Hawaii Heat
Title: Hawaii Heat
Summary: Danny spends a little too long outside in the Hawaii heat, leaving Steve to deal with the fallout.
Characters: Steve/Danny
Rating: PG-13, slash
Wordcount: 4,224
Disclaimer: I haven’t even been to Hawaii, alas. I have no claim to lay to any of it.
Warnings: verrrry mild slash, swearing, no spoilers
Neurotic Author's Note #1: So, uh, I kind of wrote slash. Again. Very mild slash. Like, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it slash. But yeah. And it’s in a fandom that’s not SPN. Again. I don’t know what’s happening to me, but apparently I am no longer monogamous in my fandom love.
Neurotic Author's Note #2: Shameless, shameless h/c. It's all fever and delirium and puking, and there is no plot. I started out writing a different story than this, but it’s not done yet and this happened instead. klutzy_girl, your H50 fic is still in the works, I promise!
Neurotic Author's Note #3: I am feeling waffly about my McGarrett ‘voice.’ He’s kind of a tough nut to crack, but the story didn’t seem to want to work from Danno’s POV, so there you have it.
“Book 'em, Danno,” Steve is already walking away from where Danny has their latest dirtbag -sorry, suspect- pinned to the ground, knee digging into the small of the crook's back, handcuffs glinting in the glaring Oahu sun as he snaps them in place.
“You're seriously still going with that?” Danny mutters, scrubbing at his forehead with the back of his wrist.
His face is bright red, partly from exertion and partly, Steve thinks, from sunburn. It's been a hell of a long day spent out in the hot sun, tramping along miles of beach and in and out of alleys and streets, and while he's been out in worse conditions throughout his career, well, Danny's a Jersey boy who isn't exactly used to the heat. He's spent the day bitching about the damned unnatural climate and everything else he can think of, which, for Danny, is really just par for the course. Combine that with a foot chase that had them all sprinting through the heat for the better part of half an hour, and even Steve is ready to call it a day.
The perp wriggles as the handcuffs click over his wrists, and Danny digs his knee further into the guy's back. “Seriously? Quit squirming. No, I mean it. I have you pinned to the ground, handcuffed, and I am sitting on your thighs. Where do you think you're gonna go? You think that somehow you're just going to spring to your feet and make a beeline for freedom? Waltz off into the sunset? Just stay put and let these nice officers put you in the squad car. The station's air-conditioned, you'll appreciate it. I know I'm looking forward to getting somewhere where there's A/C.”
Danny pushes himself to his feet as two uniformed HPD officers take the guy by both elbows and haul him off, and Steve feels his heart skip a beat when he sees his partner stagger slightly. He doesn't have time to do much more than take a step back toward him when Danny shakes his head once, as though trying to clear it, then straightens, brushing himself off and making an abortive attempt to straighten his tie.
“You okay, Danny?”
“What? Yeah, fine.”
But Danny's subdued, walks back to the car with his head down, hands limp by his sides, and that's enough right there to make Steve anxious, especially when he slides into the passenger seat of his own car without so much as a single sarcastic comment in Steve's direction about control issues, high-speed chases, or death-defying stunts. He cranks up the A/C before leaning back in his seat, and when Steve steals a glance at him he can see the corners of his mouth pulling down, as though he's in pain. Steve purses his lips, pulls away in silence, and without so much as consulting his partner starts heading toward his own home. It takes a while, but eventually Danny does notice.
“McGarrett, where the hell are you taking us?”
“Home.”
“No, see, this is the way to your home, when we should be heading to the precinct. I don't know if you noticed, but we have an active case we just closed, and that means spending the night in the comforting arms of a stack of paperwork.” Danny reaches up and pinches the bridge of his nose between his eyes.
“Headache?”
“No. Yes. Your erratic behaviour is headache-inducing,” Danny grumbles, bringing up another hand to press gingerly to his temple. “I'm amazed I don't have a permanent migraine from working with you.”
“And it has nothing to do with the sunburn you got,” Steve points out drily. “Did you at least wear sunscreen?”
“Christ, McGarrett, are you my mother all of a sudden? Yes, I put on sunblock, but it must have worn off,” Danny leans forward, though it looks like the movement costs him, and flips open the glove compartment from which he grabs a bottle of Tylenol. He dry-swallows two, and Steve sees his throat working for a moment, as though he's trying not to be sick.
“I got some stuff at home you can put on the burn, it'll help. It's got aloe,” he offers, vaguely apologetic, as though it's somehow his fault Danny got sunburned.
“We should be going to the precinct, not stopping for aloe lotion,” Danny mutters, slumping in his seat, but it's definitely not a refusal.
He really doesn't look good, Steve thinks. He's pale under the sunburn, circles under his eyes, his expression pinched, and after a moment Steve realizes that, in spite of looking like he's spent a few days in a vegetable steamer, Danny's not sweating at all. His shirt is even starting to dry, after being sweat-soaked all day long. He lets his head fall back against the seat, eyes closing, and that’s when Steve really starts to worry.
“Hey, Danno, you with me?” He gets only an inarticulate hum in response, and on impulse he reaches over and presses a hand to his partner's face. Danny jerks a bit, pulling away. “Yeah, okay, you need medical attention.”
That gets a reaction. “No. Dammit, McGarrett, I'm fine. I just need some sleep.”
“Says the fact that I can practically feel your body temperature rising from here. You get enough to drink today?”
“Yeah, didn't you see the twelve-pack of Gatorade I carried in my holster all day?” Danny's slurring his words, hasn't bothered opening his eyes. “Just take me home, would you?”
