5.07: The Aftermath
Mar. 11th, 2015 08:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
haole_copIn the end, the hospital doesn't put up too much of a fight about letting Steve go home, and while Danny's pretty sure it has more to do with Steve's belligerence and disdain for their care than anything else, he's not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. They'd kept him until they were sure his system had been flushed clean, but even so, Danny's been warned, over and over again -- probably because they want to make sure he understands what taking responsibility for Steve means, in this context -- that the effects of hallucinogens and psychotropics can make for a tricky recovery, with the possibility of future attacks.
But Steve seems lucid, even if he's still tired, and they do let him go.
Accompanied, of course, by a laundry list of prescriptions, that Danny dutifully gets filled, gives his word that he will make Steve take, and hopes it's not a lie. Steve has always been an intractable patient, and he's terrible even in the hospital, where his medication is mostly coming through IVs and he doesn't get a chance to ignore them, but he'll be impossible once home.
But it'll be better. Home. Their bed. No more doctors or nurses scurrying around. The sound of the waves, instead of the low and constant chaos of the hospital. A chance to shower (for him) or have a bath (for Steve), and eat, and sleep.
And more than that, to just be home. Which is still, somehow, insanely, safe. Even when he knows it isn't. That the beach house isn't safe, because the Marquis wasn't safe, because anything could happen anywhere at any time, and more than half of their job is staring down the barrel of shattered families who made that same mistake. Thought home was safe. Untouchable.
He knows it's not, but he can't shake it: this feeling that if he can just get Steve into the house, it'll be better. Steve will feel better. Can relax. Rest. Get well at his own pace, and without the rest of the world trying to crowd in on him. After a few days, Grace will come home, and that'll be good, too.
But nothing quite as good as pulling up in that white-shell driveway, tires crunching, and putting the Camaro into park, leaning over to look out the passenger side window, over Steve, because the only time Steve rides shotgun is when he's too hurt to drive. "Home sweet home."
It is. After all his worries, and fears, it really is home: this little white house with the sprawling yards, and the water stretching calmly out behind it.
It looks right. It looks just like it did when he left it, after seeing Steve that last morning, a week ago now. The Marquis isn't back in the garage yet, but he'll pick it up tomorrow, bring it back, and everything else is just right. Chin and Malia were here, to put some food in the fridge and take out the trash Danny hadn't gotten to, because he hadn't been here all week, but it's empty now, sun-filled and friendly when they make it to the door and Danny unlocks it, swings it open.
He's not sure he's ever been so glad to see this neat living room, the leather couch, the knick-knacks on the walls. "Oh, good, nobody redecorated while we were away: that's a load off."
But Steve seems lucid, even if he's still tired, and they do let him go.
Accompanied, of course, by a laundry list of prescriptions, that Danny dutifully gets filled, gives his word that he will make Steve take, and hopes it's not a lie. Steve has always been an intractable patient, and he's terrible even in the hospital, where his medication is mostly coming through IVs and he doesn't get a chance to ignore them, but he'll be impossible once home.
But it'll be better. Home. Their bed. No more doctors or nurses scurrying around. The sound of the waves, instead of the low and constant chaos of the hospital. A chance to shower (for him) or have a bath (for Steve), and eat, and sleep.
And more than that, to just be home. Which is still, somehow, insanely, safe. Even when he knows it isn't. That the beach house isn't safe, because the Marquis wasn't safe, because anything could happen anywhere at any time, and more than half of their job is staring down the barrel of shattered families who made that same mistake. Thought home was safe. Untouchable.
He knows it's not, but he can't shake it: this feeling that if he can just get Steve into the house, it'll be better. Steve will feel better. Can relax. Rest. Get well at his own pace, and without the rest of the world trying to crowd in on him. After a few days, Grace will come home, and that'll be good, too.
But nothing quite as good as pulling up in that white-shell driveway, tires crunching, and putting the Camaro into park, leaning over to look out the passenger side window, over Steve, because the only time Steve rides shotgun is when he's too hurt to drive. "Home sweet home."
It is. After all his worries, and fears, it really is home: this little white house with the sprawling yards, and the water stretching calmly out behind it.
It looks right. It looks just like it did when he left it, after seeing Steve that last morning, a week ago now. The Marquis isn't back in the garage yet, but he'll pick it up tomorrow, bring it back, and everything else is just right. Chin and Malia were here, to put some food in the fridge and take out the trash Danny hadn't gotten to, because he hadn't been here all week, but it's empty now, sun-filled and friendly when they make it to the door and Danny unlocks it, swings it open.
He's not sure he's ever been so glad to see this neat living room, the leather couch, the knick-knacks on the walls. "Oh, good, nobody redecorated while we were away: that's a load off."
