#Guide Us Ignite Us Fix Us || Steve & Bastian

[ruginite]

You don’t like it? I think it’s catchy. Pup.

Hawaii 5-0 sentence starters. Status: Acceptin’

Hands over his ears. Not that it’s helping even a little bit. A glare that if looks could kill the Commander would be dead sixty-three ways from a Tuesday. The blaring music bouncing off the walls of the plane, as if just grating his ears wasn’t enough. Now he can feel literally feel it. The only thing stopping him from rendering the Team Captain’s ipod to ashes, being that he’s exhausted. All he wants to do is sleep–but even he can’t hope to get any rest with all this noise. So he gives an ultimatum instead.

             “Turn tha’shit ff, r’a swear t’fuck yer next meal’s gonna be made outta that song list.”

[ruginite]

It's a soft pat to the cheek, the kind where his fingers linger - calloused and touched from a war far away from home. Where his thumb whispers over the curve of a cheek. A smile, though worn and bloody as it is. Ash and dirt dusting his face. "Everything is gonna be okay." // touch meme.

send me a body part to touch my muse there Status: Acceptin’

A lingering trail of fingers, that despite the hell their in–leaves a kind of simmering peace in the skin they’ve touched. A kind of heat that doesn’t have anything to do with spot fires and smoldering gapes in the ground from grenades and whatever the fuck else these asshats have shot at them.

                       Everything is gonna be okay.

Yea maybe, if this shit was a song and they were in some million dollar music video meant to tear at your heartstrings. But that isn’t where they are. They’re in the middle of a god damn cluster fuck of a shit storm. And a body not his own is cradled. Vital areas are shielded from another barrage of bullets. That cut into his own skin, and ricochet off into the open air. And a hiss, (that any other day of the week would have been a curse), slices through his teeth. Ignites that particular kind of angry, that’s far too much like lighting a powder keg.

A burst of color, that’s been the last thing far too many have seen. A hand just as calloused and worn slamming into the earth. That rips it up and warps it. That forces it to move at speeds it was never really meant to move. That envelopes and buries their enemies alive. Enemies that will remain there. Enemies whose lungs he fills with dirt, for good measure. And whose bodies he crushes beneath the weight of it all. More blood on his hands, but in this instances….he can not be bothered by the guilt.

But for the faceless insurgents he fells, twice their number take his place and how short the time span he has to make a decision. To form a plan that isn’t completely suicidal. That manages to get his Fish’s team back to everyone that loves them, in one piece. That sees the person staining his shirt red, somewhere very far from here. Somewhere that doesn’t smell like sulfur and copper and doesn’t have the very idea of death hanging in the god damn air. And oh fuck him six ways from Sunday this shit is gonna hurt.

             “Not yet it ain’t. Stay awake, Fish. R’I fuckin’ swear m’a kill y’myself.”

The same hand that had a breath ago ended men, splays itself across ripped and worn body armor and cotton. Repairs them. Turns them into something far more bullet proof. Something that makes the barer of them that much more heavy. And a body that can’t possibly hope to lift itself, is hoisted up. Settled over shoulders, that scream with complaint. That have teeth gritting, and that first step is a struggle to take. But he takes it. And the one after that, and the one after that.

Because he was cut from a different cloth than most people. Cut from someone with nerves of fucking iron, that never had learned how to give up or give in. Cut from someone who kept going no matter what they lost or who. And while he can never hope to be as great a person as they had been, it’s in his blood to try. To not make the same mistakes he has. To do everything he can not to make a liar out Steven Jack McGarrett. 

[ruginite]

I'm proud of you. For how far you've come and all that you do. Don't think I've ever met soneone who loves as much as you. So I'm proud of you. I'm here. And you don't gotta do this all on your own. Not anymore.

Tell my muse something they need to hear. Status: Acceptin’

No one can really understand what happens, when he kills someone with his bear hands. No one can truly comprehend what it is to feel death without dying. No one, that’s still alive anyway. And that’s the real reason he so often chases the bottom of a bottle isn’t it? The true, selfish reason he’s only sober when he has to be. But it doesn’t always work, because no body told him that some ghosts know how to swim.

His pride is only just so saved, by the fact he’s turned away. Only just so spared being crucified in the space between them because Bastian’s not facing the one who speaks. Instead the glass blue of his eyes bore holes into the dusty wall of his garage. Staring down the shadow of the only other person in the room, that’s cast upon it. 

