Chapter Text
It had all started with a hum.
Hawks, by his own admission, wasn’t in top form that evening. After an entire day spent flying, filling out paperwork, and following his handlers' orders, it wasn’t surprising that his muscles ached with every movement and his mind was clouded with exhaustion. His wings twisted uncomfortably on his back, and all he wanted to do was shed his feathers and sink into the warm embrace of his mattress.
The last thing he wanted to do, however, was wear a mask, pretend to side with the League, and feign belief in their cause, as he did every now and then.
It had been months since his first meeting with Dabi, and yet he had made no real progress. No matter what he did to prove his loyalty to the League, the distrust in the villain’s eyes was still evident.
The rest of the League, for better or worse, paid him little mind. Initially, they’d glared at him with suspicion, ready to pounce on the slightest mistake that would expose his deception, but over time, they softened.
Shigaraki, painted as a monster by the public and the Commission alike, was largely skeptical of his presence. However, after Hawks delivered the body of Best Jeanist, the snarls had softened to faint, irritated grumbles, akin to the hiss of an angry cat. Hawks still felt his gaze lingering on his nape and the threatening grip of Shigaraki’s fingers on his wings whenever suspicion arose. Yet, he was still allowed to roam the base. Shigaraki spent most of his time behind a screen anyway, so Hawks wasn’t his biggest problem at the moment.
Spinner was more amiable than the leader. Whether it was because they were both heteromorphs, Hawks didn’t know. Spinner had approached him several times to talk about their animal traits, and Hawks could swear he’d seen a blush on the lizard-man’s cheeks—though he wasn’t entirely sure if Spinner could even blush. When Spinner began to open up, not even Shigaraki could shut him down. It seemed Spinner felt the need to unburden himself to the one person who might understand. Hawks ignored the guilt pooling in his stomach, choosing instead to flash his best smile and echo Spinner’s resentment toward the world that had rejected him for being different.
Mr. Compress was the calmest of the group, the exact opposite of Toga and Twice. Whenever the latter two got too loud for his sensitive ears, the magician would hand Hawks a cup of tea—and Hawks hated to admit how good it was. Spiced and sweet, it managed to soothe even Twice’s crises and Toga’s incessant demands to stab him. If Hawks had to pick a favorite, though, it would undoubtedly be Twice. He was funny and almost made Hawks forget where he was and what his mission was. Hawks had even found himself smiling at one of Twice’s jokes, only for his assistant’s curious glance to remind him of where he was, his heart skipping a beat at the realization of his lapse. Once again, guilt clung to him, sticking like oil to his feathers and suffocating him each night before he slept. He wasn’t sure if the guilt was aimed at the Commission or the League, but the more he dwelled on it, the more he wanted to curl into himself.
After weeks of interacting with them, it had become difficult to imagine them all behind bars—or worse.
From afar, they were heartless killers, murdering for the thrill. To him, they had been abstract figures, so detached from reality that they could scarcely be called human. Now, after glimpses of normalcy within the villa’s walls, hearing Spinner’s insecurities, listening to Compress’s life stories, playing board games with Toga and Twice, and chatting about the weather with Shigaraki, it was impossible not to see them as people. Perhaps the old saying was true: the more you know someone, the more you’re doomed to see them as human.
The one League member he still couldn’t understand was the flame user.
Since Dabi had introduced him to the League, he’d grown quieter. Hawks only occasionally caught a glimpse of dark hair moving through the base or deep blue eyes scrutinizing him, piercing his soul. When the League gathered, Dabi was absent in mind, if not in body. His gaze wandered as others laughed around him, and Hawks couldn’t help but notice the staples glinting at the right angle, the violet scars marring his body, and the drops of blood seeping from poorly stitched wounds. His black hair fell lazily over his forehead, and Hawks was certain that, were it not for repeated burns, it would be as soft as clouds. He also noticed that when things went wrong during League missions or aftee discussions between some of them, Dabi’s fingers would clutch his hair, pulling until his scalp bled and some hair fell. Yet his expression never changed, always remaining cold and vacant.
