Work Text:
“Ohmygod it’s Hawks!”
Your coworker’s elbow finds its way to your vulnerable side and jabs itself violently into it. You let out a stream of highly intellectual ugh s and squint at the crowd that’s slowly growing in volume behind the glass door of the bakery you work at.
“Bitch take over, I need a pen and paper for that signature.” And thus you’re left alone amidst people screaming and trying to fit themselves into the tiny space of your workplace.
And yeah, you kinda get the hype. Number two hero downtown, crazy right? But you’ve been here since eight in the morning and playing that newly released video game all night prior seems more of a ‘mistake’ than ‘fun times’ right this moment.
The man in question, red wings and everything, finishes waving off the fans and walks (read: squeezes himself) through the ecstatic people. They are still screaming. Oh, you think you see someone trip and fall amongst the chaos. Ha ha.
You look longingly at the clock. It helpfully supplies that you still have two more hours before your shift ends. Hashtag life is pain.
Nevertheless you put on your customer service smile and ask how you can help him today. Hawks ponders for a moment and “Something for a date?” surprises you. You were always under the impression that hero agencies have strict dating policies. Publicity and all that. Eh, whatever.
You recommend him a few pastries that are particularly popular this season and when he’s taking too long to decide (the struggle shows on his face), you point at the heart shaped double chocolate mini-cake and he nods in relief.
You package the cake nicely, red ribbon and everything, and ring Hawks through at the register.
“Thanks,” he flashes you one of those half-smile-half-smirks that makes the fangirls scream even louder (how is that possible???). You offer him a plastic bag but he declines. You get startled when the box starts to levitate- ah, nevermind, that’s just Hawks using his feathers to fly the box up. No ghost sightings today. You’re just a tad bit disappointed.
At least you managed to sell him the most expensive dessert. Boss will be proud, she always encourages upselling.
He leaves the bakery, somehow managing to maneuver through the crowd. And as soon as there’s a little more than no-space-whatsoever amongst the squealing bodies of onlookers, he shoots up in the sky. You’re a little jealous of his quirk. Flying seems pretty damn cool.
At the back of your mind you wonder how the hell does he put his shirt on.
And also why his eyebrows look so weird.
You’re literally shaken out of your thoughts as your coworker wildly swaying you back and forth, hands on your shoulders. You flap lifelessly in the grip.
“Why didn’t you stall him longerrr?” your coworker whines, and you start to feel the headache coming your way.
~~~
It has been a quiet week. You’re closing alone today. It’s a hassle but you also don’t mind since your boss is very nice and you get to have all the leftover pastries you want. You’re extra excited for that chocolate-raspberry lava cake that miraculously didn’t sell.
You’ve mopped the floors, turned off the lights, and are about to lock the front door as someone starts to push it open.
“We’re clo-” you start to say as you look up. Oh, it’s him again. Hawks the number two hero. “-osed.” The word stretches into an awkward sounding drawl as you finish it. “Sorry, we’re closed.” You repeat yourself but take a step back so that he can come inside anyways.
And so he does.
He shuffles from foot to foot.
“Ahh, sorry sorry, I knew your working hours but there was a villain attack,” he trails off and looks at you with pleading eyes. Ugh, he doesn’t expect puppy eyes to work on you, does he?
“Erm,” you helpfully supply. He kinda keeps staring at you and wow his visor is off today and his eyes really are a very nice colour-
You sigh. “What can I get for you?” Mentally, you curse yourself for being such a weakass for puppy eyes.
You swear you see Hawks make an imaginary yosh! hand gesture, fist in the air and all, before he walks up to the unlit display cases. You sadly glance at the floor that you will have to mop again before walking around the counter.
~~~
He thanks you and leaves the bakery. Son of a bitch stole the lava cake you’ve been longing for since two whole weeks ago. Someone’s better be impressed at whatever date he’s having. They better!
You mop the floor and settle for a blueberry corn muffin to take home.
~~~
The story repeats itself. Hawks’ been coming to downtown every two weeks or so, stopping by to buy new pastry every time. Around after his fifth visit you start making small talk with the local hero. He’s more chill than you expect (you expect him to be more.. self centered? playboy-ish?) so talking to him is pretty easy.
Still, you notice Hawks buys a lot of datey desserts. You notice Hawks most likely having a new date every time he comes to get said datey desserts.
