Unwinding the Second Hand (Part II of II) - Steve/Danny - R
Part I
**
This is going nowhere today. He's not in the mood, has a wicked headache, and sits slumped on his psychiatrist's couch, half-listening while playing with a loose thread on his pants.
Wonders when he started thinking of her as his.
"Don't feel much like talking today?"
"Not much, nope." Just wants to go home.
Draw the blinds.
"Are you sleeping okay?"
He nods.
"Nightmares?"
"Some," he answers. "Getting better, though."
"Even after the court hearing yesterday? That must have been hard seeing Mr. Peterson again."
He can't even describe the fury that bubbled like hot oil in his veins. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah. It was hard seeing that animal. Hard not to wrap my hands around his neck for what he did."
"Do you want to talk about that? How you felt seeing him."
"No."
She's watching him. God, he's tired of being watched. By her. By Steve.
She nods then, like she’s agreeing. As if she has any intention of not bringing it all back up for him to discuss at a later time. Knows another outpouring is in a future appointment. Just not today. He just can't.
"You and Steve doing okay?"
Nods. "Yeah. We're okay." Really, he doesn't want to get into any of this, shoots himself the minute he adds, "He wants me to talk to him about all of this, though. Especially after seeing Peterson yesterday."
"But you don't want to talk to him."
No, that's not it. "I just--I don't know. Not now. Not today. I can't." He meets her eyes. "Steve's great. He is. Was with me in the courtroom. He means well and all, cares about me. I know that. Might even--" No. Doesn't want to go down this avenue just now. Not with her. "I just don't--"
"Don't what?"
He feels exhausted, yet restless. Itchy. Like he's trapped in someone else's skin. "I don't know. Don't want to get into it all, I guess. It's tiring enough just talking to you about it."
"Okay. That's understandable. Have you tried telling him that?"
Has he? He can't think. "I don't know--don't think so."
Seeing Peterson yesterday has him on edge.
God, he misses his daughter.
His head is killing him.
Plays with the loose thread again. Wonders if he pulls, would he just unravel right along with it.
**
"Get the fuck off me, asshole!"
What the hell? Danny lets the top of the dumpster fall, heads toward the man and woman who are clearly engaged in some altercation in the parking lot of his apartment.
The man's got a firm grip on her arm. It's getting dark outside, harder to see as dusk settles around them, but Danny can't quite miss the dark red handprints on both her upper arms. The eye that looks like it's already swelling.
She's yanking to free herself, but the man's bigger and not letting go. Clearly angry.
"Hey," Danny yells to him, which gains both their attention. He glares at the man. "You want to back off there, pal?" Then nods toward the woman. "You okay, miss?"
She pulls her arm free, turning back to smack the man hard in the side of the head. The guy raises his hand, and it's not difficult to figure what's coming. Danny's there in a second, getting a hold of the guy's wrist and arm and twisting up hard. McGarrett's not the only one who has moves.
"Fuck," the man cries out as Danny drops him to the ground, kneeing him in the back to keep him there. Wishes he had his ID. Handcuffs.
"What the fuck?" the guy is yelling at him, bucking underneath him. "Get the hell off me, you little prick--"
"Shut up," Danny tells him as he glances at the woman to make sure she's okay. She’s standing behind him and he starts to explain, "It's okay. I'm with Five-0, the pol--" The first blow to the side of his head has him reeling, the second has him rolling away at the same time the guy below him pushes up to his feet.
The kick to his knee sends him sprawling to the ground. The kick to his side keeps him there.
Gravel in his face. Again.
Hurts like hell.
It's a slow roll to turn over. His head is spinning, he feels dizzy. Nauseous. Feels like complete shit.
The woman is screeching at him as she tosses away the broken two-by-four she hit him with, and then she and the man walk away, arm in arm, kicking gravel at him.
"Mind your own damn business, motherfucker."
**
Too much. Yeah, definitely too much. He knows he's had too much to drink, doesn't relish the idea of the walk home.
Limp home.
Wonders what time it is--how long he's been sitting here. According to the numbness of his ass, a long while. Long, long while. And yet, not nearly long enough.
Fuck Rick Peterson. Hopes the man rots in jail. Hopes he gets himself shanked, actually, but if he said that to his psychiatrist he'd be extending his required therapy time for months, he's sure.
Good ol' anger issues.
Can only hope that neither Steve nor Denning get word of the shit that happened this evening.
Can't believe the woman he was trying to help was the one to hit him.
Maybe he'll have one more before he hits the road. Signals the bartender, who's actually pointing back at him from across the bar and he stares at the guy, blinking to clear his somewhat blurrier-than-it-should-be-after-just-a-few-beers --oh, Lord let this not actually be a concussion-- vision.
Blinks again because now the guy--the bartender--has completely turned his back on him. He thinks about chucking the empty bottle behind the bar to get his attention, even holds it up--
And it's pulled from his hands. What the hell?
He turns to lash out because, goddamnit, he's pretty well fucking done with being fucked with by anyone. Reels some on the barstool as he turns, catches himself with a hand braced on the bar, a hand braced on McGarrett.
Steve. Here. Seriously?
"Danny. God." Steve's hands are touching him, palming his face and turning it from side to side, angling so he can get a better look.
Pulls his face away from Steve's hold. "You come here for me?" he asks, still not sure how it is Steve is even here. "How the hell'd you know where I was?"
Steve's looking at him with all kinds of--concern, maybe? He's not sure, exactly. Steve's a little hard to read. Or maybe his eyes are a just a little blurrier than usual. No, definitely concern and--what's that look? Annoyance? Anger? Really?
Steve then reaches out to trace a light path over the place on his face where he was hit first, and given how tender it is, Danny figures there must be sort of mark evident. "Seriously, Steve," he says, trying to brush off Steve's hands. "What are you doing here?"
"Eddie called."
"Who?"
Steve nods to the bartender, who is now watching the both of them. "Eddie."
Steve throws the guy a half-wave. Lord, Danny's tired of people looking at him.
He pushes a finger into Steve's chest. "You know the bartender?"
"No." Steve's pulling him off the stool, pulling him to his feet. Supporting him somewhat. Not totally. He can walk, he can, he just--
"Wait," Danny instructs, looking around. "Where's my--" He finds the cane propped against the bar and reaches down for it, almost taking a header and would have if not for Steve's supportive hold around his waist.