In rare moments of calm, he fiddled with his nose piercings absentmindedly, removing and reinserting them at whim. Hawks doubted Dabi even realized he was doing it, but he found the habit oddly fascinating.
At night, when everyone else retreated to their rooms, Dabi would leave the villa, his long coat draped over his shoulders like a hero’s cape. One evening, Hawks perched on the roof after yet another League meeting, ready to fly home, when Dabi caught his attention. He stopped near a flowerbed, and from the way his jaw moved, it seemed he was talking to himself. Hawks watched as Dabi paced, kicking stones or taking drags from the cigarette between his fingers, only to cough and toss it into the grass before lighting another.
Hawks didn’t know why he lingered until Dabi disappeared from sight, but only then did he decided to leave.
Dabi had been shrouded in mystery ever since Hawks saw his crooked grin in the alleyway. Even now, he remained an enigma. The Commission was desperate for information about him and his identity, but Hawks wasn’t sure he wanted to uncover the truth. Something about Dabi unsettled him, making him nervous every time the villain spoke, wielding his sharp sarcasm to unsettle everyone around him. Sometimes it worked, but other times Hawks could hear beyond Dabi’s words, catching glimpses of the person behind the charred skin and blue flames. Something in Dabi’s rough demeanor and raw anger made Hawks want to know him and understand him.
That’s why, despite his exhaustion, Hawks had flown to the location Dabi had shared with him. His wings were heavy, his eyelids heavier, but he pressed on through the biting wind until he reached the alley where they’d first met months before. He didn’t know why Dabi had chosen to meet here rather than discuss matters at the base with the others. When he’d read the message, his stomach had twisted with terror, but he’d swallowed the fear and steeled himself. He had the Commission at his back and could summon Japan’s top heroes with a single message. Dabi would be no match for them and he would be arrested immediately.
And yet, Hawks wasn’t sure he wanted that.
He landed on the roof of a building, sitting on the edge with his legs dangling. It wasn’t very tall, but he still needed to sit to rest a little bit, and from this height, he could also see Dabi coming more easily. After all, the man was always late whenever they met, and Hawks didn’t need to be caught off guard this time—not after that one time when the villain’s smug, satisfied grin had haunted him for a whole week just because he’d startled him.
He closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath and letting himself sink into the silence of the night.
His moment of peace was abruptly interrupted by a sudden melody. He leaned forward, squinting into the darkness to locate the source of the sound, until his eyes focused on the figure leaning against the wall below him. It took all of his composure—honed by years of training from the Commission—not to fall in shock when he recognized the now-familiar glint of Dabi’s staples.
The villain, with over thirty deaths to his name and a ranking among the most dangerous villains, was humming a calm tune just a few meters away. Hawks swallowed hard, unsure whether to announce his presence or remain hidden. Doubts swirled in his mind, but the longer the clock ticked, the more certain he became that Dabi would burn him alive if he found out he was being overheard singing.
Hawks didn’t want to waste more time risking his life. Yet, as the hum transformed into whispered lyrics, he froze. The voice wasn’t sweet, and Dabi transitioned between lyrics and tune so quickly that Hawks suspected he didn’t know all the words, replacing them with a soft hum instead. At times, his tone cracked, rising too high, while other times it faded into a sound reminiscent of a dying breath. Then, he’d take a deep inhale and continue, distorting English words with a flawed pronunciation.
Though far from melodic, there was something about the song that captivated Hawks, easing the tension in his shoulders and lifting the day’s exhaustion. He couldn’t see Dabi’s face, but he could almost imagine the corners of his eyes softening in that rare way they did when he thought he was alone, his lips parting slightly to murmur the song to himself. The rough voice grated in his ears and it soon became like a lullaby to his ears: compared to the villain’s usual expressions, it was brimming with raw emotion. Hawks could almost hear all the pain Dabi was hiding behind those simple notes.
