Chapter Text
Hawks really does move fast, Dabi learns to his consternation.
After being thoroughly poked and prodded by a small army in the support department – many of them fascinated by his ability to roast himself – and an extensive healing session in the in-agency hospital for having actually roasted himself, Dabi finds himself face to face with Hawks, decked out in his hero outfit.
“Hey Ender, how’d it go?” the hero asks, adjusting his glove under his sleeve. Hawks had come down to meet him fresh from patrol, apparently, and he’s still flushed from flying.
“Fine,” Dabi says shortly. Hawks arches a bushy eyebrow at him, clearly asking for elaboration, and Dabi grits his teeth.
Play nice.
Reluctantly, he raises his hand, showing off the unblemished skin where fresh burns had been earlier.
“Your medical team is terrifying,” he says bluntly. Which is true, actually. He’s only heard of a few powerful healers during his time underground, and only then because villains made hairbrained attempts at kidnapping them for their own purposes every other month. With people like Recovery Girl safely ensconced at UA, though, the attempts never came to anything.
He’s beginning to suspect that truly powerful healers side with heroes for the safety they provide, because Hawks has not one, not two, but three extremely powerful healing quirks in his employ. And all three of them had a look at Dabi’s scars, debating on whether or not such old wounds could be treated. Two out of three of them had said it was doable, and at that point Dabi had fucking panicked.
“My scars are my cover,” he’d said. “Take those away, and I’m useless to Hawks as an underground hero. ”
It had galled him to use Hawks as a shield, but the bit about his scars being his cover? Yeah, that’d been true. And it’d gotten the healer trio to back off their talk of whether or not he could be cured.
Netra, the one that Squirrel Girl had mentioned, was the one who eventually took his hands in hers and blew minty cold breath onto his new burns. Within seconds, the injuries had been healed.
His skin still tingles from the feeling, and he unconsciously clenches his hands as Hawks laughs aloud.
“They’re a handful, for sure. I think they’re in competition to see who can be the most useful, so don’t take them too seriously.” He pauses, his eyes suddenly narrowing. “They didn’t make you uncomfortable, did they?”
Yes.
“Nah,” Dabi says, shrugging. “Just didn’t realize your agency was big enough to need three full-time quirk healers.”
Hawks’ expression flickers even as he gestures for Dabi to follow him over to the elevator bank.
“It’s not,” he replies as they walk. “But we don’t service just my sidekicks and employees. It’s their families, too, along with anyone we rescue or apprehend if the agency happens to be closer than the nearest hospital.” Hawks flashes him a wry smile and pushes the ‘up’ button. “Does that surprise you?”
Yes. Endeavor would’ve called that an egregious expense when hospitals exist for a reason.
“Why go to all the trouble?” Dabi asks, unable to help himself. The elevator dings, and Hawks steps in after him, his wings bunching up tight against his back. Frankly, the hero looks uncomfortable in the enclosed space.
“Ah, well,” Hawks rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “I contract through the Hero Commission, and they were going to assign my agency three full-time quirk healers regardless of whether or not I needed them. Figured it was a bit of a waste to keep them to myself.”
Dabi arches an eyebrow, unable to decide if that was a humble brag or genuine altruism. He tables the thought regardless, because if he doesn’t get something useful for Shigaraki, the decay villain will rot him into gray confetti.
“That does seem excessive,” he agrees. “Does the Commission just have a shitton of healing quirks to pass out?”
“No,” the hero says with a mysterious smile. Dabi wants to roast it off his face.
The elevator dings, and Hawks holds the door with his wing, allowing Dabi to go first. They’ve arrived on a floor with a secretary's desk that sits behind bulletproof glass. Dabi lets loose a low whistle.
“The armory,” Hawks explains simply as he walks up to the desk and hands over his hero license. The secretary takes it with a smile and runs it through a scanner that lights up blue, then green, then orange, checking for different markers that make it legit. Then she has Hawks step up to a retina scanner that he stares into unblinkingly until it flashes green, followed by a passcode that he has to type into a little box with shields around all sides so no one can spy on the sequence.
