Archive of Our Own

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Cover by: pluxaplong

***

Water gently laps the shore while Danny takes a drag off one of his Luckies, blowing out a puff of smoke. There's only one day left at port before it's full speed ahead to next set of islands. Too bad, Majuro's kind of nice. Fresh fruit and coconut milk beats C-rations any day.

He's longed for dry land and curls his toes into the white sand while listening to his transistor radio.

"This is the Allied Radio Network, May 22nd, 1944. In American League news, Hal Newhouser of the Detroit Tigers was traded to..."

He doesn't want to hear about trades right now, not after the Cardinals beat the Browns in the World Series, so he switches off the radio. He doesn't even remember what five-cent hotdogs at the ballpark smell or taste like anymore. The Marshall Islands are peaceful, but it's not Beach Heaven. He even misses the annoying seagulls.

From here, he can see the Colhan sail into port, the hulking destroyer dwarfing his baby. There's a whole night of ahead of him and he'll spend it getting drunk and re-reading his letter from home for the thousandth time—yet Danny can't take his eyes off the USS Barr.

It may only be a tiny fast transport vessel, but it's been his life the last eighteen months.

And the foreseeable future.

***

He can't turn his back for two seconds let alone two days. Danny blows his whistle, the shrilling sound ushering six seamen to deck, their eyes wide in trepidation.

"I'm gone for forty-eight hours! Two days! Away from humming engines, groaning rivets, and the collective smell of two hundred of my closest buddies. And what did I say before debarking? Anyone? Anyone at all?"

No one dares raise his hand and Danny takes a deep breath. "I said I don't want to see a single new scratch. No dings or dents on my baby. And what did I discover when I came aboard?" He doesn't wait for an answer, waving at the long gouges beneath his feet. "Did you guys drag knives across the deck or play hockey? I want these scratches repaired and polished before we start loading cargo!"

No one hops to and Danny blows his pipe again, shouting, "Come on? What are you waiting for? Roust out and shine, roust out and shine!"

The boys scatter, nearly running into each other before getting to work.

"Hey, Boats! Didn't dry land do anything for that grumpy disposition?"

Danny rolls his eyes at the familiar Kansas drawl and watches the human beanpole wander his way over. "It did until I returned to see what those rascals did to my ship!"

"You need to ease up, Williams."

"Oh, do I, Erwin? You're the gunner's mate. You're here to shoot things. I'm the boatswain's mate. Ergo, every surface inch of this ship is my responsibility. Rigging, deck equipment, bo—"

"All right, all right. I get it. This ain't basic."

He doesn't feel like arguing. Erwin's a good kid and they get along pretty well even if they're complete opposites. Danny drags his gaze toward the boys scrambling around repairing the damage to the deck, not a single one old enough to drink. He knows Jenkins and O'Connor lied about their ages; both are only sixteen.

"We still got a couple days before...where are we headin' again?"

"Biak," Danny says, shaking his head.

"Hey, all I do is blow stuff up," Erwin snorts, pulling out a stick of gum to chew. "I don't care where we're goin' next. You're the one that takes those frogmen to shore. I don't get those guys. You have to be nuts to face the Japs with nothin' but swim trunks and a knife."

"Well, it's my job to get those loons to the beach and back. Without damaging my other baby," Danny says, wondering if he should inspect the landing craft one more time.

"Speaking of...did ya know we're picking up UDT-7?"

Danny doesn't really care. That's what they do, transport different underwater demolition teams around. When they came to the Marshall Islands, it was to re-stock and switch out personnel. "Yeah, so?"

Erwin's freckled face busts out into a huge grin. "You didn't hear the scuttlebutt from last week? When they were transferring some Tetrytol from the Stringham onto the Clemson , a fire broke out, spreading to both ships. Everyone started jumpin' overboard, thinking it was gonna explode, but get this. Unit Seven stayed on deck and threw the burning explosives overboard and saved both ships."

Great. Frogmen were all daredevils, but nooooo, that's not enough. He has to be assigned to the really crazy ones.

"Tetrytol is fucking volatile; I hate having so much of it on board," Danny growls, caressing the railing of his ship protectively.

Erwin watches Danny pet the rail and shakes his head. "You know what, Boats? I think there's a reason why you and the frogmen work so well together."

"Yeah? Why's that?"

"You're all crackerjacks."

Danny doesn't get a chance to chase Erwin away before the deck officer rounds the corner, barking orders about today's supply transfer.

***

It takes twelve hours to stow all the ammunition, fuel, and general wares. His back hurts, both knees ache, and his ears still ring from blowing his pipe so much. How hard is it to get people stack things in a certain order?

After doing all the safety checks, Danny makes quick work of a full plate of stew and potato hash in the mess, then retires to his quarters.

Lying on his bunk, he flips on the radio, closing his eyes to Benny Goodman's clarinet. Sighing, he traces his finger around the red bathing suit of the pin-up plastered over the matt-white painted deck head. "Guess it's just you and me, doll."

"You talkin' to Betty again, Boats?" Erwin asks from the bottom bunk.

"That's Ms. Grable to you, asshole. Now, please shut up so I can have some pleasant dreams."

"Just don't snore; you sound like my Aunt Helga."

Danny ignores him, his eyes drifting close, the thrum of the boiler room sending him to sleep.

***

He wakes up before dawn, the nagging need to do a quick check of things before the call for morning chow. He pulls on his Dungaree trousers, steps into his shoes, throws on his blue chambray shirt, and grabs his cap. After such a large supply transfer, he wants to make sure the ship didn't get too banged up. If he doesn't, the first lieutenant will give him an earful if there's any damage.

Danny climbs the ladders two levels to the deck and spots someone climbing around his landing boat. "Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing?"

The seaman doesn't pay him any attention. The guy accosting his baby is shirtless with dark hair and all long lean muscle, both biceps covered in tattoos. "Are you deaf or just dumb? Excuse me, Curious George! Get off my landing craft!"

"Your landing craft?" the guy asks.

"You're damned straight. Now get off her or I'll—"

"You'll what?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well, it sounds like you're threatening me. I want to know what you'll do if I don't comply?"

Now the guy's staring at Danny with a goofy smile, like this whole situation is amusing.

"You're out of uniform," Danny counters but can't continue ranting without knowing who he's yelling at.

“Says who? Since you haven’t identified yourself.”

"Danny Williams, Boatswain's Mate. Which doesn't change the fact that you're not authorized to be on this equipment," Danny growls.

"Actually I am." The guy jumps down, wiping his tanned hands. "Lieutenant Steve McGarrett. Normally the rank goes before the name. Just in case you're confused."

Shit.

"Yes, sir. I'm well aware of that, sir," Danny grits out and stands at attention.

McGarrett just stands there smirking and Danny really wishes the guy would just chew him out already. Although in all fairness, how was Danny to know he was yelling at an officer? The guy's clad only in olive swim trunks and dog tags for crying out loud!

"I was just checking out your LCP," McGarrett remarks offhandedly. "She's been nicely maintained. The deck compartment doesn't have any damage."

"Considering I have to haul frogmen back and forth on a daily basis, call me crazy, but I thought it was a good idea to keep the landing craft in decent working order."

"Good," McGarrett answers, ignoring his thick air of sarcasm. "I consider the LCP an important part of our equipment."

"Our?" Danny can't help how the word spills out of his mouth.

"I command UDT-7. And I want this LCP and you as the boatswain for my platoon."

"You want what?"

Where does this guy get off singling out Danny and his baby for such an assignment? During each mission, members of the demolition team gather on deck, grab a boat and her boys, and go out. That's how it is. Platoons are not assigned to specific landing craft.

"And I want a maintenance log kept daily," McGarrett continues.

"I already have one. It's kept with the other ship's logs."

"Really?"

"Yes, really." Because Danny's didn't just fall off the back of a turnip truck, thank you very much.

"Good. But I still want you to do a full inspection of the rest of the boats and LCPs."

"Aye, aye, sir."

They stand there, mirroring each other's crossed arms.

McGarrett clears his throat, breaking the silence, his face all business. "Well, I've got to study some aerial maps. We've got a mission tomorrow and I'll need you at the briefing."

"You want me at the briefing?"

"You're part of the team, Williams. We work together."

"But I have my duties to complete, including the inspections you just asked me to do. I can't just drop what I'm doing."

"Fair enough. I'll ensure you get notes and I'll arrange it with your CO that you're to attend all our briefings for now on."

Danny's left dumbstruck with the trust suddenly hoisted onto his shoulders. He wants to ask the guy if he's lost his mind, but then again, frogmen wade out in the middle of the ocean with explosives strapped around their waists, so McGarrett is obviously already bonkers. But for some reason Danny simply nods and the lieutenant smiles at him in return.

McGarrett grabs his shoes sitting on the deck, squeezes the water out, and stuffs his feet into them.

"Hey, wait!" Danny yells when McGarrett turns to leave. "What were you doing earlier? Before climbing around my boat like a monkey? Or do you do all your inspections in trunks?"

"I went for a swim."

"We're sailing at ten knots."

"We were at a full stop during an engine check. I wanted to do a little recon of the water," McGarrett says, still sporting an idiotic grin. "I'll catch you later."

"Um, yeah. Catch you later," Danny answers, wondering what the hell just happened.

***

Apparently, keeping detailed maintenance records isn't enough for McGarrett, and Danny spends the rest of his day pulling apart landing craft. He starts with the large rubber boats, the ones for six and eight men teams, searching for wear in the seams and the patch jobs from repairing holes in the rubber.

Then he moves to the large personnel landing craft — these are the big boys, the ones that can carry a platoon of twenty men. He starts inspecting the one Curious George had jumped around in. And what was up with the guy claiming Danny as his platoon's personal sailor?

Crazy, deranged frogman.

Danny checks where the armor plates attach to the wood and then ensures the ramp and inner safety door are functional.

By the time he files all the paperwork again, it's past the bell for dinner mess and he's last in line.

The mess cook gives Danny a sympathetic expression, scraping the bottom of the pan, and dumping the last of the meatloaf onto his plate.

"Maybe I should've stuck to C-rations," he mumbles and takes a seat in the corner to eat.

Shipboard radio news drones on about the Germans' surrender in Crimea, and Danny has to wait for the announcer to tell him where the hell that is. Oh, Russia. Sometimes, he forgets the Commies are fighting the Nazis, too.

He clutches his gut with a groan as the meatloaf sinks like a stone in his belly. Danny decides to hit the sack early, skipping poker night, and stumbles toward his quarters.

And nearly runs into a tree.

"Hey! Watch it," he grumbles.

"Maybe you ought to try paying attention to where you're walking? I hear looking up works really well."

Danny has to stop himself from mouthing off when he realizes that said tree is Lt. McGarrett. He looks different with his uniform on. "Oh, it's you." McGarrett quirks an amused eyebrow and Danny hastily adds, "Sir."

Ignoring the slip-up, McGarrett hands Danny a folder. "Here's the briefing on the area where we'll be landing tomorrow. Review and memorize it."

"You know that I just finished a sixteen hour shift," Danny begins, but McGarrett's looking at him like he's speaking Yiddish. "Of course, I'll set everything to memory. Sir."

"Good. We're heading out at 0200."

"In," Danny checks his watch. "Four hours?"

"The last I did the math."

"What? Since you're part fish, you don't require sleep?"

"Not really," McGarrett says.

Danny wants to ask him if he's related to Aquaman, and if so, could he ask his buddy Superman to return to Earth and kick Hitler's ass? But Danny keeps his mouth shut and rubs a hand over his face.

"Hey. You okay?" McGarrett asks, going from gung-ho frogman to human being. "You don't look so good."

"The chow's not sitting well with me."

"You mean the corned beef? That was great."

Danny really, really wants to punch McGarrett. "I'm sure in the officer's mess, you got corned beef. But that's not what the crew's cook slopped on my plate."

"Do you want me to find the corpsman?"

"No, I'm fine, nothing that sleep won't cure. Oh wait, I can't count on that, so maybe if you would move, I could hit the rack, memorize the mission briefing, and catch a few Zs."

"If you're sure."

"I'm good," Danny insists, and he takes a second to enjoy the fact that another person genuinely seems concerned about him. Even if said person is blocking the path to his bunk.

"All right." But McGarrett hangs around a little longer, like he's assessing Danny and decides that everything is satisfactory. "I'll see you above deck in the morning."

Danny finally drags his feet into his quarters and settles into his bunk, flipping on a flashlight to study the map.

"Hey, Boats. You still up?"

Danny wonders what he has to do to get a moment's peace. "Since I just climbed into my rack, yeah, Erwin."

"Did you hear that one of the platoons has a Jap Frogman?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I ain't kidding. I saw him doin' drills on deck."

"Erwin. You're from Kansas. Have you ever seen a Jap before?"

"No, but..."

"Then how do you know what one looks like?"

"Well, you'll get to see for yourself, since he's the new Lieutenant's XO."

That's got Danny's attention and he sits up straighter. "McGarrett's?"

"Yeah."

"Since you're part of the ship's sewing circle, what's his story?"

"The LT?"

Oh, for crying out loud, Danny wants to scream. "Yes, numb nuts."

"McGarrett's real gung ho. He started on UDT-2. Can you believe that? He was on one of the first underwater demolition units. Then he actually turned down teaching other teams and got put on UDT-7."

"He turned down a fat cat's posting?"

"Yep."

Not only is McGarrett crazy, Danny thinks, but he's probably one of those guys who was in the Navy before the war.

"Did you know he was at Truk?" Erwin rattles on like he's smitten with the guy. "Heard his team went out once just as their transport got hit. But McGarrett still led his guys without support fire and did the recon even though the Japs were shelling them from the beach. Sounds like he's got balls of steel! You're in for a hell of a ride, Boats."

Danny's so dead. He should probably write out his will now. Except he has a map to study and a mission tonight. And no, he didn't sign-up to be McGarrett's personal boatswain, but he's damn well going to do his job and do it well.

***

Steve doesn't actually hit the rack before missions, in order to keep the briefing details sharp and in focus. Sleep is for afterward. Either he'll catch a few hours, or he'll have nothing to worry about if things end badly.

His routine varies. Gear checks, then reading a book or doing one of his crosswords. It's always a solitary experience, sitting quietly in his bunk or out on deck somewhere. He doesn't exert himself physically, in order to conserve energy, but tonight he'll stretch his legs. Take a walk around the newest ship.