His heart clenched painfully. Every fiber of his being should despise Dabi, not feel compassion for him. Yet he found himself closing his eyes, letting that unfamiliar tune wash over him, cradling him like a mother holding her newborn child. The more he listened, the more it felt like that song was for him and only his.
As with all beautiful dreams, the voice abruptly stopped when the faint snap of a twig broke the silence nearby. Dabi’s song died in his throat, yet Hawks longed to hear it again, over and over. Instead, he watched as the villain’s silhouette stiffened at the sound. From the way his staples gleamed—resembling constellations in the dark—Hawks could tell his expression had darkened and twisted.
It unsettled him how well he knew the villain’s tormented face, able to trace his bony features from memory. He didn’t know anything about Dabi, yet it felt as though he knew him as well as the back of his hand.
With a sigh, Hawks spread his wings and landed next to Dabi in one swift motion. The villain spun around instantly, his hand igniting with the familiar blue flames that illuminated his face, highlighting the contrast between his healthy and charred skin. As his cerulean eyes met Hawks’ golden ones, the flames died out, and so did his expression.
“You’re late, hero,” Dabi scoffed, though there was no real heat in his words. Hawks’ mind was still caught on the earlier singing, so it took him a moment to register what the villain was saying.
“I was starting to think you were finally going to snitch to the Commission.”
“That’d be counterproductive, don’t you think?” Hawks forced a tight smile, struck by the painful realization that it was the first time in months he’d felt the need to fake a smile around someone from the League. Was he getting better at lying, or was he slowly losing sight of his mission?
Dabi grunted. “You’re terrible at lying.” He paused, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it with a flick of his index finger. “But I didn’t call you here to critique your acting skills. I need information.”
“Right. The brooding atmosphere is all part of maintaining your mystery, huh? You could’ve just asked me back at the base, you know.”
“Shut up,” Dabi muttered, taking a long, dramatic drag on his cigarette. Hawks leaned against the wall beside him. The only distant noise was the hum of cars, accompanied by the villain’s ragged breathing.
“So…” Hawks started slowly, “What do you need to know? Weren’t the patrol routes of the top thirty heroes enough?”
“I’m planning an attack on Endeavour,” Dabi said bluntly. Hawks’ heart skipped a beat in surprise.
“Again? Didn’t you already leave him with a massive scar just last month? Time flies when you’re having fun.” He grinned, leaning closer to the man and finally able to make out the distinct features of his face. His eyes gleamed under the moonlight, and if not for the disgust behind them, Hawks might have thought they were too beautiful to belong to an S-rank villain.
“How about you keep your commentary to yourself and just do as I say? Or are you a spy, Hawks?” The way Dabi said his name made Hawks shiver. His tone was singsong, his eyes scrutinizing every slight movement as though he knew Hawks’ true mission and was expecting a sudden attack.
“I don’t know how to convince you otherwise,” Hawks said, “so I’ll just say fine. Tell me what you want to know about Endeavour, and I’ll tell you. Though…” His words trailed off as he debated whether to continue, revealing something potentially dangerous about Endeavour to Dabi. The villain raised an intrigued eyebrow, and if this would finally earn his trust, Hawks decided he’d take the risk and apologize to the hero later.
“He’s been thinking about taking a break. Cutting back his hours. Who knows, maybe he’ll retire, and you won’t have to worry about him anymore.”
Dabi’s pupils narrowed, his lips curling into a grimace. He seemed ready to unleash a torrent of words, but his mouth stayed shut. With a sudden motion, he threw his cigarette to the ground and stomped on it with enough force to leave a dent.
“Stop spouting crap. The only break he’ll take is—”
“Yeah, when he will die, I know. You’re getting predictable and boring,” Hawks interrupted, staring at the crushed cigarette, poor victim of his anger. Better it than innocent people, he supposed. “He says he wants to spend time with his family, rebuild relationships. Or something like that—I wasn’t really paying attention. So, if you’re planning a surprise attack, I doubt you’ll find him wandering the streets of Japan.”
