Jetstream (Hawks Angst)

lonely drinking

That night, as Hawks was flying back to his office, he started to cry.

He flew high above the clouds and sobbed.

He'd never felt so lonely and secluded in his life. And somehow being with the people he thought were the loneliest people.

Being with Villains of all people made him feel alone.

Why? Because even the villains had a home. Even the villains felt loved, if not by their families then by eachother. They all were there, supporting eachother, working towards a similar cause.

And Hawks was an outlier.

He didn't fit with the heroes. He didn't fit with the villains. No one seemed to really want him around. No one really seemed to care he was even there. The only person who texted him while he was gone was Mirko.

He wished someone could see that he wasn't sick, but that he was hurting. Mentally, physically. He wanted someone to see that he was exhausted. He wanted someone to understand how much pain he was in. How much hatred towards himself he felt. How lonely he felt. He wanted help but he refused to ask for it.

He felt like an inconvenience.

He was a hero for fucks sake! His whole job, his whole life was saving other people. He should be able to save himself. Everyone thought heroes shouldn't need saving. He thought heroes shouldn't need saving.

It was a toxic culture, fostering extremely unhealthy coping mechanisms in Hawks: self harm and the constant desire to be drunk.

So that's what he did. He got to his office, told his boss the information he'd got, (Not much) recieved a beating for not moving the project fast enough, went home, and locked himself in the bathroom.

He found himself not even crying as pulled off his costume and created slits farther and farther up his arms. They weren't deep enough for stitches, but they were deep. Deep enough that they were dizzying to look at.

He took a deep breath, then pushed the blade into his arm again, this time lower and vertical on the side of his wrist. He was running out of room, but he felt the need to continue until he felt somewhat better.

He added a dozen more, not stopping when he started to feel dizzy. Then, without wrapping them, got up to see if he had any beer.

Blood dripped from his arms to the floor as he walked to his fridge and pulled open the strong door.

It was empty except for the couple of cans he and Mirko had brought home as extras the other night.

He grabbed one, blood dripping into the fridge, and pulled open tab, delighted at the fizzy noise it made and the calmness he knew the drink would bring.

He took a swig, then before he knew it he'd downed the whole beverage. He glanced at his fridge.

He ended up sitting on his counter, criss cross applesauce, shirtless and bloody, drinking what he had left.

He hadn't eaten dinner or lunch, barely breakfast, but he was thankful he had something to make him feel better. He sat there, relishing in the peaceful bliss the drink brought him.

It felt like sitting in a patch of sunlight. Warm and comfortable. Like being tucked into bed by a loving mother or father. Like wearing a hoodie straight out of the dryer.

When in reality he was sitting on his counter, cold, shirtless, and sad. But he could live in the fantasy for as long as the alcohol lasted. Or as long as he was alone.

A knock came at his door.

If barely registered at first, then he blinked back to reality.

"Hellooo? Anyone home??" A confident, female voice said.