A snippet of a little zyz x ll x zyc postcanon idea I've been playing around with, because I don't know how long this brainworm will last or if I'll ever finish this and I'm quite happy with this scene for now :')
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Zhao Yuanzhou slides the door of Li Lun’s chambers open without knocking or announcing his presence, Zhuo Yichen's words still fresh in his mind. It wasn’t a warning, per se—Zhuo Yichen would rather shatter his sword to pieces again than meddle into other people’s business umprompted—but Zhao Yuanzhou still felt the gravitas of his piercing blue stare.
Your boat found shore, but his is still drifting. Don’t be so cruel to deny him harbor once he finds land.
The young yao means well, Zhao Yuanzhou knows that. But the cutting edge of that advice had found its mark with all the deftness and brusque integrity of a soldier who values kindness but does not coddle.
Cruel.
He supposes he has been. Still is.
It’s a sober reminder of the constraints he cannot escape. He might not be a Vessel of the worlds’ ugliest feelings anymore, but his body remembers. Like a mask cultivating itself to sentience, he’d worn his viciousness like a shield for long enough it became skin. Back then, it had been his only weapon against Fate—the only way he could still make reparations for what he’d broken. He’d make himself bear the world’s scorn and die a willing death to its righteous blade. Only then, would he sate his guilt, ridding the world of its most vicious curse, and repaying his debt to karma at once.
Or would he?
Isn’t that just your excuse, a voice that sounds just like Zhuo Yichen’s tells him.
Disappointing his misplaced faith in him is a common endeavor for him—one that he usually partakes in with delight—but this time it leaves an odd taste in his mouth and an even weirder feeling in his chest.
Here’s the thing. He doesn’t want to be cruel anymore.
As much as Zhuo Yichen wishes for him to face his past with his head held up straight, though, Zhao Yuanzhou can’t shrug off his past like rained-on, sodden overclothes; his relationship with Li Lun is fraught with mistakes and far beyond an easy fix. He’s not convinced Li Lun would take kindly to a reconciliation.
As if to prove his unwillingness to match his effort, Zhao Yuanzhou enters the chamber to find Li Lun sitting at his boudoir, his back resolutely to the door. His gaze doesn't lift at Zhao Yuanzhou’s entrance; he must've sensed his approach.
Zhao Yuanzhou’s eyes trail the sparse hair ornaments and modest jewelry neatly arranged on the table to avoid the dark eyes staring holes at him through the golden mirror. His throat isn't working properly. He clears it, resisting the urge to fill the silence with a flippant quip. The tension in Li Lun’s jaw tells him he’s not in the mood to entertain a casual approach, or deal with the invasion of his private space any longer than necessary. His silent but not quiet glare keeps leaving its scorching imprint on the side of Zhao Yuanzhou’s face. Li Lun doesn't offer a greeting.
“What do you want?” he asks, his tone even as it's always been, guarded like Zhao Yuanzhou's a beast ready to pounce him and sink its merciless teeth into his undefended throat.
Zhao Yuanzhou tries not to show how much that distrust stings.
What did you expect? A warm welcome?
He swallows, trying to get rid of the bitter taste in his mouth. A foreign restlessness he's not used to feeling around his old friend settles into his core. His soul feels ancient and bone-tired, heavy with the weight of putting that distance in those eyes. He did that. He deserves their scorn.
Straightening the non-existent creases in the fabric of his robes, he folds one arm behind his back and makes himself step forward—hesitant at first, waiting for a denial, then emboldening when Li Lun’s eyes just follow his movement without comment.
Once close enough to touch, close enough to see the hesitance on his face reflected in Li Lun’s mirror, however, his bravado falters. Would it have been easier to talk to him, had he remained by the door? Why did he get so close in the first place?
“You should wear this one,” he says at last, filling the tense silence. His fingertips hover without grazing the silver bell ornament still in its finely carved wooden box, untouched as the day it was gifted. The sadness in his heart settles into familiar resignation.
You haven’t thrown it away. In light of that, the fact that Li Lun hadn’t yet kicked him out doesn’t sound like the achievement it had felt at first.
“Why?” Li Lun's eyes have abandoned the side of his face to settle on the hand still hovering above the jewelry, a strange, cloudy expression twisting his delicate features into something resembling offended turmoil. Wariness, perhaps. Zhao Yuanzhou doesn't dare read any confusion in it—knows Li Lun’s unyielding fighting spirit better than to expect any lenience for a bared, unguarded weakness.