Damn, you wonder what it feels like being popular.
~~~
You’re surprised to discover he knows your name. Your workplace doesn’t require name tags so you don’t wear one.
“It’s printed on the receipts,” he shrugs, and brings up today’s receipt to your face as proof. Indeed, your name is printed in a tiny font at the very bottom of the receipt. Ah, it must be the register since you’re the one to log in at the start of the day.
“Huh,” is all you say. You wrap up a new seasonal shiny ribbon around the box and don’t ask him if he needs a plastic bag. You stopped after the first three times. You let out an obligatory, but not ingenuine, “Have a nice day!” as he’s walking through the door.
~~~
Today you’re closing on your own again. The singular last piece of flan cake is patiently waiting for you in the fridge.
You gather your belongings and start humming as the door closes and the key clicks, indicating it’s locked. You tug at it habitually anyways, making sure it’s locked, locked never hurts, right?
You turn your head when something catches in your peripheral vision. You jump a little, startled. But you play it cool. Nothing happened.
Nothing happened, and the number two hero did not just see you jump, and he most definitely did not hear that squeaky yelp your traitorous mouth let out at your surprise.
“Hey,” he waves a single gloved hand at you. You stare. He stares back. His hand is still in the air.
You clear your throat and ‘hey’ him back. “We’re closed,” you supply hurriedly afterwards. You’re not in the mood to mop the floors twice.
Then you take a better look at him and notice an angry looking red mark covering the entire half of his face. Well damn.
“You good?” You ask cautiously. You clutch the box with your claimed flan closer to your chest. You will not let him snatch another dessert from you. Not today!
But after a few moments of silence you notice that he looks kinda tired. Tired and sad, even. “Your date went bad?”
His hand flops down next to his side. He looks like a sad dog. Sad dogs are your weakness.
“You wanna go for drinks?” Your eyebrows raise in apparent surprise at Hawks proposal. You kind of just stand there. He also stands there and still looks like a sad dog. You contemplate your very busy schedule for today’s evening (ordering pizza, crashing on the couch, and watching that torrented movie you've had since the weekend).
You shrug. “Sure, I don’t see why not.” And he instantly perks up. You may or may not think it’s kind of cute.
~~~
“Can’t you just say no to them?” You ask and take a sip of the fruity cocktail you ordered.
It turns out Hawks indeed has been with a different date every time he stopped by to buy a dessert. But not because he’s a playboy (still looks like one though), but because he apparently struggles with declining invitations.
“But I don’t want to- I just can’t be like- ugh.”
And so he vents about his dates and how he just wants to fight villains, would rather fight villains, actually. And you nod and listen and comment on some of the things he tells you about.
He tells you about today’s date and how she slapped him when he offered her the same, can you believe it, cake that he apparently gave to his other date who is today date’s friend.. It’s quite complicated.
“Next time tell them you’ve got hero stuff to do,” you suggest. “Or something.” Wow yes, very smooth, much help.
He nods anyways so you awkwardly pat him on the shoulder. His wings flutter slightly at the touch.
By the end of your impromptu bar hang out Hawks appears to be quite intoxicated. In other words, he’s wasted.
He wobbles as he walks (we’re not even going to talk about the sad attempt of using his wings to fly), and you can swear half of his weight is being dragged by your sheer determination. And is it just you or the road’s moving? Is someone messing with you with their quirk? Is there a villain waiting on you behind the corner of the building?
Okay, maybe you’re both wasted. You refuse to admit you’re more waisted than he is though. Because you’re not. Nu uh.
Hawks insists on walking you home, since he’s a hero and everything. You’re pretty sure he just can’t stand straight on his own. So, being the kind and understanding soul you are, you let him.
And this is how you end up with the number two hero in your apartment. He’s sprawled on your couch because “Just five minutes, I’m soooo tired today!” and you honestly agree, and thus don’t argue even after five minutes turn into ten and then some more.
You want to wait for Hawks to get his ass off your couch, which technically half of his body is on the floor since there’s not much space for his wings to fit in your cramped (bot cozy!) living room, but soon enough you start dozing off. And you know what, you don’t even try to fight it, because fuck it.
You pass out sitting at the dining table and not setting an alarm for tomorrow’s work shift. Whatever, it was a fun night and you got to talk with a hero-slash-celebrity, which is really cool, and you can brag to your coworker about it. You have no regrets.