"Really, Danny? Your knee, too? What the hell?"
Hands then, helping him maneuver the less than steady path out to Steve's truck. Helping shove him up into the seat. Helping buckle the seatbelt when the thing just refuses to cooperate under his own thick fingers.
"You want to tell me what the hell happened to you, Danny?"
God, he so doesn't want to talk about this. Waves his hand to indicate such, mumbling, "Not particularly."
Which Steve is clearly not having any of--
"Seriously, Danny." Steve's glancing at him while driving. "You're a mess."
"I'm--hey, you just missed my turn. Remember, new apartment? Back there, you need to turn back--" Now Steve's staring straight ahead, continuing on, and Danny knows he's not going to turn. Knows he’s headed to Steve’s. Knows he needs to talk to Steve at some point, just-not now. Slumps a bit more in the seat and lets loose a resigned sigh. His head hurts. His body hurts. "How'd you even know where to find me?"
"Eddie recognized you from--you know."
Yeah, he knew. Everyone knew. That he let his daughter be kidnapped by a crazy former partner. That he shot his ex-wife's husband.
"Eddie?" Fuck his life that someone named Eddie knew where he was.
Steve's poking him again, and he opens his eyes to glare at him.
"Eddie, the bartender? Where you just were--remember? Jesus, Danny. Try and stay with me here."
"Why are you staring at me? Stop staring. Watch the road."
Watches Steve pinch the bridge of his nose. Okay, so now he's the cause of that little habit Steve does when he's annoyed as hell and everything's falling to shit. Well, newsflash, McGarrett: he already knows his life's gone to shit.
"He called HPD, Danny."
"Who did?"
"Eddie, the bartender. For fuck's sake--are you this dense from too much to drink or do you have a head injury?"
His eyes fall closed and he'd love to just slip away in sleep, but Steve's not shutting up. Not letting up on the poking either, the fucker.
"Eddie called HPD, did you hear me? Recognized you from the news. Knew you were part of Five-0 and was concerned. About you. Because you were putting ‘em down like water, he said, and getting a bit-uh, loud. Called HPD to let them know you were there."
Okay. Okay. So now all of HPD knows he's been drinking. So the fuck what?
Steve sounds angry when he says, "Really? So the fuck what?"
"You heard me say that? I thought I just thought that."
"Shut up, Danny. Just--shut up and listen." And oh, yeah, Steve is definitely angry. "Apparently you were becoming belligerent at the bar.”
“No, you just said loud before.”
“Well, I meant loud and belligerent-like that’s a surprise.” Steve rubs a hand over his head.
“Headache?”
Steve ignores him. “Eddie was worried you might get into a fight given how loud and belligerent you were becoming. Knew who you were, knew you were with Five-0, so he called HPD. HPD then called Denning--as in Governor Denning--who then called me. Called me to go retrieve my drunk-ass partner from Eddie's bar and take him home before he got himself into any trouble. Any more trouble."
"Oh."
"Yeah. And then told me to, and I quote the governor verbatim: 'Drag Williams out of the bar, put him on the tightest leash you can find, and don't let him off until he's finished getting his head back together.'"
All Danny can think is, really? This is what his life has come to?
"So I'm taking you home to my place. Danny?"
“Yeah.”
“You hear me?”
He leans his head against the window, closes his eyes and sighs. There isn't a piece of him that doesn't hurt, throb or ache. The beer isn’t sitting all too nicely in his stomach, either. "I heard you."
"Okay."
"Okay. Yeah, okay."
"Okay, then." Steve says softly, and that hand is back on Danny's thigh. Softly squeezing. "Okay."
**
He wakes to hands slowly caressing him, petting and sweeping lightly over his skin. Up his back, across his shoulders, down his pecs and lightly tickling over his nipples. Tracing small circles there.
"Wha-?"
"Shh," Steve's whispering into his ear, lips pressed so close Danny can feel the moist warmth of each breathy word. "Easy. You're okay."
He nods, mostly asleep. Sighs with the touches that gentle him.
Shifts a bit as Steve stretches out flush behind him, pulling him back, skin now adhering to skin like they're wearing each other. Steve swings his leg over Danny's, trapping it while reaching across hips to wrap his hand around Danny's half hard dick. Lips slide up over the shell of his ear, teeth tracing the same path on the way down.
Danny moans, can't help it. Tries to stretch, to move--
"I've got you, Danny. You're okay."
He guesses he was dreaming, maybe, and feels a lingering tightness in his chest. Figures that's why he's waking to Steve draped all over and around him, but he doesn't remember any of it. Doesn't say anything except to let a low moan slip free as Steve tightens and quickens the hold he has on his cock.
Mumbles, "Steve," a few times, keeping his eyes closed as he's aroused and yet still half asleep. Like he can't quite shake the vestiges of sleep. As though this is still all part of a dream--a different dream. A porn dream.
"Shh, Danny. Relax. Just let me do this."
Steve's holding him tightly, firmly, trapping him with his arms and legs, his back to Steve’s chest so that he has little room to move.
Not that he really wants to as he feels the building pleasure of arousal, arches as best he can along with the rising heat in his groin, feels nothing but his impending orgasm which breaks him wide open when it comes, when he comes.
Lets loose a deep, guttural groan, biting his lip and then falling bonelessly into the pillow.
Steve's shifted, smiling down at him, he can just make out the shine of his eyes in the dark of the room as he leans over him. Kisses his neck, his shoulder.
"Sleep, Danny."
He does.
**
Morning arrives too early.
Too bright. Too quiet and yet too loud. He already has a headache.
There's a note on the pillow instead of Steve's head. There are also two Advil. A glass of water is leaving a wet ring on the nightstand.
Danny blinks a few times at the note. Steve's gone into work. Will call later.
Take the meds. Drink all of the water.
Coffee's ready to go, just push the button.
No pancakes, sorry, but there's oatmeal and fresh pineapple juice. Expand your horizons.
See you tonight.
He pulls the pillow over his face with a groan and tries to fall back to sleep.
**
All in all, showering at Steve's is heaven.
There's an amazing hot water system (although the one in his new place isn't too shabby, either, thankfully)--
There's Steve's shampoo (with its Steve-smell which just permeates the entire shower and okay, yeah, he'll admit to washing his hair an extra time just to wallow in the scent) -- which makes him jack off, of course, which makes him feel better, so yeah. All in all. He can deal.
