If you're here, thank you for sticking with this story! And bonus thanks to KQ for medical whizzkiddery. Tried to keep it real, hope it passes...
And excuse the terrible language, please!
CHAPTER 7- SCARS
Steve lay flat out on his bed looking up at the ceiling of the hospital room. He felt weak and sick and the sweat ran down his face unabated. He had no one to blame, he had done this to himself, let himself go down a route he had never dreamed he would ever take. But he had finally sought help- sure, his hand had been pushed because he had to be able to function for Danny and he had reached a point where he simply couldn't go on without medical intervention- but he had done it nonetheless. He had opened up to that doctor and told him he was an alcoholic.
He didn't feel relieved. He felt… dirty.
He turned his head, glanced at Danny. His partner had slept through the mini-drama of Steve's collapse, thank goodness. He was still sleeping, hours later. In fact, it had to be the longest he had slept without chemical assistance since Steve had laid eyes on him in Colombia. He looked peaceful for all no one was counting for him.
Steve dug his hand in his pocket, felt the already part-used blister packs of pills- diazepam and thiamine- plus the box of ondansetron wafers they'd given him to combat that ever-present nausea. He'd turned down an IV in no uncertain terms- it would have made things way easier on him in the short term, but he had to try keep up the façade of being okay for Danny.
Tucked into his wallet was a card bearing details of the appointment for his first counselling session plus a contact number for Alcoholics Anonymous. He was going to use every single weapon he'd been given to fight this. He was going to face up to the humiliation and the stigma and draw a line under the past two years once and for all. It was time to start to move on. For Danny. For himself.
The drugs had helped to an extent already. He no longer felt like he was going to die at least. The doctor had just given him the packs- he wasn't an in-patient after all. Just. He was told not to skimp on the diazepam if he wanted to stay functional, and the medical staff needed him functional. It was a delicate balancing act. Thanks to the medication, his head was buzzing and he felt a little like he was floating, but at least he was… still there, still by Danny's side.
But he also needed to rest as much as he could, ride out the symptoms with the help of the drugs. The doctor had said he would feel like this for days at best. Maybe weeks or more. That his body chemistry might not be right for months, he might feel down, depressed.
Fuck. What a mess.
His cell vibrated in his pocket beside his hand. He pulled it out, flicked it on. It was a text from Joe. This was what he had been waiting for. He opened it, hands shaking.
2+3 tangos terminated. Limited new facts acquired. Of interest? 15 cuts self-inflicted.
Steve blinked, staring at the message. He read it again.
The first part was easy; Joe, or someone, had killed the two men Danny had picked out, plus three more they must have established as having been involved. Most likely one had talked and given the others away, presumably given additional intel in the process. Joe was good at getting people to talk. Joe and his team had worked fast and, Steve was damn sure, would have worked cleanly. That was all good. That was fantastic, in fact. That was the information Steve had been praying the message would contain when it arrived. The bastards were done.
But the last bit of the text….
15 cuts self-inflicted.
The scars on Danny's thumb? Danny had cut himself? Joe had to be confident that fact was accurate or he wouldn't have bothered Steve with it.
Self-inflicted. What the fuck?
Why? Had he simply been self-harming as way of coping with the physical and psychological pain he was being subjected to? It was perfectly possible.
Steve suddenly remembered his first impressions of Danny's obsessive counting. He had thought to begin with that the number had to mean something to Danny, but no connection had come up with any of Five-0's lines of enquiry as yet. But if the cuts were self-inflicted… could Danny have felt his mind slipping and cut himself as a last ditch effort to hold on to some vital fact?
Steve reached into his pocket, pulled out the diazepam, head spinning.
Self-inflicted.
Fuck!
…..
Twelve hours later and Steve couldn't get the scar thing out of his head. His mind was flipping between dwelling self-indulgently on his own physical misery, concentrating on Danny as best as he could through his drug-induced haze, and obsessing over those fifteen little silvery lines. He needed to know if Danny had really cut himself. Why Danny had cut himself. He just wasn't sure how to ask.
He had already found the words to tell Danny his persecutors were now dead. Danny's reaction had been under-stated to say the least. He had nodded once in silent acknowledgement and then proceeded to stare at the wall for long minutes. Steve had watched over him quietly, braced to try to deal with any fallout. None came. He was pretty sure Danny had understood, that he was simply processing and filing the information away, unsure what to do with it right then. That was okay, that was understandable. Steve hoped the knowledge was helping on some level. And, really, it seemed to Steve that that should have been the delicate part of the conversation. Asking about the scars should have been the easy bit, comparatively speaking. It wasn't and Steve didn't even know why.
