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Breathing deeply through his nose, Danny deposited the parachute rig onto the garage bench with deliberate gentleness. It was either that or throw it into the ocean with a vengeance, and out of respect for Sunday morning sentimentality he was trying to maintain an air of domestic calm. "Parachute. One. Military issue. Check." When his check was not confirmed, he looked up.
From across the Camaro, Steve frowned and scanned the metal clipboard in his hands. As his brow crinkled, his glasses slipped slightly down his nose. He pushed them back up with an ink stained fingertip.
Danny absolutely did not find that adorable. It was 6.15 on a Sunday morning. He did not find anything adorable.
"No." Steve shook his head, displeased. "There should be another one." He said this with an air of impatience, as if Danny was being deliberately uncooperative by not immediately producing two parachute packs.
Grace. Puppies. Pizza. Jersey. Clouds. Sunday morning coffee and eggs. Danny was calm. "Why, pray tell, do we have two parachutes?"
Steve's brow crinkled even further. "Well, one for me, one for you. Obviously."
Danny smiled the smile of a man at the end of his tether. He smiled the smile of a man who'd been hoping for clumsy warm morning sex, and had instead been given oh-five-hundred equipment catalogue duty. "I ask again, oh light of my life, oh bringer of all that is shiny and lovely, why do we have two parachutes? In what universe, in what lifetime, in what make-believe-world, do you anticipate my needing a parachute? Tell me, tell me please, I would like to hear this." His cheeks were beginning to hurt.
Steve, well trained in the art of parsing Danny's sentences, cocked an eyebrow and extended his hand. "Hi, I'm Steve McGarrett, have we met?"
Danny snorted. Didn't that say it all.
"I mean, really," Steve continued, rounding the Camaro to inspect the depths of the trunk. "What good is one parachute going to do us? As you go, so goes my nation. If you're up in a plane with engine failure, then where do you figure I'll be, eh? Sipping cocktails by the beach? No, no, right beside you, like always."
"Do not try and sweet-talk your way out of this." Damn him, damn him, damn him. Not adorable. Not. An early-rising bastard with a disturbing fetish for parachutes.
"What?" Steve protested, resting the clipboard on the roof of the car. "I'm just saying. Say we're in a falling plane, okay? We've only got one parachute? Then I have to give you mine. Which, okay, I love you, I would do it in a heartbeat, but I also quite like being alive. And I know that you'd rather go down fighting than let me strap you into a tandem rig. Ergo, ugh, your vocabulary is killing me here. Ergo, two parachutes." As if to prove his point, he produced another pack from the murky regions of the trunk with a triumphant smile.
Okay. Danny wasn't made of stone. As Steve placed the second parachute on the bench, Danny gave him the benefit of a small yet genuine smile. "Parachutes. Two. Military issue. Check."
Steve beamed, slid his pen from where it rested above his ear, plucked the clipboard from the roof of the Camaro, and ticked the inventory sheet with a flourish. "Next?"
Danny returned his attention to the trunk. "Er. Weird pointy hooky anchor looking thing?" He held up a clawed metal contraption. It had a long, thin, metallic rope attached to the base of it, and he began to loosely coil said rope around his elbow. Task complete, he rested it on the bench next to the tank schematics.
"That's a grappling hook, Danno. For scaling walls?" Steve looked physically pained.
"Oh, well, a grappling hook, of course. I mean, obviously, I see it now. Grappling hook. One. Check."
Steve nodded in approval. "Check. Next?"
Danny hefted out a large black box, resting it on the lip of the trunk. It was made of hard plastic and hinged with metal clasps. Snapping them open, he removed the lid and peered inside. "Fucking enormous scary-ass murder boots?"
It was Steve's turn to breathe in deeply through his nose. "That's it, I'm returning to active duty. Petty Officer Adams never gave me this kind of grief. He could practically inventory an aircraft carrier in twenty minutes, and instead I get you and your weird pointy hooky anchor looking things."
Not at all concerned, Danny began the task of prying one of the boots from the clutches of the box. "Uh-huh. And did Petty Officer Adams also blow you in the shower at least twice a week? No? Then deal with it. And seriously, these-" he held up a spikey boot demonstratively, "-are enormous scary-ass murder boots. You kick a man with these, he is not getting up."
