Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Danny is holding a bracelet in front of his face.

To be fair, it’s a rather nice bracelet. Or it was once. A hemp bracelet, it tumbles out on one side near the bead clasp. At least the square braids look like hemp. Twine? Do people use twine anymore?

Danny is holding a bracelet in front of Steve’s face while Steve himself roars around a sharp left that would give a bobby pin a run for its money and swears a stereophonic aria, especially as russet dirt flies in front of the windshield.

Oh yeah, and the car up ahead isn’t a car at all but a motorcycle painted to look like a praying mantis. Go figure.

Which is still not the weirdest Wednesday they’ve ever had, all things considered.

“Look at it!” Danny crows.

Steve isn’t—can’t—since doing so would probably veer them down a very steep ditch and their craniums into said windshield. He keeps his eyes ahead, necessary if they want to live long enough for lunch, let alone catch their suspected drug trafficker. Steve shoves the stick into fifth gear and pulls the e-brake to clip a corner of the cane field. They’re going at speeds now that make even him a bit edgy.

“She’s gonna kill me,” is Danny’s closing statement to the, quite frankly, incoherent rant preceding this.

Steve swings the wheel right this time. “No, she won’t. Grace will understand you didn’t do it on purpose. Kid has the patience of a saint.”

“I can’t believe it caught on the perp’s studded jacket.”

“She’ll understand,” Steve presses, in simultaneous conjunction with a press to the brake.

Danny doesn’t seem to notice, an outcome both nice and terrifying. No rants about that, at least. He’s too distressed over ruining his baby girl’s gift to worry about Steve being six measly inches from fires burning on either side of the dirt road, when he slaloms around another corner.

“Two days, Steve! I’ve only had this for two days and I somehow managed to ruin it.”

“The guy resisted arrest.” Steve doesn’t have the hand capacity to flail either right now, glued as they are to the car; his left steers and his right alternates between the handbrake and gear shift. He does manage a nudge of his elbow into Danny’s on the arm rest. “Huh? How does that make it your fault? His stupid leather jacket scuffed your wrist in the fight. If anything, I’ll add it to his list of charges: disrupting the peace. Ruining a little girl’s hard work.”

That gets the tiniest of smiles from Danny—plus a wince. Steve recognizes the look a beat later.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Danny rushes to reassure, brushing that off too.

Probably because he hasn’t been taking his meds and therefore sees this moment of pain as his fault. Or a suitable punishment for the bracelet.

“You throw those anti-inflammatories down the drain again?”

“Dumping pills into the city’s water system is a safety hazard,” says Danny, calmly and without missing a beat. “I threw them in the trash.”

It’s a dangerous juggling act, but then Steve was a SEAL known multitasking in life and death situations—he takes his eyes off the (admittedly very narrow) road to nab a look at Danny’s left bicep. It’s covered by yet another a striped blue shirt, of course.

But there’s a slight lump to it that’s new these last four days. Dots of blood sometimes appear if the bullet wound re-opens and thus Steve has learned to be vigilant. A slight fever crept over Danny by the time they made it out of the jungle on Saturday and Steve isn’t eager for a repeat performance.

Danny huffs. “Eyes on the road. This is dangerous enough as is.”

Steve does flit his eyes back to the sort-of-a-road, but only because praying mantis boy decides to hightail it into the forest of sugar cane by leaping over the ditch of fire. Actual fire. It’s smoking and everything.

Steve slams the brake and careens to such an abrupt halt that both their seatbelts engage.

He pants, even though they’ve both been sitting in this car for the last fifteen minutes. His hairline is almost black with sweat.

“I’m fine…” Danny squints, as if to better gauge such idiocy. “But I don’t think our perp is.”

“Lucky him,” says Steve darkly. “Better in there than what I’d like to do to him. He killed a cop in broad daylight.”

“I know, Steve.” Danny sighs and pulls his hand back down to his lap, ruined bracelet and all. “Smoke will get him before the flames. He can’t stay in there unless he has a death wish.”

Neither can they, really. Heat stews inside the car like a Dutch oven and they’ve only been driving through the sugar cane fields for the last few minutes. Steve rolls up the windows to avoid their own case of smoke inhalation.

“She worked so hard on it,” Danny laments. “Earned a patch for it and everything.”

“Macramé?”

