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The League of Villains hideout was quieter than Hawks ever expected it to be.
Not peaceful—never peaceful—but quiet in a way that didn’t feel like a threat.
At first, that alone had been enough to make his shoulders stay tense for days.
Now, months later, Hawks still wasn’t sure what he was to them.
A prisoner?
An ally?
A traitor to the heroes?
Or just… someone who hadn’t been thrown away yet.
He sat on the edge of a worn couch in the League’s shared space, wings half-curled around himself. Feathers twitched every so often, reacting to things no one else could hear. The others were scattered around the room—some arguing softly, some playing cards, some just existing in the same strange fragile truce.
Dabi was leaning against the far wall.
Watching him.
As always.
Hawks pretended not to notice.
That was the thing about Dabi—he never stared like he was bored. He stared like he already knew what you were thinking and was just waiting for you to admit it out loud.
That alone made Hawks’ skin itch.
But tonight… there was something heavier in the air.
Something Hawks didn’t have words for.
It started the way it always did.
Sleep was supposed to be safe here. Or safer, at least.
But safety didn’t erase memory.
Hawks jolted awake with a sharp gasp, feathers exploding outward instinctively, knocking over the glass of water beside his makeshift bed.
His heart was hammering too fast.
Too loud.
Too familiar.
“No—” he rasped, gripping his own wrists before he even realized he was doing it.
The room was dark.
But not the same dark.
Not the Hero Commission’s interrogation room dark.
Not the kind that swallowed sound and made you forget how to breathe unless someone told you to.
Still, his body didn’t know that.
His breath came in shallow bursts. Sweat cold against his skin.
He pressed his forehead into his knees.
“Get it together,” he whispered to himself, voice cracking. “Get it together, Hawks.”
Except there was no Hawks here.
Just Keigo.
Just what was left.
A soft knock hit the doorframe.
He flinched so hard his wings jerked again.
“Don’t come in,” he said automatically.
A pause.
Then—
“I already did.”
Dabi’s voice. Low. Flat. Not mocking. Not surprised.
Just there.
Hawks didn’t look up. “Go away.”
“Can’t.”
A beat.
Footsteps.
Slow. Unhurried.
Dabi didn’t rush like a hero. Didn’t hesitate like someone afraid of what they’d find.
He just entered the room and stopped a few feet away.
Hawks hated that he knew exactly how far “a few feet” was.
“You’re shaking,” Dabi said.
“I’m fine.”
A dry laugh. “Sure.”
Silence stretched.
Hawks kept his head down.
Because if he looked up, he’d have to acknowledge the fact that someone had come. That someone had noticed. That someone had chosen to stay.
And that was dangerous.
More dangerous than any hero he’d ever fought.
“I didn’t—” Hawks started, then stopped.
His throat tightened.
A flash hit him.
Bright white room.
Hands holding his wings too tightly.
Voices telling him he was “lucky.”
“useful.”
“property of the Commission.”
He sucked in a breath so sharp it hurt.
Dabi didn’t move closer.
But he also didn’t leave.
“…Nightmare?” Dabi asked quietly.
Hawks laughed once, humorless. “Isn’t it always?”
That earned a pause.
Then Dabi crossed the room and, instead of touching him, sat on the floor a few feet away—back against the wall, like he was setting up a guard position.
Not invading.
Not demanding.
Just… present.
“That bad?” Dabi asked.
Hawks swallowed. “You don’t want the details.”
“Didn’t ask for them.”
Another silence.
This one different.
Less sharp.
More… careful.
Hawks finally lifted his head a fraction.
Dabi wasn’t looking at him like a weapon.
Or a tool.
Or even a rival.
Just a person who’d cracked open in the dark.
And didn’t know how to close again.
Minutes passed.
Maybe longer.
Hawks’ breathing slowly evened out, though his hands still trembled.
Dabi didn’t say anything else until Hawks spoke first.
“They used to lock me in a room with no windows,” Hawks said suddenly.
His voice felt far away, like it didn’t belong to him.
“If I slept too long, they’d shock me awake. Said I was wasting time.”
Dabi’s expression didn’t change.
