next.
Scenario one (preferred)
Pro-hero Endeavor arrives, finds out how the Commission really works, and sets the whole place alight – but not before he holds one massive hand out to Hawks and says in that booming, no-nonsense voice of his: “Come on.”
Scenario two (realistic)
Pro-hero All Might arrives, finds out how the Commission really works, and disappears into Madam President’s office for a nice, civilised chat. When he comes back out, he’ll shake Hawks’ hand. Look him right in the eye and say in that infuriatingly earnest way of his: “You’re doing so well.”
It’s strange how things actually work out in real life. The Commission might as well be razed to the ground in the wake of everything that’s happened and here Mera is with fucking…Endeavor by his side, asking Hawks if he wants to help rebuild it in his image.
If this is one huge cosmic joke, Hawks isn’t laughing.
“Okay, so let’s say we really are starting over,” Hawks says. The effort it takes to get up and tap the ash from his cigarette into the waiting tin feels insurmountable, but Hawks is nothing if not a tenacious little bastard. “Clean slate and all cards on the table. Better together, good feels all around, yadda yadda yadda. Three cheers for the new Commission, so you need what, the Top Three to represent one each?” He falls back onto the couch cushions when he’s done. Crosses his legs at the ankle and settles his arm back behind his head. “Dibs on the hurrah that has the most unresolved childhood trauma in that case.”
Hawks knows he’s being deliberately obtuse now and from the way Mera sighs – bone deep, fatigued in a way that goes beyond physical exhaustion – it’s clear that it hasn’t gone unnoticed. Well, good. If he’s going to suffer through this, it’s only fair he gets to bring a friend.
“We considered the old hero rankings of course, but you know better than anyone that those don’t matter anymore.”
Oh, so there it is. Well done and high fives all around, Hawks has finally found it: the outer limit of Mera’s patience. This is the first statement of the night that actually has some bite to it. Just sharp enough to sting, but not deep enough to draw blood yet.
Mera must recognise the jibe for what it is, because he flicks his eyes over to Hawks at this.
Warning shot. All clear.
It’s fine, Hawks can take it.
“It’s less about public opinion,” Mera continues, “and more the fact that Endeavor and Jeanist got to where they were on the charts because they’re the best at what they do.” There’s a slight pause from Mera’s end as he lifts the cigarette to this mouth. Breathes in, and lets the smoke back out, the stream of it steady. “With their experience, they’ll know what heroes need the most from us. And with how things played out in the war…”
He trails off, and for a moment that feels longer than it really is, there’s just the night air slipping in through the open doors. A city, thriving and alive, somewhere below and beyond.
“You trust them,” Hawks finally says.
“More than many others, yes.”
“And they know what they’re signing up for? What kind of horror show they’re hitching their horses onto?”
The itch to have another drink is starting up again, prickling uncomfortably under Hawks’ skin. Maybe it’s for the best that he doesn't have his feathers with him right now – some things shouldn’t be too easy.
“They know, which is why they’ve agreed.”
Fucking Pros with their unwavering integrity and shit. Hawks almost hates himself for having to ask in the first place. Some kind of Endeavor fanboy he is.
“Well it sounds to me like you have it all figured out.” Hawks says around his cigarette before he takes it out, holding it between two fingers. Casual in a way that means it’s anything but. “So what do you need me for, then? You can’t tell me it’s for my experience; it’s an open secret that mommy used to play favourites when it suited her, which is why I still don’t know how to lodge a Form E-66.”
“You know just as well as anyone else,” Mera interrupts sharply. “I taught you myself, but you still insist on having someone else do it for you.”
“Mea culpa, I repent. Answer the question, Mera.”
Mera finally lifts his head at this and for one fleeting moment, Hawks has to wonder:
Why does he even want to know this? And perhaps more importantly: What, exactly, is it going to change?
(Hint: It starts with self and ends with flagellation. Also, nothing at all. Nada. Zilch.)