“You can’t macramé a bracelet.”

Steve smiles despite himself. “Says who?”

“Says…” Danny thinks about this, then glances at the bracelet—red and blue threads alternating around gold beads—hanging from his left wrist. “Alright, you may have a point. But she said this was a square knot family bracelet. To be given to someone she shares or talks a lot with.”

If he sounds more choked up than he should at ten on a Wednesday morning while chasing a deranged twenty two year old gear head through a fire after said punk fought him in a back alley, Steve blames it on the fumes. He’s generous like that.

“She’ll understand.”

Danny looks despondent. “I hope so.”

“Grace and I chatted the other day, after we drove her to her tennis lesson.” Steve keeps his grip flexed on the wheel, gaze alternating between Danny and clouds of ash overhead. He knows he should look at the bracelet, since that’s what his partner is so fixated on, but Danny’s face has always been a magnet and that’s where Steve’s eyes go. Every time. “She said you got kicked out of Boy Scouts.”

An interesting expression ripples across Danny’s cheeks, tightening and relaxing in time with the quick shadow in his eyes, before he smiles too. “Did she?”

“Yeah.”

“I told her that while we were stuck in the supply shed. Kinda slipped out.”

Steve’s stomach roils at that particular image, forced to lock his partner and all those girls inside the shed. He can still feel the padlock click and desperate prayer that he hadn’t signed their death warrants.

It’s hard to fathom, even now, how the Aloha Girls trip went sideways so fast. It’s why he’s been going with Danny to pick up Grace from school or extracurriculars in the first place, needing to see that she—and Danny—are okay after what happened.

“I mean seriously, who gets kicked out of Scouts?” At a standstill, Steve is free to circle an incredulous hand and expel some residual nerves in the process. Perhaps all their friends and their endless teasing are correct—he has spent too much time around Danny. “I can see being suspended or reprimanded…but did you actually get booted out?”

“Yup.” Danny pops the ‘p.’

“Not…”

“Nope. They sent my mom a letter and everything: ‘we’re sorry to disclose that your son is no longer welcome in the Newark chapter of the Boy Scouts.’ She tried to call and change their minds, but they wouldn’t.”

Steve gives a low whistle. “What’d you do?”

“Smuggled in some contraband M&Ms for a camping trip. How ‘bout that?”

“Not buying it.” Steve really doesn’t, especially when Danny confirms this with a cheeky grin. His eyes are out the windshield now. What he’s looking at, Steve has no idea.

“Alright, I stowed some cigarettes in my sleeping bag.”

With a wrinkled nose, Steve shakes his head. “Not buying that either. Your father was a fire fighter.”

“He drilled the fear of God into me about not smoking,” Danny admits with a bounce of his sewing leg. Maybe they’re both running on nervous energy. “When we were kids, he used to slideshow gross pictures about what it does to your airways.”

Despite having only met the man once, while driving he and Mrs. Williams to the airport, even Steve can imagine him doing something like that. Danny seems to have inherited his stubbornness and ferocity.

“Besides.” Steve eyes the cagey downturn of Danny’s mouth. “You’d get suspended for that, not kicked out altogether. How old were you?”

Flames begin to crackle near the tires, something Steve only hears because the interior of the car goes suddenly quiet. Danny purses his lips, as if he’s thinking, and doesn’t say anything at all. For a moment, Steve wonders if this is his way of refusing to answer, if he crossed an invisible line.

It’s a funny childhood memory and Steve can’t even make up a reason for why Danny would be so hesitant about it now. It’s just Boy Scouts.

In fact, Danny is silent for so long that Steve has time to throw the Camaro in reverse and give the fire some space. Sweat continues to trickle down their temples. Shadows ring the collars of their shirts, a crescent betrayer of stress and heat.

“Ten,” Danny finally says, in a completely normal tone. “I had just celebrated my tenth birthday.”

Steve watches Danny carefully tuck the bracelet away into a pocket of the Kevlar vest and can’t breathe for a moment. Stupid fumes.

“That’s kinda harsh for a kid, don’t you think?”

Danny shrugs. “My mom certainly thought so. Personally, I didn’t even like the Scouts all that much.”

“Grace said you were ‘briefly’ in Scouts. How brief are we talking?”

At this, Danny laughs, like the sun breaking through a cloud bank. “Two whole weeks.”