Dabi’s impressed. And annoyed.
No way would we get Twice or Toga past all three verification methods, he thinks, even though they never had any plans to break into the agency. It’s just annoying on principle.
“What are we doing here?” he asks, tucking his hands into his pockets in a show of nonchalance as the heavy metal doors to the weapons room swing open slowly. Again, Hawks gestures for him to follow behind.
“Your file said you don’t fight with any weapons except your quirk,” the hero says. “I’m all for that if you’re on your own, but tonight, you’re with me, so you’ll be outfitted accordingly.”
“Ya know,” Dabi drawls as he steps into a room full of so much high-tech weaponry, riot gear, and bulletproof padding, it looks like Army R Us, “Villains aren’t too trusting when you show up kitted out in hero-grade tech. And I specialize in walking among villains unnoticed.”
“You think we’ve never had a hero go undercover?” Hawks asks, shooting Dabi an amused look. Behind him, a wall panel slides away with barely a whisper of noise, revealing a host of items that look like… everyday streetwear. Dabi even spies a box full of earrings similar to his own, and wonders what the fuck they’re doing in the armory.
“Behold, my secret vault!” Hawks proclaims, waggling his hands jazzily at the collection. “If you tell anyone about this stuff, I’m legally obligated to kill you!”
He sounds so damn cheery about it that Dabi wants to scoff, but the sharp edge to his smile and his feathers has Dabi stepping warily when he moves to join the hero.
“Alright, I’ll bite.” His eyes scan the shirts and shoes, rings and briefcases. “What is all this shit?”
Hawks’ eyes practically shine with challenge and excitement.
“Your new playground.”
—--
Dabi isn’t often faced with true bafflement these days. Maybe back when he’d gone underground the first time, sure, because he’d been green. Lots of things had been new and scary, and his sheltered life had made the average citizen a perfect mystery to his naive brain. But years of living on the street and learning how to survive had given him a hard-earned understanding of people and what to expect from them.
In particular, he’s learned what to expect from heroes.
Hawks defies those expectations. With prejudice.
Where most heroes in their flashy costumes with their flashy quirks couldn’t conceive of not getting credit for a job, it’s apparent that Hawks could not give less of a damn. For this mission, he’s dressed down in a hoodie, jeans, and a beanie to cover his distinctive hair. His wings have – somehow – been stored inside a black backpack. Dabi wishes he’d been paying attention to how the hero did it, but he’d been distracted by a ring that could turn into a glass cutter when twisted a certain way.
Either way, it was disturbing to see the hero so easily slip through the subway crowd with nothing more than an outfit change and a pair of blue-tinted glasses. Dabi himself wouldn’t have clocked the hero even if he’d been looking for him.
“Our destination is a little ways away,” Hawks says, double-checking the subway map he has pulled up on his phone. “So before we get any closer, I’ll go over the brief. No need to get yourself hurt on a test run.”
Dabi represses a scoff and leans in close, as if to view the map over Hawks’ shoulder. Casual and easy, just two friends on their way to somewhere unfamiliar.
“So?” he murmurs into the few inches of space between them. “I’m guessing we’re hitting a bar with these outfits. Who’re we looking for?”
Dabi had noticed they were dressed casually but not in the ‘tough’ outfits favored by grunts and yakuza. He’d also noticed Hawks picking up cash and guzzling down water at the agency, as if to dilute any alcohol he might be paying for.
And then there were the boots.
Hawks glances at Dabi over the edge of his thick-rimmed glasses, amused and assessing.
“What gave it away?” he asks, a slight Fukuoka drawl entering his voice. Like amusement removes the polish from his heroic facade.
“Whoever wore these last didn’t do a great job of cleaning them,” Dabi mutters, nodding at his boots. A slight tilt of his foot shows the old beer stains. “Then again, it could just be part of the disguise. Either way, bar boots.”
These boots also happen to have knives that eject from the front when he clicks his heels together, so they’re not just bar boots. Like the bulletproof leather jacket and the watch that can emit knock-out gas if twisted the right way aren’t just normal accessories. But Dabi digresses.
