Work Text:
When Steve is fifteen, his history class watches a video of the Kennedy assassination. Mrs. Wycoff, being Mrs. Wycoff, warns them beforehand in a way that’s mostly helpful but also the slightest bit voyeuristic.
And at one point, she says, head tilting solemnly, at one point you’ll see Jackie reaching backwards, almost out of the car. We’re not sure, but we think she was trying to—yes, this is hard to hear—we think she was trying to reach for a piece of his brain. It looks like she’s trying to gather something to herself.
And Steve’s stomach flips, with a strange combination of disgust but also adolescent fascination, because imagine loving somebody and seeing their brains blown out in front of you. Imagine loving them so much that in your panic, your reaction is to gather all the bits and pieces back together.
Imagine.
When Steve is fifteen, somebody getting their brains blown out is a very abstract concept.
*
When Steve is thirty-three, his father is murdered. Shot in the head, with all that entails.
Everything stays as-is, as a crime scene, for days; when it’s finally over and he’s allowed to clean, he thinks about hiring somebody before deciding that he just can’t bring himself to. That’s his father. Or, no, that’s not his father, but the blood and the—everything else—left in that room, it’s as close to being his father as the rest of his father’s body is, and his father’s body isn’t his father but it’s close enough, so—
So he does it himself.
It’s a matter of respect.
It’s one of the last things he can do for him, in a way.
He’s not-quite-halfway through before something just switches. Maybe something turns on or maybe something turns off but whatever happens sends him stumbling to the bathroom, lurching for the toilet.
For ten solid minutes he throws up: coffee and pain pills and bile. When it’s finally over he’s shaking too badly to stand, so he slides back to prop himself against the wall and focuses on breathing.
He registers the footsteps automatically, analytically. Tentative but not surreptitious, it’s definitely a friendly, and from there it’s not hard to work out specifics.
Too heavy to be Kono’s, too short-strided to be Chin’s. And Cath won’t be on dry land for another week at least; he knows; he called.
Even after all the noise of the footsteps, Williams still raps on the bathroom doorframe. Actively working not to startle him. Steve hopes that Williams knows he’s doing a favor more for himself, than for Steve, by not catching a SEAL off-guard.
Or, not catching by surprise, at least. Steve has to admit, he has been caught off-guard by this: Williams coming over, finding him in the bathroom, handing him a bottle of water before flushing the toilet. Leaning up against the opposite wall.
“What are you doing here?” It sounds like he’s been eating fiberglass, and Steve sips carefully at the water.
“Still have the key. From bein’ on the case.”
“But why are you here, now?”
Williams frowns; the answer comes slowly. “Look, I know you’re not a cop, McGarrett. But your old man was.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, and, being partners, that’s no joke, okay? You oughta know that.”
A few months after Mrs. Wycoff showed them the assassination, Steve’s mom died; his dad’s partner at the time showed up within hours and didn’t leave for two days.
Steve says nothing.
“Honestly? I didn’t want to be your partner, still not sure I do, but you didn’t give me a choice, so there it is. I’m your partner and I came to see if I could help. I figured today would be the day you started in on clean up.”
Williams is a blunt guy. Steve appreciates that, as much as he can appreciate anything right now.
“I’d rather do it alone,” he grinds out.
That doesn’t get a direct reaction; instead Williams takes a hand towel from the rack and throws it to him. “You missed a lil’ puke there, left side.”
Steve wets the towel with the water bottle, wipes where the man is indicating on his own face.
“Listen,” Williams drawls, “if you’d rather me go, that’s fine. But that help, that’s a legitimate offer. I want you to understand that.”
“I do.”
“And it stands. The offer. It stands, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Okay. I’ll, uh. I’ll let you get back to it, then.” He waves vaguely, and Steve almost laughs as he wonders if Danny means cleaning up his father’s blood, or getting sick because he’s cleaning up his father’s blood.
He doesn’t comment on this, only asks: “should I assume you’re keeping the key, then?”
“Emergencies only,” Williams replies. “In the highly unlikely event that I am ever here for social reasons, I will knock. Scout’s honor.”
“Fair enough,” Steve agrees. But he shuts up then, because he can’t let this conversation go on any longer. Reaction comes in waves, and he feels a fresh one rolling ashore now. Gives it better-than-even odds that he’s got some more throwing up—or at least dry-heaving— to do, before he can get back to work. And he doesn’t really want an audience.
But Williams doesn’t overstay his welcome (despite not having one to begin with).
“See you Monday,” he says, and leaves. Steve listens to his footsteps fade, and disappear; listens the door open, close, and lock.
No, he’s not a cop; but yes, he is a cop’s son.
So yes, he knows that having a partner, being a partner, means something. Something big. Not something he thought about, making that phone call in the garage, only a few days ago; but something that he, apparently, has to consider now.
Steve closes his eyes, lets his head rest against the wall. The next wave of sickness actually seems to be receding, and he wonders if he’ll manage to avoid it altogether. That would be preferable.
Williams doesn’t get credit for that, except maybe credit for providing a distraction. That’s all. Taking Steve’s mind off of things, long enough for a bit of time to pass. That’s literally all he did.
Steve finds that he appreciates it, nevertheless.