hawaii 5-0 fic: maybe we're both too far gone [steve/danny]
Right, so, leupagus and wheres_walnut and I were talking about nerdy high school Steve, and somehow I accidentally ended up writing a little bit of Curving Like The Ocean Toward You 'verse nonsense. So...here's that!
Sorry, dudes, it's 4 in the morning, that's all I got right now.
Title: Maybe We're Both Too Far Gone
Rating: PG, except for, you know, all the fucking swearing, like always.
Wordcount: ~1900
Summary: A picture's worth a thousand words; a thousand and one, if there's a mullet involved.
“Okay,” Danny says when Steve comes through the door, “I got good news and bad news.”
“Bad news first,” Steve says, without looking up from the pile of mail he’s going through. Danny scowls.
“No,” he says, “no, McGarrett, you’re always doing this, I had a whole plan, okay, you deviated from the plan, now I have to start over, you know how irritating that is?”
“Did you get into the new coffee?” Steve says. “Because I told you--”
“Steven!” Danny says, “There is a way this is supposed to go, okay, I have a whole--I say ‘I got good news and bad news’, and you say ‘good news for who,’ this is not rocket science--”
“Who says that?” Steve says, because he is a terrible person. “No, seriously, don’t make that face--Danny, who says that? Who has ever responded to ‘I have good news and bad news’ with--”
“You know what,” Danny says, “forget it, you are making this too hard, it's not worth it.”
“God,” Steve says, “fine. Good news for who?”
“For me,” Danny says, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Good news for me, babe. I’ll tell you who it’s bad news for, though, and that is your dignity.”
“That’s what you were setting me up for?” Steve says. “Look, Danno, whatever you found, you should just put it back, alright? You shouldn’t have been snooping around anyway, I knew you were going to end up doing this, you’re as bad as Mary.”
“Okay,” Danny says, “okay, thing one: there is nothing bad about your sister, Steve, and if I didn’t know you were nervous about what I found--which I do, I know, okay, I can tell, I am a trained investigator and you are shifting, my friend, you are moving too much, which means I will not be ceasing in the snooping--and hey, hey, I live here too, and if it weren't for me I wouldn't have to snoop because it would all be out here all over the place anyway, and you are the one who insisted that I ‘rest’ or whatever. What the hell was I supposed to do?”
“Rest, maybe?”
“Five days,” Danny points out, “five days I have done nothing but rest, I am sick of resting, I have had enough resting for a lifetime, alright? And anyway, we’re not having that conversation, because we have better conversations to be having, like the conversation about this picture I found.”
Steve’s got That Face on, the one that means he’s trying to decide between pulling a tactical retreat and attacking like a caged tiger, and Danny probably shouldn’t enjoy torturing him so much. It’s probably deeply wrong, the pleasure he gets out of getting Steve to make That Face, but, hey, he never said he was a good person.
“...which picture,” Steve says finally, and Danny pulls it out from behind his back, waves it in Steve’s face, and grins like an asshole.
“You have glasses,” he crows, “and the hair, Steven, this hair, would you look at this hair? This is basically a mullet, babe, I hate to break it to you. And are those--”
“Give me that,” Steve says, and snatches it out of Danny’s hand. It’s too late, though, because Danny’s already committed the thing to memory, every glorious, ridiculous inch of it, from Steve’s scrawny, underdeveloped shoulders to the braces on his teeth. “Jesus, this is my ninth grade photo, where did you even find this?”
“Attic,” Danny says, and puts his hands in the air when Steve levels a glare at him. “Hey, fuck you very much, I wanted to come to work this morning.”
“The next time you get sick,” Steve says, “you are not staying here. God, I thought I got stir crazy under house arrest, but Danny, seriously, this is ridiculous.”
“I am bored, McGarrett,” Danny says, and flops down on the couch. “I am fine, and perfectly capable of working despite the doubts of certain Commanders who were apparently gigantic dorks in high school, and bored. You know how you could have avoided this? By letting me come to work, that is how you could have avoided this, it would have been fine, it would have been great, criminals, disasters, you sending me to an early grave because you cannot fucking drive, I would have loved it, really, because anything would have been better than spending another day knocking around this--”
“Danny,” Steve says, “stop talking, please, just for a second, you’re giving me a headache.”
“No,” Danny says, “that’s the humiliation talking.”
He snatches the photo back, because, okay, you know what, he is entitled to this. It’s been a week, a fucking week with this flu, which, hey, he is a grown man, he can weather a flu as well as the next guy, but the next guy doesn’t have to deal with Steve and his basket of crazy-making nonsense. Danny’s been monitored like he’s some kind of wayward international criminal, he has been scolded, he has been restricted from his office, he has been--in a very intense, SEAL sort of way--mother-henned. This photo has been the bright spot in an otherwise deeply unpleasant week, and he is going to fucking well make the most of it.
