Chapter Text
Hawks has had a good deal more experience passing out than the average person. Maybe even more experience than the average hero, for his age. Most of it has been during training - long hours of physical exertion combined with a restless nature interrupting his own sleep means that more than one hero class from Hawks’s teenage years was cut short by Hawks slumping to the ground mid-lesson, unconscious. It never lasted more than a few seconds, but it was always enough to warrant a cessation of the lesson. It wasn’t like throwing up his breakfast behind a bit of rubble mid-simulation - if Hawks lost consciousness in the middle of a real rescue, he could easily kill someone.
It’s why he has the Ambien prescription. It’s important to be well-rested, insomnia or not.
Anyways, he’s passed out before. Once he even passed out in the shower, after sitting at the bottom of the tub for twenty minutes and letting the hot water pour over him. He stood up too quickly, and dark spots started to crowd his vision. Hawks had blinked, and when he opened his eyes, he found himself collapsed at the bottom of the bathtub, water pouring onto his face and lacking any recollection of why he had gotten in the shower in the first place, though the knowledge had quickly filtered back into his mind as he recovered.
There was no sensation of time passing, no understanding of what had happened until minutes later.
This isn't like that. This is swimming through molasses, dizzy with vertigo even though he can’t see anything but dark, unable to tell apart the rushing in his ears from the cacophony of the real world. Hawks can’t pass out now - if he does, he’s dead, simple as that. His arms are buzzing with sensation, though, a thousand vibrating pinpricks centered on his fingertips, and he can’t tell which direction is up.
Something crunches near him, eventually, that he knows must be real. He flinches, flings out an arm and the pathetic remnant of a wing, and hits empty air. There’s the telltale crack of a knee joint, and heat washes over him, so intense it feels as though it’s physically pressing Hawks into the ground.
He manages to flicker his eyes open, but all he can see is a fluttering blue before everything swims back into nondescript smudges. Must be Dabi, or else a hallucination.
“Guess I failed your test of faith,” Hawks mumbles into the ground, trying to push himself upwards. Moving the earth from the sky would be easier.
There’s a hum, or maybe a grumble - Hawks can’t hear it well enough to discern over the pounding of his heart. A hand drops into his hair, and he winces away - but his skull is held tight, inquisitive fingers prodding gingerly around his wound. It sends another spark of pain through him, a lightning flash of white across his vision, and everything goes loud and smeared with the strain of his body’s grief.
Before Hawks finally gives out, he hears one last thing. “Nah,” Dabi murmurs, voice too rough to be delivering the benediction that follows: “Just proven you’re just like the rest of us.”
Then, finally: Silence.
When Hawks does wake up properly, everything is white. This is both so very stereotypical of the unconsciousness-to-hospital experience and generally familiar to Hawks personally that it doesn’t take more than that to figure out where he is.
It’s nice, Hawks supposes, to at least be aware that he’s not dead. Almost makes up for the way waking up in a hospital prompts a sudden kick of adrenaline. The jolt of panic sends his heart skittering so quickly Hawks has to take a deep breath and hope it doesn’t alarm any nurses into looking in on him.
He grasps onto the first thing he can find to tether him: the realization that he can feel his wings. He’s not sure what he would have done if that wasn’t immediately and clearly evident - if whatever quirk drug Dabi had given him was permanent, or if Scissorhands had succeeded at her attempt at a back-alley amputation. They’re cramped into the space between his back and the bed, but the position isn’t as uncomfortable as it would have been if his feathers were fully grown. Actually, it feels like he barely has any feathers at all.
Can’t have been too long since he was knocked out, then, if they haven’t grown back. More likely than not, he’s been kept under sedation while the relevant medical procedures were performed.
As if on cue, he hears a tapping to his left. Dragging his eyes all the way open, Hawks peers blearily upwards.
The brown and white blur resolves into the familiar, tired face of Dr. Matthews. He’s holding a clipboard, and manages a perfunctory smile when Hawks proves himself aware enough to pay attention.
“Hello,” Dr. Matthews says, “I can’t say I’m happy to see you again, Hawks.”
“I’d say the same, sensei,” Hawks rasps, “But it’s bad manners to insult the people in charge of keeping me kicking.”
“I suppose you’ll have to endeavor to stay out of the hospital, then, so that you can insult me all you’d like.”
Dr. Matthews’s tone is dry, but the quip manages to pull a smirk out of the guy, so Hawks calls it a win. He wants to know what the hell is going on, to be honest, but the words necessary to phrase the question keep slipping through his fingers like sand in a sieve.
Luckily, medical protocol is on his side. Dr. Matthews moves his foot to press something on the floor by Hawks’s hospital bed, and the back whirs as it tilts Hawks into a reclined sitting position.
“You were admitted with several injuries,” Dr. Matthews reads off, flipping a page on his clipboard, “Including head trauma and a skull fracture. We were able to treat a significant amount of the damage through quirk healing, but surgery was necessary to remove glass and bone fragments that could cause further damage. Additionally, you seem to have recently had an… elective procedure, for your eyes?”
Dr. Matthews looks up at this, eyeing Hawks. Hawks nods, staring at his hands. His left arm is no longer bandaged, and he can see the faint imprint of red permanent marker around his jagged new scar. His eyes are sore in the same way they have been for days, now, and he’s too scared to test them. Every time he tries to blink properly but can’t, it’s like something behind his ribs tears open a little bit further.
“They’re my most stunning feature,” Hawks jokes.
“Yes, well,” Dr. Matthews goes on, “There were not many details available regarding the procedure, and the HPSC wasn’t very forthcoming. At any rate, as far as your surgeon could tell me, there were permanent stitches in your eyes that tore and had to be removed.”
