Archive of Our Own

Hawks’ parents didn’t really celebrate Christmas.

When he looks back on it now, he’s sure they did celebrate Christmas, but just not for him. It wasn’t like his mother was the fondest of him, and his father was always out doing things that would definitely put him on Santa's naughty list - so Hawks doesn’t remember him dressing up as Santa, or her buying him presents. (Santa would’ve had a horrible time fitting through their half-broken chimney, too. And his father might have beaten him up).

All in all, it’s probably a good thing they didn’t tell four-year-old Keigo about Santa.

Hawks doesn’t know whether to be resentful over all of that - never having that childlike sort of joy - because on one hand, it’s not fair, but on the other, it’s just another thing the Commission would’ve taken from him when his mother handed him over.

Knowing that his mother sold him to the government at seven years old really helps to squish any hope Hawks had that he experienced a nice Christmas when he was a kid. But he digresses, since the Commission would’ve taken the joy of Christmas away from him if he had it in the first place, so it’s just as well that he didn’t.

(Sometimes he sees small children on patrol making snowmen in the park and it sends a sharp pang of something through his chest - but it can’t be jealousy. He’s just happy for them. And worried about them getting frostbite. Very much not jealous).

But it leads 23-year-old Hawks (not small-child-Hawks who wants to do things like make snowmen with his parents, thank you very much) to where he is now - lounging in his apartment with a holiday over Christmas where he has absolutely nothing to do.

No gifts to give. No family to visit. No friends to see. He’d contact Miruko, but she’s gone to see her parents and she’s a work friend, not a spend-Christmas-together friend. Hawks hadn’t even realised the holidays were such a big deal until he’d graduated and started his own agency, since he’d trained on every Christmas since he’d started with the Commission.

He didn’t stop after he graduated. Because what would he even do? Crime doesn’t stop over the holidays and Hawks is all too aware, and he’d rather it be him working on Christmas than a hero with a family - because to be perfectly honest, he couldn’t care less.

But much to the dismay of the Commission, the public had noticed Hawks’ little aversion to the holiday season too. He’d heard all types of rumours about himself, from ‘he just doesn’t celebrate’ to ‘he doesn’t actually have any family and he was born randomly out of an egg’ and, Hawks’ personal favourite, ‘I think he’s secretly the Grinch’.

Needless to say, his boss didn’t like his image being sullied by something as trivial as never taking time off for Christmas - so he has until New Years to sit around and do whatever he pleases, just because his parents sucked at being parents and never bothered to tell him about Santa.

Every cloud has a silver lining, he supposes. Years of neglect in his childhood led to him getting a week off of work at the ripe age of twenty-three.

“You reap what you sow,” he mutters to himself, taking his freshly-popped bowl of popcorn out of the microwave and bringing it over to his couch so he can finally find out what the hype is over Christmas movies.

Even Tokoyami had told him to watch them. Tokoyami, whose brightest item of clothing is very dark grey. Tokoyami, who came up with a move called ‘black abyss’ and is as goth as the day is long. Tokoyami told him he needed to watch a good Christmas movie.

Hawks needs to get his shit together.

He kicks his legs up onto the couch, taking up the entirety of it and settling the popcorn bowl in his lap. This, apparently, is ‘getting his shit together’, as he turns on the first Christmas movie that shows up on the screen of his TV that’s only just started, so he can get the full experience.

After about half an hour of it, he’s starting to think Tokoyami was messing with him, because there’s no way he thought this was any good. There’s no way people told him he was missing out on this because he could’ve easily gone his entire life without watching something as terrible as this.

Not that he thinks all Christmas movies will be inherently bad - but this one definitely is.

Over the sound of the cringe-worthy film dialogue that has definitely never been said in real life, he hears the lock of his door start to rattle, and thanks the stars for something actually interesting.

It’s Dabi. Because of course it’s Dabi.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hawks watches him trudge slowly into his apartment and shut the door behind him, dusting tiny droplets of snow out of his hair and shuddering before kicking off his shoes and leaving them neatly by the door.

It’s a weird habit Hawks has noticed - Dabi has killed people, but still takes his time to have good household manners. Hawks watched him burn down an entire warehouse once and yet he still refuses to leave dirty dishes unclean because ‘he’s a guest at Hawks’ house, what did he expect him to do?’

Hawks supposes he’s not really a guest if he picks the lock and lets himself in, but Dabi has clearly decided to forgo the whole ‘don’t break into somebody’s apartment’ rule of being a good visitor.

Whatever. It’s a thought that preys on his mind a lot whenever he sees him; the contrast between Dabi being a wanted criminal and yet somehow always leaving Hawks’ apartment tidier than when he came in.

Padding his socked feet along the floor, Dabi edges up to the couch and looks down at Hawks, not paying any mind to the TV.

“I’m gonna crash here,” he says bluntly.

It’s not a question, and Hawks is used to the rhetoric - Dabi telling instead of asking. And it’s not forceful or demanding, because they both know it is a question, and Dabi just hates asking. It’s an unspoken understanding that he doesn’t want to ask for help, that he hates asking for anything at all-

Like right now, as he tells Hawks I’m gonna crash here instead of asking for a place to stay.

Hawks doesn’t mind. Dabi would know if he did.

He wordlessly moves his legs off of the other side of the couch, making room for Dabi to sit there and looking up at him expectantly. A silent okay. That’s okay.

“For how long?”

Dabi shrugs. “Think I’m getting ill.”

Hawks sees it then; the wobble to his steps that are more prominent than usual, his shoulders hunched over (and not in a bad posture kind of way but in a hiding himself kind of way), the overly tired demeanour that hangs over his head. He sways a little where he’s standing and Hawks had to hold back from pulling him to sit down.

“What, you don’t wanna stay with the League for Christmas?” Hawks asks jokingly, trying to lighten the mood - he doesn’t expect an answer, rather a noncommittal grunt or a playful bat to the back of the head - but Dabi answers him anyway.

“You have central heating. And a clean apartment. And a nice shower,” Dabi answers truthfully. Painfully truthfully.

The thought hadn’t even crossed Hawks’ mind, that Dabi had come here out of safety, and it hurts.

(Because it reminds him of his own childhood. Trying to recover from sickness in a cold and dirty home with nobody taking care of him, and failing miserably. Having things get worse in the cold and unforgiving winter. Having nobody there for him. Again).

