AU: Trope Minefield

[haole_cop]

He's pretty sure this goes against his contract.

Actually, he's sure it goes against not only his contract, but also the various non-harrassment papers they all have to sign every time some aide in the Governor's office gets a little twitchy.

Like after Lori left. And after he and Gabby...

Well.

So maybe he hasn't made the best choices in the world, in the last few years. Maybe things have been a little extra rough, for him and Steve and the rest of the team, between Doris and Kono wandering around looking for Adam and --

(he doesn't think about Reyes, or about Matt, unless he has to, and he doesn't have to, tonight, so he just skips, like a record needle scratching)

-- well, that building. With the bomb. (And Amber, who -- speaking of bad ideas. Good kid. But a kid.)

Anyway you slice it, they deserve a win, Five-0. All of them do. It's been a hard few years, and they've all taken their lumps.

So when this got served up to them, it seemed too good to be true. Right? Straightforward. Sleek facade concealing sleazy underhanded deals, that first came across Duke's desk for possible fraud and tax evasion, now linked to not one, but two murders -- which means it's theirs, now.

Danny was even happy about it, until it turned out they'd be going in UC, until he's the one pulling open the door, stepping into a wash of air conditioning and dim lighting from Hawaii's sultry Saturday night, until this plan started looking less like recon and more like a heist.

At least this suit still fits.

Comments

[thebesteverseen]

The ring of heat is still on his wrist when he's walking away. His back to Danny. Hands straightening his jacket back correctly, even if he doesn't go as far as to retuck the rumpled parts of his shirt under it. Does note as he's smoothing the lines that his rose is completely messed up now. Missing petals and mashed up against itself. Them. Only the ribbon looks unfettered by what just happened. Steve's wished to be a lot of things in his life. A ribbon wasn't ever one of them.

Steve'd rather start carving strips of his skin than let his mind wander. Except it won't stop. The taste of scotch and Danny is like an echo in his mouth, even when he can't taste it on his tongue or his teeth. It feels like there's the heat of a sunburn loitering over too much of him. Shoulder, back, stomach. He'd like to find an ice bucket and shove his hand in it, so he could relieve the rest of his reaction to what just happened. Make it stop before it was noticed.

He's supposed to be a cop. Even if he isn't. A SEAL. No matter who or where he is.

He is not, within any realm or regard, supposed to look like one of the perverted patrons of this place.

There is no place to headbutt a column. There's really no place to go, and no place to spend thinking about all of this. Because he never goes out the door either. He does open it. But he doesn't step through. Gives the suited bouncer barely a look, before looking over his shoulder. Back to where Danny is already gone, and there's the shape of someone following. He meant to say, Nevermind.

But it never came out.

Because he's waiting. Only the pause of handful of heartbeats. Only enough to watch the man slip through the same opening where Danny must have gone, before he's following. Only one of two people even looking up as he crossed. Busy with themselves. One of them may have tried to say something but he barely registered the voice even, as he was crossing the space. Soundlessly specific, following after both of them.

The weight of his gun in his pant leg welcome shift of focus from any other part of his clothes. But he needed to wait. They needed this to go down right. Incriminating. Toss the book because it's too easy. Not just him decided to fly after the guy and deck him into the wall. The floor. Not just because Steve needed someone to take out the fierce, heavy darkness suddenly surrounding everything in his head.

[haole_cop]

He can feel it, humming under his skin. The wrongness of it, even now that it's back to being right.

Steve should be walking away. They should be working the perp. It's their job. And soon, they'll make the collar, and everyone will go home, and never speak of this again, maybe.

(Even if Danny knows that's already a lie. He'll have to talk about it. Apologize for it. Try to find some way to explain, that will somehow, miraculously, veil the truth.)

He might even pass the clean-up off onto HPD, too. Call them in on the place. Leave it swarming with cops, and just take off.

They're so close. He can hear the man's footsteps behind him.

Leaving him to pause at a door, as if considering it. Not turning. Not looking. Leaving himself out as bait. It won't take --

Iron fingers circle his arm. A sudden bulk next to him, that's not as large as Steve and Steve's familiar shape, and a voice that isn't Steve's comes low into his ear, while Danny allows himself to startle, to look scared.

He mostly just hopes there won't be any concussions, this time around. "I'd decide to take a pass on this one, if I were you."

It's low and rough and angry in his ear, and Danny tests the grip by tugging, only for it to tighten further. "Hey, hey, hey," he says, protesting, his other hand coming up. "I'm just here to have a good time. I don't want to step on anybody's toes, okay? If he's yours --"

The fingers go tighter, and the voice sounds throttled, now. "As if I would debase myself like that. Perverts. Throwing around money. Owning people. You should be in hiding. You should be dead."

"Hey," Danny starts, again, his hand lifting a little further, but it stops dead, when he feels the prick of a needle against the skin at the back of his neck.

He can almost hear the shark grin. "It's alright. You'll be a nice little reminder of why people should behave. Or, you will, when they find you. Now move."

Shoving Danny towards that back door, the one that leads to the alley, with a low laugh, that's probably supposed to be a threat, but, frankly, Danny is feeling pretty fed up with this whole situation, and they have what they need.

"I am so glad you said that," he says, moving toward the door -- they may as well take this outside, keep the disruption to a minimum before they can call HPD -- and opening it, at the man's urging. "Seriously, you just made my whole night."

[thebesteverseen]

Steve waits until he's at the hallway, eyes on the retreating duo, the man strong arming Danny toward the door, to lean down and pull out the gun on his calf holder. Safety off. Not stopping more than seconds before he's following them with quick steps. Everything else forgotten, but the most important. The reason.