The Barr is like all other fast transports. Small complement, able to outrun most of the large clunky destroyers, and give his team support with her guns and people.

Steve chuckles to himself; yeah, this one has an interesting crew. Especially Williams. Most enlisted ask how high when Steve tells them to jump. But not this guy. Boatswain's mates are always uptight loud mouths. Makes them good at what they do, but Williams—he's a real firecracker. Probably responds well to pressure, and Steve needs a guy like him.

Steve cranes his neck, searches the stars, watching the half-moon over the ocean.

It's almost time.

***

Steve trusts every member of his team to have his back, to get the job done. But he trusts Chin Ho Kelly even more. Steve is honest with Chin, sharing his uncertainties and asking for second opinions. He doesn't do that with anyone else.

"What's your biggest worry?" he asks him.

Chin gets a thoughtful look about him. "The beaches aren't rocky enough. And those hills? The machine gun nests have the high ground, but the darkness should keep us out of sight. "

Steve braces against the bulkhead, the ship shuddering as she fires her heavy guns. "Agreed. The group's been pounding the shore at irregular intervals so the Japanese won't be on to us, but I asked the skipper to pound the shore a little extra."

"That'll help," Chin answers, grabbing a paintbrush and sighing a little. "Try not to squirm too much this time, brah."

Steve grits his jaw. "Press down harder or it'll tickle."

Chin snorts, applying the paint to Steve's torso as Steve resists laughing. He doesn't budge as Chin draws another black mark around his fourth rib.

The bristles hit a particularly sensitive spot just as Williams bounds over and stops dead in his tracks. "Whoa, um...I'm sorry, but I...uh..."

"At ease," Steve tells him, although clearly Williams was never at attention. In fact, he's staring at Steve slack jawed. "Something the matter?"

"Other than the fact that you're having lines painted on you?"

Steve chuckles and Chin gives him a dirty look for screwing up his stroke. "It's kind of a new method we picked up from UDT-3. Have you seen string reconnaissance yet?"

"String reconnaissance? Sorry, all I see is the outline for a new tattoo, although I don't know why you'd want to look like a bumble bee."

Chin bursts out in laughter, dripping paint on the floor and drawing Williams' attention from the mark Chin was drawing below Steve's navel.

"The lines are painted every six inches so we can gauge our depth in the water," Steve explains.

"That makes sense, but I don't see how string plays a part in it?"

"We use fishing line tied off with knots at a regular distances, letting us know how much line's been played out by which knot is in our hand," Chin explains, grabbing a cloth to clean up the paint. "Once the fishing line is anchored at a known point, we use the distances with those from the beach to tabulate the underwater beach contours and obstructions."

Williams stares at Chin in contemplation and snorts, "You're definitely not Japanese. Sir."

"Not since the last time I checked," Chin answers, obviously used to the ridiculous misconception. "I'm Hawaiian. And yes, a lot of us serve."

Williams nods. "I look forward to working with you, sir."

"BM Danny Williams, this is my XO. Lt JG Chin Ho Kelly," Steve says.

Danny squares his shoulders, giving a salute. Chin gives a halfhearted one in return, which puts Williams at ease enough to ask. "You're a Junior Lieutenant, sir?"

"You sayin' I'm too old, Boats?" Chin asks with a smile. "I was a CPO and got promoted after Pearl. Let's say there was a shortage of experienced officers there for a while."

Williams grimaces.

Steve checks his watch and all pleasantries disappear. "We've got twenty minutes. Chin, I'll map you up."

Steve doesn't dismiss Williams, and he can feel the man's eyes on him, watching his every move. Steve takes the brush, dips it in the can of paint, Chin quirking a curious eyebrow at him.

"Did you memorize the terrain?" Steve directs his question at his platoon's newest member.

"You mean that chicken scratch? Yes, sir. Judging by the random squiggly lines, I'd say we have our work cut out for us."

"That's why we do this job," Steve tells him.

***

The landing craft's motor hums along as Steve squeezes between both rows of men, slapping their backs as he heads to the bow. UDT-7 disembarks in five landing craft, twenty frogmen to a boat. The destroyer's big guns have been shelling the shore off and on for hours, allowing them to slip in under the cover of night in between bombardments.

Williams pushes up his helmet to wash the spray off his face and adjusts his flak jacket. He's like a mini-tank ready to roll into battle. "We're ten minutes from the drop off."

"Anchor eight hundred meters from shore," Steve orders. "We'll signal when we need a pickup. The enemy's buried in the hills, so the LCP should be safe from fire."

"And if I don't see a signal?"

"You'll see one."

"I'll see one, he says. Okay and do you have an estimated completion time for when I should start worrying about grabbing you guys?"

"Four hours max. Don't look for us. I don't want to risk missing your position. My men will find you if they get injured or get into trouble."

"Aye, aye, sir." Williams turns to his mate and gunner, issuing orders.

Steve does a quick equipment check. His coils of fishing line are attached to loops sewn to his swimming trunks, along with three red grease pencils, his knife, and his flashlight. He tugs on the writing board hanging around his neck by a lanyard.

"You've checked your supplies like three times already," Williams says coming up behind him. "If you keep messing with everything, you're bound to break something. I'm just saying."

"Have you been keeping count?" Steve asks.

"Your fidgeting makes me nervous," Williams grumbles.

Steve laughs. "We're headed to a beach with thousands of Japanese troops and I'm making you nervous?"

"That about sums it up,” Williams answers glumly.

"I'll keep that in mind for the future,” Steve tells him.

Williams gnaws on his bottom lip, visibly fighting to keep himself in check, and any other time, Steve would find it fun to test the guy's limits. But not now.

They putter along a while and Williams checks the stars with his sextant then his compass before consulting his chart. He orders the helmsman to kill the engines and looks over at Steve, giving him the all clear.

Steve nods, then he and his platoon slip on their fins and pair off with their swim buddies. Giving the thumbs up to his men, Steve goes over the side of the boat, Chin splashing into the ocean after him.

Steve treads in place until his entire team is in the water and then gives them the hand signal to begin.

***

All five platoons surface swim, fanning out to cover three miles of coastline. Steve actually loves this part.

It's all about finding the rhythm of motion. He extends his arms fully, initiating the pull of his biceps, then triceps, his hands breaking the surface. He follows it up by scissor-kicking forward, corkscrewing his body around to take a breath.

Then glide and repeat.

In half an hour, he's less than a tenth of a mile from shore, treading water, and signals Chin a few meters away to begin the recon.

Steve uncoils the long length of fishing line, and dives, his flashlight providing only a few inches of visibility. He goes slow, not wanting to crack his skull on anything. Using his hands, he finds his way down to the bottom, searches for a rock to tie his line to.

He finds a piece of coral, anchors the line, and heads to the surface, pulling the nylon along with him. Breathing and treading in place, his fingers rub over the square knot. Ninety-five meters. Steve records the depth on the piece of Plexiglas around his neck. Swimming a few meters ahead, he repeats the process.

Dive. Locate a piece of coral. Tie the line and breach the surface to record the depth.

The underwater reefs are complicated, with drop-offs and large faces of coral. He swims across sandy sections, locates, and dismisses chunks that won't harm ships.

He does this for three hours, maybe more, but Steve knows something's off. The water is shoaling, the waves slowing then increasing in height. He discovers where the coral flourishes, sections jutting out and twisting into shelves.

This is where hundreds of boats will get ripped apart, leaving thousands of marines cut down by machine guns or left to drown, weighed down by boots and equipment.

This is what fuels his fatigued legs and arms to keep moving, to keep pushing.

Dive.

Breathe.

Finger the butterfly knot. Record the depth.

Dive.

Breathe.

Finger the cloth hitch knot. Record the depth.

He maps out the obstacles that they'll blow up tomorrow. But it's taking much longer than expected and sun is creeping up on the horizon. There's no coming back out to measure some more, not with an invasion force arriving in three days.

They have to stay out here, record everything, because UDT-7 doesn't make mistakes.

Chin swims over to him, exhaustion lining his face. "It's going to take at least another hour to measure the last sixty meters to shore."

"How are you holding up?"

"I'm good."

"If you need to take a break..."

"I'll take one when you do."

Steve squeezes Chin's shoulder. "Signal Williams that we'll be out here a little longer, then relay the order to the other platoons."

"Copy that," Chin says, grabbing his flashlight to send the message.

***

The weapons fire starts at dawn. The enemy probably spotted the landing craft, and thank goodness, those guys are far enough away from being hit. The Japanese don't know the team's exact position; they're firing blindly, artillery shells landing in the shallow end of shore.

The Barr returns fire, blasting the bunkers on the beach. Steve doesn't think about the mortars landing in the water or the explosions rocking the ocean. All his focus is on mapping out the last vital shore positions.

A shell explodes ten meters from his location, generating gigantic waves that almost sweep him under.

His legs are rubber, his head woozy from constantly testing his oxygen levels.

"McGarrett! We're done!" Chin yells. "The other platoons are signaling that the task is complete."

Steve scribbles the last measurement, his fingers waterlogged. "Okay, let them know to return to the boats."

His muscles are so damned tired, but he can't give in to their protests. He has to dig deep and muster his reserves. Fate intervenes, and not in a good way, as the shelling changes to machine gun fire and that spells trouble. The Japanese have left the safety of their bunkers.

"Let's go!" Steve yells at Chin over the barrage.

Steve's arms slice the water as he kicks with all his might.

He and Chin swim for a hundred meters before he notices the change in waves, spotting the landing craft heading their way as it fires at the shoreline.

What the hell is it doing here?

But Steve doesn't question it any further, swimming with renewed energy alongside it, and a set of arms appears to lift him on board. He waits on Chin, watches until his XO is pulled out of the water before accepting the next set of hands.

Fingers wrap around his wrists and yank him over the gunwale, banging his knees against the hull in the process.

"Come on, jeesh, you need to lay off the second helpings."

Steve lands, sprawled on his back. "Report," he wheezes.

"All platoons are accounted for and all landing craft are returning to the Barr," Williams shouts over the shelling.

"Who told you...to break position?"

"No one. It was my decision when I saw the Japs switch from mortars to machine guns," Williams yells.

"And who told the boats to grab the rest of the team?"

Williams helps Steve toward a seat and keeps him from falling when Steve's knees decide not to work. "I did, sir."

Steve grips Williams' shoulders, uses them to regain his footing, and digs his fingers into the hard muscle. "You do realize that wasn't the plan?"

"Yes, sir."

Steve's never heard the words 'yes, sir' sound so defiant. "Do I have to make my instructions a direct order for you to follow them the next time?"

"Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"Granted."

"I can't sit on my hands and watch you guys get shot at from a mile away. Not when I can do something about it."

"If I give a direct order, you will very well obey it. Orders are not for thinking. Is that clear?"

"Aye, aye, sir."

Steve finds his equilibrium and grabs the gunwale as the boat bounces over the water. "But since you didn't break any orders... that was a good call."

"Sir?"

"I said you thought well on your feet. I'm not above acknowledging that."

"Thank you, sir." Williams scans the rest of the platoon in the landing craft. "I've got a suspicion this is the norm for your team?"

"Our team."

"Maybe it's not too late to request a transfer?"

"Not gonna happen, Danny."

Water drips down Danny's face, but he just stands there gaping at Steve. "Um… sir?"

"You just saved my whole team. I'll call you by your first name when I damn well feel like it," Steve answers with a smile.

***

Danny sleeps like rock after his newest adventure with the edge of sanity.

But soon his dreams become nightmares, filled with blood and the screams of sailors as they're blown apart. He bolts awake, twisting his legs with the sheets, his face soaked with sweat.

Rubbing a hand over his jaw, Danny realizes his face hasn't seen a razor in days. He goes to the communal washroom and shaves away the scruff, almost cutting his throat when the Barr starts blasting her guns along with the other big destroyers.

The battle group is shelling the island again.

When he arrives at the mess for the lunch bell, most of the crew is chatting about last night's mission like a bunch of clucking chickens. It's amazing they can hear each other over the noise of .50 caliber guns. They can swap stories all they want; it's easy to do it from the safe confines of a ship. He doesn't look up as his fellow seamen walk by, stirring his bowl of mush while he goes over all the maintenance needed before going back out to shore tonight.

***

Preparation for the mission starts with the transfer of thousands of pounds of Tetrytol. The stuff scares the crap out of Danny and overseeing it get loaded onto his boat will probably give him a stroke.

McGarrett wanders over, black paint accenting the contours of his torso. He chats with his men as they prep and allows Chin to secure four wads of explosives inside the ammo belt snug around his waist. Danny just stands there, unsure if he's witnessing an act of valor or pure stupidity. He can't stop gawking because, hello, the guy's a walking bomb!

It's not like he hasn't transferred UDTs back and forth a thousand times, but he's never been singled out to work for a specific platoon — where he'll learn their names and get to know them beyond just random frogmen to drop off and on.

"You're staring again," McGarrett says, watching Danny watch him.

"Maybe it's because I'm about to helm a boat that doesn't exactly cross the ocean in a smooth manner and, in fact, will probably encounter rough chop while I'm surrounded by twenty guys with things that go boom strapped around their waists."

"Then I promise we'll try not to go boom until we're in the water," McGarrett answers, adjusting the belt.

"Do you think this is funny?"

"No. Because ten thousand men are counting on us to clear that beach so they can go to shore."

Danny knows McGarrett is right but that doesn't ease the knots in his gut.

***

The destroyer group continues to pound the coast only a quarter of a mile from their location. It's risky. A stray round could kill them all, but hopefully the Japs won't suspect a thing.

The strategy pays off. Danny drops off his swimmers close to shore, manning the helm and watching the team's progress. The frogmen dive down with their bomb-strapped bodies, setting their charges, and returning to the boat to blow up the coral.

It's nail-biting work, moving a hundred meters at a time, dragging sopping wet frogmen on board so they can insert more wads of Tetrytol into their ammo belts and dive back down.

Danny watches the sea, ensures his boat is far enough from danger, but close enough to grab his swimmers. He checks on his machine guns to the chagrin of the seaman manning them. "I've got this, Boats," he's told.

Dawn's approaching, and if the Japs fire on them while his boat is loaded down with explosives, well, Danny won't let panic set in. He scans the sea in search of his guys, spotting two familiar heads pop out of the water — the ocean exploding behind them.

