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For being such a freaking overachiever, Steve was flat-out incapable, completely incompetent, utterly inept, when it came to admitting that he needed anything. Ever.
In the earliest days, Danny let him get away with it. Oh, he tracked it alright, well enough that when the words came out of Steve’s mouth in this, their latest visit to Queens Emergency Department, Danny mouthed along silently, earning a quirked eyebrow from the doctor.
“I don’t need ‘em,” Steve said. “Thank you, though,” he added politely as he waved a hand at the proffered packets of pain relievers and muscle relaxants.
Danny sighed and fell in beside Steve, who walked determinedly, if stiffly, to the exit.
“Coulda given the pills to me ,” Danny muttered under his breath. “‘Cause you’re a giant pain in my ass.”
Before long, Danny started pushing back.
“I don’t need --”
“Enough with that, would ya?” Danny snapped. It was too much. Steve was too much, with the muscles and the ink, and if he wasn’t whipping his shirt off to dive in the water, he was strapping on those thigh holsters, and Danny wasn’t sure which was better. Worse. Whatever. And then with the stoicism and the SEAL-ness and -- so sue him, okay, he just wanted Steve to admit to some weakness, any weakness, to needing . . . something.
Steve looked at him, eyes wide.
“Don’t look at -- would you just, you always say that, Steven, it’s getting old,” Danny said. “Mr. Super SEAL, Captain America, doesn’t need help, doesn’t need a hand, doesn’t need an aspirin. Ever. You just vaulted over a second floor railing and turned your knee sideways, I know what kinda pain that is, just, here , let me help you, for once. You can lean on me, I don’t got cooties.”
“Cooties,” Steve chuckled, but he rested his arm on Danny’s conveniently-positioned shoulder and allowed him to take a little of his weight as they made their way to the Camaro.
“Book ‘em, Kono,” Danny said. “I’m taking GI Joe to get his busted knee looked at.”
Kono looked up from where she had her knee planted gleefully in the small of this week’s killer’s back and waved a shaka sign at them. Danny tried not to think about how perfectly he fit, tucked into Steve’s side, because that? That was just asking for a long, sleepless night.
Danny thought maybe that Steve didn’t even know what he needed, half the time, maybe that was the problem. At least, that was what he had come up with, the night before, in the grip of insomnia combined with a miserable late August heat wave. Because Steve never seemed to take a breath to suss out anything he needed, not just when he was beat to crap -- not ever. Aside from food and the occasional full night of sleep, he seemed to function just fine with very little thought or care. It bothered Danny more than was rational, but he hadn’t made detective by giving up on things once he got his teeth in them, so it seemed unlikely that he’d be able to let the notion go any time soon. His determined stride carried him across the open squad room and he pushed the door to Steve’s office open.
“Hey, partner, what’s up?” Steve asked. He looked happy to see Danny, as always.
“I uh . . .” Danny rubbed at the nape of his neck. “I thought I’d mention, just throw out there, maybe you’d like to take a little break early next month . . . maybe . . . couple personal days, you know.”
Steve looked at him, face scrunched in confusion.
“Maybe with Mary,” Danny continued. “Spend some time . . .”
Steve leaned back in his chair, rubbed a hand over his face. Danny thought for a minute, there, that he’d put his foot in it for sure, because if Steve didn’t even know what he was talking about --
“Thanks, Danny,” Steve said. “But Mary . . . look, I appreciate what you’re suggesting, but I don’t think coming here on the anniversary of Dad’s death is going to do anything helpful for her. It needs to be on her terms, you know? But you, buddy, you take time around 9/11. I know how hard that is for you, the anniversary, losing your partner. Go home, go be with your family, whatever you need.”
“What about what you need?” Danny pressed.
“I don’t need -- what I need is to shut down this smuggling ring we’re closing in on,” Steve said. “Thank you, I mean it, but I don’t need time off, Danny. You go ahead, I’ll sign off on yours.”