“Two—” Steve does a double take at him. “Two weeks? How did you even—”

“There he is!” Danny points through the window and whaps Steve’s forearm, as if he doesn’t also have eyes that can see the kid’s gaudy monstrosity of a bike whizz over the fire.

Steve is already scrambling to unbuckle his seatbelt. “Let’s get him before he runs again.”

They do, mainly thanks to their perp having the good grace to get off the bike and collapse once he’s free from the cane fields. On his hands and knees, he wheezes and coughs right up until Danny runs over to hog tie zips around his wrists. Smoke curls from the man’s clothes and red patches of skin. His helmet is nowhere to be found. Steve can’t believe he’s conscious at all, after breathing in so much smoke.

“Your jacket is a crime unto itself,” is the first thing Danny says.

“Uh, Danno?” Steve stands to the side and lets Danny snit for a moment. “His Miranda rights?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m getting to it.”

Once Danny yanks the man to standing and walks them towards the car, Steve allows his face to stretch into a broad grin, still incredulous. He just stares at Danny’s back for a minute, then jogs to catch up and open the back door, since Danny has his hands full with the staggering biker.

“We’re not done this conversation,” Steve warns, once they’re buckled up again. He has to raise his voice to be heard over convulsive coughing in the back seat.

Danny rolls his eyes. “Uh-huh. Whatever you say, Steven.”

“No way does a ten year old get kicked out of Scouts for bringing contraband food,” Steve insists.

“Maybe I just knew too much about camping and fire safety, and they decided there was no point in me being there. Ever think of that possibility?”

“Sure.” Steve starts the car and zooms back out into the clearer air of the highway. “And I moonlight as a hula dancer.”

There’s a man in Steve’s office.

And a bucket of chicken wings.

These sensations hit Steve when he enters the bullpen—burly shoulders plus scent of pepper and greasy chicken—his heel in a decelerated roll towards his toes as his footstep pauses. Two heartbeats chase each other in a quick adrenal response. The source of his dread is the pressed black suit and a white hat under the man’s arm, that he can just see through the transparent walls of his office around the plant.

The man stands with back straight, dark skin void of even a hint of moisture—unlike Steve, whose tailbone jumped with sweat the moment he caught sight of him.

Their headquarters are empty but for Chin at the tech table, being lunch on a Thursday. He types into it one handed, the other holding a fluffy white bread sandwich filled with what looks like tuna salad. Somehow he doesn’t spill, which is a feat.

He also doesn’t lift his head when he raises concerned eyes towards Steve.

Steve asks a question with a flick of his jaw.

Chin smiles, a grim one. He taps over his heart, his chest, three times.

Three stars. Vice admiral, then.

Steve nods in thanks. Chin flashes him a thumb’s up, a silent good luck.

With a big breath while standing in front of the door, Steve feels more human. It can’t be anything drastic or he would have been ordered to report to the closest Naval base. Maybe gotten an urgent phone call. This doesn’t seem like a life-and-death visit, however spontaneous.

“Commander.” The man turns when Steve pushes open his office door. A basement-deep, resonant voice matches his six-foot-three frame. “Good to finally meet the great McGarrett. Admiral Hutchins.”

Steve shakes his hand with a polite salute. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Admiral. I didn’t realize I was getting an official visit today.”

Hutchins waves off the formality. “It’s fine, Commander. I know this is short notice and it’s lunch hour…”

His gaze wanders past Steve to the desk, the bucket of chicken wings. A pink sticky note is taped to the lid—‘thanks for the afternoon off, Boss-man! My treat. K.’

Steve smiles to himself. “Our uh, our rookie worked a tough lead this morning by going undercover with a cartel, so she needed some decompression time. This is her way of showing appreciation.”

“Ah.” Hutchins’ answering nod is surprisingly warm and it eases the plywood in Steve’s shoulders. “Morale is important for a team.”

“Got that right, sir. So, what can I help you with today?”

The admiral removes a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, stamped with a US Navy imprint in the top left corner. Steve straightens again, back of his thighs hitting the desk’s edge. Hutchins gazes at the paper for a moment, salt and pepper brows high. Then he hands it across to Steve.

“This is an unorthodox proposal, I know. But the fleet admiral sent me directly.”