“I thought,” he says, as Steve sighs and sits down next to him, “that you were on the football team in high school. This kid right here? Yeah, he does not look like quarterback material.”
“I was on the football team in tenth grade,” Steve says. “I had a growth spurt when I was fourteen, okay? It took me a little while to fill out.”
“Apparently,” Danny agrees. “And the braces?”
“You want me to explain why people need braces?”
“No,” Danny says, sighing happily, “I just wanted to see the look on your face when I asked about them.”
“Some days I fucking hate you,” Steve says. “Most days. Today especially.”
“I bet you were on some sort of science team,” Danny says. “I’ve got something there, don’t I? Huh? You wanna tell me about your long nights with the periodic table for company, babe, because I’ll tell you what, I am here for you, I will listen to that story and only mock you a little bit every day for the rest of your life--”
“I knew I should have made you see a doctor,” Steve says. “That fever you had melted something in your brain.”
“Nope,” Danny says, “no, no it didn’t, not at all, not even a little. This, my friend, is glee--this is what I look like when I am happy, which, I get it, I see how you could have forgotten that, seeing as how you have gone out of your way to be as irritating as possible for the last few days--”
“Worked, though,” Steve says. He leans sideways, tries to snatch the photo from Danny’s hand, and ends up crashing across his legs a little when Danny holds it out of his reach. “You’re feeling better, you’re only this obnoxious when you’re in full health.”
“Ha fucking ha,” Danny says. “You’re a funny, funny man, McGarrett. I’m serious, though--how the hell did you go from this to star quarterback?”
Steve shrugs, stops grabbing for the photo, settles in a little. “Weights, mostly. Swimming, running, you know. I was always good at the game, natural talent--”
“Modesty is something you should work on,” Danny says. One of his hands is working its way up under the hem of Steve’s shirt, but that’s the kind of stupid, soft, ridiculous thing he’s learned not to think about too much. “Just a general tip there. Don’t grow any more mullets, either, while we’re on the topic of advice.”
“What,” Steve says, offering up a lazy grin, apparently a little more relaxed now that he’s realized he’s not getting out of this, “you don’t think it was a good look for me?”
“I think you must have been very lonely in ninth grade,” Danny says, and feels a little bad--okay, maybe a lot bad--when Steve’s grin slips. “Hey. Hey, McGarrett, I was kidding--oh, god, tell me you don’t have a complex or something, okay, look, I am still mad at you for the thing with the check-in from Kamekona on Tuesday and also for driving my car into the side of that fence, don’t think I didn’t hear about that. I am still mad, okay, please do not make me...build up your self esteem or some shit, I honestly don’t think I could take it.”
“I don’t have a complex, Danno,” Steve says. “And you needed the check-in, and that fence was in my way, and you don’t seem all that mad.”
“It’s a fence,” Danny says, ignoring the rest of it, “I say again, it is a fence, you do the sane thing, you go around like a normal human being, it can’t be in your way, it is a fixed object, it--”
“And yeah,” Steve says, shrugging again, his shoulder burying itself a little in Danny’s stomach, “ninth grade wasn’t my best year ever.”
Some days--well, okay, most days, really--Danny’s pretty sure Steve McGarrett isn’t actually a real person. Real people aren’t like this, this weird combination of frightening automaton and neurotic goofy sap. It’s kind of endearing, really, not that Danny likes to admit it; Steve’s almost blushing, and he probably really was lonely in the ninth grade, and his hands are registered as lethal weapons in something like thirteen countries. He doesn’t make any sense at all, and maybe he’s right about the whole melted brain thing, because Danny’s chest is full up with a seriously dangerous amount of affection, and that’s gotta be the last dregs of the flu talking.
“Hey,” he says, “I would’ve liked you, I bet. When you looked like the big nerd you still fucking are, I mean.”
“You say the sweetest things,” Steve says. It’s dry, deadpan, but he’s grinning like he means it; he probably does, is the crazy thing. Danny can’t really help but lean down to kiss him, diverting to drop it into his hair when Steve says “Germs,” like the prissy asshole he is when they’re not in company. He takes Danny’s hand, though, traces his thumb absently across Danny’s knuckles while he uses his free arm to flail around for the remote.
“Here,” Danny says, digging it out from under his ass. “You’re not getting out of telling me what Chin meant by ‘the fireball incident’ earlier, by the way, no matter what’s on.”
Steve winces for a second, but it smooths out into a grin as he flicks on the television. “Glad you’re feeling better, did I mention that?”
“Yeah, well, I’m glad you learned about the benefits of clean hair and regular shows,” Danny says, waving the photo in front of him one last time. “Tell you what, you tell me the truth about what happened with the fireballs and maybe, maybe I won’t show this to Gracie.”
