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takamikeiigos · 2 years ago

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Idk if you remember but in the scene before hawks goes under cover he’s like “even if it means corrupting myself” NOW HEAR ME OUT, HEAR ME OUT. What if his s/o takes his place instead, the events don’t have to happen exactly like in the manga, you could probably just make up a whole diff kind of undercover scene thing, but I’m just in for the drama/ emotional turmoil that hawks goes through when his s/o is injured a in a mission he was supposed to take PLUS!! Not being there to save/help his s/o 🙏🏼🙏🏼

picture: me, poking my head out from around a corner, full of anxiety

i'm so sorry i've neglected you guys life is wild and hit me all at one time and writing seemed so exhausting and aaaaaaaa

but i'm feeling the angst tn so let's talk ab it!!!

Hawks would be so quick to take on the burden of corrupting himself for the sake of others, but the minute you even breathe the idea of the roles being reversed and you being in that situation, he would be so angry.

He's quick to object during the meeting with the commission - immediately losing his cool and slamming his hands on the table, his chair scraping against the hardwood floor as he abruptly stands. His wings are splayed out to their full span, feathers ruffled and standing on end as anger and vexation betray his normally calm demeanor, all the while Madam President sits there with her stony expression, his name spoken from her lips with disdain and disapproval.

"Keigo -"

"No. Absolutely not." He spits in outrage, his words dripping with venom as he leans across the table minutely as if to intimidate the her. She leans back in her chair, unaffected by his outburst, and instead he directs his attention to you in attempt to get through to someone, anyone.

"You're not going. End of discussion. We're done here."

"We're very far from done, Keigo. Sit down, or you'll be taken off of this mission entirely, following with a suspension." The President follows bluntly, seemingly bored of his tantrum. She gives him a moment to seethe, his eyes boring holes into her with utter distaste and resentment, and it's your calming touch upon his arm that brings him back a couple notches, a shuddering sigh pushing past his lips.

He brushes your touch away and sits back down.

You try not to let the dismissal affect you, bringing your hands to rest in your lap as you maintain your composure.

"It would be an honor to dedicate everything I have to this mission, if it means saving our people."

Hawks keeps silent for the rest of the meeting, being the first to leave once it's over. When you attempt to seek him out after it's all said and done, he's nowhere to be found.

You aren't allowed to talk about any details regarding the mission to anyone besides Madam President, herself. It's high risk, and any potential exposure could cause months of cautious planning and undercover work to fall apart.

You're kept apart from your friends, family, and fellow heros for the sake of their safety, aside from the few meetings regarding steps moving forward in the mission.

The months drag by in a haze of stress, anger, and budding loneliness, but you manage to keep yourself distracted by throwing yourself into your work, delving deep behind enemy lines and forming a budding trust that you'll soon betray.

It gets hard - as you fall into some sense of familiarity and routine with the enemy, coming to recognize and understand their quirks (literally and figuratively) and routines as genuine human beings. It almost makes you feel bad, hearing about small details of their lives and the many chapters they've written for themselves, and you find yourself up one night, sobbing in the quiet darkness of your room, mourning any sense of self you used to have.

Little do these people - the enemy that has begun treating you like family - know that your betrayal inches closer every day. It eats you alive every second.

You're in the thick of it, adrenaline pumping heavy through your veins as the raid begins. You'd given the last of your intel over to the commission over the course of the evening, having been up all night planning a course of action.

The plan, which should have been seamless - meaning no unnecessary deaths - is beginning to fall apart. Where you were supposed to catch the enemy off-guard and ease into a quick arrest, you're suddenly found in a much messier situation. You're the one who ends up being caught blind, held at knife-point by someone you'd grown relatively close to over the past few months.

She's seething with hurt and anger, her long blonde hair framing her face as she bares her weight against you, the sharp edge of her blade pressed firmly against the hollow of your throat.

"Why?" She cries out, desperate for some sort of explanation. For some act of redemption from you.

Your struggle to keep your composure, swallowing thickly against the lump in your throat and the blade against your skin.

"I had no choice, I-"

"We were your family! For months we were your family. We trusted you and you.." she's crying, you notice, crystalline tears against reddened cheeks portraying her newfound distrust. "Was any of it real?"

