Chapter Text
He should’ve killed you the minute he’d woken up.
Left your house burning blue with you inside of it, before you even had a chance to run. But it had been Dabi who’d passed out outside your house, and it had been you who lugged him inside, lanky bones and all, so he felt some obligation not to do it. He was barely conscious, just awake enough to hear you mumbling curses under your breath as you scrounged through your cupboards for a first aid kit.
It wasn’t a nice way to go, bleeding out on a random street. It was embarrassing, the famed cremation villain dying to a knife wound that hit a little too deep. He’d killed the man who’d stabbed him, of course, but that fact that he would kill Dabi was what had him praying to a God he didn’t believe in that he’d live. Maybe it was a fitting death. A person like him, bleeding out with the dirt of a flower bed slipping down his shirt, only the sounds of the night echoing in his ears.
And then you appeared.
Wearing scrubs that fit too loosely over your body, a puffer jacket and a scarf covering the lower half of your face. He had enough energy to wonder why someone like you, someone that looked down at him with so much worry etched on your face, was in a neighbourhood like this, one where people like him lurked. You dropped your bags, abandoned the scarf and the coat and dropped to your knees. He’d watched your scrubs soak with blood as your hands hesitated in front of him.
“God. Fuck. What do I- Fuck.” You grabbed your scarf and wrapped it tightly around his chest and then you slipped your arms under his, groaning at his dead weight.
“This is my good deed for the day.” You huffed, starting the slow drag towards your home.
And he’d passed out after that, he thinks. Everything is very jumbled up but he supposed that’s what happens when you’re bleeding to death.
And when he woke up he thought he might be in heaven. A heaven that was very cluttered and full of way too many pictures hung up on the walls. His head was killing him, and his chest fucking hurt. He was sprawled on a couch too small for him and his legs were touching the floor. He tries to rise and he stops, immediately, cursing at the shot of pain that spreads through his body.
“Oh no, don’t get up! The stitches will pull.”
He turned his head to the source of the voice and it's you.
On your knees, scrubbing at the blood stains on your floor. The sleeves of your hoodie were pulled up past your forearms and you were wearing shorts that rode up your thighs. He would’ve made an inappropriate comment about the sight of your legs but he has no idea who the fuck you are.
“I- I’m a nurse so don’t worry, the stitches are done right. That’s for you, too. You should drink it, you lost a lot of blood.” You laughed nervously, pointing at the coffee table.
There was a juice box waiting for him. He didn’t grab it though. Just kept staring at you, silent.
“Uh. I’m Y/N, by the way.” You hand twitched like you’re about to offer it to him, but you decided against it.
There’s no way you don’t know who he is. Dabi’s face has been plastered on the news more times than he can remember, and his face isn’t one you can forget. He watches you now, your eyes flitting from his face to his chest. You sit back on your knees, rubbing at your face with your clean hand.
“I- I can make you some food. If you think you can stomach it.”
What the fuck is wrong with you? Don’t you know what he could do to you? How quickly he could kill you?
He moved to stand again and you got up that time, moving towards him. “Look, seriously, you can’t move. The stitches will open and I can’t deal with any more blood today.” You said.
Dabi cursed. You flinch at the deep gravel of his voice.
“I know you probably think I’m crazy. I just- You can stay, until you can move again. It’s fine. I just don’t want you dying in my house, please. Or on my driveway.” You breathed out, taking another step back.
Dabi looked at you again. You looked like he could take you out now, stitches and all. He’s sure if you were going to call the police, you’d have done it by now. And he can’t remember the last time somebody actually doted on him. So he made the incredibly stupid move of listening to you.
He reached forward and snatched up the juice. He popped it open with his thumb, downing it in one go, squeezing the carton to get it all out. Dabi threw the empty carton on the floor when he was finished. He leant his head back on the couch, and drifted off quickly into sleep.
The first few days are spent in and out of consciousness. The times he is awake, he doesn’t speak to you, not unless he has to. When you ask him what size clothes he wears, when you ask if he has any allergies. It doesn’t stop you from talking though. It’s all you do, whether to a friend on the phone or just to yourself.