He smiles, willing it to reach his eyes. His hand retracts as if burned. He tucks that, too, gently inside the welcoming fabric of his sleeve. It does well to mask its trembling.
“So he can find you,” is all he says.
At last, his eyes crinkle with genuine warmth.
Your harbor, he thinks, doesn’t have to be with me.
I was tagged by @sleepytimegrrl. Thank you for the mention! I don't mind tags on creative tag memes, but I have to preface this by saying that I haven't felt much motivation to write in several years now, and all the "wips" I had were dropped halfway through at some point. But I still wanted to take part in this, so have a snippet from one of those abandoned wips (the post-canon zyz/ll/zyc one, if anyone remembers that!) cause I do like this part even tho I'll likely never muster the will to continue it
"I don't understand you. Why are you doing this?”
There are many ways Zhuo Yichen could answer that. He doesn't want you to die is right on his tongue, but he knows it's not his place to say it. I promised him I wouldn't take your life follows suit, but that doesn't feel right, either. Zhuo Yichen is his own man. He has principles, pride—a legacy to honor and live up to. Had he let external pressure bend his will against his conscience, he would've given up his jade token and left his post as the commander of the Demon Hunting Bureau a long time ago.
Li Lun's question still burns, though. Why had he done it? Because I don't like owing debts almost slips out. Not a lie, either, but not the entire truth. He hesitates.
“Because you dug yourself out of the abyss,” he surprises himself by saying, and knows in that moment that's the simplest and yet most honest way he could've answered.
The distrustful look in Li Lun's eye doesn't abate, but his eyelashes flutter ever-so-slightly. If possible, his stony expression turns even stonier and withdrawn. Zhuo Yichen considers it for a moment, wondering if Li Lun is about to sneer at that, too. But his expression is too guarded, the fire in his eyes too reflexive. Zhuo Yichen decides to push it. To test him.
“You interrupted your cultivation because Zhao Yuanzhou's survival was at stake.” He doesn't say and mine, too. He's not sure Li Lun's goodwill extended that far, or if his attempt to save Zhuo Yichen's life from the poison was just incidental mercy in the wake of Li Lun and Zhao Yuanzhou’s shaky reconciliation. Either way, it was a kindness, and one that came at great personal cost. Zhuo Yichen is not so ungrateful as to brush it off as inconsequential.
He'd told Zhao Yuanzhou the same before—a knife's morality lies in the hand that holds it. Li Lun might not live by human principles or ethics, but his devotion proved he understands and values sacrifice. If he was willing to die for someone, then his heart is no longer lost in the abyss.
Maybe it's a jump to presume Li Lun will ever care enough to understand the error in his old ways; to lose his yao pride. But he isn't the hollow husk Zhuo Yichen met before. By the time he'd shown up at the Kunlun battle, he was no longer a resentful ghost only held up by an obsession for revenge, for dragging people down the same pit of misery he couldn't extricate himself from. He'd been alive, thriving with a different fire than the one he braved to shield his oldest friend. He'd been willing to burn into nothingness for someone else's sake.
Zhuo Yichen respects that. And how can he not, when he was so ready to freeze himself into a block of ice for eternity just to spare his friends from the loneliness of that fate?
Tagging (but feel free to ignore): mmmh I haven't spoken to anyone in this fandom yet so mmmh... writer buddies... Which one of my old friends can I bother about this.... Mmmhhh...
@starship--phoenix @linkspooky @juurensha @kairin16 maybe? and anyone else who sees this and would like to do it I guess
Fandom: boku no hero academia
Pairing: DabiHawks / HotWings
Chapter Summary: Dabi is stuck at the hospital with Hawks, and they dish out a few harsh truths at each other. Then Shouto appears and makes it all worse.
Read on ao3 now | Buy me a ko-fi
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In Dabi’s mind’s eye, his moment of triumph played out a lot differently than this. It involved blue fire coming to get his defenseless father, giving him a taste of his own medicine, and the press recording a live confession. It ended with a gravestone with his father’s name on it. It was a well-rehearsed script.
In Dabi’s mind’s eye, his moment of triumph didn’t involve Hawks staring at him from the other side of the checkerboard.
