inception art rec/hawaii 5-0 fic that's not really happening if i say it's not
RIGHT SO FIRST: INCEPTION FEN. INCEPTION FEN. LISTEN UP.
Okay, I know I rec wheres_walnut's art like, all the fucking time, like every time she posts art, I know I do that, I really do. I AM AWARE. But the thing is I do it because it is, every time, blow the fuck away good, and oh my god, you guys. She is doing an art WIP (an ART WIP!!!) over at the kinkmeme where Arthur & Eames are fellow commuters on the Metro North and, you guys, Jesus Christ. Look, I know fuck-all about art aside from WOW THAT'S SO GORGEOUS DJHASFJKSDF but the thing I always love love love about Walnut's art is how goddamn real it feels, her use of color to set the mood, this vivid expansive beyond-what-I-can-articulate scene she manages to build. Even if you are not in Inception fandom and this, to you, would be two random dudes on a train, GO LOOK. THEY WILL BE THE MOST BREATHTAKING TWO DUDES ON A TRAIN YOU'VE EVER SEEN.
/embarrassing Walnut (SORRY NUT, I CANNOT CONTAIN MY LOVE AT ALL).
And, ahahaha, okay, second: so, when I first started posting fanfiction, I said to myself, "Jizz. Jizz. You can feel free to pound out whatever nonsense you like, so long as--and this is very important--you never write fic set in or around Cleveland, Ohio." This is for a lot of reasons, the predominant one being that I grew up/live here and thus have deep fear of self insert, though there's also the fear that my unlikely but undeniable love for this place will grip me so furiously that I'll never be able to set anything anywhere else ever again. Whatever the reason, "Don't write fic about Ohio" has been the "TOUCH NOTHING BUT THE LAMP" of my fanfiction career, and I have observed the rule faithfully.
But, see, tonight sheafrotherdon posted this vid about Michigan and, because I grew up in Ohio, Michigan makes me think of University of Michigan makes me think of Muck Fichigan makes me think of the Ohio State Buckeyes makes me think of buckeye candy makes me think of my childhood makes me think of home, and so my brain...went there. It went there, and to continue the Aladdin analogy this idea is like that giant ruby and I am Abu and somewhere my common sense is screaming NO YOU ASSHOLE TOUCH NOTHING BUT THE LAMP DO NOT WRITE FIC ABOUT OHIO, but I. I can't help myself.
What is happening to me right now. For serious.
So under the cut are some random context-free snippets of Danny and Steve in Northeast Ohio because of [plot device I haven't worked out], in the hopes that it will get the fuck out of my system. This is not fanfiction, it is 1500 words of fucking about on the internet. THAT'S TOTALLY DIFFERENT. I'M NOT TOUCHING THE LAMP. IF I DON'T GIVE IT A TITLE IT'S NOT REAL. Oh god.
The truth is, Danny has missed fall a stupid amount. He does know, for all he claims not to, how ridiculous it is to complain about living in paradise; it's just easier to deflect with "pineapple infested" and "sharks" than it is to explain that the loss of the chillier seasons is actually kind of like losing a (admittedly sometimes irritating) relative. So the Ohio thing is sort of nice in that sense, but if he was going to get an autumn why couldn't it have been a Jersey one, that's what Danny wants to know. Would it have been so hard to end up there instead, there instead of here, what is he doing here, fucking Christ. In some ways it's worse, homesickness-wise, than Hawaii could ever be, because it's closer, but still so fucking far.
But Steve keeps buying winter gear, ridiculous fingerless gloves and hideous coats and thick scarves, all lit up and proud of himself like a kid when he brings them home. He gets into it, tries and fails to make buckeye candy, asks the neighbors about what they should see while they're here. At Halloween he drags Danny to pick out a pumpkin, because some random lady at the grocery store told him about this orchard, apples and the pumpkins and a general store that smells like fritters and pie. There are kids everywhere, hopping off the wagon and running from the bees still left from summer, and it makes Danny miss Gracie something fierce; the fritter is good, though, deep fried, delicious, and he points out the ugliest pumpkin just for the fun of it.
