Immolate//Negotiate

by hermestheghost

Summary:

“Stop looking like that.” The boy's voice is gruff, thick. He sounds like he’d been crying. Keigo notes the bandages crawling up the boy’s arms.

“Like what?”

“Happy.”

Keigo’s smile only grows wider.

OR

Takami Keigo isn't used to new kids in the Commission. They almost never show up, and when they do they don't last long. But the pretty boy with starlight hair and gemstone eyes looks like he's here to stay. Keigo's hummingbird heart burns.

Notes:

Decided to forego the prologue and just do a full first chapter. My brain wouldn't work with Chapter 1: Prologue, it was going to drive me to distress.

Background info: Keigo's story is mostly the same as canon (right now). But Touya has a resurrection quirk, which is discovered when he burns to death at 7 years old and Endeavor decides to give the Commission's "but we can fix him" promise a chance. Things progress from there.

Keep an eye on the rating, it will probably go up. Also sorry I made a bunch of little mistakes and it was driving me crazy so if you're here for the notification its just been edited.

Chapter 1: Starlight

Keigo falls in love for the first and last time at six years old. The boy shines like starlight and it makes all the bird parts of his brain activate at once. White hair, blue eyes so bright he could die. Keigo doesn’t know at six what he knows later, but he remembers thinking he’s going to be mine, like the boy is just a pretty stone he wants to hoard away in the nests he no longer gets to make. His handler had said it was unbecoming of a young hero, with a gentle little pat on his head. 

The boy is taller than him by a lot. Too big to fit in a nest anyway. Keigo wants to try. 

“Hey,” he says, quiet as he can. They’re not supposed to talk during training. The other kids line up down the wall. Keigo tries to ignore them. None of them are made of starlight. “You’re new.”

New kids are rare. The last one was a girl with flowery hair and empty eyes. She hadn’t lasted more than a week, and that had been right after Keigo arrived. He doesn’t remember what she looks like, now. Just the petals floating down, the way looking at her made his hummingbird heart flutter. 

The starlight boy doesn’t answer him. He stares ahead like he can’t see or hear anything. Like Keigo doesn’t exist. He looks so dead in the eyes, no matter how bright they are. Like that girl. Like the disappearing flowers. 

“It’s my birthday,” Keigo lies. Well, it may not be a lie. It may be the truth. His mom never celebrated his birthday and his dad was rarely home. He never knew, just watched when the cartoons would have birthday parties for characters he knew better than his own parents. His birthday could be any day. Today, he decides. Today is his birthday because maybe if it is, the new kid will talk to him.

It must really be something, because starlight boy looks at him. He doesn’t even turn his head, just moves his eyes, mouth pressed into a thin line. Keigo scoots a little closer. The teacher isn’t paying attention to them right now. She’s tapping her pen against her charts, probably planning out another exercise to fix whatever weakness she discovered in him the last time. He’s only six, but the last year has been incredible. Yeah, he fails a lot. But when he stops failing, when his teachers finally smile at him…

“Stop looking like that.” The boy's voice is gruff, thick. He sounds like he’d been crying. Keigo notes the bandages crawling up the boy’s arms. Did he show up injured?

“Like what?”

“Happy.” 

Keigo’s smile only grows wider. “When’d you get here?” 

He learned ages ago what the right questions were. Don’t ask anyone here about their parents. Stay away from the word home–not even the handlers like it. Names are iffy. If they remember theirs, people can get upset. He asked a boy his name once and ended up with a black eye. Keigo’s lucky. He gets to keep Keigo, a secret kept safe, tucked away. When they call him by his numbers, he memorizes them and never has to be reminded. Never has to have anything taken away to make room. And even though his mother never called him by Keigo, he makes himself remember the letters, the sound. Remember his mother. Some small, quiet part of him even tries to remember his father. If he doesn’t, no one will. 

The boy hasn’t answered his question. Keigo’s still grinning. He doesn’t know how to not. No one new has been here in so long. When he first showed up, teachers and handlers traded out his training every few weeks. They all paid so much attention to him, telling him exactly what they wanted him to do. They all were secretly pleased with him. He could see it, when their eyes widened just a fraction as he flew through the tests, as his feathers flit and fluttered exactly where they said. He’s doing so good and if he just does a little better he knows they’ll tell him so. 

“Is it really your birthday?” He speaks so soft, so monotone. Keigo is glad his hearing is much better than most people’s or he’d never hear the question.

“Mhm.” Keigo can’t help it. The teacher will look over, eventually, but starlight boy shines so pretty. His stupid bird eyes just can’t stop looking. He scoots a little closer. “I’m six.” 

“Seven.” 

“You’re so pretty,” Keigo chirps, and finally starlight boy gets his wish. The smile vanishes right off his face. No one here likes his bird sounds.

“41.” His handler’s voice cuts across the soft thread running through him. He snaps to attention, keeping his eyes ahead. Somehow, even though he knows better, he feels like starlight boy’s eyes are on him. No one ever looks at him, not really. Keigo clenches his fists and thinks of all the saddest things he can until the bright excitement inside him dies a little. 

His punishment is brutal. The handler’s quirk hurts, gusting powerful winds that bend his wings back, break his feathers. He can feel them all, like nails pulled back in his fingers, like knives dug under his skin. He doesn’t cry. His eyes don’t even shine. He does so much better than the other kids, even though it hurts. His feathers cut through her wind, slow and careful, painful. He is the only one who lands a blow. Starlight boy doesn’t even move, doesn’t use a quirk, doesn’t attack.

When the handler returns, she glares at starlight like he’s a pile of mud, like she can’t see how much he shines. Keigo’s wings twitch. He wants to do something. Something his bird brain insists on but he can’t figure out. Despite himself, his wings stretch behind him. They’re too small to cover starlight, though. Can barely brush his shoulders.

“Why didn’t you do anything?” The question freezes in the air, her tone so cold it practically glitters. “Are you even trying?”

“No.” Starlight stops. He doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t answer her first question. Keigo practically vibrates with anxiety beside him and for some reason, Starlight looks at him, in front of everyone. Quirks a brow, thin over his brilliant blue eyes. His hair is so bright white, his skin so pale. His mouth stretches wide, and his teeth are so perfect. A smile. 

The handler doesn’t look at Keigo. Not even once. A needle slips from her pocket, her fingers flashing at Starlight’s arm, and then he’s slumping forward. Keigo smells smoke. His hummingbird heart is burning. 

***

The Commission doesn’t like Keigo’s bird noises. Most of the time he can avoid making them. It’s easy, actually, since they usually slip out when something good happens and its been. So long. Since anything good has happened. Soon, though. Soon all the good will happen–his handlers will be proud of him. He knows he’s passing all their tests, even if they won’t tell him. He excels at following orders. Doing what he’s told was one of the few times his dad ever said anything good to him.

Starlight disappears into the night when the handler stabs him with that needle. Keigo searches for him as subtly as he can. He doesn’t want to hurt. He doesn’t want them to hurt Starlight. Hurting is necessary sometimes, but Keigo still hesitates to decide that for someone else. All of the other kids here are dull. They cry a lot. Always sniffling, always howling in the night when the handlers bid them goodnight and lock their doors. Keigo avoids them. He doesn’t know how to handle crying. Especially when it makes no sense. Do they want to go back? Did their lives not look like his before they came here? Do they not realize how much work the Commission is putting in to make them into something? Keigo had been nothing before. His mother pretended he didn't exist and his father wished he didn't exist and told him. Why would he ever want to go back?

Starlight hadn’t cried, not even when the handler had been disappointed in him.

Starlight had smiled at Keigo. For his birthday. He’d never change his birthday again, not ever. Starlight had actually looked at Keigo, on purpose. He wants him to do it again. 

That was months ago. The frigid air heats up, the snow and ice melts. In the brief moments Keigo gets free time, he flits into the branches of trees and watches the other kids play. They don’t really run around or do anything fun. The ones who don’t shuffle back and forth train for physical tests or practice with their quirk. A small, small amount of them sneak off into the woods and Keigo watches them go from his perch. He doesn’t care. There’s nothing good out there. He can see so much farther than them and he already knows that the dull embers that flick down off their hands are boring. It’s just smoke and paper and coughing. 

He’s not looking for them, anyway. 

Eventually he sees him. That white hair is a little longer, fluttering in the wind. Keigo doesn’t wait even a second before he dives down, wings snapping open to land. He barely avoids barreling into Starlight. His talons dig deep into the soft ground just to stop himself in time. 

Starlight sees him and smiles and it’s glorious. Keigo’s wings rustle. He can’t help but grin back. “Hey Starlight!”

The boy jumps at that, as if Keigo may have been talking to someone else. But there’s no one else around. Starlight doesn’t hang around the others–he’s far off, isolated, left in the shadows by the handler who is still close. But Keigo checked. Technically, Starlight is in the boundaries where all the kids play. Technically, Keigo’s allowed to do this. Or at least, he hasn’t been told he’s not allowed.

“Hey, Birdie.” The boy’s voice drawls, like he couldn’t be more bored. But his smile, his perfect smile, is already in place. He leans forward with his lanky shoulders, inviting Keigo closer. “Long time no see. Did you have a good birthday?”

Keigo swallows down a happy coo, glancing at the handler. She’s close, hand tucked into her pockets, sunglasses covering her eyes like Starlight and Keigo don’t know she’s watching. “Yeah!”

He bounces on the word a little, swaying into Starlight’s space. The blue eyes watch him again, this time without saying anything. Keigo wants to hear him talk. They could talk forever. Or at least the next hour they're allowed to be outside. Socializing is important, the Commission tries to tell him. Try to make friends. Keigo doesn't want to make friends with the others. He doesn't know where he'd even start.

Starlight doesn't try to make friends. The boy hasn’t paid attention to anyone else, not even the handlers. Just Keigo. Why? 

“What’s your quirk?” Keigo flutters his wings and Starlight watches them move. Keigo knows his feathers are pretty. Sometimes the other kids will ask to touch them. They’re not allowed–they feel too much, too grimy and broken in some invisible way that Keigo doesn’t want to feel. No one’s allowed to touch his wings. He hopes Starlight doesn't ask.

“Don’t worry about it, birdie.” Starlight’s fists clench at his sides. “S’far as you know, I’m quirkless.”

Quirkless? Keigo tilts his head, his eyes pinning in a way that makes Starlight glitter. The Commission doesn’t take quirkless kids. Even Keigo figured that out. “You’re not. Why…”

“Don’t worry about it.” Starlight repeats, his words like steel. An unusual tone for a seven year old. His fists are clenched so tight, his brilliant irises shifting over to the handler as if she’s going to come at him again. It’s a different girl. Keigo wonders if this one has needles. “Doesn’t matter.”

Keigo wants to argue, but he can’t tell why. If Starlight doesn’t think the tests matter, then why is he here? Keigo thinks all the tests matter. How is he going to improve if they don’t tell him how? 

“You hungry, birdie?” 

