Work Text:
If this was a court proceeding, Hawks thought, he would begin by explaining that this had all been a huge fucking accident. Guilty, perhaps, but only by negligence. Or maybe that charge would be best reserved for the food vendor.
He needed compensation. He deserved reparations. Because he had a very ill, very pissed off villain curled up on his couch.
“You poisoned me,” Dabi snarled. He was paler than usual and covered in a sheen of sweat.
“I didn’t,” Hawks insisted, hands raised in a desperate attempt at placation. “We ate the same thing, remember?”
Yakitori, specifically. It had tasted incredible going down, and he’d been pretty proud of himself for convincing Dabi to go on this little outing with him– both properly disguised, of course. Dabi tended to keep him at arms length (yes, in spite of their semi-regular fucking schedule), and any way Hawks could manage to wiggle his way in was considered a victory. But on their journey back to the PLF manor, Dabi began to decline at a frightening speed. Without a word, he’d ducked down an alley, and Hawks had no choice but to follow.
On the bright side (although that was generous), Dabi’s little episode didn’t make the alley smell any worse. Hawks stood awkwardly beside him as he choked up bits of yakitori and pineapple rice. Dabi’s body wasn’t sturdy by any means, and Hawks had found himself holding Dabi up by the chest to keep him from collapsing.
The rest of the walk home (flying wasn’t an option when he was trying to keep a low profile) was challenging. There had been a moment where Dabi seemed liable to vomit in one of his potted plants on the balcony. Now Dabi was writhing on his sofa, desperately trying to get comfortable, and Hawks was… not feeling too hot himself.
“You’re okay,” he soothed. It was hard to comfort someone when said someone rejected any offerings of physical touch. “Deep breaths, alright? In through your nose and out through your mouth.”
“I know how to breathe!” Dabi snapped.
Hawks wrung his ungloved hands in his lap and swallowed the sour taste creeping up the back of his throat. He was fine, of course he was fine. He repeated that to himself as he shifted a bit on his end of the couch. He had an iron stomach. This was just sympathy nausea, or whatever. Nevermind the fact he’d never felt it on past occasions when he’d seen Dabi vomit– of which there had been plenty– and Dabi wasn’t even actually vomiting right now–
A low gurgle erupted from his stomach, audible through his jacket. Judging by the look on Dabi’s face, he heard it too.
“I’m fine,” he said before Dabi could get a word in edgewise. But before he could say anything else, his stomach let out another groan and did a spectacular flip. Tens across the board. Cold sweat prickled the hair at the nape of his neck, and he took a deep, measured breath in and out.
Then his gut somersaulted into his throat and he realized this was a runaway train, and there was no amount of breathing he could do to stop his body from throwing itself into reverse.
“Okay,” he managed, easing himself off the couch with as little jostling as possible. “Slight change of plan.”
“Yeah?” Dabi played along, grimacing through his own nausea. “And what’s that?”
Hawks felt a belch rise in his throat and cupped a hand over his mouth. “I’m gonna go puke,” he spoke through his fingers. “And you’re gonna pretend it never happened.”
“Jesus Christ , Tweety–”
Hawks didn’t stick around to hear the other half of Dabi’s sentiment. He skidded over the hardwood floor and stumbled into the bathroom, barely getting himself to the toilet before a violent retch doubled him over. It was a miracle, really, that he got it all into the bowl. A feather closed the door behind him; he didn’t trust himself to move from this exact spot, braced on his knees over the bowl, letting his spit pool over his tongue and drip into the water. He didn’t feel anywhere near done, his stomach still aching and bloated and churning. The realization had him moaning out loud.
A wet burp worked its way up his throat, hinging itself on a heave at the end. More yakitori and rice splattered into the water, and Hawks planted both hands on the toilet rim to lower himself to his knees. If he didn’t sit down, he was going to fall down, and braining himself on his own toilet was hardly the way for a top hero to go out.
Catch your breath , he instructed himself as the nausea continued to ebb and flow in unsteady waves. You’re fine. You’re fine. It’s fine.