It could be worse, is the point, and then Steve pulls him behind a Jonagold tree and kisses him, the chilled wind leaving his lips a little chapped. He tastes spicy like the cider he's been downing and he's laughing even as he shudders because he's not made for this kind of weather, and Danny reels him in, hands fisted in the hem of his coat. Steve smiles against his mouth and, yeah, Danny can think of places he'd rather be, but not that many, not right now.
--
They go to a Browns game because Steve's all into the football culture, because he's a freak of nature who never got over the whole star quarterback thing, not really, not deep down. Danny humors him because it's hard not to, these days; it's the most depressing thing Danny's ever seen, and he is a Nets fan, okay, he knows from losing. But these people are just, just resigned to it, disappointed before the game even starts, the weight of their sports curse settled over them like a blanket. It's like nothing he's ever seen, and he feels for them, but it's a bummer all the same.
"Best time to be a Browns fan is when they're not playing," says the stranger sitting next to him, somehow friendly in his bitterness, and Danny says, "Yeah, I hear you," even though he mostly doesn't.
They're all decked out in paraphernalia, though, glowing brown and orange like they bought out the whole store, and as it turns out they all hate Boston with a burning fiery passion for breaking their losing streak first. Danny, Jersey through and through and thus raised with Yankees pride, can jive with that; he jokes with the guys they're sitting with, and the beer flows freely, and Steve's grinning next to him, pressed in a little too close.
It's middle of the third quarter when the game turns around, and the Browns are suddenly winning somehow, and it's like the whole place has caught fire--everyone's on their feet screaming and Steve is yelling his fool head off, whooping like a teenager. Some asshole gave him orange and brown paint that's all over his face because he's never shaken his weird camo fixation, and Danny's standing too, because it's infectious, yelling for a team he's never even liked, Steve's hand warm through his jacket.
--
It's a long drive from the city to the house they're staying in, tucked into a grove of trees far from the bustle of downtown. Steve, Sunday-afternoon exhausted, is in the passenger seat because Danny knows better than to inflict his driving on the good people of Ohio--he falls asleep ten minutes down the road, lulled probably by the sudden warmth blasting from the vents of the rented Honda, tucked into the folds of his thick coat. His face is pressed, haphazard, against the window, and Danny slants a sidelong grin at him, his big bad SEAL knocked out by the sound of tires on asphalt, like Gracie when she was two and three and four.
Around them is this canopy of red and gold, light catching and reflecting from every tree, and Danny knows that autumn's a death march, really. He knows that in weeks or months the ground will be thick with snow, because he remembers that, the shift in seasons, the half-tragedy of realizing winter's set in and fall is over. But just now the radio croons out shitty soft rock, an unspoken concession to Steve's terrible taste in music, and Steve shifts in sleep and his face is reflected with that red and gold and his lips are chapped and Danny grins, grins until his face hurts, his hands tight on the wheel.
When they pull into the driveway Danny cuts the engine and the cessation of noise wakes Steve, wakes him gentle, wakes him slow. He's long-since cured of the habit of startling awake ready for a fight, making Danny's heart clench for him every damn time, but it's still good, to see him get up like this. He blinks sleepily and then he yawns and then he smiles, and Danny leans across the gearshift to meet him because he can't help himself.
"You have a nice nap?" he says, less sarcastic than he means to, and Steve makes this low murmuring noise, soft, smooth, as he slides a still-gloved hand across Danny's cheek. His lips are sleep-slack when they kiss, but his breath comes easy, and the fabric of the glove catches against Danny's five o'clock shadow. Danny sees red and gold as he closes his eyes.
---
It storms, and maybe Hawaii's spoiled Danny just as badly as Steve, because he's gotten used to downpours that aren't like this--on the island they're intense, often dangerous, but usually warm. He's forgotten what it's like to be caught in a thunderstorm that's spitting down freezing rain until it happens to him, and he curses, running for the house, water trickling under the collar of his coat.