He spares a glance out of the window, and even though it’s nighttime, he can see frost beginning to set in and clouds starting to blanket the pitch dark sky. With a barely-there shudder, he pushes back memories of freezing hands and worsening illnesses and looks back at Dabi, whose face looks like it’s getting paler by the second.

“...Tell me if you need anything,” Hawks says eventually, the air in the room suddenly a lot more serious, a lot more tender. Dabi’s frown softens into something more tired and just depleted.

“Can’t promise you that, birdie.”

To Hawks’ delight, Dabi finally sits down on the other side of the couch. Although, his happiness at that tiny thing quickly dissipates when he watches him slump into the cushions almost immediately, like standing for less than ten minutes had taken all his energy away from him.

Dabi is getting sick. There’s no doubt about it.

He stifles a cough into his sleeve and then tries to play it off when he realises Hawks is watching him and getting concerned, getting worried. It’s a thing Hawks has noticed about him - especially with Hawks, he seems so adamant not to accept care, even though it’s clear he wants it.

Dabi let him, once. It was late and dark and he was exhausted, too exhausted to force himself to reject the kindness.

Hawks just held him.

They didn’t talk, didn’t say a word before or during or even after; only tense but fleeting glances and momentary, reassuring touches - a pat on the shoulder or a brush of the hand. Just because Hawks knew it was alright, because Dabi craved it. Because Dabi whispered thank you after shivering with silent tears for hours and melted into his grip, let himself be held.

Dabi coughs again and it breaks Hawks out of his reverie. He startles enough for Dabi to see he’s still watching and try to awkwardly distract from it, and so he turns his head to the movie Hawks had on before he’d entered the apartment.

“What’s this?”

Hawks shovels a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “They work for rival Christmas tree farms, but they’re falling in love, but they’re still working against each other, but their friends think they should go for it, but they’re still rivals but neither of them want to be lonely for the holidays. So.”

Dabi pauses for a moment, frowning to himself.

“...It sounds shit,” he says eventually.

“It is.”

“Oh.”

It takes about another hour for the movie’s main couple to stop tip-toeing around each other and kiss; the screen fades to black and a jovial Christmas tune starts playing over the credits and Hawks wonders why he just wasted a perfectly good two hours of his life.

A soft snore interrupts his inner monologue of I could’ve been outside stopping crime and instead I was sat on my ass watching the worst movie ever, and he looks over to see Dabi fast asleep on the opposite side of the couch, his neck crooked at an awkward angle where he’s resting it.

It’s kind of sweet. Really, Hawks is just glad to look at anything that isn’t a terrible Christmas film.

The first time Dabi had ever set foot in Hawks’ apartment, he’d said something along the lines of I’m not going to sleep in front of you. You’d take me in. Or kill me. Not sure which one I’d hate more.

Aside from the fact that Hawks wasn’t planning to do any of that, that memory is the only thing on his mind as he watches Dabi’s chest rise and fall, his eyes shut and body curled in on itself, making himself as small as he possibly can be while he sleeps.

While the sound of jingling bells is drilling itself permanently into Hawks’ brain, he silently drapes a blanket over Dabi, quiet and gentle so as not to wake him. The villain doesn’t move at all - instead, he just lies there, still, his head still resting uncomfortably against his own shoulder.

Before he can decide against it, Hawks is carefully picking Dabi up off of the couch, supporting his head with a feather and carrying him to his bedroom so he can lie down properly.

Hawks sees it, as he carries Dabi through the door and sets him down on the mattress as softly as he can, wary of jostling him too much. (He needn’t have bothered, because Hawks’ entire apartment building could explode and Dabi would be asleep too deeply to even stir). He sees how completely Dabi is asleep, not just snoozing or resting his eyes - Dabi is out.

He tucks the blanket from before around Dabi’s shoulders and brushes his hair off of his forehead before retreating back to the couch, where another terrible Christmas movie has started. And, he supposes - these are his days off. When else can he watch absolutely awful TV with no consequence?

After he curls up on the couch, he turns the volume down a little. Just because he doesn’t want Dabi’s rest interrupted by something that, at the end of the day, should get a zero-star rating.

As the movie goes on, it gets progressively worse, but Hawks is comforted by the fact Dabi might wake up any minute to save him from this Christmas-induced migraine. Dabi’s always been a night owl and it’s only 8pm, so he’s fully expecting him to wake up-

The film finishes in all its terrible glory at about eleven, and when Hawks peeks his head around his bedroom door to check on him, he finds Dabi still asleep in the same position he left him in, blanket clutched tightly in his fists.

While the credits play, Hawks manages to find another blanket lying around somewhere in his apartment and resigns himself to sleeping on the couch for the night.

Hawks wakes up mid-morning, his arm asleep where he’d been resting it off of the side of the couch and legs suitably cramped for the position he’d slept in.

Not that he minds. He’d rather Dabi slept well, got better quickly. When he checks his phone, the time is half past nine, which is a lot later than he’d be allowed to sleep if he was on patrol that day; so he thanks the stars for small mercies and starts making himself cereal while he listens half-heartedly to the radio.

A Christmas song. Another Christmas song. The radio hosts having a talk about being excited for Christmas. A Christmas song again.

Dabi comes dawdling into the living room about an hour later with Hawks’ blanket clutched over his chest, wrapped around his shoulders.

“Hey, sleeping beauty,” Hawks says playfully, but he regrets the joking nature when he properly sees Dabi’s face, exhausted and haggard. Even though it’s late in the morning, he still looks half-asleep, subconsciously rocking slightly in the air where he stands.

“I don’t feel better,” Dabi tells him.

“That’s fine,” Hawks says simply, hoping to ease any doubts he has about staying without actually saying anything. It’s okay to stay here, he wants to tell him. I want you to stay here. I want to help you get better. I want to take care of you.

But he doesn’t say any of that, despite the protective and almost possessive voice in his head that screams at him to - in fear of it being too much and scaring Dabi off. “Happy Christmas Eve,” he says instead.

“If you’re one of those people who are really annoying about Christmas, I’m going to leave.”

“I wouldn’t leave you out in the cold,” Hawks says, attempting to imitate the overly optimistic tone from the Christmas movies he’d binged the night before. “Not on Christmas.”

