Chapter Text
I
The first time Hawks sees you there's flour on your face.
It’s midafternoon and he craves something sweet. He doesn’t think twice when he walks into the little cafe; it’s a small, cozy establishment, away from the busiest parts of the city. A shelter from the cold air, a brief respite before continuing his patrol.
Even someone with a reputation such as his— that he’s worked hard to earn— needs to pause in his constant rushing from one place to another and eat. Sometimes. Or so he’s told.
(He’s not great at it. He knows. He’s working on it. Kind of. Whatever, get off his back.)
He notices your apron almost immediately— it would have been impossible not to, even without his sharp eyesight; the horrid thing is bubblegum pink with huge frills at the edges, decorated all over with misshapen heart cutouts of various different fabrics. The garment seems to be held together by clumsy stitches, glitter, glue, and the dreams of a five-year-old who wants to grow up to be a mermaid-space princess-unicorn tamer.
The little avian part of his brain appreciates how kitschy it is.
His gait is all practiced casualness as he approaches the counter to appraise the baked goods, happily waving to a few fans who have not stopped whispering loudly among themselves since the moment he stepped through the door.
“What’s good?”
You look up from your phone, blinking as if only just noticing him. Your eyes widen momentarily in both recognition and surprise; of course you’ve seen him around, most people have at some point or another, in flashes of bright red in the sky, a blink and he’s gone. You’ve seen him in a few interviews too, fragments of them, white noise in the background as you experiment in the kitchen of your apartment.
Even someone who doesn’t follow hero gossip closely is somewhat familiar with the top of the charts. Number… three. You’re almost sure.
(You don’t pay a lot of attention to those things.)
“Uh,” you say, like a conversational prodigy, “everything. But the cookies are still warm.”
He gets a dozen to go. People are starting to react more strongly to his presence. Not many heroes frequent your little cafe, the usual crowd is older ladies who live in the neighborhood and kids from the school two streets over.
You’re still counting his change as he reaches into the paper bag, too tempted by the promise of warm, crispy cookies with molten chocolate chips to wait. You watch attentively but pretend you don’t— that’s okay, he can tell you’re staring anyway— as he takes a bite—
The way his eyes widen isn’t unexpected— it’s the way his pupils constrict into thin slits at once that startle you. You didn’t know he could do that.
You feel your face easing into a smile.
“Fuck,” he says quietly, like a naughty child afraid of being caught— he does have a reputation to uphold, as he’s been told; it wouldn’t do for people to overhear him use such language in public. He doesn’t feel like being reprimanded by the Commission for this again.
Your smile widens.
“Good?” Judging by everything about your expression, you clearly know the answer already, but he’s willing to indulge you, just this once.
(It won’t be just this once.)
“Yeah,” he devours the rest of the cookie quickly, “who made these?” There’s such a smugness to your expression that there’s only one possible answer, really, “you?”
You nod.
He licks at a crumb off the pad of his thumb absently before returning your smile. It tastes like sugar and vanilla and the leather of his gloves.
“I think you just got yourself a new customer.”
You finish the transaction. He leaves, though not before signing a few autographs. You work until the end of your shift. Life goes on. You don’t see him again for some weeks, you don’t know the way he practically inhales the cookies as soon as he’s back outside, before they get cold, vanilla and sugar coating his tongue in sweet comfort. He can be greedy with food when he remembers to eat, a remnant of— something. Childhood, instability, whatever it is they’ve got written on his files.
Not that he thinks about it often.
It’s all in the past, he’s over it.
He’s well-adjusted.
Whatever.
𓆰
You don’t usually work the counter unless your coworker has to step away for a moment or two; no, your job is in the heart of the little cafe, baking cookies and cakes, kneading sweet bread, icing cupcakes, rolling colorful mochi. You enjoy your job and the people you work with. Most of all, you enjoy the joy in people’s faces when they try your confections, the satisfied smiles that make something warm curl in the pit of your stomach, as if a purring cat has settled there.
