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sealieRating: Slash
Word count: ~3,850
Warning: skip nothing springs to mind
Advisory: potty mouth; IT’S A WIP.
Disclaimer: writing for fun not for profit.
Comments: British English spelling
Spoilers: none, it’s an AU.
Betas: Springwoof, ☆☆☆☆☆!
Last time on The Co-operative:
They lost the Champ box over the side of the catamaran;
There was an altercation;
Steve fought Wo Fat, and Danny fought the Ox;
A rookery of Navy SEALs came to the rescue leading to,
Success!
The first part is here,
The Co-operative.
By Sealie
The trip back in the V-22 osprey had been an experience. Danny had thoroughly enjoyed being hoisted up into the hold of the helicopter. He looked forward to telling his grandchildren and great-grandchildren about the experience -- minus the gut clenching terror and projectile vomiting. Steve, however, was going to hear, at great length, about how memorable the entire experience was for the rest of his god-damned life.
Danny would have much preferred to have been returned to Pearl Harbour-Hickam using the very stable, quiet boat, rather than the noisy, rattling terror machine. However, apparently, the catamaran was -- courtesy of Steve’s sabotaging the hydraulics -- trapped into sailing around in a large circle in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.
Steve had simply pocketed his newly found remote; Wo Fat had still had it on his person. He left his aids in his carrying case. Pointing vaguely to indicate the raucous rotors, Steve had then slumped into the frankly mechano-like seat bolted into the side of the helicopter, shut his eyes, and fallen promptly asleep. Kessler had managed to wrap a massive dressing around Steve’s head -- it had been the sort of mess that Grace bestowed on her dolls -- without waking him up.
Danny had not slept.
Now Danny was in the Tripler Emergency Room having the ghoulish gash on his arm cleaned and stitched, where possible. The scar was going to be impressive, because it wasn’t a slice, but a gouge.
Steve was having an MRI under the direction of Dr. Magnus, checking on his head in light of the small sub-arachnoid haematoma that he had suffered from the IED attack when he had been injured six months earlier.
Danny was going to have words with Steven J. McGarrett about holding back pertinent information.
Danny was exhausted. Dwelling on his exhaustion made him feel more tired.
“All done.” The doctor, a tall white guy wearing a fetching floral print bandanna, secured the bandage around Danny’s arm with a piece of tape. “Keep a close eye on the wound. Any undue redness or seepage, I want you straight back here. I don’t like prescribing antibiotics prophylactically. You’ll be back in ten days to get the stitches out.”
“I will?” Danny snarked because he was tired, he hadn’t eaten since the chicken satay skewer hours ago at the wake, and there wasn’t a molecule of adrenalin left in his body.
“Ten days,” Paisley-Floral doctor said without humour. “Don’t get the stitches wet. Keep it dry. Change the dressing daily.”
“Cod-- understood, doc.”
“Here.” The doctor gave him a wet-wipe. “You’ve got blood on your forehead. No wound.”
“Oh.” Danny scrubbed at the skin, and stared at the crusty, rusty flakes, bamboozled. “Have I got it all?”
“Smudge on the left.”
“Thanks.” Danny folded the wipe over to get a clean piece and scrubbed again at his skin. It was Steve’s blood. He remembered resting their foreheads together in the aftermath of Wo Fat’s capture.
“I saw a sweatshirt lying around,” the doctor said. “I’ll go find it.”
Danny slumped on the edge of the gurney, trying to dredge up the energy to move. Despite the lateness of the hour, he was just going to have to beg coffee from the Tripler Staff, because he doubted that the day was over.
~*~
“Danny. Danny. Danny?” the insistent voice prodded Danny awake.
“Wha--” Danny blinked. He was lying twisted on his side, feet hanging off the edge of the bed, as if he had just toppled over.
“Danny?”
“Yeah?” Danny knuckled at his eye, sleep creased and uncomfortable. “Steve? You okay?”
Steve had an impressive white dressing plastered over his forehead. A grey-green t-shirt hung off his frame.
“Fine.”
“Fine?” Danny echoed, because that didn’t look fine by any definition of the word.
“Yeah.” Steve lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “No concussion or bleed.”
“Sub-arachnoid haematoma,” Danny said darkly. “Bleeding in your brain.”
“No.” Steve sighed, and rocked from foot to foot. “Magnus was just being Magnus.”
“What?” Danny persisted.
“I think that Magnus was really just trying to see how the bleeds had resolved since, you know. Science.”
Finally, a sentence. Steve’s diction was clear and crisp, and his volume precise -- all which signalled that he was wearing his hearing aids.
“So no headache?” Danny asked “‘Cos the size of that bandage tells me you’ve probably got a big headache.”
“It was a slicing kick.” Steve automatically raised his arm in a blocking motion. “Wo Fat’s hard shoe heel just caught the skin on my forehead and peel--”
“Stop. Stop!” Danny held up his hand. “I don’t need to know. I’m guessing that you’re bruised from head to toe?”
Steve patted his pocket.
“Painkillers.” Danny interpreted the action. Steve was skirting the non-verbal, which was a clear indicator that he was beyond tired.
“Can we go home?” Danny asked. He hoped that they weren’t going to be debriefed.
Steve stared, eyes too big, and smudges under his eyes too dark.
“Look, Wo Fat’s not going anywhere is he? I don’t have a clue what time it is.” Danny automatically looked to his empty wrist. His watch was back at the House on their bed where White had thrown it. “We’re closer to home than Pearl.”
“Not true,” Steve said.
“Okay, but if we go to Pearl, we’ll be much further away from the House. Home. Let’s go home. Seriously, will Archer mind?”
Soberly, Steve nodded. “I have to give him the ledger.”
“Damn it all to Hell.” Danny thudded back on the pillows. He wanted to go home to bed.
~*~
“Commander, you look like Hell,” Archer said candidly as he shook Steve’s hand. “Mr. Williams.”
