Chapter Text
Hawks is maybe becoming a little bit obsessive.
He knows it’s not healthy, but once the idea took root he can’t seem to let it go. He thinks it started the day of Touya’s funeral - embers slowly growing stronger until it became a wildfire, consuming everything else in its path. Nothing else really matters to him, now.
The possibilities is dizzying, overwhelming. If it works, everything else pales. Everything else is unimportant, insignificant in the face of a change, a rewrite. A chance .
He spends hours pouring over books, trying to learn what he can about time-related quirks. He reads and rereads his mission reports from the war, looking for any sign of what he could have done differently.
In a fit of desperation, he calls Endeavour. It is not a good conversation, filled with ugly, hard truths and a growing sense of dread. If All for One targetted Touya as a child, did he ever really have a chance? If Dabi was, truly, held together by his desperate dreams of revenge, would it be possible for him to survive without them?
When he hears that Touya had returned to his family after waking up from his coma, only for that to be the final nail in the coffin of Touya and the birth of Dabi, Hawks loses it. He feels vaguely ashamed, later, for screaming his rage at a crippled man who already lost so much.
He feels nauseous of the thought of a hurt child, finding his way home only to be faced with the evidence of his abandonment.
He spends hours researching the lives of Jin Bubaigawara and Himiko Toga. There’s less actual facts than he’d like, mostly just a lot of rumours. He calls Deku, asking about the last battle with Shigaraki, trying to understand the life and motivation of the man.
He always knew All for One was a bastard, evil reincarnate. He hadn’t quite realized the level of grooming Tenko Shimura was subjected to. Another child who never had a chance for anything else.
He considers visiting Spinner and Compress in prison, but doubt they’d be forthcoming with a former Pro Hero trying to dig into their lives. Deku had said Spinner was working on a book, but he’s not sure he wants to bet on the subjective retelling of the villains’ side of things. He doesn’t know if he can wait for its’ release.
The answers he finds only lead to new questions. How do you know what can change the tide of a battle? How do you find that one moment to change the outcome of a war? When do you know enough to make a difference?
He doesn’t bother considering the ramifications of his plan. It’s been seven years since the war, seven years of grief and second-guessing everything he did. Maybe trying to change the outcome will lead to some of the current survivors dying, but a small, bitter part inside him ( The part of him that’s still Keigo Takami, a voice whispers.) thinks that these people already got seven years of peace. It’s more than Jin got. More than Himiko.
More than Touya Todoroki and Tenko Shimura ever had the chance for. Innocents sacrificed at the altar of an evil man’s ambition.
He makes a timeline on his livingroom wall, trying to puzzle together key events. He gets more books on time-manipulation. His diet consists of whatever take-out he gets delivered and coffee. On the bathroom counter there’s a small selection of unopened bottles of pills, each a different size and shape.
He sleeps, here and there, usually in a chair facing the timeline-wall. He doesn’t remember his dreams.
His phone lies forgotten on the kitchen counter, battery long since dead. He hasn’t been outside the apartment in a very long time.
Hawks lets out a breath. He has done his best to look presentable. He's showered, shaved and made sure he’s wearing actually clean clothes. He looks normal, he thinks. Trustworthy, maybe. Sane.
He’s walking outside of U.A., hoping she still comes out to read in the park on nice days. It’s his fourth day here. He tries not to linger, doesn’t want to draw the attention of the heroes who work at the high school. He simply takes a walk through the park, making sure to walk slowly and loop back the same way he came.
On his ninth day, someone clears their throat behind him.
“Uhm, e- excuse me? I think you might be looking for me?”
Grey eyes meet his. She’s taller now, and not as thin, not as beaten down as she was when he first saw her picture. Kaleidoscope hair reflects the evening sun in a brilliance of colours.
“How does it work?”
“I'm not always sure. It changes a lot, and it doesn't always make sense. Sometimes it's clear and I see the lines needed to change something, or how to get from A to B. Sometimes it isn't, it's foggy or distant or just not there.”
“But you could change things?”
“Yes. But changing where I am doesn't give me any more power. If I were to go back four years, I'd be 12 years old, living at the other side of the country with my family. What could I do then?”
“And if you sent me back?”
“You'll be the you you were then.”
“But would I remember?”
“I think so. Maybe? Maybe it would be more like a dream than real memories. Maybe it would fade. Maybe it will be like you wake up tomorrow except there, not here. I know I can change where you are, I just don't know what it does to you. Nobody ever came back to tell me.”