But his fingers curled slightly.
Hawks continued anyway, like something had broken loose and couldn’t be stuffed back in.
“I didn’t know how long I was there sometimes. Days. Weeks. They’d tell me what I was supposed to think. What I was supposed to say.” A hollow laugh. “What I was supposed to be.”
Silence.
Then Dabi: “That’s not training.”
“No,” Hawks said softly. “It wasn’t.”
A beat.
“I still hear them sometimes,” Hawks admitted. “When I’m alone. Or when it’s too quiet. Like they’re still giving orders.”
Dabi shifted slightly.
The floor creaked.
“I burn things when I hear voices,” Dabi said.
Hawks blinked.
Dabi glanced at him. “Helps shut them up.”
That was the closest thing to comfort Dabi had ever offered.
Hawks almost smiled.
Almost.
After that night, things changed—but not in obvious ways.
Dabi didn’t suddenly become gentle.
The League didn’t suddenly become soft.
Toga still laughed too loudly. Twice still panicked over small things. Shigaraki still treated the world like it owed him something.
But Hawks noticed small adjustments.
A cup of water left near his usual spot.
No one asking why he didn’t sleep much.
No one commenting when he startled awake.
And Dabi—
Dabi started staying nearby more often.
Not speaking.
Just… there.
Like a firewall between Hawks and whatever haunted him.
One night, Hawks woke again.
But this time, he didn’t sit up.
He just lay there, staring at the ceiling.
Waiting for the panic to pass.
Footsteps approached his door.
He didn’t even flinch this time.
“Door’s open,” Hawks said quietly.
Dabi stepped in.
Paused.
“You’re not screaming,” Dabi observed.
“Give it time.”
But he didn’t sound afraid anymore.
Dabi leaned against the wall. “Want company or not?”
Hawks thought about it.
About the Commission.
About cages.
About how “company” used to mean surveillance.
Then he said, “Yeah.”
Simple.
Dabi walked over and sat on the floor again, same distance as before.
But this time, Hawks spoke first.
“Do you ever think about before?” he asked.
Dabi snorted. “Which ‘before’?”
“Before all of it.”
Dabi was quiet for a long time.
Then: “Every day.”
That honesty landed heavier than Hawks expected.
Hawks turned his head slightly. “Does it get easier?”
Dabi looked at him.
“For me?” A pause. “No.”
Then, after a beat—
“But it gets quieter when you’re not alone.”
Hawks didn’t respond immediately.
Something in his chest tightened.
Not pain.
Something else.
Something unfamiliar.
The League noticed before Hawks did.
Of course they did.
They noticed everything.
Toga was the first to say it outright.
“You and Dabi are weird now,” she said cheerfully over breakfast.
“We were always weird,” Hawks replied automatically.
“No, like soft weird,” she insisted, tilting her head. “Like… not scary weird. Like couple weird.”
Hawks choked on his drink.
From across the room, Dabi didn’t even look up from his cigarette.
“Shut up,” he said mildly.
Toga giggled.
Twice panicked loudly about “romantic tension crisis.”
Shigaraki scratched his neck like he wanted to delete the concept of love from existence.
But no one stopped it.
No one mocked Hawks for it.
Which, somehow, was worse.
Or better.
He couldn’t tell.
It was Shigaraki who finally “officially” intervened.
Which meant he complained about it while scratching his neck and refusing to make eye contact.
“If you two are going to be distracting,” he muttered, “just make it useful.”
Dabi blinked. “What does that mean?”
Shigaraki groaned. “I don’t care. Just stop making it awkward.”
Toga clapped her hands. “That means it’s real!”
Spinner sighed like a man watching chaos become policy.
Mr. Compress offered a dramatic bow. “Ah, young love blossoming in villainy’s embrace.”
Dabi looked personally offended by the entire concept.
Hawks just… laughed.
For real this time.
Later that night, Dabi found Hawks on the roof.
Wings spread slightly, catching cold air.
“You’re going to fall off,” Dabi said.
“I won’t.”
“You say that like you’ve tested it.”
Hawks glanced back. “Have you come to push me?”