Proud isn’t a word he would have ever expect to come out of anyone’s mouth in regards to himself. Proud isn’t what he is of himself, hasn’t been for years. And the self destructive whispers that never really go away, accost him. Try to make him believe Steve’s just saying what he wants to hear but…that isn’t how Steve operates is it? Though at one time he’d been made to believe it was. That everything Steve had ever said, everything they had ever shared, had all been a lie.

But now….

Don’t think I’ve ever met someone who loves as much as you….don’t gotta do this all on your own. Not anymore.

That’s what breaks it. That’s what shatters a hole the size of Texas through the walls he’d been so busy building back up. Re-enforcing. To make sure nobody else got in again. Because that is his weakness, why he does everything he can to keep people at a distance. He is his father’s son, but he has his mother’s heart. That no matter how many times it’s crushed…it finds some fucking way to keep beating. To keep going. To keep hoping that someday everything will be okay. 

But with just words Steve has torn it all down. Blown his newly constructed keep all to hell. And the only god damn thing he can think to say is…

      “Shut up, Fish.”

[ruginite]

👅

Send 👅 to lick my muse Status: Acceptin’ 

Squints judgingly as that ass swaggers off, before wiping the remnants of the other off with his sleeve. He’d follow but it’s not so much fun when only one of them’s drunk. Speaking of which….fuck did his bottle of—oh that son of a bitch.

            “GET BACK HERE Y’OVER GROWN DART FISH!”

[ruginite]

tag change dump. nothin’ to see here. move a long.

[ruginite]

When i think of you, i ... think about the shit storm that life is. I think about every time someone has ever let you down. How many nights you've spent searching for salvation at the bottom of a bottle. But more importantly, when i think about you... i think about second chances. Of saturday mornings. Of a smile that could light up the room if someone cared to give a chance. I think about you, and me, and facing this shitstorm together. Because you're worth it to me.

“When I see think of you, I …” finish in my askbox Status: Acceptin’

Because what exactly does someone like him say to that? When there’s too much history, too much god damn life spread across the mileage in oil slicked blood and not enough of the little moments he tucks into the cracks of who he is? The easy answer is : someone like him doesn’t. Because out of everything he’s good at….this isn’t and never would be one. And yet….

                “Shut up, Steve.”

[ruginite]

❤

SEND ME A SYMBOL FOR… Status: Not Acceptin’

❤  five times my muse says they don’t love yours, and the one time they admit it.

 [ Deep down i know this never works….. ]

1-

Unholy. That’s what time it is. No hours no minutes. Just unholy. Which can only mean one thing. Something went shit side ways over night, and their number got called. And he half thinks about throwing something heavy at the figure standing in the door way. But he’s too fucking tired to be assed with the idea. Leaving the door open as he turns to shuffle off towards the kitchen. To locate the coffee…and the pot and will himself an unholy amount of caffeine to counteract the unholy hour that it is.

                 Oh stop. You love me. My beautiful mug’s much better lookin’ than the inside of your eye lids any day.

                        “I like t’inside a’m’eye lids….You? Not s’much.”

2-

He’s a good guy. He cares. He’s just bad at ya know…saying it.

He bulldozed you off a building, Steven.

It was one story, Danny. Plus it blew up a second later and I landed on a car. I was fine.

Okay you know what, here….hold this. I’m going to prove to you the guy has no feelings….

There’s a box shoved into the team leader’s hands. A box filled with sweet pasteries. The kind everyone that knows the current topic of conversation, is weak for.

Danny this is stu—

Shut up.

He shuffles into the room. Completely disregarding the room. To focused on the grease covered engine part in his hands. He’d forgotten his phone, and here’s the last place he remembered putting it. And he almost walks into the pair that step into his path. Blue cast towards them in slight irritation.

Hypothetical Twinkle Fingers….you have a choice. Save our fearless leader here from blowing himself up, or take this box of donuts and set the bomb off yourself.

For a second he thinks they’re serious. But then���no they’re fucking with him. And the truth is he can smell it. The sweet sugary goodness inside the box and—he takes the box. About faces, and shuffles back out of the room; without a word. He doesn’t have time for their hypothetical bullshit. And this? This is just one more way to keep the truth to himself.

