Chapter Text
“It’s so stupid, who cares what their cashier is wearing, anyway?” Your fingers pinch at the stiff fabric of your shirt, your cell phone balanced between your shoulder and your ear as you lean against the counter.
“Everyone loves a woman in uniform,” Makoto’s laugh rings through the receiver, and you roll your eyes as if your friend was standing right next to you.
“Maybe if it was like, a sexy uniform. What the fuck good is a polo?” You crack your gum against your teeth, barely casting a glance as the bell atop the door jingles and two customers step inside.
“Polos can be sexy. You just hate your job.”
“You would too, if you were me. Can you help me edit my resume on Saturday?”
“Do I have to?”
You groan, letting your gaze slide over to the two men perusing the aisles. Job prospects had not been good since you’d graduated; the summer job that was supposed to be a placeholder until you found something worthwhile had lasted you well into the following spring, and you’re fairly confident that your outdated resume was no help. Makoto had been the first of your friends to land a cushy office job—with benefits— before the semester had even come to a close. You’re certain he knows something you don’t, and his unwillingness to help you out made you feel like a younger sibling begging for attention.
“Fine. If you won’t help, I’ll stay home this weekend and do it myself.”
“You will do no such thing!” There’s an indignant scoff on his end, and you smirk in satisfaction. “You and I both know you’re not missing the UA Sports Festival for something that stupid. I’ll help you next weekend.”
“Promise you’ll help me on Tuesday after your shift and I’ll come.”
“I can make Wednesday work— if — you snag whatever discount candy is left and bring it for our watch party.”
“You, sir, have yourself a deal.” You watch as the larger of the two men shopping pockets an energy drink from the cooler and scowl. “Mako, I need my hands. Gonna have to call you back.”
You set your phone down and feel the familiar hum of your quirk activating underneath your skin. You’re not really supposed to use it at work; it’s technically illegal, but it’s not like your ability causes any actual damage, so no harm, no foul. Wiry tendrils spring forth from your fingertips, and within seconds they’re wrapping around the man’s forearm— they’re not strong enough to do anything besides make him startle, and you fix him and his friend with your most intimidating glare.
“Sir, I’m gonna ask you to put that back.”
He shakes his arm in attempts to dispel the coils wrapped around it, his face twisting in aggravation. “Back off, lady. I’m starving; have some sympathy, huh?”
“You’re starving and the first thing you grab is a redbull? Dude, get lost. Don’t make me call the police.” You have no real intention of calling anybody; shoplifting is so common in convenience stores that no one really bats an eye, but your boss has been on your ass lately about being distracted on the job and you know if he gets off with any merchandise, you’re getting fired. “Put the can back and get outta here, or we’re gonna have trouble.”
The other man is all nerves; he clutches his hands close to his chest, fingers nervously fiddling with the zipper of his jacket as he mumbles something to his partner. You think he’s trying to get the guy to agree and book it before you escalate any further; but he growls in response, glaring at you with malice.
“We’re gonna have trouble, alright. You should’ve just minded your business.”
You’re midway through a snarky retort when you catch the telltale signs of his own quirk whirring to life; he starts to balloon, his cheeks growing fatter and skin puffing up before rippling outward, his body morphing to expand his anger into something grotesque. You have just enough sense to smack the emergency button underneath your register before ducking for cover, and in the split second it takes to do so, the man triples in size.
It could be a rapid growth quirk, or some sort of emotion-based rage amplifier. Either way, it’s a transformation type, and you hiss as his massive form snaps your wires mid length and cry out again as his increased height tears a hole in the ceiling.
Fuck, now you really need a new job.
You throw your hands up over your head to protect yourself from the debris that rains down onto you, ignoring the phantom pain that lingers where threads had once been. He’s making his way toward you, and you don’t have long; the wreckage has blocked the exit, and you suck in a breath as you listen to heavy footsteps traverse over destroyed displays, crushing metal selling racks in the process.
Turns out, he’s as fast as the news makes him out to be. There’s a flash of red in your periphery, so sudden that you’d miss it, if you blinked; and before you can even process that someone else has entered the store (or what was left of it,) your attacker is shrunk back to normal and laying face down in the mess he’d created.
“You alright down there?”
Tentatively, you look up. He looks like an angel— the coloring’s all wrong, but the sentiment is there— and your breath gets caught in your throat.
“Holy shit, you’re— wow,” you force yourself to suck in a gasp of air, adrenaline making it hard to articulate yourself. “Can I get your autograph?”
Japan’s number three hero, the most influential figure of your generation, huffs out a laugh as he reaches out a hand to help lift you up. “Sure, assuming you didn’t hit your head and that’s the concussion talking.”
You take the offering, gloved fingers helping you to your feet. You wince at the contact, your own fingertips burning from the fresh injury, dusting off your legs once you’re upright. “I didn’t and it’s not,” even standing, you have to look up to meet his eyes. “’S not for me, my friend is a huge fan.” Riko was totally going to kill you out of jealousy when she heard about this; the least you could do was get a napkin with his signature scrawled across it or something.
“What, you’re not a member of the Hawks fanclub?” He busies himself removing his glove once a cursory glance towards the door reveals that whatever backup he’s called for hasn’t arrived yet, and you wonder idly if he ever got annoyed with always being the first on the scene as you let him check your pulse.
“I’m more of a Jeanist fan, if I’m being honest.”
The offended squawk that comes out of his mouth elicits a laugh out of you, and for once you feel a little bad for your peculiar taste in Pros.
“Best Jeanist isn’t even hot,” Riko was always quick to point out, “and the tabloids say that he’s a nightmare to work with. That guy is so freaking uptight!”
“Ok, he’s not that bad,” you would always defend. “Plus, he’s efficient. Your super sexy poster boy moves so fast that half his survivors end up being the police’s problem, anyway. Nothing wrong with liking a man who takes his time getting the job done.”
Maybe you hadn’t given Hawks enough credit, because he’s not fleeing nearly as quickly as you’d anticipated.
“Jeanist is cool and all, but he can’t exactly fly in through the gaping hole in the ceiling.” You hum as he turns your hand over in his own. There’s no physical damage, but he applies a bit of pressure and you wince. “You tried to apprehend him with your quirk?”
Your lips part in surprise; he’s smarter than you’d expected, and you can’t help the clench of your jaw as you remember the fines that accompany illegal quirk usage. “I wasn’t trying to apprehend him, I just wanted him to return what he stole.”
He clicks his tongue in response, letting go of your wrist to pull a small first aid kit out of an interior pocket of his jacket. “Well aren’t you a diligent worker? Next time, you should probably just let him go, though. That guy would’ve flattened you like a pancake.”
You breathe out a sigh of relief once you catch the amused glint in his eye. “Won’t happen again, I swear.”
You have a few scrapes from the incident, and Hawks bandages you up dutifully until paramedics and law enforcement finally make their way inside. As soon as you’re passed off to one of the medics he’s on the move again, flitting between the officer on site and the rescue team before taking to the sky to save the next unlucky civilian caught in the middle of a quirk outburst. Before he does, though, he makes one final check in; you take the slip of paper extended to you without thinking, barely catching his little wave before massive crimson wings unfurl outwards and catapult him back into the air.
Clutched between your fingers is a messy signature, the ink still wet and smudged on the sides.
“No way!” Riko grasps the autograph so tightly you’re afraid she’ll accidentally rip it in half, her laughter loud and rambunctious as she pulls you into a bear hug constricting enough to crack ribs. “I know it was like, traumatic and everything, but tell me— was he as gorgeous as he looks on TV? Did you totally swoon and finally realize I was right all along? Is he really that fast, or do they speed it up to make it look more impressive for publicity?”
