Chapter Text
When you touch his leg, he fantasizes about you stroking his hard cock through his sweatpants. When you look him directly in his dark, callous eyes, he thinks about how sweet your lips would look, wrapped tightly around his length, and how prominent the bulge in your throat would be from how thick you make him. And when you grab his wrist to inject the medication he once so vehemently denied, he thinks about snatching you by the hair and slamming you down on the gurney, instead. He wants you to understand how much it hurts when you do this to him.
He supposes he can’t fault you for doing your job, though. When there’s a task to be done, the responsibility falls on those with the ability to complete it. You’re capable. You push yourself to the limit. You set your emotions aside to do what you know best. You’re a lot like him in those ways. But he can’t ignore the stark difference between you two, either. You’re far less jaded. Your career as a psychologist in this psychiatric unit has required you to shoulder the burdens of others. How do you do it? It’s as though you’ve adapted to the stress. It’s that superior nature of yours that equally pisses him off and drives him wild for you.
He quells his temper by telling himself that sooner or later, this dynamic won’t matter. You won’t be his doctor anymore. He won’t be a mandated patient. His scheme to escape from this daunting institution will come to fruition in the next few weeks, and then? Well, then, you’ll finally be his.
No more seeing other clients.
No more talking to your colleagues, friends, or family.
No more lingering glances from that bastard with the blue tie, who loves to hover over you when you’re so busy at work.
All you’ll have — when he takes you away from this terrible place — is him.
“Dabi?”
Your voice penetrates through his vindictive thoughts like cupid’s sharpest arrow. He perks up, bringing his lazy, half-lidded gaze to yours. He casts you a lopsided smile.
“What’re we doin’, dollface? More shots?”
You’re sitting in front of him, clipboard in hand, staring intently across the table. He’s restrained; otherwise he would have his chin resting against his fist, inspecting your beauty for the umpteenth time. You’re wearing that blouse he likes today. He appreciates the effort you put into your hair, as well. It’s clear that you’re baiting him into complimenting you.
“Fuck, you look good.” He hums. “Who do you dress up for in this dump, anyways?”
The exasperation on your visage is evident. Maybe he misread you.
“(F/n) is fine.” You correct him with a casual wave of your hand. “No more shots today, just a questionnaire or two.”
But you don’t have to be such a bitch.
“Don’t feel like answering a bunch of stiff questions.”
And if you’re going to act like a brat, so will he.
“Okay.” You concede. “That’s fair.”
You reach down and pull something out of your bag. It’s a series of pictures. Dabi isn’t a stranger to this evaluation. You put a cap with electrodes onto his head and ask him about his reaction to each photo. In another room, a device records his brain activity. He fucking hates it. He feels powerless.
“Wanna do some emotion work?”
The control you have over him in this dynamic is enraging. He doesn’t do well taking orders from others. It’s part of the reason he nearly snapped at Shigaraki when they met. To lose authority is to be weak; to lose authority is reminiscent of a sordid childhood with his selfish father. If it wasn’t for the initial impression you left, he would have given up on attempting to speak with you long ago.
The hospital sent you into his cell because you were their last resort. He wouldn’t talk to any of the other staff. He attacked doctor after doctor, orderly after orderly, until he was tossed into a cushioned quarantine room. He recalls how they practically shoved you through the door.
You stumbled into his chamber, wearing a vest that framed your figure and a long skirt that shone you in a matronly light. The moisture left his mouth for a moment; then, he jeered at you to get the fuck out. He didn’t know why you left him starstruck, and he tried not to care — until you asked if it was okay to sit down with him.
He scoffed. He wondered who the hell you thought you were, sauntering into his domain and demanding him to cooperate. It was only when you told him you weren’t trying to force him to do anything that he ceased his verbal tirade to let you speak. He tested you, of course. He claimed he wouldn’t say a damn thing to a whore like you. He thought you’d cry. You didn’t. Rather, you did something completely unexpected; you inquired why he thought they let a whore into his room and not a registered psychologist.
It was the first time he laughed in months.
In the present, he gazes at you across the table. You haven’t changed since then. It wasn’t a mere ploy to get him to cooperate. You continue to respect his boundaries. You don’t press him when he tells you to back off. You don’t bullshit him about the consequences of his actions, but you do it in a manner that’s exponentially humane. He truly believes you’re one of a kind.
“Questionnaires are less of a pain in the ass,” he replies at last. “Let’s do those, doc.”
