A.N. - Thanks to "Book 'em Again" for the name of Chin's wife. Thanks to "Tanith2011" for beta reading.
Laundry Day
"Sorry, I know that you don't need the extra work," Chin said with a sigh, his eyes downcast as his wife studied the blood-stained shirt in the laundry basket on their kitchen table. He looked up apologetically into her soft brown eyes.
"It's no problem, dear," she responded, her expression solemn but understanding. "Some ice cold water and soap will do the trick and it'll be good as new."
Many men would just discard a shirt in such condition. This was not an option for Chin. The family budget was tight and his collection of dress shirts was only large enough to get him through the work week with one saved for Sunday morning.
The soiled shirt was a grim reminder of the most recent crisis that all too often came with his chosen career. The scene replayed in his mind unbidden: the boss, the man he called a brother folding like a sack, driven to the ground by the force of a bullet tearing into his chest. He could still hear the return gunfire, the urgent shouts of his colleagues and the pain-filled groans from the fallen cop. Chin had reached McGarrett first, dragging him to the relative safety of the black Mercury. The physical contact from moving the man and subsequent attempts to slow the bleeding had left Chin's own shirt warm and sticky with his boss's blood. Then the commotion of the resolution: arrests made, bodies collected by the coroner, ambulance summoned. The whirl of activity existed only in the periphery for the two older detectives. Their eyes were locked together, one drawing strength from the other, one willing the other to remain alive.
Stay with me, Steve!
He heard his own words echoing in his head. Time had slowed momentarily in a mixture of fear, bravery, pain, grit and silent prayer. Then several hours later, they had learned that the head of Five-O would indeed make a full recovery.
The laughter of children coming from the living room brought him back to the present, back to the peace and sanctuary of his own home, his small yellow kitchen. Once more, Chin forced his eyes away from the shirt and looked at his wife, his life partner, who seemed to hold their lives together when his own strength waned. Life could be so fragile.
"Is Steve really gonna be okay?" she asked.
"Yes, dear, he'll be fine. But it was close."
The noise level from the living room increased: raised voices, stomping feet, something heavy colliding with the carpeted floor.
"DAD!"
Chin chuckled, shaking his head. "I'd better go see what that is," he remarked, leaving the business of the laundry to his wife.
Lin Kelly ran her fingers over Tilda's small flowered dress nestled in the basket then glanced at Chin's bloody shirt balled up next to it: sweet innocence next to deadly violence. She breathed a prayer of thanks that Chin had come home unharmed and a prayer of healing for Steve. Then she carried the basket to the washer to start the clothes.