~~~
Your head feels like it’s about to split open, your neck hurts from sleeping funny, and you’re feeling nauseous. Despite all that, you find yourself in your bed under the blankets that made you uncomfortably sweaty and not in the kitchen at the table where you fell asleep yesterday.
There’s a suspicious glass of water on your bedside table, and an even more suspicious box of aspirin. Unopened. New. Hmmm.
You look around more, as much as you can without lifting your head from the pillow anyways, but don’t find a note.
You’re not sure why you feel a bit disappointed.
Just then you check the time and fuck you’re super late to your super early shift, but you’re also tired and sick and have no idea why you agreed to hang out with Hawks, knowing you have work the next day..
You get a text from your coworker asking where the hell are you.
You have so many regrets.
~~~
You later discover a shit ton of photos in your phone gallery. All of them in various levels of blurry, featuring you promptly passed out at your dining table, drool pooling on the wooden surface. You let out a string of colourful curses at a certain number two hero while selecting and deleting the images.
You pause. There’s a single selfie with Hawks shooting up a peace sign. He looks like shit. Well, no wonder, since you both got drunk off your asses together. You stare at the photo.
He looks like shit, but not so sad anymore.
You add it to favourites and don’t think too much about how it exposes your passed out body in the background.
~~~
After that night you don’t see him much. Not at all, even. He’s not stopping at the bakery to buy more pastries. It’s a little disappointing but you know you shouldn’t raise your hopes up too much. It’s not like you’d become all buddy buddy after hanging out literally only one time.
Still, you’re kind of expecting him to show up.
He doesn’t.
~~~
You’re coming home after a long day at work with groceries in hands. You bought some fresh ingredients, one cannot survive solely on pizza and takeout. You’d like to argue that one but the little conscience left is making you want to cook a homemade meal for once.
It’s kind of late and the sun has long set so it’s a little spooky to walk down a dimly lit street with no people around. There’s been an awful lot of villains in your area lately, it makes you paranoid.
Still, you safely make it to your apartment building. You punch in the elevator button and wait for a few minutes until deciding it’s not going to come down anytime soon. You take the stairs.
One of the perks of living on the top floor is the roof access with a great view. One of the cons is how long it takes for you to climb up the stairs when the elevator is being a little bitch.
You only have one flight left when you hear a suspicious scratchy sound from above. You freeze in your tracks, many possibilities of death flash across your mind. It could be a villain for all you know.
Still, you’re so so close to home that part of you really wants to give zero shit. You suck your fears up and continue climbing, albeit at a slower pace than before.
You clutch the bag with groceries tighter in your hand and turn the corner. It’s too dark to make anything out with the (lack of) automatic lights that have been out of order since last year.
You stay there still for a few moments before sighing in relief when nothing happens. You walk up to your door and blindly search for the apartment keys in your backpack. Somehow you manage to drop them before even getting a grip, a sad clink your only indication. It’s dark as hell.
“You dropped your keys,” someone says from pitch darkness.
“Oh, thanks,” your brain supplies automatically.
“No prob-”
Whatever is being said, it’s cut off (outvolumed) with your scream. The darkness screams back.
You wildly swing the bag of groceries, successfully getting a hit on whatever there is. It oofs and you with your lightning fast reflexes scramble to get the phone from your pocket and turn on the flashlight.
And there he is standing, in the middle of a cramped hallway, his wings almost touching the ceiling with how low it is (hey, the rent is cheap and you like your apartment so no complaints here).
Hawks. In your apartment building. Standing in the dark with an outstretched hand holding your keys. There’s a sad cabbage laying on the ground, an inevitable casualty of the ultimate grocery-bag-punch you executed not a minute ago.
You scream some more.
~~~
After long minutes of apologizing and getting your groceries from the floor (the plastic bag broke, rip) you find yourself sitting on the couch in the living room. With the number two hero sitting beside you.
You’re not saying much because wow, what are you supposed to say in a situation like this anyway? You throw a few sideway glances at him and notice that he looks kind of beat up. Was it you and your killer grocery-bag-cabbage punch? The said vegetable unsalvageable after fated encounter with the side of Hawks’ face.
Uhhh.
“You good?” you say, and his shoulders slump a bit more. He starts to look like a sad dog again. Oh no. “You’re bleeding.” And it’s definitely more of a statement rather than question.
