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By the time Steve makes it back to Hawaii, the funeral is long over, whatever mourners Jack McGarrett had are scattered. Steve's been in touch with Mary--more contact via three weeks of censored email conversations than he's had with her in years--and he lands in Oahu with a flight to L.A. already booked, one week out. He knows it will take longer than that to adjust to this new, half-civilian life, but maybe Mary can help with that, too.
The house is silent, closed-up and stuffy and smelling not at all like it should, so Steve's first order of business is opening windows. This has the added benefit of letting him recon the house, weighing every change against his memory. He doesn't really process anything until he finds himself in the garage.
Steve stops in his tracks. An aging little sedan is in the near spot, but behind it, lurking in the dust stirring lazily on the air, is a barge of a car, covered with a tarp but Steve would recognize the shape anywhere. He steps around the sedan and pulls at the tarp with numb fingers.
The Marquis looks exactly like it did, all those years ago: one of the few times Steve came back, after. He'd been on leave from Annapolis, midway through college and focused, already so keen on elite service, and Jack had revealed this beast of a machine, had laid out plans for them to restore it together like it would somehow rebuild their family, too.
The hood isn't quite latched, so Steve pulls it up to check underneath and finds the engine only half there, just as he remembers.
"Oh, you fucking bastard," Steve chokes out, and he leans his forehead against the hands holding up the hood until he can swallow against the thick, hot grief in his chest.
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Steve settles his back against the wall, watching Mary head to the bar for their third round and letting the bass of the sound system thump through him. They're in a good spot--far enough away from the DJ that they can still talk, but the music and club noise are enough that Steve doesn't notice quite so much how the air on his left is muffled and dead-sounding.
When Mary gets back, she's carrying a neon-green martini and a tall glass of iced tea, which she puts in front of Steve. "I gotta bring you along more often," she says, leaning into Steve's right side.
Steve blinks at her.
Mary snorts a huffing little laugh at him. "Guys can be assholes, right? Except tonight I can point at you and say you're my brother, and you're working the scary motherfucker vibe over here, and--" she spreads her fingers, poof, and grins wickedly. "Like magic."
Steve absently sips at his drink and nearly gags on the sweet before he registers the alcohol. "What the fuck, Mer? What is this?"
"That is the taste of my generosity, so shut up and drink it," she grumbles. "Don't tell me you got over your sweet tooth."
Steve tries to nurse the thing--knowing Mary, the drink's undoubtedly stronger than it looks--but it's refreshing and she's right about his sweet tooth.
Which is probably why, when he's only halfway through, he finds himself blurting, "I've been sleeping on the lanai. This last week."
Mary frowns. "What? Why?"
"I can't--" Steve scrubs at his face in frustration. "You were at the house after the funeral, right? Everything looks--"
"Exactly the same," she finishes for him, finally understanding. "Jesus, Steve, you can't do that forever."
He nods. "I know, but--"
"No buts," Mary cuts him off sharply. "Just start somewhere. Pick a room, clean it out, repaint it, whatever, but it's your house now. You don't have to live in a, a time machine just because Dad did."
"It's not--" Steve tries, but it's just as well she cuts him off again; he's not sure what's going to come out of his mouth.
"It is, Steve," she says, fast and angry. Her breath is warm on his cheek as she leans in close, their foreheads almost touching. "Dad fucked us over first, okay? And I am still pissed at him, you know, for dying before he figured out how to pick up the fucking phone and talk to me. You can start over, you know?"
Steve thinks about watching a hospital ceiling in Bagram, about pacing a little rehab room in Bethesda, about watching a general in Coronado signing the papers that ended the only career he'd wanted. About his new position at Pearl and the empty house on the beach.
"Hell, you're here," Mary continues, unconcerned with how Steve's looking everywhere else and not seeing anything. "It shouldn't take a grenade to the head and a dead father for you to call me, okay?"
"It wasn't aimed at my head," he half-mumbles, finally meeting Mary's questioning gaze before clarifying with all the seriousness of the slightly inebriated, "the grenade. It didn't hit me in the head."
