Sometimes a Blue Macaw (H50 fic--gen)

[ariadnes_string]

Title: Sometimes a Blue Macaw
Rating: PG-13 (for language); gen.
Word count: ~4.7K
Genre: h/c
Disclaimer: not mine, no profit, no offense.
a/n: 4.7K of shameless h/c. I’d apologize for it, if I weren’t so shameless. anniehow released the bunny, but its subsequent fate is entirely my fault.
a/n: Many thanks for calamitycrow for the beta!
a/n: For the wild card square on my card: chronic (in this case recurrent) illness. Yeah, y’all already know where I’m going with this, dontcha?

Summary: “Okay. Okay: Stop,” Danny held up both hands. “I cannot believe we’re arguing about this. I cannot believe that you are still forming sentences. Tell you what: I’m gonna give you 105. But I’m gonna stay. And if you start seizing I’m making the decisions—end of story.”



Danny, as usual, revved the AC in the Chevy the minute they pulled away from the crime scene. Mostly, this was a minor annoyance, but today a wave of chills hit Steve like a twenty-foot breaker with the first touch of cold air. Fuck, he thought, fuck. Between the late nights and the hard chases, he’d been able to dismiss the aching muscles and pounding headache as job-related stress, but now he acknowledged he was in for a long night.

“What’s up with you?” Danny asked, taking in the barely suppressed shudder.

“Nothing. Someone walked over my grave, that’s all.”

“Don’t say that, man. That’s a fucking morbid expression.”

“Sorry. Forgot about your sensitivities. There being so many and all.” Steve resisted the urge to pull his hands farther into his shirt sleeves. At this point, he was just hoping that they’d get back to HQ while he was still cogent enough to drive his truck home without crashing.

“Okay: ouch. That was kinda bitchy, even for you. Whatsa matter—briefs too tight again? Thought we had a little talk about that--”

Danny rattled on some more, but Steve ignored him. The thing was coming on like a ton of bricks, like it always did, and even the mild post-rain sun was starting to feel like someone stabbing him between the eyes. He fished his shades out of his hip pocket and slipped them on.

Danny, because he was incapable of leaving anything alone, was onto that too. “Seriously? You tie one on last night? Just ‘cause some of us were whipped, getting home from work at 2am, no reason for others of us not to go out and party—“

“Danny,” Steve tried and failed to keep the exhaustion out of his voice. “Just—shut up, okay?”

His tone made Danny cut him a sharp look. “Wait—hold the phones—is the great Steve McGarrett maybe coming down with something?” Without waiting for an answer, he took one hand off the wheel and wrapped it around Steve’s forehead.

“Fuck me,” he said succinctly, and the next thing Steve knew they had pulled into the parking lot of a drive-thru burger place. He thumped his head back against the seat and closed his eyes behind the shades. He knew what was coming next.

Sure enough, the driver’s side door slammed shut, and the passenger side door swung open. And then Danny’s hands were all over him, that being the the way Danny was. Another palm to the back of his neck, two fingers on the pulse point under his jaw, hands skimming over his ribs, like Danny thought Steve might have sustained some injury he’d neglected to disclose. He even, cruelly, slipped the sunglasses off, and made Steve open his eyes, even though the pain just about blinded him.

If he’d been feeling even a little bit stronger, Steve wouldn’t have put up with it. He hated that kind of thing—being poked and prodded like he was somebody’s prize pig, like his body wasn’t his to control. As it was, though, all he could do was hold himself rigid and try to bear it as best he could.

When he’d satisfied whatever internal checklist he was running through, Danny sat back on his heels and said, “You, my friend, are sick. And I don’t mean that in the way I usually apply the word to you. I mean it in a pick your poison--ER, urgent care, or personal physician—kind of way.”