In truth, Hawks had listened intently to what Endeavour had said, practically prying the words out of the man. In some ways, Endeavour and Dabi were very much alike. Both were very silent and gave Hawks the same murderous look.
Dabi's Adam's apple bobbed. His shoulders shook, and Hawks could swear he saw smoke seeping through the stitches. Before he could speak again, a wave of heat brushed his face, and if it weren’t for his sharp reflexes, he might have ended up with a scar worse than Endeavour's. Instinctively, he pulled out a feather and aimed it at the villain's cheek, leaving a small cut on his cheekbone.
"What the hell?!" Hawks spat angrily. "Don't take it out on me; I’m just the messenger!"
Dabi didn’t respond, too focused on the pile of trash behind Hawks that had suddenly caught fire. Blood dripped from the scars around his eyes, staining his face and falling onto the staples. Hawks was certain he hadn’t injured that area.
"Dabi? What..."
With a swift motion, the villain shoved Hawks' arm aside, elbowing him in his already sore ribs to push him away. Hawks grunted, clutching his chest, which exploded in searing pain. As if being tossed around all day wasn’t enough, now Dabi had to add to it.
Looking up from the ground, he saw Dabi's retreating back, flames licking at his hand, ready to incinerate anything in his path. Hawks couldn’t let him endanger anyone else.
Ignoring the pain, he sprinted after the man, grabbing his long coat. Dabi snarled as his body burst into flames. Despite the searing heat and the sensation of feathers disintegrating into ash on his back, Hawks didn’t let go. Using the last bit of strength in his wings, he lifted them both and landed on the nearest rooftop. Once there, he threw the villain's body to the ground and collapsed beside him, curling in on himself as his wings wrapped around his scorched, blistered body. His suit was inflammable, yet it wasn’t enough to dull the agonizing burn coursing through him. A few feathers fell inert beside him, though he could still feel their roots connected to his wings. Relief flooded his heart knowing he hadn’t lost them entirely.
He coughed heavily, his gaze falling on the villain's figure across from him. Confusion and anger churned in his chest, yet all of that seemed secondary when he noticed the man’s face smeared with his own blood. Despite everything, Hawks limped toward Dabi, who was breathing heavily, seemingly unaware of his condition—or perhaps indifferent to it.
"Dabi," Hawks croaked, wincing at the sound of his own voice. Three seconds in Dabi’s flames, and this was the result. He was sure the man hadn’t even used his quirk at full power, yet it felt like walking through hell and back.
Dabi gave no sign of hearing him, but when the hero's hand gently touched his shoulder, a violent shudder ran through his body.
"It’s okay. Stay calm," Hawks reassured, pulling off a glove to reveal his long black talons. He gently used the glove to dab at the villain's cheek, wiping away the blood. Dabi remained still, watching him through the dark strands of his hair like a wild animal experiencing human contact for the first time.
When Hawks finished cleaning his face, they sat in silence, catching their breath. At least the villain's earlier fury, akin to a raging wildfire, seemed to have subsided. Hawks had no idea what could have provoked such anger. Was his hatred for Endeavour so consuming that the mere thought of not fighting him anymore was unbearable?
Hawks had a nagging feeling he was missing something, something critical. What was the root of Dabi's animosity and hatred toward the hero? The more he thought about it, the more it felt like grasping at straws.
"Dabi," Hawks began cautiously, not wanting to upset him again, "I don’t know what just happened, but we got off on the wrong foot."
The man shot him a glare but didn’t try to leave, which encouraged Hawks to continue.
"I know you don’t trust me—and why would you? But I’ve proven my loyalty time and time again." The lie slipped from his lips like water. A nagging thought scratched at the back of his mind; the unbearable guilt that had been weighing on him for months started sinking deeper and deeper into his stomach.