Hawks blinks, very carefully, with both sets of eyelids.
He feels suddenly as though he might cry. He breathes out slowly instead, and focuses on maintaining that rhythm even as his heart monitor picks up some. Damn invasive, that thing is. Dr. Matthews doesn’t seem to pay it any attention, though.
He just reads on, in the same dry tone as before. “You were sedated for nearly twenty-four hours for the purpose of trauma treatment and surgery, and I have recently deemed you safe for extubation and etcetera.”
He lowers the clipboard, looking at Hawks directly.
“Honestly,” he says, “You’re going to be pretty much fine. We have very good healing quirks at our disposal, and few people are willing to pass up offering whatever resources are necessary to get the number two hero back onto his feet. The worst damage was to your hair. You might try the faux-hawk look for a bit, they had to shave off a lot to be able to operate.”
Hawks’s hand flies to his temple, and - sure enough, there’s some light bandaging, and a large swath of bare skin. Not a look he’s going to be rocking in a photoshoot any time soon.
It’s a little surreal to hear. Fighting Scissorhands is hardly the most damaging or intense fight Hawks has ever participated in, but the stream, her demands, and the entire week leading up to the situation feel like something out of a fever dream in recollection. Hawks was so close to losing everything: his wings, his career, probably his life. Getting off with a bad haircut feels like cheating. He’s not sure he deserves all of this.
Dr. Matthews shuffles around the room with the tired air of an intensive care doctor who, if his mumblings are to be believed, is on hour 36 of a 48 hour shift. He checks over Hawks’s chart again, leans out the door to order a nurse to take some recordings, and soon enough, Hawks is left in peace with the promise of incoming visitors who are to bring paperwork necessary to his continued treatment and eventual dismissal.
For a couple of minutes, he’s alone to survey his room. Every available non-medical surface is covered with cards, flowers, and stuffed animals bearing get-well-soon messages. It does a lot to make the room less sterile and alien, and Hawks manages a small smile to himself when he thinks about having to pen replies to every last one of those messages. His hand is going to be killing him by the time he’s done, and it’s going to be completely worth it.
He doesn’t have too long to contemplate the thought, though, and is reaching towards the nearest card when there’s a knock on the doorway. Whoever is behind doesn’t bother to wait for a response before pushing it open to come in.
It’s… Eraserhead. Hawks blinks, stymied. Of all the people that would be the first to walk into his hospital room, Aizawa Shouta was not on the expected list. The guy had gone out on a bit of a limb for him before, with the beef dinner, so Hawks isn’t surprised that he was somewhat concerned… but Hawks has clearly miscalculated somewhere, because he’d put that down as largely a reaction meant to prevent further harm coming to Aizawa’s students.
Or else he’s here to debrief Hawks. It will be pretty annoying if that’s the case, because he’ll have to do it for the Commission separately, but maybe Hawks can get the police to take Eraserhead’s statement instead of digging through Hawks’s brain for a third time. He really hates repetitive, pointless work like this - just explaining everything once would be so much more efficient.
Before the door to his room closes, Hawks can hear the telltale voices of Yamada and, last and greatest, Rumi. Knowing she’s come shouldn’t jolt Hawks the way it does, but the heart monitor really picks up for a moment. Enough that Aizawa raises an eyebrow, and Hawks has to laugh, shoving himself up from where he’s been slowly slumping down his bed and rubbing at the back of his head with an arm.
“The ‘welcome back to life’ committee!” he crows, “Not who I expected, but I’ll have it known that I dare not complain. I know it’s probably your question, but - mind telling me what you’re doing here, Eraser, since you clearly didn’t have the decency to bring some decent grub with you?”
Aizawa’s eyebrows raise, but before he can say anything, Hawks interrupts.
“Also, can you, uh, pass me some water?” he asks, sheepish.
“Paperwork,” Aizawa informs him in his usual quiet, low tones as he moves for the water bottle kept out of Hawks’s reach by a large stuffed red bird plush. Hawks accepts the bottle with a grateful nod.
“Since you were unconscious, you were unable to make medical decisions on your own. Unfortunately,” And here, Aizawa’s glare really intensifies. “You did not seem to have anybody listed with medical decision-making power. No spouse, no parent, no medical professional.”
Huh. It’s the first time that the issue has come up, and he’d done the deed years ago, but Hawks is still surprised that expunging his handlers and Commission physician from those parts of his records when he’d turned eighteen had actually worked. He’d always expected that they would just… be defaulted to anyways, if anything had ever happened.
“Yeah, flying solo’s always been my thing. What’s that got to do with you?” asks Hawks, “It’s not like it’s your problem.”
“Oh, how I wish that were true,” Aizawa mutters, closing his eyes and dropping into a chair by the bedside. When he looks back up, he keeps his gaze half-lidded, trained on Hawks’s face with discomfiting intensity. “It was made my problem when Miruko and I found your body. As licensed pros, I’m sure you know we have the ability to temporarily take over the decision-making role in those situations.”
Hawks… technically knows this, yes, but he’s never done so himself. Most heroes are discouraged from doing so, given they’re not actually medical professionals. Hawks himself prefers letting the doctors do their thing. Apparently Aizawa thinks differently.
“So you saved me,” Hawks reiterates, “And got stuck having to tell people that, yeah, they can totally go ahead and pick glass out of my face?”
Aizawa snorts.
“Sort of,” he denies, “Miruko could have taken up the role, but as a teacher I have more experience with assuming that type of responsibility. The key point, however, is that while we tried to find you as soon as the stream’s signal was traced, we were too late. It honestly looked like someone else had gotten there first. Both the villains present also had to be taken to the hospital for burns. You… What do you know about that?”
