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Hawks honestly didn’t know what time it was, what day it was, or even how long he had been going going going, but he knew he was at his wits end. Between being The Commission’s lap dog, PR for his brand, daily patrols (that lasted all day), and also being The League’s lap dog, he was tired. Exhausted. Burnt out. Overworked. Collapsing. Imploding. Melting. Breaking.
Not that he would ever admit that to anyone, though. No, he would keep it all to himself, even as his legs wobbled, and feathers trembled and vision swam with yellow and black dots. He had no one he could confide in, no one to collapse on, no one to ask for a break or help or just a body to lean on for a moment. Because he was Hawks: The Winged Hero. The man that was too fast for his own good; someone that could never slow down or show weakness. He was the optimist; he was the staple of living the good life to the public, to other heroes, even to villains.
He knew he really shouldn’t complain, he had a nice apartment, doting fans, fame, money, he never wanted for anything (he wanted comfort, a hand on his shoulders, a warm caress, a true friend, he wanted no nightmares, no more punishments, no more pain), so when he got to his high rise home, he forced his face to twitch on a smile as he appreciated his cream colored couch, flat screen TV (he never used it, never had time, always going going going), plush blankets, his (unused) kitchen, even his bathroom with a shower big enough for his wings. He let himself appreciate it all (he wastheoptimist, he had to) even as his knees wobbled and buckled under him after the grueling tasks his body went through that day.
He appreciated it as he stumbled down the hall to the bathroom, palms pressed to the wall as he tried to support himself, his wings burning, aching, trembling, his arms stinging with pain, his head pounding. All he needed to do was get his uniform off, treat his wounds, and fall into bed for what time he had left before he was needed at The League for a meeting. He could do that; it was simple, easy, something that didn’t need brain power. Yet, as he shed his feathers to the basket placed down the hall in his room, his knees hit the tile floor of the bathroom with a crack, and oh, God, it ached deep within his bones, his shins, his ankles, his toes. A weak, small, pitiful sound escaped his lips as he gasped out the pain, curling forward so his torso was horizontal with the floor, hands curled into fists against the tile, vision swimming, filling with salt.
“Please, please, please,” He croaked to no one, tapping the floor weakly with one palm. Please get up, get up Hawks, you don’t have time for this, you’re being pathetic, get up get up get up- his mind hissed but his throat- “I’m so tired. So tired. Please. Jus’ a minute. Please please pleaseplease.” He begged no one. A drop hit the crease between his wrist and arm where the skin was wrinkled due to his fists being pressed flat on the floor with his arms above them. Another hit, and another dripped down on the tile between his legs. His eyes leaked and poured and drained out tears like a hose, no breaks between them other than his gasped whimpers and pleas that reached only himself.
He didn’t know how long he sat there, trembling, whining (get up Hawks, get up get up get up), and begging to the air in his bathroom, but he managed to strip off his clothes, wiggle into the shower, and sit under the spray for a few moments. He watched dirt, sweat, blood, and his tears swirl down the drain for minutes (hours?) before he went through the motions of soaping his body- oh, God his legs, his thighs burned, his shoulders stung, the back of his head was on fire (just cuts, they were just cuts and scratches and bumps from the day, Hawks, you’re being pathetic, Hawks, get up up up)- until the grime disappeared. He shampooed his hair with shaking arms, barely scrubbing before washing it out. He should have cared more (appearances, Hawks, you know better, Hawks), but he just couldn’t. Not when his phone went off with a blaring alarm, telling him he had wasted his resting time by crying and whining when he had no reason to be doing so, and he needed to be at the villains’ HQ within the hour.
He forced himself to stand, vision flowing black for a few moments (I need to eat- you don’t have time, Hawks, go go go), pat himself and his baby wings down with a few towels, and summoned his feathers to drag a pair of soft black pants and the baby blue monster size of a hoodie that Toga had given him a few weeks prior, (it made his heart warm) along with socks (his only fluffy pair), boxers, and another pair of his hero gloves. He knew he should have shucked his hero costume back on, but The League had said he was a beacon of obviousness with it on, and he also just... wanted something soft, he didn’t have time to treat his wounds, he didn’t want to deal with the pain of his flight suit pressing on his back and shoulders, he wanted comfort, even if it was only within the clothes on his body.