“Hero stuff,” he makes a vague hand gesture and squeezes himself deeper into your couch. You try not to think about having to clean it from dirt (and blood? it’s blood, isn’t it) later. It’s silent for a bit. He’s not saying anything else and you frankly don’t know what to say yourself.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have come here,” Hawks says, and the words come out so dejected you mentally berate yourself for staying quiet for so long. He stands up to leave but you pinch his sleeve between your fingers, stopping him. Uh.
“Uh,” you’re blanking and have no idea why you’re stopping him, but he’s looking at you now, and he stopped moving, so you don’t think about it too much when offering “Let me at least look at the wounds?”
And even if it’s your imagination that his shoulders sag in relief, you tell yourself that maybe he’s actually glad you offered. Maybe he wants to hang out.
~~~
“Ow ow ow!”
“Stay still, it’s not even that bad!” You exclaim and push down on Hawks shoulder so that he sits back down. He plops without a fight. “Aren’t heroes supposed to be tough and shit,” you mumble under your breath.
Hawks makes a pouty face at you. You stop what you’re doing and stare for a second. He stares back, pouting even harder. You ignore the thought of damn, he’s kinda cute, and pour a copious amount of hydrogen peroxide onto the cotton ball, and shove it onto a scratch on the side of his cheek. He flinches and scrunches his nose at the sensation.
“Okay now your hands,” you say and tug at his jacket, “off.” Your only intention is to help a hero in need, contributing to society by being a model citizen, good person, and all that stuff. And no, you definitely aren’t curious about how the hell he manages to put on clothes with two giant wings attached to his back.
Still, you don’t try to hide your curiosity, and he doesn’t hide a tiny knowing smirk on his face. Instead, Hawks turns around so that you have a straight-on view at his back, slides the sleeves off his arms first, and-
-and makes the most hilarious looking motion of shimmying and wiggling his wings through the openings on the back of his jacket.
“Pfffft!” you can’t help but snicker at the scene. He looks back at you and asks “What’s so funny?” with a smile on his face. You don’t hold in your laughter after that, cotton pads soaked in medical substances forgotten.
~~~
It turns out Hawks is more beat up than he seemed at first. Cuts and scratches covering his skin, his clothes torn in places, dusty, and beyond saving.
You can’t help but notice how nice and toned his body is (comes with the hero job, you tell yourself), and that his wings are much more animated and alive than you expected. They move when he moves, respond to every graze of your hand by fluttering slightly. You’re fascinated at his quirk, and he doesn’t mind showing it off.
“Is it like hair?” you inquire intelligently. He looks ten shades confused. “Like, do you feel every feather or just where,” you helpfully gesture at his back where the wings attach.
“Uhh, somewhere in between?”
It doesn’t quite make sense but you nod with a serious expression on your face anyways. After you’re satisfied with your grade A first aid job, you check out the time, and holy macaroni it’s so late already.
“Do you consider 4 am too late or too early?” Hawks asks, and you realize that your last thought was spoken aloud. You ponder the question but before you can answer, your stomach interrupts the silence. Right, you were going to make dinner like seven hours ago. No wonder.
“Never too late to order takeout,” you glance at him for confirmation and he nods enthusiastically.
~~~
You gawk at Hawks in horror as he nonchalantly orders fried chicken.
“What?” he asks defensively, “it’s my favourite!” You inch away from him on the sofa whilst maintaining eye contact. You hope your eyes convey all the horror you want to convey. “I’m not actually a bird!”
“Uh huh,” you say, unconvinced, “you cannibalistic monster.” There’s no real heat behind your words, and it only makes him shake his head and snicker.
You end up watching weird late (early?) night shows on TV and eating takeout. Hawks gets surprisingly chattery, which you don’t really mind. It’s fun, so you don’t mind at all.
“So, what does your agency think about you going on so many dates? Don’t they worry about the publicity?” you say after taking a bite of the crispy fried chicken in spicy sauce (that place is really good so you’ll have to ask Hawks for their number later).
He straightens on the couch proudly, “ I am the agency!” And yeah, it makes sense to you now that the number two hero would have his own.
“Damn,” you say. “That’s so cool,” because it really is. He’s what, twenty? Twenty-something? And already the number two hero who owns his own hero agency. In comparison, you’re just an almost broke college student working your ass off to pay rent and school tuition.
