Thank you for all reviews, I welcome them gratefully. I also welcome criticism, and appreciate all comments. I'm working hard on getting this right. I'm rewriting the end, and how it goes depends on how well my evening tonight and my day tomorrow plays out.
Fingers crossed, Danny can pull through this.
Chapter 5
Danny
Not here, not yet.
Danny couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger. He hung his head, resigned, brought the gun down to rest in his lap; the familiarity of it somewhat a comfort. He flipped it over and over, studying it, remembering the day he'd been handed the piece. Rick Peterson had been a good friend, partner, and when he'd given the gun to Danny as a gift on their first Christmas shift together, it had cemented their friendship. Danny thought he could trust Rick with his life, quite often left him babysitting mini-Grace so he and Rachel could have a rare date night together, and when he'd been shot in the shoulder by a lowlife car criminal, Rick had been the one to put pressure on the wound and call for backup. But when Danny had noticed evidence going missing – drugs, money, the occasional gun – he couldn't chose to ignore it, started to do his own private investigation. It wasn't until the case had gone to court and Peterson was convicted, that Danny had truly started to believe that the man he'd let into his home, his life, was nothing more than a dirty cop. Foolishly, Danny had hoped that had been the end of it, but no, Peterson had other ideas, and took revenge to a whole new level when he kidnapped Grace and forced Danny's hand into shooting Step-Stan.
Danny snorted, still unable to get his head around what could have happened to Grace if he hadn't gotten to her in time.
You're own fault, Williams. Should'a left well alone. The voice derided, and deep down, Danny couldn't help but blame himself, again, for putting Grace in the hands of a psychopath. Not the only time, either.
Danny sighed as he took out the remaining bottle of Jack Daniels and his pill pot from the bag. Half of his prescription had gone, and he tried to recall taking that many, but can't. He can't remember anything but the look on Grace's face when he'd cancelled their trip to the zoo and month ago, the look on McGarrett's face when he'd forgotten their BBQ plans last weekend, the look on his ex-partner Grace's face before she got shot, once, twice, into the chest, because he'd been too stubborn to talk. He doubled over as an invisible punch landed in his gut, sorrow and despair flooding him.
Always the let down.
He let out a dry sob, and continued to weep until he heard the distant shrill of laughter. He looked up, scanned the small excuse for a beach, and set eyes upon a small family of four; a baby, child and two adults, one of which was heading for the waves with a surf board under his arm.
Go away. Leave me be. Danny mentally shouted, almost considered staying put, but the small boy had spotted him and was pointing in his direction. He groaned. Even without McGarrett knowing where he was, he still wasn't going to get the alone time he so desperately wanted.
"Time to move." He told himself, using a rock to help pull himself up. He doesn't move, the ground beneath him seemed to be shaking, a fireball of nausea swirled in his stomach, and he felt tired and weak. He took two deep, slow breaths, fighting the urge to vomit and spill the liquid contents.
Gotta move. The voice commanded. Danny nodded, pushed his stiff joints to work, one foot in front of the other, willing his knees not to buckle and legs collapse under him.
The rocks began to taper to a tiny ledge; one even Danny didn't fancy scooting around, forcing him to get back onto the road. The even surface was easier to stagger along, but he was getting tired, his heart was hammering relentlessly, and he was pretty sure he was going to vomit.
Cars raced past, many drivers blared horns, others shouted profanities out of the window at him, and all Danny wanted was for one, just one, to be going fast enough to hit him and just end the turmoil he was battling inside. He continued to move forward, occasionally falling to his hands and knees, but still he nudged forward, no destination in mind, clutching his precious bottle. After what seemed an eternity, he stopped outside a motel, the 'VACANCY' sign illuminated, the car lot half full.
Peace and quiet. The voice urged, tempting him.
"No people." Danny nodded, headed for the front desk.
The office space was small, only large enough for a counter with a computer and a large plant pot in the corner. Had Danny really been taking notice, he'd have appreciated the simple architecture, moaned at the annoying 'elevator' music playing softly, and cringed at the gothic, middle aged woman behind the desk.
Danny's vision began to fade, almost as if the colour was being drained from the world, and the edges fuzzed. He needed sleep.
The woman, dressed in a black dress with silvery spider webs embroidered over the bodice, didn't look up as Danny tumbled through the wooden front door, engrossed in the phone call she was having on her private cell. He trudged up to the front desk, used it to prop himself up, exhaustion settling bone deep. The receptionist, Anastasia Danny read from her name tag, raised one pierced eyebrow at him, scrunched her nose in distaste.
"Hold on." She drawled into the handset before addressing Danny. "Can I help you?"
"'M'a need'a room." Danny slurred, slapping his wallet down in front of her.
"Dude, you need a hospital room." She scoffed, peering around him at the bloody footprints he'd left on her shiny, clean floor.
"Jus' wan' sleep." He shook his head, and wished he hadn't. "Please?"
"Let me see what we've got." She turned to her computer, cell phone pressed between cheek and shoulder as she typed. "I have one double, $149 per night."
"I'll take it." Danny nodded, took a chunk of the bills from his wallet and tossed them towards her, not knowing or caring how much it was, only that it was plenty.
"Are you sure you don't need me to call you an ambulance?" She prodded, pointed to Danny's red footprints.
"Jus' a room." He insisted, felt a little relieved when Anastasia retrieved a key from the glass cabinet behind her.
"And you're sure there's no one I can call for you?" She double checked, the key weighing heavily in her hand.
