Chapter Text
A handful of light melodic knocks tap the locked bathroom door.
“C'mon hotstuff, I'm sure you'll still have your street cred as a silver fox” Came the number two hero's muffled teasing, unaware of the bomb about to go off in his luxurious oversized bathroom.
The aforementioned arsonist remains sat on the floor, back pressed against the cool wall tiles. He had been barricaded for the past few minutes as soon as the hero had whisked him here and mentioned that his hair was going ‘grey.’
“Go away” came his snarled reply, usually raspy vocal cords uncharacteristically shaky, the nausea that still rolled around in his gut refused to settle. His eyes were trained on his arms in morbid, fascinated horror, with his long legs pressed tucked towards himself as he sat there, barely paying attention to the hero cooing through the door. This isn't the first time Dabi had regretted being the League's primary recruiter, though regrets usually spawned from wasting his time with the sheer amount of trash looking to latch onto their success like a parasite.
Today, if his suspicions are correct (and they usually are) this'll be his least favourite recruitment fail for sure. He'd been hit by a quirk, again. It happens. (though it'd probably happen to him less if he'd stop having such high standards and roasting everyone but the pretty boy spy outside the door.) Last time it was an itching powder quirk. Everyone back at the base thought it was hilarious until they realised it was contagious. A gleeful upside to the villain’s suffering, misery loves company.
Dabi thinks he hears more muffled taps, but the longer he stares at his arms, the more static fills his head and a buzzing enters in his ears. Said arms haven't been without staples for at least a decade, he's not sure exactly where they went, they didn't just pop out on the floor, did they just…melt into his skin? He remains curled up, staring for what feels like hours, watching the burns slowly ebb away. Finally, he musters the strength to tear his gaze away when a thought manages to wade its way through the fog. The realisation that he's not safe here. He needs to leave his so-called ally's territory, and be back on a playing field slanted in his favor, preferably in private, where he could drink to forget, so much he'd forget to keep drinking. The villain threw up a lanky arm to grip the counter and haul himself up, eyes firmly closed.
Standing is as far as he gets. Dabi doesn't move, despite the need for security hidden away from whatever this is taking priority. He had the strength to get to his feet but now they feel glued to the tiles with the mirror so close. The villain feels his lips– both upper and lower, twitch into a frown. The unfamiliar and unwelcome sense of fear washes down his spine, but also intense… curiosity.
Fuck it. It's only a reflection. What could it do?
He lets out a warm ashy wheeze, blindly feeling for and peeling himself out of his trademark coat. He’d been too preoccupied to notice, but his body is sweltering and a phantom burning sensation licked the working nerves of his skin, slowly spreading and consuming his flesh. He shudders as Sekoto peak flashes in the back of his mind.
Dabi opens his eyes.
White briefly shimmers in his vision before a familiar stranger stares back at him. He’d looked just in time to see the last of the black dye at the tips of his hair fade, a blanket of pure-white silky snow in its’ place. The metal embedded in his face is long gone, not even his piercings remained. His scars were barely holding on, Dabi continued to stare as his entire biography, the entire reason for his wretched existence continued to fade from his skin like stains bleached from cloth. The room started spinning and spinning as blood rushed furiously in his ears.
He whips around, his shoulder aches from sudden force and before he knows it he's stumbling from backlash, clumsily sliding back down the wall as his silhouette crumbles. His head stings as a metal cuff from his coat swings into his head, the rest of the jacket landing on top of him like a shawl. His heart beats loud and wild like it wants out from behind his ribs. The stunned villain flinches from a muffled bang and some cursing before a blur dances on his periphery, gold and red. His swimming vision observes another red then, streaked down the where he believed the counter was, a red trail leading towards himself. Red on milky white.
His fist stings.
◇◆◇
Brightness dims when the red and gold from before ducks into Dabi's space and he lets out a wet exhale, squeezing his eyes shut. Each individual nerve burns alight now, the world has shrunk to the fire in his veins and the slush in his brain.
