Summary:
Story prompt from Irene Claire "He imagined death would feel cold instead of…"
I was really, really tempted to make this a deathfic but our heroes turned out to be very stubborn and clingy ;-) I hope you enjoy that little story; it's a desperate attempt to bring back the muses that seemed to have left a while ago and are now hopefully willing to return soon.
Oh, and don't look for a plot, you won't find one – just plain old whump and angst.

Disclaimer:
Sadly, nothing Five-0 related belongs to me, I'm just playing a little bit with the wonderful characters.

Notes:
As I said before – this is NOT a deathfic.
English is not my native language, so please forgive me my mistakes.

Thanks:
Thanks to Irene Claire for all the great story prompts on her Pinterest account (check it out, a lot of great H50 pics there too).
My everlasting thanks to rewob17 for discussing all story related (and other) problems and for helping me to get back my muses.
Last but not least my thanks to JazzieG for betaing despite her momentary absence from the DWOCD Ohana – you're the best! Hugs! Stay strong!

Warm

He imagined death would feel cold instead of hot, but all he was feeling right now was an immense heat that surrounded his body and that tried to destroy his organs from the inside out. Everything around him was warm, the gray asphalt beneath him, the bright yellow sun that burnt mercilessly down on his face and body, his own blood that bubbled out of the gaping wound in his chest with every laborious breath he took.

The heat seemed to consume his whole being; every single fiber of his body was burning with white hot pain. Every part of his body felt like he was already rotting in the purgatorial fire, except for the hole in his chest a few inches beneath his heart where the bullet had ripped his flesh and left a path of deathly destruction.

He coughed weakly, grimacing in pain and disgust when he noticed the coppery taste inside his mouth and the warm blood that slowly trickled from his lips and down his cheek, the viscous fluid slowly dropping onto the pavement.

There was a slight 'Plop' every time a drop of blood hit the hot asphalt beneath his head, the sound reverberating eerily loudly in his ears. It was a constant rhythm over all the other sounds, the noises from the passing cars just outside the backyard he was lying in, the everlasting rushing of the waves from the nearby ocean, the frantic bumping of his heart against his ribcage, the gurgling gasps that left his throat.

He tried to raise his head to look at his bloody chest but the simple movement was far beyond his strength and after only a mere inch he gave up when a searing pain flared through his upper body and he let his head sink back against the hard ground, moaning hoarsely as he desperately blinked back the black veil that crept into his sight. Squinting against the bright sunlight he thought about his current situation, fighting weakly against the temptation to simply shut his eyes and give in to the warm darkness that pulled at his mind.

It would be so easy to just give in to the pain, to just close his eyes instead of drawing another agonizing breath. He had always known that he wasn't supposed to die at home in his bed, old and weathered, with a bunch of children and grandchildren around him because in his line of duty a violent death was certainly not unusual. But this here? This felt just wrong. He couldn't die now, not so early, not like this.

There was still so much that was worth living for, despite all the loss he had suffered in his life. He had seen colleagues die, he had mourned family members and friends but he had also found a new task here on Hawaii, new friends, Ohana. People he knew cared for him as deeply as he cared for them.

Another cough rattled his frail body and he briefly squeezed his eyes shut when the white hot pain once more burnt its way through his veins. Sweat covered his deathly pale face and soaked his shirt, mixing with the crimson blood that constantly poured from the gunshot wound.

Sluggishly blinking his eyes open he thought about the irony and absurdity of the situation. He hadn't even been on a case when he had been shot; it was supposed to be a nice short trip to the nearby diner to pick up lunch for the whole team. His partner had agreed to come along and after briefly discussing their current case the two men had soon fallen into their usual banter, still bickering like an old, married couple when they had stepped into the little restaurant and placed their order.

From that point on everything seemed to have gone south – rapidly. Angry voices had emerged from the kitchen, followed by the loud clattering of falling pots or pans, and then suddenly the deafening silence after the sound of a single gunshot had died away.

After a quick look of mutual understanding and a short nod the partners had split up and only a moment later he had dashed through the staff entrance and into the small backyard, his weapon at the ready as he had cautiously looked around.