“It’s been a long day,” Danny said.
“But successful. You and I are going to have words, Commander. But I will say: good work.”
“Sir?” Steve said, perplexity tinged by tiredness.
“It hadn’t escaped my notice that you weren’t telling me the whole story. You can’t lie for shit. And you never returned to the photography unit on Base after developing the last set of photographs. Did you expect Corporal Oh to not report your sudden absence? Or that I wouldn’t connect the dots?”
“You kept pretty mum about White,” Danny riposted, because Archer had no power over him. “And we’ve been bait for the last two months.”
“Danny,” Steve murmured.
“Don’t ‘Danny’ me, I’m not in the Navy, am I?”
“If I was going to be pedantic, I would point out that you’re a contractor,” Archer said dryly.
“Okay. I think that I deserve Hazard Pay, then.” Danny mentally counted lots of dollar signs dancing around a red tool chest.
Archer didn’t seem to have much of a sense of humour. Putting on a Naval uniform seemed to switch off any sense of humour in its wearer. Archer had a lot of blocks of colour over his breast pocket -- the more blocks, the more serious the officer, Danny assumed.
“How’s Commander White?” Steve asked softly.
“Surgical ward at Tripler, being monitored,” Archer answered Steve’s question and ignored Danny’s additions. “Initial signs point to a good recovery. He’ll then go to Leavenworth.”
Steve nodded brusquely.
“And Wo Fat?” Danny asked, because he might not have badges and stripes, but his questions were relevant.
“We’ll have some face-to-face meetings,” Archer said euphemistically, “and then he’ll be pacing a very small cell with inadequate en-suite facilities as well.”
“Sir.” Steve reached into his jacket pocket. “Wo Fat’s focus on Seolh was to find two items: a family object and this ledger. Both of which my mother stole from his father, Wo Yongfu, when she was working with the CIA.”
“And this is?” Archer asked as he opened the bankbook.
“Roadmap of hard item caches. It will have to be translated.”
Archer raised an eyebrow: clearly.
“This is old, presumably? Doris McGarrett was active in the 70s and 80s,” Archer said.
“We believe that the caches contain plunder, otherwise why would Wo Fat have spent so much time and effort into retrieving it? He called it a bankbook, but we also assume that Wo Yongfu wrote other information in it.”
“Why?” Archer leafed through the ledger.
“It’s not all tables and accounts judging by the format. I can pick out a few words.” Steve stood a little taller. “Check out the front pages.”
Danny leaned over to better see the aforementioned pages. The hanzi were crabby, and not drawn into distinct columns. It could possibly be the Wo Family history page, although the writing was precise, not in a child’s hand.
“It’s not as if I ever got to see an unredacted version of my mother’s case files. Perhaps, you have a better idea of what might be contained within the pages, Commander Archer,” Steve said precisely.
Danny winced, because that was sharp.
Archer met the passive aggressive jab with a raised eyebrow.
Danny kind of wished that they had stopped by a handy photocopier somewhere in the labyrinthine Tripler, and taken a few scans.
But they did have some photos of the pages.
“Good work, Commander.” Archer closed the book with a snap. “You too, Mr. Williams. Thank you.”
“Sir?”
“You’re dismissed, Commander. Go home. You look like a reject from Miami Vice. Get some sleep. We’ll talk later.” Archer nodded, cold and austere, and offering no room for argument.
“Yes, sir.” Steve nodded back, equally soberly. Neither man saluted, but Danny could tell that they wanted to. The lack of salute probably had something to do with the fact that Steve wasn’t wearing a uniform -- but wore a borrowed t-shirt, his unbuttoned vest and tailored suit jacket.
“I do hope we get to know what’s in that book,” Danny said, “‘cos, you know, we’re invested.”
Archer regarded him, immutable, but the rigid, inflexible cast broke. He inclined his head fractionally. Danny took that as a ‘yes’.
“Come on, Steve.” Danny plucked at his elbow. “Home.”
“Good night, Sir,” Steve said.
~*~
“Oh, my god. Oh, my god. Oh, my god. Steve! Danny!”
They were surrounded. Exhaustion had settled into a migraine-like beat behind Danny’s eyes. But they were home, and surrounded by family. Steve had Mary enfolded in his long arms, and Kono smelled amazing wrapped around Danny. Mamo watched from the top of the steps on the veranda, like Kamehameha I on his pedestal.
“Dudes!” Toast yelled. “You scared the shit out of us. The radio call, man.”
“You picked that up?” Danny asked.
“Me and everyone else who monitors Channel 16.”
“Sorry,” Danny apologised sincerely. If he had been on the other end of that radio, he probably would have had a stroke from the stress.
“Are you all right?” Auntie Maru was eying Danny’s arm hidden under the over-large Navy sweatshirt.
“Bruised and battered,” Steve answered, uncurling to sling an arm over Mary’s shoulders. “But we got Wo Fat. He’s in federal custody. The Navy has the evidence that Wo Fat was after.”
“So it’s over?” Chin asked.
Steve blew out a heavy sigh, jaw working.
“That’s a no,” Mary said, astutely.
“It’s a ‘we still need some answers’,” Steve said, “but they’re going to be forthcoming.”
Forthcoming, Mary mouthed, and rolled her eyes.
“Okay, keikis,” Mamo said, “bed. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
~*~
“We should be having sex,” Danny said.
“What?” Steve’s jaw dropped.
“You know.” Danny gestured, arms windmilling to encompass the whole of their experience, and almost knocking his fingers off the corner of Steve’s diamond bookshelf. His arm hurt -- everything hurt, including his hair. “The villain’s caught, the treasures found, the triumphant heroes return home and have celebratory sex against the wall.”
Steve blinked.
“Or, you know, we can have a hot shower and sleep for twenty-four hours,” Danny said responding to the exhaustion written all over the planes and angles of Steve’s face. He couldn’t see his own face, but he certainly felt grey.
