Title: The Mountains Washed Away
Genre: Adventure, H/C, Slash
Warnings: Some violence, mention of physical injury, boy love (though I think of this as an enticement rather than a warning...)
Summary: Take Steven and Danno and blend well with gunfire and an explosion. Add a healthy dose of whump and season well with banter and unresolved sexual tention. Marinate well in ocean water for several hours and enjoy! Or, the one where I beat the shit out of Steve and force Danno to swim. A lot.
A/N: This is my first H50 fic. There are about ten other fics I should be working on currently, but what can I say? I adore these boys and their epic gay love. I also love beating the crap out of Steve. There's not enough Steve whump out there, and as Ghandi said, "Be the change you wish to see in the world." I'm pretty certain this is exactly the sort of situation he had in mind when he said that. *nods*
Danny is going to buy Steve one of those toddler harnesses he sees on kids at the mall. He's going to call up the company and custom order one in BAMF size, maybe something in a dusty rose or pale purple. Maybe then he'd be able to keep track of his partner in gun fights. On boats. In waters no doubt swarming with sharks and jellyfish and all sorts of other toxic, man-eating creatures that wriggle around underwater.
This was supposed to be a simple reconnaissance, for fucks sake. They're not equipped for a firefight with a boatload of well-armed drug runners.
Danny blames McGarrett's uncanny ability to attract trouble like shit attracts flies. In retrospect, he should have planned for mortal danger as soon as he set foot in the office this morning. It's Monday, after all, and McGarrett's track record with Mondays is historically abysmal.
Danny pops up to fire two rounds at the crouching figures in the speedboat to their starboard, then drops back behind the steering column of their rented Bayliner
"Steve," he yells, "where the fuck are you?"
There is a shuffling sound aft of him, and Danny flinches against the side of the boat as bullets thwap against the fiberglass.
"I'm trying to get to the radio to call for backup," Steve's voice sounds from behind the tackle locker. "Hold your position."
"Really, McGarrett? Because I was actually thinking of going for a swim, maybe sunning myself on the deck a little. Hold my position… Of course I'm going to hold my damn position! The alternate position at this time is face down and dead, so it's not like it's a difficult choice!"
McGarrett inches into view, gun held up close to his face as he peeks around the bulkhead. His eyes scan Danny before skipping to the radio six feet away.
"Can you reach it?" he asks, and Danny rolls his eyes.
"Not without ventilating my torso. They're taking pot shots at me whenever I try to move."
McGarrett is staring intently at the radio, and he's got that look on his face again. The look he gets right before he does something stupid and borderline suicidal. The look that generally precedes Danny's life turning into a fucking Michael Bay action movie.
"No," Danny hisses, pointing emphatically. "You are not getting yourself shot today, you idiot! Stay down!" If he had a newspaper or magazine handy, he'd roll it up and swat Steve across the nose with it. It works with dogs. But then again, McGarrett is a whole different breed. More like a cat. The kind of cat that rips up your couch and pukes in your shoes and never, ever does what you tell it to.
McGarrett gets his feet under him in a crouch, signaling to Danny with his free hand. Danny still hasn't mastered the fine art of military hand signals, but he gathers it's something along the lines of 'I'm about to do something simultaneously badass and incredibly moronic, regardless of your completely rational and heartfelt protests. Cover me.'
Lord knows Danny's seen that particular set of signals enough to recognize them.
Already beginning the mental tally of paperwork that this little excursion is going to cost them, Danny checks his clip (down to four rounds) and prepares to provide cover fire.
They're not taking fire. It's quiet, has been quiet for almost a minute now. Something's not right.
"Steve," Danny shouts, "Wait-"
But McGarrett is already up and moving.
"Fuck," Danny hisses, sucking in a breath before twisting to take aim over the side of the boat. He steadies his finger on the trigger and stares down the barrel of his Beretta, right at a man aiming a fucking bazooka at them.
Oh, shit. Shit!
"Steve, we've got incoming!" he screams. He frantically weighs his options and concludes quickly that they are both utterly and undeniably fucked.
McGarrett, who had been reaching for the radio, straightens from his crouch and dives towards Danny. He grabs double fistfuls of Danny's shirt and hurls him toward the port side of the boat.
"What the fuck, McGarr-" is all Danny manages to shout before his partner throws him bodily over the rail and into the waves. Briny seawater rushes up his nose and the tail end of McGarrett's name rushes from his open mouth in a burst of bubbles. He twists, trying to remember which way is up, clamping down on the panic that wants to rob him of his self-control.
He swims for it, kicking hard, and breaks the surface with a ragged gasp. Waves slap him in the face, kicked up by the wake of their boat as it motors away from him. He can see the back of McGarrett's head where he's standing at the helm (and Jesus, even the back of his head looks intent).
A half kick and twist turns him enough to see the drug runners in their boat, bazooka still aimed unerringly. Steve is drawing their fire away from Danny. The stupid, suicidal fucking moron is making a target of himself for a bazooka.
This is too far, even for Commander Crazy.
"Steve!" Danny screams, slapping the surface of the water in frustration. "Get out of there, McGarett! Fucking jump-"
There is a jet of white smoke from the other boat as they fire. Time seems to slow for a moment, and Danny watches the man holding the bazooka stumble under the unexpected kickback. Steve yanks the wheel hard to port in a last-ditch effort to evade the RPG, but it's not going to be enough. He runs for the rail, feet pushing off the side in a smooth dive just as the round hits the aft hull and explodes.
Danny flinches and turns his face away instinctually, waves buffeting him as the explosion displaces water. He sputters, catching glimpses of splintering fiberglass and fire between waves. Their boat lifts out of the water with the force, shrapnel and wreckage raining into the waves around it.
