You've Got Hawaii (and all I've got is you)
Title: You've Got Hawaii (and all I've got is you)
Author: queenklu
Pairing: Steve/Danny
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 16k
Summary: In which Danny has issues, presents, and Steve fleas, not necessarily in that order.
A/n: Written for giandujakiss who won me at help_japan. I am so, so sorry this is stupidly late, and I hope it's to your liking! All the thank yous go to the glorious imkalena, who knocked this story into the shape it wound up in, and to leupagus, who promised to write me something if I would just get off my ass and finish the damn porn.
Nothing bad happens before his drive to Steve’s house; he doesn’t get cut off in traffic, his coffee doesn’t spill, he woke up in the morning on the right side of the bed and everything-the right side of the bed being, for someone who had been married more years than he cares to think about, smack dab in the middle of the mattress. The middle is a good place to be. There is sprawling room, and all the covers he wants, and no big empty space beside him because his unconscious mind reverted to five years ago and made room for a person who by all accounts would rather set his bed on fire than sleep in it again.
Anyway. He splurges on the coffee-Kona Coffee’s chocolate macadamia nut blend because no one is here to judge him-and downs it all before the third traffic light. So his thoughts are spinning in dizzy little hyper-caffeinated circles, but not a single one of them can figure out what exactly is getting his Jersey up. It’s yet another beautiful day in the neighborhood, they don’t have a case yet, he’s just swinging by to pick up Steve on their way to the office like he does almost every other morning; nothing is different or weird or wrong.
Except for the white package on Steve’s doorstep.
And the fact that Steve’s newfangled alarm code is Danny’s birthday, which is not funny, Steven, not funny at all.
Danny walks in the door with a low whistle, because what. What is he even supposed to think about that? When Steve had told him those numbers were the combo, Danny had really, really thought Steve was kidding, and had only tried it out this morning to be an asshole and get Steve to tell him the real code in the midst of the ensuing sound of alarms and police sirens. Because it’s a number Danny needs to know-and Kono and Chin, just in case-and he hadn’t appreciated being jerked around.
But apparently Steve had been dead fucking serious when he’d said the code was Danny’s birthday. And so Danny says, “Yo,” as he struts in the house, because he’s not sure where this is going but he’s pretty sure it’s going to land them in argument territory and keep them there until they pull up and park at the office.
Which. Steve is not dressed for. Not even a little bit. Not even by McGarrett standards do track pants and purple tank top make an outfit suitable for a day at Five-Oh.
“Yo,” Steve returns, his back still to Danny as he uses about a million paper towels to dry his hands. Dry his hands, when a dish cloth would work just as well and kill approximately a billion fewer trees and there’s another argument they’re going to have today, why Steve feels it’s necessary to carpool with Danny to save gas and the environment when he goes through paper towels like-well, like Danny goes through hair products. Maybe Danny will let this one slide.
Steve is blathering about courtesy knocks when Danny starts listening again, so Danny gives him one, one-two-three against the door like he would like to one-two-three against Steve’s head. Because Steve isn’t dressed yet, and if he says those words aloud-bad shit would happen. It’s not like Danny needs to feel any more like Steve’s wife than he already does.
Steve’s eyes narrow and his head jerks at the package in Danny’s hands, arms folding over his chest. “What’s in the box?”
Danny has two seconds to decide a Brad Pitt imitation would not be appropriate at this point in time. Nor would a crack like Gwyneth Paltrow’s head, what do you think? Danny would bet based on Steve’s DVD collection that Steve doesn’t watch crime movies that aren’t buddy cop, so odds that he’s seen Seven are probably pretty slim.
So-and this is the slo-mo replay, by the way, this is Danny going through every little moment afterward with a fine toothed comb, wondering what exactly happens here, but the best he can figure is this: Danny tilts his head up, spins the package in his hands, and says, “I got you a present.” And when Steve repeats him, Danny adds, “Yeah, I wanted to put a smile on your face.”
Because he likes fucking with Steve, and he likes pushing Steve’s buttons, and Steve isn’t dressed for work and there’s some sort of aching buzz at the nape of Danny’s neck telling him today is off, today is different, and so Steve goes, “Really?” all half-smiling and warm-fuzzies, and Danny says, “No.”
Even though the smile shifts into well-practiced you got me, probably learned in the playground and perfected in the SEALs; even though 99% of Danny’s job these days seems to be exactly of the putting-a-smile-on-Steve’s-face variety, whether intentional or not (Miranda Rights should never be funny, Jesus); even though it’s a totally dick move, Danny doesn’t really get it at that moment, or the moment after, when he’s giving Steve shit about ordering online. He doesn’t get it until the second Steve’s phone rings-
Steve had wanted it to be a present from Danny.
--and Steve says “We’re on our way,” and the moment is gone, because whatever shit just went down, it’s going to have to wait for Steve to put some real pants on and what was he even doing this early that would necessitate track pants, if he’s sweaty they’re going to have to wait for him to shower, really, Steven, really, and the words spill out of Danny’s mouth and Steve bats them back like he always does, and then there’s an actual fucking head in a box.
Danny’s day goes downhill from there.
~*~
If Steve had given him even 48 hours, Danny could’ve gotten him that master cylinder-his dad’s best friend knows his shit about classic cars, and wouldn’t dare rip off a Williams-but Steve is the kind of person the universe bends rules for, and the universe brought him the one person on the island with a ’74 Mercury Marquis part they were willing to give Steve in gratitude for immigration papers hot off the presses.
And it’s a little bit frustrating. Not that Steve even knew the guy had parts for his Marquis. Not that Steve would ever do something like what he did and expect anything in return. Because Steve does shit like this all the time-hotel reservations at a dolphin resort for a guy he had barely met, just so the guy’s daughter might have a good time with her father over the weekend. That sort of thing. All the time. Steve lives on this plateau of Above And Beyond, and fuck-
Steve is still fondling the master cylinder when Danny gets back from ringing his dad and apologizing profusely with as many (unseen) hand-gestures as he knows how, canceling the order, and Steve looks pleased and settled in a way he hadn’t been when they’d left the airport with little Miss Femme Fatale in the back of HPD’s version of a town car. Danny’s damage control might even be superfluous at this point, but oh the fuck well.
“Yo,” Danny says, hip-checking the table.
Steve’s eyebrows arch up. “Yo, again? This gonna be a thing?”
Usually Danny would have a snappy come-back to that. Something charming and witty like, Don’t insult my intelligence by pretending you don’t like it, but-this day has just been strange, and he’s done with it. He settles for making a face.
“Did you come over just to say yo?” Steve grins, half-swiveling in his chair. He snorts at his own cleverness before he can get the next bit out: “Babe, you had me at yo.”
“Can’t a guy come over to appreciate your gravitas?”
Steve’s grin stretches at the corners like a cat stretching in the sun, is what it does. It’s all warm and slow and Danny has to look away before this metaphor gets out of hand. “My gravitas,” Steve says, “Did you really just-my gravitas?”
“What? What?” Danny asks, hands wide. “Can’t a grown man express appreciation for his partner’s ability to charm the pants off a person? Or car parts, as the case may be?”
Steve’s smile goes a little wobbly somewhere in there, but then he’s smoothing his thumb over some important metal nub and he’s not thinking about Danny anymore. Danny just knows Steve isn’t, the way he knows pineapple is not meant to be on a pizza.
“We did a good job today,” Steve says, nodding at his master cylinder.
“Overall, I got no complaints,” Danny baits, because, well. He doesn’t, really, he just wants Steve to argue with him.
“You?” Steve laughs, tipped back a dangerous degree. Danny has to stop himself from righting the chair like he would if it was Grace, flipping one of her pigtails to show he isn’t doing it to be mean, and later she can have a juice-box if she refrains from making Danno worry about her falling. Alright, again with the metaphors, Steve doesn’t have any pigtails to-do anything with. But Danny would still like to know how the guy manages to tip back in a chair perched on nothing but wheels without crashing to the floor. Again, Danny blames the universe. It fucking owes Steve, as far as Danny is concerned, until the guy dies in his sleep at the ripe old age of a hundred and thirty.
“-aren’t complaining? Is it a national holiday somewhere?” Steve is saying when Danny tunes back in.
“Keep laughing,” Danny dares. He kind of means it; Steve should always laugh more, not less.
“I will,” Steve assures, fractionally arrogant before he drops the act and beams.
Danny lets something like pride wash up over him-because he knows pride, right, he gets whacked in the gut with the Nerf Ball of Pride every time Gracie shows him a new drawing or a good grade on a test, and this feeling is like that, but kind of headier. And it’s only a really small twinge in the bottom lining of his stomach that Steve doesn’t need him, today. Any gift he could’ve gotten Steve to make up for this morning would just be store-bought icing on top of gourmet hand-crafted chocolate mousse on top of a cake. Or whatever.