It was Dabi’s first day at the hospital and he already hated being stuck there. Hawks had made himself comfortable, sitting backwards on a chair. His elbows were leaning on the backrest, the picture of easy nonchalance. His posture didn’t quite match the expression on his face, though. His eyes never moved from Dabi, but his gaze was unfocused and distant, like his mind was elsewhere. After the first attempt at talking to him, at getting an explanation out of Dabi, Hawks had just given up an retreated into his own thoughts.
It pissed Dabi the fuck off.
He didn't know if Hawks had personally requested to be assigned to Dabi's guard team, but he wouldn't rule it out. It wouldn't be the first time Hawks had pretended to be on his side, to give a shit about him, only to do a 180 turn when Dabi wasn't looking and choose his job over Dabi once again.
It shouldn’t have stung as much as it did, but a lot of things weren’t playing out as Dabi had expected.
According to his plans, this moment should’ve been glorious. Instead, all he could feel was emptiness. It started like a tug in his gut, annoyingly persistent. This was the culmination of all of his efforts. He’d taken the one thing that mattered the most to his father. He’d done that, against all odds. And yet, the satisfaction had been short lived.
The piece of shit was still breathing, still the number one. Just like a cockroach, he wouldn’t die that easily, infesting society like the parasite he was.
Dabi didn’t know what frustrated him more: that his father had landed on his feet, or that Hawks had taken his side.
It stung, but Dabi should’ve expected as much. He’d known the bird wasn’t ready to jump ship yet. Despite his dissatisfaction with the hero system, he was still a product of it. He was taught to self-sacrifice for the greater good, and like a fool, he gave himself willingly. No one would look at his bleeding heart and think he would make a good double agent. It was ironic, really, how he was willing to die for a system that didn’t care about him. Or it would have been, if Dabi had been kind enough to forgive him for it. Hawks had made his allegiances clear. For that alone, Dabi should’ve killed him.
Hesitance is death, his father had drilled into his head when he was six, doubled over on the tatami mats. The first blow decides the match, and you must not allow yourself weakness. To be strong is to overpower the enemy first.
His father had always known how to save his own ass. Dabi should’ve trusted that, if not anything else.
Not killing Hawks when he’d had the chance had been an act of weakness, not one of mercy. He should’ve just cremated him like everyone else.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Dabi/Takami Keigo | Hawks
Characters: Dabi (My Hero Academia), Takami Keigo | Hawks
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, werewolf!dabi (bnha), half-tengu!hawks (bnha), Body Horror, Past Domestic Violence, Past Child Abuse
Summary:
Every time he transforms, Dabi relives the night he died. His ears get filled with the sickening sounds of squelching organs; bones crack and pop like the werewolf is still crunching his arms between freakishly sharp fangs; Dabi’s heart beats a frenzied rhythm against his crushed ribcage; I’m going to die, he thinks, not for the first time; just like he wailed that night, his breath laboured and wet and sounding like an omen.
Pain shocks every single one of his nerves, and he would scream if he still had a voice. But it gets lost, together with his body, when the Beast awakens under the moon’s unsympathetic stare.
or;
Dabi was turned into a werewolf when he was sixteen, and he hasn't come home ever since; that changes abruptly when Hawks brings him news that Rei is dying, and that Enji is doing nothing about it.
Summary: First meeting don’t always go smoothly. If pressed, Hawks would agree that the astronomy tower had been kinda cliche; even for them. The broomsticks and the nosebleed, though, were just overkill. But he'd panicked, okay? Panicking never led to smart thinking.
Overall, it's not a great recipe for friendship, Hawks thinks. It's a good thing he's nothing if not persistent.
[Witten for the ctabb discord server minibang. I was lucky enough to be paired up with the amazing @kiwiliko, whose companion piece can be found here!]
ao3 link | Ko-fi
The wind was howling wildly up the astronomy tower, whipping Hawks’ hair all over his face. It didn't really bother him, not anymore than his quidditch robes, damp with sweat and humidity alike. Perched on the railing, he stared off in the distance. There was a storm brewing up the hills, so no one would come here to bother him in a while.
Most of his team mates were probably off to celebrate their victory in the ravenclaw common rooms anyway. As the Captain, Hawks was supposed to be there with them, but he’d faked a stomachache to fly up here instead. He wasn’t really feeling chatty enough to entertain his team tonight. Or to be around people in general.
Closing the match after barely forty minutes had been a lapse of judgement on Hawks’ part. He really should've expected the backlash. The name-calling. The racial slurs thrown around in an attempt at undermining his skills. The fun thing was, Hawks hadn't even been looking for the snitch. It had just flown into his pocket. Not that the slytherins had believed that.