Following the sound of the burble of Danny's voice suddenly spiking high enough to make Steve want to rush but he doesn't. He's got faith in Danny's abilities, and he's right here. Following along the wall. Shoulders nearly to it, gun up, but not far enough up someone coming up behind him would see it.

Though right now would be a very bad time for anyone to come this direction. For him to need to handle anyone else.

When that door is swinging behind them and Steve shoves a foot between it and doorframe. Watching it catch on the rubber soled side of his boot without much noise, while the man scoffs. Repugnant disgusts and intensity in that voice that still reaches him through the slice of space. "Your night would have been best spent somewhere else. Anywhere else. It might have saved your life."

The man even laughed at that, rough and thin. "But you won't be able to make that mistake again."

[haole_cop]

Despite his bulk, Steve is pretty good at sneaking up on people. He might not be hiding under forest cover right now, his face streaked with mud and paint, but he's still barely a shadow.

Still, Danny knows he's there. The door doesn't swing quite all the way closed, and his new friend doesn't notice it, but he should. Without knowing it, he's already lost. "You say that," he says, hands still up and careful, moving into the alleyway with the guy right behind him, "but of all the mistakes I've made tonight -- and there have been a bunch, I promise you, there was a whole lot of not thinking and poor choices made -- I think yours is still worse."

"Yeah?" There's a push at his back, and Danny finds himself facing the man, who's lifting his needle -- that drug Max identified, the one that keeps the victims from running -- and advancing again. "What mistake is that?"

"That you fell for it."

A mistake they share, maybe, because there's still that roiling, confused part of Danny's chest that doesn't want to admit that it was nothing more than a cover, that it was just making it look good, but he doesn't have much time to worry about it, when the guy lunges, and Danny has to block the arm coming down, needle glinting in the dim alleyway light.

There's a scuffle. His hand is around the guy's wrist, and he's getting pushed back, which would be fine, until he steps on a trashcan lid that rattles under his heel and makes him lose his balance.

Which is not great, but that's what Steve's for, right? "Any time, now," he yells, focusing on keeping the other guy back. "That would be just stellar."

"What?"

The guy steps back, looking shifty. "You got back up? You're a fucking cop?"

Except it's kind of a rhetorical question, because that's right about when he turns, and starts to run.

[thebesteverseen]

Danny rambles, using whatever he needs to grab at for it, and Steve doesn't listen. Does. Because Danny can shoot his mouth off for hours, and even go erratic with what he's saying, the examples he uses. But one thing is always true. Danny doesn't. Even when part of Steve is saying he has to be. Still. Like he....was. Except it sounds exactly like a follow up on that 'was' when he's mouthing off to the guy.

The mistakes he made tonight, a lot of not thinking and poor choices made. That all sounds about right for what Steve's already figure out.

Even if Steve doesn't get the time to think about it, because suddenly there's the sounds of scuffle and Danny is calling out to him (instead of calling him out) and the door gets a good shove, while the guy's voice is suddenly panicking, which is all Steve needs. It's not like they need more than what's already happening, when Steve's getting out. The guy with the needle jumping, back, looking around.

Shifty, asking that question and turning on his heels, just as Steve shouts, "Five-0! Hands where we can see them!"

Not that he's going to listen. He wasn't already before the words were out. Throwing the syringe and jack rabbiting off.

Not that Steve says it for anything more than show, and the official required announcement, because he's already three or four steps in, pushing through the space he just dashed away from next to Danny. It's a crowded alley of dumpsters and boxes, for all the establishments and the guy, obviously, hasn't had to run down it before. Hadn't considered it now. Because he panics in a way that announces itself like head lights.

He knows which way he's going, doesn't hesitate in that, but he's sloppy. Looking over his shoulder and catching sight of Steve, only to almost go crashing into a pile and losing steps for it. Sending bags toppling, something metal skittering, and he's trying to figure out what it is. Which brushes off seconds and gives Steve all the motivation he needs to throw himself, with a vicious lack of care and itching want for the worst, at the man's back and send them down in a solidly jarring tumble of limbs and shouting.

[haole_cop]

They never listen, and they always run, and, just like every other time this happens, Danny thinks Steve enjoys it too much.

The chase. The panic in their perp. And, of course, bodily throwing himself at another person who may or may not be armed. "Hey!"

He twisted his ankle a little, but it's fine when he puts his weight on it, jogs down the alley to where Steve and the guy are a tangled pile of limbs, his own sidearm in hand. Not that it's needed, when Steve's clearly got this under control, by way of being a landslide of a person guaranteed to hit like a mountain coming down, and Danny's already dropping his gun by the time he gets close, shaking his head instead, even if he's not totally sure what he's most exasperated about: Steve, going in without a tac vest, the perp, for being a sick piece of human garbage, or himself, for...everything, tonight. "You know bringing him in will get delayed if he has to get checked out for internal bleeding, right?"

It's something he'd say any day, he's sure. He's always annoyed at Steve, when Steve pulls shit like this, tackling dirtbags into garbage cans and brick walls, without giving a damn about what might happen on the way down.

It's got nothing to do with everything still humming under his skin, twisting in his stomach, anxious and sharp. He's a fucking professional, okay, and he won't let it affect his job or the performance of his duty.

(Any more than it already has.)

[thebesteverseen]

It's a blistering kind of relief, a different kind of blasting through brimstone and accelerant, as the itch in his skin explodes into heat. A reddish flash covering his vision more than anything like pain that needed focus or recognition or attention, as the man flattens in shock only long enough to lose his breath, before he's struggling under Steve's girth. A rat trying to escape a ship wreck, a body shuddering under the collapsed shower of bricks.