Danny hadn’t thought about going back home, until Steve mentioned it, and suddenly he ached to see his family. But there was no way he was leaving the team with this huge, open case. Great. Not only would Steve not admit to needing some time, now Danny was acutely aware of needing some time . . . and neither of them were going to get it.
“You’re fine, I’m fine, neither of us need anything,” Danny said, his frustration bleeding through his tone.
“What is your problem, Danny?” Steve pushed back from his desk, equally frustrated.
“Why is it impossible for you to even entertain, much less admit, ever needing a -- a hand? A break?”
Steve swallowed hard and slid back to his desk, his eyes firmly on his laptop.
“Guess I’m not used to the luxury,” Steve said. His voice was flat, his eyes hard.
Danny stood, feeling suddenly unwelcome and uncertain -- two things he’d never felt in Steve’s presence before. The awkward silence was broken when both of their phones started ringing insistently, and then they were off and running, chasing down a fresh lead.
The next idea came to Danny while reading a pamphlet in the pediatrician’s office. Figured, seeing as how he’d often thought that his partner was an over-grown toddler in many ways. He was still absolutely convinced that Steve hadn’t been held enough as a child, either, which made a lot of things make sense.
“Model the Desired Behavior” the article said. Danny’s take-away was that one, he would definitely have to make a point to eat a wider variety of vegetables in Gracie’s presence, and two, the next time he got hurt he’d be very deliberate in asking Steve for things he needed.
His life being what it was, partnered with a maniac, he had his opportunity soon enough. The bullet had ripped through the flesh of his shoulder just as he was vaulting over a fence -- Steve wasn’t the only one with moves, and even Kono had been impressed -- causing him to fall, hard, adding insult to injury.
“Oh, I’ve had enough of this,” Steve growled, his face stone, and he’d taken their guy out clean, one to the chest.
“He was our best lead,” Danny gritted out, as stars, literal stars , like in cartoons, danced in his vision.
“He shot you,” Steve said. Danny thought Chin sighed, but things were a little fuzzy, and then Kono was petting him gently and he decided to close his eyes, see if that would make the world quit spinning.
By the time the doctors were done patching him up, Danny had his wits about him enough to remember the article.
“I’m going to need some help,” he said, and he might have said it a little slowly. As if to a young child.
Steve looked at him strangely. But Danny was nothing if not determined, and the article had emphasized the importance of being very specific and deliberate in your modeling.
“I can’t drive. And I need to pick Gracie up from school,” Danny continued. “I need you to drive me, please.”
Steve lit up as if Danny had just asked him to drive to the nearest Army Navy Surplus shop and collect a carton of flashbangs.
“Sure, Danny,” he said. He fished the keys to the Camaro out of one of his many pockets. “You won’t be able to drive for a while.”
Danny decided to forgo the rant about the fact that he never got to drive, anyway. “You’re right. I’ll need you to drive until I’m healed up.”
Steve nodded in satisfaction.
Danny sighed. Apparently, Steve had no problems with other people needing things.
Danny found that it didn’t take much of a stretch to model asking for help. The wound was more than a graze, though less than a through-and-through, and hurt like a mother. Four hours after arriving at Steve’s house -- because, “ you also have a concussion, Danny, and you’ll need that dressing changed” -- he was shaking and nauseous from the pain.
“Hey, buddy, you don’t look so good,” Steve said, looking at him sympathetically.
“I need another round of pills,” Danny said. “Would you get them for me?”
“Of course.”
As Steve trotted off to the kitchen, Danny realized that one of the reasons Steve didn’t ask for help, even when he needed it, was simply because it sucked. It sucked, being injured, being incapacitated, being dependent. And he’d been raised in a warm, loving family where needing help and asking for help was not only accepted, but encouraged and Steve -- well. Steve hadn’t, he’d bet his lucky tie on it.
