Collision Course 1/2
Title: Collision Course
Summary: Written for the stevedannoslash After The Holidays Fest. From a prompt by the lovely and talented cattraine. The prompt was: Steve and Danny are stranded in the rainforest after a chopper crash and Danny has a head injury and his bad knee is screwed up again ―bonus points if Steve is forced to carry him as they try to escape the bad guys, and Danny bitches the entire way. So that's pretty much what I wrote, with maybe a little extra whump to spare. ;)
Characters: gen. Steve, Danny (with bonus Kono and Chin later on)
Rating: PG13
Wordcount: 13,699
Disclaimer: None of it mine, all of it CBS's, alas.
Warnings: Swearing, show-levels of violence, no spoilers for the show.
Neurotic Author's Note #1: I owe eternal and undying thanks first to zolac_no_miko, who not only put up with my ten thousand questions about Hawaii, but actually gave me about 90% of the local background information that's contained in this story. All factual errors can be attributed to my misinterpretation of said background information, since I live in what is probably the opposite of Hawaii by most standards.
Neurotic Author's Note #2: I also owe a debt of gratitude to zortified, who beta'd this thing into submission, pointed out my usual syntactical horrors and abuse of commas, provided great insight into where things might be improved plot-wise, and was not afraid to say “Uh, dude, what you said here makes no sense.” So yay for betas! They make the world a better place for fic. :)
Neurotic Author's Note #3: And last but not least, I owe thanks to pkwench, who once again let me use her as a walking medical dictionary. She puts up with questions like: “Hey, Wench, I want to do [insert terrible thing here] to Danny. Is that feasible without killing him? What would that look like?” with a great deal of grace and aplomb. Again, factual errors are due to my own misinterpretation.
“Why am I even surprised that you have a helicopter pilot license?” Danny throws his hands up in the air and rolls his eyes, as though supplicating the heavens to grant him the patience to deal with his partner.
“I don't know,” Steve refrains from sighing, pinching the bridge of his nose, or otherwise showing any sign of emotion, because he knows that'll just set Danny off even more, and he was sort of hoping that this particular recon mission would go off smoothly. “Is it surprising?”
“It's downright breathtaking,” Danny assures him, and Steve almost groans, because apparently he's set Danny off in spite of his best attempts not to. “And by that I don't mean that it's surprising that you have a license, it just boggles my mind that between the twenty-seven different forms of martial arts, the multiple-weapons proficiencies, the ability to speak what seems like fourteen or so random languages ―most of which don't even have the same root language, I might add― you somehow managed to have a helicopter pilot license in there too. How do you stay upright when you never sleep?” he adds, pulling on the headphones that will allow them to communicate during the trip.
“I sleep!”
Danny snorts. “Sleep, my ass. It wouldn't surprise me if you're secretly using a time-turner while no one's looking.”
Steve frowns. “Time-turner?”
“It's a Harry Potter thing. Grace is into it, likes it when I read to her. It's like a time-travel device, shaped like an hour-glass, and when you turn it around,” Danny makes an elaborate flipping motion with his hands to demonstrate, “you can re-do the last hour or whatever of your life.”
“Sounds useful.”
“Enh,” Danny shrugs, lifts his palms skyward, then makes a waggling so-so motion with his right hand. “It actually sounds like more trouble than it's worth. Besides, Star Trek has demonstrated pretty unequivocally what happens when you start messing with the space-time continuum. Did you submit the flight plan?”
Steve is accustomed by now to the conversational whiplash that comes with the territory of speaking regularly with Danny Williams, but he does roll his eyes. “No, Danno, I just thought I would take up the helicopter and kind of wing it. Flight plans are overrated, anyway.”
Danny squawks about a half-second before he realizes Steve is being sarcastic, then swats at his arm. “That is not funny!”
Steve grins. “It's a little funny.”
“Only to you, you psychopath! The next time I'll leave it to you to explain to Grace why she's an orphan and has to put up with weekends filled with Step-Stan giving her tennis lessons instead of her old man taking her out to football games.”
“It's just a recon mission. No one's getting orphaned. Did you have to practice to get this melodramatic or is it just a natural ability?”
“Yeah, a recon mission, in a helicopter,” Danny's right hand makes a rotating motion, “piloted by you,” he jabs a finger in the general vicinity of Steve's chest. “There are two things wrong with that statement, and a third which I'm not especially fond of.”
“What, you don't like helicopters?” Steve chooses to ignore the rest of Danny's bitching.
“What's to like about helicopters? They're big, they're noisy, they pollute, and the one you picked has no doors. Doors to keep their occupants inside, where it is safe.” Danny makes a boxing-in motion with both hands, as though that's somehow supposed to explain everything.“Why would you even pick a helicopter with no doors, except for the fact that you obviously have some sort of deep-seated death wish and are determined to take me down with you?” he asks, and Steve notices that perspiration is beading along the hairline that's just beginning to recede.
“You're not a nervous flier, are you Danno?” he teases, and gets a scowl in response.
“I will have you know that it is perfectly normal to be apprehensive when boarding a flying death-trap that your sociopathic, reckless, kamikaze-esque partner plans to fly over an island that is, essentially, nothing but a giant volcano! For all I know, I should have made a point of putting my affairs in order before you accidentally drop me into a gaping pit of molten lava,” Danny grumbles as he settles into his seat and fusses with buckles.
“You can always stay behind,” Steve says, knowing his suggestion will get shot down in half a second.
“Left be― Jesus, McGarrett, what do you take me for? Just fly the damned chopper.”
“Aye aye,” Steve grins, and waits for the signal from the tower.
Danny's hands clench into fists as the helicopter lifts off, knuckles turning white, and for a moment Steve feels a twinge of guilt at having twitted him earlier for being a nervous flier. Danny's obviously not comfortable, but it speaks volumes that he's in here anyway, helping Steve look for the meth lab ―ice, as is it's known to the islanders― rather than leaving it to Chin or Kono, which he could easily have done. The thought gives Steve a slightly warm feeling in his chest, that Danny's going above and beyond the call of duty for him... He shakes himself and focuses on flying, while Danny keeps up a running commentary on the idiocy of building a meth lab in the middle of a rainforest outside of Pahoa.
“It makes sense to me,” Steve points out. “It's remote, hard to get to, and the whole area is populated with people who will deliberately turn a blind eye to what their neighbours are doing.”
“Crazy people,” is the only comment he gets, but it sounds like agreement to him.
“We're getting close to the coordinates, so keep an eye peeled.”
“Not like I'm daydreaming over here, babe.”
Steve just nods, gaze lingering over the lush greenery below, wisps of sulphur-coloured vog ―the product, his father had explained to him when he was a small boy, of sulphur dioxide from the volcano reacting with water vapour in the air― swirling among the trees. It's not as thick today, which is a mercy. He'd been a little worried that it would interfere with the recon, but visibility is good for now, at least until the winds change.
“It's actually kind of pretty, considering its source. I can't believe you people voluntarily live on top of a volcano.”
“Technically―”
“Shut up, I didn't actually mean for you to answer that. It wasn't even a question,” Danny snaps, then abruptly sits up. “Got something.” He pulls out his notebook and scribbles in it, and Steve can only hope that the helicopter ride won't make Danny's already terrible handwriting even more illegible. “Can you come around for another pass?” He makes a grab for his binoculars while Steve obligingly checks his gauges and prepares to bring them around. “I think I see... what the hell?”
“What?”
“Holy shit!”
“What?” Steve yells at him, trying to see for himself what has Danny uttering profanities while they're mid-flight. Whatever it is, he figures it can't be good.
Danny doesn't have time to answer. Steve barely has time to make out a trail of smoke in the air before the entire chopper shudders and swings off its axis, lurching to the side as smoke and the acrid smell of oil and fuel and burnt metal fill the air. He fights for control of the chopper, but it's a lost cause ―just by the feel of it he knows the tail is gone, and that means they're going down. He can hear Danny shouting into the radio, can barely register what he's saying as blood roars in his ears. The rainforest comes rushing up at them even as he manages a controlled tailspin, and then everything goes abruptly dark.