“Yeah, okay, so I’m a little under the weather,” Steve was fighting to keep his teeth from chattering now. “So if you could maybe just take me home, and skip the third degree--“

“Oh no, no, no,” Danny said. “The last time Grace felt that hot—the only time she ever felt that hot—Rachel and I had her in the ER in a New York minute. They said we were right to come too—had her hooked up to some IV meds almost before we’d finished checking in. Turned out to be nasty case of strep. Is that what’s going with you—your throat sore?” He reached for Steve’s neck again.

At that, Steve managed to rally enough to bat Danny’s hands away and look him in the eyes, only squinting a little.

“Okay, two things. First: contrary to your opinion, I am not a little girl. Second: I know it looks kind of scary, but I have the meds to deal with it at home. And if you give me a lift, I promise I’ll explain. Okay?“ The headache, the chills, and now the Danny-style wrangling were bringing Steve as close as he ever came to pleading.

Danny, for once, shut up and assessed the situation silently. Steve could practically see him ticking through the possibilities in his head—HIV, cancer, drug withdrawal—but Steve didn’t think he could lay things out articulately here in the glaring asphalt lot. Finally, Danny nodded, looking worried, but like he was prepared to deal with whatever Steve had to say. Steve loved him a little for that look.

++++++

Danny dug an old HPD windbreaker out of the trunk, let Steve huddle in that for warmth, while he called Chin Ho, told him something had come up, asked if he would write the report, and promised he’d make it up to him. Danny kept it vague, let Chin think they were chasing some new lead, and for that, too, Steve was thankful.

After that, he pretty much zoned out until they pulled up to the door of the beach house. He made it up the walk under his own power, Danny’s hand warm on the small of his back when he listed dizzily to one side, but his hands were shaking too much to get the key into the lock.

“Here you go, big guy.” Danny shifted him so he could lean against the doorframe and took the key. “I got it.” Danny’s voice had taken on a gentleness that was far more alarming than his usual bluster. Steve would have been furious, if he hadn’t been quite so grateful to have something to prop him up.

Once inside the cool familiarity of his own house, though, he felt better. Still aching like someone was grinding his bones together, and still shivering like they’d poured ice water down his back for good measure—but slightly more clear-headed.

He collapsed into one of the well-worn leather chairs in the living room, eyes sliding shut of their own accord.

“Hey, no passing out,” Danny nudged Steve’s ankle with his foot, “meds, remember?”

“Black bag. Medicine cabinet. Top shelf.” Steve said without opening his eyes.

He was vaguely annoyed at himself for giving Danny permission to rummage through his stuff. All he ever wanted to do during one of these episodes was sneak off like a dog with a hurt paw, hide and whimper until it passed. That’s why he’d convinced the Navy doc to fill the prescriptions before he transferred to the Reserves—so he wouldn’t have to undergo any more medical scrutiny if it happened again. And now here he was, letting someone who wouldn’t know discretion if it hit him upside the head free entry into his personal life.

++++++

He must have lost a little time then, because when Steve blinked his eyes back open, Danny was sitting across from him, peering at the label of one prescription bottle, the rest lined up on the coffee table next to a glass of water and a thermometer.

“Malaria?” Danny said, when he noticed Steve was awake. “Are you shitting me? Or is there something else you take Primaquine for? Yeah, already googled that one on the phone,” he added, to Steve’s bemused stare.

Steve nodded. He was still freezing and now he was also starting to have that weird, disembodied feeling, like his head was floating two feet above his body. “’Yeah. Picked it up in Bolivia—two years ago—treatment was fucked in the first place, so it flares up occasionally.”

“But don’t you take prophylactics for that these days? Or did you think the mosquitoes would run when they saw you coming, like your reputation preceded you or something?”

“Funny, Danny, really funny.”

“No, seriously,” Danny sobered. “You tell me—I’m listening—“

“We had a lead on Hesse—way out in the lowlands, the Amazon tributaries, but I managed to get a team in.” Steve let the words go slowly, watched them float away like balloons. “But the intel was bad—no Hesse, and a firefight besides. One of my guys got hurt so bad we had to stretcher him out. The whole thing took much longer than it should’ve, and we ran out of meds. Since I was the commanding officer—“

“—You went without. Okay, I guess that makes sense. Not sense in a normal person kind of way—but in a Steve McGarrett kind of way, yeah—“

“I’d already been sick for a few days by the time they managed to evacuate us—so initial treatment was—“

“—fucked, you said. And now you get these—“

“—relapses. A few hours of fever—then a couple of days of fatigue. No big deal.”