You have to pry her off of you before you can answer, carefully lifting her fingers off one by one until your lungs can fill with air once more. “He’s even hotter, absolutely not, and no, if anything, they’re downplaying his speed.” You laugh a little as she gawks at you, and you stuff your hands in the pockets of your hoodie as you feign indifference. “Jeanist’s still cooler, though.”
“Damn, the dude literally saved you from imminent death and still can’t get your approval,” Seiji chides, and you roll your eyes.
“You’d be salty too, if you were about to die and it wasn’t Gang Orca that came to your rescue.”
“I would literally kill myself,” he shoots back, and you nod in agreement.
“Your opinions are all moot,” Hana chimes in, “because we all know that Mirko is the best pro and solos all of your faves. I think even Hawks would agree with that.”
“All of you are wrong,” Makoto interjects, appearing in the kitchen doorway with a scowl. “Endeavor is literally right there, and nobody’s surpassing him anytime soon. And his freakin’ kid’s about to blow all of these runts out of the water, so let’s get watching, yeah?”
A chorus of disgruntled replies ensues as you all meander into the living room, everyone sinking into their designated seats as the UA Sports Festival gets underway. Your friend group has been watching together since you all met in your undergrad; everyone picks their favorite student by the end of the first round, places their bets, and prays that they don’t lose whatever money they’ve put into the prize pool. The only rule is that no one can pick the same kid; this usually results in you losing spectacularly, because your poor taste in heroes extended to heroes in training, apparently.
“I dunno, I kinda like this Tokoyami kid.”
A series of groans follows your declaration, and you sigh.
“Dude, first pick and you still find a way to make a stupid choice,” Seiji laughs, elbowing you in the side. “I’m taking Bakugou. He’s out for blood. I like it.”
“Uraraka is clearly taking home the crown,” Hana huffs through a mouthful of potato chips. “You guys always underestimate the girls.”
Riko decides on Midoriya, after a lengthy complaint about how Makoto would win again because of his claim over anything and anyone tangentially related to Endeavor.
You’re pleased when your pick makes it past the second round, and even more so when he makes it all the way to the semifinals. Hana and Seiji nearly get into a fistfight when the former’s kid is taken out by the latter early on, and Todoroki’s… interesting use of his quirk (or nonuse, really) leaves Makoto clutching a pillow to his chest in frustration. Seiji nearly flips the coffee table in glee when Bakugou pulls out the win; he does a gloating dance around the room, making the prize money rain down on the rest of you as you point and laugh at his antics.
Usually, you all loiter at Makoto’s until the worst of the traffic has died down. But the sun has long since set when you say your goodbyes, and you still find yourself in a long line of cars slowly inching their way down the road. When the light ahead of you turns red for the seventh time, you begrudgingly switch radio stations, and groan when the first presenter you find is giving a play-by-play of some villain tearing up streets in your area.
The heroes on the ground are struggling to apprehend him, by the looks of it, and we’ve got word that they’re waiting for reinforcements.
You pull out your phone to message your groupchat, knowing that they’ll all be worried if you don’t provide an explanation for why you haven’t made it home yet. Before you can finish typing out the story, you catch something moving in the sky, and you barely manage to snap a picture of the red speck in the clouds before he’s gone.
You: Stuck in traffic cuz of some villain tearing up roads. Looks like Riko’s birdman is on the job tho
[1 Attachment]
Riko: He’s so sexy even as a blob
Seiji: Ain’t no way
Hana: B safe!!
You smile down at your screen as Riko sends a hastily edited version of your photo, supplying Hawks (or the three pixels that represent him) with a series of cute little bows and surrounds him with hearts, which the rest of your group reacts to with vomiting emojis and shaking heads. It’s not long before the radio host is singing the hero’s praises, emphasizing how incredibly fast Hawks apprehended the villain and assures that traffic should be clearing up within the hour. It does; your slow crawl improves to something akin to a walk, and your thirty minute ride turns into a two hour slog. The good thing about your newfound unemployment is that you don’t have to pry yourself out of bed in the morning, so you allow yourself to enjoy the commute to the best of your ability; you blast the local station, using the extra time to ponder what kinds of corrections you’ll make to your resume once you finally get Makoto to help.
As it turns out, you need more than an updated resume to land yourself a job. Accounting had seemed like a smart path to take when you were freshly eighteen and foaming at the mouth for job stability, but it seems like everyone in your generation had the same idea, and after a month and a half of applying to positions only to be met with silence, your pockets are practically empty and boredom is driving you mad.
“I got my job applying in person,” Makoto had shrugged as he reached across the dining table, plucking a napkin from the stack that Hana was hoarding. “You should just dedicate a day to wandering around and drop off an application anywhere that catches your eye.”
“Granted, it was a long time ago,” Hana’s nose scrunches up at the stolen square of paper, swallowing before she continues, “and I doubt you’re looking for another retail job, but that’s how I got my gig, too.”
“Or you could just stay unemployed,” Seiji points his fork at you with a grin. “You got payment since your termination was related to a quirk incident, right? Those payments are fat; just coast on that.”
“I have been coasting on it,” you scowl, stabbing a piece of broccoli on your plate. “It’s not that big, it’s gonna run out if I don’t find something soon.”
“I can try to get one of my coworkers fired?” Riko offers, and you snort.
“I’m pretty sure HR workers purposely sabotaging their coworkers is a giant conflict of interest.”
She hums in agreement, and Hana sighs. “I’d say go back and get your masters, but it’s clearly not getting me anywhere.”
“I’d rather die than spend another second in the world of academia.” The rest of the group nods in agreement, and you groan. “Guess Mako is right, as usual. I’ll have to go beg in person and hope someone takes pity on me.”
Makoto’s only half right; you manage to turn in a few applications, but no one seemed particularly pleased that you skirted around their online applications and you’re not especially optimistic about getting any calls back. The walk back to your car feels more grueling than usual, the weight of disappointment causing your shoulders to droop as you fiddle uncomfortably with the sleeve of your blazer. It’s still a little too cold to be walking without a jacket, but you’d wanted to look professional— not that it mattered— and you quicken your pace as your vehicle comes into view.
“Hey, aren’t you the convenience store lady?”
Your head lifts up just in time to see him descend from the rooftop above, his wings tucking neatly behind him as he lands in front of you. You should be flattered that Japan’s number one bachelor and most revered hero has remembered you; but really, all you feel is embarrassment.
“Correction, I was the convenience store lady.” You tuck the manilla folder containing copies of your resume under your arm as you dig through your purse for your keys, eager for the opportunity to avoid his stare.
“Oh, shit. They’re not rebuilding?”
You shrug, looking up at him once you’ve unearthed your car key. “If they are, it won’t be for a while; either way, I got a hefty severance check and an easy out from a job I despised.”
Hawks stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets, chuckling at your indifference. “So what’re you moving onto?”
“Unemployment and homelessness, by the looks of it.” You gesture towards the file wedged at your side with your free hand. “Turns out no one’s in the market for an accountant with little to no actual accounting experience.”
His eyes widen slightly, and you can’t help but notice the black that outlines them. On television, it looks like he’s wearing eyeliner. But this close, you wonder if it’s a part of his quirk. “You said you like Jeanist, yeah?”
Ok, so he doesn’t really care about your job (or lack thereof.) Duly noted. “Yeah, I’m a fan.”
“I heard he’s looking for an accountant. If I knew your name, I could put in a good word for ‘ya.” His lips quirk up in a smirk, and your jaw drops in surprise.