Dabi doesn’t dignify the poor attempt at a joke with a response.

Instead, he just slumps down onto Hawks’ couch on the opposite side to him, the same place he’d sat the night before; he tucks his knees up to his chest as he folds in on himself, shutting his eyes again and resting his head on his knees. Maybe because he saw Hawks worriedly staring at him, but maybe just because he’s tired.

He must be uncomfortable, Hawks thinks, what with him still being dressed in his villain gear (Dabi refuses to call it that) which can’t be at all nice to rest in.

“I have comfortable clothes,” Hawks offers in a whisper, so even though they’re completely alone in his apartment, it’s like a secret. “That dusty old jacket can’t be making you feel any better.”

The light-hearted tone helps, he thinks - it makes all of this less serious, makes it less like Dabi needing help and more like something that doesn't really matter, something they’ll never mention again. Hawks tries like crazy to make this seem like something casual so he can actually get Dabi to accept help.

“It’s fashionable,” Dabi mutters with his eyes still shut, muffled into his cocoon of a position.

“I’m gonna leave some out anyway,” Hawks says, moving to get up - the help is there, he makes it known - Dabi can take it if he wants, and not if he doesn’t. Hawks can’t force it on him but he’s not just going to sit there and do nothing, watch him suffer without at least trying.

Dabi just hums noncommittally, like he doesn’t want to affirm that he’ll accept the help, that he actually wants- needs something.

Hawks looks back at Dabi before he makes his way to his bedroom, rifling through his closet to find something comfortable, settling on a loose pair of sweats and a soft t-shirt that will hopefully fit him - and then goes back to Dabi to set them not so close to him that he feels he’s obligated to put them on, but not far enough away that it’s a hassle for him to reach them.

It’s weird. Almost like leaving food out for a stray cat. Hawks can’t give it to him, just has to wait and see if he’ll accept it: the help, and the comfort.

Sometimes Hawks does feed the strays outside, the ones that tend to stay around the outside of his apartment building. He’s struck up a particular relationship with one of them, a little orange one with a pink nose; but that in itself took a while. At first, she wouldn’t accept the food when he was there - instead, he’d leave her to it and come back later to find the bowl empty.

“I’m going to the shop,” Hawks says, using the same sort of logic. He needs to give Dabi a chance to decide and then even more time to get changed if he wants to, and there will be less pressure if Hawks is there while he does. “Gonna get medicine and stuff. You have a preference for herbal tea?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had herbal tea in my life,” Dabi says, pretending not to notice the clothes Hawks has set out. “You don’t have a lot of time for herbal tea as a criminal, birdie.”

Hawks shrugs. “Then I’ll stock up while I’m out. You didn’t even have any as a kid?”

Dabi muses over that for a second. “I mean, I was a nauseous kid a lot of the time. I basically lived off of ginger. But other than that, no. And I haven’t had it since I was young.”

Tugging his shoes on, Hawks makes a note of that in his mind. Not just the type of tea he’s going to buy, but the little fragments of information Dabi gives him about his past. He felt sick often as a child. He liked tea. He knows how to make it himself. He doesn’t do it so much anymore. It makes more sense now that Dabi likes that scented candle of his that smells like ginger.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Hawks calls out. “Don’t miss me too much.”

“I don’t think that’ll be an issue,” Dabi calls back.

Dabi’s changed into his clothes when he gets back to his apartment, looking considerably more at ease.

Hawks doesn’t mention it. He’s just happy to see him more comfortable, more relaxed, and he’s kind of endeared by how he’s fidgeting with the hem of the shirt with his fingers. His hair is still messy, like he’s been constantly running a hand through it - maybe because of stress, maybe tiredness, or maybe he was just tossing and turning through the night.

“You don’t have any decorations up,” Dabi says quietly to break the silence, his eyes flitting about the room as he notices how bare it is now he’s actually awake.

“I don’t own any,” Hawks says bluntly, unpacking his shopping bag onto his kitchen counter. His apartment isn’t tiny by any means, but it’s open enough that he can see, hear, and speak to Dabi from where he’s standing in the kitchen. “Hey, wait, I thought you said you were gonna leave if I was really annoying about Christmas.”

“Yeah. And I am. But,” Dabi shrugs. “I don’t know, it’s… sad.”

Hawks frowns, looking over his shoulder at him. He’d have thought Dabi would be happy about the lack of festive paraphernalia in his apartment, not disappointed and borderline insulting.

“Not- that came out wrong. I just-” he looks up at the ceiling, and shrugs again. “Even Shigaraki put a little tree up. Twice and Toga bugged him into it, but he still… It looks lonely, I mean. Your apartment.”

“I wasn’t planning on having anyone over.”

Dabi frowns. “You spending Christmas with your family?”

An involuntary snort leaves him at that, thinking of the Christmases he’d had as a child (or lack thereof). He can’t even imagine spending Christmas with his family this year, seeing his estranged father in prison or- well, god knows where his mother is. It’s needless to say that no, he’s definitely not spending Christmas with his family.

He tries not to think about it. How unfair it is and how upset that makes him.

And then, he forgets that Dabi doesn’t know about any of that. Not his father’s criminality or his mother’s hatred. He was just asking.

“No,” he clarifies, shaking his head as he starts making Dabi’s tea. “I’m staying here.”

Dabi’s eyes widen a little, like he wasn’t expecting it; like he expected Hawks to have a happy, loving family, one that he could spend Christmas with, one that didn’t hate him. Like he expected Hawks to have had a normal childhood.

We’re more alike than you think, Hawks had said to him once, walking the paths of a dark alleyway, when Dabi had remarked that Hawks was probably unfamiliar with all this - the desolation, the misery. We're two sides of the same coin.

He didn’t know if Dabi believed him. But maybe it was worth saying it. To let Dabi know that he understands more than he thinks he does, that his upbringing wasn’t so different. To let Dabi know that he gets it.

“Why?” Dabi asks him, cocking his head.

Hawks contemplates for a second, going still. There’s no real reason to tell Dabi. There’s not really a reason at all.

The faint scent of ginger starts to drift up into the room and he’s reminded of all the trust Dabi’s putting in him. Telling him things about his past, falling asleep in his presence, taking his offerings of tea and clothes. Hawks supposes he can afford to give him some of that reliance back.