“Hey, I got-“ Danny jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “I fiddled with the-thing. That thing which you and Kono assured me was perfectly legal? And I think I’ve got a season or two of CHiPs suddenly lurking in my hard drive.” Danny has no idea how this happened, really. He’s pretty sure he’d just been looking for a video clip on youtube. He blames his wonky thumbs.
“Perfectly legally,” Steve assures him in a way that, surprisingly, is not all that comforting.
“Yeah. Right. Whatever, I figure-you get it to play on the big screen out here, maybe I let you watch a couple with me. Out of the goodness of my heart.”
And how is this not a gift, Danny, he asks himself as Steve looks intrigued and smug about something, and starts fiddling with buttons Danny didn’t even know the table computer had. But it isn’t really a present. Not really. A present is something you give to someone that they get to keep. It’s something you either made or paid for, not sketchily downloaded off some skeevy website.
So it doesn’t count, and Danny still owes him…something. He’ll think of it. He kicks his feet up on the table-all four chair wheels firmly on the ground, thank you very much-and pretends not to be too relieved when Steve shifts his feet to the floor.
Steve gets quiet by increments, settling into something less smiling and more worn down, like the bad parts of the day are creeping back at the edges by the time Estrada and Wilcox get off their motorcycles like they took synchronized dismounting classes. Danny wishes he’d made popcorn so he could steal some of Steve’s. But in lieu of that-
“Estrada was a bad bitch, man.”
“Yup,” Steve agrees. “That’s why there’s no way.”
And they’re off.
~*~
So whatever, you know, Danny figures he still maybe has to make up for the not-gift, somehow. Like buy Steve a beer-oh wait, he already does that. Like buy Steve a wallet that stays permanently glued to his hip, so Danny doesn’t feel like he’s taking his partner out on a series of intensely platonic dates all the time.
But what do you get for the SEAL who has everything? Or-he has lots of stuff, Danny realizes, but it’s all his dad’s stuff cluttering up his dad’s house. The things Steve has of his own are all outdoorsy things or…things that kill people. Or incarcerate them in some way. He has his truck, but he likes driving Danny’s car more, so Danny can’t even be a man and get him the Steve-equivalent of naked chick mud-flaps (i.e. silhouettes of sharks, or something).
Steve doesn’t believe in pointless things. He believes in things he can use, things he needs, and fuck if Danny knows what that is.
Maybe a ticket to an anti-violence conflict/resolution seminar. Danny would absolutely sign the whole team up if he thought there was a snowball’s chance in hell that they’d attend.
Mostly-if he’s being entirely honest-to see the look on the instructor’s face when Steve starts arguing.
~*~
Steve picks up the coffee and turns it in one hand, like it might be a bomb or the Holy Grail cleverly disguised as a Kona Coffee cup. “What’s this for?”
“What, I need to have a reason?” Danny shrugs as nonchalantly as he knows how, not liking the look Steve is giving him one bit. Scrutinizing, that’s what it is; he is being scrutinized by his partner, and undeservedly so. “It’s a cup of coffee,” Danny cries, “Would you stop with the third-degree glare already?”
Oh yeah, Williams. Totally nonchalant.
“I bought you coffee,” Danny revises. “I did not buy you roses. Nor did I buy you a pony, or a pink VW Convertible. This is coffee; it should not create this level of incredulity in you.”
Steve shakes his head a little like he’s baffled, but since Danny isn’t entirely sure that last sentence made grammatical sense he’s willing to forgive him for being slow on the uptake. A little bit.
“You know,” Danny prompts after a minute, when Steve has made no move to lift the coffee to his lips, “I’d kind of hoped we’d moved past the stage in our relationship where you worried about me poisoning your morning beverages. Actually, I’d kind of hoped we’d never been in that stage in our relationship.” He gives the cup a very pointed look. “It’s the good stuff, I promise.”
Steve turns it between his thumb and middle finger, left, left, then right again as he says, “Yeah, I’ll-later. I will. Thank you.”
Danny’s incredulous stare shifts up to Steve’s face just in time to watch the guy try to hide a cringe. “Are you kidding,” he demands, flatly. “Steven. I didn’t poison it.”
“I never thought you did!” Steve protests instantly, eyes wide and pleading for-something, Danny doesn’t have an actual clue.
“Then drink the coffee! Jesus, what-“
“Danny,” Steve says carefully, like stepping over a land mine. “I don’t like coffee.”
Danny blinks at him. Hard. Then-
“The fuck you say.”
“No, I-“
“McGarrett,” Danny snaps, and it’s been a long time since Danny called him by his last name, it feels weird in his mouth. It’s probably the cause for the sharp, bitter taste in the back of his throat, too. “I’ve seen you drink coffee.”
“Tea,” Steve corrects, flinching. “Most of the time it’s been-tea, oh…kay, Danny, wait-“
“How many-“ Danny starts, voice rising into one of those strangled incredulous shouts he hasn’t used since the divorce, “-months have we been working together, and I didn’t-“
“It’s no big deal! And I thought I’d told you!” Steve defends. “I definitely- At Rachel’s, remember? When we were on stake-out and-I had a tea cup, you remember me holding a tea cup-“
“You were doing that to tick me off! And get on Rachel’s good side! I thought,” Danny amends, losing steam by the second in a spiraling shit-storm of failure. “You, with the cup…” He mimes drinking tea with his pinky raised basically for something to do with his hands while his brain catches up.
“You aren’t-wrong,” Steve hedges, looking entirely too apologetic for this situation. “About-Rachel, not with making you-yeah. But I really do like…tea.”
It hits Danny like a punch in the face, right at that moment. He has never brought Steve a drink that wasn’t alcoholic, and at night. In all the time he’s known him. Not once. Chin gets the team coffee when they don’t get it themselves, because he’s right around the corner from Liliha’s on his way to work, and being the Governor’s task force means they have a state of the art espresso machine in the break room for the times when Liliha’s isn’t a ready option. But Danny had always thought the little basket of decaffeinated tea bags had sort of been wishful thinking on the Governor’s part . . . not Steve’s beverage of choice.
“Wow,” Danny says, hand dragging through his hair before he can stop himself. “Wow, I’m-sorry. I’ll give it to Chin or something.”
“I used to like coffee,” Steve says, holding the paper cup closer to him like maybe if he cradles it and sings it a lullaby it will turn into something he finds palatable. “It was-I was on my last tour, and we spent four months in India for, uh, you know, stuff, and the only coffee there is Turkish and it’s like drinking tar, okay, but their tea, Danny, masala tea is just, it’s really, really good, and when I got back-”
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me!” Danny cuts him off, words out before Steve even starts talking about antioxidants. “Seriously, it was a stupid impulse anyway. Give me the coffee.”
Steve sets his jaw, eyes narrowing.
“Constipated Badger Face, really?” Danny asks, his own expression pinching. “What the hell are you gonna do with it, enshrine it? Give me the coffee.”
Danny started adding animals to Steve’s Face-names because it makes Steve seem less of a-huh, Danny thinks, stops himself from using the word threat. Steve isn’t a threat to anyone besides criminals. But sometimes Danny will look at Steve and get this all-caps blaring warning of TOO CLOSE, TOO CLOSE, and comparing Steve to critters is-it provides a barrier. Just a little one. One last levy for Danny to stand behind.
“No,” Steve says, jerking it out of Danny’s reach. “No, I’ll-“
“Steven. Give me the-give me the coffee, Steven, Steve, McGarrett-“
So that’s how Steve winds up with minor burns on his chest and part of his hip, big, blotchy-red patches that Danny gets an eye-full of as Steve strips himself of scalding wet clothes in an impressively few number of seconds.
It’s also why Chin comes in and yells at them for fighting over a beverage near an insanely expensive computer-but since it’s Chin, it’s less shouting and more staring at them in abject misery for the good part of half an hour.
~*~
The tsunami scare effectively shoves thoughts of gifts out of his head for a solid week-one day for the actual crisis and the other six clawing their way out from under a mound of paperwork and press conferences and ‘restoring order.’ And keeping Steve from vibrating out of his skin every time the Governor calls to chat.
A drink was a stupid idea for a gift anyway. You can’t keep a drink, even if it’s one that you’d actually, shockingly, not mind drinking. It’s not enough, and the more Danny thinks about it, the more and more it’s sinking in that he actually-he really owes Steve. Not just an apology for jerking his chain over a package in the mail, but real things.
