haole_cop | 00:00:00

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00:00:00

"Now it's my crime scene."

Those could have been, should have been, the last words he heard from McGarrett, and in a kinder world, they might have been, but the world hates Danny Williams, and he's not exactly feeling all that generous towards it, himself, so he's honestly not even a little surprised when the authoritative rap on his door comes attached to a too-tall, too-broad, too-aggressive Navy SEAL with revenge on the mind and Daddy issues from here back to the boardwalks of Wildwood.

He hates him.

Because of this joker, he's home in the middle of the day, instead of at work, work, he might point out, where he's attempting to catch the guy who did this to McGarrett, Sr., which is normally what the child of a murder victim wants, right? They want the cops to do their damn job and haul the dirtbag in for justice.

They don't storm in and take over like it's their goddamn platoon out in fucking Afghanistan.

Except McGarrett, okay, he doesn't seem to have gotten the memo. There's a reason officers don't get involved if the deceased was a family member, and this is exactly why: it makes people angry, irrational.

(He hopes to hell this is McGarrett being irrational.)

It's too close, too personal -- and it's also not his case anymore, so he's got no idea why McGarrett, shirt sticking to his skin from the soaking rain that just hit, because it rains every goddamn day here, what a fucking miracle, Hallelujah, is standing on his doorstep, because it isn't that.

(And it's not that either, he refuses, it's not happening, and there's no possible way this whackjob noticed. It could be he doesn't even have a timer, or got his blown off while single-handedly stopping an insurrection with a couple of grenades and a can-do attidtude.)

So he just stands and waits, with one hand still on the doorknob, ready to slam it shut just as soon as possible.

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"Supposedly." Steve turned his head, barely, to look that way, with the word.

Like he might have been making a point. Or pressure gauging the whole idea.

Might have been thinking about his saying I'm making you my partner. We're going to get along great.

It wasn't as if he hadn't had amazing men at his side and his six for over a decade now. Whether it was one other man, for a mission that never existed, and would never have a rescue from, or several platoons working in synch to handle a problem bigger than all of them, and taking more than half of them down to complete. That was what the Navy did, strung you together, standinging as one, falling as one, all for the mission and Steve supposed he could see that in the police force. If to a much smaller, and incredibly localized, degree.

But there was, also, the whole part where Danny Williams, with the yelling and the snapping, who no one had a good word about aside from his turnout and to whom no one even considered coming to the rescue of, when his face was nearly in the dirt, was talking about good partnership. In a very few words. Like he might actually have an idea of what that was like. Not in Hawaii, obviously. Though, supposedly, he didn't get on too badly with his partner. But before maybe. Since obviously he had a before.

Something that wasn't bemoaning Hawaii and living for a job where he hated everyone else working with him.

It makes him miss Grace.

Not his daughter, though he misses her on a near-constant basis, a low level thrum that's always under his skin. The woman she's named after. Grace Tilwell. Feisty, fiery, reckless Grace, with her wicked smile and unyielding sense of justice. He trusted her like she was an extension of himself, and she trusted him, too.

Look where that got her.

This is not going to be that kind of partnership, because Danny doesn't have those partners anymore. He and Meka get along fine, but they're not like two sides of the same coin, working together so seamlessly that it's like they've known each other all their lives. They don't talk about everything and anything. Sure, Danny's met the family, been over for dinner, they got out for beers, but there's always going to be a disconnect. It's not like Grace. They're friends and partners, but they're not the second or even third most important person to the other one.

Which is fine. He's not sure he wants another partnership like the one he had with Grace. They were too tight, maybe. Too close. And how many other people in the world are ever going to accept him as completely as she did?

Chin's signaling a turn, so Danny hits the blinkers, changes lanes to follow. "Well, it's good for us you know him. That was a good call."

It's good for them that Chin called him out this morning, but time will prove the rest of that.

There's no proof it was a good call yet. There's not enough time. Even the next situation is a big questionmark. Because it is curious if it'll work. Who the CI is. How Chin still has his ear to the ground about a lot of things. It's still a question of whether good work maybe more than a decade ago will still eek out to good work more than a decade of unused skills and festering wounds later.

Things he doesn't know. But risks he's willing to take to bring in Hesse.

Who could do worse left rampant than Chin and Danny and every one of Danny's misfit toys put together.
He's gone with so much longer odds though, and he's so close. Hesse is on this small spit of land somewhere.