Steve laughs his ass off when Danny gets inside, mocks him mercilessly about the sixth-sense he was supposed to have developed in Jersey, grins cheerfully when Danny throws him the middle finger. But he grabs Danny a pair of sweats, too--bottom drawer, left side--a t-shirt, long sleeved and blissfully dry. He yanks Danny onto the couch, grabs one of the blankets they keep everywhere because they both get cold, cards a big hand through Danny's sopping hair. He doesn't let up with the teasing, smug bastard, but he palms the back of Danny's neck while he laughs, radiates warmth like the big SEAL space heater he is until Danny finally quits shivering.
It's not home, but it's not bad, for Ohio.
---
There's a red bird and a Navy SEAL sitting in Danny's backyard; the first looks at Danny curiously, cocking its head, and the second waves a hand for silence.
"I didn't say anything, you goof," Danny says.
"Now you have," Steve hisses. "Sit down or stop moving, you're going to scare it off."
Danny wants to laugh until he cries, but he reigns it in like a champ, folds himself into the grass next to Steve. It's a nice enough day, the temperature hovering at something like fifty degrees, the sun out. Steve's staring at the bird like it's resisting arrest, but Danny's come to accept that that just means he's feeling contemplative.
"Birdwatching?" he says. "Really? We gotta get you outta here, McGarrett, the boredom's gotten to your head."
"It's a cardinal," Steve says. "State bird out here."
"Seriously," Danny says, "why do you know that? Are you going native on me, is that what's happening, am I gonna come home one day and find you've bought season tickets for the Cavs--"
"You know I mentioned Lebron James the other day and some guy almost decked me?"
"Yeah," Danny says, "they're a little--it's better not to go down that road, trust me, not that you'd know, basketball failure that you are. But, in all honesty, you do remember that we've got a home, right? One that isn't here?"
Steve slants him a sidelong grin, and oh, goddamn it, Danny's gone and walked right into it, Steve and his fucking sneaky traps. He braces himself, waits for the smug rush of "I knew you liked Hawaii," but it doesn't come; Steve just keeps smiling at him, stupid happy, the cardinal hopping around in front of them.
"Yeah, Danno," he says. "I remember just fine."
Okay, I know I rec wheres_walnut's art like, all the fucking time, like every time she posts art, I know I do that, I really do. I AM AWARE. But the thing is I do it because it is, every time, blow the fuck away good, and oh my god, you guys. She is doing an art WIP (an ART WIP!!!) over at the kinkmeme where Arthur & Eames are fellow commuters on the Metro North and, you guys, Jesus Christ. Look, I know fuck-all about art aside from WOW THAT'S SO GORGEOUS DJHASFJKSDF but the thing I always love love love about Walnut's art is how goddamn real it feels, her use of color to set the mood, this vivid expansive beyond-what-I-can-articulate scene she manages to build. Even if you are not in Inception fandom and this, to you, would be two random dudes on a train, GO LOOK. THEY WILL BE THE MOST BREATHTAKING TWO DUDES ON A TRAIN YOU'VE EVER SEEN.
/embarrassing Walnut (SORRY NUT, I CANNOT CONTAIN MY LOVE AT ALL).
And, ahahaha, okay, second: so, when I first started posting fanfiction, I said to myself, "Jizz. Jizz. You can feel free to pound out whatever nonsense you like, so long as--and this is very important--you never write fic set in or around Cleveland, Ohio." This is for a lot of reasons, the predominant one being that I grew up/live here and thus have deep fear of self insert, though there's also the fear that my unlikely but undeniable love for this place will grip me so furiously that I'll never be able to set anything anywhere else ever again. Whatever the reason, "Don't write fic about Ohio" has been the "TOUCH NOTHING BUT THE LAMP" of my fanfiction career, and I have observed the rule faithfully.
But, see, tonight sheafrotherdon posted this vid about Michigan and, because I grew up in Ohio, Michigan makes me think of University of Michigan makes me think of Muck Fichigan makes me think of the Ohio State Buckeyes makes me think of buckeye candy makes me think of my childhood makes me think of home, and so my brain...went there. It went there, and to continue the Aladdin analogy this idea is like that giant ruby and I am Abu and somewhere my common sense is screaming NO YOU ASSHOLE TOUCH NOTHING BUT THE LAMP DO NOT WRITE FIC ABOUT OHIO, but I. I can't help myself.