~*~
When Steve opens his eyes again, he can taste a faint sulphuric tang in the air, lingering on his tongue and in his nostrils. There's light filtering through the leaves above his head, but everything is blurred, the light refracting strangely. He blinks a little, then realizes he's staring at the broken windscreen of the helicopter. Everything comes back into focus in a dizzying lurch, and he instinctively reaches up to feel at his head. His helmet is still in place, which is a pretty good sign. It means he's probably not too badly concussed. A quick check of his watch shows he's been out only a couple of minutes at most, and a look at the chopper radio tells him that they aren't going to be calling for help anytime soon.
Slowly he takes a more careful inventory of his injuries, moving both arms, wriggling toes, checking for pain, and is pleasantly surprised to find that, other than being a little sore now with the promise of being really sore tomorrow, he doesn't seem to be badly hurt at all. Danny's right, he thinks with a rueful smile, he really is kind of like a rubber ball.
Danny.
His heart speeds up at the thought, and he twists in his seat, only to find the seat next to him empty. He swallows the panic that tries to rise in his throat and choke him, and carefully unclips his restraints. The chopper landed awkwardly on an incline, and he has to hang onto the frame so as not to fall out of the wreckage. He moves slowly hand-over-hand, bracing himself as he goes, until he's able to lever himself up and out, lands lightly on his feet on the ground, although his head doesn't thank him for the jolt. He winces a little bit, but he doesn't feel dizzy or nauseous, and that's definitely a good sign.
“Danny?”
There's no response. The wreckage of the helicopter is smouldering, but nothing looks like it's in danger of igniting. Slip-sliding in the thick foliage, he makes his way around to the other side where he figures Danny must have fallen out. He calls out again, but there's still no response. Finally, he catches glimpse of a flash of white at the bottom of the slope ―Danny's shirt― and jogs down as fast as he can get his still-shaking legs to move. Danny's sprawled full length on the ground, helmet long gone. He's twisted halfway on his side, one arm flung over his head and the other draped over his middle, blood sheeting down his face from what looks like a nasty laceration in his scalp.
“Danny!” Steve drops to one knee, checks for a pulse, and all the air rushes from his lungs in relief when he finds one, erratic but definitely there and strong enough. “Danny, wake up. Can you hear me?”
As gently as he can he runs his hands flat over his partner's body, checking for breaks and swelling, for lumps near the spine. Danny's breathing doesn't appear compromised, and he can't find any visible signs of a spinal injury, not that that means anything, he thinks with mounting frustration. Danny's bad knee is swelling already, the old injury reacting badly to being mistreated, but a bad knee is the least of their worries right now.
“Danny, come on, brah,” he pinches the tips of Danny's fingers, then rubs his knuckles roughly over his sternum, and is rewarded with a moan of protest, and Danny's eyelids flutter. “That's it, Danno, come on. Wake up, now. You with me?”
Danny blinks hard a few times, then groans. “Oh, God. Two of you. It's official, I've died and gone to hell for my sins.”
Steve sits back on his heels and laughs a little incredulously. “Can't be too bad, if you're already complaining.”
Danny just groans again. “Fuck.”
“Okay, I need you to tell me what hurts.”
“Everything.”
“Okay,” Steve is too worried to roll his eyes. “What hurts the worst?”
There's a pause while Danny actually appears to consider the question. “Not sure,” he admits. “Pretty sure it's my knee, with my head a close second, but the rest of me isn't about to get up and shimmy to a salsa beat, either.”
“Right. I have to check your pupils, Danny, so I'm going to get into your personal space, here. Don't freak out.”
“Like you haven't already―” Danny flinches a bit when Steve gently pulls at his eyelids, and doesn't finish his sentence. “Let me guess: I'm concussed.”
“And how,” Steve agrees.
“How about you, babe? You okay?” Danny leverages himself up onto one elbow before Steve can stop him, his expression suddenly screwed up with worry. “I don't remember anything after that fucking torpedo came at us...”
“Torpedo?” Steve smirks.
“Okay, no, not a torpedo, but I couldn't see exactly what it was that they shot at us, and please fucking answer my question, McGarrett. Are you okay, or what?”
“I'm fine. Bruised all to hell, but I'm fine.”
“Figures. You crash a helicopter, and I get the hell beaten out of me.” Danny's expression belies his words, though it doesn't quite remove the sting of truth from them. “You sure you're okay?”
“I'm fine, Danno. Can you please lie back down so I can make sure you don't have a spinal injury that you're aggravating by insisting on sitting up?”
“Fine,” Danny lies back down with a wince, and makes an ineffectual swipe at his eyes with his fingers, trying to wipe away the worst of the blood that's threatening to blind him. He flinches again as Steve checks his spine.
“That hurt?”
“Yes. I gotta say I'm more concerned by the fact that I'm apparently about to drown in my own blood from the outside.”
“You've got a pretty nasty laceration in your scalp. You remember when you hit your head?”
“Nope. No clue. I'm guessing it was when our helicopter crash-landed into the rainforest, but like I said, it's just a guess.”
“You're the detective,” Steve does roll his eyes this time. “Stay put, I'll see if I can salvage the first aid kit.”
Not only is there a first aid kit, but there's a flare gun, too, which he takes with him, and a couple of canteens of water. For once Danny has paid attention to his orders and stayed put, though Steve suspects that has more to do with the fact that he's probably too badly injured to go anywhere on his own. Still, he'll take what he can get.
“What took you so long?” Danny's eyes are closed, and Steve can't help the flutter of alarm that goes through him when he hears the slight slur to his words.
“I dare you to try to beat my time,” he keeps his tone light as he unscrews the cap off one of the canteens and holds it to his partner's lips so he can drink. Danny chokes a little, but manages to keep the water down. “Hold still, I'm going to try to do something about that cut.”
The first aid kit is rudimentary at best, and there's definitely no supplies in it for sutures, which are a foregone conclusion in Danny's case. Luckily there's disinfectant and plenty of gauze and elastic wraps, and after a few minutes Danny's looking deathly pale but a whole lot less covered in blood, the white bandage standing out starkly even against his blond hair.
“Well, it's not pretty, but it should hold until we get you proper medical treatment. You got any pain in your back? Numbness in your legs? Tingling?”
Danny gives a little shake of his head, then winces again. “No, think I lucked out there, for variable definitions of 'lucked out,' anyway. I think I really fucked up my knee, though.” He struggles to sit up, and this time Steve helps him, figuring it's a lost cause keeping him down anyway. He props him up against a nearby tree stump even though Danny hisses and lets out a pained grunt at the movement.
Danny looks forlornly at his leg, the knee so swollen it's already stretching the fabric of his pants, and even like that it's obvious the leg isn't quite at the right angle. “You're going to have to cut the pants, aren't you?”
“Afraid so.”
“Try not to look so gleeful as you ruin my clothing, McGarrett.”
“Better your pants than your leg.”
“Yeah. Maybe expenses'll cover it.”
“I'll sign off on it, swear to God.” The scissors flash in Steve's hand as he slices through the fabric, exposing Danny's leg to the knee, and he can't help but wince when he sees how bad it is.
“You're making Aneurysm Face. My knee is making you make Aneurysm Face, and I really don't like the look of that. It's not a face I ever want to see you make about my knee, McGarrett.”
Steve bites the inside of his cheek. “It's dislocated.”
Danny sighs. “I was hoping I was concussed and not seeing straight.”
“I'm going to have to put it back.”
“I was afraid you'd say that.”
“It's going to hurt. A lot.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” Danny's fingers clench a little just at the thought, digging into the ground at his sides. “Just... give me something to bite on, and let's get this over with before I chicken out, okay?”
In the end, Steve gives him his belt. There's nothing stronger than aspirin in the first aid kit anyway, which isn't going to do much for what they're about to do. He lies Danny back on the ground, makes sure they're both properly braced, and wishes that Chin or Kono were here to help with this. Then again, if one or both were here, then they might be dead or injured too, so maybe it's a good thing they're not.
“I need you to take as deep breaths as you can manage, Danno. Ready?”
“No, but do it anyway.”
It takes forever. It's a two-man job, and despite what Danny likes to say, Steve really is just one guy, and this isn't his specialty. He almost drops Danny's leg when his partner lets out a blood-curdling scream, barely manages to hang on until mercifully Danny's eyes roll back into his head and he goes limp. Steve doesn't hesitate then ―just pushes and pulls until he feels the patella slide back into place. Then he crawls up to press two fingers to the pulse point in Danny's neck, just to make sure. The pulse is still there, a lot threadier than before, but definitely present. He pats Danny's shoulder, even though his partner is past being able to feel it.
