Chapter Text
Dabi rounds the corner. He is back in familiar territory. Walking hastily, he kicks empty glass bottles and beer cans out of his way, whistling a merry tune, although he feels anything but merry. Recruitment was another failure and the insidious, two-faced blonde cunt with his ugly, chunky, red wings tried to follow him. Tried to follow him – Dabi of all people – back to the villain's hideout. The audacity of it. The night seems darker than usual; he doesn't exactly see what he kicks out of his path next except it looks roughly like a worn-out scruffy trainer.
He is met with a soft sharp gasp causing Dabi to pause and stare. What he had thought was an abandoned trainer is attached to a leg. A leg that is poking out from the shadows of two looming reeking industrial bins. Instantly the leg withdraws. Dabi grins nastily. He smells prey. An opportunity to let loose the low seething fury that whispers restlessly underneath his marred skin.
“What do we have here, huh?” he coos softly, his voice a misleading raspy murmur, whilst simultaneously lighting a ball of flame in his left hand. His canines flash. Drool practically trickles down his soul at the very prospect of whichever unfortunate motherfucker he is about to cremate. Blind murder has its thrill on occasion. However, right now though he’d like to see the face of his victim.
The thing is, what Dabi enjoys the most about killing his prey face to face is that fleeting moment of terror registering on his victim’s helpless expression. How it then transforms into one of intense pain as they shriek and scream with agony. From the very moment the first flame comes into contact with the delicate skin and begins to consume it.
It is instantaneous. The change. And how the air becomes choked with charred human flesh and fizzled blood. Black bubbling blood. Although he never stays long enough to watch the fire splutter and die out. But it's a quiet night. Maybe for once, he will accompany this motherfucker until the end. He crouches, grinning like a maniac. He leans close enough to light the dark space but not too close in case of an attack. Whatever he’s expecting… it isn’t this:
A child.
A child who looks like the spitting image of his former self. Snowy hair. Large, round silver-turquoise eyes. Pale skin. Skinny. Near virtual death. It’s the child’s expression that slips beneath his guard, below the seething rage of his golden-stitched skin and pierces his heart like a hunter’s arrow. Helplessness. How many times has he come across that expression in the mirror? Dabi stumbles on his heels, losing his footing and his flames choke. Eyes bulging, mouth agape, he gasps wordlessly. A sick, slinking, cold sensation slithers from his chest to the pit of his stomach. Even though he has no idea who that child could be. There's no doubt that that thing sitting hunched over, curled up, shivering, dying, is a disgusting cursed Todoroki spawn.
He doesn’t need a DNA test to confirm it. His heart, his guts, and his instincts scream that it is, and he knows it is so. But it cannot be? How!? When did Endeavour get her pregnant again? Shouto was the last child. He should have been the last child. Dabi is certain. After that baby, five years on there’d been no more and then she was hospitalized. And as far as he’s aware, hospitals don’t do conjugal visits.
Dabi’s mind races. Scrambling up, shaking, he runs. Runs until he cannot run any more. Until he is as far away as possible, trembling, and fucking crying. Crying is a stretch. Blood bubbles out from the seams of his scarred cheeks. He thought there was nothing that could crack his composure ever again. The trauma he suffered as a kid comes back full throttle. A lurching haul of bad, mad memories dredged up as if from Poseidon’s wave. He shudders.
Something cold and wet hits his face. Oh, rain. It starts slow and hesitant as if to reflect the confused state of his mind, until it becomes a drum, drenching him, flattening his spikes, weighing down his jacket like rocks. The orange light of the streetlamps no longer beams its dim glow but looks like sparklers, scattering its rays through the insistent heavy shower. The ground ripples with black glistening wetness, brightened up by the reflection of the lamp lights. Dabi slides down a brick wall and his face reflects back up at him.
The eyes of the child flash before him. Sad turquoise eyes. That’s when it crashes over him all the more clearly. The realization.
I have a brother.
That child is my sibling.
My blood.
My flesh.
Mine.