“Fucking hell Dabi your hand.” a hushed curse and a gentle touch on the fist that stings. He flinches back, however moving it only makes it worse. Like wires being switched on for the first time, the sensation is blinding and burning. He's back at the estate hiding scarred skin no one wanted to look at, be reminded of.
When did his chest feel so tight?
“Nonono hey shh” the voice soothes, Dabi’s breathing comes out wet and stuttered. “I just gotta get the glass out, just breathe for me?” The villain rattles with strain, hoping some sort of noise came out of his throat, as broken as it may be.
“I'll be as quick as I can.”
True to his promise, Dabi only felt twitches of pain spike through his hand and up his arm as efficient fingers wrapped in leather picked away at him, then shortly after it started it stopped, replaced by a comforting pressure that engulfed the limb til just below the elbow. He never remembered his wounds being tended to like this. With gentle non-robotic care. Though with everything so loud, so overstimulating, maybe his brain just whited all the pain out?
“Can you look at me?” a soft voice coaxed him from his thoughts.
Dabi's eyelashes gave an aborted flutter, the adrenaline keeping him wired had started to ebb into something floaty. He didn't want to open his eyes to burning teal and red screaming in his face. How could he do this again? Why was he so weak? Empty gray and white, begging him to please do something else. Anything else.
“Pretty please firecracker?”
Well he'd never been asked so nicely.
What greeted him was a dimly lit bathroom covered in pristine white tiles, these didn't look like the estate's. A golden halo then crowds his sight, rather than angry red or melancholic white. Brilliant crimson still pops in his vision, but it's not the same. That distant buzzing is even louder now, a low hushed hum pushes though from the golden figure, but he can't quite make it out exactly. Eyelids droop again, their weight increasing tenfold, waves of exhaustion gently battering his body and he sways. The figure shakes his shoulders, tries to pull him up but the villain is already underwater, Dabi feels the vibrations on his skin when he's talked to this time, and more heat on his skin. But every blink pulls him further and further from the surface until he just can't open them anymore.
So he sinks.
◇◆◇
Dabi wakes, eyes blearily opening to sunlight dancing across his face. He frowns and rolls over, smooshing his face into the soft pillow. This is the most pleasant wake up he's had in… it's the best he's had. Arms come around the pillow, further pushing his face into the heavenly plush. It doesn't catch on his staples; he's absolutely stealing this, he sleepily wonders just what magic little treat he’d taken to still be like this the next day. Not just comfortable but good .
Though after about 20 minutes, the arsonist's brows furrow. As is tradition, his body refuses to do what he wants. He's awake now. He lets out a long drawn out sigh at his inevitable fate even if the villain stubbornly remains face down, basking in the hazy, lazy glow that substitutes the usual pain and tries not to be bitter about waking up at all.
Joints crack albeit not painfully when Dabi finally moves, stretching not unlike a cat. Had he been drugged? He waits for agony, for discomfort even, for it to all come crashing down but it never arrives. His tongue lazily flicks the inside of his own mouth, running up and down his cheeks in a routine fidget. Dabi freezes, staring down blankly at the pillow case. Didn't catch his staples alright.
Because they weren't even there.
Covers fly as he abruptly sits up, his heart going into overdrive, memories of waking up anew gnaw in the back of his head. His boots and socks are gone to who knows where, along with his coat, leaving him in his signature stapled pants. Dabi shivered in his singlet, exposed. He stares at his own arms, his hands, everything.
There's not a single scratch on him. No gnarled purple, no mangled flesh, no staples holding him together, not even long faded scars from childhood. Just healthy porcelain as far as the eye can see.
What kind of sick joke is this?
Dabi does a full body jolt as soft knocking echoes from the door. Hazy memories choose now to break the dam, rushing back. Right. He was in Hawks’ apartment. Well if he wasn't filled with dread before. Knuckles brush the door again, this time accompanied by the hero's voice.