“Don’t joke about stuff like that,” You force your mouth to close and press your lips into a hard line. “I thought heroes were supposed to be kind, not running around pulling pranks on civilians.”
“I’m being serious!” His cheeks turn red and the childish pout that forms at his lips make you stifle a laugh. “They haven’t posted about it because the chick just put her two weeks in today— his office is like,” he gestures vaguely, “right over that way. I was just there, saw her turn in the form myself.”
Oh, he’s being serious. Your hopes soar sky high for a split second before you squash them back down, still unconvinced. “Yeah, okay, but why would you vouch for me? You don’t even know me; what if I’m a terrible employee?”
This makes him laugh, and he shifts back into his confident hero persona with ease. “You’re a fan of his, a big enough fan to tell me as I’m saving you that he’s your favorite. That’s the kinda loyalty he’ll be thrilled by,” his wings unfurl a little bit as he relaxes, and you can’t contain your awe at how soft they look up close. “Plus, if you are a bad employee, and fuck up his payroll or whatever it is accountants do, I get revenge on him for stealing a potential fan.”
“What makes you so sure you’re my runner up?” It slips out before you can stop yourself, and you cringe at the knowledge that you’re definitely shooting yourself in the foot here. But Hawks laughs again, a cute little laugh that makes your hopeful heart do flips.
“You got me there; wishful thinking, I guess.”
You hum in agreement as you pull a copy out of your folder and extend it to him, a playful smirk making your lips twitch upwards. “Well, if you’re serious, maybe I’ll consider making you my number two. But don’t hold your breath; I’ve got a soft spot for Mt. Lady.”
“A little friendly competition never scared me,” he beams as he accepts your resume, eyes immediately pouring over your information as soon as the paper hits his hands. “I’ll make a little chick of you yet.”
You’re far from a ‘little chick’; you think that Riko has a claim over anything and everything related to Hawks, and you would never dream of considering yourself a part of his little fan club. But you start thinking that you could be, if you’re not careful, because the head of Best Jeanist’s accounting department calls you within the week and during your interview they inform you that Hawks’ ‘glowing review’ shot you straight to the top of their applicant list. You hadn’t expected him to be such a good liar, and you’re still miffed that he would go to such great lengths to help someone he barely even knew, his quest for vengeance on your favorite hero aside; but they do say that heroes go above and beyond to serve their community, and you suppose that’s exactly what he’s doing.
When the email comes in, you’re too afraid to open it. You hadn’t told your friends about your dream job being within arm’s reach, largely because everything about the situation just felt too perfect, too destined to go wrong. But if it does, and all your hopes and prayers were for nothing, you’re going to want someone to be there to help you pick up the pieces.
You: Anyone free tonight?
Riko: When am I not free?
Hana: I get off at 8 if that’s ok
Makoto: ^^^
You: Perfect someone bring drinks
Seiji: Gotchu
The wait is agonizing; you fill the time by cooking, dirtying every pot and pan within reach to give your hands something to do. In the end, you have way too much food for a casual get-together. Hopefully, it’ll turn into a celebratory gathering, and you can justify things.
Seiji is the first to arrive, swinging a reusable bag full of copious amounts of alcohol onto your coffee table with a satisfied grin. “Something’s up with you,” his index finger comes out to poke you in the chest as soon as he sets his things down, “And I wanna know what it is.”
“What makes you say that?” you swat his hand away, folding your arms over your chest as you do your best not to look guilty.
“You never invite us over, let alone on a whim.”
“I literally do, though.”
“Do not!”
“You guys came over last week!” You scowl, which makes him laugh as he drops down onto your couch.
“Ok, but your face is all red and you’re stiff as a board. C’mon, I won’t tell.”
He definitely will tell, but you’re going to have to explain to everyone why you’ve corralled them into your apartment eventually, so you figure you might as well let him be the one to break the news. You flop down onto the couch next to him, throwing your legs into his lap as you sink into the cushion.
“I applied to Best Jeanist’s agency.”
Seiji jumps to his feet so quickly that he nearly topples you to the floor, and you yelp as you cling to your couch like a lifeboat.
“Are you serious?” His hands come up to grasp at the back of his head and the look of astonishment he wears makes you swallow back a grin. “Holy shit girl, that’s like, your dream.”
You nod, biting at your lip nervously. “And I got an email from them this morning, but I’m too nervous to open it.”
“Oh my god,” he’s bouncing around your living room now, dancing off his excitement and anxiety much like you had when you saw the email hit your inbox earlier in the day. “How’d you even find out about it? Don’t you usually have to know a guy for a job like that?”
Now you’re sure guilt radiates off of you so hard that you practically glow. “I may or may not have gotten a reference from a certain half-bird-half-man who pulled me out of the wreckage of my last job.”
Seiji shoots his head around to stare at you so quickly that you’re certain he’s got whiplash, stock-still as his eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. “You’re telling me that Hawks— sexiest man of the year, fastest person on Earth, model-slash-hero-slash-man of every woman’s dreams Hawks— personally got you a job at your favorite pro’s agency?”
You nod again, fighting down a smile that is a mixture of bashfulness, anxiety, and a little bit of pride.
“Riko’s gonna fucking kill you,” He grins, coming to grab your hands and pull you up so you’ll jump up and down with him as he laughs, the sound landing somewhere between astonishment and sinisterness. “She’s gonna absolutely murder you, holy shit!”
“And why am I murdering one of my closest friends?” Riko raises an eyebrow as she cracks your front door open, Makoto and Hana appearing behind her with similar expressions of confusion.
Seiji throws an arm over your shoulders and blabs as if he’d never promised to keep his mouth shut, just as you’d expected. “Because Hawks is totally in love with her and hooked her up with a job at Jeanist’s agency.”
“He is not and we don’t even know if I got the job yet,” you elbow him hard in the side in the brief silence that follows, the rest of your friends staring at the two of you in complete and utter shock. For a moment, you think Riko’s actually considering manslaughter, so you add; “All he did was pass off my information and put in a good word for me. It was a very lucky chance encounter.”
“So you’re waiting to hear back?” Makoto’s the first one to recover from the news, quick to flop down onto your couch and make himself at home.
“I heard back,” you frown, nervously fiddling with your hands as you wait for Riko to chime in. “I was waiting for you guys to get here to open the email.”
“Oh, I’m so proud of you!” Hana’s the next to regain her composure, pulling you into a hug once she’s thrown her shoes off and crossed the room. “Even if you don’t get it, you put yourself out there, and that’s what matters.”
You hug her back, but you’re still tense, glancing over her shoulder at Riko expectantly. She doesn’t bother removing her shoes before bounding towards you, enveloping you and Hana both in a hug laced with her super strength that makes you wheeze.
“This is the best news I’ve heard in my entire life!” You relax once you catch her wide grin through the black spots that form in your vision, coughing out a sound of affection that doubles as a warning for her to loosen up her hold on you. She does, taking a step back, and once you and Hana catch your breath you both breathe a sigh of relief.
“You don’t want to strangle me to death?”
“Why would I? My best friend caught the eye of my favorite hero; technically, I’m only one degree of separation away from my all-time idol. And you’re about to be employed! Under your weird, unusually formal and super old favorite pro!”
“Hey, I thought I was your best friend,” Seiji pouts, and Riko fixes him with a death glare.
“You’re all my best friends, but only one of you got me an autograph.”
“Boo, you suck.”
Hana takes your hands in her own, squeezing in anticipation. “We’re all here now; you’ve gotta read that email.”
You spot your phone on the coffee table, and your heart sinks to your ass at the very thought of reading their final decision. “I can’t. Mako, you know my password; you read it.”