Keigo’s stomach tightens, almost angrily, at the mention of food. He’s starving. He’s always starving. They handlers say hunger pains are a different sort of training. He looks over Starlight’s soft white shirt, the black looseness of his pants. They must think Starlight really, really needs that type of training because he looks like when Keigo’s dad gets home from a run, arms full of shiny trinkets instead of groceries. All bones, no meat, his father used to say, prodding his wife for food. What food? No food, there's never any food.

Keigo looks to the handler. She must not have heard him. Not risking to speak, Keigo nods. His pulse spikes, because eating without permission… well, he’s never exactly been told not to. But he knows he hasn’t earned any extra food. The Commission never explicitly say that’s what he needs to do. They tell him so few of the rules. But this one is one he’s figured out. If he does really, really well, the Commission will expand his portions for the day. Those days there's almost enough food to fill his stomach. Almost. A sharp spike of pain lances through his stomach.

Starlight wants to feed him, though. Keigo doesn’t even know why. Just knows that Starlight juts his jaw up at his handler in some silent communication and starts to walk off to where the other kids are playing. The handler jolts, like this is the last thing she ever expected, and then watches them leave. 

Keigo’s wings rustle and flutter behind him. Starlight cuts his eyes over and Keigo’s feathers go wild. It sounds like an alarm. It stings like fire. He hurries to stand closer and grins. 

“Why starlight?” The boy asks, eyes narrowed. 

“You’re so bright,” Keigo’s talons itch at his sides. He got in trouble once for stealing a gold chain from one of the handler’s bags. Villains steal, 41. Don’t be a thief like your father.  

He wonders if it's stealing if his bird brain takes over and grabs at Starlight’s shiny hair. 

Starlight laughs. “You don’t say, birdie. You like shiny things?”

The tease hurts, a little. Keigo ignores it. “Do you want me to call you something else?”

The boy’s smile fades until his expression falls completely blank. He doesn’t answer for a long time. They eventually sit at the outer edge of the recreational area, as far from the handler as they can get. Starlight picks up a stick. Nudges the tip through the mud. He’s drawing something, but the soft dirt doesn’t hold any of the details. “Nah, Starlight’s fine. Better than what they gave me.”

His thumb juts towards another handler standing nearby, hidden by his shoulder. “What’d they call you? Forty-something?”

“41.” Keigo grins, then shrugs. “What’s your number?”

The boy snorts. The head of the stick burrows under the drawing. A stone flips when Starlight yanks it back up. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not using it.”

Keigo’s grin falters. “Why not?”

Starlight looks at him like he’s stupid, but doesn’t answer. Instead, he checks around them, teeth bared in a stiff smile and shuffles around in his pockets. “Eat up, birdie. Don’t like damned bird seed.”

Pale fingers unfurl over a bright plastic wrapper. A granola bar. The kind with chocolate coating on the bottom and all the pieces are stuck together with peanut butter. More candy than food, and Keigo can’t help it. A trill of delight escapes him, his eyes glued to the offering. “Are you sure?”

They never get treats like this. He doesn’t think there’s anything like this in the Commission’s cafeteria. He’s only seen steamed vegetables and pale meat and sometimes bread. 

“I just said I don’t like birdseed.” 

And well, nothing on this granola bar could really be called a seed. Keigo accepts the offer and widens his wings just barely, just enough to hid behind as he scarfs down the treat. It’s sweet, so sweet like the candy bars his dad used to eat. Guilt nags at him–this was Starlight’s treat, and who knows where he got it from, or when he’ll get another. But he was so hungry and now, he’s… still hungry. But its bearable. Hadn’t it been bearable before? He was bearing it, just fine, but somehow he hadn’t realized how bad it had been until he’d eaten and his bones felt less shaky.

He wipes his face, licking the sticky crumbs from his fingers. Tears prick his eyes and he doesn’t even care to examine it, just pushes them away. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” The boy scowls and stabs the stick into the mud. He yanks the wrapper from Keigo’s hand and in a flash of blue, the plastic disappears. “Like, really. Ever.”

And Keigo is so good at following directions. He never brings it up again.

***

Seven years later, Keigo doesn’t remember the boy may be called anything other than Starlight. Keigo answers to Birdie just as well as he answers to 41. He doesn’t remember what his name sounds like from someone else’s mouth. Sometimes he whispers it to himself when he’s laying in bed alone and tries to remember what his mother looks like. He works backwards from the reflection in the mirror. She’d had his hair, but not his eyes. His eyes had belonged to his father. He thinks she was pretty. He can’t remember how her face looks. He doesn’t think he saw it much. 

He’s hopelessly in love. Thirteen and ruined for anyone who doesn’t make his eyes pin and his wings flutter like the only friend he’s made in this whole place in all these years. He doesn’t tell anyone. Doesn’t want anything or anyone taken away, doesn’t want the Commission to know his bird instincts coo and trill and chirp whenever he thinks of the boy one year older than him.

“Whatcha staring at, Birdie?” Starlight asks, like he’s not used to it by now. Maybe he’s not. Keigo’s attention can be unsettling. He is a bird of prey, after all. 

“That’s new,” Keigo points at the shiny metal on Starlight’s ear. It’s pretty, silver and blue. Keigo wants to touch it. He keeps his talon closed in a fist. The earlobe beneath it is puffy and red and tender looking. “Starlight got some secret admirer giving him gifts?”

Starlight snorts. “Shut up. As if anyone’s admiring this.” 

Keigo rolls his eyes, but he can’t help the way his wings fluff. Starlight would say the most crazy things. “You shut up,” he says, instead of arguing. 

“Hungry?” Starlight’s pockets are bulky, but not overly so. Snacks again, today. Keigo doesn’t even have to answer. 

They can explore more, now. The handlers still watch, but with boredom instead of keen interest. Keigo has been the perfect student for seven years. Their vigilance can only last so long. He relaxes, follows Starlight to the trees. There’s a clearing, just through a thin barrier of trees. The handlers don’t care if they go there, as long as Keigo keeps his wings flared enough they can see him. He realized years ago that, despite how vigilant they are with training and punishment, the handlers here are tired and Keigo gives them the chance to be lazy. They trust he won’t do anything because he never does. It makes them so comfortable. 

“You been eating, Starlight?” Keigo tries to make the question sound nonchalant, unimportant. He could be asking about the weather. Hey, the sky's a pretty blue, the grass is a little damp. I hope you're not starving.

Starlight’s clothes hang loose off of him. It’s been a few months since he’s been this thin. The Commission locked him in a hospital room the last time he lost this much. Keigo hadn’t seen him for two weeks. He’d been so anxious until he saw the white hair back in classes. 

“You know it.” Starlight empties the contents of his pockets. A couple of wrapped up sandwiches, three granola bars. A handful of little caramel candies. Keigo never knows where they come from. Starlight always has food he never sees anywhere else. “Eat.”

Keigo eats all of it. He’s so hungry. All the time. He read once, in a book he’d smuggled out of the giant library the Commission sometimes takes them to for class, that hawks need to eat between 12 and 15% of their body weight. The same book said they could survive off one meal for two days if it’s big enough. He doesn’t know which one feels more true. But Starlight points to the wing pattern on the back of one of the examples of a red-shouldered hawk and says, “Look, it’s you birdie.” And suddenly all that hunger chewing at his ribs feels real. The wing patterns match so closely.

“You're gonna choke one of these days.” Starlight’s lap is covered in an open sketchbook. A broken piece of charcoal stains his fingers black. Keigo can’t see what he’s drawing. Knows better than to ask, at this point. “Don’t they feed you?”

Keigo nods, swallowing a chirp because despite how apathetic Starlight sounds, the little frown tugging at his lips is all Keigo needs to see. He's worried. Worried about Keigo. “Don’t worry, Starlight. I eat plenty.” 

He eats more than some of the other kids, at least. He’s lucky that he’s so good at all their tests. They call him personable. They leave his results around once, and he preens knowing he’s the top of the class. He doesn’t know which one is Starlight. He never learned the boy’s number. 

It’s so calm. So quiet and easy, sitting in the grass, wings fanning out like a signal to let everyone know he isn’t running off. He’s right here, in the sunlight, watching Starlight draw. Most of his day is breaking things, spinning his feathers out and reporting back every detail he can glean, fighting against quirks calibrated to be stronger than him. Winning, fighting, and making it look easy. But none of it is. None of it is as easy as this. “Hey, Starlight?”

“Hm?” 

He tries to think of something to talk about that won’t end in Starlight stomping off. So far all the questions he asks end up in the boy running away. In seven years he’s learned nothing important about the boy that burns up his chest. Not where he gets the candy, not how he learned how to draw, not what he’s doing here, not anything. Keigo sighs. “What do you want your hero name to be?” 

The fingers smudging the charcoal dust over the page pause, hovering just off the paper. Pink burns Starlight’s cheek before his signature scowl cuts across his face once more. “What does it matter what I want? He’ll pick out a name for me. I won’t have anything to do with it.”

Keigo’s wings flutter. Starlight pays them no mind. He. It’s the first bit of information he has. Someone else would have missed it, would have ignored it as if it meant nothing. But Keigo’s been here a long time and he’s an exemplary listener. Anyone else here would have said they, or even she. Most handlers are women, and Keigo doesn’t know why that feels so strange to him. Why his chest aches a bit when his handler sneaks him a careful little smile when she accidentally leaves another of his test results sitting out. He has the urge to call her mom once and instantly wants to throw up. He tries harder to remember his mother's face, but after that, the plethora of women agents in the Commission feels strange to him.

But Starlight, he doesn’t seem to care about any of the handlers. He doesn’t train with the rest of them. Whatever his quirk really is–whatever those blue flames really do–the handlers don’t want him around the other kids when he uses it. And whoever decides this, whoever is in charge of Starlight, is a he. 

Keigo carefully does not show his excitement. “Well, but if you could. What name would you choose?”

Starlight looks at him, cheeks still burning, then looks back down at his sketchbook. “Maybe I’d choose Starlight. Just to mess with you.”

Keigo can’t help it. A trill escapes him, his eyes pinning as he tries to take in and memorize the exact way Starlight looks sitting in the half-sun, half-shadow, telling him he might name himself Starlight when he makes it out of here. “I–what?”

“What’s the matter? Ears broken?” 

It’s Keigo’s stupid joy that does it. He chirps and chitters, wings fluttering so fast the wind sends Starlight’s sketchbook tumbling right out of his lap. Keigo’s too loud, his bird noises too distinct. The nearby handler comes to shush him, to punish him for unbecoming behavior, and stops cold. The open page of Starlight’s sketchbook holds her attention. A drawing of a man, tall and nude, littered with moles and scars, covers the exposed page. Starlight has written something beside it. Something like a name.

Keigo doesn’t recognize the man. Doesn’t know why Starlight would be drawing some naked guy in his sketchbook. Starlight’s only a year older than him. They’ve never even kissed anyone, as far as Keigo knows. Something about the picture sends fury flashing across the handler’s face. 

“What do you think you’re doing with this?” The handler’s question is cold–they always speak so cold to Starlight, like they hate him. Like he’s the worst part of their day. “You planning something, 43?”

Keigo reels back, hearing the numbers. They sound wrong, directed at Starlight like that. Starlight, on the other hand, pulls blue flames to his fists, tries to snatch back the sketchbook. Destroy evidence, Keigo thinks. So Starlight’s good at his training, too. 

