Sorry about the delay. This one got away from me a little bit.
More McGarrett whumpage to come in the next chapter. Fingers crossed it will go down on paper a bit easier than this one did.
Unbeta-ed, as usual, and I'm still not a doctor. Read at your own risk.
I feel numb as Sargent Lukela crouches down beside the young woman and gently drapes a blanket over her lifeless body. I'm sitting in the back of our rig, the little girl lying curled up in my lap. A light blue blanket is wrapped around both of our shoulders. She's cute as a button, with fine white-blond hair and big blue eyes, and I gently run my hand over her head, gently tracing the outline of an emerging bruise with my fingertips. She's unharmed, bar a few bruises and a tiny cut on her forehead, but as relieved as I am that she's okay, it doesn't change the fact that the little girl's mother is dead. I replay everything over and over in my head as I watch her sleep, wondering what I could have done differently, if the outcome would have been the same if I hadn't dropped the ball. The little girl sleeps on in my arms, blissfully unaware that her life has just been turned upside down.
"Chloe."
I look up to find Heather standing in front of me with the crew from the Medevac chopper. "They're ready to take her to Kings. She'll be in good hands until social services can trace her family." I'm on autopilot as I gather the girl into my arms and move to stand up. Nothing about this situation seems real.
"Sadie," I whisper as I let the younger medic gently pry her out of my arms. "Her name is Sadie. Her mom…" I break off as my eyes fill with fresh tears.
"Sadie, huh?" The younger medic smiles sadly as he glances down at the precious bundle in his arms. "It suits her. We'll take real good care of her," he promises as he and his partner head back to the helicopter. Heather and I stand side by side, watching until the chopper's lights fade into the darkness above our heads. It's only when Heather squeezes my shoulder that I force myself to move.
Back at headquarters, Heather steers me in the direction of the watch commander's office. It's quiet in this part of the building and I'm extremely grateful to my partner for giving me the opportunity to pull myself together in private before I'm forced to face the prying eyes and wagging tongues of the locker room.
"How are you holding up?" she asks softly, pressing a mug of hot, sweet tea into my hands. I shrug and wrap my hands around the mug, letting the warmth soothe the ache in my chest. I can't bring myself to meet her eye so I trace my finger over the colorful abstract pattern around the rim of my cup, thankful for the distraction. Heather smiles knowingly and gives my hand a sympathetic pat.
"The first one is always the hardest." Glancing down at her watch, she continues, "Okay, we are officially off the clock." I start to stand, intent on helping with the end-of-day housekeeping but Heather waves me off. "Don't worry about the rig - I'll sort it. See you on Wednesday."
I don't think I can face Katie just yet so instead of heading home I leave my car parked at the depot and start walking in the general direction of Waikiki. I'm not a big drinker but I want nothing more than to drown my sorrows - guilt - in a bottle of Jose Cuervo. I'd give just about anything to not be able to feel anything right now. I end up in a sports bar just off of Kapiolani Boulevard. It's dark and crowded inside and I manage to push my way to the bar without anyone giving me so much as a second glance.
"Tequila," I say to one of the guys behind the bar as I slide onto one of the high stools. "Make it a double." I let my head drop into my hands as I wait for my drink to be set down on the bar in front of me.
"Rough day?" someone asks. The voice belongs to a young Hawaiian woman with long dark hair and a figure a model would be proud of.
"Something like that."
Ignoring the saltshaker and lime wedge sitting beside my glass, I throw back the double shot of tequila. As soon as the last drops are past my lips, I signal to the bartender for a refill.
"Keep them coming," I tell him.
The young woman beside me offers me a sympathetic smile when I catch her eye but her pretty face quickly creases into a frown when she sees my rumpled shirt and the remnants of tears on my cheeks.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Her warm brown eyes are filled with concern but they quickly harden and her hand drifts towards the holster at her hip. Her body language practically screams 'cop' as she glances around the bar. "Is someone bothering you?" she asks quietly, leaning closer so I can hear her over the music and buzz of chatter in the background. It takes a few seconds for her meaning to sink in and I end up shaking my head so vigorously I'm in danger of putting those nodding bobble-head dolls you find on car dashboards out of a job.
