H50H50H50
Steve's woken up by a boot connecting with his ribs.
He groans.
Hands grab him, roughly. Fingers dig into bruised skin. "Wake the fuck up, McGarrett."
He's lifted up against his will. The world spins. The taste of bile fills his throat. Shivering, he tries to get his feet under him. Too late he remembers his legs are shackled at the ankles. He's shackled at the wrists too. He pitches forward, falling to his knees. His vision wavers as everything spins again.
There's nothing in his stomach to expel but it tries anyway. His muscles protest at the violent activity. Sweat beads slide down his face. Exhausted, he lists sideways, his eyes drifting closed.
The sound of laughter fills his ears. It's a cruel, ugly sound.
H50H50H50H50
Two weeks earlier
66 days
Danny stamps on the Camaro's brake pedal. The problem is, it's not on his side of the car.
"Hey. Hey. Red light, Steve." His seat belt locks as Steve swerves around a car – a car that's stationary at an intersection because the lights are red.
Steve manages to shrug and swerve the Camaro back into a straight line at the same time. "I saw it."
"I know you saw it. You're supposed to go round it. Not over it. Give 'em a chance to get out of the way for crying out loud."
Steve glares sideways. He gestures at the front of the car. "Blue lights, Danny."
"Which are supposed to warn them. They warn them an officer of the law is proceeding in an orderly manner to the scene of a crime—"
"Orderly manner?"
"Yes. An orderly manner. Something you still haven't learnt in the eight years we've been together."
"Sixty-six days."
"What?"
Steve takes his eyes off the road to look over. He waves his hand between them. "We've been together sixty-six days."
Danny's heart flips at the love in Steve's eyes. "You've been counting?"
"Yup."
Steve's grinning. It's soft, fond.
Danny grins back. Butterflies flutter in his stomach.
Steve's grin grows. "You love me."
He shakes his head at Steve's tone. It's proud and a little awed. Even after sixty-six days of the madness that is their life. "Of course I love you, you goof."
A car blasts its horn.
Danny's thrown against the door. Steve's drifting the back of the car out, executing a ninety degree turn to avoid an oncoming truck. He holds on for dear life as the truck's tires pass inches from his door.
"What the hell—"
"Sorry," Steve says. His eyes tell a different story.
"Jerk."
Steve takes the comment as it's intended. He snorts and changes up a gear, the corners of his lips twitching in a smile.
Danny pushes himself upright in his seat again. He's pretty sure he's left his stomach back on the highway somewhere.
A few minutes later, Steve kills the sirens and the flashing lights. Slowing down, he parks a couple of blocks from the destination. Putting the car in park, he switches off the engine. He glances at his watch. Suddenly he's serious, all business.
"Where the hell are they?"
Danny fiddles with the straps of his protective tac vest. "SWAT? Probably three blocks back, which is where we should be right now."
"We need to execute this warrant now, Danny. Fedorov's gonna split if we don't—"
"They'll be here—"
"He's already got away twice. If we don't move—"
Danny puts his hand on Steve's thigh and squeezes. "Breathe, babe. They'll be here."
Steve huffs. Clearly he's not convinced.
They've been working on this case for a month. Their target is Anton Fedorov. He's a playboy who lives a lavish, high-profile lifestyle. On paper it looks like he made his fortune in high-end European real estate. Behind the scenes though, Interpol has a file with his name on it. A very thick file.
In between visiting the glamorous vacation spots of the world, Fedorov's been bankrolling an international drug smuggling operation. As if that's not bad enough, he's suspected of laundering the money back into illegal weapons sales in the Middle-East and Chechnya.
So why isn't Fedorov already locked up in a jail somewhere? Because Fedorov runs a slick operation, never staying in one place for long. Wherever he goes in the world he's builds a network of well-paid informants. Every time the local law enforcement agency thinks they've got him he slips out of their grasp. Shutting down Fedorov's operations isn't difficult. It's – it's implicating him that's proving difficult.
Two months ago, he'd appeared in Hawaii.
In theory, the FBI had jurisdiction. They'd come up blank. The Governor had stepped in. Five-0 had been given the case. Insider knowledge of the islands was vital, the Governor had told the FBI. The island might have 1.5 million residents but it's still a small place when it comes to crime. Privately, behind closed doors, she'd made it clear to Steve they were on borrowed time. Interpol was desperate to catch Anton Fedorov. They weren't going to stand back for long.
