Midnight Skies - A DabixReader Story

Uncomfortably Quiet

Dabi barely speaks as he continues to hang out of the window. His thoughts are pretty much empty as well, his brain occasionally acknowledging the odd passerby, complaining to himself about how thirsty he was, cursing his Quirk, and his body, and then wishing he was anywhere but here.
The last thought intrigued you, but you keep your mouth shut, only giving him the occasional once-over as he lazes on the windowsill. He'd managed to slowly eat one of the slices of bread you'd laid by his feet, only one piece laying beside a pile of crumbs, but he'd not even looked at the other piece.
The silence begins to worry you more than you care to admit, your brain travelling back to the consideration that maybe your haphazard job of cleaning up his wounds had gotten them infected and that's why he was so hot and uncomfortable. You really didn't feel like adding to the trauma this experience was threatening to give you with the idea of your captor dropping dead in your house.

After what feels like hours of uncomfortable silence, with only the quiet sounds of the TV you'd turned on as a distraction to fill the empty space, you sigh at your own train of thought, turning on the sofa to face the man behind you.
"Dabi?" You ask, trailing your eyes over his curled up figure again.
"What?" He replies, the single word practically a slow drawl as it comes out.
"Let me check your wounds." You practically order, not really caring about the outcome of the tone of voice you use. You'd rather him get angry and eventually let you check than continue to sit in silence, your mind torturing you, and risk letting him die a needless and painful death if the wounds were infected and liable to going septic.
His head lifts from where it had rested on the glass, his cold blue eyes giving you a once over as his head turns.
"What did I say?" He asks, a blatant warning despite his voice as nonchalant and bored as ever.

"Look, I've let you have your fun." You say, the words leaving you before you have time to think. "You're freaking me out, and I want to make sure they've not gotten infected or something. You shouldn't be that hot."
His bored look never leaves his face, but you hear the anger in his thoughts at how you dare to pretend to care about him.
"Cut it out, Y/N. That's a warning." He says, his voice dropping slightly.
"I don't want a dead villain in my house. I'm not about to get arrested for harboring a villain, and knowing my luck, attempted murder, because you refuse to show me the cuts."
You match his cold gaze, not quite being brave enough to get up and move closer to him.
'Fucking-' His brain begins, but his verbal words distract the rest of that thought.
"It'll take more than that to kill me, doll." He says dryly, letting out an equally as dry half chuckle as his head connects with the glass again, his head remaining turned towards you.

"Famous last words." You reply, holding the eye contact despite your body beginning to goosebump under the coldness of his stare.
You expect violent thoughts, you expect more annoyance, but again, he chuckles, his face staying expressionless as he does so.
"You really are feisty aren't you?" He asks, looking away finally as his tongue runs over his teeth. "I like it."
You sigh as his thoughts take a more perverse turn again, images of your hair tangled up in his fist as he looks down at you nude filling your own head space for a second. And for that second, you almost wish you hadn't started the conversation, having enjoyed the lack of those thoughts while he'd been curled up in silence against your window.
You want to say 'shut up and let me see them', but you know that'd give you away and piss him off. So instead, you settle for: "Come on."
With a small inhale, he swings his legs off the windowsill, turning entirely to face you.
"Come here then, nurse." He says, looking at you expectantly.

Something inside you tells you that you don't actually need to get closer to him to see if the cuts are infected or not, but instead of choosing to be difficult and not meeting his orders, even if they are worded in a joking manner, you choose not to risk pissing him off too much, not wanting to experience his Quirk again, and so you're pliant, and cautiously move off the sofa and get closer to him.
The closer you get, the more he moves his shirt up, as if not expecting you to get too much closer to it to see if it was infected or not. You aren't sure if it's because of your clear reluctance to move closer to him when he ordered you to, or because he didn't want you moving any closer to check thoroughly because of the 'not pretending to care' rule he'd seemingly set for you.
You move his hand away from his shirt the second you're close enough to, choosing to yank his shirt up yourself, which made him stiffen suddenly, a reaction you weren't really expecting. You duck your head slightly as you peel the dressing down, your eyes flickering over the two-toned skin in front of you.

You find it a little hard to tell what was going on with the cuts in his grafts, the purple tint to them making it hard to tell if there was a pink aura around them, a telltale sign of infection.
Luckily, the healthy skin on his torso showed no sign of infection the further you pulled the dressing down, and you let out an internal sigh of relief, your brain finally sated.
You look at the dressing. The cuts hadn't been bleeding, but you weren't sure whether you should redress them entirely.
"Leave it." He says from above you, and you roll your eyes up to meet his own, yellow melting into blue for a second before you comply, rolling the dressing back up, and pressing the tape firmly against his scarred skin again.
"Satisfied?" He asks, cocking his head as you raise your own, his eyes following you in the movement.
"Yup." You say bluntly, not wanting to feed the conversation any further now you knew he wasn't actively dying in your home.

You can feel his eyes burning into you even as you walk away, as desperately as you try to ignore it. As you sit yourself back down on the couch, you hear his movements as he curls up on the windowsill again, the metal in his pants scraping in a horrible way against the glass as he must rest his legs against it.
"You got a fan, doll?" He asks, and you furrow your brow at him.
"Huh?" You ask, turning to look at him, as if to see someone looking up at your window or something, almost a little hopeful for it, like they may be able to run and get help. The reality was though, if anyone had, you'd be a little scared of what would happen to them, there was no way Dabi would allow someone to see him and get away with it.
When you realise there's no sign of anyone outside the window, your head ticks over and you grunt to yourself, rolling your eyes slightly. Idiot. He meant the other kind of fan. For once he wasn't trying to be dry, 'funny' or condescending. It was a genuine question.
"No. I run cold." You shrug, giving him a icy look before turning away again.

He falls physically silent again, but you can hear him working out the risk of letting you out into the public in his mind. It's pretty short lived though, settling on the idea that it was a stupid risk to take. He'd just have to settle on hanging out of the window for now. 
You struggle to not react when you hear him consider the fact he'll give it a day or two longer before heading back. Wherever that was. His mind didn't stray any further than that. Giving you nothing to work with about where he'd be going from yours in case you could get away from him for long enough to get some help.
 You settle for squeezing your eyes shut while your back is turned to him, as if you opened them afterwards, you might be in an empty apartment with no unfairly attractive villain casually lounging on your windowsill that may or may not finish you off before leaving your apartment.

All you can do is hope he was testing your 'truth telling Quirk' when he replied with a calm 'no' when you asked if he was going to let you live.