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What I Am

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"I have had to fight like hell and fighting like hell has made me what I am." -- John Arbuthnot


Sometimes, even for Steve McGarrett, a fight is just a fight.

It's not always about bringing criminals to justice, or even about revenge.

Sometimes, it's about a pair of wild eyes watching him in a filthy bar hundreds of miles from home. And sometimes it's not even about that.


He notices the other man the moment he walks into the bar. Hell, he notices every single person in the bar as soon as he walks in, but there is something different about this guy. He's sitting in the exact place Steve would have chosen for himself – shadowed enough that no one could see his face properly, with his back to the wall and a clear line of sight to the exit.

When he gets to the bar, he looks at the line of barely washed glasses sitting there and he opts for a bottle of beer. Not his first choice, but neither is whatever diseases are festering on the glassware.

It's been a long time since he's been this far from the Island, and he can't help but feel like something is missing. Danny should be here with him, he thinks, or Chin or Kono. He'd even settle for Kamekona right now. Instead, he's in the middle of nowhere, waiting for a tow truck to arrive. Stupid goddamn rental car.

He looks over and sees the man still sitting in the exact same position, his beer bottle directly in front of him. He sees Steve watching and lifts the bottle in a mock salute, bringing it to his lips, all the time keeping his eyes focused on Steve. It's a challenge that Steve has to fight to ignore. This is not the time, or the place, he reminds himself. Just finish the drink and wait for the tow truck. Don't let this guy goad you.

It's easier said than done. The man's eyes are burning a hole in his back, and with each mouthful of warm, flat beer, he feels himself grow more frustrated. By the time he's halfway through his drink, his fist is clenched by his side and his breath is becoming shallower.

Eventually, he turns again, and sees the man still staring at him. The shadows around him mean that Steve can't see his face, but he knows that there must be a smirk forming around the mouth of the bottle.

He swallows down the remainder of the beer, grimacing at the aftertaste it leaves, and turns around. He walks slowly towards the back of the room and stands next to the man who has been watching him. He gets his first look at his stalker and feels something lurch in his stomach. He doesn't look anything like Danny, other than the dark blond hair, but there's something about him that reminds him too damn much of his partner. The way he's looking at Steve, as though he can see right through him, as though he knows exactly why he's come over here.

"You've been watching me," Steve tells him, a statement, not a question. The man looks up at him lazily.

"Yep. But it seems to me like you've been watching me too."

Steve doesn't answer. Instead, he grabs at the man's shirt collar, pulling him up. The man doesn't resist, allowing himself to be dragged until he stands face to face with Steve. He's a similar height to Danny, and the recognition causes another one of those stomach clenches that Steve doesn't want to think too much about. They stand in silence, their bodies both tensed and ready for whatever comes next.

"Hey!" The bartender hollers at them. "No fighting in here. Take it outside."

An almost imperceptible nod from the man and he leads the way out of the back door. They're in an alley that is only slightly more filthy than the bar, and the only light comes from the street, casting shadows across them both.

Steve intends to make the first move, wants to throw a punch that will stop the man from looking at him like that, but he's not fast enough. Before he can figure out what's happened, he finds himself backed up against the wall, the coldness from the bricks seeping through his t-shirt. The man is standing in front of him, hands braced on either side of Steve's head, their bodies touching from chest to hip.

"SEAL?" he asks Steve, his eyes drifting over the tell-tale tattoos on his arm. His voice is deeper than it seemed inside, and he seems to growl the word.

Steve nods, realizing the change in dynamics between them. This wasn't what he wanted when he started this, he tells himself, but he can't deny that he wants this. Whatever this is.

"Eliot," the man finally introduces himself. It doesn't explain how he managed to get the upper hand on Steve, but at this point, Steve no longer cares.

Before either of them can say anything else, Eliot captures Steve's mouth with his own, bruising and crushing, but exactly what they both need. There are hands everywhere, both of them grabbing, touching, pulling at clothing, desperate to reach bare flesh. Steve's hands make their way into Eliot's hair, his fingers twisting tightly, as Eliot fumbles between them at Steve's belt.

As the cold air hits his stomach, Steve sucks in a breath, allowing Eliot a moment to break free of the grip on his hair. He slides to his knees, dragging Steve's cargo pants down with him. He looks up at Steve, smiling as though he's just won the lottery, and licks his lips before wrapping them around the tip of Steve's cock.

"Fuck." Steve tries to stop himself from thrusting into the warm mouth, knowing that it's not going to take much to make him come, but Eliot is doing something with his tongue that is killing him.

"Oh god. Yes." He reaches down to grab at Eliot's head, needing more, needing something, when he feels the slightest scrape of teeth against the sensitive underside of his cock. The sensation is too much and he tries to pull away. He's unsure of the etiquette of coming over a stranger in an alleyway and he mumbles something that he thinks could have been a warning, but Eliot just grips his hips tighter and pulls him closer, taking as much of him in his mouth as possible.

Steve swallows back a cry as he comes, hard, and rides out the final waves with his eyes closed, trying not to picture a different blond head.

He feels the cold air hit him again as Eliot pulls away. He can't speak, can barely remember to breath, but knows that he needs to say something. Thank you, maybe? Or can I return the favor? But Eliot just smiles one more time and throws him a military perfect salute, before turning his back and walking away.

Steve watches the figure fade back into the shadows and wonders what the hell just happened.