A/N: Once again, this took longer to get up than I originally intended. Sorry about that. I'm traveling (home) right now, and all my writing is being done on the road, and I'm posting this from a hotel room. Haha. The majority of this chapter is from Steve's perspective - and lemme tell you, that was interesting. I tend to do better when I have 2-3 people (or more) feeding off of each when I write fanfiction, but I also tend to write much... deeper... when I'm only writing from one POV. So. Anyway. I'm really just rambling, but please please please tell me your thoughts. ;) Thank you all for your continued support; it literally makes my day, and keeps me motivated. Currently working on Chapter 5, and I hope to get it up soon. :D xx
Disclaimer: I still don't own H50.
With a grunt, Jake Mackintosh watched in stupid fascination through his scope as his target – the short, blond man – collapsed bonelessly to the ground, and lay still, one hand stretched out limply before him as if, even in unconsciousness, he was still reaching for his partner, as the tall, heavily muscled dark haired man rolled over the edge of the cliff and disappeared from sight. A half-regretful smile hovered over the dark man's lips, as he surveyed the job well done. He wasn't a murderer, but he needed the money. Some hiker would find them in a few hours, and there would be no ties to connect anyone to the case. The Five-0 team had plenty of enemies; anyone with a grudge could've targeted them, and exacted their revenge. Anyone at all.
His earpiece clicked, and Stuart's voice blared in his ear. His voice was demanding, and impatient, as usual, as he asked sharply, "Is it done yet?"
"Yeah." Jake cleared his throat. "It's done. Mcgarrett jumped in front of a bullet, though. They're both down."
"Good." Stuart suddenly sounded pleased, and his voice took on a mollifying tone. "You did good. Real good. It'll be easier for all of us now that Mcgarrett's out of the picture too. In fact, I would have much rather killed him than Danny Williams. He's the one who causes us the most trouble. But," he laughed harshly, "They're both gone, and all the better for us. Get back here, alright. We got another job tonight." Stuart hesitated, then said as an afterthought, "Oh, and Jake? Make sure they're dead before you leave, huh?" His voice changed to a tone of mocking impatience. "Those two have a damn bad habit of living through situations that would kill anyone else." He laughed humorlessly. "For them, it was a good habit, I guess, but for us, it's just plain inconvenient."
Grimacing at the thought of approaching a dead body, Jack nodded reluctantly. "Fine." He hesitated, then a thought that had popped into his head earlier resurfaced, and he asked suddenly, "Stu, why don't we get out of this life?" He liked being a sniper – he loved guns, all sizes, but killing people for money didn't appeal to him at all. He only did it because he had to; he didn't know how to do anything else. "We could go somewhere else. You know, start over somewhere new." He grimaced as the man on the other end of the line didn't respond – all he heard was the huff of Stuart's heavy breathing, before he finally answered,
"You getting soft, Jake?" The tone was soft; threatening. "You gonna be able to finish the job? Or am I gonna have to send someone out to help you? And if I do that, there is no way you're getting paid for this job, or getting hired in the future."
"I'm not getting soft," Jake refuted vigorously, noting the not-so subtle threat with a small shudder. "I just hate the feeling that someone is following me all the time. There has to be something else we can do to make enough money. Something legal."
For a moment, the line was silent. Then, "Alright. You come back, and we'll talk about it, okay? But if – and that's a big if – I agree to this, it'll be after this next job. It's gonna be a big one, and we need the money." A moment passed, then Stuart barked, "Y'hear me?"
"I hear you."
"Good. Now get back here."
The line went silent again, and with a sigh, Jake pulled the earpiece out of his ear, and surveyed the area beneath him again, before averting his eyes with a slight shudder. So. That was the end of Danny Williams. And if appearances weren't deceiving, Steve Mcgarrett wouldn't be back to jailing criminals any time soon – if at all.
Jake wasn't exactly sure where the bullet had hit Mcgarrett, but he knew the man was badly injured – if he was even still alive. The bullets in his gun were special; designed to pierce body armor, and penetrate the thickest barriers. Steve Mcgarrett didn't stand a chance if he'd taken a solid hit; and what were his chances out here, wounded and alone, anyway?
Confusion washed over him as he thought of the man's actions; what had come over Mcgarrett? What had prompted to throw himself in front of the bullet? Steve Mcgarrett was ex-military; his name was spoken in tones of awe, and reverential fear, and Jake had no doubt the ex-SEAL was able to recognize a sniper's target when he saw it. After all, Jake hadn't even aimed at Mcgarrett once.
So, why had he thrown himself in front of Williams? Jake had never met a man who was willing to sacrifice himself for a friend. The motto of everyone he worked for – and with – was "Each man for himself". If leaving a colleague behind meant your own survival, there were no second thoughts; ties, friendships, even family connections were broken in this business. You ensured your own survival, no matter the cost to those around you. It was just how things were.