Steve purses his lips, but at least Danny's agreed to go home rather than insisting on his ridiculous notion of going back to work in his condition. It’s heat exhaustion, probably: Steve's seen enough of it in his day, and he's got supplies to deal with it at home. He pulls up in front of his house, steals another glance at his partner, who hasn't so much as twitched, though he's looking even more flushed. A hand to the back of Danny's neck confirms that he's overheating more than before, so Steve hauls him unceremoniously out of the passenger seat, trying not to worry when Danny’s knees buckle and he sags against him.
“Okay, Danny, here we go... God, you're heavy for a short guy,” he grunts, hauling one of his arms up over his shoulders. It's unsettling, having Danny so quiet, and he finds himself talking to fill the silence. “Come on, it's not far, hey...” he tightens his grip as Danny tries to jerk away, but his partner shoves weakly at him with one hand.
“Leggo, McGarrett,” he manages, throat working, and the next thing Steve knows Danny's on his knees, doubled over and vomiting, one arm still in Steve's grip, the other wrapped around his stomach. He groans, sucks in a shaking breath. “So much for my fourteen-year streak.”
Steve pats his back awkwardly. “You done?”
“Think so,” Danny wipes his mouth on the back of his arm. “God, I hate puking.”
“Yeah, I don't think anyone really enjoys it. Come on, let's get you up.”
“Fuck,” is the succinct reply to that suggestion. Then, when Steve tries to insist, “C'mon. Gimme a sec, here. Dizzy.”
A second is just about all Steve's willing to give him. No way he’s letting one of his own languish outside on his hands and knees when he could be inside getting taken care of. Danny's built on the small side, but that doesn't exactly make him a lightweight, and they both end up staggering a little drunkenly as Steve does his best to manoeuvre him inside and hauls him into the bedroom, where he drops him on the bed and sets about loosening his tie. Danny bats vaguely at his hands.
“Tryin' to undress me already, McGarrett? Not that kind of girl,” he quirks a smile, but it's weak, his gaze unfocused.
“No one could ever accuse you of being easy,” Steve agrees with him, easily dodging the feeble attempts to fend him off. “Only you would engage in a day-long case on foot dressed in long sleeves and a tie. Maybe this'll convince you your dress code is stupid.”
He pulls Danny's shirt off entirely, props him up on a pillow, eases off his shoes and socks, and then finds himself hesitating when it comes to unbuckling his belt. Jesus. Has it really come to this? He puffs out his cheeks in a sigh, leaves the pants where they are.
“Stay put, okay? I'm getting you something to drink, and the first aid kit, while I'm at it.”
He doesn't get an answer, but he wasn't really expecting one. He's got some Gatorade in the fridge, but he sets a pot of water to boil on the stove, just in case, yanks the thermometer out of the first aid kit and heads back to the bedroom, trying very hard to ignore the fact that he's got a half-naked Danny Williams sprawled out on his bed. Well, just the half-naked part, anyway. It's not like this is a good time to be thinking about that, anyway. Focus, McGarrett, he tells himself sternly.
“Open up, Danno,” he shakes his partner by the shoulder, holds out the thermometer. “Gotta see how bad it is.” He doesn't wait for an answer, just slides the thermometer into Danny's mouth, and ignores the glare he gets in response. “Under your tongue. Humour me. You gonna puke again?”
He gets a shrug, but Danny's breathing hard through his nose, head tilted back against the pillows, and Steve picks up the wastebasket he keeps by the bed, rescues the thermometer when it beeps, and barely has the time to catch Danny and keep him from face-planting when another bout of vomiting jackknifes him over the side of the bed. Steve sighs, puts a hand on his back and rubs between his shoulders with his thumb until Danny's just dry-heaving miserably into the basket. When Danny's settled again he checks the thermometer, and directs a disapproving stare at him before handing him a plastic bottle of Gatorade, cap twisted off and tossed onto the night table.
“Drink. Slowly, small sips, but I want you to drink it all. You're way too hot.”
“Worse'n my mother,” Danny mumbles, the bottle nestled in his lap, and Steve doesn't know if he should be relieved or worried that Danny apparently missed the double-entendre. Danny doesn't move, so Steve grabs the hand holding the bottle and raises it to his partner's mouth, and Danny obediently takes a sip and makes a face at the taste, not that Steve can blame him -it's orange-flavoured, which is just gross, but it was on sale at the time.
“Keep drinking, I'll be right back.”
The water's boiling by the time he gets back to the kitchen, so it's easy enough to dissolve sugar and salt in it and set it aside to cool. He figures they'll need it before the night's over. The Gatorade doesn't look like it's been touched when he returns to the bedroom with ice packs, a bowl of water and a wash cloth, and Danny's eyes are closed again.
“Danny,” he says firmly, trying to get his partner to focus. “I need to get you cooled down, okay? You're bordering on heat stroke territory, here. This is going to be cold, I'm warning you. Hold this, okay?”
In spite of the warning, Danny jerks a bit at the first contact of the ice pack against his chest. Steve grabs both his hands and clamps them firmly over the ice pack to keep it in place, shoves two more ice packs under his arms, ignoring the moan of protest he gets as a response. He folds the wet washcloth neatly in two, starts wiping gently at Danny's face, neck and chest.
“You need to talk to me. Say something so I know you're still coherent. Danny,” he repeats the name, trying to rouse his partner. “Come on, Danny. Talk to me.”
Danny's eyelids flutter. “Did hell freeze over?”
“What?”
Danny manages a shaky grin. “You're asking me to talk. I figure hell must've frozen over.”