Moments from his youth, when he pushed himself (or, at least, his handlers did) so hard that he vomited on the track or the sparring mat flooded into the forefront of his brain, dizzying him with the force of memory. He remembered the taste of it; he’d been forced into a diet that he’d only learn much later on was hardly enough for someone with a raptor bird quirk, let alone a growing teenage boy in general. It had been years since then and he couldn’t bring himself to eat miso or natto, recalling all too well how it looked as a sour, half-digested mess on the training room floor. The disgusted, disappointed looks of his instructors.
They’d made him clean it up, which had only made him sicker. More than once he’d had to use the mop bucket as a vomiting receptacle. No one had offered comfort in the form of a gentle hand or a cool cloth or a bottle of water. No one had asked him if he was alright. They had merely asked if he was able to continue– and it wasn’t really a question, because they had made it clear from the beginning what would happen if he ever said no. The most he ever earned was a moment to himself in the bathroom to clean himself up and gulp water down from the sink– water that he sometimes threw right back up because he drank it too fast. His mother had never taught him to sip slowly.
He fought back a whimper as his wings puddled sadly behind him, the lines of feathers drooping and melting into each other, their tips beating and twitching as nausea continued to swirl in his stomach and bubble up into his chest.
He wasn’t there anymore, he reminded himself. He was in his own home, and this fucking sucked , but he was okay. No one was disappointed in him. No one was angry.
With a loud bang that startled Hawks upright, nearly making him retch from such an abrupt movement, the bathroom door slammed open to reveal Dabi leaning on the threshold.
Alright, so, one person was angry.
“Move,” Dabi growled. He had one hand over his mouth and the other pushing up the faded cotton of his tank top to rest on his bare stomach.
“ Occupied ,” Hawks hissed back. No way was he going to let Dabi take the toilet in his own home. He was going to stand his ground, goddammit.
Dabi lurched, and he stumbled to the sink as a retch tore up his throat. The sound alone was enough to send Hawks gagging again, ducking his head into the bowl as his stomach found more for him to belch up. It hadn’t felt like he’d eaten this much. God, he hoped his relationship with chicken would be salvageable after this.
Dabi heaved and heaved over the sink, holding himself up on trembling arms; he’d turned the faucet on, so the running water muffled the nauseating splatter of vomit on porcelain, but not by much.
“Your–” Dabi hiccupped– “your fault, asshole.”
Hawks groaned in response and let his head drop against the toilet seat, mercifully cool against his flushed cheek.
Okay, so, maybe this wasn’t the first time this had happened. He had a stomach stronger than most (sometimes people cringed at how rare he liked his meat cooked, or how much raw fish he could eat without risk of mercury poisoning), and he was prone to hubris when it came to eating; in what he could eat and in how much.
If he was sick right now, he couldn’t imagine what rollercoaster a body like Dabi’s was going through.
As his stomach began to settle for the time being, he grew more and more aware of how Dabi was struggling at the sink.
“Hey…” Hawks trailed off, turning his head to stifle a queasy burp into the meat of his shoulder. “It’s okay, we’re okay…”
Dabi shuddered as he gasped for air, spit dripping from his chin. “Fuck you,” he managed.
“Yeah, that’s fair.” He flushed the mess down and sat back against the opposite wall as he caught his breath. Dabi was still hiccupping and groaning and cursing. Hawks extended one wing, the tips of his feathers brushing up and down Dabi’s back. He couldn’t manage to stand right now; this was the most he could do.
“You did this to me.” Dabi was clearly trying to sound threatening, but it was hard to pull off when his voice came out in the wavering rasp it was.
“I dunno if you’ve noticed,” Hawks croaked back, “but I’m kinda in the same boat as you, dumbass.”
“Oh, god.” Smoke licked a line up Dabi’s cheek. “So you did poison me. You just poisoned you , too.”
“I didn’t mean to!”
“I almost wish you had.” Dabi belched and cursed again.
“I can’t believe I’ve been betrayed like this,” Hawks muttered.
“By who?” Dabi demanded.
“ Food! ”
Dabi sank to his knees, his head thunking against the sink cabinets. “God, I hate you.”
-
They slowly but surely migrated to Hawks’ couch. Hawks grabbed the small trash bin in the bathroom, then thought better of it and also retrieved a large mixing bowl from the kitchen (which he thanked god he had, given how little he actually used his kitchen).
Dabi had taken the corner farthest from him and closest to the door, head in his hands.
“They’re expecting me back by now,” he said. The PLF was always informed of their interactions– although the minutiae of their activities was left undocumented.