But Steve's not entirely lost in his thoughts enough to realize, if several seconds late, that Danny just gave him a compliment. Light, normal, not thrown at his head, and not twisted to being mocking all over the words at the sametime, which he hasn't had a single problem with displaying so far. It makes him stay focused toward Chin over Danny. Watching the bike detour toward a beach.

Because the proof of that was still holding out, even if he could acknowledge hearing it there. The proof that still mattered more to him, even in something in just hearing it softened the edges of his mouth, even when all he said was, "Yeah. We'll see."

Well, it's a start, right? It's something. A few civil, if not actually friendly, words. Ones he didn't have to scrape up, reluctantly, and that Steve didn't immediately make him regret saying.

It's not great, but it's something. They can't waste all their energy attacking each other; it'll only make them make mistakes, and Hesse is not the kind of guy who'll wait around for the people chasing him to get their asses in gear and their priorities in order. He still doesn't like Steve, and he's pretty sure the feeling is mutual, but maybe they can at least work together.

Maybe.

Chin's pulling to a stop, parking his bike and swinging off it again in another smooth motion, while Danny pulls up nearby and parks, glancing out the window at the little shack nearby, beachfront park filled with kids and beachgoerss, squinting in the sun as he shuts the door behind him. "Waimea Shave Ice?"

"Could be worse." His voice has an odd dot of dry amusement, as he's snapping his belt off, getting out the car and shutting the door behind him in a smooth movement. Before he's off after Chin, already, expect Danny will follow.

It's crawling with people. That's the first thing Steve notices.

The kind of spot that has dozens on dozens of witnesses of every age and walk.

Which works well both directions really. It means no one could come straight at you here, without all those eyes. There's a modicum of safety in the utter lack of anonymity. As well as a shell of normality, soaked a place most people would visit and forget all about. Shave Ice. On the beach. Front area covered in benches, boards, and hammocks. It's a island paradise afternoon spooling out slow, with golden sun and high waves. A lot of worse places out there. Steve's would know.

"This way," Chin says when they get to him, turning to lead them up through the crowd of beach goers everywhere between them and it.

"Hey, Komekona!" Chin calls out, all loose easy shoulders, and broad smile you can hear all over his voice. Which, apparently, isn't entirely out of place. When he and the large guy behind the counter, clap hands and lean in for a shoulder bump and back slap, even through the wall and counter of the place. "Howzzit?"

"Good to see you, my bruddah." The other guy is saying as he pulls back, and Steve can helping think he blends about as well as the place. All bright, broad strokes, wide smile himself, and that powder blue shirt. That all changes, when Chin is leaning in, dropping his voice. Asking for a name, and changing everything about that face. The easy Aloha smile withering, for a look toward Steve and Danny, with an eyebrow cocked. Same with his voice, when he's nodding to the beach, and saying, serious and even this time, "They wait out there."

That's...annoying, but it's not all that surprising. Which is why Steve catches Chin's eye, when the man turns back, as though it needs relaying. But Steve is turning away , to walk off, because he doesn't really need another person to say it. He'd rather be hearing this discussion, but he'd rather have Hesse than split any hairs about how he got there. Not when there's a chance he might actually have a name.

"After they pay." Comes from over his shoulder and he turns back. That's not all that surprising either, when Steve's hands are already in his pocket, and that whale of a guy is turned back, talking to someone else in the beach shack. "Two cones. Two t-shirts. To go!"

"Medium," Steve adds, not arguing, as he pulling money off a stack he fished out of his pocket. Peeling a fifty off the pile.

"XL and up, brah," the guy -- Komekona -- is saying. Shirt stretched wide in front of him. About as wide and obvious as that glint of enjoyment he's getting from this. "My face don't fit on anything smaller."

But Chin is still smiling, so Steve doesn't feel any need to rock the boat. He folds the bills back holds them, willing to get along to get along. Sliding into words he hasn't used since getting back, since a long while back even. Short visits ages ago, his childhood. "How much kala, pupule?"

He's nodding, even though he doesn't look all that impressed. "You speak bird."

"Yeah." Easy. Natural. Falling toward something like a smile. "I grew up here."

"Doesn't matter," the guy says, with this short shake of his head. "You still look haole to me."

