Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Cigarette smoke rises, a lazy, meandering sort of ascent. It twists this way and that, like a cat twining between its owner's feet, until it finally dissipates in the evening air. Dabi's been sitting on the steps to his apartment building for a while now, watching cigarette after cigarette slowly burn out without ever taking a drag of one.

The streets are still wet with the earlier rain. The evening is on the cusp of becoming night and the asphalt is almost black with the wetness and the hour, where it's not reflecting the lights of the street lamps and business signs. Yellow, red and blue shine in that watery mirror, like the street holds a distorted window into another world where colours bleed together until they become an indiscernible mess.

The hum of the city is muted. The cars, the conversations, the generators and air conditioners and whatever else contributes to the cacophony that makes up the sounds of life all seem far away, hidden beyond the dark evening air.

The cigarette burns out.

This was his last one. He fishes the pack out of his pocket and shakes it, checking just in case. Still empty.

Time's up, probably.

Time to head back up to his apartment. There's work to do, the temporary kind that leads to paid bills and keeping a roof over his head. There's real work to do, too, which is where his mind has been for the last hour or so.

'We'd like you to consider writing a series.'

The ghost of the conversation still hangs in the air around him. It's the sort of recognition he should celebrate. He should be elated. It's recognition, real and tangible. It's proof that there's worth to his work.

To write on someone else's behest, though. It feels a little disingenuous. It feels a little like a cage. It feels a little like an order, and he's not good at taking those, anymore. That previous disaster of a book deal offer kinda proved that.

It's the chance for a real career.

It does, however, also feel like a Choice. So far, he's been making excuses for spending his time writing; it's a way to help regulate his emotions, and thus keep his fire in check; it's a way to help quiet his head, when everything is too loud and memories eat him up from the inside; and it's something to help pass the time as he figures out exactly how he's going to make his father pay for everything he did.

Writing for all those reasons has been fine. Writing as a career?

There's a part of him, broken-bodied and scarred and snarling and filled with all the resentment he can muster to cover up the feelings underneath, that sees it as giving up. Giving in, maybe. Conforming to society's standards, and becoming just another well-behaved little cog in the machine who closes its eyes to all the hypocrisies and double standards they're mired in.

He knows his editor would tell him it's no different than writing those scattered short stories he's published so far. That if he's going to write anyway, he might as well get paid for it, because the value of art isn't in whether or not the artist is starving.

His editor, however, does not know about Dabi's childhood and future goals. He might not say the same thing, if he knew.

If Dabi says yes to do the series, it would be easy enough to set it all up. He has a project he's been slowly chipping away on for a while now – the framework is already written, saved on his computer back up in his apartment. Ugly, small stories making up the skeleton of some scarred and skinny dog with patches of fur missing, slinking down the streets of the cities of Japan. It needs some editing, and there are pieces not quite finished, but he could have the first texts ready to go tomorrow, if he wants to.

It's not like his actual jobs pay that well, and he always resents the time they take away from the rest of his days. Can he even afford not to say yes to this deal?

He shakes the pack one last time, just to make sure. It's still empty.

Alright, then.

He gets to his feet, wincing slightly as scar tissue pulls uncomfortably at the movement. He should be going to a clinic for a check-up, instead of taking care of his burns as best he can himself. He should say yes to being referred to a burn scar expert, to the creams and ointments and whatever kind of other shit regular people use when they get injured.

That, too, feels like a way of admitting that he's giving up on his revenge without having the guts to acknowledge it.

He can deal with some fucking discomfort.

Is it more cowardly to accept the trappings of civilized life, or to avoid it? If he says yes, is it because he's too weak and has given up? If he says no, is that because he's not strong enough to see his revenge through unless he's actively suffering?

Is his conviction so brittle that some extra money and a little less pain will make it crumble away to nothing?

No.

He's always been a man defined by his willpower. He will not let fear cause him to not take advantage of everything he can claw and scratch his way to. Anything he can get his hands on, he's fucking well earned ten times already.

This might also give him more options, down the line. Who knows.

He might as well.

Well. There's work to be done, then. Contracts and meetings and all those things. There's also writing to organize and send to his editor. There's empty spaces to fill, and half-written texts to expand on.

There's a world, up there on his computer, waiting for him to flesh it out in all its gory, gruesome details.

Dabi makes his way back inside the apartment complex. The only evidence of his hour-long vigil is the small collection of cigarette butts he leaves out in the Fukuoka night.

There's an HPSC agent standing outside Hawks' office.

He had been on his way out, headed towards some interview his PR-team set up, when he opened his door to find the agent there, staring at him. He smiles at her, keeping his face relaxed and open. It's a little disconcerting that he didn't hear her arrival, but it doesn't do to show her that. There's a possibility she's been there for a while, waiting to see how long it would take him to notice her – better, then, if she thinks he's just being a brat about it. He waits, keeping his smile plastered on.

The agent is familiar, and as usual she does not bother to give him her name. She merely lifts her eyebrows at him, before flicking her eyes a little over his shoulder, and then back to his face. It's a clear request.

"By all means," he says, stepping aside and waving her into the office.

The moment the door is closed, she opens her mouth.

"Are you aware of the incident in Yokohama?"

"I think the entire country is aware of it by this point," he says. "Probably most people involved in the hero business outside our borders, too."

A government official, caught taking bribes, is always bad. That the man in question was high up in the pecking order of the Hero Public Safety Commission? Worse. That his choice to take the money, and bury the evidence of just how big a drug operation had grown, led to the death of two young heroes who found themselves in over their head?