The couch has become the place he spends most of the days. He doesn't move unless it’s for the toilet or to let you change his bandages. The one time he’d actually gotten up for longer than five minutes was so you could clean the couch, silently mourning the fact you’d have to get a new one once he was gone. His blood still stains your carpet though, faint but there, and he feels something he can’t describe at the fact a part of him will always exist between your walls.
The first time he does speak to you, he doesn’t even mean to.
“God, the lady at the pharmacy definitely thinks I’m a serial killer. I'm there for bandages and painkillers like, four times a week.”
You sigh and drop the shopping bags on the floor. You’re in your scrubs again, blue this time, as opposed to the green ones he’d stained with his blood. You run to the kitchen to grab a wet cloth and the antiseptic, and Dabi sits up gingerly on the couch.
He isn’t exactly healed, but you’d assured him once he could be conscious for longer than an hour that the cut wasn’t as deep as it seemed. It still hurt like a bitch, though, and his stitches still stung as he pushed himself up. YYou kneel in front of him, carefully unwrapping the bandages around his chest. You keep your distance, just close enough so that you can reach him. The bandages stick to his skin and you make quick work of cleaning it, dabbing it with antiseptic.
Dabi notices that you won’t ever look him in the eyes. Always darting around his face but never at him. You always linger on the scarred skin around his body, the staples hastily holding them together. You’re looking at them now, absentmindedly as you search through the bags for the bandages.
“My skin gross you out, lady?”
Your eyes do look up at him then, and Dabi feels like he should definitely talk to you more if you’re going to look at him like that. You laugh nervously and he tilts his head, blue eyes boring into yours.
“No, I just. Ha, no, I just haven't seen anything like it. The staples-”
Your hand touches one gingerly and before you can move it away he grabs it with his own. He lets his hand heat up, not enough to hurt you but enough to let that lick of fear inch up your face, and he grins. Your hand is soft against the calloused, scarred skin of his, and he rubs his thumb up and down the back of it, watching the shiver you try and hide from him.
“Did I say you could touch?” He raises his eyebrows and you snatch your hand back. You turn away, inching just that little bit away from him.
“You didn’t complain about my touching when I dragged you from off my front porch.” You mumble under your breath.
His grin widens at that. “You got a mouth on you. But it’s okay, you can touch me anywhere you want, baby.”
Oh, that look. You were cute, he’d admit. He loved those shorts you were always wearing. Made your ass look amazing.
Your cheeks turn a delicious red. “I- Shut up. Let me finish.”
“Yeah, I’ll let you finish.”
“My god. Are you twelve?” You huff, placing the dressing over the stitches.
Dabi just watches you. He enjoys the way you squirm under his gaze. “You’re brave, sweetheart. You know who you’re talking to?”
You don't respond for a few seconds. “Of course. I’m not stupid.”
“Really? I’d say housing a villain in your house is pretty stupid.”
You say nothing, just gesture for him to sit up from the couch, where he was leaning against it. Like this, him sitting up and you still kneeling in front of the couch, he towers over you. It’s a compromising position, you fit in between his spread legs. Dabi can imagine you like this in another situation, maybe without the bandages and without that shirt you’ve got on.
You wrap the bandages around his chest silently. You finish, pinning it down so it doesn't come loose. You look back up at him. “It’s nearly been two weeks. If you wanted to kill me you would’ve.”
“Maybe I’m waiting until I’m all healed up. Really take my time with you.” He lets his voice drop, a low drawl.
You swallow. “I hope not. Would be a waste of my time if you did.”
Dabi scoffs. Your eyes trail back to his staples. He tugs at one and you wince. “Does- Does it not hurt?”
“Nah. Lost feeling a while ago. These staples are the least of my worries.”
After that little encounter, Dabi takes to annoying you anytime he can. You’re avoiding him, he can tell, and it’s pissing him off. You spend every day holed up in your room while he has to sit on the couch like a fucking idiot and just wait. Maybe for you to call the cops on him, maybe for him to commit some heinous crime because he’s so fucking bored.
It’s why he starts trying to piss you off. Purposefully loosening his bandages, whining about the pain. You don’t complain, just dutifully bring him water, bring him whatever stupid request he asks of you. You’re being too kind, and he knows it’s fake. He wants to see how long it takes until you break, until that pretty polite smile you throw at him turns into that delicious anger from before. He wants your real emotions. Not this fake shit that makes him want to set the couch on fire.