Steve doesn't let go of any of the words. It doesn't matter. Because it's not the first time. It's not like he didn't hear it all the time in his childhood before it wore through, thin and stupid and ultimately ignorable. Besides if a little insulting goes along with his shirt and snowcone, he can pay that too. He's not a thin skinned panty-waste who's going to take offense from a shave house shack runner, when the things on the line are more important.

He half-rolled his eyes but handed over the crisp bill. Watching the man, flatten it and look at it in his hand. "This one feels a little bit lonely, brah."

Which actually maybe does annoy him. It's more than the cost of the extortion of goods already, and he wants more for the name. Making Steve slide a sharper look at Chin, but he's half-easy, half at attention, and gives a nod, like Steve should just do as this Kamekona is saying. Like Steve wouldn't give nearly everything on himself for Hesse. Which he does. Pushes his hand in, without thinking or looking at it, handing over the rest of the cash in his hand.

Reminding himself one stack of cash for Hesse is still less than anyone else has ever paid, or had a chance to. "Cool."

But he's turning away, to go past Danny, toward the waves and sand. When that voice sounds again, smooth and smug and aloha broad even with that warning note already pinching the muscles in Steve's shoulders tight. "One more thing I need you two fine, white gentleman to do."

He's not quite sure how he got dragged into all this. Ending up standing by the Mustang, dismissed from getting any information, with a passionfruit shave ice in one hand, wearing a powder blue shirt that's about six sizes too big for him, over the button-down and tie he'd chosen this morning, with the words "Waiola Shave Ice" stamped over Kamekona's broad, beaming face.

Somehow it's Steve's fault. Right? He can make this Steve's fault.

Or maybe it's some joke between Chin and Kamekona. Humiliate the haoles, see how far they'd go to get information, and normally, okay, normally, he'd tell the big guy in the stand exactly where he can shove both this shirt and this cone, okay? It's bad enough being told to turn away, get out of earshot, but that's why they brought Chin.

But there's nothing for it. He'd held up the shirt with a skeptical expression, but a glance from Chin had him pulling it over his head, another layer in this sweltering heat, silent and resigned, while being handed a shave ice he doesn't even particularly like, okay, it's no water ice and this isn't Ocean City, but, fine. CI's need to be treated delicately, so he'll eat crow and passionfruit shave ice, and lean against the Mustang like this isn't basically the lowest point in an already crap day.

He's not actually eating or drinking the ice that's slowly making his fingers aware of the cold. He's not actually going to shift, and give the world the pleasure of the annoyance at the shirt. He's going to stare out at the milling people, and he's going to silently recite the top twenty scenarios that were more annoying, painful, dirty, and disgusting above this.

Maybe thirty. Or forty. Because this is peanuts compared some of the crap and hell he's been put through.

It is. Annoying, but not life threatening. Demanding his patience, even when what it has is his annoyance. Waves. People. Scenario's. Faintly cold fingers, holding an inert object he has no intention of eating. Maybe it had been something other than cotton candy. Maybe if he was holding it for any other reason than someone telling him to go be a billboard for the ice shack basically.

"Are you a cop?"

There's a confused look out one side, where there's no one, and down to where there's a little girl in a beach dress.

Even while the words are kicking across his brain with a kind of disgust that's taking no prisoners. Because he's nothing like a cop. Even if he said those words into the phone. Nothing like the man standing next to his side. He's a SEAL. There's nothing else on the planet he's ever wanted to be, or would want to change to being. "No."

"Well," She shifted on her feet, swaying a little, like gravity was just an option for her. "You look like a cop."

No, he didn't. He looked nothing like those guys. The guy standing next to him, all slacks and a tie. In Hawaii. And no he didn't need this distraction of this little person suddenly taking place in his op. Which meant the only course of action was getting rid of her. Fast as possible. Leaning down and holding out his neglected shave ice.

"Do you like cotton candy?" Please. Take it. Save him. For it. And her. "Go find your mom."

"I don't like cotton candy," she says, firmly, which, okay, the kid has decent taste. No one likes cotton candy flavor, all right? It is an abomination.

But Steve's floundering in a way Danny hasn't seen at all today, and honestly can't, for a second, believe he is seeing, while treating this small child like she's an international threat, asking for state secrets instead of curious about whether or not they're cops, and, frankly, people are starting to pay attention. He's too brusque, too sharp with her, too obviously trying to get rid of her, and, apparently, is even worse at damage control than he is about not causing the damage to begin with.

