gyzym | hawaii 5-0 fic: you testify and i'll pour the drinks [Steve/Danny]

Oh, man, this is a straight-up case of "I couldn't not write this." Started it as an abstract over on

hermette's journal and then immediately went "Welp, nope, okay, this must be done immediately, cannot rest until I have written it," and here we are. Not even rating it, because nothing worth rating really happens, but you guys all know about my foul fucking language, so, you know, be warned.

Christ. AT LEAST IT'S NOT RIDICULOUSLY LONG THIS TIME.

Title: you testify and i'll pour the drinks
Pairing: Steve/Danny [Danny/Rachel]
Wordcount: ~1500
Summary: Post-ep for 1.18

When the plane is gone, when he can't even see it in the sky anymore, when his phone has buzzed six times and gone silent in his pocket, Danny gets in the car. He gets in the car and he doesn't know where he's going till he's there, till he's knocking on Rachel's door and she's looking at him with sad eyes, like she already knows.

He doesn't know what he's doing here, can't remember getting here, feels twisted raw and wrung out and guilty. He knows, in a distant sort of way, that this isn't even something he should want, her arms coming up around him, because for all he loves her he doesn't love her, not anymore. She's soft, clinging just a little, familiar and strange at once against his chest.

This doesn't make sense, but then again nothing makes sense, so maybe it's alright.

He closes his eyes and tries not to think, and yeah, okay, he knows why he's here. Because when he closes his eyes he's in Jersey and it's eight years ago and there are boxes strewn all over their new house, those shit-ugly curtains Rachel's mother had sent them peeking out from under a stack of kitchen shit, and Matty's coming through the door with pizza and beer. He's tossing one to Danny and Danny's catching it, laughing, and Rachel's pulling a mocking half-scowl as they toast, the long necks of their bottles clinking together.

"You boys," she's saying, chiding, light, "taunting me with these things I can't have."

And Danny's pulling her into him, her hair smelling just like it does right now, in this ridiculously ostentatious foyer on an island he never even thought he'd visit. He's pulling her into him at their house in Jersey, and he's saying, "You want me to abstain? Because I'll abstain, baby, you say the word," and she's laughing and pushing him off, shaking her head.

"It'd be worth it," he's saying, soft and suddenly serious, his hand brushing over the place where Grace is just starting to show in the curve of her belly. She's biting her lip and there's Matty in the corner, smiling and smiling at them, the happiness caught between the three of them easy and fluid and home.

But when he opens his eyes he's still in the foyer and Rachel's still wearing another man's shirt and Matty's still gone. And the thing about being married to someone for ten years is that some things always come easy, like riding a bike--the touch thing is like that, the ebbing and flowing of a comfort you never quite shake. Talking is harder, and fuck, fuck, what the fuck is he supposed to say to her, to this woman who knows him but doesn't know him, to the mother of a child who's just lost an uncle, a friend, while she slept on undisturbed upstairs.

Rachel makes them tea, in the end, because that's what she does. She's careful with her movements, precise--Danny knows she only gets jittery when she's exuberant, too happy to contain herself, but it's hard to fathom anyway, the control she's managing to maintain. They talk about Grace and what they're going to tell her, and it's stilted and unsure, because there's nothing Danny really wants here but comfort, and Rachel's not that safe haven for him anymore, hasn't been in years.

But he's grateful, he's so grateful he could choke on it, for the way she remembers and lets him remember, for the way she allows him to lean against the doorframe of Grace's bedroom and watch her till he feels steady again. For the way she pitches her voice outside of the realm of the sympathy he'd hate and smiles at him, wavering but like she means it, to let him know once and for all that she doesn't hate him anymore.

For the way she lets him leave, eyes worn and knowing as they follow his progress to the car.

--

Danny's drinking whiskey. It's the cheap shit, well whiskey, the kind he and Matty used to drink on the hood of his car down the Shore before he met Rachel, back when they were young and restless and a little stupid, sometimes. It tastes like Springsteen loud on the stereo and the fake ID Danny'd stolen from Matt's wallet and hid fifteen times, like their oldest sister's rehearsal dinner and Danny's bachelor party.

He knows his brother isn't dead, but then again, he kind of is. He knows his brother isn't gone, not really, not like that, but Danny'll never see him again, so the semantics of it seem beside the point.

He's about four glasses in when Steve slides onto the stool next to him.

Fucking McGarrett, Danny thinks, because it just figures. Stupid solid Steve, who probably tracked his damn cell phone, who's always there when you need him even if you'd rather he was somewhere else. Steve, who's forever calling Danny the backup until moments like this, until Danny turns around half-blinded by the oncoming fire and Steve's on his six, covering him for the next shot.

"Beer," Steve says to J.J., not bothering to specify what kind, and Danny's obliquely glad for that. It's a stupid thing, a little thing, but every step away from normalcy makes it easier for him to accept that this is unsteady ground. It's a fucking earthquake is what it is, everything shaking lose around him, the floor roiling beneath his feet, and Steve's probably the best person in an earthquake, isn't he? Of everyone Danny knows, Steve's the most likely to have a contingency plan for the world shifting around them, because Steve has a contingency plan for everything.

Probably not for this, though. Even Steve, here, is probably flying blind.

And fuck, Danny looks and him and fuck, this isn't like Rachel at all. Danny hadn't known what to say to her, had come up short when he'd looked for something, his mind going painfully blank. But this…Danny has so many things to say he doesn't know where to start, can't decide if he wants to say "Thank you for lying to the FBI for me," or "Fuck you for lying to the FBI for me," or just "Steve, Jesus, please."

But he doesn't have to say anything, because that thousand-yard stare is narrowing to a pinpoint, is holding him still when all he wants to do is explode.

"Hey, man," Steve says, quiet, almost lost in the rush of the bar around them, "I know something about fucked up family shit, alright? So you just tell me what you need and I'm on it. Anything, Danno, I'm your guy."

Thing is, what Danny needs right now is a fight, really, is to feel someone's flesh under his fist like he's nineteen and pissed off and invincible. But Steve is his guy, he is, and Danny knows that if he said "I need to beat the shit out of someone," Steve would get him that, would give him that, somehow.

It's actually easier to resist the urge, knowing that, knowing that Steve would help him do something neither of them could forgive themselves for in the morning. It's easier to control himself when he thinks of it as controlling Steve, as reigning in his insanity, even if it's Danny's insanity this time.

So he leans over instead, just lists like a tree in goddamn wind, presses into the place where their shoulders are touching. He leans over right there in the bar in front of everyone, because fuck it. Fuck it, the last thing he needs to be worrying about right now is his image and his pride and not looking like he's stupid in love with Steve McGarrett, and Steve had said "Anything," and Steve doesn't usually have more than one whopping lie in him in a night. Danny leans in, his hair brushing Steve's cheek, and Steve's hand comes up to clasp the back of his neck, steadying him.

"Fuck," Danny says, and it's not really what he means, but for all his words there aren't enough, not in any language, and anyway Steve will understand.

"Yeah, man," Steve says, and his thumb is ghosting over the knot at the base of Danny's neck, and Jesus Christ, his brother is gone, he's gone, he can do everything in his power and it'll never stop being true, "yeah, Danny, I know."

Neither of them moves until the place closes. When Steve offers to take him home, Danny lets him.