"They're mountaineering boots, Danny. With crampons. No, please," Steve held up a hand plaintively. "Resist the urge to make tampon jokes, okay? They're for ice-climbing. Only one pair. Thought I'd take one for the team, there."
With a snort, Danny inserted the pointy shoe back into the box. "Very wise. Okay, mountaineering boots, avec crampons. One pair. Check."
Steve nodded. "Mountaineering boots. Crampons. One pair. Check."
Danny flitted a hand indecisively over the many boxes and packages and bits and bobs. It was like a lucky-dip of death. After a few seconds of finger wiggling, he hoisted out a small silvery metal container. It was heavy, and thoroughly locked. He drummed blunt fingernails against the top face of it, not at all impressed. "I assume you have the key?"
Steve nodded, handing over a slim and shiny key. He looked moderately apprehensive, and Danny's paranoia spiked.
Nervous, Danny quickly unlocked the container. To say that his eyebrows ascended into his hairline would have been an understatement, and once again, deep breathing was necessary. "Assorted foreign currencies. Assorted fake credit cards. Assorted fake passports. Assorted fake passports with my face on them. Assorted fake passports with Grace's face on them. Assorted I'm going to kill you. Daniel Marker and Grace Marker." He held up a pair of passports. "Daniel Goodwin and Grace Goodwin." Another pair. "Terry... Terry Arnold? Are you fucking kidding me? Does this look like the face of a Terry?" He circled his face with a fingertip. "Oh, and also, did I mention the killing you?"
Fuming, he picked up another stack of papers, bearing a variety of colours and nationalities. "Oh, look, here you are. Steven Clarkson, Greg Hemming, Steven Coulson. Huh. Hey. Grace Coulson? Grace Hemming?"
Steve, leaning against the bench, looked at the floor. His glasses slipped down his nose again, but he didn't bother to push them up. He looked downright melancholy. "In case something happens to you, and I need to covertly get Grace out of the country to keep her safe."
Danny wasn't sure if he was going to pass out, or hug the stuffing out of Steve. After a few seconds of deliberation, he settled instead for coming to stand beside his partner, hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder. Well. Shoulder to arm and hip to thigh, damn his height.
"I know you think it's creepy. Or insane."
Danny nodded, no point in denying it.
"It's just that... this is what we do. SEALs. We've always got a contingency plan. This is my home, and I'm staying here come hell or high water, but there's a part of me that always has to be ready. And, well, now I have you guys. I know you think it's fucked up, but I have to factor the two of you into my plan, and... well..." he waved a hand at the variety of passports. "This is how I do that."
"It is fucked up, Steve. But..." Danny trailed off, looking into the trunk. Tac vests. Weird anchors and murder boots. Enough bottled water to last a life-time. Two parachutes. Night vision goggles. Digital sniper scopes. "But...I'm not sure if it isn't the most stupidly sweet thing I've ever heard of."
Steve wrinkled his nose, and Danny elbowed him in the side. "Yes, sweet, I said it, take it or leave it. I'm trying to be nice, which I think you'll agree is not my default mode when I'm asked to do anything before 8AM on a Sunday morning." With a sigh, Danny pushed himself off the bench, turning to face Steve and invade his personal space.
Almost instinctively, Steve slouched down a little against the bench, spreading his legs so that Danny could stand between his thighs. His tanned hands found their way into the back pockets of Danny's sweatpants, as if in effort to keep him close.
Grinning mischievously, Danny pressed in and up, resting on the balls of his feet to kiss Steve. In the earlier months of their relationship, he'd made Steve work for it, made Steve lean down to him. But over time, he'd learned to give a little, learned to do the chasing every now and then, to slide in against his partner and reach up.
He began chastely, just the gentle pressure of warm lips to warm lips and his palm cupped against Steve's stubbly cheek. When Steve squeezed his ass, tugged him in closer and began to slowly rock against his thigh, all pretense was dispensed with. The kiss grew hot and heavy quickly, hands found their way inside clothes, and it wasn't long before they - still wrapped around each other - were stumbling their way out of the garage.
It was only when Danny opened his eyes to attack the drawstrings of Steve's pants that he saw it. "Ohforcryingoutloud... Steven, is that an ice-axe!?"