#hawks readerinsert

You approach with no attempt to hide the sounds of your footfalls on the cement, but Hawks doesn’t make a move to show he’s realized your presence. Instead, he sits, over the edge of the roof, wings expanded wide on either side of him, crimson feathers looking all the more brilliant in the deep warm glow of the fading sunlight.

The breeze, as soft as a whisper, caresses against them, each feather trembling against it. But silent does he remain, an unwavering pillar overseeing the vastness of the city below--and not a single person to realize that even now, someone watches over them.

A society where heroes can enjoy a little boredom... I'll make it happen, I promise.

“Hey.”

Though soft, the sound of his voice brings you out of your thoughts. 

A small smile starts to tug at your lips as you step closer. “Your desk secretary said you’d probably be up here.”

“Eh? Thought I told Iwata to keep my rooftop brooding on the downlow.”

You move another step closer, almost an arm’s length away from him. The view over the city is mind-bogglingly expansive, even from a few strides back from the edge. Had he been sitting here all this time, since his last patrol of the evening?

Watching?

“In fact,” you say, almost sheepishly. “he told me you’d say that too.”

The man doesn’t respond. The only indication that he might have even heard you is the gentle shuffling of his crimson wings, slowly pulling back towards his body. You can practically feel the stress echoing from his body, feel the tension he keeps bottled up somewhere so deep that not even you can scarcely reach.

But you can reach out, physically. It’s mostly just an instinct to touch him somewhere, to offer an anchor of touch so that he knows he’s not alone. You can’t quite reach his shoulders--the wings are still stretched open enough it’s nearly impossible with him facing away from you--but your fingers do manage to touch, and then card through the layers of soft red feathers that cover one of his wings.

Soft to you. You know how they can each, individually, be used as tools. 

As weapons. 

Things used to save lives as much as they likely have been to take them.

As if it stung, the wing beneath your fingertips trembles. You’re about to pull your hand back in mild alarm, thinking you’ve done something to hurt him--perhaps even aggravated a wound he’d gotten and not told you about--but the wing settles against your touch.

It’s hard to understand what’s going through Hawks’ mind at the best of times when he has such a careful control on even the smallest facial tells--

But you hear him sigh, and the comfort it brings to you is almost silly for anyone who didn’t know him as well as you do. Though it is true you have a hard time reading him physically, there is but one point of expression that seems to elude him and come easy to you: the way he sighs. 

The stilted push of air in stress, as if he’s trying to force the tension out of him.

The deep, languid exhale of peace, letting himself settle into its comfort.

The rushed, half-hidden chuckle he tries to hide.

You wonder if there’s anyone else in the world that notices it.

The gentleness of how he sighs now, with your fingers buried in the feathers of one of his wings, is the single but powerful declaration that your touch feels good to him. So you repeat the motion, over and over, slowly moving closer until you have both of your hands slowly stroking through feathers that mimic the rich, warm glow of the sun as it starts to dip below the horizon at your back.

“...it’s been a while since you’ve let me do this,” you murmur after a few moments, picking out a few feathers that seemed to have met the last of their days; color fading, as if the breeze itself would have had them flying loose and free into the evening wind.

“Yeah,” Takami agrees. “Been a rough couple of weeks.”

“You can take a day off.” Another few fading feathers fall from the rest, through your fingers and towards your feet. “-the stress is starting to take its toll. I can’t remember the last time you’ve had this many molt at once.”

“Eh.”

If the single syllable wasn’t enough to show his disinterest in being honest about his feelings, the vague shrug--or what you assume is a shrug--does plenty to send the message.

“Takami.”

Though gentle, his name on your lips still falls firm and worried. You’re about to open your mouth to say something more, but there’s no chance to do more than part your lips before his wings are stretching out, and upwards, arching so that you can see his face looking at you over his shoulder, leaning on one of his hands.

With the other, he reaches out to you, expression relatively unreadable save for the quirk at the corners of his lips.

“C’mere and sit next to me already.”

