H50 Comment Fics: White Christmas and Hanging On (Steve/Danny, G)
Coupla snippets, one for gunslingaaahhh's 
fest, the other for h50promptmeme.
Here they is:
White Christmas - Steve/Danny, pre-slash, G
Hanging On - Steve/Danny, established relationship, PG
krystalicekitsu's prompt: Team, Danny/Steve, tough spaces, One or two of the team are caught in a difficult situation- on a cliff ledge w/o a rope, adrift at sea, running from smugglers in the jungle- and the others have to get to them.
Hanging On
Steve isn't looking down.
He isn't looking down, and he's not thinking about the shit Danny is going to give him when he and the rest of the team come swooping in to save the day...in just eighteen minutes left and counting now, just eighteen minutes Steve has to hang on. Steve isn't thinking about the two broken fingers on his right hand, ring and pinky, or the dislocated thumb on his left-he could really use that thumb right about now-because his BUD/s master sergeant would have laughed in his face and pointed out he still had seven perfectly good fingers to work with. If he tried, Steve could see the old bastard right now, gnawing on that stinky chaw of his, his brown eyes bright with glee as the cold rain sheeted down his face and Steve and the rest of his team tried to keep their balance holding up a rapidly filling raft, all while standing hip deep in the surf.
But Steve isn't thinking about old Whittaker. Steve isn't thinking about his broken fingers, or his trembling thighs and sprained ankle, or about the four hundred foot drop just beyond the crumbling cliffside under the heels of his boots. He doesn't look down, either, to see the broken body of the suspect Steve was stupid enough to come out here and interview alone and chase right over the edge of the hurricane damaged trail. Because if he looked down he would see how much he had to lose, how one fateful attempt to save the idiot could almost cost him everything, and then his knees might buckle from sheer despair.
So Steve isn't looking, Steve isn't imagining, and he sure as hell isn't thinking about Danny, about Danny's blue eyes and careless grin, about Danny lazy and sun-warmed on a Sunday afternoon, Danny fucking him, lips roughened from sucking Steve's cock, or about how unholy pissed off Danny must be at this very moment after getting Steve's twenty second phone call-all he managed to fumble into his phone before his broken fingers and his precarious balance forced him to wedge the phone into his pants and just think about hanging on.
Steve's just thinking about hanging on.
For maybe another fifteen minutes.
That's all.
End.
And...the epilogue
After the chopper does a swift recon and lands up top, the first thing Steve hears is Danny's voice.
That's what Steve remembers later. Not the rope they carefully lower down from the top of the cliff, or the instructions the SAR team gives him about the seat harness they're making because he's in too precarious a position for hands-on help, or how slowly, so goddamned slowly Steve has to pry his good fingers away from the death-grip he's holding on the rock and wrap his wrist around the safety line once, twice, three times, or how badly his legs are trembling as he creakily steps into the loops; not the intense relief as they take up the slack from above and for the first time in God knows how long he finally takes his weight off his shaky arms and legs and relaxes into the rope, safe, Jesus, safe finally; not his feeble attempts to help walk his way up as they pull him toward the top, bumping and scraping him against the rock.
No, it's Danny's cranky, irritable, plainly terrified voice, saying, "Jesus H. Christ on a mini-bike, McGarrett, what are you doing to me-how many times do I have to tell you-procedure, procedure is not a four-letter word you idiot! It's there for a reason! I'd kill you myself if you weren't about to plunge to a stupid, pointless, messy end, you waste of brain matter!"
And so the entire time, as Steve is feeling the rope digging into his thighs, and the swollen ache of his broken fingers and the throb of his ankle, there's this strange pull in his face, in his cheeks, that he doesn't quite get until he reaches the top and lifts his arms, caught and tugged and lifted over the edge onto solid ground.
And then he's standing there on shaky legs staring into furious blue eyes, and Danny is saying, relief naked in his voice, "What in the hell are you grinning about, Steven? Seriously."