She blinks a couple times before he cracks into a grin, and then she punches him in the shoulder, hard. "You asshole!" Mary shouts, and it devolves into a short slap-fight. By the time they stop, they're both giggling softly and leaning their shoulders together.
After a while, Steve reaches for his still-too-sweet drink. "Did you see the car?" he asks.
Mary snorts. "I'm assuming you don't mean Dad's Toyota."
He shoves at her a bit with his elbow. "No, under the tarp. 's a Mercury."
"Yeah, what's the story behind that thing, why would Dad even buy that?" Mary drains her glass and gives Steve an assessing look. "Oh my God, you know, there is a story, c'mon--"
"I was still in Annapolis," Steve tells her, because he knows she won't leave it alone. "Dad thought-- he showed it to me like he was. Like he was proud, or something, he had this great idea. We were supposed to fix it up." He sneaks a look to the side. Mary's still leaning against his shoulder, but her arms are crossed, defensive, and she's frowning. "Together," he adds, hoping she can't hear the thickness in his voice over the noise of the club.
"You never went back," she accuses softly, and Steve spreads his hands wide, guilty as charged.
"Something came up," he says and shrugs one shoulder, painfully aware of just how much he sounds like their father. "We never finished it."
Mary pulls away and sits up only to lean back in and poke him sharply in the chest. "You and your guilt, seriously. Steve. Fix the fucking car."
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After he gets back from L.A., Steve has two weeks before he needs to report at Pearl, so he decides to take Mary's advice and redecorate the house. For the cost of eight pizzas and a case of beer, he gets a couple ensigns to help him move most of his father's furniture to a storage unit. The commotion draws a few neighbors out, several of whom offer condolences before disappearing again.
His next-door neighbor, Mrs. Li, looks exactly like Steve remembers from fifteen years ago; there's a middle-aged couple from down the street who were apparently on nod-and-wave terms with his dad. Steve's surprised to find the bungalow across the street occupied by Danny Williams, a short, loud detective from New Jersey who somehow muscles his way into helping Steve carry cabinetry and manages to eat an entire pizza by himself.
Steve likes him immediately.
He ropes Danny into helping paint--and even working around Danny's work schedule, the two of them are fast enough that the rooms are done by the time the new furniture arrives a week later.
When Steve gets home from his first day on base, he's exhausted, feeling prickly and on edge. He'd been stopped several times today, offered handshakes from others like him--too old or wounded to be active in the field, shifted into teaching the next generation how not to get killed. He doesn't want to think about their questions about adjusting, any more (he can't help but hear pity, whether it's there or not); instead, he heads to the garage and pulls the tarp off the Marquis.
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In three weeks, Steve manages to get most of the engine put back together, although he's pretty sure he's missing a few key parts.
One Saturday morning, Danny brings the most recent package in from the front porch and laughs in his face when Steve opens it, looking for a master cylinder.
"I'm no gearhead," Danny says, and Steve has to keep from smacking him because, obviously, "but that does not look like a master cylinder."
It turns out to be a clutch plate. Steve smacks him anyway.
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Monday night's football night, and Danny brings his partner along: Kono Kalakaua has a strong grip and a direct gaze, and Steve might get punched but he can't help asking, "Aren't you a little young? For the homicide unit?"
Fortunately for Steve, Kono waves it away good-naturedly while Danny grumbles, "Mentor program, some experiment cooked up in the governor's office. She'll be a good cop, though, if I can break her of her bad habits."
"Jeez, Danny, it was one time, let it go," Kono groans and heads for the kitchen for another drink.
At Steve's quizzical look, Danny explains, half-yelling after Kono, "You are not Chuck Norris! Kicking a suspect in the face is not an appropriate method of subduing him!"
"He was fleeing the scene!" Kono shouts back.
"On an escalator!" Danny yells, and Steve has to give Kono a fistbump as she circles around the couch.
"Awesome," he tells her, and they share a grin at the way Danny's hands fly into the air.
The game turns boring just after halftime, and somehow conversation turns to the Marquis and Steve's utter lack of progress.
Kono grabs a notepad from the side table by her chair and scribbles something on it. She chucks it at Steve, who barely manages to catch it before it hits him square between the eyes. "You need to go see my cousin," she tells him. "He can help."