“Wait. Where I am? “
“Yes. In time.”
“Not when?”
“When is easy. Where is harder. There are always so many ways to get lost. “
“...does it hurt you?”
“Does that matter? “
“Of course it matters.”
“Uravity said you fasttracked my transfer to UA. If I send you back, will you save me again? I don't want to be stuck where I am, where you're going.”
“But won't you know I changed things? Wouldn't you try to get back to UA yourself? “
“Maybe I'll know. I sometimes see that things have been changed, sometimes how it was before the change. But it doesn't mean I can change it back to the previous way by myself. There's not a lot of people who will listen to someone with a ba- Someone like me. My family would never let me go to another school, not without pressure. It took Uravity and you and Principal Nedzu. He even sent a teacher to pick me up, to make sure I'd be alright.”
“Oh.”
“So you'll do it? You'll come for me, if you remember?”
“Sure, kid.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay. Where do you need to go?”
“Where can you send me? How far back?”
“It depends on what you want. There's so many things I don't think you could change if you are too young. And, well. I haven't exactly got a lot of experience doing this.”
“Okay. Send me as far back as you can, then, without turning me into a baby again.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
“...promise you'll try to remember me?”
“I promise, Risa. I'll come get you as soon as I can.”
“Okay. Who's your anchor?”
“My what.”
“It's easier if I send you to someone you have a connection with, instead of a specific place. It does mean I can't choose the time, cause you need to have been physically near that person. So who do you want that to be?”
Hawks smiles.
There’s a lump in Hawks’s throat. It feels like he can’t quite catch his breath properly, like only his willpower holds back the sob threatening to make its way out of his mouth.
Dabi is standing in front of him.
He looks younger than Hawks remembers. More alert, too, with a nervous, unfamiliar energy that makes an almost forgotten, hungry part of Hawks come alive. In the absence of his quirk it’s been easy to forget that predatory instincts are just as big a part of his raptor mutation as his wings.
Dabi’s eyes are watchful, carefully categorizing every movement Hawks makes. He takes a slow step backwards, with careful, smooth movements designed to let him keep his balance despite keeping his eyes on Hawks.
Dabi may look younger, but the gaze of those sharp eyes feel the same as they did ( Will do?) . They burn into Hawks with the same intensity as the inferno he’s so capable of unleashing.
Dabi is standing in front of him, and it is more than Hawks can take. It’s been so long since he’s felt seen like this, since his blood last fizzled with the anticipation of danger, since he’s felt the adrenaline interacting with the violent arsonist in front of him always brings.
It’s all too much.
Hawks moves, wings adding an extra speed and weight he’s missed so much as he crowds into Dabi's space, pushing him up against the concrete wall. Dabi’s eyes go wide, alarm and anger flickering in his eyes.
Dabi’s face is so, so close. Hawks stares and stares, taking note of every scar, every piercing and every staple. He's unable to keep a lid on the fierce joy and relief flooding through him.
It worked. Dabi’s here, he’s here, it WORKED!
Dabi jerks his head back as he draws in a sharp breath, undoubtedly about to deliver scathing words designed to humiliate and hurt, words to create space and armor for himself, but Hawks doesn't give him the chance. He's already lost so much, suffered through years of grief and doubt and regret weighting down his mind, polluting his dreams and infecting every action.
He surges up and mashes his mouth to Dabi's, an approximation of a kiss, an amalgamation of greeting and grief and joy and a desperate relief.
Hello. Hello. I missed you. Did you miss me? Do you know me, yet?
It's lips against lips, bruising and desperate, without the softness of familiarity or the passion brought by lust. It's a celebration of life, of being together again, it's the-
"What the FUCK," Dabi spits, shoving Hawks off him while blue fire bursts from his hands. His eyes are wild, horrified and furious, and Hawks can't help but laugh and laugh and laugh. Dabi is alive.
It's been a shitty, weird day in a shitty, weird week.
Dabi has been trying to find better ways to earn enough coin to keep himself alive, but he is still, despite years on the streets, a nobody. A nobody with a scary powerful quirk and scars that make most small-time thugs walk carefully around him, sure, but he hasn’t done anything of substance yet. This lack of a reputation means finding paying jobs is challenging.