“The others are there to advise us on what to do. You, on the other hand…” A beat, Mera clearly weighing up the words currently available to him. Hawks wants to tell him not to bother when there’s never going to be a right answer out there. Not even if he combs through the vocabularies of every language, both living and dead. “If you decide to join us,” Mera tries again, “you’ll be best positioned to tell us what to not do.”
“Right. Got it.” The next drag that Hawks takes is only a shallow one. It’s not worth thinking about how he can’t quite breathe right because it feels like there’s something lodged in his chest. “Here’s a freebie for you in the meantime,” he says, acrid. “Don’t recruit children. And since I’m feeling generous, here’s another: don’t groom them to be your in-house kill team.”
“Keigo, it’s–”
“Don’t call me that,” he says, voice gone quiet. “Please.”
Nothing is going to change. Everything has to change.
Hawks sits up under the pretence of stubbing his cigarette out, but honestly, it’s to look – really look at Mera. The creases of his dress shirt with the top two buttons undone and tie lost somewhere, the greying stubble on his chin. The perpetual shadows under his eyes.
God, when did he get old?
“I’m sorry,” Mera says. It comes out easy, which inexplicably makes something small, sad, and angry well up inside of Hawks. It should have always been easy, so why wasn’t it? There’s too much jostling for space under his ribcage at this point. No room left for his heart and barely enough left over for the next breath. “Force of habit.”
Mera’s sat up as well now, because they’re evidently at that part of the night where the Really Serious Discussions happen. This apparently means they need to spend a good chunk of it looking each other right in the eye or something.
Fucking hell, maybe Hawks should reconsider his need for that drink.
“You know the Commission.” Mera’s cigarette has burnt down almost to a stub, but he’s holding onto it still, taking one last pull before he speaks again. “You know the worst of it and what it was, what it became. Other than Nagant, no one else knows what it was like. No one else can read the signs in time.”
“Only because you lot made damn sure of it.”
“We did.” And with that, Mera looks so very tired all of a sudden. Weary in a way that goes beyond his usual brand of exhaustion. “It was a mistake then and it’s not one that will happen again, if we manage to do this right.” He grinds his cigarette butt into the tin and leaves it there, smouldering. “Like I mentioned,” he says quietly, “I don’t expect to hear an answer from you tonight. You’re also free to decline, if you want.”
When Mera meets Hawks’ gaze, there’s something strange and foreign in there that makes Hawks want to look away first. It’s borderline unbearable. Completely unnecessary. Hawks has seen pity before, and all its close relations too. Pity, Hawks knows how to handle. You look down your nose at it, scoff at it. Shove it into a locker and call it rude names, bully it into submission until it knows who’s boss around here.
But gentleness?
Hawks has no clue what he should do with this. Not a single one.
“It’s unfair to ask this of you,” Mera continues. “I know that. I wish I didn’t have to. But–” And there’s always a but, isn’t there? “–I don’t want the Commission to simply move forward without knowing whether what we bring with us is sound.”
Hawks should cry foul.
Hawks should protest and put his foot down because it is unfair.
It’s so bloody unfair it makes him want to sick up the food from earlier.
Why does he have to play keeper of the keys to the Commission's massive vault of sins? Why does he have to be the litmus test, the one who has to say No, hang on, you probably don’t want to do it this way because that’s going to fuck someone up down the line. Eventually follow it up with the unavoidable How do I know this, you ask? Well, if you have six hours and a bottle of Jack, I have a great story to tell you.
“I’ll think about it,” Hawks says tersely just as Mera starts to get up.
In a different world, Hawks would find the flash of surprise on Mera’s face absolutely hilarious.
In this one, he just feels resigned.
What else can he do? Was there really anything else that he could say?
Of course it’s unfair. The Commission has always asked for more than anyone should give because that’s just the way it works around these parts. That’s literally just the entry fee to being a Hero. As for the real cost, the proverbial monthly subscription that gets renewed ad infinitum?
Hoo, boy. Now that one really stings.
Hawks should know – he’s still paying his latest debt off, every second of every day. Every moment he reaches out and finds himself short. The interest rate’s a fucking killer this quarter.