Stigma against half humans was still a thing, he supposed. The ministry might've taken countermeasures against discrimination, but cases like Hawks’ weren't rare or unheard of, even after Voldemort’s fall.
The Harpy Community wasn't one of the most open and welcoming ones, intentionally limiting links with outsiders. Cultural appropriation and turf wars had soured the relationship with the rest of the wizarding world over the centuries, and most of the lore that had leaked through still painted them as uncultured savages. Though cultural exchanges happened more often today, Hawks didn't have much hopes for the prejudices to die overnight. Voldemort might've taken things too far, with most of his supporters following him more out of fear or ambition than real idealism, but… his ideas had taken root because they gave voice to something that had always been there.
Fear of the different. Segregation to preserve tradition from external threats. Fear of talent.
Slytherins, Hawks knew this, weren't bad people at heart. Just more ambitious than most. They'd always see him as an outsider, someone going after their own prize. Usually, Hawks wasn’t one to partake in stupid house rivalries, knowing that most of them just liked to run their mouth more than the average person. A bunch of them hated him purely on accounts of his relationship with the ministry. It was ironic, really, considering his background of poverty. Most of his bullies were wealthier than his family had ever been. All of them were definitely more influential than his parents.
Their contempt really didn't make any sense.
His stomach rumbled, reminding him of the feast he had skipped in order to be alone. He would kill for some roasted chicken right now. He groaned. He really hadn't thought this through, had he?
A door creaked open behind his back, pulling him out of his thoughts. Hawks cursed internally, alarmed. His head whipped left and right to look for a place to hide. If Professor Sinistra found him up here again, she would definitely do more than simply dock points this time. Finding no suitable hiding spot, he transfigured a nearby telescope into a broom closet.
… Panicking had never led to smart thinking, but at least he had been fast. Maybe she’d let him off for creative thinking?
“Ah. I thought I had heard someone up here,” a voice that didn’t belong to Professor Sinistra drawled. The sound of their footsteps drew closer. Hawks held his breath, hiding behind the closet. There hadn’t been time to actually get inside it. “I swear to god, Natsuo, if you brought your girlfriend here again-”
The rant was cut off by the sound of shutters being violently thrown open. Immediately followed by sputtering and the noise of brooms hitting something. Presumably a nose. Hawks had to stifle a snort. God, he hoped it wasn’t a prefect. He was in so much trouble as it was.
A head of spiky black hair peeked around the corner of his makeshift hiding place, glasses askew on a thin nose. His bleeding nose. Thankfully, it wasn't a prefect but just an upperclassman. Unfortunately, a slytherin upperclassman, looking for all the world like Hawks had just thrown a dung bomb on his bed, he was so pissed. Ooops.
“Hello?” Hawks offered, trying his best to look innocent.
Blue eyes narrowed dangerously down at him. Okay, there went Hawks’ attempt at playing it cool. “I'm going to murder you for this,” the person greeted back.
Warnings: implied manga spoilers up to chapter 235. Implied child abuse.
[ko-fi]
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There’s a kid at the park that often plays alone with his corgi. Touya doesn’t see him often, but when he does, the kid always looks miserable. The rings under his eyes look so bad that Touya has been on the verge of approaching him just to ask more than once.
Something always stops him though. Perhaps the sting of shame due to Touya’s own long sleeved shirt.
It’s stupid, he thinks. It’s not like the kid will notice his burns or know that they are there. It’s not like the kid is going to care.
But his feet don’t move, and that’s how Touya knows that his father is right about him.
He’s not worthy of becoming a hero. He’s too fucking weak.
Natsu pulls at his sleeve and points. Touya looks.
The corgi isn’t here today, but the kid has company.
“They’re playing heroes,” Natsu says in a tone Touya can’t place. His focus shifts entirely to his little bro, brow furrowing.
Usually, Touya comes here on his own when he needs a little breather. Under normal circumstances, Touya wouldn’t bring Natsu with him, unwilling to get him in trouble, but he can tell that Natsu is worried about little Shouto. That’s why they sneaked out of the house when father was busy at work. Between Fuyumi’s pleas not to go and mom’s worries that they’re gonna be found out, Touya promised to keep their escapade brief. Just what little time Natsu needed to get his mind off things he’s too young to be thinking about.
