Fic: In Case Of Emergency (1/1)
Title: In Case Of Emergency
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Steve/Danny
Word Count: 1,724
Summary: Steve doesn’t know how many traffic laws he breaks in getting to the hospital. For ciaimpala, who requested “Half of the pairing wrongly thinks the other is dead, and then they reunite” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. Spoilers through 1.10 - Heihei.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: You didn’t ask for these two, but I’m pretty sure you enjoy them, so I thought I’d throw a little something in this pairing for you :) I’ve never written them before, but I wanted to try my hand and feeling the characters out, seeing what I could do with them -- I’m not sure I got anywhere decent with it, but I hope you’ll find a bit of enjoyment in it :)
In Case Of Emergency
Steve doesn’t know how many traffic laws he breaks in getting to the hospital; he only knows that, if Danny were with him, he’d be reaming Steve for each and every one of them.
The thought only really serves to weigh his foot down on the gas all the more urgently, recklessly.
No one seems to know any details about the accident, and Steve isn’t one to wait for intel, for a plan of attack on a good day -- all he has to know now is that the Camaro’s been totaled and that the EMTs took Danny from the scene, and he’s already gone.
And the irony is; Steve McGarrett used to know how to stick to a strategy, used to follow orders and respect protocol; used to know how to leave a man behind if it was for the greater good. He used to push the boundaries, used to take some heat, but he knew where to draw a line, when to fall back and regroup, when to admit defeat.
Steve McGarrett was a sailor with some modicum of sense, once, but that was before: before his father died, before he met Danny fucking Williams.
And his unit, his men: they had been his people, closest thing to a family he’d expected to get, to have again; but then he’d come back to a place that he used to be from, and he’d fallen into step with a blacklisted cop, his rookie cousin, and some tie-wearing malihini from Jersey, and things had changed without him even noticing, without him trying or watching or caring, and suddenly he had more people, new people -- maybe better people, he’d started to realize, after he took a shot from Nick’s gun and started to think in terms of then and now.
Maybe he had a better person, he began to suspect, once Grace started smiling when she saw him, once he started smiling when he thought of her, too -- when he thought of her dad; once he helped sew together a Santa suit, and once he realized that he could take his eyes off Danny, if he had to, but more often than not he found that he didn’t really want to.
He used to be a better soldier, sure, but he likes to think that now, maybe, he’s a better man.
He parks in the fire lane, jogs because his breath’s already short: he’s flashing a badge and spouting shit about special privileges that he’s only following, only paying any real attention to with the space inside his mind that’s always dedicated to the objective, always focussed on logistics and the task at hand -- a space that shrinks, sometimes, more often these days than he’s happy about, comfortable with; a space that gives way to accommodate the growing expanse of his brain that only processes the same worry he remembers from that night his mom hadn’t come home, the same cadence of his heart before he’d heard the gunshot that had stolen his father away; a part of him that only poses all of his dread and adrenaline in terms of a question, of how many moments he’ll allow to pass before he knows what’s happened, before he sees the truth with his own two eyes.
He hits the ground running when he gets room number, a split-second before he’d have snapped and just started taking stock of every patient, every room -- however long it took until he found Danny in one of them.
Training, routine kicks in as he takes the stairs, deep breaths and long strides as he bursts down the third-floor hallway, dodges orderlies, eyes the white text, braille beneath on grey plastic plaques, counts the numbers like beats as he approaches, finds it, steadies a palm the hinge of the door and steps inside, steeled for a fate worse than seems plausible, worse than logic would have suggested he prepare for.
Objectively, he thinks he left logic back at Headquarters so it wouldn’t slow him down.
As soon as he takes in Danny’s prone form on the bed near the window, Steve slumps bodily against the doorjamb, belatedly tries to pass it off a casual sort of lean; his expression, he knows, doesn’t match the attempt, and he only half-succeeds. Given the givens, though, and the way Danny’s left arm hangs awkwardly, cradled up against his chest, Steve kind of figures he’s not in any shape to have noticed, either way.