It's a full-blown scandal. That the man himself solved it by stepping off a balcony ten floors up has done nothing to calm the public, who wants answers for how this could've happened without anyone else noticing.

"Considering the recent negative attention on the HPSC, we'd like your help to take some of the attention off of us," the agent says.

"What were you thinking?"

It's not the first time he's helped the Commission bury a story. Sometimes they ask for something distracting. Sometimes the solution leaves him feeling tired and sore and slightly queasy. Sometimes it's just straight-up murder, which is honestly the easiest way.

"A small scandal – one where you're the victim, not the perpetrator – would go a long way to take some of the focus off us. We have a photographer ready, who will take a few photos of you that then get 'leaked' to a few chosen magazines."

Okay then, distraction it is. Spin a pretty story with enough dazzle, turning everyone away from the real news.

The agent continues laying out the Commission's plan. He doesn't bother answering yet. He knows her – not her name, or anything personal, but she's thorough and professional to her core. She'll give him everything relevant, regardless of if he asks for it or not. The HPSC are strict about their procedures.

"If you agree, the photos will be nude, but still tasteful. You will appear to be unaware of the camera. It's nothing that will impact your reputation, but we'll highlight your attractive features and make sure the public continues to dream about you."

He's not exactly opposed to the idea. It's easy enough, really, and it's neither the first or the last time he uses whatever is needed to get the job done. He's just tired and hungry and somewhat cranky to have the few free minutes he had before his interview taken over by this, instead of getting some food from the cafeteria to go. It leaves him silent for just a little bit too long – and of course she notices.

She gives him a look. "If you don't want to do this, that's perfectly fine. We're merely asking for your help. You're free to say no, although I'd appreciate it if you'd stop wasting my time if that's where this is going."

She means it, too – especially the part about not wasting her time if he's not going to help.

Some small, obstinate part of him wants to take her challenge and run with it. It's the same part that wants to make annoyed, small flicks with his wings, despite breaking that particular childhood mannerism a decade ago. He tends to say yes to the HPSC when they need something, and of course he works well with them – but she's come into his territory to ask for help, and that-

Hawks stops himself and does the mental equivalent of shaking water out of his feathers. Those territorial, bird-like instincts have been difficult to truly root out. Maybe the HPSC got him the help he needed too late; he had too many years running wild and ignored in that shack, and now all the bad habits that can interfere with his ability to think clearly crop up when he's nearing the limit for how much exhaustion he can handle.

"You're the only hero who truly knows how much work we put into trying to keep the citizens of japan safe, considering you grew up with us," she says and smiles at him. It's almost perfect; caring, but not intimate; polite, but not so much as to create distance; and with just a touch of disappointment, but not so much he can bring it up. The only thing breaking the illusion is her eyes. They are still devoid of any emotion. "There's not a lot of other people with your popularity and reach we can ask for this, and this is the only solution that doesn't also cause undue damage."

He gives her the same smile back, except his is better. He knows his appears to reach his eyes. After a beat, she inclines her head slightly. Point taken.

He already knows he'll say yes. She already knows he'll say yes. The attempt at manipulation is both unnecessary, and, considering that he did indeed grow up with the HPSC, not going to work.

"We set up a few smaller fixes to turn the media's eyes away, but none of them worked. The board has been pushing for us to find a scapegoat. They want someone expendable. Someone they can turn into a spectacle," she says. "Usually, we'd probably go along with that, but the way the media keeps bringing the story back is suspicious. When several board members started making noises about finding someone else for the President's seat, it became clear that someone is using the incident to undermine the public's trust in the HPSC and dethrone Madame President in one fell swoop."

Using his fame is a good solution, really. Leaked shots of him nude, taken against his will, would grab every headline for a short while, no matter how much someone tried to make them pay attention to an already old and less interesting story.

He could hold the media's attention if he milks it a little. All eyes would turn to him, but no one would blame him, not when the photos were taken without his knowledge. There is no real damage. His reputation would be intact, as would his career. It would save whoever the board wants to blame. It'll make the Commission's job easier, tracking down whoever is using the incident to mask their attack.

The HPSC would recover faster, and with that, the public would be less vulnerable. It's an easy choice – he doesn't even really think about it. It's just a few photos for the safety of a lot of people, of a body that he's aware is attractive.

"When are we doing this?" he asks.

She gives him a note with a date and time of day. She does not bother pretending to be surprised at his agreement.

The HPSC's plan works just as expected.

The photos are leaked to a sleazy gossip site not above using illegally obtained photos to boost their ratings, and promptly runs them on their front page. It takes minutes and then the photos are spreading like a wildfire during a drought.

Hawks sits on the top of his favorite building – it's one where the roof isn't available to anyone except maintenance, and too high for anyone to easily spot him from the street – and watches it unfold on his phone.

It's six photos of him changing out of his costume at the agency and taking a shower, after he's gotten conveniently and attractively dirty. Everything is set up, from the lighting to the artfully spread mess in the room. Nothing is left to chance when the HPSC wants to create the impression that this is what Hawks looks like when he thinks no one is looking.

He wants to grimace at the picture of him flaring his wings out to their full length, as he stretches his back, looking tired but not in a way that detracts from his attractiveness. It's absolutely ridiculous. It's a fucking threat display, but they insisted it didn't matter. They wanted the wings.

They always want his wings.