“Don’t really have one,” he says nonchalantly, breathing in the smell of the tea that’s supposed to keep him calm.

Dabi pauses. “...Oh.”

“I mean- you know. I wouldn’t have anywhere to go but here,” Hawks says awkwardly, suddenly horribly aware of what he’s just confessed, feeling the self-consciousness start to take root in his stomach. But, he supposes that there’s not really a way to sugar-coat the fact that he’s been with the Commission since he was young, and even before that his parents didn’t even like him. Didn’t even want him, for that matter.

“...Yeah. I get it,” Dabi says softly, and the awkwardness subsides a little, replaced with familiarity. “Sorry I’m stealing your house for the holidays. Thought you’d be out.”

Hawks shrugs. “I don’t mind. I’ve finished your tea.”

As he hands it over to Dabi, he takes a seat on the opposite side of the couch and watches him inhale deeply, breathing in the scent and shutting his eyes. He murmurs something that sounds like home but Hawks is sure it has to have been something else.

It doesn’t take long for him to finish it, even though he’s been occasionally taking breaks to hold the mug close to his face, just to feel the warmth. Hawks just watches with an attentive sort of gaze because he’s happy he could finally do something useful, something that might have even helped cheer Dabi up.

He falls asleep not long after he sets the mug down on the coffee table, too exhausted to move anywhere else. Hawks watches him then, too, slumping back into the couch cushions and succumbing to exhaustion even though all he’d been doing was sitting up, chatting to him and drinking a cup of tea.

There’s definitely something wrong with him. Dabi’s a notorious insomniac, Hawks has known him not to sleep for full days (because they’re both one and the same with their terrible sleeping habits) - so it’s basically unheard of, for Dabi to get tired after being awake for just a couple of hours.

He doesn’t wake up when Hawks makes himself lunch. Doesn’t wake up when Hawks listens to the radio or puts the TV on or very noisily vacuums his floor right next to him. The very Earth could implode at this moment in time and Hawks is sure Dabi would stay right where he is, asleep on his couch with his arms tucked around himself, snoozing peacefully.

He only wakes up when the sun has already gone down and Hawks has cleared his empty mug off of the table, so he won’t feel the obligation to do it himself like he usually does.

“Are you doing okay?” Hawks asks him as he blinks his eyes open, making sense of his surroundings. He seems a little shocked that he’s still in Hawks’ apartment, like he’d expected him to kick him out by now, or like he’d thought it was all a dream.

“Feel gross,” Dabi slurs, rubbing at his eyes and running a shaky hand back through his hair. “The tea was nice. I slept okay. But I’m still gross.”

“You can use my shower if you want. You’d probably feel better for it.”

Dabi frowns, contemplating the question for a short while, and Hawks pretends to mess around on his phone so he doesn’t feel pressured to answer quickly. The hem of his shirt finds its way back into Dabi’s fingers as he thinks, clutching the fabric in his hands as a self-soothing gesture.

“...Okay,” he says eventually, voice rasping from sleep.

“You know where my bathroom is, right?”

“Yeah. Thanks,” Dabi says, and they leave it at that.

Hawks listens to him slowly and carefully shuffle down to his bathroom and he watches his back as he walks, gradually getting further away from him. He’s sure doesn’t need to worry, Dabi knows where he’s going and it’s just a shower. He’s a grown man, Hawks reasons.

The door clicks shut and Hawks returns to playing around on his phone out of boredom.

About fifteen minutes pass, and Hawks doesn’t hear anything. Not running water or even Dabi moving about, and he knows he should because his feathers sense everything - even the passing cars on the ground outside his apartment and the slightest change of the wind outside, if he’s listening out for it. No, his apartment is completely silent save for the TV playing in front of him, so what’s Dabi been doing since he left?

Turning the screen off, he ventures down to the bathroom, where he hears only the low hum of the fan and nothing else. When he fixes his concentration, he can hear the faint vibrations of Dabi’s breathing in the air, subdued and barely there.

He gives three sharp knocks on the door. “Dabi?”

Hawks stands there, tapping his foot not impatiently, but worriedly. There’s no response.

“Are you in there?” He tries again, making his voice as gentle as he can while still ensuring Dabi can hear him.

“I’m here,” is the quiet grunt he gets in response.

Hawks tries to choose his next words wisely, his wings quivering a little with indecision. “Are you… is everything okay?”

There’s a long, tense pause, where Hawks just looks at the door and waits, waits patiently yet desperately to hear Dabi’s voice, to see if he’s okay. The grain of the wooden door burns itself into his eyes while he listens out intently.

He hears him eventually, muffled through the door and by the soft whir of the fan in the bathroom.

“...Need help,” he mutters.

It’s barely audible. Hawks only hears it because he can sense the vibrations of Dabi’s voice through his feathers, can feel the rumble his voice makes since it’s so low, so quiet.

His breath is knocked out of his chest nonetheless.

Dabi doesn’t say those kinds of things. Dabi doesn’t ask for help. Dabi doesn’t ask for help and especially not from Hawks.

It’s clearly a testament to how terrible he’s feeling because Hawks doesn’t think he’s ever seen Dabi this ill. He remembers seeing him ill once in the autumn of this year, barely able to move from his bed the day that Hawks had seen him - and yet even then he still hadn’t asked him for help, not even for a glass of water or simply just to stay with him. But now, Dabi is accepting his help, wearing his clothes, sleeping in his bed - and asking him for help.

It’s then that Hawks contemplates calling the hospital.

...He’ll wait and see.

“Can I come in?” He asks gently.

There’s another long bout of silence before Dabi answers in affirmation, his voice something tired and resigned. Hawks’ heart hurts for him, almost, knowing that he’s in there by himself; but, even with trepidation burning in his fingers, he opens the door to get to him.

Dabi’s sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall with his legs tucked up to his chest and his chin resting on his knees. He’s curled up like a child, like something scared and vulnerable, like Hawks is going to be angry at him for needing help. He doesn’t even look up when Hawks comes in, only down to the ground in shame.

Even though they’re the only ones in his apartment, Hawks shuts the door behind him to give them both a sense of privacy. So Dabi knows it’s just them, just Hawks and him. It’s just Hawks who’s going to see him like this. Nothing will ever leave this room.

Nobody’s going to know he asked for help and nobody’s going to know he asked for help from Hawks.