They'd quickly discovered why Fedorov has slipped from the grasp of every law-enforcement agency. It was like he had someone watching them. They'd checked their phones, their computers, their cars. Whoever Fedorov had running surveillance on them, they were good. Jerry has barely left his bunker office since they've started the operation, trying to disrupt Fedorov's operation.
It quickly became obvious Anton Fedorov also had people on the inside, in HPD. Twice they'd got a solid lead on Anton's drug smuggling operation. Both times someone had tipped Fedorov off. This time, they've kept everything tight. Lou's hand-picked the SWAT team members. The Five-0 team are the only ones who know the exact location of the warehouse they're about to hit.
Danny breathes a sigh of relief as Lou's truck, Tani's car and two SWAT vans pull up behind them. Much longer and Steve would have been storming the warehouse on his own. As it is, Steve's out of the Camaro and striding over to the trucks before they've switched off their engines.
Lou's getting out of his truck. He raises a finger in warning. "Don't give me none of your yadda, yadda, yadda about how long you've been waiting. Some of us wanna live long enough to draw our pensions."
Danny snorts as he joins them. "Don't waste your breath, Lou." He pulls out his gun, checks its loaded. Around them HPD officers are getting out of the SWAT vans. "We all set?"
"We're all set." Lou glances back at Junior and Tani. Tani's leaning back on the car, arms crossed, outwardly calm. Junior's bouncing on the balls of his feet. Lou lifts his shotgun, weighing it in his hands. "What we waiting for?"
Steve grins. It's feral, all teeth. He hitches his gun on his hip. "Let's go."
Danny watches as Steve jogs in front of him. Gun raised, Steve's laser-focused. Anyone watching would know who's in charge. Once upon a time it would have grated with him. Now he feeds off it. It's like an addictive drug.
He can feel his heartrate rising. Fear and excitement are warring in his veins. This moment – when they've on the verge of a breaking a case – never gets old. It's why he's a detective. It's what gets him up every morning. Rachel had never understood that. Steve lives for it.
There's still the worry though. Steve and injuries go hand in hand. He wouldn't have been able to have a relationship with the Steve he'd met eight years earlier – the risk taker who'd been prepared to sacrifice everything for others. This Steve – his Steve – has mellowed with age. He'd still sacrifice himself in a blink of an eye for his Ohana. But maybe, just maybe, he'll think twice about sacrificing himself for complete strangers.
Maybe.
Danny shakes his head. Now's not the time to start analysing Steve's psyche. They've got an international criminal to arrest.
He looks back over his shoulder. Junior and Tani are behind him. Lou is bringing up the rear. The SWAT teams have split up and are fanning out, using the buildings for cover. The area's quiet but they still manage to scare a few innocent passers-by. Sensibly they head for cover.
Danny's glad. This could get messy. Steve had made it very clear at the operation briefing that Fedorov only hires the best men to protect his drugs operations. Enforcement officers have died trying to bring these guys down. Everyone is aware of the danger they're facing.
Danny tightens his grip on his gun.
His earpiece crackles into life.
"There's movement inside the warehouse." Jerry sounds breathless.
"Copy." Steve raises his fist. They halt. Using the edge of the building for cover, Steve peers round. "Surveillance cameras?"
There's the sound of typing on a keyboard. "Off-line, Commander. You've got three minutes until they come back on."
"Copy that." Steve glances back over his shoulder at them. He nods. He presses his earpiece. "All units. Go, go, go."
Everything goes to plan. They breach the warehouse. Working with SWAT they deal with any resistance they meet. Within minutes half a dozen of Fedorov's men are either unconscious or bleeding on the floor. Soon, they've made it into the main part of the warehouse.
Danny feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Beside him, Steve's eyes are darting around the warehouse. Beyond him, Junior's scanning the area, his eyebrows drawn together in frown.
It's too easy. Much too easy.
The roof of the warehouse has skylights. Beams of light cut through the shadowed interior. They illuminate stacks of wooden crates. The writing on the side of the crates says 'Pun Ho Noodles'. They're in the right place: it's one of the company names they'd been looking for.
It's still disturbingly quiet though. Running a drugs operation doesn't just need mercenaries to run security. It needs people to cut the drugs, arrange the deliveries and count the money. This place should be swarming with people.
The mercenaries were there for a reason: they were guarding something.
