Chapter Text
It was a stupid thing to think, after everything.
But if you had known you were going to end the evening drenched in a hero’s blood, you wouldn’t have worn your favorite jeans.
Earlier in the evening, you’d been thrilled to go all out--ready to blow through the local bars like the closest thing to a bombshell you could manage. You’d wiggled into the tightest pair of jeans you owned--the ones that your best friend said showed your butt to greatest effect--and topped them off with a cute top and some minimal jewelry. You’d even dug deep in your drawers for your best lingerie, in case the evening turned out to be more of a success than you planned for.
Then you’d hit the bars with your girl crew, ready to shrug the weight of your week off of your shoulders and forget all about your responsibilities.
You’d had a blast, letting your brain empty itself of your paper due next week, the pile of modern lit you were leaving unread, and the mound of homework lurking in your backpack. The night became a slurry of sensation, the warm press of your friends, the sour taste of liquor on your tongue, and the heavy pulse of the bar’s soundtrack. You’d sunk gratefully into the feeling of nothing on your mind--not a shred of an academic thought in sight, not even the question of what would be waiting for you after graduation, a thought that had been building in alarming intensity over the last few months.
At the end of things, however, all the warmth of the evening went cold.
You’d been trudging home in the hazy dark of the early hours, wishing you’d had the forethought to shrug into a jacket before you left. You were still fuzzy and satisfied from the time spent over drinks and aimless chatter, and looking forward to sinking into the softness of your mattress. You’d been mere streets away from your apartment, so close you could almost feel the cotton touch of your sheets.
And that’s when you heard it.
A soft, slurred swear, in the alleyway just beyond the next corner.
Your pace slowed, your shoes quieting on the pavement, and you gave the mouth of the alley a nervous look, trying to gauge the level of threat.
You knew the routine; a woman, walking home alone in the gloom of the early morning, was only asking for trouble if she walked by an alleyway that someone was clearly moving about in. Walking by the alley was the fastest way back to your apartment, but you weren’t stupid enough to trade speed for the risk whoever was in that alley posed. You turned to take a side street to avoid the alleyway, and had just taken your first step forward when another swear came, followed by a plaintive, “Shit. Not good, this is--fuck--ow.”
You paused. The voice was male--his tone medial and airy, even as cut with concern as it was--and the man sounded...familiar, somehow. And possibly hurt. “Ow,” was not really something someone muttered to themselves if they were waiting to spring a trap on unsuspecting passersby.
“Ah,” the voice breathed again, cutting off on a small, pained noise.
You hesitated, weighing your options. Whoever was there was doing a truly terrible job of disguising the fact that they were there. Maybe they weren’t actually hurt, and they were trying to lure you in, but the ploy seemed awfully risky when staying silent might have worked just as well.
Then, against your better judgment, you moved towards the alley.
It was worse than you could have ever predicted.
Crumpled in the middle of the walkway, in a mess of torn, strewn boxes and red feathers, was the number two hero, Hawks. He was almost impossible to recognize--his feathery hair a mess, trademark flight suit shredded in a hundred places, and he was drenched chest to face in something dark, obscuring his face so thoroughly that you might not have recognized him at all if it weren’t for the red quills carpeting the grimy alley floor.
You bit back on a choking noise.
“Holy shit, are you okay?” you demanded, rushing forward.
A low groan was your only answer. Which was an answer in and of itself. You’d been stupid to ask--obviously he wasn’t okay.
As you drew closer, you could see streaks of the same dark substance smeared all down one alley wall, like he’d scraped it down the wall himself as he’d fallen from a rooftop. You leaned over him, then froze, your gut suddenly heaving.
You were no medical expert but that--that looked exactly like blood.
You suppressed a churning wave of nausea, mind racing wildly. Christ, that was actually blood. And now that you were close enough, you could see a dark gash gleaming wetly in the gloom of the early morning, slashed across his chest like a gory sash.
The blood wasn’t just blood, it was his blood.
Holy shit.
Holy shit, the number two hero was bleeding out in an alleyway. And it looked like he was losing way more blood than you thought possible.
“Fuck,” you swore, casting about wildly for something to press into the wound. That was what people did on TV, right? Tried to staunch the flow of blood until an actual medical professional could get here?
You came up with nothing. Thinking fast, you shrugged off your own top, balled it into a thick wad, and shoved it against his chest.