“You can’t walk back like this,” Hawks protested. “And I definitely can’t fly you.”
“Then I’ll teleport,” Dabi grumbled.
“Right, ‘cause that definitely won’t fuck up your stomach.”
Dabi made a sound between a growl and a groan and leaned back against the couch, closing his eyes and breathing heavily against the lingering nausea. Sweat beaded up along his upper lip and his brow, and it only served to make Hawks all the more aware of his own perspiration.
He hated being ill. Even something as mild as a head cold, he hated it. At the very least, it meant his senses were dulled and he couldn’t do his job as well. At the worst, it meant he couldn’t do his job at all.
A sharp cramp rippled through his stomach, almost rendering him doubled-over. Yeah, this was a “can’t do his job at all” situation without a doubt. He flopped down on the other end of the couch, resigned to his circumstances. It would’ve been ten times worse in his flight gear– his thermal wear was skin-tight and unforgiving against bloating.
“As soon as this is over, I’m gonna kick your ass.” Dabi had thrown an arm over his face, shielding his eyes from the light. It was bright in here. Hawks sent a wobbling feather to turn off the overhead and switch on the lamp by Dabi’s arm of the couch, casting the living room in a soft orange glow that was much less painful.
“My ass is kinda kicking itself for you, don’t you think?”
“... Fair enough.”
Another cramp shot through his gut, this time succeeding in pulling a moan out of him. Dabi peeked at him from under his arm.
“Birdy.”
“Yeah, sorry, it just– ah, it hurts.”
Dabi watched him for a moment longer.
“Come here.”
Hawks squinted at him with suspicion. “You come here to me.”
“ Hawks .”
“Fine!”
He shifted over on the couch until he was in the middle. Dabi met him the rest of the way, and without even asking permission, lifted up his shirt to reveal his bloated and aching stomach. Hawks squawked in protest, trying to shove Dabi away, but then Dabi’s palm came down around the curve of his belly.
“O-oh.”
It was hot, but not uncomfortably so. It felt like the baths he’d take after long work hours. It was really, really nice.
“Figured this would stop you from making your weird noises,” Dabi mumbled.
“Hey!” Of course Dabi would have to make this compassionate gesture rude somehow.
“Don’t ‘hey’ me, I’m right.”
He was. The heat soothed his twisting muscles, stifling the cramps and helping to clear his head of the pain-induced fog.
“Feels good,” he admitted. “Can I…?”
“What, touch me?” Dabi snorted. “No.”
“But you’re hurting.”
“I don’t care.”
Hawks threaded his arm underneath Dabi’s and yanked his tank top up to his chest, laying his own hand flat on Dabi’s stomach. Dabi recoiled, but Hawks’ wing wrapped behind him and kept him in place.
“Let me,” Hawks said. It wasn’t a request.
“I have staples, you stupid parakeet–”
“I’ll be gentle.”
Dabi rarely let Hawks touch him at all, let alone like this. Even during sex he was strictly no-touch, devoting all his focus onto Hawks and leaving no room for himself. And, sure, sex with Dabi was kind of incredible, but Hawks wanted to be able to give back. It wasn’t in his nature to simply take and take.
So this–
“Okay?”
“Yeah,” Dabi breathed, letting his eyes flutter shut as a rough exhale left him. “It’s okay.”
– this was going to his head, fast.
Being a spy and having Dabi as his middle man (and frequent fuckbuddy– tomato, tomah-to) necessitated subordination. Hawks played the part of a submissive, obedient (if not slightly cheeky) devotee. Here, now, his predatory instincts swept over him like a tidal wave, practically drowning out his own nausea in favor of tending to the weakened villain next to him. Hawks had Dabi right where the animal part of his brain wanted; under his hand, panting, unable to escape.
Hawks disliked that part of himself. It made him uncomfortable, taking such pleasure in domination. But perhaps that was part of heroism, too– domination, and power.
“Really didn’t agree with you, huh?”
“How are you totally fine?”
The truth was, he wasn’t. The urge to gag sat at the back of his throat, waiting for its cue. But the endorphins rushing through him made it hard to pay attention to that.
“I’m stronger than you,” was the incredibly stupid thing he decided to say. The blue-tinted rage that flashed through Dabi’s eyes was exhilarating.