He slicks back his hair best he can with no gel, uses the spare toothbrush that technically could be called his (really, who would use a used toothbrush anyway), gives a half a micro-second thought about shaving, and then borrows a t-shirt of Steve's before heading back to his place.
There are boxes still needing to be unpacked, after all, and since the cable's finally been installed, he can now do all that while watching his new large-screen TV. All day, even, because what the fuck else does he have to do?
The cab arrives late, and then it's forever for him to maneuver up the stairs to his new apartment, even with the cane--and, Jesus, what is he, eighty? He feels so out of breath and shaky by the time he gets in the door that he stands there panting and actually contemplating a nap. Already.
There's some fairly spectacular bruising starting to show up on the side of his face and the area around his knee. Figures she'd hit the one that already gives him trouble and he's glad Steve didn't get too good a look at him this morning because if he had he'd most likely have hustled him off to the hospital, which just--no.
He looks like hell. Feels the same, but he's okay. Will be okay. There’s always more Advil.
Life goes on.
**
Night falls and his little deck with its chair looks inviting after a pretty full day of getting his apartment put together (and okay, he did take the time for a quick nap). He has most of the things he's amassed finally unpacked and the boxes out by the dumpster for recycle.
The place looks good--as neat as he's ever kept an apartment, for now, and the new sofa fits nicely in front of his TV.
He's finally got a bed that's not only big and roomy, it's, well, a bed -- a far cry from that miserable pull out sofabed that was leaving a permanent dig in his back. He's got new sheets, a new duvet and hell, a quarter could be bounced off that bed. Steve would never believe it.
So yeah. Time to relax. The beer tastes good, is taking the edge off the ache in his face, his knee. His pride.
He's turned off the lamps in his apartment, sits out under what few stars he can see given the lights around the place. Thinks that if the neighbors in the little house his deck looks upon would shut off their lights, he'd have a better chance to stargaze.
Wishes Steve was sitting with him. And on that thought, his cell buzzes. McGarrett. Timing and all.
"Hey," he says, can hear his smile stretch all over that word because he's feeling loose-limbed and easy and yeah, it's Steve.
"Hey back," Steve replies. "Took a break. Thought I'd see what you're up to."
"Oh, I don’t know. Think about 5'7" or 5'8."
"Yeah. In your dreams, maybe." Which just makes him laugh. It feels so good to hear Steve's voice, even if it is at the expense of his five-foot-five-ness. Feels good to smile.
They talk for a while, Steve going on about meetings with politicians and military types, Denning, and Danny finds himself uh-huh-ing and nodding and really only half hearing what Steve is saying as he's too busy just drifting along on the sound of Steve's voice and staring out into the Hawaiian night. There's a breeze, even.
"So then I requisitioned a full iron cannon, what do you think?"
"Sounds good, babe. You, wait--you what? What did you say?"
"Ah, just proving a point. You're not listening to a word I'm saying, Danny."
"Oh, I beg to differ -- you're going on about some craziness as usual, and I'm listening, I am, as I sit here enjoying a beer on my lanai, happy I'm not there with you. So you know, cheers." He toasts Steve, and downs half the beer, happy to be finally feeling a little loose--happy to be enjoying a relatively cool evening while sitting under the cover of stars. And lights. Mostly lights.
His neighbors in the little house are arguing, their place is lit up like a beacon in the night. He can hear them through the open window. See them pointing fingers at one another's faces. Has a front row seat and doesn't that just remind him of the last years of his marriage to Rachel.
Great.
"So, how are you feeling? You hurting any worse?"
"No, ah, better. Took some more Advil, which, hey, pairs nicely with Longboards, it turns out, so lucky for me I've got plenty, right?"
He's watching the couple really go at one another, feels pretty much like an intruder but can't look away. She's flat out screaming at him now.
"You sound better, but maybe it's the beer talking. Yeah, probably the beer, I'm thinking."
The guy's yelling back at her, Danny stands up as he sees the man give her a hard shove.
"Well, beer does make me a little loose which, Steven, if you're planning on coming over here later may play out in your fav--oh!"
She's got something in her hand, hits the man in the head. He thinks she hit him in the head--what is that? A fireplace poker?
"Danny?"
"Are there, do people have fireplaces in Hawaii?"
"What?"
She's taken another swing, the man's dropped down below the window where Danny can't see. He's rising to his toes, not that it's giving him any better view, just as she's reared back to swing the thing again.
"Oh God, Steve--"
"Danny? What are you--what's going on?"
She's swinging again and again, over and over and then turns and goes for the blinds. Looks right at him--Danny swears she's looking right at him before the blinds fall closed.
"Shit, Steve--I think I just saw a woman kill a guy--"
"What?"
"I gotta -- what's that street? Call HPD--the street behind my place, my new place, what's the name? Shit, I can't think--"
"What's going on, Danny? Danny! What the hell?"
He can hear Steve's desperation, feels it himself and is already tearing out his door--gun, he has no gun on suspension--and flying down the stairs by way of just leaping to the landings.
Feels a sharp twinge of pain deep in his knee but runs it off while yelling to Steve over the phone. "Pahu street--it's Pahu street. Steve, call HPD--it's, it's hold on…it's uh, wait, I'm almost there--932 Pahu--"
"Danny, what the--what are you doing?"
He doesn’t have time for this, really he doesn't. Is whispering now as he's edging closer to the house; he's going to have to hang up soon. "They were arguing, my neighbors. I saw her hit him, Steve. She may have killed him. I'm checking it out, that's all. Okay? I'll be careful--just get HPD here now! And an ambulance--"
He shuts off the phone, shoving it into his pocket and moving down the side of the house. The lights are mostly off now so the house is pretty dark which offers just enough shadow for him to creep down the side toward the back.
It's mostly quiet; a few noises sound around the neighborhood, faint music, voices, cars, dogs barking, but nothing from the house. He wonders if she took off.
The back door's ahead, he knows the guy should be lying near it given the layout as he could see through the window. Hopes he's not dead, but after what he witnessed, Danny's sure if the guy is still alive that he's going to be needing some major help to stay that way.
He can't just leave him to bleed to death.