Dabi walked up beside him instead. “Not tonight.”
Silence.
Then Dabi, quieter: “They still in your head?”
Hawks hesitated.
Then nodded once.
“Yeah.”
Dabi didn’t touch him.
But he stood closer than usual.
“Mine too,” Dabi admitted.
That surprised Hawks.
Dabi never offered things like that freely.
Never softened edges unless they were already breaking.
Hawks shifted slightly, wings brushing the cold air.
“You know what helps?” Hawks asked.
Dabi scoffed. “You’re gonna suggest breathing exercises or something?”
Hawks smirked faintly. “No.”
Then, after a pause—
“Staying.”
Dabi looked at him.
Really looked.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Dabi exhaled.
“Tch.”
But he didn’t leave.
It didn’t happen like a confession.
It wasn’t dramatic.
No speeches.
No declarations.
Just moments that kept stacking until they couldn’t be ignored.
Dabi sitting closer than necessary.
Hawks not moving away.
Hands that almost touched and didn’t pull back anymore.
And one night, when Hawks woke from a nightmare and didn’t open his eyes immediately, he felt something warm against his wing.
Dabi’s hand.
Not gripping.
Just resting there.
Grounding.
“You’re here,” Dabi said quietly.
It wasn’t a question.
Hawks swallowed. “Yeah.”
A pause.
“You’re safe,” Dabi added, like he didn’t fully believe the words but was saying them anyway.
Hawks exhaled shakily.
“Don’t jinx it.”
Dabi almost laughed.
Almost.
The League noticed again.
Of course they did.
This time, no one teased.
Toga just smiled knowingly.
Twice cried about “love being real.”
Spinner called it “surprisingly stable.”
Shigaraki said nothing.
But he stopped asking Dabi for immediate reports at night.
Which, in League terms, was approval.
One evening, Dabi and Hawks were sitting together when Toga bounded in.
“I fixed it!” she announced.
Hawks blinked. “Fixed what?”
Toga grinned. “Date night!”
Dabi groaned. “Absolutely not.”
“Yes absolutely!” she insisted. “You two are boring on your own. The League voted.”
“There was no vote,” Shigaraki’s voice called from the hallway.
“There was emotionally!” Toga shouted back.
Spinner added, “There was definitely pressure.”
Mr. Compress appeared out of nowhere holding candles.
Hawks stared.
“…Why do you have candles?”
“Atmosphere,” Compress said proudly.
Dabi looked like he was considering burning the entire building down.
But Hawks…
Hawks was laughing.
Real laughter.
Not survival laughter.
Not masking laughter.
Something lighter.
Something he didn’t remember having before the Commission stole everything soft from him.
He wiped his eye with the back of his hand.
“You people are insane,” he said.
Toga beamed. “Yes!”
Dabi sighed heavily.
“…Fine.”
Hawks turned toward him.
“Fine?”
Dabi clicked his tongue. “Don’t make it a thing.”
Hawks smiled.
“I won’t.”
But he was already thinking it.
Already feeling it.
Something like warmth.
Something like choice.
Something like staying.
And for the first time in a long time—
Hawks didn’t wake up that night afraid of what the dark might say.
Because if it did…
he wasn’t alone in it anymore.The nights didn’t get easier all at once.
They just… stopped being the same kind of unbearable.
Hawks learned that first.
Not because the nightmares went away—but because someone started being there when they ended.
Dabi didn’t fix him. He didn’t try to.
He just stayed close enough that the silence afterward didn’t feel like drowning anymore.
One night, it got worse.
Not subtle. Not quiet.
The kind of nightmare that ripped Hawks out of sleep so violently his wings slammed into the wall before he even understood he was awake.
“No—no, stop—” he choked, breath breaking apart as if someone had their hands around his throat.
The room blurred.
Not the League’s hideout anymore.
White walls.
Too bright.
Too clean.
A voice: You belong to us.
Another: You were made for this.
Pain in his wings—memory-pain, phantom but real enough to make him curl inward.
He couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t think.
Couldn’t—
“Hey.”
A hand grabbed his wrist.