In a way, they're right. It doesn't matter. Everyone outside a small pool of people at the Commission think his Quirk is merely telepathic control of his feathers. Even those who'd be able to read his wings, would think Hawks didn't know better. That he's just another human with a couple of extra appendages. The HPSC has done a lot of work on that. First, determining exactly where the limit between 'acceptable' and 'too strange' for heteromorphic Quirks is in the public's eyes, and then ruthlessly squashing everything that could reveal that Hawks does, in fact, have a bird Quirk.

It's a bird of prey of some sort, that he knows. It might very well be a hawk. It's not like he's had the chance to find out for sure. It's been over a decade since he made his last bird sound. The few behaviours still lingering in his spine are common enough to fit several different breeds.

Hawks scrolls past the offending picture to the next ones. Him, pulling his compression shirt off, abdominal muscles and arms on display. Him from behind, stepping into the shower and giving everyone a clear view of his ass and back.

The star of the show is the picture that caught him full-frontal, involving a towel that misses covering him up by a scant few centimeters, and him pushing his wet hair out of his face with his head slightly tilted back, showing off his jawline and his neck.

And, well, his dick. On full display.

People are outraged on his behalf – but not enough to stop looking up the photos after the HPSC publicly steps in to have the various sites take them down. Naturally, and possibly with a little help from whoever arranged the leak in the first place, the pictures always pop up somewhere else a little while later, and then the dance starts anew. The HPSC looks relentless in their quest to remove the photos, and thus begins their work in winning the goodwill of the people back.

Support for him is pouring in – and since it's the internet, public dissections of his looks are everywhere, too.

Hawks doesn't roll his eyes or sigh. He's far up and out of sight, but you never know who's watching. He keeps his face impassive. It's second nature, by now.

Doing a secret photoshoot is a strange way to work, sure. Not quite what he thought he'd be doing, back when a suit-clad agent held out their hand to him, and he said his first yes to the Commission. His idea of hero work was all big fights and capturing dastardly villains – not so much the paperwork and the undercover stints and the meetings and the crying 'villains' once whatever they had attempted out of desperation failed.

Still, heroes are meant to protect the people. What matters is the results, not how they get there. Everything he does is aimed towards a better future. It doesn't matter if no one knows he acted in the best interest of the country when he moved that towel over just enough so the photographer had a clear shot.

It doesn't matter that the other heroes don't know, either.

The HPSC never promised him this life would be easy. They only ever promised he would help people, and that's good enough for him.

Hawks steps off the ledge, letting his famous wings catch him and carry him over the city. He gives himself over to his senses, letting raptor eyes scan the streets for signs of trouble and sensitive feathers listen for cries of pain or fear.

This is the one good thing about his job never really being done; he can lose himself in his work whenever he feels like it.

"Everyone wants to know," the lady interviewing him smiles, showing perfect, pearly white teeth, "who does Pro Hero Hawks go home to? Is there anyone special in your life?"

"Sorry to disappoint." Hawks gives her the exact same smile back. His teeth are just as perfect, and his lips just as trained as hers. Second nature by now. "In my line of work it's hard to find the time for personal relationships. Meeting someone is difficult, and finding someone who then has to deal with living in the shadow of my job? That would be incredibly unfair to them. For now, I'm focusing my all on being the best hero I can be for the citizens of Japan."

She coos at him, batting her eyes. "I'm sure there's no shortage of people willing to put up with anything for the chance of dating you, especially after seeing exactly what you have to offer."

This is the third interview he's given in the aftermath of the leaked photos. The first two focused on the invasiveness of the incident, which was expected – and the reason he and his PR team chose them. This one seems to be trying to use the interview as a way of flirting with him, which is. Annoying.

He's doing this one specifically because he needs the chance to make light of the whole incident, so people are kept firmly on his side. Too much seriousness will start turning the public against him. Too little, and they'll think he's judging other victims.

He grins at her, making his eyes crinkle like he's genuinely amused. "There's a difference between enjoying the way someone looks, and being compatible enough to share your life with them, though. And I'm still young. I want to focus on my job while I can, you know? The percentage of Pro Heroes still working the field after they turn forty is fairly low, due to the injuries and the toll it takes on our bodies, and I want to serve as much as I can, while I still have the physique for it."

Their conversation continues like that; she tries to turn it towards the flirty and scandalous, he turns it back to safer topics. It's not really following the recipe of the standard, bland interviews he usually does, but it's staying within acceptable boundaries. Nothing too scandalous. Nothing that will make new headlines. Just enough charm to keep them watching.

Not too serious, or depressing.

Not dismissing the seriousness of being exposed like they think he has been.

'It's important to keep you relevant in the public's eye', his handlers would always tell him during his media training. Interviews are a good way to maintain the image of Wing Hero: Hawks. He needs to make sure everyone sees him as the palatable kind of heteromorph, one that civilians feel comfortable dreaming about – but also an unattainable one.

Everyone places more value on something that's exclusive and hard-to-get, after all.

By the time the interviewer turns to the camera to give her closing remarks, his mind has already been on the next part of his schedule for a while. There are reports he still needs to fill out, informants to check in with and areas of the city he hasn't been seen enough in lately. There's always more to do, and by this point in his career, he could do most interviews in his sleep.

Sometimes his mind will linger on the thought of the fallout if he deviated from the plan set for his public appearances. If he revealed all the things he has done in the name of a peaceful future. It's not that he wants to do that – it's more like an idle, intrusive thought. A bit like all those 'step off the ledge' and 'drive off the cliff'-sort of thoughts that people talk about.