Steve's jaw is tight, but it's almost a smile.

A vicious glee and flash of expected annoyance.

Because he has to pull back. Only enough to get to his knees, weight still hard as battering ram on the man's back and waist. Before Steve moved whip crack fast, getting a knee on his spine and hearing the oof of breath that fled him again. Body caving forward, while Steve grabbed one arm, jerking it backwards and forcing the opposite shoulder into the ground, through a stream of winded, gasping threat even while the first cuff latched tight. "Pigs. Dirty pigs. Even you. I saw you, both of you. Enjoying your--"

"Hands behind your back," Steve said sharply. Hands harder than necessary as some part of him responded with ice sharpness at the truth in those words. Steve's mind flashing only too unhelpfully to the hand under his jacket. Fingers fisted in his hair. The noises. The taste on his tongue.

Fake. Fake, except where he hadn't been entirely. Tried to be, but couldn't.

Because Danny never lets him keep his lies. Not even in this.
Even if he can never know. How true it was.

He had enjoyed it.
Blistered. Burned. Wanted.


The second clicked under his fingers. Absolutely still digits that wanted to dig into this man .Violent for the trespass. To crack his jaw. Bash his teeth. Make sure he could never speak a single word. Never make anyone hear it, and need him to lie about one of the things he learned most to bury down and make a lie, except in the darkest night or deepest bottle. There's a hard glance toward Danny, because this was his part. Always his part. When Steve is snapping upward, fast as a shot, deadly fast, followed by a stillness of shoulders that said nothing about ease, while dragging the staggering man to his feet.

Pushing him, without mercy toward his partner. "Book'em, Danno."

[haole_cop]

He's half-bending to re-holster his sidearm in the ankle holster he had to use with this suit, these pants, when Steve's up and the guy's getting shoved in his direction, like Steve's the one running now, and the perp is a garbage can he's tossing in Danny's way to slow him down.

Which might be an accurate read of the whole situation, when what comes next are those words, that Danny hates, that sound nothing like they should. That aren't grinning and triumphant, with the smug certainty that Steve can get away with it, that it's become Steve's thing, after Danny fought against it for so long, never allowed, only accepted it wasn't going away.

It's too terse, too blank, and Steve doesn't look satisfied, the way he usually does when he's gotten to bodyslam some jerk into the pavement. He's pushing the guy at Danny hard enough Danny has to catch him to keep him from losing his balance, while straightening.

All of which is easy enough to read, even if Danny wishes it weren't: he's not forgiven, and Steve doesn't want to talk about it, and Steve just wants to get the job done.

They can do that. Get the job done, and talk about it later, because it's going to have to be talked about, because Danny needs to get this off his chest, the guilt and the disgust and the horror at himself, at everything he did, allowed himself to do. "Call it in," he says, instead, before grabbing the guy by the collar, and pushing him towards the end of the alley, towards the car and the real world.

To book him. And get rid of him. Because that's what they do, right? Clean the world of another bad guy. At any cost.

Even this one.

[thebesteverseen]

Danny still doesn't look certain. He even, Steve doesn't want to start extrapolating the obvious reasons, looks guilty. Disgusted. Remote. Which cinches it entirely, doesn't it, when Danny only has three words for him, again, and doesn't even start calling the guy a smuck, insulting his choice of life calling, or even reading him his rights immediately.

He just gives Steve three words. Tells him to do his job, while taking the guy away.

Leaves him with only that to do. Call it in. Call everyone in. Because he can. Take it all down tonight. The guy in Danny's hand, being shoved toward the car and the place they are just now outside of, that exists for all the best and worst reasons. That needs to come down brick by brick, because it costs more, breaks more laws, than any amount of solace it grants anyone.

The solace that he can understand just a little too well taking his sharp look to the wall, when the idea slides around the back of his mind, getting into the gears and sliding like a shaft of light from a crack door, a groaning locked crate, oily and years old. He could find someone. Who looks too much, and absolutely nothing really, like. Take it out on them. Break himself on it.

Except it doesn't sound good. It's sour bile in the back of his throat. He didn't do it when Cath left, and he doesn't want it anymore tonight than he ever did then. He didn't want someone he has to look at. Lie to. Even talk to. The idea of the ruse is exhausted. Depraved. Makes him even worse than everything he's already shown himself to be. Danny would be even more disgusted in him. In what he was willing to do. To Danny. To someone else. To himself.

Steve dug in his pocket, pulling out his phone and hit the speed dial for Lukela.

"Yeah." Is brusque, only just making him realize he's half out of breath. Throat still dry. "We got him. Got everything we need. Bring everyone you've got that's available to be pulled."

Steve looked toward the car. Still and steady. Toward the impossible to miss register of Danny's voice down the way. There was a breath in Steve's nose, before he headed that way, gun still in one hand, while he shoved his phone back in his pocket, and made himself keep going. Keep doing the job. Not needing Danny to tell him how to do the only thing he seemed to be able to do without making a mess of.

[haole_cop]

In a strange twist, this guy won't stop talking.

Even after Danny gets to everything you say can and will be used against you, he's still spouting off. He almost sounds relieved about it, like their sting lanced some ugly boil, and all the infection is coming pouring out.

"-- gotta clean the streets," he's saying, "somebody's got to do it, and I was right, wasn't I, you two are just as bad as any of them in there, sick. I saw you. Both of you."

"Shut up," Danny suggests, with a shove, but the guy won't, just keeps talking, and it's just plain kismet that they've reached the car, and Danny can push him into the frame, and get a satisfying oof, that might not settle everything coiling and tense in his stomach, but does provide some slight, edged relief.