Hawks flinched hard enough to strike instinctively, feathers snapping forward—
—but the grip didn’t tighten.
Didn’t punish.
Didn’t restrain.
Just held.
“Keigo,” Dabi’s voice said, sharper now. Grounding. “Look at me.”
Hawks gasped.
Fought it.
Then forced his eyes open.
Dabi was there.
Close.
Real.
Burn scars dimly lit by the low light.
Not the Commission.
Not the past.
“Breathe,” Dabi said.
“I can’t—” Hawks rasped.
“Yes, you can.”
It wasn’t gentle.
But it was certain.
And something about that certainty cracked through the panic just enough for Hawks to suck in one broken breath.
Then another.
Dabi didn’t move his hand.
Didn’t let go.
“Good,” Dabi muttered. “Keep going.”
Hawks hated how much that helped.
Hated it.
But he kept breathing anyway.
When it was over, Hawks slumped forward like his body had finally remembered gravity.
Dabi didn’t say anything right away.
Just stayed sitting on the edge of the bed, hand still around Hawks’ wrist like an anchor that refused to drift away.
Finally, Hawks whispered, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Dabi scoffed lightly. “I wasn’t asleep.”
“That’s not—” Hawks let out a shaky breath that almost became a laugh. “You’re terrible at lying.”
“Yeah,” Dabi said. “I know.”
Silence settled.
Not empty this time.
Just… worn.
Hawks swallowed. “It felt real again.”
Dabi’s gaze shifted slightly.
“Wasn’t real,” he said.
Hawks gave a humorless smile. “Tell that to my body.”
Dabi paused.
Then, quieter: “Your body just remembers what it survived.”
That made Hawks go still.
Not because it was comforting.
But because it didn’t deny anything.
Didn’t minimize it.
Just… acknowledged it.
Like it mattered.
After that night, Dabi stopped pretending he was only “passing by.”
He started staying.
Properly.
Not just in doorways or walls.
On the bed’s edge.
On the floor.
Anywhere Hawks could see him without having to search.
And slowly, the League adjusted around it again.
Toga started leaving extra food near Hawks without explanation.
Spinner stopped asking questions when Hawks didn’t join group conversations.
Even Shigaraki, in his own chaotic way, muttered once:
“If he’s staying, don’t die. It’s annoying to replace people.”
It was the closest thing to care he knew how to say.
One afternoon, Hawks woke to find Dabi gone.
That shouldn’t have bothered him.
It did.
He sat up too fast, feathers twitching uneasily.
The room felt too open without him.
Too loud.
Hawks stood, rubbing his face. “Get it together,” he muttered. “You’re not—”
Not what?
He didn’t finish the thought.
Because the door opened.
Dabi walked in.
Covered in soot.
Slightly singed.
Hawks blinked. “Were you—did you just come back from a fight?”
Dabi shrugged. “Mission.”
Hawks frowned. “Alone?”
Dabi gave him a look like the question was stupid. “Yes.”
“That’s reckless.”
“Welcome to villainy.”
Hawks crossed his arms. “You could’ve been hurt.”
Dabi paused.
Then, with irritating calm, “You worried?”
Hawks opened his mouth.
Closed it.
“…No,” he lied.
Dabi snorted.
But instead of pressing, he just walked closer and dropped something onto the table.
Hawks looked down.
Bandages.
Medical supplies.
Hawks blinked. “For me?”
Dabi didn’t answer immediately.
Then: “For you, for me, for whoever breaks first next time.”
Hawks stared at him.
“…That’s not very romantic.”
Dabi rolled his eyes. “Don’t start.”
But there was something softer in his expression now.
Something that didn’t quite match his tone.
That night, Hawks bandaged Dabi’s arm.
It was a simple burn.
Not serious.
But Hawks still handled it carefully.
Too carefully, maybe.
Dabi watched him work.
“You’re quiet,” Dabi said eventually.
“Am I supposed to be loud?”
“Usually you are.”
Hawks shrugged slightly. “Don’t feel like it.”
Dabi hummed.
Then, after a pause: “You’re thinking again.”
Hawks didn’t look up. “I always think.”
