Work Text:
It’s just moments before he has to leave for patrol, but as Hawks hangs around in the lobby of his agency that fact momentarily leaves his mind when he catches sight of you, with your perpetual smile. You’re at the reception desk, back ramrod straight, fashion impeccable as you greet clients, your eyes lighting up as they regale you with their latest anecdote. Hawks could have been fooled, if he hadn’t known you since the three years he and you began working here, him nineteen and you looking a little older. Perhaps twenty? Twenty-one?
He knows what you look like on a cloudy Monday morning running late for work, your hair in a frizz due to the humidity in the air and the slightly crumpled hem of your dress shirt peeking coyly atop the waistband of your skirt. He remembers the cup of coffee from the cafe down the block that you clutch in the palm of your hand precariously as you shuffle into the building, bidding a hasty ‘good morning’ and letting a look of pure relief grace your face when you spy the clock ticking three minutes to eight.
The you that he sees that’s not for customers is, sadly, also seen by most of his colleagues. They know you’re the entertainment fairy of the agency; despite your calm and collected looks, you’re really the life of the party at functions, always ready to go ham on the karaoke machine and take the dance floor with some killer moves. It’s led to a lot of love for you as one of the youngest in the agency, aside from him, and how the atmosphere becomes a little lighter the moment you step into a room.
He’s not going to lie, those three years with you really did a number on him. He’s a willing contractor of your contagious cheer, his heart lifting when the sight of you greets him after a harrowing day of taking down villains. The job’s not always difficult, he admits, but it’s exhausting nonetheless. Sometimes, if you’re not busy, you’d glance up from your seat, your eyes peeking over the edge of the counter, and disarm him with your gaze. Then a smile, and a wave, and you’re back to work. Little do you know those gestures have carved a nice little space for themselves in his mind, but not his heart.
He’s asked himself the question many times, but he’s been warned many times more. About how it is when you give your heart away to someone who might never understand the workings of a pro hero, or to someone who understands because of their own experiences, but in return you’re never fully guaranteed of their safety out in the field. He definitely has hero acquaintances who’re happily married, with kids and fur-kids, but the stories that echo in his brain whenever he looks at you are those of broken bonds, severed ties and loved ones lost. And then he remembers how pretty you look with that smile on your face, and knows he wouldn’t want anything to ever risk its existence.
But is it too much to hope that he might be, at some point of time, the cause of that smile?
He’s shaken out of his reverie when his sidekick calls out to him, having just stepped out of the elevator in time for their patrol. Unconsciously, he takes one last look at your form, now turned away from him as you stand before the photocopier, and his chest vibrates with the murmurs of his heart’s wish for you to turn back for one last glance.
But you don’t, instead your head turning sideways to return a conversation with a coworker, and Hawks finally looks away. The automatic glass doors open up before him as he steps out into the city for another day of work, and the last thought he has before switching into professionalism is how you greet him in a way these glass doors never could.
.
Hawks has always been one to be in tune with his emotions, but just because he acknowledges them doesn’t mean he needs to act on them, or give in to them.
But as he sits alone in his office, hands tightly balled atop his knees as he heaves through his mouth, he’s tempted to let go. The words Dabi uttered to him feel like they were from eons ago, yet they’re floating afresh in his mind, bouncing off the confines of his brain like echoes as he strains for his own voice to be heard above the din. He’s shaken, no doubt, but heaven forbid that he’s so shaken he loses his balance in the air.
He’s known as the man who goes too fast, but never as the man who flies too high or too low. He’s comfortable where he is, his technique immaculate as he keeps himself airborne. But the drawbacks of being too fast is that without near perfect control you’re prone to crash and burn, and Hawks surmises that he’s close to that end when he’s never once slowed down enough to confront the feelings collecting dust and despair inside his heart. The mental strain the undercover mission has on him weighs on his conscience like gravity, and suddenly he’s falling, and his wings don’t open up fast enough, he’s not fast enough—
And then the sound of his name in your voice envelopes him like a safety net and grounds him gently, instead of the splat to the earth that he’d seen as imminent just seconds ago. He looks up from where he’s sitting to see your eyes scan over his hunched figure, and he prays you can’t see the sweat beading the sides of his neck or the whiteness of his knuckles in his lap. He watches as your brows knit together, your stare once sweet now laced with worry, and he curses internally that he’s not able to put you at ease in his condition. Smiles come as easy to him as they do you, so why is it so hard to muster one now?
He barely hears the click-clack of your heels as you make your way over to him. All at once his brain is firing off warning signals, his head is ringing with alarms. No, don’t come near, don’t get near me, the sirens blare, don’t see me like this—
A carton of juice is placed on the glass tabletop before him, and his gaze slowly traces up your fingers to your face. He wants to remove his gold-tinted glasses to convince himself you’re not as perfect as he perceived, but at the same time your light is so blinding he’s afraid that if he sees you in your full glory he’ll burn.
But you’re still perfect in his vision, though the edges of your mouth don’t quite reach your cheeks as you put on your trademark smile, and are you faltering? It’s the first time he’s ever seen it, and yet you look prettier still. Hawks wonders if you're not accustomed to sadness, you with your eternal grin. Wonders if, for all the cheering up you do, you lack in comforting and sympathizing, but then he realizes that's such a rude thing to assume.
