Chapter Text
He’s not staring at his badge.
Jerry is not staring at his badge.
Okay, maybe he is a little bit, staring at it that is, when Steve raps on the doorframe, but to be fair there are more embarrassing things he could be caught doing.
Hastily he slips it back around his neck.
But Steve doesn’t seem to notice anyway; just leans against the doorframe like he can’t catch his breath, and that doesn’t seem right. “Jer?”
“Are you okay, commander?”
“If I asked you for a favor, and to not tell anyone, could you?”
About a hundred things occur in one instant, about what that favor could be, but whatever the favor, the answer’s obvious. “Yeah. Of course.”
Steve seems to slump a little further. “Can I crash on your couch for a minute?”
Can he crash. On Jerry’s couch. For a minute?
“Yeah! Um, of course.”
A sideways glance shows only one bankers box currently atop said couch, and Jerry jumps to his feet and hurries to move it aside. Steve shuffles over, sits carefully. “Not feelin’ too hot,” he breathes, rubbing his forehead. “My office, y’know, with the windows, Danny’d be all over me about it. Wouldn’t let me rest. I think I need to just— lie down— ten, fifteen minutes.”
“Yeah, whatever you need.”
“Thanks,” Steve mumbles, weakly. Then he groans as he curls up on his side, and Jerry processes for the first time how objectively awful he looks. He’s pale. Steve McGarrett, white guy though he may be, doesn’t even seem like the kind of person who should be able to go pale. But he is— and sweaty, and woozy-looking, and sort of crumple-folded like bad origami.
For half a minute there’s silence. Steven McGarrett is just lying on the couch in his office, no big deal, and Jerry tries to turn back to his computer, or at least not to stare. Then Steve gives a quiet groan, and lifts himself up a little.
“Jer?”
“Mm?”
“‘m gonna do my best,” Steve huffs, “not t’ throw’p in your office. But can you pass me tha’ trashcan jus’ in case?”
“Right,” Jerry says, as casually as he can. He grabs the trashcan from under his desk and passes it over, absently glad he’d emptied it of candy wrappers just yesterday. Steve puts it on the floor right by his head, and lowers himself carefully back to the cushions.
Despite his claims that lying down would help a bit, Steve doesn’t seem to feel any better as the minutes pass. Jerry tries to give him some privacy. He works at his desk and doesn’t turn around, at least not until there’s a shifting noise from the couch.
He looks to find Steve half-upright again. Leaning over the trashcan, staring into it like it holds the secrets of the universe.
It’s definitely a tense moment. That’s not even because it’s Steve; it’s just always tense, waiting to see if somebody’s going to puke.
Eventually, though, Steve seems to decide that he’s not. Not at the moment, anyway. He lies back down, pressing a hand over top of his stomach.
“Not to, uh, danny you,” Jerry begins. “But you could take a sick day, yknow.”
“Not sick,” Steve grunts. Despite the fact that he still looks one wrong move away from spewing like a human volcano.
“Okay,” Jerry says, lightly, and drops it. Steve came to him— even though it probably had more to do with the location of his office than anything else, Steve still trusted him, to offer a safe place to rest. He’s not betraying that.
Steve sighs, rubs his stomach a bit. Then, though his answer had seemed pretty definitive, he relents. “I mean, yeah, I’m sick. I’m just not contagious or anything.”
“Bad shrimp?”
“I,” Steve begins, then swallows hard. Closes his eyes, swallows again. Whether he’s about to throw up or just about to say something important, Jerry is honestly not sure.
“I ended up— catching too much radiation. From that dirty bomb a few months ago. This is that.”
Shit, Jerry manages not to say. Radiation poisoning? Is no fucking joke.
Now Jerry kind of feels like puking, too.
“That’s heavy, man,” Jerry gets out, voice gone gravelly. “No heavy metal puns intended.”
Eyes still shut, Steve laughs a little. “Yeah. They’ve got me on some meds. This stuff shouldn’t last more than a few months.”
“This stuff?”
“Nausea, mostly. Fever. Weakness. It comes in these spells. I’ll be better in an hour or two, and then I’ll be fine for a few days. It’s not that bad.”
“Price worth paying?” Jerry suggests, and Steve opens his eyes and smiles at him.
“Right. Price worth paying. And I’ve got a good ten or twenty years before the, um. Bigger stuff.”
“The bigger stuff being cancer,” Jerry clarifies, and Steve nods slowly.
Holy shit. Steve is, like, sick. Big sick. And there’s potential for it to get much bigger.
“Does detective Williams know?” Jerry asks, finally.
“Nobody knows, Jerry.”
“Oh. How long have you known?”
“‘bout a week. At first, I’ll be honest, I thought it was side effects from the transplant drugs. But that all had been getting better, and this was getting worse, so, I figured, better get checked out.”
“Yeah,” Jerry agrees. His mouth sort of seems to be functioning on its own, which is good, because his head is still more or less indisposed. “Uh, how you, uh. How you doin’ with it?”
“You said it perfectly, man,” Steve rasps. “Price worth paying. Needs of the many.”
“Wow, did you just quote Star Trek at me? Because I feel like I need to, like, pop some champagne or something.”