"Shit!" Danny curses, steering the boat around, scanning for signs of life.

Shrapnel could have hit his guys or the explosion could have knocked them both out. He grabs a flashlight and searches the waves.

There. Both heads pop again beside the landing craft. "Come on," he yells at one of his mates and they both reach out to drag the frogmen aboard.

Danny's helmet gets knocked off and he bangs the back of his head as all six foot one of Curious George lands on top of his chest. "Is this going to be a habit?" he gasps. "Because... I really like to know if my job is going to be saving your ass all the time, sir."

McGarrett rolls off him, shakes water from his hair, and glares at his bare feet. "Damn it. I lost my fins."

"Again?" Chin mocks. "Those are the third pair in a month."

"Well, if someone hadn't set the charges off early, I might not have lost them," McGarrett says.

"Hey, that wasn't my fault," Chin says, unbuckling his empty ammo belt.

"Excuse me?" Danny snaps. "Hello? I'm talking here!"

"Bring the boat around for a pass of the shore to pick up the rest of the team. We've completed removing the reef obstacles," McGarrett instructs as he pulls himself to his feet and but stays low to keep cover. When Danny doesn't move right away, McGarrett stares at him. "What? You want a hug or something, sailor?"

"No, sir!" Danny growls, grabbing his pipe and blowing it at his two mates. "Come on. You heard the lieutenant. Let's grab the rest of our people before the sun shines a big bull's eye across our bow."

Taking the controls, Danny brings the craft around, feeling someone standing behind him, drops of water splashing the back of his neck.

"Thanks for fishing me and Chin out back there. But I doubt it'll be the last time. Or that one day, neither one of us will make it back to grab at all."

Danny grips the throttle, keeps his eyes out on the water. "Since you choose me as your personal boatswain, I just wanted to know what that entailed. I'll add pulling you guys out of sticky situations to my duty roster."

"We're going to get along just fine," McGarrett says, and Danny knows the guy is grinning like a loon.

It might not be too late to write his will.

***

Danny wakes up in time to grab afternoon chow before reporting to duty. A few sailors sit at various mess tables. Some read, others write letters home, a few gather in the corner, watching a hard fought game of chess. One of the guys fills an iron with hot water to press his collar. Danny wanders over to the galley and claps his hands together in anticipation. It'll be weeks before they stock up again, so he gets exited at the prospect of something fresh. And today's lunch is sliced ham.

He eagerly holds his tray out while the orange-freckled cook loads it with can-pressed ham. How does he know it's can-pressed? Because it's still cube-shaped!

"What the hell is this?"

The kid stares at Danny's plate. "Lunch."

"No. No, it's not. Because this is ham from a tin."

"Yeah."

"It's a loaf of salt and jelly and chunks of meat pressed together."

"Uh-huh."

"What happened to the baked, sliced ham? The good stuff that I oversaw the loading of just the other day? The actually tasty meal we were supposed to be served?"

"Oh, that," the cook says with a shrug. "There wasn't enough, so the officer's mess got it. The crew's mess got the canned stuff."

Danny chuckles sarcastically. "There are less than twenty officers on board. How in the world could—"

"Don't know what ta tell ya."

There's a cough and Danny notices the line of hungry seamen waiting behind him.

"Fine." Danny stalks over to a table and slams his tray down. He grabs his fork, and realizes in his anger, he forgot to take any cornbread or potatoes.

Yeah. Today's going to suck.

***

He has just enough time to make over to the fantail for a quick smoke before his turn at helmsman. Danny scales the ladders two decks down to the hanger level and pulls out his pack of Luckies and his Zippo.

Flicking the flint, Danny stands with his back to the wind waiting for a flame, but after three tries, he has nothing.

"For crying out loud!" he yells, realizing it's out of butane.

"Here," a voice calls out of the shadows.

Of course. Because all Danny wants during his last moments of peace is to spend them with Lt. Steve McGarrett. At least out here, rank's not observed, and Danny doesn't have to be nice and respectful.

He offers quick thanks when McGarrett lights his cigarette and has the observation skills to know Danny isn't in the mood to chat.

Or maybe not, since McGarrett starts talking anyway. "You don't look happy."

"No, I'm not."

"Is it something specific or is this your normal disposition?"

"I'm actually a happy-go-lucky type of a guy, thank you very much. It just so happens that I didn't have a great start to my day."

McGarrett digs out a pack out of his shirt pocket and lights his own smoke. "This is normally when someone continues their end of the conversation."

"Excuse me. I wasn't aware that we were having one, but since you asked, I'm ticked off about the cooked ham that you stole."

"The ham that I stole?"

"Yes, the cooked ham that was brought on board for all of us to enjoy. You know, the crew that fastens rivets, cleans out the gun barrels, and repairs every machine part on this ship?" Danny practically chews on the end of his smoke. "But, nooooo. Apparently, we don't get any. No, we get pressed ham. Pressed, cubed bricks of ham. While the officers got the sliced ham."

"You ever thought about diving? You have the lung capacity for it."

Danny wonders if he'd get court-martialed for decking an officer in an 'off service zone.'

McGarrett presses the end of his cigarette to his lips as if in deep thought. "Sorry about the ham. Wouldn't know anything about it. My team and I were out conducting practice exercises."

"Oh," Danny says.

"I'll be sure to mention something to the Chief Petty Officer about it, though."

"Um, no, you don't have to do that."

But McGarrett is already gone, leaving Danny in the company of the ship's engines.

***

It's Danny's turn to serve as watchman for the helm for his entire duty. Which is abnormal for a larger ship, but they have to make do with the number of able-bodied seamen aboard. It's tedious and boring, but thank goodness, not anchor detail. He hates doing that more than anything.

"Boatswain's Mate Williams at the helm, sir, course 135," he reports. "Steady as she goes, sir."

"Very good," the third mate replies.

He spends hours calling out their course to the third mate while manning the rudder controls of the ship. He doesn't actually mind this at all. Except for the repetitiveness.

Every hour, they adjust course.

"Come left to course south 180 degrees and west 270 degrees. Steady as you go," the third mate calls out.

"Coming left: south 180 degrees and west 270 degrees. Steady as she goes," Danny answers.

He gabs with the quartermaster who's supervising him and the two debate if Bob Hope is actually a funny guy or full of hot air.

Frankly, Danny thinks Hope is overrated; he'd take Sinatra at the USO any day.

***

Danny completes his duty shift, wanders back to his rack after chow, and notices a box sitting on top of his bunk.

Checking to see if anyone is around, he pulls apart the cardboard folds and discovers six large Hersey bars inside. He really can't believe his eyes. These are enough to get him more smokes, fresh veggies, or even some of Pete Hasskis' swill he calls alcohol.

There's a note inside and Danny pulls out the piece of paper.

Most of the cooked ham was spoiled so they substituted the crew's mess with canned. Hope the chocolate makes up for it. Give it to our boat's crew or keep it.

McGarrett

Our boat's crew. Seriously? Damn it all. Because Danny doesn't want to feel grateful to some crazy frogman.

***

The inspection of the deck takes up Danny's entire day, and after assigning all the boys their maintenance and painting tasks, he sneaks away to the fantail for another smoke. Of course, McGarrett's there and out of uniform again.

It's damn distracting how fit the guy is. Maybe it has something to do with swimming for miles a day. But Danny's no slouch; he used to hit the boxing gym back home daily because, let's face it, being out of work is a real drag and hitting a bag kept his temper in check.

It's the first time he's noticed McGarrett's ink in the daylight. They're not the typical naval designs of anchors or crossbones. They're made up of intricate lines and symbols.

He catches himself staring again and looks up with a smirk. "Let me guess. Going out for another swim?"

"Nope. There's an issue with the rudder, so I told the captain I'd go down and take a look at it."

"Of course you did. In between practice exercises, missions, and other duties, you spend your spare time playing engineer. You really don't sleep, do you?" McGarrett just stares at him, and Danny takes a drag off his smoke. "What makes you qualified to inspect the rudder?"

McGarrett taps out another smoke and crumples his pack. "Used to be in the Seabees before I joined the UDTs."

"Naval construction battalion?"

"Yeah."

"And before that?"

"What makes you think I've been in the service that long?"

"You, my friend, are a lifer."

McGarrett chuckles. "Joined when I was eighteen. Started off as a diver."

"Huh. We're the same age," Danny remarks. "Hopefully, we'll both see our thirtieth birthdays."

"Yeah. Hope so."

There's this doubt in McGarrett's voice. This sense of finality that scares the crap out of Danny. "Hey. What's with the hope so?" He gives McGarrett a sidelong look. "Normally, you're supposed to respond with something positive in return."

There's a hard edge to McGarrett's face, a haunted weariness that makes him seem older.

"You're not like one of those kamikazes are you?" Danny demands. "Because you picked me as your boatswain's mate. Your personal sailor, remember? And I need to know if you're some gung-ho crazy type."

"I'm not crazy. But there are some missions...well, some are more dangerous than others. My team's the best. And if we're the only ones that can do the job, then we'll do it. No matter what the risks."

There's a fire behind McGarrett's eyes, a smoldering flame of fury. For the first time, Danny gets the sense that there's something more. Something McGarrett has tightly bottled up under that cocky exterior.

"This seems personal," Danny says casually.

"We're at war," McGarrett snaps, stepping closer, his breathing faster. "Thousands are dying every day. If our missions play in some small part, any part, at ending it, then we should do it. Duty or not. So, yeah. It's personal."

This time, McGarrett storms off before Danny's brain catches up to his mouth. And the only thing his shell-shocked mind can think of is he forgot to thank McGarrett for the Hersey bars.

***

The ocean is the equalizer, giver of life and death. But no matter what, she always demands respect from fishermen to sailors. Steve holds the sea in the highest regard—it's his life, and when he no longer breathes air, he hopes his ashes will find their final resting place within her waters.

He's dead tired after his dive to inspect and ultimately repair the rudder — a two-hour job that had taken eight. Not to mention unloading his gear and meeting with the captain, who relayed his orders from the admiral of the fleet regarding the next mission.

By the time he arrives at his quarters, Chin's waiting on him with food from the mess. "Knew you might have forgotten to do something."

"That better not be the ham," Steve mumbles, grabbing the tray.

"Ham? You mean from lunch?"

"Never mind," Steve answers, sitting on the bottom bunk. It's chipped beef on toast and his stomach growls angrily at him. "Chin Ho, you are an angel," he says digging in.

"Now, don't ruin my hard-fought reputation as a hard ass," Chin chuckles.

Steve grins around his spoon and swallows his chow in under five minutes.

"I've got a C-ration, if you want more," Chin jokes.

"No, thanks, but I think I have crackers hidden around," Steve says, trying to remember where he stashed them.

"You would've had those chocolate bars too, if you hadn't given them away."

"I didn't give them away. It was a diplomatic gesture."

"Whatever you say."

"Do you want the guy responsible for hauling our asses out of the fire to be happy or miserable?"

"I think Williams is a walking blimp of hot air."

"He's not bad. He saved our bacon, didn't he?"

"He's got balls—not to mention that he doesn't like to take shit from cocky, know-it-all frogmen,” Chin coughs with all the subtlety of a drill sergeant.

Steve catches himself smiling, then notices Chin smirking at him. Totally ignoring his XO, he gets down to brass tacks. "We've been allotted two beaches around Geelvink Bay."

Chin nods, crosses his arms, and leans against the bulkhead in thought. "We'll have to take the whole team out again."

"Yeah. The report shows large coral boulders. It's going to take a lot of preparation. Maybe I should inventory how many charges we have before—"

"You get some sleep? We have a whole day to go over the report and brief the team. You've rotated the platoons so they haven't conducted every mission in a row…but you've still led them all."

"It's what has to be done."

"Seventy-five missions in the last ninety days? You can't win the war single-handedly." Chin doesn't give Steve the chance to argue and pulls out the trunk under Steve's rack. "Come on, play something relaxing."

Relenting, Steve rifles through his trunk of meager belongings and pulls out a medium sized wooden box. He carries it as if it were made of glass, painstakingly setting it on the tiny desk shoved opposite their bunks.

"I can't believe that thing is still in one piece," Chin remarks, standing beside it.

Removing the phonograph, Steve secures it with the straps he's had fastened to the desk and selects a record. "If it were any bigger, I wouldn't be able to take it with me." He carefully places the needle onto an old favorite, the scratchy static morphing into a crooning voice. "My mother loved Judy Garland."

He pulls out the player whenever either of them wants to unwind. But there are those other times, the unpleasant days when Steve can't stop thinking about the war. Of all that screaming. And God, fire. On days like today, he has to clear his thoughts and bury those memories down deep, and the familiar records from his childhood give him that small reprieve.

Diving helps, but Steve can't dive now. Chin understands; he shares the same nightmares. He gives Steve's shoulder a squeeze before climbing onto the top bunk. "If you look under your pillow, you might find some new crosswords. They're from a few months ago and I had to erase the previous answers, but they should do the trick."

Steve shakes his head and climbs into his bunk, grabbing the news rag. "Mahalo, brother."

"Anytime, brah."

***

It's a half an hour before the debriefing and Steve finds a nice spot on the fantail to finish one of his crosswords. A heavy exhaustion kept the dreams at bay for once, and last night, he actually caught a few winks. It's going to be non-stop the next three days, and for these moments, he empties out his head of anything but the answer to seventeen down.

"Seriously? Are you always here? Do I need to find a new spot?" Danny barks, ambling over to take a seat across from Steve.

"Not many on a ship this small," Steve says with a shrug. "And I hate to break it to you, but if you're trying to find some peace and quiet, the only good place for that is under the water."

"Not everyone loves the ocean."

"You're in the Navy and you don't like the ocean?

"I like boats and I like being above the sea, not below it."

Steve makes a noncommittal noise before returning to seventeen down. It's the last themed clue and he doesn't like to leave things unfinished.

"What's with you and crosswords?" Danny asks, giving Steve's arm a slight bump.

Steve hides a smile. "I like puzzles.”

"That's it?" Danny leans back but never takes his eyes off Steve.

"They help me clear my head." It's one of the few things that can. Steve squints at the newsprint then back up at his companion. "You're from Jersey, right?"

"What gave it away?" Danny snorts, rolling his eyes.