Shouto is just a 5 month old baby. Touya knows their father won’t hurt him just yet. It’s a shitty consolation prize, though. Their old man’s limited patience is already running thin with each new day.
Touya can see that bringing Natsu here was a mistake, now.
“Not all heroes are bad, I think,” Touya says. Natsu turns to look at him. “If bad ones exist, then good ones gotta exist as well, right? To balance the shittiness of the rest.”
“That’s a bad word,” Natsu says, giggling.
Touya watches him seriously. “Then don’t repeat it in front of his shitty face.” Silence falls between the two of them for a second. Then Touya’s composure cracks and he grins. Natsu mirrors the look one moment later.
“Can I say it when he’s not around?”
Touya winks at him. “When who’s not around?”
Natsu hides his smile behind a fist. “The shitty old man.”
Touya grabs the ball and starts doing some warm up kick-ups. “Sure. Just check that Fuyumi or mom are not within earshot first though. Bad words are not befitting a lady’s ears.”
Natsuo grins, then proceeds to steal the ball from him and run around with it. Touya lets him do it.
His gaze turns again to the kid with the eye rings, just as he shouts a cheerful call of “I am here!”
Sometimes, heroes don’t come to the rescue of those in need, Touya thinks. But it’s alright. As long as your loved ones have your back, everything will turn out okay.
Fuyumi’s eyes are kind as she folds a clean change of clothes and puts them in Rei’s closet. Her voice is warm as she tells Rei about her life; about how Natsuo chose Medical Welfare as his major; about how he’ll be leaving for college next week.
Fuyumi’s lips are careful around Shouto’s name.
Rei sees it, the hesitancy. If Rei was a pond, she’d be deceptively still. Her clear waters would reflect the sky in a perfect photograph.
All it takes to destroy that stillness is a rock. Then the clear surface would break into ripples, never to reflect reality again. Rei’s been there before. She can feel that rock at the bottom of her deep waters, like a lifelong reminder of what she’s lost. But she’s no longer a pond. She’s a waterfall. There’s no longer stillness in her mind, only the constant low rumble of thoughts that chase each other until they free-fall into the nothingness of her daily routine. They buzz with a constant mantra of shame, shame, shame.
It’s what prevents her from asking how Shouto is doing. It’s what makes Fuyumi walk on eggshells around her, perceptive enough to understand that something’s wrong, but not enough to catch Rei’s train of thoughts.
Shame curls deeper in Rei’s guts when she realizes she’s a stranger to her own children. Her beloved children, who’ve always been the driving force of her life. How could Rei have messed up so bad? The love of a mother should be absolute. And here she is, wishing for atonement, but too scared to ask for forgiveness.
At last, Fuyumi leaves with a kiss on Rei’s forehead. It feels like an apology.
It shouldn’t.
Rei drags an old photograph to her face with trembling hands. It’s frayed at the edges, and she does her best not to stain it with tears, as she kisses the smiling faces of her four children.
///
She’s holding that same photograph again, a year and a half later. Sun streams through her window in a promise of hope for a brighter future. She’s not sure she can believe it.
Then her door slides open, and Rei turns.
Mismatched eyes look back at her, and Rei’s breath hitches. He’s grown so tall.
He’s grown so kind, she thinks, when she notices the subtle tremble in his hands.
He’s scared.
Shouto closes the door behind him.
He’s scared of me.
It’s not until they talk, they properly talk for the first time in years, that Rei sees it. There’s a low rumble in the still water of his left eye, the one she poured scalding water onto. This time, when she cries, she doesn’t need to hold a photograph close.
Forgiveness cannot be asked for; it has to be given, Dr. Yamashita had told her once during one of her sessions. She’d never quite understood that before. She’d thought he was speaking of forgiving herself. She thinks she understands it now.
Fandom: boku no hero academia
Pairing: DabiHawks / HotWings
Chapter Summary: Hawks is left to pick up the pieces of Dabi’s destruction
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The world stopped moving for a second; or maybe it had just stopped spinning. Hawks couldn’t tell. His heart was in his mouth and he felt like a train had hit him full speed.
He blinked heavily. The sight before his eyes didn’t change. The figure on the ground was still unmoving. Panic gripped at his heart, making the disorientation and dizziness worse.
Hawks had to do something.