“Thank you for thinking about it,” says Mera from somewhere above and to his right. The worst thing is, the fucker even sounds like he means it. “I’m meeting Endeavor and Jeanist in Musutafu at the end of the month to set them up with what they need, so if you want to at least–”
“I said I’ll think about it.” It comes out a bit more curt than Hawks had originally intended, but it’s not like anyone can blame him. “Don’t push your luck.”
Mera nods, once. “Just let me know,” he says. “And Hawks, before I go…”
Oh, fuck a duck. What now?
Hawks can only watch with mild trepidation as Mera walks over to where he’s left his satchel leaning against one leg of his self-assembled coffee table. The leather is worn, gone butter-soft from a lifetime of daily use.
(A memory surfacing, unbidden: Mera always used to keep a stick of Hi-Chews in the front pocket every other week and Hawks, in turn, had always snuck it out with a feather when Mera wasn’t looking. It wasn’t until much, much later that he realised he’d never seen Mera eat the damn things. Not once.)
The folder that Mera pulls from the main compartment is as unremarkable as they come. Brown manila, untitled. Tabs sticking out down the side, most of them creased and a little floppy, clearly thumbed through over the years.
“If you’re already giving me paperwork ahead of time, I’m not even going to think about it,” Hawks jokes. Again, what else is there to do when his stupid heart is suddenly racing? “It’s going to be a straight up no, I swear. Keep your forms. I’m maintaining that I still don’t know how to file an E-66 and you can’t make me learn.”
Yet, Mera holds it out to him all the same. Keeps it there, waiting, until Hawks takes it with a sigh.
There’s a heft to it. A heaviness.
“Regardless of what your answer is, I want you to have this ahead of time.”
“What even is–” Hawks flips the cover open and immediately feels the rest of the sentence die a swift death in his throat, the original words drying up and withering away.
The new ones won’t come. They simply won’t.
And for one of the few times in his life, Hawks is speechless.
“I gave Nagant hers,” Mera says. He’s somehow found the time to slip the satchel onto his shoulder and he holds it close to his body now, one hand pressing it against his hip. “This is one of two copies that still exist out there, and I only have the other because I don’t trust you to not spill coffee all over yours.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” He’s operating purely on autopilot. The words barely register, Hawks still staring at the front page, the clear plastic holder attached on the inside of the cover and the little USB stick it’s carrying. “This is…”
“It’s everything we have.”
Hawks thinks he would have slammed the folder shut and hurled it at the nearest wall, if Mera wasn’t standing in the way.
Maybe he still should.
“So is this penance then? Or mere bribery?”
He can’t help it, he has to know. Has to flick through the handwritten notes from field observations and the X-ray films, the medical results. Past the psych evals and the mission briefs, half of their contents redacted in thick, black sharpie.
The second-to-last section has been marked with a bright red sticky tab and oh, that’s funny isn’t it? That’s pretty good. Hawks can appreciate that. Staffed by clowns all around, the Commission is.
Each sample bag has been pressed, sealed, and meticulously catalogued by some lab-tech with the messiest handwriting Hawks has ever seen.
LW / Day 10 / Contour.
RW / Day 17 / Bristle.
Their colours have faded with time. Their connections, long dead. Maybe that’s why they’re still here, untouched from–
So here’s another funny thing: Ever since he got back, Hawks has been dreaming the same dream over and over again – the one where he’s on his knees, searching through the rubble of old disasters. Digging his hands into the dirt and sifting past the ash, only to come up with nothing, nothing, nothing each time.
Every feather lost. Every single one of them, gone.
And now?
“What do you expect me to do with this?” Hawks is aware that he’s been sitting here with his fingertips resting over LW / Day 3 / Flight like some kind of maniac for the past minute or so. He can’t look up at Mera just yet – not when his eyes are stinging like this, his hands steady only by the sheer force of Commission-grade will. “What the fuck, Mera?”
“You can do whatever you want with it.” Mera sounds like he’s speaking from somewhere far away, which isn’t right. He’s standing right there. Hawks could reach out and throttle him right now. “Shred it. Keep it. Go public if you want, it’s up to you.”