Part of the reason Meka’s death hit him so hard was because Meka was the only guy on the force who even acknowledged Danny’s presence, let alone treated him like a fellow cop. Mainlander, haole, what the hell did Danny know about their island rules that he could try to enforce them? And Meka was just one man, he couldn’t do anything about the other cops, he couldn’t stop the police chief from looking at Danny like he had been, like he was wondering why he’d hired Danny in the first place, like he was waiting for Danny to slip up just one time, give him a reason to send his ass packing.
Steve had saved him from that. From going crazy on this island, from killing himself trying to do his job and stay close to Grace at the same time. Steve had made that possible, just by recruiting Danny to Five-Oh.
And other things. Things like getting the Governor to lean on Stan until he was able to convince Rach to let Danny keep his time with Grace. Things like teaching and pushing and sometimes bullying Danny into finding things to like about this island. Things like finding Danny a family-being Danny’s family-on days Danny can’t be near the one he used to have.
Which is bigger than a fucking cup of coffee.
It actually makes him sick when he starts thinking about it, when he starts making a list-dizzying, panic-attack sort of sick, because Jesus fuck. Jesus Christ. What did Danny ever do to deserve it? What has Danny ever done for Steve?
~*~
“What is this?” Steve asks, pulling it free of the packaging to hold it up in the yellow light from a half-dozen neon signs. The bar is kind of art-grungy, one of the many attached to upscale resorts that like to show their customers a perfectly clean and sterile ‘seedy underbelly.’ It isn’t their usual kind of place, but Steve had said they made a really good Blue Hawaii and he knows the owner, and who was Danny to argue?
“What do you mean, what is it? I thought you were Navy, sailor boy.” Danny takes it as a point of personal pride that Steve automatically goes to correct him before he realizes that Danny actually got the military branch right. “It’s a…” He pauses, just to clear his throat a little, and definitely not because he has to take a second so he can remember the whole freaking name. “It’s a Navy Special Warfare SEAL Team Challenge Coin.”
“Right,” Steve starts slowly, rubbing his thumb over the bronze insignia.
“So?” Danny grins, more to coax one out of Steve than any real desire to smile. “You show that to your Navy buddies and if they don’t have one, they buy the drinks! Huh? Yeah? Is this good or what?”
“It’s, uh.” Steve laughs faintly, spinning the coin on the bar top. “It’s something.”
Danny feels like his ribcage is sinking down an inch. “You don’t like it.”
“No, Danny, it’s-it’s great.” Steve turns on his stool to half-face Danny, arm held out in earnestness and his smile in place. But in this light, all Danny can see are the rough edges creeping in on Steve, and it just makes him more transparent than usual. Danny stares him right down. “No, I-It’s not that I don’t like it, okay-“
“Yeah, come on, out with it,” Danny says, twirling his hand before he tucks it back into his crossed arms.
Steve’s whole face scrunches into a cringing sort of apology, and finally Danny gets it. “Oh. You already have one.”
“Yeah, or-two, but it’s always good to have a spare,” Steve tries. “No, really, thanks, I mean it. I’m not entirely sure what brought this on, but.” He ducks his head, so awkward and uncomfortable that Danny wants to punch himself in the face for thinking this was a good idea. Steve taps the coin on the table, biting his lip for one distracting second like he needs to gather up the courage before he looks at Danny and asks, “Am I supposed to take this as a hint?”
“I-what?” Danny deflects. Because it is a hint, sort of, but. Not the way Steve is looking at him, it isn’t.
“I pushed it too far, didn’t I?” Steve says, almost too fast to understand. “I’m sorry, Danny, I really-I can start buying my own drinks, or yours, or both, I just-I thought it was a-“
Danny isn’t sure what Steve thought it was, but his heartbeat lurches too fast and he shuts Steve up before he has to find out. “No, Steven, listen to me, it’s fine,” he says, palms up, and what is he doing? Steve seems to be offering to actually pay for his share of alcoholic beverages and Danny’s turning him down? But he’s just sort of-winging it, Steve brings out the urge in him, so he knows it’s true when he slows himself down and says, “I didn’t mean it like that.”
Steve’s eyebrows do a curious dance. “Oh?”
“I just thought-your Navy buddies. Maybe they’re always whipping out their super nifty coins and making you shell out, and that’s why you don’t-“
“I am more than capable of and totally willing to pay for drinks, Danny!”
And Danny should know better by now, he should have detoxed a little from Jersey and realized that always rising to the bait is a character flaw of possibly dangerous proportions. But it’s Steve, and Steve just-he always burrows in under Danny’s skin and wriggles there, like an itch that doesn’t stop, like fucking-Steve fleas, he’s got Steve fleas, and all his sensible rational thought gets buried in the instinctual need to drop everything and roll and scratch and shake until the itching goes away.
So he, like an idiot, says, “Prove it.”
“Prove it,” Steve repeats, in that way that Danny knows Steve stole from him, “Okay, Danno, you want me to prove it?”
“Yeah, I want-“
“You sure? ‘Cause when I go to prove a thing that someone says needs proving, you know, I’ll prove it right up in this piece-“
“What are you doing?” Danny demands, alarmed, but he has a sinking feeling in his gut saying this is Steve’s impersonation of one Detective Danny Williams, and this-oh shit-there is something about this that is suddenly screaming Steve is not in a good headspace right now, and if Danny was smarter he might’ve noticed a little earlier.
And then Steve starts ordering drinks Danny has never heard of before, slaps down his credit card before Danny can stop him, and over the roar of blenders kicking into gear Danny wonders what the hell he’s gotten himself into-with Hawaii, with Five-Oh, with Steve-and how much his brain has warped from the Danny who stepped off the plane, and he has to start drinking.
Just to make sure Steve gets his money’s worth. And to calm the anxious clench of his stomach when Steve smirks at him, hands him two shot glasses, and says, “Camel Snot. Go.”
~*~
Danny is not going to insult anyone’s intelligence by claiming to remember how many increasingly ridiculous drinks get downed. Around the fifth one, Steve issues a decree that keeping score is “unallowed,” and Danny gets so affronted on behalf of the English language that he, uh, chooses to stop counting.
It all turns out spectacularly, at the end of the night. Danny drops something called a Shark Tank on the floor because he’s laughing too hard-picturing Steve chucking that gun-delivering pizza guy into this bright blue margarita glass-and the glass shatters, splattering vodka-soaked Swedish fish all over Steve’s feet. Danny makes an executive decision the way only the truly plastered can, puts his hand on Steve’s chest when he slurs, “Sir, I’m going to have to cut us off.”
Steve just shakes a little harder, snickering into the back of his wrist like he thinks if he’s quiet the bouncer won’t come over and lurk politely over Steve’s left shoulder as the check gets rung up.
“I know,” Danny tells the bouncer, swaying closer to Steve because Steve is drunk, and he might need to lean on Danny. “I know.”
The bouncer doesn’t ask what Danny knows, because he gets it, man, he understands that these things just happen around Steve. The guy looks kind, stands like Steve does, what is it-parade rest. He says, “You boys need a cab?”
“No,” Steve says, arm suddenly heavy across Danny’s shoulders. “No, we will. Beach, I think. Then taxi. My feet are sticky.”
“Oh, babe,” Danny says, looking down at Steve’s flip-flops, suddenly very sad and disappointed in himself. That he couldn’t even keep Steve’s feet away from Danny’s collateral damage.
“It would make me feel better if you gave the bartender your keys,” the bouncer says, almost smiling. Danny starts patting himself down before he remembers that Steve drove them here, in Danny’s car, and he’s always doing that, Danny doesn’t get it, he really doesn’t. He’s trying to explain it to the bouncer when Steve slaps the keys on the bar and drags him out the door, telling Danny, “Shh, you are drunk,” like Danny doesn’t know.
The resort is on the beach (all the best resorts are) and Danny has a feeling they should not be allowed to just stroll into a place they aren’t staying in to use their bar and wander their beach, but no one has bothered them yet and that’s probably Steve’s fault. Danny wonders if Steve considers Five-Oh to be his own personal military, and if they’re all sub-divided into Army, Navy, Coast Guard, and Air Force. If he’s the Army to Steve’s Navy. Kono is definitely Coast Guard.
Steve flops them down in the sand and splashes his toes in the surf and keeps his arm around Danny’s shoulders like he’s forgotten he put it there. Danny leans into it because he’s a chump, he’s a chump and he forgets boundaries when he drinks this much. God, he hopes his hand isn’t on Steve’s leg but he has a bad feeling it might be. For balance.
“Hey, hey, Danno, watch,” Steve says, nudging him until they almost fall over, and the Challenge Coin appears by magic from behind Danny’s ear.
Danny scowls at Steve’s fingers, nape of his neck breaking out in goosebumps, or maybe the Steve fleas. “Cut it out with the cutesy tricks, I am not my daughter,” is what he means to say, but looking back the next morning, Danny is pretty sure the height of his eloquence at this point is, “Stop, Steve. Magic stop.”