He would believe the white lie that he could keep flying forever, just to avoid admitting he was plummeting into the abyss.
"As I said, we got off on the wrong foot. So, if you want Endeavour’s head on a silver platter, I’ll deliver it. Whatever it takes to prove I’m on your side." His words felt wrong, discordant, dripping with the falseness he’d been trained to regurgitate since childhood. It was his second quirk, they always said: persuasion and the ability to manipulate others. "I’m not asking you to trust me right away. I imagine heroes have let you down too. I..."
"You don’t know anything, Hawks," the man's rough voice interrupted him. But the tone wasn’t angry—it was almost... resigned. Disappointed. Tired. He didn’t even have his usual annoyed or apathetic expression; his face was more expressive than Hawks had ever seen it. His eyebrows were furrowed, and his eyes, instead of their usual cold hardness, were calm, swimming in Hawks' gaze. His burned lips were slightly parted, curved upward in a self-deprecating smile.
"No, you’re right. I don’t know anything about you. Just like you don’t know anything about me. Maybe I don’t broadcast it, but the hero society hurt me too. So believe me when I say I can understand your anger." He said it all in one breath, not even thinking before he spoke. What scared him wasn’t the villain's potential reaction but the kernel of truth veiled in his words.
"Oh yeah? And what could they have possibly done to you?" Dabi asked, his smirk widening.
Hawks thought back to his childhood: how his only friend had been a stuffed toy, how the Commission had trained him since he was eight, and how his mother hadn’t hesitated to hand him over to their custody. He remembered the sweat and blood he’d lost in training rooms, the tears he’d muffled into his pillow late at night, and the loneliness that clung to him. He thought of the supervisors’ disappointed stares when he failed tests at age 12 and their praises when he met their expectations, becaming who they wanted him to be, but never allowing himself to be Keigo. He doesn't even remember when he stopped calling himself that and started thinking of himself as Hawks—just Hawks, the hero-weapon who had to climb the Top Ten, because being a hero was the only reason he wasn’t crushed under the weight of his mother’s neglect and his father’s abuse. That's who he's meant to be.
"Just... a lot of things," he said finally, his mouth suddenly dry and words failing him. Yet Dabi seemed to understand everything left unspoken between them. The corners of his eyes softened slightly, so subtle that if Hawks hadn’t been staring, he might have missed it.
"Who’d have thought... You're as screwed up in the head as the rest of us, little bird?" Dabi mocked, a smirk tugging at his lips. Keigo’s wings puffed slightly at the nickname. No one had ever called him that—especially not Dabi, who always emphasized his hero status. He didn’t know why, but something about the way he said it filled him with a strange joy. It was melodious, like the tune Dabi had been humming earlier.
"I guess it’s not a compliment, but I’ll take it as one," he replied, flashing a crooked smile before turning to look at the horizon. The city lights outlined its contours, and Hawks struggled to tear his eyes away from the sparkling view. Only when he caught a movement beside him out of the corner of his eye did he glance back, watching Dabi rise unsteadily to his feet.
"Going back to the League?" Hawks found himself asking, calmly. He didn’t bring up Endeavour or the earlier plan to attack him—he had a feeling Dabi was already stewing over it himself.
"Yeah. We’ll call if we need anything" Dabi replied, his usual apathy returning. He paused, as if wanting to say more, but turned and headed for the fire escape without another word.
Hawks watched his retreating back, struck by a sudden pang in his chest that compelled him to speak again.
"You sing well, by the way. If the villain thing doesn’t work out, you could always try becoming a singer."
Dabi’s steps faltered abruptly, and he turned to glare at Hawks, his eyes narrowing. He clicked his tongue before resuming his walk, leaving the hero behind.
Hawks smiled to himself once Dabi's dark figure disappeared from sight, returning his gaze to the city. The next morning, he would have to brief his handlers on the intel he was supposed to gather from this meeting, but the only thing he could possibly tell them was that the villain had a beautiful voice.
He decided to keep that to himself.