Danny grits his teeth as Steve waves them forward. His heart's thudding against his ribcage. Everywhere he looks there's another shadow waiting to jump him.
Suddenly, a shadow does actually move, breaking away from the crates. It materialises into a man: he's tall with dark hair and pale, smooth skin. Even in the half-light it's clear the grey suit he's wearing is expensive, tailored. He smiles at them. His teeth are perfect.
Danny swears silently. It's Anton Fedorov. Nothing in their intel had suggested he would actually be here. This isn't his normal MO. This is wrong. So wrong. Frowning, he glances over at Steve who's standing a few feet in front of him.
Steve's worried too. Every muscle in his body is tensed, ready for action. He's using the power of his glare as well as the threat of his gun to keep Anton pinned to the spot. Suddenly, his eyes widen.
Danny looks back, towards Anton. His heart leaps into his throat. Fedorov's taken another step forward. He's standing in a beam of sunlight. In other circumstances he'd look angel-like; the light's gifted him with a halo. The stun grenades he's holding destroy that image.
Danny's already diving for cover when the first grenade goes off. The force of the bang still hits him like a physical blow. Blinded by the flash, he hits the ground hard. Self-preservation drives him to get his knees under him. Love has him straining to see beyond the spots in his eyes: Steve had been closest to the explosion.
Scrabbling to his feet, his shoulder collides with a stack of crates. He leans against them, his balance shot to hell. The loud ringing in his ears is blocking out all other sounds. He grabs the crates as the world wobbles dangerously. Digging his fingers into the wood, he holds on tight.
Using them for support, he peers cautiously around the edge. Crates are burning. They've been caught in the blast. The flames add a nightmarish quality to the crescendo of noise and colours in his head. He's vaguely aware of Lou yelling over the radio: he sounds like he's under water. He experiences a moment of relief when Tani and Junior acknowledge Lou's message. But there's only one clear thought in his head:
Steve's disappeared. So has Fedorov.
Panic claws at the back of his mind. He quashes it – hard. He's still got his gun in his right hand. Ejecting the almost-spent clip he slams in a fresh one. His breaths are short and sharp. Smoke is biting at the back of his throat.
He moves.
Bullets spray the ground in front of him as he breaks cover. Stumbling back, he returns fire. The shots are coming from above him. Through the smoke, he can see men kneeling in the walkways up in the rafters. Lots of men.
Ambush his brain screams but he quashes that too. They've got seconds – literally seconds – to turn this shit-fest around. In his ear he can hear Lou redeploying the SWAT teams. They return fire from the other side of the warehouse. The men in the rafters take the bait, their attention pulled away from his position.
Danny takes the opportunity he's been given. Keeping low, he runs for the next set of crates, then the next. The third set of crates reveals Junior hunched behind them. Blood is trickling from a deep cut on his temple. Junior seems oblivious to it: automatic weapon raised, he's picking off Anton's men like it's a day out on the rifle range.
"Steve?" Junior asks, ducking down to swap out a clip.
"No idea," Danny replies. He can taste bile at the back of his throat. "Ammo?"
Junior taps the front of his tac vest. He's got one clip left. "Enough." Crouched, he bobs on his haunches, getting ready to move. "We going in?"
Danny nods. It's not really a question. Steve's out there somewhere. It's taking every bit of self-control to not run out there and blast away anything in his path. He isn't Dirty Harry, he reminds himself, and this isn't the movies. God help anyone who gets in his way though.
Their way, Danny corrects, as they head out. Junior isn't taking prisoners either. He's taken point, systematically working his way around the crates, sweeping his gaze and his weapon side-to-side. A couple of the men in the rafters target them. Junior lets off a shot, then another. Their bodies hit the ground with a sickening thud.
Danny coughs. More crates have caught alight. They're running out of time.
Junior seems to sense that too. He takes cover, using the respite to do a 360 degree check of the area. He does a double-take as something catches his eye. "You see that?" he asks as Danny ducks down beside him.
Danny squints. His ears are still ringing from the stun grenade. His balance is slightly off, like he's on a boat in calm water. His eyeballs are straining to see. Gradually he understands what Junior's looking at. There are two stacks of crates that have been pushed over. Beyond them is a door. It's open, just an inch. If the crates had still been there they wouldn't have seen it.
Hope makes his heartbeat quicken.
Tapping Junior on the shoulder, he gets ready to move. As Junior leads the way they exchange fire again but the onslaught of bullets is finally fading. Lou, Tani and the SWAT team have got Fedorov's men pinned down.