Shaking his head in puzzlement, Jake pushed himself to his knees, and began disassembling the rifle, carefully packed it away, and clearing the area of any signs of his presence. He hated the life he had been forced into, but that didn't mean he was willing to go to jail because his reluctance to take a life made him careless.
Concluding his work, he stood, and glanced hesitatingly towards the body of Danny Williams. The man was dead; there was no doubt about it. There was no way Williams could survive a headshot, and Jake was confident in his own skills. With a shrug, he threw the gun case over his shoulder, and hurried back down the side-trail he had ascended only 3 hours before. There was a bad storm coming, from the looks of the sky, and he sure didn't want to be caught in it.
Besides, he had things to discuss with Stuart.
Pain. That was the first thing he noticed… raw, overwhelming, red-hot pain, swallowing him, fighting him, draining him. He was being dragged towards the light against his will – torn from the comfortable oblivion he had sunk into, and forced into reality… a harsh, blatant world of muted light, and agonizing torment. What happened? Steve's mind was fuzzy; it felt like wool had been stuffed into his brain and his usually sharp thinking was sluggish, and jumbled as he licked his lips laboriously.
With a soft groan, Steve tried to open his eyes, but for some reason, they weren't obeying his commands – they stayed closed firmly, and with a grunt, he gave up on the idea of opening them – for the moment, at least. He couldn't remember what had happened; all he knew was the burning pain in his right shoulder, and the overwhelming feeling of weakness that he couldn't explain. He knew he had to move – had to get up, but for some reason, he couldn't remember why.
Taking a deep breath, he winced at the sharp stab of pain that shot through his entire right side, setting the nerves on fire and mimicking the sensation of a knife being twisted into his arm. He swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat, and exhaled shakily. Where am I? If he could just look around… His eyes were still as heavy as concrete, and he reluctantly dismissed the recurring urge to look around, and taking a shallow breath, he focused on his other senses. He had determined his location before without the use of his eyes, and he could do it again.
He was curled around himself in a protective position, and his left side was pressed up against a surface that was hard, and ragged – a tree trunk? That would explain the dull throbbing in his ribs, and stiffness of his left shoulder… he must have collided with it. There were leaves, pine needles and moist dirt under his fingertips, and the air was thick, and heavy, without the slightest breath of wind: sure sign of an approaching storm. He forced himself to clear his mind, ignoring the agony that screamed at him, as he tried to focus, but the explanation of his current situation escaped him. What happened?
His breathing quickened, and he forced himself to take deep breaths. Calm down, Steve told himself with as much firmness as he could muster. Think strategically. This was just another Navy mission – if he could convince himself of that, maybe he could get his wits about him enough to remember what had happened… Maybe. There was something about a storm coming. Hiking, joking, laughing with someone. With… who? And… loud noises, he was diving for someone… and… suddenly, he remembered. Gunshots.
"Danny!" The cry was torn from Steve's throat involuntarily, and sitting bolt upright, he looked around, searching frantically for any sign of the blond man, and then, as a wave of dizziness assailed him, threatening to overwhelm his tenuous grip on consciousness, he slumped backwards again with a half-muffled gasp, immediately regretting the hasty movement. Black spots flickered around the edge of his vision, and he swallowed thickly as a wave of nausea swept over him. Bad idea, he reproached himself sardonically, gritting his teeth and panting as another onset of agony tightened the muscles in his neck and shoulders, clenching them forcefully before finally lessening, leaving him gasping for air, and trembling.
It all came back in a rush: The hike. Teasing Danny, the playful bantering, back and forth. The coming storm, and the hasty retreat down the mountain. Then, the flurry of action – the sniper, gunshots, diving in front of his partner, and then pain, immediately followed by comforting, shadowed oblivion.
You have to sit up, he told himself firmly, grimacing at the thought of enduring the same torment he'd just went through when he'd sat up a moment before. And look where that had gotten him – lying on the ground in the exact same place, curled up in the exact same fetal position, trying to ignore the pain. And the 'ignoring' part wasn't working out all that well. Fantastic.
With a strangled groan, Steve forced his eyes open again, and fighting to ignore the stabbing pain in his shoulder, he raised his head, biting his lip so hard he thought he would draw blood as he gasped out, "Danny?" Through the rushing blood in his ears, he listened anxiously for a response, but the only sound that came back to him was the echo of his own voice. Swallowing down the rising panic, Steve looked around, and called out again, expecting to hear the reproachful yet concerned voice of his partner momentarily, who would no doubt be thrilled that he had managed to get shot. Again.
"Danny! Hey partner, I could use a hand here." His voice sounded surprisingly weak when he spoke, and he grimaced at the dryness of his throat as he swallowed painfully; it felt like he'd swallowed glass. "Danny?"
