A/N: Hi friends, this is my first Five-0 fanfiction. Please let me know how I'm doing. I'll post updates as soon as I am able. This story is rated T for violence and language. This is the only warning I will give, so please keep that in mind as you read. I hope you enjoy the first chapter!
Chapter One
Steve opened the front door and was immediately bombarded by a little boy wearing a Superman t-shirt.
"Uncle Steve!" Charlie cried, latching onto his waist.
Steve stumbled back, grinning. "Hey, buddy." He placed a hand on the boy's blond head. "You excited for movie night?"
Charlie looked up, maintaining his grip. "Yeah!"
Danny ambled up the sidewalk with Grace trailing behind, tapping away on her cell phone. She didn't even spare a glance at the front steps as she ascended to the porch. Steve was impressed.
"Charlie, let your uncle breathe, huh?" said Danny, pushing past them.
With Charlie shrieking in delight, Steve grabbed the boy and effortlessly slung him over his shoulder. He closed the door as Grace entered, and dropped Charlie onto the couch, pretending to do a wrestling take-down move while roaring like a lion.
"Hey, can you please not break my child's bones?" Danny groused, tossing a DVD onto the coffee table. "He's spent enough time in the hospital, thank you."
Steve snorted. "He's fine. Right, Charlie?"
"Right!" Charlie squealed, giggling as Steve assaulted his belly with tickling fingers.
"Careful," warned Danny, "or he'll want to come to Uncle Steve's house every weekend."
"At least there's TV here," muttered Grace.
Danny sighed, rubbing his temples. "Don't remind me."
Less than an hour ago, Steve had received a phone call from his partner, which he thought odd, considering Danny had the kids this weekend and preferred to soak up every minute with them instead of thinking about anything remotely work-related. As the family settled in for a night of movies, the television had sparked and released tendrils of white smoke, which didn't surprise Steve at all, considering the situation was just so Danny. In fact, the smoldering television didn't concern Steve more than Danny's choice of movie. Lassie? Really?
And Steve, being the wonderful friend that he was, kindly agreed to host movie night at his place. For one, the kids didn't deserve to miss out on family bonding time due to their father's innate misfortunes, and two, this meant Danny owed Steve a favor— and Steve would have been an idiot to pass up that opportunity.
Grace plopped into the armchair, eyes glued to her phone. Steve didn't blame her. He'd rather be on his phone than watching Danny's trash movie, too.
Steve clapped his hands together. "Well," he said. "Let's get this thing started."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," said Danny, looking offended. "We can't just start the movie."
Steve stared at him blankly. "Sorry, I figured movie night included, perhaps, watching a movie."
"Yes, it does, but first we have to make preparations. We need snacks, and drinks. You can't just enjoy a piece of cinematic gold without popcorn. It's a necessity."
"Okay, let's take a step back here. Did you seriously just say Lassie is cinematic gold?"
"Of course I did, because it is. It's a classic."
Steve threw out his hands, incredulous. "You want to know what a true classic is, Danny?" He strode to his small drawer of movies next to the television and rifled inside. He held up a plastic case for his partner to see. "Die Hard."
"Die Hard?" Danny echoed.
"Die Hard," Steve confirmed. "Do you want me to keep going? Patriot Games. Air Force One. Saving Private Ryan—"
"Okay, let me ask you something," interrupted Danny. "Do you think any of these so-called classics are appropriate for a five-year-old and a fourteen-year-old?"
Steve crossed his arms. "Yes, Danny, I do."
"What was I thinking? Of course you do."
"Kids need to be exposed to the real world, Danny. The violence in these films are accurate portrayals of real life, you can't be sugarcoating—"
Grace interrupted, finally looking up from her phone. "Danno, can we just watch the movie?"
Danny glared at Steve, putting an end to their disagreement. "Yes, we can watch the movie. Our movie. The one we chose as a family."
Steve scoffed.
"Now," Danny said, heading towards the kitchen. "Where's the popcorn?"
Steve followed, frowning. "I don't have popcorn."
Danny halted to a stop. He placed his palms flat on the kitchen table and squinted in disbelief at his friend. "I'm sorry, what?"
"I don't have popcorn," Steve repeated, shrugging.