He doesn’t know how or what makes him so desperately certain, so convinced of the fact. He realizes it doesn’t make sense and yet he knows that trampled skinny little thing is his blood, his flesh, his family. A lump grows in his throat. He cannot swallow. Before he can think it through, Dabi stumbles back on his feet. It’s difficult to see through the haze of the rain. He can’t hear anything either but the roar of the incessant pitter-patter. It doesn't matter though. Dabi is up and running again. Running before his mind decides what to do. Running before his heart has a chance to understand. Running before he even can even think about the consequences.
Tired feet pound the pavement. Water flies up in an arch. He is drenched to the bone, yet it matters not. Gasping wildly, barely able to see the street ahead, Dabi searches frantically for the alleyway he’d been in previously and he finds it. Pulse humming, he approaches the bins and crouches down again. He doesn't know what compels him, but he reaches forward to grab those alarmingly skinny wrists and yanks the child out from between the hidden space.
Of course, it isn't without struggle. The child fights him but it’s pathetic. The thing opens its mouth and screams, only there is no one around to hear him. The rain is too loud. The boy’s shriek sounds like that of a wild injured fox. Not human. But Dabi isn’t having any of that. He can’t have any of that.
"Be quiet!" he hisses.
The child tries to bite him. Reflectively, Dabi tugs the child at arm’s length and then shoves him roughly. The child stumbles backwards. Falls. Rises and tries to sprint. Within seconds the patchwork villain is on top of the tiny squirming figure, foiling the child’s brief chance of an escape. Except the tiny thing continues to cry loudly, squirming and wiggling wildly. “Stop!” Dabi roars but to avail. A large bony hand seizes the child by the throat, flips him on his back and strikes him hard across the face. “Stop it!” Then he hits the poor soul again. Blood drip from the child’s nose.
Wait. What did he just to do the child?
Dabi stares slacked jawed and shocked at his own sick behaviour. He didn't mean to hit the child. At once the child slumps on the ground, withering, hunches over and covers his face with both arms as if bracing himself for a volley of further attack.
This position of defence is all too familiar and painful to witness. Dabi staggers.
"Listens" he rasps, anguished in ways he cannot begin to explain. “Listen to me. You can't stay here.”
No response. So, fucking be it thinks Dabi bitterly, glancing down the alleyway uneasily. He doesn’t expect speech. Maybe it’s for the best. The wind whips around them, viscously swiping at his scarred skin, making the raindrops feel like stinging pellets hurtling towards his face. Oh, how he feels sick and disgraced for striking the child. There was no reason for that. No reason at all. He tries to think but the drumming rain only fuels confusion in his thoughts. Shaking his head resentfully, Dabi blinks at the cursed pitiful sight before him. Considering. The child is shivering violently. Bleeding. No doubt bruised and starving.
Maybe it’s the sad limp way the child is slumped on the rubbish-strewn ground of the alleyway with God knows whatever else muck and filth, such as puke and urine that the ground is undoubtfully coated with, that Dabi makes up his mind what to do.
Or maybe it’s the pitiful low mewling sobs that pierce through the depth of Dabi’s sooty black soul. Or maybe, it is the drenched snowy white hair sticking against the child’s forehead in a mangled tangle. Or maybe, it is just the fact he knows the homeless, hungry, unwanted, lost child is his brother.
His.
The fire-dancer swoops down to scoop the child up. There is no fight. No protest from the young thing. Dabi walks, holding the wet shivering bundle close to his own wet, thin, shivering chest. One large hand cradles the child’s head, urging it into the crook of his scarred neck. And the other arm is under the child’s thigh and bottom, supporting his body. Being close now, Dabi can hear the ragged breathing of the other, scared, rapid and uneven.
He strides with purpose through the rain, keeping to the shadows, ducking away from the stray car headlights and dodging security cameras, walking under bridges or sheltered passages whenever possible until he reaches the hideout. He sighs, gazing up at the depilated building. Despite its unsightly, unwelcoming exterior, the inside is a pleasant contrast. It is not luxurious by any means but has just enough comforts to make life easy. And it is big enough that each League member can have their own bedroom.
Instinct compels Dabi to sneak in as quietly as possible. Instinct tells him to hide the child. To keep his existence hidden. It seems like luck is on his side. The hideout is deathly quiet. No nosy Toga. No Sako, or Jin in the kitchen smoking and drinking. But the most prominent absence of all is the boss. No grumpy Shigaraki. The leader can usually be found dwelling in the living room, cursing into the night as he games or surfs the net. Standing in the darkened passage, heart thudding nervously, Dabi listens cautiously, eyes darting around. Where are they though? Sleeping? Partying? Killing? Miming? Drinking blood? Getting laid?
