ariadnes_string (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ariadnes_string) wrote2011-04-30 11:42 pm
ariadnes_string) wrote2011-04-30 11:42 pm
Entry tags:
- fanfic,
- fic,
- h50,
- whitecollar,
- xover
H50/WC ficlet: take two: in which Neal and Kono surf.
Finally, a continuation of this. Still no idea where it's going, if anywhere. What's the next step down from a WIP?
McGarrett sent the saner half of his team off with Peter and Neal to interview potentially nefarious antiquities dealers, while he and Williams—that was the guy with the hair and cane—investigated some kind of arms smugglers.
At least Neal thought Chin Ho Kelly and Kono Kalakaua were the saner half. As long as one ignored the fact that Kono moved around the other cars on the highway as if she’d been a New York City tax driver in past life. And the admiring remark Chin had made about Peter’s retina-burning shirt.
Still, Neal wasn’t complaining. Chin and Kono were friendly, competent, and, well, not to put too fine a point on it, mind-blowingly good-looking. Also apparently cousins. If all Hawaiian families were this easy on the eyes, Neal was going to forge himself some adoption papers as soon as he got home.
He smiled at Kono in the rearview mirror. She reminded him a little of Diana, or of what Diana might have been like if she’d been raised in a balmy mix of sand and surf, instead of a series of cold diplomatic enclaves. The two women shared a quick intelligence and easy athleticism, at any rate.
Kono caught the smile and gave him back a grin shot through with mischief and challenge. Neal dared to hope that she might differ from Diana in other ways as well. Peter cleared his throat and asked a pointed question about the provenance of Laotian funerary relics.
Sadly, the most productive thing that came out of their afternoon was the running discussion Neal had with Chin about mid-century American art—the man had an excellent eye and some very insightful things to say about late Rothko. But each antiquities dealer seemed more innocuous and less informative than the one before and they were no further along with their investigation at the end of the day than they’d been at the beginning.
“Hey,” said Kono, breaking off the distressingly detailed conversation she’d been having with Peter about innovations in sniper rifles and catching Neal’s eye again in the mirror. “You’ve still got a little bit of daylight left—how ‘bout I take you by the beach—give you a surfing lesson?”
“Sure.” Neal perked up immediately. “I was hoping to get a chance to freshen up my board skills.”
“You don’t surf,” Peter scoffed from the front seat.
“The things you don’t know about me, Agent Burke,” Neal chided. “I most certainly do surf—picked it up when I was living in Malibu in ’03.”
“Ah, yes. I remember.” Peter rolled his eyes. “Right around the time that Courbet went missing from the Getty.”
“A mere coincidence. So sad that they were never able to recover it.”
Kono shook her head, as if she were trying hard to disapprove of Neal and couldn’t quite. It was a reaction with which he was familiar. He grinned.
“I’ll take you by your hotel so you can change,” she said. “You in, cuz?”
“I’m in,” Chin agreed.
“Don’t you need to go home, too?” Peter asked.
“Nah. Got everything I need in the trunk. You know Hawaii: never leave home without your bikini.”
Neal didn’t know Hawaii, but he was sure happy with what he had learned so far.
+++
Forty-five minutes later, the four of them were on a beautiful beach whose location would never appear in any guide book. A gaggle of surfers greeted Chin and Kono with a chorus of “Hozzits” and “Brahs,” fist bumps and arm clasps, and cheerfully found a couple of boards for Neal and Kono to borrow.
“How about you, Peter? Feel like getting your feet wet?” Neal asked as he tugged his polo over his head, glad to finally feel the warm ocean breeze on bare skin.
“Uh-uh.” Peter took a long drink of the beer that had magically appeared out of the surfers’ cooler. “The only kind of riding I want to do involves four feet and dry land. Not treacherous ocean currents and bloodthirsty sharks.”
“You like the horses, Brah?” said Chin, delighted. “There’re some gorgeous rides not far from here. Cousin of mine owns a stables—he’ll fix you up.”
Neal blew out an inward sigh of relief. He hadn’t been sure where surfing fell on El’s continuum of forbidden activities, but now it looked like he wouldn't have to find out. He left Peter and Chin happily discussing gear and terrain and followed Kono into the waves.