The handler whistles, loud enough to send a ringing pain through Keigo’s ears. His sensitive hearing leaves him dizzy, his reaction time just a fraction too slow to catch the vines wrapping around Starlight’s wrists. All of his instincts flare in warning. Danger approaches, a threat Keigo can’t see screaming to life when the vines touch Starlight’s pale, pale skin.

The fire is beautiful, cold blue and so hot they feel like they’re going to singe his feathers. Keigo can’t tell who is screaming louder–Starlight or the handler. The fire climbs up the vines, up the handler’s arms, licks at her hair. Her skin bubbles and peels back, black ash shedding from the bright flames. Keigo only watches them for a minute before his feathers warn him that people are approaching.

Every handler in the area rushes to stop Starlight. Keigo’s pulse spikes, his legs moving before he can stop himself. His feathers cut the vines, his talons closing over Starlight’s burning shirt. The handler who attacked him is dead–her entire front burned away. The sketchbook is gone. Keigo’s wings move on their own, perching him over Starlight’s shoulders, covering the boy from all the approaching eyes. A shriek tears through him louder than he’s ever made before. He sounds inhuman, sounds like all the rage and panic and fear inside him rips its way out of his throat. He hunches, covering as much of Starlight as he can. Nothing stops the approach of the Commission, closing in from all around the other kids. More crying, a few screams, but most kids are just watching. Heat presses in at the underside of his wings, beneath his arms and feet and against his chest. He can’t look down. Doesn’t need to look down to know what’s happening in the shell of his red feathers. 

Starlight is burning. Starlight is blue and beautiful and screaming, brighter than all the stars in the sky. Keigo doesn’t know how to stop him. Decides, as the handlers close in and his feathers cut their throats and their hands as they reach for his Starlight, mine, mine, mine! He’s going to burn with him, he’s not going to give up, if Starlight wants to die in his fire right here right now rather than let the handlers touch him then Keigo will go with him, he’ll stay here with his wings over his Starlight until they’re both charred and ash and–

A prick against his neck blossoms cold and thick. The world flickers dim for a moment before he can process the syrupy trickle of numbness dripping down his veins. His skin is too tight. His hands feel wrong, feel like they’re closing too easily around what should be Starlight’s shoulders. Something crumbles beneath his claws. Tears turn to steam before they can fall down his cheeks. 

He doesn’t look at the ash. He doesn’t look down at all. The world goes black. Someone catches him. 

***

Hawks debuts at 18 and within a year catapults to the number 3 spot. It’s so easy–nearly too easy. His good looks, his sparkling personality, his efficient feathers. All of it equals to him rocketing up the ranks on half-charm and half-merit. Between interviews and dazed, flushed rescuees, his reputation soars. Hawks, the man too fast for his own good. Most eligible bachelor. Most sought after hero coach. Youngest to open a hero agency. The news flashes his name like he was made for it. And he was. 

The attention is intoxicating. The whole world, looking at him. Looking at Hawks, and all of them say he’s so, so good. If he just keeps going, forever, and never stops, they’ll look at him like that until he drops dead. 

“You’re looking rough, chicklett.” Rumi’s pat on his shoulder nearly puts him through the window. “Did you sleep last night or just pass out dead until the sun revived you this morning?”

“You sleep?” Hawks stares out the window a moment longer, then rubs his eyes and steps away. “Who has the time?”

“People with boundaries and a work life balance.” Rumi smirks and yanks him against her by the shoulders, ruffling his hair with a gloved hand. “You gotta take a day off or your gonna fall out of the sky, birdboy.”

Hawks snorts, flips his visor down. Everything looks sharper in the yellow, bright and clear. Rumi’s eye roll makes him laugh. “You take a vacation instead. Doesn’t your new girlfriend have a whole summer estate by the beach?”

“If Yumi ever decides to go on vacation, then the world has ended and her school burned down.” The bunny stops, ears twitching as she pretends to consider. “You know what, I doubt she’d even do it then. How do you think Endeavor would react to his dojo being filled up with kids learning their letters?”

Hawks tries to imagine the oversized man walking into a room with a bunch of toddlers. The image is simultaneously hilarious and a little terrifying. “Let’s not find out.” 

“I’ll be sure to keep her school from catching fire.” She chuckles, musses his hair one more time, and heads out. “Don’t be late or I’ll lock you out of the house. Leave work on time and get some sleep.”

Hawks grunts noncommittally, watches her leave. Watches her running, fast and dangerous, through the city. Somewhere between his agency and their apartment, he knows Rumi will shed her hero costume for whatever civilian clothes she’s stashed away somewhere. 

The sun slips closer to the horizon. His shift ends at sunset. His eyesight is useless in the dark. He’s developed workarounds: special goggles, particular suits for the dark. Still, he doesn’t like working once his vision goes out. The only jobs he ever has at night come from the Commission and those are his least favorite. Keigo does the work because its needed, but hawks weren't meant to work int he shadows. They hunt right at the end of things, and right at the beginning. Dawn to dusk. They were made to live in the sun.

He says in an interview once that he wants to retire early, that he wants all heroes to be redundant and lazy and bored. The Commission forced him to apologize, to clarify he’d been joking, that he understands hero work is a serious thing and he’d never disrespect the community like that intentionally. The words tasted salted and sharp, like blood on his tongue. He’d never meant anything more. He wants heroes to be out of business. 

And blessedly, with all his hard work, his patrol area is quiet as a fucking lamb. All of it–he monitors almost the entire thing at once with his feathers. People around here are used to red feathers hovering around corners, gliding through the streets. Watching out, but not too close. He only shows up when there’s trouble, but he always shows up when there’s trouble. People in his quadrant are proud of him, according to all the newspapers. “He doesn’t just wait for the flashy villains to show up. He stops all the crime.” 

It’s glorious, all those eyes on him. All that pressure weighs like stones on his wings but he wouldn’t risk them for anything. This is why he’s here–he’s going to keep all of them safe. His city. His people. His. 

The sun is finally setting, and all his feathers make their way back to him. It never takes more than a few seconds for his wings to be full again. Never more than one second for them to fill up enough for him to fly. The city moves around him in a blur of sounds. Screaming children, cars honking, street vendors shouting orders. The feathers catch it all.

They also catch the petty crimes, the seething unrest beneath the city's safety. People are uneasy, unsure, but they'll get use do him. He's still new, after all. No one here is used to such a popular hero.

His wings move so fast, so intent on his new orders, he almost misses it.

Then a whole swath of them disappear in a flash of fiery pain. He curses, crumples against the floor to gasp at the sudden stabbing pain through his shoulder. Most were from his left wing. One of his sidekicks gasps and hurries to his side, but the window is already set to open. The feathers that weren’t destroyed click into place and he doesn’t even take a second to sort them before he jumps. 

The blast had been right at the edge of his patrol. A villain attacking now, right at the end of his shift, when his exhaustion is at an all time high and his eyes become more useless the more minutes pass. They must be doing it on purpose. And a fire quirk? Shit. This has major villain written all over it. The Commission said it would be only a matter of time before he attracted their attention. He speeds, pushing his wings to their limits. 

When he makes it to the last place his incinerated feathers flashed at him, he is surprised by how little fire there is. Just little bundles of blue flame, already starting to dull. The color surprises him, sets his heart racing at the familiar shade of the blue. The memory rises, leaves the sting of bile in his throat. He swallows it down, banishes the knot tangling in his chest, and searches the wide open streets. His wings press tight against his back, careful with a fire quirk on the loose.

He sees the villain first. Neither of the men notice him right away–the villain crows out a protest, arms held at an angle that looks like it’s absolutely going to break soon. He’s some nobody, some black haired scarred up partial lizard quirk that makes Hawks’s eyes try to focus on his vitals. It’s useless–the shifting shadows, the encroaching dark–his eyes don’t want to settle, not even when his birdbrain notices a tasty (forbidden--Hawks may be a bird of prey, but he's also a fucking hero, he's not eating villains) treat.

Instead he turns his attention to the hero, already forming the thanks and the reproach on his lips. “Hey man, I appreciate the…”

The words die. Bright blue eyes flick up, snagging on his, and he can’t catch his breath. He distantly hears his feathers rustle. Something is making inquisitive chirping noises, but they’re distant enough that Hawks can barely hear them. 

“Hey there, pretty bird. Think you can lend a hand?”

 

Chapter 2: Firefly

Summary:

Hawks gets a new mission and a new friend.

“You alright there, birdie?” The hero’s fists close around the scaled back of the lizard man. Every inch of him is covered in a black compression suit, dark pants baggy and just a smidge above his ankles  as he crouches over the villain. An oversized navy blue coat bulks up his silhouette, obscuring his shape, his entire outfit seeming to hide him more than accentuate him. “You sound a little upset.”

Hawks slams back into himself. The distant sound of chirping is him , which is mortifying. He hasn’t made a noise like that in front of anyone in years. “I’m fine. Are you, uh, new? Haven’t seen you around.” 

His feathers flutter and twitch before he can stop them, and damn if the man’s blue eyes don’t drift over to them with a smirk. “Firefly. Debuted a few weeks ago. You don’t pay close attention to the news, do you birdie?”

Hawks opens his mouth, closes it again around the question. Brilliant blue eyes, white hair that tufts out beneath the headphones cuffed over the man’s ears. Firefly sure looks like he could go by a different name, one that tugs against all the years between Hawks and blue flames just like his. If he didn’t know for certain, if he hadn’t felt it himself, he’d almost think Firefly was…

His feathers take care of what his mind is too occupied to bother with. They flash and flutter, wrapping around the villain’s wrists to free up Firefly’s hands. Silver glitters–bracelets and rings and cuffs all connected by lines of silver thread. They glow a dull blue and all the fire dies. 

Firefly winces, like the disappearance of the flame hurts. Anyone else wouldn’t have noticed. It’s almost impressive how subtle the change is, but Hawks has been trained to notice any and everything for as long as he can remember. 

“Rough night?” Hawks stuffs his hands into his pockets, and only then does he allow them to shake. Not that he can salvage his impression here. Bird noises, he thinks to himself, and thanks whatever had mercy on him and didn’t let anyone else hear. Firefly doesn’t seem to think much of it.

“Nah, this guy just has a hypermobile quirk. He was climbing all over the place destroying shit. We made a bit of a mess in your zone.” Firefly glances at the charred road and snorts. “You’d think they’d have figured out fireproofing the roads or something.”

“Not usually much of an issue, firebug. We don’t have a lot of heat around here.” Hawks’s wings tense at the thought of it. “Need help taking him in?”

Firefly quirks a brow at him, hefting the man up over his shoulder like a sack of rice with a cocky grin. “I think I got it handled. Don’t you have your own patrol to worry over?”

“Just ended, actually,” Hawks waves at the darkened sky like that explains everything. “What about you? Wrapping up soon?”

“Just started, actually.” Firefly drags his eyes up Hawks’ body, all cargo pants and boxy jacket and bulbous eyewear. “A shame you gotta leave. Wouldn’t have minded some company.”