He doesn’t say anything, actually he goes suspiciously quiet after your comment. But you pay it no mind, he’s probably busy gobbling what you’re sure is his third helping of chicken wings.
You shudder at the scene.
Goddamn cannibal.
~~~
“ I still don’t want to go on all those dates though,” he drawls, whines, almost, and you look at him curiously.
“Then don’t?” you press the jammed in remote control button so the TV screen flicks to another channel. “Just reject them, you know.”
He ugh s and throws his head back so that it plops on the back of your couch. “I wish there was a way to just- just make them stop? I don’t want drama, what if one of them starts crying? I’m so bad with people when they’re crying.”
“Don’t you encounter a lot of crying people while working (as a hero!)?” you ask. He stares at the speck of dirt on your ceiling.
“It’s different,” is all he says back. You shrug and keep browsing the channels, since you’re not sure what else to say, what advice to give, You don’t notice when the sun starts to shine through the blinds. Good thing you have a day off.
~~~
You don’t remember passing out. Again. But you wake up in the second half of the day, magically teleported into your bed. Again.
You feel kinda gross wearing and sleeping in your work clothes, but this time your head isn’t splitting open, and you aren’t missing your shift, and when you look at the bedside table there’s a flyer from that delicious chicken take out place with a string of numbers at the top, handwritten.
There’s a note of ‘Let’s hang out again!’ and an ugly, but cute looking doodle of what you make out to be a chicken. It makes you snort and you don’t think twice before snapping a photo of it. You add a new contact to your phone, his name is chicken emoji.
~~~
Now you get to sometimes hang out with the number two hero-slash-celebrity, whenever your schedules match up for a break, aka after your work ends and he’s not busy doing hero stuff.
You don’t go anywhere special or fancy, usually it’s just the two of you eating takeout (“Please can we get something that’s not chicken?” you plead one time. Hawks, the cold-blooded cannibalistic monster he is, mouths “No” and dials the chicken place number with little to no remorse in his expression.) and watching trashy movies at your place, or walking around at the park later in the evening and chatting.
You’re having fun, and you’re pretty sure he’s having fun too. Otherwise, why would he text you at two in the morning asking ‘wanna hang?’ or why would he wait sometimes for your long ass shift at work to end and walk with you to buy groceries? It only makes sense, right?
You learn things about him too. He doesn’t care about his public image, and he hates doing paperwork, and that’s one of the reasons he started his own agency, to be the boss and have someone else do the ‘boring things’. Also his favourite hero is Endeavor, which is “Eh, isn’t All Might cooler?”, which you kinda regret saying, because he falls into an hour long rant full of fangirling over the flame hero and proving to you just why Endeavor is superior. You’re amused at this side of him though, so you just hum and agree with everything he says. You still think All Might is cooler.
~~~
You’re closing alone and it’s really late. Extra late, in fact, since you had to deal with a customer who wouldn’t stop complaining over the phone, something about chocolate being too bitter and buttercream being too buttery. And you’re extra tired on top of that because today all the people in the region suddenly decided to visit (raid) the bakery. It was so busy all day that you didn’t even get the chance to have your lunch break. What even.
So you slowly, tiredly lock the door behind you, and you don’t even make it a few blocks down the street when suddenly something is poking at your back. Something sharp and pointy. It’s a fucking knife.
You wonder if you have any strength left to feel scared, which you should be feeling, and you are scared, terrified, in fact. You can tell by the numbness in your legs and shakiness of your hands.
“Don’t say a word or you’re done for.” The voice says in a threatening tone. You feel the pointy knife press into your back, as if making a clear point. “Be good and maybe I’ll let you go.”
You find it becoming increasingly more difficult to breath as the voice orders you to turn into that very dark and very shady alley. You can’t do much besides complying.
The voice owner slams you into the dirty brick wall as soon as you’re far enough from the main street for anyone (literally there’s no one out this late anyway) to see. You’re readying to say goodbye to your already sad and empty wallet, but the bad guy seems to have different evil plans for you today.
Your breath hitches in your throat as you feel his free hand grope your ass, the other hand still holding the knife that’s poking painfully into your lower back. And okay, you’re on the verge of really panicking now, and this is so much worse than being robbed, and you can feel his gross fucking hand hike up your shirt, and pleasepleaseplease someone anyone save me!