“Is it sad that I would probably fall asleep if I leaned against a wall?” Steve said, shoulders slumping.
“Pathetic. Let’s shower before we die of exhaustion.”
“Pathetic,” Steve grumbled, as he stumbled after Danny.
“Do you think that Archer will tell us anything?” Danny asked over his shoulder as he trooped up the spiral staircase to Steve’s sybaritic bathroom. He wanted a shower more than food or sex.
“He’ll tell us something.”
“But not everything.”
Steve lifted a shoulder in a tired, long-suffering shrug.
“We have to know. You get that, don’t you?” Danny persisted. A fillip of anger took him into the bathroom. “We should have kept the ledger.”
“No, we shouldn’t have. We can’t use it. We can’t translate it. We can’t empty the Wo Family coffers. Navy Intel will be able to use the resources.”
“But they’ll only tell us what they think we need to know.”
“True. But I am an Intelligence Officer and a Navy SEAL, and I need to know a lot. Archer and I will come to an understanding.”
“How?”
Steve waggled an eyebrow.
“Steven.”
Flamboyantly, Steve twisted his fingers in mid-air, and an old-fashioned three inch floppy computer disc appeared between his finger and thumb.
“That,” Danny said, staring at the black plastic square with its distinctive silver shutter, “was in the Champ box.”
“Yes.” Steve patted his jacket pocket and plucked out an old-fashioned SONY hand held recorder. “Along with this and a tin.”
He placed the floppy disc on the vanity unit and got a rattling old cigar tin from another pocket.
“Oh,” Danny said succinctly. “Clearly stealing is a family trait.”
Steve huffed at him.
“So,” Danny continued unaffected by any expression that Steve could fire at him, “even if the Navy SEALs can’t find the Champ box in Davy Jones’ Locker, we still have some of your mom’s stuff. That disc is old, though.”
“And luckily we have a computer expert on staff.” Steve grinned cheesily.
“Well, well, well. You deserve a gold star.”
“Is that better than sex?”
“No, but close.”
“Shower, first,” Steve said hopefully.
“That’s so sad. We want a shower more than anything else in the world.”
“Simple pleasures.” Steve wriggled out of his jacket, without moving too much, and tossed the bloody coat into the laundry hamper. He was probably bruised from head to toe, and the painkillers were wearing off. His tailored vest followed the jacket with a clank.
“What was that?” Danny asked.
“What?”
“Something heavy in the pocket of your vest?”
Steve squinted, and then volunteered, “Pocket watch; great-grandfather’s. I’ll get it tomorrow. Suit has to go to the dry cleaners, anyway.”
“What a pair.” Danny shook his head, as he shucked off his trousers and underpants. “So tired.”
Steve toed off his shoes, and pulled off one sock, by standing on the toes. Bending over wasn’t on his list of things to do. Pulling the other sock off, he picked up his socks, one after another, with his long toes and lifted them into the hamper.
“Dexterous.”
“What?”
“You’re like an orang-utan. Can you pick up pens from the floor?”
“Yeah. Sure.” Steve unfastened his pants, and they puddled around his ankles. It was ridiculous the way that he was a long line from hips to feet. Ridiculous, but also attractive. His boxers joined the pants. His cock hung loose, the tip poking out under his too-large t-shirt.
They stood opposite each other, only wearing a Navy t-shirt and a Navy sweatshirt.
“I think I’ve seen movies starting like this,” Danny observed. “Navy Boys HooHar – Hooyah? Yeah, that was it: Navy Boys Hooyah.”
“What?” Steve’s mouth opened, indignantly.
Danny grinned. He’d seen a lot of movies in his time -- that one had stuck in his mind.
Aloofly, Steve peeled out of his t-shirt.
“Ouch.” Danny winced on Steve’s behalf. New, developing bruising overlaid the old, yellowed bruising from various recent escapades over the network of scarring and burns on his left side. Wo Fat had been ruthless, targeting the vulnerable side. “That’s gotta hurt.”
“Going to hurt more tomorrow.” Steve had cleaned up somewhat at the hospital, but it had been cursory at best. Head wounds did indeed bleed messily. His sparse chest hair was clumped into spiral bloody twists.
“Shower.” A shower was definitely the order of the day.
Danny wrenched the sweatshirt over his head, and froze as his arm flared in pain again.
“Hey. Hey, let me help.” Steve wrestled with the material, pulling Danny’s head free, and carefully working at his arm. “We better wrap this in plastic.”
“And your head,” Danny said truculently.
“You want to put a plastic bag over my head?”
“Yes,” Danny snarked, because he was at the end of his tether. He folded the sweatshirt into a tight ball and fired it into the hamper.
“Nice.” Steve dipped down and kissed Danny high on the cheek. “I love you too.”
“I love you, you rule-obeying, doofus,”
“You say the nicest things.” Steve nuzzled his nose through Danny’s hair. “I’ve got a cast protector that will work on your bandage.”
“When the fuck did you break your arm?” Danny caught the hem of Steve’s t-shirt.
“Years ago. Training exercise.” Steve wriggled out of Danny’s hold. “It’s in the first aid kit.”
The first aid kit under the sink that Steve had probably stolen from the Navy. Danny crouched to get the backpack, because Steve wasn’t bending at the waist without provocation.
“We should be able to get your hair washed without getting that band-aid wet.”
“What? You’re facing away from me. I am so tired,” Steve admitted uncharacteristically.
“Sorry, Babe.” Danny stood holding the cast-protector. “Let’s get clean.”
~*~
Honestly, Danny tried -- his brain chittered away, supplying more than a few useful images. The line of Steve’s back was amazing. His curiously neatly turned out feet, attractive. But Steve yawned in Danny’s face just before Danny tried to kiss him. Sadly, Danny contemplated his cock because nothing was happening down below. The mind was willing because it thought that it should, but the body said bed – now.