By the time he stood on his balcony to depart for the meeting, he had fifteen minutes to make a twenty-six minute flight. Fastest man alive can’t even be on time, his mind grouched, and he took off into the air with the determination to fly as fast as he could (late, he was gonna be late, they were gonna be mad, so mad, go, Hawks, go go go). He had never been late to a League meeting before; he didn’t know what they were going to do (to him, hurt him, beat him), and it made his eyes sting and water at the thought of the angry villains. All he had to go on was the one time he was late to a Commission meeting and it was... something he didn’t like to remember (pain, crying, begging to uncaring ears, hurt, please- no more). His collarbones and neck and cheeks burned with cold due to the speed he was flying; if he got there as fast as he could, despite being late, it still had to mean something, right? His sweatshirt jerked this way and that, cold air flying under and through the soft material- it wasn’t made for flying, not at the top speeds he was breaching, but he pushed the burning cold feeling behind the fear he felt bubbling in his gut and chest. His right hand reached into his pocket to grip at the flash drive in which he had downloaded the files Dabi had requested onto, hoping it would be his saving grace. His patrol for the day was also live streamed, so maybe they saw the harsh battle he had faced at the end of his patrol, maybe they saw the beating he took from that enhanced quirk the villain had (that’s no excuse, Hawks, you have a responsibility, and you’re failing- failing is never an option, but here you are. Pathetic.)
When he landed, he stumbled but didn’t fall, and he made his way on wobbly legs to the entrance. The League changed bases so frequently that he had a hard time keeping up sometimes, but he knew they did it for security purposes. This time it was a small building, it didn’t look abandoned like the usual places they stayed, and he could see lights in the windows as he walked down the alleyway to the door. Taking a deep breath, schooling his expression, he softly knocked twice on the door before opening it. He still didn’t know if he needed to knock or if he could just walk in, but they hadn’t told him not to, so...
“Hawksie!” He heard the only girl among their ranks chirp gleefully, “You’re finally here!” He quickly reached up with a hand to sort out the drooping collar of his sweatshirt as the girl approached him with a broad smile, fangs out and all. In the background he saw Dabi and Spinner sitting at a table with beer bottles, Mr. Compress was sitting on a couch with The League’s leader, spinning a few marbles between his fingers, the latter button smashing a gaming controller angrily, and he didn’t see Twice or the misty companion of The League anywhere. Perhaps they were down the long hall he could see, in one of the other rooms.
Hawks forced a short laugh out of his dry throat, “Sorry I’m late, chick. Had some trouble today.” He left the explanation short, hoping the girl couldn’t see the underlining fear he was pushing as deep down as he could. Maybe. Maybe if he didn’t make it a big deal, they wouldn’t either.
“‘S that why you look like shit, birdbrain?” Dabi voice drawled across the room, causing Hawks to wince slightly. If there was anyone he truly feared making angry, it was the fire wielder because, well, fire and his feathers don’t match. He would rather deal with Shigaraki’s decay quirk.
“O-oh.” Hawks stuttered out, bringing his hands up to pat at his cheeks lightly. He didn’t think about how he would look coming into the meeting after flying as fast as he did. His cheeks, nose, neck, and collarbones were a bright red color from the wind, his hair was pushed back from his forehead, frizzing at the ends, and still slightly damp. From the wide collar of his sweatshirt, the villains could see peaks of a bruise dipping beneath the fabric. “Yeah, yes. I- um. Patrol was rough and time got away from me. I flew as fast as I could to get here on time. I- I'm really sorry.” He gulped when the villain stood and left the room without a word besides a soft humming noise in acknowledgement. Was he. Was he going to get something to hurt him with? Had he been too hopeful? Dabi was always unpredictable, and it made Hawks’ head spin.