He lets out a relieved laugh, more of a huff of air than anything else. “Yeah, well, can't blame me for worrying. You've got a hell of a fever.” He keeps smoothing the cloth over Danny's chest, wets it again, and Danny squirms and mutters something he doesn't quite catch. “What?”
“Cold.”
“Yeah, that's the idea.” He wonders if it's too early to take Danny's temperature again, shrugs and figures to hell with it and coaxes the thermometer back into his mouth. He scowls at the result. “Shit, Danno, how the hell is your fever going up?”
Danny shifts on the bed, mumbles something, but the only word Steve catches is 'Grace.' He bites his lip. This isn't good.
“Danny, you need a hospital?” He meant it as a statement, but somehow it comes out as a question. It does get him a response, though. Danny's eyes open halfway, and he shakes his head.
“No, no hospital. Hate them. Be fine.”
“Danny...”
“No!” the denial is more emphatic, this time. “Nothing but waiting and they smell of antiseptic and death.” Danny grabs at his arm, eyes glassy and unfocused. Steve feels his mouth go dry, but he doesn't try to pry Danny's fingers away. “Please.”
“I can't believe I actually understood you.” Steve rolls his eyes, finds himself relenting in spite of his better judgement. “Fine, but if your fever doesn't go down in a couple of hours, I'm vetoing your decision, hospital phobia or no, got it?”
After a while, though, it feels like he's fighting a losing battle. He swaps out the ice packs until they’re all too warm to use again right away, ignores Danny's murmured protests, and when none of it seems to do any good he gives up and removes Danny's pants and his undershirt, stripping him right down to his underwear before starting the process of pressing wet towels to his skin again in a futile attempt to bring his temperature down.
“I never would have figured you for the boxer-brief type, Danno,” he jokes, but the smile fades from his face when that doesn't get so much as a twitch in response. He digs out a tympanic thermometer from the bathroom even though he doesn't trust the things at all, swears under his breath when he sees just how high Danny's temperature has climbed in spite of his best efforts. He should be taking him to a hospital -it's stupid to treat him for heat stroke at home when there's a perfectly good hospital less than fifteen minutes away, but that desperate 'please' got past all his defences, and he doesn't want Danny waking up in some strange, antiseptic-smelling place if he can help it.
“Is it Friday?”
“What?” the question catches him off-guard.
Danny tries unsuccessfully to push himself off the bed. “Have to pick up Grace from school...”
Steve puts a hand on his chest to hold him down. “Take it easy, Danno. It's Tuesday, you're fine. Don't worry, okay?”
“You sure?” He sounds worried.
“I'm sure. I'd tell you otherwise, promise.”
“Okay,” Danny's head lolls back, but he seems more relaxed, the nervous tension leaving his body. “Thanks.”
“Anytime. Hey, hey!” Steve shakes him again as his eyes close. “No passing out on me, Danno. Stay with me. What day is it, Danny?”
Danny blinks. “Is it Friday?”
Steve sighs. “No, it's not. Okay, stay put. We're gonna try something else.”
He pats Danny's knee, makes sure he's not about to pass out or puke, and goes to draw a lukewarm bath, leaving the door open on the off-chance that Danny's still with it enough to call out if he gets into serious trouble. He doesn't hear anything, though, and by the time he gets back Danny's out cold, breathing shallow, and barely rouses when Steve shakes him roughly by the shoulder.
“Last chance, Danny. If this doesn't work, it's the hospital for you. Hell, if I had any sense at all I'd already be calling an ambulance, but it's not like you haven't accused me of having no common sense, so I guess I'm just proving you right. Up you come,” he slides an arm under Danny's shoulder to sit him up, and ignores the way his heart skips a little as Danny just lets himself list against his chest, the gesture all too trusting and maybe a little too intimate for comfort.
Danny's not getting up under his own power, that much is obvious, so he hooks his free arm under his knees and simply carries him the few feet to the bathroom, cradled against his chest. He sends up a mental prayer for forgiveness to whatever deity might be in the mood to listen, just on principle, then tugs Danny's boxer-briefs off before lowering him into the tub. Danny jerks and thrashes weakly when he comes into contact with the water, and it takes something of a heroic effort for Steve to keep him still and not have entirely misplaced and moderately inappropriate feelings for his sick and otherwise very heterosexual partner. God. If he believed in hell, that's absolutely where he'd be going, and he's obviously been spending way too much time with Danny, because his train of thought is all over the place. Focus, he reminds himself sharply.
“Easy, Danno, it's just water. You don't even have to swim, I promise. Easy, now,” he murmurs softly, and just like that Danny relaxes again and lies still. Steve grabs another wash cloth, wets it in the tub and starts working in gentle circles, letting the water drip down Danny's face and soak into his hair. “This doesn't work, you're going to the hospital,” he repeats.
Danny moans quietly, but after a few minutes he stirs a bit, turning his face into Steve's hand. Before he quite realizes what he's doing Steve finds himself smoothing his free hand over Danny's hair and murmuring something that sounds perilously close to soothing nonsense, and he is ridiculously, pathetically grateful that there's no one around to hear him make an idiot of himself. A moment later he finds himself staring into a pair of slightly confused blue eyes, and he pulls back a little, trying to school his features into something that with a little luck might pass for inscrutability, supposing Danny's still a little out of it.
“Welcome back, Danno. Can you stay here and not drown while I get the thermometer?” Danny manages a nod, questions still written all over his face, but he's apparently still too dazed to verbalize any of them. Steve forces himself not to run to fetch the thermometer, comes back, half-expecting to find Danny passed out again, and is relieved to find him still awake and trying to sit up. “Here, hold still,” he places the thermometer in his ear, puts a hand on his shoulder to keep him still.