“Dabi?” he calls softly, and the villain isn't sure what to do with that tone. So far their turncoat-informant relationship had been nothing but teeth, taunts and setting the bird hero on wild goose chase with a touch of flirtation and carrot-dangling. He grunts and hears the doorknob twist with a quiet clack. Dabi yanks the covers over himself, head and all, only blue fiery orbs remain to glare holes into the wood. A red feather enters first, darting around, the rest of the hero shortly pads in after. The air is awkward and tense as the two stare at each other, neither saying a word, the villain's fingers twitch.
Hawks is out of uniform for once, though still bundled up, too much for inside in Dabi's opinion, surely the number two hero had interior heating. He's even wearing gloves. Maybe it's those hollow bones or whatever he's rumoured to have, he's not a bird expert. Hawks is the first of the pair to break the silence.
“Sooo… white hair huh?” he commented, going for casual but not quite hitting the mark. “I knew it was dyed, didn't think white.” Dabi's fingers tightened their hold in his makeshift cloak, the hero's placating smile turned sheepish. “I've already seen, had to get you out n’ clean the bathroom up.”
The villain stared at him flatly before croaking a grumpy “Touché.” His cheeks warmed his stoic expression when his unfamiliar voice cracked. Hawks’ mouth twitched, golden eyes confident enough now to flit across the villain's forced wardrobe change.
“...Does your hand hurt?” Hawks asked, sitting on the edge of the bed, still keeping a fair gap between them, “You did a number on my mirror.” His hand… He raised a thin brow.
“...No?” Dabi slowly flexed his fingers, then the rest of his arm, not even the uncomfortable tug of staples. His chest felt tight again.
Fuck. Is this what normal people felt like?
He caught movement on his periphery, Hawks’ own hand gently inching towards his so-called injury. Dabi suppressed a shudder that zipped through his newly-working nerves and cold settled in his gut. He was too close, too gentle, too inviting. Someone Dabi should be keeping not just at arms length, but a further 10 foot pole distance at least. Preferably wrapped in flames no matter how much mr number two claimed to be a turncoat. He yanked his hand away.
“Don't think now just ‘cause I'm all soft-looking I still won't burn you alive hero.” he snarled, he was still a threat, don't underestimate him. The familiar heat rose under the surface of his skin. “Don't think you can coddle me to worm your way in.” Hawks rolled his eyes, a touch of sharpness returned to the hero's features but he didn't move.
“I'm not doubting you can still light me up. You're still a big bad villain in my eyes” he hummed, hands raising to make a placating gesture, lips tugged into a slight frown despite the jovial tone. “And I'm not ‘coddling–’” he flexed his first two fingers; “-you. You just got hit by an unknown transformation quirk, freaked out and then passed out in my bathroom.” Dabi glared even harder. “Excuse me for being a tad concerned, I don't exactly want you dying on me.” The villain scoffed.
“Sure.” Dabi swung his legs over the edge of the bed, frowning deeper, he hadn’t even realised how stiff he was. Hawks remained sitting as he got to his feet.
“So what now?”
“Getting the fuck out of here.” The reply was easy enough, though the arsonist felt strangely uncomfortable with the thought. Going outside looking like… looking like this. Dabi located and slipped on his jacket, another barrier between him and the world.
“Like that?”
The villain ignores him. “Where are my boots?”
The hero followed him out as he made for the door, he found boots neatly deposited against the wall near the apartment's entrance.
“Are you sure that's a good id–” As Dabi bends, a hand pulls at his shoulder, gentle but firm. Dabi whips around. The words died in the hero's mouth as Dabi held an arm not too far from his face. It's been all of five seconds, the traitor shouldn't need reminding on who he's dealing with. This is Dabi. Not some fragile little—! He doesn't even finish the thought before he ignites.