He doesn't want to sign up with the shitty gangs in this neighbourhood, doomed to fold at the first sight of a Pro Hero. He's not interested in working towards someone else's goals, or sucking up to some idiot who thinks they’re a big deal just cause other morons bow to them.
He doesn’t want to spend time around people too stupid to make something of themselves or too reckless to make it even if they manage plan something worthwhile.
A legal job is out of the question. He doesn't have the temperament to keep one, for one thing, not with his combination of a temper ready to combust and a bone-deep apathy always at war inside him - but it's also not like anyone's aching to hire a man with no legal papers and with his somewhat unique, patchwork face. His scars: a blessing and a curse. At least they don't hurt much anymore. Nothing really does.
It's becoming increasingly clear that unless he wants to start picking off known players to increase his rep, he's gonna have to somehow run the sort of bigger jobs he wants himself if he wants to survive.
Resorting to petty crimes to earn a few coins here and there gnaws at him. It’s annoying, for one. You never earn enough to get a real break, and have to always stay on the lookout for more opportunities. A voice that has followed him since he survived the flames of his childhood laughs inside his head. Not good enough at this, either .
He refuses to consider other, alternative means of earning money, not again, not if he can help it.
The entire situation sucks.
He's not actually interested in crime for crime's sake alone, and while he's fairly confident in his skills, he knows he doesn't have the experience to pull off the kind of heists that creates interest amongst criminals who actually know what they're doing.
Straight up murdering other crooks to create a reputation doesn't appeal either - it seems like a quick way for the psychopaths and fight-addicted bastards in the underworld to start zeroing in on him as a potential challenge. With someone around to watch his back he might have taken the chance, but alone the risk is too high.
Last thing he wants is to cripple himself in some meaningless battle before he has reached his end goal. He’s kept himself alive for years, now, somehow without landing himself in the cross-hairs of Japan’s legal system. He’d really like to keep it like that for a while longer, until he’s strong enough, feared enough, to finally smother the flames of Hellfire.
If he is to make an impact when he goes public, being a small-time, homeless thug will not be enough. If he’s going to be a villain, his pride will not let him be anything but an excellent one.
For now, he just wants enough money to fuel his body while he trains himself. Enough time to finish molding his quirk into something that can take down asshole father, something that can make his father’s precious little prodigy hurt.
Dabi is passing through a series of alleyways, keeping an eye out for anything of interest, when the air around him abruptly changes.
It feels compressed, tight, like he's trying to move through water against the current. He tries to draw a breath and it's like molasses in his airway, choking him, progressively getting thicker and thicker. He tries to cough, but the air is as immovable out as in. His flames, usually always so ready to burst out, doesn’t react when he tries to call them and the realization that he’s at the mercy of whatever is happening hits hard.
He's trying desperately to swallow down the rising panic as his need for oxygen grows, helplessness crashing over him like a wave drowning all other thoughts. The air constrict even more and he can't move at all, until, with an audible pop , every trace of resistance disappears.
For a moment he’s completely still, everything white and static, until he’s falling forward and grasping at the nearest wall for support, gasping desperately for air. His arms are trembling, and for a second he's back in that house , trying to fight the feeling of slowly getting more and more stuck in quicksand that won’t let him go, drowning in the loneliness of being cast aside, forgotten, not good enough. Useless. Replaced.
He breathes deep, gulping down sweet, movable air.
Above him there's a weird rustling noise, followed by a yelp and " oh fuck shit fuck shitshitshitshitSHIT", before fucking Pro Hero Hawks, number 8 on the Hero Billboard Chart of Japan crashes down into the alley, hitting the asphalt right in front of him.
Dabi stares at the sight, man and wings lying in an undignified heap on the ground. A few lose feathers slowly drift down, coming to rest on top of the Pro Hero. He knows of Hawks - everyone does, how could you not? Who else has reached the rank of 8th a mere year after their debut? - but despite the occasional video of him barely dodging a pigeon or almost hitting a sign, he's never seen the man actually fall out of the sky.
Dabi can't help himself. He takes a step closer and nudges the boot of the hero. Said hero groans a little, before he flops over on his back, face staring blankly at the sky. His wings twitches.
Dabi is fascinated with this less than dignified behaviour from such a fan favorite. He takes out his phone and snaps a few photographs. Who knows, maybe some gossip magazines will pay for them. Maybe he’ll use them for a laugh when he’s had a bad day.