Hawks’ namesake was an apex predator in its native habitat, and sharing so many of its most lethal traits meant that Hawks rarely felt truly threatened. It got boring, living like that. So when Dabi looked at him that way, like he could burn the whole city down with both of them in it, Hawks got a thrill.
“Are you trying to piss me off, little bird?”
“Is it working?”
“You’re unbelievable.” Dabi grimaced, his hand instinctively going to where Hawks’ was laid on top of his belly and overlaying it. “And you’re gonna kill me– ugh –”
He sat up straighter, then leaned forward with a hard swallow. A knot of nausea tied itself in Hawks’ stomach, and he placed the mixing bowl between Dabi’s legs.
“I’m sorry you’re so miserable, hot stuff,” Hawks murmured, rubbing the Dabi’s arm up and down.
“You don’t sound like you’re sorry,” Dabi accused, eyes flickering with anger again before he turned back to the bowl.
Hawks wasn’t sure what he looked like when he was sick, but he was quickly becoming acquainted with how Dabi looked when he was. The villain’s entire body went into it, locking up and shaking as his stomach purged itself. It was impossible for him to do it quietly. Each retch was loud and painful and did not help Hawks’ own queasy belly.
“Dabi–” He hiccupped and fumbled for the trash bin. “I’m still here, I’ve got you, I just–”
The urge to gag finally released, a trickle of hot vomit bubbling up his throat and spilling down his front before he could realize it was happening.
“F-fuck,” he stuttered, and that was all he was able to get out before the floodgates opened again. He buried his face in the bin and heaved, the offending food in his stomach coming up in a sludgy mess.
“Karma’s a bitch,” Dabi croaked next to him.
“Fuck off,” Hawks gasped, then retched again. He hadn’t let himself face it before, but he felt kind of awful. His stomach let out an audible gurgle and he couldn’t help but whimper. A string of drool hung off his lower lip and wouldn’t detach even when he spit. He was dizzy and disoriented, he felt like he could keel over, he–
“Hey.” A clammy but firm hand rested at the nape of his neck. “Breathe, birdie.”
Hawks managed a wavering, erratic inhale, then let it out all in one rush.
“Okay, that’s… better, I guess.” Dabi belched into his fist. “I dunno how much control you have over your feathers right now, but– hic! – if you can get some water? And maybe a wet cloth…”
Hawks could do that. It was a relief to have something besides his nausea to turn his attention to, actually. It took a bit longer than usual since his senses were fuzzy, but his feathers returned with two glasses of water and a cloth dampened from the bathroom sink. He sank back against the couch cushions, eyes closed, deciding the best course of action was to simply fade out from his surroundings and forget what was going on.
But then something cold touched his face, and his eyes blinked open.
Dabi had laid the cloth on his forehead and was himself working through his glass of water, slowly but steadily.
“How’d you know what you’re doing?” Hawks mumbled.
“I’m sick a lot.” Dabi shrugged. “My choices were learning how to take care of myself or dying.”
Hawks knew Dabi wasn’t the healthiest person, but hearing it from Dabi directly was different. It was sobering.
“Drink,” Dabi instructed with a gesture to the untouched glass of water.
“It’ll just–”
“– come right back up, I know,” Dabi finished for him. “But dry-heaving is worse.”
Hawks took the glass with both hands, not trusting his shaking grip enough to only use one, and sipped delicately.
“You’ll probably get over this soon, anyway,” Dabi added as an afterthought.
Hawks’ heart crumbled a little, even amidst the nausea. Dabi was right; he’d be ill for a few more hours, and then it would be over. His body didn’t like to drag things along. He doubted Dabi could say the same.
“I didn’t mean to make you sick,” he said.
“I know.” Dabi smirked a little into his glass. “You don’t have it in you to be that cruel.”
“What, and you do? Mr. Heating Pad Hands?”
“Oh, fuck off. I did that to shut you up.”
“Whatever you wanna tell yourself,” Hawks said.
After the water went down and subsequently reappeared, they both retreated to Hawks’ bedroom and crawled under the covers with their respective vomiting receptacles placed on the floor within easy reach. Before that, though, they changed clothes– Hawks into a hoodie and sweatpants, and Dabi into an old t-shirt that went down to Hawks’ knees. Dabi also downed half an ancient bottle of Pepto Bismol that he’d found in Hawks’ bathroom, which was definitely more than the proper dosage. Dabi argued that since it was expired, he’d need more to feel the effects. Hawks thought that Dabi just liked bubble gum flavor– and petty theft.
