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There has to be a reason for all those pockets.

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There has to be a reason for all those pockets.
By Sealie

Blearily, Danny opened his eyes. His ears were ringing. He knew that feeling, some fucker had thumped him on the head and now he had a concussion.


Concussions were the worst. They weren’t anything like on cop shows where the hero was knocked unconscious and then woke up and jumped up and caught the bad guys. Concussions fucked up your day, weekend and the rest of the week big time.


Where the Hell was he? His face was cold and he was laying on something gritty. How long had he been out?

“If you touch him, I’ll kill you.”

Oh, he knew that voice. Then someone else was talking, an unfamiliar East Coast accent. A door slammed shut, truncating a laugh.


Oh, he definitely knew that voice.

“Danny, if you don’t open your eyes--”

As threats went it was kind of pathetic, but Danny cracked open an eye. Whoa. The world was skewed. Huh. He was on a cold concrete floor. Danny shivered and realised that his hands were tied behind his back.


“Stop saying my name and say something useful,” Danny grumbled.


What was it with Steve McGarrett and his inability to follow orders? Danny managed to get both eyes opened. Steve was lying on his side, evidently also tied up. He had a black eye. The wide smile on his face was completely uncalled for.

“Man, you’ve been unconscious forever. I was getting worried. Haynes hit you good.”

Haynes, Danny thought grimly, he was going to remember that name.

“What happened?” he knew that this Haynes had hit him, but how had they managed to end up -- where? God, his head was killing him.

“We were jumped. Haynes got you, then I couldn’t do anything. They’ve locked us in a warehouse unit or something.”

Danny wriggled his wrists behind his back; he was zip-tied. They’d even secured his ankles. Fuckers.

“I’ll be over there in a sec,” Steve said.

“Babe, you’re tied up.”


Steve wriggled a little more onto his side, curled up his knees and then rolled onto his front. Immediately, he straightened, kneeling, hands secured behind his back. He smiled reassuringly at Danny. And then simply jumped up, getting his knees and feet under him and stood. He didn’t even rock.

Danny knew that he was staring open mouthed.

Steve bent at the waist, lifted his arms high and then abruptly straightened, bringing his wrists down hard against the base of his spine. The zip-tie snapped and he was free.

“Holy shit,” Danny breathed.

Steve bent over in the perfect yoga move and wiggled his little fingernail in the locking mechanism of the zip-tie at his ankles and pulled it off. Less than a second later he was picking free the zip-ties securing Danny.

“Babe, you’re like Mr. Houdini.”

“Follow my finger, Danno.” Steve suited actions to words holding his finger before Danny’s nose. “Concussion,” he diagnosed when Danny failed to follow that finger.

“Yeah,” Danny agreed, staying very still on the floor in deference to his throbbing head. “Migraine glowy thing going on.”

“Need to do something about this.” Magically, Steve had a first aid kit in his hand. Danny winced as he carefully set a pad high on his forehead.

“Is that duct tape?” Danny asked as Steve pulled out a wad of shiny material from another pocket.

“Yep. Wrapped around an old credit card.” Following the weft of the grey tape, Steve tore off a strip with the judicious application of teeth.

“Don’t put that in my hair,” Danny protested.

“Can’t be helped,” Steve said unsympathetically and pressed down. “Sorry. Need to stop the bleeding, don’t want it getting in your eyes.”

“Ow!” Danny said, because he felt like he ought to.

“I’ll get us out of here.” Steve patted his shoulder.

Two gianormous steps and Steve was inspecting the lock on the door. He picked at the seam of his cargo trousers on his left thigh, and pulled out two thin, flattened wires.

“Seriously, Houdini,” Danny said as the door swung inwards.

Steve turned, finger on his lips, miming shhhh. He carefully peered out of the door and then slipped through.

Huh. Laboriously, Danny got himself sitting up. The room did a drunken swoop around him. He had to back up his partner, because he was the backup. He patted his pants but he didn’t have anything in them, except his wallet and his badge clipped to his waist. Hah, he had his belt, he bet he could make a weapon with his belt, but then his pants would fall down.

This was stupid. Danny set one hand on the floor and somehow, with a lot of wavering, got upright. Hand against the wall –- thankfully it was a small cell –- he got over to the door and out into the corridor.

“Oh.” There was a man lying on the floor, head at a very uncomfortable angle. Danny tried to step over him but his balance was shot. The man didn’t complain.

“Danny!” Steve growled from the other end of the corridor. He held up his hand and mouthed, “Stop. Stay there.”

Me? Danny pointed at his chest.

Yes! Steve jerked his finger at him. His eyes widened and Danny didn’t have time to react as a knife whizzed past his ear and thumped fleshly into something behind him. Not really wanting to look, but he couldn’t help himself, Danny squinted behind him. Another man, a bit bigger, more tanned, lay on the concrete floor with a rather large knife embedded in his left eye. Steve loped past Danny, set his foot on the second man’s chest and pulled the knife free. He wiped it clean on the dead man’s trousers and then slid it in his right thigh pocket.