No hero has debuted in this area in a while. He’s surprised he missed news of it–usually the papers are full of the new hero’s name splashed on the covers and some overblown victory introducing them. It boosts morale, or something, the Commission said. Set up new heroes to be excited about their roles as celebrity punching bags. 

Firefly tilts his head at him, eyebrows lifted in challenge. He’s pretty, and hauntingly familiar, and Hawks doesn’t want to watch him go. It’s just a coincidence, he reminds himself. Tries to, at least, but that doesn’t stop the heavy thud of his heart. Starlight died, crumbled to ash in his hands, and this new guy is confident and younger, a new name on the scene. 

“You sure are staring awful hard for a guy who hasn’t said anything in like, a minute and a half, birdie.” 

Hawks coughs and flashes his most charming smile. “What can I say? You caught me off guard. You inviting me to distract you from your patrol?”

The lizard man, who Firefly and Hawks both had forgotten about, makes a garbled gagging noise from Firefly’s shoulder. “Kill me, or knock me out. Please. ”

The please at the end breaks a laugh out of both pro heroes. The villain huffs, tail flicking up to try to smack at Firefly’s face. Hawks sends a few feathers over to hold the tail down to the man’s leg and a few more off to let his sidekicks know everything’s okay. They’d developed a system months ago: one feather in a circle means no worries, two feathers in an X means send backup. It hasn’t failed him yet. 

“So, what’d’ya say?” Firefly gestures with his free hand behind him, heading out from Hawks’s patrol area. “Wanna tag along for a minute?”

“Sure,” Hawks flicks his wings, readjusting for the missing feathers, and follows behind. Rumi will understand if he’s a little late. She may even be proud of him since he’s socializing. Especially if he doesn’t mention the socialization happened on another hero’s patrol. “Lead the way.”

The lizard twitches and grumbles and whines all the way to the station where Firefly drops him off with none of his charming quips. The evening’s haul has already disappeared for processing, leaving the drop off area more barren than Hawks expects. The lizard man moves to dart out through the holding area, so Hawks leaves the feathers on his arms and legs to keep him from making a nuisance of himself. 

This leaves his mouth free to yap, however. “Pro heroes treating crime and inequality like their personal dating scene! And you, ” he spits at Hawks. “As a heteromorph, don’t you feel anything at this indignity?” 

“Uh,” Hawks blinks, pointing to himself. “Me?”

“Ignore him. He’s been on about heteromorph rights and all that shit since I started chasing him. Tell me what part of your lizard instincts told you to steal that fucking truck?”

The lizard hisses, his wide mouth baring sharp teeth. “Fuck you!”

Firefly flips off the scaled villain and Hawks can’t help the laugh that huffs out of him. The absurd interaction fills his lungs like fresh air for the first time in half a decade. Most heroes around him try to put on the righteous act, giving cutting, moral speeches if they bother responding to the villains they apprehend at all. Firefly doesn’t seem to give a shit about any of that. 

“I gotta keep an eye on this whole quadrant.” Firefly waves over at the empty streets. A few street vendors are setting up for the night time crowds in the more entertainment focused areas, but for the most part Hawks knows this will be quiet until well after morning. 

“Did you eat yet?” Hawks hasn’t and he’s full on starving. A hunched older man shakes out a banner declaring his stall a “yakitori mountain,” which doesn’t mean anything but sounds fucking delicious. “I’ll get us something.”

Firefly shakes his head, but walks up to the stall himself. The man knows him, chatting and gesturing to new grates for the grill, how he’s doubled the skewer count since Firefly started telling everyone about him. Hawks watches the interaction, how easy it is for Firefly to grin and bump fists with the man, passing over a handful of bills while the man sets up several skewers of chicken. 

“I said it was my treat, firebug.” Hawks pretends to be offended, watching the skewers turn over the orange flame. He wiggles his fingers at Firefly. “Bet you make the best yakitori.”

“Not unless you like it burnt.” 

They both laugh again. Hawks feels light, floaty, like he’s about to lift off without his feathers. He hasn’t laughed this easily in ages. He wants to ask a hundred questions, even if he knows the answers are impossible. It feels like him , is all his mind will say, over and over, on repeat. 

He’s being haunted, he thinks. He wants to be, wants to stay haunted forever. “So, what was your first day like?”

“Ever had someone hovering over your shoulder, checking to make sure you’re getting the right answers on your test?”

“Ah, your mentor had a hard time cutting the strings?”

“You could say that.” Firefly waves off the street vendor’s enthusiastic well wishes and grabs two handfuls of golden yakitori. One handful gets passed to Hawks while he starts chowing down immediately on the other. “Careful, it’s hot.”

He doesn’t heed the warning, downing a whole stick of chicken in three bites. The heat billows from between his teeth. The ah-ah-ah of him trying to cool his burning mouth earns him a smirk from Firefly that has his heart fluttering. “I believed you, I’m just stupid.”

“It’s cute.” Firefly shrugs. “ I am also stupid. Mouth hurts like hell.”

“Aren’t you fireproof?” From what he understood, being fireproof–or just about–is all part of the deal of being a fire hero. 

Firefly scarfs down another three sticks of chicken, turning down a corner. A thin line of blue extends ahead of them before racing back. The light casts everything in ghostly shades of blue and grey. Every few steps another spark goes off like a shot, tracing over the outsides of alleyways and over the leftover rubble of buildings destroyed by some villain or another. He sees now how Firefly got his name.

“Your quirk is really pretty,” he can’t see shit, but the blue lights sparkle through the dark.

“Back atcha, birdie.” 

His traitorous wings shiver under the compliment. Usually people compliment how useful his wings are, or ask to touch his feathers because they think they’ll be soft, or find them strange or off putting at their full length and bulk. Firefly glances behind him and gives him an obvious once over.

“Aren’t you supposed to have a reputation or something?” Firefly flicks another few lights out, bright enough that Hawks can see all the way down alleyways and into previously shadowed corners. “You’re real easy to fluster, birdie.”

“Ha, well, you know what they say,” and he really wishes he did know what they say, but his mind draws a blank on how to finish that sentence. 

Luckily, one of Firefly’s lines draws the attention of some skulking man in a full body black suit who is just on his way to hop through a window. Not technically a crime, if the house belonged to him, but judging by the loud OH SHIT the man let out when the house lit up blue, probably not the case.

He drops his bag and darts off. Neither hero needs more convincing. Technically, Hawks should stand back and let Firefly show off his stuff, but speed is his specialty and it looks like the man is fast enough to at least dodge Firefly’s first few tosses. Besides, Hawks has no plan to be too rude. He only uses his feathers as fencing, cutting off the man before he can make his way too far down the street. Otherwise, he stays back to watch.

A wall of blue fire lights on either side of the street, closing in on the man’s cowering form. Hawks watches as the man’s frame shrinks beneath his arms. An undignified shriek bounces from the concrete buildings, likely quirk enhanced. Firefly doesn’t flinch against the attack. Another scream vibrates through Hawks’s ears, but he keeps his feathers steady. 

Whatever this guy was doing, he was probably setting up for the morning. Hawks moves away from the main action–Firefly seems to have it under control, condensing the fire cage the man is trapped in. 

The bag was dropped in through a bakery window, which appears to have been pried up earlier and propped open with a few slivers of wood. They probably left just enough space for the man to wiggle his fingers under and yank the window up. No telling what their full plan was, but considering the bakery shares a back wall with a bank, he can bet they weren’t trying to steal the fruit tarts and melon pan. 

Keigo lifts the bag up with a small bundle of feathers and lets it drift until he can keep a good eye on it ahead of him. He always tries not to touch the evidence whenever possible. Makes it kind of hard to prove they were up to something if his prints are all over it. One very notable case had nearly been ruined because the prosecutors had a guy with a recall quirk that could show the last five minutes of whenever a tool was last used. The police officers passing the tool around had taken up two whole minutes of the quirk’s time, leaving three scant minutes to catch the tool in the hands of the perpetrator. 

They’d had a solid case outside of the quirk, but it had still been a close call. Judges tend to punish that kind of incompetence. 

Firefly returns several minutes later with yet another villain tossed over his shoulder. He’s gotta quit doing that , Hawks thinks. The position and Firefly's tight shirt show off a lot of different flat, muscly planes on his body in all this flickering blue light. The combination of shifting shadows and terrible, no good, horrible horny thoughts leaves Hawks with pinning eyes and heart palpitations. 

“Hey, so, pardon me poking my beak places, firebug,” Hawks waits for Firefly to object, but he doesn’t. “But where did you say you trained again? Can’t believe I seem to have missed everything about you.”

“I didn’t. I popped up from the ground like a daisy, birdie, and that’s how it’s gonna stay.” Firefly’s tongue lolls out playfully, but he must be serious because he doesn’t answer Hawks’s question. 

Shortly after dumping the last guy off, Hawks feels a buzzing in his pocket. Okay, so maybe Rumi isn’t too patient. He misses the first call, but it rolls right over into a second. 

While the phone is still ringing he receives the first text. 

Rumi: Chicklett, get your ass home and stop working overtime. They don’t even pay you for that. 

Bun, I swear I’m not let me explain! bhs

Rumi: you can’t just make up random acronyms, dumbass! idk what bhs means!

“Uh, hey firefly! My roommate is bitching at me for sorta ditching our plans. Not on purpose!” He frowns, trying to figure out how to explain without over explaining. “Well, they weren’t really plans. I just have a habit of staying real late at work and technically this isn’t not that.”

“Technically you’re just hanging out with a new friend,” Firefly tilts his head back, brilliant blue eyes catching Hawks for a moment before he sighs and shrugs and looks away. “But if your roommate’s the type to get jealous…”

“Oh!” Hawks laughs, trying to imagine Rumi jealous over him or any man. “She’s like. The gayest rabbit I know. Dating a cutie, actually. Some famous teacher, a real crackshot with kids with complicated quirks. Mirko goes and helps out sometimes.”

Firefly looks at him like he’s grown two heads. “Do you hang around anyone who isn’t famous? Your roommate is the number 5 hero?”

“Well, she wasn’t number 5 when she moved in…” he doesn’t know why he feels defensive about this. He shouldn’t feel defensive about this. “And it helps with the bills! Living so close to my agency is crazy expensive, you know?”

“Mm.” Firefly waves his hand back at him. “Go on and fly away, birdie. Now you know where to catch me. I’m sure I’ll see more of you.”

He watches Firefly’s back as he walks off, lingering just a second too long. Firefly’s white hair is full of shadow and lamplight, blazing and brilliant over his head like a halo. Rumi’s going to laugh so hard at him when he tells her what he’s been up to, but he can’t help it. Firefly is just like him, and the part of Keigo that still lives, just barely, inside Hawks refuses to be quiet about it.

##

“He calls you birdie?” Rumi lays out starfish style on his oversized couch in pajama pants riddled with holes and a shirt four sizes too big for her. The judgement in her tone sounds a little harsh for someone who often calls him chicken nugget. “And he’s already keeping secrets? Why does your taste in guys suck ass so bad, chicklett?”

“Not all of us can find a kindergarten teacher goddess with the patience of a saint and secret all powerful hips , Rumi.” It’s a direct quote and it makes his dressed down friend glow like a luminescent tomato. “I think there’s one of those in existence and you got her.”

