Roost and Repair.
includes— hawks x reader. minors dni. comfort.
warnings— anxiety (could be from anything). keigo taking care of you.
If someone were to ask you what your plans are this Saturday afternoon, you'd internally answer, "rotting away, probably."
Externally, you'd say, "not much, how about you?"
It's a sickening twist of the tongue to utter such falsities; you never did enjoy burying the truth. But you'll be damned if you let the tides of others' perceptions and social regulations singe your exposed nerve endings; like cheap wiring, frayed and lighting with the most unpleasant sparks at the utterance of a word or glance your way.
It's a lot easier to simply shut and latch all three locks on your bedroom door instead, to cover your body with the heaviest comforter you can find in order to insulate your raw wiring in at least some capacity.
It's fucking June. You can see the waves of heat eminating from the light of the sun through your open window; yet here you are, bundled up like it's the peak of December.
You would be sweating from the adrenaline regardless, you remind yourself.
You swear to God, if a single soul decides to lift a knuckle against your door, you'd lose what little grasp you have on–
Tap, tap, tap-tap, tap, goes the glass of your window; and it sounds like a lifeline, instead.
Cloaking yourself in your quilt, your bare feet hop off the matress and meet the carpet. You drag the hem of the blanket behind you along the floor as you make your way to unlatch the lock.
"Heyo," Keigo sings, clutching the pane above his head with both hands and swooping in feet first. He lands in your room like he just finished a somersault. Waltzing inside, he pops the joints of his neck as he stretches like a cat. "Got off patrol early on a Saturday, can you believe it? Flew straight over to see my favorite– oh."
He blinks at you, studying the stiff way you tremble as you look at him; like a sad, wet dog.
"Baby. It's burning up outside," he reminds you, tone taking a stark shift. "Are you sick? You don't look so good."
Gloved palms tap up your arms while he looks you over, removing one glove so he can place the back of his hand against your forehead to check your temperature.
You snort. "Not sick, Kei."
His eyes trail down. Your thumbs are working themselves into a frenzy against your cuticles.
Realization falls over his face and he mouths a silent oh. His right hand darts down to his coat pocket, pulling out some fidget toys and placing them with reverence in your palm. He closes your hands around it.
"Thank you, Kei," you squeak out, twisting the plastic this and that way, wringing your irritability dry against the little outlet instead.
"I gotcha, sweetpea," he says. Two palms, one gloved and one bare, reach out before him to make grabby hands in a silent request; and just as his feathers twitch with hope, you spring forward into his arms, wrapping your legs snug across the small of his back.
He coos, nuzzling against your neck while he walks you back to bed. Three feathers dart their way past while he walks. One retrieves two bottles of water from the kitchen, another turning on the AC. The third feather pauses in your bedroom, taking care in its selection of the perfect plushie for you to hold on to.
"Don't gotta put up a front around me. I can see right through you," he teases, pulling his head back to poke once at your nose.
You scrunch it in mock offense, sending a jolt right through his beating heart.
"I know I don't," you assert.
"And I know you won't," he answers.
A pause drapes over the room as you reach your bed. "Anything you need from me, dove," he asks, not bothering to pry your body from his when he sits down.
"Mm. Just you being here s'good.. It's awful today, Kei," you explain easily, letting your shoulders down.
Keigo hums. It's a low, empathetic sound that drums against your ears and rumbles within the cavity of your chest. You can practically feel it insulating the exposed wires, can feel his voice soothing the ache with its warm timbre.
Keigo, more than anyone else, knows you don't want to be percieved. You want to be seen.
With a single kiss atop the crown of your head, he sighs in contentment.
He'll always be grateful for the opportunity to protect you.