She left him alone for a while as he tried to find his balance. The new anklet was light and waterproof, but the unequal weight of his legs still threw him slightly, sent him tumbling into the first few small waves he tried to catch. He didn’t mind—the cold water felt good, the living push and pull of the current invigorating.
He straddled his board and watched Kono for a bit. She was completely out of his league, lean bronze limbs effortlessly balanced, a creature of air as much as water. Her yellow bikini did more to highlight the perfection of her body than it did to cover it.
“Giving up so soon, haole?” Kono materialized next to him, hair wet and eyes dancing.
“No way. Though I’m never going to be as good as you—you could go pro.”
“I did.” She smiled easily, though some of the sparkle went out of her eyes for a moment. “Couple of years, before I busted my knee.”
“I’m sorry,” Neal said.
“Don’t be. Never would have been a cop otherwise. Besides, I still know a few tricks—want some pointers?”
Neal was beginning to want more than that, but he just nodded. “Yes, please.”
“Good. You’re leading too much with your shoulders.” She paddled closer to him, touched her cool wet hands to his chest. “Straighten up some, and try again.”
She was right—it did help, and Neal put all thoughts of flirting aside in the joy and challenge of trying to ride the waves.
Soon, far too soon, they saw Peter and Chin gesturing at them to come in.
“Steve called,” Chin said when they’d scrambled onto the shore. “Seems like their arms dealers might have more to do with your antiquity thieves than we’d thought.”
+++
They toweled off and drove to Five-O headquarters without bothering to change. Neal tried not to stare too much at the strings of Kono’s bikini, peaking out of the neck of her red t-shirt and tied in a loose knot at the back of her neck.
In New York, Neal would have felt self-conscious walking into someone’s place of work in his board shorts, but apparently this was no big deal in Hawaii. Williams was still wearing a tie, to be sure, but McGarrett was dressed in rumpled, muddy cargoes and a gray t-shirt. Neal was momentarily entertained by the thought of the choice words June would for him on the topic of “clothes making the man.”
But when Williams and McGarrett started briefing them on the evidence, all thoughts of sartorial etiquette left his mind. The team used some kind of magic computer table, visual and statistical evidence collating and synthesizing with a swipe of a palm. It was like a giant iPad with a criminal investigation app.
“Peter,” Neal whispered, “I am never setting foot in that van again.”
McGarrett sent the saner half of his team off with Peter and Neal to interview potentially nefarious antiquities dealers, while he and Williams—that was the guy with the hair and cane—investigated some kind of arms smugglers.
At least Neal thought Chin Ho Kelly and Kono Kalakaua were the saner half. As long as one ignored the fact that Kono moved around the other cars on the highway as if she’d been a New York City tax driver in past life. And the admiring remark Chin had made about Peter’s retina-burning shirt.
Still, Neal wasn’t complaining. Chin and Kono were friendly, competent, and, well, not to put too fine a point on it, mind-blowingly good-looking. Also apparently cousins. If all Hawaiian families were this easy on the eyes, Neal was going to forge himself some adoption papers as soon as he got home.
He smiled at Kono in the rearview mirror. She reminded him a little of Diana, or of what Diana might have been like if she’d been raised in a balmy mix of sand and surf, instead of a series of cold diplomatic enclaves. The two women shared a quick intelligence and easy athleticism, at any rate.
Kono caught the smile and gave him back a grin shot through with mischief and challenge. Neal dared to hope that she might differ from Diana in other ways as well. Peter cleared his throat and asked a pointed question about the provenance of Laotian funerary relics.
Sadly, the most productive thing that came out of their afternoon was the running discussion Neal had with Chin about mid-century American art—the man had an excellent eye and some very insightful things to say about late Rothko. But each antiquities dealer seemed more innocuous and less informative than the one before and they were no further along with their investigation at the end of the day than they’d been at the beginning.
“Hey,” said Kono, breaking off the distressingly detailed conversation she’d been having with Peter about innovations in sniper rifles and catching Neal’s eye again in the mirror. “You’ve still got a little bit of daylight left—how ‘bout I take you by the beach—give you a surfing lesson?”
“Sure.” Neal perked up immediately. “I was hoping to get a chance to freshen up my board skills.”
