Title: Ricochet

Summary: In that moment, Steve really didn't want Danny to try and save his life ever again.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hawaii Five-0 or its characters.

The Camaro was one beautiful car. A piece of art, every inch of it – inside and out. However, after a good three minutes, staring at its plain ceiling (and the elegantly curved frame of the door and the leather sun visor) was getting a bit boring. Besides, Steve felt the muscles in his neck grow stiff, so he decided to slowly move his head into a more horizontal position.

"Aht, aht, aht!" A warning index finger flew in his line of sight, pointing to the ceiling. "Up!"

"Danny–"

"Up." The finger shot emphatically in said direction again – almost hitting the ceiling this time.

"I'm fine," Steve mumbled into the wad of Kleenexes partly covering his mouth and reclined his head back against the far too low-set headrest of the passenger seat. He tried to underline the statement by sniffing his nose a couple of times, but all that came out was an odd, clogged up grunting sound that probably didn't much to help his case.

"I don't care," Danny said, taking a turn a little too fast, probably only to help make his point. Steve just rolled his eyes. "I don't care if you're fine, I don't care if you're passing out from the blood loss, I don't care if you're dying. I. Do not. Care."

"Okay," Steve simply acknowledged in the faint hope it would be enough to shut his partner up.

"I do, however, care a lot about this car. My car. I will have you know that – aside from Grace – this car is probably the most important thing in my life–"

"Ohhkay." Closing his eyes now, Steve tried to just tune out Danny's voice, but it was so loud and the car was so tiny and he was trapped by that stupid seatbelt.

"–which is why you will not move that blood-oozing cement head of yours just a fraction of an inch before you are out of this car. Do you understand?"

"Danny–"

"Do you understand?"

"Yes, Danny, I understand."

"Say it."

Steve grunted again, this time on purpose.

"Say it."

"I will not move my head until I'm out of your precious car." Tilting his head a little bit to the left, Steve tried to catch a glimpse of his partner out of the corner of his eye. "Happy now?"

"Ecstatic," Danny commented dryly, staring blackly ahead into the – judging by the lack of traffic noise – empty street in front of them.

Steve blew out a breath through his mouth and then tried sniffing his nose again, making an involuntary gargling sound this time.

"Would you stop doing that?"

"Hm?"

"Not only are those sounds you're making fucking disgusting, but I can guarantee you, if your nose starts spouting blood like a fountain again while you are still inside this car, I will kill you."

"It's fine, Danny."

"Nothing about that scenario is fine with me." Danny hit the brakes hard and the Camaro skidded a little around another corner.

"My nose, Danny. It's fine," Steve ground out while trying to hang onto the dashboard with his left hand to stop himself from sliding off his seat.

"Hands on the face!" Danny yelled and honked the horn for no apparent reason, making Steve jump a little.

"Then stop driving like a maniac."

"Oh that's rich, coming from you, Captain Fast and Furious!"

Steve bit back a response by clamping his mouth shut as he focused on pushing himself upright in his seat again, his right hand still firmly pressing the damp, blood soaked ball of tissues to his nose.

Clearly frustrated, Danny blew out a deep breath. "I should have just let Kono fix you up before letting you inside this car."

"I'd rather go in an ambulance than let the rookie stick . . . lady-product-thingies up my nose," Steve said, cringing at the memory of Kono dangling one of those things in front of his face.

"Lady-product-thingies? Jesus, Steve, what are you, twelve? They're called tampons," Danny all but yelled. "Tam. Pons!"

Steve just rolled his eyes and stared at the ceiling again. There was a tiny bug, slowly making its way across the smooth, plain surface. "You know," he said after a moment of silence, "none of this is actually my fault–"

Danny started huffing exasperatedly, probably trying to suck in enough air to launch his protest.

"– and for the record," Steve added before his partner could get a word out, "that tiny dark spot up there is not my blood. I'm pretty sure it's a souvenir from that little bug there, crawling in your direction now."

"You let a bug take a shit inside my car?" He could feel Danny's eyes boring into him now.

"You told me to keep my hands on my face, there was nothing I could do to stop it," Steve answered innocently and shrugged.

"Since when are you listening to what I'm saying?"

"I always listen. I just choose to ignore selectively."

"Oh, you mean like when I tell you to not fire your gun in small, closed spaces?"

"I was aiming for the lock," Steve said for what must be the forty-seventh time today.

"Bullets bounce, Steven." A hand flailed wildly through his limited line of vision again.

"The bullet did not bounce, Danny," Steve argued, tilting his head to the side once more to try and see if his partner at least kept one of his hands on the steering wheel. "It hit the lock."

"Barely."

"I was three feet away, Danny. That's impossible to miss."

"Oh, it's possible," Danny insisted and added, "Up! Up, up, up," when he noticed that Steve was looking at him with his back-bent head resting awkwardly on the left shoulder.

"We'd still be locked in that container if I hadn't taken out the lock," Steve argued, sitting up straight again. He then slowly started to peel the wad of tissues away from his nose to see if it was still bleeding.

"I'd rather be locked in a box all day than be killed by one of your ricocheting bullets."

"The bullet did not ricochet."

"It could have," Danny shot back stubbornly.

"Three feet, Danny!" Steve almost yelled, feeling the dull throbbing from his nose slowly but surely spreading to the rest of his head.

"A lot can happen in three feet."

"That doesn't even make sense."

"The only thing not making sense is someone firing a gun inside a ten– by five–foot metal box." Hands were flailing again.

"Nineteen–foot–four by seven–foot–eight," Steve said absently, leaning his head to the right a little to make sure Danny's rampant right hand wouldn't accidentally hit is already abused nose.

"What?"

"It was a standard twenty–foot shipping container," Steve explained with a shrug.

"At the risk of repeating myself," Danny said after a moment, audibly gritting his teeth as he spoke, "your head is a miserable, sad place."

Steve just sighed and closed his eyes again.

They drove in silence for a little while.

"You okay?" his partner's voice – much softer and calmer now – broke the silence eventually.

Turning his head a little to his left, Steve tried (and failed) to give Danny a look out of the corner of his eye. "You broke my nose."

Danny huffed. "I was trying to save your life," he said matter of factly, but Steve was sure he could see a small smile tugging at his lips.

He wanted to tell Danny again that the bullet did, in fact, not ricochet and that there had been nothing his life had needed saving from in the first place, but he wasn't particularly keen on starting the whole discussion all over again. "Well, next time you tackle me to dive for cover from any phantom ricochets, try not to smash my face into any crates in the process, okay?"

"Hmmm." Danny pretended to think about the request for a moment. "I'm not making any promises. Your ass needs a lot of saving from a lot of stupid shit."

"And here I thought you didn't care," Steve commented a bit smugly.

"I don't."

"Right."

"Shut up."

"Okay."

"I saved your life."

"You didn't. But thanks for trying, Danno."

A/N: This may or may not be slightly inspired by the NCIS episode "Boxed In".