So, the second thing? The second thing Steve does is laugh out loud and wrap his arms around Danny and hang on. Just hang on.
End.
Original posting.
fest, the other for h50promptmeme.
Here they is:
krystalicekitsu's prompt: Team, Danny/Steve, tough spaces, One or two of the team are caught in a difficult situation- on a cliff ledge w/o a rope, adrift at sea, running from smugglers in the jungle- and the others have to get to them.
Hanging On
Steve isn't looking down.
He isn't looking down, and he's not thinking about the shit Danny is going to give him when he and the rest of the team come swooping in to save the day...in just eighteen minutes left and counting now, just eighteen minutes Steve has to hang on. Steve isn't thinking about the two broken fingers on his right hand, ring and pinky, or the dislocated thumb on his left-he could really use that thumb right about now-because his BUD/s master sergeant would have laughed in his face and pointed out he still had seven perfectly good fingers to work with. If he tried, Steve could see the old bastard right now, gnawing on that stinky chaw of his, his brown eyes bright with glee as the cold rain sheeted down his face and Steve and the rest of his team tried to keep their balance holding up a rapidly filling raft, all while standing hip deep in the surf.
But Steve isn't thinking about old Whittaker. Steve isn't thinking about his broken fingers, or his trembling thighs and sprained ankle, or about the four hundred foot drop just beyond the crumbling cliffside under the heels of his boots. He doesn't look down, either, to see the broken body of the suspect Steve was stupid enough to come out here and interview alone and chase right over the edge of the hurricane damaged trail. Because if he looked down he would see how much he had to lose, how one fateful attempt to save the idiot could almost cost him everything, and then his knees might buckle from sheer despair.
So Steve isn't looking, Steve isn't imagining, and he sure as hell isn't thinking about Danny, about Danny's blue eyes and careless grin, about Danny lazy and sun-warmed on a Sunday afternoon, Danny fucking him, lips roughened from sucking Steve's cock, or about how unholy pissed off Danny must be at this very moment after getting Steve's twenty second phone call-all he managed to fumble into his phone before his broken fingers and his precarious balance forced him to wedge the phone into his pants and just think about hanging on.
Steve's just thinking about hanging on.
For maybe another fifteen minutes.
That's all.
End.
And...the epilogue
After the chopper does a swift recon and lands up top, the first thing Steve hears is Danny's voice.
That's what Steve remembers later. Not the rope they carefully lower down from the top of the cliff, or the instructions the SAR team gives him about the seat harness they're making because he's in too precarious a position for hands-on help, or how slowly, so goddamned slowly Steve has to pry his good fingers away from the death-grip he's holding on the rock and wrap his wrist around the safety line once, twice, three times, or how badly his legs are trembling as he creakily steps into the loops; not the intense relief as they take up the slack from above and for the first time in God knows how long he finally takes his weight off his shaky arms and legs and relaxes into the rope, safe, Jesus, safe finally; not his feeble attempts to help walk his way up as they pull him toward the top, bumping and scraping him against the rock.
No, it's Danny's cranky, irritable, plainly terrified voice, saying, "Jesus H. Christ on a mini-bike, McGarrett, what are you doing to me-how many times do I have to tell you-procedure, procedure is not a four-letter word you idiot! It's there for a reason! I'd kill you myself if you weren't about to plunge to a stupid, pointless, messy end, you waste of brain matter!"
And so the entire time, as Steve is feeling the rope digging into his thighs, and the swollen ache of his broken fingers and the throb of his ankle, there's this strange pull in his face, in his cheeks, that he doesn't quite get until he reaches the top and lifts his arms, caught and tugged and lifted over the edge onto solid ground.
And then he's standing there on shaky legs staring into furious blue eyes, and Danny is saying, relief naked in his voice, "What in the hell are you grinning about, Steven? Seriously."
So, the second thing? The second thing Steve does is laugh out loud and wrap his arms around Danny and hang on. Just hang on.
End.
Original posting.