Hawks’s eyes cracked open, wandering hazily over you. Even in the semidarkness, you could see they were a brilliant gold, almost off putting in their inhuman shade. You tried your best to smile at him, digging around in your back pocket for your phone.
“Hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry this looks kind of bad. But I’ve got you, and I’m gonna get you to a hospital, okay? Just hang on, I’m going to call an ambulance,” you promised, fingers fumbling over the keypad.
Hawks made a panicked noise low in his throat, and you glanced down at him in alarm.
“No--no hospitals,” he managed, looking like every word cost him dearly. His chest heaved under your hand.
You gaped. “What do you mean, no hospitals? You’re bleeding out in the middle of the street, you need help.”
He shook his head the tiniest bit, wincing. “No hospitals. Can’t--they’re watching--”
This alarmed you. “They’re watching? Someone’s watching the hospital? Who’s watching?”
He didn’t answer, eyes fluttering closed. His lashes were long and dark over his alarmingly pale cheek. He was losing too much blood.
“You have to go to a hospital--you’re going to die if you’re just left here,” you insisted, pressing your shirt to his stomach more firmly. “I’ll make sure you’re okay. No one will mess with you there.”
A hand closed over your ankle and you almost jumped out of your skin.
“No hospitals,” he managed again.
You stared down at him. Fuck, you were so not prepared for a situation like this. What the fuck did he think was gonna happen if he didn’t get to a hospital? Did he think his flesh was just gonna knit itself back together if he hid out in this grubby alley long enough? What the hell were you supposed to do with a top hero who was laying there, dying, but refusing medical treatment?
“There has to be something,” you insisted, hating the way your voice sounded so brittle. “Is there someone you can call? Someone has to be able to help you.”
Those golden eyes fixed on you again, wavering only slightly. “My belt--there’s a medical kit. Stitches.”
A choking sound escaped you. Stitches? Like, as in he was going to stitch himself up right here? Or worse--considering the fact that he looked minutes from passing out--he thought you were going to stitch him up right here?
“Uh, I don’t think that’s--I mean--”
“Give them to me,” he breathed, his chest rising and falling unsteadily under your fingers. To your horror, wetness touched the tips of your fingers, and you realized the blood had almost soaked clear through your shirt. “Then get inside. Not safe.”
Fear raced down your spine, your brain working a million miles a second.
Not safe.
Not safe from what?
Your eyes darted around the alley, but aside from the blood smears he’d left down the side of the wall, there was nothing out of sorts, no clue as to what could be coming that he didn’t think was safe.
Not safe. And he thought you were just gonna leave him to stitch himself up in a dark alley.
Taking a deep breath, you rolled your shoulders. And then you wiggled an arm under his shoulder, helping him sit up. Blood oozed wetly over your fingers, completely soaking through your shirt and you fought down a gag. It wouldn’t be any help to Hawks if you barfed all over his chest wound.
“Wh--?” was all Hawks managed to get out. His eyes seemed to try to focus on your face, but it was clear he was having trouble, his pupil flickering between you and somewhere over your shoulder, like he couldn’t pinpoint exactly where you were.
You rolled up on your heels, shoving under his shoulder blade as hard as you could manage, ending with him half slumped over your shoulder, legs buckled under him.
“I live just a few streets away. I’m gonna get you inside. And then we can do your stitches,” you promised, channeling every bit of muscle fiber into keeping him upright.
On TV, he’d looked as though he was built light and fast, considerably shorter than fellow pros like Endeavor or Best Jeanist. You’d kind of assumed that he had to be built like a bird, hollow boned and light weight, but you were quickly discovering that was not the case, his heavy muscle bearing down on you with all the density of a dying star. Even crouched over your shoulder, he was still measurably taller than you, which was not helpful. You suppressed a swear.
It was probably the sheer force of your concern that he would bleed out on you in transit that kept you moving as fast as you did--you were so not about to haul a dead guy into your apartment. In a matter of minutes you had him down the street, and by sheer force of will (plus two hallucinations from the sheer strain, and several thousand choice swear words) you managed to get him up the stairs and through your door, depositing him unceremoniously on your couch.
Hawks let out a soft noise, but that was the only indication that he was cognizant at all.
You took a moment to catch your breath as you rummaged around on his belt, unbuckling a heavy first aid pack. You felt your nose wrinkle as you unzipped it, finding the aforementioned suture thread, and a large needle that glinted dully in the light of your living room lamps.