Steve laughs either way and knocks their heads together harder than he probably means to, but Danny lets him because the night is kind of cold and Steve is kind of warm and stubbled; it makes sense at the time.
“Hey,” Steve says again, lower, coin balanced precariously on his thumb, “Hey, Danno, heads we do something stupid.”
Danny shoves him because the last time Steve said ‘hey’ magic happened-and they don’t need to do more stupid things, they do stupid every day-and the coin flipping up into the air falls into the ocean with a soft plop.
“Danny!” Steve cries, so dismayed it’s like he just watched his partner get shot, and it jars something in Danny’s chest, knocks him out of alignment. “Why did you do that?”
“I’m sorry, I, I-magic,” Danny stammers, scrambling in the water just deep enough to brush his elbows when he splashes, fingers digging up nothing but sand and seashells in the two seconds it takes for Steve to lunge after him and drag him back by the scruff of his neck. The babbling about his childhood phobia of random things being pulled from his orifices breaks off in a squawk of protest-it’s six inches of water, he’s not going to drown anything less than a foot as a point of pride-and then his words disappear altogether at the look on Steve’s face when Steve shakes him hard enough to make Danny’s teeth rattle.
“Do you even know what riptides are?” Steve yells, slur barely even audible under the force of his enunciation. “Jesus, Danny, it’s not worth it.”
And-oh. Ouch. Steve is in a standing crouch, staring down at him, ocean water dripping from his clothes and down his jaw. “…But I got it for you,” is the only thing Danny can think to say, small and confused.
Steve sways a little, and then his knees hit the sand, hands still roaming restlessly across Danny’s wet shirt, face open in a way that Danny is trying to think of a name for but can’t. Danny is suddenly aware of how soaked he is, how heavy his clothes are. He shivers, and Steve’s fingers flex across Danny’s shoulders, not letting go.
“I’ll be okay,” Steve says eventually, grin so lopsided he has to tilt his head a little. The lines etched into his face have blurred with alcohol and something else, this close, something Danny wants to get his hands on. Danny can hear his own breathing, and he wonders how fast the symptoms of hypothermia set in.
There’s a small cough, from someone who is not either of them, and Danny is so startled he falls over, back into the sand. He can feel the little granules sneak in down the back of his collar, knows, fuck, the sand is in his hair, and has to physically bite back a rant long enough to see who’s on the beach with them.
It’s the bouncer from before, though Danny is beginning to suspect that he is not at all a bouncer so much as, like, a general manager. Just from the state of his shoes.
“Commander McGarrett?” the guy says, either way. He’s wearing those very shiny shoes on the beach, which Danny wants to point out to him just to see if he realizes. “Mr. Fitzsimonds wanted to let you know that a room has been set aside for you, if you’d like to retire there with your party.”
“A r-“ Danny starts to gape, gets a look at Steve’s face and turns it into a snort. “Oh man. Babe. What did you do for Mr. Fit-Fitsh- Mr. Fitzsimonds?”
Steve’s shocked expression shifts into sheepishness. “I might’ve. Um, saved his nephew from a car bomb in Turkey.”
“Course you did.” Danny palms his own face, and gets a handful of sand for his trouble. He’s on his feet spitting curse words at the beach before he really figures out how to work his limbs and wow, wow standing that fast was a bad idea. Danny stumbles, almost falls, catches himself with a hand on top of Steve’s head and doesn’t think about it, doesn’t think about it.
“Okay,” Danny says when the world is a little steadier, dropping his hands to his side. “Okay, yes, room. We’ll take it.”
Steve makes a choked, curious sound, half-way to standing. He probably just almost fell over. Danny ignores it.
“Don’t worry,” he tells the bouncer instead, squinting fiercely into his buzzcut and the face beneath it. “In case the…Commander bit didn’t tip you off. Navy,” Danny whispers, too loud. “So, yes. Don’t have to worry about us.”
“I don’t see as there would be anything to worry about, sir,” the guy says, carefully, significantly.
Danny scowls at him. “That’s what I just-“
“Okay,” Steve laughs, sounding strange as he trips forward and takes the keycard from the non-bouncer’s outstretched hand. “Thanks. Thank you. Tell, um, tell Pat-Mr. Fitzsimonds-“ He doesn’t even fumble the name, which boggles Danny’s mind. “Tell him thanks, too. And, this is-could we get a cot sent up to the room, d’you think?”
“I told you,” Danny hisses over Steve’s shoulder, and the guy looks away fast like he has to hide a smile.
“Come on, babe,” Danny adds, grabbing Steve’s forearm and tugging them in the direction of the elevators. “I’m only getting dizzier and. Shower. Yup. Sand is just-everywhere. And I blame you.”
Steve kind of groans and kind of laughs and definitely covers his face with one hand, which is just a bad idea, really. Danny has to pep-talk him out of it before they both walk into a wall.
Danny makes Steve take the bed, pushes him onto it and drags the covers up to Steve’s chin because when he came out of the shower Steve was just sort of swaying in the middle of the room, heavy-lidded and half asleep, and when he muzzily tries to shake his head and say Danny sleeps on fold-outs all the time, Danny says, “My gift to you, babe,” and hits at the lamp until the light goes off.
Steve might make a reaching motion for him in the dark. But Danny doesn’t think so.
~*~
Danny doesn’t throw up in the morning, but only through sheer force of Jersey will. Steve, not so lucky, crawls from the bathroom decidedly green around the gills, deep circles under his eyes making him look exhausted and almost sad. By some sort of mutual, unspoken agreement, they decide that it’s probably in their stomachs’ best interests to keep their mouths tightly shut as they fall into the car-keys retrieved-and drive through the blinding-bright streets of Hawaii.
Steve drives, because he’s a sadist. Danny makes him take the only pair of sunglasses he can find in the glove compartment, and spends the whole drive with one hand over his eyes; either Steve is a much calmer driver when he’s hung over, or Danny should have been riding in cars with Steve like this from the beginning.
The night is a little…hazy. Danny had a hard time remembering where he was when he first peeled his eyelids open to the dusky morning light filtering into the room, and then he had to shut his eyes and breathe through the blind, stupid panic that he was still in a two-star hotel down the street from Grace, drinking himself to sleep every night with Matt a constant presence, constant anchor to reality, and what if the last year had been some dreamed up delusion of a life not half-bad, a life that included Grace and people who care about him who never-
Then Steve had snorted awake on the bed, dragged himself up on one elbow and squinted until he found Danny, face haggard and hair a mess, and Danny let out a shuddering breath of relief.
The night came back in fits and starts after that. Danny remembers almost everything now, including how he’d explained to the hotel staff that Steve isn’t gay. Great.
And he knocked the present he’d given Steve into the ocean, yeah, let’s not forget that. The coin, to… What the hell was he thinking, that Steve isn’t charismatic enough to get friends on his own if he wants them? Fuck. Danny digs the heel of his hand into his eye a little, trying to divert pressure from a migraine of monumental stupidity. Just. Looking back-Wow, was that a dick move. Almost as dickish as the whole package disaster that had gotten him into this mess in the first place.
The sudden press of silence from Steve’s side of the car gives Danny a niggling feeling that he might have let out some sort of pained groan without realizing it. It’s the only reason he can come up with for expecting a reaction from Steve at this moment. Maybe.
Danny peeks through his fingers and Steve’s eyes stay on the road behind the shades, hands clutching ten and two like he expects to choke vital information from the wheel. His jaw is tense. It could just be the hangover.
Danny feels the usual bark bubble up in him, the-the little Steve fleas, urging him to poke at Steve until things start snapping, like usual, like the only way Danny knew how to get through to a guy he didn’t know who hijacked his case and his life and then got Danny shot, all in a day’s work- And Danny lets the urge go, lets it drag out of him in a sigh.
“I’m sorry,” he says, mutters, just barely audible over the steady hum of the engine. “I’m- I’m sorry.”
Steve starts to turn his head and winces, decides against it. But the tension drops out of him a little, so whatever he’d been thinking so hard about wasn’t-apparently-along the same track as Danny. “For what?” he gets out, voice rough, genuinely curious.
“For wh-“Danny has to stop and swallow hard, because he really can’t rant at Steve right now, he can’t. He can’t think about Steve not even taking offense at Danny’s gifts because he doesn’t expect better. He should expect better from Danny, he should expect the fucking best.
“For letting you talk me into the Camel Snot,” Danny fumbles out because Steve is waiting for an answer.
Steve immediately turns grey. Danny slumps low in his seat and resolves to shut up for the rest of the drive, possibly the rest of the year.
Steve smells like complimentary shampoo and mouthwash; Danny probably does, too. He doesn’t know why that feels important.