“McGarrett, why am I naked and in your bathtub?” the complaint is weak, but Steve thinks he's never been so happy to hear Danny bitch before.
“You have heat stroke, you ass,” he manages to keep his tone matter-of-fact. “And since you begged not to go to the hospital, this was the next-best thing I could come up with.” The thermometer beeps, and he checks the readout with something akin to satisfaction. “One-oh-two. It'll do. Better than one-oh-five, by a long stretch, anyway. And you accuse me of doing nothing by halves.”
Danny just blinks at him. “Did I hallucinate you petting me?”
“Yes.”
“Liar.”
He allows himself a chuckle. “Prove it.”
“Can I get out now? I'm naked and freezing.”
“You just think you're freezing. You're not getting out until your temp's under one-oh-one.”
“Come on, McGarrett,” Danny makes a belated and abortive attempt to shield himself with his hands. “It's one thing when I'm unconscious or whatever, but you gotta leave me some dignity, here. Okay, no, scratch that, I forgot I abdicated all my rights to any dignity when you dragooned me into being your partner-”
“Dragooned?”
“Dragooned,” Danny confirms. “But it's seriously unfair for me to wake up naked and vulnerable with you looming over me like that without having had any say in the matter. You can see how it puts a guy at a disadvantage, here, right? I mean, normally when a guy's all undressed in another guy's bathroom, there should at least be informed consent or something, all other intimacy issues aside, and-”
“Did the fever boil your brain?” Steve cuts through the flow of words, feeling his own face heat up in spite of him, goddamn it. “I knew should have taken you to a hospital.”
“No, no, it's good. I appreciate that you didn't, I just…” Danny thrashes a bit in the water, trying to sit up while still protecting what's left of his modesty and fighting off what looks like a hell of a dizzy spell, and Steve catches him by the shoulders as he slips on the wet porcelain and nearly cracks his skull on the side of the tub.
“Jesus, Danno, stop it!” he does a lousy job of keeping the anxiety out of his voice, thinks it might have come out sounding angry or, worse, a little panicked. “Quit it, you're going to hurt yourself. You want out, fine, we'll do that. Just... it's fine, you don't need to worry about this, okay?”
Christ, he's babbling. Worse than Danny even, who’s looking at him now as though he’s lost his mind, and maybe he has, a little bit, but it’s a little hard to keep his thoughts straight with Danny all but hanging off him and being distracting as hell while he’s trying really hard to stay professional. Well, as professional as can reasonably be expected when your partner is, as Danny put it, naked in your bathtub.
“I’m really sorry about this,” Danny says after a few minutes, when Steve has him settled on the bed, dried off and in borrowed clothes, propped up with a couple of pillows. He’s still a little out of it, but his temperature seems to be holding steady, still high but not dangerously so, and he’s been obediently sipping at the electrolyte solution Steve made up earlier, not even complaining about the taste, or about anything, really. It’s kind of a nice change, Steve thinks, perched beside him on the bed, watching him.
“Nothing to be sorry about -and keep drinking, you’re dehydrated.”
“This can’t be how you planned to spend your night.”
Steve shrugs. “I can think of worse things,” he says, then wishes there were a way he could actually physically kick himself, but Danny seems oblivious to what he just said.
“Not exactly the way I envisioned things going,” he says instead, leaning back tiredly, eyes slipping shut. Steve snakes out a hand to keep him from spilling his drink on the bed, pulling the glass away. “Kind of had something different in mind if I ever got into your bed.”
Steve blinks. “What?”
Danny’s eyes fly open, a little panicked. “Fuck, I said that out loud, didn’t I? Shit, I’m sorry,” he struggles back to a sitting position.
“No, it’s-” but Danny doesn’t give him time to say anything.
“Look, it’s just… I’m sorry, I know it’s not -that you’re not- and that’s fine, and we can just… you can chalk it up to the heat stroke and we’ll pretend that I didn’t just make a weird, delirious pass at you, so that way you won’t feel like you have to let me down gently, or whatever. Because that would make it awkward, and I don’t want that -for it to be awkward, because it’s not, it’s been good, and I don’t want to screw that up, and-”
“Danny!”
It’s Danny’s turn to blink. “What?”
It’s now or never, Steve thinks, and he leans forward. “Shut up, already,” he tells him, and brushes his lips against Danny’s, half-expecting his partner to pull away, or punch him, or something.
To his surprise, Danny laughs quietly against his mouth. “McGarrett, your timing is fucking terrible,” he huffs, dropping his head to rest his forehead against Steve’s clavicle, and Steve grins and can’t help but agree, because really, kissing someone when they’re half out of their mind with fever? The definition of bad timing.
“I’ll have to work on that.”
“That and everything else,” Danny doesn’t move, though, and it feels nice, to have him there. He fits pretty nicely right under Steve’s chin, actually.
“You should get some sleep,” Steve murmurs.
“Yeah, no, ‘m good here.”
Steve rolls his eyes. “Fine.” He shifts Danny bodily toward the middle of the bed and eases in beside him, and Danny just settles against him as though they’ve been doing this forever instead of maybe thirty seconds, and within minutes his breathing has evened out into sleep. It’s comfortable, the way everything else with Danny has felt comfortable from the start, so Steve figures maybe he shouldn’t question any of it too hard -he’ll leave that part to Danny, who’s always better at overthinking things. He lays a hand briefly on Danny’s head, and allows himself a fond smile, because no one’s looking, anyway.