Hawks’ lips quirk at the corner as if he’s repressing a smile. “Observant, huh? No wonder you came so highly recommended.”
I swear to god, Giran, if you put someone like All Might in my referral sheet, I’m blasting you into ashes and then pissing on them.
In lieu of an answer, Dabi just shrugs.
“You’re half right,” Hawks continues. “It’s a club – kinda a grunge/rock place, very trendy with the alt crowd – and it definitely has a bar. Reports from the local hospital say they’ve picked up an increasing number of ODs in the area, and the club is right smack in the middle.” He shrugs, the backpack lifting with his shoulders. “Figured it’s worth checking out to see if there’s a dealer setting up shop there, so your job is to ask around and see if you can find the guy.”
Huh. Not a villain case, then, but a regular criminal. Easy enough, especially in a crowd Dabi can blend with.
“Sounds simple,” Dabi nods. “Did you have a cover story in mind, or do we just wing it?”
Hawks’ eyes glitter behind his glasses. “You got a lie you prefer?”
Dabi mulls it over. “What’s the drug people are OD’ing on? Acid? Trigger? Fentanyl?”
That makes the hero sober right on up. “Something similar to morphine with a trippy effect like acid. They’re calling it Movie Night because you hallucinate a lot before passing out.”
“And it can sound innocent if you’re asking someone if they’re up for a Movie Night,” Dabi says with a slow nod. “If it’s similar to morphine, then my cover is simple. I tug down my mask.”
Hawks arches a fuzzy eyebrow, and Dabi lets himself roll his eyes. This pretend obliviousness is getting old.
“Pain, Hawks,” he says. “A chronic pain drug seeker. That’s pretty much what any doctor or drug dealer sees when they look at me.”
Golden eyes narrow. “Did the doctors at my agency –?”
“No,” Dabi interrupts. Damn, had Hawks not bought his story when he said he was chill with the doctors? Dabi would have to be careful, because that kind of perception was uncanny. “Just… general experience.” He waves off Hawks’ heroic expression and instead nods at the map on the hero’s phone. “Anyway, this place is like an hour away, and it’s already getting late. Are we going or not?”
Hawks doesn’t look terribly mollified, but he shrugs again and starts down the stairs to the subway. Dabi falls in step just behind him.
Weird ass hero.
—-
The bar is grungy, alright, and Hawks fits in suspiciously well.
That hint of a Fukuokan drawl becomes a full-blown accent when he orders himself and Dabi a pair of beers, his head bobbing to the music as he throws a few thousand yen on the sticky counter. No one gives the hero a second glance, so Dabi tries not to either, focusing on his beer and letting heavy-lidded eyes take in the scene.
This really is my kind of place. Hawks is throwing me a softball with this assignment.
Exposed brick walls covered in rock and metal posters, low lighting, and mismatched chairs. The decor matches the mishmash of patrons well enough. Some true lowlifes, a lotta tired-looking people looking to take a load off, and a handful of too-clean kids who clearly didn’t know the difference between a club and a dive bar that happens to have a mosh pit. Because that’s what the dance floor looks like, while some local band belts out an angry breakup song into the microphone.
It’s loud, dark, and a little seedy. The perfect place for illicit deals to go down.
Bathrooms, dark corners, or the dance floor itself, Dabi thinks, tilting his beer over the edge of his mask. Those are the most likely places inside… could also be doing deals in the alley out back, but I saw security cameras when we came in…
“So?” Hawks asks in a low voice that still somehow carries to Dabi over the sound of the music. “What do you think?”
An innocuous question in case anyone overhears. Dabi will be expected to reply in kind.
“I’ll need to hit the toilet before the dancefloor,” he replies, lifting an eyebrow. “Unless you were planning on standing off in a corner? Seems kinda crowded in the pit.”
Bathroom, dance floor, corners. Hawks sips his beer, but the lip of the bottle can’t hide his approving smile. Dabi kinda hates it.
And he feels kind of gratified by it, too.