Making it to the door, they check their ammunition. When Junior nods, Danny grabs the door handle. Every instinct is yelling at him to get in there, to take the lead. He needs to be in there. Steve could be hurt. Or worse.
No.
He yanks the door open.
Junior steps into the doorway without hesitation. Brow furrowed, lips turned down, his focus is absolute.
For a second Danny's reminded of his early cases with Steve. Back then, his blood pressure went through the roof on a daily basis. These days, he understands Navy SEALs are amongst the best trained special operations troops in the world. It doesn't necessarily make it easier to watch your partner – the man you've secretly loved for so, so long – going into dangerous situations. Navy SEALs aren't invincible. Guns are designed to kill. But in a hand-to-hand combat situation he knows who he'd put his money on.
He grips onto that thought like his life depends on it. Which in a way, it does.
They move into a short, dimly-lit corridor. The door swings closed behind them. The sound of gunfire is muted. Lou and Tani are yelling instructions in his ear piece. They're rounding up Fedorov's men.
Now all they have to do is find Anton Fedorov. And Steve.
The flashlights on their guns cut through the darkness. Wisps of smoke are following them, seeping in under the door. Through the grey murk they can see footprints on the dusty floor. Two pairs of footsteps, close together. As they advance up the corridor, the footsteps merge into one big scuffle of dust.
Junior stops, checking out the area in front of them. His light picks out another door a few feet in front of them. This one is off the latch too.
Danny bites at his bottom lip. Words of frustration are bubbling on the tip of his tongue: Move, for fucks sake, Junior. Move. Unable to stop himself he shuffles forwards, crowding into Junior's space.
Junior glances back at him, over his shoulder. He takes a step sideways, blocking his way. He still looks just as determined. But even through the gloom it's impossible to miss the worry and compassion in his eyes.
Like a bolt of lightning it strikes Danny what Junior is doing. He's planning to go in first, in case something has happened to Steve. This is the moment he and Steve have been trying to avoid ever since they told the team and the Governor they were in a relationship. Nothing will change, they'd said, confidently. Now he realises they'd been naïve.
His heart's pumping so fast, it's making his breath catch. His fingers and toes are tingling as blood rushes to his vital organs. His body's getting ready to attack whatever – whoever – is on the other side of that door. This isn't the normal way his body responses to these situations. This is visceral. Anger is getting the upper hand.
Swallowing hard, he takes a deep breath, then another one. Whatever's behind that door he has to be ready to deal with it. He's not just Steve's partner. In this situation, he's Junior's backup too.
He nods.
Junior nods back. Raising his gun, he nudges the door open with his foot. Light floods the corridor. They both blink as their eyes adjust to the sudden change. As one, they slide through the gap, guns raised. They come out into an office. It's got windows. They're back at the edge of the warehouse. Abandoned desks and chairs litter the place.
Steve's sitting in the middle of the chaos, on the floor. His gun is raised, pointed straight at them. Fedorov's sprawled on the ground beside him, bloodied and unconscious.
Steve slumps when he spots them and lowers his gun. Considering he'd only been a few feet away from an exploding stun grenade, he doesn't look too bad, for. Blood's running out of his nose. His left eye is bruised, already starting to close. But he's breathing and he doesn't appear to have any bullet holes in him.
Danny's legs feel like they're going to fold. Relief is making him feel suddenly light-headed. "You bastard. I thought you were…." He slumps forward, resting his hands on his knees. "Jesus, babe."
Steve's eyebrows meet together in a frown.
Danny makes his legs work. Relief is quickly being replaced with anger again. "Why the hell didn't you wait for backup?" he asks, striding over. "Huh? Would it have killed you to wait?"
"Danny—"
He waves away Junior's interruption. Steve's staring at him, confusion written across his face. He hates this, when Steve pretends he hasn't done anything wrong. He could have died, for crying out loud and then he would have been alone again and…
"Um…Danny. I don't think he can hear you."
Junior's voice brings him up short. He looks at Steve, really looks. His partner – the man he loves with all his heart – blinks owlishly back at him. He's slightly cross-eyed. Grimacing, he rubs at his ears.
Danny bites back the lecture he's got ready about the perils of standing too close to a stun grenade. If the way his own head is thumping is any indication, Steve's suffering from the headache from hell. How he's even focusing is a miracle. All he can probably see is flashing lights. As if proving his point Steve groans. Curling in on himself, he rests his head in his hands.