Steve let Danny wash the blood out of his hair so that the dressing on his forehead didn’t get too wet. But it was inevitable that they were getting wet, and would have to put new band-aids on. The cast protector kind of worked. But the intimacy in their future was smoothing on antibiotic ointments and rebinding wounds.
Steve staggered out of the shower dripping water on the tiled floor. He dried with the vague efficiency of the well-practiced and the practicality of someone who couldn’t be bothered to dry off completely.
Danny wound a towel around his waist.
They lived in a tropical hell hole -- air drying happened.
“Sit.” Steve pushed Danny to sit on the closed toilet seat. It was his sole direction before he peeled off the bandage around Danny’s arm.
“Hwad n-xt,” Danny mumbled around a massive yawn.
“I don’t care what you said.” Steve dumped Danny’s bandage in the sink beside the little bowl where his aids sat.
Practiced, with experience and training that Danny didn’t like to contemplate, Steve rewrapped the wound.
“Come on.” Bodily, Danny caught Steve’s hips, thumbs setting in the grooves, and turned him around.
“What?” Steve protested, and Danny swapped places to plonk him on the closed toilet seat.
Carefully, Danny scrubbed Steve’s hair dry with a towel. His own, he would condition and comb back to dry. Neat, precise, tiny stitches in a handful of places and surgical glue closed a horseshoe shaped cut spanning the curve of Steve’s temple and forehead. A deft hand, a plastic surgeon’s hand, had placed those stitches. The scar should be razor narrow and faint when healed.
Steve peered up at him wearily. Sitting was probably a mistake; Steve looked as if he could snooze sitting on the can. Danny slapped -- carefully placed -- a large band-aid over the wound.
“Come on.” Danny held out his hand. Steve didn’t move. “You can’t stay there. Bed upstairs. Big bed. Comfy bed. Beeeeddddd….”
Teeth gritted, Steve stood. Danny chucked the towel around his waist onto the floor. The cleaning up of the detritus of bandaging and showering was going to have to wait for tomorrow.
“Beeeedddd,” Danny intoned again, liking the sound.
Wearily, Steve pressed his fingertips against Danny’s shoulder. He rolled with the movement, knowing where they needed to be -- upstairs and horizontal.
The bedroom window leading to the roof was still wide open. Unbothered by his nakedness, Steve padded barefoot over to the wide swath of windows and stared out over Seolh’s woods. Were the surveillance guys still out there? Too tired to care, Danny waved absently at the perverts before scooping their watches, Blackberry and long, sharp knife off the bed and setting them on the side table. Danny made a mental note to make sure that Archer got his cell phone off Wo Fat or his henchmen. There were photos of Grace on that phone, and it was his phone.
Steve pulled the covers back and face planted on the sheets. There wasn’t any decorum. He lay down, stuffed his head under a pillow, and -- flick of the switch -- he was out for the count. It was impressive.
Danny slid in on the other side, leaving a little space between them, and pulled the covers up. Grabbing one of the many pillows he punched it into submission, and stuffed it behind his head. The ceiling fan wasn’t switched on. Danny couldn’t find the energy to get up. The window was open. He should be asleep. Steve was -- snuffling a little bit.
~*~
Hours later, or maybe twenty minutes -- perhaps Danny had dozed? He wasn’t entirely sure because the twilight of sleep made time run weirdly. Bizarrely, he was now sitting bolt upright. Steve grumbled, sleep talking, and muttering about a road. He rolled over and slung an arm over Danny’s waist. Steve, Danny realised, had sought out comfort, curling into his warmth. He hadn’t resorted to his pillow fort.
The world outside the lighthouse windows was dark. Pinpricks of starlight promised a cloudless night. Moonlight illuminated a stark line across a quiet ocean. Danny thought that he might have watched the lambent moon move across the horizon.
Steve grumbled again, lips smacking as he scrunched his nose. Danny smoothed a hand over his shoulder, soothingly.
“Hey, hey,” Danny breathed.
He shifted under Steve’s loose hold until he reclined, propped on pillows. Steve butted his head into Danny’s armpit, huffed, and relaxed into a new stage of sleep. Danny shuffled down the bed a little more. A dream fritted elusively at the edge of memories. He couldn’t remember. Slick sweat covered his skin. Danny swallowed.
It’s over. It is.
Steve shifted and draped his large hand over Danny’s chest. Contemplatively, Danny weaved his fingers through Steve’s fingers, interleaving them together. Steve had big hands, broad with long fingers. They were disproportionately a little too large for his frame. Steve should have narrow hands like his feet.
They were hands that could twist a cord and easily break someone’s neck.
Danny didn’t think that he was going to be sleeping tonight or possibly ever again.
~*~
Tbc
Part one hundred and thirteen
Word count: ~3,850
Warning: skip nothing springs to mind
Advisory: potty mouth; IT’S A WIP.
Disclaimer: writing for fun not for profit.
Comments: British English spelling
Spoilers: none, it’s an AU.
Betas: Springwoof, ☆☆☆☆☆!
Last time on The Co-operative:
They lost the Champ box over the side of the catamaran;
There was an altercation;
Steve fought Wo Fat, and Danny fought the Ox;
A rookery of Navy SEALs came to the rescue leading to,
Success!
The first part is here,
The Co-operative.
By Sealie
The trip back in the V-22 osprey had been an experience. Danny had thoroughly enjoyed being hoisted up into the hold of the helicopter. He looked forward to telling his grandchildren and great-grandchildren about the experience -- minus the gut clenching terror and projectile vomiting. Steve, however, was going to hear, at great length, about how memorable the entire experience was for the rest of his god-damned life.
Danny would have much preferred to have been returned to Pearl Harbour-Hickam using the very stable, quiet boat, rather than the noisy, rattling terror machine. However, apparently, the catamaran was -- courtesy of Steve’s sabotaging the hydraulics -- trapped into sailing around in a large circle in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.