Probably not a good sign.

Which only means it's worse when he starts up again. "You pigs, you disgust me. It's not right."

Danny shakes him, hard. "Shut up. You're the worst, you know that? The worst. You don't get to take the law into your own hands. You don't get to decide what's right or wrong, okay, we will do that for you, we are literally paid to do that for you, so scumbags like you don't get to take those decisions on and do what you did. People are dead because of you."

There's a knife-edge glint to the man's smile. "And you would be, too, on any other night."

Making something in Danny's gut freeze, solid, and shatter. Because he wouldn't. He wouldn't be there on any other night.

Except there were nights when he might not have been able to say that. And nights when it could have. Maybe not this place. But one maybe not too unlike it.

Which just means he leans his weight against the guy, while blue lights flash in the distance, and turns his head so he's forced to see them coming. "Not anymore."

[thebesteverseen]

Steve makes it halfway down the alley before he turns back, looking to the right and then the left, making himself walk back through his memory the way he always has. Does. Eyes squint toward a half dozen piles and he moves off there. Danny in the background, a comfort he shouldn't be listening to. Letting distract him when he starts tossing boxes and bags. Toeing a foot against broken crate pieces. Careful but specific.

Until there's a tink and he stills, studying the ground, letting his eyes find it.

A syringe with a long glinter silver needle.

He doesn't have gloves in his pocket. They hadn't thought they'd need them here tonight. They weren't here to case someone's place and make sure nothing got changed. There's a consideration about it only half a second before he reaches up and starts tugging his tie off. A little rougher than he needs to, but it comes off, and he puts it over his own fingers. Fingertip pad and the insides. Picks it up carefully with it, even though it's slick inside of it.

Then headed back toward Danny at the end of the alley.

Lights were catching everywhere, blue lights chased by shadows and blue again, thrown on the wall, the camaro, and the two men waiting, as people were coming up to him.

"I need an evidence bag over here," Steve called out to one of them. Stern and straight forward as he was walking out. Catching the eye of Duke, working his way through the storm of his people, night dressed but just as focused as ever, running orders for groups that are manning up for the doors, while he was coming toward them. Talking to the Sergeant, even as he was depositing both of the things in his hand into the bag someone held open for him. "It's all yours now."

[haole_cop]

The guy just laughs, and Danny snaps, a little. The thing under his skin crackling, every breath aching. "What did any of them do to you, huh? What did they hurt? Did they spill coffee on you, or make you lose money? Huh?"

He's shaking the guy, and pushing his face into the side of the car, harder than he should. As hard as he was pulling Steve towards him. As hard as he should have pushed Steve away. "What did we do that pissed you off so fucking much that you decided I needed to die? Who gave you the right?"

There's no response, which is just as well, because a squad car is coming streaking down the alley, slowing to a crawl about twenty feet away and parking, just in time for Danny to lever the guy off the Camaro and start pushing him towards the uniform that gets out. "Here," he says, "take him. Get him away from me, if I see his face again, he's not going to look much like himself in his mugshot."

His anger has never been cold -- even with Reyes, it was scalding hot and immediate, full of the promise of violence, begging to be set loose. Everything the rules tell him not to do. Every reason he depends on them, listens to them, needs them.

Like tonight.

He needed them tonight. Needed to remember them, instead of set them on fire and watch them burn. Needed to obey them first, and his instincts second. Should never have thought he could bend them. That never works out, and it's never a good idea, and it always screws him over worse than actually playing by them would have, to begin with.

All of which is crystallizing itself into perfect clarity, when he's watching Steve talk to Duke. Hand him an evidence bag. Turn away.

Away. Not towards Danny, like usual. Not to slap his shoulder and enjoy the success of a job well done. Not to suggest they celebrate, or unwind, or shoot the shit for a while to calm down, cool off.

Not tonight. And Danny can't blame him, for walking away, for avoiding him, but he can't let it happen, either. Everything that went down tonight -- what he did, what he demonstrably didn't do -- it needs to be atoned for. If he can. He needs Steve to know he's not another one. One more person to take advantage of him, use him, and never talk about it again.

And then Steve can walk away, if he needs to. But not before. "Hey."

Walking, quick steps towards Steve's side, like usual, one hand in his pocket, the other swinging by his hip, with a tilt of his head towards the now swarming collection of blue lights and uniforms. "Looks like they got it under control."

[thebesteverseen]

Steve watches the crowd. It's not that he isn't specifically watching other things -- other people, persons in specific -- but it might be that it's a bit convenient, too. Watching to see anyone tries to come running out the front, the back, the sides. The rat holes for the sinking ship as the sounds of the ship cracking on the rocks go up in half a dozen voices from all sides of the building. With people starting to be led out.

HPD is good at its job. It's not their first bust. Or even hundredth. But he watches anyway.

Had only turned to it, when Danny was suddenly calling out to him. Making him look suddenly, before the impulse was even a thought to figure out if he wanted to listen to his eyes were on Danny. Struggling as though pulling up his own nails to make sure his gaze did not wave. Did not drop to Danny's mouth. Neck. Shirt. Anything at all below the bridge of his nose. Even if he had this sudden delirious notion maybe none of it was real.

Except it was, and he couldn't pull it out of the world any more in this second than he could ten minutes back. He wishes he'd smashed the guys face into the ground. Or broke some of his ribs. Accidentally. He's going to be paying for the hours before that few minutes of takedown for a lot longer than that guy will even remember to think of them.