With one hand on the door, he tries the knob. Open. Takes a deep breath and mentally crosses himself even though he hasn't stepped foot in a church for any sort of service since his wedding and Grace's christening. At this point he'll take all the help he can. So yeah, God. HPD.
Steve would be better.
Pushes the door and it swings into the room. "Police. Five-0," he calls out, keeping to the side before taking a tentative step inside, his eyes trying to pierce the dark as he slowly moves into the house, back to the door.
There's a dark shape across the room, a body--
Something hits him low below his knee--his bad knee--and he goes down with a grunt and sharp whoosh of breath--
She's there, standing over him, lead pipe in hand and hauling back as if to hit him again.
"Police, put it down," he yells, more like pants, can't catch enough breath--"Put down the weapon!" A command this time, scrabbles to the side and strikes his foot out to hit her sideways in the knee, knock her off her feet before she can hit him again.
Tries to get up but his leg is weak and vibrating almost, shit, killing him with nerve endings on fire, and he goes back down on his good knee yet still manages enough leverage to keep her on the ground.
She's mostly unresisting, says nothing as she stares at up him with glazed-over eyes, and he easily wrests the pipe from her hands and flips her face down.
Somewhere nearby, sirens wail in the night.
He takes a shuddering breath, glances to the hallway and finds the sightless eyes of a man whose head is split open to reveal crushed bone.
Jesus.
**
"She could have walked away."
"But she didn't," he tells her.
Okay, enough already. He's tired of talking about himself. His marriage. Tired of talking about Peterson. Really tired of talking about the murder. Tired of talking period.
"But you did."
He just stares at her. She says this is the last session he needs to have with her; says she's okayed him going back to work. That he's put back together enough to be given her stamp of approval. Yeah, he's not a nutcase, apparently. Even after all this time working with Steve.
Who knew?
"I did what?"
She smiles. He's glad she's somehow lost that artificial smile and brought out the genuine article. "Walked away."
"What?"
"You don't see the parallel?"
He shifts, shakes his head and feels--feels sad, still, for the poor guy who got his head done in by his wife. "No. Rachel and I never fought to the point of violence."
"Because--"
"Because I'm not that--what, are you comparing my marriage to what happened next door to me?"
"Actually, no. You were."
"Okay. I'm lost." He hates the thought that she even remotely wants to compare his albeit rocky end to a marriage with the out and out violence of a few weeks ago. Things never got to that point.
"Well, look at it this way. You were faced with the utmost stress: a death threat to your child. What did you do?"
There's a sardonic laugh in their somewhere; he can feel it rising. "What, you don't have this all written down in your notes that you're asking me again? What have you been doing all these weeks, doodling?"
"Just answer the question, please."
"I shot my ex-wife's husband."
"Where."
He's getting annoyed now. It's like they're back to square one. "In the shoulder."
"Because--"
"Because I couldn't kill an innocent man."
"Exactly. And then?"
They've been over and over this. "Then I shot my former training officer. My former partner."
"Where?"
Sighs. "In the leg."
"But not in the head."
"No."
"You told me you'd wanted to shoot him in the head."
"Well, yeah--"
"But you didn't. You didn't kill him."
"I--I had to find Grace."
She's smiling again, paging through her notes. "You said you were almost blind with rage when you shot Peterson. That all you could see was red. Yeah, here, your words: 'I saw him and wanted to kill him. I was going to kill him, it was like I blocked everything and only saw him.'.
"I know what I said. You wrote down what I said. We've been over this. Why are you reading back to me what I said?"
"You were furious."
"Yeah, more than furious."
"You only had one thought--killing him. Peterson."
"Yes. I wanted to kill him. I was going to kill him."
"Yes, and with that all-consuming rage where you said you blocked out everything around you for those seconds, where all you saw was Peterson, the man who told you he could kill Grace--where you only wanted to shoot him dead. You shot him in the leg."
"Yes."
"And walked away."
**
He's tired, but it's good. A good tired. A great tired, considering he's spent most of the week at his desk plowing through the drudgery of piled up paperwork.
A whole lot of paperwork.
"You ready to hit the road?"
He's already said good night to Chin and Kono, who he gave shit to about not doing her own paperwork, and who, in return, gave him yet another hug. If that keeps going on any longer, he won't be responsible for his actions. She just feels too good not to hug back. With both hands. For a long while.
Then again, Chin would kill him.
So might Steve.
Steve, who's leaning against the door and waiting for a response.
"Yes," he tells him while shuffling papers into a pile. "Yes, ready. I am very ready. Past ready."
He grabs his cane although it is getting to the point he doesn’t need to use it so much anymore. Just a faint twinge in his knee from time to time, although the doctor told him it'll be surgery if he damages it again. Somehow he looked right at Steve when he said it. Imagine that.
"You wanna stop somewhere to eat? Or you want to, I don't know, come over to my place and grill something?"
"Are you inviting me over for dinner?" He's grinning. Can't help it, and moves right up into Steve's space there by the door.
Fuck that they're at the office. Not like anyone's around; it's late and he's hungry for the feel of that six-foot wingspan wrapping around him. Right now.
Steve bends to him, and he stretches up to meet him for a long, deep, slow, toe-tingling kiss that promises so much more than dinner, and he remembers that at some point he'll have to try and talk to Steve about that message he'd left for Rachel those months back. But not now.
Steve's smiling down at him. "I take it that’s you accepting my dinner invite?"
"You. You're very perceptive."
A chuckle. "I have skills."
"Skills. You have skills."
"Skills you haven't even seen."
Which has him smiling. It feels so good to be here, Steve now wrapped around him like a blanket. "Skills. Really. Huh. Might have to test you on that statement, my friend. See about these supposed skills of yours that I haven't seen."
Steve pauses a fraction of a beat and then has them both turned around with Danny shoved up against the wall and Steve's tongue halfway down his throat.
Steve peels away looking all too smug, his hand still cupped around Danny's jaw, and Danny finds himself clearing his throat, feeling not just a little bit dizzy. "I, uh, yes, I will agree these skills might be worth further, ah, investigation."
Then they're out the door, Steve guiding him with one hand on his ass and the other pressing his shoulder, steering him down the hall and doling out directions as if Danny had any other place to be going. "To the car. Home. Now."
"Yesterday, even," he adds and then turns at the next corner to head to the elevator. To head to Steve's.
Which, he thinks, is the first right turn his life has given him in a long while.
