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"Oh, this is just too damn funny," Steve says, circling the computer-table, and Danny, with it. He stops, looks Danny squarely in the eye and tilts his head to one side. "You've fucking run out of words," he taunts.

Keep laughing, McGarrett, Danny thinks to himself. Your death will be exquisite. But, outwardly, Danny's turning eleven shades of crimson and trying to smile, because, deep down, this shit is funny. Like sitcom funny. Look up irony and you will read: Danny Williams with laryngitis. The man with an unceasing stream of words, like a volcano spewing lava, can't even manage a squeak, today. God bless viruses.

And, to add to it, Danny brought in a doctor's note. Like he's in fucking grade school. "Please excuse Daniel from gym class. He's having his man-period," Steve reads aloud from the note. Kono, who had been stifling giggles during Steve's joyous, ten-minute, berating of his partner, slides from her chair and pools on the floor, in hysterics. Chin, knowing that Danny will, indeed, speak again, and they'll all never hear the end of it, holds back a smirk and retreats from the bullpen, wisely ensconcing himself in his office, door closed.

Danny smiles a smile that scrunches up his face and nods too quickly. "Yes, I know," Steve sighs, as if he, alone, is the savior of comedy. "I'm hilarious."

No, Danny muses to himself, they won't find all your limbs when I'm through with you.

"Things to do today," Steve says gleefully, as they head to the car. Danny's overjoyed that Steve's finished riding him. "Dangle perps off buildings."

Motherfucker, Danny thinks.

"Throw perps in shark cages. Drive the Camaro worse than usual. Have a long discussion about why Hawaii is the happiest place on earth and New Jersey only ranked 24th."

At the last remark, Danny uncoils his arm, snatches up Steve's shirt while making a fist and hauls Steve down close, their noses touching. Every point you score off of me is one day, no, one week, no, one month, until you get head from me again, Danny declares, inside his mind. He communicates this to Steve, however, with an angry death-glare, complete with fire in his baby-blues and eyebrows so knit together they almost form a 'V'.

"OK," Steve says, dialing it down a notch and maybe, possibly, realizing he may have gone one toe over the line. "No discussions about Hawaii versus Jersey." Danny relaxes the steel grip on Steve's shirt (and chest hair), exhales and smiles a little. "Because, you have to have two people talking to have a conversation. And, you can't do that, now, can you?" Steve leans in all bug-eyed and goofy-grinned, daring Danny to do something. Or, rather, say something.

Danny just sighs and chants a new mantra in his head. They'll never pin it on me. They'll never pin it on me. They'll never pin it on me...

"Oh, and I'll have to remember the Miranda warning, since you can't read it to anyone we catch. How does it go again? You have the right to remain sexy...?'"

Danny slaps his palm to his forehead with a loud 'thwack!' and draws his fingers down his face, doing his best, exasperated Daffy Duck impersonation. "This is too much fun, Danno; Christmas came early this year," Steve says, morphing into Bugs Bunny as he almost bounces the rest of the way to the car.

Yeah. That's the last time you're gonna have anything to do with the words Danno and came for a long time, fucker, Danny, again, says to himself, as he kisses his right palm.

The car ride is new levels of torment for Danny: Steve finds the Disco Channel on satellite radio and serenades his partner with off-key and wrong-lyriced versions of '70's favorites. As they weave, nauseatingly, through 'I Will Survive', 'Macho Man' and 'In the Navy', Danny wishes a different Biblical plague on Steve for each song he sings. By the time 'Dancing Queen' comes on, Danny's up to boils, because they'd look great on Steve. Having had enough, Danny switches over to The Sounds of Jersey.

"Cool. Mob music," Steve says, trying to stifle a giggle.

As Danny prays for ninja snipers, Steve continues his one-man concert for Danny, mutilating Springsteen and Jonathan Bon Jovi along the way. Danny's suicide attempts with his tie and seatbelt don't go as planned, so all he can do is knock the side of his head against the car window, in time with the music.


The day ends for the boys as it usually does: after mayhem and violence ensue, the bad guys are caught. Steve is especially proud of, and thankful for, his partner, since Danny had wordlessly saved Steve's life during the requisite shootout. Danny saw that one of the fuckers had a laser-sight trained on the back of Steve's head; Danny's choke-hold take-down of Steve was perfectly timed and Steve noticed that Danny enjoyed his forearm, just a bit too tight, around Steve's throat, just a bit too much.

As Steve correctly reads the Miranda rights to the handcuffed suspects, Danny smiles, approvingly. "Anything I forgot, boss?" Steve asks. It's the first not-riding-Danny's-ass conversation of the day and Steve begins to feel guilty about how badly he tortured Danny.

Danny picks up a copy of the yellow pages from the perps' coffee table. He points at it, then at the perps, then jerks a thumb at himself, in one fluid motion.

Steve starts to get a catch in his throat, but clears it away, quickly, knowing Danny isn't that mad at him. "I told you it was a term of endearment. Book 'em, Danno."

Danny nods with a blissful look on his face as he, and some of HPD's finest, march the suspects out. Steve lets out a sigh of relief he didn't realize he'd had bottled up.


It's time to go home and Danny finds Steve in his office, drinking a Longboard. Despite the heated debate that had raged in Danny's head, as to whether arsenic or strychnine would work best on Steve, Danny plants both palms on Steve's desk and leans forward, eyes closed, a small smirk on his face. "That, I understand," Steve says.

Steve moves closer and kisses Danny's forehead, then his lips, then his throat. "I know an ancient remedy that will cure you," Steve purrs and returns to Danny's mouth, for a long, slow kiss.

When they break apart, Danny's face is impassive, almost neutral. Like they just met.

"Anyplace else I should be kissing?" Steve ventures, hoping to get more warmth out of his partner than an ice cube. Danny straightens up and taps his crotch, again, face impassive.

"That can be arranged."

Danny throws up an index finger and nods quickly.

"One more place?" Steve asks.

Danny nods affirmatively. He points at Steve, then makes a kissy face, then slaps himself on the rump. Danny turns on his heel and heads for the door, not waiting to see if his insult registers with Steve, not looking over his shoulder to see if Steve follows.

Steve roars, his gales of laughter echoing off the glass walls of headquarters and down the darkened hallway. He'll definitely be making it up to Danny over the next few days, if he hopes to ever do anything down there again, besides kissing.