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"Are you sure that you're up to this?" Steve asked. "You don't have to talk to anyone. Especially Agent LaRouche." By some ridiculous means, INTERPOL had seen fit to finally appear to bolster their small contingent. That same almost obligatory contingent which had shown up well after Five-0 and HPD had entered the penthouse so many days earlier. But due to what had become a very tenuous relationship, Danny didn't really know that Steve had prohibited LaRouche from asking him anything until he'd been declared physically stable by the doctor. In fact, any INTERPOL agent had been banned from going anywhere near him until official entreaties had escalated up to the Governor to demand an audience as soon as possible.
"They want McCann extradited if he ever gets well enough to travel and it's another reason why they're coming to the hospital today," Steve added quietly. "Kono just called again. They can have him."
Reclined just so, Danny was staring straight ahead across the room, lost somewhere in his head, but his eyes shifted to Steve's face at that news. What Steve hadn't added was that INTERPOL could have McCann if he lived - and he certainly hoped that he wouldn't. McCann's condition was still listed as critical. In fact, the mercenary had weakened significantly in direct contrast to the ground which Danny had gained.
"It's fine," Danny whispered. He held no value for them. He was sure of that. With Walker dead, McCann on death's door and Leon evidently gone, Danny was positive that he'd nothing to offer of any value whatsoever. He only knew Doctor Isabelle Mercier's name and nothing else.
Steve hid his frown when Danny's gaze fell back across the room and he retreated once more to that vague distant place. He watched as Danny blindly adjusted his splinted arm in his lap, his friend overly quiet about how he was truly feeling. Further investigation by his medical team had confirmed a likely scaphoid fracture, necessitating the continued immobilisation of his forearm from thumb to elbow. The doctor had surmised it happened as a result of the force used to hit Walker with the pipe – the kind of injury seen in BMX riders landing heavily on the handlebars. Danny had been fitted with a thermoplastic splint, under which he wore a thin cotton stockinette. A stockinette which was frayed and pulled at every edge from the worried fiddle borne of idle hands. It was obvious that Danny didn't know quite where to settle his feelings. He hadn't even complained much about the line in his neck or how much pain he was still in. But he was sore and sick, both inside and out from a variety of soft tissue damage and bone-deep contusions. From his body-surf down the hotel staircase, the deep bruising over his ribs and sternum only made his woes all the more stressful. Each painful breath a reminder of the void of events he had tried to escape.
"You sure?" Steve pressed again, unable to help himself since he completely disagreed with the intelligence of allowing the visit. When it came to having anything of value to offer, he and Danny were of the same mind. But where Danny was still willing to allow the short visit, Steve was wholeheartedly against the idea.
"Yes, Steven," Danny blandly answered, the tiniest twitch of something that nearly resembled a smile finally lifted one side of his lips as his eyes slid briefly back to meet Steve's. "I'm sure."
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"Detective Williams. Can you tell us why this was in your pocket and maybe where you found it?" Agent LaRouche was holding something in her fingers. Gold, rectangular and studded with iridescent gems. For some as yet to be confirmed reason, the INTERPOL agent had finally deigned to descend upon Oahu. INTERPOL were far from being warmly welcomed though; in fact, their audience with Five-0 was distinctly limited regardless of their escalation to the Governor.
"Do you remember finding this?"
Danny stared at the pretty, ornate object - so different now in broad daylight. "If you don't remember, it's all right," Steve softly hummed under his breath. Still in hospital garb himself, Steve fidgeted next to Danny where they stood side by side in the hospital room. He folded his arms defensively as if the rather benign question might still be problematic or cause undue stress due to his friend's faulty memory.
"Maybe," Danny whispered, his eyes continually disconcerting to look at for their reddish hue. Once he'd learned INTERPOL was indeed coming to question him, he wanted out of his bed. He wanted to be standing and in control; not bedridden. That decision placed Steve at his side, with both cousins flanking LaRouche and her team.
The barrette was pretty, with its two pearls and glitter of bright crystals. Actually, beautiful outside the confines of the dry-docked freighter … and the room. Much different than even at the old sugar refinery. Exceedingly different when one wasn't so befuddled by fever and fear. Regardless of how it really looked with a sensible mind though, Steve was completely correct. Seeing the pretty item was extremely problematic.
"Detective Williams? Are you all right?"
Danny coughed as his throat tightened, a slow blink of his eyes causing the Swarovski crystals to blur and shimmer together. He knew exactly what it was and upon sight, he also knew precisely where he'd found it. He knew and it was indeed a problem. Contrary to Steve's initial opinion though, not remembering wasn't going to cause him stress; it was the exact opposite that sent his head spinning out of control. Danny opened his mouth to speak but his world suddenly canted on its axis. Then his vision and hearing both fled him and he was falling.
He went down hard on both knees, landing at Steve's feet, remembering only the sharp outline of the barrette in his palm. That and the room on the freighter. Dylan. He'd used the sharp edges of the barrette to stay aware and to keep a hold on his sanity. The room had been dingy, dimly lit by a small camping lantern, and much too small.
Small. Airless.