“I’m sorry to keep asking for stuff,” Danny mumbled, as Steve pressed a glass of water and his prescription into his hands.
“It’s not a problem, Danny. You do it for me, all the time.”
That was true. Someone had to look after the neanderthal, he certainly wasn’t going to look after himself.
“And I don’t mind,” Danny said. “I’m happy to do it.” Which was also true. Because above all else -- and Danny was very self-aware, thank you -- Danny Williams liked to be needed. It wouldn’t hurt to be wanted , he hadn’t had that in a while, but he firmly ended that trail of thought before it merged with the trail of thought that involved Steve standing there, barefoot and slightly mussed, smelling like ocean and --
“Well. There you go.” Steve shuffled his feet a little and shrugged. “Anything else? Need anything else?”
Danny hesitated a moment, then looked up at Steve. “Well, don’t need, exactly, but --”
“Name it, Danny.” And damn if Steve didn’t look so earnest that it broke Danny’s heart a little.
“It’s been a long day, and I’d kill for a cup of good coffee.”
Steve beamed at him. “I’ll brew a pot of the Kona, the good stuff.”
“Thank you,” Danny said fervently.
“Of course, and besides,” Steve tossed back over his shoulder, “the grass-fed butter, full of nutrients and extra protein, speed up the healing process . . . “
“Steven, no. No butter. Steve?”
It went on that way for a while: Danny deliberately asking Steve for help when he needed it (and, okay, maybe once or twice when he really didn’t) and Steve just as deliberately refusing to do the same.
“It’s not working, hunh,” Kono asked one day, her eyes sympathetic and knowing, as they watched Steve wave off a paramedic trying to flash his eyes with a penlight.
Danny looked at Kono.
“What? You’ve been trying to show Steve how to ask for help. I’m learning from the best, you think I’m not picking up on things?”
“The best? You think I’m the best?”
Kono laughed. “The best at detective work. Chin’s the best at keeping a level head. And Steve’s the best at blowing shit up.”
“Thanks, Kono,” Steve’s grin was lopsided as he limped toward them.
“Why? Why are you smiling?” Danny demanded. “You should be at the hospital, getting checked out. Your skull just bounced off the fender of the SWAT armored truck.”
Steve rubbed at the back of his head. “Yeah, might have miscalculated the C4 a bit. Possibly have a little concussion, but there’s nothing the hospital’s gonna do for it, Danny. I don’t need a doctor to tell me what to do for a concussion. Had plenty.”
Danny sighed as he watched Steve lope back over to Captain Grover.
“Sadly, that is actually true. He’s had so many concussions, he truly doesn’t need a doctor to tell him what to do.”
Kono gave his arm a pat. “Keep at it, Danny. Steve needs you, he just doesn’t know how to say it yet.”
It struck Danny in the middle of that sleepless night, what Kono was saying. What Kono got, that he had missed. So much for being self-aware.
He wanted Steve to need him . He wanted Steve to know that he needed him. He . . . wanted Steve to need him . . . in ways he hadn’t even fully admitted to himself.
“Aw, fuck,” Danny muttered to the ceiling.
Steve wasn’t really comfortable with having a lot of time to think -- not since his father died. He’d been moving, moving, moving. From North Korea to Hawaii, to the task force, single minded in eliminating Victor Hesse and then on to the next bad guy. And the next, and the next. Thinking tended to lead to introspection and that tended to lead . . . nowhere helpful. But just because he didn’t enjoy letting his mind loose with thoughts . . . didn’t mean he wasn’t good at it. Because he was. Good at analyzing, good at thinking.
Which is what he’d been doing -- all he’d been doing -- for the last hour, while his blood dripped steadily onto the floor.