He pressed his face into his pillow and took as deep a breath as his bloated belly would allow. He tried to ignore the feeling of relief and comfort that came with Dabi’s weight dipping into the mattress next to him.
“Don’t die while I’m asleep,” he mumbled into the cotton, already feeling himself begin to doze off.
“Right back at you,” Dabi replied, sounding all at once very close and very far away.
-
When Hawks woke up two hours later, the sun was low in the sky and he felt like he’d been hit by a snowplow. His stomach was sore, his throat was raw, and waking up at sundown had him feeling unstuck in time, but the nausea had receded into a dull and manageable ache. He could have gone out on patrol, if needed. That’s how he usually measured his wellness– whether or not he could perform.
( Performance. He caught himself using that word in his head more and more often. It was a word Dabi liked to use. Not service , not duty. Heroism, to Dabi, was an act. Akin to a burlesque or a masquerade. People put on their costumes, donned their masks and their personas, and pretended to be good. Hawks liked to think that he, at least, was not pretending.)
But he didn’t have patrol scheduled today. And that was a blessing, because Dabi had not recovered.
The villain was sitting up with his legs swung over the edge of the mattress, heels hooked on the bed frame, and the sick bowl in his lap. Even in the dark Hawks could tell he was shivering. The t-shirt Hawks had lent him to sleep in had a sharp vee of sweat running down the back.
“Dabi?” His voice was hoarse from sleep and his earlier episodes of retching.
“Yeah,” came the equally hoarse reply, followed by a painful dry-heave.
“Oh, hot stuff.” Hawks pushed himself up first onto his elbows, then the rest of the way up with his forearms. Using his core muscles was not the move right now. His stomach was still pretty tender. “Baby, I’m so sorry…”
Dabi gagged, bringing up little more than bile. The bowl was practically empty besides a few pools of frothing, steaming spit. Hawks tried to touch him and recoiled at the heat. He wasn’t burned, but the temperature was a shock.
“You’re really burning up.”
“Happens sometimes,” Dabi explained unhelpfully. His bangs were matted to his forehead, and there were dark circles of sweat under both arms of his shirt. He smelled like a bonfire and a coin mint had a baby, like ashes and metal.
“We gotta get you cooled off before you scramble your brain,” Hawks said, and gently tugged on Dabi’s arm.
“Can’t–” Dabi’s body lurched as he heaved again.
“You can bring the bowl, baby. But you gotta get up.”
Hawks was awash with guilt. Where did he get the nerve to have recovered while Dabi was so ill? It made taking care of him easier, of course, but it felt boastful. It felt rude.
Once they reached the bathroom, Dabi took shelter by the toilet while Hawks ran a cool bath. He at least knew how to do this; when he was younger, he would sometimes be rewarded for all his training with a bath. Tepid water, not cold, to avoid shocking his system. They always felt better than he could imagine. More than once he’d sat in the water and cried, both out of relief from the pain and the pain itself.
“Ice,” Dabi slurred, his cheek smushed against the toilet seat.
“What?”
“In the bath.”
Hawks shook his head. “You can’t stand that much cold.”
“I can,” Dabi insisted, swallowing hard around the nausea that threatened to overtake him. “My body, it likes cold… can’t deal with heat.” When Hawks hesitated, he added, “ please. ”
That did it. Hawks sent a couple feathers to the kitchen to grab a bowl of ice. Then again, and again, until there was an even sheet of ice cubes floating along the surface of the water. Hawks dipped a finger in experimentally and immediately pulled back. It was fucking freezing.
“Dabi, are you–”
“I’m sure,” Dabi croaked, already getting to his feet. His knees buckled, and Hawks instinctively looped his arms under Dabi’s to keep him upright. Dabi sagged against him, breathing heavily and pressing his head against Hawks’ shoulder.
“I just don’t wanna kill you, hot stuff,” Hawks said with a nervous laugh.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” Dabi mumbled into the crook of his neck. It made Hawks laugh at the same time his heart split down the middle. Dabi did that, sometimes; made him want to smile and sob in the same breath.