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Five-O Customs is not what Steve expects: The front office is tasteful, almost ritzy, letting several sumptuous photos of classic cars and custom motorcycles draw Steve's focus, and it's quiet, no noise coming from the garage beyond the window behind the main desk. In fact, Steve can't see much activity in the garage at all.
"Can I help you?" a deep, honey-smooth voice asks from behind the counter, and Steve turns to see a well-built Korean man unfolding from his seat at a desk in the corner.
The man looks familiar--Steve's pretty sure he'd remember such frankly amazing cheekbones--but his brain stutters to a stop for a moment under the man's direct, assessing gaze, and he hears himself say, "Don't I know you?"
"You better, you're in my shop," the man answers with a wry twist of a smile and holds one hand out. "Chin Ho Kelly."
"Steve McGarrett," he answers, shifting the crumpled paper bag he's carrying and taking the offered hand on autopilot; Chin's grip is warm and solid. He feels like his thoughts are toothless gears, skipping against each other, until they finally snap into clarity. "You worked with my father."
Chin's lips press together, his face sympathetic as he nods. "I heard about Jack. I'm sorry."
Steve acknowledges the condolences with a nod of his own. Chin doesn't look all that much different from the rookie Steve remembers: a little more mileage around the eyes, maybe, definitely more breadth in the shoulders. "So you're not a cop anymore, I take it?"
Chin's face tightens slightly and his posture shifts toward closed-off without him actually moving. "Nah, I got this, now," he says and waves around the shop before pointing at the package in Steve's hand. "Something I can help you with?"
"Yeah," Steve says, jerking a little with the memory of why he's here in the first place. "Your cousin Kono sent me; she's partners with my neighbor, Danny Williams?"
At the mention of Kono's name, Chin relaxes and breaks into a more genuine smile. "Well, Kono would know. What are you working on?"
"1974 Mercury Marquis," Steve answers with a smile of his own. He shuffles his feet and pulls the clutch plate out of the bag. "I tried to order a master cylinder online, got this instead."
Chin laughs, the sound rich and rolling and Steve immediately wants to hear it again. "Yeah-no, brah, that's no master cylinder."
"Do you think you can get hold of one?" Steve asks. "'Cause it's not like I'm finding anything online."
Chin beckons Steve to an odd conference room off the main area. There's a large table, but no chairs, and Steve sees why as soon as Chin taps the smooth tabletop and it lights up. He leans over to see that the surface is essentially a giant computer screen. "Okay, that is cool."
Chin's eyes crinkle in pleasure, although he doesn't look up from what he's doing. "Company on the mainland wanted to test it in a business setting. I wouldn't," he advises when Steve shifts to touch it. Steve pulls his hand back quickly. "I've got a designer who is very protective."
Steve tucks the clutch plate close to his chest and wraps his arms around it to keep himself in check. "So how did you manage to get it?"
"One of my guys knows a guy," Chin says and flicks his wrist, appearing to transfer a window from the table to a screen on the wall next to Steve. "I don't have one in stock, although I've flagged everything else that would fit a '74 Marquis. If you give me a few days, I could probably find your master cylinder."
Steve can see there's several items highlighted and he steps closer to the screen to look but keeps himself turned so that he can see Chin on his left. Chin moves around the table quietly enough that Steve wouldn't have known he was coming, otherwise. "I think I've got most of this, already," he says and points at the screen.
"I'll keep note of it, just in case," Chin tells him. "Is this the car Jack kept in the garage?"
Steve's startled by the question and tries to hide it by stepping away and dropping his arms, clutch plate in one hand. "Yeah, you, ah, you know about that?"
Chin shrugs. "I was at the house a few times, but I only ever saw the tarp," he explains. "I asked Jack about it once, after I opened the shop, but he said he'd let me know when he was ready to fix it up."
Steve wants to bend under the weight of that, fold around the sharp pain in his chest at the thought of his father waiting for him. He doesn't, though--sheer training keeps him upright, but something must show on his face because suddenly there's a warm, strong hand on his shoulder, keeping him steady.