“Hey,” Hawks murmurs softly, standing close to the door because this is unprecedented. Dabi never lets himself be vulnerable and never lets anyone see him vulnerable like this; so Hawks has no idea what’s okay to do and what will make him burn both Hawks and his entire apartment to a tiny pile of ash.

“What happened?” He quietens his voice even further, so much so it occurs to him that he’s just whispering to Dabi, and he wonders if that’s alright, too.

“Can’t stand up,” Dabi whispers back.

Hawks thinks about that for a second, ponders the words in his head while he watches the healthy skin of Dabi’s face go bright red with shame. If he could, Hawks thinks he might be crying. He knows the embarrassment and discomfort Dabi’s feeling right now, knows it like he knows his own name, the back of his hand - and remembers wishing that somebody would tell him it’s fine. It’s fine to need help. To be ill.

“That’s alright,” Hawks says softly, wanting hopelessly to reach out and touch him in comfort. “I’ll help you. I’ve got you.”

Dabi makes a noise like he’s been shot and hides his face in his knees.

He places a tentative hand on Dabi’s head, starting to stroke his hair softly but minutely, not wanting to be too rough. The touch is barely there but Dabi’s so vulnerable in the moment that Hawks is terrified he’ll break him if he breathes too hard.

Telling Hawks he needed help must have taken all the fight out of him, Hawks realises. There’s no way he’ll ask for anything else so soon, so he concludes that it would be no use phrasing anything as a question, because Dabi won’t accept.

He takes a leaf out of Dabi’s book, then. Telling and not asking.

“I’m gonna run the bath instead,” he says quietly, still moving his hand. “You can get in if you want, or not if you don’t. I’ll be here either way.”

“Hawks…”

“It’s okay. I’m gonna help you, alright? It’s gonna be okay.”

Dabi leans into his touch and then the bathroom is silent save for the sound of Hawks using his feathers to start the running water. Hawks is content to stay here for the rest of the night, but Dabi had said he felt gross and Hawks knows it’ll do him good to get clean. Maybe he’ll even start getting better.

“You’ve never…” Hawks stops, and starts again. “You don’t do this. You don’t let me do this. Why now?”

Dabi sits upright, removing himself from where he’s glued to Hawks’ side, and shrugs. “Just want it to be over.”

“How long have you been ill?” Hawks asks him, and it’s like time stops.

Dabi goes to answer and Hawks hears him falter, hears the answer that gets caught in his throat and dies there; Dabi knows that Hawks knows he’s been lying and there’s nowhere for him to even go because he’s too exhausted and physically weak to move by himself.

“I know you weren’t just getting sick the night you came here,” Hawks presses. “Tell me.”

Knowing that there’s no way out of this, Dabi just rests his head onto his knees, shutting out the light of the bathroom and Hawks’ accusing yet worried gaze.

“About a week and a half.”

“Fucking hell.”

Bringing his head back up, Dabi laughs - though it’s tired, and humourless. He shakes his head as he speaks. “I didn’t know what else to do at that point. Didn’t know… where else I could go.”

“You can always come to me,” Hawks says sincerely, without even skipping a beat; and then the moment gets a little too real for the both of them. A bit too tender, a bit too… loving. Something much more genuine than they’re both used to. There’s no way to misconstrue this as something else, as something that could be joking - Hawks is wholeheartedly serious when he says it.

You can always come to me, he says, and he means it. Hawks just looks into his eyes and it’s an intimate sort of look, but even with the close proximity of their faces and the heavy sort of way Dabi looks back at him, he doesn’t think about kissing him.

It’s intimate because it says I care about you. Because it says I trust you.

And neither of them can afford to say those things aloud.

Hawks could kiss Dabi if he wanted to (not now, because he doesn’t really have a desire to get sick as well) but he’s kissed Dabi before and it didn’t mean any of those things, didn’t really mean anything at all. He’s kissed Dabi and it didn’t feel anywhere near as momentous or as significant as any of this.

He’s sure Dabi is aware of all of these silent musings, too, because even though his eyes keep flitting down to Hawks’ lips and back up again, he makes no move to do anything, to get any closer.

Hawks is sitting with Dabi in the bathroom when he’s ill and offering him as much comfort as he’ll take and somehow he'd be terrified of anyone finding this out because it’s for some reason more romantic than kissing him since that was something they had both done before, but Hawks has never cared for somebody this deeply and this intensely-

The air is so, so silent between them. There’s at least a thousand words that go unspoken because they’re a hero and a villain and they can’t just say things like I care about you.

"Hey," Hawks whispers to him quietly, breaking the silence. "What do snowmen eat for breakfast?"

"...What the fuck are you talking about," Dabi stares at him, confused, because they've just been having a really solemn conversation and he still doesn't feel good and Hawks can't be serious.

"Snowflakes," Hawks says, and the flat, empty face Dabi's been making since the atmosphere got so deep and tense finally breaks into a smile. (Obviously not because the joke is good. It's absolute horseshit and Hawks knows it. But if it makes Dabi laugh because it's that bad, then so be it).

"I hate you," Dabi laughs into his palms, probably half from exhaustion. "I actually hate you."

"What happened to the thief who stole a Christmas calendar?"

"Don't tell me," Dabi digs the heels of his palms into his eyes.

"He got twelve months," Hawks playfully pushes him, still being gentle because he's sick, but enjoying seeing Dabi's smile.

"Fucks sake," Dabi mutters through a grin that he's trying to hide. "I'll be getting twelve months if you keep telling jokes."

"You're a criminal, you'd already be getting more than twelve months. Hey, shit, I forgot about the bath and I’m gonna flood my apartment,” Hawks says quickly, turning the running water off with his feathers when he finally notices how full the bathtub had gotten. It’s a close call though none of it spills over the side, which is probably (definitely) a Christmas miracle.

Dabi snorts at him anyway.

Hawks looks away to give him privacy while he gets in, not wanting to push any boundaries especially while he’s ill. He hears the ripples of the water, feels the steam from the heat with his feathers, and knows it’s safe to look back.

It’s kind of endearing. Dabi has his arms wrapped around his knees and he looks almost at peace in the water.

“Sorry I’m all gross.”

“That’s my favourite part about you,” Hawks jests. “Now come on. Let me wash your hair.”