He knows it's the perfect direction.
End.
**
This is going nowhere today. He's not in the mood, has a wicked headache, and sits slumped on his psychiatrist's couch, half-listening while playing with a loose thread on his pants.
Wonders when he started thinking of her as his.
"Don't feel much like talking today?"
"Not much, nope." Just wants to go home.
Draw the blinds.
"Are you sleeping okay?"
He nods.
"Nightmares?"
"Some," he answers. "Getting better, though."
"Even after the court hearing yesterday? That must have been hard seeing Mr. Peterson again."
He can't even describe the fury that bubbled like hot oil in his veins. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah. It was hard seeing that animal. Hard not to wrap my hands around his neck for what he did."
"Do you want to talk about that? How you felt seeing him."
"No."
She's watching him. God, he's tired of being watched. By her. By Steve.
She nods then, like she’s agreeing. As if she has any intention of not bringing it all back up for him to discuss at a later time. Knows another outpouring is in a future appointment. Just not today. He just can't.
"You and Steve doing okay?"
Nods. "Yeah. We're okay." Really, he doesn't want to get into any of this, shoots himself the minute he adds, "He wants me to talk to him about all of this, though. Especially after seeing Peterson yesterday."
"But you don't want to talk to him."
No, that's not it. "I just--I don't know. Not now. Not today. I can't." He meets her eyes. "Steve's great. He is. Was with me in the courtroom. He means well and all, cares about me. I know that. Might even--" No. Doesn't want to go down this avenue just now. Not with her. "I just don't--"
"Don't what?"
He feels exhausted, yet restless. Itchy. Like he's trapped in someone else's skin. "I don't know. Don't want to get into it all, I guess. It's tiring enough just talking to you about it."
"Okay. That's understandable. Have you tried telling him that?"
Has he? He can't think. "I don't know--don't think so."
Seeing Peterson yesterday has him on edge.
God, he misses his daughter.
His head is killing him.
Plays with the loose thread again. Wonders if he pulls, would he just unravel right along with it.
**
"Get the fuck off me, asshole!"
What the hell? Danny lets the top of the dumpster fall, heads toward the man and woman who are clearly engaged in some altercation in the parking lot of his apartment.
The man's got a firm grip on her arm. It's getting dark outside, harder to see as dusk settles around them, but Danny can't quite miss the dark red handprints on both her upper arms. The eye that looks like it's already swelling.
She's yanking to free herself, but the man's bigger and not letting go. Clearly angry.
"Hey," Danny yells to him, which gains both their attention. He glares at the man. "You want to back off there, pal?" Then nods toward the woman. "You okay, miss?"
She pulls her arm free, turning back to smack the man hard in the side of the head. The guy raises his hand, and it's not difficult to figure what's coming. Danny's there in a second, getting a hold of the guy's wrist and arm and twisting up hard. McGarrett's not the only one who has moves.
"Fuck," the man cries out as Danny drops him to the ground, kneeing him in the back to keep him there. Wishes he had his ID. Handcuffs.
"What the fuck?" the guy is yelling at him, bucking underneath him. "Get the hell off me, you little prick--"
"Shut up," Danny tells him as he glances at the woman to make sure she's okay. She’s standing behind him and he starts to explain, "It's okay. I'm with Five-0, the pol--" The first blow to the side of his head has him reeling, the second has him rolling away at the same time the guy below him pushes up to his feet.
The kick to his knee sends him sprawling to the ground. The kick to his side keeps him there.
Gravel in his face. Again.
Hurts like hell.
It's a slow roll to turn over. His head is spinning, he feels dizzy. Nauseous. Feels like complete shit.
The woman is screeching at him as she tosses away the broken two-by-four she hit him with, and then she and the man walk away, arm in arm, kicking gravel at him.
"Mind your own damn business, motherfucker."
**
Too much. Yeah, definitely too much. He knows he's had too much to drink, doesn't relish the idea of the walk home.
Limp home.
Wonders what time it is--how long he's been sitting here. According to the numbness of his ass, a long while. Long, long while. And yet, not nearly long enough.
Fuck Rick Peterson. Hopes the man rots in jail. Hopes he gets himself shanked, actually, but if he said that to his psychiatrist he'd be extending his required therapy time for months, he's sure.
Good ol' anger issues.
Can only hope that neither Steve nor Denning get word of the shit that happened this evening.
Can't believe the woman he was trying to help was the one to hit him.
Maybe he'll have one more before he hits the road. Signals the bartender, who's actually pointing back at him from across the bar and he stares at the guy, blinking to clear his somewhat blurrier-than-it-should-be-after-just-a-few-beers --oh, Lord let this not actually be a concussion-- vision.
Blinks again because now the guy--the bartender--has completely turned his back on him. He thinks about chucking the empty bottle behind the bar to get his attention, even holds it up--
And it's pulled from his hands. What the hell?
He turns to lash out because, goddamnit, he's pretty well fucking done with being fucked with by anyone. Reels some on the barstool as he turns, catches himself with a hand braced on the bar, a hand braced on McGarrett.
Steve. Here. Seriously?
"Danny. God." Steve's hands are touching him, palming his face and turning it from side to side, angling so he can get a better look.
Pulls his face away from Steve's hold. "You come here for me?" he asks, still not sure how it is Steve is even here. "How the hell'd you know where I was?"
Steve's looking at him with all kinds of--concern, maybe? He's not sure, exactly. Steve's a little hard to read. Or maybe his eyes are a just a little blurrier than usual. No, definitely concern and--what's that look? Annoyance? Anger? Really?
Steve then reaches out to trace a light path over the place on his face where he was hit first, and given how tender it is, Danny figures there must be sort of mark evident. "Seriously, Steve," he says, trying to brush off Steve's hands. "What are you doing here?"
"Eddie called."
"Who?"
Steve nods to the bartender, who is now watching the both of them. "Eddie."
Steve throws the guy a half-wave. Lord, Danny's tired of people looking at him.
He pushes a finger into Steve's chest. "You know the bartender?"
"No." Steve's pulling him off the stool, pulling him to his feet. Supporting him somewhat. Not totally. He can walk, he can, he just--
"Wait," Danny instructs, looking around. "Where's my--" He finds the cane propped against the bar and reaches down for it, almost taking a header and would have if not for Steve's supportive hold around his waist.