“Sleep well, Danno.”
Summary: Danny spends a little too long outside in the Hawaii heat, leaving Steve to deal with the fallout.
Characters: Steve/Danny
Rating: PG-13, slash
Wordcount: 4,224
Disclaimer: I haven’t even been to Hawaii, alas. I have no claim to lay to any of it.
Warnings: verrrry mild slash, swearing, no spoilers
Neurotic Author's Note #1: So, uh, I kind of wrote slash. Again. Very mild slash. Like, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it slash. But yeah. And it’s in a fandom that’s not SPN. Again. I don’t know what’s happening to me, but apparently I am no longer monogamous in my fandom love.
Neurotic Author's Note #2: Shameless, shameless h/c. It's all fever and delirium and puking, and there is no plot. I started out writing a different story than this, but it’s not done yet and this happened instead. klutzy_girl, your H50 fic is still in the works, I promise!
Neurotic Author's Note #3: I am feeling waffly about my McGarrett ‘voice.’ He’s kind of a tough nut to crack, but the story didn’t seem to want to work from Danno’s POV, so there you have it.
“Book 'em, Danno,” Steve is already walking away from where Danny has their latest dirtbag -sorry, suspect- pinned to the ground, knee digging into the small of the crook's back, handcuffs glinting in the glaring Oahu sun as he snaps them in place.
“You're seriously still going with that?” Danny mutters, scrubbing at his forehead with the back of his wrist.
His face is bright red, partly from exertion and partly, Steve thinks, from sunburn. It's been a hell of a long day spent out in the hot sun, tramping along miles of beach and in and out of alleys and streets, and while he's been out in worse conditions throughout his career, well, Danny's a Jersey boy who isn't exactly used to the heat. He's spent the day bitching about the damned unnatural climate and everything else he can think of, which, for Danny, is really just par for the course. Combine that with a foot chase that had them all sprinting through the heat for the better part of half an hour, and even Steve is ready to call it a day.
The perp wriggles as the handcuffs click over his wrists, and Danny digs his knee further into the guy's back. “Seriously? Quit squirming. No, I mean it. I have you pinned to the ground, handcuffed, and I am sitting on your thighs. Where do you think you're gonna go? You think that somehow you're just going to spring to your feet and make a beeline for freedom? Waltz off into the sunset? Just stay put and let these nice officers put you in the squad car. The station's air-conditioned, you'll appreciate it. I know I'm looking forward to getting somewhere where there's A/C.”
Danny pushes himself to his feet as two uniformed HPD officers take the guy by both elbows and haul him off, and Steve feels his heart skip a beat when he sees his partner stagger slightly. He doesn't have time to do much more than take a step back toward him when Danny shakes his head once, as though trying to clear it, then straightens, brushing himself off and making an abortive attempt to straighten his tie.
“You okay, Danny?”
“What? Yeah, fine.”
But Danny's subdued, walks back to the car with his head down, hands limp by his sides, and that's enough right there to make Steve anxious, especially when he slides into the passenger seat of his own car without so much as a single sarcastic comment in Steve's direction about control issues, high-speed chases, or death-defying stunts. He cranks up the A/C before leaning back in his seat, and when Steve steals a glance at him he can see the corners of his mouth pulling down, as though he's in pain. Steve purses his lips, pulls away in silence, and without so much as consulting his partner starts heading toward his own home. It takes a while, but eventually Danny does notice.
“McGarrett, where the hell are you taking us?”
“Home.”
“No, see, this is the way to your home, when we should be heading to the precinct. I don't know if you noticed, but we have an active case we just closed, and that means spending the night in the comforting arms of a stack of paperwork.” Danny reaches up and pinches the bridge of his nose between his eyes.
“Headache?”
“No. Yes. Your erratic behaviour is headache-inducing,” Danny grumbles, bringing up another hand to press gingerly to his temple. “I'm amazed I don't have a permanent migraine from working with you.”
“And it has nothing to do with the sunburn you got,” Steve points out drily. “Did you at least wear sunscreen?”
“Christ, McGarrett, are you my mother all of a sudden? Yes, I put on sunblock, but it must have worn off,” Danny leans forward, though it looks like the movement costs him, and flips open the glove compartment from which he grabs a bottle of Tylenol. He dry-swallows two, and Steve sees his throat working for a moment, as though he's trying not to be sick.
“I got some stuff at home you can put on the burn, it'll help. It's got aloe,” he offers, vaguely apologetic, as though it's somehow his fault Danny got sunburned.
“We should be going to the precinct, not stopping for aloe lotion,” Danny mutters, slumping in his seat, but it's definitely not a refusal.
He really doesn't look good, Steve thinks. He's pale under the sunburn, circles under his eyes, his expression pinched, and after a moment Steve realizes that, in spite of looking like he's spent a few days in a vegetable steamer, Danny's not sweating at all. His shirt is even starting to dry, after being sweat-soaked all day long. He lets his head fall back against the seat, eyes closing, and that’s when Steve really starts to worry.
“Hey, Danno, you with me?” He gets only an inarticulate hum in response, and on impulse he reaches over and presses a hand to his partner's face. Danny jerks a bit, pulling away. “Yeah, okay, you need medical attention.”
That gets a reaction. “No. Dammit, McGarrett, I'm fine. I just need some sleep.”
“Says the fact that I can practically feel your body temperature rising from here. You get enough to drink today?”
“Yeah, didn't you see the twelve-pack of Gatorade I carried in my holster all day?” Danny's slurring his words, hasn't bothered opening his eyes. “Just take me home, would you?”