“Oh hell no, I don’t want to shoulder that kind of responsibility.”
“You have the best poker face out of all of us, though,” Riko points out, and you nod in agreement.
“I can do it,” Seiji offers, and you all groan.
“No way. Mako, please.” You look from your phone to your friend, who rolls his eyes and picks it up dutifully.
“I hate all of you.”
Everyone sinks to the floor, crowding around the coffee table as Makoto opens your email app and finds the right message. You pull your knees up to your chest and press your forehead against them, saying one final prayer in hopes that you’ll hear good news. The room falls silent as you all wait for him to skim the email’s contents, and when he speaks, you could hear a pin drop.
“Congratulations, you start on Monday.”
Working for Best Jeanist is every bit as incredible as you had imagined it to be. The man ran his office like a well-oiled machine; your days start early, always end on time, and all of your coworkers are the perfect amount of pleasant. No one is overly chatty, everyone is competent— even you, in spite of your miniscule amount of field experience— because everything is so organized, so clearly explained the first time around that you’d have to be unfathomable amounts of stupid to mess it up. And as if a fantastic work culture wasn’t enough, the actual building was immaculate; you get your own desk, tucked away in a neat little room with the rest of the accounting department, right next to the giant floor to ceiling windows that overlook the city your boss has dedicated his life to protecting. Best of all, they boast their own private parking garage attached to the building, of which you receive a security badge that allows you to access a designated spot.
“So, you’re a month in, now— how are you settling in?” Your superior, Hina, offers you a small smile as you shut your computer down and begin gathering up your belongings. You’re supposed to meet Makoto for dinner at one of the restaurants midway between your work and his own, but you’re in no rush— his job, the one you’d envied not that long ago, paled in comparison to your own now— he always got stuck there past closing, putting final touches on insurance claims or reorganizing tax forms.
“I feel great,” you admit, returning her smile as you toss your jacket over your arm. “I really can’t thank you enough for all your help; I’ve never felt so supported as a new hire before.”
“I’m so glad!” Her shoulders relax, and she falls into step alongside you as you both make your way towards the exit. “You’re doing great work, we’re happy to have you. I’m relieved to hear that your experience thus far has been a good one.”
You’re relieved to hear the praise; there’s a rather large part of you that still feels undeserving, unqualified, and you work tirelessly to make up for what you lacked. So it’s nice to hear that all that concentration doesn’t go unnoticed, that your efforts aren’t in vain.
“Oh, I’ve gotta make a pitstop by the front desk,” Hina hikes her purse further up on her shoulder, shooting you an apologetic glance as you near the entrance to the parking lot. “Have a good night! See you tomorrow.”
“You too,” you wave as she leaves, clutching your jacket tighter in your hand as you descend the stairs into the lot.
Your space isn’t exactly close; they assign them based on seniority, so you’re pretty far back, but you’d never complain about it. The garage is nearly empty by the end of the day, so you can cut through vacant spots, and it’s good to stretch your legs a bit in between the work day and your commute back home. Plus, you walk right past Jeanist’s spot; even a month into the job, you can never stop yourself from ogling at the comically sleek and heroic vehicle in all its glory. Even better, the priority spots next to his car were typically for guests. They were usually empty by the time you left for the day, since Jeanist made it a point to hold all of his meetings early— but if you were lucky, when you arrived in the morning, you’d see an array of cars of all different kinds. On slower days, when there wasn’t a lot to do in the office, you allowed your mind to wander and imagined who drove what; each hero seemed to take full advantage of their fame and fortune, boasting all kinds of imported, luxury cars you’d never even heard of, let alone seen in the flesh. But the car parked next to his today is one you’ve never seen before— odd for a plethora of reasons, the biggest of which being that it’s nearing six pm and Jeanist never holds meetings this late— and your steps falter as you pass it, because you think that you know exactly whose it is, the cherry red exterior and pitch black tint on the windows a dead giveaway.
What you hadn’t considered, though, is that its occupant might still be inside.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite employee,” Hawks grins as he opens the driver’s door, looking at you over his shoulder as he climbs out of the seat. “You come here often?”
“Thanks to you, yeah.” Heat rises to your cheeks as you realize you’ve been caught staring, and you flex your fingers under the bulk of the jacket draped over your arm as you attempt to swallow your embarrassment.
“I didn’t take you for a car enthusiast.” He laughs a little as he leans against the sedan, radiating a coolness and calmness you wish you could bottle up and use for yourself.
“I’m really not,” you admit, and your eyes flicker to the vehicle in front of you to avoid his inquisitive stare. “But I know a cool car when I see one. I didn’t think you drove.”
“Everyone always says that,” his wings puff out a little bit, as if to emphasize his exasperation, and you snicker.
“Probably because flying’s a whole lot faster.”
“It’s also a hell of a lot more of a spectacle.”
You hum, considering this. “Good point.”
“So? You loving the job?” He raises an eyebrow, and you allow yourself to meet his gaze as you nod enthusiastically.
“Mt. Lady might be in trouble; this job is the best thing that has ever happened to me.”
He smirks, satisfaction making his eyes sparkle as he takes in your admission. Or maybe that’s just how he always looks; pleased with himself, shining with confidence and pride. It’s hard to tell— you don’t know him well enough to get a read on him, his existence still falling somewhere between a celebrity and a mythical creature to you. “You meet the big guy yet?”
The smile he receives in response is almost childish, splayed wide across your face with unabashed admiration. “I did, briefly; and he was every bit as cordial as I imagined,” you sigh in contentment at the recollection. “It was like a dream.”
This gets a laugh out of him, and you’d be self-conscious about his amusement if you weren’t so damn happy. People spent their entire lives vying for a chance to meet their favorite hero; you’d never shy away from acknowledging how lucky you were, even if all he’d said was ‘Thank you for joining our staff.’
“You know that the majority of his fans are like, middle aged men, right?”
An undignified sound of disapproval escapes you, your bottom lip jutting out in a pout as you frown. “Y’know, I was just starting to like you.”
“Were you, now?”
“Now you’re on my shitlist,” You huff. “Only took you four encounters— that’s a new record. I guess the rumors are true; you are fast.”
He straightens up, and you catch the playful smirk that he’s attempting to suppress. “You hit your head again or something? Pretty sure this is only our third little rendezvous.”
You shake your head, quick to pull out your phone. You close the distance between the two of you, dangling your screen in front of his face as you gesture towards the picture of him zipping past your car in pursuit of the villain who had interrupted your commute. “My savior,” you tease, and he snorts.
“And you say you’re not a fan.”
“I’m a fan of anyone who saves me from walking down the highway. I would’ve been stuck in traffic for hours if you hadn’t swooped in to save the day.”
“I could’ve been faster, though.” He reaches out to zoom in on the picture, his expression suspiciously smug as he looks at you again. “Looks like you had plenty of time to doctor this up.”
Your eyebrows knit together in confusion, and when you pull your phone back to look at the photo again, your heart jumps to your throat.
“Oh, fuck. You weren’t supposed to see that.”
You’d accidentally clicked on Riko’s version, hearts and all, and you cradle the device to your chest as if you could will the big pink bow edited onto his head to disappear. He’s nearly doubled over with laughter, clutching at his ribs as you dodge a mouthful of feathers.
“Yeah, no shit. Did you draw a circle of hearts around my ass?”
“That was not me,” you sputter, though it sounds so unconvincing that you feel the sudden urge to crawl into a hole and die. “Fucking Riko, I knew I should’ve deleted that.”