“The fuck?!” is all the villain has to say before being crashed into the wall on the other side of the alley. Your legs give out as soon as the sensation of the knife poking into your body goes away, and you all but drop to the filthy ground. Great, you’ll have to do laundry when you get home. If you get home.
You aren’t sure how long you cower on the ground for, facing the wall, but all the feeling in your legs is gone and you don’t think you will be able to stand up any time soon.
“Hey.” You visibly jump at the new voice. Familiar voice. And your head snaps back to look up at Hawks, hovering over you but not standing too close, as if he’s scared of scaring you. You glance to the side and catch a sight of a very beat up and very passed out villain slumping on the pavement, several red feathers holding him down. “You, uh, you okay?”
His voice is so quiet, you almost can’t make it out over the volume of your pulse beating in your ears. You slowly shake your head once, twice, and then you feel your eyes burn and oh no, you’re crying now, in front of Hawks and the now possibly (hopefully) dead body of a stranger who tried to assault you. The thought only makes you cry harder.
Still, amidst the emotional breakdown, you manage to scramble to your feet and throw yourself into Hawks’ arms. He doesn’t hesitate to protectively wrap them around you, and he keeps whispering a string of ‘it’s okay’ and ‘you’re safe’ and ‘let’s go home’ until your shoulders stop shaking and you finally catch your breath.
Your face is still smooshed into his chest and you’re perfectly fine staying like this, it feels safe and he smells nice, but it’s getting cold and your knees start to hurt where you scratched them against the ground, so you will yourself to detach your face from Hawks’ shirt and shit there is a huge tear stain right in the middle of it, and ohmygod is that snot, and you feel the second wave of mental breakdown coming up already.
Before it happens though, you feel Hawks’ hand gently pat your head in a soothing motion. It’s not awkward at all, and now your breath hitches for an entirely different reason. You feel your face flush and thank whoever people usually thank in moments like this, for having literally zero lights installed in this goddamned alley.
You slowly unclench your fists, his jacket crumpled at the space, and look to the side to discover the body of the villain missing. What.
As if reading your mind, Hawks shrugs “Took him to the station, one of the quirk perks.” And as if supporting his point, the wings behind his back rustle. He’s being stupidly cool right now and you’re lowkey annoyed at yourself for being such a wimp.
You cried long and hard enough to know you’d stutter if you talk, so you don’t say anything as he walks you home. You don’t think about how his hand never leaves yours throughout the walk, or how when you’re given a hug at the door he may or may not linger a second too long.
He asks if you want him to stay but you shake your head. You really just want to pass out and forget about today and today’s shitty contents. He gives you a worried look but doesn’t pry, and gets ready to leave after making sure you’re ok and not showing any signs of another mental breakdown.
Just before he closes the door on his way out, you manage to let out the saddest, quietest “Thank you.” in your entire lifespan. He grins at you, “It’s my job after all!” and you already miss him not a minute after locking the door.
You don’t bother changing out of your work clothes and pass out right the moment your head hits the pillow.
~~~
You don’t take any time off, because you’re not a weak bitch, but also because you need the money.
Life proceeds as before, the only difference is that now you have a personal winged bodyguard walking you to (when possible) and from (always, without exception) work. You feel bad about making him waste his time on you because you’re pretty sure he has patrolls to do, but “What, no! I like hanging out,” he protests, so you don’t question it further, relieved at the words.
“Plus, I am patrolling,” he winks and finger-guns at you, and it looks so cheesy and funny that you can’t help but let out a laugh, “you.” That promptly shuts you up, instead making you choke on air. You blame your flushed cheeks on the hot weather.
~~~
Hawks becomes a lot more touchy feely after the whole being-almost-assaulted-in-the-dark-alley incident. His hands brush against yours when he tells you about his day, he gives you hello and goodbye hugs when you meet to hang out, he becomes so accustomed to spending time at your apartment that there’s a Hawks shaped dent in your couch now.
“It’s my favourite place to sit,” he tells you one time, complaining about how his wings are always difficult to fit anywhere comfortably enough. You want to complain, because he’s taking up all of the couch space, but he looks happy and content so every time you decide to let it go, and you realize that you don’t mind.
You don’t mind it at all.
~~~
Today is one of your rare off days, and you plan to go visit the newly opened mall nearby. You’re in the mood to chill and wander around the stores, window shopping, possibly getting a thing or two. Have some quality yourself time.