Deep breath. “You’re handing this to me and I can just…fucking call my comms person to book in an exposé with the NHK tomorrow? Tell them about the ways that you–”
(You. You. The collective you, not the you with the tired face and kind eyes, what just might pass for regret in the proper light. Always you and never you, because you looked away, didn’t you? You left the room. Couldn’t stay. You let them do it. Why couldn’t you stay?)
Stop. Close the folder.
Step away.
Breathe.
Hawks finally allows himself to look up now and Mera is still there, waiting. Expectant. Joke’s on him though, Hawks is biting his tongue so hard right now he wishes it was bleeding.
“You can do whatever you want with it,” Mera says again. “When the others receive access to the Commission’s files, it shouldn’t…” He hoists his satchel up higher onto his shoulder, even though it didn’t need any adjusting at all. Clears his throat. “I want you to have the choice of whether anyone else should know the full extent.”
It’s a mercy of sorts. Even through the agonising haze of it, the shockwaves of fear and grief and anger that roil through him at the mere thought of what he’s holding – Hawks can still recognise the gesture for what it is.
Mera is trying to be kind.
Mera is trying to be considerate.
Mera is only doing this because despite whatever evidence Hawks might have pointing to the contrary, Mera cares.
He has to. There is no other option.
“I heard you, once.” The words are coming out in a rush, fast enough that Hawks doesn’t have time to wonder why he’s started to speak, or why he suddenly wants Mera to know this. Perhaps it’s just a twisted variation on the theme of bodies moving on their own, Hawks’ traitor mouth and air-raid siren brain working in tandem for once. “Early on, outside the testing rooms. It must have been the third, maybe fourth month I was there? Long before you figured out the actual range of what I could pick up, at any rate.”
Stricken doesn’t even cut it. The way Mera is looking at him now, you would have thought he’d burnt Hawks’ feathers himself.
(Sike, that was the rat bastards in the flight lab.)
“You must have been speaking to Fujiwara, or someone on that level. One of the suits. And you were both arguing about the tests, the rationale behind some of them. Probably the heat one? That one was pretty fucked up.”
“Hawks–”
“You were arguing with him,” Hawks continues, unable to stop. “And maybe I’m misremembering the exact words, but his point was that it’s just a job. You can’t let it get to you because once it stops being a job, you lose. Everyone does.” A pause, then. “Do you remember what you said?”
The silence feels deliberate. Maybe that’s a good thing. Hawks would like to think it’s because Mera’s had this argument so many times with so many people, he doesn’t even remember the specifics of each one anymore.
A boy can dream, right?
“You told him,” he eventually says in the absence of an answer, “that if this is what it takes to win, then maybe the game isn’t worth playing.”
At least the words are coming easier now. It’s almost as if speaking them into the world and setting them loose is helping with the tightness in his chest – the emotional equivalent of throwing old furniture out to free up some extra room, or opening a forgotten window somewhere to let the air in. Spring cleaning. He could light a bonfire with all this baggage.
“Also,” Hawks quickly adds before he forgets, “I distinctly remember you telling him to go fuck himself after that, which was pre-tty sick to hear as a kid.”
“They tried to take me off the program.”
It’s the first thing that Mera has said in a while, so of course he has to go for the jugular. They tried. They failed. He came back, they couldn’t keep him away.
Good ole Mera, coming back swinging with that suckerpunch of a revelation.
“Mmm. I guessed as much when you didn’t show up for a while. Did they tell you I bit your stand-in?”
“Multiple times, yes.”
“It was barely ten attempts over two weeks, he was just a wimp.”
The effort it takes to lay the folder aside is near shocking. He doesn’t know how he’s going to pick it up again after this, but that’s a problem for future Hawks – someone who’s less keyed up and more stable, so he’ll go ahead and pencil that appointment in for sometime in the next decade, if he’s lucky.
“Honestly,” he says, “I have no idea why I’m even telling you this.” Standing takes effort too, but it feels good to finally be eye to eye again with Mera. “Didn’t have the space to keep it around anymore I guess, given what you’ve gone and handed over like an actual chump. That, or it just feels right to give you something in return.” Hawks shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants if only to have somewhere to put them and rocks back on the balls of his feet, sighing. “Pretty shitty exchange if you ask me.”