Danny kneels down in front of him. Holstering his gun, he pulls Steve to him. Gently, he rests his lips on his hair.
"Idiot," he mouths silently. Now the adrenaline's fading they're both shivering. He pulls Steve in closer, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. He closes his eyes. He's vaguely aware of Junior moving around them, checking in with Lou, making sure Fedorov is secure. But mostly he's concentrating on Steve. He feels so solid in his arms.
It's not long before they're joined by Lou and Tani and what seems like most of the HPD. He pulls away, one hand still resting on the back of Steve's neck. They've talked about this too: no displays of physical affection in the office. But he'll be damned if he'll remove his hand.
The next hour passes in a blur. There are procedures to be followed and the Governor's waiting for them to report in. Danny calls her from the waiting area of the local Emergency Room. Eventually he finishes the call. Exhausted, he heads for the cubicle where Steve is.
Steve's out cold – they've given him just enough painkillers to take the edge off his blinding headache. Danny pulls up a chair beside the bed and falls into it, heavily. The explosion has left its mark on his body too. Wincing, he reaches out for Steve's hand. Entwining their fingers, he sits back in his chair.
This is his life now. Forever, if he has a say in it. After what happened today, he knows he should be scared. Instead, as he watches Steve sleep, his face bruised and battered, he finds himself smiling. They've both made it home tonight in one piece – mostly. In this new future they've created for themselves, he considers that a good day.
Closing his eyes, he prays for many more.
H50H50H50
Two weeks later
80 days
Steve's dozing when Eddie starts scratching at the bedroom door. Eddie's a polite scratcher – at first. Just a couple of taps with his paw and then he gives up. The sound of his claws on the wood floor in the hallway fade into the distance. He thuds down the stairs then the house goes quiet again.
Steve burrows under the bedcovers. Blindly, he reaches out for Danny. Finding his target he slings his arm out, pinning him down. Since capturing Anton Fedorov they've had to move fast to smash open his operations across the world. It's Sunday, the first day they've had off for a while. He intends to enjoy it.
Eddie has other ideas. It's not long before he's back again and this time he means business. He's scratching at the door madly.
Steve checks his watch, on the nightstand. Cursing to himself, he throws back the bedcovers. His naked skin goose pimples at the sudden touch of cooler air.
Danny burrows out of the bedcovers beside him. The only parts visible are his hair and eyes. Medusa would be envious of his mussed hair. He blinks, blearily. "Yo' oka'?"
"Eddie," he explains needlessly. Eddie's making enough noise to wake the dead. "Go back to sleep."
"'kay."
He reaches out to Danny, pushing back a strand of hair from his face. Danny hums under his breath but he's already closing his eyes, burrowing back under the sheets.
Grinning, Steve swings his legs off the bed and gets up. He shivers. Danny's a human radiator. Sleeping with him in the Hawaiian heat has taken some getting used to. Danny's threatening to take him to Jersey in the winter, to stop his complaining.
He can't wait.
Unsurprisingly, Eddie's very happy to see him. It's an hour past his normal feeding time. In the kitchen he sits and waits as he's been taught. His body is vibrating with the effort of staying still though. Once he's given the signal he sticks his muzzle in and attacks it with gusto. The metal bowl scrapes across the tiled floor as Eddie chases the biscuits inside.
Shaking his head, Steve goes to the fridge and pours a glass of juice. Sipping at it he retrieves his meds from the cupboard by the door. He's so used to taking them now he could do it in his sleep. He doesn't though, skim reading the labels before opening each one and tipping out the correct number of tablets. At his last six-month check-up the doctor had been pleased with how his body had adjusted to the post-transplant drug regime. An accidental overdose – even a small one – would destroy all his hard work to keep fit.
That's one more part of his routine he never skips. Inside the door he's pinned a calendar. He crosses out each day after he's taken his meds. Originally it had been a way to adapt to his new lifestyle with a regular regime of medication. Now each tick is a daily celebration of the life he was given a second-chance to live.
Running his eyes down the dates, he's smiles widely. It's been eighty days since he and Danny finally got together. In a few weeks they'll hit 100 days. He files the information away, thoughtfully. He doesn't consider himself a romantic. But 100 days feels like something Danny would appreciate celebrating.