“I like Star Trek,” Steve replies, frowning lightly. “Grew up watching Next Gen with my dad.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
To be fair, Jerry always feels sort of giddy around Steve—when he doesn’t need to focus on a case, anyway. It’s just, Steve’s funny. And kind. And smart. And gorgeous.
But this is some maximum loopiness right here; not only has Steve trusted him, confided in him something he hasn’t even told Danny Williams yet, he also just admitted to liking Star Trek.
Jerry just wants to hug him. Wants to go over there and scoop him up in his arms and tell him that he’ll feel better soon, but it’s okay to feel crappy now; tell him he’s got a whole team rooting for him, tell him that he can crash here whenever he wants and maybe Jerry can even stick some Trek on his computer and they can just chill together.
He doesn’t say any of that, of course.
“So, you should probably try to sleep for a few minutes,” he says, instead. “Cat nap style. Yeah?”
“Yeah. Sounds good, actually.”
“You want the room? I don’t mind. I could turn off the lights.”
“Actually, I wouldn’t mind the company,” Steve admits, smiling weakly.
Jerry says nothing, but smiles back.
Steve’s only just fallen asleep when his phone goes off, buzzing against the tile floor where he’s placed it. Jerry snatches it—and silences it. Knowing Steve might hate him for this but also knowing that if there’s actually a case, they’ll all be aware within the next two minutes no matter what.
Out of curiosity, Jerry checks; sees that it’s Danny who’s called. He doesn’t call back, very much supporting the not-a-case theory, though a few minutes later Jerry’s own phone lights up.
It’s two texts, back-to-back, from Danny:
Is Steve still with you
Tell him to answer his phone
It occurs to Jerry that, possibly for the first time in forever, he’s been given the chance to be Captain America’s protector. Even if it’s just letting him sleep a little more. That’s definitely something he can do.
No, I think he died of boredom, Jerry replies.
Won’t say I’m not offended but IIWII
Never let it be said that Jerry Ortega can’t play people. Because the next thing that comes is exactly what he intends.
Okay im scared to ask. What is that supposed to be. Is it a live long a prosper thing. Is it a world of Warcraft thing.
IIWII = it is what it is. Detective, Jerry types, and can more or less hear Danny sigh.
Tell him im getting lunch without him, he replies, and that’s the last thing he says. Mission accomplished. Rest undisturbed.
Steve’s been out at least ten minutes now, so Jerry feels safe to turn around and look at him. Just as he does, Steve winces in his sleep.
And Jerry aches, literally aches, with the yearning to slip his shoes off and cover him with a blanket. Not that he has a blanket. Or thinks that he could slip those boots off without a struggle.
And not that Steve would want him to do any of those things anyway. But it’s a nice thought.
Jesus, poor Steve. Less than a year after being shot to pieces and laid up for months, now he’s got radiation poisoning? That’s, like. That’s a big deal, honestly.
It’s a big deal—and he told Jerry? Told Jerry before anyone else, it seems?
Steve sleeps on and Jerry puts his head in his hands, overwhelmed by the fear of it, overwhelmed by all the other things he feels around Steve, too.
He doesn’t get much done while Steve sleeps. And he sleeps for well over an hour.
When Steve wakes, he wakes with a sigh, stirring drowsily on the couch for half a minute before he finally opens his eyes. Eventually he sits, blinking groggily.
“Hey,” Jerry says, turning in his chair.
“Hey,” Steve coughs, rubbing his face.
“How you feelin’?”
“Better, yeah.” He coughs again, then lowers his hands. “Better. Bit groggy, but, don’t really feel like throwing up anymore. That’s nice.”
“That is nice.”
“An’ I think my fever’s gone,” Steve murmurs, feeling his forehead. Without meaning to, Jerry laughs.
“What?”
“You do know you can’t actually tell your own temperature, right?”
“So they say. But I don’t exactly see a school nurse around here to ask.”
Does he dare? Does he fucking dare?
Yes, apparently; without a word Jerry gets to his feet, goes to Steve’s side, and holds his hand out, not touching. Steve snorts and leans forward, which seems to be permission.
So Jerry puts the back of his hand, as gently as possible, to Steve’s brow; lets it linger a moment before doing the same thing on his cheek.
“Normal,” Jerry declares. And somewhere in there, Steve’s eyes must have closed, because they open now.
“Thanks, Jerry.”
“Yeah. Anytime. That’s not to say, I don’t hope you start feelin’ better soon.”
Steve laughs gently. “Right, no, I hear you.”
With a twinge of disappointment, Jerry realizes that Steve’s making to stand up; he steps back, giving space for it. On his feet, Steve claps Jerry’s shoulder.
“I appreciate it. Really, man.”
“’course.”
“And if anybody asks, I was down here so you could fill me in on—um.”
“I’ll think of something,” Jerry promises, earning him one last grateful smile.
“Gonna go face the music about not being at Danny’s beck and call for an hour there.” Steve pulls a face and then, with nothing further between them, he leaves.
Jerry flops onto the couch. It’s warm, and for just a moment he lets himself sit there and stoop beneath everything: how lovely it felt when Steve trusted him. How scary it feels, that Steve’s actually pretty sick.
It’s all just an awful lot to process and Jerry sinks back and focuses on one random thought: he’s definitely going to bring a blanket to work, to keep on the couch.