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H5-0* H5-0* H5-0* H5-0* H5-0* H5-0*

Swallowing dryly, he bit back his growing nausea as he tried to order his thoughts. He was lying on the floor – that much he knew. A hard floor, but not too cold. Wood. He could feel the slightly uneven surface of the grain beneath his hand. An eerie silence settled over the place. He wasn't sure why that was odd – or even if it was odd at all. He wasn't sure of much, actually.

His limbs felt heavy. Almost as if they were filled with lead. Some sort of furry animal seemed to have taken up residence in his mouth, but he simply didn't have the energy to evict it just yet. The pounding in his head was beating back any clear and conscious thought process … and he had neither the energy, not the inclination to fight it … not yet anyway. And so he allowed himself to drift back into the darkness.

H5-0*

The next time he awoke it was to the sound of breathing. More like snoring, actually. Slightly wet, raspy snoring. The sound reverberated in his head like some sort of orchestral tympani. Dear Lord, his head hurt. What the hell happened? Whatever it was, he was lying on a cool, hard floor … had been for quite some time if he was to believe his aching body. In fact, the more he thought about how much he ached, the more he began to wonder if he had laid there long enough to get pressure sores. How long does it take to get a pressure sore, anyway? He had no idea.

Running his tongue slowly around his mouth he was relieved to find the animal squatting inside seemed to have vacated, though the dry, furry taste it left behind was far from pleasant. In fact, it tasted like bile and stale vomit. Gross.

Testing his limbs, he gently wiggled first his toes … no shoes … then worked his ankles and gently flexed his knees … okay, so I pulled that again… before lifting leaden arms to run rubbery hands over his torso. Finding nothing more than his strained knee, he took a deep breath before attempting to pry his heavy eyelids from where they seemed glued to his face by the lashes. A groan crossed his lips as the brightness of the room hit his retinas. The pain from the simple act of opening his eyes renewing the lurking nausea.

Rolling onto his side so he could shield at least one eye from the overwhelming brightness, he tried once more to peel back his lids. Blinking and screwing up his face at the insult, he finally managed to keep his eyes open long enough to assess his surroundings. The floor was indeed made of wood; the cool floorboards soothing against the pounding in his temples.

As his brain slowly began to process the visual information, he recognised the still form of his partner sprawled on the floor a few feet from him. Steve's right arm was tucked partly beneath his chest, his face pressed onto his partially visible hand. The reason for his wet snore immediately apparent as an almost continual river of drool cascaded across lax fingers to pool on the polished wooden floor beneath.

Danny visually assessed his partner for injuries as he plucked up the courage to speak, knowing the sound would likely increase the pounding in his head. Seeing nothing more than a … What IS that? A waste paper basket? … at his partner's head, Danny satisfied himself that whatever the hell had happened to them, it hadn't resulted in grievous bodily injury. Which was somewhat of a novelty, given Steve was here. He still hadn't figured out where the hell *here* actually was. That would involve lifting his head, and the pain he already felt was bad enough. He didn't need to increase it that much … not yet.

"Shteev," he slurred through his parched mouth, voice not more than a whisper. His partner didn't stir. Licking his lips and trying once more to draw moisture across his lips with his tongue, Danny tried again. "Steve … ugh … you with me, babe?"

He watched as his partner stirred, drawing his knee up and hugging the waste basket he seemingly clung to even tighter between his left arm and his head; swallowing the still flowing river of drool.

"Steve … babe … wake up," he half whispered; wincing as the sound goaded the percussion section in his head into a crescendo.

"Shuuup, Danno," Steve moaned, pulling his hand out from under him and attempting to wipe the drool from his chin.

"I hate you."

"Hate you more."

"How you feeling? Any idea where we are?" Danny closed his eyes as he half-whispered the question.

Peeling back his own eyelids, Steve glanced around the room. "Looks like your place … only cleaner than I remember."

"I clean."

"Sure you do, Danny … that's why I can see dust bunnies …"

"Oh God …" Danny groaned, covering his eyes with his hands. "Please don't mention bunnies … I swear all bunnies are out to kill me …"

Steve smiled at the recollection of Mr. Hoppy's recent repeated attempts on his partner's life and sanity, the small chuckle eliciting an automatic groan as the motion ramped up the pain in his own head.

"Don't make me laugh, Danny … hurts," he said, biting back the nausea which appeared from nowhere.

"Good."

"Good?"

"Yeah, good. This is all your fault, so if I hurt then you should too," Danny continued to speak only in a whisper, eyes remaining tightly closed against the brightness of the morning light filtering in through the windows.

"How …"

"Shhhhh," Danny hissed.

"How," Steve whispered "is this my fault?"

"You ordered it."

"I ordered … seriously? That's what you're going with?"

"Seems fair. You did."

"You didn't have to drink the entire pitcher!"

"Well I'm never doing it again. Ever. You hear me?"

"Yeah, Danno … me either."

"Okay then."

"Okay"

"Steve … unh."

"Yeah?"

"Pass the waste basket …"