“Can I have a copy?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Aw, c’mon,” he’s still laughing, and you can’t meet his eyes; both because the heat in your cheeks is so prominent that you’re afraid you look guilty as all hell, and because he’s so striking like this, with his guard down and his wings unfurled and his hair just a little disheveled from running his hands through it in attempts to quell his amusement, that it’s hard to focus. “It’s cute. I’ve seen worse— so much worse— did you know that people love to draw me in all sorts of compromising poses?”
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” You cover your mouth with your hand, hiding the worst of your blush and most of the smile that you can’t seem to fight back. You need to get out of here before you find any more ways to make yourself look like an idiot.
“Yeah, I’ve gotta go tell Jeanist all about this. Are you sure I can’t get that printed out?”
“Speak of this again and I’ll turn you into a nice roast dinner.”
“Ooo, so original.”
Makoto laughs at you, when you tell him about what had transpired. But there’s a knowing glint in his eye, a calculation made that he refuses to share until you snatch his beer and hold it just out of his reach until he gives in.
“I don’t know what you did,” he relents, holding his drink in both hands once you begrudgingly return it to his grasp. “But Seiji’s right; that man is head over heels.”
“He is not,” you scowl, pressing a napkin to your lips as you swallow. “That man has his pick of any woman in Japan. Why would he go after a civilian who outwardly denies being a fan?”
He shrugs, taking a swig of his beer. “Maybe he likes ‘em feisty.”
The two of you swing by Hana’s store on the way home, since she’s right around the corner. She’s in the process of closing up, eyebrows furrowed as she crunches the day’s numbers, but she beams when you enter and nearly jumps the counter before bounding over to assess your outfit.
“I told you those pants made your ass look good,” she nods in approval, doing a little circle around you as Makoto dramatically steps out of her way. “You look like a true professional! How’re you liking everything? You didn’t come with returns, did you?”
She’d dedicated an entire work day to fitting you with clothes appropriate for such a step up in employment; blazers, button ups, dress pants and long skirts that communicated sophistication without making you look stuffy. They had used up whatever was left of your convenience store payout, even with her employee discount, but it was worth every penny; your ass did look good, good enough that you’re pretty sure you’d seen Hawks looking at it earlier, now that you’re thinking about it.
“No returns, I’m loving them.”
She breathes a sigh of relief, turning to your friend as if she’d just realized he was there. “What do you think, Mako?”
“Looks better than the polo,” he snickers, and Hana grins.
“Now we just need them to work their magic and catch the eye of some hot finance bro.”
You and Makoto share a look; there was a silent agreement to keep your earlier conversation between yourselves, and you’re grateful for his neutral expression that gives nothing away as he rolls his eyes and makes a sarcastic quip; “Hana, you know Best Jeanist isn’t recruiting anyone hot.”
“Hey,” you swat at him playfully, and he sidesteps to avoid your hand. “I’m hot.”
He raises a skeptical eyebrow and doesn’t say a word, even when you smack him on the shoulder, and Hana meanders back behind the register as she giggles. “You two still coming to Seiji’s this weekend? I heard Riko bailed.”
You hum, trailing behind her as you lean against the counter, propping your head on your hands as your elbows hit the tabletop. “I don’t have anything else going on. Why’d she cancel?”
“Work party or something, I dunno.”
“Is nothing sacred anymore?” Makoto drawls from behind you, and you snort. Your weekend get-togethers were hardly sacred; they usually consisted of some kind of sports game or late night newscast playing idly in the background as the five of you partook in whatever craft Hana lugged over in attempts to ‘promote bonding.’ By the end of the night, you typically resorted to playing some kind of card game and got plastered enough to warrant crashing on the host’s couch.
“That’s what I said,” Hana pouts, tucking the last of her paperwork away before jangling her keys in front of your face, signalling that it was time to go. “I bought coloring books for you all and everything.”
“Well, I wouldn’t dare miss out on that.”
You do end up missing out, though, because your car won’t start and you have to spend the weekend scouring online ads in search of a mechanic that won’t royally screw you over. When you finally find one, their website informs you that they don’t reopen until Tuesday, and while you’re disappointed to have to miss out on the planned festivities, you’re grateful to have a night in. You busy yourself with laundry, meal prepping for the week, cleaning through all the mail that’s accumulated on your coffee table and catching up on the most recent episode of your guilty pleasure reality tv show as you make transportation arrangements for work on Monday. You’re not too well-versed in public transit, but it doesn’t seem like a particularly difficult commute; you plan to take the train to work, and Makoto is kind enough to offer to pick you up until you get your wheels back.
It ends up leaving you with a lot of downtime; try as he may, Makoto can’t seem to escape the extra hours at the end of his shift with all sorts of deadlines approaching that you have no desire to understand the importance of. You don’t mind too much; the agency has a nice area by the front entrance, with tables and chairs designed for employees to have a place to loiter while they wait for visitors or coworkers to wrap things up for the day or whatever else it is your fellow Jeanist underlings need a place to sit for. You set yourself up in one of the plush chairs with a book at the end of your shift, shooting your friend a quick text informing him of which door to pull up to once he’s escaped his own place of employment.
There’s not a lot of foot traffic this late in the day; any stragglers typically leave through the back, and for the majority of the two or so hours that you’re lingering in the area, there’s hardly anyone besides you and the pleasant woman manning the front desk. It makes the sudden appearance at your side that much more startling; you hadn’t heard any footsteps, didn’t feel a looming presence at all until he’s decided to make himself known, leaning over to get a better look at the book you nearly hurl at his face in your surprise.
“Whatcha reading?”
“Jesus— they’ve gotta put a bell on you or something.”
Hawks looks especially pleased with himself, his laughter ringing out through the reception area as the woman on the other side of the room shoots the two of you a strained smile. You nudge him in a silent communication to shut the fuck up, which only makes him snicker, and he lifts the book out of your still stunned hands as you pray to god he doesn’t say anything too embarrassing in the dead silence of the room.
“Ah, I didn’t take you as a romance enjoyer.”
You’re not; Riko had insisted you read her favorite series, all twelve installments, and there’s a reason why you’re only a few chapters into the second book; it sucks. But you can’t pin any more blame on her, not when you know that edited photo is still living rent free in Hawks’ mind, by that sly little grin on his face.
“Enjoyer is a bit of an overstatement, but sure.”
He hums, flicking through the pages with a lazy detachment. “And you’re reading in the front hall of your work because…?”
“I’m waiting for a ride,” you sigh, feeling very much inferior at the mention of your piece of shit car and your lack of a super convenient quirk that lets you go pretty much anywhere without needing hundreds of thousands of yen in repairs. “My car’s in the shop.”
For what it’s worth, he’s surprisingly nice about it; you half expect a joke about how much of a civilian problem it is, or some out of touch quip about how you should just fork over the money for a rental. Instead, he gives you a confused, sideways glance, losing all interest in the pages he’d been skimming over. “Didn’t your shift end like, hours ago?”
You nod, rolling your eyes as you explain what you retained from Makoto’s lecture about all the responsibilities he had to shoulder at work.
“Sounds like a busy guy,” he returns your paperback, and you tuck it into your purse, humming in agreement as he rises to his feet. “Tell him to take as much time as he needs, then. I’ll give you a lift.”
He says it so casually that it catches you by surprise; you don’t miss his amused smile as he notices your shock, and it takes you a minute to craft your expression back into something more acceptable.
“You really don’t have to do that, it’s fine—”
“C’mon, consider it my good deed for the day.” He extends a hand to you, and you take it without thinking; damn his hero charm, damn that stupid, stupid smile that makes you feel so warm and safe.