Which means Danny's up to bat, but that's fine, okay? He may not be a SEAL or the leader of some highly trained death squad, but he can handle a little girl. "I got something you might like, okay?"

It's a world of difference between Steve's tone and his. Steve's all blunt, interrogating, and Danny is relaxed, friendly without being too friendly (because frankly, as a father, he can't think of anything that would make his blood run cold faster than two grown men showing too much interest in Grace), but it's a moot point. He's already handing his cone to Steve so he can reach through the passenger seat window and search until his fingers encounter soft plush and floppy ears. "How 'bout --"

The rabbit's huge and pink and floppy, and she lights up like it's Christmas morning when she sees it, which hurts a little, because he didn't get to see that smile on Grace's face, but it's triumphant, too, when she says, eager: "Yeah. Thanks!"

Taking it without further invitation, the stuffed animal almost as big as she is, and running off, and it's a good feeling, too. Even if it aches a little.

It's easy to make kids happy, but that doesn't make it any less incredible to see or satisfying to do. "You're welcome," he says, as she scampers off to play, leaving him to put his empty hands in his pockets, smiling to himself a little rueful, before turning back to Steve to get his cone back.

Only to find the other man already watching him, an unreadable expression on his face, that makes Danny squint in the sun, trying to interpret. "What?"

The snowcone gets shoved in his hand and he takes it, since it isn't a bomb or anything problematic, staring at Danny's back in confusion when the man is already digging into the car after saying he said something for the little girl who is, seriously, not moving away from the car. Which is where Steve wants her to be. Anywhere away from the car. Away from situations that probably won't happen here, but have happened in too many missions past that he doesn't think on.

Almost ever. The ones he never thinks about. Except when he wakes up swinging, having watched worlds burn again.

But Danny is digging in the car, and they are both waiting on him. Waiting on him to turn around with. What. There is a bunny. Pink and fuzzy and Steve's not sure if soft has a look. Forget his looking toward the excited kid next to him. He's busy marveling that thing is basically larger than half of Danny's body. Where was he hiding that in the back of the mustang?

She's excitedly hugging the thing around its neck and scampering off, lickety split, the feet of it dragging in the sand behind her as she's runs off, like Danny might change his mind. And Steve can't even begin to know where to start with what he wants to ask. Who even carries that around in their car? Just. What? And that it actually worked. That Danny Williams is over there beaming like a lune about that kid running away like he might steal it back any second. What.

Which is the same question that comes out of Danny's mouth while he's staring. Trying to find a single question.

But it's broken with the laughter coming from beyond Danny, as Chin suddenly pushes out from the crowd, returning to them from Komekona. From the money, and the ice, and the shirts, and a little girl, and truly giant pink bunny. And seriously, the only thing to hits Steve's head rolls right out his mouth, "You better have a name."

Because after all that, Steve deserves a name, the name. And an eta on when this shirt comes off.

They look so absurd it's impossible to keep from laughing, but the one that rolls out from his chest, easy and amused, isn't cruel. Why would it be? They look ridiculous, but they're still okay. He remembers little Steve McGarrett better than this stern-faced man, but that's okay, too. Everybody grows up. Some people get shoved into it faster and harder than others.

So he's not going to take it personally, but he's also not going to hide his amusement at their twin expressions of disgust at the situation. Kamekona, he might not want to deal with haoles, but he's got a sense of humor about it. "Yeah," he says, joining them, still smiling wide.

It's a pretty bad look. Makes them even more out of place than they were before. "Not here. You got a place I can access HPD's files?"

Chin Ho Kelly gets a pass. Call it faith, or familiarity. Ghosts on old graves. The return of that smile from this morning, that makes him look nothing like the man who snapping, made of rattler strikes and broken glass barely hanging on in one piece through super glue. It makes him look more real, too. More things Steve doesn't hate entirely.

Especially when it comes with him saying he has a name. Air and water vy for what is filling Steve head and lungs.

"We got a place," he nods, headed toward a trashcan to drop the untouched ices he's still holding.

Talking over his shoulder as he does it. Because he knows he hasn't even told Danny this much, because he wasn't sure he's need it even when Jameson and Fryer both mentioned it before he absconded with Danny. The details of the walls hadn't mattered to him, then. Just finding Danny, following up on Doran, which got them here in a twist of events.

"Second floor of The Palace, "All clacking like dominoes when he says it. " It's only a few hours old, but I can call and make-sure someone has a system up for us by the time we get there."