“You did real good, Danno. I'm gonna find something to splint that, so you go ahead and stay unconscious until I'm done. Trust me, it's better this way.”
It's not exactly easy to find something that'll double as a board splint in a crashed helicopter, but eventually he finds a splintered piece of fibreglass that he thinks will serve well enough. It's easier to rig up a field dressing than it is to replace the knee, but it's not exactly a walk in the park, and he keeps glancing up anxiously as he wraps Danny's foot, then places as much padding as he can behind his knee before continuing to strap the leg, worried that his partner will regain consciousness before he's done.
Danny remains blissfully unconscious throughout, though, until Steve starts to worry again, this time about shock and maybe some other injury that he might not have noticed. Danny's not visibly bleeding ―even the head wound appears to have begun to clot― and while his pulse is a little erratic, there's nothing that immediately sends up warning flags. He's just passed out from the pain, which is probably a mercy, Steve thinks.
With Danny dead to the world, as it were ―and Steve decides he really hates that expression― it leaves him with the unpleasant thought that he's going to have to figure out how to get them out of there. Logic dictates they stay put. They're in a relatively uncovered area, which means the wreckage will be visible from the sky, so long as the vog doesn't get too thick, and the less he forces Danny to move, the better. He doesn't know how far off-course they went down, but given how quickly he lost control of the chopper, he's hoping they're pretty close to where they were, which means that search and rescue shouldn't be far behind, supposing Danny was able to get anyone on the radio as they were going down. Otherwise... He checks his watch, and figures it'll be at least another few hours before anyone figures out that they're missing. No one knows they're here, except―
“You're making that face again...”
“Danny!” Instantly he's back up, kneeling next to Danny's shoulder, checking him again until Danny weakly bats his hands aside.
“M'fine, McGarrett, get off me. Fuck, that hurt. So what's with the face?”
“What face? I don't know what it is about you and telling me I'm making faces.”
Danny glares at him, but the effect is mitigated by the lines of pain on his face, the grey tinge to his skin. “It's the 'I've-just-thought-of-something-that'll-make-Danny-have-a-stroke' face.”
“That's a really long name for it.”
“Concussed, here. I'll think of a better one later. Now spit it out or I will have a stroke, just to spite you.”
Steve bites back the retort that springs to his lips, because at this rate they'll be arguing into the night, and it's just occurred to him ―hence the making of the face, he'll admit it to himself if not to Danny― that they may very well be seriously screwed.
“I think we're not safe.”
“Not safe?” Danny echoes, and then shifts uncomfortably on the ground. “As in, we're-stranded-in-the-rainforest not safe, or the-helicopter-is-about-to-explode not safe, or bad-guys-are-about-to-shoot-us not safe?”
Steve grimaces. “Door number three. I wouldn't do this if I didn't have to, but I think we need to move out.”
“You think the people who shot us out of the sky are going to come out here to make sure the job's done?”
“It's what I would do.”
Danny lets his head fall back with a soft thump. “Fuck me,” he mutters. “You see anything? Hear anything?”
“Not yet, but I figure it's a matter of time.”
“Right,” Danny's eyes are still closed, but Steve can see his jaw clench. “Help me up.”
“In a sec. Going to make sure we’re not heading out completely unequipped, first.”
Steve raids the helicopter for every single useful supply he can find. It's not much, but at least there's a backpack in which he can fit most of it. He shoulders the pack, jogs back to where he left his partner. Then he slides an arm under Danny's shoulders, sits him up.
“Let me do the work, okay? You just get your good knee locked once you're up. Try not to tense up.”
Danny nods, teeth clenched against the pain.
“Ready? On three. One, two!”
Steve hauls him to his feet before they get to three ― and before Danny can tense up and hurt himself more. Even so, Danny lets out a pained grunt and almost falls, clutching at Steve's shoulders like a drowning man.
“Easy, Danno. Breathe through it,” he murmurs, staggering a little under the unexpected weight.
“Fuck,” Danny's breathing hard, almost hiccupping. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.” He shifts in Steve's grip. “Gonna be sick...”
“Okay, okay,” Steve manages to catch Danny as he folds, propping him up as he gags and retches, so that they won't have to repeat the whole process of getting up again. He can't tell if it's the pain or the concussion or a bit of both. He rubs between Danny's shoulder blades until he's just coughing weakly, spitting to clear out his mouth. “Easy, now. You're okay.”
“Christ,” Danny raises a shaking hand and wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist. “Fourteen and a half years.”
“Next time, you can try for fifteen.”
Danny lets out a choked laugh. “Let's just go.”
~*~
They don't make it far before the first gunshot rings out. Steve feels the bullet whiz by his head and hears the shot long after it's too late to do anything about it, but he flinches anyway and almost ducks, except that he's holding Danny up, Danny's arm pulled a little awkwardly over his shoulders, and ducking right now is probably the worst idea he's ever had. He curses under his breath, and Danny raises his head from where he's been resolutely staring at the ground directly in front of him so he won't lose his footing.
“Where'd it come from?”
“Back that way,” Steve jerks his head, already scanning for cover. “I got a fallen tree, eleven o'clock. This is going to hurt, but it's better than taking a bullet.”
“You get me shot, McGarrett, and I will come back from the dead in order to kick your ass.”
Steve just hoists him a little higher and does his best to sprint, mostly dragging Danny with him in spite of the yell of pain the movement elicits. Another shot barks out as, they drop to the ground behind the rotting tree trunk, water from the sodden ground soaking into their clothing. Danny lands with his bad leg outstretched, white bandages showing up starkly against the foliage, and he jams his hand roughly into his mouth, teeth digging into the flesh at the base of his thumb to keep from crying out. Steve can see tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, can see his chest rising and falling with each breath, and is amazed that he's still even conscious after all that.
Another shot, and this time Steve spots movement, the source of the gunfire. “Danny, I've got at least three shooters on our nine, now. I'm going to try to get them off our backs.”
“No back-up,” Danny pulls his hand out of his mouth. He sounds breathless, voice little above a whisper. There are bright-red tooth marks in the flesh below his thumb, glistening with saliva. “Who brings a gun on a helicopter during recon, anyway? You know what, don't answer that. Just... tell me you brought a back-up piece, you lunatic.”
Steve grins, then pulls his back-up piece out of its holster and presses it into Danny's hand. “I never knew you had such faith in me, Danno.”
“Faith in you being a psychopath, sure. Not hard to do. Don't expect me to shoot straight.”
“Just shoot at the bad guys, and we'll be fine.” Steve rises to a crouch, then offers Danny a tremulous smile. “Hang in there, okay?”
To his surprise, Danny grins, then reaches up and smacks him on the ass. “Go get 'em, tiger.”
“Remind me to check you for brain damage later.”
“There are so many things wrong with that sentence, I don't know where to begin.”
Whatever the bad guys were expecting, it wasn't for Steve to pop up from behind the fallen trunk like a militarily-trained jack-in-the-box and sprint directly at them. There are some startled yells, and he ducks, rolls, comes up shooting, and is rewarded with more yells and the distinctive sound of a body hitting the ground with a loud thump. Momentum and surprise are his only advantages, and so there's no hesitation when he leaps forward again, clearing another fallen tree just as his attackers ―down to two, now, he notes with satisfaction― are attempting to regroup and come after him. They're amateurs, two goons with guns and just enough know-how to use them, but with no head for strategy. It's almost laughable how easy it is to take them down. Steve has never enjoyed taking life, and the day he does is the day he'll turn in his credentials and his dog tags, but he'll be damned if he leaves any of these guys to come after him and Danny while they're vulnerable.
For a moment, there's nothing but silence. No birdsong, not even a frog, just an eerie stillness brought about by the all too human intrusion into the rainforest. He kneels by the closest body, checks for a pulse, then methodically goes through the meagre supplies the man has on him. They were obviously planning a short excursion, a day at most, but they do have canteens of water, and Steve helps himself to all three, as well as a few packs of jerky. It's not great, but it's better than what he had before, which was nothing, and if he's lucky he might be able to forage something to supplement it, if rescue doesn't come before long. He's busily stripping the last body of its supplies when another gunshot rings out, loud and unnatural in the quiet, and he leaps to his feet, already running.