Hawks doesn't look hurt. There's been no noises suggesting a fight in the area, no explosions, no warnings. Everything is normal - except for the inexplicably fallen Pro Hero, and the way the air changed right before his sudden crash.
Dabi kicks at the hero's foot again, not so gently this time. "Hey."
Hawks immediately snaps his head towards Dabi, raptor eyes locking on him.
Shit. Dabi feels momentarily pinned by the intense gaze, a mouse on the open field spotted by a predator. His survival instincts, never far under the surface, rise in response as he curls his lip in a sneer. He's no-one's prey, not anymore. No-one’s prey, and not one to balk under someone elses eyes, no matter how intense they are.
"The fuck happened to you?" he spits. The weird change in the air’s viscosity rattled him more than he likes to admit, and he’s ready to lay the blame solely on the hero in front of him.
The hero keeps his eyes on Dabi, stumbling as he gets back to his feet. He looks almost unbalanced, swaying slightly with his wings twitching and moving in a strange and unsettling pattern at his back.
"I wa-" Hawks stops speaking almost immideately. His hand touches his throat, briefly, looking surprised at the noise he just made.
Dabi takes a slow step back, moving slightly away from the wall and giving himself more space. The hero seems off, somehow, and he's not keen to be around a Pro Hero at the best of times. A Pro Hero who may or may not have experienced an unknown quirk effect, who is possibly hurt - " or worse, embarassed, " his mind whispers - is not a rational and predictable person in Dabi's experience.
"Uhm. I...guess I fell?" Hawks says, a sheepish smile crossing his face.
Dabi stops. He can't help it, the absolutely moronic reply from the man in front of him makes him temporarily forget that Hawks is, in fact, a hero, and someone he'd normally prefer to be far, far away from.
They stare at each other.
Hawks lips twitch. His eyes still haven't left Dabi. His wings are still moving, but it looks less like involuntary movements, and more like he's slowly stretching them through different positions. Like testing them for damage, Dabi supposes. Or warming up.
The thought makes him resume his slow retreat, taking another step backwards without looking. Hawks takes a step after him. Dabi stops. Hawks stops.
"The fuck are you doing." Dabi curses his curiosity. He should've left while the hero was still groaning on the ground.
Hawks smiles. He looks strange, not like the Hawks Dabi has seen in photos and videos. It's maybe not very obvious; his eyes are just slightly too open, his breathing a touch too fast and shallow, his smile a bit too wide - but Dabi is an expert in reading stories in the most minute changes in a facial expression. He has a lifetime's worth of analyzing others by their body language, he knows how to tell the mood from someone's steps, he can use every twist in a face as a countdown for an incoming explosion.
Hawks keeps his smile plastered on. The hair on the back of Dabi's neck is standing up, every instinct screaming at him that he needs to move .
Too late.
In a flash, the hero has him pushed up against the wall. Raptor eyes still haven’t left him. Dabi isn’t even sure the man has blinked since he kicked at the hero, alerting him to his presence. "Too close ," his brain snarls, and he prepares to fight with every weapon available to him.
That is, until Hawks, number 8 on the national Pro Hero charts, recently voted Most Eligible Bachelor and all-around media darling of Japan, apparently loses his grip on sanity and presses an open-mouthed kiss to Dabi’s lips.
Dabi's brain goes offline.
Dabi is walking briskly down an alley, his earlier worries about money forgotten. It's hard to care about something as insignificant as food when you've acquired much bigger and more immediate problems.
Said problem is currently following close behind him, alternating between a weird jumping-skipping gait and occasionally beating his wings to awkwardly hover right over Dabi.
"Aw, cmon! I said I was sorry!" Hawks’ voice is full of hidden laughter, bright with amusement and Dabi will swear on his flames that the man is not actually sorry at all.
"FUCK OFF!"
His lips burn. He stops himself from rubbing them, doesn’t want Hawks to see him affected. What he wants is to set fire to the stupid hero’s stupid face.
The blast of flames Dabi fired off as soon as his brain started working again after Hawks kissed him was apparently not enough of a deterrent for the Pro Hero, who has now been following him for five minutes and three alleys. He keeps trying to talk to Dabi as well, as if he wasn’t angry enough already.
Dabi could probably take down Hawks if he truly wanted - feathers are generally quite flamable after all - but it would likely be very visible, not at all quiet, and he's not sure how much damage to his body the battle would result in.
He doesn't actually want to be jailed for illegal quirk use or the murder of an extremely annoying bird, no matter how angry he is.