Steve had simply pocketed his newly found remote; Wo Fat had still had it on his person. He left his aids in his carrying case. Pointing vaguely to indicate the raucous rotors, Steve had then slumped into the frankly mechano-like seat bolted into the side of the helicopter, shut his eyes, and fallen promptly asleep. Kessler had managed to wrap a massive dressing around Steve’s head -- it had been the sort of mess that Grace bestowed on her dolls -- without waking him up.
Danny had not slept.
Now Danny was in the Tripler Emergency Room having the ghoulish gash on his arm cleaned and stitched, where possible. The scar was going to be impressive, because it wasn’t a slice, but a gouge.
Steve was having an MRI under the direction of Dr. Magnus, checking on his head in light of the small sub-arachnoid haematoma that he had suffered from the IED attack when he had been injured six months earlier.
Danny was going to have words with Steven J. McGarrett about holding back pertinent information.
Danny was exhausted. Dwelling on his exhaustion made him feel more tired.
“All done.” The doctor, a tall white guy wearing a fetching floral print bandanna, secured the bandage around Danny’s arm with a piece of tape. “Keep a close eye on the wound. Any undue redness or seepage, I want you straight back here. I don’t like prescribing antibiotics prophylactically. You’ll be back in ten days to get the stitches out.”
“I will?” Danny snarked because he was tired, he hadn’t eaten since the chicken satay skewer hours ago at the wake, and there wasn’t a molecule of adrenalin left in his body.
“Ten days,” Paisley-Floral doctor said without humour. “Don’t get the stitches wet. Keep it dry. Change the dressing daily.”
“Cod-- understood, doc.”
“Here.” The doctor gave him a wet-wipe. “You’ve got blood on your forehead. No wound.”
“Oh.” Danny scrubbed at the skin, and stared at the crusty, rusty flakes, bamboozled. “Have I got it all?”
“Smudge on the left.”
“Thanks.” Danny folded the wipe over to get a clean piece and scrubbed again at his skin. It was Steve’s blood. He remembered resting their foreheads together in the aftermath of Wo Fat’s capture.
“I saw a sweatshirt lying around,” the doctor said. “I’ll go find it.”
Danny slumped on the edge of the gurney, trying to dredge up the energy to move. Despite the lateness of the hour, he was just going to have to beg coffee from the Tripler Staff, because he doubted that the day was over.
~*~
“Danny. Danny. Danny?” the insistent voice prodded Danny awake.
“Wha--” Danny blinked. He was lying twisted on his side, feet hanging off the edge of the bed, as if he had just toppled over.
“Danny?”
“Yeah?” Danny knuckled at his eye, sleep creased and uncomfortable. “Steve? You okay?”
Steve had an impressive white dressing plastered over his forehead. A grey-green t-shirt hung off his frame.
“Fine.”
“Fine?” Danny echoed, because that didn’t look fine by any definition of the word.
“Yeah.” Steve lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “No concussion or bleed.”
“Sub-arachnoid haematoma,” Danny said darkly. “Bleeding in your brain.”
“No.” Steve sighed, and rocked from foot to foot. “Magnus was just being Magnus.”
“What?” Danny persisted.
“I think that Magnus was really just trying to see how the bleeds had resolved since, you know. Science.”
Finally, a sentence. Steve’s diction was clear and crisp, and his volume precise -- all which signalled that he was wearing his hearing aids.
“So no headache?” Danny asked “‘Cos the size of that bandage tells me you’ve probably got a big headache.”
“It was a slicing kick.” Steve automatically raised his arm in a blocking motion. “Wo Fat’s hard shoe heel just caught the skin on my forehead and peel--”
“Stop. Stop!” Danny held up his hand. “I don’t need to know. I’m guessing that you’re bruised from head to toe?”
Steve patted his pocket.
“Painkillers.” Danny interpreted the action. Steve was skirting the non-verbal, which was a clear indicator that he was beyond tired.
“Can we go home?” Danny asked. He hoped that they weren’t going to be debriefed.
Steve stared, eyes too big, and smudges under his eyes too dark.
“Look, Wo Fat’s not going anywhere is he? I don’t have a clue what time it is.” Danny automatically looked to his empty wrist. His watch was back at the House on their bed where White had thrown it. “We’re closer to home than Pearl.”
“Not true,” Steve said.
“Okay, but if we go to Pearl, we’ll be much further away from the House. Home. Let’s go home. Seriously, will Archer mind?”
Soberly, Steve nodded. “I have to give him the ledger.”
“Damn it all to Hell.” Danny thudded back on the pillows. He wanted to go home to bed.
~*~
“Commander, you look like Hell,” Archer said candidly as he shook Steve’s hand. “Mr. Williams.”
“It’s been a long day,” Danny said.
“But successful. You and I are going to have words, Commander. But I will say: good work.”
“Sir?” Steve said, perplexity tinged by tiredness.
“It hadn’t escaped my notice that you weren’t telling me the whole story. You can’t lie for shit. And you never returned to the photography unit on Base after developing the last set of photographs. Did you expect Corporal Oh to not report your sudden absence? Or that I wouldn’t connect the dots?”
“You kept pretty mum about White,” Danny riposted, because Archer had no power over him. “And we’ve been bait for the last two months.”
“Danny,” Steve murmured.
“Don’t ‘Danny’ me, I’m not in the Navy, am I?”
“If I was going to be pedantic, I would point out that you’re a contractor,” Archer said dryly.
“Okay. I think that I deserve Hazard Pay, then.” Danny mentally counted lots of dollar signs dancing around a red tool chest.
Archer didn’t seem to have much of a sense of humour. Putting on a Naval uniform seemed to switch off any sense of humour in its wearer. Archer had a lot of blocks of colour over his breast pocket -- the more blocks, the more serious the officer, Danny assumed.