“Danny!”
For a moment there's only quiet, and he just has time to think oh fuck I killed him I left him alone and they killed him, when Danny's voice comes wafting toward him, weak but very obviously ticked off.
“McGarrett? Please tell me you haven't let yourself get killed by these fucking amateurs and left me to starve to death in the middle of this tropical fruit-infested deathtrap!”
He doesn't bother to check his headlong rush back to his partner, and practically falls over the log where he left him. “Fucking Christ, Danny! Are you okay?”
Still propped up against the log Danny rolls his eyes. He's gripping the pistol tightly enough that his knuckles have turned white, though his hand is resting on the ground, muzzle pointed well away from him. “No, McGarrett, I'm not okay. I'm better than that poor schmuck, though,” he jerks his head, motioning to the very obviously lifeless body of a fourth guy that Steve never even saw coming.
Steve is very glad he's already kneeling, lets himself drop onto the ground on his ass and lets out all the breath in his lungs in a whoosh of air, and suddenly isn't sure how to breathe in anymore. Danny narrows his eyes at him, and he only realizes that his hands are shaking like he's got some sort of palsy when Danny reaches out and grabs his wrist.
“Hey, McGarrett,” he says, and his tone has turned gentle, kind of like he's talking to a frightened kitten. “It's okay. I'm okay.”
It's too close. For a second it's nothing but him listening to Victor Hesse scream over the phone, the sound of a gunshot thousands of miles away. He struggles for breath, rubs a hand over his face. “I, uh... I thought...”
“What?” Danny smirks. “You thought I couldn't handle one lone bad guy? Come on. I may not have your level of super-ninja-mastery, here, but one mook? Piece of cake. Hey...” he digs his fingers into Steve's wrist, hard enough for it to hurt. “Steve. You're the only person who can get me out of here, so no freaking out, okay?”
He pulls himself together with an effort. “I'm not freaking out,” he tells Danny in a voice that sounds a lot more confident than he feels.
“Good. Pissy is a much better look on you than freaked.”
“I really don't know where you get these ideas, Danno.” He keeps his tone brisk, all business. He's pretty sure he's not fooling either of them, but he can see the flash of gratitude and something else he's too rattled to identify in Danny's eyes. “I got some more water off those guys, a few rations. Should hold us until rescue can get to us. But this confirms what I thought. We're too close to the target, which means they're going to come looking for their guys when they don't check in.”
“Radios?”
He shakes his head. “Short-range only, looks like private frequencies. I picked one up for when we come back and nail these sons of bitches, though.”
“I am impressed that you haven't come right out and said 'I told you so.' Kudos.”
Steve rolls his eyes but smiles anyway. “Not my style. Anyway, you believed me, so there's no call.”
“I agreed with you? Damn. I must be concussed,” Danny says, letting his eyes slip shut, releasing his grip on Steve's wrist, and Steve feels his heart skip a beat.
He leans forward, gives Danny a rough shake. “Okay, Danno, we have to go. Have some water first,” he pulls him up, as Danny forces his eyes open again, though his gaze is unfocused, and holds a canteen to his lips. “Small sips, there you go.”
Danny coughs. “Not a child, McGarrett.”
“Yeah, okay. You bitch at me as much as you want. You going to puke again if I get you up?”
“Won't know until you try.”
Danny doesn't throw up or pass out, but it's a near thing. He ends up half-collapsed against his partner, breathing hard and swearing under his breath in-between gasps. Steve stays as still as he can, trying not to jolt him any more than necessary, only moving when Danny pulls back slightly and nods, patting him on the chest just over his heart.
It's rough going. The rainforest doesn't have a thick canopy, so it's easy enough to navigate in what Steve is pretty sure is the right direction, but the dense ground foliage makes walking hard even for a hale man, and all but impossible for Danny, whose injured leg seems to catch on every protruding root and branch. He doesn't even have the breath to complain, just ducks his head and does his best not to be too much of a hindrance ―and even his best isn't enough, not on this terrain. Eventually Steve spots a branch that's roughly the right thickness and length to serve as a makeshift crutch, and that helps a little, not so much because it helps Danny to walk, but because it gives him a way to spread his weight a little and gives Steve a bit more leeway to pick their way across the uneven ground.
After a while, Steve has to admit he's impressed. Even though he's never received anything like the training they get in the SEALs, Danny's holding his own. He looks terrible, face pinched and grey, sweat soaking through his shirt, eyes at half-mast, but he's been going doggedly, keeping up with the pace Steve is setting ―not a fast pace, but certainly not one designed to make it easy on an injured teammate― the only sign he's feeling the strain an obvious clenching of teeth and the occasional hiss of pain when his foot catches on a root. After a little under two hours, though, Steve can feel him falter.
“You okay?”
Danny shakes his head. “Sorry,” he gasps. “Gotta stop. Just for a second... please.”
“Yeah, okay. You're doing real good, Danno. Can you make it just a bit further?” There's a clearing up ahead, and Danny nods once jerkily. “Good. Come on, we're almost there.”
He sets Danny down, props him against a tree, starts checking him over. That's apparently all Danny was holding out for, because he slumps down bonelessly, and his eyes promptly roll back into his head. Steve swears fluently in as many languages as he can think of off the top of his head, and, seized with a sudden doubt, unbuttons Danny's shirt, pulling it open and out from where it's tucked into Danny's pants, then swears more when he sees the discolouration under the skin. He palpates Danny’s abdomen gingerly, the muscles rigid under his gentle probing.
After a minute or so, Danny stirs. “'s it bad?”
He can't bring himself to lie. “It's pretty bad. You got any pain in your stomach, Danny?”
Danny makes a sound that he thinks is meant to be a denial. “Kind of... in my back. Feels like the time I had a kidney infection. Fun times. 'm I bleeding?”
“Yeah, you are. I don't think it's major, but you've definitely got a bleed, which means we're short on time, here, and...” he swallows, “that changes things, strategy-wise.”
Danny shakes his head. “Still gotta move. We're too close.”
“Can't risk it, Danno,” Steve manages a smile he doesn't feel. “I jostle you the wrong way, you could bleed out in seconds. I should have seen it before, I'm sorry.”
“Christ, McGarrett, are you going to strap on some more guilt with that?” Danny fixes him with a glare. "How about feeling bad for all those starving kids in Biafra, while you're at it, because you didn't eat all your broccoli? We got shot out of the sky by damn meth-making psychopaths with some sort of anti-aircraft whatever-the-fuck,” Danny flings both hands up to get his point across, “and I get tossed twenty feet out of a helicopter. And now you feel guilty because you didn't notice an extra injury?” He pokes Steve in the chest, which normally Steve hates, but now makes him grin.
“Well, when you put it that way...”
“Damn straight,” Danny rolls his eyes, and smacks him weakly on the knee closest to him. “We okay for water?”
“We're fine,” Steve assures him, taking the canteen away and helping him to sit up a bit. “Plenty left in the canteens, and there's rainfall if we need it.”
“Rainfall,” Danny snorts. “Remind me never to leave solid ground again.”
“That would mean staying on Hawaii for the rest of your life,” Steve points out. “Anyway, if you're bleeding, that changes things. Water could make it worse, so no more water until it's absolutely necessary.”
“That's just great,” Danny grumbles. “If it's not the internal bleeding that gets me, it'll be the dehydration. How long we got?”
“Take as much time as you need, okay? We'll go when you're ready. And dehydration won't kick in for a while yet, so don't worry about it. I won't let anything happen to you, Danny.”
Danny sighs. “Yeah, I know.”
This is a terrible idea, but he doesn't see an alternative. Danny's right, they're still far too close to the crash site, which means they're likely to attract all sorts of unwanted attention. The choice is either stay here and maybe get them both killed, or try to move Danny and maybe kill him in the process if the internal bleeding gets worse. He rubs a hand over his mouth and swallows the curses that, if he were alone, he'd be uttering non-stop.
“I'll never be ready,” Danny grunts, grabbing at him to try to pull himself upright. “May as well go now.”
“You got it. I'm going to try to get us as far as possible. You with me?”
For a second Danny freezes, eyes locking with Steve's. “Always,” he says, a soft smile momentarily replacing the lines of pain and tension on his face. “Get me up before I pass out, McGarrett.”