Steve purses his lips, but at least Danny's agreed to go home rather than insisting on his ridiculous notion of going back to work in his condition. It’s heat exhaustion, probably: Steve's seen enough of it in his day, and he's got supplies to deal with it at home. He pulls up in front of his house, steals another glance at his partner, who hasn't so much as twitched, though he's looking even more flushed. A hand to the back of Danny's neck confirms that he's overheating more than before, so Steve hauls him unceremoniously out of the passenger seat, trying not to worry when Danny’s knees buckle and he sags against him.
“Okay, Danny, here we go... God, you're heavy for a short guy,” he grunts, hauling one of his arms up over his shoulders. It's unsettling, having Danny so quiet, and he finds himself talking to fill the silence. “Come on, it's not far, hey...” he tightens his grip as Danny tries to jerk away, but his partner shoves weakly at him with one hand.
“Leggo, McGarrett,” he manages, throat working, and the next thing Steve knows Danny's on his knees, doubled over and vomiting, one arm still in Steve's grip, the other wrapped around his stomach. He groans, sucks in a shaking breath. “So much for my fourteen-year streak.”
Steve pats his back awkwardly. “You done?”
“Think so,” Danny wipes his mouth on the back of his arm. “God, I hate puking.”
“Yeah, I don't think anyone really enjoys it. Come on, let's get you up.”
“Fuck,” is the succinct reply to that suggestion. Then, when Steve tries to insist, “C'mon. Gimme a sec, here. Dizzy.”
A second is just about all Steve's willing to give him. No way he’s letting one of his own languish outside on his hands and knees when he could be inside getting taken care of. Danny's built on the small side, but that doesn't exactly make him a lightweight, and they both end up staggering a little drunkenly as Steve does his best to manoeuvre him inside and hauls him into the bedroom, where he drops him on the bed and sets about loosening his tie. Danny bats vaguely at his hands.
“Tryin' to undress me already, McGarrett? Not that kind of girl,” he quirks a smile, but it's weak, his gaze unfocused.
“No one could ever accuse you of being easy,” Steve agrees with him, easily dodging the feeble attempts to fend him off. “Only you would engage in a day-long case on foot dressed in long sleeves and a tie. Maybe this'll convince you your dress code is stupid.”
He pulls Danny's shirt off entirely, props him up on a pillow, eases off his shoes and socks, and then finds himself hesitating when it comes to unbuckling his belt. Jesus. Has it really come to this? He puffs out his cheeks in a sigh, leaves the pants where they are.
“Stay put, okay? I'm getting you something to drink, and the first aid kit, while I'm at it.”
He doesn't get an answer, but he wasn't really expecting one. He's got some Gatorade in the fridge, but he sets a pot of water to boil on the stove, just in case, yanks the thermometer out of the first aid kit and heads back to the bedroom, trying very hard to ignore the fact that he's got a half-naked Danny Williams sprawled out on his bed. Well, just the half-naked part, anyway. It's not like this is a good time to be thinking about that, anyway. Focus, McGarrett, he tells himself sternly.
“Open up, Danno,” he shakes his partner by the shoulder, holds out the thermometer. “Gotta see how bad it is.” He doesn't wait for an answer, just slides the thermometer into Danny's mouth, and ignores the glare he gets in response. “Under your tongue. Humour me. You gonna puke again?”
He gets a shrug, but Danny's breathing hard through his nose, head tilted back against the pillows, and Steve picks up the wastebasket he keeps by the bed, rescues the thermometer when it beeps, and barely has the time to catch Danny and keep him from face-planting when another bout of vomiting jackknifes him over the side of the bed. Steve sighs, puts a hand on his back and rubs between his shoulders with his thumb until Danny's just dry-heaving miserably into the basket. When Danny's settled again he checks the thermometer, and directs a disapproving stare at him before handing him a plastic bottle of Gatorade, cap twisted off and tossed onto the night table.
“Drink. Slowly, small sips, but I want you to drink it all. You're way too hot.”
“Worse'n my mother,” Danny mumbles, the bottle nestled in his lap, and Steve doesn't know if he should be relieved or worried that Danny apparently missed the double-entendre. Danny doesn't move, so Steve grabs the hand holding the bottle and raises it to his partner's mouth, and Danny obediently takes a sip and makes a face at the taste, not that Steve can blame him -it's orange-flavoured, which is just gross, but it was on sale at the time.
“Keep drinking, I'll be right back.”
The water's boiling by the time he gets back to the kitchen, so it's easy enough to dissolve sugar and salt in it and set it aside to cool. He figures they'll need it before the night's over. The Gatorade doesn't look like it's been touched when he returns to the bedroom with ice packs, a bowl of water and a wash cloth, and Danny's eyes are closed again.
“Danny,” he says firmly, trying to get his partner to focus. “I need to get you cooled down, okay? You're bordering on heat stroke territory, here. This is going to be cold, I'm warning you. Hold this, okay?”
In spite of the warning, Danny jerks a bit at the first contact of the ice pack against his chest. Steve grabs both his hands and clamps them firmly over the ice pack to keep it in place, shoves two more ice packs under his arms, ignoring the moan of protest he gets as a response. He folds the wet washcloth neatly in two, starts wiping gently at Danny's face, neck and chest.
“You need to talk to me. Say something so I know you're still coherent. Danny,” he repeats the name, trying to rouse his partner. “Come on, Danny. Talk to me.”
Danny's eyelids flutter. “Did hell freeze over?”
“What?”
Danny manages a shaky grin. “You're asking me to talk. I figure hell must've frozen over.”