They won. He isn't supposed to care about the cost. He's supposed to be willing to take any cost to stop the darkness that exists out there. Any sacrifice. Any choice. Any necessity. He swore it. Before God and Country. But this one makes the insides of his guts whine with the tension of the knots in them that are refusing to budge in his still hold. Because the whole concept is one that he can't let start. Because it does. If it starts. He doesn't know how to stop it. Where it would. What would go. What would be left.

So, he nods, sweeping his gaze back to the HPD leading out men in nice suits.

Some looking genuinely shocked, others arguing. "Yeah."

[haole_cop]

Steve looks at him, finally, but it's not even a second's passing glance before he's looking away again. Which is. Great. That's great.

If Danny were a smarter man, he might just leave him alone. The warning signs are all there: the tension in his frame, how he's holding himself. The way he watches HPD, when on a normal day he wouldn't notice them any more than he would worker ants. The tight nod. The monosyllabic answer.

Nothing like the reassurances whispered into the side of Danny's neck, that Danny wishes he couldn't remember like they're scratched on an un-ending record in his head. All of it a sign painted in blood-red, to back off, and leave him alone.

But Danny can't. Not yet. If he does now, he'll just be playing into Steve's expectations. Being one more person Steve trusted, who abused that trust. Who lied. One more reason for Steve to simply not trust anyone, ever again.

So he pushes forward, as if this were normal and his insides didn't feel like someone lined them with silica and took a blow-drier to them, leaving him desiccated and hollow. "I guess we can call it a night, huh?"

Let HPD do their job. Go home. Get this night over with, so they can come back in on Monday, in a couple of days, and have things be something like normal.

Maybe with forty-eight hours to work it over, Steve will have time to cool off and forgive him. Maybe Danny can convince him.

Maybe pigs will fly and tomorrow morning, Danny will wake up loving Hawaii. Stranger things have happened.

[thebesteverseen]

They should, shouldn't they? Call it night. Get in the camaro, because Steve never needs a second vehicle. Even if he wishes he could make the truck appear right now. The thought of the camaro. The tiny space. The drive to his house. Danny's second reminder now that they could, should, get going. End this night. This could be over. That he has to get rid of Steve, before can be rid of Steve. Not that he couldn't catch a ride with someone here.

But it would look. . . odd. Noticeably. They come together. They leave together. It would lead to questions, and more lies.

He can make it the short car trip. Let Danny off the hook after doing what he has to to get done with this night. With Steve.

"Looks like." Steve said, turning back from the boys and give a raise of eyebrows, with a head tip, toward the Camaro. Even though he made no motion to either steal Danny's keys or pull out his own for it. If anything, just looking at the car made something in shoulders want to tense even further. The small space that never felt too small just shrinking in on itself, like a clown car before a giant, reminding him.

Of being pulled suddenly against Danny on the wall. Of pushing Danny into the second one.

Danny's hands always waving in the air no matter who was driving, and how easy it was to smack a shoulder or a leg while bemoaning the idiocy of the other. He didn't want to be that close. Didn't deserve to be that close. To have Danny still even needing to do this because there was no other way around it. Not without an even bigger scene having to take place, or link itself to the prior.

He'd been through colder walks, and nights, and weeks. Even months. It was just a car, and if he kept saying it maybe he'd believe.

[haole_cop]

Steve doesn't say anything else, but he does nod to the Camaro, which is...not great, but workable. At least he's not trying to stick around, or convince Danny he can get a ride with one of the HPD boys because he needs to stay and bring every one of these people in.

Even if it's quietly all wrong, which rings loud as an alarm in Danny's head. Steve should be halfway to the driver's side by now, so Danny can complain -- again -- about not being able to drive his own damn car -- like always. He's not really moving at all, even when Danny half-turns, and waits for him, before lifting his hand to push at his shoulder.

Before he remembers. That he shouldn't. Which leads just to an aborted motion, an awkward lift of his hand to rub his mouth, before he drops it again, and heads towards the car, all brash walk and shoulders, quick steps, as if he might be able to out-run what he almost did, because it would have been normal to do.

Push Steve's shoulder. Take him by the arm. Smack him in the back of the head and complain about him day-dreaming, and taking up valuable time during which Danny could be asleep, for God's sake, it's the weekend, they should get to be home.

All the things he could, would say, echoing in his head, and drying up in his mouth before they can become words. Only managing a: "Come on, did someone plant you? Let's get out of here," before his hand's on the handle of the passenger seat door.

And Steve still hasn't stolen his keys.

Danny should love that. He should love a lot about this -- Steve being quiet, Steve being slow -- but he's pretty sure it's the worst possible sign there could be.

[thebesteverseen]

Steve can go long periods of time without breathing. It helps when swimming. Or anywhere the altitude is thinner. It's not usually a concern. A lot of the time it can even come in handy as a perk he didn't know he needed until he was needing it during something. Or not breathing through something. Where one would usually need to. Holding his breath isn't the problem. But then holding his breath doesn't stop the sudden richotte like someone shot him.

When Danny reaches out, or at least it looked like he was going to, and then stopped.
Shifted, rubbed at his mouth, dropping his hand like it might have been on fire, and walked away.

Leaving Steve staring. Breathless. The world cracking everywhere. He'd fucked up everything. Everything.

It wasn't bad enough he couldn't make it work with Cath, and now he was showing Danny out with a case, too. He should have known days ago, when it came up. He should have stopped it as soon as Danny tried to kiss him, telling him not to punch Danny in the face. Because that's what anyone else would do, right? Punch a guy in the face for kissing him. Punch him for overstepping every personal boundary. Puch him for the audacity of being touched.

