Chapter Text
Eyes open. But that’s as far as it gets, at first.
There are colors and shapes that should hold meaning but, for a long moment, don’t.
Then gradually they coalesce, and objects become understandable that were not a moment before. Pink expanses— walls. Fabric panels— curtains. Metal and plastic and buttons— machines.
And like an optical illusion finally clicking, the room pieces together all at once.
Hospital.
Okay.
It’s a safe place to be, at least.
“Hey.”
A man’s voice breaks the silence. He’s sat at the bedside. Fortyish, white; looks like he might burst into tears, if somebody so much as smiled at him. “How with-it are you this time?” he prompts, shifting forward in the chair.
Questions are supposed to be answered, but what’s the answer to that?
“Okay. Not very,” the man sighs, after a moment; but he seems so damn sad about this that it hurts.
Seems so sad that something has to be done about it.
So he gets his mouth open and croaks a tiny “hey” of his own.
It feels like it takes every muscle in his entire body, but the smile on the man’s face is worth it. “Hey, that’s better. You with me?”
“Think so.”
“’s the first time you’ve said anything, so that’s gotta be a good sign. How you feelin’?”
“Tired.”
“Okay. That’s okay, babe. You can go back to sleep. It was nice to hear your voice.”
It was nice to hear the man’s voice, too.
*
The room makes sense immediately this time, which has got to be another good sign. A good sign of what, he’s not exactly sure, but a good sign nevertheless.
The man’s still here, which feels good too. He’s asleep— also good, because he really seemed to need it. And it makes it easier to examine him a bit more closely this time.
He’s dressed in jeans, and a wrinkled grey t-shirt. Has fine blond hair, pushed back from his forehead; hard-won muscle on a naturally petite frame.
And when his eyes open, they are very very blue.
“Hey, babe. You’re up again.”
“I’m up again.”
“You look a little better.”
“I’m”— what was the phrase he used?— “with it.”
“You’re with it. That’s what I like to hear.”
“I’m in the hospital.”
“Yeah, you are.” Another smile. “You got hurt pretty bad, but you’ll be okay. What’s the last thing you remember?”
“Waking up. Last time.”
“Before that, I mean.”
And the thing he’d been refusing to look at, the monster in the corner, grabs him by the throat and traps the old air in his lungs.
He doesn’t remember anything.
He does not remember a goddamn thing.
“Hey, hey, you’re okay.” The man’s at his side now. “Don’t worry about it.”
“That—that’s not good, is it?”
“Look at me. You’re alive, you’re awake; it’s all good, far’s I’m concerned. Hey. Stop freaking out and look at me.”
He does.
“You’re safe,” the man says, and it sounds like pure truth. “Everything else can wait. Why don’t you sleep some more?”
Sounds better than continuing to freak out; so, against all odds, he does.
*
The man’s awake, this time. Sitting closer than before, holding his hand.
“I’m up again.”
The man smiles, and squeezes their fingers together. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“No freaking out this time, okay?”
“Okay.”
“I’m serious,” he warns, hand disappearing as he sits back. “You don’t need the stress. I— gotta ask you a few things. But I swear, whatever the answer is, it’s okay. I just gotta know.”
“Okay.”
There’s a tiny pause. Then:
“Do you know who I am?”
“No.”
“Do you know who you are?”
“No.”
Blue eyes flicker as the man seems to process this. Then he forces a smile. “Okay. We’ll make it work, huh?”
He tries to say okay again; it doesn’t quite make it out of his throat.
“Your name is Steve McGarrett. Steven Jack McGarrett. And I’m your partner, Danny Williams.”
“Steve.” It does feel like a name these lips have said before. “And— Danny.” That one does too.
“Steve and Danny,” Danny affirms, with a nod. “You got it.”
“You’re my partner.”
“More than six years now.”
“I don’t.” His breath catches, and he fights to steady it again. “I don’t remember.”
“You will. It’ll come back.” Then Danny chuckles dryly. “You have aneurism face.”
“What?”
“I can see, on your face, you don’t believe me. You’re thinking, who the hell is this guy, who does he work for, blah blah, definitely sounds American but is he secretly working for the Soviets— that last part was a joke,” Danny adds. “But the rest is true, huh?”