You’re in the middle of making petal after petal of sugar flowers when you feel eyes on you. You’re standing directly in front of the window overseeing the front part of the cafe, so when you look up you can clearly see the front door, the register, and a pair of golden eyes looking straight at you.
Huh.
Hawks gives you a two-finger salute, quick and easy, as he waits to get whatever he asked for. You nod, then try to blow the loose strands of hair that fall over your eyes with a puff of breath. That only makes it worse. You go back to your flowers, but think you can hear him chuckle, faint over the sounds of brewing coffee.
He stays to eat this time. You can tell because of the crescendo in noise, the incremental influx of customers, the repetition of words such as ‘Hawks’ and ‘picture’ and ‘autograph’. You’re not a stranger to the rush, you lose yourself in the motions of making extra cute confections, the ones particularly popular with teenage girls. You think— you want to think— a couple of squeals are not for the pro hero, but because of your lovingly, carefully shaped sugar flowers.
𓆰
You see him occasionally, he stops by for a sweet treat every now and then. You’re busy— you know he must be too— so you don’t talk. Sometimes you see a flash of crimson feathers at the edge of your vision as you fill macaroons or make a batch of royal icing. Sometimes you just hear the small ruckus he creates by being there, the ripples he causes, even hours after. Your coworker lets you know he keeps ordering different things every time.
You wonder if he’s intent on sampling every single thing your cafe offers as long as it’s sweet. You wonder if it’s public knowledge that the popular hero has such a sweet tooth.
You cease wondering once you get busy tempering chocolate.
𓆰
The busiest day of the year for you has to be Valentine’s Day. People come in for little dates, or to get chocolate and sweets destined for loved ones. You put extra effort into the decorations, make sure every single heart-shaped bonbon is just perfect. You steal looks at the customers through the window whenever you get a second to breathe; your eyes soften when you see nervous girls picking things from the display, shifting their weight and biting their nails. You catch one of them mumbling something under her breath. You think she might be practicing a love confession.
It’s really fucking cute.
The day is long, but you all survive. You stay open longer on Valentine’s Day. You and your coworkers congratulate each other on a job well done, someone fakes dramatically fainting across a table, someone else sneaks a shot of liquor in celebration. Kitchenware gets washed and put away, whatever food is left of the workday gets put in cardboard boxes, some to take home by the staff, the rest destined for shelters.
Two minutes to closing time— and once you’re all completely sure no one else is coming by, it’s already after sundown, after all— most of your coworkers are done. It’s just you and the woman who works the counter— a fun lady in her early forties, mother of two— and, of course, your own little piece of chocolate decadence sitting in its pink cardboard box on the counter. Your name is scrawled on top, underlined twice in bold finality. This is your very own prize for surviving the day, and no one is going to take it from you.
You’re finishing sanitizing your workspace when the little bell on the doorway alerts you of someone wandering in. You don’t look up, instead overhear your coworker say sorry, we’re about to close, but there’s something different in her tone, a hesitance not brought by the endless day. Curiosity piqued, you wander out of the kitchen, a rag thrown over your shoulder, apron still on and in dire need of a wash.
Your eyebrows pinch when you see him.
Hawks looks like shit.
There are dark circles under his eyes, dirt on his uniform; even his wings, usually bold and bright, look a little droopy. He looks like the image for the ‘exhaustion’ entry on a dictionary. And maybe ‘disappointment’ too. Your coworker and you exchange a glance.
You look at the winged hero. You look at the clock on the wall. You look at the barren display. You look at your boxed cake. You repeat the process: hero-clock-display-cake. You sigh. It’s impossible to fight against your own nature, and your nature, tragically, is to take care of people.
To Hawks you say: “sit,” to your coworker, “go home to your kids, I’ll close.”
She doesn’t need to be told twice, makes quick work of gathering her things and leaving, turning over the sign at the door as she does, letting the world out there know that you’re actually closed now.
You put the kettle on. You make tea. You close the mint green curtains. You turn off most of the lights. Hawks says nothing. He sits where you pointed at, idly watching the decorations on the walls, following with his eyes as the metallic paper hearts reflect the half-light you’re both wrapped in.