Danny doesn't see Steve anywhere.
He begins kicking frantically towards the smoking wreck of their boat as it sinks below the waves, taking distant note of the drug runners firing up their engine and speeding away. He watches the water as he swims, waiting for McGarrett's head to break the surface and give him that smug grin he saves for times he knows he's really freaked Danny out.
There's still no sign of him when Danny reaches the wreckage, legs and lungs burning from the strain of swimming hard against the current.
"McGarrett!" Danny screams, scanning the water. The air is smoky and acidic, filled with the smell of burning plastic. Danny's eyes water but he keeps them open, desperately looking for some sign of his partner among the bobbing refuse.
It's all fiberglass and plastic and water (too much fucking water). Danny tries to remember how long the human brain can go without oxygen before incurring damage. It's been too long already. Taking a deep breath, he dives under the surface, twisting and scanning the water for his partner. The water is still churning with bubbles and debris from the explosion and Danny can't see any further than a few feet in front of him. He resurfaces, takes another breath, and dives again. He stays down until his lungs burn, sucking in air desperately when he resurfaces for the second time. Desperation squeezes his chest, the horrible nightmare feeling of having someone you care about slip away second by second.
"Steve!" he screams, voice cracking as he twists in the water.
He's taking another breath to dive when he sees it – a flash of olive green in the trough of a wave. The same color as the shirt McGarrett is wearing. Danny dives under the surface, cutting through the space under the waves with determination. He comes up next to Steve's body where it's drifting face-down amidst the debris.
"Fuck. Fuck!" Danny shouts, grabbing a fistful of McGarrett's shirt and rolling him in the water. Steve's face is pale and lax as it breaks the surface. Blood runs in ribbons down his wet skin from a gash above his right eye. Danny loops an arm around Steve's ribs and pulls Steve back to lie against his chest. His head lolls against Danny's shoulder, arms bobbing limply in the current.
"Come on, McGarrett," he says, slapping Steve's cheek with his free hand. "Wake the fuck up."
McGarrett doesn't so much as twitch. Danny rests his palm over his partner's chest, holding his breath as he feels for signs of life. Danny can feel the sluggish thumping of McGarrett's heart under his fingers, but he's not breathing.
"No, no, no… You're not doing this, McGarrett."
Danny slaps Steve's cheek a few more times for good measure, but it does no good.
"Oh, fuck you," Danny yells, bracing Steve's head in the crook of his elbow. "Why the hell did I get stuck with the only SEAL on earth with a penchant for drowning? I'm going to tell the other SEALs, McGarrett. I swear. And they'll laugh at you and revoke your nautical merit badge or something. All of which you can avoid by just fucking breathing already!"
McGarrett's lips have darkened to a dusky blue. Danny grinds his knuckles into Steve's sternum, hoping to trigger a response. When that fails to work he pinches McGarrett's right nipple between his fingers and twists viciously.
"God damn it," Danny hisses, sliding out from behind McGarrett. He buoys Steve's head with a hand at the base of his skull and pinches Steve's nose shut with his free hand. Kicking hard to stay afloat, Danny sucks in a deep breath and seals his mouth over his partner's, blowing steadily.
When he pulls away, McGarrett's chest deflates in an exhale but fails to rise again on its own. Danny pulls in another deep breath and repeats the process with similar results. He gives McGarrett a third breath, and a forth. By the sixth breath he's feeling lightheaded and desperate. It's getting harder to stay afloat. He manages to fill McGarrett's lungs a seventh time and is gasping desperately for the air to manage an eighth when Steve jerks in his hold and makes a strangled sound.
Danny hauls Steve up to rest with his back against Danny's chest, tipping Steve's head forward. Steve chokes and his chest heaves. Water sluices from his mouth as he coughs violently. It sounds like he's trying to breath in and out at the same time, wet and desperate and strangled. It hurts Danny to hear, but at least Steve is breathing on his own again.
"I am so getting you a harness, McGarrett," Danny laughs, unable to suppress the tinge of hysteria in his voice. "One with bells on it, and some of that reflective safety tape."
Steve's head rolls back against Danny's shoulder. His eyelids flutter weakly and he gasps wetly for air but gives no verbal response. Danny takes a moment to note the lack of protest to his plans, fully intending to count it as agreement once they're safely back on dry land.
Because Danny may have been joking about the harness before, but he's sure as shit serious now.
This is the last fucking time he resuscitates his partner, and if he has to use child-safety gear to ensure that, so be it.
"Danny?" Steve moans, coughing and struggling weakly against Danny's arm. "W'happened?"
"What happened, my friend, is that you threw my ass into the ocean and then got yourself blown up by drug dealers. So, you know… Monday. Now hold still before you dunk us both."
"Monday?" Steve sighs against his neck, clearly still too out of it to appreciate Danny's keen wit. At least he stops struggling.
"Never mind," Danny sighs, readjusting his hold and patting McGarrett's chest. "Just focus on breathing and floating for now, okay?"
"Yeah," Steve agrees, "Okay."
Steve's head drops back against Danny's shoulder and his eyes close. It's only then that Danny takes in the full scope of how screwed they are. Their boat is destroyed. They're several miles off-course from where they were supposed to be (thanks to the high-speed boat chase that started this whole clusterfuck), and Steve never managed to call for backup. McGarrett is semi-conscious and bleeding, which is no doubt attracting every man-eating shark within a 30 mile radius.
"What the fuck are we gonna do?" Danny asks.
Steve has very unhelpfully slipped back in unconsciousness and Danny is left with no answer at all.