"No." Danny shook his head again, felt his brain rattle and winced. "I jus' wanna sleep." Anastasia seemed to be wavering, but Danny tried his best smile, and she finally gave in, handed the key over.
"Room 11." She directed. "There'll be some toiletries in the bathroom; you might want to take a shower."
He shuffled down the paved path, more often than not colliding with the walls and other red doors, reopening the gash on his arm and leaving red, bloody smudges. Room 11 was the fifth red door – an oddity Danny should have noticed, but didn't – the brass '11' plaque slightly off centre. Getting the key in the lock proved to be a mission in itself. Danny's vision was blurring, and no matter how often he blinked, he couldn't clear the haze. Eventually, out of sheer luck and tiring determination, the key had slid into it's slot, turned with ease, and the door opened with a loud creak. Danny stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him, leaned back against it and closed his eyes.
In the room, there were two queen sized beds next to each other, a chest of drawers supporting a portable television opposite them, a small table with two chairs under the window, and at the far end, a door that no doubt lead to the bathroom.
So tired. Using the little strength he had left, he pushed from the door, took one, two, three steps and collapsed on the nearest bed.
"Feel sick." He said to no one. "Head hurts." He propped himself up on one elbow, took the pill container from his pocket and tipped out two, and then, desperate to stop the pain, two more. Using the small bottle of JD, he swallowed the four pills and then rolled so he was on his back, staring at the ceiling. "Sick." He groaned, wrapping his arms around his painful, distended abdomen, before heaving. Moving quicker than he cared to, he rolled, hanging his head over the side of the bed, grabbed the waste paper basket kept next to the bedside cabinet, and vomited three times, leaving his stomach burning, his ribs protesting and his head throbbing. Completely spent, he flopped back onto his back, sweating profusely, and let sleep take over him.
When he finally awoke, the sun had set and the room was in darkness. He slowly pushed himself into a sitting position, tried to fight the nausea threatening to over power him again, and succeeded with some deep breathing. His head throbbed, and his eyes hurt, and when he tried to stand, he ended up dry heaving into the waste paper basket, the smell of the previous bout of puking only making matters worse. He tried to remember where he was, couldn't and didn't recognise the room, yet he couldn't bring himself to care. After more deep breathing, he stood from the bed, waited for the room to stop spinning before him, and then headed for the bathroom, zigzagging across the room, toes dragging over cheap carpet.
He bent over the sink, more deep breath's to ward of the urge to turn himself inside out, and turned on the hot tap. Whilst waiting for it warm, because Danny suspected there wasn't a chance of it getting hot, he hazard a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
His eyes were red, bloodshot, and barely open, his blonde hair was a mess, falling around his face rather than slicked back, his shirt was torn and crusty from the dried blood, and his skin was white and clammy, his lips slightly blue. Yet, instead of caring about how un-Danny he looked, he could only see a deadbeat, selfish loser that had put his daughter in the way of too many sociopaths with guns and bad attitudes, had lost the woman he had loved with every cell in his 5"5 body, and who's life had become one literal car crash after another. Desperate to un-see what he was seeing, Danny pulled back his right arm, clenched his fist, stared the man before him straight in the eye, and landed his fist smack in the centre of the mirror. Glass fractured, splintered, and unsatisfied, Danny tried again, one, two, three more times, until glass fell from the frame, littering the linoleum floor around him. Turning, too fast, Danny lost his balance, fell to the floor hitting his forehead on the toilet seat as he went, his face landing in shards of glass.
"Useless." He slurred, his head feeling like it was going to explode. Slowly, after the grey spots disperse from his vision, he pushes himself up, sat next to the toilet and rested his head back against the wall. "Jus' want it to end." He whimpered. He should have acknowledged the large shard of glass protruding from his wrist, settled amongst veins, but either he didn't feel it, or he didn't care.
Danny didn't measure the amount of time he spent on the cold, hard floor, but when he finally emerged from the small bathroom, the sun had begun to rise and he didn't feel so drunk any more. His wrist was bleeding sluggishly, a slow stream trailing down his palm and dripped from his smallest finger, and he wished it would bleed faster.
You'll never be good enough, Daniel. The voice reminded him.
"I know." Danny agreed, moving listlessly to sit on the end of the bed closest to the bathroom, not having the energy or inclination to move to the other one.
You're pathetic.
"I know." He sighed, as he draws his gun, checks the brass in the chamber. His insides burned, he was pretty sure he had a migraine, and his chest felt like it was trying to cave in on him. He wept as he reached for the bag on the other bed, containing the pills and whiskey, and once he was back upright, he unscrewed the bottle cap with his teeth, spat the lid onto the floor and took four mouthfuls, so desperate to numb the persistent ache that had become Danny William's life. He put the bottle between his knees, picked up the orange pill pot and twirled it in his fingers, gun still secure in his other. Maybe, if the gun didn't work, maybe the pills...
"Yeah, maybe." He nodded, eyeing the remaining tablets.
Rachel left you.
"I know."
Matty left you.
"I know."
Even Grace is going to leave you.
"I know." Danny nodded, swigging from his bottle again.
You are a failure.
"I am a failure." Danny accepted, slipped the safety off and placed the barrel into his mouth, the metallic, oily taste skimming across his tongue. The room blurred, started to spin, his eyes filled with salty water.
"I love you, Grace." He thought, a silent prayer, as a single tear fell from his eye.
And then BANG, he fell back on to the bed.