It is.
“Damn. I can’t even prove I know you, ‘cause, you don’t know yourself. Huh? I can’t even tell you your birthday or who you had a crush on in 8th grade. Okay. Listen. In a second, I’ll lift my shirt up. You’ll see a scar on my stomach, big surgical scar. Couple months ago you needed a liver transplant, and I was your donor. See?” Danny stands and lifts his shirt up; true enough, cutting a sharp curve across his abdomen is a puckered pink scar. “Check. You’ve got the same one.”
He does.
“I can tell you ‘bout your tattoos, too. If it’d help. ‘cept— well now you just showed ‘em to me so now it wouldn’t prove much.”
He tugs the sleeves back down, glances up to see Danny shaking his head. He smiles, sheepishly; Danny smiles back.
“I can tell you ‘bout the secret ones, too, but I think we’ll save that for later.”
There’s only one real conclusion he can draw from all of this. “You know me.”
“Big time.”
“I know you.”
“We a little bit more than know each other, babe. But yeah. You know me. And I promise— listen to me— I promise you’re safe with me, too.”
Steve sags against the bed, suddenly exhausted. “What happened?”
Danny perches on the bed again, and pats him gently on the hand. Steve grabs his fingers again and holds on tight, so Danny squeezes.
“You were in a car crash.”
“Is everyone else okay?”
Danny snorts, then seems to remember himself. “Yeah. Everybody’s fine but you.”
“When was it?”
“Five days ago.” To Steve’s disappointment, Danny lets go of his hand to scratch the corner of his own nose. “Technically speaking you weren’t in a coma. But I’ll tell you, it felt that way. Anyway. Your head is, obviously, pretty fucking rattled.”
“Yeah.”
"Everyone's been visiting. 'cept the kids. Gotta be eighteen—"
"Kids?" Steve interrupts, and Danny's expression brightens a bit.
"My kids, Grace and Charlie. You gotta be eighteen to visit in IMC, but you'll see 'em soon enough. Honestly I thought Grace was gonna pop someone when they told her."
It's a lot of words— a lot of information— and Steve can't quite reply. Instead he blinks, trying to resolve vision that's gone slightly spinny.
“How you feelin’?” Danny prompts, sounding serious again.
“Um.” Scared is too strong a word, but unsettled is nowhere near enough. He pushes aside the emotions, takes account physically instead. “’m kinda sick t’my stomach,” he replies, realizing it only as he hears himself say it.
“Yeah. You got a touchy stomach to start with, from the transplant meds. Add a concussion and forget it. Here,” he adds, pushing open an emesis bag and shoving it at Steve without ceremony. “I’ll see if they can give you something.” And he leaves.
He’s only gone a minute, but in that short time Steve feels sicker and sicker. Maybe it’s because he’s tuned into it now; or maybe it’s because, without Danny there, the whole damn world feels worse.
Either way, there’s too much saliva in his mouth now. He swallows it back but it forms again, and his stomach lurches.
“You okay?”
Danny’s back. Coming to his side with his heart in his eyes, and Steve whimpers quietly. “Think I migh’ get sick.”
“Okay. That’s what the bag’s for.” Danny smooths Steve’s hair back, as he sits again on the edge of the bed. “Hey, it’s gonna suck for a few minutes, but then you’ll feel better. Just ride it out, okay?”
And against all odds, it does actually seem okay.
Now that Danny’s here, it’s all okay.
Soon after, Steve throws up (a few times, though there’s not much to show for it). Danny rubs his back, and cleans him up when he’s done. And when a nurse comes a few minutes later, and gives him something that kills the nausea but also has him drowsing instantly, Danny strokes his hair as he falls asleep.
*
“Danny.”
He doesn’t even say it for attention, really; it’s just that he likes the feeling of that name in his mouth. But Danny doesn’t know that. His handsome face lights up like a sunbeam.
“Hey, babe. You know my name.” He stretches, slowly, and a glance out the window shows it’s morning now. They’ve both slept through the night.
“Danny. Williams,” he adds, to prove what he retained in his sleep. “You’re my partner. Got two kids. Grace and— Steve.”
The sunbeam dims. “You’re Steve.”
Ah. Right.