He tried to get up, forgetting for a second that he was still stuck in the noumu’s web. His head was killing him. It took him longer than it should’ve to realize he could harden a feather and direct it at the sticky mess to cut through it. When the thought formed in his head, he concentrated to do just that, only to make his headache worse. Cursing under his breath, he waited a second for his vision to become less blurry.
All around him were the sounds of a battle. Even if Hawks couldn’t muster the strength to look up again, he knew that pro heroes must’ve arrived on site.
Feeling desperation and grief alike clawing at his heart, Hawks made a grab for the sharpened feather with his hand. His movements were clumsy and slow, so he knew he wouldn’t be much use in a fight, but he just needed to get on his feet. He had to do something, anything!
Vine-like tendrils appeared out of nowhere and helped him get rid of the cobwebs. A sigh of relief tore through him at the sight, followed by more confusion. He stared at them uncomprehendingly for a beat, until a face full of wood swam in his vision.
“Hawks, are you alright?”
Was he?
No, he didn’t think he was. “Mmno,” he answered truthfully, slightly slurred. “Head’s all woozy.”
The person nodded and gave him a once-over.
Hawks thought it looked vaguely familiar. He would’ve remembered a tree person though. “You look funny,” he said, and it must’ve been something weird to say because the person’s brows scrunched up in confusion. Then their eyes widened a little.
“I’m going to ask you a few questions,” they said in a soothing tone. “Please listen carefully and try your best to answer them.”
“Mm’kay.”
“Do you know who you are?”
Hawks blinked slowly. “Yes.”
“What’s your given name?”
“Takahiro.” His tongue felt heavy in his mouth.
“What about my hero name? Do you recognize me?”
Hawks furrowed his brows. That was harder to answer. When he remained silent, the person went on, with more urgency now: “It’s okay if you don’t remember. Do you know where we are?”
Hawks had to think of that for a moment. He came up blank. What he knew was that he was needed here. The details were fuzzy, laced with panic and disorientation. “No,” he admitted, distress seeping into his voice. Hadn’t he wanted to get up until a moment before? To do what? Thoughts slipped his mind like water through spread fingers. There was someone he was meant to help.
He frantically tried to remember, and memories of aquamarine eyes flooded his thoughts. Hawks looked around to get his bearings, but it didn’t help. Patches of blue fire had enveloped most of the room, and two figures were fighting. They moved far too fast for Hawks’ fogged up brain to follow.
The memory of eyes brimming with frustrated tears became more pressing. Suffocating. Hawks bit back on a curse, gaze darting around like a spooked animal, trying to make sense of a room full of smoking debris and an headache that was splitting his head in two.
Then his eyes landed on it. The slumped figure in a suit, lying on the ground. Still unmoving since it had fallen there.
Everything else stopped processing in Hawks’ mind. His vision channeled around that lone figure, crumpled to the floor like the epitome of defeat. How had he forgotten?
He looked dead.
“No,” Hawks whispered, eyes widening and blood freezing in his veins. He couldn’t be dead. Hawks took in a shuddering breath. “Haf’to go,” he mumbled at the person crouching in front of him. He tried to get up, not registering how unsteady he was.
A wooden hand clasped his shoulder, stopping him. He hissed in pain and the hand retracted quickly. “Hawks, I think you have a concussion,” Twig McWooden said, opting to block his path with their entire person instead. No shit, but I don’t fucking care, Hawks thought. A whine tore out of his throat when his sight was blocked. “You’re hurt. Please leave this to us.”
As if on cue, Hawks wobbled and almost fell, if two strong arms hadn’t been there to catch him.
“It’s okay,” Twig reassured kindly. “I’m gonna take you to a medic that will take care of your headache now. Is that okay?”
No, Hawks wanted to say. I need to get to him.
I need to make sure he’s okay.
Even in his current state, though, he could tell there was nothing that he could do to help Endeavor.
The hero didn’t wait for his reply before gently pushing him upright. They circled their arm around his shoulders and helped him on his feet.
“Endeavor,” he managed to say what felt like hours later. His head was clearing up a little already, but not quickly enough to let him handle this on his own. His jaw clenched. “He’s been shot. Quirk bullet.” He felt Twig tense up from where they were connected, but the hero didn’t stop moving. “He should take priority,” Hawks bit through his teeth.
“I can’t get closer with fire burning most of the hall. But don’t worry, more backup is on the way. We got this.”
Hawks doubted it, but refrained from commenting so out loud.
He felt helpless, and he knew it was all his fault.