"Besides the attitude?" Steve says with a sideways glance. "What's a New Jersey seaside resort destination including the massive Berkeley Carteret Hotel?"

"That's easy. Asbury Park."

The number of boxes match up and Steve pencils in the answer "You're right."

"Don't act so surprised."

"I'm not," Steve says, getting to his feet. "Come on. We've got a debriefing to go to."

***

The destroyer group shells the island of Biak non-stop for twelve hours, but it doesn't do much good. They come under heavy machine gun fire as they approach the shore.

Before he sets up over the side, Steve walks over to Danny, who is busy overseeing that the landing craft comes to a full stop. "Stay put this time. We can't return to the Barr if our ride back is shot full of holes."

"Don't blow yourself up," Danny yells as Steve walks away.

"Only plan on blowing up coral," Steve yells back and dives.

***

Steve swims, tugging a tiny rubber boat the size of small surfboard filled with explosives, while the Barr fires on the beach. Their target is a giant set of coral reefs spanning the length of a football field.

The five teams split up, and over the course of three hours, set up explosives at various points along the coral. Once all the Tetrytol is planted, they spend the rest of the mission tying hundreds of detonators together into five lines of charges.

Steve swims back to the landing craft where Chin pulls him inside the boat.

"Detonating on my mark!" Steve yells after climbing back on board. "Three... two... one... mark!"

The explosion lights up the night sky, sending giant waves to batter the landing craft.

***

The following night, they remove the remaining stubborn chunks of coral.

Three days later, the marines land on the beach they'd just cleared while Steve's team maps the coastline ten miles further north.

He takes a break and goes onto the fantail, taking with him a book he's had dog-eared on page twenty-nine for weeks. Williams is there, rolling his eyes at him while nattering on about defective nails. Or nuts. Or something.

Steve watches Danny's hands as his fingers punctuate every word in emphasis. He enjoys how Danny can make even the most mundane things exciting.

And Steve gladly sets down Midnight on the Orient Express and forgets about reading it.

***

Over the course of eighteen days, they go on sixteen missions, including setting up a spotlight on a reef two hundred yards from shore to help with more precise bombings.

Danny is already on the fantail when Steve arrives minutes before sunrise, and for once, he doesn't use the time to complain about supplies or how he wants to punch the deck officer in the face.

"So, tell me," Danny starts off. "What do the tattoos on your left arm mean? That is...if you want to tell me...since you know...I'm well aware how sensitive some people are about that type of stuff."

Steve rarely talks about his tattoos, but for some reason, his usual need to keep his reasons private don't seem like such guarded secrets out here. "I was stationed at Pearl. It's where I met Chin...we were there during the bombing." Despite all Danny's hot air, the man's face is a canvas of emotion. His features soften; his eyes regard Steve with a melancholy type of fondness that forces Steve to look away.

"But I've lived on the island before. My father was in the Navy. He was transferred to the fleet at Pearl in '34 and planned on retiring there." Steve's voice trails off, his mind elsewhere. He fumbles for a cigarette, lets it dangle from his lips before the click of a Zippo rouses him and he allows Danny to light his smoke. "Thanks," Steve mumbles.

"So, those designs are Hawaiian?" Danny asks.

"Yeah, they are. In island culture, a tattoo is called an uhi. It actually means a covering. See in Hawai'i, tattoos are symbolic, hinting at your status in society. The more intricate and defined, the higher your status."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?"

"It's not like that anymore, but they're more than decorations. They mean something to the owner. Symbols for protection or warrior status."

"And yours?"

"Based on a set of Hawaiian rune stones of a friend of mine." Steve traces up his bicep, ghosting the greens and blues ink of his skin. "These are petroglyphs of the elements. The sea and wind. And this—" He crosses over the middle of the design. "This is an animal totem for a sea turtle and a shark. And these lines are actually tiny geometric shapes and patterns reflecting protection, healing, and life."

He clears his throat, half-expecting to see Danny's eyes glazed over in boredom, but is surprised to find Danny studying Steve's designs with intensity. Steve doesn't say a word when Danny broaches his personal space and leans in closer, his dog tags clanking together.

Steve goes perfectly still, his heart pounding. Danny's fingers hover over one of the swirling patterns as if to trace it, but then he snatches his hand back at the last second. Steve slowly rubs his fingers over the spot that Danny didn't touch and watches Danny's eyes grow bigger.

Danny straightens, but doesn't move away. He swallows as if catching his breath. "Thank you for telling me."

Steve nods, feeling slightly vulnerable and exposed after revealing something so personal. Words don't feel right at the moment and he pulls out another cigarette and lights it.

He and Danny simply sit together in easy silence until the bell for morning mess.

***

A week after they cleared the beach for the marines to land on the western shore of Wakde-Sarmi, they get assigned obstacle clearing duty twenty miles further south.

The entire team crams into the debriefing room to go over the next mission. It's hot and stuffy, the two portable fans circulating the same recycled air. Steve's undershirt is glued to his skin and he drinks from a canteen as Chin goes over the last details using the slide projector.

"As you can see, we're going to have come up this narrow strait of Maffin Bay," Chin explains, going over the maps. "The enemy has erected lines of heavily braced posts near the shore abreast of the beaches. We're going to come ashore and plant our charges right on the posts then blow them all to hell." Clicking off the projector, Chin carefully scans the room. "Any questions?"

Steve studies his men and sees only bold determination in their features. Danny looks about to bust a gut with the need to break Steve's balls about something, but is respectful enough to wait until everyone is dismissed.

"What is it?" Steve asks as Chin comes over to stands next to them.

"Have
you read the latest weather report? They're expecting really rough tide. I know you guys are strong swimmers, but Mother Nature is tougher than all of you.”

“We'll be fine,” Steve assures him.

“Oh, you'll be fine,” Danny laughs. “I must've missed the part where you guys became impervious to the weather. Excuse me.”

“It's called practice, Danny. We do this every day.”

“You actually practice wrestling storms? Wow. That's some feat. Getting them to submit for you.”

"Let me ask you this," Steve counters crossing his arms across his chest. "Can you steer the landing craft under bad conditions? I mean, if you can't, tell us now and we'll—"

"Excuse me?” Danny crosses his arms as well. “Can I steer the landing craft under such bad conditions? I'm the best boatswain on this ship."

Chin rolls his eyes at the both of them and shakes his head at Steve, then points at his watch in a hurry-it-up motion.

Steve gives Chin a dirty look and releases a sigh. "You are the best boatswain on this ship, Danny. Which is why you're on our team, because we're the best. And if we all do our parts, we'll get the job done."

Danny puffs out his chest in pride. Chin grins like a damned fool, claps Steve and Danny on the back, and steers them out of the room. "Come on, boys; let's go clear the way for the jarheads to land."

***

It's a common misconception that strong undertow can pull someone under the surface of the water; in reality, the current is strongest at the surface. The wind pushes water toward the shore, forcing the waves sideways. It's grueling battling such forces and nearly impossible to swim against a riptide.

That's what kills swimmers.

Steve relaxes, treading water to conserve energy. If he fights the rip, it'll win. Exhaustion is the enemy out here, so he keeps the tiny raft of explosives close, tightening the rope around his hand. Chin's several meters away, floating along the current, keeping his supplies as steady as possible.

After an hour, the rip loses strength, and Steve and his team swim in a diagonal direction toward shore. There are strands of barbed wire placed across the inshore and secured by the beach obstacles just below the high tide mark. It's meant to slow-down assaulting troops, making them machine gun fodder.

Steve swims below the wire, skirting the sandy bottom toward his objective, noting that they'll have to come back out tomorrow to clear away the detritus. He scrabbles ashore and secures his fins to a clip hanging from his belt.

The anti-boat barricade is made of palm logs ten feet high and coconut-palm logs shaped into a wide V, each log secured in place with wire and soft steel fasteners.

In less than three hours, his team places just over a thousand demolition charges. It takes a combination of support fire from the destroyers, focus, and a bit of luck, but Steve's team finishes their goals and return to the sea.

Maybe it's too many days of little to no sleep. Or maybe he's just too damn fatigued from the swim to shore. Whatever the reason, Steve has a hard time fighting the current pounding the beach. He changes direction and forgets about the barbed wire. He sees it at the last possible second and tries diving below it, but ends ups slicing his right leg on part of it.

God, it hurts; a hot rush of pain spreads across his calf, pulsating and warm. He swims toward the boat, although it might as well be a hundred miles away.

Steve must've have lagged pretty far behind because Chin's suddenly beside him. "You okay?"

"Cut...my leg...on the wire."

Steve treads water while Chin uses his flashlight to send out an emergency signal. "I'll stay with you until the pick up."

Steve knows better than to argue with Chin Ho because it's a waste of oxygen. But Steve's not going to just wait around; he flips over and does the backstroke. He doesn't get far, not with the current. It's fruitless gesture that Chin ignores because they both know how much Steve despises feeling helpless.

Soon the landing craft is within range, and Chin and two others help pull Steve on board.

His men make room, each giving him a pat on the shoulder while Chin helps him hop toward the aft while Danny yells about bleeding all over his boat.

"We need to set off the charges," Steve yells over all the fussing about his leg.

"I've got it, don't worry. Just wanted to make sure you didn't cut your leg in half," Chin admonishes before taking over.

PO3 Hickman applies pressure to Steve's leg with a clean rag he got from somewhere. "This might hurt, sir," the kid says.

Hickman is all of twenty-one, a son of a Indiana butcher and a fine sailor.

"I'm good," Steve mutters, but smiles at the young man. "Thanks, you're doing great."

"Fire in the hole!" Chin yells, setting off the charges with the rest of the team.

And for a second, it's like the Fourth of July.

***

A corpsman takes over when they return to the Barr and Steve's brought to the tiny infirmary to have his leg examined. He feels a bit lightheaded but that could be from the adrenaline crash. Someone sticks an IV in his arm and strips away his swimming trunks while he squints into the harsh overhead lights.

Steve answers the corpsman's questions, and before he can ask any of his own, the doc holds up a syringe. "You're going to need stitches, Lieutenant, so just lie back while I give you something for the pain."

His leg goes numb along with his entire face. Steve slurs asking for a status report on the mission and conks out five seconds later.

***

Steve wakes up with twenty-six stitches to his calf and a mouth that feels like it's been stuffed with cotton balls.

"At least there wasn't any tendon or muscle damage," Chin tries consoling him later.

Except Steve is out of commission for fourteen days. That doesn't stop him from sulking because he hates being laid up. "Don't tell me this will give me a chance to catch up on paperwork," he growls at his XO.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Chin says, smirking.

"I'm still taking part in the briefings," Steve tells him, trying to find a comfortable position and failing.

Chin's a good sailor and a fine frogman. Steve trusts him to lead the missions in his absence, but that doesn't mean he has to like it.

"How long before you can return to quarters?" Chin asks.

"Tomorrow morning,” Steve sighs.

Chin has the gall to chuckle at Steve. "I'll warn the staff."

Steve balls up a piece of paper, throws it at Chin's retreating back, and misses.

***

Steve reads intelligence reports on the ongoing campaign and catches up on the European front. Last week's invasion of Normandy has everyone clamoring for updates. Tomorrow is June 20; it would have been his dad's birthday.

"Wow, you don't do anything by halves," Danny whistles, waving a hand over Steve's bandaged leg. "Doesn't look like you'll be swimming any time soon."

"The gash isn't that deep. They're taking the stitches out next week."

"You, my friend, should take advantage of the downtime. There are enough beaches to clear, I assure you.”

Danny must be off-duty because he's got a dingy white undershirt and dark blue shorts on. He even has some pep in his step, which only annoys Steve even more.

"Is there a reason why you stopped by or is this some kind of payback for bleeding on your boat?" Steve grumbles.

"No, I hosed her down as soon as I got a chance. I actually came bearing gifts," Danny says, pulling out a stack of paper that's he's got tucked under his arm and dropping it on Steve's lap. "They might not be the most challenging, but I figured they're better than nothing."

Steve snags the leaves of notebook paper, scanning the penciled grids and questions written off to the side. "Did you make me some crosswords?"

"What? So? You didn't think I could read and write?"

"No, it's not that," Steve adds hastily. He pushes himself until he's sitting up more and just stares at them in awe. Because this took time and off-duty hours are a rare luxury. "You used a ruler and everything," he says astonished. "I...I don't know what to say.”

“Typically, thank you works.”

Steve's chest tightens suddenly from the sheer kindness of the gesture. He looks up at Danny, licks his lip, his voice scratchy. “Seriously. Thank you. This is the nicest thing anyone's done for me in a long time.”

Danny gets this sheepish smile that's kind of endearing and he beams a little before switching to his normal hard-nosed self. "I figured you'd be bored and I still owe you for the ham thing."

"You don't owe me anything," Steve mumbles, the silence stretching long and heavy.

"Yeah, well. I've got to go," Danny clears his throat, hooking a thumb behind him. "Not everyone can just lounge around in bed all day." He grins and lingers a few seconds before leaving.

Steve grabs a pencil off the clipboard by his bed and scans the first seven-letter question.

Another word for people who need to be placed in straightjackets.

"Seriously," Steve snorts, writing 'f-r-o-g-m-e-n' in the carefully created boxes.

***

Danny misses shaving cream, beer, and real eggs for breakfast—not the powdered crap. He longs for sleeping a whole night without engine noise or bombs going off. Most of all, he misses Grace asking him to read her a bedtime story, or how she gets up at the crack at dawn waiting for the milkman.

It's the middle of July and they've moved on to the Mariana Islands and it's absolutely miserable on board. It's like a sauna even with the ocean breeze; he might as well walk around without clothes. He counts going out with UDT-7 at night as a small blessing since it saves him from roasting outside during peak times.

After he returns from a mission, he likes to take advantage of the time to sit outside and watch the sunrise.

Erwin is out on the fantail with him after spending the whole night supporting Danny's latest mission with his guns. "I hear we're gonna have some major air support soon."

"From where?" Danny asks, walking toward the railing.

"Another carrier has been assigned to the group. All those extra Navy planes should help soften up all the machine gun nests."

God, Danny hopes so. The fortifications and resistance have been fiercer and fiercer these last few weeks. The Japs have had time to dig in and hold their positions.

Sometimes it feels like the war will never end.