Meds taken, he puts the dirty glass in the sink then wanders back into the living room. He tidies as he walks, picking up a toy car Charlie's left behind, throwing Eddie's chew toys into his basket. Grace has left some school books on his desk. They're stacked messily. He hovers for a moment, itching to line them up. Taking a breath, he moves on. Danny keeps gently reminding him he'll have to accept some mess otherwise he'll spend all his time tidying up. The sailor in him recoils at that idea.
He's in the process of tidying up the DVDs – it's Moana, Charlie will be heartbroken if the DVD gets damaged – when Eddie trots past him. He's wearing the dog equivalent of a happy, satiated smile. He sits next to the doors to the lanai.
Steve takes the hint. Pausing to switch off the house alarm, he opens the door and lets him out. A gust of cool, early morning air makes his shiver again. He shuts the door again, leaving Eddie outside. He'll be fine out there for a while.
Heading to the stairs, he pauses for a moment. He looks around at his house. Everywhere he looks there are bright patches of colour: Grace and Charlie's things standing out against the worn interior of his house. Back in the kitchen – Danny's domain – there are pictures on the fridge of the five of them together. It turns out Eddie loves to have his picture taken, particularly if Grace or Charlie are sitting with him.
The sailor in him might be twitching at the chaos, particularly at weekends when Charlie and Grace are visiting. But the warmth he feels in his heart as he looks around more than makes up for it.
He takes the stairs two at a time. Sliding back under the bed covers, he sighs happily at the sudden warmth.
Danny is still barely visible. "Feet are cold," he mutters.
Steve rubs his feet up Danny's leg to warm them up. "Better?"
"B'stard." Danny shuffles over anyway, throwing an arm over Steve's chest. He stills. Then his head pops out from under the bedcover. He opens one eye. "No' runnin'?"
Steve forces himself not to laugh. He's pretty sure Danny's talking in his sleep. "Not running," he whispers, settling into Danny's embrace. "Not this morning."
Danny closes his eye again. "'Kay."
"'Kay," Steve agrees, closing his own eyes.
"'Ove you," Danny mumbles into his human pillow.
"Love you too, sweetheart," Steve breathes.
He can go running later. Or maybe he'll go for a swim. The urgent itching need to be moving is just a glowing ember deep in his chest. He can stoke it into a raging inferno if he wants to, run and swim for miles until he's exhausted. But right now, all he wants is to be with Danny.
Pulling Danny closer, he lets himself have that.
H50H50H50H50
When he wakes up again, he's alone. The Danny-sized dip in the mattress is still warm.
Hooking his fingers around the bedstead, he stretches. His joints pop. He wiggles his toes. A yawn creeps up on him. He tries to swallow it but it beats him to the chase. His jaw clicks as he lets the yawn loose. Shutting his mouth again, he curls back under the covers.
He debates going back to sleep. Danny's been trying to teach him sleep isn't just a function to enable you to recharge. It's a luxury that – on the few occasions it's available - should be indulged. He eyes the empty space beside him. Indulging is a lot more fun when Danny's there.
He sighs. Plumping up his pillows, he tries to get comfortable again. He's pretty sure Danny's in the kitchen. Sunday morning breakfast in bed is a ritual they've adopted. Finding crumbs in the bedcovers still makes him twitch. The post-breakfast sex more than makes up for it.
Humming in anticipation, he stretches again. They're still both learning what they like to do in the bedroom. Danny likes to be in control and he has no problem with that. No problem at all. He's got a few ideas he wants to try out, that let Danny enjoy that side of himself. They've got a whole day with no interruptions to practice.
It's going to be a good day.
His eyes drift closed as his imagination takes over. In his mind's eye he maps out Danny's skin with his fingertips. He's memorised the curve of Danny's muscles, the way his abs twitch when he's tickled. He can feel Danny flexing his thigh muscles when he grabs onto them, as he urges him on to move harder, faster, just move. He imagines the scent of musk and sweat filling the air. Neither of them are quiet during sex; he overlays the images with the sounds he knows they'll make. Anticipation makes his cock twitch. Dry-mouthed, he licks his lips.
The high-pitched shrill of the kitchen smoke alarm cuts cruelly into his fantasy.
Opening his eyes, he groans. He sniffs. It smells like something's alight. The alarm's temperamental. He's been meaning to change it for a while. Danny's probably threatening it with a spatula right now. Grimacing, he gets out of bed.