"Really, Danny? Your knee, too? What the hell?"
Hands then, helping him maneuver the less than steady path out to Steve's truck. Helping shove him up into the seat. Helping buckle the seatbelt when the thing just refuses to cooperate under his own thick fingers.
"You want to tell me what the hell happened to you, Danny?"
God, he so doesn't want to talk about this. Waves his hand to indicate such, mumbling, "Not particularly."
Which Steve is clearly not having any of--
"Seriously, Danny." Steve's glancing at him while driving. "You're a mess."
"I'm--hey, you just missed my turn. Remember, new apartment? Back there, you need to turn back--" Now Steve's staring straight ahead, continuing on, and Danny knows he's not going to turn. Knows he’s headed to Steve’s. Knows he needs to talk to Steve at some point, just-not now. Slumps a bit more in the seat and lets loose a resigned sigh. His head hurts. His body hurts. "How'd you even know where to find me?"
"Eddie recognized you from--you know."
Yeah, he knew. Everyone knew. That he let his daughter be kidnapped by a crazy former partner. That he shot his ex-wife's husband.
"Eddie?" Fuck his life that someone named Eddie knew where he was.
Steve's poking him again, and he opens his eyes to glare at him.
"Eddie, the bartender? Where you just were--remember? Jesus, Danny. Try and stay with me here."
"Why are you staring at me? Stop staring. Watch the road."
Watches Steve pinch the bridge of his nose. Okay, so now he's the cause of that little habit Steve does when he's annoyed as hell and everything's falling to shit. Well, newsflash, McGarrett: he already knows his life's gone to shit.
"He called HPD, Danny."
"Who did?"
"Eddie, the bartender. For fuck's sake--are you this dense from too much to drink or do you have a head injury?"
His eyes fall closed and he'd love to just slip away in sleep, but Steve's not shutting up. Not letting up on the poking either, the fucker.
"Eddie called HPD, did you hear me? Recognized you from the news. Knew you were part of Five-0 and was concerned. About you. Because you were putting ‘em down like water, he said, and getting a bit-uh, loud. Called HPD to let them know you were there."
Okay. Okay. So now all of HPD knows he's been drinking. So the fuck what?
Steve sounds angry when he says, "Really? So the fuck what?"
"You heard me say that? I thought I just thought that."
"Shut up, Danny. Just--shut up and listen." And oh, yeah, Steve is definitely angry. "Apparently you were becoming belligerent at the bar.”
“No, you just said loud before.”
“Well, I meant loud and belligerent-like that’s a surprise.” Steve rubs a hand over his head.
“Headache?”
Steve ignores him. “Eddie was worried you might get into a fight given how loud and belligerent you were becoming. Knew who you were, knew you were with Five-0, so he called HPD. HPD then called Denning--as in Governor Denning--who then called me. Called me to go retrieve my drunk-ass partner from Eddie's bar and take him home before he got himself into any trouble. Any more trouble."
"Oh."
"Yeah. And then told me to, and I quote the governor verbatim: 'Drag Williams out of the bar, put him on the tightest leash you can find, and don't let him off until he's finished getting his head back together.'"
All Danny can think is, really? This is what his life has come to?
"So I'm taking you home to my place. Danny?"
“Yeah.”
“You hear me?”
He leans his head against the window, closes his eyes and sighs. There isn't a piece of him that doesn't hurt, throb or ache. The beer isn’t sitting all too nicely in his stomach, either. "I heard you."
"Okay."
"Okay. Yeah, okay."
"Okay, then." Steve says softly, and that hand is back on Danny's thigh. Softly squeezing. "Okay."
**
He wakes to hands slowly caressing him, petting and sweeping lightly over his skin. Up his back, across his shoulders, down his pecs and lightly tickling over his nipples. Tracing small circles there.
"Wha-?"
"Shh," Steve's whispering into his ear, lips pressed so close Danny can feel the moist warmth of each breathy word. "Easy. You're okay."
He nods, mostly asleep. Sighs with the touches that gentle him.
Shifts a bit as Steve stretches out flush behind him, pulling him back, skin now adhering to skin like they're wearing each other. Steve swings his leg over Danny's, trapping it while reaching across hips to wrap his hand around Danny's half hard dick. Lips slide up over the shell of his ear, teeth tracing the same path on the way down.
Danny moans, can't help it. Tries to stretch, to move--
"I've got you, Danny. You're okay."
He guesses he was dreaming, maybe, and feels a lingering tightness in his chest. Figures that's why he's waking to Steve draped all over and around him, but he doesn't remember any of it. Doesn't say anything except to let a low moan slip free as Steve tightens and quickens the hold he has on his cock.
Mumbles, "Steve," a few times, keeping his eyes closed as he's aroused and yet still half asleep. Like he can't quite shake the vestiges of sleep. As though this is still all part of a dream--a different dream. A porn dream.
"Shh, Danny. Relax. Just let me do this."
Steve's holding him tightly, firmly, trapping him with his arms and legs, his back to Steve’s chest so that he has little room to move.
Not that he really wants to as he feels the building pleasure of arousal, arches as best he can along with the rising heat in his groin, feels nothing but his impending orgasm which breaks him wide open when it comes, when he comes.
Lets loose a deep, guttural groan, biting his lip and then falling bonelessly into the pillow.
Steve's shifted, smiling down at him, he can just make out the shine of his eyes in the dark of the room as he leans over him. Kisses his neck, his shoulder.
"Sleep, Danny."
He does.
**
Morning arrives too early.
Too bright. Too quiet and yet too loud. He already has a headache.
There's a note on the pillow instead of Steve's head. There are also two Advil. A glass of water is leaving a wet ring on the nightstand.
Danny blinks a few times at the note. Steve's gone into work. Will call later.
Take the meds. Drink all of the water.
Coffee's ready to go, just push the button.
No pancakes, sorry, but there's oatmeal and fresh pineapple juice. Expand your horizons.
See you tonight.
He pulls the pillow over his face with a groan and tries to fall back to sleep.
**
All in all, showering at Steve's is heaven.
There's an amazing hot water system (although the one in his new place isn't too shabby, either, thankfully)--
There's Steve's shampoo (with its Steve-smell which just permeates the entire shower and okay, yeah, he'll admit to washing his hair an extra time just to wallow in the scent) -- which makes him jack off, of course, which makes him feel better, so yeah. All in all. He can deal.