He lets out a relieved laugh, more of a huff of air than anything else. “Yeah, well, can't blame me for worrying. You've got a hell of a fever.” He keeps smoothing the cloth over Danny's chest, wets it again, and Danny squirms and mutters something he doesn't quite catch. “What?”
“Cold.”
“Yeah, that's the idea.” He wonders if it's too early to take Danny's temperature again, shrugs and figures to hell with it and coaxes the thermometer back into his mouth. He scowls at the result. “Shit, Danno, how the hell is your fever going up?”
Danny shifts on the bed, mumbles something, but the only word Steve catches is 'Grace.' He bites his lip. This isn't good.
“Danny, you need a hospital?” He meant it as a statement, but somehow it comes out as a question. It does get him a response, though. Danny's eyes open halfway, and he shakes his head.
“No, no hospital. Hate them. Be fine.”
“Danny...”
“No!” the denial is more emphatic, this time. “Nothing but waiting and they smell of antiseptic and death.” Danny grabs at his arm, eyes glassy and unfocused. Steve feels his mouth go dry, but he doesn't try to pry Danny's fingers away. “Please.”
“I can't believe I actually understood you.” Steve rolls his eyes, finds himself relenting in spite of his better judgement. “Fine, but if your fever doesn't go down in a couple of hours, I'm vetoing your decision, hospital phobia or no, got it?”
After a while, though, it feels like he's fighting a losing battle. He swaps out the ice packs until they’re all too warm to use again right away, ignores Danny's murmured protests, and when none of it seems to do any good he gives up and removes Danny's pants and his undershirt, stripping him right down to his underwear before starting the process of pressing wet towels to his skin again in a futile attempt to bring his temperature down.
“I never would have figured you for the boxer-brief type, Danno,” he jokes, but the smile fades from his face when that doesn't get so much as a twitch in response. He digs out a tympanic thermometer from the bathroom even though he doesn't trust the things at all, swears under his breath when he sees just how high Danny's temperature has climbed in spite of his best efforts. He should be taking him to a hospital -it's stupid to treat him for heat stroke at home when there's a perfectly good hospital less than fifteen minutes away, but that desperate 'please' got past all his defences, and he doesn't want Danny waking up in some strange, antiseptic-smelling place if he can help it.
“Is it Friday?”
“What?” the question catches him off-guard.
Danny tries unsuccessfully to push himself off the bed. “Have to pick up Grace from school...”
Steve puts a hand on his chest to hold him down. “Take it easy, Danno. It's Tuesday, you're fine. Don't worry, okay?”
“You sure?” He sounds worried.
“I'm sure. I'd tell you otherwise, promise.”
“Okay,” Danny's head lolls back, but he seems more relaxed, the nervous tension leaving his body. “Thanks.”
“Anytime. Hey, hey!” Steve shakes him again as his eyes close. “No passing out on me, Danno. Stay with me. What day is it, Danny?”
Danny blinks. “Is it Friday?”
Steve sighs. “No, it's not. Okay, stay put. We're gonna try something else.”
He pats Danny's knee, makes sure he's not about to pass out or puke, and goes to draw a lukewarm bath, leaving the door open on the off-chance that Danny's still with it enough to call out if he gets into serious trouble. He doesn't hear anything, though, and by the time he gets back Danny's out cold, breathing shallow, and barely rouses when Steve shakes him roughly by the shoulder.
“Last chance, Danny. If this doesn't work, it's the hospital for you. Hell, if I had any sense at all I'd already be calling an ambulance, but it's not like you haven't accused me of having no common sense, so I guess I'm just proving you right. Up you come,” he slides an arm under Danny's shoulder to sit him up, and ignores the way his heart skips a little as Danny just lets himself list against his chest, the gesture all too trusting and maybe a little too intimate for comfort.
Danny's not getting up under his own power, that much is obvious, so he hooks his free arm under his knees and simply carries him the few feet to the bathroom, cradled against his chest. He sends up a mental prayer for forgiveness to whatever deity might be in the mood to listen, just on principle, then tugs Danny's boxer-briefs off before lowering him into the tub. Danny jerks and thrashes weakly when he comes into contact with the water, and it takes something of a heroic effort for Steve to keep him still and not have entirely misplaced and moderately inappropriate feelings for his sick and otherwise very heterosexual partner. God. If he believed in hell, that's absolutely where he'd be going, and he's obviously been spending way too much time with Danny, because his train of thought is all over the place. Focus, he reminds himself sharply.
“Easy, Danno, it's just water. You don't even have to swim, I promise. Easy, now,” he murmurs softly, and just like that Danny relaxes again and lies still. Steve grabs another wash cloth, wets it in the tub and starts working in gentle circles, letting the water drip down Danny's face and soak into his hair. “This doesn't work, you're going to the hospital,” he repeats.
Danny moans quietly, but after a few minutes he stirs a bit, turning his face into Steve's hand. Before he quite realizes what he's doing Steve finds himself smoothing his free hand over Danny's hair and murmuring something that sounds perilously close to soothing nonsense, and he is ridiculously, pathetically grateful that there's no one around to hear him make an idiot of himself. A moment later he finds himself staring into a pair of slightly confused blue eyes, and he pulls back a little, trying to school his features into something that with a little luck might pass for inscrutability, supposing Danny's still a little out of it.
“Welcome back, Danno. Can you stay here and not drown while I get the thermometer?” Danny manages a nod, questions still written all over his face, but he's apparently still too dazed to verbalize any of them. Steve forces himself not to run to fetch the thermometer, comes back, half-expecting to find Danny passed out again, and is relieved to find him still awake and trying to sit up. “Here, hold still,” he places the thermometer in his ear, puts a hand on his shoulder to keep him still.