“Uh-huh.” Danny shook his head like he didn’t believe Steve but there was no help for it now. “Well, let’s dose you up.”

He carefully shook the right number of pills out of each bottle, handed them to Steve with the water, closing his own hand around Steve’s when it became clear he was still shaking too much to hold it steady.

“Drink the whole thing,” he muttered. “You’re probably dehydrated on top of everything else.”

When Steve had, Danny angled the tympanic thermometer into his ear.

“103.4,” he read when it beeped. “Not as bad I thought, actually. But if it goes over 104, you’re in the ER whether you like it or not.”

“105,” Steve countered. “And who said you were sticking around to monitor my temperature? I appreciate your helping out, man, but you can go home now, I’ll be fine.”

“104. And, yeah, maybe in the Rambo-world you live in it’s okay if I go, but where I come from making sure your partner’s brain doesn’t boil in his head is considered a common courtesy.”

“105. And no one’s brain really boils ‘til 106.”

“Okay. Okay: Stop,” Danny held up both hands. “I cannot believe we’re arguing about this. I cannot believe that you are still forming sentences. Tell you what: I’m gonna give you 105. But I’m gonna stay. And if you start seizing I’m making the decisions—end of story.”

“Not gonna seize--”

Danny crossed his arms.

“Alright,” Steve almost smiled, because he couldn’t believe they were arguing about this either. “You’re in charge in case of seizures. Got it.”

“See? Look at that—that was beautiful—we compromised. Was that so hard? Now get your ass in bed before I change my mind.

++++++

Easier said than done. As soon as Steve stood up, everything took an alarming tilt to the left, and suddenly the only still point in a spinning world was Danny’s shoulder coming up under his arm, Danny’s arm hooking around his waist, finger in his belt loop.

There might have been some cursing on Danny’s part, and some muted groaning on Steve’s but somehow they made it down the hall to the master bedroom, where Danny lowered him awkwardly onto the bed.

But Steve was really starting to lose it at this point, and when he bent over to untie his boots, he almost tipped right off again.

“Easy does it,” Danny said, catching him and sitting him back up. “Let me, alright?”

“Not a little girl,” Steve mumbled, because, goddamn it, he hated this--

“I know, I know,” Danny said, concentrating on the laces. “You’re a big girl now, McGarrett, don’t let anyone tell you different. Lift your left foot. No, the other left.”

The whole thing was humiliating, or would have been if Steve had been able to hold a thought together for more than two seconds, but Danny finally got him down to a t-shirt and boxers and under the covers.

Danny moved around the room drawing the blinds against what was, amazingly, still almost full daylight outside, while Steve watched the ceiling ripple and bend above him. Or maybe it was him who was shaking like a leaf.

“Try to sleep,” Danny said, killing the overhead light. “Yell if you need anything.”

++++++

There wasn’t supposed to be a firefight. They were supposed to go in quiet, find Hesse. What they were supposed to do with the arms dealer when they found him was highly classified—and turned out to be a moot point anyway. The Llanos de Moxos had proved treacherous, riddled with unexpected floods, forcing them to retrace their footsteps over and over again. And by the time they’d gotten to Hesse’s supposed hideout, not only was he not there, but whoever was there had known they were coming.

And now Steve’s six-man team was pinned against the wall of this river-front compound in the ass-end of nowhere, taking heavy fire. The air was so thick, so soaked with rain, it seemed to slow the progress of the bullets; Steve imagined he could see the trail each one left behind it, etched in flame.

He shook his head, feeling dull, sodden. It was no good—they were going to have to pull out. He caught Hernandez’s eye, jerked his head towards the meager cover of the wooded riverbank. Hernandez nodded.