He slicks back his hair best he can with no gel, uses the spare toothbrush that technically could be called his (really, who would use a used toothbrush anyway), gives a half a micro-second thought about shaving, and then borrows a t-shirt of Steve's before heading back to his place.
There are boxes still needing to be unpacked, after all, and since the cable's finally been installed, he can now do all that while watching his new large-screen TV. All day, even, because what the fuck else does he have to do?
The cab arrives late, and then it's forever for him to maneuver up the stairs to his new apartment, even with the cane--and, Jesus, what is he, eighty? He feels so out of breath and shaky by the time he gets in the door that he stands there panting and actually contemplating a nap. Already.
There's some fairly spectacular bruising starting to show up on the side of his face and the area around his knee. Figures she'd hit the one that already gives him trouble and he's glad Steve didn't get too good a look at him this morning because if he had he'd most likely have hustled him off to the hospital, which just--no.
He looks like hell. Feels the same, but he's okay. Will be okay. There’s always more Advil.
Life goes on.
**
Night falls and his little deck with its chair looks inviting after a pretty full day of getting his apartment put together (and okay, he did take the time for a quick nap). He has most of the things he's amassed finally unpacked and the boxes out by the dumpster for recycle.
The place looks good--as neat as he's ever kept an apartment, for now, and the new sofa fits nicely in front of his TV.
He's finally got a bed that's not only big and roomy, it's, well, a bed -- a far cry from that miserable pull out sofabed that was leaving a permanent dig in his back. He's got new sheets, a new duvet and hell, a quarter could be bounced off that bed. Steve would never believe it.
So yeah. Time to relax. The beer tastes good, is taking the edge off the ache in his face, his knee. His pride.
He's turned off the lamps in his apartment, sits out under what few stars he can see given the lights around the place. Thinks that if the neighbors in the little house his deck looks upon would shut off their lights, he'd have a better chance to stargaze.
Wishes Steve was sitting with him. And on that thought, his cell buzzes. McGarrett. Timing and all.
"Hey," he says, can hear his smile stretch all over that word because he's feeling loose-limbed and easy and yeah, it's Steve.
"Hey back," Steve replies. "Took a break. Thought I'd see what you're up to."
"Oh, I don’t know. Think about 5'7" or 5'8."
"Yeah. In your dreams, maybe." Which just makes him laugh. It feels so good to hear Steve's voice, even if it is at the expense of his five-foot-five-ness. Feels good to smile.
They talk for a while, Steve going on about meetings with politicians and military types, Denning, and Danny finds himself uh-huh-ing and nodding and really only half hearing what Steve is saying as he's too busy just drifting along on the sound of Steve's voice and staring out into the Hawaiian night. There's a breeze, even.
"So then I requisitioned a full iron cannon, what do you think?"
"Sounds good, babe. You, wait--you what? What did you say?"
"Ah, just proving a point. You're not listening to a word I'm saying, Danny."
"Oh, I beg to differ -- you're going on about some craziness as usual, and I'm listening, I am, as I sit here enjoying a beer on my lanai, happy I'm not there with you. So you know, cheers." He toasts Steve, and downs half the beer, happy to be finally feeling a little loose--happy to be enjoying a relatively cool evening while sitting under the cover of stars. And lights. Mostly lights.
His neighbors in the little house are arguing, their place is lit up like a beacon in the night. He can hear them through the open window. See them pointing fingers at one another's faces. Has a front row seat and doesn't that just remind him of the last years of his marriage to Rachel.
Great.
"So, how are you feeling? You hurting any worse?"
"No, ah, better. Took some more Advil, which, hey, pairs nicely with Longboards, it turns out, so lucky for me I've got plenty, right?"
He's watching the couple really go at one another, feels pretty much like an intruder but can't look away. She's flat out screaming at him now.
"You sound better, but maybe it's the beer talking. Yeah, probably the beer, I'm thinking."
The guy's yelling back at her, Danny stands up as he sees the man give her a hard shove.
"Well, beer does make me a little loose which, Steven, if you're planning on coming over here later may play out in your fav--oh!"
She's got something in her hand, hits the man in the head. He thinks she hit him in the head--what is that? A fireplace poker?
"Danny?"
"Are there, do people have fireplaces in Hawaii?"
"What?"
She's taken another swing, the man's dropped down below the window where Danny can't see. He's rising to his toes, not that it's giving him any better view, just as she's reared back to swing the thing again.
"Oh God, Steve--"
"Danny? What are you--what's going on?"
She's swinging again and again, over and over and then turns and goes for the blinds. Looks right at him--Danny swears she's looking right at him before the blinds fall closed.
"Shit, Steve--I think I just saw a woman kill a guy--"
"What?"
"I gotta -- what's that street? Call HPD--the street behind my place, my new place, what's the name? Shit, I can't think--"
"What's going on, Danny? Danny! What the hell?"
He can hear Steve's desperation, feels it himself and is already tearing out his door--gun, he has no gun on suspension--and flying down the stairs by way of just leaping to the landings.
Feels a sharp twinge of pain deep in his knee but runs it off while yelling to Steve over the phone. "Pahu street--it's Pahu street. Steve, call HPD--it's, it's hold on…it's uh, wait, I'm almost there--932 Pahu--"
"Danny, what the--what are you doing?"
He doesn’t have time for this, really he doesn't. Is whispering now as he's edging closer to the house; he's going to have to hang up soon. "They were arguing, my neighbors. I saw her hit him, Steve. She may have killed him. I'm checking it out, that's all. Okay? I'll be careful--just get HPD here now! And an ambulance--"
He shuts off the phone, shoving it into his pocket and moving down the side of the house. The lights are mostly off now so the house is pretty dark which offers just enough shadow for him to creep down the side toward the back.
It's mostly quiet; a few noises sound around the neighborhood, faint music, voices, cars, dogs barking, but nothing from the house. He wonders if she took off.
The back door's ahead, he knows the guy should be lying near it given the layout as he could see through the window. Hopes he's not dead, but after what he witnessed, Danny's sure if the guy is still alive that he's going to be needing some major help to stay that way.
He can't just leave him to bleed to death.
With one hand on the door, he tries the knob. Open. Takes a deep breath and mentally crosses himself even though he hasn't stepped foot in a church for any sort of service since his wedding and Grace's christening. At this point he'll take all the help he can. So yeah, God. HPD.