Erwin stretches out on the deck, pillowing his head with his arms. "Did you hear they wanted to transfer the LT to another UDT team?"

Danny snaps his head around. "What?" McGarrett hadn't mentioned anything to him.

"They increased the size of UDT-9 and wanted a more experienced guy to take over. The LT even butted heads with the admiral about it until he got his way." Erwin slaps Danny on the back. "Man, UDT-7 is going to be legendary!"

"Legendary meaning self-destructive?"

"Hey, McGarrett has one of the highest success rates among the units."

"That's because the guy is relentless and has a death wish."

"I don't understand you, Boats." Erwin sits up, stretching and popping his lanky limbs. "You act like you hate working with the guy, but then you're one of the reasons why the team's successful. If LT couldn't count on you, then do you think he'd do all the crazy shit knowing you didn't have his back?"

Danny's never thought of it that way. "You know, for a farm boy, you're pretty smart."

"Ha ha. You're a fucking gas, Boats." Erwin finishes his smoke, resting his bony elbow on his equally bony knees. "You know, yesterday was my birthday. Just sayin'."

"I thought it was July 3rd?"

"Today's the 5th."

Where were the days going?

Feeling like a buffoon, Danny runs a hand through his wind-blown hair. "I'm sorry, man."

"I've got some fermented grape juice in my bunk." Erwin flicks his cigarette butt over the rail. "Drink a few shots with me to make up for it, why don't ya?"

"That makes you what, twenty? You're not old enough to drink."

"I'm old enough to die, ain't I?

Danny clamps his mouth shut, but Erwin's all smiles. "Come on, it'll help us sleep."

"Sure, I'll be right behind you."

Glancing around the fantail, Danny searches for a familiar head of dark hair and realizes he's disappointed the lieutenant isn't there.

***

Danny startles awake to sound of someone pounding on the hatch, and before he can rub the grit out of his eyes, Erwin is out of his rack and standing at full attention. "Officer on deck."

McGarrett strides inside like he owns the place. "Come on, we have a briefing in an hour."

"What time is it? Didn't I just go to bed?"

And drink grape paint thinner?

"It's 0800," McGarrett barks, "and it's been three hours, so let's go."

"Wait...what's the big rush?" Danny bitches, stumbling out of his bunk. "Is this because we actually got back before dawn last night?"

"No. We've got a daylight mission that we have to brief, prepare, and begin by 1200."

"Did you just say daylight? As in not under the cover of night?"

"If I round you up some coffee, do you think your brain can function at a higher level than this?"

Danny actually drops his snappy retort at the mention of nectar of the gods. "You sneaky bastard. That's how you're able to become Aquaman. You have coffee!"

Erwin still stands at attention, his eyes large as saucers at how Danny speaks to an officer.

McGarrett's finally notices the beanpole and waves a hand at him. "At ease."

Grabbing his dungarees, Danny hurries to put them on and snags a shirt. He gives it a sniff to see if it's clean enough before sliding his arms through. "Who did we piss off to warrant such a shit assignment?"

"No one. The admiral asked and I said yes."

***

Danny wonders—when he goes home, will he be able to fall asleep without the sound of heavy gunfire?

The destroyers are at it again, bombarding the beach with thousands of pounds of ammo. To be honest, the shore should be a smoking crater, but their targets are the heavily fortified pillboxes and machine gun nests.

He's still seething that McGarrett agreed to this. Okay, so an LT doesn't say no to an admiral. But Danny's sure Steve didn't put up a fight either. Once the briefing is done, Danny is ready to lay him into him with his true feelings about a daylight mission, but for once, he's cut short.

"I know your objections," McGarrett says before Danny can open his mouth. "For the record, there have been dozens of successful daylight UDT operations. There are a thousand marines who are about to be outflanked if we don't open another way from the west. The beach is littered with mines and it's our job to clear them so reinforcements can land."

McGarrett's whole body is a knot of tension, his expression chiseled from concrete. But his eyes give him away. Normally, they're hazel with bits of vibrant green, and now, they're gray and flat and dangerous.

"Aye, aye, sir," Danny snaps and watches McGarrett practically storm off, yelling 'make a hole' at anyone in his way.

"What's eating him?" Danny asks Chin, who's done his best to become part of the bulkhead.

"On most missions, we're under the gun, whether it's mapping or clearing away obstacles. But it's an entirely different type of pressure when there are already boots on the ground, and the faster we do our job, the faster those guys will get help." Chin lets out a sigh and looks Danny directly in the eye. "There's nothing more gut wrenching than knowing people are dying and there's not a damn thing you can do about it."

Between Chin's words and McGarrett's eyes, their gung-ho attitudes suddenly makes sense to Danny. And maybe he understands a little bit more about what makes McGarrett tick.

And why Chin and McGarrett share a bond that no one else does.

The mission only requires taking one platoon out; the fewer boats, the less likely they'll be seen.

Danny straightens to attention and gives Chin a quick salute. "I'll be sure to get us there and back without incident, sir."

***

A rocky hill of sand makes for good cover and Danny lands the boat onto the beach and checks that his flak vest is fastened in all the right places, ignoring the pang of guilt that the rest of the guys don't wear any.

It's going to be tough taking this beach. Everything is on a steep incline, which is good news for the platoon. The Japs' bunkers are so deeply entrenched, they probably can't see the shore, but it's going to be hell on the marines.

McGarrett's team crab around defusing mines, and Danny's not one to cower behind cover. He's not trained in explosives, but he can help clear away the deactivated mines or grab supplies or tools.

And when some asshole sniper starts taking crack shots at them, Danny doesn't panic. He races to the landing craft and grabs his M1 rifle. "Where is he?" he yells at his gunner's mate.

Donnie lines up his machine gun, smacking his gum in the process. "Just up that ridge," he says in a heavy Yonkers accent.

When the sniper takes a few more shots, Donnie opens fire at the hill line. Of course, one sniper becomes three or four, and like hell is Danny going to let any of his frogmen get picked off. He grabs his rifle and aims at the ridge where the crack-bangs are coming from while Donnie unloads at one of the pillboxes high above the beach.

"Don't worry, Boats. The Japs are just bored; you can tell they're too far up the hill to get a decent shot," Donnie says between gum smacking.

"Still doesn't mean they might not get lucky," Danny growls.

"I've got this," Donnie says, pushing Danny down with his hand then blazing up the hillside with his machine gun.

Danny's other seaman radios the Barr with coordinates for more precision shelling.

When McGarrett and his platoon start scrambling back, the snipers decide to play target practice. Danny takes aim again, providing cover fire alongside Donnie. Between the two of them, they distract the snipers long enough for the platoon to pile inside.

"Go, go, go!" Danny yells at his helmsman as they get the hell out of Dodge.

***

Hours later, back on the fantail, Danny stands staring at the ocean, his body still quaking from adrenaline. McGarrett joins him three minutes later, followed by Chin.

"Reinforcements will be landing on the beach in four hours," McGarrett says, breaking the silence. He pulls out his pack of smokes, his fingers trembling slightly as he taps one out. He looks at Chin, then at Danny, his voice rough. "Good job, guys."

Chin nods and pats McGarrett on the shoulder, then gives Danny a wan smile and claps him on the back as well. The three of them stare off at the sea, sharing each other's comfortable exhaustion.

***

Danny returns to his regular duties during a lull in between missions. It means days of normal mundane work, but fewer outings with UDT-7 means they're not making advancements.

He just wants to wake up one day to find out they've won the war.

A tropical storm is approaching, which is the last thing he wants to deal with. Danny considers jumping overboard, but then again McGarrett would probably try to rescue him and get hurt or killed in the process and piss Danny off even more for ruining everything. How does he know this? Because McGarrett is everywhere. Considering the fact officers and enlisted are fairly segregated, he still runs into the man on a daily basis. Off duty or not.

"Hey!"

Speaking of. Danny speeds up a bit, which is difficult with the ship rocking back and forth in the rough seas.

"Hey, Boats!"

Before Danny can duck into another passageway, McGarrett grabs his elbow. "Are you deaf? I've been yelling for you."

"I have to get above deck and secure every landing craft and boat before they all get washed to sea."

McGarrett is the handsy type, yanking Danny in another direction. "Well, you have time for a quick detour first."

"No. No, I don't, Lieutenant. Just in case you haven't noticed, we're about to be hit with seventy knot winds and ten-foot swells."

"We'll be quick, I promise."

McGarrett drags Danny by the arm toward one of the gear compartments. The ship lurches hard and the two of them smack the opposite bulkhead. Danny has adapted to the sea, dealt with fierce chop hundreds of times, but even he's getting slightly seasick as the ship bounces over the bumpy waves.

But he follows McGarrett into the supply room to get the task over with so Danny can secure everything above deck, and secondly, well, because McGarrett is actually giddy about something and it's nice to see him this excited.

McGarrett pulls open the door and Danny follows him toward a set of crates.
"Look what I found," McGarrett grins, pulling out pieces of ratty rope.

Danny rubs his eyes to see if he's missing something. "It's the remains of a net."

"Yes, it is," McGarrett beams.

"Unless you plan on catching crab, I don't understand."

"If we sew pieces of these together, we can use them to transport more tools and equipment."

"Like a net bag?"

"Exactly. I can only carry so much on my belt, but these...we could haul more items and not depend on returning to the boat as often to resupply."

It's a good idea, no doubt, but Danny can't believe he's been kept from duty over net bags. But McGarrett's has this ridiculous happy expression and his enthusiasm over the whole thing is too much to crush.

Before Danny can give him a pat on the back, the skipper starts yelling over radio. "All Hands to General Quarters. This is not a drill. I repeat, All Hands to General Quarters. Batten all hatches and prepare for incoming tropical storm!"

Danny's actually ahead of McGarrett, running toward the door—just as it's slammed in his face. "No, wait!" he yells.

It's too late.

The door is dogged closed, and no matter how hard McGarrett yanks on it or how loud they yell, they're sealed in.

***

"Come here, Boats. I got something to show you. No, don't worry about your duty or that the deck officer is going to put your ass in a sling. Or that we're trapped during battle stations where no one will hear us!" Danny rants.

He paces back and forth, and with each pass, his voice gets louder. "Do you know how much shit I'm going to get for not securing the top deck? Not to mention how much I'm going to have to kiss the deck officer's ass from now on?"

"I'll talk to him."

"No. No, you will not, because you'll just make it worse."

"I'm the third ranking officer on this ship. He'll do what I say, so don't worry about it."

"Worry? What about the fact that a Lieutenant and Boatswain's Mate have been trapped in a gear locker? Do you know have much scuttlebutt that's going to make for weeks — no, months to come?"

"I don't care about scuttlebutt,” McGarrett hisses.

"Yeah. Well, I do."

McGarrett's whole body is rigid as a mountain. Gone is the goofy smile and the soft smirk. Danny releases a sigh and takes a seat on the deck, digging in his heels as the ship is tossed about like a toy.

***

It's been half an hour of nauseatingly violent seas. Danny tries not to look at the bulkhead, swallowing against the bile rising in his throat.

"So, how long have you been serving?" McGarrett asks out of the blue.

“Almost three years.”

“Wow. And you're a PO3? Good for you.”

“Yeah, being a loud mouth from Jersey has its advantages in the Navy,” Danny grins. I even joined on Dec 8, 1941." McGarrett's eyes grow wide in surprise. Danny figured they would. “I went to the recruitment center the day of the bombing, but I had to wait until Monday after war had been declared before I was allowed in."

"I had no idea you volunteered that early," McGarrett says in admiration.

"Yeah. I couldn't find a steady job to save my life," Danny admits with a shrug. "I'm trained as carpenter, but no one can afford a house let alone get one fixed. I did odd jobs or waited at the corner and offered myself to the lowest bidder for day work. But there were a lot of us."

McGarrett grimaces. "That's rough, man."

"The Navy gives me a place to sleep, three squares a day, and I send my pay back home. My brother, Matt got a 4F from the Army. He has permanent limp from polio, but still delivers the newspapers. He has a wife and two kids to care for, so they live with her grandparents."

"You help them out?"

"Yeah. Not to mention my sister's husband died in a fire at a meat packing plant. She moved in with me and my parents. My niece, Grace...she's the greatest. I've basically raised her since she was born."

"I'm sorry."

"Every September, there's this big fair. Everyone gets dressed up and goes. Gracie loves it." Danny beams at the memories. "Her favorite thing is to go on the Ferris wheel. This is the second time I'll miss taking her since I left. I'm doing this for them. Not only the money, but you know. The war. To keep them safe."

Steve fidgets with his watch, his eyes never looking up. "And after?"

"The war?" Danny asks.

Steve flicks his gaze up. "Yeah."

"I dunno.” Danny hasn't given it much thought. “It's a steady job. Maybe if I can get transferred stateside. I have to be there for Grace...but I can't think about that right now." The room shifts at a sharp angle and Danny keeps steady by planting his shoes into the deck. When the ship levels off, he watches McGarrett's haunted listless gaze. "What about you?" Danny asks. "You got any family?”

"I have a sister in California; she married some winemaker." McGarrett pulls out his nearly empty pack of smokes. "My mom died when I was young. Complications from polio." He stares at the pack and shoves it back into his shirt pocket. "And my father...he died on the Arizona."

There it is, the reason for all that hell-bent determination. Danny doesn't know what to say and McGarrett's eyes are dulled of their normal vibrancy.

Danny opens his mouth to offer sympathy, but McGarrett keeps talking in this hoarse whisper, staring off in space. "I was on a forty-eight hour pass and on my way back to the yard when the bombing started...I can still smell burning metal...and all the screaming and crying..."

"Hey." Danny grabs McGarrett's shoulder, rubbing his thumb softly in one spot. "That sounds horrible."

McGarrett flinches at the touch, like he's forgotten where he is, his eyes skirting around the room before landing on Danny's face. He shifts, wipes a hand over his mouth, and sucks in a deep breath. "Yeah, it was. But it's over."

Maybe. But Danny knows better. "Now you're out here getting some payback."

"This isn't about payback, Danny. Think about all those who were drafted or volunteered like you did. They don't want to die. Just like all those Japanese holed up on every island we bomb don't want to die. They have a job to do and so do we."

"So all the crazy shit you do isn't for revenge?"