He glares at the hero, who seems to now be trying to fly alongside him but keeps scraping his feathers on the building to his left in an effort to not hit Dabi with his right wing. Dabi doesn't give a fuck why the winged Pro Hero has suddenly developed issues with flying, of all things. Not his problem. Getting rid of the man, however, is.
It has started to dawn on him that this is potentially a very, very bad situation for him and his future plans.
This is Hawks . Golden boy of the HPSC, youngest hero to make the top 10, already number 8 at 19 years old which means there are only five places between him and Endeavour on the charts. If they meet up and Hawks mentions Dabi, somehow - if Endeavour starts adding two and two together too early - if Hawks starts looking at the similiarities of the eyes of Dabi and the number 2 Pro Hero...Dabi could overlook the overgrown chicken disturbing his day, but if the hero comes between him and his revenge? Not okay. Definately not acceptable.
A single feather pokes his cheek.
In a flash of rage he rounds on the hero, flames lurking right under his skin. To hell with the consequences, he's not putting up with this shit. The offending feather zips past him to join Hawks' wings, as the hero kicks off and takes to the sky. He hangs far above Dabi, laughter ringing down.
"Sorry, sorry! I couldn't help myself, you looked so serious! And you keep ignoring my questions!"
Dabi closes his eyes and breathes through his murderous impulses. The fire he wants so badly to release roars in his ears, smoke leaking out through the unhealed edges of his scars. He's trying to focus on the goal, on Endeavour, on his revenge, and on not immolating the stupid fucking bird making fun of him.
He has never been good at dealing with anyone laughing at him. When the offender is a Pro Hero, it unravels his self-control and leaves him shaking with rage.
He hears the hero touching ground, feels the air move from the movement of huge, red wings
"If it helps, you already burned my wings off once." Hawks' voice is close, right beside him.. "Or, well, you will. In a few years. But I'd really rather not go through that again, y'know? Hurt like a bitch. You chose your new name REALLY well."
It's a nonsensical, bizarre statement, oddly fitting for this whole disaster of a meeting. Dabi opens his eyes to stare at Hawks, still trying to swallow the fire that begs to be unleashed. Hawks looks at him, a serious expression very different from anything he's shown so far in this encounter.
"You should know that Endeavour will spend years begging for your forgiveness. He truly does love you. I think you even forgave him, at the end. Before you died."
The fire under his skin abruptly slips away from him and disappears, his control momentarily shocked away. His mouth goes dry.
"I know you end up apologizing to Shouto. After your fight, after you were hospitalized and they put you on life-support. He told me you told him your favorite food is soba. His is too, you know. You're more similar than you may think."
Hawks smiles, again. It's a different smile than earlier. Less tense, less pained, but fragile-looking. Not very fitting for a Pro Hero. Not something to inspire hope or confidence.
His eyes are softer now as they meet Dabi’s. They look sad. Weary. It’s the kind of thousand-yard stare he’s seen in some of the kids he’s met on the street, on some of the older people amongst the homeless.
"My name. My real name? Is Keigo Takami. I want to work together. I'd really like it if you didn't die this time around, Touya."
Hawks is sitting on top of Endeavour’s office building.
He has more or less gotten the hang of flying again. It never occurred to him that he could get rusty in the years he lived without his quirk, but outside of a few embarrassing moments only witnessed by Dabi, he thinks he’s doing pretty okay.
He grins, stomach bubbling with a joy he hasn’t felt in years. Okay, sure, so Dabi didn’t react quite the way Hawks maybe would have wished, but that’s honestly not very surprising. Hawks didn’t actually plan to tell him about the future waiting for them all quite so soon but his brain-to-mouth filter seems to not have made the transition back in time with him.
Or maybe it did, future-Hawks ( Should that not be…past-Hawks? alternate future-Hawks? Maybe-Hawks? My past-but-future-for-the-present-people-Hawks seems a bit too complicated. ) didn’t spend time lying or mincing words if he could help it, and maybe he’s just no longer in the habit of lying or keeping things hidden.
Honestly, he’d kind of forgotten how fun riling Dabi up can be. The arsonist’s temper sits closer to the surface now than it did ( will?) , and he hasn’t quite perfected the aloof, in-control persona Hawks knows from before. Will know in the future. Whatever.
Hawks closes his eyes and enjoys the breeze, wings providing a good counter for his balance as he lets his legs dangle over the edge of the building.