"What? No, I just had a really bad day at work. You know how it is…"
My self-appointed protector looks skeptical. I can't really blame her; even to my own ears my 'bad day at work' explanation sounds rather lame. She's probably heard a million excuses like that one if she's a cop, as I suspect she is. She has that kind of air of authority about her, despite her girlish appearance and slender frame.
"I'm fine," I insist, offering the young woman what I hope is a reassuring smile, "Really."
I'm guessing my puffy, bloodshot eyes don't go a long way to convincing her that that's the case but my silent plea of Please just drop it seems to do the trick. She doesn't push the issue. Instead, she simply nods as if she understands and smiles at me before leaning over the bar to shout her order in the barman's ear.
"I'm Kono," she says, giving me a friendly little wave while she waits for her drinks.
"Chloe." I raise my glass in reply and then proceed to down the contents. The alcohol burns my throat on the way down and I pull a face before slamming the empty glass down on the counter. The bartender sets four bottles of beer on the bar in front Kono and then tops up my glass before I can ask for another refill. Digging in her pocket, Kono drops a bill on the counter top and then pulls the bottles closer.
"Well, it was nice meeting you," she says, stooping to gather the bottles in her arms. "See you around, Chloe." With that, she starts to head back to her friends but after a few steps, she pauses and turns back around. "Do you want some company?" she asks, sounding slightly hesitant. "I'm here with the guys from work and they're talking about cars again." She wrinkles her nose before continuing, "I'll understand if you want to be alone, but it'd be nice to have another girl around to even out the numbers a little bit."
The thought of having to make polite conversation with a bunch of total strangers is less than appealing.
"I'm not really in the mood to be social," I say truthfully, running my index finger over the sticky rim of my shot glass. Then, remembering my manners, I quickly add, "But thank you. I appreciate the offer. Maybe next time?"
"Okay." Kono appears undaunted by my rejection. "If you change your mind, just come on over. We're in the booths over by the pool table."
"Sure," I nod. "See you around, Kono."
Kono leaves me to wallow in peace but truth be told, the inside of my head is anything but peaceful. Every time I close my eyes I see a mangled wreck and the lifeless body of Sadie's mom lying in the middle of the highway. Her face is bloody, her eyes dull and unseeing. The images are so clear, it's as if they've been burned into the back of my eyelids and I know there's no way I'll be getting any sleep any time soon. Not that it matters; if lack of sleep doesn't destroy me, my guilt probably will.
Glancing up from my drink, I inadvertently make eye contact with none other than Commander McGarrett, who happens to be striding across the room to where I'm sitting at the bar. Groaning, I look away, drain the double measure in my glass, and silently pray to God that he'll keep on walking. Preferably straight past me and right out the front door.
"Is this seat taken?" he asks, all casual, like he didn't practically bite my head off the last time we spoke.
For a moment I'm tempted to say yes but it's pretty obvious that there isn't anyone sitting beside me. I doubt the guy will take no for an answer anyways so instead of wasting my breath, I simply shake my head and turn away to brush the lingering wetness from my face. Despite my contempt for the man, I'm embarrassed by my bloodshot eyes and tear-streaked mascara.
"What do you want?" I mutter irritably. I keep my gaze firmly fixed on the empty shot glass in my hand as the commander pulls out the chair and sits down beside me. Once he's seated, he leans forwards, resting his forearms on top of the bar. I see a flash of color peek out from under the sleeve of his t-shirt.
"You do know it wasn't your fault, don't you?"
The unexpected kindness catches me off guard and I turn to gape at the man. I don't know what I was expecting but it's certainly not the hint of concern I can see in the commander's eyes. It's a complete one-eighty from the arrogant asshole that almost sent me flying a few days back and damn, if it doesn't send the butterflies in my stomach straight into overdrive.
"Excuse me?" Somehow, it comes out sounding a hell of a lot more cordial than I was expecting it to.
"Kono's Five-0," McGarrett says, gesturing towards the pretty young Hawaiian woman from earlier - She's sitting in one of the booths at the back of the room with Detective Williams and an older man I don't know. "She recognized you from the warehouse the other day and Duke told me about the pile-up on H2. We kind of put two and two together - "
"And came up with five."
Goodbye, cordiality. Hello, contempt. I reckon my mother would have a fit if she could hear the way I'm talking to the highly decorated former Navy Seal but the commander gets this little half smile on his face and he rolls his eyes as though he was expecting nothing less than the go-to-hell attitude he's being subjected to.