"It's about ensuring all those marines have a fighting chance." McGarrett's eyes go dark and flat again, his hands balled into fists. "It's about ending the war, so no more people have to die. So there are no more Pearl Harbors. I've been in the Navy since I was eighteen. It's my life. It's what I do."

"Hey, hey, I get it," Danny says, resting a hand on McGarrett's chest. But his words aren't getting through because McGarrett's all riled up and twisted in knots. "Steve," Danny says to get his attention.

McGarrett locks his gaze with Danny's and his breathing eases up. "That's the first time you've ever used my name."

Danny hates the fact he's never been able to. "Technically, I can't."

"Officially you're not allowed. But off-duty.” Steve hesitates, his face paling slightly before looking away. “You could...if you wanted to."

"If I wanted to?" Danny chuckles because he doesn't know how else to react to Steve's sudden shyness. "I'll keep that in mind."

They've been so busy walking down memory lane that Danny hasn't noticed the ship isn't being tossed around as much.

By the time he scrambles to his feet, a mechanic's mate has opened the door and sticks his head in. "Boats? Have you been here the whole time?"

"Yes, yes, we have."

Steve wanders over and the kid does a good job of hiding how hilarious he finds the situation. "Lt. McGarrett. The Captain wants to talk to you."

"Thanks, I'm on my way," Steve says before nodding goodbye at Danny.

Once McGarrett's gone, the mechanic's mate
gets the biggest shit-eating grin. "Boats, the deck officer's been looking for you. Can't wait to see the look on his face when you tell him you got dogged in a gear room with the lieutenant."

Danny really, really hates his life right now.

***

Steve has followed orders his whole adult life; he doesn't mind them. They, much like the Navy, provide structure. Direction. He enjoys the simplicity of it all. But sometimes, he wants to tell the admiral where he can shove it.

The Barr is headed to the Philippines after two weeks of heavy losses at Guinea. Steve doesn't like leaving things incomplete. The marines are bogged down on that hellhole of an island, and based on the beach fortifications, Steve can tell the goal was to lead the forces inland where the Japanese are entrenched in the mountains.

The job's not done, but what MacArthur wants, MacArthur gets. The Philippines are that asshole's big white whale, everyone else be damned.

But Steve's a good sailor. He'll get the job done and do it better than anyone. Steve leans on the rail of the fantail, staring out at the night sky, and wonders if his father is up there looking down at him.

***

The invasion of Leyte in the Philippines is no small task with operations every other day to recon beaches for amphibious landings. Steve splits the team into thirds, alternating missions to give his boys some needed rest. Chin takes a platoon to the northern shore of Suluan, while Steve's guys go to the southern tip.

Steve strips out of his uniform and pulls on his trunks while mentally going over the details from the briefing. He grabs the small can of black paint, stirring it with a brush until PO3 Hickman gets his ass in gear and meets him in the locker room.

He doesn't look up when hears the hatch open. "You're late, petty officer."

"Really? I wasn't aware we had an appointment," a familiar voice says.

"I thought you were Hickman," Steve answers, noticing the way Danny's bouncing on his heels. "Why are you so upbeat?"

"Today was mail day. The USS Bell joined the group a few days ago and they made sure all vessels in the area got letters and care packages from home. And I got a letter from my sister and Gracie. Granted, it's already October and it was sent in May, but I had to read it before we went out today."

"That type of stuff is distracting on a mission."

"No, it's called a morale booster, and I don't know about you, but I can be focused and happy at the same time. Some might even say that combination is helpful."

"Maybe."

"Maybe? What did you do? Stash all your mail for a day off? Oh, wait. You don't know what those are."

Steve splashes the paint all over the place as he stirs it roughly.

"Wait a minute,” Danny says in dawning realization. “You didn't get any...I mean...what about your sister?"

"I don't know, and right now, I need to prepare for the mission."

"I'm sorry. I didn't—"

"Danny. It's fine. We need to focus."

"Focus, huh? Like trying to blend that paint into oil?" Danny sighs dramatically, complete with an eye roll, and reaches for the paintbrush still gripped in Steve's hand. "Here, gimme that. I'll do the mapping thing."

Steve doesn't relinquish the brush at first, oddly unsure if he should. Danny won't let go of the damn thing and he gives Steve a questioning glare. "What? Am I not allowed to paint lines on you? Do I need a decoder ring or some secret frogman handshake?"

"No, you don't," Steve says, releasing the brush.

"And no, I don't need a ruler to do this, I was a carpenter."

"I trust you."

Danny pauses at hearing those words, the brush midair, drops of paint dripping into the can. His Adam's apple bobs up and down before he presses the bristles against Steve's skin right below his collarbone.

Steve holds his breath as wet paint drags across the curve of his rib, fine hairs tickling his side. Danny's hand is steady, precise. He doesn't speak, doesn't waver in his focus.

Steve watches him out of the corner of his eye as Danny traces the line around his back, crossing his spine. Steve grits his teeth, holding himself stock-still. Sweat prickles his forehead, and he balls his fists as Danny moves down six inches, carefully drawing a new line.

Danny and silence is a rarity, but Steve doesn't dare break it, the sound of his breathing filling his ears. With every new line, Steve fights his nerves and muscles. By the time Danny starts a fresh line above his hips, it takes everything in his power not to knock the brush out of Danny's hands.

Danny finishes and steps back, his steady hand shaky all of a sudden.

"Thanks," Steve grits out.

"Anytime," Danny answers in a grunt, dropping the brush back into the paint can and backing away. "I'm gonna...I've got to check on the boat."

"Yeah, good thinking,” Steve says with a swallow.

Danny's cheeks are a rosy pink and he wipes a hand across his face and literally races out of the room.

Steve releases a heavy breath and counts to ten. When Hickman finally shows up, Steve dresses the petty officer down for being late.

***

The invasion of Leyte lasts for weeks; it's an island filled with deep-water approaches and sandy beaches.

The first few incursions, Danny takes them half a mile out and Steve's platoon swims the rest of the way to map out the shore, discovering thousands of mines between the double-apron wires across the shore.

By the fourth and fifth operation, they take the landing craft all the way to the beach to clear away hundreds of metal spikes. On the sixth mission, they unload five thousand pounds of explosives to clear away the pyramid-shaped, concrete obstacles on the fringing reef.

They encounter very little resistance since the main enemy forces are holed up in concrete bunkers with machines guns.

On the east beach of Homonhon Island, Steve allows Hickman to place a sign for the amphibious forces.

Welcome Marines
Enemy two blocks north
Courtesy UDT-7

"Seriously? You had to leave a welcome message?" Danny yells.

***

By the end of October, the Japanese start sending out their kamikaze pilots to attack the group.

***

Steve's place during battle stations is on the bridge, assisting with communications and relaying orders to the crew. It makes him feel inadequate. He doesn't help load ammo or fire weapons. He's not trained as a navigator or a signalman.

It's not until the heat of battle is over that he realizes that he doesn't have a duty station on the destroyer because his team is one of the ship's weapons. The Barr's sole purpose is to transport and protect them during recon and obstacle clearing duty.

He doesn't sleep much most days and sleeps even less during the Japanese raids.

It's not until he overhears someone talking in the mess that he realizes it's Thanksgiving. There's a new set of crossword puzzles from Chin waiting for him in his rack. They're from August, old and erased, but Steve doesn't care. He takes them out to the fantail despite all warnings to stay below deck.

He's surprised to find Danny there. "Hey."

"Hey," Danny says, holding a flask up in salute. "Wondering if I'd see you out here."

"Were you, now?"

"Well, it is dangerous to be lurking about unless absolutely necessary,” Danny says with a sloppy smile and moves toward him.

"Can't be below deck all the time.”

"But below the water is different?"

"That's right." Steve doesn't mention it's one of the few times he's actually at peace.

"You were born with gills, weren't you?" Danny asks, stumbling into him. "Sorry," he says, grabbing Steve by the shoulders.

Danny reeks of sweat and cheap alcohol. Steve steadies him, allowing Danny to lean into him. It feels nice to have that solid line muscle against him. But Danny's drunk and Steve will not allow his thoughts to stray when his friend needs him. "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong?" Danny laughs bitterly, clinging to Steve. "What could be wrong? Besides the fact that we're half a world away, where I'm shot at on a weekly basis. And now we have to worry about planes crashing into the ship. So there's nothing wrong. Steve. Really."

Danny's eyes are red rimmed and puffy, and Steve wonders how many times he's read those letters from home. "Come on, let's go below deck."

Steve doesn't wait for an answer; he swings Danny's arm around his shoulders and guides him across the deck and ever so carefully down the ladders.

"My ma, she makes the best cranberry stuffing," Danny rambles, his feet fumbling for purchase. "And bakes the best squash with butter and cinnamon. You ever had baked squash, Steven?"

"Can't say that I have," Steve answers, maneuvering them both through the passageways.

Steve glares at anyone that sees them as he half-carries Danny into his quarters.

It's poker night, which will keep Chin busy for hours. Steve plops Danny down on his bunk and rubs a hand up and down his back. "You okay?"

Danny shakes his head, gripping his face between his hands. "I just miss home... Is that so bad?"

"No, man. It's not." Steve squeezes Danny's bicep and gently nudges him to lie down. "Why don't you rest? Things will seem better in the morning."

Steve removes Danny's shoes, grabs a rag, and runs it under the faucet of his tiny sink. Then he washes Danny's face clean of tears and sweat.

"This isn't my bunk," Danny mumbles.

"It's okay," Steve tells him. "Just go to sleep."

Danny's eyes keep drifting shut, but he stubbornly refuses to keep them closed. "Can't sleep in someone else's rack."

"I've got something that might help." Steve pulls out his trunk and carefully removes his phonograph. Danny watches him through heavy lids as Steve selects a record. "You like Frank, right?"

"Who doesn't?"

Steve chuckles, starting the record; he sits down on the floor and leans his head against the bulkhead. The voice of Sinatra fills the tiny room while Steve watches Danny drift asleep, wishing the two of them were anywhere but here.

When he's assured that his friend is resting comfortably, Steve quietly pulls out an envelope from his trunk and reads the only letter from Mary he has for the dozenth time.

***

The battle for Leyte is hell on Earth. Heavily forested mountain ranges and impassable roads hamper resupply chains. And if it's not supply issues, it's the jagged outcroppings, ravines, and formidable caves that bog down the invasion.

"You've got that face again," Danny tells Steve as wanders next to him for their scheduled but not scheduled smoke breaks.

"What face?"

"The one that says the war isn't going according to Steve McGarrett's plans so you're going to sulk about things that are out of your control."

"I'm not sulking,” Steve says, huffing.

"Yes, you are, and guess what?” Danny says, “You do your job and do it damn well. I don't know what else you expect of yourself."

Steve frowns, too exhausted to argue, and turns around to stare at the sea. "Christmas was two days ago."

"I'm well aware of that,” Danny says, coming to stand next to him.

"This wasn't exactly the three-week operation the brass had anticipated,” Steve growls in anger and looks at Danny.

"Since when did you start believing in timetables?" Danny asks, his expression soft. Resigned. "We lost our nineteenth ship yesterday. Another destroyer. And we'll probably lose more before the battle is over."

Tens of thousands of deaths for one island.

"I just hate feeling useless,” Steve whispers.

"You're not useless, Steve,” Danny tells him and lays a comforting hand on Steve's back. “How many more marines would have died if we hadn't mapped or cleared the beaches? The enemy is still going to be there one week or one year from now. They're not going anywhere."

If they control Leyte, they'll have the airfields to start the invasion of Japan.

The beginning of the end of the war.

Steve leans his elbows against the railing. "When did you become the wise one?"

"I've always been the wise one, babe.” The ends of Steve's mouth quirk upward at the nickname and Danny matches his grin. “But I'm wiser now because I...have this fabulous bundt cake that my sister sent me, and since I'm filled with the holiday spirit, I thought I'd share some."

Danny reveals a box he's been hiding that holds two slices of cake. "I even stole some fake maple syrup from the mess and maybe even had the cook heat it up. Because that's the type of friend I am."

The cold ocean breeze will make quick work of Danny's generosity so Steve accepts a piece of cake. It's still warm from the oven and he devours the sweet goodness in four bites.

"Thank you," Steve tells him, licking the sticky syrup from his fingers, and catching Danny staring at his mouth.

Danny clears his throat and looks Steve in the eyes. "Well, you've been kind of low of late and we can't have our fearless leader acting like a black cloud."

"This coming from you?" Steve jokes. "Guess I've been really bad."

Danny doesn't counter with another jibe. He grins at Steve and his smile helps thaw away some of the darkness that Steve's allowed to creep inside him.

***

Steve has a slight hangover from celebrating New Year's. Sadly, 1945 feels just like any other day in '44. When he reports to the captain for his newest orders, Steve doesn't expect a visiting rear admiral from the USS Revenge to be waiting for him.

After being briefed on the latest mission, he feels a thrumming in his veins, a renewed sense of purpose.

He gathers his team.

***

Secrecy and speed is of the essence as Steve ushers the top ten guys of his team into the captain's office to keep his briefing as contained as possible. Everyone files inside, grabbing seats around the table, Danny hustling in last with questioning eyes.

Steve isn't much for theatrics. "The Barr is leaving Leyte to join up with another group so that we may begin reconnaissance of Iwo Jima."

"Iwo Jima? Sounds like a vegetable dish," Danny jokes.

"It's also the first planned attack of one of the Japanese home islands," Steve continues, ignoring the remark. "Our mission is to scout for the best possible landing areas for amphibious assaults that will lead the way to capturing the island."

He notices the wide-eyes of those sitting around him and Steve knows everyone feels slightly gut-punched. Walking over to switch the lights off, he turns on the projector.

"The group is going to pound the island for two days before we go out. We expect heavy retaliation from the island defenses, so when we land, we'll be going into the middle of battle conditions."

"Just a ten-man squad for such a major operation?" Chin asks.

"We're the scout team. Once we determine good landing positions, we'll be joining two other underwater demolition teams to conduct recon and beach clearing duties."

"Isn't shelling the island hard going to give us away?" Danny asks.

"We're joining a group that's already been bombarding the island for a few days," Steve answers.

"Will we be taking a landing craft out?"

Steve's been expecting this question. "No, you'll take us out in a medium rubber boat at night. The admiral wants as much stealth as possible. The smaller the boat, the less chance of being seen."