He doesn’t waste time examining that emotion, though. Hawks is known for moving fast, and Dabi’s trying to prove himself useful enough to get hired. So he sets his beer down, slides off the barstool, and meanders his way through the dimly lit crowd to the toilets, golden eyes weighing heavily on his back.
The thing about bathroom drug deals is that they’re rarely initiated in the bathroom. Someone, somewhere, will find their dealer, and they’ll make their way, nonchalantly and separately, to the bathroom to complete the deal away from prying eyes. Which means that, as Dabi moves through the crowd, he keeps his eyes roaming for others who might be paying too much attention to his destination. Like they’re waiting for a signal to disappear.
No one catches his eye, though. Most of the patrons seem too engrossed in their friends, their lovers, or the music. Dabi realizes why when he opens the bathroom door.
It’s tiny. Barely big enough for one person to squeeze in and take a piss, with the sink set into the top of the toilet tank. Dabi almost pities the heavy drinkers having to wait their turn for this little closet.
Still, better to fight on an empty bladder. Dabi does his business, mind whirling as he washes his hands.
Not here, then. Next… dancefloor or corners?
The thought occurs to him that he might actually have to dance if he’s out in the plastered press of bodies. It’s not the worst thing, but it’s irritating to have a hero’s eyes on him when he’s acting the fool to fit in.
Bumping the door open, Dabi steps out of the way of a red-faced man who looks like he’s about to piss himself, then surveys the bar as the door slams behind him.
Hawks raises his beer from over at the counter, and Dabi nods to him before tilting his head to the dance floor. The hero nods and tips his bottle back for another swig. Just two friends silently communicating across the loud room to anyone who might be watching.
Dabi weaves casually through the stragglers of the crowd, eyes searching as if he’s on the hunt for a potential dance partner when he’s really looking for any tells of illicit dealings.
Plenty of drug use, he notes, spotting a couple of girls swaying against each other, grinning dopily up at the ceiling. Not far away, another guy is leaning against a column, holding his head in his hands like he’s having a massive trip. And those are just some of the easily spotted ones.
He migrates closer to the girls, thinking they might comment on their current state, but after a couple of minutes, they just hum and giggle happily, so Dabi moves on.
Deeper into the crowd, where the sweat and perfume and heat become oppressive. He bites his tongue as elbows and hips bump into him, and the volume increases exponentially. Everyone seems lost in their own worlds, belting out lyrics, wrapped up in others around them, jumping and dancing to the music. Lights flash, the guitar screams out a solo, and Dabi spots a guy pulling a bottle of pills from his pocket, dumping a couple of pills in the hands of each of his friends.
A body crams between Dabi and the guy, and he shoves past them impatiently, trying not to lose sight of the pill dispenser. In between flailing limbs and the flickering light show, Dabi sees the guy tuck the bottle back in the pocket of his jeans while his friends finish popping the pills he gave out with laughter and shots from the bar.
Just a little closer…
Someone bumps into Dabi from behind, hard. He seizes the opportunity and crashes into the bottle guy.
“Oh, fuck – sorry!” he calls over the noise, hand slipping into his pocket with ease. “Some jackass ran into me!”
The guy’s pupils are enormous when he looks at Dabi, and he grins in that slow, loopy way that screams ‘high as a kite’.
“Hey, man, no big deal!” he slurs back, swaying into Dabi’s space. “Damn, dude, you got some of the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.” He reaches up as if to touch Dabi’s masked face, and that’s enough of that.
Dabi peels away, letting himself be carried by the crowd, silently cursing the way that compliment got under his skin. Like he’s sixteen again and wandering the streets in nothing but a thin hospital outfit and –
“Hey, you okay?” a familiar voice asks way too close. Dabi represses the urge to light something on fire and looks over at Hawks, whose expression is concerned behind the glasses.
“Yeah,” Dabi says after a moment. He inhales, then shuts down his shitty memories. “Found something.”
His fingers wrap around the bottle he’d pickpocketed, and he glances around for a secluded spot to inspect it. Hawks must pick up on his need, because he nods to one of the darker corners off the dance floor.