Fuck. The stream. Dabi. Hawks had been so certain that the whole thing was a hallucination cooked up by whatever high his brain was on after getting glassed. It’s inevitable that he’s going to have to deal with the fallout, but he really doesn’t like thinking about how many people must have seen the video stream - especially not if Dabi managed to get caught on camera. He doesn’t even know if the HPSC is issuing takedowns for it, or if he’s going to have to spin it into a positive. Frankly, he’s not sure how a video of him stabbing himself, mauling someone bloody like some kind of animal, getting concussed, and passing out can be spun into a positive. He’s going to be lucky if he’s still number two next time the charts roll around. At least Endeavor won his life-threatening fight, instead of getting rescued by probably-a-villain.
“I,” Hawks starts, and Aizawa’s stare sharpens. Hawks swallows, rolling the water bottle between his hands slowly. His talons are trimmed short, almost human-looking, but having no option but to bare them like this makes him feel naked. Then again - he can hide the claws, but the hospital gown doesn’t leave much of the patchy scaling up his forearms to the imagination.
“I don’t remember much,” Hawks says, tucking his fingers inwards against the bottle. “Just heat. And some screaming, but I couldn’t make the words out. Everything was very…”
He makes a wobbly motion with one hand that he knows is supremely unhelpful, and Aizawa sighs.
“That’s fine,” he says, “In my experience, these things sometimes come back after you have time to heal. How about the warehouse? Why were you in there in the first place? The stream started after you entered, but probably only shortly, based on your demeanor.”
Ah. The debriefing.
“Ah!” Hawks quips, grinning, and shoots finger guns at Aizawa with a click of his tongue that comes out more bird-like than he intended. “That is classified!”
Say whatever you want about the Hero Commission - the ability to produce snappy lines like an American secret service agent is a definite pro of working under them.
Aizawa does not look impressed.
“Unclassify it,” he says. Hawks raises his eyebrows.
“Didja sleep through your hero law lessons, Eraser?” Hawks asks, tipping his head to the side. “That’s not how that works.”
“That’s how it’s going to work if you don’t want the warehouse video released to the public. I’m sure you’ve been mentally preparing yourself for dealing with the fallout of that, but the fact is that the signal was quickly intercepted and nobody outside of the sphere of professionals working on it saw the majority. Now, if it were to be leaked…”
The easygoing expression drops off of Hawks’s face, and he matches Aizawa’s stare as his mind races.
Hawks’s memory of his fight with Scissorhands is hazy at best, likely from the head injury. He knows for a fact, however, that she said some condemning things about Hawks and his fight with Ryuu. Hell, she told him to do some pretty condemning things. The Commission has been pushing him to take up the mantle of a more symbolic, reassuring hero even to those outside of his home prefecture, and there is nothing reassuring about watching your symbol stab himself, nearly get his wings clipped, or brawl with someone like a common street criminal. He lost his composure in that fight, fought bare-clawed, committed self-injury, and more than anything he failed. If the video goes public, Hawks is…
The point is, he still has an out-standing contract with the Hero Public Safety Commission, and his handlers would be unhappy for the image of their best agent to suffer in such a way.
The Commission also assigned him to infiltrate the League of Villains secretly. Hawks hasn’t been particularly worried, in the past, about using his own discretion regarding the need-to-know nature of his mission, but Aizawa’s approach to the situation is enough to put him ill-at-ease.
“Blackmail, huh,” Hawks murmurs, and his feathers rustle as he readjusts his position.
Immediately, Aizawa’s eyes flash red, and his loose hair floats off of his shoulders. Hawks’s wings go numb again, and he yelps, whirling halfway around in his bed in a panic before he realizes - duh, it’s fucking Eraserhead. He’s never been on the receiving end of the man’s quirk before, but he knows what it is and how it works. The fact that it took him seconds to realize is pretty disgraceful of the number two hero.
It’s just… an overwhelmingly familiar feeling. Everything is deaf and numb and half-blind, and - Hawks paws at his wings, trying to see if he’s losing feathers again -
“Stop that,” Hawks gasps through gritted teeth. “I’m not going to attack you in a fucking hospital, just stop it-”
All at once, sensation returns, and Hawks pulls the barely-grown remnants of his wings around him, pressing them to his shoulders and running his fingers through the feather tips in a reassuring preen. Still there. Still his. Sensitive enough that the frantic pace of the heart monitor is starting to grate.
He glares at Aizawa over the curve of a wing in a way he knows makes his pupils go weird, alternating big-and-small with the fury of his attention, but doesn’t let his feathers sharpen. Aizawa looks… guilty, almost. Good, Hawks wants to think, but can’t get the viciousness to stick.
“What do you need the information for?” Hawks says, voice flat.
“You were meeting with villains in a warehouse, Hawks,” Aizawa says slowly, “And you were dosed with a highly illegal quirk suppressant that doesn’t seem to be noted on your bloodwork records. What you say here is going to determine a lot, going forward. I’m trying to figure out if you’ve been compromised.”
“Well, you’re being real straightforward about it,” Hawks laughs, ducking underneath his wings and dragging his hands down his face. God. What a hilarious fucking situation. Of course the Commission kept the quirk suppressant out of his records. Of course Aizawa got his hands on all of that information anyways.
“I’m sorry,” Aizawa says, though he makes a face like the words taste bad coming out. “I wouldn’t be making this kind of accusation if this wasn’t serious.”
Hawks lets his wings tuck back against him, folded neatly even as he props his elbows up on crossed legs and drags his hands through his hair. Fine. Fine. Stupidly honest about his intentions or not, Eraserhead is clearly skilled at setting up a situation where Hawks’s best bet is to be honest.