It's not really hard to imagine how it all would go. Shock, rippling through society, followed by investigations, denials, and a lot of scrambling to cover up as much as possible. Clean-up, which may or may not include his body being found face-down in Hakata Bay. Think-pieces, shaken heads and 'isn't it a shame that'-statements. Maybe some talk about initiatives and changes that, ultimately, doesn't actually start.

It wouldn't change anything in this world, probably – except maybe for the worse. He'd certainly not be able to help anyone after that, not like he used to. All the resources the HPSC invested in him would've been thrown out of the window. All his skills would go unused.

Even so, this thought keeps popping up now and then, especially when he's tired.

What it would feel like if he'd shake his head at the lady interviewing him and tell her that no, no one special, because he's never been allowed to date before he debuted, and now he's too busy. That he knows exactly what to do in bed because when the Commission forged him into a weapon, they made sure to sharpen every part of him, but he has no idea how to build a lasting relationship with someone – and figuring out non-physical intimacies when you're twenty-two and world-famous is not something he particularly want to do.

Twenty-two, and the third ranked Pro Hero of the nation. Twenty-two, with a carefully curated reputation of a flirt with a gold heart; someone who might date a little, but never breaks hearts. Someone good and kind and wholesome, which is so far from the truth of him that he's pretty sure there's not a single person in this world who wouldn't be thrown by the difference between his public persona and the real man lurking underneath.

He's fast. He's strong. He's smart, and brave, and just reckless enough to squeeze wins out of situations where others might balk. He can weigh the options and make the hard calls, and he lives just fine with the lives on his conscience. He has a reputation that keeps the public calm and trusting, and the numbers of solved incidents to back up his confidence.

The Hero Public Safety Commission promised they'd make him into a hero, and they kept their word. They made him perfect.

The cameras turn off. The lady leans forward, towards him, a hand carefully placed on his arm.

His job here is done for now. Part of him wants to bare his teeth at her. To make sure she keeps her hands to herself in the future, and knows that she overstepped when she acted like his place in her bed was a foregone conclusion.

"Why don't you come back to my office and tell me more about your job?" she purrs at him, and her hand moves a little up his arm.

He doesn't really have to think about it; his training kicks in automatically.

"I'm sorry," he smiles at her, putting just a touch of regret and sincerity in it so she'll walk away thinking him a sweetheart, too innocent and pure to realize what she offered but definitely interested anyway. "I would if I could – but I'm needed back at the agency in fifteen minutes, and even for me, that's a bit of a tall order."

He takes to the skies the moment he's outside, and only his training stops him from rubbing hard at his arm where her touch still lingers.

"-and it's a problem we really need you to take seriously," the agent says. Her voice is tinny through his phone.

Hawks imagines dropping the phone. Watch it tumble down through the sky and disappear into the bay far below him. It'd take him a few hours to get a new phone up and running – at least if he could find a few situations he needed to help with on the way. A brief respite from the phone that never stops calling.

He sighs.

That's unfair. They don't call all the time. In fact, there's usually weeks between most of the communication he might have with the Commission – it's just this one agent. It's not the emotionless one he meets occasionally. This one is someone new. She's been working with him for about a month, and she's called at least twice a week since she started – and she seems to believe she's more of a handler than a sort-of-coworker.

He's going to have to disabuse her of that notion if she doesn't wise up soon.

It's not something he generally likes to do. For one thing, it tends to create some resentment. For another, it really should be unnecessary. Still, it won't be the first time he's had to put someone in their place.

He's a Pro Hero. He owes the HPSC a lot for everything they did for him, but it's not like he's theirs, no more than any other hero in Japan is. Of course they should be relying on the third ranked hero, asking him to help out with legitimate threats to the public. They should be letting him know about an issue in his own territory. It's no more than they do for any other top ten hero – and yet here she is, acting like he's some unruly hunting dog she has to bring to heel.

"Hawks? Are you listening?"

"Yeah, I heard you. I got it," he says. He considers if this is the moment to say more, but she hangs up after hearing his confirmation.

Aside from the way she acts around him, it's also more than a little bit grating that she just assumed he wasn't already aware of the issue. He very much is, but looking into illegal Quirk use that hasn't been used to commit actual, hurtful crimes?

Yeah, that's not on top of his priority list, nor is it going to be.

Fukuoka is a big city. Kyushu is a big region. There's a lot happening every day that needs his attention, and someone using their Quirk to get themselves and a few other people out of a bad situation is fairly insignificant, all things considered. Even if that someone has done it a few times by now, and could maybe be in the process of earning themselves a reputation as a vigilante.

Hawks has never really had a problem with vigilantes, as long as they know their limitations. If they start putting civilians and working heroes in danger, that's another thing entirely. This one, though, has not overstepped, and so Hawks doesn't really care that one junior agent insists the HPSC worries about people 'getting the wrong idea' and that it 'undermines the Pro Heroes and the HPSC.'

It's seven in the evening. He's been on the move between incidents most of the day, and he's pretty sure the last time he ate was when one of his sidekicks shoved a protein bar at him before he could take off from that one mugging, which was…around nine this morning.

Hm. That's not ideal.

There's still paperwork to be done, and he needs to check in with his sidekicks before he can go home. His email is probably overflowing, and there's usually more than a few requests for his help with specific cases waiting for him.

If some citizen out there is capable of keeping themselves safe without creating more issues, he really does not have the time to go hunting them down for that.

Hawks lets the wind soothe his irritation, as he starts making his way back to his agency. He gets all of 48 seconds on his way, when his feathers pick up the sound of a large impact, and the tell-tale screech of metal crumpling. By the time the first scream reaches him, he's already almost at the scene of the traffic accident.