“Come sit with me, birdy! We can watch Tomura lose his game, again.” The teenager grabbed onto his sleeve, pulling him over to the couch. He saw a massive amount of pillows and blankets piled on a section of the floor, and he was kind of grateful when Toga plopped down onto them, patting the space next to her. He really hadn’t wanted to try to squeeze onto the couch with his wings or with the cuts still stinging across his shoulders and back. Speaking of, he slowly, as to not get in the way, guided his feathers to detach and flutter to a pile next to the coffee table, so he could comfortably sit next to the teen and not get in the way. At the same moment he did this, Toga and Shigaraki bickered back and forth about how the leader wasn’t losing at his game and how he totally was, according to the girl. Hawks sat stiff, back straight as he waited for it to escalate to more, but it didn’t. He also didn’t want to let himself relax because he didn’t want to succumb to the swirling exhaustion and blackness he could see and feel in his eyes. He was here on a mission, not a social visit. He had to... to remain pristine, sharp, and confident. So when Toga pointed out his trembling (he was trembling? Since when?) to everyone in the room, he let out a panicked warbling noise, and promptly froze. Just like everyone else.
Oh, no. Oh, no no no no. He did not just. He just warbled- he made a bird noise, he made a-he wasn’t allowed to do that; he wasn’t allowed to show that side of his quirk. It was useless, he was useless. How did he let that happen? Oh, God, they were going to be so mad. He was late, he didn’t apologize enough, he showed how tired he was, he made a noise he wasn’t supposed to make, he was- (useless, worthless, a bad bird, a bad hero, a bad spy, bad bad bad) But, but he was so tired. So very tired. He didn’t want to do this anymore. He just wanted to sleep, to crumble, to break, but he couldn’t, could he? He was Hawks, and Hawks wasn’t allowed to do any of those things. He had to keep going, he had to-
His chest heaved once. Twice. Three times before- “I-I’m so sorry, sorry. I’m sorry- I don’t know why I-” He gasped, “I haven’t done that in, in years. I’m- sorry. I didn’t mean to, please. I’m jus’ tired. I won’t. Do it again. I’m sorry.” He rambled out, shoulders hiking up as he spun around to face the room, messing up Toga’s little blanket nest. As his breathing came out in troubled heaves, no one said anything. Shigaraki placed his controller next to his thigh on the couch, and Mr. Compress stopped twirling his marbles. Toga was silenced next to him in reaction to his apologies, and Hawks couldn’t see the other members from where he was.
“I- I got the, the files. The files that Dabi wanted. Here, I- I got them.” He breathed out quickly, voice no louder than a whisper, reaching into his pocket shakily. Maybe if he handed over the information they wanted, they wouldn’t be so mad, but oh, God, they weren’t saying anything and he knew they were furious. He managed to pull the small flash drive out of his pocket, and he held it up in front of him with shaking hands, palms flat and the drive resting on top of them. “I’m so- so sorry I was late, and that I- I did- I-” He heaved a dry sob, biting down on his lip as hard as he could to stop the other noises that wanted to escape. He was so scared, so tired, so done with everything (they don’t care you’re tired, Hawks, you should be better, Hawks, you need to do better, Hawks).
“Sorry, sorry, sorry. Here, I- everything is there, I promise. I- got it all. I’ll do- do better in the future not to, not to be so out of sorts.” He apologized again at the same time Mr. Compress reached forward to pluck the flash drive out of his palms, set it on the coffee table to the left of them, and softly gripped Hawks’ outstretched hands in his own. Hawks’ slowed brain wished he could feel the skin of Mr. Compress’s hands against his own, but his gloves blocked that. He did, however, feel the warmth radiating off them.
“Hawks,” The man in front of him spoke, “Hawks, it’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong; there’s no need to apologize so much.” And Hawks didn’t understand because he had broken so many rules. He was late, he was unpresentable, he warbled, he let out a cry, he showed how exhausted he was, how he wasn’t supposed to be. He was just so, so tired.
“I’m so tired.” He whimpered to the small group around him, the words feeling like sin. “I’m so sorry. Please. I’m so tired, please, please. I’m sorry.” He needed them to understand his guilt, how he wasn’t going unpunished for admitting why he was struggling so much.
“Hawksie, it’s okay.” Toga whispered from next to him, quietly scooting closer to the older man. “You’re so cold.” She noticed as she placed a hand upon one of the knees he had crossed in front of him. He let out another soft apology, but the girl simply hushed him and stole the blanket Shigaraki had across his lap before laying it across his own. Hawks couldn’t help but flinch out of Mr. Compress’s soft hold to grip harshly to the blanket.