“No,” Dabi corrected. “You spiral.”
Hawks almost smiled. “That’s very flattering.”
Dabi leaned back. “You used to do it alone.”
That made Hawks pause.
The bandage tightened slightly under his fingers.
“…Yeah,” he admitted.
Silence stretched.
Then Hawks said quietly, “I don’t know how to not do it alone.”
Dabi didn’t answer immediately.
Then he shifted, just slightly closer.
“Then don’t do it alone,” he said.
Simple.
No drama.
No promise of fixing it.
Just presence again.
Hawks finished wrapping the bandage.
When he was done, his fingers didn’t move away right away.
Neither did Dabi.
The League noticed the shift after that.
Not the relationship itself.
But the stability it created.
Hawks started sleeping longer.
Not peacefully.
But longer.
Dabi stopped disappearing without telling anyone.
Toga said it made the air “less stabby.”
Spinner said it made missions “less suicidal.”
Shigaraki said it made Hawks “less annoying,” which everyone agreed was technically praise.
It was Toga who finally pushed them.
Properly.
She blocked the hallway one evening with unnerving seriousness.
“I have a question,” she said.
Hawks sighed. “That’s never a good sign.”
Dabi tried to walk past.
She stepped in front of him.
“Do you like him?” she asked bluntly.
Dabi froze.
Hawks choked slightly. “Toga—”
“I mean like LIKE,” she clarified brightly. “Not like tolerate or co-exist or trauma-bond or whatever you weird boys do.”
Silence.
Dabi stared at her.
Hawks stared at Dabi.
Even the building felt like it paused.
Then Dabi clicked his tongue. “Move.”
Toga didn’t.
Hawks rubbed his forehead. “This is unnecessary.”
Toga pointed at Hawks. “You didn’t say no.”
Hawks opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Dabi glanced at him.
Slowly.
Hawks sighed. “This is stupid.”
Toga gasped. “That’s basically yes!”
Dabi muttered, “This is why we don’t talk to people.”
But he didn’t leave.
Later that night, Hawks found Dabi outside again.
Of course.
Dabi always ended up outside when things got complicated.
Hawks leaned on the railing beside him.
Neither spoke at first.
Then Hawks said, “You didn’t answer her.”
Dabi exhaled smoke. “Didn’t feel like it.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is for me.”
Hawks nodded slightly. “Fair.”
Silence again.
Wind moved through the rooftop.
Below them, the city pulsed with distant lights—so far away it almost felt like another world.
Hawks spoke quietly. “Do you ever think about what this is?”
Dabi glanced at him. “You asking me to define feelings? That’s your job, birdbrain.”
Hawks huffed a laugh.
Then grew quieter. “I don’t know how to do this without… expecting it to disappear.”
That made Dabi pause.
Longer than usual.
Then he said, “Then don’t expect permanence.”
Hawks frowned slightly.
Dabi continued: “Expect choice.”
Hawks looked at him.
Dabi didn’t look away.
“I’m here,” Dabi said. “Because I keep choosing to be.”
A beat.
“That’s all you get.”
It should’ve sounded cold.
But it didn’t.
It sounded honest.
Hawks exhaled slowly.
“…That’s enough,” he admitted.
The first time they kissed, it wasn’t planned.
It wasn’t even really dramatic.
It happened after a mission where things went wrong—not catastrophic, but messy enough that Hawks came back with bruised ribs and Dabi came back angrier than usual.
Hawks was sitting on the floor of their room, pressing a cloth to his side, when Dabi crouched in front of him.
“You’re bleeding,” Dabi said.
“Observant,” Hawks replied.
Dabi grabbed the cloth from him without asking and pressed it more firmly.
Hawks winced. “Hey—careful.”
“Hold still.”
“You’re not exactly gentle.”
“I’m aware.”
That made Hawks laugh slightly.
Then wince again.
Dabi paused.
Looked at him.
Really looked.
Like he was trying to decide something.
Hawks noticed.
“…What?” he asked softly.
Dabi didn’t answer with words.
He just leaned in.
And kissed him.
It wasn’t soft.
Not at first.