“How’s Commander White?” Steve asked softly.
“Surgical ward at Tripler, being monitored,” Archer answered Steve’s question and ignored Danny’s additions. “Initial signs point to a good recovery. He’ll then go to Leavenworth.”
Steve nodded brusquely.
“And Wo Fat?” Danny asked, because he might not have badges and stripes, but his questions were relevant.
“We’ll have some face-to-face meetings,” Archer said euphemistically, “and then he’ll be pacing a very small cell with inadequate en-suite facilities as well.”
“Sir.” Steve reached into his jacket pocket. “Wo Fat’s focus on Seolh was to find two items: a family object and this ledger. Both of which my mother stole from his father, Wo Yongfu, when she was working with the CIA.”
“And this is?” Archer asked as he opened the bankbook.
“Roadmap of hard item caches. It will have to be translated.”
Archer raised an eyebrow: clearly.
“This is old, presumably? Doris McGarrett was active in the 70s and 80s,” Archer said.
“We believe that the caches contain plunder, otherwise why would Wo Fat have spent so much time and effort into retrieving it? He called it a bankbook, but we also assume that Wo Yongfu wrote other information in it.”
“Why?” Archer leafed through the ledger.
“It’s not all tables and accounts judging by the format. I can pick out a few words.” Steve stood a little taller. “Check out the front pages.”
Danny leaned over to better see the aforementioned pages. The hanzi were crabby, and not drawn into distinct columns. It could possibly be the Wo Family history page, although the writing was precise, not in a child’s hand.
“It’s not as if I ever got to see an unredacted version of my mother’s case files. Perhaps, you have a better idea of what might be contained within the pages, Commander Archer,” Steve said precisely.
Danny winced, because that was sharp.
Archer met the passive aggressive jab with a raised eyebrow.
Danny kind of wished that they had stopped by a handy photocopier somewhere in the labyrinthine Tripler, and taken a few scans.
But they did have some photos of the pages.
“Good work, Commander.” Archer closed the book with a snap. “You too, Mr. Williams. Thank you.”
“Sir?”
“You’re dismissed, Commander. Go home. You look like a reject from Miami Vice. Get some sleep. We’ll talk later.” Archer nodded, cold and austere, and offering no room for argument.
“Yes, sir.” Steve nodded back, equally soberly. Neither man saluted, but Danny could tell that they wanted to. The lack of salute probably had something to do with the fact that Steve wasn’t wearing a uniform -- but wore a borrowed t-shirt, his unbuttoned vest and tailored suit jacket.
“I do hope we get to know what’s in that book,” Danny said, “‘cos, you know, we’re invested.”
Archer regarded him, immutable, but the rigid, inflexible cast broke. He inclined his head fractionally. Danny took that as a ‘yes’.
“Come on, Steve.” Danny plucked at his elbow. “Home.”
“Good night, Sir,” Steve said.
~*~
“Oh, my god. Oh, my god. Oh, my god. Steve! Danny!”
They were surrounded. Exhaustion had settled into a migraine-like beat behind Danny’s eyes. But they were home, and surrounded by family. Steve had Mary enfolded in his long arms, and Kono smelled amazing wrapped around Danny. Mamo watched from the top of the steps on the veranda, like Kamehameha I on his pedestal.
“Dudes!” Toast yelled. “You scared the shit out of us. The radio call, man.”
“You picked that up?” Danny asked.
“Me and everyone else who monitors Channel 16.”
“Sorry,” Danny apologised sincerely. If he had been on the other end of that radio, he probably would have had a stroke from the stress.
“Are you all right?” Auntie Maru was eying Danny’s arm hidden under the over-large Navy sweatshirt.
“Bruised and battered,” Steve answered, uncurling to sling an arm over Mary’s shoulders. “But we got Wo Fat. He’s in federal custody. The Navy has the evidence that Wo Fat was after.”
“So it’s over?” Chin asked.
Steve blew out a heavy sigh, jaw working.
“That’s a no,” Mary said, astutely.
“It’s a ‘we still need some answers’,” Steve said, “but they’re going to be forthcoming.”
Forthcoming, Mary mouthed, and rolled her eyes.
“Okay, keikis,” Mamo said, “bed. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
~*~
“We should be having sex,” Danny said.
“What?” Steve’s jaw dropped.
“You know.” Danny gestured, arms windmilling to encompass the whole of their experience, and almost knocking his fingers off the corner of Steve’s diamond bookshelf. His arm hurt -- everything hurt, including his hair. “The villain’s caught, the treasures found, the triumphant heroes return home and have celebratory sex against the wall.”
Steve blinked.
“Or, you know, we can have a hot shower and sleep for twenty-four hours,” Danny said responding to the exhaustion written all over the planes and angles of Steve’s face. He couldn’t see his own face, but he certainly felt grey.
“Is it sad that I would probably fall asleep if I leaned against a wall?” Steve said, shoulders slumping.
“Pathetic. Let’s shower before we die of exhaustion.”
“Pathetic,” Steve grumbled, as he stumbled after Danny.
“Do you think that Archer will tell us anything?” Danny asked over his shoulder as he trooped up the spiral staircase to Steve’s sybaritic bathroom. He wanted a shower more than food or sex.
“He’ll tell us something.”
“But not everything.”
Steve lifted a shoulder in a tired, long-suffering shrug.
“We have to know. You get that, don’t you?” Danny persisted. A fillip of anger took him into the bathroom. “We should have kept the ledger.”
“No, we shouldn’t have. We can’t use it. We can’t translate it. We can’t empty the Wo Family coffers. Navy Intel will be able to use the resources.”
“But they’ll only tell us what they think we need to know.”
“True. But I am an Intelligence Officer and a Navy SEAL, and I need to know a lot. Archer and I will come to an understanding.”
“How?”
Steve waggled an eyebrow.
“Steven.”