“Where did you get that?” Danny asked.

“First guy.” Steve liberated a gun from the holster at the man’s waist, checked it, and tucked it in the small of his back.

“Give that to me.”

“Yeah, when you can see straight.” Briskly, Steve rifled through the man’s pockets but didn’t take anything else. “Who doesn’t carry a cell phone?”

“I didn’t want Grace to have one,” Danny pointed out.

Steve clamped an arm around Danny’s waist. “Time to get you out of here.”

Danny felt that he should be contributing more or protesting or something as Steve hauled him along. There was a staircase which seemed to be made out of rubber. By the time that they got to the bottom it didn’t feel like his feet were touching the ground.

“Danny, quiet,” Steve said softly as Danny was tugged into a dark alcove.

“I can’t feel my feet,” Danny said urgently. “Are they still there?”

Steve’s eyes widened. “Yes. Now be quiet.”

“I didn’t say anything.”


“Did you shush me?”

Steve shifted his grip and Danny’s feet touched the floor. “Oh,” he started to say and a large hand clamped over his mouth.

“Please,” Steve breathed in his ear, “for once in your life be quiet. Now stay still.”

Steve let go and Danny slid easily down the wall, flopping in a nice, comfortable sprawl. Steve started to pick him back up, but froze, pointed that annoying finger in Danny’s face and then disappeared -- again -- as if by magic.

There was a muted scream and a dull thud and Steve reappeared, grinning. He held a cell phone in his hand.

“Time to call Chin.” He tapped on the keypad even as he scanned the dank, smelly corridor. “Chin. It’s McGarrett, trace this signal. We’re being held in some sort of factory, I think it might be a cannery--”

“Pineapples, I bet,” Danny said darkly.

“Danny’s been hurt. I’m going to find somewhere secure. I’ve taken out three, but Haynes had upwards of ten men with him. Concussion. Yeah. I’ll leave the line open.” He dropped the phone into one of his many voluminous pockets.

And then it was time for hauling again. His legs were like noodles. The world swung and suddenly Danny was draped over a very sharp, bony shoulder which jabbed into his gut.

“Don’t throw up on me,” Steve warned.

Danny wanted to say something, anything, contribute, but it was kind of hard when his field of view was limited to Steve’s butt.

There were twists and turns and frankly Danny didn’t give a damn, he just wanted to lie down. Finally, Steve found the perfect paranoid hidey-hole, and Danny was unceremoniously rolled off his shoulder.

“Oh,” Danny managed as his diaphragm unclenched. He swallowed hard; he was not going to throw up. Blood was rushing to his head or from his head -- he wasn’t sure. Everything was a little dark around the edges. A warm hand cupped his jaw.

“Danno. You okay?”


“Chin, where the Hell are you?”

Oh, the cell phone again. Steve had pulled it from his magic pants.

“What?” Steve asked. “Magic pants?”

“Yeah, pockets and stuff and pockets and things and duct tape and cell phones.” Danny listed to the left. “Like magic.”

“No. no. no.” Steve pulled him against his side.

Danny gave into the impulse and rested his head on Steve’s shoulder. He wanted to sleep, ‘cos his head was thumping. But he was the backup so he had to stay awake.

“Yeah, buddy, you need to stay awake.”

“‘Kay,” Danny agreed.

The chest under his ear vibrated as Steve whispered to Chin. Danny thought it a little unfair that he was chastised for talking when Steve didn’t seem to be able to shut up. There was some sort of radio-action drama going on with shooting, but Danny didn’t like listening to plays, he preferred to read a book. Not that he got to read many books with all the running around and shooting every day of the week.

“Chin,” Steve said loudly, interrupting Danny’s doze.

“Oh.” Danny tried to sit up, but Steve was warm and there was a firm arm around his shoulders.

“How are you doing, Brah?” Chin asked crouching before him.

Danny blinked. Whoa, Chin had a halo. “Steve put duct tape in my hair.”

“I can see. He probably had a good reason.”

“I had a very good reason.”

“I’m sure Danny will forgive you,” Chin said.

“Never,” Danny declaimed, shuffling a little closer.

“Hey, Danny,” Steve said. “The paramedics are here. You wanna let go? They need to take you to the hospital. Get you checked out.”


“Sorry, Danno, no choice. Come on.”

And that delicious warmth moved away and there were hands shifting him this way and that, until he was lying on a firm padded surface. They had put something hard and unyielding around his neck. Someone – Danny guessed it was a paramedic because they kept asking stupid questions that he didn’t want to answer – leaned over him and shone a flashlight in his eyes. He moaned. A familiar, callused hand squeezed his wrist.

“The docs will have some painkillers for you at the hospital,” Steve said.

“Magic pants. Check your pants. Morphine,” Danny demanded as the paramedics ratcheted the gurney up to waist level.

“Magic pants?” Chin asked. “No. I don’t want to know.”

“He’s got a concussion,” Steve said.

“Seriously, I don’t want to know.”

“Magic,” Danny mumbled and closed his eyes.