Under the influence of drugs or not and severe duress not withstanding, he'd panicked instantly upon the door being slammed home. Minutes could have been days and it wouldn't have mattered. When Dylan had finally come back for him, Danny had been in a stupor and he couldn't recall much ... except for the barrette which he'd discovered under the corner of the filthy old mattress. The odd find had been his sole focus - his impetus to escape Walker - and now Agent LaRouche was holding it in her hand.
"He's going to be fine," Steve's voice was somewhere over his head, but still much too far away. "No, I don't know what happened ... give him a few more minutes. That damned thing obviously reminded him of something. Get the doctor in here!"
After that, he never heard Steve or felt his presence. It took Danny time to come back to himself and to feel where he was again. Nonetheless, once sound resumed, he couldn't open his eyes and he certainly wasn't able to speak. Feeling thick-headed and disjointed, he simply lay where he'd fallen, barely conscious of more than Steve's waxing and waning voice or of the way his friend was persistently tapping his cheeks. Anger and concern stressed his friend's tone as he simultaneously spouted orders at whoever was nearby, and then begged Danny to open his eyes.
"Shit. Danny? Give him space ... where's the damn medical staff!" Steve's voice tunnelled away and then got louder, along with a number of others who'd entered the secluded hospital room. Chin. Kono. A few new voices full of concern and wanting to help. Fingers pressed firmly into his carotid artery as an arm cradled his shoulders and protected his splinted forearm. "Come on ... come on, Danny. Can you hear me? Danny?"
Eyes wedged shut against the continuing flux of vertigo, Danny finally nodded to the pestering which eventually replaced the bee hive buzzing inside his head. Without needing to look, he realized that they were on the floor, the left side of his temple having narrowly missed the corner of his own hospital bed. Steve was kneeling behind him, talking incessantly and making demands. His arms were wrapped around Danny's upper body. Holding him up, allowing him to recline just enough, and buffering a further nosedive into the floor.
"Say something then ... what the hell just happened?" Steve asked anxiously. Danny blinked and then gave up at trying to clear his vision. When that failed, he allowed his eyes to droop to a tired blurry squint. He forgot Steve's question and then to talk as a musty memory solidified.
"Fatima," Danny muttered, the ancient rust-coated name flashed over his mind's eye. The old behemoth had been overwhelming to his drug-addled mind, but he'd remembered the name. "Fatima." But it was all he could see and then all he could say.
As his vision began to clear, Danny stared up into the eyes of a concerned Agent LaRouche. Whether that concern was for him or the ongoing sanctity of her 'mission' Danny couldn't be sure, but she was disorientingly close; crouched down and balanced gracefully on her heels regardless of her black pencil skirt. She was saying something too, her voice soothing and worried, but Danny missed her query entirely. Her accent was strong and the buzzing was slowly returning to affect his hearing while flickering light threatened the edges of his vision.
"Fatima? You have five seconds to say something that makes sense, Danno," Steve spouted over his head. "Five and then LaRouche is out of here …. this interrogation is over!"
"It's an old freighter, Commander," LaRouche softly provided.
"How the hell do you know that?" Steve demanded. "Why are you here interrogating Detective Williams when you still apparently know more than you're ever going to be willing to admit to - or even share?"
One barrette hardly constituted an interrogation, nonetheless Danny remained silent. He settled instead for focusing on Steve so he could manage a short explanation. He'd forgotten about Dylan and the stifling confines of that room. He'd completely buried the remnants of that horrible experience within the mix of all the other drug-induced half-realities.
"He," Danny whispered. He saw Dylan in his head and then the distant black sea. The room and it's dingy mattress. His body shuddered from a remembered sensation of being moved inside a darkened SUV. There had been old docks and then a pitted skeleton of a ship.
"He...ah ... boat. Fri ... Frid...day. Fatima." He forced his mouth to form any words at all which he pushed out on a raspy exhale knowing none would mean a single thing. His voice shook badly as he clawed at Steve's arm at the memory which solidified a bit more strongly. The cramped storage room. The smell of a tiny airless room with an old stained mattress. The scent of Spenser McCann which remained stuck inside his nose.
"Steve?" Danny murmured, his voice thin and wispy from stress and pain. He shuddered uncontrollably at the memory of being held in Spense's arms, petted and so deeply kissed he was rendered breathless by the possessive older man. "I can't …. I can't .…"
"Danny," Steve pleaded with him now as he saw the fear break forth from where it had lingered just below the surface. The stupid barrette had become a trigger of mammoth proportions and he was beside himself as his partner turned ashen and began to hyperventilate in earnest. By his side, Kono was frantically taking mental notes and beginning to put the stray nonsensical words together.
"Get them out of here. Get the doctor in here," Steve demanded of Chin, his voice dropping to avoid any further undue stress. He glanced Kono's way though, torn by indecision as her fingers flew over her tablet because she was nodding to herself. She mouthed the word Fatima, then frowned, her head cocked queerly to the side in thought.
"LaRouche is right; it is an old dry-docked tanker," she whispered discreetly to Steve. "Virtually forgotten."
