A/N: This installment comes about for two reasons: first, of course, I had to write Danny next. May I just say that this character doesn't allow writing from a narrative distance; he insisted I be in his head, which obliterated any attempts on my part at word economy. Sheesh, this guy can talk. And think. And emote. A lot.
Second, I don't want to lose the fact that while Steve does sometimes lose track of his own limits and does frequently push on past what most people can, he's also not stupid. With his training and his experiences, he's tuned in to his body in ways most of us are not. And I figure he has methods of dealing that the show doesn't let us see, but have to be there for him to keep functioning. Now that I've decided to incorporate this, it'll be interesting to see how it plays into situations.
The post-adrenaline fun is only beginning. ;)
Also, many thanks for the encouraging reviews! If you have a specific scenario you'd like to see that fits my theme, feel free to suggest it. (Just please, no calls for whump. There's more than enough of that out there already, and that's not what I'm trying to write here.)
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2. Spin
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He's about to lose another Camaro, and this one won't be to a bullet spray or arson, this one will be to Steve McGarrett's inability to see the future, a thing Danny can't logically blame him for but when a guy acts omnipotent sometimes you start believing he might be omnipotent and then something like this happens—
Words spurt through Danny's mind faster than they do from his mouth (which is saying something) and so of course he's able to have a full coherent furious thought directed at Steve in the heartbeat of time it takes the suspect's red pickup truck to emerge in front of them from an alley while tall, empty industrial buildings loom on either side of the car. Too close. On every side.
No way Steve super-SEAL-steers his way out of this.
Danny braces, tries not to brace: tension will only make the whiplash worse, assuming he's not dead in the next—
Squeal of tires. Whirl of surroundings out the windshield. The Camaro does an almost 180-degree spin. In New Jersey and other states with the sense to have winter, this would be an expert "donut." But there's no ice under these tires, only a crazy man at the wheel who just steered the driver's side toward the pickup truck, and—
Crunch.
And they're dead. They have to be. Grace and Charlie are fatherless.
He shakes his head and yeah, his neck is aching. Stiff. His shoulder was jarred into the door and now it's throbbing. He blinks. Clear vision, only mild headache.
The sound of a door handle being pulled, a door opening, and Steve's shout: "Five-0, let me see your hands! Show me your hands right now!"
Right, not dead. Get to work, Williams.
Danny opens his door with no problem—no impact on this side of the car—and jumps out, gun leveled at the truck. The suspect's airbags deployed. Steve pulls him, slightly stunned, out of his truck. Throws him to the ground and cuffs him as a few HPD sirens drift down the alley from a shrinking distance.
"Christopher Davis, you're under arrest for the murder of Kelly Davis and Jonathan Staples," Steve says and hauls him back to his feet.
Time speeds up after that, compared to the elongated seconds before the collision. Irrelevant details sharpen, like the knee prints the suspect leaves in the dirt, the scent of wintergreen gum he's still chewing. Steve turns him—and the scene itself—over to HPD. A forensic team will process Davis's truck, his transportation for at least one of the bodies if Five-0's theories are correct.
Danny circles the Camaro in search of damage and finds the left rear bumper destroyed. He walks up to his partner in search of damage and finds Steve unscathed but a bit wide-eyed.
"Hey," Danny says. Hey? No, not hey. He should be angry. He is angry. "What was that?"
"What?"
Steve's gaze roams the scene as if Danny's not worth eye contact. Heat washes down Danny's arms, up his neck into his face.
"You know what. That little one-eighty spin, that's what. I've never thought you had an actual, literal death wish, Steve; I thought, you know, death is one of those things that doesn't enter into your decision-making process at all, but if I'm wrong and there's really something wrong with you then the least you could have done is tell me about it the day you coerced me into working with—"
Steve's right hand flicks up, palm open, gloved in black with the pointer finger and thumb free. The visible fingers are the ones that give away the shaking.
"Will you shut up please?"
The please should clue him in, but to what exactly? It doesn't matter. "No, I will not shut up. You angled that car deliberately, Steven, and I'm—"
"Stop."
The volume of the word isn't what silences him. Steve's face does that: not a death glare (Danny's been immune to those from day one) but something starker.
"The scene's secure. I'll be back in a few minutes."
Steve turns away and breaks into a jog. And Danny gets it. And doesn't get it. Only one thing to do when Steve is being totally Steve and totally not Steve. Danny pursues his partner.
Steve right-angles his way to a main street with a sidewalk and sets out at a brisk pace. A tenth of a mile later, Danny catches up. Steve gives him a sideways glare but otherwise ignores him. It's an open path, no palm tree fronds overhead to filter the sun. Soon Danny's sweating in his tac vest. Steve slows after maybe a mile, and by now Danny's knee has started protesting the impact on concrete. After a block of fast-walking, Steve stops, turns to him.
"What are you doing?"
Danny throws his hands out from his sides. "Keeping you in sight, I guess."
Another glare. "Yeah, I got that. Why?"
"Because you're doing your thing, you know, the adrenaline-comedown thing, so …"
"Right. It's an established thing. Which I do alone."
"Yeah, I know."
He tries to shrug. The problem is, Steve's words are true. For all that Danny hassles him, he also trusts him (never let it be said) or he wouldn't work with him. He's seen the evidence hundreds of times: Steve's relationship with adrenaline is intimate. He knows how to use it, how far it will take him, and how to deal with the crash afterward. He might even know how to trigger fight-or-flight in his own body; impossible, yeah, but Danny's not convinced impossible is applicable to Steve McGarrett.