Even if the way he phrases it is nothing like it's going to be a request to whoever the poor person on the other end of the line ends up being. It won't be. Not if they have a name, and a name means they're going to need an intro, and Steve is not in the mood to slow down. Especially not for anyone handing out a line about IT builds.

If he has to, he'll find a way to requisition a different part of the building for it. He'll make it work.

"Got it," Chin nods, shifting back on his heels to head for his bike. "I'll meet you there."

Leaving Danny a little bemused, bewildered, not a hundred percent sure what that exchange was or what it meant. The only palace he knows is " -- Iolani Palace?"

The graceful building with that big gold statue in front, and the levels of modern office space? That Palace? There's already an office? When did that happen? He's watching Steve, dubious, wondering just what the hell it must be like to just say something, and make it true. "You're just picking things up left and right today, huh? Did you get us a dispatch desk, too? Are you hiding a newly-requisitioned training facility up your sleeve, somewhere?"

It's just -- it's so strange. A totally alien sensation, this whole possibility of actually getting people to do things, to work with him instead of fight him on every request. It hasn't been Danny's experience. Not at all. Not in years.

Danny looks. You know. Steve isn't sure. He doesn't have any clue what that is on Danny's face.

This pinched sort of confusion, that he's not sure what has to do with anything. But rather than make any sense of that questions just start firing out of Danny's mouth like bullets from an automatic rifle. Bang. Bang. Bang. Not waiting in the slightest for Steve to answer any of those questions, while he's just firing off more of them with those suspicious blue eyes and the hands that seem to be on a contact control with his mouth as well.

Makes it easier for Steve to just narrow his eyes a little at all of it, and jerk a thumb toward his door. "You getting in the car, or you just going to stand out here getting sunstroke?"

All that pale skin could not bode well for anyone. Tourist or hawaii hating new resident. Of course, he had a place. A place he hadn't wanted or cared about. But a place. What was Danny expecting? That they were going to work out of the shoebox of his car? Steve reached down to pull off the Shave Ice shirt with one hand as his other was reaching for the car door.

The shave ice gets tossed, and he's tugging his own shirt up and over his head as he heads back around the end of the car to the driver's side, rolling his eyes, because, fine. A non-answer is exactly the one he was looking for, right? It's not like this is the kind of information that would be good to share with your partner, no matter how newly requisitioned they are, no matter how poorly you get alone, like gasoline and lit matches.

But there's nothing to do, aside from getting back in the car and starting it up, casting a last glance across the beach, like he might actually see someone he knows, that's not quite searching for a little girl holding a pink stuffed rabbit as big as she is, before he's got a hand on the back of the passenger seat, and is looking over his shoulder to back out.

"Okay, well, they got about fifteen, twenty minutes to get something set up. Good thing you've got the Governor on speed-dial."

He's starting to think Steve could get it done on his own, actually, without bothering with things like proper channels and paperwork.

At least he follows direction well, Steve's thinking. Slipped into the seat, shirt tossed into the back.

When he's raising his eyebrows at Danny even while he's already looking for Jameson's number. He doesn't have many numbers. Hasn't acquired any for HPD. Or Danny or Chin for that matter, which he should rectify shortly, especially now that they are his team, and he might need them muster ready at anytime of days or night while on this case for Hesse. It's not like international terrorists care about anyone's sleep cycle.

If he had other numbers to call, he might call them. But the honest truth is, it's easier to annoy the top of the chain. Especially when she hasn't pushed back yet. She asked for him, and he said no. Vehemently, in the face of her begging and bribing. And then, he called and said yes. Took the case, took the officer, took someone else. She's already got one body count. And she knows he'll need more, that he could ask for everything. Keeps playing that face when she said Your rules, my backing, no red tap.

He's going to make her live by putting that on the table.

Which is exactly what he's doing when he's not giving Danny anything more than that look, while he's putting the phone next to his ear. When instead of answering questions that will soon be entirely obvious answers to the man in the driver's seat he's hearing Hello, Commander.

"We've got a lead," really didn't need any lead up. He's still nowhere near pleased he had a reason to get in bed with a politician. Especially one desperate enough to use his family against him, and to lay out promises of unending power. If something was too good, as the saying went. "I'm going to need a quick facelift on my HQ. We need access to HPD files ASAP."