Part Two
Author: queenklu
Pairing: Steve/Danny
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 16k
Summary: In which Danny has issues, presents, and Steve fleas, not necessarily in that order.
A/n: Written for giandujakiss who won me at help_japan. I am so, so sorry this is stupidly late, and I hope it's to your liking! All the thank yous go to the glorious imkalena, who knocked this story into the shape it wound up in, and to leupagus, who promised to write me something if I would just get off my ass and finish the damn porn.
Nothing bad happens before his drive to Steve’s house; he doesn’t get cut off in traffic, his coffee doesn’t spill, he woke up in the morning on the right side of the bed and everything-the right side of the bed being, for someone who had been married more years than he cares to think about, smack dab in the middle of the mattress. The middle is a good place to be. There is sprawling room, and all the covers he wants, and no big empty space beside him because his unconscious mind reverted to five years ago and made room for a person who by all accounts would rather set his bed on fire than sleep in it again.
Anyway. He splurges on the coffee-Kona Coffee’s chocolate macadamia nut blend because no one is here to judge him-and downs it all before the third traffic light. So his thoughts are spinning in dizzy little hyper-caffeinated circles, but not a single one of them can figure out what exactly is getting his Jersey up. It’s yet another beautiful day in the neighborhood, they don’t have a case yet, he’s just swinging by to pick up Steve on their way to the office like he does almost every other morning; nothing is different or weird or wrong.
Except for the white package on Steve’s doorstep.
And the fact that Steve’s newfangled alarm code is Danny’s birthday, which is not funny, Steven, not funny at all.
Danny walks in the door with a low whistle, because what. What is he even supposed to think about that? When Steve had told him those numbers were the combo, Danny had really, really thought Steve was kidding, and had only tried it out this morning to be an asshole and get Steve to tell him the real code in the midst of the ensuing sound of alarms and police sirens. Because it’s a number Danny needs to know-and Kono and Chin, just in case-and he hadn’t appreciated being jerked around.
But apparently Steve had been dead fucking serious when he’d said the code was Danny’s birthday. And so Danny says, “Yo,” as he struts in the house, because he’s not sure where this is going but he’s pretty sure it’s going to land them in argument territory and keep them there until they pull up and park at the office.
Which. Steve is not dressed for. Not even a little bit. Not even by McGarrett standards do track pants and purple tank top make an outfit suitable for a day at Five-Oh.
“Yo,” Steve returns, his back still to Danny as he uses about a million paper towels to dry his hands. Dry his hands, when a dish cloth would work just as well and kill approximately a billion fewer trees and there’s another argument they’re going to have today, why Steve feels it’s necessary to carpool with Danny to save gas and the environment when he goes through paper towels like-well, like Danny goes through hair products. Maybe Danny will let this one slide.
Steve is blathering about courtesy knocks when Danny starts listening again, so Danny gives him one, one-two-three against the door like he would like to one-two-three against Steve’s head. Because Steve isn’t dressed yet, and if he says those words aloud-bad shit would happen. It’s not like Danny needs to feel any more like Steve’s wife than he already does.
Steve’s eyes narrow and his head jerks at the package in Danny’s hands, arms folding over his chest. “What’s in the box?”
Danny has two seconds to decide a Brad Pitt imitation would not be appropriate at this point in time. Nor would a crack like Gwyneth Paltrow’s head, what do you think? Danny would bet based on Steve’s DVD collection that Steve doesn’t watch crime movies that aren’t buddy cop, so odds that he’s seen Seven are probably pretty slim.
So-and this is the slo-mo replay, by the way, this is Danny going through every little moment afterward with a fine toothed comb, wondering what exactly happens here, but the best he can figure is this: Danny tilts his head up, spins the package in his hands, and says, “I got you a present.” And when Steve repeats him, Danny adds, “Yeah, I wanted to put a smile on your face.”
Because he likes fucking with Steve, and he likes pushing Steve’s buttons, and Steve isn’t dressed for work and there’s some sort of aching buzz at the nape of Danny’s neck telling him today is off, today is different, and so Steve goes, “Really?” all half-smiling and warm-fuzzies, and Danny says, “No.”
Even though the smile shifts into well-practiced you got me, probably learned in the playground and perfected in the SEALs; even though 99% of Danny’s job these days seems to be exactly of the putting-a-smile-on-Steve’s-face variety, whether intentional or not (Miranda Rights should never be funny, Jesus); even though it’s a totally dick move, Danny doesn’t really get it at that moment, or the moment after, when he’s giving Steve shit about ordering online. He doesn’t get it until the second Steve’s phone rings-
Steve had wanted it to be a present from Danny.
--and Steve says “We’re on our way,” and the moment is gone, because whatever shit just went down, it’s going to have to wait for Steve to put some real pants on and what was he even doing this early that would necessitate track pants, if he’s sweaty they’re going to have to wait for him to shower, really, Steven, really, and the words spill out of Danny’s mouth and Steve bats them back like he always does, and then there’s an actual fucking head in a box.
Danny’s day goes downhill from there.
~*~
If Steve had given him even 48 hours, Danny could’ve gotten him that master cylinder-his dad’s best friend knows his shit about classic cars, and wouldn’t dare rip off a Williams-but Steve is the kind of person the universe bends rules for, and the universe brought him the one person on the island with a ’74 Mercury Marquis part they were willing to give Steve in gratitude for immigration papers hot off the presses.
And it’s a little bit frustrating. Not that Steve even knew the guy had parts for his Marquis. Not that Steve would ever do something like what he did and expect anything in return. Because Steve does shit like this all the time-hotel reservations at a dolphin resort for a guy he had barely met, just so the guy’s daughter might have a good time with her father over the weekend. That sort of thing. All the time. Steve lives on this plateau of Above And Beyond, and fuck-
Steve is still fondling the master cylinder when Danny gets back from ringing his dad and apologizing profusely with as many (unseen) hand-gestures as he knows how, canceling the order, and Steve looks pleased and settled in a way he hadn’t been when they’d left the airport with little Miss Femme Fatale in the back of HPD’s version of a town car. Danny’s damage control might even be superfluous at this point, but oh the fuck well.
“Yo,” Danny says, hip-checking the table.
Steve’s eyebrows arch up. “Yo, again? This gonna be a thing?”
Usually Danny would have a snappy come-back to that. Something charming and witty like, Don’t insult my intelligence by pretending you don’t like it, but-this day has just been strange, and he’s done with it. He settles for making a face.
“Did you come over just to say yo?” Steve grins, half-swiveling in his chair. He snorts at his own cleverness before he can get the next bit out: “Babe, you had me at yo.”
“Can’t a guy come over to appreciate your gravitas?”
Steve’s grin stretches at the corners like a cat stretching in the sun, is what it does. It’s all warm and slow and Danny has to look away before this metaphor gets out of hand. “My gravitas,” Steve says, “Did you really just-my gravitas?”
“What? What?” Danny asks, hands wide. “Can’t a grown man express appreciation for his partner’s ability to charm the pants off a person? Or car parts, as the case may be?”
Steve’s smile goes a little wobbly somewhere in there, but then he’s smoothing his thumb over some important metal nub and he’s not thinking about Danny anymore. Danny just knows Steve isn’t, the way he knows pineapple is not meant to be on a pizza.
“We did a good job today,” Steve says, nodding at his master cylinder.
“Overall, I got no complaints,” Danny baits, because, well. He doesn’t, really, he just wants Steve to argue with him.
“You?” Steve laughs, tipped back a dangerous degree. Danny has to stop himself from righting the chair like he would if it was Grace, flipping one of her pigtails to show he isn’t doing it to be mean, and later she can have a juice-box if she refrains from making Danno worry about her falling. Alright, again with the metaphors, Steve doesn’t have any pigtails to-do anything with. But Danny would still like to know how the guy manages to tip back in a chair perched on nothing but wheels without crashing to the floor. Again, Danny blames the universe. It fucking owes Steve, as far as Danny is concerned, until the guy dies in his sleep at the ripe old age of a hundred and thirty.
“-aren’t complaining? Is it a national holiday somewhere?” Steve is saying when Danny tunes back in.
“Keep laughing,” Danny dares. He kind of means it; Steve should always laugh more, not less.
“I will,” Steve assures, fractionally arrogant before he drops the act and beams.
Danny lets something like pride wash up over him-because he knows pride, right, he gets whacked in the gut with the Nerf Ball of Pride every time Gracie shows him a new drawing or a good grade on a test, and this feeling is like that, but kind of headier. And it’s only a really small twinge in the bottom lining of his stomach that Steve doesn’t need him, today. Any gift he could’ve gotten Steve to make up for this morning would just be store-bought icing on top of gourmet hand-crafted chocolate mousse on top of a cake. Or whatever.