“The Hero Public Safety Commission tasked me with infiltrating the League of Villains, and while I was meeting with one of their members, they dosed me with the quirk suppressant and set me up to fight Scissorhands as a test of faith,” Hawks explains, getting the words out in one breath and watching Aizawa all the while.
Which turns out to be a mistake, because what he should have been watching is the door.
There’s a loud scuffle directly outside of it, and Yamada’s extremely distinct voice protests with a loud, “What?!” before someone bangs the door handle and he and Rumi stumble through. Rumi has one long, lapine ear raised and a clearly unrepentant expression on her face, while Yamada openly gawks, hands slowly lowering from where he’d clearly been fiddling with a hearing aid.
Yamada looks weird, hair down and flamboyant shades exchanged for a tamer set of sunglasses. Rumi actually has shoes on, a pair of heels that, unlike for most women, might actually provide her with decent foot support given her heteromorphic legs. Neither of them wastes any time crowding around Hawks and Aizawa, and Yamada characteristically beats Rumi out in voicing his thoughts.
“What the fuck, man?” Yamada blurts into Hawks’s stunned face, “Infiltrating? Infiltrating how?”
Hawks blinks slowly, and tries very hard not to panic.
“Classified,” he says faintly, “Super duper classified. Jesus christ, I am the worst secret agent on the face of the planet.”
“You’re, like, nineteen,” Rumi snipes, “What the hell are you secret agenting your way into, a middle school?”
“Haha,” Hawks says flatly, and lays down so that he can cover his face with his shitty hospital blanket.
“No, come back!” Yamada protests, “C’mon, man, we’re not gonna tell anyone. And Shouta wasn’t really gonna share the video!”
Hawks lowers the blanket slightly. Just enough to peek his eyes over it. “What.”
Yamada has the grace to produce a wobbly, chagrined smile, but Aizawa just does this weird thing where he bares his teeth like the Terminator from those old American time travel flicks, when the robot was first learning how to smile.
“I don’t have access to that video,” Aizawa explains, “But I needed leverage to get you to talk. It was simply a logical ruse.”
“Worst,” Hawks moans as Rumi snerks in the background, “Secret agent ever!”
“More importantly, however,” Aizawa continues, ignoring Hawks, “How did your team allow this incident to occur? Did you go in without informing them? Principal Nedzu of UA was the one who intercepted the stream signal - clearly, whoever your handler for the mission was, they were not prepared. Were you meeting off the books?”
“What?” Hawks asks, and actually sits back up to peer at Aizawa in his confusion.
Aizawa peers back, equally perturbed if his light frown means anything.
“You have a reputation for leaving your sidekicks behind,” Aizawa explains, “And this would not be the first time I have personally seen you treat your own health with a lack of responsibility.”
Hawks shakes his head, crossing his hands in front of his face. “Bzzt,” he says, “Wrong! HPSC assigned me the vegetarian shtick, HPSC assigned me the infiltration, HPSC did not assign me a team. You really think the League of Villains is gonna think I wanna be one of them if I arrive to every meeting with a security detail? C’mon, dude.”
“... Also,” Hawks adds, “I’m twenty-two. Not nineteen. But it’s nice to know the moisturizer is working.”
“‘Vegetarian shtick?’” Rumi quotes, crossing her arms. Hawks ducks back down slightly, pulling his blanket up to hide his mouth and shaking his head.
“That’s not how that works,” Aizawa snaps, leaning forward now. His frown has intensified, and - actually, Yamada is mirroring it as he moves to sit at the foot of Hawks’s bed.
Hawks shrugs, spreading his hands as if to say what can you do. “Say it ain’t so,” he jokes.
“No,” Rumi confirms, “Nah, that’s pretty fucked up.”
“The League of Villains invaded the high school you teach at,” Hawks says, leaning back on one arm casually and pointing two fingers at Aizawa and Yamada, “So they could fuck up Eraser’s face and try to kill a bunch of kids. That’s pretty fucked up.”
Yamada winces. Aizawa glares. Rumi props her chin up in her hand and eyes the ceiling tiles in a total failure of an attempt to hide her appreciation of that sick burn.
“Why do you guys even care?” Hawks asks, “I already told Aizawa I don’t remember much of the fight, but I swear I’ll get back to you if I do. The mission is what it is, but I figured if anyone would appreciate, you know, the general need to stop our local terrorist organization, it would be you guys.”
“Uh.”
He does not like what Rumi’s face is doing, but Hawks can’t help what he can’t help - which is to say, can’t help being on a secret mission to befriend the League of Villains that she was not meant to be in the know about unless she suddenly becomes relevant.
Yamada is the one to lean forward, though, propping his weight up on his hands and causing the edge of Hawks’s thin mattress to dip.
“Because we’re your friends, man,” Yamada says, prodding a finger in Hawks’s direction, “At least, kinda!”
Hawks lifts a finger and opens his mouth, changes his mind, and closes it again.
This does not seem to help. Yamada slumps down to the bed properly, crossing his arms as he hunches in dejection. “I mean, hey, I thought we were getting there, but that reaction’s really puttin’ me off!”
“No, I...” Shit, what? “- We can be friends,” Hawks says, shifting himself straighter and hiding his hands under the blanket as he realizes how closely everyone is scrutinizing him. “I just, uh - head wound! Slow processing. Yeah.”
There is a very unimpressed pause, during which Hawks sinks back down, arching his wings sullenly around his shoulders.
“Woooow,” Rumi draws the word out, “That was really pathetic to watch. I was gonna drag you for having way shittier social skills than you pretend to on TV, but now I think I’d actually feel bad about it.”
