A big thank you to my incredible betas sym64 and Cokie316. You are the best!
Scars
- Scars of pleasure
Scars of pain
Atmospheric changes
Make them sensitive again
Each emotional injury
Leaves behind its mark
Sometimes they come tumbling out
Like shadows in the dark -
RUSH
It was early in the morning, the sun had just risen above the horizon while most of O'ahu's residents were still sleeping. Although there were no private shores in Hawaii, it was uncommon for other Hawaiians to find their way to this particular beach, let alone tourists. People had no idea that behind the elderly house at 2727 Piikoi Street they would find a small, secluded part of paradise.
Steve McGarrett loved this about his home. He loved his alone time, he loved the quietness. He needed these moments at his beach to recharge his batteries. And sometimes he needed this time of peace in his backyard to fight his demons.
But not today.
Today was a good day.
Again.
He leaned back and ran a hand through his hair, still wet after his very early morning swim. The wooden chair he was sitting in was old, its legs buried in the sand; the blue paint peeling. Yet Steve loved it this way, he thought that's what made this chair special and although he loved being a handyman and had some skills, it never came to his mind to repaint it. It had history. The same history as the empty chair next to him. He always imagined his parents sitting here after a hard day's work, sipping some wine, sharing their experiences or watching five year old Steven building sandcastles for his G.I. Joe in camouflage swim shorts. These chairs were part of the good times, the first sixteen years of his life. Before he came back to Hawaii he had totally forgotten about them, but the moment he saw them again, memories about his parents and their normal family life had come back. A normal life was something Steve never had again after the fatal 'accident' of his mother. After Doris' staged car crash.
Steve sighed and shook his head to get the memories of her 'death' out of his thoughts and the anger out of his soul. He rested his chin in his hand and one elbow on his leg, with his toned body a perfect copy of Rodin's "The Thinker". If there had been innocent bystanders, female and maybe some male too, they would call him perfectly attractive. But they would only see the outside.
On the inside nothing was perfect.
He watched the sun's reflection in the ocean, shining golden as it made its way higher up. The sun was called perfect too. A perfect round. But Steve McGarrett knew that perfection wasn't always that special. Sometimes outside perfection was just so blinding you could not see the truth inside.
Steve took the sunglasses that had been lying in the sand next to the chair and put them on.
He didn't care much about attractiveness or perfection. He never gave much thought about his good looks. His looks didn't do anything for him, didn't prevent anything from happening to him and his family. Steve wasn't proud of his looks, because he had had nothing to do with it. It just happened. Genes. Yes, of course, his athletic body added to his attractiveness and he worked hard to be this athletic and fit. He needed a trained body to survive, he did not need a perfect body to show off. His body was his weapon of survival. The muscles, the flexibility, the moves and the reflexes.
And then his mind. His mind was his strongest asset.
Given his past, most people would be in a dark place. And there was one day in his life he had nearly lost it, the darkness nearly swallowing him. After witnessing the horrible death of his best friend he had had enough, he hadn't known how to cope. He had nearly resigned from the Navy. But Lt. Commander Steve McGarrett was no idiot, he knew when it was time to ask for help.
Three days after Freddie's death, one day after the death of his father, the day he had come back to Hawaii, he did exactly that. He visited a therapist at Tripler's, a man he now called his friend. Dr. Anderson was there for him; most of the time he just listened, some of the time he gave advice or taught him methods to re-focus and to "find his center". That didn't work all the time; finding his center was a hard thing to do. Sometimes Steve felt more like a donut, as he told Dr. Anderson over a beer in his kitchen. Mark Anderson had smiled and asked him: "Then be a delicious one, maybe Krispy Kreme?"
Steve snorted and took a sip out of his bottle. "I hate Krispy Kreme," he mumbled, "too much sugar, not low carb."
The doctor put his beer on the kitchen counter and looked Steve in the eye. "Are you unhappy now?"
Bewildered Steve shook his head. "What? No. No!"
"So then you're happy, right?"
And that did the trick for Steve.
The moments he was not unhappy he considered himself happy. He knew a lot of people wouldn't understand, but it was his way of coping. Steve was not stupid; he had a clear knowledge about life and fate, and he knew that not everything was black or white. There was a lot of gray in the world. But he was someone who was capable of being content and happy more often than some people who had had a sheltered youth, loving parents and had led a good life. Because he had experienced the worst, he appreciated the good things so much more. He was able to discover, to realize, and to really see the small good and wonderful moments that had happened in his life. He could turn them into something exceptional and enjoy them no matter what. Be it parachuting to bring the islands to safety, snorkeling in his beloved ocean, seeing his friends happy, or having some MREs together with a cool longboard. One day Mark Anderson called him "PosiSteve" and Steve smiled at that memory. Yeah, it was way more healthy to be PosiSteve than NegaSteve. Being negative didn't get anything done, being negative didn't improve anything, being negative annoyed other people to no end, being negative did not make you very popular and, most importantly, being negative did your soul and your mind no good.
Suddenly the sound of steps and a low and gentle sigh interrupted Steve from his thoughts. He looked up and saw his partner now sitting to his left.
"Hey buddy", he greeted him. "You're up early. Not your usual favorite time of the day, is it?"
His partner remained silent and just looked at him.
Steve patted him on his back and could feel some scars that were still rough and hadn't healed completely. The explosion six weeks ago had wreaked havoc. HPD had one of its own undercover in a gang that had flooded O'ahu with meth. Five-0 was called in when a big deal with one of their most wanted drug bosses was supposed to happen in an old abandoned warehouse near Waikiki. Steve and Lou were just about to enter the storehouse when the whole meth laboratory exploded. The blast sent him and Grover flying through the air, crashing down on the sidewalk. But luckily they had just suffered some bruises and minor scratches. Those men inside the building weren't that lucky. Not only were most of the drug dealers killed instantly, sadly the officer undercover had no chance either.
Steve watched his partner sitting perfectly still and watching the waves. Besides lots of scars he had lost one eye in the explosion. When Steve found him buried under lots of debris, bricks and iron rods, he thought at first he would be dead, but he saw a slight movement of his chest and carried him out of the house, over the rubble and through the smoke, dust and fire. The doctors had said he wouldn't make it, but Steve refused to give up. As long as there was life there was hope. So Steve had insisted, had yelled at the doctors, punched the walls and forced them to do everything possible.
He deserved to live, even though he was broken.
And now looking at him Steve was sure that his friend was happy. That he was happy to live. Happy to feel the sun, to smell the salty air, although once in a while he needed to lick his wounds. But that was okay for Steve, as long as he didn't lose himself in concentrating on his scars, Steve let that behavior slip.
Steve stood up and smiled his trademark lopsided smile. "Come on, Pakana. Breakfast time?" he asked and scratched his companion behind its ear. The dark German Shepherd stood up, barked a low but happy "Woof!" and Steve laughed.
"Thought so!" he shouted after him as the dog ran full speed to his lanai and into the kitchen.
Steve shook his head about his new companion. The dog had survived the worst, lost so much, had endured so much but yet it loved to live, it loved its life, it loved people.
Yeah, Pakana was a lot like Steve McGarrett.
Now Steve just had to convince Danny Williams to allow dogs in his new restaurant. Because without Pakana, Lt. Commander Steven J. McGarrett would never go anywhere again.
They came as a package.
They were McWoof.
PAU
Pakana = Partner