The amount of information provided by his feathers is overwhelming after years of relying only on a human’s normal senses, and he doesn’t want to brave the crowd to enter the building through the front doors. Easier to fly up and wait to be let in from here.
He tried tracking down the Endeavour’s phone number, but he doesn’t have the contacts he’s used to, not yet. In the end, he resorted to sending a message through his handlers, saying he’d like to talk to the number two hero as soon as possible. National security, looming villain threat, blah blah blah. The usual reasons to make the flame hero respond in a timely manner.
He’s pretty sure he’s riled up his handlers - and by extension, the entire HPSC - by refusing to give more details, but he doesn’t really care.
He may look 19, he may still have been deep in servitude to the Commission and only just started to test the boundaries of his cage at this point in the timeline, but the Hawks who is here right now is 30 years old, mentally. He’s lived through a gruesome war, killed buried friends, lost half of himself to an ancient evil and then spent years as a political animal, manouvering to get his way in a system still resisting every change he tried to bring in.
He never really decided on a good plan for how to fix things if he got back, not when it was so uncertain how far back he could go. In the end, he figured he’d just see where he landed, and then take it from there.
He might be a tiny bit cavalier about this, but the time-period before he got sent back is fussy, like looking at a picture through distorted water. He thinks, maybe, his mind wasn’t working quite as well as it should have been.
He thinks, maybe, it’s still not.
Not important. He’s here now, no way to go but forward, with his wings ( His wings!) and what he knows and his list of people he wants to save this time around.
Honestly, he’s a bit disappointed he didn’t get to go back farther, but if nothing else, being 19 and working as a Pro Hero gives him a freedom he wouldn’t have had when he was younger.
And who knew he had been flying over Dabi years before they actually met? Lucky, really.
Maybe he could have picked someone else as an anchor, but he doesn’t really know who that should’ve been. He was never close to his handlers or trainers. His parents certainly would not have counted as someone he felt connected to. It took him years after his debut to start a friendship with Rumi and Tokoyami, and that happened so close to the start of his undercover mission with the League that he couldn’t help himself.
He wanted to see Dabi again, as soon as possible.
Hawks touches his lips absentmindedly. He knows he should’ve held back, knows Dabi isn’t the kind of man who welcomes a stranger throwing themselves at him, but in the heat of the moment, instinct took over. If nothing else, it’s another memory to live on, if all this goes to hell.
His phone rings. Unknown number,
“Hi!” he chirps into the phone, and grins at the sudden, unintended bird sound. He chirped !
He likes being able to make bird-noises that sound like they should, again. The Commission tried to train him out of those, and the shame they implanted in him for the more animalistic parts of his quirk stopped him from indulging in them once he debuted.
After All for One, after his wings were gone and his speed and reflexes were those of a normal human man, he tried to make the sounds that once came as natural as breathing to him. Just something to hold on to, a scrap of comfort, a memory of who he was supposed to be.
Turns out, human vocal cords can’t really do them justice. Turns out, when you’re intimately familiar with how a red-tailed hawk should sound, human mimicry only feeds the despair living where your heart should have been.
“Hawks.” Endeavour’s voice. It’s a bit less gruff than it was ( Will be?). “You wanted to talk.”
“Yeah! Are you in your office? Could you just open your window or something? I’m outside!”
There’s a beat and a sigh, before he hears a chair squeak. Under him he sees a window open. He doesn’t second-guess himself, just tips himself forward from the edge straight into freefalling, knowing his wings ( His wings!) will keep him safe.
The wind screams in his ears as he plummets towards the ground, wings held tightly to his back. He can see people on the street stop, pointing at him. Someone below him screams. With a snap of his wings he halts his wild descend, control firmly back in his grip. He hears himself laugh, utter joy of finally, finally existing in the sky where he belongs.
He does an extra swoop over the street for fun, waving at people staring at him with big, awestruck eyes. He’s missed the way kids used to beam up at him when he flew above them. His chest feels warm as he makes his way back up towards Endeavour's office.
Endeavour wears a distinctly unimpressed expression as Hawks finally climbs in through his window. Hawks grins, unrepentant. There are some advantages to being young and fairly new on the scene. There are some advantages to being old enough not to let embarrassment and shame dictate your days. He plans to make the most of it.
“Okay, sorry, I’m here now, hi! So! how much do you know about All for One?”
He will protect them all this time.