Maybe it’s fake, or maybe Dabi can’t accept anything from anyone, not without them expecting something in return. And until he figures out what that is he doesn’t give a shit what you think of him.
It comes quicker than he thought. Only three days later, after he spent the entirety of your work phone call turning the TV higher and higher, until the show he was paying no mind was so loud you had to walk out the room. You’d come back out twenty minutes later and there it was, that frown he was missing.
“What the fuck is your problem?” You snap, snatching the remote off the coffee table to turn the TV off. Dabi just watches you, a small amused smile on his face.
You shake your head. “Don’t just fucking sit there. You’ve been trying to piss me off for the past few days and here, I’m giving it to you. Happy?” You yell.
You rub your eyes furiously. “I just- I don’t get it. I’m- I’m helping you, I kept you from dying. Why are you being suc-“
“Why?”
His voice is enough to silence you completely and he likes what little control he has over you.
“Why what?”
“Why the fuck are you helping me? I don’t understand you.” He says, watching you pace across the living room.
“Some fucking nobody in the middle of a shitty town in an even shittier apartment housing me. Why? Makes no sense to me, and I don’t like things that don’t make sense.”
You stop. You flalter slightly. He catches it, the way your hands twist in the hem of your shirt.
“What, you expected me to let you die?”
“Yeah. I do it a lot.”
“Yeah, well not everyone is a sick sadistic psycho like you are.” You snarl.
You seem to regret the words the second they leave your mouth. Dabi grins and you cross your arms and look away.
“Aw, don’t get all shy on me. I love that bratty mouth of yours.” You grimace at his words.
“Shut up.” You in breathe once. Purposeful and unsteady.
“I don’t know- Well I do know what you’re like. I guess all of Japan does. But I wasn’t going to let you just die on me like that. I don’t give a fuck who you are. Nobody deserves that.” You speak purposefully, trying hard to hide your emotion.
“And what are you expecting back?”
You look at him, then. And he sees something shift in your expression and you scoff.
“I don’t want anything back. I just did a good thing. I know that might be a foreign concept to you, but to us normal people it isn’t.”
So bratty. He’d shut you up if he could move without popping a stitch.
“Just.” You rub your eyes again. “Just stop trying to piss me off all the time. It’s working and it’s so fucking annoying.”
“And what makes you think I’m going to listen to you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the fact you’ve been living in my house for two week?”
“I don’t fucking understand you.”
“I don’t understand you. I mean, how much time and money have I spent on you? It took me ages to get all the blood out my carpet and my toilet. And you still fucked up my couch, even though I covered it up. You think I can afford a new couch? One not covered in blood? I just-“
You pause. Take another deep breath.
“I don’t really know why I’m doing this either. I feel weirdly obligated to. As a nurse, and all. And- I don’t want the hassle, and the attention that would’ve been brought at my door if i had called the ambulance. And I’m sure you wouldn’t have either. So just do me a favour and stop making it so difficult.”
He stares at you. The slump of your shoulders and he thinks the emotion he’s feeling is pity, or something similar. He doesn’t really know and he doesn’t really care.
But he still wants the healing, and he wants that really good ramen you made the other day. So he shrugs.
“Whatever.”
“Yeah. Whatever. Fucking hell.” You mumble, stalking off into the kitchen.
Things change after that. You slowly start to spend more time with Dabi. Which might be an overstatement. You sit on the loveseat beside him. Usually reading or catching up with work or throwing too much commentary at a show he’s watching. You catch him staring at your book once and you hold up the cover to him. The title reads, ‘The truth behind the Commission’.
“Quite the problematic read.” He nods and you smile slightly.
“I guess. I like this author. He doesn’t bullshit.”
“You hate heroes, then?”
You shake your head quickly. “‘No. Well. I don’t hate them, I just. There’s a lot of things wrong with hero society. A lot. And I think a lot of heroes get away with shit they shouldn’t because of that title. I don’t know. It’s all fucked, and I’m not gonna sit here praising them just because they do good things. Doesn’t make them good people.”