Flamboyantly, Steve twisted his fingers in mid-air, and an old-fashioned three inch floppy computer disc appeared between his finger and thumb.
“That,” Danny said, staring at the black plastic square with its distinctive silver shutter, “was in the Champ box.”
“Yes.” Steve patted his jacket pocket and plucked out an old-fashioned SONY hand held recorder. “Along with this and a tin.”
He placed the floppy disc on the vanity unit and got a rattling old cigar tin from another pocket.
“Oh,” Danny said succinctly. “Clearly stealing is a family trait.”
Steve huffed at him.
“So,” Danny continued unaffected by any expression that Steve could fire at him, “even if the Navy SEALs can’t find the Champ box in Davy Jones’ Locker, we still have some of your mom’s stuff. That disc is old, though.”
“And luckily we have a computer expert on staff.” Steve grinned cheesily.
“Well, well, well. You deserve a gold star.”
“Is that better than sex?”
“No, but close.”
“Shower, first,” Steve said hopefully.
“That’s so sad. We want a shower more than anything else in the world.”
“Simple pleasures.” Steve wriggled out of his jacket, without moving too much, and tossed the bloody coat into the laundry hamper. He was probably bruised from head to toe, and the painkillers were wearing off. His tailored vest followed the jacket with a clank.
“What was that?” Danny asked.
“What?”
“Something heavy in the pocket of your vest?”
Steve squinted, and then volunteered, “Pocket watch; great-grandfather’s. I’ll get it tomorrow. Suit has to go to the dry cleaners, anyway.”
“What a pair.” Danny shook his head, as he shucked off his trousers and underpants. “So tired.”
Steve toed off his shoes, and pulled off one sock, by standing on the toes. Bending over wasn’t on his list of things to do. Pulling the other sock off, he picked up his socks, one after another, with his long toes and lifted them into the hamper.
“Dexterous.”
“What?”
“You’re like an orang-utan. Can you pick up pens from the floor?”
“Yeah. Sure.” Steve unfastened his pants, and they puddled around his ankles. It was ridiculous the way that he was a long line from hips to feet. Ridiculous, but also attractive. His boxers joined the pants. His cock hung loose, the tip poking out under his too-large t-shirt.
They stood opposite each other, only wearing a Navy t-shirt and a Navy sweatshirt.
“I think I’ve seen movies starting like this,” Danny observed. “Navy Boys HooHar – Hooyah? Yeah, that was it: Navy Boys Hooyah.”
“What?” Steve’s mouth opened, indignantly.
Danny grinned. He’d seen a lot of movies in his time -- that one had stuck in his mind.
Aloofly, Steve peeled out of his t-shirt.
“Ouch.” Danny winced on Steve’s behalf. New, developing bruising overlaid the old, yellowed bruising from various recent escapades over the network of scarring and burns on his left side. Wo Fat had been ruthless, targeting the vulnerable side. “That’s gotta hurt.”
“Going to hurt more tomorrow.” Steve had cleaned up somewhat at the hospital, but it had been cursory at best. Head wounds did indeed bleed messily. His sparse chest hair was clumped into spiral bloody twists.
“Shower.” A shower was definitely the order of the day.
Danny wrenched the sweatshirt over his head, and froze as his arm flared in pain again.
“Hey. Hey, let me help.” Steve wrestled with the material, pulling Danny’s head free, and carefully working at his arm. “We better wrap this in plastic.”
“And your head,” Danny said truculently.
“You want to put a plastic bag over my head?”
“Yes,” Danny snarked, because he was at the end of his tether. He folded the sweatshirt into a tight ball and fired it into the hamper.
“Nice.” Steve dipped down and kissed Danny high on the cheek. “I love you too.”
“I love you, you rule-obeying, doofus,”
“You say the nicest things.” Steve nuzzled his nose through Danny’s hair. “I’ve got a cast protector that will work on your bandage.”
“When the fuck did you break your arm?” Danny caught the hem of Steve’s t-shirt.
“Years ago. Training exercise.” Steve wriggled out of Danny’s hold. “It’s in the first aid kit.”
The first aid kit under the sink that Steve had probably stolen from the Navy. Danny crouched to get the backpack, because Steve wasn’t bending at the waist without provocation.
“We should be able to get your hair washed without getting that band-aid wet.”
“What? You’re facing away from me. I am so tired,” Steve admitted uncharacteristically.
“Sorry, Babe.” Danny stood holding the cast-protector. “Let’s get clean.”
~*~
Honestly, Danny tried -- his brain chittered away, supplying more than a few useful images. The line of Steve’s back was amazing. His curiously neatly turned out feet, attractive. But Steve yawned in Danny’s face just before Danny tried to kiss him. Sadly, Danny contemplated his cock because nothing was happening down below. The mind was willing because it thought that it should, but the body said bed – now.
Steve let Danny wash the blood out of his hair so that the dressing on his forehead didn’t get too wet. But it was inevitable that they were getting wet, and would have to put new band-aids on. The cast protector kind of worked. But the intimacy in their future was smoothing on antibiotic ointments and rebinding wounds.
Steve staggered out of the shower dripping water on the tiled floor. He dried with the vague efficiency of the well-practiced and the practicality of someone who couldn’t be bothered to dry off completely.
Danny wound a towel around his waist.
They lived in a tropical hell hole -- air drying happened.
“Sit.” Steve pushed Danny to sit on the closed toilet seat. It was his sole direction before he peeled off the bandage around Danny’s arm.
“Hwad n-xt,” Danny mumbled around a massive yawn.
“I don’t care what you said.” Steve dumped Danny’s bandage in the sink beside the little bowl where his aids sat.
Practiced, with experience and training that Danny didn’t like to contemplate, Steve rewrapped the wound.
“Come on.” Bodily, Danny caught Steve’s hips, thumbs setting in the grooves, and turned him around.