“Isn’t your job like, literally just doing good deeds?” You stutter, your cheeks burning as his hand falls from yours and you have to scramble to grab your purse and fall into line with him as he begins making his way towards the exit.
“Then I’m getting a head start on tomorrow, I guess.”
Hawks’ car is even nicer on the inside; it’s so spacious that he doesn’t have to fold his wings in on themselves, and though the seats are wide enough that you could easily fold up your legs and sit criss-crossed, you find yourself perched stiffly on the edge of the passenger seat as you input your address into the GPS and pray that his driving isn’t as reckless as the news made his flying out to be.
“What, are you worried I’m a bad driver?” His arm comes up behind your headrest as he backs out of his parking space, and the intimacy of the action reminds you of your dinner with Makoto, his assuredness that there was some sort of desire looming underneath his actions. It’s hard not to give those words any weight, not when you were this close, alone, with no real excuse for the interaction other than Hawks’ insistence. It takes you a little too long to huff out a laugh in response, nervousness making your mouth go dry.
“Well, you have to be bad at something; I’m just really hoping it’s not following the rules of the road.”
“It’s not,” he assures you through a laugh of his own, and you manage to steal a glance once you’re on the main road and you’re certain the evening traffic is keeping his attention. It’s not good for your nerves; in interviews, he looks almost corny— the large yellow visor and fur-lined jacket trying a bit too hard to look recognizable, his hair seemingly crafted to look as wind-swept as possible— but up close, it doesn’t look like a costume at all. It looks natural, good; soft in a way you hadn’t been expecting. They edit out the bags under his eyes, or cover them with makeup, and while you aren’t exactly pleased to see someone who’s supposed to be protecting your city looking so worn down, you appreciate seeing the humanity in the living legend. “I’ve been meaning to ask,” he chimes in after a while, “how are your hands?”
It takes you a moment to understand what he’s asking, largely because anything pre-Jeanist felt like a lifetime ago, and because you used your quirk so seldomly that the weeks of healing necessary felt inconsequential.
“Oh,” you look down at your hands, folded neatly in your lap. “They’re better now. Only takes a couple weeks for the wires to regrow.”
Hu hums, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “Sounds a lot like my feathers.”
The comparison to his own quirk is enough to make you snort. “Yeah, I’m sure you get a lot more use out of your wings though.” He raises an eyebrow, and you indulge him with the details of your quirk once you realize he hadn’t actually seen it in action; just the aftermath, maybe a few broken tendrils in the wreckage. He seems impressed, though you’re not sure why— their capabilities went as far as grasping small objects when you ran out of hands and startling small-time robbers into fleeing before they stole your entire inventory. It was a smokescreen; visually frightening, but lacking any real power. This was something you’d long since come to terms with.
“The grass isn’t always greener on the other side, y’know,” he mumbles as he pulls into your driveway, and it’s your turn to shoot him a confused look. “Having a quirk that’s enough to protect yourself without being a spectacle sounds like it could be nice.”
You’re not naive enough to think that heroism is all sunshine and rainbows; you’ve seen enough footage of decimated battlefields and burning buildings to know that every day is a risk for them. Even your small amount of experience at Jeanist’s office showed a glimpse into the hardships they faced; any midday bathroom break lent itself to the possibility of coming across a hero, fresh off a mission, leaning heavily against a wall in attempts to gather their bearings before stepping back out into the public eye. But the wistful look that crosses over him is enough to make you pause; Hawks is so young, a fact often emphasized in the news to make his achievements appear even more impressive. But it’s not impressive, not right now, because he looks like a boy, not some pillar of justice, and your heart swells.
“Do you want to come inside?” you gesture lamely towards the front door of your apartment complex, in a move that is ridiculously presumptuous yet completely confident. You don’t have to pretend like you understand the first thing about his job to recognize when someone has been overworked and underappreciated for it. “I can feed you, for like, doing me a solid and driving me home.”
One thing you like about Hawks, Hawks the man, not Hawks the hero, is that he’s very boyish in nature. He reminds you more of Seiji than you care to admit; easily persuaded by food, and generally down to do anything if it means not being left alone. In university , you’d bribe Seiji into letting you copy his homework answers in exchange for a pack of ramen doctored up with some spam and a fried egg on top. Makoto was never as easy to convince; you’d have to let him tutor you instead of straight up plagiarizing, and he’d still make a big fuss about the extra work even if you bought him takeout. You’re pretty certain that you could’ve promised Hawks a granola bar, though, and he still would have bounded after you with a little too much enthusiasm.
“Wow,” he breathes as he steps into your apartment, flitting through the space and sifting through your belongings with unabashed nosiness as you busy yourself with pulling leftovers out of the fridge. “This place is like, really homey.”
“Well, it is my home,” you smile, biting at your lip as you survey the containers in front of you. It was utterly ridiculous to feed Japan’s number three hero yesterday’s scraps, but it was all you had— and you’re relieved when he meanders into the kitchen, pointing out a few of his preferred foods with eagerness before he starts opening your cabinets and rummaging through them.
“You like short ribs?” you ask as you start the stove, relaxing in his presence despite his snooping. He nods enthusiastically, peering at your assortment of mugs with curiosity.
“With some mashed potatoes, oh hell yeah.”
You laugh as you dump them into a pan, reaching for the potatoes next (and thanking god you’d decided to make them from scratch this time around instead of buying the premade ones.) “And here I was thinking you’d be disappointed it wasn’t a lobster dinner.”
He abandons your cupboard in favor of slumping into one of your kitchen chairs, and an apology for the way his wings brush against the walls in the tight corner of the room dies on your tongue as his nose scrunches up in distaste. “Please, all of the hoity-toity shit they feed us at those hero galas makes me gag.”
“Oh?” you hum as you stir, pulling out a spoon from the drawer underneath you to check if everything is warmed all the way through. “What do you wish they served?”
“Chicken,” he admits, and you catch his embarrassment as his cheeks grow pink. “I know, I know. Weird that the guy with wings craves a chicken sandwich. But c’mon, it’s so good, especially if it’s fried.”
You try your best not to laugh, but he’s so damn passionate about it, and you’re reduced to giggles in seconds. “It’s not weird,” you squeak out, raising a hand to cover your smile. “It’s cute; I didn’t take you for a foodie.”
All laughter is wiped away from you as you realize that you just called him cute, and one look at Hawks tells you that he’d most definitely caught it. God, what is wrong with you? You can’t just call Japan’s lethal sweetheart cute; it’s insulting, it’s inappropriate, it’s…
A small sound escapes his lips; it’s a chirp, you realize, like the chipper morning communications you hear out on the balcony while you sip at your coffee. His head is carefully tilted away from you, but his wings have fluffed up so much that you’re concerned about how tightly they’re pressed up against the wall.
“You think I’m cute?” He questions, lacking all of his hero persona’s self-assuredness despite his best efforts, as if he didn’t believe you.
“I— yeah?” You’re still stunned by how flustered he looks, still trying to figure out whether the admission was the absolute worst thing to say or the best accident you could’ve ever hoped for. “Yeah,” you try again, blinking away your surprise as you busy yourself with plating his share of the food in front of you. “You’re passionate about things, even things like fried chicken. It’s endearing.”
You can feel his eyes on you even though you don’t look up, grateful that you have an excuse to tuck your chin and hide the redness of your cheeks. He chirps again, involuntary and soft, but he doesn’t reply.
When you finally muster up the courage to close the distance between you, sliding his portion across the table, his hand shoots out to catch your wrist. You gasp, startled by his speed— as if that’s not what he’s known for, as if anyone in the nation could pretend they hadn’t seen him move at lightning speed at one point or another— but his grasp is feather light, his eyes impossibly soft as he looks up at you.