~*~
Part 2
Summary: Written for the stevedannoslash After The Holidays Fest. From a prompt by the lovely and talented cattraine. The prompt was: Steve and Danny are stranded in the rainforest after a chopper crash and Danny has a head injury and his bad knee is screwed up again ―bonus points if Steve is forced to carry him as they try to escape the bad guys, and Danny bitches the entire way. So that's pretty much what I wrote, with maybe a little extra whump to spare. ;)
Characters: gen. Steve, Danny (with bonus Kono and Chin later on)
Rating: PG13
Wordcount: 13,699
Disclaimer: None of it mine, all of it CBS's, alas.
Warnings: Swearing, show-levels of violence, no spoilers for the show.
Neurotic Author's Note #1: I owe eternal and undying thanks first to zolac_no_miko, who not only put up with my ten thousand questions about Hawaii, but actually gave me about 90% of the local background information that's contained in this story. All factual errors can be attributed to my misinterpretation of said background information, since I live in what is probably the opposite of Hawaii by most standards.
Neurotic Author's Note #2: I also owe a debt of gratitude to zortified, who beta'd this thing into submission, pointed out my usual syntactical horrors and abuse of commas, provided great insight into where things might be improved plot-wise, and was not afraid to say “Uh, dude, what you said here makes no sense.” So yay for betas! They make the world a better place for fic. :)
Neurotic Author's Note #3: And last but not least, I owe thanks to pkwench, who once again let me use her as a walking medical dictionary. She puts up with questions like: “Hey, Wench, I want to do [insert terrible thing here] to Danny. Is that feasible without killing him? What would that look like?” with a great deal of grace and aplomb. Again, factual errors are due to my own misinterpretation.
“Why am I even surprised that you have a helicopter pilot license?” Danny throws his hands up in the air and rolls his eyes, as though supplicating the heavens to grant him the patience to deal with his partner.
“I don't know,” Steve refrains from sighing, pinching the bridge of his nose, or otherwise showing any sign of emotion, because he knows that'll just set Danny off even more, and he was sort of hoping that this particular recon mission would go off smoothly. “Is it surprising?”
“It's downright breathtaking,” Danny assures him, and Steve almost groans, because apparently he's set Danny off in spite of his best attempts not to. “And by that I don't mean that it's surprising that you have a license, it just boggles my mind that between the twenty-seven different forms of martial arts, the multiple-weapons proficiencies, the ability to speak what seems like fourteen or so random languages ―most of which don't even have the same root language, I might add― you somehow managed to have a helicopter pilot license in there too. How do you stay upright when you never sleep?” he adds, pulling on the headphones that will allow them to communicate during the trip.
“I sleep!”
Danny snorts. “Sleep, my ass. It wouldn't surprise me if you're secretly using a time-turner while no one's looking.”
Steve frowns. “Time-turner?”
“It's a Harry Potter thing. Grace is into it, likes it when I read to her. It's like a time-travel device, shaped like an hour-glass, and when you turn it around,” Danny makes an elaborate flipping motion with his hands to demonstrate, “you can re-do the last hour or whatever of your life.”
“Sounds useful.”
“Enh,” Danny shrugs, lifts his palms skyward, then makes a waggling so-so motion with his right hand. “It actually sounds like more trouble than it's worth. Besides, Star Trek has demonstrated pretty unequivocally what happens when you start messing with the space-time continuum. Did you submit the flight plan?”
Steve is accustomed by now to the conversational whiplash that comes with the territory of speaking regularly with Danny Williams, but he does roll his eyes. “No, Danno, I just thought I would take up the helicopter and kind of wing it. Flight plans are overrated, anyway.”
Danny squawks about a half-second before he realizes Steve is being sarcastic, then swats at his arm. “That is not funny!”
Steve grins. “It's a little funny.”
“Only to you, you psychopath! The next time I'll leave it to you to explain to Grace why she's an orphan and has to put up with weekends filled with Step-Stan giving her tennis lessons instead of her old man taking her out to football games.”
“It's just a recon mission. No one's getting orphaned. Did you have to practice to get this melodramatic or is it just a natural ability?”
“Yeah, a recon mission, in a helicopter,” Danny's right hand makes a rotating motion, “piloted by you,” he jabs a finger in the general vicinity of Steve's chest. “There are two things wrong with that statement, and a third which I'm not especially fond of.”
“What, you don't like helicopters?” Steve chooses to ignore the rest of Danny's bitching.
“What's to like about helicopters? They're big, they're noisy, they pollute, and the one you picked has no doors. Doors to keep their occupants inside, where it is safe.” Danny makes a boxing-in motion with both hands, as though that's somehow supposed to explain everything.“Why would you even pick a helicopter with no doors, except for the fact that you obviously have some sort of deep-seated death wish and are determined to take me down with you?” he asks, and Steve notices that perspiration is beading along the hairline that's just beginning to recede.
“You're not a nervous flier, are you Danno?” he teases, and gets a scowl in response.
“I will have you know that it is perfectly normal to be apprehensive when boarding a flying death-trap that your sociopathic, reckless, kamikaze-esque partner plans to fly over an island that is, essentially, nothing but a giant volcano! For all I know, I should have made a point of putting my affairs in order before you accidentally drop me into a gaping pit of molten lava,” Danny grumbles as he settles into his seat and fusses with buckles.
“You can always stay behind,” Steve says, knowing his suggestion will get shot down in half a second.
“Left be― Jesus, McGarrett, what do you take me for? Just fly the damned chopper.”
“Aye aye,” Steve grins, and waits for the signal from the tower.
Danny's hands clench into fists as the helicopter lifts off, knuckles turning white, and for a moment Steve feels a twinge of guilt at having twitted him earlier for being a nervous flier. Danny's obviously not comfortable, but it speaks volumes that he's in here anyway, helping Steve look for the meth lab ―ice, as is it's known to the islanders― rather than leaving it to Chin or Kono, which he could easily have done. The thought gives Steve a slightly warm feeling in his chest, that Danny's going above and beyond the call of duty for him... He shakes himself and focuses on flying, while Danny keeps up a running commentary on the idiocy of building a meth lab in the middle of a rainforest outside of Pahoa.
“It makes sense to me,” Steve points out. “It's remote, hard to get to, and the whole area is populated with people who will deliberately turn a blind eye to what their neighbours are doing.”
“Crazy people,” is the only comment he gets, but it sounds like agreement to him.
“We're getting close to the coordinates, so keep an eye peeled.”
“Not like I'm daydreaming over here, babe.”
Steve just nods, gaze lingering over the lush greenery below, wisps of sulphur-coloured vog ―the product, his father had explained to him when he was a small boy, of sulphur dioxide from the volcano reacting with water vapour in the air― swirling among the trees. It's not as thick today, which is a mercy. He'd been a little worried that it would interfere with the recon, but visibility is good for now, at least until the winds change.
“It's actually kind of pretty, considering its source. I can't believe you people voluntarily live on top of a volcano.”
“Technically―”
“Shut up, I didn't actually mean for you to answer that. It wasn't even a question,” Danny snaps, then abruptly sits up. “Got something.” He pulls out his notebook and scribbles in it, and Steve can only hope that the helicopter ride won't make Danny's already terrible handwriting even more illegible. “Can you come around for another pass?” He makes a grab for his binoculars while Steve obligingly checks his gauges and prepares to bring them around. “I think I see... what the hell?”
“What?”
“Holy shit!”
“What?” Steve yells at him, trying to see for himself what has Danny uttering profanities while they're mid-flight. Whatever it is, he figures it can't be good.
Danny doesn't have time to answer. Steve barely has time to make out a trail of smoke in the air before the entire chopper shudders and swings off its axis, lurching to the side as smoke and the acrid smell of oil and fuel and burnt metal fill the air. He fights for control of the chopper, but it's a lost cause ―just by the feel of it he knows the tail is gone, and that means they're going down. He can hear Danny shouting into the radio, can barely register what he's saying as blood roars in his ears. The rainforest comes rushing up at them even as he manages a controlled tailspin, and then everything goes abruptly dark.