Hawks chews on his inner cheek, dipping his chin and staring at her out of the corner of his eye when he finds himself not quite brave enough to meet her stare head on. He’s not an idiot. He can see what’s happening here. He’s just also sort of lost grip off all of the PR training he’s supposed to have for these situations. Maybe it is the head wound.
Then again, his training never covered, like, real friendships. Normally this would be the part where he congratulates himself on gaining trust, says something friendly but pointed to establish the casual nature of their friendship, and starts fishing for information.
None of those things really… apply. He especially does not feel much like congratulating himself on anything. In fact, he feels kind of like shit about this entire situation.
Rumi takes mercy.
“Okay, ‘all top heroes except me, Ryukyu, and the washing machine are emotionally constipated’ hour is over,” she declares, “Yamada and I were worried about you, Aizawa was… like, pretending not to be, or something, whatever, I don’t speak edgy old man -”
Aizawa snorts in the background.
“- And this is the part where they ream you out for being an asshole,” she says, totally ignoring Aizawa. “Seriously, my guy, I’m gonna be first in line to say I can relate to making sure you can take care of your own shit, but I saw you literally the day before all this, and you were pretty out of it when you told me you were on leave. The whole point of being ahead of everyone else is that you can actually manage it better than everyone else. So what the hell?”
Hawks winces. He was technically still on leave when Dabi had shoved him into that warehouse. It’s just that official sick leave doesn’t really cover secret undercover infiltration operations.
“Crime… never… sleeps?” he tries, producing a slightly higher pitch with every word out of his mouth.
Yamada, of all people, interjects. “She’s got a point, man. We got to talkin’ outside, and - look, this ain’t an interrogation, okay? Everyone’s just asking how Winged Hero Hawks lost his quirk and got into a live streamed fight with two villains. They only saw like a minute of it, and half the internet’s convinced the whole thing was staged, but you’re still gonna have to answer a lotta questions about this once you get out.”
“- We can even do another interview, if you want,” Yamada jokes. Or, Hawks thinks he jokes. It might not actually be a terrible idea.
There’s a lot to unpack there overall, but -
“Two villains?” Hawks blurts, and the heart monitor spikes in rate significantly. Stupid, stupid thing, he doesn’t even need to be on it - he’d take the finger clip off if it wouldn’t make the damn thing flatline and call in a crash cart.
“Two,” Aizawa confirms, “Though it makes sense that you don’t remember, so calm down. Scissorhands, who you know, and Blue. Her criminal alias is Forget-Me-Not, and after a lot of digging, a detective I frequently work with found a quirk therapist’s records explaining her quirk causes mass amnesia of her existence.”
Jeez, talk about a bad hand. That’s almost worse than being quirkless.
“Watching that stream live was a trip,” Rumi mutters, “And re-watching it after, knowing how everything worked, was even worse.”
The smudged, blood-smeared writing on his arm. The mysterious force holding his wing in place. Shit. How did Hawks let himself be so unprepared for this? Mental quirks are hard to work around at best, but this - there’s no telling how much information he’s missing. Every time he thinks back to the fight, he finds inconsistencies. Why did he stab himself? How did Scissorhands overpower him every time he fought her? It must have all been Blue.
“Seriously, man,” Yamada asks quietly, “Are you okay?”
Hawks laughs, pitchy and uneven, going to run a hand through his hair - and stopping short when he hits bandages, gesturing to his new look instead.
“Irreparably damaged,” he says, “My hairstyle may never recover. You gotta tell me, Yamada - how bad is it? Will I ever model again?”
He wins a laugh from Yamada, alongside a milder chuckle from Rumi. Aizawa is still staring at Hawks contemplatively, but you can never win with everyone.
“Well,” Yamada says, “If you can make jokes like that, it can’t be too bad. Though, uh - here.”
He whips his phone out from a back pocket and snaps a photo of Hawks - who flashes a smile and a peace sign - before turning the screen around and showing Hawks.
He winces. It’s not awful, just… weird. He’s used to seeing himself in full hero getup most of the time, or at least some stylish duds. Right now, he’s got the full-blown hospital patient look going on, complete with head bandages and gown. He’s only missing hair in a wide strip from his temple down the side of his head, and - honestly, Dr. Matthews is probably right. It could be repurposed into a decent faux-hawk.
Not that Hawks can be bothered with maintaining that kind of hairstyle. He’ll just get the rest trimmed and hope it all regrows looking semi-even.
He gives a whistle. “Nevermind, that’s definitely gonna be the cover of HeroWeekly next month.”
Rumi gives a laugh. “If they’re going that far, they might as well get a shot of you from the actual fight, birdboy. You never told me you could kick like that, by the way, what the fuck?”
Hawks makes a face, the fuzzy memory of the fight flashing through his mind.
“Yeah, well, I’m a man of mystery,” he jokes weakly, “Uh. Aizawa said there was medical paperwork?”
Miruko frowns, puzzled. “What, the medical decision-making stuff? That’s pretty much taken care of now that you’re awake, I think. You’re just gonna have to actually pick a person to put on that before they let you leave.”
Ew. Maybe he can troll Dr. Matthews and put his name down. At least the guy doesn’t seem to want him to end up back in the hospital again. Still…
“Actually,” Aizawa interrupts, “There is.”
Hawks perks up. Look, a distraction!
Aizawa is pulling out a manila folder, and listing through a few pages he’s got in there. Rumi looks bored already, which is great, but Yamada’s still paying an uncomfortable amount of scrutiny to the whole thing.