He immediately bundled the soft fabric up and tried to push it back towards the leader, “No, no, I’m okay. I don’t need- I'm sorry-”
“Keep it, bird.” The order was almost harsh, but he said it in such a way that it had Hawks’ brain stuttering to a halt in his panic. “And if you’re tired- sleep.”
“But- but the meeting-”
“There is no meeting, Hawks. It can wait.” The bird’s shoulders once again flinched upwards when the fire quirk user came back into the room, carrying what looked like a hooded blanket. Dabi took his time walking towards the four of them, and Hawks (tell him how sorry you are, apologize now, and maybe he won’t hurt you) wanted to sob at the guilt plaguing his chest.
“Dabi, Dabi, I-I'm sorry for being late, and, and being so tired, and a mess, but I- I got the information you wanted, so. So, is it- is it okay? I-I'm sorry, please please please.” I’m so scared, I’m so tired, I’m in so much pain, I don’t want to hurt anymore. I want a hug, or just a hand on my shoulder or something, but I can’t- I can’t get that. I’m not supposed to. I’m sorry, sorry sorry sorrysorrysorrysorry.
Unknowing to him, he had started to cry halfway through his apology to Dabi, tears dripping down his cheeks and chin, dropping onto the blanket below. He heard Dabi muttering something to Compress and Shigaraki before a dark ball of warm fluff was shoved over Hawks’ head. The blanket, hoodie thing Dabi had been carrying was being pulled onto his trembling and breaking body while the man held a short conversation with the other two adults in the area.
Once golden hair and eyes and flushed cheeks popped through the top of the hood, Dabi let his hands grip onto the bird’s shoulders in a soft grip before he spoke. “Let’s get you to bed, pretty bird.” Did the man feel like he was being coddling? Yes. Did he care? Not in the slightest.
“C’mon. Let’s go.” He instructed again, shifting to put his arms under the shorter man’s armpits, assisting him to his feet, all the while Hawks was blubbering apologies and other half pleas of mercy. And, damn, did Hawks really think they were going to kill him or something for being tired? Dabi didn’t realize how little the bird thought of them all.
“Dabi, no, I have to- ‘M sorry. I’m not supposed to- to be like this. I just-” The smaller man sniffled as another wave of tears dripped from his face, and Dabi wanted to light the wall on fire. Hawks’ eyes were already rimmed red when he arrived and now they just looked painful and worn down and exhausted. “I’m so sorry.”
“Stop apologizing, Hawks. Everything is fine.” He grumbled as he lead the man into his own bedroom where he had put fresh sheets on the bed, piled it with all the blankets in the closet, and lowered the lights to a soft golden glow. “Just sleep. We can talk later.” He helped the bird lower down to the bed, pulled his gloves and boots off, and covered him with blankets. When the hero had arrived, he was trembling with cold, and Dabi knew he had hallowed bird bones, was sensitive to the cold, so he had left the room to make his bed. He had intended on luring Hawks to the bed with flirty phrases as that seemed to be the only thing to get Hawks to do something for Dabi that wasn’t strictly a business transaction, but he had returned to the room to see the man mid breakdown, trembling, apologizing, and afraid of them all. He had never seen him so worn down and exhausted, and it made the man think heavily.
He collapsed back onto the floor when Hawks fell into sleep almost instantly, the last of his tears sliding off his face and onto Dabi’s pillow. He let his head bump onto the wall behind him as he watched the slow rise and fall of the pile of blankets on his bed. Fuck, he thought, what the fuck was that?He knew that Hawks was committed to the cause, but not so much that he would break himself. Just what in the hell was going on in his life that made him like this?
When had the brightest and fastest hero fallen down so hard?
Dabi let his thoughts stutter off when a green, scaled hand appeared in his vision. Spinner stood in front of him, offering to help him off the floor. “Boss wants to talk.” He informed him quietly, glancing back at the hero curled under blankets, sleeping soundlessly.
Dabi cleared his throat; it suddenly felt too tight, “Yeah, alright.” He grasped the hand in front of him, coming to his feet. Just before they left the confines of his room, he glanced back at the winged hero. He had curled up on his side, face and body buried under the blankets, so Dabi only saw a sliver of the pale skin of his forehead, and his unruly blonde hair sticking up in all different directions.
“Let’s let him sleep, for as long as he wants.”