He doesn’t reply that quickly and you look sheepish. “Sorry. I’m rambling.”
He makes a noise. “Nah, I loved your little anti-hero rant. The league could use a girl like you.”
Your face pales and he barks out a laugh. “Don’t say that!”
After that you start leaving books on the coffee table for him. He doesn’t thank you for it.
The second time Dabi decides he’ll trust you happens quickly. There’s a box of pizza in front of the two of you, and you’re both not paying much attention to the TV. He’s more looking at you, the way you twirl a strand of hair around and around your finger, bite at your top lip when you’re thinking. Then your face frowns.
“Ew. Pass me the remote.” You hold your hand out to him.
He looks at the TV, and there’s daddy dearest. It’s a documentary, he thinks. Some stupid shit that praises the worst man in the world because he’s a ‘good hero’. He’s got his reason to hate him. But the look of disgust on your face is more delightful than it is confusing.
“What? Not a fan of our number two hero?” The words leave a bitter taste in his mouth but the look on your face washes it away.
“Fuck no. There’s something about him I don’t trust. I don’t fucking like that guy.” You frown, quickly changing the channel. “I miss All Might.”
He doesn’t reply to that. He doesn’t know what he’d say if he did.
And then Dabi realises he actually likes being around you. Especially when you’re always staring at him when you think he doesn’t notice.
“You know, I bought you shirts, too.” You speak the words quickly and without making direct eye contact.
Dabi had taken to not wearing any, despite the fact you had bought him some. He only wore different sweats you’d bought him, slung low on his hips. He always ran hot anyway, and you never complained until now.
He grins. “Aw, this ain’t a pretty sight for you?”
“No, of course not!”
You face flushes and Dabi leans a little further down on the couch, letting his sweats drift a little lower. Dabi knows he’s fit, and he knows the distinct shape of his V line is what’s making you avoid his form on the couch entirely. He’s not stupid, he’s caught you looking before.
“Right, I didn't mean that. I was just wondering. You know?”
“Right, right. Don’t worry, baby, I wouldn’t wanna make you uncomfortable. Be a doll and pass me that shirt, yeah?”
You nod. So obedient, he thinks. He grabs the shirt from your hand, letting his fingers drift against yours. You hand twitches slightly and Dabi smiles, sickly sweet.
“Thanks.”
“S’fine.”
When you give Dabi the green light to get up and move, he waits for you to go to work so he can thoroughly snoop around your house. He walks his way around the living room that he's grown too accustomed to. He doesn’t care about the kitchen or the toilet he’s been to a million times. Where he really wants to explore is your bedroom.
You’re so stupid. Letting a villain like him in your house. His hand trails over your dresser, the souvenirs and trinkets from holidays and birthdays. There’s even more pictures in here and you’re so loved he can feel it through the paper. You’re always smiling, teeth shining and impossibly bright and for a split second he wonders what you’d look like smiling at him like that.
Your room is quite messy and it doesn’t surprise him. Clothes littered all over the floor, books and a makeup bag scattered over your desk. Your bed is hastily made and your sheets are a soft pink. And he can see you on it begging for him so prettily, so obedient like you always are for him.
He opens your bedside tables drawers, searches through the junk for something. He doesn’t even know what. There’s old movie stubs and receipts held together with a bobby pin. A postcard from someone called ‘Becky’ in Italy. Some empty lip gloss tubes and a candle burned down to the bottom. Then he sees a small rock. Hidden beneath the postcard and a letter telling you to go to the opticians. Shiny and blue just like his eyes, his flames. He turns it in his hand for a second, the smooth surface cool on his skin, before pocketing it swiftly.
You don’t notice when you get home. If you do, you don’t say anything.
You only get bolder in your approach with him after that. You start sitting on the couch with him. You ask him stupid small talk questions. What’s his favourite colour, his favourite food. And if you see how incredibly weird the whole situation is you don’t comment on it, so neither does he. Dabi feels more like a roommate than a patient now. You both don’t bring up the fact he’s healed enough to leave. You tell him he needs a few more days and he lets you lie.
“It’s nice having someone else in the house.” You say one day.
The two of you were on the couch, just that bit closer than the time before. Dabi’s arm rests on the back of the couch, and if he moved just a little to the left he’d be touching you.