It was direct. Real. Unapologetic.
Hawks froze for half a second—
Then his hand caught Dabi’s sleeve.
Not pushing away.
Holding on.
When Dabi pulled back slightly, Hawks blinked at him.
“…Wow,” Hawks said quietly.
Dabi raised an eyebrow. “Wow?”
“That’s your emotional communication?”
“Tch.”
Hawks smiled.
Then, more seriously: “Do it again.”
Dabi did.
After that, nothing about them changed overnight.
They still argued.
Still avoided talking about things they weren’t ready for.
Still lived in a world that didn’t trust either of them.
But now—
there was something between them that stayed even when everything else got loud.
Something chosen.
Something that didn’t disappear when the lights went out.
And when Hawks woke from nightmares now—
he didn’t reach into empty air anymore.
He reached for Dabi.
And Dabi was always there to meet him halfway.The League never really stopped commenting on them.
They just got… creative about it.
Toga started calling them “Bird and Burn,” which Hawks pretended not to react to, even though he absolutely did.
Twice made dramatic love-themed declarations every time they entered a room together, then immediately forgot what he was talking about halfway through.
Spinner just shook his head a lot.
Shigaraki said, “If you two start making out during meetings, I’m deleting both of you.”
Dabi replied, “Try it.”
Hawks said, “Please don’t encourage him.”
And somehow, that was their normal now.
But normal didn’t mean easy.
Not for Hawks.
Not yet.
It happened on a mission that went wrong in a quieter way.
Not explosive.
Not dramatic.
Just… calculated.
The kind of trap the Hero Commission used to set.
The kind Hawks recognized too late.
By the time he realized what was happening, his wings were already restrained.
Not chains.
Worse.
Tech restraints.
Commission-grade.
Old design.
Familiar design.
His blood went cold.
“No,” he breathed.
A voice from the comms crackled: Hawks. Stand down. You are to return for evaluation.
Evaluation.
That word hit harder than any blade.
His feathers trembled violently.
“No,” he said again, louder. “No—”
The restraints tightened.
Pain flared through his wings.
Memory surged.
White room.
Commands.
Hands.
Ownership.
Hawks gasped, vision blurring—
Then fire exploded nearby.
Not his.
Dabi’s.
The heat cracked through the air like a breaking world.
The restraints sparked.
Fried.
Collapsed.
Hawks fell forward hard, catching himself on the ground.
He was shaking so violently he couldn’t stand.
“Keigo!” Dabi’s voice cut through the chaos.
Hawks didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Because he wasn’t in the alley anymore.
He was back there.
Back under bright lights.
Back where he wasn’t allowed to say no.
A hand grabbed his shoulder.
Hawks flinched so hard he almost attacked—
But the grip didn’t tighten.
Didn’t restrain.
Just held.
“Look at me,” Dabi said sharply.
Hawks couldn’t.
“I said look at me.”
Something in that tone—firm, grounding, here—cut through just enough.
Hawks forced his eyes up.
Dabi was close.
Too close for most people.
Perfect distance for him.
“You’re not there,” Dabi said.
Hawks shook his head rapidly. “I am—I—”
“You’re not.”
Another explosion somewhere behind them.
Dabi didn’t even look.
Just kept his focus locked on Hawks like the rest of the world could burn and it wouldn’t matter.
“Breathe,” Dabi ordered.
Hawks gave a broken laugh. “You’re really bad at comforting people.”
“Breathe anyway.”
Hawks tried.
Failed.
Tried again.
Air finally broke through his chest in uneven fragments.
Dabi didn’t move.
Didn’t rush him.
Just stayed.
By the time they made it back, Hawks wasn’t walking straight.
Dabi didn’t let go of him the entire way.
Not once.
The hideout was loud when they returned.
Too loud.
Toga immediately rushed forward. “What happened?! Are you bleeding?! Did someone—”
“Later,” Dabi snapped.
Spinner froze. “That bad?”
Shigaraki looked up slowly. “Where’s the mission report?”
Dabi didn’t answer immediately.
Because Hawks had stopped moving.
Completely.