“You don’t even like girls.” Rumi pouts, but she’s got a stupid soft smile on her face that makes Hawks happy for her and also disgusted at himself for how jealous he is. “And kindergarten teacher with a great ass isn’t your type.”

“You just said my type sucks.”

“Yeah, and I’m right. Your type is guys who kinda suck.” One long, drawn out dramatic sigh later and she flips his tv on. “Let’s watch those stupid space movies you like.”

“You know they’re called Star Wars.” Hawks flumps onto the couch beside her, shaking his head. “And I know you know this because you’re the one who bought them and you're the one who keeps making us watch them.”

“Space boy goes pewpew.” 

“They… they don’t.” Hawks groans, but Rumi’s teasing works. He’s already grinning through his strange night, despite feeling a little crazy when he told Rumi his new friend reminded him of an old crush. “They use swords. Well, I guess. I guess the stormtroopers. But they’re the bad guys.”

“Space boy goes swish swish doesn’t have the same ring,” Rumi lays her head in his lap and turns on the first movie. She always tries to read the entire scroll out loud and by the time she’s finished they’re both cackling. The movie is cheesy and kind of dumb and there’s a lot of dialogue that makes Hawks roll his eyes. 

When he wakes up in the morning, having dozed sometime between the scroll of the second movie and dawn, a note is pinned into his hair with a bobby pin and Rumi’s signature swirl of a signature. “Early patrol–don’t eat the eggs.”

Which probably means they’ve gone bad again. They should probably just quit buying eggs. His fridge only houses things that require 2 hours of prep time to cook or yogurt. Yogurt it is then. 

His phone lights up and of course Rumi has sent him another selfie of her “flying”, which is what she calls those suicidal jumps she kicks herself into. This one has sunrise colors behind her. He’s positive she’s also sent it to her girlfriend. Knowing Fuyumi she’s sputtering and blushing while preparing for class. 

It occurs to him, now that he’s had some distance, that a proper flirt would have left Firefly his number. Ugh .

Arriving at his agency having eaten yogurt and supplements doesn’t help the tiredness seeping through his bones to weigh down the bags under his eyes. Hina glares at him–an impressive feat with her oversized feather mask–and straightens out her shoulders. 

“Hawks. You’ve received a message from another agency requesting assistance on an ongoing mission.” 

He doesn’t usually turn down extra missions. HPSC made it pretty clear that his standing with the other heroes had to balance being seen as largely cocky and overconfident with being helpful and good to have in a fight. He’s done this pretty well and therefore, his schedule is always full. Keeps money in the hands of his sidekicks and him visible on the streets. He can see why the HPSC holds the standard.

He, on the other hand, personally, is exhausted. If he could tell Hina to take a message, put a pin in it, and he’ll get back to it after he sneaks under his desk in his office and takes a nap, he would do that. He can’t. He’s still tempted to try. “Right, what are the details?”

“Apparently, classified.” Hina’s flighty voice has the same edge to it she gets when Hawks has been outrunning her all day. “‘I’ve sent the request to your office.”

Real sidekick work. She’s probably thrilled by being a glorified secretary. She definitely got out of school and came to his agency to leave his notes on the desk. “Sorry, Hina. If I could give it to you, I would.”

It’s not his fault half the assignments that come in for him are classified. He doesn’t like it any more than she does. And since the other half of the assignments that come in are the only ones the public knows about, he has to take the lead on most of those, too. 

Hina sighs and stares wistfully out of his floor to ceiling window. “Gonna take a fly around for a quick patrol. Maybe some hero down there needs a hand.”

Yeeeah. He’ll have to talk to the Commission about bringing Hina in on some of these classifieds. There has to be something she can do that won’t have them at her throat. She’s going to quit and leave eventually and that’ll look worse for optics than her being a little beat up from a fight a couple of times. In fact, letting her prove herself would probably do wonders for bringing in more recruits. 

Coffee. If he’s going to deal with some secret bullshit today, he’s going to need coffee. He has successfully ignored every doctor who told him his avian-tilted heart can’t handle too much caffeine and it is doing wonders for him not falling asleep at his desk. 

Armed with only slightly burned coffee from the break room, he braves his office. On his desk is a single file folder, thin enough to tell him that some locked video disk probably lies inside. He sucks down a long sip of bitter bean juice, grimaces through the unpleasant taste, and gets to work.

There is a video disk inside. Three mugshots, one of which is very familiar, rest beneath it. A report titled Suspected Organized Villain Activity explains the basics: three guys look like they’re planning something bigger than a bank heist and the HPSC is working with Endeavor Agency to stop them. The big guy himself hasn’t been pulled in–he’s too distracted by something family related, apparently–but several of his more powerful sidekicks in his agency are working daily and nightly patrols in addition to their regular duties. 

Hawks would be expected to work in and to utilize his wings as an information gathering tool. Any mission that requires him to use his wings this way is classified by default because that particular part of his quirk isn’t well known. Eventually someone will work it out, but he hopes to be retired from the espionage position by then. 

He pops the video disk in and sits back to watch, sipping through his actually horrendous coffee. They should replace the machine.

A pink faced–and haired–woman in a black suit hovers over his desk. She’s smiling wide with oversized eyes and four arms crossed politely over her torso and lap. “Hello, agent! So nice to see you doing well.”

“Can’t see me, but okay.”

The holographic woman does not respond or hear him. “This briefing will automatically delete and destroy itself after playing. Please do not take notes.” She pauses, as if waiting for him to put away paper and pencil he doesn’t have. “Now that we’re settled, let’s begin.”

The notes he doesn’t take, but does remember, equal out to this: the three men in the mugshots are actively searching out recruits. No one knows what for. They’re calling themselves a League, though they don’t seem to be involved in anything fitting that description. Overall, they’ve only committed petty thievery and occasional acts of resistance against what they call hero worship society. However, one of them appears far more organized than the others. He has the undying loyalty of one and the genuine friendship of the other–a dangerous combination when his personal goals equate to dismantling the image of the modern hero. 

Hawks waits to hear some kind of plan or worrisome connection that makes this worth his time. Not to be blunt, but these kinds of guys show up all the time and most of them are more charismatic than a lizard, a guy who looks like he needs 18 baths, and a blondie with puppy dog eyes. 

Nothing. She stops talking, the disc shorts out, and he has less than 30 seconds to put it in the specialized container across the room before it sets his desk on fire. 

“Hm.” There hadn’t even been an option to accept or deny the request. “Okay?”

Weird day. 

On the other hand, having to do extra patrols is the perfect excuse for him to be out and about during the night shift. Sure, his eyes are useless, but his feathers have senses enough to make up for it. Maybe this time, he’ll remember to give Firefly his number. 

Speaking of patrols. He best get on his if he wants to finish in time enough to go on another patrol. He pulls out his phone to tell Rumi he’s going to be late(r) getting home tonight. She’s sent him another selfie with a big breakfast and a glass of OJ. 

          I can’t even have eggs and you’re over here with a feast. Don’t wait up, got called in for a double today.

Not technically true, but close enough. Sort of true. He could probably do his extra shift whenever he wants, but that’s what he’s doing and it’ll work out. His phone buzzes a few seconds later and he doesn’t even have to look to guess approximately what it’ll say. 

          Rumi: boooooo. tell them losers to pay you more. you didn’t even finish our movie last night

He’ll have time to feel bad about this later. For now, he’s going to fly circles around his patrol until the bad coffee taste in his mouth is gone. 

One elderly fight and three quirk meltdown preventions later, and he is still suffering from bitter burned beans but now he’s also significantly less caffeined than before. The only solution, of course, resides in the coffee shop halfway through his patrol zone that somehow, blessedly, never has incidents. Ever. Someone who works there must either be the most intimidating person alive or they have discovered the secret to world peace and are hoarding it for their shop. He’s not complaining either way. 

He flips his goggles down, steps into the slightly overgrown walkway, and tries to whistle nonchalantly as he enters. As expected of an avian quirk he whistles extremely well, but the HPSC can’t ask him to stop doing it because everyone can whistle. He knows this fact annoys them to no end, so he does it whenever possible. 

The barista is almost used to having the number 3 hero popping into his shift by now. He still gets a little tongue tied and twisty, but with enough time, Hawks believes he’ll get over it. Surely. 

“H-hey Hawks!” The boy fumbles with the cup in his hand, nearly spilling what Hawks is sure is a lovely matcha latte all over the pretty tan tiles. “Want your usual?”

“You have a usual?”

Hawks does not shout. He does hop, and maybe even curses a little, but that can’t be helped. “ Fucking Christ, Firefly!”

“Can’t say I ever met the man, but I’ll let him know you put in a request.” Firefly leans back away from Hawks’s ear, already smirking. The barista finally does drop his matcha and apologizes profusely before running into the back. Supposedly for more matcha powder, but Hawks can see him peeking through the cut out window of the stock room door. 

“You can’t just sneak up on guys like that, you know?” Hawks holds his chest, trying to still the aggressive beating of his heart. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“I don’t think someone can die from shyness, birdie.” Firefly steps to the side. He’s in his civilian clothes, but his appearance isn’t one that gets hidden easily just because he takes off a jacket. His baggy tank top and tight pants shouldn’t be enough to make Hawks’s mind go blank, but damn if he’s not listening to the white static of his thoughts. 

“Uh,” Hawks looks back at the barista, who is finally remaking the matcha latte with shaking hands and a slightly mournful expression. “I think you broke the barista.”

“Nah. Broke his little mocha coffee flavored heart maybe.”

“I think they call it grande.”

“That’s stupid.” Firefly snorts. “Is a matcha latte your drink of choice?”

Hawks watches the barista write a name over the cup. “He was already making that when I came in.”

“Then what’s the regular?”

“Three espresso shots and a splash of milk.” The boy pipes up as he hands over the other drink and finally turns to look at them again. His ears are bright red. “Well, he says a splash of milk, but we add a good bit and some sugar, too.” 

“Hey!” It’s not his fault he’s very sensitive to bitter tastes and also doesn’t know how to order at coffee shops. It’s not like he learned like most people by ordering the sweetest, tamest thing off the menu as a teenager. He was just thrown into the madness of coffee orders as an adult! “Why’d you start adding extra stuff?”
“We all watched you make faces until you’d added an ungodly amount of sugar to your drink once and thought maybe we’d help you out… Didn’t you notice?”

Well. No. He’d honestly just thought they’d given him shit coffee the first time. It comes in a paper cup with a black lid! Not like he can see what it looks like in there. When he hadn’t needed to open it to adjust it the second time, he’d just thought he’d gotten a better barista. “Uh. Yes.” 

“You’re a terrible liar, Hawks.” Firefly walks passed him and orders a tea Hawks has never heard of with detailed instructions he doesn’t understand. 

Gods, was he raised in a lab to be good at everything? “So, do you come by here often and somehow I’ve never noticed?”

“Did you really just pull the come here often line?” 

“It was a real question!” He’s never been so wrongfooted before. Over some impossible crush. “You are very distinctive and I feel like I’d have noticed you in the coffee shop I’m a semi-regular at.”