If Danny has any fear of being left alone in a tiny boat in the middle of a sea battle, he doesn't show it.

"And what about you guys?" Danny asks, waving his hand around the table. "It's the middle of winter and that water's in the low 40s. The last month, we've been conducting shore operations."

"We'll go in and out at sixty minute intervals."

"You're not supposed to be out in those conditions for more than twenty minutes at a time,” Danny warns.

Steve holds his head up high. "We'll make do."

***

Steve finds it odd following Danny's orders, but Danny's in charge of the boat and it's his job to ensure they row in unison and at rate. Steve takes his assigned oar and they set off for shore. The Barr anchors less than a mile from the island so it'll take less than twenty minutes to get into position.

It's deafening out on the water. Fifty caliber shells sound like cannons. Multiply that by the number of guns and destroyers and forget about being able to hear. It's a nightmare being caught between both fronts. While the group pounds the islands, the Japanese fire rockets at the ships from heavy fortified caves and mountain bunkers.

All that firepower is like fireworks in the nighttime sky, providing bursts of light that could give away their position if they were in anything bigger. The tracer fire actually helps them during the recon since they can only use low-powered flashlights.

Danny hand signals an all-stop, then drops the anchor and readies his weapon.
Steve is always the first one in the water, and just before he dives, Danny grabs his arm, telling him to be careful with his eyes.

Steve smiles like he always does before going over the side.

***

Steve's trained his team for this. Starting in November, he conducted conditioning exercises in the cold water so all his swimmers would get acclimated to the lower temperatures. They each have a set of leggings to conserve heat, but they're all still bare-chested, depending on swimming and the laws of motion to keep them warm.

They spread out, each man responsible for scouting out a hundred yards of coastline. He swims, ignoring the two sides trying to annihilate the other. Steve thinks he should be used to the noise by now, but he's never experienced such fierce firepower before—the explosions are so loud, it feels like his eardrums might rupture.

He focuses on cutting through the waves, ignoring the cold seeping into his bones. After twenty minutes of swimming, he nears his section of coastline, and using light from one of the exploding mortars, estimates how far he is from shore before exploring the water's depth.

Pulling out his coil of fishing line, Steve takes a deep breath for his first dive and aborts the attempt with the change in wave displacement. Following the ripples, Steve notices an outline of something just offshore. It's not until another volley of fire from the enemy defenses does he notice enemy boats in the water.

He's not alone out here.

***

Steve treads water and uses the tracer fire to identify three medium-sized rubber boats and about a dozen enemy swimmers. It takes a moment to realize they're setting inshore obstacles in the middle of the night, which is crazy. It's hard to tell what kind. Barbed wire or spiked poles. Could be floating land mines. The only thing that's for certain is he can't scout this section of shore.

Using the Barr as a set point, Steve calculates the best direction to go. He could try to swim back to the boat or keep swimming further west until he clears the enemy position.

Except the water is slightly below forty degrees and he's on a time limit. Steve makes
a quick decision and heads further along shore. Further away from Danny and his team.

***

The closer to the coast, the deafer Steve becomes. He's put thirty to fifty meters distance between him and the enemy boats and starts swimming
in a zigzag in search of underwater obstacles.

The Japanese have loaded the shallow water with piles of coral leading up to the beach and Steve measures the reefs by anchoring the line to one end and stretching it along their length.

He swims further in search of a more accessible location and finds antitank ditches thirty meters inshore. As Steve swims in search of starting and ending points, he discovers a battery of 37mm anti-tank guns set up to take out approaching boats.

The next barrage of mortar fire from the group is like flashbulbs in the sky. It's really bad luck that some soldier happens to be looking at the water where Steve is treading, because he takes fire a moment later.

He dives under as bullets cut the water, missing him by a few meters. While under the waves, more bullets pepper his last location above the surface.

There must be more than one person shooting at him as multiple lines of bullets cut through the water. Steve's instincts take over and he does a dolphin kick to flip around and swim in the opposite direction. It's a flight or fight response and Steve slams his head against a piece of coral.

Pain lances up his temple and Steve panics for a moment, unable to tell up from down. He grabs at the coral, using it as an anchor to gain his bearings, and heads toward the surface to take a breath.

He breaks the surface, filling his lungs with oxygen and tries to get a bead on his position. Blood runs down his face and into his eyes. He tries wiping it away as the world blurs into darkness.

There's mortar fire everywhere, explosions amplifying the ringing in his ears. He remembers the machine guns, how the tracer fire painted a target over him.

But he can't dive. Not without knowing where he's going. Steve uses the coral as a guide, recalling its orientation in the water. He's shivering in earnest, his leg muscles beginning to cramp.

Steve looks out toward the sea, in search of the group, and sees ships on fire, orange flames reaching for the sky. And for a moment, Steve can hear the screaming of sailors. Can smell burned steel and iron, taste the tang of metal.

He squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again. The fires are two or three miles away. The Barr is closer and his ticket back to her is a tiny rubber boat waiting for him.

It feels like he's underwater, the ocean spinning and dipping in odd directions. He blinks at his beach notations, unable to read his handwriting, his head throbbing with each detonation. He can't stay too close to the shoreline, not with the enemy planting obstacles nearby.

Steve uses his memory and plots a course back to Danny's boat. Back to his team. And he'll have to go out to sea some more and hope he'll find his way back.

***

Danny hates this part of his job. Despises it—the waiting and inability to do anything to help his swimmers. At least with the landing craft, he had his two mates to gab with. Out here, he's all alone in the crossfire of hundreds of guns.

He can't help thinking about how one stray round could blow him and the boat apart. It's really amazing how much time and effort people have put into finding ways to kill one another.

After half an hour, Danny becomes obsessed with the time. He checks his watch again. Forty-five minutes and the bombardment's getting heavier. He's stuffed cloth into his ears, but it doesn't help.

There's a whistling noise from a rocket, followed by the loudest boom Danny has ever experienced. There's a pain in his chest as he watches the aft of one of the large destroyers burst into flames. Danny screams until his throat goes dry. Then he angrily swats away the tears as he imagines all the sailors who hadn't seen it coming.

He turns around and searches the sea. Checking the time, it's been almost an hour and there are no signs of his guys.

***

By sixty-seven minutes, Danny's panicking. Should he move the boat and search for them? But the number one rule is to never switch positions. "Besides, numb nuts, you can't paddle this boat all by yourself," he says out loud.

At seventy minutes, he may have let out a squeak as he spots the first swimmer coming his way. Danny grabs onto the frogman's arms, all his muscles straining in the effort to pull him on board.

The young man is a shivering mess and Danny quickly grabs one of the wool blankets they brought with them and wraps it around him. "You're going to be fine, all right?"

"W-where's the rest of...my team?" Hickman asks.

"They're coming. Promise," Danny tells him and isn't surprised when the kid starts searching the water with him.

***

Seventy-two minutes after the squad took to the ocean, six have returned. All seven wait for the other four to make it back.

"Sixty minutes was the most you guys were supposed to be out there!" Danny growls at them.

"It wasn't that easy," Hickman snaps back, eyes searching the waters. "It's confusing out there with all the shelling."

Danny can only imagine such hell and he pats the young man's shoulder before muttering another Hail Mary under his breath.

Two more swimmers are dragged aboard, one of them helping the other who's suffering from leg cramps.

When they spot Chin, six sets of hands help him over the side and Danny's there with a blanket. Chin searches the boat, counting with trembling lips. "W-wwwho's missing?"

"McGarrett," Danny tells him with dread.

Chin's shaking like a leaf and his teammates have to drag him away from the gunwale to force him to sit. "How...long?"

Danny checks his watch. "Eighty-four minutes."

***

"Let me go out there, sir?" Hickman asks for the third time.

Chin is wrapped in a blanket tighter than a burrito. While he's still trembling, his words are crystal clear. "No…I can't let you risk further exposure."

"The LT would go back out there for us," another voice shouts over the bombardment.

Chin scowls, and Danny does not envy his burden of leadership. The team's safety comes first and Danny can see the struggle in Chin's eyes, the way he bites his bottom lip.

"Time?" Chin asks.

Danny might throw up. "Ninety-three minutes."

"Gimme a flashlight," Chin demands.

Using flashlight for more than signaling is dangerous, even this far from shore. But Chin takes the light and clicks it off and on every twenty seconds.

The big hand goes around four times on Danny's watch and there's this part of him that says, stop flashing that damn light! But the other, louder voice hopes the signal will work.

It's been ninety-eight minutes.

"There!" someone shouts.

Chin pans the light over the waves.

"Steve!" Danny yells.

Hickman jumps into the water just as Chin yells at the man for doing it.

The petty officer beats Danny to it, which is probably a good thing in retrospect. The whole team reaches over to help and Danny yells at them about tipping over the boat.

Hickman has his hands full of his CO, and Chin and Danny help hoist Steve inside. Some of the others aid the petty officer as he clambers back.

Steve is ice cold and listless. Danny takes all his weight and settles him down on the floor with him. "Steve? Are you with me, babe?"

"The...harbor...it...it's been hit...everything's...on fire."

Danny's heart aches at the confused words, but Chin's there, grabbing Steve's shoulder. "It's okay, Steve. We're not at Pearl anymore."

Danny bites his knuckles, wishing for a world before war. Gathering his wits, he blows on his whistle. "Hoist away! Out oars! Give way for the Barr."

But he doesn't get up because Steve's in trouble. He's not shivering, which is bad. Really bad. "Grab me the driest blanket we have," he yells out.

Then he starts unbuttoning his long-sleeved shirt and shucks the tee underneath it. Chin helps lean Steve against Danny's chest. And oh my God, is the man cold. Danny wrap his arms around Steve, holding him close, the back of Steve's head lolling under Danny's jaw. Chin then encases them both with a heavy wool blanket.

"What the hell were you doing out there?" Danny rants, trying to get Steve's attention.

He doesn't get a response and Danny presses his lips to the top of Steve's head. "You're an idiot. A stupid, crazy idiot." When that doesn't elicit a retort, Danny presses Steve's body as close to his as possible.

Danny's shaking from the cold, but he doesn't really care because he feels Steve's heart fluttering under his palm. "You're a mess," he says, laughing bitterly.

Blood trickles down Steve's bruised face from a head wound and Danny squeezes him hard. "Don't you dare die on me. So help me, I'll kick your frogman ass."

"D-danny?"

"There you go," Danny coaxes at seeing a slit of hazel eyes.

"What...what are you doing here?" Steve stutters.

Danny wipes at Steve's blood stained hair. "My job. Someone has to keep Curious George out of trouble."

Steve's confused grin is enough to allow Danny to breathe again.

***

Danny doesn't even remember arriving at the Barr, even if it's his fucking job to get everyone there. But these are seasoned sailors and Danny leaves them to rowing while his attention is elsewhere.

So when hands try to extract Steve from Danny's encompassing hold, he reminds himself to hand Steve over. Get him the help he desperately needs.

Danny releases his grip and another set of hands grab him as he stumbles on his feet and is moved toward the infirmary. He loses sight of Steve in a sea of frogmen and medical staff. Then someone sets Danny on a gurney, removes his clothes, and the rest becomes a blur.

***

Danny wakes wearing heavy leggings, a long-sleeved shirt, and a robe. He struggles out of bed and wanders around like a goof until someone notices him.

"Hey, you can't be walking around. Get back in bed, sailor."

Before the corpsman can reach him, Chin appears by his elbow. "Hey, it's all right. He's with me."

"The last I checked, you were a patient, Jay Gee," the corpsman points out. "But since you helped me corral your platoon, I'll grant you some leeway."

Chin is dressed like Danny but with the addition of an IV pole that he drags toward his bed. "Just a precaution," he says when Danny glances at him in concern.

"How's everyone else?" Danny asks.

"They've all been given bed rest, warm blankets, and orders to eat a hot meal. A hard thing to accomplish, I might add."

"Speaking of difficult people—"

"McGarrett's being treated in the back." Chin sits in bed, resting his head against the bulkhead. "He's pretty out of it. I wouldn't expect much."

Danny is already on his way over toward the only private area of the infirmary and goes around the curtained corner toward the bed. Somewhere under a mound of heavy blue blankets is Steve, and Danny has to get up close to see the man's face to really believe it. There is an ugly line of stitches running along the side of Steve's head and his left eye is bruised and swollen. He's on oxygen and IVs and he's too fucking still.

"You shouldn't be over here," the cranky corpsman says, coming out of nowhere. He checks a machine before peeling back the pile of blankets and replacing the heating pads stuffed in every conceivable place around Steve's body. "I've got to check on three more patients; when I return, you better be back in your own bed."

Danny can still hear the pounding echo of bombs exploding, envision fireballs from Hell. And when his heart squeezes painfully in his chest, it's at the thought of staring endlessly at the open sea. At being alone in that boat while everyone drowns, completely out of reach.

His knees wobble and Danny uses the bed railing for support and he can't stop himself from pushing it down. Or leaning over to rest the side of his face under Steve's chin and listen to him breathe. Savoring the warmth finally radiating from Steve's neck and chest.

It's not until his eyes start to drift close that he notices the movement under the blanket and the trembling hand that rubs circular patterns over Danny's shoulder.

Danny exhales, loud and slow and heavy. He might be shaking; he's not sure. But Steve's managed to get his right arm out from under his cocoon and wraps it around Danny, holding him close.

Danny wants to say something, should say something, but he doesn't. There's nothing he wants to risk with words right now, so he relaxes against Steve's chest and relishes this moment of peace.

***

Steve's intel on the inshore obstacles and anti-tank guns prove invaluable as it shapes the scope of rest of the missions. It's the scuttlebutt of the ship and grates on Danny's nerves because it almost got Steve killed.

The next few days are random snapshots of moments. Most of the platoon from the mission are still on bed rest and Ensign Rodriquez is tasked with continuing recon operations. The war doesn't stop for casualties and the group has lost three more ships and hundreds of men from heavy fire.

The invasion of Iwo Jima has already begun.

Danny hasn't been allowed to return to duty and he thinks it has more to do with morale than his ability to do his job. There are rumors of medals and good PR, that Danny's promotion is the works, but he doesn't give a crap about that.

He visits Steve in the infirmary, who bitches about being there.

"You have a head injury," Danny yells at him.

"I have a hard head."

"Really? Is that why you get dizzy when you walk?"