You bring two mugs to the table, a pair of disposable forks, and your box. He turns his attention to you in mild curiosity, only to perk up as you open the box, showing your pretty, pretty prize inside, nestled in pink like a small piece of sugary heaven. A small cake, heart-shaped, white with candied rose petals all over, arranged in a way that seems both deliberate and completely effortless.
“Eat,” you instruct.
He stabs his fork into the cake as soon as the command leaves your mouth, and takes what you think is the biggest bite he can manage. His spine suddenly straightens— it’s like he comes back to life all at once.
It’s cute.
It’s really, really cute.
“I never want to stop eating this,” he says around a forkful, “what even is this?”
You sip your tea, pride dancing in your eyes as you simply watch him enjoy this. You wonder— is he usually this expressive about food? “Raspberry coulis, with almonds and rose water in the sponge. The icing is white chocolate.”
He doesn’t reply— you’re not sure he’s paying attention to anything but the act of eating cake. You let him eat for a while longer as you sip your tea, the sound broken only by the occasional, frankly ridiculous sounds he’s making as he eats. After a particularly pornographic moan, you snort into your tea, and finally grab your fork to join him.
He narrows his eyes.
“This is my cake,” you explain, “I’m sharing it, not giving it away.”
You don’t think he’s fully satisfied by the turn of events. You think he’s entirely capable of sitting here and eating this whole cake in one sitting. You don’t care, hero or not, you’ve earned at least part of it.
With a few more bites, he seems to settle more into his seat, into his bones. He takes off his visor, his gloves, his jacket. It’s chilly outside, even more so in the air, but inside the cafe is pleasantly warm. He can feel his torpor slipping away; he can feel himself more awake than he’s been all day, less exhausted. This is a good cake.
This is a good place.
He flexes his fingers, wraps both his hands around the mug, lets the heat seep into his skin, into his blood. You watch meanwhile, slowly chewing, swallowing. When he stretches his wings you stop with the fork in midair, attention caught by red feathers and how they move. One specific spot looks… ruffled. Messy. You purse your lips, knowing it’s going to bother you if you keep looking at them.
It already bothers you.
He’s either oblivious, or he’s so used to the stares he simply chooses to ignore you.
“It smells so good in here.”
“In the cafe? Where we’ve been baking all day? No.” Your tone is flat.
“Ha ha” he says.
There’s a beat of silence, and then curiosity gets the best of you. “What do you smell?”
The way he cocks his head is so endearingly birdish you smile around your fork. Does he do other things like that? Maybe you would know if you paid more attention to hero interviews. Maybe you should do that.
(You won’t.)
“Sugar and vanilla. And maybe something warm.”
“Warm,” you repeat.
“Honey?” He shakes his head, closes his eyes. You watch his nose twitch. “Maybe it’s something spicy? I don’t— cinnamon?”
“Cinnamon,” you repeat, again.
Warmth and sweetness.
“Mm.” You say.
He shrugs it off, gets back to eating.
Sugar and vanilla. Warmth and sweetness. There’s nothing simple about the basics. You nurse your tea, keep glancing at his wings and think cinnamon, cinnamon, cinnamon—
It’s definitely bothering you.
“May I…?” you gesture towards a particularly ruffled spot, “your feathers are all—” you click your tongue, “it’s kind of bothering me.” It’s so bothering you, the way there’s feathers askew, pointing in different directions. Sometimes you just hate it when things are in the wrong place. “Isn’t it uncomfortable?”
“Uh.” Quirk etiquette is different for everyone, you know that. It’s entirely possible you overstepped. “I mean…” he shifts in his seat, breaks off another piece of cake with the fork but doesn’t bring it to his mouth. You’re about to tell him not to play with his food, but there’s only a certain amount of bossing around you can do to a stranger. “It’s a bit uncomfortable, but it’s not— you’re asking to… touch them?”
“Fix them.” You clarify.