“I asked Nedzu to step in and play interference with the Hero Public Safety Commission once I realized they had tampered with your medical records,” Aizawa says, making Hawks wince, “But this did come through. You have a press conference you’re due to appear at, to inform the public about the situation and assuage fears. It starts in two hours.”
Hawks revisits his earlier desire to cry, just a little bit.
He may be healed, but healing quirks frequently take a toll one way or another, whether it be on the body of the patient, the healer, or some third source. Judging by the way Hawks feels, the toll in question was taken from him - he’s absolutely exhausted. His wings, small as they are, are lead weights on his back, and every young feather aches and shivers with the movement of stale air through his hospital room. His joints are so stiff that he’s surprised he’s not creaking, and the task of getting out of bed, nevermind getting publicity-ready and signing autographs, is almost beyond imagining. He doesn’t even know what the official briefing about what happened is.
“Ugh. The loving public awaits, I guess,” Hawks complains, and slides off the bed. He moves to the side away from Rumi, Aizawa, and Yamada, fully intending to avoid showcasing the scaly mess that his bare legs are, but Aizawa shoves himself up from his seat, strides directly over to Hawks, and grabs him by the front of the flimsy hospital garb.
“Whoa,” Hawks exclaims, throwing his hands up, “Easy there, I’m delicate -”
Aizawa does not ease up, instead choosing to thrust Hawks directly back onto the hospital bed in a flutter of feathers and blankets. Yamada and Rumi are both staring, eyes darting between Hawks and Aizawa as if unsure which of them is being more out of line.
“What you are,” Aizawa declares, leaning over Hawks’s supine body and prodding him in the chest, “Is worse than my students. At least they take feedback - this is like dealing with All Might all over again.”
“... Thanks?” Hawks says, blinking rapidly and slowly edging out from under Aizawa. “Um. Look, I really don’t have that much time, so I gotta get going…”
Aizawa flips the folder he was reading from earlier open, propping it up in his hand and showing Hawks the contents. It’s power of attorney forms.
“A logical ruse,” Aizawa quotes himself from earlier, “To expose your illogical actions.”
“Do all underground heroes lie this much, or is it just you?” asks Hawks.
“Do you have any idea how irresponsible you’re being?” Aizawa demands, “I barely know you, and I had to sign off on life-altering procedures to ensure you didn’t die, Hawks. You’re putting yourself in pointless danger, diving solo into fights you have no right to be taking on yourself, taking on dangerous, clandestine missions that there is no way you’re adequately trained and supported for, and-”
“Hey,” Hawks snaps, feeling his feathers start to puff as he shoves himself upwards. Aizawa doesn’t move, looming, and Hawks ends up right in the older man’s face. “I don’t remember asking for your advice, no-ranker -”
Aizawa shoves Hawks back down onto the bed again, and it’s a testament to how much the healing took out of Hawks that he goes down at all.
“Do you really think,” Aizawa states slowly, the red, bloodshot gleam of his eyes giving away more genuine anger than his controlled tone, “That this is all just about you? My students are working with you for their internships, Hawks. A whole generation of young heroes and hopefuls is looking up to you. Hell, you’re even dragging other heroes into your out of control problems - Miruko and I should never have had to make the choice of your medical procedures, even Endeavor almost pulled his son out of internship -”
And that, right there, is very suddenly just too much for him.
“What am I supposed to do?!” Hawks shouts, and his voice cracks on the last word. He takes a breath, shuddering as he tries to wrestle his voice under control.
“I don’t - what do you want me to do?” Hawks asks again, desperate. “Just tell me and I’ll do it, Eraser! I can’t freaking - you all want too many things from me for this cryptic shit, I can’t - I can’t infiltrate the League, and pat your ego about your students, and stop eating for some stupid modeling gig, and get my eyes carved up to be less ugly, and get ambushed by villains, and still have time to sit around and figure out what I could possibly teach to Tsukuyomi that’s gonna stop him from turning out as fucked up as the rest of us heroes, okay? I’m sorry, I can’t, I just -”
He’s pressing the palms of his hands to his eyes, curling in as if hiding the wetness will do anything to disguise the hideous whine that’s making its way into his voice.
“Just tell me what the hell you want from me,” Hawks mumbles. “Please.”
There is a long silence as Hawks tries to stop shaking. He doesn’t want to look past his fingers, doesn’t want to see what reactions his borderline-psychotic behavior has garnered from the rest of the room, but this isn’t the hallways of the Endeavor Agency. He doesn’t have a three minute countdown marking the time he has to pull himself together - he shouldn’t have lost it like this in the first place.
Something brushes against one of his splayed-out wings, and Hawks jerks back slightly, pulling them in.
Then, Yamada, in a quiet voice that does nothing to conceal his dismal tone:
“Ask for help,” says Yamada, and Hawks finally pulls his arms down.
Maybe it’s the lack of characteristic updo, maybe it’s the speakers missing from around his neck, but Yamada’s civilian clothes make him look so much smaller. Hawks had always figured the man wouldn’t ever stop fidgeting, gesturing, and generally being loud no matter what he was wearing. Now, though, he’s just slumped over, mouth twisted into something uncomfortably like pity, and hand retreating carefully from where he’d just touched Hawks.
Hawks drags his eyes back to the ceiling, not willing to meet anybody else’s eyes.
“I get plenty of help,” Hawks says, “The Commission practically runs my agency for me. They deal with all the PR scheduling. I don’t even have to make my own travel plans.”
“Did they also schedule you to get your eyes stitched?” asks Rumi, “Because if you ask me, that sounds way more like control than help.”