Steve scowls, the left side of his face still black and blue. "Only sometimes."

"You also suffered from hypothermia. Your skin was as cold as ice and the doc said something about strain on the heart, but I thought he was talking about me at first," Danny says and wishes he could take back.

But Steve's looking at him again with that fond smile, and secretly, Danny isn't bothered by it.

Then Steve has to ruin the moment when he grumbles about needing to leave.

"Yeah, well Chin's taking over the team tomorrow, so don't worry about it."

Steve glowers at that and Danny rolls his eyes. "Head injury, Steven."

Steve crosses his arms in an act of defiance and Danny can't help but laugh. "You look like Grace when I tell her she has to eat her green beans."

That earns him another smile and Steve relaxes a little. "Tell me about her," he asks, leaning into his pillows.

***

When Danny is summoned by the deck officer, he loathes reporting to him with all his being. So, it's a big surprise when he's told he's been given leave.

"Where am I taking a five day pass?"

The deck officer doesn't bother telling him before stalking away and Danny finds himself at the fantail where Steve is currently staring off into space.

"Hey."

"Hey," Steve replies with a grunt.

After four days, Steve has been released to his quarters and isn't allowed to return to full duty. Scuttlebutt says the brass wants to ensure one of their most valued sailors is fully recovered before taking over a team again. Danny's just glad Steve has been given the time off.

"I've been given a five day pass, which is kind of odd seeing as we're in the middle of a battle," Danny tells him.

"The Barr is going to join another group, but she's making a stopover in Guam for supplies and repairs.

"Guam?" Danny grumbles.

"UDT-13, 14, and 15 have taken over operations for Iwo Jima."

"And our team?"

Steve actually smiles at Danny's choice of words. "We haven't been given new orders yet. Guess it depends on how things go here."

"Wait. So does that mean...?"

"Yeah, we're all getting time off."

"Is that such a bad thing?"

"We're in the middle of an invasion," Steve growls, sounding like he's actually disappointed at the prospect of leave.

"I hate to break it you, but we'll always be in the middle of something. What's so bad about getting away from here? Away from the war...we could even...I dunno. Have a drink someplace together where we're not at risk of dying."

Steve's stiff posture eases a little, his voice wistful. "I hear Guam is kind of nice."

Danny moves closer until their shoulders touch. "Nice would be… nice."

***

Guam looks like any other port Danny's been to in the last two years, filled with ships, military personal, and a lot of hustle and bustle. But he really doesn't care because, for the first time in forever, he's on dry land.

"You sure you don't want to kiss the ground there, buddy?" Steve nudges Danny in the side.

"The thought has crossed my mind," Danny says and thinks about doing it just to annoy the man.

"Come on, let's grab a jeep, the base is only a few klicks from here," Chin says from behind them.

"Why are we visiting an army base again?" Steve asks, the sunshine glinting off his sunglasses.

"Because I want you guys to meet my cousin," Chin says, slapping them both on the backs. "Besides, she's taking us to the best local place for food and drinks. Or would you prefer going to the Navy mess?"

Danny and Steve exchange horrified expressions, and Danny cheerfully tells Chin to lead the way.

***

Danny's glad his jaw isn't the only one that drops when Chin's cousin appears in army fatigues and a face smeared with oil stains. Chin runs over and hugs a very lovely specimen of a woman with tanned skin and long black hair.

When Chin pulls from the embrace, he turns around, all smiles. "Steve, Danny. This is my cousin, Kono."

Kono wipes her greasy palm on her olive fatigues and gives them each a firm handshake and devilish smile. "It's actually Private First Class Kalakaua. I'm a mechanic on base. They won't give me a gun, but I'm handy with a wrench," she says with a wink.

"Close your mouth, Boats, it's unbecoming," Steve coughs.

Kono rolls her eyes. "Give me five and I'll take you guys on the town."

"On the town?" Danny chuckles.

"Don't knock it, brah. We've been here six months. The locals don't have much, but they know how to cook with what they got. And believe me, it's better than the grub you guys have been eating the last few months."

Steve drapes an arm around Danny's shoulders and bends down to whisper in his ear. "Let's not insult our hostess for the evening, shall we?"

Danny nods, too focused on how Steve's breath ghosts over his neck. It makes Danny dry swallow, his cheeks heating slightly. Steve, the bastard, notices and doesn't say a word. He just pushes up his sunglasses, giving Danny another one of his fucking grins.

***

Dinner is cream of rice soup, shrimp patties, and candied coconut. They drink real beer and listen to Louis Armstrong. Kono embarrasses Chin with stories about him almost spearing his nephew in the ass while fishing. Or the time his traditional grass skirt fell apart when
he performed at a luau for the family.

Danny chuckles and Steve laughs, clutching his stomach, his eyes crinkling around the edges. His face is still bruised on one side, the stitches a dark ugly reminder of how close things had been. But Danny can't remember
seeing Steve this carefree and relaxed.

Steve's long-sleeved blue shirt amplifies his expressive eyes. Danny can't stop staring at them. Olive green with flecks of amber. Steve catches Danny watching him and Steve's eyes turn almost gray-green.

"I don't know about you guys, but I am wiped," Danny groans, stretching and twisting his back in his chair. "I think I'm going to take advantage of being able to sleep for more than four hours."

"Why don't the two of you take the jeep back? I'll find a ride later," Chin says, before grabbing his half-empty beer mug. "I'm gonna catch up with Cuz for a while."

"It was good meeting you." Steve stands up and gives Kono a quick hug. "Mahalo for tonight, brah," he tells Chin, the two of them clapping each other on the back.

Chin tosses the keys of the jeep at Danny, but Steve snags them mid-air.

"Hey, what gives?" Danny snaps.

"We're on land now. It's my turn to drive."

***

There are a few hotels off base for those taking leave. Of course, the definition of a hotel is a dozen rooms made of palm trees since most of the city is rebuilding after being bombed to hell and back.

Danny doesn't care because the mattress is larger than his tiny rack. And there are things called windows with fresh ocean breezes and a ceiling he can't reach if he stretches out his hand.

Throwing his duffel onto the bed, Danny pulls a flask out of one of the pockets and holds it out to Steve who hovers outside the door. "Want to come in for a drink?"

"Sure," Steve says sounding anything but certain.

Danny stands there and stares at Steve. At Steve's anxious face, the way his eyes dart around the room, and how tense he's suddenly become. Danny tightens his grip around the flask because this isn't the Steve who was all loose-limbed and bright smiles at dinner.

Danny's mouth gets suddenly dry and he wets his lips and asks, "What's wrong?" Even though he dreads hearing the answer.

"It's...it's too quiet."

Danny releases a breath he had he no idea he'd been holding. "Jesus! Are you kidding me? It's too quiet? What? Not hearing the ocean makes you tense?"

The left corner of Steve's mouth twitches and he folds his arms defensively across his chest. "Maybe."

"What's the matter with you?" Danny yells, but then he listens to the faint hum of metal fan in the corner and the chirping insects outside and his heart sinks a little. "There aren't any guns or bombs going off."

Steve frowns and he has a lost look on his face. Like he was about to argue about it then realizes Danny's right.

"Oh, babe," Danny says and before he knows it, he grabs Steve by the shoulders and pulls him in close to hold him tight. "One day, they're gonna stop, you know."

"Yeah, it's just...I don't remember what that's like anymore," Steve whispers.

Danny aches at the all too familiarity of that fear.

"Come here," Danny growls, dragging Steve over to the bed until they're both sitting down, because standing up is a little too awkward. "We're not on a ship and we're not in the ocean. We're away from bullets and explosives and wondering if we're gonna wake up to see the sun again. We have this time to enjoy every moment and I'm going to show you how."

Steve eyes grow steel blue and those long fingers of his slide up each side of Danny's jaw. "Are you, now?"

"Damn straight," Danny murmurs and slowly presses his lips to Steve's with the barest of kisses. Holding his breath, he pulls away, fear and adrenaline coursing through him. “Um...is this okay? I mean...”

Steve's hands tremble around Danny's face. “Yeah,” he breathes raggedly. “God, yeah.”

Danny's entire being floods with relief and he laughs a little. “Jesus. Thank goodness.”

Steve grins the dopiest smile and moves his hands to rest on Danny's arms, kissing him. It's warm and soft and a little hesitant. But when Danny digs his hands into Steve's broad shoulders, Steve deepens the kiss and it's full of want and raw need.

And it only ends when Danny has to pull away for air. "It's not fair that you have lungs like a fish," he pants.

"It has its advantages. So does being able to swim for miles."

"You do know that rest is part of the whole 'R&R' thing?"

Steve glides his finger down the chain around Danny's neck, gripping his dog tags. "I haven't rested in almost four years," he breathes. "But I have five days to learn again."

This time, Steve kisses Danny, and it's slow and methodical, and God, so good.

"Wow," Danny sighs. "And here I thought you'd be the get it done fast type."

"I can disarm a bomb a dozen different ways, Danny. I know slow and steady."

"I think this calls for many demonstrations," Danny smiles, running his hand through Steve's hair.

He allows the silence to linger, allows Steve to associate stillness with something good. But most of all, Danny wants to relish this moment of having Steve beside him. In bed. Staring at Danny with the same desire from months of wanting without touching.

"You have too many clothes on for once," Danny says. Steve smiles and reaches for the buttons of his shirt, but Danny grabs Steve's fingers.

Steve's hands fall away and the silent permission is more enthralling than Danny could ever imagine. Slowly. Button by button, Danny reveals all of Steve's tanned skin and muscle. But it's when he pushes the shirt off Steve's arms, Danny breaks out into a sweat. Mesmerized by the ink accenting Steve's biceps.

Tentatively Danny reaches out, fingers hovering above the symbols of the wind and sea. Symbols that embody so much about Steve. But Danny still hesitates.

Steve takes Danny's fingers and guides them over the blue and the green. Both their fingers tracing the tattoo. "You don't ever have to ask," he says.

Danny traces the patterns with his mouth, outlining with his tongue and filling in the spaces with his lips. Steve's whole body shudders, encouraging Danny to move onto the right arm.

Steve reciprocates by nibbling the tendons of Danny's neck. Danny groans when Steve starts tracing the chain to Danny's dog tags, licking the skin down his throat and back up to Danny's mouth.

Danny barely has enough time to throw his arms up before Steve pulls his shirt off. Steve's panting now—the idea that Danny is responsible for making him need that much air turning him on even more. Hooking both thumbs on each side of Steve's shorts, Danny yanks them down as Steve loosens the buttons.

Removing the last layer of fabric, Danny doesn't even joke about Steve going commando as Danny finally gets to admire every inch of Steve's finely honed body. "God, Steven."

Steve doesn't do motionless. He rakes a hand down Danny's left side, followed by his mouth, until his lips press a pattern across Danny's belly, under his navel while deft fingers remove the last half of Danny's clothes.

Danny shivers in the warm air, grips Steve's shoulder, his tattoo, like a talisman, and pulls him up to look him in the eye. With nothing between them but sweat and skin, Danny wets his lips. "I don't...I mean. I've done this...once..."

"Don't worry," Steve whispers. He wraps his arms around Danny, drawing them together. "I told you. I can do steady and slow."

"Slow? Now you want slow? You'll give me a heart attack with sl—"

Steve laughs against Danny's lips, low and fond, and Danny likes this kind of slow, the deep, easy kisses. Danny hooks his knee around Steve's thigh, brings them closer, hip to hip. When Steve slips his hand between them, gathers them both in his big palm, Danny has to break away, breathing hard.

"Yeah, yeah, like that – do that – Steve –"

He gasps at the friction, sweet and almost forgotten, and presses his hand at the small of Steve's back.

"Oh, that's good, so good," Steve rasps at Danny temple. "Slow, slow," and matches movement to words. He traces kisses down to Danny's ear, nibbles behind it, and Danny shudders.

"Need more. Lil' faster."

"Not yet, not – no, god." Steve covers his mouth in another deep, slow kiss that drives Danny crazy with the taste of skin and Steve.

Danny lets his hand drift lower on Steve's ass, a shy teasing, and Steve bucks, groaning. It's heady, knowing he can do that to him, make Steve shiver and hitch in his arms.

Danny deepens the kiss, hungry for more, for Steve. He uses his knee for leverage, rolls them so Steve settles in the hollow of his hips, a welcome weight, and finally, his right hand is free. He follows a meandering line from the short, crisp hair at the back of Steve's neck, around his shoulder blade to the crest of his hip.

"God, Danny, do it, do that—"

And cups his palm over the two of them as Steve buries his face in Danny's neck and fucking whimpers.

That's all it takes, that sound, and Danny's gone, helpless and graceless and breathless. Steve moves with him, urgent now, finally, and Danny mouths across his shoulder, finding the unseen lines of the tattoo and the taste of salt and musk and the sea.

Danny lets his knees fall away from Steve's hips as his weight settles and runs a heavy hand over Steve's chest and shoulder. "That was impressive. You've been saving up, haven't you?"

Steve laughs and slides off to the side. "I don't think that's all mine. Holy fuck, Danny."

Danny wraps his hand around Steve's arm, still thrown across his waist, and kisses Steve's head as he rests on Danny's shoulder. "Damn, that was good," he says, and tries to remember how to breathe.

After a few minutes, Steve rouses enough to find a rough towel and wipes them both down. Danny's grateful and pulls him close when he's done. Steve sighs, happy and relaxed, and Danny wants to strut a little, knowing he brought Steve a little peace in the middle of this war.

"Tol' you," Steve says quietly, sounding both shy and smug.

"Wh –? Huh?"

"Told you I could do steady and slow. Five whole days of this."

"And after?" Danny whispers. God. He doesn't want to ruin the moment. Ruin this. But he needs to know what to expect.

"We can't think past that, Danny. But..." Steve glides his fingers between Danny's shoulder blades. "I never used think beyond the next mission. And now..."

"And now?"

"The Navy's a part of me, but there's more to life than serving her." Steve swallows and gives Danny a smile. "I can go anywhere after the war and it would be nice to know what the waves off the coast of New Jersey sound like instead of bombs."

Danny doesn't know what to say, so he captures Steve's mouth, knowing he doesn’t need words right now. Because for the next five days, Danny's going to make sure that the world around them disappears into pleasure and peace, of living every second to the fullest.

***

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