~*~
When Steve opens his eyes again, he can taste a faint sulphuric tang in the air, lingering on his tongue and in his nostrils. There's light filtering through the leaves above his head, but everything is blurred, the light refracting strangely. He blinks a little, then realizes he's staring at the broken windscreen of the helicopter. Everything comes back into focus in a dizzying lurch, and he instinctively reaches up to feel at his head. His helmet is still in place, which is a pretty good sign. It means he's probably not too badly concussed. A quick check of his watch shows he's been out only a couple of minutes at most, and a look at the chopper radio tells him that they aren't going to be calling for help anytime soon.
Slowly he takes a more careful inventory of his injuries, moving both arms, wriggling toes, checking for pain, and is pleasantly surprised to find that, other than being a little sore now with the promise of being really sore tomorrow, he doesn't seem to be badly hurt at all. Danny's right, he thinks with a rueful smile, he really is kind of like a rubber ball.
Danny.
His heart speeds up at the thought, and he twists in his seat, only to find the seat next to him empty. He swallows the panic that tries to rise in his throat and choke him, and carefully unclips his restraints. The chopper landed awkwardly on an incline, and he has to hang onto the frame so as not to fall out of the wreckage. He moves slowly hand-over-hand, bracing himself as he goes, until he's able to lever himself up and out, lands lightly on his feet on the ground, although his head doesn't thank him for the jolt. He winces a little bit, but he doesn't feel dizzy or nauseous, and that's definitely a good sign.
“Danny?”
There's no response. The wreckage of the helicopter is smouldering, but nothing looks like it's in danger of igniting. Slip-sliding in the thick foliage, he makes his way around to the other side where he figures Danny must have fallen out. He calls out again, but there's still no response. Finally, he catches glimpse of a flash of white at the bottom of the slope ―Danny's shirt― and jogs down as fast as he can get his still-shaking legs to move. Danny's sprawled full length on the ground, helmet long gone. He's twisted halfway on his side, one arm flung over his head and the other draped over his middle, blood sheeting down his face from what looks like a nasty laceration in his scalp.
“Danny!” Steve drops to one knee, checks for a pulse, and all the air rushes from his lungs in relief when he finds one, erratic but definitely there and strong enough. “Danny, wake up. Can you hear me?”
As gently as he can he runs his hands flat over his partner's body, checking for breaks and swelling, for lumps near the spine. Danny's breathing doesn't appear compromised, and he can't find any visible signs of a spinal injury, not that that means anything, he thinks with mounting frustration. Danny's bad knee is swelling already, the old injury reacting badly to being mistreated, but a bad knee is the least of their worries right now.
“Danny, come on, brah,” he pinches the tips of Danny's fingers, then rubs his knuckles roughly over his sternum, and is rewarded with a moan of protest, and Danny's eyelids flutter. “That's it, Danno, come on. Wake up, now. You with me?”
Danny blinks hard a few times, then groans. “Oh, God. Two of you. It's official, I've died and gone to hell for my sins.”
Steve sits back on his heels and laughs a little incredulously. “Can't be too bad, if you're already complaining.”
Danny just groans again. “Fuck.”
“Okay, I need you to tell me what hurts.”
“Everything.”
“Okay,” Steve is too worried to roll his eyes. “What hurts the worst?”
There's a pause while Danny actually appears to consider the question. “Not sure,” he admits. “Pretty sure it's my knee, with my head a close second, but the rest of me isn't about to get up and shimmy to a salsa beat, either.”
“Right. I have to check your pupils, Danny, so I'm going to get into your personal space, here. Don't freak out.”
“Like you haven't already―” Danny flinches a bit when Steve gently pulls at his eyelids, and doesn't finish his sentence. “Let me guess: I'm concussed.”
“And how,” Steve agrees.
“How about you, babe? You okay?” Danny leverages himself up onto one elbow before Steve can stop him, his expression suddenly screwed up with worry. “I don't remember anything after that fucking torpedo came at us...”
“Torpedo?” Steve smirks.
“Okay, no, not a torpedo, but I couldn't see exactly what it was that they shot at us, and please fucking answer my question, McGarrett. Are you okay, or what?”
“I'm fine. Bruised all to hell, but I'm fine.”
“Figures. You crash a helicopter, and I get the hell beaten out of me.” Danny's expression belies his words, though it doesn't quite remove the sting of truth from them. “You sure you're okay?”
“I'm fine, Danno. Can you please lie back down so I can make sure you don't have a spinal injury that you're aggravating by insisting on sitting up?”
“Fine,” Danny lies back down with a wince, and makes an ineffectual swipe at his eyes with his fingers, trying to wipe away the worst of the blood that's threatening to blind him. He flinches again as Steve checks his spine.
“That hurt?”
“Yes. I gotta say I'm more concerned by the fact that I'm apparently about to drown in my own blood from the outside.”
“You've got a pretty nasty laceration in your scalp. You remember when you hit your head?”
“Nope. No clue. I'm guessing it was when our helicopter crash-landed into the rainforest, but like I said, it's just a guess.”
“You're the detective,” Steve does roll his eyes this time. “Stay put, I'll see if I can salvage the first aid kit.”
Not only is there a first aid kit, but there's a flare gun, too, which he takes with him, and a couple of canteens of water. For once Danny has paid attention to his orders and stayed put, though Steve suspects that has more to do with the fact that he's probably too badly injured to go anywhere on his own. Still, he'll take what he can get.
“What took you so long?” Danny's eyes are closed, and Steve can't help the flutter of alarm that goes through him when he hears the slight slur to his words.
“I dare you to try to beat my time,” he keeps his tone light as he unscrews the cap off one of the canteens and holds it to his partner's lips so he can drink. Danny chokes a little, but manages to keep the water down. “Hold still, I'm going to try to do something about that cut.”
The first aid kit is rudimentary at best, and there's definitely no supplies in it for sutures, which are a foregone conclusion in Danny's case. Luckily there's disinfectant and plenty of gauze and elastic wraps, and after a few minutes Danny's looking deathly pale but a whole lot less covered in blood, the white bandage standing out starkly even against his blond hair.
“Well, it's not pretty, but it should hold until we get you proper medical treatment. You got any pain in your back? Numbness in your legs? Tingling?”
Danny gives a little shake of his head, then winces again. “No, think I lucked out there, for variable definitions of 'lucked out,' anyway. I think I really fucked up my knee, though.” He struggles to sit up, and this time Steve helps him, figuring it's a lost cause keeping him down anyway. He props him up against a nearby tree stump even though Danny hisses and lets out a pained grunt at the movement.
Danny looks forlornly at his leg, the knee so swollen it's already stretching the fabric of his pants, and even like that it's obvious the leg isn't quite at the right angle. “You're going to have to cut the pants, aren't you?”
“Afraid so.”
“Try not to look so gleeful as you ruin my clothing, McGarrett.”
“Better your pants than your leg.”
“Yeah. Maybe expenses'll cover it.”
“I'll sign off on it, swear to God.” The scissors flash in Steve's hand as he slices through the fabric, exposing Danny's leg to the knee, and he can't help but wince when he sees how bad it is.
“You're making Aneurysm Face. My knee is making you make Aneurysm Face, and I really don't like the look of that. It's not a face I ever want to see you make about my knee, McGarrett.”
Steve bites the inside of his cheek. “It's dislocated.”
Danny sighs. “I was hoping I was concussed and not seeing straight.”
“I'm going to have to put it back.”
“I was afraid you'd say that.”
“It's going to hurt. A lot.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” Danny's fingers clench a little just at the thought, digging into the ground at his sides. “Just... give me something to bite on, and let's get this over with before I chicken out, okay?”
In the end, Steve gives him his belt. There's nothing stronger than aspirin in the first aid kit anyway, which isn't going to do much for what they're about to do. He lies Danny back on the ground, makes sure they're both properly braced, and wishes that Chin or Kono were here to help with this. Then again, if one or both were here, then they might be dead or injured too, so maybe it's a good thing they're not.
“I need you to take as deep breaths as you can manage, Danno. Ready?”
“No, but do it anyway.”
It takes forever. It's a two-man job, and despite what Danny likes to say, Steve really is just one guy, and this isn't his specialty. He almost drops Danny's leg when his partner lets out a blood-curdling scream, barely manages to hang on until mercifully Danny's eyes roll back into his head and he goes limp. Steve doesn't hesitate then ―just pushes and pulls until he feels the patella slide back into place. Then he crawls up to press two fingers to the pulse point in Danny's neck, just to make sure. The pulse is still there, a lot threadier than before, but definitely present. He pats Danny's shoulder, even though his partner is past being able to feel it.