What is happening to me right now. For serious.
So under the cut are some random context-free snippets of Danny and Steve in Northeast Ohio because of [plot device I haven't worked out], in the hopes that it will get the fuck out of my system. This is not fanfiction, it is 1500 words of fucking about on the internet. THAT'S TOTALLY DIFFERENT. I'M NOT TOUCHING THE LAMP. IF I DON'T GIVE IT A TITLE IT'S NOT REAL. Oh god.
The truth is, Danny has missed fall a stupid amount. He does know, for all he claims not to, how ridiculous it is to complain about living in paradise; it's just easier to deflect with "pineapple infested" and "sharks" than it is to explain that the loss of the chillier seasons is actually kind of like losing a (admittedly sometimes irritating) relative. So the Ohio thing is sort of nice in that sense, but if he was going to get an autumn why couldn't it have been a Jersey one, that's what Danny wants to know. Would it have been so hard to end up there instead, there instead of here, what is he doing here, fucking Christ. In some ways it's worse, homesickness-wise, than Hawaii could ever be, because it's closer, but still so fucking far.
But Steve keeps buying winter gear, ridiculous fingerless gloves and hideous coats and thick scarves, all lit up and proud of himself like a kid when he brings them home. He gets into it, tries and fails to make buckeye candy, asks the neighbors about what they should see while they're here. At Halloween he drags Danny to pick out a pumpkin, because some random lady at the grocery store told him about this orchard, apples and the pumpkins and a general store that smells like fritters and pie. There are kids everywhere, hopping off the wagon and running from the bees still left from summer, and it makes Danny miss Gracie something fierce; the fritter is good, though, deep fried, delicious, and he points out the ugliest pumpkin just for the fun of it.
It could be worse, is the point, and then Steve pulls him behind a Jonagold tree and kisses him, the chilled wind leaving his lips a little chapped. He tastes spicy like the cider he's been downing and he's laughing even as he shudders because he's not made for this kind of weather, and Danny reels him in, hands fisted in the hem of his coat. Steve smiles against his mouth and, yeah, Danny can think of places he'd rather be, but not that many, not right now.
--
They go to a Browns game because Steve's all into the football culture, because he's a freak of nature who never got over the whole star quarterback thing, not really, not deep down. Danny humors him because it's hard not to, these days; it's the most depressing thing Danny's ever seen, and he is a Nets fan, okay, he knows from losing. But these people are just, just resigned to it, disappointed before the game even starts, the weight of their sports curse settled over them like a blanket. It's like nothing he's ever seen, and he feels for them, but it's a bummer all the same.
"Best time to be a Browns fan is when they're not playing," says the stranger sitting next to him, somehow friendly in his bitterness, and Danny says, "Yeah, I hear you," even though he mostly doesn't.
They're all decked out in paraphernalia, though, glowing brown and orange like they bought out the whole store, and as it turns out they all hate Boston with a burning fiery passion for breaking their losing streak first. Danny, Jersey through and through and thus raised with Yankees pride, can jive with that; he jokes with the guys they're sitting with, and the beer flows freely, and Steve's grinning next to him, pressed in a little too close.
It's middle of the third quarter when the game turns around, and the Browns are suddenly winning somehow, and it's like the whole place has caught fire--everyone's on their feet screaming and Steve is yelling his fool head off, whooping like a teenager. Some asshole gave him orange and brown paint that's all over his face because he's never shaken his weird camo fixation, and Danny's standing too, because it's infectious, yelling for a team he's never even liked, Steve's hand warm through his jacket.