“Jackass,” Steve says.
“Dork,” Danny returns, and drops the picture onto the coffee table, settles in a little against the cushion, and smiles.
Sorry, dudes, it's 4 in the morning, that's all I got right now.
Title: Maybe We're Both Too Far Gone
Rating: PG, except for, you know, all the fucking swearing, like always.
Wordcount: ~1900
Summary: A picture's worth a thousand words; a thousand and one, if there's a mullet involved.
“Okay,” Danny says when Steve comes through the door, “I got good news and bad news.”
“Bad news first,” Steve says, without looking up from the pile of mail he’s going through. Danny scowls.
“No,” he says, “no, McGarrett, you’re always doing this, I had a whole plan, okay, you deviated from the plan, now I have to start over, you know how irritating that is?”
“Did you get into the new coffee?” Steve says. “Because I told you--”
“Steven!” Danny says, “There is a way this is supposed to go, okay, I have a whole--I say ‘I got good news and bad news’, and you say ‘good news for who,’ this is not rocket science--”
“Who says that?” Steve says, because he is a terrible person. “No, seriously, don’t make that face--Danny, who says that? Who has ever responded to ‘I have good news and bad news’ with--”
“You know what,” Danny says, “forget it, you are making this too hard, it's not worth it.”
“God,” Steve says, “fine. Good news for who?”
“For me,” Danny says, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Good news for me, babe. I’ll tell you who it’s bad news for, though, and that is your dignity.”
“That’s what you were setting me up for?” Steve says. “Look, Danno, whatever you found, you should just put it back, alright? You shouldn’t have been snooping around anyway, I knew you were going to end up doing this, you’re as bad as Mary.”
“Okay,” Danny says, “okay, thing one: there is nothing bad about your sister, Steve, and if I didn’t know you were nervous about what I found--which I do, I know, okay, I can tell, I am a trained investigator and you are shifting, my friend, you are moving too much, which means I will not be ceasing in the snooping--and hey, hey, I live here too, and if it weren't for me I wouldn't have to snoop because it would all be out here all over the place anyway, and you are the one who insisted that I ‘rest’ or whatever. What the hell was I supposed to do?”
“Rest, maybe?”
“Five days,” Danny points out, “five days I have done nothing but rest, I am sick of resting, I have had enough resting for a lifetime, alright? And anyway, we’re not having that conversation, because we have better conversations to be having, like the conversation about this picture I found.”
Steve’s got That Face on, the one that means he’s trying to decide between pulling a tactical retreat and attacking like a caged tiger, and Danny probably shouldn’t enjoy torturing him so much. It’s probably deeply wrong, the pleasure he gets out of getting Steve to make That Face, but, hey, he never said he was a good person.
“...which picture,” Steve says finally, and Danny pulls it out from behind his back, waves it in Steve’s face, and grins like an asshole.
“You have glasses,” he crows, “and the hair, Steven, this hair, would you look at this hair? This is basically a mullet, babe, I hate to break it to you. And are those--”
“Give me that,” Steve says, and snatches it out of Danny’s hand. It’s too late, though, because Danny’s already committed the thing to memory, every glorious, ridiculous inch of it, from Steve’s scrawny, underdeveloped shoulders to the braces on his teeth. “Jesus, this is my ninth grade photo, where did you even find this?”
“Attic,” Danny says, and puts his hands in the air when Steve levels a glare at him. “Hey, fuck you very much, I wanted to come to work this morning.”
“The next time you get sick,” Steve says, “you are not staying here. God, I thought I got stir crazy under house arrest, but Danny, seriously, this is ridiculous.”
“I am bored, McGarrett,” Danny says, and flops down on the couch. “I am fine, and perfectly capable of working despite the doubts of certain Commanders who were apparently gigantic dorks in high school, and bored. You know how you could have avoided this? By letting me come to work, that is how you could have avoided this, it would have been fine, it would have been great, criminals, disasters, you sending me to an early grave because you cannot fucking drive, I would have loved it, really, because anything would have been better than spending another day knocking around this--”
“Danny,” Steve says, “stop talking, please, just for a second, you’re giving me a headache.”
“No,” Danny says, “that’s the humiliation talking.”
He snatches the photo back, because, okay, you know what, he is entitled to this. It’s been a week, a fucking week with this flu, which, hey, he is a grown man, he can weather a flu as well as the next guy, but the next guy doesn’t have to deal with Steve and his basket of crazy-making nonsense. Danny’s been monitored like he’s some kind of wayward international criminal, he has been scolded, he has been restricted from his office, he has been--in a very intense, SEAL sort of way--mother-henned. This photo has been the bright spot in an otherwise deeply unpleasant week, and he is going to fucking well make the most of it.
“I thought,” he says, as Steve sighs and sits down next to him, “that you were on the football team in high school. This kid right here? Yeah, he does not look like quarterback material.”