He doesn’t want to have electrodes on his skull while he’s admiring you. It’s too invasive. What if the technicians are in the back, reading his thoughts, transcribing all the filthy things he wants to do to you?
“I imagine so.” You comment, grabbing a stack of papers from your bag. “In that case, I’ve got some quality of life and aggression stuff for you.”
“Quality of life scale?” He grunts. “I’ll save you the trouble. It’s been shitty.”
You offer him a half-smile.
“We’ll start with the aggression scale, then?”
He could stand to explore his anger, as you so diligently put it one session. You want to see him improve. He doesn’t mind indulging in some work while he’s here, particularly if it gives you an opportunity to get to know him better. He just won’t say enough to give himself away; you can’t know his actual identity, yet.
“Whatever.”
You accept this as a cue to commence. You scoop one of the papers from your pile and place it on the table. He cranes his neck to read it. You snatch it into your grasp before he can.
“Okay. Zero means not at all, whereas five means to a great extent. Got it?”
He nods.
“In the last week, how angry have you felt?”
He thinks about it. He spent the week before this one in solitary confinement. He sat with his thoughts enough to feel like a lunatic. Meals never came on time, and his bed was little better than a stone slab. After getting out, they gave him privileges in the common area for his good behaviour with you. It was meant to encourage his rehabilitation. In fact, he was told that you urged the guards to be more lenient with him.
He’s heard you talk to other patients at the facility. You’re not nearly as kind. You don’t go out of your way to do things for them. Your tone barely takes on the precise smoothness that it does with him. It’s obvious that you have feelings for him.
Before you, Dabi never believed in the concept of a soulmate. He simply slept with who he pleased and kept to himself whenever they got attached. Relationships aren’t his deal. And then you came along, with your perfect hair and calm face, and your lab coat and notepad, and your dorky glasses and irresistible smile.
“Two.”
So, it hasn’t been bad since he was released back into the general pool of prisoners. He notices his rage is at a record low. He wasn’t sure that was feasible after the accident.
“How helpless have you felt?”
He understands the correlation between anger and helplessness. The two intermingle in a turbulent dance of self-depravity. He couldn’t decide which of them to act on when he was in the heat of his recovery, in the days, weeks, months, and years following his coma. Being locked in this ward, with few virtues and little humility, has done nothing for the restlessness in his soul.
“Five.”
You tilt your head to the side.
“Can we explore that feeling?”
He snorts.
“I’d rather not.”
You don’t compel him to extrapolate. You simply move on. You realize there’s no point in grilling him. If he isn’t ready to tell you, he won’t tell you. You resolve to return to the inventory at a later date. As far as you know, he won’t be going anywhere. You have all the time in the world to uncover what’s ailing his mind.
“How much have you wanted to hurt yourself?”
“Zero.”
Another uncomfortable question. He doesn’t want to revive chilling memories of the day he took his life. The pain was immeasurable. In his final minutes of consciousness, he prayed for it to stop. He had no idea that three years would pass wherein he remained in a state of limbo.
“And we don’t want to talk about what zero means, right?”
Inwardly, he applauds you for trying.
“Nah.”
“Got it.” You surrender. “Can I keep going?”
He shrugs. You pause to give him a breather.
“In the last week, how much have you noticed aggressive behaviour coming up?”
Surely you must be aware of his one day stint in solitary a couple days ago. Do you really not claim to know why he beat this shit out of his cellmate? The poor guy didn’t do a damn thing but existed in his proximity; the true culprit was the man who put his arm around your waist. Dabi saw him through the small window of his shared room. He still can’t explain the blind fury that coursed through him.
It took three guards to get him off the man. In the end, they had to sedate him. His mate is going to live, but he doesn’t get to have anyone else in his room anymore. That’s fine by him; he prefers silence over yapping.
“Three.”
You hum, putting the papers down on the table. He knows that adorable expression; you’re worried about him. Is a three that bad?
“Tell me what a three means to you.”
He shakes his head and attempts to lean back in his chair. His eyelids droop, drinking in the way your blouse drops above your breasts.
“I’d rather not, gorgeous.”
“(F/n).” You sigh. “And if you’re sure you don’t want to talk about it, I won’t push you.”
He deliberates indulging in your request. It’s about time he told you how he feels, isn’t it? For you, that is. Enough with the questionnaires. Enough with the pretending. He wants to make his intention to have you known, so that you can begin to envision what a life with him would look like.
"Okay, last question, and it's open-ended," you murmur, moving on without the knowledge of the horror he’s planning to unveil. "In as much detail as possible, can you describe a time within the last week where you've had the impulse to harm someone?"