“You can make up the rest by saying yes to the offer.”
“God, you’re a persistent bastard.” The smile is forced, but it’s there, baby. We’re back. No humour though – Hawks is good, but he isn’t that good. “Also you do know that I’m the one being shorted here, right? You gave me the government equivalent of baby photos, I gave you a fucking secret childhood memory.”
“Is that what it is? I thought you were just admitting to eavesdropping.”
They’re feeling their way back into the roles that work best. Hawks can tell, from the way Mera’s face looks less haunted, how his features are smoothening out again to resettle into the bland disinterest he usually wears.
Whew, that was a close one, wasn’t it?
That might even have been a real live emotion back there.
This, at least, feels a bit more familiar. The back and forth, the banter. Quick quip. Witty repartee. Push and pull, call and response. There’s a rhythm to it, learned and perfected over the years: Hawks will say something wisecracking and rude, to which Mera will respond with his own pointed comeback.
Barbed, but never enough to truly sting. Dry as the Sahara itself.
Maybe the carefully curated look of boredom on Mera’s face means that they’re finally done here. Hawks can tell Mera to go home so he can get some unrequired beauty sleep and then proceed to forget this night ever happened. Maybe he’ll even take his recycling down tomorrow and throw the folder out with it for good measure.
“It’s late,” Mera says, as if directly on cue. “I need to be back in Musutafu tomorrow.”
“Does that mean you came all the way down here just to retraumatise little old me?” Hawks presses his hands over his chest, eyelids fluttering even though Mera has already sighed and turned away by this point, making for the door. “You shouldn’t have.”
“Don’t forget the leftovers in the fridge.”
“Yes, mother.”
Mera’s made it all the way to the genkan where he’s slipping one foot back into his dress shoes, hand braced on the wall for support. It’s awkward, and when Hawks holds his hand out for the satchel, Mera doesn’t even hesitate before he hands it over.
“Thanks,” he mumbles.
Hawks has his hand down the frontmost pocket before Mera can protest – not that Hawks thinks he will. He never had before. After all, this is just the same game they used to play, now with a few extra steps.
It’s only when Mera’s tired eyes come to rest on him that the realisation strikes, belated and like the smallest of thunderclaps: Hawks isn’t sure what he would prefer to find in here.
Crinkled receipt. Packet of tissues.
“Are you quite done?”
“Yep,” Hawks says and pulls out the unopened Hi-Chews with a flourish.
Grapefruit. Huh.
Haven’t had those in a while.
The courier shows up at ass-o’-clock the next morning. Leans on the doorbell until Hawks, hungover and not a little dishevelled, wrenches the front door open with the kind of ferocity he’s only reserved for certain villains and members of the Commission Board. It’s only by the grace of media training that he schools his expression into something a bit more socially acceptable by the time the door’s fully open.
“Sign here please,” the man says. He knows who Hawks is, that much is clear from the way he glances at Hawks’ face and then looks away too quickly. Holds out the delivery slip for Hawks to scrawl his chicken scratch not-an-autograph, not-really-legally-binding signature in the designated panel before handing the padded envelope over. “Thank you. Have a good day.”
Over and done with, thirty seconds flat.
Hawks rips it open with all the enthusiasm of someone getting a fine in the mail and…oh.
Well then. Come to think of it, he’s never flown domestic before. There’s a booking confirmation for a hotel too, in the same neighbourhood where the Commission’s main offices are.
You couldn’t at least spring for business class? A suite?
Mera’s text is short. To the point. It’s tax-payer money.
And I’m a war hero.
No response, even after Hawks has gotten last night’s curry out of the fridge and eaten it cold over the sink, straight from the container like some kind of animal. Mera’s either gone into his first meeting of the day or he’s decided that it’s more beneficial for all parties to leave Hawks on read. No matter.
Hawks has the time, he can wait.
He has all the time in the world these days, and the only thing he can do is wait.