Padding across the landing he tilts his head, listening for Danny's voice. He frowns at the lack of irate yelling. Two rungs down on the stairs he catches sounds of movement in the kitchen. It's muted, like the door is shut. That's weird because Danny loves to share when he's cooking. He loves interruptions if only so he can grumble and shoo people away.
Eddie starts barking, just as he gets to the bottom of the stairs. He's still shut outside. It's high-pitched, frantic. It sends a shiver down his spine.
He freezes, one foot still on the bottom step. Thoughts spin in his mind. Eddie might just be upset by the smoke alarm but his own senses are screaming that something's wrong. His eye is drawn to the control panel of the house alarm. The red light that indicates it's not activated winks back at him.
His heartbeat quickens.
He's naked and his spare weapons are in the bedroom, kitchen and basement. He'd removed the one in the table by the front door when Charlie had started getting up early to investigate the house on his own. For a second it crosses his mind to let Eddie in. The dog's frantic now, howling to be let in. An angry canine is an excellent weapon. An out of control one though is a hinderance, destroying the element of surprise.
A loud bang in the kitchen grabs back his attention. It sounds like saucepans hitting the floor.
Years of training kick in. As he hunkers down next to the closed kitchen door he's mapping out the room in his head, straining to hear any noise that might give him an advantage. The sounds of movement are getting louder. There's a crash as a plate hits the floor. He's reaching for the door handle - keeping down and out of the line of fire – when he hears a grunt of pain, then another much louder one.
It sounds like Danny.
He kicks the door in then swings back, taking cover. The expected hail of bullets but doesn't happen. But his quick glimpse into the kitchen has provided him with a nightmare image. There are two men, dressed in tee-shirts, jeans and black balaclavas standing over Danny. Danny's face down on the floor. One arm is twisted awkwardly behind him. There's blood on the floor, spreading in a pool next to his head.
On the far side of the kitchen acrid black smoke is rising from the cooker. Danny's favourite pancake pan is alight.
Steve dives into the kitchen. Danny's laid out plates, knives and forks for breakfast on the central table. He's almost got his hand on a knife when the first man intercepts him. Suddenly the world tilts as an arm is clamped across his throat.
He slips out of the grip easily. But he quickly realises these men aren't amateurs. For every blow he inflicts they repay him with one of their own. His flesh is soon stinging with nicks from a knife. He tastes blood as a fist connects with his jaw.
Determined to reach Danny – and the gun that's hidden in a drawer - he powers forward, delivering a punishing rhythm of blows. The kitchen's compact but there's still enough room for one of them to try and get behind him. For a heart-stopping moment he thinks they might get the upper hand. When one of them slips and loses his footing – there's pancake mix over the floor – Steve strikes. Hauling his attacker in he jerks the man's head sideways, breaking his neck.
Breathing heavily, he risks a glance at Danny. Panic makes his stomach roil. The pool of blood is getting bigger. He needs to finish this, now.
Furious, he lays into the other man. Flesh splits under his fists. He wants this bastard out of his home. He wants him away from Danny. He pummels him relentlessly, employing every technique he knows. The guy's good but Steve's got white-hot anger on his side. Gradually he starts wearing him down.
Steve's got him on the retreat, nearly to the garage door, when he senses a movement behind him. His break in concentration earns him a blow to the chin. As his head snaps round he realises they are two more men coming into the kitchen. Before he can react they're on him.
Three on one are tough odds when his attackers are so good. Diving sideways he grabs a knife from the counter. Spinning round, he uses both hands to dig it deep in his first attacker's chest. The man's eyes widen in surprise as he staggers back, his fingers curled around the handle. As he bumps back into the wall, sliding to the floor, Steve turns to face the other men.
He's too late.
He doesn't go quietly, using every last ounce of energy to try and fight them off. But it's not long before he finds himself face down on the floor, the wooden boards digging into his naked skin. His attackers bundle on top of him, using their combined body weight to keep him down.
Barely able to breathe, he starts choking. The smoke in the air catches in his lungs. His head is full of the sound of the smoke alarm shrilling. In the background he can still hear Eddie barking. He jerks as something sharp pricks the skin on the back of his neck.
Whatever they've injected him with is fast-acting. His vision is rapidly decreasing to a pinprick. He can't feel his hands or feet. Straining, he lifts his head up, trying to find Danny.
When he does, a sob escapes from his throat. Danny's still not moving. His chest is still. Too still.
To be continued…