Dabi wasn’t funny , exactly, but he had an odd sort of humor about his life and the things that he’d gone through (things that were still in no way clear, things Hawks in no way had enough information on to bring back to the Commission). It made Hawks feel better about his own past. Spending time with someone who had their own fair share of darkness in their life was… oddly refreshing. Around other heroes, Hawks felt like an outlier. With Dabi, and with the rest of the League, his pain was normal.
He helped Dabi out of his sweat-stained shirt but left him the dignity of his underwear. The water audibly steamed as Dabi’s body sank into the water; the relief that washed over Dabi’s face made Hawks’ heart swell.
“Okay?” Hawks asked.
“Feels good,” Dabi replied with a sigh. Steam continued to waft off of his body in swirls, bubbles rising from his submerged body parts. The ice was melting fast.
“You want soap?”
“Do I reek?”
“Kinda.”
Dabi reached for the bar of soap on the ledge, failed, and kept his gaze downcast while Hawks got it for him.
“I can wash you,” Hawks offered, hastily adding, “only if you want.”
“S’embarrassing…” Dabi leaned to the side, resting his head against the tiled wall. His breaths came out rapid and erratic; it was obvious he hadn’t gotten through his nausea yet. Hawks glanced down to make sure he had the sick bowl ready in case he needed it– it would be no fun for either of them if Dabi threw up into the bath water, even if he was barely bringing up anything.
“The whole day has been embarrassing,” Hawks said.
With that, he began to run the bar of soap over Dabi’s back. Despite his protests, Dabi was limp and pliant under his touch, adjusting his limbs when Hawks needed. His skin was cooling rapidly from the ice bath. Hawks felt cold just looking at him, but Dabi didn’t even shiver.
More and more questions about Dabi and his quirk sprouted in Hawks’ mind, and for a moment he considered asking them. Dabi was vulnerable right now, feverish and half-delirious and nearly naked in his bathtub. He was more likely to answer anything Hawks asked right now than any other time. But Hawks couldn’t bring himself to do it. The idea of taking advantage of Dabi like that made him queasy all over again– which was ridiculous, because it was Dabi , but Hawks’ compassion seemed to know no boundaries. He couldn’t help but care, even to his own deficit.
“How’s your stomach?” He asked gently.
“Still feel like I could puke,” Dabi admitted. He spoke with his eyes closed. “But I’m pretty sure I got nothing left.”
Hawks cupped his hands and dipped them into the water, letting it pool into them and then pouring it over Dabi’s hair until it was wet all the way through. He didn’t bother shampooing, merely combing his fingers through the hair to get rid of any sweat or tangles.
“Why aren’t you like this all the time?” He asked before he could stop himself.
“Like what?”
Now he had to come up with a tactful way to elaborate. “You know, like. Open to me touching you.”
Dabi’s eyes blinked open. “You do touch me.”
“Not like this.”
Dabi breathed in and out a few times before answering. It wasn’t an answer Hawks liked, and judging by his tone, it wasn’t an answer Dabi liked giving.
“I’d have to be a different person to let you touch me like this all the time.”
And what would that person look like? Would that person still be Dabi? Or would he be whoever he had been before?
There was one thing the Commission had never quite convinced him of, and it was that villains were somehow born into existence fully-formed. As if a quirk could determine someone’s nature, infuse them with evil in utero, curse them from the moment they’re born. Hawks didn’t believe that. There had been someone before Dabi, a boy with a family and a life, hopes and dreams. Had Dabi wanted to be a hero, too? Had he been unable?
More questions he couldn’t ask.
Instead he said, “Let’s get you dried off, yeah? I think you’ve been in your little cryo chamber long enough.”
Dabi was loose-limbed and sleepy in his arms as he pulled him out of the tub and wrapped him in a towel.
“I might fly out for some Pocari, or something,” Hawks murmured as he guided Dabi down the hall. “You need more than just water.”
“Gonna leave me here alone?” Dabi grinned, evidently still a bit feverish. “Really putting your trust in the wrong places, pretty bird.”
“Nah, I figure you’re too out of it to do any serious damage,” he replied.
“Oh, go fuck yourself.”
But there was no real bite to it. And when Hawks eased him back into bed, still warm from their bodies, Dabi closed his eyes like he was home.