Dabi doesn’t give a fuck as long as he doesn’t encounter anyone. Deeming it’s safe enough to move further into the house, he creeps along the staircase to the first floor. Then the second flight of stairs to his floor. Everyone is lazy as fuck; therefore, Dabi is the only one who resides on the second floor. There are two bedrooms, a toilet, and a separate bathroom. On top of which, one of the bedrooms has its own private bathroom; that is the room Dabi picked for himself when the League first settled here. The second he slips inside the bedroom; Dabi locks and bolts the door. And then quite literally he sags as if weighed down by the weight of the world, and releases a long shaky breath he didn’t realise he was holding all this time. And he just stands there for a long minute, dripping wet, a puddle forming on the ground, the child cradled in his arms as he catches his breath.
It's quiet. Eerily. That there’s nothing in his mind to distract him from the little bundle in his arms. It is then the enormity of what he’d just done, the meaning of his actions, sinks in. Shit! He picked up a dumpster kid. Brought him to a den filled with some of Japan’s most dangerous, infamous criminals, himself included.
The next part he isn't looking forward to, but it is necessary. He is going to have to get them both showered, clean, and dry. Then maybe hunt some food for the child. Uncharacteristically, Dabi gently lowers the child to the floor. In the process, he makes unwanted eye contact with those startling large round silver-turquoise orbs. So uncannily like his own. Like that man. A wave of uneasiness sweeps over Dabi. He exhales shakily and glances away, lips compressed. What was he thinking picking up a child off the streets like that? Goddamn, it!
Water trickles from the child’s frame and his own. At this rate, fire quirk or not, they will both become sick. With a bad feeling entering the pit of his stomach, Dabi crouches in front of the boy. The boy flinches but Dabi ignores that. There’s no time for delicacies and niceties right now. He’s got to get down to business.
The child looks to be no older than seven or eight, but Dabi knows physical impressions can be deceiving. The boy could be much, much older. Ten-year-old or thirteen years old or even the same fucking age as Shouto. For all Dabi knows maybe the bastard birthed this child in a test tube. Todoroki Enji is a man who has the kind of money to do it and lacks enough morals to not give a fuck about the consequences. Dabi’s own existence is proof of that right?
The scarred villain silently studies the form before him. That body is practically no more than a being of thinly stretched skin over bones. He looks like a twig ready to snap. A leaf fluttering desperately in the wind, hoping to ground itself safely. A drowned kitten. Ragged, bruised and starving. Hell's teeth, when was the last time he even ate? Observant eyes notice vivid bruises, cuts and scrapes, half-healed wounds, and old scabs. A history of living roughly mapped out on that fragile little body. Dabi briefly closes his eyes, dreading what state the rest of that child's body will be in once that pathetic shredded t-shirt and short is removed.
"Do you have a name?" Dabi finally inquires softly.
Silence.
Be patient Dabi. Be patient. The boy must be frightened.
"What's your name," repeats Dabi, breathing heavily through his nose. He is greeted with further silence. Dabi sighs. "You speak Japanese right, don't you? You understand right?"
The radio silence continues.
Fucking great, he thinks bitterly. So, this is how it's going to be, huh? A mute rabbit?
"Look kid, listen to me," Dabi tries once more. "I'm trying to –" he pauses, voice trailing off, stuck. What exactly is he trying to do? What exactly is the objective here?
A good question but no answer. He has no fucking clue. Apart from the fact he couldn’t leave the kid behind. That is all that he knows. Why is this difficult? The little shitty bag of bones with his dolly, silver-lashed, turquoise hues isn't making it any less easy with his mute mouth.
The scarred man pinches the bridge of his nose. He's an adult. For fuck’s sake. He draws an uneven breath, gearing himself for one last final attempt. The kid better respond or else he will smack him one. Well not really, instantly regretting his thought.
"Look," he starts, tone soft now, gentle even, "I know you're scared, really, really scared. I get it. I understand. And right now, you’ve got no idea what's going on or where you are, or whether you're safe. And whether or not I am a bad person."