"Jack was a friend when I needed one," Chin says, his soft voice sounding muted from the way he's standing on Steve's left. "I'd be glad to help you with the car, if you need it."
Steve looks up, finally, meeting Chin's gaze and finding nothing but empathy, an understanding that somehow soothes the ache in his chest. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slow, manages to get out, "Mahalo," and misses Chin's warmth as soon as he lets go.
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Chin calls three days later to tell Steve he's got a master cylinder, and Steve stops at the shop after class that afternoon to pick it up. The shop's considerably busier: through the window, Steve can see a small figure bent over a curving hunk of metal, welding sparks flying, and a mountain of a man is working on the underbelly of a hoisted-high Mustang. Steve can more feel the music from the garage than he can hear it, the window muffles most of the words and leaves only the fast bass beat.
"Can I help you?" a clipped voice asks from behind the desk, and Steve swivels to see a round-faced Japanese man frowning at him from behind square glasses.
"Hi." Steve tries a charming smile and holds out a hand. "Steve McGarrett, Chin called and said I could come pick up a master cylinder?"
The man blinks once, then turns abruptly on his heel and calls, "Follow me," as he heads toward the garage door.
The garage noise and Korean dance music hits him full-force when they come through the door, and the air is heavy, thick with the smell of oil and metal. The man leads Steve around a half-built motorcycle and a tricked-out small pickup to the far end of the garage, stopping in front of a rusty old Ford. "Mr. Kelly!" he shouts.
Chin pops up from behind the car, looking like he just stepped out of some fantasy calendar: white tank top, dark jeans, dirty and sweaty and smiling as soon as he spots Steve.
The music suddenly quiets, and Chin calls, "Thanks, Kamekona." Steve turns to spot the big man tucking a remote control back in a pocket and giving them a wave. "Steve, this is my designer, Max," Chin says as he comes around the car. "Max, our newest customer, Steve McGarrett."
"We've met," Max replies, gives Steve a curt nod, and disappears back toward the office.
"Um," Steve says, and Chin laughs.
"No worries, brah, I think he likes you," Chin says. He waves Steve around the hot-rod toward a workbench against the wall. "I had to trade a few things, but I found you a master cylinder."
Steve follows, his gaze drawn to the back of Chin's neck. Chin's hair is slicked back, just starting to curl around behind his ears, and Steve wants to tangle his fingers in it. He jerks his attention back to what Chin's saying in time to answer smoothly enough, "That's great, thank you."
He can't help himself watching far too closely as Chin reaches for the part from a shelf above the workbench--the tank top showcases the play of muscle across wide shoulders--but it's all too soon before Chin's handing him the master cylinder and Steve's stammering out his thanks, again.
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Steve keeps finding things to call about, and Chin keeps having things in stock: gear shift, air pump, headlight cover. His class schedule at Pearl has him out early on Wednesdays, so Steve takes to stopping in the shop before he heads home. The first time he shows up in uniform, Chin gives him a long once over before waving him back to the garage.
A couple weeks later, Steve starts finding himself roped into helping with whatever Chin's wrestling with. First it's the '34 Ford--it takes the both of them pulling against Kamekona, but they manage to get the frame straightened the half-inch Max requires before he'll OK beginning the bodywork. By the time they're done, Steve's down to his half-soaked undershirt and he's got a fresh hole in his uniform pants. In the process of watching Chin shake the exertion out of his arms, he catches Chin appreciatively checking him out right back--briefly, but it sparks something deep in Steve's belly.
Steve starts keeping a change of clothes in the truck, so he's ready when he's asked to hold hunks of metal for Jenna while she welds them onto an outrageous custom bike frame or to help Chin and Kamekona wheel a hot-rod out of the garage. But most often he ends up following Chin around, handing him tools and arguing about whatever strikes their fancy. Chin seems to like winding Steve up, and Steve doesn't usually vent about anything but he likes the way Chin watches him when he gets going.
"Never would have pegged you for comic book movies," Chin laughs at one point, stopping Steve mid-rant about the impossibility of a particular explosion.
Steve blinks, nonplussed. "I just, I know explosives, okay? Cars do not blow up like that."
"Word, bruddah," Kamekona calls from across the garage.