The was a second of silence. "Fifteen minutes. Twenty, tops." Another, nodding to the phone and the window, as the scenery was starting to fly by. "Yes, Governor. I'll keep you updated if there any problems."

Which meant little more than that he'd send his problems to her if he had problems, even though he hadn't checked once with her to give an update on the people he hired, the choices he made, the body on the ground, the CI that had been paid. He was going liberal with his lack of red tape, and she could bring it up later if she had a problem with that. For now he had a name with Chin, and her word she'd get people on it right now, and that was all he needed as he hung up.

Edited 2014-01-27 00:37 (UTC)

He wonders how immeasurably deep the hole he'd be tossed into if he tried speaking that abruptly to a superior would be, and how long he would be left there to rot, because he doesn't exactly mince his words with his Captain, and look where that's gotten him. Even if the guy hated him already, for absolutely no good reason at all, aside from his mistrust of haoles.

But that's just another difference between them, right? Steve gets the same treatment, but he still gets results, runs roughshod over the bigotry that Danny's drowning in, like sinking in the slow pull of mud. People might side-eye him, or toss out that word, haole, like they're sticking a tag on his forehead, but they do what he says, anyway.

Danny's been out here with a megaphone and billboard for six months, and he couldn't say he's gotten even one single person to listen to a damn thing he's said or wanted since he started. "Is that satisfying?"

It's curious. He's curious, lifts one hand off the wheel to let it turn in the air, a shrug of a gesture. "Me, I would find that satisfying."

Ordering around a high-ranking government official, with no fear of repercussion, but then, maybe Steve is just fearless. SEALs are supposed to be, right? And it's not like the guy has so much as batted an eye at anything they've seen or done today, not even when he was hanging around the scene of his own father's murder. Danny guesses little things like asking for equipment, or going through the proper channels don't even ping his radar.

He's hitting the call off, while Danny is talking. Already. It's like a superpower. Or a compulsion.

Making him look up, with a crinkle to his brow, like maybe he doesn't get the reference. Or maybe he's missing something from the way he's asking about it. Some odd, nearly quiet, envy that Steve can't really place or make sense of. Especially when everything about Jameson hamstrings his annoyance. Steve hadn't yet seen anyone in all of this as more than a means to the ends of Hesse. Jameson had only been the first one that docket.

And it is. Even if his face doesn't give a twitch of that away. It is satisfying. Taking her for it.

Even if he knows it's a dangerous game of figuring out how much he can push before he meets the wall.

But he's not acknowledging that part of the comment. He's not acknowledging it feels good at least in a tiny drop. To have the resources at his beck and call, continually getting him what he needs or wants. Because it's everything is running in a straight line toward Hesse. To hear that pausing, curious, near envious tone coming from his left. Even if he just continued to give Danny a look like he's insane, or indecipherable. Rolls straight over that into the more important things.

"They're still working on wiring, and furniture, but we'll have a working computer and access to the database by the time we get there."

"You're a really stellar conversationalist, you know that?"

With a disbelieving glance tossed across the cab towards the passenger seat and the man sitting in it, while Danny's eyebrows climb up and in towards each other. Two things, Steve's said today, that haven't been directly related to the case. First his curiosity about Danno (and he can just keep being curious, okay, that's no one's business, and definitely not Steve's), and then actually answering a question about how he knew Chin.

And that's it. Does he even know how to have a conversation that isn't about a mission, or strategy, or collecting and following leads?

He rolls his wrist just enough to see the edge of the line of numbers stamped across the thin, pale skin inside it, frowns back at the road. It just doesn't make sense, okay? Steve is nothing like Rachel, and he's nothing like the girls Danny's been interested before, or the guys he's every now and again checked out (listen, you never know who the numbers will end up on, better to be prepared if at all possible so you're not dealing with a sudden about face of everything previously known about your own preferences). He's like no one Danny's ever met before: focused and steely, reckless, almost entirely silent after the first flurry of words in the garage.

Yeah, he doesn't get it. "Okay, well, anything else you want to pick up on the way? Equipment? Coffee? Food? Have you actually eaten today, or are you just running on righteous fury? Because I feel like that's got pretty much zip for nutritional value."

It's questionable whether any reaction really touches his face at the first outburst from Danny. A return to that commentary in the form of insults that does cause Steve to at least keep looking in that direction. Because he totally just gave him information. About what he was asking about before Steve made the call.