3-

                   Hey! I just met you! And this is crazy!

Most days he prides himself on the fact he’s seen (and mostly is) enough weird shit that nothing can really phase him anymore. But at the moment…at the moment he’s being proven incorrect. As they speed down an un-populated road towards HQ. Radio blasting and Fish….Fish being the literal most terrifyingly weird fucking thing he’s ever seen. 

                 Here’s my number! So call me maybe!

There are some things that a grown man shouldn’t do. And belting out lyrics to the pop-y monstrosity that’s currently threatening to make Bastian go deaf is by far one of the top five. And it’s taking every square inch of his minimal self control not to reach across the center console and choke the life out of the SEAL. And Steve isn’t at all helping with the look that screams stop being such a sour ass. You know you love me.To which all Bastian can do is glare back with an inexplicable look that can’t be read any other way but…Yea sure, bout as much as I need another hole n’m’head.

4-

Silence.

It’s a stark contrast between how the lot of them usually are. Always picking at each other. Always joking. But just now…just now it’s all heavy silence. And he finds himself wishing for a sound of some kind. Mindless chatter. Someone sneezing for fuck’s sake. But none of it happens. And he’s left to stand there. Apart from them all. Leaned against the wall, folded in on himself.

They blame him. That’s fine. It’s the easier for them. They might all be on the same team, but the truth is it’s always been them…and him. And maybe that’s his fault more than there’s. But it’s all water under the fucking bridge now. The line’s been drawn in the sand. Because their fearless leader’s in ICU, hanging on by threads. And it’s Bastian’s fault; as far as anyone that matter’s is concerned.

The doors open. The doctor comes shuffling in. Babbles jargen and damage and…the other set of doors at the end of the hall swing open. Suits. And for once in his life he doesn’t buck them. For once he lets them do their job without making it hard. Jaw clenching back the pain of sharp toothed rings biting into his skin, and heavy constraining cuffs locking his hands behind his back.

And honestly he really doesn’t notice that the Hobbit’s trailing after, as they lead him away. Doesn’t notice the arguing that ensues. Not until a hand manages to grab him by the arm. Stops his shuffled and slow forward motion. And blue meets blue for fractions of a second before Bastian tears his gaze away to the floor. Because that look? He knows that look. Knows what it said without speaking.

                  What am I supposed to tell, Steve?

             “Fuck should I care?”

And he’s wrenching his arm away. Feet once more picking up pace. And he doesn’t look back. Because it’s easier to make people hate him, than the opposite. Beyond the fact the opposite….is exactly what got Steve where he is. Barely alive, and the fault put on the one person that just maybe it shouldn’t be. But that’s what Bastian does isn’t it? Takes the blows that would other wise break or kill other people. Bears the weight that would crush everyone else. And really, what is one more black tally mark on his scorecard? Not much he wagers.

5-

Evals. He hates these god damn things. Doesn’t understand why they bother with them. It’s not like they actually give two shits what he thinks about anything. They just want to make sure he’s still knows his place. Where on the proverbial food chain his name sits. And there’s a groan as the questions drone on. The answers just as droning.

           “Yea. No. Don’t care. S’a trick question, there ain’t no right answer.”

But then…the questions get a little more personal. A little more invasive and he doesn’t like where this is headed. He sits up a little straighter. Arms fold over his chest. Blue narrows, lines in auburn. And there’s something a little more threatening and border line terrifying when the spit the last question at him.

              How do you feel your relationship with your handler has                       evolved since you were assigned to their team?

There’s a silence that falls on the room. That’s thick with annoyance. Accented with bitter bits of rage. Because if he’s good at anything, he excels at hiding panic beneath inpenatrable layers of rage. And when the answer comes it’s gruff and all together drenched in annoyance.

               “It ain’t. Arrangement’s fucked now as much as it was then.                         M’doin’ this cuz y’jackasses ain’t given me no other choice….”

A heart beat. Then another. Before he’s half growling a question at them this time.

                 “We done?”

6-

R and R. By definition (or at least his) that means sleeping til you wake up. With no where to be in a god damn hurry. But apparently Steven “Fish” McGarrett hadn’t gotten the fucking memo. Because it’s 5am and they’re already having an argument. Not the violent kind mind. But an argument all the same. Because Fish refuses to take inhuman noise as a no about going swimming.