Steve would be better.
Pushes the door and it swings into the room. "Police. Five-0," he calls out, keeping to the side before taking a tentative step inside, his eyes trying to pierce the dark as he slowly moves into the house, back to the door.
There's a dark shape across the room, a body--
Something hits him low below his knee--his bad knee--and he goes down with a grunt and sharp whoosh of breath--
She's there, standing over him, lead pipe in hand and hauling back as if to hit him again.
"Police, put it down," he yells, more like pants, can't catch enough breath--"Put down the weapon!" A command this time, scrabbles to the side and strikes his foot out to hit her sideways in the knee, knock her off her feet before she can hit him again.
Tries to get up but his leg is weak and vibrating almost, shit, killing him with nerve endings on fire, and he goes back down on his good knee yet still manages enough leverage to keep her on the ground.
She's mostly unresisting, says nothing as she stares at up him with glazed-over eyes, and he easily wrests the pipe from her hands and flips her face down.
Somewhere nearby, sirens wail in the night.
He takes a shuddering breath, glances to the hallway and finds the sightless eyes of a man whose head is split open to reveal crushed bone.
Jesus.
**
"She could have walked away."
"But she didn't," he tells her.
Okay, enough already. He's tired of talking about himself. His marriage. Tired of talking about Peterson. Really tired of talking about the murder. Tired of talking period.
"But you did."
He just stares at her. She says this is the last session he needs to have with her; says she's okayed him going back to work. That he's put back together enough to be given her stamp of approval. Yeah, he's not a nutcase, apparently. Even after all this time working with Steve.
Who knew?
"I did what?"
She smiles. He's glad she's somehow lost that artificial smile and brought out the genuine article. "Walked away."
"What?"
"You don't see the parallel?"
He shifts, shakes his head and feels--feels sad, still, for the poor guy who got his head done in by his wife. "No. Rachel and I never fought to the point of violence."
"Because--"
"Because I'm not that--what, are you comparing my marriage to what happened next door to me?"
"Actually, no. You were."
"Okay. I'm lost." He hates the thought that she even remotely wants to compare his albeit rocky end to a marriage with the out and out violence of a few weeks ago. Things never got to that point.
"Well, look at it this way. You were faced with the utmost stress: a death threat to your child. What did you do?"
There's a sardonic laugh in their somewhere; he can feel it rising. "What, you don't have this all written down in your notes that you're asking me again? What have you been doing all these weeks, doodling?"
"Just answer the question, please."
"I shot my ex-wife's husband."
"Where."
He's getting annoyed now. It's like they're back to square one. "In the shoulder."
"Because--"
"Because I couldn't kill an innocent man."
"Exactly. And then?"
They've been over and over this. "Then I shot my former training officer. My former partner."
"Where?"
Sighs. "In the leg."
"But not in the head."
"No."
"You told me you'd wanted to shoot him in the head."
"Well, yeah--"
"But you didn't. You didn't kill him."
"I--I had to find Grace."
She's smiling again, paging through her notes. "You said you were almost blind with rage when you shot Peterson. That all you could see was red. Yeah, here, your words: 'I saw him and wanted to kill him. I was going to kill him, it was like I blocked everything and only saw him.'.
"I know what I said. You wrote down what I said. We've been over this. Why are you reading back to me what I said?"
"You were furious."
"Yeah, more than furious."
"You only had one thought--killing him. Peterson."
"Yes. I wanted to kill him. I was going to kill him."
"Yes, and with that all-consuming rage where you said you blocked out everything around you for those seconds, where all you saw was Peterson, the man who told you he could kill Grace--where you only wanted to shoot him dead. You shot him in the leg."
"Yes."
"And walked away."
**
He's tired, but it's good. A good tired. A great tired, considering he's spent most of the week at his desk plowing through the drudgery of piled up paperwork.
A whole lot of paperwork.
"You ready to hit the road?"
He's already said good night to Chin and Kono, who he gave shit to about not doing her own paperwork, and who, in return, gave him yet another hug. If that keeps going on any longer, he won't be responsible for his actions. She just feels too good not to hug back. With both hands. For a long while.
Then again, Chin would kill him.
So might Steve.
Steve, who's leaning against the door and waiting for a response.
"Yes," he tells him while shuffling papers into a pile. "Yes, ready. I am very ready. Past ready."
He grabs his cane although it is getting to the point he doesn’t need to use it so much anymore. Just a faint twinge in his knee from time to time, although the doctor told him it'll be surgery if he damages it again. Somehow he looked right at Steve when he said it. Imagine that.
"You wanna stop somewhere to eat? Or you want to, I don't know, come over to my place and grill something?"
"Are you inviting me over for dinner?" He's grinning. Can't help it, and moves right up into Steve's space there by the door.
Fuck that they're at the office. Not like anyone's around; it's late and he's hungry for the feel of that six-foot wingspan wrapping around him. Right now.
Steve bends to him, and he stretches up to meet him for a long, deep, slow, toe-tingling kiss that promises so much more than dinner, and he remembers that at some point he'll have to try and talk to Steve about that message he'd left for Rachel those months back. But not now.
Steve's smiling down at him. "I take it that’s you accepting my dinner invite?"
"You. You're very perceptive."
A chuckle. "I have skills."
"Skills. You have skills."
"Skills you haven't even seen."
Which has him smiling. It feels so good to be here, Steve now wrapped around him like a blanket. "Skills. Really. Huh. Might have to test you on that statement, my friend. See about these supposed skills of yours that I haven't seen."
Steve pauses a fraction of a beat and then has them both turned around with Danny shoved up against the wall and Steve's tongue halfway down his throat.
Steve peels away looking all too smug, his hand still cupped around Danny's jaw, and Danny finds himself clearing his throat, feeling not just a little bit dizzy. "I, uh, yes, I will agree these skills might be worth further, ah, investigation."
Then they're out the door, Steve guiding him with one hand on his ass and the other pressing his shoulder, steering him down the hall and doling out directions as if Danny had any other place to be going. "To the car. Home. Now."
"Yesterday, even," he adds and then turns at the next corner to head to the elevator. To head to Steve's.
Which, he thinks, is the first right turn his life has given him in a long while.
He knows it's the perfect direction.
End.