“How’s the view?” he hears Danny ask from across the room, see the quirk of his lips and returns it, lets himself realign his worldview with a steadying breath before he strides over, closes the distance; his eyes flicker to look at the monitor, the readouts next to him -- blood-ox and pulse within normal limits -- before his gaze sweeps over Danny proper, closer now: scrapes, bruises, the sling ‘round his arm, and he’s flinching on the inhale, even if he’s trying to hide it: Steve doesn’t like any of it, but they’re lucky -- he’s grateful -- that the car seems to have taken the brunt of the damage.
Satisfied -- or else, close enough -- Steve shoots him a tight smile, leans back against the empty windowsill. “I’ve suffered more for less.”
Danny smirks at that, the chuckle he gives a little drowsy, rough. “That’s either a backhanded compliment, or a convoluted insult, and I’m really not sound enough of body or mind at the moment to figure out which it is.”
Steve swallows hard, crosses his arms across his chest and looks down at the flooring tiles; he’s well aware.
“Before you ask,” Danny rasps, coughs, and then starts again, stronger, and Steve tries to swallow whatever’s stuck, hard and dangerous, right in his throat, “this was so not my fault. The car ran a light,” his face softens, but Steve’s own expression remains steady, strained: he can feel the clench of his jaw, and it doesn’t ease. “Single mom, kids screaming in the back, wasn’t paying attention. Did a number on my wheels, but they were all fine, thank god.”
“And you?” Steve asks, nodding down at Danny pointedly; “What’s the damage?
“Couple of bruised ribs, sprained wrist, and a grade-two concussion,” Danny shrugs a little, like it’s nothing, but Steve can’t let it go, can’t dismiss it so easy; he nods along to keep himself occupied, to give himself a mooring, something to focus on.
“Apparently I was a little off when they brought me in, so they’re keeping me until the doc stops by and gives me the okay,” Danny continues, “but yeah, nothing major. Gimme a couple weeks at most, for this,” he nods down at his hand; “and I’ll be back in the game.”
Steve blinks hard, forces himself to grin, to diffuse the tension that he’s feeling, that he thinks Danny’s starting to pick up on, too. “So it’s back to me covering your sorry ass until you’re back on your feet, I take it?”
It works, or else they’re both willing to just take the out and let it slide, because Danny’s smirking back at him again, cocking his head with a little twitch in his neck at the strain, at the pain he has to still be feeling, even under the haze of whatever drugs he’s on. “Looks like. Think you can manage, Smooth Dog?”
Steve lets himself laugh, because he doesn’t see himself living that one down anytime soon, and it’s familiar, almost reassuring; almost nice. “Should add babysitting to my job description, given your track record thus far,” he tosses back, and they both half-smile before the exchange runs its course and the quiet starts to settle, thick and unpleasant. Steve shifts his weight and eyes the doorway, watches a nurse pass and the lights shift for a second before the awkward silence nags, bothers him enough that he’s willing to sacrifice safety for comfort, just this once.
“So,” he clears his throat and meets Danny’s eyes again; “what’s with the ex-wife still being listed as your emergency contact?” He says it like it’s casual, like it’s relevant; like it doesn’t come just a little bit out of left field, because he needs to say it, needs to hear an answer. Because Steve may or may not have spared enough of a thought to wonder why they’d had to find that Danny’d been taken to Hawaii Medical from Rachel of all people, who was visiting family in London with Grace and had called HPD in a panic as soon as she’d gotten the ICE call from the paramedics. Because maybe Steve had delivered some choice words over the phone when the hospital staff had refused to give him any information regarding Mr. Williams’ condition when he’d called as he was getting into his truck, regardless of what credentials he tried to exploit in his favor.
And because maybe, this thing that’s stuck between them is bigger, heavier than he’d thought it was, than he suspected it would get.
To his credit, Danny doesn’t fish for motives, doesn’t play stupid -- whether he hears the other questions being asked, beneath the one that’s actually spoken, Steve doesn’t know; Steve’s not even sure what those questions are, exactly, just that they’re there, waiting in the wings. “When I got here,” Danny tells him simply, “she was all I had.”
And Steve watches Danny, who’s watching him back, and they don’t have words, not a single word between the two of them for what it is that they’re staring through, that’s clouding the view from either side; he’s running blind with this, but Steve’s never been the type of person give up a chase before he catches what he’s after.
This isn’t going to be an exception.
“The number,” he says; “Change it,” and he leaves it at that.