“You have a usual. You’re not a semi anything.” They move to the side where Hawks can already see two of his three espresso shots poured into their cup. Firefly hums and stuffs his hands in his stupid tight pockets. “And no, I haven’t been here before. Just debuted in town, remember?”

“Uh. Right.” Hawks rubs his eyes, willing his brain to kick into gear and start working some kind of magic. “I could give you a tour after this? Not too much around in Kyushu, but there’s stuff.”

“Whatever you say, birdie. I wouldn’t turn down company.” Firefly leans back and stares at Hawks with an expression between cocky and nonchalant, which shouldn’t work at all but somehow does. “Besides, I owe you a–what’d you call it? Distracting you on your patrol?”

“Speaking of, would you mind if I bothered you a little more on yours tonight? Investigating something and it’s more of a general thing than a specific neighborhood thing. I’m not exactly a nocturnal bird–feels better to be working with someone when the sun goes down.” A lie–straight through his smile with a flash of dimples. He never works with anyone–notoriously so, even–but he’s counting on Firefly having not done a deep dive into complaints against Hawks. 

“So soon?” Firefly grins and points to the counter behind him where Hawks’s drink waits for him. “Sounds like fun.”

Hawks closes his hand over the barista’s number, pretending not to see. “Great! Sounds like we’re gonna be seeing a lot of each other today, hm? Tour, then patrol. Careful, firebug. I’ll think you got a crush.”

Firefly laughs at that, following Hawks to his table to finish waiting on his tea. “Oh, if I start crushing, you’ll know it birdie. I don’t do things in halves. I’m probably too intense for you.”

The violent shudder through his wings insists that no , Firefly is probably just the right amount of everything for Hawks, but he’s not stupid or desperate enough to voice that. So instead he shrugs. “Your loss.”

“I don’t doubt it.” 

And that is enough to finally push his heart over the edge and firmly out of his control. He grins again, this time both dimples on display, and not an inch of the expression is faked. “So, what do you want to see in Kyushu?”

It takes another few minutes for Firefly’s tea to finish, his heat wrap strangely devoid of any names or numbers, aside from a single D written on the side. Must be his way of keeping his civilian name a secret, even if he’s openly discussing patrols with Hawks. 

“You know, I’ve never quite been able to fly with my flames.” Firefly snaps his finger and lights a small blue ball before pulling his fingers apart and watching it disappear. “I can manage short bursts of speed and long jumps, but never quite got the hang of staying in the air like some other fire users.”

“Is that so?” Hawks’s feathers flutter in interest, but he ignores them. He’s used to people asking to fly with him. He’s got a hundred ways of dissuading them. Most people can’t handle being in the air without a vessel around them like they think they can. “Scared of heights?”

“Nah.” Firefly eyes Hawks’s wings, which still fluff and retract slightly at the thought of carrying Firefly high into the air. “Pretty fucking terrified of falling, though. Probably shouldn’t risk it.”

He’s not disappointed, really, it’s just the exhaustion and the aching loneliness and the fact he’d maybe actually wanted to be talked into it for once. “Ah, yeah. I mean, I’ve never dropped anyone, but I’ve seen it happen and it’s a lot.”

“You saw someone squash on the pavement?”

“Well, no. They were caught before that.” He sighs. “Still almost had a heart attack. The paramedics were real pissed about it.”

“Who dropped someone?”

Endeavor, who should probably not be put on rescue missions for the rest of his life. “Oh, uh. Not important.”

“Come on, birdie. Don’t wanna gossip ‘bout your big hero friends?”

Definitely not allowed to make the number 2 sound bad. “Not that, it’s just not really a big deal. The guy lived in the end, just had a few palpitations to work through.”

Firefly laughs and thankfully the giant All Might statue–he’s pretty sure every town is obligated to have one–distracts him enough to change the subject. Now that he thinks about it, Hawks is pretty sure there’s like three All Might statues in Kyushu alone. Luckily only one of them is as huge and eyecatching as this one. Firefly holds his hand against the foot. “What would you do if I melted this whole thing right now?”

Alarm bells go off in Hawks’s head but he soundly ignores them. Sure, he can’t let Firefly do that, but like, also. “Can you do that? Like are your flames that hot?”

“Oh, yeah.” Firefly drops his hand. Apparently Hawks not freaking out took all the fun out of his tease. “Got the hottest flames on record, unofficially. Can’t go showing up the big guy, of course.”

Hawks blinks, more owl than hawk, as he tries to puzzle through the implication. “Wait, you’re hiding how strong you are because of Endeavor?” 

“Don’t you?” Firefly grins again, but this one has more teeth. “You work pretty close with him, and I know you’re faster even if you aren’t stronger. Quirk match up doesn’t matter. You could have chosen a bigger, busier city to put your agency in, but you chose sleepy little Kyushu. You’re trying not to compete with him.”

Those alarm bells get louder. “Well, looks like we have something in common. Can’t say I enjoy the spotlight as much as he seems to.”

“Yet, you’re the number 3 hero.” Firefly hums, tilting his head to the side, eyes narrowed. Hawks can’t tell if he’s supposed to look playful or predatory. “Don’t seem too bothered by the spotlight.”

“Rankings fly when you’re having fun?”

“Mhm. If you say so, birdie.” Suddenly, Firefly lets it drop. He steps back away from the All Might statue and stuffs his hands back into his pockets. “Let’s eat something. I believe it's your treat and you need to get to the more populated patrol areas anyway. Lunch rush is always prime time for attacks.”

Hawks nods, trying not to let his confusion show on his face. Those were some strong interrogation tactics Firefly had just used on him, and he recognizes each one. 

Who, exactly, had trained Firefly?

Notes:

Hey hey, please leave kudos and comments. It means a lot and I'd really like it if you did.

If you want to go read, kudos, and comment on other works of mine in this ship:

Dragon Hearted : [e] Fantasy AU, Dabi is a Dragon (wizard) in the tower.

Wounds We Carry [M] Dabihawks Week 25; branding.

Sweet on the Tongue [E] Truth Quirk hits Hawks.

You can also find me on tumblr

Chapter 3: 41

Summary:

Keigo has meetings and commitments.

“You eat an insane amount,” Firefly raises his eyebrows as Hawks orders two bowls of noodles, a handful of yakitori, and a meatbun. 

“Do you know how many calories flying burns?” Hawks shrugs, smiling at the stall owner as he hands over a handful of bills. “A ton. Anyway, one of these bowls is yours. Do you… do you want some of the yakitori? I don’t mind sharing.”

He didn’t want to share, but he would. 

“Nah, I gotta eat light or my stomach kills me.” Firefly taps at his stomach where it's flat beneath his compression shirt and jacket. “It’s almost impossible to get out of this shit.” 

“Is it full body?” The black compression covers Firefly’s fingertips, his neck, all the space beneath his bomber jacket. The little bit of space between the bunched ends of Firefly’s dark pants and the tops of his shoes are black as well, but maybe those are just socks? “Like, legs and all?”

“You’re watching awful close, birdie.” Firefly flicks his eyes up and down Hawks’s body and he feels himself turn red. “Can’t say I mind the attention, though.” 

Hawks doesn’t know where Firefly gets all of his confidence, but he desperately wishes he could tap into it. Thoughts flop around his head, refusing to connect in any way to his mouth so he just sits, mouth open, dazed expression, until the stall owner shouts for them. He tries to smother the blush in his cheeks–really, he has a reputation to uphold–but it's no good. The stall owner chuckles at him. 

“Is our local newbie swinging for the stars?” The stallowner speaks to Firefly even though Hawks is the one who bought everything. “If it works out I’ll tell everyone my stall brought true love to the number two hero.”

“You’d sell so much yakitori.” Firefly nods, as if this is a sound strategy and not an exceptionally brazen proposal. “Too bad, think I’m a bit out of his league.”

The stallowner practically crows at that, slapping his long, knobby fingers beside his register. “You are my favorite, Firefly. Give it a year, you’ll be giving Hawks a run for his money.”

Hawks grimaces. He never has been fond of the rankings. The fact he rose up to number two is mostly to do with the Commission and his own insistence that he wants heroes to be fully redundant. In order to achieve that, he’s extremely proactive. His city. His nest. His home. Kyushu is under his protection and as far as he’s concerned, nothing will happen here that he doesn’t handle before it hurts someone.

Firefly takes the second bowl and the wrapped up meat bun so Hawks can give his feathers a rest. He jokingly promises not to eat anything but the noodles, and Hawks can’t help but give him a half-serious thank you in return. 

He tries to be delicate when he eats, but he’s starving. Lunch was forever ago, and dinner had been non-existent. Breakfast consisted of nothing more than a protein bar and a handful of supplements the Commission swears are meant to keep him full longer, but he’s always ready to devour his own arm by his next meal. He barely ever remembers what it's like not to be hungry. 

To his credit, Firefly doesn’t tell him to slow down or take a second. He just sips his noodles and broth and occasionally grins at Hawks when he has to puff air from his mouth to cool everything down. It’s nice, really nice. Hawks usually only ever dines with Mirko and even that’s been more and more rare since they both started getting more busy. He kind of wants to stay here forever, chewing on yakitori and catching moments when Firefly glances up at him with those impossible blue eyes.

About the fifth time he nearly melts his tongue off on the chicken, Firefly laughs and reaches out, placing a cool palm over his cheek. The touch startles him enough that he goes completely still, eyes wide as he waits for Firefly to explain exactly what he’s doing.

"Did it work?” Firefly’s fingertips press into Hawks’s cheek, slipping down to trace his jawline. “Frost is a secondary quirk, though it’s not nearly as strong as my flames. Got it from my mother. Haven’t figured out how to do much more than parlor tricks with it.”

Hawks considers, then plucks one of his feathers, holding it out in his palm. “Here, hold this.” 

Firefly does as he’s told, thankfully removing his hand from Hawks’s cheek as the pro-hero propels himself to the sky. He goes far–far enough that Firefly can’t possibly shout loud enough for Hawks to hear him. 

Then he concentrates on the single feather in Firefly’s hand, pulling at it until the feather wiggles free. Technically he’s always been free to tell people about this, but never had a reason to. He moves the feather carefully over Firefly’s palm. 

S-P-E-A-K

He feels the fingers that pluck the feather from the air, vanes tapping against soft lips as the other man considers what to say. He tries not to let it go to his head. Or anywhere else.

“What should I say, pretty bird?” The man’s voice rumbles and Hawks realizes quickly that he didn’t think this plan through. His feathers are sensitive–and most often he uses that for sound, but right now he can feel the ghost of breath over the vanes like it’s trailing over his back and he shivers, forcing himself to concentrate. He started this, after all, he should pay enough attention to finish it. 

He’s paying such close attention to Firefly and whatever he might choose to say next, that he almost doesn’t see the flash of green in the patrol area. It’s moving fast–some kind of vehicle–but it's not the speed that catches his eye. No, it’s the same lizard-quirked man they’d apprehended earlier, which is just as well because Hawks has several questions to ask him. Or well, the Commission does. 

He’s just started his descent when Firefly makes up his mind what to say. Hi, 41.