“Hey, I got-“ Danny jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “I fiddled with the-thing. That thing which you and Kono assured me was perfectly legal? And I think I’ve got a season or two of CHiPs suddenly lurking in my hard drive.” Danny has no idea how this happened, really. He’s pretty sure he’d just been looking for a video clip on youtube. He blames his wonky thumbs.
“Perfectly legally,” Steve assures him in a way that, surprisingly, is not all that comforting.
“Yeah. Right. Whatever, I figure-you get it to play on the big screen out here, maybe I let you watch a couple with me. Out of the goodness of my heart.”
And how is this not a gift, Danny, he asks himself as Steve looks intrigued and smug about something, and starts fiddling with buttons Danny didn’t even know the table computer had. But it isn’t really a present. Not really. A present is something you give to someone that they get to keep. It’s something you either made or paid for, not sketchily downloaded off some skeevy website.
So it doesn’t count, and Danny still owes him…something. He’ll think of it. He kicks his feet up on the table-all four chair wheels firmly on the ground, thank you very much-and pretends not to be too relieved when Steve shifts his feet to the floor.
Steve gets quiet by increments, settling into something less smiling and more worn down, like the bad parts of the day are creeping back at the edges by the time Estrada and Wilcox get off their motorcycles like they took synchronized dismounting classes. Danny wishes he’d made popcorn so he could steal some of Steve’s. But in lieu of that-
“Estrada was a bad bitch, man.”
“Yup,” Steve agrees. “That’s why there’s no way.”
And they’re off.
~*~
So whatever, you know, Danny figures he still maybe has to make up for the not-gift, somehow. Like buy Steve a beer-oh wait, he already does that. Like buy Steve a wallet that stays permanently glued to his hip, so Danny doesn’t feel like he’s taking his partner out on a series of intensely platonic dates all the time.
But what do you get for the SEAL who has everything? Or-he has lots of stuff, Danny realizes, but it’s all his dad’s stuff cluttering up his dad’s house. The things Steve has of his own are all outdoorsy things or…things that kill people. Or incarcerate them in some way. He has his truck, but he likes driving Danny’s car more, so Danny can’t even be a man and get him the Steve-equivalent of naked chick mud-flaps (i.e. silhouettes of sharks, or something).
Steve doesn’t believe in pointless things. He believes in things he can use, things he needs, and fuck if Danny knows what that is.
Maybe a ticket to an anti-violence conflict/resolution seminar. Danny would absolutely sign the whole team up if he thought there was a snowball’s chance in hell that they’d attend.
Mostly-if he’s being entirely honest-to see the look on the instructor’s face when Steve starts arguing.
~*~
Steve picks up the coffee and turns it in one hand, like it might be a bomb or the Holy Grail cleverly disguised as a Kona Coffee cup. “What’s this for?”
“What, I need to have a reason?” Danny shrugs as nonchalantly as he knows how, not liking the look Steve is giving him one bit. Scrutinizing, that’s what it is; he is being scrutinized by his partner, and undeservedly so. “It’s a cup of coffee,” Danny cries, “Would you stop with the third-degree glare already?”
Oh yeah, Williams. Totally nonchalant.
“I bought you coffee,” Danny revises. “I did not buy you roses. Nor did I buy you a pony, or a pink VW Convertible. This is coffee; it should not create this level of incredulity in you.”
Steve shakes his head a little like he’s baffled, but since Danny isn’t entirely sure that last sentence made grammatical sense he’s willing to forgive him for being slow on the uptake. A little bit.
“You know,” Danny prompts after a minute, when Steve has made no move to lift the coffee to his lips, “I’d kind of hoped we’d moved past the stage in our relationship where you worried about me poisoning your morning beverages. Actually, I’d kind of hoped we’d never been in that stage in our relationship.” He gives the cup a very pointed look. “It’s the good stuff, I promise.”
Steve turns it between his thumb and middle finger, left, left, then right again as he says, “Yeah, I’ll-later. I will. Thank you.”
Danny’s incredulous stare shifts up to Steve’s face just in time to watch the guy try to hide a cringe. “Are you kidding,” he demands, flatly. “Steven. I didn’t poison it.”
“I never thought you did!” Steve protests instantly, eyes wide and pleading for-something, Danny doesn’t have an actual clue.
“Then drink the coffee! Jesus, what-“
“Danny,” Steve says carefully, like stepping over a land mine. “I don’t like coffee.”
Danny blinks at him. Hard. Then-
“The fuck you say.”
“No, I-“
“McGarrett,” Danny snaps, and it’s been a long time since Danny called him by his last name, it feels weird in his mouth. It’s probably the cause for the sharp, bitter taste in the back of his throat, too. “I’ve seen you drink coffee.”
“Tea,” Steve corrects, flinching. “Most of the time it’s been-tea, oh…kay, Danny, wait-“
“How many-“ Danny starts, voice rising into one of those strangled incredulous shouts he hasn’t used since the divorce, “-months have we been working together, and I didn’t-“
“It’s no big deal! And I thought I’d told you!” Steve defends. “I definitely- At Rachel’s, remember? When we were on stake-out and-I had a tea cup, you remember me holding a tea cup-“
“You were doing that to tick me off! And get on Rachel’s good side! I thought,” Danny amends, losing steam by the second in a spiraling shit-storm of failure. “You, with the cup…” He mimes drinking tea with his pinky raised basically for something to do with his hands while his brain catches up.
“You aren’t-wrong,” Steve hedges, looking entirely too apologetic for this situation. “About-Rachel, not with making you-yeah. But I really do like…tea.”
It hits Danny like a punch in the face, right at that moment. He has never brought Steve a drink that wasn’t alcoholic, and at night. In all the time he’s known him. Not once. Chin gets the team coffee when they don’t get it themselves, because he’s right around the corner from Liliha’s on his way to work, and being the Governor’s task force means they have a state of the art espresso machine in the break room for the times when Liliha’s isn’t a ready option. But Danny had always thought the little basket of decaffeinated tea bags had sort of been wishful thinking on the Governor’s part . . . not Steve’s beverage of choice.
“Wow,” Danny says, hand dragging through his hair before he can stop himself. “Wow, I’m-sorry. I’ll give it to Chin or something.”
“I used to like coffee,” Steve says, holding the paper cup closer to him like maybe if he cradles it and sings it a lullaby it will turn into something he finds palatable. “It was-I was on my last tour, and we spent four months in India for, uh, you know, stuff, and the only coffee there is Turkish and it’s like drinking tar, okay, but their tea, Danny, masala tea is just, it’s really, really good, and when I got back-”
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me!” Danny cuts him off, words out before Steve even starts talking about antioxidants. “Seriously, it was a stupid impulse anyway. Give me the coffee.”
Steve sets his jaw, eyes narrowing.
“Constipated Badger Face, really?” Danny asks, his own expression pinching. “What the hell are you gonna do with it, enshrine it? Give me the coffee.”
Danny started adding animals to Steve’s Face-names because it makes Steve seem less of a-huh, Danny thinks, stops himself from using the word threat. Steve isn’t a threat to anyone besides criminals. But sometimes Danny will look at Steve and get this all-caps blaring warning of TOO CLOSE, TOO CLOSE, and comparing Steve to critters is-it provides a barrier. Just a little one. One last levy for Danny to stand behind.
“No,” Steve says, jerking it out of Danny’s reach. “No, I’ll-“
“Steven. Give me the-give me the coffee, Steven, Steve, McGarrett-“
So that’s how Steve winds up with minor burns on his chest and part of his hip, big, blotchy-red patches that Danny gets an eye-full of as Steve strips himself of scalding wet clothes in an impressively few number of seconds.
It’s also why Chin comes in and yells at them for fighting over a beverage near an insanely expensive computer-but since it’s Chin, it’s less shouting and more staring at them in abject misery for the good part of half an hour.
~*~
The tsunami scare effectively shoves thoughts of gifts out of his head for a solid week-one day for the actual crisis and the other six clawing their way out from under a mound of paperwork and press conferences and ‘restoring order.’ And keeping Steve from vibrating out of his skin every time the Governor calls to chat.
A drink was a stupid idea for a gift anyway. You can’t keep a drink, even if it’s one that you’d actually, shockingly, not mind drinking. It’s not enough, and the more Danny thinks about it, the more and more it’s sinking in that he actually-he really owes Steve. Not just an apology for jerking his chain over a package in the mail, but real things.