“McGarrett, why am I naked and in your bathtub?” the complaint is weak, but Steve thinks he's never been so happy to hear Danny bitch before.
“You have heat stroke, you ass,” he manages to keep his tone matter-of-fact. “And since you begged not to go to the hospital, this was the next-best thing I could come up with.” The thermometer beeps, and he checks the readout with something akin to satisfaction. “One-oh-two. It'll do. Better than one-oh-five, by a long stretch, anyway. And you accuse me of doing nothing by halves.”
Danny just blinks at him. “Did I hallucinate you petting me?”
“Yes.”
“Liar.”
He allows himself a chuckle. “Prove it.”
“Can I get out now? I'm naked and freezing.”
“You just think you're freezing. You're not getting out until your temp's under one-oh-one.”
“Come on, McGarrett,” Danny makes a belated and abortive attempt to shield himself with his hands. “It's one thing when I'm unconscious or whatever, but you gotta leave me some dignity, here. Okay, no, scratch that, I forgot I abdicated all my rights to any dignity when you dragooned me into being your partner-”
“Dragooned?”
“Dragooned,” Danny confirms. “But it's seriously unfair for me to wake up naked and vulnerable with you looming over me like that without having had any say in the matter. You can see how it puts a guy at a disadvantage, here, right? I mean, normally when a guy's all undressed in another guy's bathroom, there should at least be informed consent or something, all other intimacy issues aside, and-”
“Did the fever boil your brain?” Steve cuts through the flow of words, feeling his own face heat up in spite of him, goddamn it. “I knew should have taken you to a hospital.”
“No, no, it's good. I appreciate that you didn't, I just…” Danny thrashes a bit in the water, trying to sit up while still protecting what's left of his modesty and fighting off what looks like a hell of a dizzy spell, and Steve catches him by the shoulders as he slips on the wet porcelain and nearly cracks his skull on the side of the tub.
“Jesus, Danno, stop it!” he does a lousy job of keeping the anxiety out of his voice, thinks it might have come out sounding angry or, worse, a little panicked. “Quit it, you're going to hurt yourself. You want out, fine, we'll do that. Just... it's fine, you don't need to worry about this, okay?”
Christ, he's babbling. Worse than Danny even, who’s looking at him now as though he’s lost his mind, and maybe he has, a little bit, but it’s a little hard to keep his thoughts straight with Danny all but hanging off him and being distracting as hell while he’s trying really hard to stay professional. Well, as professional as can reasonably be expected when your partner is, as Danny put it, naked in your bathtub.
“I’m really sorry about this,” Danny says after a few minutes, when Steve has him settled on the bed, dried off and in borrowed clothes, propped up with a couple of pillows. He’s still a little out of it, but his temperature seems to be holding steady, still high but not dangerously so, and he’s been obediently sipping at the electrolyte solution Steve made up earlier, not even complaining about the taste, or about anything, really. It’s kind of a nice change, Steve thinks, perched beside him on the bed, watching him.
“Nothing to be sorry about -and keep drinking, you’re dehydrated.”
“This can’t be how you planned to spend your night.”
Steve shrugs. “I can think of worse things,” he says, then wishes there were a way he could actually physically kick himself, but Danny seems oblivious to what he just said.
“Not exactly the way I envisioned things going,” he says instead, leaning back tiredly, eyes slipping shut. Steve snakes out a hand to keep him from spilling his drink on the bed, pulling the glass away. “Kind of had something different in mind if I ever got into your bed.”
Steve blinks. “What?”
Danny’s eyes fly open, a little panicked. “Fuck, I said that out loud, didn’t I? Shit, I’m sorry,” he struggles back to a sitting position.
“No, it’s-” but Danny doesn’t give him time to say anything.
“Look, it’s just… I’m sorry, I know it’s not -that you’re not- and that’s fine, and we can just… you can chalk it up to the heat stroke and we’ll pretend that I didn’t just make a weird, delirious pass at you, so that way you won’t feel like you have to let me down gently, or whatever. Because that would make it awkward, and I don’t want that -for it to be awkward, because it’s not, it’s been good, and I don’t want to screw that up, and-”
“Danny!”
It’s Danny’s turn to blink. “What?”
It’s now or never, Steve thinks, and he leans forward. “Shut up, already,” he tells him, and brushes his lips against Danny’s, half-expecting his partner to pull away, or punch him, or something.
To his surprise, Danny laughs quietly against his mouth. “McGarrett, your timing is fucking terrible,” he huffs, dropping his head to rest his forehead against Steve’s clavicle, and Steve grins and can’t help but agree, because really, kissing someone when they’re half out of their mind with fever? The definition of bad timing.
“I’ll have to work on that.”
“That and everything else,” Danny doesn’t move, though, and it feels nice, to have him there. He fits pretty nicely right under Steve’s chin, actually.
“You should get some sleep,” Steve murmurs.
“Yeah, no, ‘m good here.”
Steve rolls his eyes. “Fine.” He shifts Danny bodily toward the middle of the bed and eases in beside him, and Danny just settles against him as though they’ve been doing this forever instead of maybe thirty seconds, and within minutes his breathing has evened out into sleep. It’s comfortable, the way everything else with Danny has felt comfortable from the start, so Steve figures maybe he shouldn’t question any of it too hard -he’ll leave that part to Danny, who’s always better at overthinking things. He lays a hand briefly on Danny’s head, and allows himself a fond smile, because no one’s looking, anyway.
“Sleep well, Danno.”