Danny’s a smart guy, he’ll figure it out.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Steve/Danny
Word Count: 1,724
Summary: Steve doesn’t know how many traffic laws he breaks in getting to the hospital. For ciaimpala, who requested “Half of the pairing wrongly thinks the other is dead, and then they reunite” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. Spoilers through 1.10 - Heihei.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: You didn’t ask for these two, but I’m pretty sure you enjoy them, so I thought I’d throw a little something in this pairing for you :) I’ve never written them before, but I wanted to try my hand and feeling the characters out, seeing what I could do with them -- I’m not sure I got anywhere decent with it, but I hope you’ll find a bit of enjoyment in it :)
In Case Of Emergency
Steve doesn’t know how many traffic laws he breaks in getting to the hospital; he only knows that, if Danny were with him, he’d be reaming Steve for each and every one of them.
The thought only really serves to weigh his foot down on the gas all the more urgently, recklessly.
No one seems to know any details about the accident, and Steve isn’t one to wait for intel, for a plan of attack on a good day -- all he has to know now is that the Camaro’s been totaled and that the EMTs took Danny from the scene, and he’s already gone.
And the irony is; Steve McGarrett used to know how to stick to a strategy, used to follow orders and respect protocol; used to know how to leave a man behind if it was for the greater good. He used to push the boundaries, used to take some heat, but he knew where to draw a line, when to fall back and regroup, when to admit defeat.
Steve McGarrett was a sailor with some modicum of sense, once, but that was before: before his father died, before he met Danny fucking Williams.
And his unit, his men: they had been his people, closest thing to a family he’d expected to get, to have again; but then he’d come back to a place that he used to be from, and he’d fallen into step with a blacklisted cop, his rookie cousin, and some tie-wearing malihini from Jersey, and things had changed without him even noticing, without him trying or watching or caring, and suddenly he had more people, new people -- maybe better people, he’d started to realize, after he took a shot from Nick’s gun and started to think in terms of then and now.
Maybe he had a better person, he began to suspect, once Grace started smiling when she saw him, once he started smiling when he thought of her, too -- when he thought of her dad; once he helped sew together a Santa suit, and once he realized that he could take his eyes off Danny, if he had to, but more often than not he found that he didn’t really want to.
He used to be a better soldier, sure, but he likes to think that now, maybe, he’s a better man.
He parks in the fire lane, jogs because his breath’s already short: he’s flashing a badge and spouting shit about special privileges that he’s only following, only paying any real attention to with the space inside his mind that’s always dedicated to the objective, always focussed on logistics and the task at hand -- a space that shrinks, sometimes, more often these days than he’s happy about, comfortable with; a space that gives way to accommodate the growing expanse of his brain that only processes the same worry he remembers from that night his mom hadn’t come home, the same cadence of his heart before he’d heard the gunshot that had stolen his father away; a part of him that only poses all of his dread and adrenaline in terms of a question, of how many moments he’ll allow to pass before he knows what’s happened, before he sees the truth with his own two eyes.
He hits the ground running when he gets room number, a split-second before he’d have snapped and just started taking stock of every patient, every room -- however long it took until he found Danny in one of them.
Training, routine kicks in as he takes the stairs, deep breaths and long strides as he bursts down the third-floor hallway, dodges orderlies, eyes the white text, braille beneath on grey plastic plaques, counts the numbers like beats as he approaches, finds it, steadies a palm the hinge of the door and steps inside, steeled for a fate worse than seems plausible, worse than logic would have suggested he prepare for.
Objectively, he thinks he left logic back at Headquarters so it wouldn’t slow him down.
As soon as he takes in Danny’s prone form on the bed near the window, Steve slumps bodily against the doorjamb, belatedly tries to pass it off a casual sort of lean; his expression, he knows, doesn’t match the attempt, and he only half-succeeds. Given the givens, though, and the way Danny’s left arm hangs awkwardly, cradled up against his chest, Steve kind of figures he’s not in any shape to have noticed, either way.