You don’t know how deliciously this question is, as it sinks into the sludge of his vindictive, rotten mind. He could describe hurting his cellmate — that’s probably what you’re anticipating him to do — but he’s not going to. He’s going to illustrate how he would kill one of your coworkers. Perhaps then you’ll realize the chokehold you have over him, and why you ignite a sinister greed in his decomposing depths.
“You know that bastard with the blue tie?”
Confusion washes across your face. You contemplate. He uses more descriptors to aid in your reflection, including his hair and eye colour. Slowly, you register who he’s referring to.
"...do you mean Dr. Seagrave?"
His grin is unable to be contained. Seagrave. What a fitting surname for a man who will be dead in a matter of weeks.
“Yeah, guess that’s him.”
You process his admittance. He perceives a flash of some emotion in your pretty orbs, though he can’t identify it.
“You’ve thought about hurting Dr. Seagrave this week?”
“Every damn day.” He professes. “Whenever I see him touch you, it makes me want to press my palm against his face and turn him to ash.”
You seem disturbed by his show of love and possessiveness. Unfortunately, that doesn’t deter him. You need to hear this.
“Whenever his hand brushes over your back, I want to burn his legs to charred stumps, and then use his head as target practice.”
You visibly grimace. The images are too much for you. That’s a shame.
“The worst is when he smiles at you. Heh. That’s when I want to grab him by his hair, press my boot against his back, and pull until something breaks.”
He doesn’t seek to give Seagrave a death devoid of agony. Maybe that’s his father’s genetics talking. When someone takes what’s yours, it’s imperative that they pay the price.
“And if he’s ever within reach of me again.” A darkness flashes over his pale, marred face, while cerulean eyes twinkle with sheer cruelty. “I swear I’ll fucking do it.”
“Okay!” You clap your hands, uncharacteristically interrupting him. “I think I get your point.”
Dabi snickers.
“I’m not sure you do, doll.”
You could never hope to grasp his compulsions. You don’t feel for him with the same degree of intensity as he feels for you. You will, though; he’ll make sure of it.
Hastily, you check your watch. There’s a jagged line of sweat on your forehead, highlighting your anxiety. This isn’t like you. Has he finally made you fear him?
“Let’s explore this more next time.” You say. “I think that’s enough for today.”
So skittish. So cute.
You pack up your documents and get up from your seat. Hoisting your bag over your shoulder, you walk stiffly towards the door. He’s never seen you act this way.
“You don’t gotta run, doc.” He snickers, a hint of unease in his tone. “You’re not on my shit list.”
You halt as you punch in your code to release the lock. Regarding him over your shoulder, you manage a small smile.
“That’s good to know.”
You bid him goodnight and leave the cell.
Your heels clack against the ground as you wander down the long corridor of rooms. Some of them are occupied. Many are empty. When you’re halfway down the block, you lose your composure.
The panic hits you like a tsunami. It brings you to your knees. Sobbing into your palms, you muffle your cries so that no one can hear you break down. A nausea bubbling in your gut threatens to boil over.
Your boss assigned you to Dabi’s case as a last resort. He didn’t show signs of obsession until recently. Your humanistic approach, combined with your implied validation of his existence, might have primed you to be the target of his affection. You must have awakened something inside him with your acceptance. He wasn’t shown this sort of care as a child; men like him find it difficult to establish platonic relationships with women because they unconsciously seek to syphon that empathy until it’s dry.
You’ll have to remove yourself from his case to remedy this. You don’t want anyone to be harmed; particularly not your fiancé. Although Doctor Seagrave doesn’t deal with Dabi, you have a nagging sensation in your heart imploring you to confide in him about what occurred mere moments ago. The purpose is not merely to vent to your lover, but also, to warn him of the arsonist’s wrath.
You wipe your eyes and straighten yourself out. You focus on the air flowing into, and departing from, your lungs. It’s almost six o’clock in the evening. If you run, you’ll catch your boss. After that, you’ll head to your fiancé’s office.
You try to soothe your flaring nerves. Everything will be okay. Everything will sort itself out. After all, this is what protocols are for.
You walk towards the East wing of the large building, serenaded by the rough, hoarse voice of a patient, somewhere on the ward. His raspy notes echo off each lonely wall.
“Like a thief in the night. I’m comin' for your heart, I’m comin' for your heart. This time it’s anything goes. I guess I’m just a selfish ghost.”