You stared down at the items wondering what in the absolute hell you were supposed to do next. You were a fucking college student, not a doctor. Not even a medical student--an English major. You half-read books and googled spark notes and mostly just drank black coffee and argued with thin-lipped, pasty, know-it-all dudebros.
You were completely unequipped to sew a fucking human being back together. You had no idea where to begin.
Then, like the absolutely bewildered college student you were--it hit you. The answer to all of life's questions.
Google.
You unearthed your phone from your back pocket, fingers fumbling over the keys. You tried to ignore the way you left ruddy smudges over the surface of the touch screen, wondering what even was the right google search for this situation? How do I sew someone back together without passing out? How do I not barf on the pro hero I’m stitching up?
After a quick scroll, you managed to pull up a youtube video on emergency stitches and stared down at the screen with rapt attention, your pulse quickening.
Okay.
Okay, you could do this.
The video reminded you that wounds needed to be cleaned. You didn’t even leave Hawks’s side to grab towels. You ripped open the rest of his black shirt, frantically wiping him down with the blanket draped over the back of the couch, then cleaned off his chest with the alcohol wipes in his emergency pack.
The task was manageable enough, and it calmed you enough to turn back to the needle, threading it with the suture thread with fingers that shook only a little. You watched the video carefully, observing the way the needle passed through the skin at an angle, the way the thread was looped off and tied tightly back into itself.
You took another calming breath, eyes flickering back up to Hawks’s pale face. His eyes were shut, and he was breathing only shallowly. You wondered briefly if you should even attempt this, if you shouldn’t just call an ambulance after all. But he’d been so insistent. And looking at him now, he was so still and so limp, you wondered if anyone would even get here in time.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” you muttered, turning back to the wound over his chest, picking the needle up between a pair of tweezers, resting it over his hip where the gash began. “If you die, I’m gonna be so fucking pissed.”
And then, angling your wrist the way you’d seen in the video, you did it. Your lips pressed themselves together in a tight line, mind going a little dizzy as you watched the needle pass under his skin, through the wound, and out the other side. You looped the thread through itself, tying it off tightly like a shoelace.
And then you did it again. And again.
“Gross gross gross gross gross,” you chanted under your breath, trying very hard not to think about the way his skin caught and pulled under the needle. Honestly, you had not had enough to drink this evening. You needed to be almost black out to deal with how nasty this was.
What felt like hours, but must have been only minutes, passed as you worked your way slowly and carefully up his chest, feeling like you were patching up some very rubbery and disgusting pair of jeans.
Slowly, his wound began to close under your hands, and the sight of it being drawn together helped calm your nerves somewhat, though you hoped this was the right thing to do. You hoped he’d known what he was talking about when he brought up stitches, and you hoped the rough ride up your stairs hadn’t caused him any internal trauma that wouldn’t be apparent until he was already dead on your couch.
When you finished, you sat there for a moment, feeling sick.
Nothing, absolutely nothing, not even trash medical dramas or action films, had prepared you for the reality of sewing another person back together. It was an experience you hoped never, ever to repeat.
After a few long minutes of sitting back on your heels and watching Hawks to make sure he was still breathing, you managed to climb to your feet, dragging the bloody blanket with you. You had just enough presence of mind to shed your bloody clothes in front of your washing machine, grimacing at all the blood that had soaked through the cups of your bra and into the waistband of your jeans.
There was probably no salvaging the clothes, not the way the film of rusty brown seemed to have settled into them, but you tossed them into the laundry to get them out of sight, hitting run on the cycle. You pulled on a new pair of leggings and a tee shirt from your dryer, then quickly made your way back to Hawks’s side.
He was still breathing shallowly, breath stirring the tufts of blonde hair hanging into his eyes.
Satisfied that he was still momentarily alive, you chanced a quick trip to the faucet for a glass of water, hand soap, and dish towels. And then settled back on the floor at his side, setting to work cleaning up the other bits of him you could reach, sending up a silent prayer for your couch cushions. It had been a good run.
By the time you’d managed to clean most of him up and gotten towels underneath the bits of clothing that were still swimming in blood, it was nearing six in the morning. With your adrenaline reserves running dry, you were suddenly hit with a wall of bone-deep exhaustion, so powerful you might have slumped right over and fallen straight asleep.
You blinked the sleepy film from your eyes, steeling yourself against the pull of the alcohol you’d consumed and the afterburn in your limbs from hauling several feet of pure muscle up the stairs with you.
And then you settled yourself on the floor to do the only thing you could do now.
You watched, and waited.