The kid takes a sharp breath and that’s when Dabi knows he does indeed understand Japanese, and he is listening. Encouraged, he continues.
"I can't promise you that – that it’s gonna be simple or that you'll understand things, nor can I tell you where we are. But I can promise you one thing – you’re gonna be alright now. I don't hurt kids." As soon as the words leave his mouth, almost as if to mock the sincerity of his promise, he is visited by the mental image of him striking the child not just a few moments earlier. Dabi grimaces. His quick temper. Something he'd given up on trying to tame a long, long time ago. But he'll have to strive harder. Okay? Because he really does not need a wave of guilt and shame to make its presence known right now. He trying to do a job right now, which is taking care of the said child he had hurt.
He stretches a hand and places it on the child’s shoulder, who immediately, visibly recoils. The reaction stings but Dabi doesn’t comment on it.
"Just nod, if you understand?" he asks the trembling figure instead.
To shock Dabi is rewarded with the smallest tilt of the head and relief floods into his heart. It isn’t much, to be honest, and it is very highly likely the child is only nodding because he thinks that this is what Dabi wants, not because he agrees. But to Dabi, who’s at his wit's end, it is fucking progress and he will take it.
"Okay, we gonna have to get showered," he tells the kid. “We can’t stay dripping in these wet clothes forever.” Standing up to make his point, the scarred villain lightly stirs the child towards the adjoined bathroom.
The entire experience of bathing the child is going to be highly awkward at best. Traumatic at worst. When was the last time Dabi had seen or been naked with another person in the bathroom, man, woman, or child? The answer is never.
As soon as he was old enough Dabi had taken to bathing himself, avoiding joint family baths as is the tradition in most households in Japan. Mother and father and children bathe together at home exactly like they would do if they were at the hot springs sharing a communal facility.
It started like that for Dabi too. When he was extremely young. He can recall bathing with both his mother and father and little sister. He and Fuyumi would be splashing in the tub, shrieking with laughter, bubbling with energy, and chattering non-stop with joy. He had been extremely young then. About 3 or 4 years old.
When he got a couple more years older it was just him and his siblings and then soon just himself alone. He was about age nine or ten when he started bathing alone but it took a while to get to that independence.
When he was seven, his mother became pregnant. It was around this time when his body started to disfigure more obviously, the wounds not healing as easily nor as quickly as they used to. He needed to hide the shame and weakness from not just his siblings, but his parents too. Most importantly from his father, who refused to train him any longer, who had actively begun to admonish Dabi wherever he tried to hone his fire skills. Fucking bastard. Nevertheless, there came a point when Fuyumi and Natsuo were distracted; just shortly before his eighth birthday when the new baby was born. They stopped pestering him for shared baths. His siblings were excited about the new addition to the family. So, it was a lot easier to get Fuyumi and Natsuo off his back. Okay, maybe on occasion Natsuo would still catch him in the bath but he was so young and good at keeping secrets, that it didn’t really matter.
He thought it would perhaps distract his father too, but little did Dabi know how wrong he was, even if the harsh military training had ceased when the attention was turned to the youngest of the brood. Dabi had continued honing his quirk privately for another agonising five years, just hoping for even the briefest moment or acknowledgement or even the tiniest silver slice of love. For all his effects, the only attention he received was harsh words of how much trouble he was always causing his family. Because somehow, his father just seemed to know he was always training in secret. The question remains though, does he share a bath with the kid? In the end, Dabi cowers, although it would have been a lot more convenient and time-saving.
It was during those years Dabi developed the intimate knowledge of how to treat and care for raw bleeding wounds, how to bandage and soothe irritated skin, how to best move around and what kind of clothes to wear so as to not irritate or further exacerbate the injures on his skin. It is this knowledge Dabi uses now as he nimbly washes the child, kneeling in front of the tub, gently swiping the soapy flannel from one skinny shoulder to the other, across the child’s jutting collarbones, around the back of his neck, behind his ears and down his trembling torso.
He is careful to keep skin-to-skin contact as minimal as possible whilst instructing the child to move this way or that way or lift his arm, sometimes passing over the soapy flannel and instructing the child to scrub himself instead, like when it's time for the child to stand in the tub and scrub at his nether regions.