Dabi’s quiet after the moment they’ve just had, but he’s pliant and lets Hawks wash his hair, rub his fingers into his scalp, clean him up after the days and days he’s had of being ill and unable to take care of himself. Hawks is as gentle as he can be, as tender as his horrible hands are capable of being.

He pretends not to notice the slight shake to Dabi’s bare shoulders, the subtle anxiousness in his breathing.

Instead, he just rinses the bubbles of shampoo from his hair and tries to convey with a touch I’m here for you.

“What are you even ill with?” Hawks asks when he’s done and Dabi’s just relaxing in the water, enveloping himself in the warmth and comfort of it, considerably much more relaxed than he was an hour ago. Hawks thinks he’s probably not had a proper bath in ages, and would instead settle for rushed, tepid showers - there’s not a lot of luxury for the League, he knows. He wants to make Dabi feel comfortable, well looked after.

Maybe he’ll come back if he gets ill again. Hawks doesn’t know.

“I haven’t heard you sneeze, like, once,” he carries on. “It’s wintertime and about a billion kids sneeze on me on patrol every day, so what’s going on with you?”

Dabi doesn’t respond to the teasing, just frowns at his bare knees, staring at his skin and bones with a sort of contempt. “It just hurts,” he says, not unchildlike. “I barely made it to your place, I can hardly walk, and it’s not like I can go to a hospital, I can’t ask them what’s wrong with me. I’d rather be in pain now than in Tartarus for the rest of my life.”

He breathes in deeply and Hawks can see the dips between each of his ribs underneath the skin of his back, each ridge in the curve of his spine. His head falls into his hands. “I’m just so… tired. I know there’s something wrong, I can feel it, but…”

Hawks is sure that’s the worst part of it, for Dabi. That there’s no discernible cause, no obvious clue as to what’s actually wrong for him to figure out himself. He just feels bad, just feels ill.

I care about you, Hawks doesn’t say as he stares at him, brands into his memory the sharp jut of his shoulder blades. He just screams it in his head, over and over again until it’s the only thing he can think, and he’s nearly hysterical with how deeply he feels it. I care about you so fucking much.

“I believe you,” he says instead, his voice trembling with the weight of the unsaid words. “You don’t have to prove anything. You’re sick. And it’s gonna get better.”

Of course, Dabi doesn’t know any of the words he keeps in his head - he just rubs his face with his palms one last time, trying to erase the grogginess from his eyes with warm water before he mutters to Hawks that he’s going to get out since his fingers are wrinkling. Dabi has no idea about anything he’s thinking, not while he lets Hawks pat his hair dry with a towel and then lets himself be led back to Hawks’ bedroom with an arm looped underneath his shoulders.

Hawks catches him when he inevitably stumbles, his legs weak and head dizzy.

It’s a foolish thought to have, but Hawks thinks - for a second - that maybe Dabi trusts him.

Dabi had told him once that after his childhood, after the things that happened that led him to joining the League, he didn’t think he would ever fully trust anyone. Not again. He didn’t think his mind would ever let him.

But, in the dim and soulful light of the winter moon outside, Hawks is slipping one of his shirts over Dabi’s head and helping him get dressed again. And if that isn’t trust, Hawks doesn’t know what is.

After he’s finished, he turns away from Dabi for a second, going to take the empty glass of water from his bedside back to the kitchen-

“Hawks,” Dabi says, and it’s quiet - but there’s a certain sort of fear underneath it. Something small and afraid as he calls out to him. “...Stay,” he adds in a whisper.

Hawks freezes.

Hawks freezes like a deer in headlights and tries to comprehend the weight of what Dabi’s just asked him. What can he say to that? How can he respond to that? What can he possibly do to let Dabi know of course I’ll stay because I want you to feel comfortable and safe but also I’ve never cared about anyone else like I care about you, and it makes me feel like I’m dying.

There’s about a thousand different thoughts swimming around in his head, but in his vulnerability, Dabi takes his silence as rejection.

“Please don’t laugh,” he says, voice weak and shuddering in a way Hawks has never heard before. “I can’t do this.”

“Dabi,” Hawks tries to correct himself immediately- “I’ll stay. I’m staying.”

Dabi frowns like he doesn’t believe him. Like he’s seen this kind of love too many times. Like it’s just for the sake of it, so he doesn't make a fuss; like Hawks thinks it’s a chore to be caring for him and he doesn’t want to actually do it.

Averting his eyes to the floor, he crosses his arms over his chest, hunching over and making himself as small as he can be. Hawks can see him biting the inside of his cheek so none of his emotions are given away but he still looks downright miserable.

“I want to stay with you,” Hawks tries to reassure him, and rushes back to the side of the bed where he’s sitting. He doesn’t know how else to prove it, he could make Dabi tea again but he doesn’t even know if he’d want it and he can’t exactly leave Dabi on his own but Dabi can’t come with him to the kitchen because he’s too tired and-

“I’m sorry,” is all Dabi whispers, and Hawks wants to personally attack whoever made him think it was such a burden for him to be loved.

“I’ve got you,” Hawks whispers back, and before he can think any better of it, he’s pulling Dabi into a hug where he stands in front of him; his hands are in the perfect position to run through his hair, to gently stroke his back in soothing motions and hopefully calm him down. He pulls Dabi’s head close to his stomach and simply cradles him, tries to let him know without words how much he cares.

Dabi just shudders, leans into the touch while still sitting on the edge of Hawks’ bed.

“I wish things were different,” he says, a hint of a tear in his voice.

Hawks doesn’t know how to unpack that. Different how, he doesn’t ask, because there’s a million different things Dabi could say and Hawks is sure a very emotionally taxing conversation isn’t the best remedy for an illness.

Maybe he means I wish I wasn’t so ill. Maybe he means I wish it wasn’t Christmas. Maybe he means I wish I didn’t need help from you. A nagging, selfish part of Hawks hopes that he means I wish we weren’t enemies.

He hopes Dabi meant I wish you could hold me like this more often. I wish we could do this without consequence.

Instead, he just threads his fingers through Dabi’s hair, still slightly wet against his palm, and gently scratches his scalp in hopes that it’s calming.

“I wanna go home,” Dabi stops to hiccup, on the verge of crying.

Hawks cups the back of his head and softly rubs the small hairs on the back of Dabi’s neck. “I know,” he whispers. “I know, baby. Just… let’s go back to sleep, okay? I’ll help you lie down.”