Hawks blinks, slowly, and finds that he doesn’t have enough of a voice left to reply. The silence is probably telling on its own, anyways. This is probably a bad time to remember that rabbits have third eyelids, too. He hasn’t ever seen Rumi’s, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have them. Hers are probably clear, or something.
It turns out that he doesn’t need to say anything at all, because Rumi elbows past Aizawa, nudging him away from the hospital bed, and yanks Hawks up by the arm so that she can pull him into a hug.
“Whuh - ”
Hawks freezes, holding his breath as he stares over Rumi’s shoulder to make bewildered eye contact with Aizawa. The guy looks torn between faint amusement and carefully placing himself at a sufficient distance to avoid risking getting pulled into the whole affair, and thus is no help at all.
Rumi is… not very good at giving hugs. She has clearly not done it very often, because she’s failed to account for the fact that she’s standing while Hawks is sitting, forcing him into an awkward arch. She’s stiff, half-tensed like she’s prepared to fight him over this.
Hawks can’t quite bring himself to care. Since waking up, his composure has ranged from hanging on by a thread to being completely cracked open, and he’s about ready to give it up. What’s the worst that could happen? Aizawa gets even more mad at him? There’s no way the guy hits harder than Endeavor, and he’s at least got positive karma to offset his anger after the whole raw beef incident.
That’s what goes through his head, anyways, when Rumi squeezes gently, and Hawks makes a small, humiliating noise that he can only pray the others don’t hear before winding his arms around Rumi’s waist and curling soundly into the crook of her neck. He can hear Aizawa making his way back over to Yamada, and Yamada sighing in what sounds like relief.
“I didn’t think it would be a big deal,” Hawks mumbles into the fluff of Rumi’s collar.
Rumi snorts, and tightens her grip around Hawks. “These two chucklefucks couldn’t get it if they tried,” she says, “But you can’t fool me with that shit.”
“Mm,” Hawks agrees, because: Yeah. The shared nature of their quirks is the whole reason he was drawn to her in the first place. The cosmetic surgery of his eyes wounds him so far beyond just the physical restriction of his eyelids. Of course he couldn’t pretend otherwise with Rumi - she probably has it worse. At least the only discrimination Hawks has to offset is about his quirk.
So why is it that she’s so much better at it than he is?
Rumi draws a hand down the baby feathers of his wings, and Hawks scrunches in further against her. It’s stupid, they haven’t even known each other properly for two whole weeks, but he really wants to hide away from the world inside her arms. Just like this, until everything goes away. Until he can pretend everything doesn’t hurt again.
“You’re pretty high maintenance for a guy that nobody can keep up with,” Rumi jokes.
“Sorry,” Hawks rasps, fingers twitching against the soft, thick cloth of her jacket. He is nowhere near the headspace required to discern whether that was a genuine joke, or if his time’s up and he has to get the fuck off of Rumi before he makes everything weird, so it’s a gift beyond all gifts when she stuffs an arm under one of his wings and scritches at the downy fluff.
Hawks yelps slightly, wing twitching wildly into a half-flap before he thumps his forehead down on her shoulder and groans. “I’m not a dog,” he complains.
“Coulda fooled me, ‘cause this is exactly how I make my friend’s puppy chill out, and it’s working great,” Rumi retorts, and continues to tug ruffled feathers back into place. Fuck. Fuck everything. He doesn’t deserve her. What did he do to deserve this? Text her memes and lie about maintaining vegetarianism?
Whatever it was, it wasn’t enough.
Someone clears their throat, and Rumi shifts slightly, out of Hawks’s sight. He should say something, do something to respond, but she’s just… taking care of it. He doesn’t have to do anything. It’s a weird, unfamiliar feeling that doesn’t sit right inside of him. It’s scary how effective the rhythmic shift of her fingers through his feathers is at settling his discontent, though. She’s just petting at the softest parts of his wings, the tiniest feathers that can’t go sharp even when the rest of his wings are grown. Nobody’s ever preened his wings for Hawks before, and this isn’t exactly that, but it’s close enough that there’s a warble stuck low in his throat, a gentle pressure fighting its way out to express his satisfaction.
His eyes are starting to mist over a little, and Hawks blinks rapidly behind the white curtain of Rumi’s hair.
“Oh, fuck off,” Rumi is saying while Hawks’s brain melts into a contented puddle, “I know you’ve gotta have at least half a heart between the two of you, you guys work with kids.”
“No, that’s not…” It’s Yamada responding, still in that same quiet tone from earlier. He just sounds fucking sad, and Hawks can’t figure out what he’s supposed to do to make that stop.
“That’s not it,” Yamada goes on, and then pauses for a long moment, like he didn’t think his next move through properly. “It’s just… this isn’t okay, you know? It shouldn’t be like this. Hawks, this is -”
Hawks twitches, fingers tightening in the hem of Rumi’s jacket. He eases off deliberately, not wanting to poke any holes through with his talons.
“Man, there’s something fucked up happening with you every time I meet you,” Yamada says, speaking faster and louder the further he gets. “It’s messed up, and you’re acting like it’s just standard, and - yeah, we’re teachers, right, and lemme tell ya, this is basically the nightmare scenario for where any of our students could end up. When we hear a student is - is starving herself to save money, or doesn’t talk at home because he’s told his quirk is dangerous, that’s a sign they need help, not… whatever you’re doing.”
“I’m just trying to make the best choice for everyone,” Hawks says, “Sometimes that’s not the best choice to spare my feelings, but… I’m not one of your kids. The only one responsible for me is me.”
Rumi pulls back, drawing her hands up to Hawks’s shoulders and pressing him away until she can look him in the eyes. Hawks is starkly reminded of Dabi, uncomfortable and offended after Hawks tried to kiss him. Rumi’s hands don’t leave his shoulders, though, even when Hawks tucks his fingertips into his palms and buries them under the mussed blanket laying messily around them.