Because those stupid moments, where the air vanished, or where hugs lingered, hands and smiles, weren't anything but that. Moments. A hook. A snag. Nothing real. Or, at least, nothing more real than a slightly more intense than usual bond of friendship. He'd always known. He'd accepted that. Years ago. Why had he let it come rushing out tonight. What excuse was there at all for shoving his tongue down Danny's throat, letting his hands get all over Danny. Having undone his vest. For his mouth against Danny's neck. His whole weight, all of him pinning Danny.

None of it was worth it. A fuck wasn't worth it. A feel up couldn't get close.

But he could screw them both of everything. So badly that Danny didn't even want to touch him now.

Danny snaps at him and Steve, following, can't avoid the acknowledgement Danny's already at the passenger side door. Which means he's driving. Danny's just going along with it. Status quo. The norm. Steve should want to drive. Danny should just stay out of his way. Except he doesn't say anything about. He just goes there. absolutely silent about the fact he's putting Steve into the seat for driving, while prodding Steve about not moving fast enough.

He can make this fast. For both of them. The camaro is good at that. Fast.

They can get in, get there, and he can get out. They can both try to forget all of this.

"In a rush much?" Steve makes himself say. Gruff, and with an eye roll. Shove himself to something normal. Something blink. Something as far from that building as possible. Stepping around the silver hood and getting toward his door, while he held up a hand a target. "Keys." Beat. "Unless you aren't planning on letting us get anywhere anyway."

[haole_cop]

He realizes, as Steve's following him, finally, that Steve's tie is gone. Making him think back to standing at the bar, wrapping his fingers around the silk, and tugging, and how he knew he'd pay for it.

Like he is, now. This moment. Potentially for the rest of the night, the weekend, the week, forever. Maybe he finally found the thing Steve wouldn't forgive.

It's not until he's turning to open the passenger seat door, and Steve's finally holding up his hands for the keys and saying Danny's in too much of a rush (of course he'd say that, it's not like he wants to be stuck in a tiny space with Danny after the shit Danny pulled, but they don't have an option, exactly) that he realizes his own outfit isn't exactly as precise as it was when he walked through the door: the vest is hanging loose, and his shirt is rumpled.

Buttons Steve undid, while pressing him against the wall, that Danny dragged him into. Before hauling him down the hallway. With that smile. Those promises.

All the things Steve did, to make this op work. To be the best. To make it look good. Convincing. To make a guy with a syringe and a knife follow them into the dark and make a mistake.

He never meant to catch Danny in it, too, but that's Danny's mistake. His problem. He can't blame Steve for not wanting to deal with it, but they'll have to. They're partners, and they need to be able to work together, which isn't something Danny's had to question in almost five years.

Five years he's just smashed, maybe irreparably. "You know I hate being out late," he says, finally sticking his hand in his pocket to find the keys, toss them over the roof to Steve in a motion that feels mechanical, for all he's done it a thousand times. "What, you want to stick around?"

Something catches his eye, some sixth sense tickling the hairs at the back of his neck, and he half-turns, fingers already fixing the buttons on his vest, hand lifting to comb his hair back into place, to see the guy from the bar -- the one who thought he could have Steve -- glaring at him, as a uniform eases him into a cruiser.

Well, it's not like either of them are going to be having a great night, after all.

[thebesteverseen]

Steve's answer is probably too hard, when he's trying to, and unable to, ignore the fact Danny is fixing himself back into one piece. Buttoning his vest and smoothing his hair, and it makes Steve's skin itch. He wants to be out of this suit entirely, have it off all of his skin, and somewhere else. Swimming into the blackness. Drinking something too sharp and too hard. Neither of those involve him needing someone else, or having to lie to them.

He caught the keys, with a single black note, "No." Dropping and pushing into the car after the catch.

Danny's still out there, doing god knows what, that Steve doesn't want to look over at, because the space between the door and the window will have him level with Danny's chest and those buttons. Which he can already see too much of, twisted like Danny is looking somewhere else, anywhere else, getting fucking cold feet about even getting into his own car with Steve. Even after throwing Steve the keys. Even after shoving at Steve to get over here, get in, get going.

He's somewhere else. Anywhere else. And Steve lets his teeth lock briefly pushing a breath out his nose slowly and heavy, but silent in its control, as he realizes the rose on his lapel is half broken at this point. It's probably been flopping back and forth since he slammed into the perp. Steve reached up pulling the thing off. Pin, ribbon and all. Dropping it in the cup holder, and wishing he could pull everything else off his skin as easily.

"If you don't get in the car, I'm going to leave you here." Steve said, toward the body in the doorway. The one he still wasn't looking at. Buttoned vest, waist hips. Other buttons. Too much grey. All grey. Right to the side of his vision. An insanity he'd gotten so good at being used to and suddenly it was everywhere, in every thought, a snap of lightning under every thought. One hand firm on the wheel, and the other putting the key in. Turning on the familiar rumble of the engine, that sounded rough and caustic tonight. So ready to be anywhere but here.

Steve, too. Anywhere other than here. The building. The car. Danny's side. He didn't need, or want, or deserve any of them.

[haole_cop]

It's all wrong, nothing like how Steve normally snaps at him after a case they closed, after getting the bad guy, after saving the day. There's nothing grinning in Steve's voice, nothing celebratory or smug.

It's just pure annoyance. Maybe even hatred.

Which hasn't been something Danny's considered as part of their relationship, no matter how many times he fumes to Steve that he hates him and everything about him, his driving, this island, his recklessness and military background. They haven't hated each other in years. Maybe not since that first day. That first beer. The first time they won, together. Were a team. Partners.

But Steve might hate him now, and Danny's got to let him, if that's the case.