Finally though the gentle back and forth stops. And the covers are yanked off. Bastian’s feet grabbed at the ankles and….

              FUCK! 

Hands scramble for purchase, blindly grasping at sheets that are to tight against the mattress and….

              THUNK.

He face plants. Hard. Cheek to wood floor. And in a split second he’s gone from half unconcious to oh hell no. Twisting around onto his shoulders, wrenching his ankles out of McGarrett’s grip. Getting to his feet much more nibbly, than someone of his build might be expected to move. A shoulder planted right into Fish’s middle and hauled up despite height and weight. Before Bastian’s turning. Tossing the SEAL onto the bed and pinning him down. 

It becomes a blur of flesh and cotton after that. That eventually results in Bastian catching the short end of the stick; and Steve getting away. A pillow snatched up from the floor; a finding it’s mark across Baz’s face.

              “Asshole.”

           You love me.

Foot steps track off out the door. A shake of a head that russles mussed hair. And perhaps a not so loud….

            “Yea….yea I know.”

[ruginite]

Long time no see + “Baz ...Where.. Did you go?.." aka pls don't leave again.

Send “Long time no see.” + a Number to encounter my Muse after years away! Status: Acceptin’

5. “..Where.. Did you go?..”

With a Soldier’s Eyes | Human AU

Memory

Somewhere North of Toronto. Wandering along the train tracks. That’s where he’d been found. No wallet. No belongings. Save his clothes and the dog tags around his neck. He’d been shuffled from one set of hands to the next until he’d finally fallen into United States custody. Transferred to New York. Placed in a ward. Where he’d spent the next year and a half. No memory. No inkling of who he was. Though when asked what he does remember, how odd it is that he says,

            “T’sound of t’ocean.”

Reintegrated into society. Returning to the home he didn’t know. Filled with memories that his mind has no trace of. A room filled with things they tell him are his, but none of it feels familiar. None of it sounds right. The backyard looks small. Empty of something important. And when pressed, if he knows it. How strange it is that he says, 

              “Sand.”

His case worker finds him a job. He’s good with his hands, even if they don’t work as well as they should. But he has medicine for that. They tell him he was a soldier. That he got hurt in the line of duty. That he was the only survivor of his platoon. But he can’t remember. He can’t place the faces they show him. And when given their names, he says,

             “Not the bad guy.”

Two and a half years, and he feels just as empty as he did the day he was found. Nothing’s connected. The faces on the walls still strangers. The house still alien. His life still not his own. Nothing changes with every visit to the therapist. Another visit comes and goes; and he stands to leave but something catches his eye. Something he’s never noticed before. And feet carry him forward. Hands rising to lift the pastel colored object from the shelf. Fingers running along it’s unfinished surface. It’s a shell. Something from the ocean. Something buried in the sand. Something caught in the surf. And when asked if he’s alright, he says,

               “Surfing.”

It all comes back. In broken pieces and parts. Not all of it. But enough. Hot sand and cool water. Laughter and beers. Warmth and safety. Trust me’s and I want you to stay’s. And when they ask him if he’s alright, he says,

                “Fish.”

He hardly hears the shattering, or the worried words he leaves in his wake. Feet incapable of getting him out and down the hall. To the street, to a taxi, and onward to the closest airport; fast enough. A ticket bought at the desk. And he’s pacing the waiting area. Running a line in the carpet, until they call for boarding. And when questioned the nature of his visit he says,

                “Home.”

Eleven hours. He doesn’t sleep. Watching the world pass by him without fear. Because he doesn’t remember being afraid of it. All he remembers is where he’s going. And they can’t land fast enough. He can’t make his way through security fast enough. Weave his way through baggage pickup, he doesn’t need because he doesn’t have any, quick enough. Breaking out into the sun filled day, and ducking into a cab. And when asked where he’s going, he says,

             “6800 Kalanianaole Hwy # 127, Honolulu.”

It feels like decades, even though its only just under and hour. Money paid and feet crunching on gravel. The sensation the first thing that’s felt familiar in years. He shuffles up the drive. The sound of the ocean growing in his ears. The fabric of the truck his fingers graze against, more soothing than his own bed ever was. And knuckles wrap on the door. Heart pounding in his chest. And when greeted with the inquiry, he says,

               "I dunno…I…”

               “…..yer t’only thing I remember…about me.”