Part of the reason Meka’s death hit him so hard was because Meka was the only guy on the force who even acknowledged Danny’s presence, let alone treated him like a fellow cop. Mainlander, haole, what the hell did Danny know about their island rules that he could try to enforce them? And Meka was just one man, he couldn’t do anything about the other cops, he couldn’t stop the police chief from looking at Danny like he had been, like he was wondering why he’d hired Danny in the first place, like he was waiting for Danny to slip up just one time, give him a reason to send his ass packing.
Steve had saved him from that. From going crazy on this island, from killing himself trying to do his job and stay close to Grace at the same time. Steve had made that possible, just by recruiting Danny to Five-Oh.
And other things. Things like getting the Governor to lean on Stan until he was able to convince Rach to let Danny keep his time with Grace. Things like teaching and pushing and sometimes bullying Danny into finding things to like about this island. Things like finding Danny a family-being Danny’s family-on days Danny can’t be near the one he used to have.
Which is bigger than a fucking cup of coffee.
It actually makes him sick when he starts thinking about it, when he starts making a list-dizzying, panic-attack sort of sick, because Jesus fuck. Jesus Christ. What did Danny ever do to deserve it? What has Danny ever done for Steve?
~*~
“What is this?” Steve asks, pulling it free of the packaging to hold it up in the yellow light from a half-dozen neon signs. The bar is kind of art-grungy, one of the many attached to upscale resorts that like to show their customers a perfectly clean and sterile ‘seedy underbelly.’ It isn’t their usual kind of place, but Steve had said they made a really good Blue Hawaii and he knows the owner, and who was Danny to argue?
“What do you mean, what is it? I thought you were Navy, sailor boy.” Danny takes it as a point of personal pride that Steve automatically goes to correct him before he realizes that Danny actually got the military branch right. “It’s a…” He pauses, just to clear his throat a little, and definitely not because he has to take a second so he can remember the whole freaking name. “It’s a Navy Special Warfare SEAL Team Challenge Coin.”
“Right,” Steve starts slowly, rubbing his thumb over the bronze insignia.
“So?” Danny grins, more to coax one out of Steve than any real desire to smile. “You show that to your Navy buddies and if they don’t have one, they buy the drinks! Huh? Yeah? Is this good or what?”
“It’s, uh.” Steve laughs faintly, spinning the coin on the bar top. “It’s something.”
Danny feels like his ribcage is sinking down an inch. “You don’t like it.”
“No, Danny, it’s-it’s great.” Steve turns on his stool to half-face Danny, arm held out in earnestness and his smile in place. But in this light, all Danny can see are the rough edges creeping in on Steve, and it just makes him more transparent than usual. Danny stares him right down. “No, I-It’s not that I don’t like it, okay-“
“Yeah, come on, out with it,” Danny says, twirling his hand before he tucks it back into his crossed arms.
Steve’s whole face scrunches into a cringing sort of apology, and finally Danny gets it. “Oh. You already have one.”
“Yeah, or-two, but it’s always good to have a spare,” Steve tries. “No, really, thanks, I mean it. I’m not entirely sure what brought this on, but.” He ducks his head, so awkward and uncomfortable that Danny wants to punch himself in the face for thinking this was a good idea. Steve taps the coin on the table, biting his lip for one distracting second like he needs to gather up the courage before he looks at Danny and asks, “Am I supposed to take this as a hint?”
“I-what?” Danny deflects. Because it is a hint, sort of, but. Not the way Steve is looking at him, it isn’t.
“I pushed it too far, didn’t I?” Steve says, almost too fast to understand. “I’m sorry, Danny, I really-I can start buying my own drinks, or yours, or both, I just-I thought it was a-“
Danny isn’t sure what Steve thought it was, but his heartbeat lurches too fast and he shuts Steve up before he has to find out. “No, Steven, listen to me, it’s fine,” he says, palms up, and what is he doing? Steve seems to be offering to actually pay for his share of alcoholic beverages and Danny’s turning him down? But he’s just sort of-winging it, Steve brings out the urge in him, so he knows it’s true when he slows himself down and says, “I didn’t mean it like that.”
Steve’s eyebrows do a curious dance. “Oh?”
“I just thought-your Navy buddies. Maybe they’re always whipping out their super nifty coins and making you shell out, and that’s why you don’t-“
“I am more than capable of and totally willing to pay for drinks, Danny!”
And Danny should know better by now, he should have detoxed a little from Jersey and realized that always rising to the bait is a character flaw of possibly dangerous proportions. But it’s Steve, and Steve just-he always burrows in under Danny’s skin and wriggles there, like an itch that doesn’t stop, like fucking-Steve fleas, he’s got Steve fleas, and all his sensible rational thought gets buried in the instinctual need to drop everything and roll and scratch and shake until the itching goes away.
So he, like an idiot, says, “Prove it.”
“Prove it,” Steve repeats, in that way that Danny knows Steve stole from him, “Okay, Danno, you want me to prove it?”
“Yeah, I want-“
“You sure? ‘Cause when I go to prove a thing that someone says needs proving, you know, I’ll prove it right up in this piece-“
“What are you doing?” Danny demands, alarmed, but he has a sinking feeling in his gut saying this is Steve’s impersonation of one Detective Danny Williams, and this-oh shit-there is something about this that is suddenly screaming Steve is not in a good headspace right now, and if Danny was smarter he might’ve noticed a little earlier.
And then Steve starts ordering drinks Danny has never heard of before, slaps down his credit card before Danny can stop him, and over the roar of blenders kicking into gear Danny wonders what the hell he’s gotten himself into-with Hawaii, with Five-Oh, with Steve-and how much his brain has warped from the Danny who stepped off the plane, and he has to start drinking.
Just to make sure Steve gets his money’s worth. And to calm the anxious clench of his stomach when Steve smirks at him, hands him two shot glasses, and says, “Camel Snot. Go.”
~*~
Danny is not going to insult anyone’s intelligence by claiming to remember how many increasingly ridiculous drinks get downed. Around the fifth one, Steve issues a decree that keeping score is “unallowed,” and Danny gets so affronted on behalf of the English language that he, uh, chooses to stop counting.
It all turns out spectacularly, at the end of the night. Danny drops something called a Shark Tank on the floor because he’s laughing too hard-picturing Steve chucking that gun-delivering pizza guy into this bright blue margarita glass-and the glass shatters, splattering vodka-soaked Swedish fish all over Steve’s feet. Danny makes an executive decision the way only the truly plastered can, puts his hand on Steve’s chest when he slurs, “Sir, I’m going to have to cut us off.”
Steve just shakes a little harder, snickering into the back of his wrist like he thinks if he’s quiet the bouncer won’t come over and lurk politely over Steve’s left shoulder as the check gets rung up.
“I know,” Danny tells the bouncer, swaying closer to Steve because Steve is drunk, and he might need to lean on Danny. “I know.”
The bouncer doesn’t ask what Danny knows, because he gets it, man, he understands that these things just happen around Steve. The guy looks kind, stands like Steve does, what is it-parade rest. He says, “You boys need a cab?”
“No,” Steve says, arm suddenly heavy across Danny’s shoulders. “No, we will. Beach, I think. Then taxi. My feet are sticky.”
“Oh, babe,” Danny says, looking down at Steve’s flip-flops, suddenly very sad and disappointed in himself. That he couldn’t even keep Steve’s feet away from Danny’s collateral damage.
“It would make me feel better if you gave the bartender your keys,” the bouncer says, almost smiling. Danny starts patting himself down before he remembers that Steve drove them here, in Danny’s car, and he’s always doing that, Danny doesn’t get it, he really doesn’t. He’s trying to explain it to the bouncer when Steve slaps the keys on the bar and drags him out the door, telling Danny, “Shh, you are drunk,” like Danny doesn’t know.
The resort is on the beach (all the best resorts are) and Danny has a feeling they should not be allowed to just stroll into a place they aren’t staying in to use their bar and wander their beach, but no one has bothered them yet and that’s probably Steve’s fault. Danny wonders if Steve considers Five-Oh to be his own personal military, and if they’re all sub-divided into Army, Navy, Coast Guard, and Air Force. If he’s the Army to Steve’s Navy. Kono is definitely Coast Guard.
Steve flops them down in the sand and splashes his toes in the surf and keeps his arm around Danny’s shoulders like he’s forgotten he put it there. Danny leans into it because he’s a chump, he’s a chump and he forgets boundaries when he drinks this much. God, he hopes his hand isn’t on Steve’s leg but he has a bad feeling it might be. For balance.
“Hey, hey, Danno, watch,” Steve says, nudging him until they almost fall over, and the Challenge Coin appears by magic from behind Danny’s ear.
Danny scowls at Steve’s fingers, nape of his neck breaking out in goosebumps, or maybe the Steve fleas. “Cut it out with the cutesy tricks, I am not my daughter,” is what he means to say, but looking back the next morning, Danny is pretty sure the height of his eloquence at this point is, “Stop, Steve. Magic stop.”