Steve, turning on the car before Danny's even all the way in it, like he's ready to peel out as soon as Danny's ass hits the seat, which makes Danny glance over at him as he's in, and shutting the door, and reaching for the seatbelt, without anything good to say, at all.

He knows what he should say. How he should apologize. Get it off his chest, while he can, as soon as possible, so he doesn't need to make Steve more uncomfortable, but he's so selfish. He doesn't want it to be now, in the car, where he can't see all of Steve's face, or give Steve room to walk away, if that's what he wants.

Even if Danny can't let him. Won't, until Steve knows, that it won't ever happen again, that he's sorry, that he'd do anything to keep it from ruining everything. Everything that might already be ruined, and maybe Danny just needs to accept that, when Steve's not looking at him, and Steve's jaw is tight enough it might as well be wired shut, and the air in the car is strange and humid and full of sullen tension.

Clicking the belt in, and leaning back, too aware of his suit, of the lack of space (and too much space) between them, and how unhappy Steve is about being in this car with him, right now.

Waving his hand at the front window, and wishing he could have chewed it off, rather than let it wander under Steve's jacket. What was he thinking? "So go, then."

[thebesteverseen]

He can't peel out, even if he'd like to. Which is annoying even when he knew it before getting in.

Sure, they're in the parking lot and not directly in the pack of police cars, but the parking lot itself is blocked off to keep the escape of patrons, if and when any did slip by them inside, to a minimum. Which means Steve can't peel out directly into an HPD squad car and he has to wait to even get to leave the parking lot. The place Danny'd had to park to look like he was one of those patrons.

Which he did great. Better than great. Or good. Or good enough. Far enough into the red to be out in left field.

He wasn't a SEAL. He didn't get off on excelling at something he shouldn't have. On riding the rails, and playing it so close to the edge you walked away with cuts and scratches from your own knives and lies. Danny wasn't that kind of guy. Danny was the guy who did the right thing at the right time. Maybe not always. He wasn't perfect. But more often than anyone else Steve knew of.

Steve doesn't even know how long it's gone before he's realized it's quiet in the car. Miles since the police car moved. Maybe even an exaggeratedly long slew of minutes. The highway still has had sporadic early night traffic the whole time. Especially in this part of town, where it's a little racier and more club laden. Even if it was down one more. They'd do their best to clean that place out, find any other place they were attached to. But one closed, and somewhere else another would open. Or try to.

The road is black and the headlights only light so much. Leaving him staring at the middle line running, running, running by.
Acceleration as a background noise, when he doesn't want music and there are no words anywhere that could be good enough.

[haole_cop]

He thought he hated everything about this night before, but he was wrong.

Nothing so far has been as bad as this. Where Steve is driving, without seeming to see the road, and not talking. Not that Steve is regularly chatty, but this is different, this is not not talking, it's not talking. To Danny. Specifically. Or at all.

Like all he wants to do is get this ride over and done with, as fast as possible, so he doesn't have to be in the same space as Danny, anymore.

And maybe the worst part is that Danny can't blame him, and maybe that's why Danny can't think of anything to say, even while this silence perches on the back of his neck like a vulture, starts setting fifty pound weights on his chest and shoulders. It's thickening the air, making the car seem smaller, and Danny's pulse rate try to panic, prickles cold sweat down his back and across his sides. He's never been claustrophobic with Steve, Steve's the one who distracts him from it, mocks him with a sincere intensity that makes a liar out of his words.

He's not the cause of it. Wasn't, even, when he had Danny pinned to the wall. Even then, it didn't feel like he was put in a box that was getting slowly smaller, where the air was running out.

Having a panic attack right now wouldn't help. It would just be one more shitty thing for him to do tonight, one more thing for Steve to deal with, after Steve did his damn job, and did it well, like he always does, and stopped a murderer from taking any more innocent lives.

Which is one thing Danny can say, and mean, and maybe consider using as a way to ease into the conversation they need to have, even if Steve doesn't want to talk to him, or even listen to him, or be in the same room as him, or ever look at him again. That's fine, okay, if he'll just let Danny say what he needs to say, first.

Which is not, but may be related to, this. "Good work, tonight."

It's not quite right, but it's not bad. Feeling out this icy water, to see whether he can put another toe in, or if his whole leg will get bitten off before he can withdraw.

[thebesteverseen]

The silences stretches and swells in Steve's ears, his chest, the car now that he's noticed it. The silence. It being silent at all. It's not a never, but it's definitely a rarity, and it happened when Danny was in his head after something bad. When he didn't have any words. Gone were the three word sentences and the constant reminders to get in the car, replaced now with an absolutely nothingness. A nothings that slammed solid, razor ice shards into Steve's veins.

It wasn't that he couldn't do silence. He could, and do it well even. Even silence so thick it might have been screaming, while five to six other men were close as the clothes on your back, falling asleep in the most inconvenient positions still pressed to each other, at the ready for the smallest sound. He could do silence. Bear it like an extra pack on his back. It was a long ago accepted part of being a SEAL, and a leader.

But Danny doesn't. Do silent. He almost never does silent. He's loud as a sand storm happy or angry.

It's only when things go wrong, and he can't get out of inside his head, that Danny goes quite. Setting all the alarms off.

The way they are now. In Steve's head. When every ounce of what he's supposed to do -- how; make it better; drag Danny out of his dark place; insult him; goad him; distract him -- is something that makes Steve's throat close up, because he's the one who did this to Danny. He's the one Danny can't figure out how to talk to, how to even yell at. For being an asshole and taking advantage of the whole damn situation. Calling it the job. Perverting the whole idea.