“You did real good, Danno. I'm gonna find something to splint that, so you go ahead and stay unconscious until I'm done. Trust me, it's better this way.”
It's not exactly easy to find something that'll double as a board splint in a crashed helicopter, but eventually he finds a splintered piece of fibreglass that he thinks will serve well enough. It's easier to rig up a field dressing than it is to replace the knee, but it's not exactly a walk in the park, and he keeps glancing up anxiously as he wraps Danny's foot, then places as much padding as he can behind his knee before continuing to strap the leg, worried that his partner will regain consciousness before he's done.
Danny remains blissfully unconscious throughout, though, until Steve starts to worry again, this time about shock and maybe some other injury that he might not have noticed. Danny's not visibly bleeding ―even the head wound appears to have begun to clot― and while his pulse is a little erratic, there's nothing that immediately sends up warning flags. He's just passed out from the pain, which is probably a mercy, Steve thinks.
With Danny dead to the world, as it were ―and Steve decides he really hates that expression― it leaves him with the unpleasant thought that he's going to have to figure out how to get them out of there. Logic dictates they stay put. They're in a relatively uncovered area, which means the wreckage will be visible from the sky, so long as the vog doesn't get too thick, and the less he forces Danny to move, the better. He doesn't know how far off-course they went down, but given how quickly he lost control of the chopper, he's hoping they're pretty close to where they were, which means that search and rescue shouldn't be far behind, supposing Danny was able to get anyone on the radio as they were going down. Otherwise... He checks his watch, and figures it'll be at least another few hours before anyone figures out that they're missing. No one knows they're here, except―
“You're making that face again...”
“Danny!” Instantly he's back up, kneeling next to Danny's shoulder, checking him again until Danny weakly bats his hands aside.
“M'fine, McGarrett, get off me. Fuck, that hurt. So what's with the face?”
“What face? I don't know what it is about you and telling me I'm making faces.”
Danny glares at him, but the effect is mitigated by the lines of pain on his face, the grey tinge to his skin. “It's the 'I've-just-thought-of-something-that'll-make-Danny-have-a-stroke' face.”
“That's a really long name for it.”
“Concussed, here. I'll think of a better one later. Now spit it out or I will have a stroke, just to spite you.”
Steve bites back the retort that springs to his lips, because at this rate they'll be arguing into the night, and it's just occurred to him ―hence the making of the face, he'll admit it to himself if not to Danny― that they may very well be seriously screwed.
“I think we're not safe.”
“Not safe?” Danny echoes, and then shifts uncomfortably on the ground. “As in, we're-stranded-in-the-rainforest not safe, or the-helicopter-is-about-to-explode not safe, or bad-guys-are-about-to-shoot-us not safe?”
Steve grimaces. “Door number three. I wouldn't do this if I didn't have to, but I think we need to move out.”
“You think the people who shot us out of the sky are going to come out here to make sure the job's done?”
“It's what I would do.”
Danny lets his head fall back with a soft thump. “Fuck me,” he mutters. “You see anything? Hear anything?”
“Not yet, but I figure it's a matter of time.”
“Right,” Danny's eyes are still closed, but Steve can see his jaw clench. “Help me up.”
“In a sec. Going to make sure we’re not heading out completely unequipped, first.”
Steve raids the helicopter for every single useful supply he can find. It's not much, but at least there's a backpack in which he can fit most of it. He shoulders the pack, jogs back to where he left his partner. Then he slides an arm under Danny's shoulders, sits him up.
“Let me do the work, okay? You just get your good knee locked once you're up. Try not to tense up.”
Danny nods, teeth clenched against the pain.
“Ready? On three. One, two!”
Steve hauls him to his feet before they get to three ― and before Danny can tense up and hurt himself more. Even so, Danny lets out a pained grunt and almost falls, clutching at Steve's shoulders like a drowning man.
“Easy, Danno. Breathe through it,” he murmurs, staggering a little under the unexpected weight.
“Fuck,” Danny's breathing hard, almost hiccupping. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.” He shifts in Steve's grip. “Gonna be sick...”
“Okay, okay,” Steve manages to catch Danny as he folds, propping him up as he gags and retches, so that they won't have to repeat the whole process of getting up again. He can't tell if it's the pain or the concussion or a bit of both. He rubs between Danny's shoulder blades until he's just coughing weakly, spitting to clear out his mouth. “Easy, now. You're okay.”
“Christ,” Danny raises a shaking hand and wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist. “Fourteen and a half years.”
“Next time, you can try for fifteen.”
Danny lets out a choked laugh. “Let's just go.”
~*~
They don't make it far before the first gunshot rings out. Steve feels the bullet whiz by his head and hears the shot long after it's too late to do anything about it, but he flinches anyway and almost ducks, except that he's holding Danny up, Danny's arm pulled a little awkwardly over his shoulders, and ducking right now is probably the worst idea he's ever had. He curses under his breath, and Danny raises his head from where he's been resolutely staring at the ground directly in front of him so he won't lose his footing.
“Where'd it come from?”
“Back that way,” Steve jerks his head, already scanning for cover. “I got a fallen tree, eleven o'clock. This is going to hurt, but it's better than taking a bullet.”
“You get me shot, McGarrett, and I will come back from the dead in order to kick your ass.”
Steve just hoists him a little higher and does his best to sprint, mostly dragging Danny with him in spite of the yell of pain the movement elicits. Another shot barks out as, they drop to the ground behind the rotting tree trunk, water from the sodden ground soaking into their clothing. Danny lands with his bad leg outstretched, white bandages showing up starkly against the foliage, and he jams his hand roughly into his mouth, teeth digging into the flesh at the base of his thumb to keep from crying out. Steve can see tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, can see his chest rising and falling with each breath, and is amazed that he's still even conscious after all that.
Another shot, and this time Steve spots movement, the source of the gunfire. “Danny, I've got at least three shooters on our nine, now. I'm going to try to get them off our backs.”
“No back-up,” Danny pulls his hand out of his mouth. He sounds breathless, voice little above a whisper. There are bright-red tooth marks in the flesh below his thumb, glistening with saliva. “Who brings a gun on a helicopter during recon, anyway? You know what, don't answer that. Just... tell me you brought a back-up piece, you lunatic.”
Steve grins, then pulls his back-up piece out of its holster and presses it into Danny's hand. “I never knew you had such faith in me, Danno.”
“Faith in you being a psychopath, sure. Not hard to do. Don't expect me to shoot straight.”
“Just shoot at the bad guys, and we'll be fine.” Steve rises to a crouch, then offers Danny a tremulous smile. “Hang in there, okay?”
To his surprise, Danny grins, then reaches up and smacks him on the ass. “Go get 'em, tiger.”
“Remind me to check you for brain damage later.”
“There are so many things wrong with that sentence, I don't know where to begin.”
Whatever the bad guys were expecting, it wasn't for Steve to pop up from behind the fallen trunk like a militarily-trained jack-in-the-box and sprint directly at them. There are some startled yells, and he ducks, rolls, comes up shooting, and is rewarded with more yells and the distinctive sound of a body hitting the ground with a loud thump. Momentum and surprise are his only advantages, and so there's no hesitation when he leaps forward again, clearing another fallen tree just as his attackers ―down to two, now, he notes with satisfaction― are attempting to regroup and come after him. They're amateurs, two goons with guns and just enough know-how to use them, but with no head for strategy. It's almost laughable how easy it is to take them down. Steve has never enjoyed taking life, and the day he does is the day he'll turn in his credentials and his dog tags, but he'll be damned if he leaves any of these guys to come after him and Danny while they're vulnerable.
For a moment, there's nothing but silence. No birdsong, not even a frog, just an eerie stillness brought about by the all too human intrusion into the rainforest. He kneels by the closest body, checks for a pulse, then methodically goes through the meagre supplies the man has on him. They were obviously planning a short excursion, a day at most, but they do have canteens of water, and Steve helps himself to all three, as well as a few packs of jerky. It's not great, but it's better than what he had before, which was nothing, and if he's lucky he might be able to forage something to supplement it, if rescue doesn't come before long. He's busily stripping the last body of its supplies when another gunshot rings out, loud and unnatural in the quiet, and he leaps to his feet, already running.