And then Costa went down, clutching his leg, blood bright against the jungle’s greens and browns.

Time stuttered and bucked—

--and Steve found himself trudging across another stretch of tropical grassland, as they made their tortured and much delayed way back to Trinidad, where evac had been promised. It was still pouring—the season seemed to have started early that year—and he could barely distinguish the raindrops slicking his face from the sweat.

Ahead, he could see Tsai’s broad back, hands down as he shared the burden of Costa’s stretcher with Jones, picking his way carefully across the slippery ground.

Steve forced his rubbery legs to carry him one step, then another, tried to ignore the pain of boot leather against skin rubbed raw by moisture, and wondered how much longer he’d be able go on.

He knew what was wrong with him. Why his head was pounding and he was crippled by fatigue. He’d been briefed and re-briefed on the dangers of operations in tropical sub-regions. Had perhaps been half-expecting just this since he’d realized how far behind schedule they were, pulled rank and forced them to share out his Mefloquine between them. His team had been furious, he knew, but it made sense—either they’d all be at risk, or just one. And it had been his decision to make.

So when he’d ended up awake most of the night, pouring sweat, and shaking so hard he’d had to bite into the strap of his pack to stop his teeth from audibly chattering, self-diagnosis hadn’t been difficult.

Of course, everyone else knew too—they’d all gotten the same briefings. No one said anything, because, really, what was there to say? But when Curtis had silently shouldered Steve’s pack as well as his own that morning, Steve had let him.

He was soaked--to the skin and beyond—his very bones waterlogged. He couldn’t believe that you could be so wet and so hot at the same time. Even pulling the humid air into his lungs seemed too much of an effort.

Something screeched off to his left, and he turned his head in time to see a blue macaw, plumage fantastically vivid, wing its way across the plain.

The bird stole his attention from the rain, the misery, even from the path in front of him. “Beautiful,” he murmured, tracking its azure against the gunmetal sky. “So fucking beautiful.”

And suddenly he was falling, his knees doing a slow-motion buckle onto the muddy ground. He tried to fight it, but it was no use, his body in complete rebellion against his will. He felt his eyes prick with frustration at his own weakness. And that wasn’t right, because he never cried—not even when Sabrina Saget dumped him freshman year, not even when his father died.

And that wrong, too—because his father was alive, home in Hawaii.

Then Curtis was down next to him in the mud, hands on his shoulders, his biceps, his wrists.

“Steve,” Curtis was saying, “snap out of it, Steve--quit talking about birds and look at me.”

More wrong. Because Curtis, for all the missions they’d worked together, never called him Steve, always Commander, or, in moments of great familiarity, Boss. And Curtis was African-American, with hands the color of light coffee, whereas—Steve blinked the moisture out of his eyes—whereas these hands were pale, a dusting of sandy hair over each knuckle.

He looked up, met a familiar gaze, and was even more confused. What was Danny doing in Bolivia?

“Christ--” Danny sounded almost frantic. “You are so fucking out of it. I’m gonna give you one more chance.” He had his hands on either side of Steve’s face now. “You are home. You are in Hawaii. I need to know that you know that, or I’m calling 911.”

That did the trick. Steve closed his eyes, slowly opened them again. The rainy savannah disappeared. He was kneeling on his own kitchen floor, with no memory of how he’d gotten there, dripping sweat onto the tiles.

“Yeah,” he said, sagging into his partner’s hold until his head rested on Danny’s collarbone. “I know that.”

Suddenly, he was as cold as he’d been hot, his wet t-shirt clinging to him like a shell of ice. He heard Danny sigh as he put his arms around him, holding him steady against the shakes. And Steve was way too far gone to make cracks about it now.

++++++

“Jesus, McGarrett,” a voice was saying, faint, and very far away. “I swear I didn’t undress Rachel this many times on our honeymoon. Coupla southern states where we’re probably legally married by now.”

Steve honed in on the voice, dragging himself back to awareness. He was somehow back in the bedroom and Danny was trying to wrestle his soaked t-shirt over his head.

