Chapter Text
Hala Loa
Long Gone
When Steve saw the email in his inbox, he hesitated before opening the attached file. It wasn't exactly that he was worried about the information that the Cemetery Commission of Massachusetts might have sent him. It was more that, despite finding the knife and learning about the wreck of the Swallow off French Frigate Shoals, some part of Steve was still rebelling against the idea that Danny's dreams -- or his own -- might be something more than stress or suggestibility.
That was the part of him that the Navy owned, and likely would have some hold on forever. The rest of him, the part that had grown up on these islands, knew the truth. But as Mamo said, knowing and having proof were two distinctly different things. He clicks open the file.
With its contents, the proof is rolled out in front of him. This causes its own problems.
Once Danny knows his dreams were real, he may want to separate what was real then from what's real now. Freed from the emotional turmoil of what happened almost two hundred years ago, he may choose to free himself from Steve.
He sits staring at the papers on his desk for almost two hours before he gets up, eases the stiffness out of his hands, and goes home.
When he walks through his front door, he can hear Danny in the shower. There is splashing, the odd snatch of whistled tune and occasional singing. Steve takes the opportunity to kick off his boots and grab a couple of cans of Coke Zero from the fridge. Since being read the medical riot act on the interactions of Ambien and alcohol, evening beers have been out for Danny and Steve keeps him company out of support. Also because Danny has a pout that makes Steve look like an amateur.
By the time Danny comes pattering downstairs in cutoffs and an old Giants t-shirt, Steve has everything laid out on the table.
"Hey, you're home early!" Danny says cheerfully, leaning over to smack a kiss into the wisps beside Steve's temple. "I was going to marinate some pork chops." He steals Steve's Coke and takes a swig before noticing the bundle of soft leather on top of a file folder set out in front of his usual seat. "What's this?"
Steve wants to smile and tell him it's a present, but it is so much more than that -- and something so different -- that he can't explain it. He just waves a 'go ahead' hand at it and opens the can of soda he originally brought out for Danny. With a long drink, he won't have to say anything else.
After shooting him a speculative look, Danny cautiously begins to unwrap the dark leather that Steve had carefully folded. When he understands what he is seeing lying on the table before him, Danny sinks back into his chair like a balloon losing air.
The knife looks more battered and less mystical in the uncompromising afternoon sunlight. It's beaten and worn, the handle cracked and the blade dulled by long and careless usage. But Danny picks it up as if it is something fragile and precious, and maybe it is. Because this is the only tangible proof he has that all of this was not simply an elaborate fantasy.
"Danny, look at the butt," Steve says softly.
Danny turns the knife and rubs his thumb over the darkened piece of lead hammered to hold the tang to the end of the scrimshawed bone handle. Cut deeply into the lead are the initials he remembers seeing before: W.D. There is a dreamy smile on his lips as he turns the knife and skims his fingers over the portrait of a man expertly scratched into the bone, then darkened with lamp black ink.
"It's his knife," Steve says unnecessarily. "I found it at the museum."
"Gabby had it," Danny interrupts. "I was gonna buy it."
"Too late," Steve smirks, then sobers a little. "I knew it the moment I touched it."
"Steve," Danny starts, then stops and flails one hand. "You don't have to humor me."
"I'm not," he promises. "Read the stuff in the folder, Danny." He settles back, not really sure what effect his packet will have.
He watches as Danny reverently lays the knife back on the leather and then opens the folder and begins to read. Danny's expression of total absorption as he gleans pertinent facts is familiar from dozens of cases they've worked. Now Steve knows they'll work many more, and he begins to relax as he hasn't since this whole bizarre chapter began.
Danny scans the two brief articles about the finding of the Swallow in less than fifteen feet of water by divers at French Shoals. He reads about some of the artifacts recovered, including whaling lances, some china and coins. There is a notation from a Nantucket Whaling syndicate regarding the loss of the 90 foot whaler "Swallow" with all hands presumed dead in 1821.
It is the last page in the file that stops Danny cold. Steve watches him stare at the image that some zealous and friendly researcher in Massachusetts had scanned and sent to him. Scribbled across the bottom of the page are the words:
'Looks like he died from pneumonia. The local church records have a woman of the same last name, aged 56, dying in September of the same year from fever. She's buried next to him but the stone is pretty deteriorated. Let me know if you need more.'
Above the note is a simple black and white picture of a headstone reading:
William Daniel
died Oct 12, 1824
Farewell, bright soul, a short farewell
Till we shall meet again above
In the sweet groves where pleasures dwell
And trees of life bear fruits of love
Steve watches Danny trace the top edge of the stone in the picture, then the odd winged skull carved above the words. Then he closes the file and drops it on the table before running both hands over his face with a rough scrub. When he looks up to meet Steve's eyes, face red and hair mussed, he says, "Poor bastard."
"Yeah. Will's life was pretty tough." And he died alone in the place he grew up, enduring the loss of everyone he ever loved. Steve went into the service hellbent to bash through every challenge or die trying, and there were times when he didn't care which. But Danny didn't get a signup bonus for the anguish he'd been through, not in this life or the last.