Dabi follows him, trying not to feel anything, trying to think about the mission. Find the drug dealer, get in Hawks’ good graces, then start tracing his activity involving All For One and the League.
Keep it together, Dabi, he reminds himself just as Hawks drops back to his side to speak directly into his ear.
“I’m going to cover you while we look at what you found.”
“Wha–?”
Before he can finish the question, Hawks pulls Dabi around in front of him and backs him into a wall, shielding Dabi from the view of others with his own body while also putting them in an incredibly compromising position.
“Sorry about this,” Hawks whispers, dipping his head as if he’s leaning into Dabi’s neck. “Too many eyes on the dance floor. What did you find?”
Dabi’s heart hammers against his ribs for no fucking reason and whatever emotion he’s trying to have gets shoved ruthlessly into the pits of his brain. Instead, he opens his hand to show the bottle.
“Guy was passing these out like candies to his friends,” he rasps into the golden curls hovering just below his chin. He swallows the dryness in his throat. “Do you know what the pills look like?”
Hawks’ hand moves to cup Dabi’s hip, blocking any view of the bottle from a couple of girls off to Dabi’s right.
“Small, round, and slightly yellow,” Hawks murmurs against Dabi’s neck. Chills race up Dabi’s spine. “These seem to fit the bill.”
Dabi blinks hard, trying to get his shit under control. Which is when he spots the guy who complimented his eyes staggering their way.
“Incoming,” he says, slipping the bottle into Hawks’ hand so he’s not caught with it. The hero’s shoulders straighten, then relax, flowing into the motion as the dancefloor guy grabs him and spins him around.
“Hey, g-get offa him,” he slurs, pushing Hawks away with pathetic strength. The hero lets himself fall back, looking convincingly annoyed.
“And who are you?” Hawks demands petulantly. Dabi mentally gives him his due – he makes a convincing actor.
“Tha’s my pretty eyes,” the guy mumbles, pawing in Dabi’s direction. Dabi works hard to keep the disgust and disdain from his face. He knows what he’s going to have to do.
“Your pretty eyes?” he repeats, trying to sound amused. The guy lights up like a bonfire, and Dabi mentally rolls his eyes. Fucking easy mark. Sixteen-year-old Dabi would’ve cleaned him out.
“Mmmhmm,” the guy hums, finally close enough to put a hand on Dabi’s shoulder. “Dance with me, pretty eyes?”
“You don’t have to.”
Hawks should probably continue sounding like pissy competition for this bit. Instead, his voice is all hero.
Dabi shoots him a quelling glance, silently telling him to back off. Hawks’ brow furrows, but he gives the barest nods for Dabi to take the lead.
“Why not?” he says coyly, looking up at the idiot from under dark lashes. "I wanna know all about this guy." His would-be paramour grins, reaching for his hand.
“Yeah? Tell me what you wanna know, pretty,” the guy laughs, leading Dabi back to the dance floor, hand in sweaty hand. It’s a wonder he doesn’t balk at the feeling of staples lining the base of Dabi’s palm.
“Mmm, you seem like a fun guy,” Dabi says, having to lean close to be heard over the crowd. The stench of sweat on this guy is almost overwhelming. “This a regular place of yours?”
“Oh yeah, this place is great!” the guy hollers back. “Booze, dancing – what’s not to like?”
“That tiny-ass toilet, for one,” Dabi shoots back, making the guy toss his head back and laugh. “And fuck me, I heard they had movie nights here but I keep missing out!”
The guy’s eyes light up, and he reaches for his pocket, only to find it empty.
“Oh, shit, I had some!” he yells in Dabi’s ear. “I musta dropped my bottle!”
“Shit, you know where I can get more?!” Dabi calls back, putting a hand on the guy’s giant chest for balance when bodies press into his back. The hands that wrap around his waist make his skin crawl, and he reminds himself that the boots he’s wearing have knives in the toes, but the guy calls out happily –
“Yeah! My guy comes in on Thursdays and Saturdays! Sets up in the back corner.” He nods to the area where Hawks had cornered Dabi. “I can introduce you tomorrow!”