Though some part of you wants to stand firm on your concern, the rest of you knows it’s not the time for a talk like that. It knows that, in the end, you just want him to know you’re with him for everything his life and career throws--big or small.

But you don’t make it easy for him. A dramatic sigh leaves your lips as you tilt both head and eyes to the side, as if having to think about it.

“I dunno,” you bring a hand up to your chin for extra emphasis. “You did make me wait at the apartment for like, an hour, and didn’t return my call at lunch.”

Hawks purses his lips together as if pained and pouting. “Oh come on baby bird , don’t be like that.” He reaches his hand out again, expression shifting into something coy. “Just sit up here with me for a few minutes, and then I can fly us home all romantic-like, sound fair?”

Though there’s not one singular detail that acts stronger than the others, the culmination of them--the softness of his expression, the tease of his words, the honest adoration in the petname--is enough to make you drop the act like a rock into a lake.

You reach out to take his hand, letting the man pull you into his lap in one strong, careful motion. If this had happened several months earlier in your relationship, you might have worried about being so close to the edge of the roof, overlooking the steep drop down several stories onto the pavement below. But this isn’t several months before, and your mind trusts the man whose arms envelope your body and hold you tight against his chest.

Hawks perches his chin over the top of your head and, for a few seconds, the two of you simply watch the flickering landscape below. 

Car lights in the street, the office lights turning on in several buildings as the sunlight fades into dusk. Even as the day winds down, the city yet remains vibrant and bustling, and it makes you vaguely grateful that Hawks doesn’t have to work as many overnights as he did when you first met him. Or, at least, you’ve managed to convince him to sleep on occasion. It doesn’t always stick.

“So,” you break the silence and reach a hand up, idly stroking a thumb over the man’s cheek. “You gonna tell me about all the shit happening with work?”

“Nah,” Hawks says as honestly as he does casually. You’re half a second away from giving him an annoyed flick before he quickly explains, “I’m still working through some case details and my brain just needs some alone time with them is all. I’ll give you all the dirty details once it’s over--just a few more days.”

“You promise?”

“Yeah.”

He tilts his head into your touch and allows a sigh to escape him. Gentle, languid--and you believe his words.

“Besides,” he continues after a moment, tone turning amused and teasing. “Nobody can keep me away from my lil’ hummingbird for too long. I’d go fucking nuts without you.”

“You can say that again, birdboy.”

“ Excuse me, ” Hawks tenses up suddenly against you, and you can hear as much as see his wings stretch out, wide and imposing--though a little less so when you’re snuggled up against his chest. “I’m a bird man , thank you very much.”

“Uh huh.” laugher bubbles up behind your tongue, spilling out when you simply can’t hide how silly--and yet how sweet--his overdramatic posturing is.

But when the laughter between both of you die back down into silence, and the sun finally settles behind the horizon to let darkness start taking over the newborn night sky, you pat a hand on Hawks’ chest.

“Alright, birdman , how ‘bout you get us home like you promised. I had dinner on and everything.”

“Dinner? Oh, now that changes everything.” He moves, lifting up to his feet even with you settled comfortably in his arms, wings outstretched. “What’cha make?”

“A surprise.”

He lifts from the roof, gradually up and into the air with just a few meaningless flaps of his brilliant crimson wings--even with nobody around, there’s still a remnant of that actor putting on a show.

“Okay then,” he says. The wind brushes over your cheeks, like an evening kiss, and you settle into his arms without a single worry for the cityscape below you. “How about we take that surprise dinner and pair it up with a movie?”

“Now you’re thinking like a man who cares about his mental health.”

“Well, I got someone like you t’help make that possible,” Hawks nuzzles his chin over the top of your head, and repeats the words of just several minutes before. “I’d go absolutely nuts if you weren’t here to help pick up all the pieces of me when I fuckin’ drop them down the stairs.”

To that, you say nothing; words aren’t needed. At that point, all that mattered was the feeling of the air rushing past the two of you, the warmth of his body, the steadfast strength of his arms holding you,