Afterwards there's a drunk man using his transformation Quirk to scare pedestrians. Someone tries robbing a store. The police ask for back-up for a domestic disturbance where one of the people involved has been noted to have a dangerous Quirk and an aggressive disposition towards authorities.

In the end, it takes him almost four hours before he makes it back to the agency.

Hawks finds the short story on a Wednesday afternoon.

One of his sidekicks had an accident during a rescue operation. She fell, broke her leg, and now here he is, in the waiting room of the Kyushu University Hospital, waiting to hear how the operation went.

His training dictates he return to patrol, or paperwork or any of his other duties. She's in the hands of highly competent doctors, and there's nothing he can do for her now. It would be a more prudent use of his time to return to work.

The logic is sound.

He would still rather be here. It's his sidekick. His responsibility. She's new, barely out of high school, and while it was an honest accident of the kind that could happen to anyone, she's probably feeling pretty shitty that her debut ended this way. Being here is the kind thing to do for her, and there's undoubtedly going to be several social media posts about his presence here. His concern for his young employee will garner him more goodwill and sympathy from the public, so it's not like he's neglecting his responsibilities.

It is also, maybe, kind of nice with a small break. It's been busier than usual lately, and he's been starting to feel all the missed meals and interrupted sleep. There's a tiredness clinging to him that's stronger than usual. His mood is low, and his appetite keeps growing worse. It's a bad spiral.

He's well aware he needs to fix this if he wants to keep performing to his usual standards, and so, waiting in the hospital serves more than just one purpose; he can wait for his sidekick, and he can rest for a moment. He can sit still and drink shitty hospital coffee and eat the sandwich his other sidekick tossed him earlier – and okay, it hasn't escaped his attention that most of his sidekicks have taken to carrying around food to throw at him whenever he stands still long enough for them to take aim.

It's bad when they've started to notice. It means he's slipping. It means the spiral has been going on for too long, because if the sidekicks are noticing, then it's only a matter of time before someone else does, too.

At first, the break is novel enough. He makes small-talk with his sidekick, Aviator, because developing stronger relationships with the people he works with is good for their morale, happiness and performance. It might actually have been the longest conversation they've had to date, because usually he only has time for a few words here and there. He decides not to dwell on that particular minefield. Once he deems the conversation long enough to be successful as a bonding moment, he falls quiet and plays on his phone.

Eventually, because operations apparently take forever, he gets bored enough to pick up one of the magazines on the table. He mostly does it because it's kind of charming that in this day and age, the waiting room still keeps physical magazines around – and current ones at that, judging by the publication date. It's less than a week old. He flips through it, idly scanning the pages, until his eyes snag on a paragraph. In this fancy-looking, serious and high-brow literary magazine, he didn't expect to see crude words and raw emotions leap out of the page at him. He goes back to the top of the page, wanting to read whatever this is in its entirety.

Hawks blinks a few times, trying to clear his mind. The story is. Something.

The words create an echo inside him. It's like they've dug out an open space in his chest cavity just so they have a place where they can linger. There's something slightly familiar about the taste of them, all darkly bitter, and yet irresistible – like a chocolate you can't stop breaking pieces off of, just so you can let it melt on your tongue, or a loose tooth you can't stop pushing at with your tongue.

The description said it was the second part. It doesn't mention how long the series will be, but if nothing else it means there's a part one out there, somewhere. The previous issue, most likely. He's pretty sure that's how these things go – but he's not an expert on the world of publishing, and especially not pure literature which this magazine seems to promote.

Dabi.

He's never heard of this author before but there's an urge to look him up. He wants to read more like this; he wants more of the words that try to settle under his skin like tiny burrs.

It's like that first blood during a fight. It makes him feel alive.

The text is about sex workers, if it's meant to be taken literal – or maybe, since this is pure literature, it's a metaphor for the way society use people, or the vulnerability of the young, or the author intended it to have several layers, or-

Hawks is not a literary expert. It's not something the HSPC focused on in his education, and he's never had the time to be a big reader. Analysing a short story is not something he usually does – but this story feels important, even if he can't quite say why.

The author's blurb says this is 'exploring the darker sides of life in the city,' which makes him curious what topic the first text is about, and if it will be as raw and gripping.

"Anything good?" Aviator asks.

Hawks gives him the magazine, opened on the page with the story about the prostitute. His sidekick reads it, furrowing his brow.

"That's kinda dark, boss," he says, giving the magazine back. "Seems a bit, I dunno. Bleak? Like the writer doesn't really like people, or believe in them, or something."

"Maybe so," Hawks answers with an easy smile.

Aviator, he knows, grew up in a stable home with two parents who earned enough to give their children everything they needed and then some. Sometimes, despite the education you have and the job you do, it's hard to shed the beliefs your childhood infused in you. They'll permeate everything, colouring your knee-jerk reactions to the world, and it takes a lot of work to change that. Sometimes, parts of it stay forever.

Hawks should know.

Keigo Takami could easily have become just like that girl in the story. He didn't. His life now, despite the hectic days and all the never-ending demands, is safe in a way the child he once was didn't know was possible. He has a warm apartment to go to, with food in the kitchen, and enough money to buy take-out if he wants – and that is a luxury most people in Japan take for granted now. They view it as the bare minimum of what they should have, but he will never truly lose the gratitude for not going hungry.

It looks like this writer knows a little about that as well.

He picks his phone back up again, and searches for the magazine. It's easy to find. He can back-order older issues, as well as buy a subscription for the magazine itself. A couple of days, it promises, and he'll have the magazine – and, according to the table of contents, it does indeed have the first part of this series.