Hawks coaxes him into going to sleep because he has no idea what to do. No idea how to make him better, no idea how to make him happy, and it hurts - he’s completely useless in this situation, completely inept at dealing with whatever Dabi’s own body is hurling at him.

It’s barely 10PM, but Dabi doesn’t even protest about going to sleep. Whatever energy he had must have been drained away, simply from sitting up and having a conversation; Hawks knows he’s exhausted and has no idea how to make it better other than resting.

“Your bed’s so much nicer than mine,” Dabi slurs as Hawks helps him lay back on the pillows, and he thinks he’s talking just to fill the silence, just because he knows Hawks is helping him and he doesn’t know how to feel about having asked for it.

“Then go to sleep,” Hawks murmurs, tucking the blankets up and over his shoulders.

With his busy schedule and late night habits, Hawks doesn’t really ever go to bed this early - but Dabi sheepishly tugs at his sleeve and Hawks realises that when Dabi asked him to stay, he meant for the night.

Of course he can do that. He wants to help Dabi and if this is how Dabi wants help, then so be it.

“Come on. Shift over,” Hawks says, crawling over him to the other side of the bed and trying not to look at Dabi’s soft and thankful smile. He collapses onto the bed by his side and finds that he doesn’t even mind going to sleep this early, not if it’s with him. Not if it makes him happy.

After a few minutes, Dabi’s hand worms its way underneath the blankets to take hold of Hawks’, and he has to fight back a grin. He helps intertwine Dabi’s fingers with his own just to let him know he’s there, and it’s alright - and Dabi doesn’t let go, not even when he falls asleep.

Hawks listens to the sound of his breathing, rhythmic and slow, feels the vibrations of it through his feathers, and commits it to memory.

Hawks wakes up on Christmas morning at about 4AM.

It takes him a moment to remember that it’s actually Christmas Day, because he doesn’t feel particularly festive today - but then again, he hasn’t really felt festive since he was a small child, and maybe not even then.

It takes him another moment to realise that he’s only woken up because he can hear Dabi retching from his bathroom.

Suddenly he’s moving without even thinking; his legs are getting him out of his warm cocoon of bedsheets and moving in Dabi’s direction, leaving the warmth of his bed behind even though he’s still half-asleep.

His eyes squint at the bright bathroom light when he gets there, but eventually he can make out Dabi: shaking where he’s sat up against the wall near the toilet, his head in his hands as he trembles, though Hawks isn’t sure if it’s from the cold December air filtering into his apartment or because he’s simply uncomfortable and nauseous.

“Merry Christmas,” Hawks calls from the doorway, and Dabi groans before he looks up. Whether it’s because he’s in pain or because it’s four in the morning and Hawks is already being an asshole, he doesn’t know.

Dabi looks exhausted when Hawks properly sees his face, so he concludes it must be a bit of both.

His response consists of a barely-stifled gag and another exhausted groan.

There are different degrees of tiredness with Dabi, and this is probably one of the worst ones. He’s been sick for days and Hawks was hoping he’d be at least a little better today, but he can see the upset resignation in Dabi’s blue eyes and he knows that he’s definitely not recovering. At least, not yet.

He's on the verge of calling the hospital. Maybe. Not yet. Maybe soon. He isn't sure.

Dabi's forearm is shaking a little where he’s holding up his own head, his hand keeping his hair out of his face and steadying himself at the same time, making sure he doesn’t fall over.

And after long moments of eye-contact, of Dabi looking up at him with a drained sort of teal in his eyes and Hawks just standing in the doorway, watching - Dabi turns back away from him and retches again.

“Is this my gift?”

“I hate you,” Dabi slurs, hanging his head over the toilet bowl.

Hawks snorts light-heartedly at the insult. Dabi doesn’t look back at him, though, and gradually Hawks gauges that this isn’t a fun sort of conversation. He can’t turn it into something playful or joking like he had last night, and with the new revelation that Dabi has been ill for a while hanging over his head, Hawks feels even worse.

Dabi’s upset. Dabi’s in pain. He’s down and life is still kicking him.

(It’s been kicking him for years).

Silently, Hawks crouches down beside him and takes a seat on the bathroom floor. He doesn’t want to say anything. Maybe the moment doesn’t warrant it.

He knows that Dabi won’t want to hear a joke, not now. This morning seems different from last night, and as Dabi hacks up another cough Hawks doesn’t even want to joke.

He doesn’t even notice that in doing that, his own ‘hero’ persona has completely dropped. The Pro Hero ‘Hawks’ has disappeared. There’s no jokes, not even banter between the two of them; he just sits down by Dabi’s side and cares for him.

And it’s so horribly truthful he doesn’t know how to feel.

With the terrible realisation that he completely and wholeheartedly cares for the villain Dabi and wants to make him feel alright, Hawks is using his feathers to run a hand towel under cold water because he wouldn’t dream of moving away from Dabi when he’s this bad, not even for a second.

When Dabi’s body finally gives him a reprieve from all the heaving, Hawks pulls him into his side, lets him lean against him and rubs his hand up and down his back as he trembles. Dabi goes completely lax, his body having just completely given up from the sickness and the fatigue, and Hawks supports him with his arms and his feathers, trying to keep him as comfortable as possible.

“Lean on me,” he murmurs, tucking a strand of Dabi’s sweaty hair behind his ear. “I’ve got you.”

Hawks has to help him sit up when he starts coughing again, his chest rattling with the force of it. Nothing comes up. He brings the cool, damp cloth over to Dabi with his feathers and presses it onto his forehead, relishing in the slightly relieved gasp that leaves Dabi’s mouth when he does.

It stops working after a short moment, what with Dabi’s overheated body warming the water up, and he ditches it completely when he retches again and Hawks has to drop it to hold his hair back. Not soon after, though, he’s leaning back to his prior position, gasping to catch his breath as his hand desperately searches to clutch Hawks’ fingers.

“I tried not to wake you,” he whispers quietly, his voice shaky and vulnerable.

“I want you to wake me,” Hawks whispers back.

And they just sit like that, for a while. Hawks doesn’t push him to move too soon, just sits by his side and lets Dabi control what’s going on. His arm falls to rest around Dabi’s waist and starts soothingly rubbing there, too, hoping it might make him feel better - or if not that, at least give him some semblance of comfort.