Steve gave a curt nod, inwardly wincing as Danny moaned in fear. "Try to stay calm ... just please ... try. You're okay," Steve softly promised. "Doctor's coming ... you're safe, Danny."
"Steve?" Danny blinked again, Dylan's voice now in his head with threats and promises. He cringed, his bare heels sliding across the tile as he tried to burrow backwards into his friend's body. Vacillating between McCann and Walker, he couldn't fight the watery moan at the feeling of being trapped ... the suffocating feel of the small room.
In some fashion, it all had happened. The proof of the tiny airless room was presently cradled on the slim palm of Agent LaRouche's hand and he remembered.
"Try this," a new voice suggested nearby. "Small sips?" It was a young woman's voice which was helpful and calm but he dry-heaved when a cup of water was pressed into his hand. His fingers spasmed to reject the offering and he lurched away in Steve's arms, the water spilling over his legs and the floor.
"No!" Steve barked as he tucked Danny into his chest. "Just ... no. It's not what he needs! Anyone that doesn't need to be here, needs to get out. Chin, get them out of here. Now!" Danny's automatically fearful reaction was only tempered by the anger in Steve's voice as he evicted the onlookers on his friend's behalf. Hanging on to his terrified charge, he could feel the gallop of his friend's heart through his arm as his own chest heaved from a rush of adrenalin.
"What's going on in here?" A new voice joined Steve's and Danny cringed even deeper into his friend, covering his ears with his arms as he cowered in place. Strident and purposeful, the new arrival added import to Chin's demands almost immediately.
"Get out - get these people out of here and away from my patients!"
Things around him were escalating as he heard the doctor and his team finally arrive to disperse the unwanted group of INTERPOL authorities and ancillary staff. Steve's voice remained included in the mix; forever insistent and extremely angry. Danny could hardly blame the man by that point because he simply couldn't get his act together enough to be convincing. Hell, he couldn't even convince himself anymore.
"I just ... okay," Danny coughed half-heartedly as he bit back another reflexive gag. Steve chuffed a disgusted sound, resolute about banning INTERPOL entirely from the hospital. Danny understood as he sagged backwards utterly drained of energy, his face apologetic when he blearily eyed the worry in LaRouche's expression as she was ushered from his view. He'd just caused an inordinate amount of trouble for everyone, but his last glimpse of the worried agent's face was telling.
LaRouche knew the unique barrette for what it was. It meant something to INTERPOL's case as it applied to Doctor Mercier. She was aching for validation and Danny managed a small agreeable nod, entirely astonished with himself for not understanding or questioning why such a pretty thing might have been tossed so rudely aside inside of a dry-docked, defunct ship.
"I'm sorry, Detective," LaRouche softly trilled from just overhead, her eyes swirling worriedly to catch Steve's perturbed gaze as she sought confirmation. She'd moved to the doorway and insisted on lingering for a moment longer. "But ... he knows? Yes? He remembers where he got this? It was on definitely the Fatima? And Friday too - what does that mean?"
Fatima. It made sense now. And that remembered black abyss made Danny choke again. There was a vague odor which that name conjured in his mind. A dank horrid smell of wet metal, briny seawater and rot he also associated to a desperate, terrified feeling of being lost forever. Tucked away and forgotten. The barrette was beautiful in the light and would have been completely out of place where he'd found it and he never once questioned the find. Yet, what validated the female doctor's existence for LaRouche, now served to prove a poorly remembered fragment of what he thought could have been imagination.
As he lay limply up against Steve's chest fighting to keep his eyes open and not fall into an embarrassing paroxysm of hyperventilating, Danny nodded again. McCann had bragged about the ship and a woman; as had Walker. These were fragmented, odd snippets rattling around in his head. However, together, they did mean something. He paused in an attempt to catch his breath as the doctor fussed over his vitals, unable to stop shaking despite Steve's buoying strength.
He managed to look up when new fingers closed over his wrist, somewhat surprised when Kono's face swam into view. She was hunkered down, balanced now between himself and his doctor who was forcing an oxygen mask over his face.
"Fatima is an old ship, Danny?" Kono quietly suggested. "The exchange is going to be on Friday sometime - is that right? Is that what you heard?"
'Yeah. Summit." Through clenched teeth, Danny forcibly pushed out what LaRouche needed to hear. Stammering terribly for the thick pain in his throat, his teeth clacking as if he were freezing, each word was a struggle. "Old ... ship. I know ... I know ...where she is. Walker said … exchange that night."
"It's okay," Kono encouraged him to relax. "We got this ... it's enough. It's enough, Danny. Please don't try to talk anymore."
She urged him to relax where he was cocooned safely with Steve and the medical staff as she rose smoothly to her feet. Upon leaving his side though, she was angry and Chin's face was a mask of outrage as he joined her to buoy her intentions.
"You're done here," Kono said sternly. "If it's still on, the Friday would be tonight. So if losing Walker and McCann didn't completely send this summit sideways, then Doctor Mercier's exchange will happen sometime tonight on the Fatima. This is your problem though, Agent LaRouche. Not ours. Not anymore."
With a severe look, she and Chin ended the joint conversation. As one, both physically backed LaRouche and her team out of the hospital room.
~ to be continued ~