Suddenly, the green blur on the horizon means nothing. The lizard on the bike might as well be a speck of dust for all he gives a shit about his mission right now.

Very few things have ever been more important to him than paying back the Commission for making him a hero. Really, only one thing. Person, actually. Just one. Who else, looking like Firefly does, would know the number his handlers gave him?

Hawks descends so fast he almost crashes to the ground. “Starlight?” 

It doesn’t occur to him until later that he should have tried to keep quiet. That Firefly may have been secretive for a reason. There’s a second where Firefly’s brow lowers, his smile frozen in place, and then he’s leaning forward to grab at Keigo’s hand. “We gotta go, pretty bird.” 

“Why–why did you–”

“We gotta situation.” Firefly jerks his head in the opposite direction of the running lizard man and Keigo tries to swallow down the confusion crashing around the cage of his body, a broken warble slipping out. Firefly places a soothing hand on his shoulder, but the moment is brief. “Come on, pretty bird. We’ll talk later.”

Hawks nods, wrestling all of his impossible feelings back into the box he kept them in. Locks it, holds it tightly closed. “Lead the way.”

“Actually,” Firefly flashes him a crooked smile, hauntingly pretty in the dark. “I was thinking you could give me a lift.”

Hawks scoops him up and they take off, down the street and around several turns. He’s careful not to fly too high. Aside from turning slightly green, Firefly doesn’t seem at all bothered by Hawks’s speed. He doesn’t stop until they’re in front of another building, several floors tall, and a redhaired, green eyed woman with a thorn quirk smiles down at them from the top floor. 

She monologues, or starts to, while Firefly burns down the vines curling over the building, blocking the exits. Hawks’s feathers find several civilians, each of them deeply unconscious, all of them covered in pinprick marks from the thorns. The wounds aren’t deep, as if she’d only pricked them and then dragged them to the corner herself. A strange move for a villain hellbent on punishing them for their environmental crimes, which she is currently several minutes deep in describing to Firefly.

“Don’t let her catch you with the thorns,” Hawks shouts, and Firefly laughs, loud and a little manic as his fire burns hotter. The woman screams–he think she called herself something with Toxic in it. “She’s done something to the people in the building.”

“Don’t worry, Hawks,” Firefly calls back, his eyes flashing. 

Hawks chirps, hopping once as his feathers flit through the building and count the hostages. He won’t risk moving them–not without knowing what effect the thorns have–but they all seem stable, all just sleeping. He turns his attention back to the villain at hand. 

Toxicine, that was her name. She saunters and sways, dressed up like a doll in the oversized office she’s taken over. A dozen or so documents sit, open, on the desk she periodically walks around, fingers dragging across wood with an awful, screeching sound that makes Hawks’s ears feel like they’re bleeding. Maybe if they can get her wrapped up quick they can go after that guy from before. 

Hawks pushes the brief reminder that Firefly knows his numbers back into the box. The lock doesn’t seem to want to click. The lid doesn’t fit on right. Hawks takes a deep breath and refocuses. The woman is going on another rant. Something about heroes deemed heroes, who should be cast aside as villains, and villains (herself, no doubt) who should be lifted up as heroes for being willing to expose them.

Ah, right. She’s upset about collateral damage numbers, ruined habitats, animals and plants run out from their homes.

“They’ve been killed. If we include the murdered animals and plants, then it’s heroes like you who are the monsters.” She hisses, a true hiss, at Firefly. Her red lipstick is surprisingly resilient. It doesn’t smear. Not even when her impassioned speech leaves spittle on her chin. 

“You coulda done this any other way, Toxicine.” Firefly sneers, whipping a line of controlled fire around over the desk. Somehow he controls it enough that the vines curling from her arms, down her legs and over her ripped up dress all catch, but the wooden desk and flapping papers don’t. 

“Your control is incredible,” Hawks says. His feathers rush around the room, cutting through half-burned traps just to ensure they were fully non-functioning. 

Firefly blushes, and it’s the first time he’s looked truly flustered since they met. The bracelets on his arms flare, bright in the dark of the powered down office. Silver flashes all around Firefly’s outfit and Hawks considers maybe there’s more than one reason he chose his hero name. 

It reminds him of another, and that box threatens to pop, bubbling over with a name Hawks doesn’t dare say. 

“Flattery will get you lots of places, Hawks,” Firefly chuckles, low and throaty and sweet. Toxicine stomps her foot, snarling as she’s roundly ignored. “But maybe not right now.”

“Right, of course.” Hawks laughs, pulling his feathers back from their scouting. The good thing about having removable feathers–of which there are many–is that he can sneak up on someone standing right in front of him. She’s still mid-rant when his feathers form a cage of sharp, blood red knives. “Maybe when we finish dinner?”

“You’re still hungry?” Firefly laughs, another of his deep, full laughs and Hawks’s feathers all shiver. Toxicine notices, rolling her eyes. 

“You’re both disgusting. What, too stuck on each other to pay attention when someone has a real problem?”

“Seems like if you wanted all those guys to listen to you, you probably shouldn’t have put them to sleep?” Hawks shrugs, grinning. “Seems like a strange plan to me.”

“I don’t care what it seems like to you.” She spits, and Hawks dodges so it doesn’t hit him. “Make sure these papers get somewhere useful. I don’t care what happens to me.”

Hawks hums, looking to Firefly. Technically, it is his patrol. His call. “Whatever you want, hot stuff.”

“You know anyone with a invested in,” Firefly picks up the papers and flips through them, “Shit, there’s actually a lot of stuff here. Got everything from stream toads to wood pigeons.” 

“There’s tons. Probably would look best if you turned it in though,” Hawks tries to steer Firefly towards credit, towards a higher ranking. Making the right call here… It’s the kind of thing the HPSC would break him over, if he played it wrong. 

“Actually,” Firefly looks between Toxicine, shrinking back from the feather blades. “This kind of thing coming from me–a new hero with no reputation, a fire quirk, working the night shifts? My personality wouldn’t help anything either.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ah, you know.” Firefly looks at him, shaking his head and tossing Hawks the papers. “People would think I was sympathizing. Bleeding heart and all that for a fellow misfit.” 

Firefly rubs one hand along his jaw, brows drawing in. He seems to make up his mind and shrugs, walking towards the door. He pushes a button on his belt and tosses it to her. 

“What do you mean a misfit?” Hawks laughs, trying to hide his confusion. The papers outline at least a dozen incidents where damage from heroes–most of them not even villain fights–have caused destruction of natural habitats of endangered plants and even direct loss of animal life. “You’re the most charismatic guy I know.”

“You just keep proving you don’t know very many guys.” Firefly heads out the door, running down the stairs. “No more flying, birdie. We gotta get back to patrol. Who knows what kinda shits hit the fan since we got distracted?”

Hawks doesn’t ease up his feathers. They’ll have to stay until the woman is apprehended. “Want help gathering up all these civilians?”

“You don’t mind gathering them the old fashioned way?” Firefly heads towards the first group in the hallway outside. She’d barricaded herself in the room with the CEO at first. Apparently he’d been less than forthcoming and had been the first to collapse right outside the door. 

Her plan hadn’t been bad. If it had been a hero with a quirk less suited to take hers down, she might have kept this going for several hours. Reporters, journalists, newscasters. The building would have been swarmed with officers and heroes. An audience for her cause, people to listen to her and know that she wasn’t just some jewelry thief or crazed maniac trying to break apart society for the hell of it. 

Hawks shivers. Toxicine is a more dangerous kind of villain–because she wouldn’t have broken. The cause, to her, was more important than any personal stakes. Even still, she hadn’t done anything unforgivable. No one had died. No one was even hurt very badly, if the already groaning and mumbling men were any indication. 

She’d be out long before her passion ran out. 

And the worst part is that, she’s not wrong. Hawks would never be caught by the HPSC saying so, but her points are well supported. One glance over the paperwork before he shoves it in his pockets shows graphs of declining population densities, reports of incidents connecting the decline in increased hero presence in the areas.

 Bringing this in front of the agencies affected by her accusations could lead to them being more careful in the future, taking the proper precautions. Or they could hole themselves off, cover their tracks better. Hide, because their quirks were hard to control and the cost of insurance climbs higher every year. A hero’s collateral damage percentage didn’t just affect their ranking. Agencies had gone under purely based on the cost of coverage. 

He couldn’t hide it. He couldn’t be reckless with it either. 

The man in his arms is heavier than he looks and wriggling. He mumbles something about that damn woman before shifting in Hawks’s arms, trying to turn in his sleep. Hawks grunts, dragging him forward by his flailing arms. 

“You’re stronger than you look, little bird.” Firefly has already pulled three people against a wall. They’re all starting to wake, groggy and disoriented. “Big help over there.”

Hawks nods, distracted, but when Firefly reaches over, one limp woman tossed over his shoulder, and presses a warm hand against his forearm, Hawks grins back. “No problem. Can’t bother you on your patrols and not help, right?”

They don’t end up getting the man from Hawks’s mission. By the time the cops arrive with quirk subduing handcuffs the man is long gone and Hawks’s wings droop against the street in exhaustion. They have to keep redirecting questions away from Hawks, who refuses to answer anything because, again. Not his patrol. Not his limelight. 

Every time an officer appears to try to get his statement (again, he’s already given it and he thinks three attempts is too much by any estimate), he only grins as wide as he can and points them to Firefly. “He’s the hero on duty, I’m just a little bird passing by.”

The fourth time someone walks up, Firefly snorts and tosses an arm across the poor officer’s shoulder and leads him back towards the civilians. “We all know he’s pretty, but give the man a break. You know he’s been working since this morning?” 

“Oh!” The officer casts a sidelong, guilty look to Hawks, as if he somehow is to blame for Hawks’s (and the Commission’s) bad decisions. “He must be exhausted.”

“Of course not.” Firefly laughs, more controlled than before. He waves his hand behind the officer’s back, and Hawks wants to argue. 

They have things to talk about.

But he can recognize a dismissal when he sees it. He waves, ignores the flutter in his stomach when Firefly waves back, unsubtle when he chooses to watch Hawks spread his wings and lift off into the sky. 

He makes one last effort to find the man from the file. Over the city, high enough above the buildings that he can see every street stretching out like spiderwebs of car lights and vendors. The dark makes it almost impossible but he tries anyway. Nothing–the man and the League have disappeared for the night. 

He’s exhausted. 

He wants to know how Firefly knows his number. There’s only one explanation that makes sense. Hawks’s chest aches, and he remembers the silver lights flashing over Firefly’s black costume, the ghostly blue lines of his fire. Another name, a name far more suited to the hero, echoes back at him, and Hawks wants to call him Starlight, just once. Just to see if he answers. 

##

“You haven’t been home for more than a few hours in weeks, chicklet,” Rumi accuses, splayed out on his couch in yet another oversized t-shirt, collar cut out and sleeves curled in. A plate of cookies sits on her stomach, and from the looks of the pile, she’s eaten at least half of them. 

“Well, you know.” Hawks drags his talons over the floor. His boots always keeps them cramped, too small to let them stretch out fully. “Not all of us control our own schedule.”

“You run your own agency.” She points to the tv. “And you missed our show. Again.”