"What kind of neanderthal doesn't have popcorn? It's practically a kitchen staple!" Danny pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Oh, right. Your kitchen is probably stocked with... I don't know, with meat from a pig you hunted and butchered yourself. Or trail-mix, or those little packets of powdered protein—"
Annoyed, Steve cut him off. "Danny, it's not the end of the world. Just go out and get some popcorn. The kids and I will stay here and make some nachos."
"You have stuff for nachos, but no popcorn?"
"Of course."
"Unbelievable."
Steve flashed his best grin while Danny rolled his eyes and stalked back into the living room.
Truth be told, Steve didn't exactly have a reason to keep a stash of microwave popcorn in the house. Back when Catherine was around, the two would snuggle up on the couch and pop in a DVD or two, but that seemed like a lifetime ago. Lynn would much rather go out than stay cooped up inside, so a night of movies hadn't been on Steve's agenda in quite some time.
Still, he was glad he didn't have any snacks, because Danny's overreaction was priceless.
As Danny dug in his pockets for his car keys, Steve noticed his partner still wore his holster and badge. Even while off duty, Steve and Danny had both made it a habit to keep their weapon close at all times. After being assigned to Five-0 for so long, it was hard to feel truly safe without it.
"Hey, guys," said Danny, "Danno's gotta run to the store to get some popcorn, because Uncle Steve neglected to mention on the phone that he doesn't have any."
"I'm still failing to see how I am to blame for any of this," Steve deadpanned.
Danny ignored him. "I'll be back in half an hour," he told the kids. He then sent a pointed look towards Charlie. "Don't cause any trouble for Uncle Steve, got it?"
Charlie raised his thumb in the air. "Got it."
"Bye, Danno," Grace said absently, once again messaging friends on her phone.
"Love you, see you soon."
"Love you, Danno!" Charlie cried, bouncing on the couch. Danny smiled and ruffled his young boy's hair.
"Love you, Danno," Steve mimicked jokingly as Danny stepped outside. He smirked at his partner's glower, visible for only a second before he descended the porch and disappeared into the muggy night. Steve closed the door behind him and locked it.
The massive pessimistic fog that loomed above Danny's head left with him, thank god. So what if Steve didn't have popcorn? So what if he never bought it because he didn't have anyone to share it with? Danny could have at least thanked him for saving his Friday night. Jerk.
For revenge, perhaps Steve could convince the kids to watch one of his movie choices instead. Spending ninety minutes of their lives watching buildings and heads explode was much more exciting than a dumb story about a boy and his dog.
Steve nonetheless kept his promise of nachos and managed to usher both kids into the kitchen. Grace found a seat at the table with her phone in front of her, while Charlie stuck to Steve's side, eager to help make the cheese for Steve McGarrett's Famous Spicy Nachos.
"Why are they so famous?" Grace asked.
"Famous among friends," replied Steve, rifling through the fridge for a block of cheese.
"That doesn't count."
He huffed. "Does too."
"Does not."
"Does too."
"It totally doesn't."
He frowned and looked to Charlie to support. "Can you believe this?"
The young boy just giggled.
Steve shook his head and instructed Charlie to find a big bowl while he grabbed a chair and pulled it up to the stove top for Charlie to reach. "There is a trick to making nacho cheese, Charlie. I am going to pass down my secret to you. But you have to keep it between us, alright? I don't want your dad stealing my recipe."
Charlie nodded excitedly.
"See," instructed Steve, tossing the cheese into the warming pan, "the trick is the spices. You want to add enough to feel the burn on your tongue, but not enough to where our mouths are on fire. You getting this?"
The boy nodded again, focusing hard on Steve's movements.
Steve smiled. God, he loved these kids.
"Uncle Steve?" said Grace, giving an irritated sigh.
"What is it, Gracie? Do you want in on the secret recipe?"
"I just lost reception."
Steve turned. She sat looking defeated, futilely attempting to resend a text message.
"Did your dad forget to pay the bill, or what?" he joked, holding out a hand. "Let me see."
He ignored whatever conversation she was having with her friends, focusing on the failed to send message repeatedly popping over the screen. Upon inspection of her phone's settings, he saw that the Wi-Fi was disconnected, and a small 'no service' icon blinked on the drop down bar.
Steve hummed in thought. "Maybe you have to restart it?"
He barely got the words out when the entire house went black.
The McGarrett home had lost power before. Often during a storm Steve found he was unable to flip on the lights. But tonight the sky was dotted with stars, and a gust of wind hadn't rattled the shutters since this morning. He doubted a fuse was to blame, either. His gut churned with a twinge of suspicion.