There’s a huge crowd that you notice soon after arriving at the mall. People are whispering and gathering around something and blocking the only entrance to the mall. You sigh, a little annoyed but curious nonetheless, and start making your way to the epicenter of the commotion.
There’s a flash of red wings and you cannot mistake the owner for anyone else. It’s Hawks, in the middle of the crowd. But why?
And you find out after finally squeezing through a bunch of onlookers.
And you really don’t feel so good about the situation that unfolds in front of your (and at least a couple dozen people’s) eyes. He’s standing there, awkward and lost, and not at all looking like the confident number two hero he usually is. And in front of him stands some girl who looks like she’s on the verge of crying, risking to ruin all ten layers of mascara weighing down on those thick and annoyingly long lashes of hers.
“Did he reject her?”
“Doesn’t he always act like a playboy?”
“Poor girl..”
You hear people whisper around you and can’t ignore the burning feeling in your chest. You want to scream and yell and tell them that they don’t know him, or how nice and funny he is, or how he’s a great listener and is very considerate of people around him.
And then you hear the girl wail in her high-pitched, pitiable voice, “Hawks is so mean! Why can’t he just go on one date with me?” And there is more whispering and people have their phones taken out, some snapping photos, some recording, and you absolutely hate how Hawks’ shoulders slump under everyone’s gaze. You want to reassure him, show him that he is none of the things people around him are saying, but you can’t, not from here. You’re standing right behind him so there’s no way he would see you.
You don’t realize when you start moving. You take a few angry steps and separate from the crowd, the girl staring at you with a startled expression. Whatever act she’s been putting on is on a fucking intermission because hot damn you’re not gonna let this slide.
You put a hand on Hawks’ shoulder and push him aside, you manage to catch a surprised gasp of your name, but now’s not the time.
The girl is a few inches taller than you, because of course, who wouldn’t be if they’re wearing ten inch heels, so you crane your head up, squint with as much disdain as you manage to muster.
And slap her across the face.
The crowd collectively gasps.
The girl is too shocked to do anything besides pressing one of her manicured little hands onto the surface of the quickly reddening skin.
“Bitch, he’s mine. ” You proudly state. And you can bet no one is more surprised than you are at the next thing that happens, because you turn to Hawks, get a firm hold on both sides of his unzipped jacket, and yoink him down to your level, crashing your lips together.
His gasp dies in the kiss, which isn’t even a real kiss, you’re literally just smooshing your lips against his. Hard. But then you feel his hands close around your waist, and the crowd becomes very, very quiet, because the sound of your hammering heart is deafening, and you’re pretty confident everyone in the close vicinity can hear it go wild.
And then you start to panic. You panic because oh wow, you just kissed the number two hero, and, holy cow you just kissed Hawks, and HOLY FUCK YOU JUST KISSED HAWKS KJDSHFKJSHDF!!!
When you pull back, the world spins. It quite literally spins, because both of you are in the air, the crowd of people getting smaller and smaller as you gain distance. You realize you’re in the air and you’re flying and Hawks is holding you while you’re flying and you just kissed him in front of like half the population-
“You’re overthinking!” he yells through the wind, and it sounds like a whisper.
You blush wildly and squeak out an unintelligible string of noises, and bury your face in his chest, grasping harder at his jacket. He laughs and it resonates through his entire body, you can feel it more than hear it, and it’s one of the best feelings in the world.
After a short while you’re being carefully put down, and after a glance you recognize your apartment building’s rooftop. You try to step away, but his hands are locked behind your back, so you find yourself face to face with his grinning (handsome) face.
Your face flushes all over again, and he, that bastard , has the audacity to look smug, and happy, and even ecstatic .
“Did you mean it?” he asks while boring holes into your face. He’s not trying his luck with the puppy eyes again, is he? And goddamn if you can’t look away. You can’t seem to be able to say anything either, so after a moment you simply nod, averting his gaze and trying your best not to turn into a human-tomato.
His wings do that cute little flutter and he does what you’d call a pretty good attempt at squeezing the soul out of your body. He prevents your efforts in covering your face with your hands by quickly pressing a kiss to your lips. You don’t think it’s possible for you to blush even harder, but you do nonetheless.
“I like you!” he says happily, and judging by the tone, he knows you like him too.