But Danny decides to leave his megaphone peanut gallery heckling for even more questions, which just leaves Steve staring at him wondering what the hell. Just seriously what the hell. Danny is railing about him not talking, but just watching Danny talk is like watching a human puzzle box exist at him. Every new breath has another slew of words in a different hue of emotion from the one before it. And. It. Just. Never. Stops.

He never shuts up. He's never at a loss for words. He never needs to take a breather.

Which, of course, has nothing to do with Steve's inability to answer the question in the middle there. He was everything on himself he needs until he needs another few mags of bullets. He doesn't even want the equipment he has. They're more details to a promise made that has a terminally short end date with Hesse. Right? But food. When was the last time he ate? When was the last time he felt hungry?

He doesn't want to think about why he knows he didn't eat earlier. He really doesn't want to detour and pause the case for it now. Even and close to shoulder still for his thoughts at least gets -- "Coffee might not be a bad idea."

It isn't. It's the shortwire, but he's run on less. He knows he'll be fine. He's still got days in himself. But he's got them, too.

"We have no idea how long we'll all be looking at files once Chin gives us the information on this guy."

"Okay, we'll get food."

That's not precisely what Steve said, but, for one, Danny is starving, being shot really jumpstarts a guy's appetite, and for two, that hesitation is pure robotic bullshit. It's heading well into the afternoon, and Danny seriously doubts that Steve bothered to stop and get something after running around the island stealing crime scenes from hardworking cops such as himself, because the guy had to actually stop and think about it. "Anything to get that shave ice flavor out of my mouth. If I've gotta have flavored ice, okay, first of all, it better be cherry," lifting his thumb from his finger, followed by his index finger -- one, two, "-- and it better be from Rita's. Anything else?"

All the fingers flatten out, and he sweeps his hand out, like he might possibly erase the menu of thirty-odd flavors and flavor combinations Kamekona had been accosting the beachgoers with. "Overkill. Just not natural. I will make an exception for lemon, but either way, okay, that was not food, so we are getting food, I'm starving, and I bet even SEALs need to eat sometime, or have they just started genetically modifying you all into actual robots, now?"

None of it particularly matters, he's just pouring words out into the air because he's got nothing better to do, while steadfastly ignoring the flash of red that blinks at him now and again as his hand waves.

It won't kill them to stop for a second. The office is still getting set up, and it wouldn't hurt to offer Chin something to eat, too, bridge a little of that gap.

Besides. He caught the way Steve hesitated, thought about it, waved it off again, and there's just no need for that here, today. It's not the middle of the freaking Serbian desert, all right, they can pause to grab a tuna sandwich, or something.

That wasn't what he said, but Danny does seem to give a rat's ass.

Goes on for nearly half a minute about shave ice and some place Steve hasn't a clue where is. It doesn't sound familiar, but then a lot of things neither look and read familiar, even when they feel it. For all he knows it could be some new place downtown that man only likes because it's his daughters favorite. Though maybe he doesn't have the worst taste. Steve likes those two. He likes tropical flavors, too. Or he did as a kid. Like them in drinks, especially once he was too gone to care.

But, of course, he comes round to his point. Round like he needed to circle Diamond Head before he could get back to why he decided that what Steve said about coffee totally somewhere equalled getting food in Danny's head. Which was that Danny wanted food. But couldn't say that, had to ask, like Steve somehow would have known. And Steve, and all SEALs, must be broken because he wasn't dying of hunger yet. Making Steve furrow his eyebrows, but toss out with something like annoyed perversion.

Because it still smarts as an annoyance that the man is insulting Navy SEALs, like their training was ever a problem.

"It's classified." Pretty much like every single thing he ever really did, said, was. He was a ghost with a gun.

"I could tell you, but--" This a head tip toward the window. Everyone knew how that one went.

And he'd hate to deprive another little girl of her dad in just shortly under two weeks.

"Really?"

It's heavily slanted towards disbelief and exasperation, just like the furrows digging themselves between Danny's brows as he glances over. "You're actually going to pull that card? Is that what passes for humor among you strong and silent types? Or, no, wait, I bet that's classified, too. Why did the chicken cross the road? I don't know, that information doesn't pertain to this mission and has been redacted."

He's just a barrel of laughs, this guy, with his monosyllabic answers, or lack of vocalization at all, and Danny's shaking his head even as he's signaling his turn.

(Not that he's all that interested. SEAL training seems about as appealing as getting a pillowcase full of nails slammed into his temple.)