“Fix them.” He pushes that piece of cake around the plate. “Okay, yeah. That's fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah. Yes.”
He stretches his wing as you reach for that spot; you meet in the middle. His feathers are softer than you thought, but you know he can make them sharp in the blink of an eye, use them as weapons, and, well, versatility is something to admire. Under your gentle fingertips, they remain pliant. You run the pad of your index over a barb, set to work carefully, quietly, giving the task your full focus. Just like making sugar flowers. Eventually, the patch is smoothed, made right, feathers all pointing in the right direction again. You run your fingers over that spot again anyway, indulging; his wings are— pretty. Pretty big too. You’ve never seen them up close before, and now you think you might want to again.
(People don’t ask to fix his wings. They ask to touch them— he says no, usually, unless they don’t ask at all and just go for it and he hates that a little bit but it’s mostly kids who do that anyways—
People don’t ask to fix his wings, phrasing it like that fucks with his head a little bit, because it’s kind of like you’re asking to— he’s overthinking this.)
“There.” You lean back and he’s staring, he’s been staring— avian, it’s so avian, those golden eyes and their laser focus on you— Hawks shifts and his wings puff up, stretch as much as they can manage without knocking into anything indoors, then curl up, just a little, towards you, twice the size they just were.
(Pretty, pretty, pretty.)
Something’s happening, you think, maybe, but you don’t get to ask, because he leans in with a napkin, rubs at your cheek in a way that can’t be qualified as anything but fastidious.
“There.” He mimics after you. “Powdered sugar.”
“Ah.”
You think he’s avoiding your eyes as he keeps eating. His wings stay fluffed up the entire time.
(You try not to think too much about how it makes you want to bury your face in those feathers, just as whenever you see a particularly fluffy dog.)
𓆰
Hawks insists on seeing you home. You insist it’s not necessary, you live nearby.
“It’s only fair,” he buttons up his jacket, hides inside the fur collar, “also part of hero work, ensuring a civilian gets home safe after dark.”
“Fine,” you say, despite thinking he is a liar.
You close the cafe and lead the way, hands safely tucked into your pockets. The first couple minutes are spent in silence and it’s…. nice. He’s a lot less imposing than other heroes you’ve seen— physically speaking he’s smaller, sure, than someone like Endeavor, who’s probably the most intimidating man you’ve ever seen and you’ve only caught a glimpse of him from a distance— but it’s not just that. You think you might get why he’s so popular; he’s certainly likeable, informal, easy to get along with. Maybe you will pay more attention next time you catch a video of him on your social media feed.
“Thanks for the cake, by the way. I think I really needed it.”
You study him from the corner of your eye. He looks— well, a little cold, maybe. But better than earlier.
“Bad for your teeth but good for the soul,” you say.
“Something like that. Earlier today, there was a pheromone quirk villain. On Valentine’s Day.”
You whistle between your teeth. “Sounds fucked up.”
“Mhm.”
“You look like a man who’s seen a lot.”
“Too much. I’ve seen too much.”
“As in…?” You prod.
“As in, I’m sure several people will probably get fined for indecent exposure.”
You snort.
“You think that’s funny? More like horrifying. The things I’ve seen will forever be burned in my brain.”
You’re giggling now.
“You’re laughing. I will be tormented until the end of my days by the memories of naked strangers I did not want to see, and you’re laughing.”
𓆰
Your home is not far; an apartment on the top floor of a squat building. You fiddle with the keys in your hand, smile at the pro hero in front of you.
“Thanks for walking me home,” you say. You still think it was unnecessary, but nice of him. Kind. He’s kind, isn’t he?
“Can I ask you something?” He waits for your nod, then continues, “Do you have like a… baking-related quirk? Is that why that cake was so good?”
“Oh,” you say, “no.”
“No?”
“No.”
He waits for you to continue. You don’t. You see him childishly pouting before you close the door to your building, leaving him firmly outside.