The only sound that met his ears was the rapid beating of his own heart as it pounded weakly against his ribs, the sharp inhale, exhale of his breathing, and a whispering breath of wind in the trees. That was all.
Steve sighed. "So, it's gonna be like that, Danno?" Pushing himself upright with his left arm, he managed to position himself against the base of the tree, and leaned against it, clenching his jaws tightly to keep back a groan. His eyes drifted shut as he attempted to block out the pain, but he soon realized his "off switch" wasn't obeying his commands: this wasn't the kind of pain he could ignore, and move past. It screamed at him, begging for recognition, demanding his attention, engulfing his body in an inferno of unquenchable agony.
Suddenly, Steve became aware of something dripping down his arm; something warm that seemed to originate from his shoulder, and with a sinking feeling in his stomach, he directed his gaze downwards, and saw the scarlet liquid that was running down his arm, and soaking his entire right side. His confusion, the frustrating weakness, and the unexplainable pain suddenly became clear to him, and he leaned his head back against the rough trunk of the tree with a grunt.
"Oh."
Gunshots.
Raising his head again required no small amount of effort, but Steve forced himself to inspect the wound more closely; it was specked with bits of dirt – which was no surprise, considering the distance he had rolled – and was still oozing; the bullet had gone clean through his shoulder, which explained the heavy bleeding. Steve grunted dryly, half relieved. Digging a bullet out of his shoulder was not something he wanted to do right now; sure, it was something he'd done once before – actually, he'd taken a bullet to the leg – but he had no desire to re-live the experience again. He had been surrounded by his comrades – fellow Navy SEALs, who had assisted him; they'd saved his life – but right now, he was alone.
Swallowing thickly, Steve glanced painfully at his watch; it was 12:29. Had it really only been 15 minutes since the last time he'd checked? So, he'd been unconscious for about 10 minutes – that was too long; although cleaning the wound was important, it was even more essential that he stop the bleeding, and quickly. The effects of blood loss were similar to the feeling a person experienced when their blood sugar was low; confusion, dizziness, overwhelming weakness, and, accompanied by the pain – since the loss of blood was usually associated with an injury of some sort – shock was never long in setting in.
Steve shook his head in a weak attempt to clear his cloudy thoughts. Stop the bleeding. It was the most important rule in… heck, he couldn't remember where it was from. But it was important, he knew, and grimacing resolutely, he began unfastening his already half-saturated button-up shirt. It wasn't an ideal bandage, but it would do in a pinch; and besides, it was all he had. Despite the chilled tremors that were running through his body, he felt like he was on fire, and sweat was soaking his hair, and dripping down his face.
As he fumbled with the shirt, he caught sight of the black backpack he always carried out of the corner of his eye; it was lying only a few feet away… So close, Steve thought. There were bandages in there, but Steve reluctantly relinquished the idea of trying to reach it. There was no way he was going to be able to move – especially right now. He had to stop this darn gusher first. At last, he shakily slid the shirt off his shoulders, and wadding it up with his good hand, he bit his lip, and tentatively but firmly pressed the fabric against the wound in an attempt to stop the steady flow of blood.
A sharp cry echoed through the jungle, but Steve wasn't sure if the sound came from his mouth, or not. His vision flickered, and renewed agony shot through him at the pressure, but he gritted his teeth, and hung onto consciousness tenaciously with one last lingering tendril of determination, and vainly attempted to direct his thoughts to something else… anything else. His breath was coming in heaves, and he leaned his head back weakly against the tree, letting his eyes drift shut. He wasn't going anywhere, so he might as well save his strength; and at the moment, keeping his eyes open seemed to be an unnecessary waste of energy.
He hated this; not just the inconvenience; not the blasted feeling of weakness that dragged his limbs down, or even the pain that sapped the strength from his body – they were all familiar feelings, and he had grown accustomed to them over the years – or at least, had learned to put up with them, and live through them. He never truly got used to the agonizing pain of a gunshot wound, but he had learned to continue on in spite of it. It was what made him a SEAL.
It was what made him… him.
No, what bothered him the most was the feeling of helplessness. Steve hated being helpless, and he always did everything in his power to avoid those… unpleasant circumstances. Being able to help himself – and others – was what kept him going, no matter the situation, and he prided himself in his ability to overcome and think through potentially deadly encounters. He had the ability to protect the innocent – his family, his friends, his team-mates – and he had the responsibility to do so, even if it meant risking his own life in the process.
Right now, he couldn't help Danny. He couldn't even help himself.
He abstractly noticed blood was still trickling down his arm steadily, and without opening his eyes, Steve pressed down more firmly on the wound, inhaling sharply as another burst of pain distracted his carefully organized thinking; for a moment, his mind went blank as he struggled to fight off the blackness that was invading his mind, but finally, through ragged, shallow breaths, he was able to return to his previous line of thought.