There, complete with a lack of capitalization, is the title.

'heartless'

It's absolutely fucking impossible to avoid the photos.

Dabi isn't actually surprised. Leaked nudes of one of the most popular Pro Heroes in Japan? Of course everyone's going insane over them.

Most places try to be classy about it. They'll pixelate or otherwise obfuscate the hero's genitals, but they'll milk the rest of the man for all he's worth. That one photo where he's pushing wet hair out of his face? Yeah. Every single news outlet is using the hell out of that one, conveniently never covering the hero's chest or stomach.

Who cares that the photos were taken without someone's consent if they can get you views? Heroes are truly nothing but a commodity for them to earn money on. To be fair, that goes for regular people too.

There's a small clip from an interview the hero made in the aftermath. He smiles, looking like a mix between somewhat embarrassed, a little bit chiding but mostly amused as he banters with the journalist. It's all so perfect answers, too:

"Oh, I don't really blame whoever did it. I mean, obviously I wish they hadn't. It doesn't feel great, you know, knowing someone was watching while I thought I was alone? But I get it. People are curious, photos like that sell, and these days, being a Pro Hero comes with a certain interest from the public."

The winged hero gives a wide grin, and as his eyes sweep over the camera, his eyes goddamn twinkles, like he's sharing some private joke with Dabi on the other side of the screen.

The asshole's really fucking good, he'll give the hero that. Spinning the entire situation so neatly, garnering sympathy and adoration by the droves. The perfect victim; you can feel sorry for him, without having to do any sort of internal work about your own values, because he laughs off the situation and invites you to laugh with him.

Dabi hates him and that grating laugh.

He never really had much of an opinion of the city's golden boy, always soaring over the rest of them on those squeaky clean wings of his. It's an image Dabi never bought for a second. Sure: there's no whisper on the street of excess use of force or nasty habits and conveniently hidden addiction – which is not something that can be said for every hero out there. No scandals, pissed-off exes or disgruntled civilians. By all accounts, Wing Hero: Hawks is exactly what he pretends to be; he's the perfect hero, brave and smart and beautiful, and with just the right amount of snarky comments to appeal to a large demographic.

Everything about the hero is so fucking perfect. It's like someone out there made a list of what a hero should be, and molded Hawks in that image. Dabi might not have much of an opinion of Hawks – but he sure as fuck doesn't believe in him, either.

Dabi absentmindedly taps his cigarette on the table. He usually tries to go outside for a smoke, but it's less due to a concern about the state or smell of his apartment and more to get some air and feel the walls fall away for a little bit. Today, though, irritation lies on him like a second skin, and he's not sure he can stand meeting any of the other inhabitants here without setting them on fire. He can't quite decide what to do, and so here he sits, tapping his stupid cigarette and watching the local favorite hero talk about what he thinks constitutes a personal crisis.

It's some sort of perverse urge that makes him open another story on the whole 'nude scandal,' like that need to pick at a scabbed-over wound. You know it'll do nothing but prolong the healing, and yet there's something so satisfying when you get a grip on the scab and can tear the whole damn thing off. Sure, your wound's now open and who the fuck knows what sort of shit can get in it, but for that one, satisfying moment, it feels worth it.

On the screen, Hawks scratches at the back of his neck, giving the camera a rueful smile. His wings are folded up and relaxed, and someone made sure to get him one of those chairs with a very low back that gives some support while also leaving room for his wings.

Nothing but the best for the model-faced hero.

"I mean, we've all seen this before, haven't we? Someone posts someone else's photos in an act of revenge, or to humiliate them, or otherwise cause harm. I'm just lucky in that I'm already used to being in the spotlight, and the paparazzi sneaking photos of me whenever they can," the hero says. "I can't imagine what this must be like for some poor teenager, with no such experience."

The interviewer nods gravely. "And that's why you decided to sponsor the Initiative Against Non-Consensual Explicit Image Sharing?"

Hawks sighs. "Yeah. I ended up doing some reading due to this, and the number of people who experience similar situations is actually fairly terrifying. I'm sorry it took me this long to realize the enormity of this issue. The Japanese Act on the Prevention of Damage Caused by the Provision of Private Sexual Image Records is old by now, heralding back to the pre-Quirk age, and yet the lack of resources and difficulty in proving just who shared the images initially leads to a depressing lack of convictions. We do need a bigger focus on this, and-"

Dabi clicks away from the video, uninterested in hearing some privileged asshole talk about what he thinks is 'needed' in Japan. It's always the same; they'll always ask someone who has the fame and fortune to be a cushion between them and whatever befalls them. Someone who has little idea of how bad things truly can become.

There's a lot worse things that can befall you than having your picture shared.

He sighs, and twirls the cigarette a little. He wants a smoke.

There's an uncomfortable hollowness in his belly, reminding him it's been a long time since he last remembered to eat. The half-full cup of coffee on the table is cold to the touch, and he can't quite remember when he last visited the bathroom, or went outside, or even stretched. Maybe he should go out for a smoke, and chance meeting other people. Might be worth it.

He's pretty sure the fridge only has some old, left-over rice that's probably no longer safe and a couple of cans of beer right now. He could do with a small trip to pick up groceries, too.

Maybe he can rid himself of some of this irritation, if nothing else. Writing it out hasn't worked, today. Maybe, if he's lucky, he'll have some asshole try to mug him or something. Give him the excuse to get in a little work-out.

The thought makes him smile.

Yeah.

Going out seems like a good idea.