You choke on a reply and distantly hear commotion coming through the comms. Hawks is yelling, his voice muffled and crackled with interference, and though part of you is relieved to hear his voice after so long, you can't help the sense of panic that begins to overtake you.

The door to the room busts open suddenly and the police force enters with their guns drawn, trained on the woman that stands before you. The one you'd once called, well, a friend.

For a moment you think she's given in to her fate, her blade lowering as she takes in the officers behind her. But in her own blind panic and rage she takes one last moment to size you up, her emotion speaking louder than the task force yelling behind her, and the searing pain of her knife plunging deep between your ribs is enough to drown out the echo of a handgun being fired.

You blink rapidly, trying to come to your senses as you lean heavily against the wall, your hand instinctively coming to rest against the fresh wound between your ribs in attempt to stem the blood flow. You look down to assess the damage done, only to find the crumpled body of your temporary companion on the floor before you, her body unmoving in a slow-building pool of her own blood.

Time stops.

You fall to your knees, reaching a hand out to gently shake her.

It's fine. She's fine. She's.. fine. Right?

Right..?

"Hey.." You choke out, a garbled sound that bubbles from deep within your chest. "Hey, wake up. It's okay, we're okay."

But she isn't moving, and the panic in your chest begins to turn into despair, and you clutch her prone body close to yours in some sort of attempt to protect what was already lost.

"What did you do?" Your own voice is unrecognizable as you snarl up at the officers, emotion catching in your throat as tears begin to make themselves known. "She wasn't going to hurt anybody, she.. she.."

At that moment Hawks comes running into the room, stopping short in shock at the scene before him. He takes one look at you - a feral, broken little thing as you clutch the body of the enemy in your arms, and his facial expression becomes one of understanding.

"Hey now, songbird-" he tries softly, as if not to escalate the situation at hand, but is cut off by your sudden wailing and screaming.

"What did you do? You killed her! She's dead and you killed her and she didn't deserve it, I.."

You don't realize Hawks is at your side, kneeling down and wrapping his arms around you, gentle but firm all the same. He begins pulling you away from the lifeless body before you and you put up a fight, kicking and screaming and crying and clawing and so desperate to do something, anything, to fix the mistake that cost a life.

"Shh, shh. Hey now," he whispers to you, pulling you close despite every hand and elbow you throw against him. "It's okay. It's gonna be okay."

"How can it possibly be okay?" The words come from you in an anguished sob as you fall back against him, the fight leaving your body, your limbs growing heavy and your eyes growing tired. You watch as the medics enter the room, kneeling down to examine the soulless body that lies before you, confirming that there's no pulse and that she's no longer alive.

"How can it be okay when I killed her?"

Recovery comes to you slowly. Mentally, that is.

Recovery girl was able to do quick patchwork on you, leaving you with a small scar just below your left breast and some sore ribs. But the days continue to pass in a blur, your brain struggling to keep up with the continuous onslaught of questions from the police force and commission.

You hadn't remembered much past the police rushing into the room during the raid, and Hawks decided to take it upon himself to remind you, mindful enough to leave out the gruesome details. But over the course of a few days it comes back to you in bits and pieces, bogging you down with a heavy weight on your chest that leaves you breathless.

Still, you carry on, and despite being on temporary leave you're still called to answer questions at press conferences. You know it's standard procedure, especially in cases where deaths are involved, and your force yourself to switch over to autopilot for the sake of whatever mental stability you have left just to get through the week.

Hawks finds you in your apartment one day, having flown in through the balcony window you always leave unlocked just for him, almost shocked at the sight of you curled up in a ball beneath the spray of your shower. The water has turned cold, soaking your still-clothed form to the bone with a deep chill, and he turns the water off without any hesitation. Through your dissociated reverie you can feel the warmth of a towel being wrapped around your shoulders, strong arms lifting your from the cold porcelain of the tub and guiding you to your room.

He wastes no time in shedding you from your sopping wet clothes, tossing them into the hamper to deal with later before dressing you in something much warmer.

He guides you into bed, wrapping his arms and wings around you in attempt to console your distraught and torn frame, his fingers gently brushing through your hair as he presses soft and promising kisses to the top of your head.

"I'm here," he whispers softly to you, the gentle rasp of his voice dampening the despair that consumes you. "Whatever you need, I'm here."

And for once, in the quiet darkness of your bedroom, you aren't alone while your sobs echo throughout the room.

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