“How’s the view?” he hears Danny ask from across the room, see the quirk of his lips and returns it, lets himself realign his worldview with a steadying breath before he strides over, closes the distance; his eyes flicker to look at the monitor, the readouts next to him -- blood-ox and pulse within normal limits -- before his gaze sweeps over Danny proper, closer now: scrapes, bruises, the sling ‘round his arm, and he’s flinching on the inhale, even if he’s trying to hide it: Steve doesn’t like any of it, but they’re lucky -- he’s grateful -- that the car seems to have taken the brunt of the damage.
Satisfied -- or else, close enough -- Steve shoots him a tight smile, leans back against the empty windowsill. “I’ve suffered more for less.”
Danny smirks at that, the chuckle he gives a little drowsy, rough. “That’s either a backhanded compliment, or a convoluted insult, and I’m really not sound enough of body or mind at the moment to figure out which it is.”
Steve swallows hard, crosses his arms across his chest and looks down at the flooring tiles; he’s well aware.
“Before you ask,” Danny rasps, coughs, and then starts again, stronger, and Steve tries to swallow whatever’s stuck, hard and dangerous, right in his throat, “this was so not my fault. The car ran a light,” his face softens, but Steve’s own expression remains steady, strained: he can feel the clench of his jaw, and it doesn’t ease. “Single mom, kids screaming in the back, wasn’t paying attention. Did a number on my wheels, but they were all fine, thank god.”
“And you?” Steve asks, nodding down at Danny pointedly; “What’s the damage?
“Couple of bruised ribs, sprained wrist, and a grade-two concussion,” Danny shrugs a little, like it’s nothing, but Steve can’t let it go, can’t dismiss it so easy; he nods along to keep himself occupied, to give himself a mooring, something to focus on.
“Apparently I was a little off when they brought me in, so they’re keeping me until the doc stops by and gives me the okay,” Danny continues, “but yeah, nothing major. Gimme a couple weeks at most, for this,” he nods down at his hand; “and I’ll be back in the game.”
Steve blinks hard, forces himself to grin, to diffuse the tension that he’s feeling, that he thinks Danny’s starting to pick up on, too. “So it’s back to me covering your sorry ass until you’re back on your feet, I take it?”
It works, or else they’re both willing to just take the out and let it slide, because Danny’s smirking back at him again, cocking his head with a little twitch in his neck at the strain, at the pain he has to still be feeling, even under the haze of whatever drugs he’s on. “Looks like. Think you can manage, Smooth Dog?”
Steve lets himself laugh, because he doesn’t see himself living that one down anytime soon, and it’s familiar, almost reassuring; almost nice. “Should add babysitting to my job description, given your track record thus far,” he tosses back, and they both half-smile before the exchange runs its course and the quiet starts to settle, thick and unpleasant. Steve shifts his weight and eyes the doorway, watches a nurse pass and the lights shift for a second before the awkward silence nags, bothers him enough that he’s willing to sacrifice safety for comfort, just this once.
“So,” he clears his throat and meets Danny’s eyes again; “what’s with the ex-wife still being listed as your emergency contact?” He says it like it’s casual, like it’s relevant; like it doesn’t come just a little bit out of left field, because he needs to say it, needs to hear an answer. Because Steve may or may not have spared enough of a thought to wonder why they’d had to find that Danny’d been taken to Hawaii Medical from Rachel of all people, who was visiting family in London with Grace and had called HPD in a panic as soon as she’d gotten the ICE call from the paramedics. Because maybe Steve had delivered some choice words over the phone when the hospital staff had refused to give him any information regarding Mr. Williams’ condition when he’d called as he was getting into his truck, regardless of what credentials he tried to exploit in his favor.
And because maybe, this thing that’s stuck between them is bigger, heavier than he’d thought it was, than he suspected it would get.
To his credit, Danny doesn’t fish for motives, doesn’t play stupid -- whether he hears the other questions being asked, beneath the one that’s actually spoken, Steve doesn’t know; Steve’s not even sure what those questions are, exactly, just that they’re there, waiting in the wings. “When I got here,” Danny tells him simply, “she was all I had.”
And Steve watches Danny, who’s watching him back, and they don’t have words, not a single word between the two of them for what it is that they’re staring through, that’s clouding the view from either side; he’s running blind with this, but Steve’s never been the type of person give up a chase before he catches what he’s after.
This isn’t going to be an exception.
“The number,” he says; “Change it,” and he leaves it at that.
Danny’s a smart guy, he’ll figure it out.