--
It's a long drive from the city to the house they're staying in, tucked into a grove of trees far from the bustle of downtown. Steve, Sunday-afternoon exhausted, is in the passenger seat because Danny knows better than to inflict his driving on the good people of Ohio--he falls asleep ten minutes down the road, lulled probably by the sudden warmth blasting from the vents of the rented Honda, tucked into the folds of his thick coat. His face is pressed, haphazard, against the window, and Danny slants a sidelong grin at him, his big bad SEAL knocked out by the sound of tires on asphalt, like Gracie when she was two and three and four.
Around them is this canopy of red and gold, light catching and reflecting from every tree, and Danny knows that autumn's a death march, really. He knows that in weeks or months the ground will be thick with snow, because he remembers that, the shift in seasons, the half-tragedy of realizing winter's set in and fall is over. But just now the radio croons out shitty soft rock, an unspoken concession to Steve's terrible taste in music, and Steve shifts in sleep and his face is reflected with that red and gold and his lips are chapped and Danny grins, grins until his face hurts, his hands tight on the wheel.
When they pull into the driveway Danny cuts the engine and the cessation of noise wakes Steve, wakes him gentle, wakes him slow. He's long-since cured of the habit of startling awake ready for a fight, making Danny's heart clench for him every damn time, but it's still good, to see him get up like this. He blinks sleepily and then he yawns and then he smiles, and Danny leans across the gearshift to meet him because he can't help himself.
"You have a nice nap?" he says, less sarcastic than he means to, and Steve makes this low murmuring noise, soft, smooth, as he slides a still-gloved hand across Danny's cheek. His lips are sleep-slack when they kiss, but his breath comes easy, and the fabric of the glove catches against Danny's five o'clock shadow. Danny sees red and gold as he closes his eyes.
---
It storms, and maybe Hawaii's spoiled Danny just as badly as Steve, because he's gotten used to downpours that aren't like this--on the island they're intense, often dangerous, but usually warm. He's forgotten what it's like to be caught in a thunderstorm that's spitting down freezing rain until it happens to him, and he curses, running for the house, water trickling under the collar of his coat.
Steve laughs his ass off when Danny gets inside, mocks him mercilessly about the sixth-sense he was supposed to have developed in Jersey, grins cheerfully when Danny throws him the middle finger. But he grabs Danny a pair of sweats, too--bottom drawer, left side--a t-shirt, long sleeved and blissfully dry. He yanks Danny onto the couch, grabs one of the blankets they keep everywhere because they both get cold, cards a big hand through Danny's sopping hair. He doesn't let up with the teasing, smug bastard, but he palms the back of Danny's neck while he laughs, radiates warmth like the big SEAL space heater he is until Danny finally quits shivering.
It's not home, but it's not bad, for Ohio.
---
There's a red bird and a Navy SEAL sitting in Danny's backyard; the first looks at Danny curiously, cocking its head, and the second waves a hand for silence.
"I didn't say anything, you goof," Danny says.
"Now you have," Steve hisses. "Sit down or stop moving, you're going to scare it off."
Danny wants to laugh until he cries, but he reigns it in like a champ, folds himself into the grass next to Steve. It's a nice enough day, the temperature hovering at something like fifty degrees, the sun out. Steve's staring at the bird like it's resisting arrest, but Danny's come to accept that that just means he's feeling contemplative.
"Birdwatching?" he says. "Really? We gotta get you outta here, McGarrett, the boredom's gotten to your head."
"It's a cardinal," Steve says. "State bird out here."
"Seriously," Danny says, "why do you know that? Are you going native on me, is that what's happening, am I gonna come home one day and find you've bought season tickets for the Cavs--"
"You know I mentioned Lebron James the other day and some guy almost decked me?"
"Yeah," Danny says, "they're a little--it's better not to go down that road, trust me, not that you'd know, basketball failure that you are. But, in all honesty, you do remember that we've got a home, right? One that isn't here?"
Steve slants him a sidelong grin, and oh, goddamn it, Danny's gone and walked right into it, Steve and his fucking sneaky traps. He braces himself, waits for the smug rush of "I knew you liked Hawaii," but it doesn't come; Steve just keeps smiling at him, stupid happy, the cardinal hopping around in front of them.
"Yeah, Danno," he says. "I remember just fine."