Danny might be a phenomenal detective -- years ahead of him in police detective work, Steve would readily admit, just not out loud -- but Steve was a genius analyst. The Navy saw the ability and honed it to perfection. So Steve knew, of course, what Danny had been up to, and it had worked. He realized a while back that he needed Danny in a way he’d never needed anyone. He depended on him -- needed him to be a voice of reason, a moral compass, a literal light in the often too-dark places that his mind and memories tended to take him.
But he meant it when he’d told Danny -- needing things like that, needing people like that -- was a luxury he could ill-afford. And a luxury he’d give anything to have, right now.
The ambush had come on his way home the night before. There’d been a meeting with the governor about the -- small, really, very small -- explosion. He’d sent the rest of the team home and gone in to smooth the ruffled feathers -- another talent that remained mostly hidden. The set-up told him that he’d been watched, closely, for some time. They’d waited until he was separated from the team. Had he been distracted? He forced the pain down, tried to think, to remember. Yes. He’d parked the truck, grabbed the beers -- and wished that Danny was there. His thoughts had been on . . . DADT. Specifically, the repeal of DADT. Then -- a stun gun -- the rush of gravel toward his face -- the sound of breaking glass -- the prick of a needle -- movement -- and then -- darkness.
The door creaked open and Steve spared a thought to the cliche. The whole thing was ridiculous, really: a dank hold, a nameless ship slipped into a dock, thick leather cuffs binding his wrists and ankles to a metal chair. The oily drug lord. Cliche -- but damn effective.
“Have you had time to . . . remember anything?”
“I’ve told you, Santeri, we don’t have anyone inside your organization,” Steve said. He forced his face into neutral, locked away the pain of the last two beatings. He could outlast this guy.
“Impossible. How did you know to raid the warehouse today?” Alejandro Santeri was a desperate man. Five-O had been closing in on him, dodgedly, little by little. “You knew that raiding that warehouse would cripple my organization. What I want to know is, who told you, and how much do you know? Do you know about the next shipment? Are your people waiting for it? Intercepting it?”
Steve favored Santeri with a sneer. “Who told me? My team told me. You’ve been getting careless. Leaving loose ends. We didn’t need an informant; you’re making mistakes. Like taking me, for example.”
The blade -- a thing of beauty, really, that Steve would have admired under other circumstances -- slashed through his left forearm, leaving a deep, clean laceration that matched the one Santeri had left on his right arm a little over an hour ago.
“No, I don’t think it’s a mistake. If I cut off the head of the snake, the rest will flounder helplessly -- perhaps even impressively -- but for a short while, and then -- die.”
Steve laughed out loud at that one, he couldn’t help it. Then the punches came fast and furious -- striking his already battered ribs, his already swollen cheek, and then a solid jab to his nose. Blood filled his throat, choking him. He spat, bright red, onto Santeri’s chest.
“You really are careless. You think my team can’t track you from the mess you left in my yard? There’s going to be nothing left of your smuggling operation. Nothing left of you, you miserable rat bastard.”
Another vicious punch landed dangerously close to his temple, and Steve held on to consciousness by sheer will power. The door slammed behind Santeri. Steve let his head slump forward, blood still pouring out of his nose. Blood dripping from both arms, now. Spreading. Close to his feet.
Steve realized two things: needing Danny -- and the team -- was a luxury that he could afford, apparently, because there was no doubt in his mind that they would be there, soon. They would find the clues, put the pieces together, with Danny leading the way. Steve allowed his mind to wander to Danny . . . his confidence in him was well-placed, of that he was certain. He’d never worked with anyone with Danny’s intellect, his intuition . . . his passion. And that’s when it hit him, as hard and as fast as Santeri’s fists: he didn’t just need Danny --
He wanted him.
“Danny!” Chin’s voice called across Steve’s lawn, urgent and clear. “I’ve got broken glass -- looks like a six pack of Longboards. Right here, next to the truck.”
Danny raced to his side, Kono on his heels.
“I’ve got drag marks,” Kono said, her eyes tracking from the broken glass further up the driveway. “Look, you can barely make out -- there.”