“You don’t surf,” Peter scoffed from the front seat.
“The things you don’t know about me, Agent Burke,” Neal chided. “I most certainly do surf—picked it up when I was living in Malibu in ’03.”
“Ah, yes. I remember.” Peter rolled his eyes. “Right around the time that Courbet went missing from the Getty.”
“A mere coincidence. So sad that they were never able to recover it.”
Kono shook her head, as if she were trying hard to disapprove of Neal and couldn’t quite. It was a reaction with which he was familiar. He grinned.
“I’ll take you by your hotel so you can change,” she said. “You in, cuz?”
“I’m in,” Chin agreed.
“Don’t you need to go home, too?” Peter asked.
“Nah. Got everything I need in the trunk. You know Hawaii: never leave home without your bikini.”
Neal didn’t know Hawaii, but he was sure happy with what he had learned so far.
+++
Forty-five minutes later, the four of them were on a beautiful beach whose location would never appear in any guide book. A gaggle of surfers greeted Chin and Kono with a chorus of “Hozzits” and “Brahs,” fist bumps and arm clasps, and cheerfully found a couple of boards for Neal and Kono to borrow.
“How about you, Peter? Feel like getting your feet wet?” Neal asked as he tugged his polo over his head, glad to finally feel the warm ocean breeze on bare skin.
“Uh-uh.” Peter took a long drink of the beer that had magically appeared out of the surfers’ cooler. “The only kind of riding I want to do involves four feet and dry land. Not treacherous ocean currents and bloodthirsty sharks.”
“You like the horses, Brah?” said Chin, delighted. “There’re some gorgeous rides not far from here. Cousin of mine owns a stables—he’ll fix you up.”
Neal blew out an inward sigh of relief. He hadn’t been sure where surfing fell on El’s continuum of forbidden activities, but now it looked like he wouldn't have to find out. He left Peter and Chin happily discussing gear and terrain and followed Kono into the waves.
She left him alone for a while as he tried to find his balance. The new anklet was light and waterproof, but the unequal weight of his legs still threw him slightly, sent him tumbling into the first few small waves he tried to catch. He didn’t mind—the cold water felt good, the living push and pull of the current invigorating.
He straddled his board and watched Kono for a bit. She was completely out of his league, lean bronze limbs effortlessly balanced, a creature of air as much as water. Her yellow bikini did more to highlight the perfection of her body than it did to cover it.
“Giving up so soon, haole?” Kono materialized next to him, hair wet and eyes dancing.
“No way. Though I’m never going to be as good as you—you could go pro.”
“I did.” She smiled easily, though some of the sparkle went out of her eyes for a moment. “Couple of years, before I busted my knee.”
“I’m sorry,” Neal said.
“Don’t be. Never would have been a cop otherwise. Besides, I still know a few tricks—want some pointers?”
Neal was beginning to want more than that, but he just nodded. “Yes, please.”
“Good. You’re leading too much with your shoulders.” She paddled closer to him, touched her cool wet hands to his chest. “Straighten up some, and try again.”
She was right—it did help, and Neal put all thoughts of flirting aside in the joy and challenge of trying to ride the waves.
Soon, far too soon, they saw Peter and Chin gesturing at them to come in.
“Steve called,” Chin said when they’d scrambled onto the shore. “Seems like their arms dealers might have more to do with your antiquity thieves than we’d thought.”
+++
They toweled off and drove to Five-O headquarters without bothering to change. Neal tried not to stare too much at the strings of Kono’s bikini, peaking out of the neck of her red t-shirt and tied in a loose knot at the back of her neck.
In New York, Neal would have felt self-conscious walking into someone’s place of work in his board shorts, but apparently this was no big deal in Hawaii. Williams was still wearing a tie, to be sure, but McGarrett was dressed in rumpled, muddy cargoes and a gray t-shirt. Neal was momentarily entertained by the thought of the choice words June would for him on the topic of “clothes making the man.”
But when Williams and McGarrett started briefing them on the evidence, all thoughts of sartorial etiquette left his mind. The team used some kind of magic computer table, visual and statistical evidence collating and synthesizing with a swipe of a palm. It was like a giant iPad with a criminal investigation app.
“Peter,” Neal whispered, “I am never setting foot in that van again.”