Chapter Text
It starts with Firefly. Or maybe, to be precise, it starts with Eric, who refers to Steve as a big damn hero, and Steve says he’s claiming that, and Danny says you can’t claim that, it’s a from a thing, though he doesn’t seem to know which thing it’s from.
Or maybe it starts with Steve and Danny selling the restaurant. Which, in turn, apparently started with Steve having a weird dream via which he literally solved a cold case.
Being Steve, he decides that he solves cold cases now.
Which leads to Jerry spending three nights in a row, scouring old files until well after sunset, helping Steve one hard-earned fact at a time. Not that he minds. But he’s pretty sure Steve has slept maybe one night’s worth since the weekend, and he knows for a fact that he hasn’t been eating, and that’s just not sustainable.
So when Steve turns up in his office Thursday afternoon, Jerry puts his foot down.
“You need a break.”
“Hm?” Steve’s perched on the couch, scowling vaguely at a mildewed manila folder.
“You need a break,” Jerry repeats, then, when Steve raises his head to argue, “listen. I spent my entire adult life working the same cold case, okay, so maybe you could trust me on this one? It’s important. It’s worthwhile. But you can’t let it be the only thing you do.”
“We don’t have an active case right now. What else am I supposed to do?”
Dick around playing online Poker like Lou, Jerry doesn’t say. “Fine. But you leave here at five. Does that sound fair?”
Steve’s face softens before Jerry’s eyes, goes from a somber McGarrett frown to an easy, almost lazy smile. “Can I be honest with you?”
“’course.”
“I think—” Steve flops back against the couch cushions, his pointy knees sticking straight up in the air. “I think I don’t know what to do with all my time, now. Now that we sold the restaurant. I was there three, four, five hours a night, y’know?”
“What did you do at night before the restaurant?”
Steve opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. “I don’t know.”
“I have a solution.”
“You do?”
Jerry opens a drawer in his desk; he keeps it more organized than most people would assume, and has no trouble finding what he’s looking for. He tosses the Firefly box set, frisbee-like, towards the couch.
Steve catches it effortlessly, then looks up at Jerry with his increasingly familiar you-know-I’m-your-boss-right? expression. “Why’s this here?” he asks—as though he himself has never watched Netflix in this very office.
“I dunno. Probably from when I was sort of living here.”
“Living in my office, you mean.”
“Right.”
“Okay.”
“This is that show that Eric was talking about.”
“The big damn hero show?” Steve’s eyes actually light up a little, which, to be clear, is adorable.
“Yeah. I swear you’ll like it. And it’s not long; you’ll be done in a week with a few episodes a night.”
“Well, apparently I’m free tonight,” Steve laughs.
And then he says something that more or less stops Jerry’s heart:
“You gonna watch it with me?”
So that, to be exact, is how it starts.
*
Jerry can’t remember how exactly the plans get made; only knows the ultimate decision. Steve’s coming over his place around seven. And they’re going to order takeout and veg on the sofa and watch a few hours of Firefly.
There’s precedent, for a thing like this. Jerry’s not sure if he and Steve are technically friends or not, but on a few occasions over the last few years they’ve had a Netflix night together. Still, historically it’s been because one of them needed cheering up. This might be—no, this is—the first time they’ve ever just decided to be in each other’s company for an evening, for no real reason. And, seriously? Wow.
Just, wow.
Jerry doesn’t clean clean; he keeps his place pretty tidy to begin with, much like his desk, and besides he doesn’t want to make it look effortful. He just loads the dishwasher, takes the trash out. Then he gets himself showered and in comfy clothes, and hunkers down on the sofa, and waits.
Steve’s on time. Precisely. Jerry answers the door and Steve ambles inside, wearing a sleeveless shirt and carrying a six-pack—and then there’s a moment of utter awkwardness. It shouldn’t be surprising, really. But it is, and it’s also embarrassing, and Jerry wants to die a little as he closes and locks the door, but instead he makes himself smile.
Steve smiles back, instinctively. “What?”
“What, what? I’m just, like, really excited. Firefly is a thing, man. I feel like I’m baptizing you.”
Then Steve laughs, and the awkwardness dissipates. And yeah, it was probably weird to refer to this as a holy ritual, but it was weird in Jerry’s normal weird way, so he thinks it’s acceptable.
In the living room, Steve flops onto the couch. When Jerry immediately cues up the DVD he laughs again, pushes off his slippers, and pulls his bare feet up onto the cushion beside him. “You really are excited.”
“I said I was.”
“Let’s at least figure out food first.”
Jerry does the right thing, apparently, by telling Steve that he doesn’t care what they order. “I pick, I pay,” Steve summarizes, with approval. And then makes Jerry’s heart stop again when he casually amends that next time, they’ll switch.
They decide (well, Steve decides) on Venezuelan. Food ordered, Steve hands Jerry a beer, takes one for himself, then pulls the afghan off the back of the couch and drapes it loosely over his lap. And just—holy crap. Steve McGarrett is literally making himself cozy in Jerry’s apartment, and it’s every bit as wonderful as Jerry’d imagined it to be.
“Well,” Steve prompts, after taking a pull of his beer. “Are we doing this or what?”
So Jerry hits play.