They don’t speak. Hawks is tired, Dabi even more so; he just leans into him again, body still trembling from the illness but desperately seeking refuge in the form of Hawks’ gentle hands and soft touches.

“You finished?”

Hawks has been there for maybe about half an hour when he asks it; his eyelids are drooping shut again and his legs are beginning to go numb on the cold bathroom floor. He can’t imagine Dabi is faring much better, what with him being already ill. The bathroom floor certainly can’t be very comfortable for him, either.

Dabi doesn’t answer straight away. He frowns like he’s deep in thought and starts to curl his body back in on itself, making himself smaller-

“Hey,” Hawks nudges him with his head. “It’s okay. You don’t have to know.”

“I think I’m done,” Dabi whispers after a drawn-out moment, barely audible. If Hawks hadn’t been sitting right beside him, he wouldn’t have been able to hear it. “I don’t know.”

Hawks looks at Dabi then, shivering sick and tired on his bathroom floor, and wonders how anybody could ever hurt him.

He’s still wearing Hawks’ clothes and now he’s curled in on himself, shaking with held-back sobs, eyes sunken and not looking anywhere in particular. He’s got that faraway look in his eyes, the empty one he sometimes has when he mentions his father; and Hawks doesn’t get it. What somebody could have done to drive this boy into being one of the country’s most wanted villains.

Because that’s what he is, really. He’s just a boy. Dabi was a boy once and Hawks yearns to know what changed him into this, who changed him into this - Hawks yearns to know what he could possibly do to make it better, to soothe the all-consuming ache and despair Dabi seems to feel on the regular.

It’s an insurmountable task. He wouldn’t even know where to start.

He decides to start with pressing a chaste kiss to Dabi’s cheekbone, catching his attention.

“Let's get you back to bed,” he murmurs back at a similar volume, and loops his arm underneath Dabi’s shoulders to help him stand. (He’d carry him, but he’s not sure if they’re there yet. Since last night he’s struck a sort of peaceful chord with taking care of Dabi, and he doesn’t want to do anything to ruin it).

He’ll start by helping him get better. Just baby steps.

Slowly but carefully, Hawks helps him walk back to his bedroom. He doesn’t say anything. He’s not sure there’s really anything to say - he’s just helping Dabi, and Dabi is being helped. That’s it. That’s all it is.

Dabi doesn’t say anything back, either, and the trust he puts in him by letting Hawks hold him upright is more than enough. It’s trust, a real show of it, and Dabi’s letting Hawks steady him like it’s nothing, like it’s normal. That they can just do this without consequence.

There should be some sort of consequence for this, Hawks muses to himself. The Commission would kill him if they found out how deep his fondness for Dabi had gotten and if anyone found out he’d been taking care of him instead of handing him in to the police as soon as he got here, he'd be toast.

In anyone's eyes, this isn't right. Hawks genuinely caring for Dabi isn't right, a hero holding a villain and soothing him, isn't right, the Number Two Hero coaxing one of the top villains in the country into going back to sleep, hoping he feels better- it's wrong. It has to be wrong.

Everyone in his life would be telling him it's wrong. So why doesn't it feel that way?

With a tender arm around his waist, Hawks helps him sit down on one side of the bed, runs a hand through his hair like it's second nature - and it doesn't feel wrong.

"Can you lie down for me?" Hawks murmurs to him, barely a whisper with how softly he speaks it; Dabi just looks up at him and the sheer heaviness in his gaze could've knocked Hawks out.

It says thank you. It says I needed this. It says I’m tired.

It says a thousand other things that Hawks can’t begin to decipher in the dim light of his bedroom in the early hours of the morning. His fingers silently cup Dabi’s face and he doesn’t know what to do with it, with all the warmth and care swimming around in his heart; he doesn’t know where to put it, what he could possibly say to Dabi, what he could do for him to show all that.

He shouldn’t care for him. But he does, and he does so deeply that it hurts.

Dabi still looks dazed, still slightly out of it, and so Hawks soothes him into lying down with a firm but not unkind hand on his shoulder, pressing him into the pillows and brushing stray hairs out of his eyes - and Dabi doesn’t protest, barely even moves outside of Hawks’ help. He’s so tired he just lets himself be cared for.

It’s like a strange fantasy plucked from the depths of his mind; something gentle and tender, something born simply out of the desire to care for him, to cease some of the hurt he goes through so regularly. Dabi blinks his eyes shut and Hawks just watches like there’s nothing else he’d rather be doing on Christmas morning than taking care of the villain lying in his bed.

He brushes a finger over Dabi’s jawline before moving over to the other side of the bed and climbing in, pulling the duvet up and over his shoulders, making him comfortable.

It’s the fantasy again. The horrible urge to be kind to him, to protect him.

He doesn’t know where it comes from. Hawks lies his head down on the pillow, wordlessly reaches over to card through Dabi’s hair again, and he has no idea where all of these feelings come from.

He wants Dabi to get better. Of course he does. But there’s something underneath all that worry that goes deeper than just concern, and that’s what’s making him tuck Dabi’s hair behind his ear in his sleep, that’s what’s making him watch his chest rhythmically rise and fall to make sure he’s alright, to make sure he’s breathing.

A gentle silence overtakes the room, and Hawks is so suddenly aware that it’s just them, in his bed, lying together.

It’s so horribly domestic he doesn’t know how to cope. Dabi’s falling asleep and Hawks is caressing his face for- for what? What is it all for?

“Merry Christmas,” Dabi mumbles to him, half-asleep.

He finds then that he doesn’t have an answer. Not for anyone, not for the Commission, not for Dabi or for himself. It’s the first time he’s spent Christmas with somebody else in years and he couldn’t really imagine it being anyone other than Dabi.

It doesn’t feel like a hero and villain thing. It doesn’t feel like Dabi’s trying to get anything out of him, doesn’t feel like he’s using him for the League - because Hawks knows he’d never agree to this. Willingly being vulnerable, being exposed. He’s not sure that when Dabi showed up here he was expecting to cry or break down in front of him.

It just feels… normal. Like they could do it again next year.

(If there even is a ‘them’ next year).

“...Merry Christmas,” Hawks finally whispers back, shifting closer to Dabi before he shuts his eyes in search of sleep.