“What?”
You shrug. “I get lonely, you know? All my friends live miles away, and the same with my family. I don’t know anyone around here.”
You turn to him then, and shoot him a small smile.
“It’s nice having company. Makes my house feel lived in.”
“Even if it’s a big old villain?”
You roll your eyes. “Haven’t been very villainous though, have you?”
“It’s never too late, baby.”
It’s the beginning of the end when he starts to do stuff for you.
It’s nothing crazy at first. He sees dishes in the sink so he puts them in the dishwasher. There’s a load of washing in the washer so he puts it in the dryer. He's just bored. He hasn’t left this house in weeks now, and while he likes the stress-free environment, he’s starting to feel antsy.
And then he saw your face once, looking at the empty washer like he’d given you a diamond ring. And it felt good that he put it there. And Dabi decided it couldn’t hurt to pull his weight a little more around the house. If you’d look at him like that again he’d do anything you asked for.
You come home at three in the morning one night. Stupidly, he thinks. The area you live in is not a safe one, but it’s hardly his problem if you get kidnapped on your way back. When you walk through the door, the lights are all low and you stumble, mumbling curses under your breath. You turn them on and Dabi thinks you look perfect. Cheeks red from the cold, the dress you’re wearing slowly slipping up your thighs. The top is cut enough to make your tits look great, and you brush a strand of your hair out your face as you bend down to take your shoes off. He shouldn’t look, but really it’s all your fault for inviting a villain into your house. What did you expect?
You look up and your face lights up when you see him.
“Dabi! Oh my gosh, hey! I did- I thought you’d be sleeping.” You say the last word in a whisper.
And if that wasn’t tell enough that you were drunk, the way you almost fall walking to the kitchen is. You grab a water from the fridge, and Dabi watches as you down the whole thing in one go, drops of it dripping down your chin and your neck. You breathe heavily, chest heaving up and down as slump against the counter.
“God, I'm so thirsty. The drinks, I mean we had drinks. Of course! Mimosas and like, they were all pink and glittery. Can you tell I’ve been drinking?”
“Oh, not at all.”
You grin. “Okay! Good! And then, this guy kept buying me drinks. So many drinks. The pink ones again. And I drank them. They were good, though.”
You walk over to the couch and plop yourself next to him. Your bare thigh presses into his and Dabi lets it. He’s more focused on this little friend of yours buying you so many drinks than anything else.
“What guy?”
“Dunno. Some freak. I think- He was hitting on me. That's what my friend said to me.”
Dabi nods. “Mhm. You didn’t like him?”
You grimace, shaking your head. “Ew, no way. He’s- He was so blond. And like, preppy. It was gross. He was gross.”
Dabi snorts a laugh. You grin at the sight of it. “Blond and preppy not your type?”
“No. No. I like.” You turn to face him. You cross your legs on the couch, tugging your dress down as it hikes up. You look at him quizzically before nodding your head, like you’ve figured something out.
“Actually, you are my type.”
Dabi thinks he needs to get you drunk more. He likes the way you’re looking at him.
“Really?”
“Oh for sure. I like- You know like, emos.”
Never fucking mind.
“I’m not emo, what the fuck?”
You laugh, loud and boisterous. “You so are! The black hair and, and the staples are like piercings. I bet you listen to heavy metal. Do you?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
You giggle, leaning over to rest your head on the couch. Your eyes travel down to his torso, exposed in the vest he was wearing. You reach a hand up, tracing it down the lines of his muscles, over the scarred skin.
“Love your arms. So big. Can’t even wrap my hand around them.” You mumble. You demonstrate, taking a deep breath when your finger can't meet at the other side.
“And. I like your voice. So raspy. It’s hot as fuck. And your eyes. So blue. Like the ocean. Like hat billie eilish song.”
He huffs a laugh. You look up at him, eyes shining from the light of the TV. You smile softly, hand still burning a hole on his arm.
“Thanks if- for not killing me. And going all villain on me.”
Dabi hums. Sees your eyes trail down to his lips and back up to his face.
“Never say never.”
“Shut up. Don’t say that. You’d never kill me. I’m too loveable.”
“Too fucking full of yourself.”
“Wish I was full of you.”