Panting, Steve grunted in humorless amusement. At least, this time, Danny couldn't blame him for getting shot; for once, his actions hadn't brought about the current consequences – it was an unavoidable event that had created this difficulty – it wasn't Danny's fault, it wasn't his fault, it just was. And right now, the only thing Steve could do was sit still, trying to stop the bleeding, and forcing himself to ignore the pain, praying all the while that his partner was still alive. For goshs' sake, it was Danny; he had to be.
Ignoring the stabs of agony that ran down his arm, Steve winced, and slowly curled the fingers of his right hand into a weak fist, relieved when they responded – albeit a bit laboriously – to his command; at least he could still move them – that meant the bullet hadn't irreparably damaged anything... Hopefully. And he was almost certain he could protect himself if the shooter came back to finish the job. Maybe. At least he wasn't quite helpless.
There was that blasted word again. Helpless.
The only other times Steve could remember feeling so useless – so vulnerable – was when he dealt with the occasional hostage situations that arose in his team's line of work. That, and the time his father had been murdered by Victor Hesse. Steve hadn't been able to do a single thing as the long, powerful arm of Wo Fat sanctioned his father's cold-hearted murder, while he'd listened to the fatal gunshot over the phone, thousands of miles away.
Now, as he lay against the base of a huge tree in the middle of the jungle, wounded and in pain, there were no negotiations that would help him. There was no madman holding a gun to the head of a family member, or an innocent civilian, forcing his hand; the only leverage holding him in place was his own weakness – his pain. There was nothing he could do to fix it.
This time, the unpleasant – and possibly deadly – situation he was in was a direct result of his own inescapable, undeniable darn humanity.
Steve's pain clouded mind suddenly brought him back to the present, and he slowly opened his eyes, and exhaled shakily, weakly shrugging off the oppressive thoughts, and forcing himself to analyze the current situation; raising his head to look around was too exhausting at the moment, so he stared absently in front of him, his eyes resting blankly on the edge of the bank 50 feet above his head.
There was still no sign of Danny, and Steve was certain there was no way he was getting to his feet without some sort of help; and if he had been shot, what were the chances that his partner had escaped unscathed? Danny always complained – and not without reason – that whenever Steve got shot, Danny was thrown into the line of fire. It was evident that his half-angry accusation was only a ruse to cover up the concern that his amusingly exasperating partner felt, but Steve knew that – considering how many gunfights he'd been in – he was unusually lucky when it came to walking away from potentially deadly situations unharmed.
Adjusting his cramping grip on the blood-soaked shirt, Steve shifted his position slightly, and gritted his teeth so hard his jaw began to ache, but the slight discomfort helped distract him from the almost unbearable ache pervading his entire right side. C'mon. It's just a little pain. You've felt worse.
Instinct told him something had happened – if Danny was able to, he would have come by now; he was almost as stubborn as Steve himself, and had a rather annoying but persistent habit of always being underfoot. Although he would never admit it, Steve had to acknowledge that his Jersey partner had saved him from some pretty nasty situations,because of that secretly amusing tendency. He was always there when Steve – or any other member of the Five-0 team – needed him to be, with the dry humor and complaining willingness so customary to him.
Until now.
Black spots swam before his eyes, and absently, Steve noticed suddenly that the overwhelming pain was fading slightly; although he welcomed the blessed relief, it was not a good sign, and a pit of dread formed in his stomach. He could feel the numbness spreading through his entire body, accompanied by a chilling sensation, and he knew he was going into shock as his vision flickered, rippling and waving before fading to grey, and back again. The bleeding in his shoulder had slowed, but if he lost consciousness, he wouldn't be able to keep enough pressure on the wound; he would bleed out in the span of a few minutes…
"Steve!"
Through the haze of pain, a voice echoed in Steve's mind; a familiar voice, and with one last tremendous effort, he made a feeble effort to raise his head… trying to call out… telling himself to stay awake… stay alert… fight… but he couldn't make his weary body obey his commands, and exhaling weakly, he gave up, too exhausted to care. The shadowed form of his partner appeared at the top of the bank, but Steve couldn't focus; his vision was blurring, and merging in a confusing myriad of colors. He was tired… so tired… keeping his eyes open suddenly didn't seem all that important, and wearily, he allowed his eyelids to drift shut, dropping a muted veil over the black clouds, and whispering trees.
Seconds before he allowed the welcoming darkness to envelope him, one word rang through his mind. Just one word.
Danny.
TBC
A/N: Ooh, so now Danny has found him. Next chapter brings the boys back together. We've started on the 'hurt'... now comes the 'comfort'. Hope y'all are enjoying, and thank you for reading! (And again, please review. *puppy eyes* Pretty please? ;))