𓆰
He shows up again the following week, right after closing. You’re wiping tables, alone, lost in the motions of your task, when you hear tapping on the window. He’s right outside, shoulders hunched, with the decency of looking just sheepish enough. The lower part of his face is hidden in the collar of his jacket.
You shoot him a flat look.
He bats his eyelashes prettily at you.
You huff, then unlock the door for him.
“Are you a stray cat?” You ask, the inflection in your voice just warm enough to tickle the back of his neck. “Did I feed you scraps once and now I can’t shake you off?”
“Nya,” he says.
You turn around at once so he doesn’t see you laugh. “Box behind the counter,” you instruct, “don’t eat them all.”
𓆰
He leaves you one. Out of the eleven macaroons you salvaged, he leaves you one.
“Oh my god,” you say.
“If you want, but ‘Hawks’ is fine.”
“Oh my god,” you repeat.
He swallows, sticks out his tongue to lap at the crumbs of his crimes clinging to the corner of his mouth. You take everything back: he’s not likeable, he’s not kind, he’s a terrible, terrible person and you hate him.
(Except you don’t.)
“You should take it as a compliment,” he insists.
You’re broken, staring at the single macaroon left, a pretty, lonely thing that matches your apron in color. You wonder if that’s why he left you that one. If nothing else, at least he’s got a decent sense of aesthetics.
“They’re so good I just didn’t want to stop eating. I don’t know what it is, but your food always makes me feel so much better. Are you sure it’s not your quirk?”
“I’m going to pluck you,” you say, “like a chicken.”
He smiles as if he hasn’t committed crimes right in your own jurisdiction. Jail. Jail for Hawks, for one thousand years.
“Fine, no baking-related quirk— is it something else, then?”
“I’m going to throw you in the oven,” you continue, because now you have something he wants, and you’re not going to give it to him. As a punishment for his crimes. Ha. That will teach him. That will surely not make things worse whatsoever, in any possible way, at all. “With lemon and rosemary.”
“Really?”
“Maybe deep fry you.”
“Mm.”
That’s all the warning you get before he strikes— right, he’s fast, that’s like, his thing, isn’t it? Fastest pro hero in the country, potentially in the world, or something like that, you should ask him, maybe— and there he is, triumphantly holding the last macaroon between his thumb and forefinger, a smug look on his face.
“Tell me your quirk and it’s yours.” It was already yours, thank you very much. You’ll give him nothing.
(You think this is some stupid feedback loop— you won’t tell him because he wants to know, he wants to know because you won’t tell him, and, well, you suppose you’ll find out who can out-stubborn the other soon enough.)
“I don’t know,” you roll your shoulders into an easy, careless shrug, “I have like, no gag reflex?”
His cheeks puff up with the abruptness of his laugh, and then he’s throwing his head back— he laughs with his whole body, you note, loud and shameless, mouth open wide, teeth— sharp?— showing. He laughs like its lightning coursing through him, his eyes crease closed, he leans dangerously to the side. Even his feathers ripple in extension of his laughter.
It’s a nice view.
It’s a nice sound.
Maybe you don’t hate him, not if he laughs like that at your stupid jokes; and, really, you’re too soft to stay mad at him for long, but that doesn’t stop you from crossing your arms and pretending for another minute.
“Aw,” he says.
He leans in, taps the edge of the macaroon against your pursed lips and you open your mouth to eat the whole damn thing at once. It’s good. Everything you bake is so damn good.
“You think that can be someone’s actual quirk?” Hawks says, “no gag reflex but in a weird, quirk way?”
You shrug. It’s not like you ever developed any academic curiosity towards quirk-related biology.
Hawks watches you chew with a soft smile, cheek resting on his knuckles. His wings are fluffed up again, you notice.
“What—?” You begin, but he interrupts.
“Ignore that. I’ll walk you home.”
𓆰
It’s not a routine, it can’t be; it’s not often enough, not predictable enough to call it that. You’re not always in charge of closing, he’s not always on the same schedule. Sometimes he gets there fifteen minutes after you’re gone, finds the cafe fully in the dark, and takes flight again. It’s not a routine.