“Danny!”
For a moment there's only quiet, and he just has time to think oh fuck I killed him I left him alone and they killed him, when Danny's voice comes wafting toward him, weak but very obviously ticked off.
“McGarrett? Please tell me you haven't let yourself get killed by these fucking amateurs and left me to starve to death in the middle of this tropical fruit-infested deathtrap!”
He doesn't bother to check his headlong rush back to his partner, and practically falls over the log where he left him. “Fucking Christ, Danny! Are you okay?”
Still propped up against the log Danny rolls his eyes. He's gripping the pistol tightly enough that his knuckles have turned white, though his hand is resting on the ground, muzzle pointed well away from him. “No, McGarrett, I'm not okay. I'm better than that poor schmuck, though,” he jerks his head, motioning to the very obviously lifeless body of a fourth guy that Steve never even saw coming.
Steve is very glad he's already kneeling, lets himself drop onto the ground on his ass and lets out all the breath in his lungs in a whoosh of air, and suddenly isn't sure how to breathe in anymore. Danny narrows his eyes at him, and he only realizes that his hands are shaking like he's got some sort of palsy when Danny reaches out and grabs his wrist.
“Hey, McGarrett,” he says, and his tone has turned gentle, kind of like he's talking to a frightened kitten. “It's okay. I'm okay.”
It's too close. For a second it's nothing but him listening to Victor Hesse scream over the phone, the sound of a gunshot thousands of miles away. He struggles for breath, rubs a hand over his face. “I, uh... I thought...”
“What?” Danny smirks. “You thought I couldn't handle one lone bad guy? Come on. I may not have your level of super-ninja-mastery, here, but one mook? Piece of cake. Hey...” he digs his fingers into Steve's wrist, hard enough for it to hurt. “Steve. You're the only person who can get me out of here, so no freaking out, okay?”
He pulls himself together with an effort. “I'm not freaking out,” he tells Danny in a voice that sounds a lot more confident than he feels.
“Good. Pissy is a much better look on you than freaked.”
“I really don't know where you get these ideas, Danno.” He keeps his tone brisk, all business. He's pretty sure he's not fooling either of them, but he can see the flash of gratitude and something else he's too rattled to identify in Danny's eyes. “I got some more water off those guys, a few rations. Should hold us until rescue can get to us. But this confirms what I thought. We're too close to the target, which means they're going to come looking for their guys when they don't check in.”
“Radios?”
He shakes his head. “Short-range only, looks like private frequencies. I picked one up for when we come back and nail these sons of bitches, though.”
“I am impressed that you haven't come right out and said 'I told you so.' Kudos.”
Steve rolls his eyes but smiles anyway. “Not my style. Anyway, you believed me, so there's no call.”
“I agreed with you? Damn. I must be concussed,” Danny says, letting his eyes slip shut, releasing his grip on Steve's wrist, and Steve feels his heart skip a beat.
He leans forward, gives Danny a rough shake. “Okay, Danno, we have to go. Have some water first,” he pulls him up, as Danny forces his eyes open again, though his gaze is unfocused, and holds a canteen to his lips. “Small sips, there you go.”
Danny coughs. “Not a child, McGarrett.”
“Yeah, okay. You bitch at me as much as you want. You going to puke again if I get you up?”
“Won't know until you try.”
Danny doesn't throw up or pass out, but it's a near thing. He ends up half-collapsed against his partner, breathing hard and swearing under his breath in-between gasps. Steve stays as still as he can, trying not to jolt him any more than necessary, only moving when Danny pulls back slightly and nods, patting him on the chest just over his heart.
It's rough going. The rainforest doesn't have a thick canopy, so it's easy enough to navigate in what Steve is pretty sure is the right direction, but the dense ground foliage makes walking hard even for a hale man, and all but impossible for Danny, whose injured leg seems to catch on every protruding root and branch. He doesn't even have the breath to complain, just ducks his head and does his best not to be too much of a hindrance ―and even his best isn't enough, not on this terrain. Eventually Steve spots a branch that's roughly the right thickness and length to serve as a makeshift crutch, and that helps a little, not so much because it helps Danny to walk, but because it gives him a way to spread his weight a little and gives Steve a bit more leeway to pick their way across the uneven ground.
After a while, Steve has to admit he's impressed. Even though he's never received anything like the training they get in the SEALs, Danny's holding his own. He looks terrible, face pinched and grey, sweat soaking through his shirt, eyes at half-mast, but he's been going doggedly, keeping up with the pace Steve is setting ―not a fast pace, but certainly not one designed to make it easy on an injured teammate― the only sign he's feeling the strain an obvious clenching of teeth and the occasional hiss of pain when his foot catches on a root. After a little under two hours, though, Steve can feel him falter.
“You okay?”
Danny shakes his head. “Sorry,” he gasps. “Gotta stop. Just for a second... please.”
“Yeah, okay. You're doing real good, Danno. Can you make it just a bit further?” There's a clearing up ahead, and Danny nods once jerkily. “Good. Come on, we're almost there.”
He sets Danny down, props him against a tree, starts checking him over. That's apparently all Danny was holding out for, because he slumps down bonelessly, and his eyes promptly roll back into his head. Steve swears fluently in as many languages as he can think of off the top of his head, and, seized with a sudden doubt, unbuttons Danny's shirt, pulling it open and out from where it's tucked into Danny's pants, then swears more when he sees the discolouration under the skin. He palpates Danny’s abdomen gingerly, the muscles rigid under his gentle probing.
After a minute or so, Danny stirs. “'s it bad?”
He can't bring himself to lie. “It's pretty bad. You got any pain in your stomach, Danny?”
Danny makes a sound that he thinks is meant to be a denial. “Kind of... in my back. Feels like the time I had a kidney infection. Fun times. 'm I bleeding?”
“Yeah, you are. I don't think it's major, but you've definitely got a bleed, which means we're short on time, here, and...” he swallows, “that changes things, strategy-wise.”
Danny shakes his head. “Still gotta move. We're too close.”
“Can't risk it, Danno,” Steve manages a smile he doesn't feel. “I jostle you the wrong way, you could bleed out in seconds. I should have seen it before, I'm sorry.”
“Christ, McGarrett, are you going to strap on some more guilt with that?” Danny fixes him with a glare. "How about feeling bad for all those starving kids in Biafra, while you're at it, because you didn't eat all your broccoli? We got shot out of the sky by damn meth-making psychopaths with some sort of anti-aircraft whatever-the-fuck,” Danny flings both hands up to get his point across, “and I get tossed twenty feet out of a helicopter. And now you feel guilty because you didn't notice an extra injury?” He pokes Steve in the chest, which normally Steve hates, but now makes him grin.
“Well, when you put it that way...”
“Damn straight,” Danny rolls his eyes, and smacks him weakly on the knee closest to him. “We okay for water?”
“We're fine,” Steve assures him, taking the canteen away and helping him to sit up a bit. “Plenty left in the canteens, and there's rainfall if we need it.”
“Rainfall,” Danny snorts. “Remind me never to leave solid ground again.”
“That would mean staying on Hawaii for the rest of your life,” Steve points out. “Anyway, if you're bleeding, that changes things. Water could make it worse, so no more water until it's absolutely necessary.”
“That's just great,” Danny grumbles. “If it's not the internal bleeding that gets me, it'll be the dehydration. How long we got?”
“Take as much time as you need, okay? We'll go when you're ready. And dehydration won't kick in for a while yet, so don't worry about it. I won't let anything happen to you, Danny.”
Danny sighs. “Yeah, I know.”
This is a terrible idea, but he doesn't see an alternative. Danny's right, they're still far too close to the crash site, which means they're likely to attract all sorts of unwanted attention. The choice is either stay here and maybe get them both killed, or try to move Danny and maybe kill him in the process if the internal bleeding gets worse. He rubs a hand over his mouth and swallows the curses that, if he were alone, he'd be uttering non-stop.
“I'll never be ready,” Danny grunts, grabbing at him to try to pull himself upright. “May as well go now.”
“You got it. I'm going to try to get us as far as possible. You with me?”
For a second Danny freezes, eyes locking with Steve's. “Always,” he says, a soft smile momentarily replacing the lines of pain and tension on his face. “Get me up before I pass out, McGarrett.”
~*~
Part 2