“It’s been a long day, huh?” He spies the stray strands of hair plastered against your damp forehead, as you walk away from him towards the windows, where you start to draw the blinds. “You can stay here if you want, but I’d really like to lock up soon.” When you turn to him again, your smile no longer wavers. Your gaze does, though, and it's enough to prove his earlier theory wrong. "I also think you should get some rest."
That precarious position he holds while airborne is threatened immediately by the sun in your smile, your laugh, your heart, and he finds himself falling to the sea below, instantly relishing the feeling of air through his feathers and the coolness the water’s about to grant to his scorching skin. But oh no, oh dear— the sea is also you, the deep expanse of your arms and chest welcoming like that of a siren's song, while your eyes threaten to rob him of the lift in his wings.
He knows the League of Villains was a force to be reckoned with, but you are a whole new danger altogether.
.
It’s the first and last time Hawks would ever let you see him as… well, ‘vulnerable’ is what most people like to call it. ‘Less than best’ is what he tells himself instead.
He couldn’t call your relationship that of friends, since you’ve never had to speak to him more than the occasional small talk and necessary work matters. However, he couldn’t call you an acquaintance either, when he bumps into you in a convenience store one weekend and immediately watches your countenance brighten.
You greet him first with a sunny smile on your face, but he’s delighted to see that it came with a messy bun and sweatpants that signal you were in your most comfortable state. As he stands behind you in line as to not obscure your view of the signs overhead, displaying the prices for an ice cream cone, he’s locked onto the sight of your frame, the loose baby hairs sweeping across your nape, and he wonders how it’d feel to envelop that frame with his own, to let his own hair tickle that nape—
His silent beration of himself for having these thoughts come to a standstill when you move out of the periphery of his vision to let him make his purchases. Instantly, regret washes over him that you have to leave so soon, that the one time he’s managed to see you out of work you’re gone so quickly. So imagine his shock when he finds you waiting near the doors, your purchases in a bag on your arm while you hold two ice cream cones in hand.
He doesn’t know what good deeds he’d done to bring this on, but he’s not questioning this: walking side by side with you, ice cream cone in hand as you both make your way down the street towards the station. You apologize that you’d been presumptuous in getting him ice cream, and he’s taken with how the corners of your eyes crinkle in mirth when he dismisses it with a laugh. He's enjoying the ride home, even misses his own stop under the pretense of ensuring safe passage home to a well-meaning civilian. And when you reach the front door of your apartment, ice cream gone from your hand a long time ago, he wonders if you'll ask him to stay.
But you don't, instead thanking him and telling him to rest well and have a good evening, Hawks. And before he can stop himself, he utters, "Keigo. Keigo is fine."
A beat, then another. They're loud and thundering before he realizes that they're echoing through his eardrums. Gritting his teeth, he forces himself to look up.
"Okay." Your voice lilts from the doorway, and—he really wants to know where you get all these dazzling grins from, so that he can bottle some up for a rainy day. "Have a good evening, Keigo."
.
Suits don’t suit him. Obviously they hinder his wings, but the stuffiness of wearing them often makes him wish he was on patrol instead, soaring through the sky while feeling the wind whip his clothes.
But here he is, in a tailored suit where the starch of his collar digs into his neck hard enough for him to consider laying off the chicken nuggets this month. Besides the stuffiness of the suit itself, the air where he’s at is downright suffocating, though the ceilings are high and the chandeliers glisten in magnificence above his head. He can feel the thin film of sweat forming across the skin beneath his tight, layered clothing, and he wonders how he hasn’t gotten used to this, after all the charity balls and hero galas he’s had to attend.
Perhaps today will be different, he thinks. Today is his agency’s tenth anniversary, and there’d been a function thrown together for it. Of course today is different, he realizes—you’ll be here. That fact is enough for him to inhale deeply and step into the grand ballroom, and really, it’s not hard to spot you.
There you are in the middle of the room next to the refreshments, a vision in your dress as you hold a flute of champagne between your fingers. It’s a stark contrast from how you hold your coffee cup on work mornings, and all of a sudden he realizes he’s been holding his breath. You’re talking wistfully to a bunch of colleagues at work, and your polished appearance makes him forget how much more frazzled you’ve looked the past few days while planning for this occasion with the rest of the events team. Where strands of your hair would have been sticking up in all directions sits an elegant braid pinned to your head, while the rest of your hair cascades past your bare shoulders like shimmering waterfalls. The demure smile on your face belies the pallor of your complexion where lack of sleep is evident, but you’re beautiful, even if in a vampire sort of way. Hell, you’re beautiful no matter what.
You’re absolutely magnetic, and he’s drawn into the whirlpool that is your presence as he takes a shaky step across the floor towards you. He’s all too aware of the rapidly pulsing heart inside his too-tight chest, the heart that holds a million wishes just for you.
But he's done wishing and wondering. He's done hearing the voices that tell him he's too fast, or not fast enough, or that he's in trouble. Your name leaves his lips like a prayer, a desire given form and shape for just having been spoken, and Hawks watches as you turn. He feels your face brighten before he sees it.
His heart alights when your mouth moves in tandem with the letters in his name, his first name, and he shifts his gaze to eyes that disarm him once more. Instantly he knows those eyes will disarm him as long as he lets them (as long as it’s you).
He’s falling, but god, has he ever felt so free—