Your breath hitches as you meet his gaze, too stunned to utter anything more than your own chirp of surprise at the unexpected contact. For a moment, he looks as nervous as you feel; then, as if he’s regained a bit of the confidence you’re so used to seeing plastered across every billboard in the country, he tugs on your arm, closes the gap, and presses his lips to yours.
It’s the kind of kiss that you should reel back from, the kind that feels like a mistake even as you’re doing it. You had felt that way when you kissed Makoto during your third year of university, knowing immediately that you’d crossed a line that you shouldn’t have and that it would take ages to fix. But kissing Hawks feels like a different kind of slip; it feels too good, too right, even though the scruff on his chin brushes against your skin and his lips are chapped from all his time spent at high altitudes. You know that you have no business making out with him, that the two of you live in completely different worlds. That letting his tongue slip into your mouth is not just permission to take things further, but a silent assent to uproot your life in all kinds of unimaginable ways. Yet you still find yourself sinking into his touch, draping your arms over his shoulders, letting yourself savour what is surely a once in a lifetime opportunity.
You’re starting to think that his speed is less an attribute of his hero persona and more of a core personality trait, because he’s maneuvered you out of the kitchen and into your bedroom before you have any time to process what’s happening. He doesn’t separate his lips from yours until your back hits the bed, his lips swollen, his eyes narrowed with an intensity that you’ve never seen before. But there’s an imperceivable softness in them, a flash of apprehension, as he asks if you’re okay.
“I’m more than okay,” you reach up to grab a fistful of his shirt, pulling him down so that your foreheads are nearly touching. “Are you alright?”
“Never been better.” He flashes one of those PR perfect, pearly white smiles before he’s on you again, and you seize the opportunity to paw at whatever you can; his hair, the sides of his face, his chest, his back; and it’s still not close enough, so he ends up shedding his jacket, and just when you’re contemplating whether or not you’ll have to beg— the idea of pleading for him to fuck you would have seemed unfathomable to you hours prior, but desperate times call for desperate measures— he nearly rips his shirt clean off, and then your own, only pulling away from you to ask where you kept the condoms.
You’re not sure why you have so many preconceived notions about Hawks; distantly, you attribute it to his celebrity status, assuming that he must be too important or too busy to do things ‘the normal way.’ It’s a very uncharitable view on someone who’s done everything to dispel that line of thinking. Still, you don’t expect him to stay. You expect him to say something along the lines of, ‘well, that was fun, see ‘ya around,’ or make some excuse about how the world needs saving and disappear into the night. But he doesn’t; he showers with you, pressing soft, distracting kisses to your shoulders as you scold him for getting your hair all wet, and he flops down onto your bed before you’d even finished getting dressed, clad in nothing but his towel and half asleep before you can lecture him for it.
“Nuh uh, sit up, you need clothes.” You try your best to sound firm, but there’s far too much tenderness in your voice to sound convincing.
“My clothes are dirty,” he whines, snuggling further into the mess of blankets underneath him. “What’s so wrong with me being naked?”
“You’re still wet!” You laugh, tugging on his hand to hoist him into a seated position. “Here, these should fit. Seiji’s about your size… kinda.” You actually have no idea if he is or isn’t; men’s sizing is a bit of a mystery to you, and it’s not like you had a ton of experience doling out clothes to late night guests. But Seiji was the only one who ever left his clothes behind when he passed out at your place, and he usually wore his clothes baggy, anyway.
Hawks takes one look at the shirt in his hands and casts it aside, though he tugs on the pair of sweatpants as demanded. “I don’t know if you noticed,” he yawns, “but I have these giant things on my back. They’re called wings, and they gotta go somewhere.”
Oh, shit. You hadn’t thought of that. You lean down to snatch the shirt, then kiss the corner of his upturned lips, and tell him to wait a second. It takes you all of three minutes to pad into the kitchen, find your scissors, and cut a large hole in the back of Seiji’s old shirt (and make a mental note to buy him a new one as you do it,) but he’s already sunk back into the nest of blankets beneath him and is all but snoring when you return.
“C’mon, up, one last time.” You nudge him gently, extending the shirt to him, and he takes it carefully as he rises once more.
“You didn’t have to massacre your shirt for me, y’know,” he mumbles as he slips the cotton over his head, but he sounds appreciative, surprised, even.
“It gets cold at night,” you frown a little, gesturing for him to scoot over as you climb into bed alongside him. “Can’t have you getting sick just because I was too impolite to give you a shirt.”
He hums in response, an arm slipping around your waist as he pulls you up against him. Your cheek presses up against his chest, and you can feel how warm he is through the thin fabric, can smell the scent of your body wash that clings to his skin.
“Y’know, you should be a bit more excited,” Makoto points out on the way to pick up your car. “No more hitching rides from Hawks or waiting hours for me to get outta work. What’s got you so quiet?”
It’s not that you’re displeased; granted, you know the bill is about to wreak havoc on your already measly savings account, but having to rely on others was a miserable experience for you. Besides, you’re not thinking about that at all, and by the tone of his voice, Makoto knows that, too. You’re thinking about the previous night— the implications of the previous night— and though you try not to let it show on your face, your mouth is twisted into a scowl and your eyebrows are furrowed so much you’re afraid of what new wrinkles you’ll find next time you look in the mirror.
“I’m, uh… considering the logistics of a particularly questionable decision I made.” You’re not sure how much information you should divulge; you shared everything with Makoto, largely out of habit at this point. You’d known each other long enough that attempting to hide anything just resulted in a game of twenty questions before whoever was doing the hiding gave in. But whatever it was that you had going on with Hawks felt too risky to share, like talking about it made it real, and if it was real, you’d have to consider where it went from here.
“You always get weirdly formal when you’re dodging a question,” He snorts, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, and your frown deepens. “So I’m gonna guess that it has something to do with your little admirer.”
“You are so,” you groan, throwing your hands up in exasperation when you can’t find a fitting insult to finish out your sentence. “He’s not my admirer, I’m not being vague and formal, and I am super stoked to get my car back.”
“And you didn’t forget your promise to take me out to dinner in exchange for carting you around?”
“I didn’t forget, no.”
“Good,” he grins, “Because I invited Riko and she’s already waiting for us.”
You pale at the mention of your friend; god, you hadn’t even thought about what Riko would think, and guilt eats away at you like some kind of flesh eating bacteria.
“Great,” you mutter, and the lack of enthusiasm in your voice is a dead giveaway.
“Oh my god, you slept with him.”
“I—” you open your mouth to vehemently deny it, but Makoto’s expression tells you that he won’t believe it, no matter how hard you try to convince him. You point an angry finger at him, all seriousness as your voice drops to a whisper. “Not a word, Mako. This stays between us.”
Riko waves you and Makoto over when you enter the restaurant, a wide smile splaying across her face at the car keys fisted in one of your hands. “Yes, we are so back! I was seriously worried they were gonna have to scrap it or something.”
“Ok, my car’s not that old.” You slip into the seat across from her, relaxing as she shifts her attention to Makoto and the conversation pivots to their respective work assignments and Riko’s long list of grievances for her own job. The office that she works in has a slew of HR nightmares; coworkers sleeping with one another, heads of different departments picking fights in the breakroom, and so on. She’s been begging Makoto to put in a good word for her at his job, and now that you’re working for Jeanist, she’s starting to plead to you as well.
“God, I’m sure you see all sorts of sexy heroes coming in and out,” she clasps her hands together excitedly, “and my job would be so easy, if Jeanist’s half as uptight as he looks on tv.”
