So. I've kind of fallen in love with the new Hawaii Five-O, particularly the awesomeness that is Danny and Steve's relationship. (Although Chin and Kono are right there in the running. DDK, could you look any hotter on a motorcycle? Okay, maybe with a shotgun in your hands...)
Anyway! Faye Dartmouth I were squeeing about 1x09 and I noticed in the one office scene where Steve and Danny were arguing, Danny was talking with his hands (as usual) and Steve was using his hands right back. Clearly, he has finally learned Danno-speak.
Next step: plot bunny.
Next next step: fic (for both of us! Read Faye's awesome "Not Just Going Through the (Hand) Motions").
(For those of you that know me, that kind of evolution was pretty much at light speed).
Title from Damien Rice's "9 Crimes." Yeah, I have no idea why. Mega thanks to Faye for the multple (fast) betas and Harrigan for the constant encouragement.
Give My Gun Away
It's been a long-ass day, even by Five-0 standards. Under different circumstances, Steve would be home right now, having a beer or maybe even sleeping. But instead, he's in CCU long past visiting hours, listening to Danny's heart monitor beep, the whoosh of the ventilator pumping in counterpoint.
Steve sits down silently, tables his chin on his hands and sighs. Danny's eyes are closed, purple veins of bruising trailing out toward his hairline. There's a big white bandage above his ear, hiding a couple dozen stitches. Steve's not sure what's worse: the stitches themselves or the freakout Danny's pretty much guaranteed to have when he realizes they had to partially shave his head to put them in.
Maybe his hair has some kind of magical regenerating power and will grow back before Danny even knows it's gone.
Lost in such thoroughly logical thoughts, Steve almost misses it when Danny cracks an eye open. He breathes out, the unfamiliar tug of warm relief pulling him forward in his chair. "Hey, brah. Thought you were sleeping."
Danny blinks, turning his head minutely, gaze wandering toward Steve's bruised knuckles.
Steve chuckles, rueful. He shouldn't be surprised Danny already noticed. "You should see the other guys."
Danny flicks his hand—the good one, the one not attached to two IVs and a pulse-ox lead.
The chuckle switches instantly to a frown. "I would have waited for backup but someone was sleeping on the job." And okay, it was more like someone was suffering from a freaking skull fracture and someone had actually stopped breathing for 97 seconds (yes, Steve was counting) and that someone was Danny, which made the whole thing pretty damn scary. Not that Steve plans on admitting it.
Danny's hand raises higher.
"Calm down, all right?" Steve doesn't even try to hide his glare. "I'm fine, the team's fine, the bad guys are in jail and the governor's happy. Any other questions?"
Danny's fingers flex, wrist drooping. He looks tired. He looks like he's been put through the mill, or maybe had his head nearly bashed in by a 2 x 4, which is funny, since that's exactly what happened.
Or well. Really, it's not funny at all.
Steve can't stop his leg from jittering. He doesn't want Danny to think he's mad at him—he's not mad at him—but dammit, this was supposed to have been an easy bust. No one was supposed to get hurt, let alone nearly killed.
He's watched team members fall before. Lost two, in the heart of battle and deep behind enemy lines. But it never came easy and it was part of the reason he'd ended up working mostly black ops, mostly on his own.
And those team members had been colleagues, training buddies, people he'd trusted like family…but they hadn't been Danny. Danny with his stupid ties and his endless rants and his this is how a real cop does it and his back in Jersey, we… Danny with his very vocal dislike of the ocean and pineapple on his pizza and generally all things Hawaiian. Danny with his tenacity, his protective streak a mile wide, his fierce loyalty, his huge heart…
If the goon who'd hit him was here right now, Steve would happily bust his arm all over again. Into tiny little pieces.
Steve hears a tinny thump, looks up to see Danny's hand splayed over the bed rail. He shakes his head, tries to clear it of those messy, helpless thoughts. "Sorry. Yeah, Kono's pissed about doing all your paperwork, but I told her you'd make it up to her."
Danny's eyes narrow fractionally and Steve manages a grin. It fades when Danny's eyes close all the way, creases of pain wrinkling his forehead. Steve's up and stalking for the call button before he realizes it. "Danny? You okay?"
It takes him longer than it should to note the shaky one-fingered salute Danny offers in response. Steve scowls. "Laugh it up, smart guy. You just see who's riding in the trunk when you're back on duty." He tries not to think about how long it might be before that happens—the duty part, not the trunk part.
Then again, this is Danny. So maybe both.
Danny's eyes are still closed but his hand starts moving again, slower but agitated.
"Hey." Steve curls his fingers around the railing when Danny makes a fist. "Grace is fine, okay? I talked to her myself." And not only because he knew how much it would mean to Danny.
Danny seems to sigh back, but it's just another whoosh of the ventilator.
Steve rubs his forehead, remembering the somber look in Grace's brown eyes when he told her that yes, her daddy was hurt but that he was tough, like Superman, and he would bounce back, good as new. She hadn't said anything, but those eyes—Danny's eyes in every way but color—had called him out on being the bullshit artist he was. So he'd told her the truth, instead. Danny was going to be down for a while and things were kind of scary (Steve was still scared) but Danny knew she was waiting for him and he was trying to be strong for her so she had to be (they all had to be) strong for him. Which had seemed to be exactly what she needed to hear.
"Rachel's going to bring her in tomorrow." Danny makes a little slice toward his side. "Yeah, after they've got you off the vent. You're scary looking enough without all the Frankenstein equipment."
Danny's eyes slit open, bleary and unfocused, his fingers clenching and then skittering along the sheets.
"Danny." His hand keeps moving. "Danny." Steve reaches out and wraps it in both of his. It's cold and pulses against his palm a little, calluses catching against his own, trigger finger to trigger finger. "It'll keep, okay? You can tell me tomorrow."
The hand goes limp for a second, then weakly squeezes. Steve squeezes back gently. Just as gently, he lowers it to the bed, tucking it securely under the edge of the blanket. "I'll be here," he says.
And even though Danny's eyes are closed now and there's no indication he even heard, Steve will be. That's what partners do.