“Work with me, buddy? Just a little?” Danny coaxed. And Steve tried, he did, and must have succeeded, because soon he was free of the shirt and Danny let him lie down.

He was so exhausted his eyelid felt like lead weights, but true sleep or unconsciousness wouldn’t come. Instead, reality darted in at him in blips and flashes.

Danny was coming back into the room—though Steve hadn’t seen him leave. He slipped something—a towel—under Steve’s head, and said, “Yeah, yeah, I’m just about to do that.”

Confused, Steve tried to remember if he’d asked for something and then forgotten about it. Then he realized Danny had a phone tucked between his ear and his shoulder, was addressing the words to someone else.

Who? Steve wondered vaguely, as Danny stuck the thermometer in his ear again, hoping it wasn’t the 911 dispatcher. Chin, maybe?

“104.2,” Danny told whomever was on the other end of the line. “Yeah—that’s what he said. You’re lucky she agrees with you, pal.” This last was definitely directed at Steve, though Danny didn’t seem to expect an answer. “She”? So not Chin.

Things slipped away from him again, and when they came back, Danny had a chair pulled up next to the bed and was dragging a damp washcloth over Steve’s neck and chest. It felt so good, such a relief from the net of fire suffocating him, that it took him a while to figure out that Danny was still on the phone.

“Okay,” he was saying. “I will. I think it’s down a bit already. But yeah—definitely. And—hey—thanks, Rach, I appreciate it.”

Rachel? Had Danny missed his time with Grace because he’d been looking after Steve? That was an awful thought—worse than anything else that had gone on that night. Steve struggled for a moment to say something—apologize, anything. But it was no use—he couldn’t get his lips and tongue to cooperate. So he gave up, le the darkness take him.

++++++

When Steve surfaced again, he felt like flotsam that had been rolled in the surf for a month. But for the first time since yesterday he was neither too hot nor too cold, despite the fact that he was more or less naked under the sheet, and he was willing to take that as a win.

No light was leaking through the blinds, but the room was dimly lit—by the bedside lamp on the other side of the bed, Steve thought. He turned his head gingerly to see—and there was Danny, fast asleep, head tilted back at an awkward angle against the headboard.

Steve watched him for a moment, too wrung out to muster up anything but a general sense of contentment at the sight. It looked like Danny hadn’t really meant to fall asleep there—had just sat down for a moment and crashed—one leg on the bed and one off. Incongruously, his tie was still on, but his feet were bare. Even more uncharacteristically, his hair was starting to slip across his face. The light behind him picked out the gold in it, brought out the tired lines next to his eyes. It had been a hard week at work for him, too, Steve remembered, with a pang.

As if he could sense Steve watching, Danny woke up with an undignified snort.

“Hey,” he said, scanning Steve’s face. “How you doing?”

“Good, I think,” Steve answered, wishing his voice didn’t sound so weak. “Better.”

Danny shifted around so he could brush his fingers across Steve’s forehead, held them for a moment against his temple. He did it casually, like this was something he’d earned the right to do. And maybe he had. At any rate, Steve let him, unable to find a trace of his earlier reluctance to let Danny into his personal space.

“Fever’s gone,” Danny said.

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “Won’t spike again until tomorrow night, if then.”

And that was about all he had the strength for; he could already feel the pull of sleep dragging him under.

Danny squeezed his shoulder. “Stay awake for a minute, okay? You should try and drink something—you must’ve sweated off about twenty pounds last night.”

Gross, but true, Steve conceded. “Okay.”

But he only woke up again when the mattress dipped under Danny’s weight, sitting on his side now, and putting down a glass of water and a steaming mug of something on the nightstand.

“Are you sure your old man wasn’t a survivalist?” Danny asked as he helped Steve get slightly more upright . “There’re canned goods in the pantry like you wouldn’t believe. Or maybe that’s you. Is it you? You know something about US foreign policy you wanna tell me about?”

He pressed the glass into Steve’s hands, helped him take a few slow sips. Then he replaced it with the mug.