The words fall out of his mouth, foolish and unsteady. "I want to make it up to you."
"You already have. I told you, Grace is my reason for living. You're the one who made my living here better." Danny's eyes are clear and sure again. "Steve?" His voice is quiet, layered with things neither of them have said yet. When he meets Danny's gaze, the man is serious. "Thank you. For finding all of this. For believing me, for believing in me. I mean it."
"It was nothing." Steve, well, he knows Danny can see everything right there on his face if Danny wants to look. "After all, you keep reminding me that I'm the crazy one in this relationship. So I knew the proof had to be out there somewhere."
Danny gets up and moves to stand next to him, the knuckles of one hand following the line of Steve's jaw. He's smiling just a little, but there's an odd look in his eyes that Steve's never seen before; doesn't know how to interpret. "You know, my mother always taught me to say thank you when someone gives me a gift." He holds out his hand to Steve, who takes it. "I'd like to express my gratitude." But he doesn't yank Steve up for one of his no-holds-barred UFC-certified MMA kisses.
He turns Steve's hand over and presses gentle lips to the center of his palm. A faint prickle of awareness sweeps over Steve at the muted touch, as if Danny caressed his skin with a fingertip. Danny's face is freshly shaven, so smoothly fitted against his callused palm.
Danny says, "Come upstairs."
The low words curl around his ear, beckoning him to follow. He rises, but doesn't move until he's had a chance to pull Danny close. "I think I'll like your mother," he says against the damp, ruffled hair, "but this probably isn't what she meant." He just stands there, holding onto Danny's warmth.
"Yeah, but it's a lot more fun than writing a thank-you note."
Neither of them laugh.
His teeth graze Steve's ear, then nip sharply, causing Steve to completely forget what he was going to say. Instead, he just sighs out, "Okay . . ." On their own, his hands slide up that broad back to clutch heavy shoulders as Steve's mouth seeks the hollow of Danny's throat.
Wordlessly Danny leads Steve through the house and up the stairs, heading for the bed they've been sharing for two weeks now. The file folder and the knife are left behind on the table and, if Steve spares a thought for them later, deep in the night, it's only to be grateful that they were there to be found. Those small bits and pieces of a dead past are the tokens of a life that has given them this.
Mau Loa
Forever
When Steve wanders into the kitchen the next morning, it's to see Danny standing at the sink, just staring out the window. He's wearing only a pair of cut-off shorts, which means he'll go surfing with Steve today. The idea makes Steve smile a little.
The line of Danny's back is relaxed, the curves of his muscles edged with gold from the sunlight. The two back dimples above Danny's pelvis are showing just above the drooping waistband of his shorts. Suddenly, Steve has to go over and fit the pads of his thumbs into those depressions. Danny doesn't even jump, he just takes a deep breath as Steve's hands wrap around both of his hip bones and rest there, so lightly.
Danny doesn't even move when Steve pulls himself closer to Danny, so close that the backs of his thumbs are brushing his own waist. He just stands and stares out the window and waits. Steve leans in and touches his lips to the back of Danny's neck. There is a shudder that begins at Danny's shoulders, just under Steve's lips and ripples down the length of his body.
Steve rests his mouth against the skin of Danny's shoulder. After a time, a long breath sighs out of Danny, and Steve knows that sound. It's the sound of someone coming home, slipping into something familiar, comfortable and safe. Suddenly, Steve knows that his hands are no longer fitted around Danny's waist. Now his hands are full of Danny. With that one breath, Danny has handed himself over into Steve's care. It is the most terrifyingly wonderful gift he has ever received.
He hugs Danny just to show him that he understands. His arms slide up, barely fitting around Danny's heavy arms and broad chest. And Steve drops his head into the curve of a shoulder and holds on, like a drowning man to a log, tight and grateful and impossibly buoyant. Every inch of his body feels Danny.
Danny finally moves, his hands coming up to curl over Steve's forearms. And then Danny is just still, there with him. Not moving, content to breathe together and hold on tight. Somehow it feels like a sacred moment. So Steve whispers,
"Stay," like a prayer.
When Danny's voice breaks the silence, he says something Steve never expected but knows immediately is true. "I came back to you . . ." A swallow and another deep breath, then he finishes his sentence. "'A'amakualenalena." Then the words ripple from his mouth, unfamiliar, but Steve knows what they mean. " 'O ku'u aloha no 'oe (You are indeed my love)."
Steve is shattered with gratitude, but all he can find to say is, "That means I'm yours now."
He can feel Danny smiling. His eyes are closed and his face is tucked against Danny's neck, but he can still feel Danny's smile like sunlight on his skin. Later they will have to talk about dreams and memories and artifacts and the sincerely fucked up management of the universe, but not right now. Now, it's enough to be here together at last.
PAU
The Same Deep Water by I Am Kloot
Swim out to the ocean
Drown your thoughts out at sea
And dip your hands in the water
The same deep water as me