Only making his hands tighten whiter on the wheel when he can't stop it. The pristine, so close, memory of Danny kissing him. Reminding him not to punch him. Hands fisted in his hair. His shirt. Keeping up with Steve the way only Danny can. Tries to. No matter who is or where he came from. Proving he can go toe to toe with Steve even from Jersey without training to take on dictators and warlords.

He's --

Breaks off, when Danny hands him three words again. Words that shrink and suck into the void of silence.

No, buddy. No insults. Nothing but those three words. More carefully put than Steve has heard Danny put anything that wasn't about Matt or Rachel. Amber, after the lies, that put Danny in the hospital with another gaping hole in his body that nearly sent Steve's blood pressure through the roof and his fury through the face of Danny's girlfriend. Three words, like an embargo. A cold war standoff offering that absolutely wasn't.

One that made it feel impossible to tell a joke. Sometime about the place. Something about the damn paperwork, that just remembering socks a fist in his stomach. Not wanting to know how Danny would describe this. Whether sexual harassment seminars or video collections would be required of them, again. Even if it was just a cover. Hawaii got twitchy about Five-0. After Lori, and then when Steve brought in Cath, who definitely wasn't just a colleague, even if they kept it above board at work.

Resigned to the role he has to choose. Because there is no other available.

Even if SEALs didn't, and he wouldn't, he doesn't deserve to hide. He did this. Fucked it to hell.
Like he always told himself it would years ago. Send Danny running for the hills and never coming back.

"Yeah. You, too." He pries his own three words out of his mouth. Because Danny did good. Always did good.

The sinking black cavity of his chest, gone cold and tight for so long now. Wanting to take it back. Agreeing to this case. Laughing in Danny's face about not knowing anything. Every second seared into his brain, playing like still blistering burns on his skin every place Danny touched, every place his own hands did, too. Wanting to make a bad joke. Wanting Danny to insult him into annoyance. Wanting him to pull out his phone and call Grace, even though it's long past her bedtime.

[haole_cop]

So it's not his best, and he doesn't expect much from it, aside from a break in the silence, but whatever he might have hoped for -- some semblance of Steve relaxing, a joke or an insult, or even a poisonous barb about how Danny's work could have been better by being less good -- it doesn't happen. If anything, the tension increases until it feels like there's a rubber band being stretched between them, straining and about to snap, until Steve drags out three meaningless words.

Him, too. He did good work. Except how it stopped being work, and stopped being good, when it became clear he couldn't control himself and spilled unwanted attention, touches, kisses, for God's sake, all over Steve, who didn't ask for any of it. When it wasn't needed. When Danny should have been better, should have kept himself hauled back, should have done the fucking job, like Steve did. Just made it look good, and nothing else.

The memory of fisting his hand into Steve's shirt hits like fingers clutching his own intestines, and squeezing. How tight Steve's jaw had been. (Tight as it is now.) How much he must have hated it.

How Danny can never be sorry enough, or try hard enough to make it up to him, because some things can't be made up, and even if a vase gets glued together after it's dropped, the cracks never really go away.

But he can't just let it go. He never can. Couldn't with Rachel. Couldn't with Matt. Couldn't even when his gut told him things would never work out with Gabby or Melissa. He's not the guy who lets go, even when he should, even when it would be better for everyone involved, even when he's just promised himself he would, for Steve, if it's what Steve wants.

He can't. Can't lose this. Can't lose Steve, or Five-0, or everything he has on Hawaii that isn't Grace. Pushing him to find something else to say, to drop into the silence, to try and let Steve know it's okay, they can be back to normal, he's sorry, it won't happen again. It won't ever happen again. He'll cut off his own hand before it does. "Hey, anytime one of these things doesn't end with me getting concussed, I call it a win."

After the last time, which had involved being beaten in an alleyway and dumped in a trunk and cracked in the head with a tire iron, along with the ever popular being tied to a chair over which was subsequently held a shoot-out, and it was still better than this.

At least Steve was talking to him, then. More.

At least he hadn't ruined it all, without thinking.

[thebesteverseen]

The quiet lingers like a third presence, taking up all the air between them and through the rest of the car. Swallowing down the seconds between their words, like they don't all sounds stilted and forced. Makes it feel like all that air, empty and black with the shadows of night, except for the brief moments when they pass cars going the opposite way, swamps the car. Humid and sticking cloy against his skin, making him stay tight.

Until Danny speaks, again, and it flashes through Steve's head, again. The first undercover that brought this damnable grey suit into his mind. Occasional dreams. Ones he'd been glad stayed inside his head. Never came out. Or that Cath never let on, if they ever had. Maybe once they could have. But that once was a long time ago. A lot longer than a year ago. It wasn't what last year had been, and she'd never been a stand-in, or a second choice. Not in all of his life.

They were and were not a lot things, that a lot of people didn't get, Danny included. But she was never that.

Cath was her own whole ship; and ship wreck. Steve pushed it away, pushing back into Danny's words, as he said, "I don't know. You were a lot less annoying when you were out cold." But it's not the chair, the zipties, or the warehouse he's seeing suddenly. Again. It's Danny limping his way out of the prison only a few months ago. Hands around his sides. Body jagged and sharp in every step. Ginger as though even a breath in or out was hell. Another place, where more people who shouldn't touched Danny. People who had more right (than him), and every lack of it.

Things he couldn't tell himself tonight were about the physical state of his partner. His friend. Or. Not only.

Making him force forward as his eyes never leave the road. Watching the stripes, and the lights, and everything in front of him, that blurs by unnoticed, that isn't Danny to his side, filled in perfectly with his training, even peripheral awareness at all times, instead of his choice. "Even if you were holding up the whole investigation getting your beauty sleep."