All the while Dabi is covertly scanning and analysing the child’s body, mapping out what kind of abuse he might have endured, physical or sexual or otherwise, trying figure out what injuries are what, the causes, the treatments the child will need and if medication of any sorts is necessary. There’s just one issue. Sexual abuse is not easy to detect. Most times there aren't any obvious signs or marks, not unless it had just freshly occurred and the only way to really know is to question the child.
Dabi fights against another wave of nausea, scared to ask, scared to enquire, afraid to learn what horrors this young soul may have already been violated with. The easy thing to do would be to turn a blind eye. To convince himself it’s very unlikely that something bad had occurred. Has Dabi ever taken the easy path? Has he ever wilfully neglected anyone? No. He won’t start now. He will ask. It is necessary. The right thing to do.
"This side of the tub,” says Dabi, catching the child just in time as his foot slips off the ledge a second time and was about to lose his balance. "Here the space it wider, your feet won't slip off so easily,” he finds himself advising kindly, pointing to the corner of the bathtub.
The child mutely follows his instructions and splashes over to the other end a lift a leg. He bows his head and begins to scrub at his calf again. Dabi reaches for the child’s busy wrist. Instantly the little thing becomes still and blinks up at him.
“I wanna ask you something,” voices Dabi, lightly taking the flannel from the child’s limp grip. He dips it into the tub and washes out the suds before beginning to lather it with a fresh dose of soap. He side-eyes the child and finds those eerie silver-turquoise orbs blinking at him. Listening. Waiting. Good, I have the child's attention. Hands tremblingly, Dabi continues to nonchalantly lather the flannel, then glances at the child. “Has anyone ever touched you?”
The expression of confusion that washes over that small, pained visage immediately leaves Dabi frustrated.
"Like somewhere where they shouldn't touch you?" Dabi clarifies because evidently, the child does not under the question. Perhaps it is a tad vague.
More confused blinking.
Ugh, of course, he wouldn't understand, not really, not without a more direct question.
"Like there," says Dabi and to make it transparent exactly what he means, he points directly at the child's crotch. "Your private parts."
At this, the child stiffens and his foot slips off the ledge of the bathtub.
Dabi's heart thuds. No... it can’t be. The kid covers his nakedness, cupping his crotch with small trembling hands and steps away, not that there’s anywhere to go in a small confined tub.
What does this mean? Is that a yes then? That somebody hurt him?
Dabi’s mouth dries. The flannel slips from his slackened grip. The bile is rising, and he rushes out to the bathroom and runs to his door to yank it open. It is locked. Scrabbling madly, one hand on the key, twisting and turning it in the lock in the hope that he could dash to the toilet on time, the other hand clamped tightly over the scarred flesh of his jaw, but he isn’t quick or fast enough. In one filthy, nasty wave, he staggers back as his body heaves and pukes on his bedroom floor, adding to the muddy mess of footprints and rain.
Fuck!
He falls weakly to the floor and dry heaves, clutching at his ribs. For a moment he remains bowed and defeated until he remembers he has a cold, naked trembling child in his bathtub. He stirs himself with force to face what is potentially a child victim of sexual abuse.
The little thing had sat sank back down into the rapidly cooling water, head bowed, arms around his knees, no doubt soundlessly weeping.
"Who?" croaks Dabi. “Who did it?” He stumbles forward, kneels in front of the bathtub, and reaches for the cowering figure, grasping the nauseatingly skinny arms in his own far too-large hands.
"Nugh!" A sharp pained sob escapes the child.
Dabi flinches. “Listen I am not going to hurt you. I’m just trying to help you,” he blurts, apprehension clouding his eyes, thickening his voice with emotion he doesn’t care to name.
"N-no –" It is an incredibly soft broken raspy mewl. The child is trying to speak. His first ever word.
Dabi freezes almost comically. The child is shaking his head vigorously. But he spoke. The little ghost spoke!
"I don’t understand?” breathes Dabi. “What are you trying to say? I don’t get it, just tell me, who hurt you?!”
"No one."
“But you – why did you become scared when I ...” Dabi is confused. Unless the child doesn’t understand? Dabi cups the child’s face with his large hand and tilts that little head up.