"Can we still watch movies?" Charlie asked.
Steve didn't have time to respond.
A horrifying noise made the kids yelp. Steve hesitated for only a moment as his brain registered the sound as shattering glass. And it was loud.
Every bit of military training flooded through his mind. He'd always been quick to react in emergency situations, but the thought of Danny's kids in danger made Steve fear the bolt of terror that surged through his body would paralyze him to the spot.
He met Grace's wide, frightened eyes. "Get in the pantry," he whispered fiercely. "Get in the pantry now."
She sprang to her feet, grabbing her useless phone out of habit. Steve turned swiftly and scooped Charlie from the chair behind him. In three giant steps he was by the pantry door, shoving Grace inside and placing Charlie on the ground.
"What's happening?" Grace whispered, fearful tears in her eyes.
Steve pushed Charlie next to his sister, ears straining to listen for approaching footsteps behind. "I'm not sure. Stay here, do not move. Don't make a sound, got it?"
The two nodded. Charlie's expression was more confused than afraid.
Steve tugged on the young boy's shirt and forced an assuring smile. "Don't leave your sister, okay, Superman?"
Charlie returned the grin as Grace took his small hand and clasped it into hers.
Steve eased the door closed, latching it as quietly as he could manage. Despite the nervous sweat that had broken across his skin, his mind was a focused, straight plane. Instinctively, he reached for the gun at his waist.
Damn it. It was upstairs in the nightstand. He'd hidden it away when he'd learned the kids were coming.
There was shuffling in the living room. Multiple footsteps. Glass crunching under boots. Steve made a dive for the knife block on the counter and snatched the first knife his fingers touched.
He had just secured the handle in his grip when the first man entered the kitchen.
Dressed in all black, including a ski mask over his face, the man turned to Steve with a raised assault rifle.
The realization hit Steve instantly: a knife against a gun wouldn't win. He had to act quick.
He propelled himself full force at the man, catching him completely off guard. His body slammed into the stranger's, knocking him against the counter. A gasp burst from the intruder's mouth as the air was forced from his lungs. Steve took advantage of his surprise attack and raised a knee, which he rammed into the man's gut, causing him to double over. He swung a fist and made contact with the guy's chin, delivering a bone-shattering uppercut.
Two other men from the living room began to close in, rifles ready. Steve let his knife clatter to the floor for exchange of the fallen intruder's gun. He ripped the weapon from the intruder's hands, but didn't have time to point the barrel.
A bright flash of light cut across Steve's vision before the pain had a chance to hit.
The butt of the second guy's rifle had cracked against his forehead, sending him stumbling over the unconscious man's body. He landed backwards, grimacing from the heavy ache pounding through his skull.
In the mere second Steve McGarrett laid on his own kitchen floor, two thoughts came to mind.
The first was that these men, whoever they were, had professional experience.
The second: they didn't want him dead.
Not one bullet had been fired since the men had burst through his living room window. The second intruder had a perfect opportunity to bury a bullet in his brain, but had instead went for a knock-out. Steve knew he wasn't in danger of dying in his own home; he was in danger of being taken from it.
That couldn't happen.
On his back, disoriented from the blow that had taken him—a seasoned Navy SEAL—to the ground, Steve blindly pulled the trigger of the rifle he had clutched to his chest. A string of bullets was released at his attacker. A cry of pain let him know that at least one shot had made contact.
Blinking away spots that danced across his vision, Steve scrambled to his feet, ready to fight off the remaining men. His finger poised on the trigger, Steve prepared to fire the gun yet again.
A hard blow to the middle of his shoulder blades had him taking a steadying step forward, nearly into the arms of one of the intruders. Out numbered and dazed, strong hands secured his arms. Someone kicked the back of his knees, forcing him to the ground. Steve squirmed and struggled, but darkness hung at the edges of his vision, slowing his movements.
He was dragged into the living room, wrists zip-tied at his front. Three men, including the one he thought he'd knocked unconscious, stood before him where he sat, propped against the couch, panting hard.
"Who the hell are you?" Steve spat. He tugged uselessly at the restraints on his wrists. The hard plastic dug painfully into his flesh.
The three men all exchanged glances, then slung their rifles over their shoulders. One of them peeled away his ski mask, revealing an unfamiliar face.
