I miss the show, as I'm sure we all do, so I'm writing to fill the void. A lot of you asked for hurt Steve, so here you go. I did my best.
I actually love the idea of this story. I hope I don't sound arrogant when I say that. The only problem it's very hard to write, because I'm terrified of the water, and I don't know how to swim, despite taking swimming lessons twice. I did as much research as I could, but any discrepancies are purely from my inexperience.
Please let me know what you think! Have a great holiday, set off lots of fireworks!
Steve discerned, by watching Danny with Grace, was that there were two fundamental principles of parenthood—you haul a lot of crap everywhere, and you are always anticipating every possible scenario that could transpire. Danny approached being a father like being a cop, and it was probably why he was so good at both.
He rolled his lips into his mouth, barely smothering a laugh, as he watched Danny, in black board shorts, fasten and tighten the straps on Grace's lifejacket and apply a third shellacking of sunscreen. He added goggles too, and then reached in his giant beach bag for water wings. It was then that Grace started to complain.
"I don't need those anymore. They're for babies." She whined quietly, her face contorted in disdain.
Danny frowned, torn. Steve didn't miss how his eyes flickered to the ocean and the rolling waves there. "But they'll help you."
"I can do it. Stan takes me out without them. He says I'm a good swimmer." Grace smiled. "We practiced doing laps in the pool."
Steve decided to intervene on the munchkin's behalf by reminding Danny that she wasn't going to be swimming with Step-Stan, but a trained professional. "I'm taking her out, brah. Putting those wings on her is kind of an insult. To both of us."
"I'm not worried about your massive ego, Steven, I'm worried about my kid." Danny clapped his hands over Grace's ears and shook his head wildly. "How many goofs on surfboards get killed every year? How many cute little kids become amuse bouches for Great Whites?"
"She's not surfing. We're not even going that far out. I know about swimming, and I know these waves, Danny. She'll be fine."
Danny pursed his lips and stared at the waves again, how they clamored to the shore with the fury of a tornado and slammed into the beach so hard he felt the consequent vibrations. He looked down at his daughter somehow managing to look innocently eager and adorable in her ruffled pink one piece, green goggles and top-of-the-line life vest.
"I'll put it this way: who do you want taking your daughter into the ocean? Some swim instructor with maybe two weeks of training, Step-Stan or a Navy SEAL who holds the free-diving record and has completed the world's toughest training in survival at sea, which includes warding off sharks?"
Danny pinned Steve with marbled blue eyes that were dark with protectiveness and love. "If she comes back dented or scratched, your years as a SEAL will be no help to you protect you from me, you got it?"
Steve saluted with a grin, but sobered when he promised, "I'll protect her with my life." He took Grace's hand and they ambled swiftly towards the water. Steve understood the magnitude of the gesture.
Danny watched them go, squinting from the glare of the sun. "If you even think you see a fin, you haul ass, Steven!" He hollered after them.
Steve halted and turned, knowingly lifting Grace out of the water with one arm as a strong wave broke behind them in splashed at his thighs. The water was both cold and warm. "You could come with us, you know!"
Grace looked up at Steve with her froggy-goggled eyes. "Danno don't swim," she lamented with an weary sigh.
Steve laughed, wondering where she'd learned pidgin. "I know, Gracie. Danno don't swim."
For once, there was no cajoling, no never-ending monologues about the importance due process, standard procedure and the complexities of the American justice system. Danny, face etched in a fierceness that Steve only saw when Grace was involved, merely exited the Camaro, popped the trunk, put on his vest and loaded up on ammo.
Steve was impressed, and more than a little proud that his rule-obsessed partner was finally appreciating the overwhelming advantage of "full immunity and means," yet he understood Danny's motivation. The suspects that were currently and frantically trying to flee the island by their luxury yacht had smuggled young women in the country for the sole purpose of imprisoning them, impregnating them and selling the babies to rich, desperate and stupid couples aching to become parents. It was a legal and emotional nightmare with no simple, happy ending since CPS was involved, threatening to take the children away from the only parents they've ever known.
Steve knew that the only rewarding outcome would be putting these monsters behind bars.
Heavily armed, Steve and Danny jogged to the slip where the suspects' yacht, Silver Spoon, should have been floating in all of its overpriced glory. Steve holstered his weapon, turning in circles to scan the crowd looking for the ringleaders, Melinda and George Carlyle.
"Steve…" Danny's nostrils flared, and his face grew an irate shade of crimson, as he stared out into the expanse of azure ocean.
In the distance, Silver Spoon barreled towards open water.
Cursing hotly, Steve grasped for another means of pursuit. He remembered the jetski rental office a few yards back a beat before Danny did. With a flash of a badge and a call into Kono and Chin, Steve and Danny were climbing down the dock's ladder and ontop a commandeered jetski. Steve started the engine and waited for Danny to descend behind him, his tie fluttering in the ocean breezes.
"Why are you always driving again?"
"Because you hate everything involved with water. And because I'm a freakin' SEAL."
