Reason 15
Even on the darkest of nights they can find the tiniest of targets. No one's asking for directions.
Danny's eyes go wide.
He feels his pulse pick up in tandem with the beating of his heart. Pounding, more like.
Sweat breaks out on his upper lip and brow.
He swallows hard, nearly choking on the breath.
That's it. He knows it's finally happened, as his partner…with big eyes narrowed until nearly all you can see is lashes…with entire body tensed and coiled and ready to either pounce, spring, run or possibly kill (and isn't that the option that's got Danny wishing he kept an extra pair of boxers at McGarrett's?)…with mouth set in a line...with fingers twitching like he wishes he hadn't put his gun away. It's finally happened after all this time.
Steve McGarrett has snapped.
Flipped his lid.
Gone 'round the bend.
Flown over the cuckoo's nest.
Or whatever.
He's gone stark, raving mad. Insane. Crazy. Looney.
Fuck.
Danny makes as if to bolt but a quick chop-like movement from Steve holds him in place as though tied…rooted…glued…to the spot. Jesus Christ, Danny thinks, I'm just going to let him kill me.
He stops breathing. Steve is mere inches away. The lights aren't on, so most of the crazy triggering the fight-or-flight response is in Danny's head, but still. When the move comes, when Steve's right hand and arm dart out and back, it's so quick that Danny isn't sure it happened at all.
But at least he starts breathing again.
"What the ever-loving-?" he sputters, hand over his heart, sure this is the heart attack he's been threatening Steve with all these years.
Steve no longer looks at all threatening. In fact, he looks relaxed like maybe he's just come from a swim (which he hasn't), or from taking a desperately-needed leak (which he didn't) or like he's just found out Danny didn't die in some hail of bullets he caused (which, to wit, Danny hasn't. Yet.).
"Black widow," Steve says as if this will explain the entire I'm-the-predator-and-you're-my-next-meal routine that just shaved twenty years from Danny's life.
Then Steve moves again, plopping down on the couch next to Danny, and holds out his right hand palm-up. Danny chances a look down as he wipes the sweat from his upper lip, then rubs his hand over his mouth until he winds up scratching a bit at the stubble on his chin. He can see clear as day the black long-legged spider in the palm of Steve's hand, with the garish red hourglass on its belly.
The thing is dead.
"It was on your shoulder," Steve says, and very proudly, if Danny does say so himself.
"You came at me like I was a bomb that needed diffusing!" Danny protests, but at least his voice isn't shaking, and that's noteworthy under the circumstances.
Steve shrugs. "Technically, if it had bitten your neck, it might've become a bomb. To your system, at least. I didn't want you moving or freaking out if I said, 'Hey, Danno, you've got a Black Widow on your shoulder.'"
Now, this, Danny can appreciate, because truth be told, he probably would've freaked out…just a little, mind you…if he'd heard those words out of his partner's mouth.
"And how did you not get bitten?" he asks, thoroughly annoyed that it seems like Steve can do anything and Christ, now he owes him again.
"I've killed tarantulas in the wild with less fuss," Steve says with another shrug. And really, all things considered, Danny's glad he didn't get bit.
But maybe, in the near future, he'll have to work out some sort of code with McGarrett for I'm-not-going-to-tell-you-precisely-what-it-is-that's-about-to-kill-you-or-you'll-do-something-we'll-both-regret-but-don't-worry-'cause-I-got-ya.
When Steve flings the now-dead spider into the trash bin in the kitchen, Danny makes him tie up the bag and haul it outside with all due haste.
And he really doesn't want to know how Steve kills tarantulas with his bare hands, thankyouverymuch.
Reason 16
Shooting blanks is for weekend warriors, and training keeps their weapons from accidentally going off early. It does NOT "happen to all guys."
"Let me get this straight," Danny says with a wave of his hands. "You're telling me that you used live rounds in Versus-type maneuvers in the middle of a jungle and no one got killed?"
"That's right," Steve replies, and no, he can't keep the smug out of his voice because yes, he really is that awesome. "We're all trained to do that."
Danny frowns. Man, back in Jersey you didn't have live rounds until you were ready to walk out the door in the morning with your weapon.
"Shooting blanks is for weekend warriors, Danny," Steve deadpans.
Danny has to laugh.
"Besides, that's what we're trained for. We have to be able to mimic real conflict so we're prepared to react to it." Steve looks at Danny for a moment or two. "See, the difference is, I was taught combat under deadly conditions. You weren't. None of HPD was. In fact, I'm not sure any police department trains the way SEALs are trained."
"Jesus, I hope not," Danny says softly with a shake of his head. "That'd be a million more McGarretts than this world is ready for."
Steve's laugh is rich and hearty. "Well, don't worry about it, Danno," Steve says, patting his partner right between his shoulder blades. "Even I get shot. Not ever by my own weapon, mind you."
Danny glares at the back of Steve's head. "I fucking told you why I haven't cleaned my weapon in over eighty hours and it's because it's your fault! You, with your, let's hop from island to fucking hot island, Danny, come on, we'll get 'em for like, what, four days straight?"
Steve's gone long enough that Danny goes from angry to downright shitfaced thanks to the really…really…really high doses of painkillers that're nearly as good as the morphine he had while hospitalized. Then Steve comes back.
"Cut me some slack, will you?" Danny asks. Okay, pleads. "It happens to all the guys."
"No," Steve shakes his head and plants himself firmly in Danny's line of sight. "It does not happen to 'all the guys.'"
This time when Steve sits down on the couch he pulls Danny's weapon from its holster, and Danny knows better than to complain. He watches as Steve moves to sit cross-legged on the floor at the coffee table, pull out gun oil and cleaning rags and probably ten other things for guns that Danny's never even heard of no matter that he's held a gun for many years on his own, thankyouverymuch.
Danny leans back and shifts his casted right foot on the coffee table a bit. "Thanks for not telling the EMTs what really happened, huh?"
As Steve begins disassembling Danny's weapon, he looks up briefly and smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. Danny watches carefully, because Steve's got his brow scrunched up like he's just seen the Ghost of Christmas Past right in front of his nose.
"I knew it," Steve finally whispers triumphantly, holding something up in his hand.
It takes Danny a sec to focus because really, painkillers, man. "The magazine?" he finally asks as the object solidifies into focus for three seconds before Danny's eyes cross.
"Yep. The mechanism's shot." Steve looks up at his partner. "No pun intended."
"Ha," is about the best Danny can manage.
"You fired it too much, Danno."
Okay, that deserves an effort. Danny pulls himself together as much as humanly possible and says haltingly, "You. Bullets. Bad Guys. Reckless. Fault."
He falls back onto the couch, quite prepared now to fully pass out, and thinks to himself, That got the point across. Everything's Steve's fault including, now, the fact that Danny's in a foot cast and boot for the next six weeks.
Bastard.
