Danny’s morning was ruined by a rogue detective novel. He and the rest of Five-0 spent four hours rounding up various con-men and murderous strippers. Kono wound up shooting the vigilante main character to subdue him, leaving Danny, who had been standing just a bit too close, with a soaked tie.
“Sorry, brah,” Kono said as she pressed the main character back into his narrative. He swore at her with a ridiculous caricature of a New York accent. Danny wanted to track down the author and punch him in the face.
“This was my favorite tie,” Danny said, turning his glare on Steve. “Gracie gave me this tie. McGarrett, you are explaining to my daughter why yet another one of the ties she gave me is covered in print blood!”
“It’s not that bad,” Steve said, wrestling a Russian mobster with comically over-sized muscles into submission. “One trip to a decent dry cleaners it’ll be good as new.”
“No, Steven, no it will not!” Danny shouted, waving his arms. “You know how I know this? Because that it didn’t work for my other favorite tie, which you also destroyed!”
“This time it was--”
“No!” Danny held up his ruined tie. “You see this, Steven? This is your fault because you didn’t wait for backup like I told you. And you, my crazy friend, are going to be the one to replace it!” Danny threw up his hands and looked heavenward. “Stains! Stains on my clothes! Stains on my work clothes!”
“Hey,” Steve interrupted, a shit-eating grin on his face. He pushed the restrained mobster at his partner and tossed him a copy of the mystery. “Book ‘em, Danno.”
“That is a terrible pun, and you should feel terrible,” Danny grumbled, but he flipped open the novel and did as he was told.
Danny typed up his report that afternoon. His copy of The Mobster Way sat beside him for easy reference. Danny took special note of the author’s about page, so that he could punch the guy in the face, should they ever cross. There needed to be a law about the minimum amount of research a writer could do before being published; this was just embarrassing.
Chin was in the conference room, chuckling as Kono mimed the series of events from that morning, up to and including Danny’s tie gesture. Chin was the quiet one in their little squad, but he had a wicked sharp sense of humor. Danny wasn’t going to live down getting sprayed with ink any time soon.
“Almost done, partner?” Steve said, leaning against Danny’s door. He still had a shit-eating grin on his face, like cleaning up stray characters was the best morning a man could ask for. Danny was more of a sleeping in kind of guy, honestly.
“Yeah, just let me summarize it with ‘It’s all Steve’s fault’ first,” Danny growled. He was wearing one of his emergency work ties, which was much uglier and cheaper than the one that Kono had ruined.
“Hey now,” Steve said mildly. He tried and failed to smooth his smile into an expression of hurt. “It’s not all my fault.”
“Yes, yes it is! And don’t look at me like that; it’s not going to work. Jesus, it’s amazing that you do any undercover work at all.”
“Whatever,” Steve said, straightening. “You wanna come over for dinner tonight?”
“Will you set something on fire if I don’t?”
“Then yes, Steven, I will,” Danny said. He made a shooing motion with his hands. “Now get out of here before I set you on fire, you giant weirdo.”
“You love it,” Steve shot back before disappearing into his own office.
“Ass,” Danny muttered to himself. Stubbornly, he got to the bottom of his report and typed IT’S ALL STEVE’S FAULT in all caps. Bolded. With an underline.
Steve’s place was packed with books, the tools of their trade. Danny came armed with a copy of the newest Stephen King book under one arm, a case of beer under the other. Rain had started pattering down around lunch time and had yet to let up. Danny didn’t mind. It was a relief to be free of the sun for a few hours, even if the trade off meant getting soaked.
“In here!” Steve called from the kitchen. “I hope you don’t mind casserole.”
“That depends,” Danny answered, toeing off his shoes and making his way through the house. “Is this a casserole of your own invention or a recipe? Because if it’s yours, I must decline because you might have thrown some grenades in there for flavor and my stomach cannot handle that.” He found Steve peeking in the oven, wearing his trusty t-shirt and cargo pants combo with an apron.
“Don’t worry, it’s one of my mom’s recipies,” he said, ignoring Danny. Danny, who was sneaking out his camera phone to take a picture and send it to Chin and Kono and possibly Mary. “And if you take that photo, I will make sure that the shark tank makes a reappearance.”
Danny put his phone away.
“What did you bring?” Steve asked as Danny got the living room set up.
“Beer and a book,” Danny said, gesturing to where he placed them on the coffee table. He opened the drawer that held Steve’s coasters and took two, placing them in their accustomed spots. It was all painfully domestic. Too domestic.
“Bringing work home?” Definitely too domestic.
“Like you don’t read for fun, you gigantic dork,” Danny replied, rolling his eyes.
“Not since I got this job,” Steve replied, but he grabbed the book as he dropped off Danny’s plate. They settled down next to each other on the couch, angled in front of the TV so they could watch the news coverage of their bust that morning. They’d arrested everyone involved in letting those mobster characters loose in Hawai’i -- and they did it with minimum explosives.
Steve’s hand snuck towards the Stephen King novel, and Danny slapped it away. “No work tonight, dear,” he said with only a little sarcasm. “Tonight, we’re just gonna relax and enjoy and job well done.”