“Seriously?” Steve asked, surprise giving him some strength. “You’re feeding me chicken soup at—“ he checked the bedside clock-- “4:15 in the morning?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. And yeah, it was, uh, Rachel’s idea—she though the salt—“

And then Steve remembered: Danny on the phone to his ex-wife in the middle of the night.

Suddenly filled with remorse, Steve gathered himself to apologize. “Danny, I’m sorry—did you miss your night with Grace? Was Rachel pissed? You really didn’t have to stay—“

Danny looked confused, embarrassed and amused in rapid succession. ““Oh—no, no, it wasn’t like that. I called her. Just ‘cause, well--There’s only one person I’ve ever stayed up all night with a sick person with before. The two of us, with Grace, couple of times. And Rach was always real good at it, too—always knew what to do. So—you know...“ He trailed off.

“Oh—“ Steve wasn’t quite sure how to take that. Glad Danny had had someone to talk to, he supposed. He wondered for a moment who he would have called if the situation had been reversed. Nobody, probably. He only had one living family member, and she was crap in a crisis. Anyway, he’d gotten pretty used to taking care of things on his own. Though--maybe Danny. Huh. Yeah, maybe these days, he would’ve called Danny.

Unless of course it were Danny who was sick or hurt. In which case he might call Rachel, too.

Danny didn’t seem to have noticed that Steve had drifted off into his own musing. “Yeah. She was decent about it too, didn’t yell at me for calling so late or anything, wanted to help. Besides,” he laughed, “you’re just lucky I called her and not my mom, because she would’ve been on the next flight to Hawaii, I kid you not.”

Steve gingerly sipped the soup, but it actually felt good going down, seemed to bring him back to life a bit.

“I’m telling you,” Danny went on. “You ain’t never been fussed over until you’ve been fussed over by Mrs. Renee Williams. Four kids, two husbands, three dogs and a budgie can all attest to that.”

Danny’s voice, Steve was relieved to find, was softer in the wee hours of the morning, less of a raging torrent, and more of a soft slip and tumble of words. Soothing, almost .

He sensed Danny lifting the mug out of his hands just before he tumbled back into unconsciousness.

++++++

Steve woke again to Danny saying his name.

Full daylight was sneaking past the closed blinds, and Danny was standing next to the bed, dressed in yesterday’s clothes, but freshly showered, giving off a waft of Steve’s shampoo.

“Hey,” Danny was saying, “I gotta go. Chin and Kono need some help doing follow up for the case—“

“Yeah,” Steve said, fighting off drowsiness. “Of course—“

“I know all you want to do is sleep, but I left you some water and juice, and your meds, and you got to promise me you’ll keep up with it all—“

“Uh-huh.”

“And I’m gonna call you in a couple of hours, and you need to pick up the phone—“

At that point, Steve felt the need to protest. “Honest, Danny, you don’t need to. I can take care of myself--I’ve been doing it for a long time now.”

“I know. But humor me, okay?” There was something oddly fierce in Danny’s voice. “Don’t want you pulling an Andy Irons, you know?”

The pit of Steve’s stomach went cold, thinking about how the whole island still mourned the surfer.

“Not funny, man, not funny,” he said.

“Wasn’t joking.” And something, some layer, dropped away from Danny’s face, and Steve could see the depth and intensity of his concern.

“Okay,” he amended quickly. “Sounds good. You call; I answer. And thanks—thanks for staying.”

“Like I said, common courtesy.” Danny shrugged it off. “You better,” he said over his shoulder, as he left. “Otherwise you’re going to have a fuckton of EMTs at your door. Either that or my Ma—and don’t think she wouldn’t do it, ‘cause she would.

And Steve had to smile. He had no doubt that Mrs. Williams would fly halfway across the globe to help a friend in trouble.

Not if the behavior of her son was anything to go on.

fin

Comments

[ariadnes_string]

Thanks so much for the kind words--those are exactly the things I wanted it to be :) Glad you enjoyed it!