“Neighbors,” Danny said. He was aware of Chin and Kono dashing off, but he couldn’t force his feet to move. He should have been here. Steve needed him, and he wasn’t there.
Santeri’s operation had been hugely profitable but his success had made him careless. A neighbor remembered seeing what appeared to be Steve meeting up with the cable repair technician. They assumed that Steve had arranged to come home -- he works so late, dear boy -- and let them into the house, wasn’t that why they arrived at the same time?
“Steve doesn’t have cable,” Danny said. “He has satellite. Sports package. Added the Disney channel for Gracie.”
They raced back to headquarters. Danny held his breath as Chin worked magic with the smart table -- city and highway CCTV feeds flashing onto the plasma screens.
“There. Cable TV repair van on the docks. What’s wrong with that picture?” Kono practically yelled. “There’s no cable TV on ships. Stupid assholes.”
“That’s where they have Steve,” Danny’s voice sounded hollow to his own ears.
“They’re going to have eyes on that dock,” Chin said.
Kono’s eyes glittered. “We go in the water on the other side. Board quick and quiet.” She looked at Chin and Danny, braced for their argument.
But they both just nodded, and Chin looked at Danny in surprise.
“What? I keep telling you people. I swim, I snorkel, I even dive. I do it well. I just don’t do it for fun.”
Steve managed to get on his feet -- bent in half, still attached to the chair, his bare feet slipping in his own blood -- but he managed.
Because he was damned if he was going to die before Danny could get to him, before he could figure out if all of Danny’s maneuvering to break down his carefully constructed walls meant that they were on the same page. If there was even a possibility --
When the door creaked open this time, he used every last ounce of strength and charged, spinning, taking Santeri down beneath him. There was an odd sensation of resistance, and then give, under one of legs of the chair. Someone made a horrible rattling, gurgling sound . . . he hoped desperately that it wasn’t his own death rattle he was hearing, and then darkness claimed him once more.
Kono watched in amazement as Danny broke noiselessly through the surface of the water between her position and Chin’s. He wasn’t kidding -- he was good at this. She made a mental note to find out just how badly she had been pranked at his request for surfing lessons. His ease in the water made her suspicious. They each pulled their waterproof bags from their shoulders and silently swapped snorkels for sidearms as they went, in turn, up the ladder. Danny had taken point, gesturing for them to follow quickly. As agreed, Chin headed toward the control room while Danny and Kono made their way into the hold.
They reached a blind corner, and Danny signaled to Kono -- she would clear high, and he would clear low. She grinned and winked, and he rolled his eyes. No time for short jokes , his expression made clear.
Two steps past the corner, they were caught off guard by a door that they’d missed in the dark. It opened, and they whirled toward it in time to see the glint of a blade. Kono watched in horror as Danny’s limbs tangled with the assailant -- there was no way to get off a shot, not without hitting Danny. A twist, another flash, and a grunt . . . and then Danny lowered the man to the floor, his own knife embedded in his chest.
Danny almost regretted the way he had dispatched their attacker, for a fleeting moment, when he saw Kono looking at him with an expression of fear. She hadn’t realized that he had it in him, to so efficiently and permanently put down an attacker, and for a split second he hated that her image of him was forever altered. But then her eyes turned knowing, and then fierce. She would have done the same, and would probably demand the necessary training from Danny and Steve as soon as this was over.
“Control room secure. Headed your way.” Chin’s voice was soft over their earpieces.
Danny and Kono exchanged a quick nod, and moved to the next door, which stood ajar. Another silent exchange, and Danny pushed the door open, Kono covering him.
“I’ve got Steve,” he murmured. “Kono, cover that doorway.”
He approached Steve carefully, cautiously. He was bound to a chair, listing awkwardly toward the wall, his head and shoulder wedged against it -- two chair legs in the air, one on the floor, and one disappearing into the bloody abdomen of the unmoving form of Alejandro Santeri, the drug lord they’d marked as their prime suspect in the smuggling case that had occupied them for too many weeks now. Danny checked for a pulse with shaking hands.