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It's not until Steve's in his own garage, staring down at the nearly-finished engine of the Marquis and contemplating breaking something just for the excuse to call Chin that he realizes he may have a problem.
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Late Saturday morning, with the garage door open to let in the breeze, Steve sits down in the driver's seat of the Marquis, wraps his hands around the steering wheel, and takes a deep breath. "Okay, Dad, let's see what she's got," he mutters before he turns the key in the ignition.
The engine grinds lazily a couple times before sputtering to a stop. He cranks it again; nothing.
Steve lets out the breath he's holding and debates with himself for all of a minute before pulling out his phone and calling Chin.
An hour later, Steve's no closer to discovering what's wrong when he hears the rumble of an approaching motorcycle. He looks up to see Chin astride a great black-and-chrome beast of a bike pulling into the driveway. If his mouth goes a little dry at the sight, well, it's nobody's business but his own, now.
Chin calls, "Howzit, brah?" as he approaches the garage, and Steve waves him inside.
"Thanks for coming, man," Steve says with a smile, and Chin smiles back.
"I don't make house calls for just anybody, you know," he says, running one hand along the roof of the car. He gives a long, low whistle. "So this is it, huh? She's gonna be beautiful."
"Yeah," Steve agrees. "But I don't want to do the bodywork until she runs, so..."
Chin comes around to the front of the car and frowns down at the engine. "Well, I can see your first problem, right here." And he bends under the hood, starts dismantling all the work Steve's done in putting the engine together.
Steve can't find it in himself to mind, though; the view is great as Chin tears the car apart.
Two hours later, they break for beers out on the beach. "You ever miss what you did, before?" Chin asks quietly, his grease-stained fingers loose around the neck of the bottle.
Steve flinches, just a little, because, "Yeah. Yeah, I do." He looks up to meet Chin's steady gaze; for all Chin's sprawled in the chair his face is intent, focused. "You? You miss being a cop?"
"Every damn day," Chin sighs. "It's not something I can turn off, you know, being a detective. Don't think I haven't noticed how you listen with your right side."
"Fuck." Steve blinks and shakes his head, startled to realize that Chin's always careful to stay to his right, to not approach from his left unless he's sure Steve can see him.
"I'm curious, of course," Chin continues like Steve didn't say anything. "I figure that's the reason you're not still active?"
"I wouldn't have been a SEAL much longer, anyway," Steve says, trying hard for nonchalant. "It just...moved my retirement up. You?"
"There was a hostage situation." Chin shifts forward, leaning his elbows on his knees to match Steve's posture. "Complicated case, made worse by some bad calls, I got caught in the thick of it. PTSD and Internal Affairs don't mix." He's looking out toward the water, shoulders tense and face drawn.
"Fuck." Steve can't think of anything else beyond the way he aches for Chin, for both of them.
"Your dad--we didn't even talk much, after I made detective--but your dad believed me, and it meant a lot." Chin's voice is rough, just audible over the sound of the ocean. He turns and meets Steve's eyes. "I know things were strained between you, but he didn't really talk about it. If you're with me looking for some kind of forgiveness--"
"No, wait, what?" Steve nearly drops his bottle on the sand but doesn't drop his eyes. "No, Chin, that's not--look," and he scrubs at his face with one hand, looks to the waves for a moment, "I don't know why I'm fixing the damned car, okay? But--" and he takes a deep breath, feeling like he's about to hit freefall velocity, laying himself out there like this, "--but I like being with you."
Chin looks at him for what feels like a long moment. Then he smiles, his eyes crinkling half-closed, and Steve has barely a chance to breathe again before Chin's leaning in, stealing his breath with the press of his lips.
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The Marquis purrs to life late Sunday morning under Chin's watchful eye and Steve's less-than-feather-light foot. Chin slams the hood shut and gives Steve a wide grin. He comes around to slide into the passenger seat, lets his momentum carry him halfway to Steve.
Steve reaches for Chin at the same time, finally tangling his fingers into Chin's curls and kissing him senseless. He can feel the rumble of the engine in his chest, the heat of Chin's fingers against his cheek, and he thinks maybe his dad managed to fix something after all.