But then, without further warning, another shot had disturbed the silence and before he knew what had happened, he had felt himself tumbling to the ground, thrown back by force of the bullet that had found its goal almost directly in the middle of his chest. He hadn't even had the chance to take a look at the shooter before his gun had dropped from his numb fingers, hitting the pavement a millisecond before his body had also crashed onto the heated asphalt.

He didn't know how much time had passed since that fatal shot, it could have been seconds or minutes or even hours. All he knew was that he didn't feel any fear, only a warm numbness that slowly spread from the wound in his chest, unstoppably seeking its way through his body and gradually replacing the former agonizing heat with comfortable warmth.

Drawing another gurgling breath, he turned his head a little bit toward the bright sunlight, a slight, rueful smile playing around the corners of his mouth. He was pretty sure that he was going to die and he still wondered about the fact that death seemed to be so very different from everything he had ever imagined. He wasn't cold at all; there was no tunnel, no white light he was supposed to go into, no flashing of his life before his eyes. There was only warmth, the rays of the sun that shone into his face and radiated from the pavement, and his own warm blood that formed an ever-growing pool of dark red liquid underneath his body.

He briefly frowned in confusion when the pleasant heat on his face disappeared, blocked off by a large figure that threateningly loomed over him. But then the sunlight was back and with it a new kind of warmth, when his partner crouched down by his side, gently cupping his face with one hand. He looked up into the worried face and saw the other man's mouth moving but none of the words he was hearing made any sense, so he only smiled weakly and licked his lips.

Feeling another bout of coughing building up in his chest he tensed his muscles and squeezed his eyes shut as he struggled for breath, the coppery taste in his mouth slowly making him nauseous. Someone was tapping his cheek, gently at first but then, after a few seconds of warm lethargy, stronger and almost painful until his eyelids finally fluttered open.

His partner's lips were moving faster now but he still couldn't make out any words, a deep regret filling his mind when he noticed the worry and fear in the other man's eyes; he had never intended to cause anyone harm, especially not his Ohana, but at the moment there was nothing he could do about it. An agonizing pain surged through his chest when a hand pressed firmly against the gunshot wound and he wasn't able to suppress the hoarse groan that left his throat.

He tried to turn away from the pain but the hand didn't let him go, a constant source of warmth in the middle of his chest that kept him from moving. The feeling was painful and comforting at the same time and he weakly raised his own hand, noticing in surprise that his blood-covered fingers were trembling violently. Why was he shaking when he didn't feel cold at all?

Blinking sluggishly he stared dazedly at his hand for what seemed like an eternity, completely unable to understand or stop the trembling. The warm, gentle touch against his cheek suddenly disappeared and a moment later he felt someone grabbing his hand, encircling his shaking fingers and squeezing them tightly, causing him to shift his gaze. The warmth of the touch traveled down his arm while he slowly looked up and locked eyes with his partner, who tried to feed him as much strength as possible through their intertwined fingers, willing him with all his might to fight against the warm blanket of death.

His whole chest was now numb, the agonizing pain of the wound slowly retreating, although he knew for sure that his friend's other hand was still desperately pressing against the gaping hole in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding. His body felt comfortably warm, heavy and light at the same time, as if his whole being was dancing at the small border between life and death, a slight push all it needed to make him stumble into the embrace of eternity.

Weakly turning his head toward his partner's frantic voice, he felt how quiet, soothing warmth filled his mind, like a soft blanket that kept all sorrow, all fear and all pain away. He was still surprised that the prospect of dying wasn't scaring him, but the warmth inside him and around him provided him with a feeling of absolute safety, the strong grip of his partner's hand around his own the last lifeline that tied him to the mortal world.

Feeling the frail connection slowly fading away he tried one last time to keep on fighting but the task of taking another breath seemed suddenly far too exhausting when a heavy weight pressed against his chest, making it almost impossible to fill his injured lungs with much needed oxygen. He sighed softly while warm, foamy blood trickled from his lips and down his cheeks and the last coherent thought before his eyes slipped shut was that death really didn't feel cold.

(tbc)