He suddenly has the intense urge to puke. As an adult he'd learnt all too late how to light up without immediately burning away, but his new skin didn't get that memo apparently, or he'd underestimated his scars. Flames eat at him with vengeful hunger. He's thirteen, in the snow, in his grief turning blue, turning on him he's burning he's burning he's burningburningburningburning–
“You don't call the shots here.” he hissed, going along with his threat but it was far too breathless and shaky to have any real power behind it. A splash and he's suddenly doused, shutting off the angry cerulean inferno coating his arm. The entire expanse of his skin from fingertips to elbow is red and angry. He sucks in a breath as even a twitch of his fingers makes the burn sting, such a shallow burn should mean nothing to him, even back then but having bright, fresh new nerves after a decade of dead ones dialed sensation up to eleven. He catches the hero's eyes as he tilts his head to the side around the limb to look him in the eyes, expression blank.
Mortification burns in Dabi's chest but he doesn't look away, heart racing. He stands straighter even, challenging him to say something and hopes it isn't clear the aggression in this state is more for show. Even with Dabi being ‘healthy’ now, he was thin, if it came to physical blows, he has no doubts the hero now would win. The realisation of how easily he could be incapacitated settles cold into his limbs. Right now he's all sneers and sparks.
Hawks doesn't offer a single blink while they play their little game of chicken, however he still breaks first with a sigh, running a hand over his face in either exhaustion or exasperation Dabi doesn't know. A feather separates and darts off to who knows where.
“Do you know how long this'll last.” he asks, arms crossed and voice flat. The feather returns with a med kit, a few more feathers separate from Hawks’ wings to open and manoeuvre, one pulls out a jar.
“No–”
“Then until we have some idea and if there's any other surprises, why not hide out here?” Hawks cut him off. The villain loomed over him with a sneer, frustration flares in the blonde's eyes when small wisps of smoke wormed their way out of his mouth and are huffed towards his face.
“Do you seriously expect me to trust you?” The hero groaned.
“I could've had you locked up in the deepest level of Tartarus by now.” Hawks snapped, throwing his arms up, “You’ve been out for half the day, and look, magically free.”
The look Dabi sent him was outright murderous. Another feather made it back to Hawks, this time holding a key that floated between them, enticingly.
“There's a lock on the door. Surely it's better than an abandoned warehouse or some hole in the wall.” Dabi scowled and swiped at the feather as it nudged him with his bandaged arm, Hawks’ reasoning was unfairly sound, he could go back to the league, but he wanted as little people to know about…. this , as possible. Twice can’t keep his trap shut and Toga wouldn’t. Dabi carelessly crushed the little plume as he gripped the metal white-knuckle tight. Fine. Who was he to deny the comforts the number two hero no doubt had access to in his fancy little apartment. If he wants him to run up all his utilities by all means he'll give it his best shot.
“This doesn't change anything.”
“I know.”
He pushed past the hero back inside, taking his boots with him, the slam of the door reverberated throughout the apartment shortly after. Boots hit a wall as he angrily stormed to the bed, sitting on the edge with his head in his hands. This was so fucked. He should feel elated shouldn't he? He wasn't in pain anymore, no longer a walking, seeping, festering wound. But instead he just felt a black hole where his new-and-improved heart should sit. Dabi had been summoned from the altar of Touya Todoroki, his broken body sealed together and reforged using the boy's ashes and agony like some sort of unholy, depraved Kintsugi. Without pain, there was no Dabi.
Who was he now? What was he?
His throat bobbed as he suppressed himself, he was already vulnerable he wouldn't, he couldn’t crack here. Smooth hands running up and down his own arms. It was odd he couldn't feel the familiar texture of his burnt skin, it was weirder still he could feel his hands touch the now pristine flesh. It didn't even hurt.
Dabi blinked, the thought weakly tugging him out of his spiral. He just burnt himself minutes ago, surely it would at least sting to be touching it. He looked at his arms again, one still wrapped in bandages and the other… there was just…white. It gave the wrapped arm a run for their money in paleness. What? Now that the gears were turning, Birdie said he cut it on the mirror. He let out a couple muffled curses as he tugged and unwrapped the cloth from his skin, The hero had wrapped it well and tight.
Once free the arsonist held it up, jaw slack. Not a scratch.
Now that was interesting.