“We’re still watching something?” He grouses, flopping himself on the couch. Rumi moves the cookies seconds before he lands on her. He grimaces at the grit of crumbs beneath him. “What were we watching again?”

“Mandalorian.” She picks up one of the cookies from the plate and starts nibbling on the edges. This is why there’s little bits of food dust all over the apartment that he’s constantly sweeping up so he doesn’t get them in his feathers. Or worse, have to walk across them.

They aren’t usually very messy, but sometimes he remembers that Rumi probably had some kind of normal life where she got to just run around and sweep up when she felt like it and not whatever his upbringing had been. His upbringing had started in trash and moved into rooms and bunkers so spotless that his handlers could make him eat off the floor. 

“Did you eat?” Rumi offers him a cookie. He declines, and allows himself to mourn the meat bun probably crushed somewhere in Firefly’s jacket.

“Sort of.” He’s still hungry, but he had to accept a long time ago that hunger is just something he experiences, nonstop, no matter how much he eats. “Got interrupted.”

“By your new boyfriend?”

“No.” Hawks frowns. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Crush, then.” Rumi laughs, tapping her fingers against his back as she shifted so they fit more comfortably. “Whatever he is, you’re running yourself ragged trying to hang out with him all the time. Why don’t you try to set aside time during, I don’t know, a day off?”

“What’s that?”

“Ha. Ha.” She flips the channel off the tropical themed horror movie she’d been watching. He’s never seen such an inventive use of a pineapple before, but then it’s gone, changed over to a show with a tiny green monster baby and a man with no real face. “You know, what you’d do if you had any control over your life. Take a day off, go to the park. Look deep into his eyes and tell him you think he’s your long lost love. Fly off into the sunset.”

She’s been watching too many romance movies when he’s not around. He laughs. Heaving himself off the couch takes more effort than it should. Maybe he really did push himself too far. He darts to the kitchen, yanks open the fridge. There’s three different types of takeout and at least one of them smells alright. Sure, the HPSC wants him to eat healthy but if they were serious about that then they shouldn’t have him working doubles (at least) for the foreseeable future. 

He does not feel guilty that the carrots and green onions in the crisper are starting to wilt. He’ll make something with them tomorrow. 

He tries not to imagine asking the HPSC for a day off as he sits back on the couch–more carefully this time, not disturbing Rumi’s tight hold on the cookie plate. Even if he tries to play it off like it may help the mission somehow, they’d never let him take a break from hero duties. What if he missed something? What if they missed something because he missed something?

“You watching or are you staring at that chicken stir fry until it explodes?” She kicks her foot out towards the tv. Mando is trying to set the green baby on a rock. The green baby does not want to wait on the rock. It’s actually a really good show, he remembers enjoying it. 

“You watched ahead of me.”

“You were like, never here.” She shrugs, then navigates back to where they were. “The chick he went to meet was, as expected, fucking awesome.”

“Of course.” The chicken is cold. He prefers his chicken served to him by a stall owner that thinks Firefly is out of his league, who has possibly the best Yakitori Hawks has ever eaten. He chews on a piece of asparagus. “Did she refuse the baby? I can’t remember?”

“Grogu. Come on man, if you’re not going to watch for weeks you have to at least remember what happened.” Rumi doesn’t pout, exactly, but she does huff and sigh a lot. “Can’t believe my best friend is a crazy workaholic.”

“Pot and kettle and all that.” He waves her off, picking out all of the cold chicken and eating each bite as slowly as he can manage. It makes the hunger bearable for longer, he thinks. 

They get through the episode before Hawks falls asleep with his chopsticks in the styrofoam container, legs stretched out, neck at an awkward angle. 

He wakes up later, convinced he hears someone calling for him, his feathers on alert in the darkness. His back hurts. His feet are aching. The crick in his neck pulls tension through his shoulder and wing. Somehow he didn’t spill any food. Impressive priorities.

“Hm?” He swears he hears something, again, followed by the whisper of a warm touch against his back. He jumps, searching behind him. No one. 

He checks, almost certain some overzealous fan must have gotten one of his feathers again. Most people don’t know what they do, but that doesn’t stop the more… ahem. amorous ones. from stealing the more flighty, free parts of him and trying to have a good time. 

He shudders and tries to pay attention to the stray sound. It’s far, stead, and the familiar warmth settles the bloom of anxiety the missing feather had brought on. It takes him a second to place the feeling. 

Another shiver as warmth brushes up his spine, the sensation of a thumb smoothing down the red fibers and pressing against the hollow shaft. He twitches the feather, testing how tightly the captor is holding it, before he hears the laugh. The feather is distant enough to muffle the sound, but he still recognizes it. Deep, rumbling, like a thunderstorm and he’s thrown right to the center. 

“Goodnight, pretty bird.” A hum, one more gentle brush over warm knuckles. “Sleep well.”

Hawks lays in bed and tries not to be jealous of a feather. Tries not to imagine asking Firefly the question he has to already know the answer to. 

##

“Hawks,” Nemura smiles at him, hands him a file with a too chipper smile. “We heard you had a hand in quite a daring rescue. The CEO of a respected hero network says you’re to thank for his life and his business being safe and sound?”

“Well, actually.” Hawks clears his throat. He’s been trying not to get distracted by thoughts of the feather Firefly still has all morning. The man hasn’t used it since his farewell last night, but he could any minute now and it would be a shame for the HPSC to catch Hawks distracted. “Firefly brought the villain down. I ran minimal assistance. Really.”

“Really?” She tsks, disbelieving as she reviews the report. “And yet, Firefly says your help was instrumental, and that you even utilized your feathers as the final, successful apprehension.”

“Of course not.” Hawks pulls out his most PR, heroically acceptable smile. “The final apprehension was made by the officers Firefly brought to the scene. As I said before, I assisted, but Firefly did most of the actual work. I mostly just checked on civilians and helped secure the exits.”

Firefly’s perfect control of his quirk had done a lot more to ensure the success of both apprehending Toxicine and preventing crucial evidence from being destroyed during her arrest. Hawks would not take credit for that. 

“Toxicine is saying that you promised to come forward with her evidence.” Nemura’s wings chirp and twitch behind her. She’s never been as good as him at hiding her heteromorphic traits. Hawks has always wondered how much she really tries. That chirp, the sound of pale wings screaming at him, grates at him. 

Stridulation: to make a harsh sound. Nemura taught him the word when he asked her if she meant to do that with her wings. Looking back now, he knows it was a rude question. Of course, he’d been eight and even then she was a grown woman. 

A migraine starts in the back of his head. He grips the edge of his desk, clenches his teeth to keep his smile. 

“Have you already reached out to anyone concerning the information you received, Hawks?”

Ah. Cold drops over Hawks. This is why she’s called this meeting.

At least it wasn’t about him letting the League contact go. Firefly hadn’t even known about him. Hawks hadn’t known how to explain suddenly disappearing to chase after some other villain when Firefly had let him go along on patrol. Especially since, technically, he had no proof the heteromorph was doing anything wrong this time. Not any proof he could tell Firefly, anyway. 

“I do have a pretty impressive stack of notes and data outlining how the presence of the heroes has negatively impacted the–”

“Local habitats.” Nemura’s smile sharpens, one of her four hands stretching out towards him. “And of course you have it with you in your office. You shouldn’t worry yourself about that, Hawks.”

“She may have gone about it in the wrong way, but her information is solid.” Hawks doesn’t shift his body to cover the drawer in his desk where he’s keeping the “Sure, we’ll need to investigate more but–”

“You shouldn’t worry yourself about that,” she repeats, wide eyes narrowing until Hawks shrinks back. He doesn’t think they’d risk leaving marks on him, now, but he doesn’t want to find out if he’s right. Nemura’s four arms have always been powerful and precise with her strikes. “We’ll take care of it from here.”

Hawks considers lying. He considers telling her he doesn’t know what she’s talking about, that he read the charts and graphs and reports and then gave it to police. Technically, it’s what he should have done. It’s what he’s supposed to do according to the rules set out by the HPSC about the handling of sensitive information. Actually, that’s wrong. He’s not even supposed to read it. Just hand it over to police and trust them to handle it. He doesn’t. Doesn’t ever fully know if he believes them when they tell him they have it “well in hand.” He’s seen the police with a situation well in hand. His father, on the news, was often described as a situation they had “well in hand.”

He doesn’t lie. The file is heavier in his hand than when he’d put it in his desk. “We could investigate it. It wouldn’t take much just to look.”

“If you want.” She smiles at him, wings chittering behind her. “But understand, we’re taking care of it.”

He nods. She sits and stares at him and he can’t tell if he’s forgotten some part of their back and forth that she’s waiting for him to pick up on, or if the meeting is over. He hopes it’s the last one. God he wants the meeting to be over. 

“You’re not going to ask about the file I gave you?”

He blinks, looking down at the manila folder in his hand. “Oh. Right. What is this?”

She makes a displeased noise, her long nails tapping against his desk as she considers him. “You’ve been distracted, lately, Hawks.”

“I apologize.” He barely keeps the sarcasm from his voice. From the look on Nemura’s face, she’s well aware of how insincere he is. “Working nonstop has been proven to be detrimental to performance.”

“We’ve had these discussions before, Hawks.” 

“You’re absolutely correct.” Hawks opens the folder. Flips through it. Sighs, and puts it down. “He was spotted yesterday. Before the Toxicine incident.”

“We’re well aware. Spinner was caught on camera stealing several medical supplies–we assume for his heteromorphic skin issues–with at least two new blades.” She sighs, again. He hates it when she sighs. Nothing good ever happens when Nemura sighs. “There are rumors that he’s been seeking out the hero killer.”

“Hero killer isn’t anywhere near here.” Hawks laughs, which is clearly a mistake. Nemura stands. She’s tall–has always been much taller than him–and her sharp, pointed face looks ready to cut him. “He’s all the way in Hosu. I’m fairly certain if he was near here, he’d be all over the news.”

“Spinner travels fast–it’s one of the main things that makes him dangerous.” Nemura leans back. “And he’s in your city, around your citizens. Don’t you even care, Hawks? What kind of hero ignores a threat to his city like this?”

“I didn’t–”

“Don’t worry.” Nemura soothes, and he hates how badly his feathers scruff, a chilled sweat sliding down his back. “We’ll keep you from falling behind, Hawks. We’ll keep you on track. You just have to trust us.”

And he doesn’t have a choice, does he? He tries to quell the clench of his stomach, the pain in his talons and shoulders and neck, the migraine pounding at his temples. If nothing else, the HPSC poured enough money and resources into him to get him to the number 2 spot. They wouldn’t want to waste all of that effort. 

“Right.” He taps the file and settles back. “I’ll work harder to find him. He has to be somewhere around, if he’s been moving through the city. I’m sure I’ll find him.”

“Good. We’re looking forward to seeing how you fix this, Hawks.”        

Notes:

This will be edited later when I'm less busy with links, but my bluesky: @alittleghostmonster, tumblr: ghostrobin.

Please, come tell me stories you want me to write and ideas you have, I love filling prompts. Best past time and I need to up the amount of dabihawks on my account.