“Santeri’s dead,” he informed Kono. He holstered his weapon, trusting Kono to cover the door, knowing Chin was probably only steps away. “Steve. Steven?”
He carefully righted the chair, absently aware of the fact that he was altering the forensics and not giving a damn. There was so much blood, everywhere, still oozing from Steve’s nose, seeping sluggishly from somewhere on his arms . . . he found Steve’s pulse, thready and hummingbird fast.
“I’m calling a bus,” Kono said, a step ahead of him already.
“We’re clear, HPD is moving in,” Chin said. He caught sight of Steve. “Danny?!”
“He’s alive, but he’s in rough shape,” Danny said. He wrapped one hand around each of Steve’s forearms, applying pressure. “He’s bleeding, one deep laceration on each arm.”
Danny was aware of Chin and Kono moving around him, removing the restraints, yelling for HPD, for the paramedics. He couldn’t spare a word for them, though, not when he could feel Steve’s blood pulsing weakly beneath his hands.
“Sir? Sir, we’ve got him. You need to let go.”
The paramedics were polite but insistent. Kono’s hands were gentle on his shoulders, pulling him back.
“Ride with him, we’ve got this,” Chin said. “We’ll meet up with you at the hospital. Go.”
Danny went, as if there was any other option for him to consider.
Steve’s eyes blinked open above the oxygen mask, pupils blown dark. He tried to lift a hand to the mask, frowned in confusion, and then started to panic when he realized his arms were restrained.
“Steve. Steve, you’re safe,” Danny said. “We’ve got you. Your arms are cut to hell, you’re not tied up, the medics are just holding pressure until we can get you to the hospital, okay?”
Steve struggled against the oxygen mask, and the paramedic nodded a silent permission for Danny to move it.
Steve grinned up at him, teeth bloody, lip split. “Knew you’d come,” he rasped.
“Yeah? How’d you know that?”
Steve’s eyes locked onto Danny’s.
“Because I needed you.”
Steve woke up in a hospital room, the smell of antiseptic sharp in his nose. His head ached, his ribs throbbed. His arms felt strangely heavy, his fingers clumsy as they scrabbled against the sheets.
“Hey, hey, you’re okay.” Danny’s voice was raspy with fatigue. Steve turned his head in search of the sound.
Danny was sitting in a chair, leaning forward, his forearms propped on the edge of Steve’s bed. He reached out carefully and traced a finger at the edge of the white bandage wrapped snugly around Steve’s forearm.
“You have a shit-ton of stitches, a concussion, badly bruised ribs. They had to give you a transfusion, you lost so much blood.”
“Santeri?” Steve croaked.
“You, ah . . . took him out. With the chair.”
Steve closed his eyes, processed the information. He was aware of Danny’s fingers still rubbing so gently, so carefully, at his arm. He opened his eyes again, and found himself looking straight into Danny’s, searching. Danny’s expression was, as always, steady and fond, but now that Steve was looking for it, he saw it -- a hint of resignation, of sadness. He was pretty sure he knew why, now, and pretty sure he knew exactly what to do about it.
“Danny?”
“Yeah, babe?”
“I need some water, please.”
Danny smiled softly at him, then went to the counter and poured a cup of water. He wrapped a hand around Steve’s unsteady one and helped him guide the straw to his mouth. Steve leaned into Danny’s gentle touch.
“See, it’s not so bad needing things,” Danny said. His thumb traced over Steve’s jaw, his smile growing brighter.
“What about wanting things?” Steve asked. “Is that okay, too, Danno?” He turned his face, pressed a kiss into the palm of Danny’s hand.
Danny’s breath hitched. “Depends on what you want.”
“ You . That okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s okay. That’s all I’ve ever needed.”