"You don't know?" he asked.
"You'll have to refresh my memory."
It may have been the head trauma, but Steve didn't recognize the man at all. He was Caucasian, maybe thirty-five years old, with fair hair and dark stubble on his chin. His tanned skin told Steve he was from the island, or had been visiting for at least a few weeks. He noticed a fresh tear in the man's shirt, on his upper arm. It was difficult to see in the dark, but Steve knew it was bleeding from his bullet. He silently cursed at himself for only leaving the guy with a shoulder wound.
"Look what I found."
Another voice made Steve's heart nearly jump out of his chest.
Being a trained SEAL, Steve had learned to control his fear. He knew how to shove it aside, to prevent it from overriding his judgment or his senses. Containing fear was exhausting, both mentally and physically. Luckily, years of training had numbed him. It was rare for Steve McGarrett to get truly afraid.
This time, he was.
A fourth man staggered out of the kitchen, Grace's arm clutched in his right hand, Charlie's in the left. Grace grunted and tugged at the man's grip, though Steve caught the glimmer of tears on her face.
"Uncle Steve!" she screamed. She nearly tore out of the man's grasp, but he yanked her forward and pushed her to the ground. She gasped, landing on her hands and knees.
Charlie cried out, babbling incoherently around tears.
"Hey!" Steve shouted, fighting away his diminishing vision and the pressure building in his ears. "Let them go! They haven't done anything to you, they're just kids."
The unmasked man stepped over Grace and punched Steve square in the jaw.
"No!" screeched Charlie, writhing against his captor's grasp.
Blood gushed from Steve's lip, staining his teeth and filling his mouth with a metallic tang. "Listen to me," he said, forcing his voice steady. "Listen. Whatever you want, just take it. You want me? That's fine, I'll cooperate." He chanced a glance at Grace, who didn't take her eyes off him. "Just leave the kids out of this. They don't know anything, they won't say a word—"
"Shut up," sneered the blond man, seizing Steve by the collar of his shirt. "Talk again and I'll blast her brains all over your face."
Grace sobbed.
Steve swallowed, hard. Charlie had given up and sank to the floor, his captor still clutching his arm. The man looked uncertainly to the blond guy, who ran a hand through his hair, sighing in frustration.
"What are we going to do with these kids?" the second guy said. "I didn't know McGarrett was a babysitter."
"I ain't killing no kids," the third man said.
The one holding Charlie yanked him closer. "I'll kill 'em. Who cares?"
"No, please, don't!" Grace cried, twisting around to face her brother. "Please don't hurt him."
"Danno!" Charlie screamed.
Steve locked eyes with Blondie, who, thankfully, seemed to ignore the kids. Charlie's cry for his father reminded Steve that Danny had left no more than fifteen minutes ago. Maybe he could stall enough time for Danny to return. There was no way his partner would miss the broken window, or whatever vehicles were presumably parked out front. Danny could call for back-up, get the team down here—
"I have a better idea," Blondie finally said, interrupting Steve's thoughts. "Bring them with."
The other three men complied without question. The man restraining Charlie picked the young boy off the ground and carried him across the room, kicking and screaming for Uncle Steve and Danno.
"No, no, Charlie!" Steve panted, panic creeping in. "Leave him out of this!"
"Uncle Steve!" Grace was next, one man grabbing each arm and hoisting her off the floor. She pleaded for her uncle, who had no choice but to watch helplessly as she was dragged out the door behind her brother.
Through the open door, Steve watched the kids be shoved unceremoniously into the trunk of an SUV. He squinted through his hazy vision, searching for a license plate, a distinguishing mark, anything to identify the vehicle.
He turned back to the unmasked man, who loomed over him like a black tower.
"If you hurt those kids," Steve said, voice quivering with rage, "I swear to god, I will kill every single one of you."
Blondie didn't flinch from the threat. He grunted as he swung back his fist. Steve braced for the blow to the face, powerless to defend himself. Pain shot through his temple, blinding him, muffling his hearing, finally pulling him down. Head throbbing, he fell on his side, barely clinging to consciousness. Two men, returning from outside, took Steve by the arms and lifted him up, preparing to pull his limp body out of the house.
The unmasked man knelt beside him. Blood dripped steadily from his shoulder wound and pattered to the floor. He leaned down, bringing his mouth close to Steve's ear.
"Good luck."