"Look, I think we maybe got off on the wrong foot the other day," he says. His tone is so matter-of-fact that, for a moment, I'm not quite sure where he's going with this. "I was kind of a dick to you and I'm sorry."
"'Kind of' implies a certain degree of dick-ish-ness. You were a complete and utter asshole," I inform the commander icily, my tone leaving no room for discussion. I have to say I'm finding it rather fitting that this time it's me who's daring him to disagree.
"Yeah, that's pretty much what Danny – Detective Williams - said," McGarrett confesses. He at least has the decency to look sheepish. "Danny called me out on the way back to the office, told me he'd sic your partner on me if I didn't get my head out of my ass and beg for your forgiveness. Or something to that effect; I'm not really sure – I kind of zoned out after the first ten minutes."
I don't know what it is, but there's something in the way Commander McGarrett is describing the aftermath of our run-in that makes me crack. It's probably a combination of the alcohol and the commander's sheepish smile that does it. I'm trying to look stern and disapproving – because there's no way I'm going to let him walk away without apologising - but the thought of the six-foot Navy Seal being threatened with my five-foot-two slip of a partner, who's elfin features and pixie cropped hair make her look about as scary as a Labrador puppy that's been left out in the rain, makes me burst into peals of undignified laughter. It's a welcome change from the self-imposed guilt trip I've been on and once the laughter has started, I find it pretty much impossible to stop. Commander McGarrett leans back in his chair, watching me with an amused smile as tears of laughter run unhindered down my cheeks.
"I can't believe you're scared of Heather," I gasp when I'm finally able to talk again.
"Don't let her fool you," the commander retorts. His expression is deadly serious but there's a twinkle of laughter in his blue eyes that gives him away. "Your partner is one scary lady when she wants to be."
"Says you."
"Hey, I've had commanding officers that weren't anywhere near as scary as your partner is, and those were guys whose job it was to make even the toughest BUD/S recruits want to 'ring the bell'," McGarrett insists with a grin.
It's kind of nice to be joking around with him after all of the tension between us and eventually we lapse into a comfortable silence. After a moment, though, the commander's expression sobers and he clears his throat.
"I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm sorry."
"Apology accepted." The man seems sincere and if Heather's comments about the commander being a trouble magnet are anything to go by, there's a very good chance that I'll end up running into McGarrett and his team sometime in the very near future. There isn't any point in being difficult just for the sake of it.
We sit in companionable silence for a few minutes before McGarrett turns to me and quietly asks, "Do you want to talk about what happened?" His tone is sympathetic and I just know that if I look at him, I'll start crying again.
"No." I shake my head emphatically because the last thing I want to do is talk, but it seems that once my mouth is open I can't stop the words from tumbling out. "I froze," I whisper, keeping my gaze fixed firmly on my empty shot glass as a tsunami-sized wave of fresh guilt washes over me. "That little girl's mom died because I froze."
My voice is wobbling and I can feel the prick of fresh tears building behind my eyes. Embarrassed, I clear my throat and motion to the bartender for another refill. As soon as the glass is full I throw it back and then grimace at the burning sensation the amber liquid leaves on its way down. At the rate I've been downing tequila, I'll be lucky to remember my own name at the end of the night. Thank God I'm off tomorrow.
McGarrett is quiet as he contemplates what I've just told him. "Maybe," he eventually agrees with a shrug. "But then again, it's more likely that she died because of a number of factors, all of which were outside of your control. You have to believe me when I tell you that there was nothing you could have done to save her."
"You don't know that," I argue tearfully.
"I read the preliminary autopsy report," McGarrett says, giving me a look that I can't quite make sense of. "Cause of death was exsanguination due to the blunt force trauma sustained to both lower limbs in the crash. Before it was moved, the dashboard was effectively acting as a tourniquet – it slowed the bleeding enough to keep her alive until you guys got there."
"Why are you telling me this?" I ask in a whisper.
He doesn't answer right away, but he doesn't really need to. Realization is starting to sink in, leaving me feeling weak and out of sorts, and I slump forwards against the bar, burying my head in my hands. I can't help but sob as my guilt gives way to an overwhelming sense of sheer relief.