Chapter Text
At first, the changes hadn't been drastic.
It felt merely like a passing sickness, something that Hawks could sleep off in a day or two just like how he does for all his problems. He even took pills to deal with the headaches, tried to sleep more to get rid of the dizziness that hit him at every waking moment. Because he’s the number two hero and he has no time to deal with something so basic such as getting sick, even though his agency’s healing abilities suspiciously stopped working on him. The fatigue lasted for days on end, and throwing up became a regular occurrence every morning along with random cravings every night.
When his sidekicks started asking him if he was alright, Hawks immediately knew he wasn't. Still, he answered them with his usual smile, flying out of the building in his usual comical way even though being airborne made him weirdly light-headed. He was trained far too much for far too long to be affected by a common cold (that's just what it was— a common cold ), so Hawks took note of his symptoms and felt a sinking feeling in his stomach.
A single trip to the drug store had him confirming his suspicions one night. It's a good thing he did it in the privacy of his home, considering the murderous screech he let out when all the 5, 6 something pregnancy tests came up positive.
To say that Hawks was terrified is an understatement. The two blue lines felt too much like a death sentence for something that indicated the beginnings of a new life. The little plastic cluttered on the floor when he ran a shaky hand through his hair. There's only one person that he's had recent sexual encounters with and fuck. He's so fucked. He has too much on his plate already— way too much with him still being unable to tell when the date of the raid would be, PLF tracking his every move and HPSC breathing down his neck. The stack threatened to collapse on him at any moment; there's no more room for something like this.
He couldn't tell the HPSC, no way . He would be better off impaling himself on a pole than to admit he fucked up, than to admit who the father was because surely, they would demand to know.
Stupid, Hawks, so stupid, said a voice in his head, suspiciously sounding like his handler.
He was tempted to call Dabi— and in his moment of weakness he almost did, fear, anger and frustration making him almost crush the burner phone held in his clammy hands— but he remembered calloused fingers and scorching palms, burning against the skin of his throat. Touch none too gentle, radiating imminent danger that, if Hawks had been a wiser man, he would have run away from the first time he came in contact with it.
Hawks wanted to bash his head against a wall. The man is a fucking villain. It must be the stress, making him even consider telling him. Dabi would burn him alive.
Hospitals were definitely a no-go. Too public, too many people involved, too many traces and records. The Commission would find out. They always do.
The urge to throw up seizes his entire being, and not because of the thing he's carrying. His hands shook and his head swam— he felt hot and cold at the same time.
But this is… No, this is fine, he can deal with it.
He's the Winged Hero: Hawks for fuck's sake, number 2 in the rankings. A little mistake shouldn't be shaking him up so bad. He's been through worse— he can deal with it.
Hawks chanted those words in his head when he came home the next day with pills heavy in his pocket, when he laid down guilty and wide awake in his bed.
He would deal with it the same way he dealt with Dabi's demands—the same way he's going to deal with the upcoming war.
Quick, effective, efficient.
It should be easy. It's just one pill, and then it's one problem off his pile.
Yeah. Hawks let out a tentative breath, bottle rattling in his trembling hand as he stood on shaky legs in his bathroom.
God, it should have been easier.
He didn't know why his hand wouldn’t move.
The pill felt way too heavy to hold, way too hard to swallow. When he finally did, he felt way too aware of the poison making its way down his esophagus that he was retching it back out into the toilet mere seconds later, taloned fingers jabbing at his own throat to expel the vile thing about to kill his first brood.
It was an experience too similar to the first time he tried to suppress his avian instincts, fighting his own body until he was a bloody, screeching mess on the floor. Years of training to control it felt like they were thrown out of the window as his hand stress gripped the toilet, unable to let go.
His throat hurt due to the drag of his talons and the burn of his stomach fluids. He's torn between new ferocious instincts and his own voice calling him pathetic. Flushing down the mix of blood, bile and vomit, Hawks realized he couldn't do it.
He's messy and sobbing and hurting and terrified and he couldn't do it.
So he slumped against cold, tiled walls with his knees pulled up to his chest. The lack of options had him stretching and bending too far to tie the loose ends, having no choice but to go back to doing what he does best.
Hawks hastily fixed himself up then. Numb, spent—he fell into a restless sleep almost immediately.
He went on patrol the next day, laughed with his sidekicks despite the soreness in his throat, and ignored the pills sitting imposingly on his nightstand. He continued his mission like nothing happened, like nothing was happening . He had a compression belt delivered the very night he noticed his belly looking the slightest bit distended. Hawks knew it wouldn't go away no matter how much he ignored it's existence, but he tried to pretend it would anyway.
He ate less, to avoid putting on weight that would be too suspicious for the monthly physical exam required by the HPSC.
He slept with Dabi less, having been too close to the villain. There were days he couldn't say no, days he lacked his prided impulse control, or when Dabi was in a bad mood and he’d have Hawks under him with no questions asked. And usually, Hawks loved it—loved the thrill of being at the villain’s mercy, being Dabi’s sole plaything because somehow it made him feel wanted, needed, but the tides have changed.
He'd insist to be on his hands and knees everytime, avoiding searching eyes and wandering hands. He'd leave right after, even when Dabi regarded him with poorly masked suspicion, venomous when he asked if he had found someone else; even when Dabi looked at him with hostile eyes, sneering at him with contempt. Hawks would just shrug it off and tell him he's being ridiculous, swiftly putting on his clothes and leaving Dabi's place like the devil itself was hot on his tail.
Their relationship was obviously deteriorating, but it was what got him in this mess in the first place. There was no need to be at his every beck and call anymore, now that he’s officially part of the PLF. Let Dabi be mad at him, let him think whatever he wants; that's way better than him finding out.
That's way better than anyone finding out.
"Hawks," Twice calls out to him one time. "You sure you're okay? You've been using the bathroom too much lately— not that I care! Stop stinking up the bathroom, dammit!"
Hawks laughs, wiping away his sweat. "Nah, I just ate something bad I think."
"It's been weeks though? Did you eat a dead rat or something?!"
That remark catches him off guard. Was he too obvious?
Scratching his head, Hawks smiles sheepishly. "Let's just say I'm not the best cook."
Jin cackles, pointing at himself. "Me too! I'm way better than you!"
"Honestly? Anyone would be way better than me," He jokes though a bit lackluster. "I burn chicken nuggets so... heh."
"Let's eat at the cafeteria then, get you actual good food! Stop eating shit! You look bloated!"
For a split second, Hawks freezes. Jin doesn’t seem to notice anything as he leads the way, Hawks following behind him and forcing a laugh that shakes his shoulders, if only to cover the way his hands began to tremble. He rubs his palms together, resting a hand on his stomach. Pressing, pressing down .
He just needs to tighten the compression belt more.