“What?” Steve protested, and Danny swapped places to plonk him on the closed toilet seat.
Carefully, Danny scrubbed Steve’s hair dry with a towel. His own, he would condition and comb back to dry. Neat, precise, tiny stitches in a handful of places and surgical glue closed a horseshoe shaped cut spanning the curve of Steve’s temple and forehead. A deft hand, a plastic surgeon’s hand, had placed those stitches. The scar should be razor narrow and faint when healed.
Steve peered up at him wearily. Sitting was probably a mistake; Steve looked as if he could snooze sitting on the can. Danny slapped -- carefully placed -- a large band-aid over the wound.
“Come on.” Danny held out his hand. Steve didn’t move. “You can’t stay there. Bed upstairs. Big bed. Comfy bed. Beeeeddddd….”
Teeth gritted, Steve stood. Danny chucked the towel around his waist onto the floor. The cleaning up of the detritus of bandaging and showering was going to have to wait for tomorrow.
“Beeeedddd,” Danny intoned again, liking the sound.
Wearily, Steve pressed his fingertips against Danny’s shoulder. He rolled with the movement, knowing where they needed to be -- upstairs and horizontal.
The bedroom window leading to the roof was still wide open. Unbothered by his nakedness, Steve padded barefoot over to the wide swath of windows and stared out over Seolh’s woods. Were the surveillance guys still out there? Too tired to care, Danny waved absently at the perverts before scooping their watches, Blackberry and long, sharp knife off the bed and setting them on the side table. Danny made a mental note to make sure that Archer got his cell phone off Wo Fat or his henchmen. There were photos of Grace on that phone, and it was his phone.
Steve pulled the covers back and face planted on the sheets. There wasn’t any decorum. He lay down, stuffed his head under a pillow, and -- flick of the switch -- he was out for the count. It was impressive.
Danny slid in on the other side, leaving a little space between them, and pulled the covers up. Grabbing one of the many pillows he punched it into submission, and stuffed it behind his head. The ceiling fan wasn’t switched on. Danny couldn’t find the energy to get up. The window was open. He should be asleep. Steve was -- snuffling a little bit.
~*~
Hours later, or maybe twenty minutes -- perhaps Danny had dozed? He wasn’t entirely sure because the twilight of sleep made time run weirdly. Bizarrely, he was now sitting bolt upright. Steve grumbled, sleep talking, and muttering about a road. He rolled over and slung an arm over Danny’s waist. Steve, Danny realised, had sought out comfort, curling into his warmth. He hadn’t resorted to his pillow fort.
The world outside the lighthouse windows was dark. Pinpricks of starlight promised a cloudless night. Moonlight illuminated a stark line across a quiet ocean. Danny thought that he might have watched the lambent moon move across the horizon.
Steve grumbled again, lips smacking as he scrunched his nose. Danny smoothed a hand over his shoulder, soothingly.
“Hey, hey,” Danny breathed.
He shifted under Steve’s loose hold until he reclined, propped on pillows. Steve butted his head into Danny’s armpit, huffed, and relaxed into a new stage of sleep. Danny shuffled down the bed a little more. A dream fritted elusively at the edge of memories. He couldn’t remember. Slick sweat covered his skin. Danny swallowed.
It’s over. It is.
Steve shifted and draped his large hand over Danny’s chest. Contemplatively, Danny weaved his fingers through Steve’s fingers, interleaving them together. Steve had big hands, broad with long fingers. They were disproportionately a little too large for his frame. Steve should have narrow hands like his feet.
They were hands that could twist a cord and easily break someone’s neck.
Danny didn’t think that he was going to be sleeping tonight or possibly ever again.
~*~
Tbc
Part one hundred and thirteen
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Brilliant writing
Date: 2015-03-22 06:18 pm (UTC)Looking forward to seeing where this goes next. Danny has always seemed excited when looking forward to the time when Steve is 'recovered' but while he's worked hard to understand how Steve was injured I don't know that he's acknowledged why Steve was there, exactly what he was trained for. That can be hard for any Forces spouse to get their head around, that there can two sides to their partner.
Re: Brilliant writing
Date: 2015-03-22 10:17 pm (UTC)you've put your finger on the pulse of exactly where Danny is -- and the poor pet is also traumatised. He's got some things to think about.
hope you enjoyed tonight's televised episode.
Re: Brilliant writing
Date: 2015-03-25 08:32 am (UTC)I did finally see Sunday's episode and i loved the character bits which have been lacking in series 5. Before that we watched the Halloween episode from season two which has some laugh out loud character moments. It was a bit like watching a flashback episode - these energetic feisty characters from season two contrasted with the slightly weary and worn ones from season 5. Lots of fanfic fodder there to keep my brain busy during the daily commute :)
Re: Brilliant writing
Date: 2015-03-25 08:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-03-24 07:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-03-25 08:11 pm (UTC)I'm not overly fond of toes, but the image of Steve picking up a pen with his toes has me laughing...and wondering whatelse he can do with them......
I'm glad I caught this chapter before you posted a new chapter. I would have been too far behind.
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Date: 2015-04-05 12:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-04-05 05:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-03-26 09:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-04-05 12:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-03-28 05:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-04-05 12:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-03-29 12:15 pm (UTC)Wonderful, as always and puzzle cleverly solved. I love the parallel canon. You weave it together so well.
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Date: 2015-04-05 12:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-03-30 07:46 am (UTC)I'm really looking forward to reading what's next, for Danny, and seeing where they go from here. Lovely writing!
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Date: 2015-04-05 01:06 pm (UTC)Fundamentally (canon or fanon) Danny is a caring, empathic guy, and he's so explosive. That's quite a balancing act. Danny's a little like the sun, and Steve's a sunflower. But, yes, for all that Danny works on instinct, he still has a lot to learn about Steve, and vice versa.
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Date: 2015-04-01 12:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-04-05 01:07 pm (UTC)