A sharp hiccup flees from the child as their gaze meets. "I thought you..." It is barely a whisper. Yet Dabi’s sharp ears prickle, catching every flutter of the dying syllables, the implication washing over him.
“N-no, no, never, I would never ever...” he exhales, devastated. "We don't – we don’t hurt kids here." A dry sob involuntary escapes from his own throat, his heartbreaking. A flicker of surprise passes over the child’s face. “I don't – I wouldn't ever do that kind of thing to – to anyone. I just wouldn't,” he reiterates. And it’s true. Dabi doesn’t hurt kids. The League do not hurt kids.
Contrary to popular, they protect the kids, regardless of who or where they came from. Didn't they once try to save that gasoline kid, remember? What’s his name – ah Bakugou. After that, didn't they sever their partnership with those yakuza scum after learning about the child experimentation going on? Even though it meant foregoing future funds, and living and dining in luxury, it didn’t matter. For once, Shigaraki stood on the same page as the hero scrums when it came to that insidious vile man Chisaki Kai. The yakuza had to go.
"So, no one ever... touched you there?” Dabi needs to clarify this. Just to be sure.
The kid avoids eye contact. After a long breath, he shakes his head.
Relief floods through Dabi’s body and he doesn’t care he is crying blood tears all over again.
After that, the remainder of the bathing session occurs in silence. Washed, and cleaned, Dabi carries the towel-swathed child and gently lays him on the bed. He had to wash the kid at least 3 times until the water ran clear and he could pash a comb smoothly through what was once a dark grey-looking matted mop of hair. Except it’s not grey now. It’s a pretty silver white. He returns to the bathroom to hunt for another towel. Progress is slow but steady as he gently towels those haunting silver strands until it begins to puff into its former fluffy silky state that Dabi knows it should be like. It positively gleams. Yeah, definitely pretty. Definitely a Todoroki.
Below the bed, Dabi retrieves his medical kit, disinfects, and bandages the child’s injuries where necessary. He is relieved there isn't anything majorly bad or infected.
Awkwardness arises again, however, when he has to dress a particularly nasty gash just a bit below the sharply jutting pelvic bone but a little too close to the child's nether regions.
The wound looks quite deep, most likely it needs stitches but for now, bandaging it might be enough. He pauses, however, hands trembling slightly, a headache rising behind his eyes.
“Wanna do this yourself?” Dabi asks him.
A fluffy shake of the head.
“No? So erm, is it okay for me to patch it up then?”
A nod.
Right, I see. Dabi stares at the child for a moment, before nodding back. Too trusting, he thinks. It’s a fiddly task applying the ointment, placing a gauze gently but firmly on the wound before finally securing it with strips of bandages. Only then does it occur to him that the child is naked. With a soft sigh, he turns away to rummage through his meagre belongings, hoping to find something suitable in his walk-in closet.
Ah, this will have to suffice, he decides wearily and tosses a clean white t-shirt at the kid to wear. It slips off a skinny shoulder and hangs down to the child’s knees, not unlike a classic nightie. Dabi frowns though. He'll have to somehow, someway, at some point buy this little one some things of his own.
“Go to sleep,” he instructs the kid, pulling back the covers. He is all but ready to collapse himself except for the big mess that awaits him.
It’s not until 4 am in the morning Dabi is done, cleaning and washing the floor of puke and rainwater, bathing himself and then sipping into a clean pair of jogs and a baggy tank top, then unlocking the door and creeping down two flights of stairs to start a laundry cycle in the kitchen for his wet clothes and binning everything of the kid’s tattered garment. Then cleaning out the bathroom and scrubbing down the tub and sink. Tomorrow, he tells himself, he'll figure out the kid's name and age. Tomorrow. Right now, though, he’s dying to sleep or otherwise, he won’t function at all.
Making his way upstairs, double checking his bedroom door is locked, then throwing the widows of his room wide open, he throws himself onto the bed. At long last allowing himself to sink into the mattress next to his baby brother, sleep claiming him almost instantly. And so, the patchwork villain misses the exact moment the small form on his bed, wiggling towards him, pressing the sharp knobs of his spine against his burnt arms, seeking warmth like a lost kitten.