“All the heroes that come through are like, exhausted. I don’t think you could pique their interest if you were in a bikini, most days.”
“Yeah, but my chances of seeing Hawks go up like, a million percent.” Makoto stiffens ever so slightly next to you, and you choke out a laugh to cover up your guilt. “Have you seen him since you started? Him and Jeanist have gotta be close, if just his word got you the job.”
“We’ve bumped into each other, but I don’t think they’re close. They’re rivals, technically, right? Third and fourth in the hero rankings are too close to consider them friends.”
She hums in thought, lazily twirling her fork through the air as she chews. “I’m sure Jeanist wouldn’t think so, since he’s too busy thinking about how to overthrow the best hero with some of the highest approval ratings ever seen. But just watch; after All Might retires and Hawks ascends to number one, and Jeanist is still sitting at four or five, they’ll be best buddies.”
“You’re forgetting about Endeavor," Makoto scowls, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “I don’t care how good you guys think your favorites are, the only one cinching that number one title is my guy.”
Once again, Makoto is right. The events of Kamino send the whole country into a panic; you especially, because not only is your work life in shambles, but there’s a constant hysteria burning a hole in your chest every time you think of Hawks, who you haven’t seen in weeks, who quickly went from being an impressive hero to one of Japan’s most important people in the blink of an eye. His interviews and ads in magazines are replaced with press conferences and footage of him in action, working nonstop to take down the villain uprisings that have taken over the area in All Might’s retirement. The carefully organized systems at Jeanist’s agency have all but gone up in smoke amidst the chaos, and you’re working tirelessly to keep up with all of the unexpected responsibilities that come along with being an employee of the number three hero. But at the end of each day, you still look for that bright red car, keeping your tv on late into the night for any signs that he’s slowing down.
Your friends keep you tethered, like they always have, except now their presence is calming the part of you that’s anxious about the world’s demise rather than your stress over an upcoming exam. The five of you get together even more now, because preparing to have guests over is the only way to ensure that everyone actually leaves work and brushes their hair and goes through the motions of being a person. It’s hitting Seiji hard, too; he’s quirkless, which makes him defenseless, and the mild agoraphobia that plagued him in adolescence makes a full comeback. Hana’s experienced an uptick in villain encounters on her shop’s block, and Makoto’s wearing himself just as thin at the office as you are. And Riko— well, she’s still upbeat as ever, but you can tell she’s putting on a brave face. If there’s one person in the world more concerned about Hawks than you are, you’re almost certain it’s her. So preparing for everyone’s arrival feels good, restores a bit of normalcy in your otherwise falling apart world, because you don’t have to stare dumbfounded at the tv alone or pack up leftovers you won’t have time to finish. You’re bundled up in your Best Jeanist hoodie, an old relic from a birthday many, many years ago that was supposed to be a gag gift from Riko; it was ugly, really ugly, with a faux denim pattern and his name printed in big, block letters across the back, about four sizes too large and ridiculously unflattering. But it was warm, and comfortable, and safe— and you needed all of those things, so much so that you don’t care about the teasing that will ensue when your friends arrive, and you sing along to the jingles playing softly in the background during ad breaks as you cook, making enough food to feed an army.
You’re not a very good cook; your knife skills are abysmal, you rely on recipes to a ridiculous degree, and nothing you’ve made ever amounts to anything more than subpar. But going through each step is satisfying, and you like seeing everyone’s reactions to whatever new recipes you’ve cooked up. Seiji will eat anything, but has a soft spot for pork dishes; Makoto likes anything with vegetables, Riko would rather die than eat anything green, and Hana has a sweet tooth unlike anyone else. Trying to make something for everyone is a difficult task, but you always manage; it’s the only reason why Seiji will supply the alcohol, without some sort of additional bribe. You’re juggling five or six different tasks at once, attempting to get everything done before their arrival; and by a cursory glance at the clock above your stove, you only have thirty minutes or so. Your eyebrows are pinched in concentration, your hands tense as you try not to fuck up the nice cut of meat in front of you, when you catch movement in your peripheral vision.
Your quirk whirrs to life before you can control it, thin wires flying out in the direction of the intruder as you reel back in surprise, the knife in your hand slipping through your grasp. It’s about to puncture you in the foot on its tumble to the floor, and you can’t do anything but brace for impact as you suck in a breath. But a feather shoots out of nowhere, scooping the blade up and out of the way just as one of your appendages slithers around his arm.
“Wow, you totally undersold how cool your quirk is,” Hawks appears in the doorway connecting your living room to your kitchen, and you gawk at him.
“How the hell did you—” You’re smiling at the sight of him, despite the shake in your hands, despite the fear in your voice. “What’re you doing here?”
He’s got that lazy smirk on his face, the one you’d grown accustomed to seeing on the front pages of every social media platform and magazine cover before the world got turned on its head. It doesn’t take more than a second for it to melt away into something more real, though, more relaxed. “Your patio door was unlocked,” he clicks his tongue as he saunters towards you, chiding and playful. “What, that wasn’t an invitation?”
It wasn’t; in all honesty, you’d thought he’d forgotten all about you. Not that you’d blame him, even if the country wasn’t on fire. You hadn’t expected anything long-lasting with Hawks, though he had stayed the night and drove you into work the following morning. He just didn’t seem like that kind of guy; sure, he was kind, and sure, you’d love to imagine that he thought about you as often as you did him, but he moved fast— faster than you could keep up with— and it was hard to imagine him staying in one place for too long, even if he did like you.
“Most people would knock, y’know.”
He shrugs, pinching at the sleeve of your sweatshirt as one of his feathers swipe a cookie from the cooling racks on the counter. “What’s with the hoodie?”
You attempt to steal the cookie back from him, but it’s in his mouth before you can grab it, and you huff out a laugh through your embarrassment once you realize what you’re wearing. “What, are you jealous?”
“No,” he says through a mouthful of sugar, but it’s unconvincing. “But my merch is a lot nicer, y’know. Red’s a much better color on you.”
“Sure sounds like you’re jealous,” you swat his hand away as he attempts to steal another cookie, and his lower lip juts out in a pout. “I told you, I’ve pledged my allegiance to Jeanist. No amount of impressive feats— congrats on the promotion, by the way— will sway me.”
“So I have to seduce you, then?” His hand snakes around your waist, and while tempting, another glance towards the clock reminds you that your friends will be here any minute. You turn to fully face him, which proves to be a bad idea, because he leans down to kiss you, pressing your back further against the counter.
“Unless you want to spend the night being hounded by my friends, you’ll have to save the seducing for another time.” Your hands press softly against his chest, and it takes all of your resolve to inform him of your friends’ arrival. You don’t want him to go; you’ve half a mind to cancel, but you know that everyone’s on their way, and they need the distraction. You’d be a bad friend to do it, which is even worse than kicking him out.
“They call me the fastest man in the world for a reason,” he dips his head down to kiss at the exposed skin of your neck, and you have to swallow back your desire.
“I don’t think you’re that fast, and even if you were, I’m not.” You tug at his hair to get him to return his gaze to your own, and the look that he gives you is so sinful that it takes every ounce of strength to steel yourself. “They don’t knock, and they’re always early.”
You think for a moment that he’s considering staying; but meeting your friends is moving too fast, even for him, and he nods in understanding as you push stray strands of hair away from his eyes apologetically.
“Hawks,” you frown as he pulls away, already regretting your decision to let him go. “Don’t work yourself too hard, yeah?”
He fixes you with another smile, perfectly trained, perfectly guarded. “No promises, but I’ll come back; don’t you worry.”