"One day you'll realize that the 'freakin' SEAL' excuse is only impressive to single women who are obsessed with 'The Bachelor.'" Danny slipped behind him with a groan. "I'm not putting my arms around you like some hot girl trying to flirt."
"Then you're gonna fall off, princess." Steve muttered as he cranked and then gunned the engine.
"I freakin' hate you, McGarrett," Danny seethed in his ear as his arms snaked slowly around his waist. "Seethe, loathe. I think today is the day when I start crafting the voodoo doll. Assuming I live through this joyride."
They powered off towards the departing Silver Spoon.
For Lieutenant Commander Steve McGarrett, boarding a speeding boat from a careening jetski in choppy waters was as simple as climbing stairs. For Detective Danny Williams, it was like running on Saturn's rings during a meteor shower. Wind whizzed by as sharp as arrows and at this speed, the soft water that patiently lapped at the beach during the day, was as hard and as bone-breaking as concrete. After a lot of prayers, some strained muscles and one abandoned jetski, both men were on board, guns at the ready. Steve motioned with a swipe of his hand under his chin that he was going navigation bridge to kill the navigation bridge. Danny nodded and directed his attention to the staircase that no doubt led to another floor of off-putting luxury. Maybe it was simple-minded, but he didn't think boats should have carpets…or chandeliers.
The soft footfalls of soft-soled shoes and a flash of denim blue were the only signs of a fleeing suspect. He made chase with caution, finger off the trigger. Boats, even one as extravagant as this, were dangerous places for any kind of combat, because there were so many places to hide and anything, from masts to friggin' harpoons, could be used as a weapon. He wasn't as surefooted as Steve the SEAL, but this yacht was as solid as a skyscraper, and almost as big. A leg jutted out and Danny reflexively leapt to avoid it. He twisted gracelessly in mid-air and leveling his gun at the suspect before his feet hit the deck. It was George, Melina's husband, who looked as cowardly and skittish as he had when Danny first questioned him last week. The slim, beanpole of a man with thin-framed speckles and a fair complexion in Hawaii had literally hid behind his wife.
Danny couldn't resist and regarded his deck shoes, "Good to know you can dress right for every occasion. Can't wait to see you in prison orange. Your wife won't be able to protect you then."
Danny rolled his eyes and gestured with his gun. "Hands up. Turn around. Slowly."
George narrowed his mousy brown eyes and acquiesced, mustering up a nasty glared that probably wouldn't have scared Grace. He looked forward to throwing him in lock-up with the feral monsters. Even the most hardened of criminals had their own morals and gruesomely punished inmates who harmed children.
"On your knees," Danny barked, muscles taut as he advanced. He holstered his gun and reached for his zipties.
There was a scuffle in the near the bridge of the massive luxury yacht. George's body tensed, seconds away from action and Danny scruffed him, bodily hauling him to the side of the boat. He kicked and flawed, clawing him with nails sharper than any man should ever have. Danny thought of the mothers and fathers on the verge of losing their children, and the dirty, malnourished women chained up in a basement and used as incubators and nothing more. It would have been easy and cathartic to stomp him into a gory pulp or even toss him overboard for the lives he'd helped ruin.
Instead, Danny secured him to the rails of the boat with two zipties and darted off to back Steve up. The yacht was massive with rows stairs, multiple levels and spit-shined chrome. He wandered around the lower deck, straining to hear over the efficient hum of the engine and the rush of the sea. It didn't take long for Danny to pick up on the muffled thumps of fisticuffs. He sprinted towards the sounds of the fray, and thought of yet another reason why he hated the disgustingly wealthy.
But Danny wasn't truly scared. He'd never admit it—never even under his partner's beloved fear of death—but he naively believed that Steve could survive anything. He'd seen him get shot and crack jokes afterwards. He'd seen him tasered unconscious only to rescue his sister from kidnappers a mere four hours later. He'd seen him bear the ugly burden death of his father with astonishing composure and rationality. So he wasn't surprised when he nearly tripped over the unconscious body of the George's muscle, because Steve could take care of himself in the craziest of situations. He hurdled him at the last minute and landed with an uncomfortable twinge in his bad knee.
As he skidded around the corner, he saw Melinda—who had struck Danny as woman of high society and pretension with her palatial mansion and impeccably manicured claws—emerge from the cabin deck in a bikini and a cover-up, and bash his partner in the face with a heavy red metal tool that she had to grip with both hands just to swing. Steve toppled over like a cut redwood, instantly unconscious judging by the limp wobble of his limbs and how he flew back unheeded over the railing of the boat.
There was a gruesome thud and a splash.
Danny was pretty sure that not even the valiant Steve McGarrett could survive a monkey wrench to the head.
Shock was a lightning striking Danny's heart and a frigid lilt up his spine. He fired before he even thought about it, hitting Melinda in the shoulder. The suspect rocketed back from the force of the bullet punching through her flank, wrench flying from her grip. Her face, that was always pinched in a nasty, recriminating sneer, unfolded in an open expression of shock and pain. Blood pooled on the pristine white of the deck.
In the distance, George was screaming like the animal he was.
And Steve, the decorated Navy SEAL, the man Danny thought was indestructible, was drowning.