He’s more nervous than he thought he would be, and not only because he’s tucked up one couch cushion away from Steve. Suddenly he’s nervous about Firefly too. Because to be fair, it’s a bit of an acquired taste, and Jerry doesn’t even know if Steve likes sci-fi, as a genre, or if he just has fond memories of watching Star Trek with his dad and maybe he’ll actually hate this. Maybe this was stupid. Jerry glances sideways, hoping for confirmation otherwise, but Steve’s face is pretty much neutral.
It stays neutral for a while. Still it seems that Steve’s paying attention, at any rate, which is something. But he doesn’t laugh, doesn’t engage.
Then, maybe halfway through the episode, Wash is onscreen; Steve gestures vaguely, glances at Jerry, and prompts, “is that you?”
Jerry’s first reaction is relief. His second reaction is to adore the fact that even somebody as cool as Steve McGarrett still has to assign characters when watching a show like Firefly.
His third reaction is to laugh.
“Flattering, but nah. I’m definitely Kaylee.”
“The mechanic? You’re the--- the twenty-five year old, five-foot-tall white girl?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” Steve agrees, and says no more about it, until the episode ends and Steve cackles and declares that he fucking loves Kaylee and yes, he sees it now.
Everything gets better from there. The food arrives; it turns out that Steve has ordered enough for a small party, and remembered to make Jerry’s vegetarian even though Jerry himself was too flustered to remind him. He even got them coconut milkshakes. So with a take-out container full of rice and beans and fried plantains, Jerry hits play on the next episode, and lets himself relax.
They watch three more episodes that night. Mostly because Jerry wants to get to the one where Mal escorts Kaylee to a fancy ball, and all the guys there sort of fawn over her.
By then, though, it’s late. Steve, yawning, gives Jerry a one-armed bro-hug—and asks when they’re going to watch the rest.
In the morning it feels like a fever dream. Jerry sits on the couch, where Steve sat last night, and tries to remember everything—tries to remember every detail. Because it seems so unlikely to really happen again.
But it does. It fucking does. Next Thursday, leaving work, Steve asks if they’re still on for that night; a few hours after that he’s tucked up on Jerry’s couch and Jerry’s ordering them tacos.
They watch five episodes; Steve’s there ‘til after midnight.
The next Thursday is Thanksgiving, and Jerry’s sure that will be the undoing of their fledgling tradition. But it’s not. They just push it back a day, and on Friday they finish off the series (as well as two plates each of yesterday’s leftovers).
And despite all this, Jerry’s still not sure Steve really liked it. At least, he’s not sure until Steve turns to him with wide eyes and huffs out, “you said they made a movie too, right?”
*
Jerry’s kind of mopey, the following Thursday. It’s only the fourth week in a row of his nights with Steve, but they’ll be out of Firefly after tonight, and that will be that. Waiting for Steve’s knock, Jerry misses it already.
It’s Steve’s turn to get food again, since they had leftovers last week; he orders them sushi, and they curl up on opposite ends of the couch. Then Jerry starts the movie. And he does his best, really, to enjoy every moment, because how stupid would it be to ruin the last bit of something just because it was ending?
He manages, for the most part. Steve’s a legitimate fan by now, adding commentary, asking questions, gasping and cheering, mouth full of California roll. It is honestly beyond adorable.
And so distracting, ultimately, that Jerry sort of forgets all the shit that goes down towards the end of the movie. But then it hits. They both make it through Book’s death with dry eyes, but Jerry starts dreading the very end, knowing what’s coming, knowing that Steve has no clue.
He can’t even look over at him, as the time draws closer.
Then:
“I am a leaf on the wind,” Wash says, onscreen. “Watch how—”
Jerry risks a peek sideways. Steve is starting at the TV with his mouth slightly open; Jerry looks away again.
He doesn’t look back until after the memorial scene. Gorgeous Zoe in her long white dress steps up to her husband’s holo-stone, and Jerry glances over at Steve.
Two enormous tears are rolling down the man’s face. He catches Jerry looking, and scowls. “You,” he says, sounding congested, “you did not warn me, Jerry.”
“Yeah. I kinda—”
“Shh,” Steve snaps, waving one hand. “It’s not over.”
They watch the last few minutes in silence, then the credits roll. Jerry shuts it off. Heaves a sigh, and looks over to find more tears, clearly fresh, but tracing the same old paths on Steve’s cheeks.
“Um.”
“Hm?”
“Are you okay?” Jerry asks, feeling kind of dumb.
Steve sniffles. “Yeah.”
“Just—yeah?”
“Yeah. Stop watching me, man!” Steve laughs, and dries his face. “I cry at movies, sometimes. Some people do that, an’ I’m one of ‘em.”
“But you’re okay?”
“Why are you worrying?” He’s still smiling, still rubbing at his eyes. “God, that was really good. All of it. Man, I haven’t seen something that good in a long time.”
“Told you,” Jerry says, weakly.
“Yeah. At least you told me some of it,” Steve snorts. “Yo, I dunno what we’re gonna watch next week, but it’s gonna have to be really good, to compare.”
And yeah, no point in denying it: Jerry’s heart soars.
*
It’s not Steve’s fault, of course; but next week doesn’t happen.