Finally having a series in a magazine doesn't actually change much about Dabi's days.

It's not like he's ever written specifically for publications – he writes what he writes, and if someone likes it, that's cool, but that's never the goal. Sure, it'd be one less annoyance in his life to not have to do other jobs just to survive, but whatever. He's not going to write something just because it's what someone else wants to see and will make him some money.

He's done with that. No more fulfilling someone else's dreams and desires just to make sure he can get enough food to survive.

He writes because that's just what he does. Sure, he likes it, sometimes, but that's not really the point. It's not about producing something, either; it's less about the finished product and more about the feelings hidden under his sternum that he tries to expel. Used to be he'd be firing off his Quirk in all its glorious, extreme power, and that went some way to help him deal with the rage and all the rest that makes up that ball of emotions he can never truly get rid off. At some point, though, it wasn't enough anymore.

He could burn his feelings out of himself, sure, but the memories were still there.

All the experiences, all the things he's seen, or done, or heard about, were making a home for themselves in his chest, shoving his organs aside to create more room, and once he realized that he would, one day, wake up with nothing but the past and the bitterness, he knew he'd need something else.

Sure, he could probably get his revenge like that – but what if it didn't work? It'd be a hell of a thing, burning himself up in some attempt at finally making the old man suffer, only to fail, and not have any failsafe in place.

So now he writes.

Sometimes it's easy. Ideas that come to him fully formed, ready to become. They flow out of him like his flames do, populating the empty paper and creating a story, and they're usually good. Well-liked and thoughtful things, appealing in their simplicity.

Sometimes, it's more.

Dabi sighs. He has a pen and a notebook in his hands, because while his shitty laptop is where he writes them out to email to his editor, he finds the physical act of writing out the words directly on paper satisfies something inside him. It's like he connects better to the emotions in the pieces this way; there's no involvement from the rest of the world, or interruptions, or notifications of needed updates or anti-virus software where the free trial has run out or emails or whatever-the-fuck else.

Just him, and his words.

Sometimes, the things he writes feel less like creating a story, and more like exorcising something he didn't know was there.

These stories are always harder. His awareness of a new story grows slowly inside him, and it's like an indefinite, hazy idea, or a mood, or a feeling, still hidden by the smoke of his fire curling around it. It's a little like a dull sort of hunger, or an anger almost burned out. A memory, more than a real sensation.

Writing them takes both forever and no time at all. He'll chew on them for days, or weeks, or months, before ever even setting his pen to paper. It's half-formed metaphors and a few notes of a song he hears as he passes a store, and the way his cigarettes taste when it's 3 a.m. and he can't sleep. It's the sound of a cat sneaking past his window, that barely-there swish and soft padding. It's one note of a smell, too little for him to catch what it is, and yet still something that pulls at him.

Then, when the story finally starts to emerge, it's a little like being possessed.

If the easy stories flow like his fire when he calls just a few flames, these ones explode out of him. It's the roar of his Quirk, covering an alley so nothing can escape, a wall-to-wall of a blue wildfire, and when it's over, his hand will hurt, and the notebook is filled with the sort of raw and bloody writing that makes everything worth it.

These are the haunted pieces. He'll look at the finished product before sending them out into the world, and he'll feel the darkness that birthed them. They always seem to drip of loneliness and hurt and anger and joy, and inevitably, those are the ones that, while not the most beloved by those who read his work, they're the ones most discussed.

That is something, probably.

His editor sure thinks so, at least, always talking about how those are the texts that sets him apart.

And sure, back when he first took the name Dabi, this wasn't exactly what he envisioned. To be living in some shitty apartment, doing stupid small jobs to survive, and writing weird fucking short stories that only appeals to a small segment of the population?

Yeah, no, the kid he was then would've hated this, but who the hell takes the advice of their sixteen year old self? Especially one who was half-mad with horror, grief, anger and pain, and still fucking thirteen mentally, cause it's not like a three year long coma does you any favors when it's in your formative years.

So yeah. He writes. He writes, because the alternative is to burn, and there's a small, stubborn part of him that refuses to to lose everything to his dick of a father.

Since he writes to avoid burning, the writing happens regardless of if his stories get published, and so okay; he might have a series now, but his days follow the exact same rhythm as before.

He gets up – too late, maybe, but it hardly matters with his life, and he tends not to go to bed until early morning anyway. He smokes. He drinks. Usually coffee, but that depends. He runs errands, if needed, for food or pain killers or if something unforeseen happens to pop up. He does his stupid odd jobs, making sure he has enough money not to lose his apartment, and, when all of that is done – he writes.

(Sometimes, though. Sometimes the days are bad from the moment he forces his eyelids open, and he knows there's no use fighting it. On those bad days, he'll take something and let the day pass him by, ignoring bodily needs or work or his phone ringing over and over again as his editor tries to get a hold of him. On bad days, his mind is filled with orange and yellow fire and the horror of feeling his body melt around him as his own blue flames ignore his attempts at reigning them in, or it's the things that came later, after. All the injuries and hurts he took in the name of survival, come back to haunt him as surely as any other ghost.

Sometimes, he loses days and weeks to the bad days, and when he finally emerges, only the semblance of routine he's built these last years lets him pull himself back above water. Only the writing lets him find equilibrium again.)

Maybe, one day, his writing will earn him enough that he can drop the 'odd jobs' part of his routine.

Maybe, one day, he'll figure out what he wants to do about the payback he owes his father.

(Maybe, one day, he won't need to write just to stay alive.)

Dabi's life is fairly quiet, most of the time.