“Fuck yeah,” Dabi calls back, grinning wide behind his mask. “When do you wanna meet?”
“You don’t wanna just spend the night with me?” the guy laughs, pulling Dabi closer. The bulge in his jeans is obvious, and Dabi represses a shudder.
“Nah, I got shit to do tonight,” he gets out. Then he traces a couple of fingers into a playful heart over the guy’s chest.
“But if you’re here tomorrow, I promise you a night you’ll never forget.”
—-
“Knew it’d be a slam dunk for you,” Hawks says, pushing a mug of coffee across the desk to him. It’s past two o’clock in the morning, and they’re back in Hawks’ office, debriefing their little outing. “I am sorry he got handsy, though. Please know that is not a requirement of the job, even if it works.”
Dabi’s quiet for a moment, absorbing the hero’s declaration.
He’s not sure how to feel about how things worked out at the club. They’d gotten the information, sure, and it’d been easier than expected. Just… the way it happened makes him feel like he needs a shower. And maybe a fireproof room, because it pisses him off that he hadn’t gotten the chance to show any real skills. He’d lucked out with a fucking idiot both horny and high enough to squeal on his dealer.
At least the extraction had been easy. Two dances with the guy, and he'd been so out of it from the drugs kicking in, Dabi was pretty sure he couldn't see straight anymore, let alone see the guy in front of him. Dabi had swapped with another body and ducked out of the crowd, with Hawks falling into step beside him on the way out. He'd felt the hero's eyes on him then, just like he does now.
“I’m the one that went for it,” he says almost robotically. “Guy has shit taste, but it worked out okay.”
Hawks studies him over the rim of his coffee mug. Peeling back the layers of nonchalance Dabi wears to see the discomfort that lies beneath.
“Be that as it may, you were under pressure to do well for your assessment, and pressure does shitty things to all of us. Don’t get me wrong, you handled yourself in there. You handled the whole situation with the finesse of a pro. But my agency will never put the mission above your well-being.” He sighs. “It’s my fault for not making that clear.”
“Didn’t expect someone to be hitting on me either,” Dabi notes ruefully. Hawks scrunches his nose.
“That’s not what I meant,” he says, but Dabi waves him and his weird heroics away.
“It’s fine, just be happy that idiot couldn’t see my full face.” He pauses, taking a sip of the coffee. It’s rich and warm, and he feels his spine relaxing a bit against his will. Hawks probably wouldn’t waste the good stuff on someone he didn’t plan to hire, but… best to make sure. “So, am I in on the raid tomorrow?”
Hawks tilts back in his chair, his restored wings slotting easily into the two notches on either side. He purses his lips.
“You passed my exam with flying colors, Ender, so tomorrow we can get together to go over the full job offer. The raid will be after hours again, and I wouldn’t ask you to stay late two days in a row.”
“I’ll be on the night shift anyway,” Dabi says, shrugging. “I don’t care. Besides, if Loverboy from the club only comes out to see me and I’m not there, you might miss your chance to pin the dealer, right?”
And the more time I spend gaining Hawks’ trust, the better chance he takes me on missions to look for noumu and All For One. It’s a long game, but I need to be someone he relies on.
Hawks hums thoughtfully, then checks his phone. “Damn, two-thirty in the morning.” He blinks tiredly, then nods as if making a decision. “Okay, sure. You can sleep in tomorrow, and we can go over your contract around, say, five? Doctor Jinchou also mentioned wanting to touch base about your health plan, so we can pet two birds with one hand.”
Dabi takes that in, then snorts despite himself. “Don’t think that’s how the saying goes.”
Hawks offers him a wry smile and a hand. “That’s how it goes in my agency. We do things a little differently around here.”
Dabi takes the hand, shaking it just like he had that morning after showing off his quirk for the initial interview. The interview where he hurt himself, and Hawks still gave him a chance.
Yeah, he thinks meeting Hawks’ warm gold eyes in the light of the only office still functioning at this hour of the morning. No shit.