Something about this is different, though. Danny pushes past his own pounding heart and his mental voice that's still yelping in surprise because he isn't smashed inside his Camaro right now. He studies Steve: the measured breathing, the fisted hands, the rocking from one foot to another. He'd still be jogging if Danny hadn't followed him, or if Danny had two good knees.
Steve returns his gaze with defiance. "What."
"What set you off?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Lying to me at this point in our partnership is just an insult. You know that, right? I read you like a book, pal, and you know exactly what I'm talking about."
Steve shakes his head and starts walking back the way they came.
"You're an idiot," Danny says.
"Yeah, yeah."
"And if you're not going to talk, I am."
"Or we could walk in companionable silence."
"You're going to explain to me what you were thinking when you placed yourself squarely in the path of death."
"I'm quoting that back to you the next time you tell me you're not a dramatic person."
"No, no you don't, this is not the time, man. I mean it. If you need to be talking to somebody, then we're going to make sure you talk to somebody. We're not going to pretend that didn't happen. Got it?"
Steve presses his fingers to his eyes in a mock gesture of your noise is hurting my head, but the hand is shaking hard. He clenches it too late.
"Hey." Danny steps in front of him and plants his hands on Steve's shoulders. "Steve. Steven. Look at me."
It takes a few long seconds for his partner to meet his eyes. When he does, the belligerence has mostly faded.
"Did you turn the wheel on purpose?" As if he could have done such a thing accidentally, but baby-step admissions are how Steve operates.
"I … yeah, I guess so. Okay?"
"It's the furthest thing from okay, babe."
"I don't have a death wish."
"Then what—?"
"I was driving."
"You say that like it's a new thing."
Steve steps back, half-turns to face the street. His profile is marble-hard. A muscle twitches in his jaw as he grits his teeth.
And Danny waits.
"Controlling a scenario makes me responsible for the outcome of the scenario. And permanent injury or death is not an acceptable outcome if there's something I can do to effect a different outcome."
"Permanent injury or death is exactly what could have happened to you!"
Wait … a minute.
Danny folds his arms. "You have got to be kidding me."
"You're a father, Danno, you have to go home. Every time."
He scrubs his hands over his face, through his hair, stares at Steve and can't blink or move.
A smile tips one side of Steve's mouth as he turns. "We should memorialize this moment. That One Time Danny Williams Was Speechless."
"Steve …"
"Look, it wasn't trading my life for yours, okay? Head-on impact would have killed both of us. I was halving the casualties."
"And all that went through your mind in less than two seconds."
"Nah." Steve starts walking again, and Danny falls in beside him, shoving hands into his pockets because he might be shaking a little too now. Thanks, partner. "We've talked about this. I don't process details that could compromise me, not when immediate decisions have to be made in an operation."
Yeah, they've talked about it all right. Details like his own broken bones and bullet wounds, the risk of further damage, sometimes even the potential danger to others around him. A commanding officer has to be willing to risk his soldiers; early in his days as Five-0's commander, Steve retrained his way of viewing the people he works with. But in moments of high danger and high adrenaline, his military mindset often keeps them alive.
And his reactions are immediate.
"I'm not buying it," Danny says after half a minute. "You were thinking about me, about my safety. And I haven't decided yet whether to say thanks or kick you."
"It was subconscious, Danny. I don't have to remind myself of it because it's a variable I've already factored into situations. Before they arise."
"That is …"
That is the reason for Steve's adrenaline spike. He didn't see his own life flash before his eyes the moment before he jerked the wheel. He saw Danny's.
"Look, buddy, you … I mean, your life is …"
Steve rolls his eyes. "Oh, please. I don't think my life is worthless, okay? If I get killed, Mary will miss me. The team will miss me. Even you will eventually, Danno."
Danny swallows hard with no idea why his throat is tight. Maybe because he has actual feelings, unlike the guy walking next to him. But the anti-McGarrett record-loop in his head sounds scratchy right now. False.
They jogged farther than Danny thought. They're still a fair distance away. Steve's next step scuffs against the concrete, not stumbling but dragging. It doesn't happen again, but after a few more steps Danny puts a hand on his shoulder and nudges him toward a bench, painted red and bolted into a cement slab to one side of the walk.
They sit, shoulder to shoulder. Silent.
"You did turn the wheel far enough to save yourself too," Danny finally says.
"Well, the optimal outcome was survival of all parties."
Danny shakes his head. The guy's never going to change.
Steve deepens his breathing and closes his eyes. He sits like that for only half a minute or so, but it's long enough for Danny to feel the trust behind it. One thing to let a guy have your back when you're heading into a situation at full strength. Something else to sit exposed on a street corner, spent and shaking, and shut your eyes. Danny's betting this isn't part of Steve's comedown routine when he's in public alone.
He opens his eyes and gets to his feet, steady now. "So, are we done with the psychoanalysis?"
Danny huffs and stands too, his knee griping but quietly. "I still think you need counseling."
"I explained to you—"
"Not for today, moron, for everything else you do to yourself and to me on a daily basis."
An eye roll. Danny's not worth further words.
But maybe, as they arrive on the scene—Danny's fender-bent Camaro and the rotating red and blue lights that are an intrinsic part of their world—maybe more words would only depreciate the moment. When Steve claps a hand on his shoulder and moves away to take command again, Danny lets him, shakes his head, and smiles.