“Don’t worry about it,” Danny soothes, perching once more on Steve’s bed. “Still more than you knew last time. You sleep okay?”
“Yeah.”
“How’s your stomach?”
“I think it’s better. Maybe.”
Danny grins, and pats him on the hand. “I’ll give you a minute to wake up an’ ask again then. Hang tight, I need the bathroom.”
The sound of Danny having his morning piss on the other side of the bathroom door is intimate in a way Steve finds he doesn’t mind. And really, he shouldn’t. They’re partners, after all: this has got to be par for the course.
It just doesn’t feel that way, given the circumstances.
Given that he’s got less than twenty-four hours, total, of tangible memories.
Though— this morning, unlike yesterday, he feels the ghosts of older ones, brushing like cold whisps against the edges of his brain.
It takes effort. Real, nearly physical effort, but when Danny steps out of the bathroom, Steve shuts his eyes and breathes, “Charlie.”
“Hey! You got it, babe.”
“He looks like you, doesn’t he? Grace looks like her mom.”
When he opens his eyes again, Danny’s practically glowing.
“Look at that, hey? Look at that. You remembered that, huh?”
“Charlie,” Steve repeats. “Charlie. Grace. Danny.”
“Charlie, Grace, Danny, Uncle Steve. That’s what our Christmas stockings say. Well. Actually mine has my nickname but I might go ahead and not let you remember what that is.”
“Well now you’ve gotta tell me.”
Danny smirks. “It’s Danno. Started out as Grace’s name for me but you kinda commandeered it.”
“Charlie, Grace, Danno. Uncle Steve.”
“You’re like their second dad, babe. I mean it. Soon as you're out of IMC, we’ll have ‘em visit. Stomach still okay?”
Steve nods.
“Good. Hey. Maybe they’ll let you eat breakfast, huh? You hungry at all?”
“I think a little.”
“Anything in particular?”
The craving hits him out of nowhere, so hard he could cry.
“What?”
“I think I want— um. Do you make—?” He has to stop, take a breath. “Do you make matzo ball soup?”
Danny grins so widely that his eyes crinkle. “Yeah, I do. I make it all the time when you or one of the kids don’t feel good. You remembered that?”
“I think so?”
“I doubt it’s on the hospital breakfast menu. But I’ll make some for your first night home, okay?”
Steve nods. But it’s not okay. Home should sound nice but he doesn’t remember a damn thing about it, so—that’s less nice.
“You okay?”
Steve makes it all of two seconds before shaking his head.
“If I hugged you, would this help?”
Steve nods.
Danny sits on the bed, just at his hip, and pulls him close; both arms fold around Steve’s shoulders, a hand coming up to cradle his head. Danny smells like hair product. He’s small and solid and slightly warmer than expected.
“I don’t remember home,” Steve whispers, into Danny’s neck.
“Right. That’s gotta feel weird, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s nice. Big house, on the beach. You like to swim in the mornings.”
And all of those words make sense, one by one; but when he tries putting them together, they don’t make anything. Verging on real tears now, he burrows closer.
“Hey. Hey, it’s okay. Stuff’ll come back with time. Like the soup! You remembered my soup, you remembered what Charlie looks like. It’s all still in there. Just gotta give it time.” Danny’s fingers are in his hair again. “And listen. I can’t imagine what it feels like: try to think of home and there’s nothing there. But listen to me. You know me, and I’ll be there. So it’s not all a mystery, okay?”
Steve sniffles. Blinks, and feels his eyelashes brush Danny’s skin. “You’ll be there?”
“I will absolutely be there.”
“You’ll really fucking be there.”
“Stevie,” Danny whispers, hugging him tighter. “Babe, where you go, I go. I pinky-fucking-promise. You are not alone. You’re not.”
His words loosen muscles that had turned to rock, and Steve wilts against Danny’s body with a sigh. “Okay,” he whispers.
And it is.
He’s sick and scared and beyond confused.
But.
But he’s got a partner named Danny, who loves him even now. Who’s got strong arms and gentle fingers, and sharp eyes in a gorgeously weatherbeaten face.
Who’s got two kids, that love Steve like a second dad. They’ll visit as soon as they can.
He’s got a family. So, all things considered, it could be much worse.