“I was on the football team in tenth grade,” Steve says. “I had a growth spurt when I was fourteen, okay? It took me a little while to fill out.”
“Apparently,” Danny agrees. “And the braces?”
“You want me to explain why people need braces?”
“No,” Danny says, sighing happily, “I just wanted to see the look on your face when I asked about them.”
“Some days I fucking hate you,” Steve says. “Most days. Today especially.”
“I bet you were on some sort of science team,” Danny says. “I’ve got something there, don’t I? Huh? You wanna tell me about your long nights with the periodic table for company, babe, because I’ll tell you what, I am here for you, I will listen to that story and only mock you a little bit every day for the rest of your life--”
“I knew I should have made you see a doctor,” Steve says. “That fever you had melted something in your brain.”
“Nope,” Danny says, “no, no it didn’t, not at all, not even a little. This, my friend, is glee--this is what I look like when I am happy, which, I get it, I see how you could have forgotten that, seeing as how you have gone out of your way to be as irritating as possible for the last few days--”
“Worked, though,” Steve says. He leans sideways, tries to snatch the photo from Danny’s hand, and ends up crashing across his legs a little when Danny holds it out of his reach. “You’re feeling better, you’re only this obnoxious when you’re in full health.”
“Ha fucking ha,” Danny says. “You’re a funny, funny man, McGarrett. I’m serious, though--how the hell did you go from this to star quarterback?”
Steve shrugs, stops grabbing for the photo, settles in a little. “Weights, mostly. Swimming, running, you know. I was always good at the game, natural talent--”
“Modesty is something you should work on,” Danny says. One of his hands is working its way up under the hem of Steve’s shirt, but that’s the kind of stupid, soft, ridiculous thing he’s learned not to think about too much. “Just a general tip there. Don’t grow any more mullets, either, while we’re on the topic of advice.”
“What,” Steve says, offering up a lazy grin, apparently a little more relaxed now that he’s realized he’s not getting out of this, “you don’t think it was a good look for me?”
“I think you must have been very lonely in ninth grade,” Danny says, and feels a little bad--okay, maybe a lot bad--when Steve’s grin slips. “Hey. Hey, McGarrett, I was kidding--oh, god, tell me you don’t have a complex or something, okay, look, I am still mad at you for the thing with the check-in from Kamekona on Tuesday and also for driving my car into the side of that fence, don’t think I didn’t hear about that. I am still mad, okay, please do not make me...build up your self esteem or some shit, I honestly don’t think I could take it.”
“I don’t have a complex, Danno,” Steve says. “And you needed the check-in, and that fence was in my way, and you don’t seem all that mad.”
“It’s a fence,” Danny says, ignoring the rest of it, “I say again, it is a fence, you do the sane thing, you go around like a normal human being, it can’t be in your way, it is a fixed object, it--”
“And yeah,” Steve says, shrugging again, his shoulder burying itself a little in Danny’s stomach, “ninth grade wasn’t my best year ever.”
Some days--well, okay, most days, really--Danny’s pretty sure Steve McGarrett isn’t actually a real person. Real people aren’t like this, this weird combination of frightening automaton and neurotic goofy sap. It’s kind of endearing, really, not that Danny likes to admit it; Steve’s almost blushing, and he probably really was lonely in the ninth grade, and his hands are registered as lethal weapons in something like thirteen countries. He doesn’t make any sense at all, and maybe he’s right about the whole melted brain thing, because Danny’s chest is full up with a seriously dangerous amount of affection, and that’s gotta be the last dregs of the flu talking.
“Hey,” he says, “I would’ve liked you, I bet. When you looked like the big nerd you still fucking are, I mean.”
“You say the sweetest things,” Steve says. It’s dry, deadpan, but he’s grinning like he means it; he probably does, is the crazy thing. Danny can’t really help but lean down to kiss him, diverting to drop it into his hair when Steve says “Germs,” like the prissy asshole he is when they’re not in company. He takes Danny’s hand, though, traces his thumb absently across Danny’s knuckles while he uses his free arm to flail around for the remote.
“Here,” Danny says, digging it out from under his ass. “You’re not getting out of telling me what Chin meant by ‘the fireball incident’ earlier, by the way, no matter what’s on.”
Steve winces for a second, but it smooths out into a grin as he flicks on the television. “Glad you’re feeling better, did I mention that?”
“Yeah, well, I’m glad you learned about the benefits of clean hair and regular shows,” Danny says, waving the photo in front of him one last time. “Tell you what, you tell me the truth about what happened with the fireballs and maybe, maybe I won’t show this to Gracie.”
“Jackass,” Steve says.
“Dork,” Danny returns, and drops the picture onto the coffee table, settles in a little against the cushion, and smiles.