That's intentional on his part. After all the years on the street, and all the years before that in the Todoroki household, the quietness is soothing. His apartment is small and shitty, but no one else ever comes inside it. Any noise here is his, as is any mess, or food, or whatever else might crop up.

After his move out of the streets and into something resembling a real life, he had a period where he took whatever job he could get. Anything that got him enough money without having to get down on his knees or ending up in the back of a police car. It meant a lot of shitty jobs, before he figured out how to get slightly better ones.

These days, it's a collection of smaller jobs, but it's leaning more and more towards transcribing. He's gotten a few contacts thanks to his previous editor, and more than a few good reviews, and yeah, it's not the most exciting job in the world, but he gets to do it from the sanctity of his apartment.

It's quiet.

It leaves him with time for his own work, and whatever else he wants to use his days for.

Not the worst deal.

Dabi yawns as he finishes answering an email on his potential availability (very, very available) for a new transcribing project that's big enough and pays well enough that he can maybe swing getting a new laptop.

Or clothes, and then spend the rest on a slightly better coffee maker that doesn't short out half the time.

Choices, choices.

He ignores the other email, marked with 'urgent' and still waiting for his reply.

It's Okamoto, his editor, who wants a meeting about his lineup for 'Strays' – something about the way he keeps changing the order of the texts. The third magazine should be out in a couple of days, and he substituted 'caverns' with 'dogs' at the last minute after doing some minor edits to both, which meant the new order made more sense.

Dabi already knows how it'll go. Okamoto will listen to his reasoning, nod, make some comment about respecting the magazine while also acknowledging that Dabi is right, because he fucking is, and then he'll force them to go over the rest of the stories in an effort to stop Dabi doing it again.

Which, honestly, probably won't actually help.

The 'dogs' vs 'caverns' thing was one of those wake-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night-kinda deals, where he jerked awake knowing the changes he needed to make. Those kinds of revelations are almost always good, and he's learned to listen to his gut because otherwise he ends up irritated that he didn't change them.

Still, Okamoto wants a physical meeting this time. They don't do that too often – Dabi refuses to let the man into his apartment on the basis that he doesn't want anyone in here, and Okamoto is easy-going enough to be okay with doing most of their meetings over the phone or video chats.

Now, though, Dabi is going to have to drag himself down to Okamoto's office, suffer through the meeting there and traverse the entire fucking town back home again.

Just to annoy the man, he waits until it's 2 a.m. before he replies, and insists he has no time until next week.

He's not a nobody who can't afford to piss anyone off, anymore. He has a contract for a series. He can be a little bit of a dick, once in a while.

'heartless' turns out to be just as graphic as the story about the prostitute. It's short and dirty, full of guts and savagery. The two texts stay with Hawks, jumbled together in cut-up phrases that linger at the edge of his mind. Whenever there's a quiet moment, that's where he returns. Not necessarily to the texts themselves, but the feeling they evoked.

They were honest. Raw and different. Lines, beating in time with his heart.

It's fascinating: the way someone's art – because surely writing like this is art? – can cause such a reaction in someone. In him. It's not like it's changed his worldview, exactly. He hasn't learned anything new from it, or seen someone's point of view he never thought about, or anything like that.

It's just that somewhere out there in Japan, someone is writing about experiences Hawks has never had, wrapped in feelings he feels every day.

His life is not quiet. He's always on the move, between hero work and meetings and PR jobs and even when his body stops, his mind is still spinning, focusing on what's coming next. Something about the short stories this Dabi writes make him want to stop. To sit quietly and still. To let his thoughts catch up to him, maybe. There's an urge to turn down some of the constant requests for interviews or appearances or modelling shoots – all those extra things the HPSC always drilled him on, because they would be good ways for him to cement his public approval – just so he can think.

He's not stupid.

He still says yes to everything his PR team deems worth it.

The more known he is, the more the public trusts him. The more they trust him, the more likely they are to take his suggestions during a crisis, to listen when he tells them what to do so they'll survive, or to respect orders of keeping away from a scene.

It's a necessary part of modern hero work, and he will never take any chances with that.

So Hawks still says yes, and he shows up like he always has – with a broad grin and a charming attitude – but wanting to say no is new.

Novel, really.

"So about those photos," some journalist says, compassion painted on his face, and Hawks just smiles and rattles off one of the lines the Commission trained him to find. The perfect blend of upset, understanding and apologetic.

"Would you be willing to lose some more clothes?" the director of a photoshoot asks, and Hawks laughs, keeping his denial sweet and funny in a way that doesn't fan any flames of irritation or jealousy.

"The vigilante was spotted again yesterday," that new HPSC agent on the phone chastises, and Hawks answers something non-committal and doesn't use any of the fourteen tells she's shown so far to put her in her place.

All the while, 'I learn to love it. Eventually.' beats inside him.

There's a vague sense of nausea whenever he thinks of those words. There's a sense of elation. It's a mix of contradicting feelings that he can't quite tease apart, and it he finds he wants more.

It takes three weeks from finding the magazine in the hospital's waiting room until the next issue is released. He comes home late after another day where one emergency after another demands his attention, to find it waiting for him with his other mail.

Curiosity burns, but he makes himself shower, eat some leftovers and take his meds for the evening, and only then does he make his way to the couch that's still almost pristine-looking due to the low amount of use it sees.

He flips open the first page.

Anticipation makes his fingers tingle.

There, on page 28, he finds it.

'dogs'

Sitting in the home he bought for himself instead of using the HPSC-supplied showroom of an apartment, Hawks starts to read.