But it’s nice when you two coincide. Days bleed into weeks into months and the truth is this place is a fucking balm for his soul. There’s something about the atmosphere, the warmth, the food, that soothes in ways he doesn’t fully comprehend. He thinks this is what homey is, if he had any frame of reference for what a good home is supposed to be.
And you humor him, always, without fail. You let him in, feed him, occasionally put him to work wiping tables and sweeping floors. You huff and click your tongue, you even boss him around, just a bit, but it’s all a fun wrapping, he can tell, for the warm and gooey sweetness you have inside, just that one little lava cake you let him finish. It’s in the way you carefully ice intricate designs on cookies, in the way you handle fragile caramel filigree without breaking it.
He asks about your apron at some point in between forkfuls of strawberry tart.
“It’s different from everyone else’s.” His legs are stretched under the table, yours are folded underneath you. Occasionally you bump into each other when you shift. You’ve stopped apologizing after the third time.
“My littlest sister made it for me.” There’s a tilt to your head, a sharpness to your jawline, as if daring him to pass judgment on the pink disaster and find it lacking in any way. The fierceness of pride shining in your eyes make his feathers ripple, fills him with some kind of yearning for something he doesn’t know and has no words for.
Hawks brings gloved hands to his chest in a placating gesture. “I like it! It’s nice!”
You hum. You will not tolerate criticism on your apron.
𓆰
You suppose you’ve been lucky in some aspects of your life, never having had an actual encounter with a villain since you moved to the city a couple years prior. Sure, sometimes the trains are late because someone thought it would be cool to derail them right before the morning commute, or the streets are closed with yellow tape as debris is cleared, forcing you to find alternate routes home. It’s only mildly inconvenient.
You’ve finished an early shift when it happens. You’re in a convenience store trying to decide what kind of flavored candy you want when someone comes storming through the doors. It happens fast, and next thing you know you’re being held hostage by some kind of petty criminal with a knives-for-fingers quirk as he rushes the cashier to give him all the contents of the register. Your heart hammers away in your chest; you can feel the edge of a blade against your cheekbone, another resting on your throat. You try not to move.
Your hands are shaking.
It occurs to you: you could die. You could actually die.
It’s the longest few minutes of your life.
And just like that, in a flurry of red and blond it’s all over. You stumble as you’re let go— or, more like, as the villain is pinned to the wall by razor-sharp feathers, torn from you without a chance at retaliation—; you’re somewhat out of it as you’re led outside, an arm around your shoulders to guide you to a bench. You sit, or you’re seated. You can’t really tell.
The whole ordeal lasted maybe six minutes total. So fast it might have never happened at all.
“Hey, Frills. Breathe.”
You do, or you try to. You kind of want to cry.
“You good? Hurt anywhere I can’t see?”
You shake your head, press your palms to your eyes, try to rub budding tears away before they can fully form. “I’m fine.” Your voice wavers. “Just… shaken.” You look up at him, hovering right in front of you, his wings half-spread, half-arched around you, blocking your line of sight. You can hear voices, you think other heroes are around, or maybe the police, taking statements, you can’t be sure. It all seems so far away.
You huff, shake your head again. You feel like calling your mom after this, just to hear her voice. “I’m good.” Your hands have stopped shaking at the very least. “Thank you.”
He doesn’t move away.
You make half a gesture, begin to reach for him— stop yourself before you can. It’s easier to breathe when all you can see is him and red feathers, your entire world reduced to a single person. He probably knows this. He’s good at his job.
(A request sits heavy on your tongue— how soft his wings look now, how different from moments before. You swallow back what you want to ask for, change directions. You really don’t need to be wrapped in them.)
“Uh,” you say, observing, in all your staring, a patch of primaries in disarray. Did the villain try to grab him? Were they like that beforehand? “May I?”
(This is a more manageable request.)
“Sure.” He opens his wing more fully to give you better access.