Your hands cover your mouth the second you say the words and you sit up suddenly. Dabi barks a laugh, and you whine, covering your face with your hands.
“Oh my god, I’m sorry. I’m so drunk. Oh my god.” You groan.
“Don’t worry, baby. We can make your dreams come true.” He smirks.
“Stop. Now. Before I die of embarrassment.”
Dabi pats your shoulder. “S’fine, baby.”
You slump a little, yawning loudly. You glance down at his hand that still hasn’t left your shoulder. “You're so warm.”
“It’s almost as if I have a quirk that produces fire.”
You roll your eyes. You turn slightly and lean against Dabi. He stiffens slightly as you adjust yourself, pulling one of your throw blankets down over your body.
“The fuck are you doing?”
“I’m cold. You’re warm.”
“Go sleep in your bed, you idiot.”
“No. Don’t tell me what to do.”
“The fuck?”
You don’t say anything. Dabi looks down and your eyes are shut. He can feel your bare skin on his body. It’s so cool in comparison to his. That’s why he lets you stay there. He’s warming you up and you’re cooling him down. And you just stay there, sleep soundly like he isn’t a murderer, like he isn’t worth the same as the dirt on your shoes.
The next morning you don’t speak of it. Just rush yourself to the bathroom because, like an idiot, you went out on a Wednesday night like you didn’t have work the next day.
Dabi realises he needs to leave when you almost kiss him.
You’re not drunk this time. He wishes you were. Wishes he could blame it on the alcohol coursing through your veins and not something else. This time, you aren’t both sitting on the couch like you usually are. You both stand at the big window in your living room, Dabi smoking a cigarette and you looking at the stars. It’s late, but it’s a weekend, so you don’t have anywhere to be. You’ve been talking and he’s been listening. The occasional response. He’s more focused on you, on the way the moonlight streaks across your face, the way you’re wearing one of the shirts you bought him. It dips down past your waist and he feels like you're his.
“Oh my god! You’ll never guess who came into work yesterday.” You turn to him excitedly.
“Who?”
“Remember I was telling you about that guy who kept buying me drinks?”
Dabi nods. “The blond one who’s not your type?”
You nod frantically. “Yes. He came in because he had to get tested for an STD! Can you believe that?”
Dabi scoffs. “Yes. Any guy buying pretty girls drinks is a guy that sleeps around.”
“Aw, you think I’m pretty?” You coo.
“Gorgeous.” It’s meant to be sarcastic, but it comes out much more real than he’d hoped.
“Well, it’s no matter. I wouldn’t have gotten with him, drinks or not. I'm safe from any STD’s.”
Dabi takes another drag of his cigarette. “So harsh. It’s what’s on the inside that counts, I thought.”
“Not when it comes to a hookup. And not when there’s literally some-“ You cut yourself off.
“When there’s what?”
“Nothing. Shut up.”
Dabi rolls his eyes. He turns so he’s facing out the window completely, resting his elbows on the windowsill. He presses the cigarette into the wall beneath it.
“Well, desperate times, baby. You wouldn’t believe some of the girls I’ve hooked up with.”
“I find it hard to believe you struggle to hook up with people.”
Dabi barks a laugh at that. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
You shrug. “You're hot. Isn’t that all guys need to hookup?”
“The whole ‘wanted villain’ thing scares people off. Usually.” He gives you a pointed look. “That, and the scars.”
You look at him and gesture at him to face you. You’re looking at him so intensely he feels nervous. Dabi, a serial killer with more kills under his belt than you can imagine, is nervous because of a silly little civilian.
“What’s wrong with them?”
“What’s right with them? They’re ugly, and they’re being held onto my face with fucking staples. Freaks people out.” He shrugs.
You furrow your brows. You look at his face, his arms, his chest. Where yes, he isn’t wearing a shirt again. The scar across it from a knife wound that feels years away.
“Shut up. Do you actually think that?”
Dabi tilts his head. “You don’t?”
“Of fucking course I don’t. They- You’re hot as fuck! I don’t understand why your scars would change that?” You splutter. And you look angry for him and Dabi feels his chest tighten.
“It’s alright, baby. I don’t care. My dick still gets wet when I need it to.”