“Then why’d you not let that bitch just cut your wing off, huh?” Rumi demands, and Hawks forgets how to breathe.
“Woulda been safer for the hostage,” Rumi goes on, “You risked a hell of a lot when you went to attack her instead. She coulda had a knife to Forget-Me-Not’s throat. Killing her would have been easy. You risked that chick’s life.”
No. No, no - he didn’t, he wouldn’t have done that. Hawks would never - would he? He can’t remember half the fight properly. Every time he tries to paw at the memories, it all just - hurts, and slips in and out of his mind’s eye like so much mist.
His wings. His wings. Would he have really made the selfish choice?
“I - I need to watch the video,” he chokes out, trying to turn and reach for wherever his phone’s gone - but Rumi wrenches him back, an iron grip on his upper arms.
“No,” she declares, glaring down - and Hawks pulls his wings in close, feels himself go tight in anticipation - but Rumi just loosens her grip and repeats herself firmly. “No. That’s not - ugh, I can’t believe you’re making me say this. I’m sorry, okay, that’s not what I meant. Nobody thinks you should have let yourself get mutilated, okay?”
‘But-’ wants to escape from him, but Hawks isn’t so far out of it that he can’t tell that would be a terrible continuation to this conversation, so he just stays quiet instead, staring up at Rumi and trying to puzzle apart what the fuck anyone is talking about anymore.
“Where did you even go to school?” Yamada interjects, brow furrowed. “I know it wasn’t UA, and… Shiketsu’s pretty hard about decorum, but I’m pretty sure even they don’t train their students like this.”
This? Hawks wants to scoff. What is that even supposed to mean? It’s not like he’s the top ranked hero in the room because he’s lucky.
The thought is vile, though, and would taste worse on his tongue. He doesn’t say it.
“I didn’t,” Hawks explains instead, “I got picked up by the Commission when I was little and my dad signed off on private training. Pretty good gig, too. Mom was out of the picture for a while, so it’s not like he’d have afforded hero school otherwise.”
Hawks is not usually this candid about his… not-entirely-savory backstory, but this whole situation has him feeling defensive. He’s hardly going to snap at Yamada for being concerned about whatever it is that he’s concerned about, but he’s also not going to sit around and act like attending their prestigious, oh-so-caring academy isn’t a privilege.
This is, of course, the point at which Aizawa audibly scoffs.
“What?” Hawks snaps, because - really? What can it possibly be this time?
Aizawa doesn’t seem particularly distressed by his snippiness, however. He simply raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms as he leans back against the wall.
“I have had more dealings with the HPSC that I would personally have liked to,” he says, “And every last one of them was more than enough on its own to convince me that the organization as a whole does a dismal job of caring for and preparing the future generation of heroes.”
“I’m literally number two,” Hawks says, squinting, and spreads his hands in the quintessential ‘what the fuck’ gesture. “How is that not prepared for hero work?”
“And how long are you going to last as number two?” Aizawa asks, “Because in my experience, hotshots like you burn out before their first decade. Consider this hospital trip your big red flag. If you don’t change your approach, you’re going to headline on the news as a tragic death before you turn thirty.”
“Jesus,” Rumi mutters, and Hawks privately agrees.
“Even if I agreed with you,” Hawks says, “I have a contract.”
“Did you sign it?” Aizawa asks, which - Hawks blinks.
“Well... no, I think my dad did, but -”
“Then you should have worked out a new one once you turned eighteen,” Aizawa counters. “And if you didn’t, then the old one has been invalid since then. Contact me and Nedzu if you need help drafting up a new one.”
“It’s not that simple!” Hawks complains, though he’s not entirely sure if he believes himself.
“Isn’t it?” Aizawa says, meeting his eyes and holding them.
Hawks pauses, mouth opening and closing on air.
Isn’t it?
“Hawks,” Yamada says, leaning forward in his chair, “My man, this is killing me. Please just let us help you.”
Hawks looks down, heart fluttering restlessly as he fiddles with his heart monitor.
“I don’t know what that means,” he confesses quietly.
Rumi wraps an arm around Hawks’s shoulder, finally sitting herself on the hospital bed and pulling him in against her side. His sore joints complain at the motion, and it’s inelegant and clumsy to get tucked in that way when he’s taller than her, but Hawks desperately, shamefully hopes she never lets go.
“It means,” she says, “You take some real medical leave instead of the shit you pulled last time, let Eraser and Nedzu look over your contract, and - and I know this is borderline physically impossible for you - slow the fuck down and accept some help when you’re in trouble.
“And tell me next time you get signed up for fucking quirk surgery,” she says, thumping her fist against the bed in a motion that makes Hawks blink sharply. “So I can kick the shit outta whoever came up with that idea!”
Hawks laughs weakly, more of a tearful exhale than an expression of genuine mirth, and relaxes against Miruko. This is - so much more than he ever thought it could be. So much more than he deserves, really.
It’s not a fix to all of his problems. He still has to deal with Dabi, with the League of Villains as a whole. Still has to maneuver around the Hero Commission. Still has to balance his quirk with his public image, maintain his workload, figure out what’s even going to be happening with the HPSC’s PR campaign -
But, maybe, there’s another option than handling it all by himself. He’s the man that’s too fast for his own good and there’s no way he could let his hero work suffer, but - well, Hawks is hardly known for, say, his in-depth understanding of legalese.
Plus, Yamada is seriously staring at Hawks like he’s the one doing Yamada a favor.
“Okay,” Hawks says, “Okay. I think - I think I can do that.”