They were sitting on the armchairs again. Steve was popping the diazepam at a steady rate as per the doctor's unexpected instructions, making sure Danny didn't see. His mind felt strangely numb and his surroundings distant… but he felt in control in a way he hadn't for months without ever before having realized anything was amiss. He was doing his best to conceal his on-going sickness from his partner, who periodically shot him a look which Steve couldn't help but classify as 'penetrating.' Steve was still sweating like a bastard. It was hard to hide that. He swiped at his brow with the back of his hand, then cleared his throat. "Your turn, buddy." He glanced up when Danny didn't respond.
Danny was staring at him. His lips worked for a few moments, then he pushed out a quiet word. "Sick?"
Steve stared back, uncertain what to say. He didn't want Danny to worry but he didn't want to lie. He huffed out a resigned breath. "Yeah, Danno. But the doctor gave me pills while you were sleeping. I'll be fine. I just have to take it easy. But that's okay, we can take it easy together, right?"
Danny looked unconvinced.
Steve smiled at him. "And you'll look out for me, right partner?"
Danny nodded, dead serious, because he didn't know what he could possibly do to help Steve, but he knew he would try.
"Thanks, buddy," Steve said. A lump rose in his throat and he pointed down at the table set between them, deflecting hurriedly. "Come on, your move. I'm waiting," he choked out, then covered for his wavering voice with a strategic cough.
They were playing dominoes. It seemed strangely appropriate given Danny's penchant for numbers.
Danny switched his attention back to the table and, with considerable difficulty, laid down the tile that had been clutched in his hand. The tiles were extra-large, probably intended for toddlers, but his fine motor skills were a work-in-progress at an early stage. He persevered, then glanced up in triumph when he eventually succeeded.
Steve looked at him expectantly.
"Six and three," said Danny with a quiet smile. The exercise was simple on the face of it- he had to tell Steve the number of dots on both halves of every tile he played- but that meant he had to move the tiles, count the dots and put words together each time. It was no mean achievement.
Steve smiled back at him proudly. His gaze lingered and he watched as Danny moved his tiles around experimentally. His partner was relaxed, focused and receptive. Steve bit his lip, then cast caution aside and went for it, voicing the question he was fixating on in as general a way as he could muster on the spur of the moment. "Danny, does the number fifteen mean something special to you?"
Danny stared at him with complete and utter incredulity.
Steve instantly recognized the stupidity of what he had come out with, because of course the number fifteen meant something special to Danny. Much of his partner's remembered life revolved around it. "OK, forget that." He leant forwards, reaching across the table, and took hold of Danny's left hand, stubbornly ignoring the tremors persisting in his own. He rubbed his thumb over his partner's neat row of scars. "Danny, do you remember how these got here?"
Danny frowned at his hand, then blinked rapidly and breathed a little harder.
Steve's stomach dropped. In that moment he thought Joe had been wrong, thought the injuries had been part of some horrific torture Danny had endured and now Steve was all-too-casually asking him to re-visit it in his head. No wonder Steve's drug-addled mind had been reluctant to come up with a way to ask a superficially simple question. That made complete sense to him now, too late. He cursed inwardly, held his breath.
But then Danny looked up at him, something resembling amazement in his eyes. "Me," he answered, and his tone left Steve in no doubt that Danny hadn't thought about that in a very, very long time.
Steve smiled reassuringly for all his heart was now pounding. It felt so… significant. "Danny, do you remember why?"
Danny nodded, eyes wide. "To… remind." he tapped his head.
Steve couldn't tear his eyes away from Danny's. "To remind you of what, buddy?"
Danny frowned, then looked down, face sad, eyes apologetic.
The reason was gone.
Steve blinked a few times, almost surprised by the anti-climax, though he shouldn't have been. He squeezed Danny's hand for a moment. "That's okay. I was just curious. Don't worry about it, partner." He somehow manage to make his tone come out light. He watched Danny with concern, hoping he wouldn't take the perceived failure to heart.
Danny seemed to brush it off. Apparently deciding he'd had enough of the dominoes and exercising his newly discovered right to choose, Danny picked up a car magazine Lou had sent in for them and started to flick through it clumsily.
Steve sagged back in his chair, relieved. He closed his eyes. They might never know the answer. The meaning of 'fifteen' might elude them permanently. Steve was gripped by disappointment and he didn't even know why it mattered so much.
TBC
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