You wince. “Ew, Dabi. That’s gross.”
“You’re gross for having a crush on a villain.”
You blush. “Shut up. I don’t have a crush on you.”
“Sure, sure.”
Dabi can hear the sound of cars a few streets down. The breeze is light, and he can feel it rustling with his hair. He wonders if you notice the white of his roots peeking through. If you look enough to notice.
He’s pulled from his thoughts when he feels your hand on his arm. Trailing up and around the divide of skin and scars. Your fingers trace over the staples. You touch him so gently. So softly. He wants to rip your hands off and lean into them all at once.
“Did I say you could touch?” He speaks quietly. You smile slightly, looking up at him for a second.
“I don’t hear any complaints.”
You brush against the panes of his chest. Dance across the scar that will only ever remind him of you. Dabi thinks he leans into you. He wonders if you notice. You move up the sharp lines of his collarbone, the curve of his Adam’s Apple. And then your hands rest on his face. And they’re softer than his will ever be, free of the marks of his childhood and his days burning to quieten the noise in his head. Your hand curves against his cheek and he wonders if you can feel his heart beating as heavily as it is.
Your fingers brush under his eyes. The small patch of purple skin that rounds them, like ever present eye bags.
“Your eyelashes are so pretty. So long. I’m jealous.” You murmur.
Dabi doesn’t reply. He doesn’t think he could if he wanted to.
And then you look at his lips again. Then back up at his eyes. And you look at him with so much emotion that he wants to gouge his own eyes out so he never has to think about it again. Never has to see you looking at him so tenderly. And when you lean forward, just that bit more, hand still on his face, he takes a breath.
And then your phone rings, and the moment is shattered. You curse under your breath, fumbling around for your phone. You smile sheepishly as you brandish it at him.
“I’m sorry. It’s my mum. Give me a second.”
The two of you don’t meet at the window again. Dabi falls asleep to the sound of your voice in the next room.
He wishes you were horrible. Wishes you were annoying, or ugly, or maybe Endeavour’s number one fan. Instead you’re not. You’re funny and you’re a good cook. You’re fucking stupid for letting him into your life. You’re so kind. You start bookmarking the parts you think he’d like in the books you leave him and he wants to turn the pages to kindling. You talk to him like you actually give a shit what he has to say. Like you give a shit about him.
Dabi wants to leave a mark on you like you’ve left one on him. Because he’s seen the pictures hung around your house and you’re loved. You have your people, you have a place. You don’t need him. But Dabi? He hadn’t been to the league in however many weeks, and he hadn’t heard a peep. Nobody cares about him. Nobody has his picture up in their room. Dabi could’ve bled out in your driveway all that time ago and nobody would give two shits.
He wants someone to give two shits about him. He wants you to give two shits about him. And it’s a thought that keeps Dabi up every night. Legs still impossibly too long for the couch, as all he can think about is how you’ve ruined him. You’re too fucking good for him. And he knows you’ll soon realise that.
That’s why he leaves.
Dabi doesn’t know what you expected. That he’d stay? That you’d live together like this forever? He’s fucking realistic. He knows this goes nowhere. There’s a blue collar prick working in some construction site you’ll end up with one day. A man who you can introduce to your parents, one who won’t stain your carpets with his blood, who you can hang up on your walls.
Dabi takes nothing except for the clothes on his back. He waits until he knows you're asleep on those ugly pink sheets and he slips out silently. And he doesn’t look back as he walks away, as the sounds of life hit him properly for the first time in forever. He doesn’t look down at the front porch where he’d almost died, not at the flowers he’d destroyed when he’d collapsed on top of them.
He leaves before he can destroy everything else. Before he destroys you. You and your soft hands and your piercing gaze. He hates you. He hates you so fucking much he feels flames licking at his clothes at just the thought of you.
When he makes his way back to the league, nobody says much of anything. He stalks his way back to his own room. There’s no pictures hung up on the walls. It’s unbearingly small and it feels so lifeless. He lays down on a bed that fits him perfectly. Digs in his pockets for your stupid fucking rock, the same colour as his eyes, that you had hidden in that drawer.
Dabi throws it across the room. He watches it hit the wall, skid under his dresser. He leaves it there.