It’s more for you than for him, to have something to do with your hands. Something to help slow down the wild beating of your heart. You carefully straighten the shafts one by one, run your fingers through soft, yielding feathers. The repetitive motions calm you down, give you a small thing you can control.
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
When you’re done, you notice his wings are fluffed up again in that way that makes them look particularly soft.
He doesn't say anything, just moves, removes his gloves and gets a little packet of antibacterial wipes from his utility belt, tears it open with his teeth. He gently dabs at a thin cut on your cheekbone you didn’t even notice you had, but he doesn’t stop there; he fixes your hair, pulls your clothes back in order; you’re reminded of that first night and the way he rubbed the powdered sugar off your face. Fastidious. Fussing.
(Lingering. Not a concept usually associated with the pro hero. Does he feel the need to because you look as terrible as you feel?)
His nails rake your scalp gently and you can feel your tension seeping away more and more with each motion. Soothing, soothing. You close your eyes and let your existence be reduced to those five points of contact. It’s a small eternity until he considers his work done, and by then you’ve regained some sense of yourself, you’ve stopped wanting to cry. He moves away, folds his wings back. The world comes back in.
His feathers remain puffed up. You think there might be some kind of meaning to it, something to do with how bird-like he seems sometimes, some side effect of his quirk, possibly. You’re staring, unabashedly curious.
His wings flex under your study, ripple, stretch and fold back again and you can’t help but admire their beauty.
“I have to go,” he says, “go back on patrol.”
“Okay.”
“You’re okay, yeah?” His hands have retreated into his pockets.
“Yeah,” you say; then a little more sure: “yes.”
“Can you get home on your own?”
You nod. “I might stay here a bit longer, though.”
“Oh, yeah. Right.” He hesitates. “I guess I could stay another minute or two-”
“Go, I’m fine. You have things to do. And I probably need to give a statement or something anyway.” He’s not the type to stay and deal with the aftermath of crime scenes, you know, he leaves all that to his sidekicks. He just— fixes a problem, then darts off towards the next thing. Bit of a workaholic, maybe.
“Okay, okay,” he spreads his wings again, “I’ll see you later, yeah?”
You stay on the bench long after he’s flown off, distracting yourself by trying to figure out what stupidly complex thing you’ll bake for him in thanks.
𓆰
Once you get home you shower. You call your mom. You sniffle a little and drown the remnants of your fear in your favorite ice cream. As much as you want the incident not to bother you so much, as much as you want to brush it off, it’s not that easy. Most of your night is spent scrolling through your phone mindlessly in bed, until you come across a video of Hawks in action from a few days ago, the footage shaky and just slightly out of focus, taken with a phone by some witness in the area. It leads you down a rabbit hole as you watch video after video of him flying into the scene, using the longest of his feathers as sharp blades, using smaller ones to pull people, even animals, out of the way. Despite the general laidback casualness he conducts himself with, there’s something sharp and predator-like about his eyes, you’ve seen it whenever you’ve met with him. You guess he’s always alert despite not looking the part. Part of his hero training, probably. Or maybe that’s just what he’s like.
By three in the morning, when you finally fall asleep, you’re sure you’ve fucked up your social media algorithm for good. You’ve also made a purchase you don’t remember when you wake up.
𓆰
Your package arrives two days later, because apparently you paid for express shipping and all. Eyebrows pinched in confusion, you cut the cardboard box open and reach for whatever lies inside— did you order some of that expensive imported chocolate and forget about it? But no, your hand comes back holding the plush toy by the edge of one crimson felt wing.
You were kind of out of it when you got this, huh?
Lips pursed, you regard the toy. You even got a high quality one. Well. It’s not like it doesn’t make sense— you did just go through a traumatic event, and Hawks is the pro hero that pulled you out of danger’s way. It’s okay, you’re allowed to find a little comfort in him, aren’t you? It’s what people do.
The toy finds its perch on your bedside table. You move it later, only when you’re having trouble falling asleep; curling your entire body around it makes it easier, petting the felt wings lulls you into slumber. Yeah, it’s just what people do.