There's another glance over. "Any place you haven't been in a while you might want to grab something from?" And, okay, he's leading. He is. If this were his first trip back to his hometown, he'd want to hit all his favorite spots: grab a corned beef special and cup of coffee from J's diner down the street, maybe a slice from that one dingy pizza place on the corner, and you never know. Lieutenant Commander Steve McGarrett might have missed a place or two while he was gone.

The guy has to be at least part human, right?

Anyplace he hasn't been in while...

Yeah. Everywhere. All eight islands.

Sure, there are a handful of places he knows won't have closed, but only because they were old before he even knew they existed, or existed to know they existed. Ones he doesn't want to know if have folded under in the past. And some here and there, mom and pop's hiding in holes, coming and going with the wind and the waves, like their owners and customers. All of those are there for the first time when he hits land and gone the next time with half decades or more between.

"Wherever's good." He just gives a tight, clipped shake of his head, like he can't really even shake it fully to either direction.

"An L&L, maybe." It was cheap, easy, and greasy. Local enough, and it's not like he cares enough to feel anything about faster food. Other than it is will be fast, and that's helpful for getting on to The Palace sooner rather than later.

"They've got plates to go." If he's going to insist on this nonsense and keep asking questions, like somehow Steve should want to wander down Hawaii's memory lane. "And whatever we get for Chin will probably work."

He wouldn't mind wandering Hawaii. Taking in a sight or two he remembers too well, gorgeous and more technicolor than technicolor, never fading with time, and never being less bright when he's here. Maybe even those places in those persistent dreams now and again that don't leave him alone. But there's nothing down memory lane for him here. A house covered in dust and blood and ghosts of people no one saw enough, half an island and half a breath away, that underneath it isn't covered in anything but more dust and blood and ghosts no one ever acknowledged either.

"Look at that, he makes a decision. L&L it is; I think there's one on the way."

Truthfully, he still can't quite adjust to the Hawaiian version of fast food. Instead of hoagies from a truck, or gyro, or anything else you could easily eat while walking, they're all about caloric mounds called plate lunches: white rice and charbroiled meats swimming in barbecue sauce or gravy, sometimes with an egg thrown on top, usually with something fried. How the hell Honolulu isn't the most obese city in America he's got no clue; everyone seems to be able to put them away without too much difficulty, whereas Danny feels like he's actively swallowing cement, like he might sink in water after one of them, if he were so foolish as to try and swim.

Which is not to say he isn't routinely foolish, okay, because he is, and this is all just another example of it, because he just can't leave well enough alone, can he? No matter who those numbers had stopped on, he would've found himself involved somehow, because he just can't stop himself, has, apparently, not yet had enough of the world blowing down his house of cards, stomping all over his pathetic sandcastles. No, he just keeps building them, then waits for someone to come along and burn them to the ground, hands them the matches and gasoline to do it.

Whatever. He's not doing this for some damn numbers on his wrist, he's doing it because it's his job, and he's good at his job, and because no one should have to hear their father die over the phone and then be forced to hunt down his murderer alone.

Steve watched the scenery blow by, still more stuck on those words than he wanted to be. More annoying than gnats circulating near his ears and dragging his focus away, they just kept returning. Or maybe it was, they just kept not leaving.

While he made light of it. Like Steve had named anything other than a place one could pass two or three of between the airport and wherever you were ending up. Maybe he's exaggerating, maybe Danny even means well, but it grates down against his skin, and those words, and the words they are dragging up. His Dad's voice, and all those words, he keeps replaying and rearranging, like somehow, if he scrambled them, and then made a cypher out of them, that last conversation would make more sense.

Steve just gave him a look, like it wasn't all coalescing as a bruise he kept punching purposefully, "You talk a lot."

Steve let it crinkle up his face, making it hard to tell if that was bland amusement or blank insult, or somehow combination of both wrapped up in the conundrum of watching Danny, and reporting back to him on all the things he sighted, from the roll of his head against the head rest. "You know that, right?"

It needed to go down in the book. Talks nonstop chatter like the silence had to be kept back with a swinging bat. Right under the line about being sensitive about everything under the sun. Was probably going to take this as the next right to do that, again. Which maybe that should have been a reason for Steve to keep his own mouth shut. But, hell, why would he start now. Danny was the one keeping them from just getting straight on with the job as it was.

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