Standing in the entrance like a statue that had forgotten how to function.
Eyes unfocused.
Feathers twitching like they were reacting to something no one else could see.
Dabi clicked his tongue.
“Hey,” he said lowly, leaning in. “You’re back here. With us.”
Hawks didn’t respond.
Dabi exhaled.
Then did something no one expected.
He stepped directly in front of Hawks and blocked his view of the room entirely.
No League.
No space.
Just him.
“Keigo,” Dabi said again, quieter now. “You’re safe.”
A pause.
Then, softly, almost reluctantly:
“You’re with me.”
That did it.
Hawks blinked once.
Then again.
And the tension in his body cracked like glass finally giving up.
He sagged forward.
Dabi caught him immediately.
After that, Hawks didn’t leave Dabi’s side for two days.
Not because he was told to.
Because he couldn’t.
Every time he closed his eyes, the restraints came back.
Every time he tried to sleep, his wings flinched awake before his mind did.
So Dabi stayed.
Sitting on the floor.
Leaning against the bed.
Hand occasionally brushing Hawks’ feathers just enough to remind him: still here.
At one point, Hawks whispered, “I hate that they still get to reach me.”
Dabi didn’t hesitate.
“Then we burn anything that reaches too far.”
Hawks gave a weak laugh. “That sounds like a metaphor.”
“It’s not.”
That made Hawks quiet.
Then, softer: “You’d really do that?”
Dabi looked at him like the answer was obvious.
“Yes.”
Simple.
Final.
No hesitation.
On the third night, Hawks finally slept.
Properly.
No jolting awake.
No screaming.
Just exhaustion finally winning.
Dabi didn’t move the entire time.
Didn’t even smoke.
Just watched him breathe.
Like he was making sure the world didn’t try to take him back.
When Hawks woke, the first thing he saw wasn’t white walls.
Wasn’t chains.
Wasn’t fear.
It was Dabi.
Leaning back against the wall.
Eyes half-lidded but alert enough to notice the moment Hawks stirred.
“You stayed,” Hawks murmured.
Dabi scoffed lightly. “Yeah. Don’t get used to it.”
Hawks smiled faintly. “Too late.”
A pause.
Then Dabi added, quieter:
“…You’re not going back there.”
Hawks swallowed.
“I know.”
And for once—
he believed it.
Things shifted again after that.
Not suddenly.
Not cleanly.
But undeniably.
Hawks stopped reacting to certain sounds with panic.
Stopped flinching when doors slammed.
Started sleeping with fewer nightmares.
And when they did come—
he didn’t suffer them alone anymore.
Dabi learned the patterns.
Spinner started quietly adjusting mission roles so Hawks wasn’t put in triggering situations.
Toga stopped joking about certain topics entirely.
Even Shigaraki—who would deny this forever—started saying “don’t push him” when others got careless.
The League didn’t become soft.
They became… aware.
Which, for them, was almost the same thing.
One night, Hawks found himself standing in the doorway of the main room, just watching everyone.
Toga laughing.
Twice arguing with himself.
Spinner repairing gear.
Shigaraki pretending not to care.
And Dabi—
sitting slightly apart, but still within reach.
Waiting.
Like he always was now.
Hawks spoke before he fully thought about it.
“This is weird,” he said.
Dabi looked up. “Everything about you is weird.”
Hawks snorted.
Then stepped forward.
Sat down beside him.
No hesitation.
Dabi didn’t comment.
But his shoulder shifted just slightly closer.
After a while, Hawks said quietly, “I used to think I couldn’t exist outside of what they made me.”
Dabi didn’t respond immediately.
Then: “And now?”
Hawks looked at him.
At the room.
At the chaos.
At the people who, in their own broken ways, had stopped him from falling back into a cage.
“I think…” Hawks exhaled. “I’m still figuring it out.”
Dabi hummed.
“That’s acceptable.”
Hawks laughed softly. “High praise.”
Dabi’s hand shifted.
Just enough to brush Hawks’ fingers.
Not accidental.
Not rushed.
Just chosen.
Hawks didn’t pull away.
And neither did Dabi.
Not anymore.