Steve laughs either way and knocks their heads together harder than he probably means to, but Danny lets him because the night is kind of cold and Steve is kind of warm and stubbled; it makes sense at the time.
“Hey,” Steve says again, lower, coin balanced precariously on his thumb, “Hey, Danno, heads we do something stupid.”
Danny shoves him because the last time Steve said ‘hey’ magic happened-and they don’t need to do more stupid things, they do stupid every day-and the coin flipping up into the air falls into the ocean with a soft plop.
“Danny!” Steve cries, so dismayed it’s like he just watched his partner get shot, and it jars something in Danny’s chest, knocks him out of alignment. “Why did you do that?”
“I’m sorry, I, I-magic,” Danny stammers, scrambling in the water just deep enough to brush his elbows when he splashes, fingers digging up nothing but sand and seashells in the two seconds it takes for Steve to lunge after him and drag him back by the scruff of his neck. The babbling about his childhood phobia of random things being pulled from his orifices breaks off in a squawk of protest-it’s six inches of water, he’s not going to drown anything less than a foot as a point of pride-and then his words disappear altogether at the look on Steve’s face when Steve shakes him hard enough to make Danny’s teeth rattle.
“Do you even know what riptides are?” Steve yells, slur barely even audible under the force of his enunciation. “Jesus, Danny, it’s not worth it.”
And-oh. Ouch. Steve is in a standing crouch, staring down at him, ocean water dripping from his clothes and down his jaw. “…But I got it for you,” is the only thing Danny can think to say, small and confused.
Steve sways a little, and then his knees hit the sand, hands still roaming restlessly across Danny’s wet shirt, face open in a way that Danny is trying to think of a name for but can’t. Danny is suddenly aware of how soaked he is, how heavy his clothes are. He shivers, and Steve’s fingers flex across Danny’s shoulders, not letting go.
“I’ll be okay,” Steve says eventually, grin so lopsided he has to tilt his head a little. The lines etched into his face have blurred with alcohol and something else, this close, something Danny wants to get his hands on. Danny can hear his own breathing, and he wonders how fast the symptoms of hypothermia set in.
There’s a small cough, from someone who is not either of them, and Danny is so startled he falls over, back into the sand. He can feel the little granules sneak in down the back of his collar, knows, fuck, the sand is in his hair, and has to physically bite back a rant long enough to see who’s on the beach with them.
It’s the bouncer from before, though Danny is beginning to suspect that he is not at all a bouncer so much as, like, a general manager. Just from the state of his shoes.
“Commander McGarrett?” the guy says, either way. He’s wearing those very shiny shoes on the beach, which Danny wants to point out to him just to see if he realizes. “Mr. Fitzsimonds wanted to let you know that a room has been set aside for you, if you’d like to retire there with your party.”
“A r-“ Danny starts to gape, gets a look at Steve’s face and turns it into a snort. “Oh man. Babe. What did you do for Mr. Fit-Fitsh- Mr. Fitzsimonds?”
Steve’s shocked expression shifts into sheepishness. “I might’ve. Um, saved his nephew from a car bomb in Turkey.”
“Course you did.” Danny palms his own face, and gets a handful of sand for his trouble. He’s on his feet spitting curse words at the beach before he really figures out how to work his limbs and wow, wow standing that fast was a bad idea. Danny stumbles, almost falls, catches himself with a hand on top of Steve’s head and doesn’t think about it, doesn’t think about it.
“Okay,” Danny says when the world is a little steadier, dropping his hands to his side. “Okay, yes, room. We’ll take it.”
Steve makes a choked, curious sound, half-way to standing. He probably just almost fell over. Danny ignores it.
“Don’t worry,” he tells the bouncer instead, squinting fiercely into his buzzcut and the face beneath it. “In case the…Commander bit didn’t tip you off. Navy,” Danny whispers, too loud. “So, yes. Don’t have to worry about us.”
“I don’t see as there would be anything to worry about, sir,” the guy says, carefully, significantly.
Danny scowls at him. “That’s what I just-“
“Okay,” Steve laughs, sounding strange as he trips forward and takes the keycard from the non-bouncer’s outstretched hand. “Thanks. Thank you. Tell, um, tell Pat-Mr. Fitzsimonds-“ He doesn’t even fumble the name, which boggles Danny’s mind. “Tell him thanks, too. And, this is-could we get a cot sent up to the room, d’you think?”
“I told you,” Danny hisses over Steve’s shoulder, and the guy looks away fast like he has to hide a smile.
“Come on, babe,” Danny adds, grabbing Steve’s forearm and tugging them in the direction of the elevators. “I’m only getting dizzier and. Shower. Yup. Sand is just-everywhere. And I blame you.”
Steve kind of groans and kind of laughs and definitely covers his face with one hand, which is just a bad idea, really. Danny has to pep-talk him out of it before they both walk into a wall.
Danny makes Steve take the bed, pushes him onto it and drags the covers up to Steve’s chin because when he came out of the shower Steve was just sort of swaying in the middle of the room, heavy-lidded and half asleep, and when he muzzily tries to shake his head and say Danny sleeps on fold-outs all the time, Danny says, “My gift to you, babe,” and hits at the lamp until the light goes off.
Steve might make a reaching motion for him in the dark. But Danny doesn’t think so.
~*~
Danny doesn’t throw up in the morning, but only through sheer force of Jersey will. Steve, not so lucky, crawls from the bathroom decidedly green around the gills, deep circles under his eyes making him look exhausted and almost sad. By some sort of mutual, unspoken agreement, they decide that it’s probably in their stomachs’ best interests to keep their mouths tightly shut as they fall into the car-keys retrieved-and drive through the blinding-bright streets of Hawaii.
Steve drives, because he’s a sadist. Danny makes him take the only pair of sunglasses he can find in the glove compartment, and spends the whole drive with one hand over his eyes; either Steve is a much calmer driver when he’s hung over, or Danny should have been riding in cars with Steve like this from the beginning.
The night is a little…hazy. Danny had a hard time remembering where he was when he first peeled his eyelids open to the dusky morning light filtering into the room, and then he had to shut his eyes and breathe through the blind, stupid panic that he was still in a two-star hotel down the street from Grace, drinking himself to sleep every night with Matt a constant presence, constant anchor to reality, and what if the last year had been some dreamed up delusion of a life not half-bad, a life that included Grace and people who care about him who never-
Then Steve had snorted awake on the bed, dragged himself up on one elbow and squinted until he found Danny, face haggard and hair a mess, and Danny let out a shuddering breath of relief.
The night came back in fits and starts after that. Danny remembers almost everything now, including how he’d explained to the hotel staff that Steve isn’t gay. Great.
And he knocked the present he’d given Steve into the ocean, yeah, let’s not forget that. The coin, to… What the hell was he thinking, that Steve isn’t charismatic enough to get friends on his own if he wants them? Fuck. Danny digs the heel of his hand into his eye a little, trying to divert pressure from a migraine of monumental stupidity. Just. Looking back-Wow, was that a dick move. Almost as dickish as the whole package disaster that had gotten him into this mess in the first place.
The sudden press of silence from Steve’s side of the car gives Danny a niggling feeling that he might have let out some sort of pained groan without realizing it. It’s the only reason he can come up with for expecting a reaction from Steve at this moment. Maybe.
Danny peeks through his fingers and Steve’s eyes stay on the road behind the shades, hands clutching ten and two like he expects to choke vital information from the wheel. His jaw is tense. It could just be the hangover.
Danny feels the usual bark bubble up in him, the-the little Steve fleas, urging him to poke at Steve until things start snapping, like usual, like the only way Danny knew how to get through to a guy he didn’t know who hijacked his case and his life and then got Danny shot, all in a day’s work- And Danny lets the urge go, lets it drag out of him in a sigh.
“I’m sorry,” he says, mutters, just barely audible over the steady hum of the engine. “I’m- I’m sorry.”
Steve starts to turn his head and winces, decides against it. But the tension drops out of him a little, so whatever he’d been thinking so hard about wasn’t-apparently-along the same track as Danny. “For what?” he gets out, voice rough, genuinely curious.
“For wh-“Danny has to stop and swallow hard, because he really can’t rant at Steve right now, he can’t. He can’t think about Steve not even taking offense at Danny’s gifts because he doesn’t expect better. He should expect better from Danny, he should expect the fucking best.
“For letting you talk me into the Camel Snot,” Danny fumbles out because Steve is waiting for an answer.
Steve immediately turns grey. Danny slumps low in his seat and resolves to shut up for the rest of the drive, possibly the rest of the year.
Steve smells like complimentary shampoo and mouthwash; Danny probably does, too. He doesn’t know why that feels important.
Part Two