If Steve wasn’t already poised for something out of the ordinary, big, this would do the trick all on its own. Like his feet earlier, his fingers hesitate in unfolding the paper. He glances up at Hutchins.

“Sir?”

The admiral sighs, but it too is a fond, relaxed thing that puzzles Steve further. “Commander, you’ve been in the reserves for over two years now.”

“Yes, sir.” Steve replies automatically.

“And I know you’ve put down roots here with Five-O, but…”

Steve apparently has gotten soft after nearly half a decade out of the SEALs—he almost prompts the admiral, as if he has any right to get impatient with a superior officer. He feels prescription lenses fall over his mind’s eye, the role of soldier he hasn’t had to play in a long time.

Danny’s bracelet from yesterday morning layers in front of it and he frowns at the cognitive dissonance.

Hutchins points to the letter. “We’d like to offer you a chance to participate more in upcoming missions.”

“Missions?” Steve asks, feeling dumb but also a little lost. “You’re reinstating me to active service?”

“Something in between, actually. It’s not a normal status for someone in your situation, but think of it as a more involved reserves position. We could really use your assistance on some difficult cases. Our proposal is every other weekend with the Navy, or a mission every two weeks.”

Despite the huge break in military protocol, Steve sits on the front edge of his desk. He can’t remain standing, too startled by the offer.

“Why now?” he asks after a minute of just staring at the ink-signed page.

Hutchins’ eyes spark. “We’re quite impressed with your case closure rate here on the island—and your methods. You’re not afraid to take risks to get the job done.”

“Is that really a recommendation to have me back in the teams?”

“Leading the teams,” Hutchins clarifies. “You’d be second in charge of SEAL Team Two, still on reserve status but with more authority and freedom in how you operate. Think of yourself like a substitute teacher for the boys, only you’d train with them as well.”

Steve eyes the admiral. Then the chicken wings. Messy post-it notes, Danny’s baked macaroni recipe taped to his laptop, evidence of the team’s presence. His mind spins through the proposal, the unconventional way of doing something that’s already a leap in the dark. It’s never been done before.

“And to answer your question, Commander, yes. We’d love to have someone with such boldness of action as yourself heading up classified ops, son.”

Steve inhales a quiet but abrupt breath through his nose. Images of Joe flash over top of Freddie and Danny and the man he shot on that camping trip to save Steve and—

“You don’t have to decide now,” says Hutchins, interrupting Steve’s inner movie reel. It’s a very diplomatic tone for a superior officer talking to someone who technically has to do what he says, especially if he calls Steve in for a mission. No matter the time of day. “It’s your choice.”

That seems odd, but then again they truly seem to need him. Maybe this is desperation disguised as generosity.

“I’ll sleep on it, Admiral.”

Hutchins doesn’t respond right away; his eyes sweep around the office and at a model ship on the bookshelf.

He looks back at Steve with something close to admiration. “I’ve read almost every single one of your case reports, Commander. You use Navy techniques to save civilian lives.”

“Yes, sir. Though to some peoples’ chagrin,” Steve jokes, and it’s weaker than diluted tea even to his own ears.

But Hutchins doesn’t hear the sheepishness. He chuckles, nodding at the paper in Steve’s hands. “That’s why you’re in charge and not someone by the book. Sometimes you have to take the blind leap when everyone says it’s crazy.”

Steve straightens with renewed focus. He nods, slow, and then gaining speed. “Yes, exactly. There’s a reason SEAL techniques are in high demand. I’ve seen them work on the battlefield.”

“No reason they can’t work to protect the public too.”

Vindication rushes hot through Steve’s limbs. This is right on the money, what he’s always trying to tell the team through modelling that type of behaviour. “Now if only you could convince my partner of that.”

Hutchins laughs. “If you say yes to our proposal, I’ll personally send a letter to the governor endorsing your methods.”

Steve grins. He still isn’t sure about this offer, but the acknowledgement of how his training helps solve cases on the island makes him feel a foot taller. His steps are light the whole afternoon.

“Danno! Uncle Steve!”

This familiar shriek is quickly becoming one of Steve’s favourite sounds. He’s a goner at this rate. At least he’s second place to Danny, a giant marshmallow of a father.

“There she is.” Steve and Danny climb out of the Camaro, and not a second too soon. Grace sprints towards their spot on the school pick up zone curb, where Danny opens his arms in preparation. “How’s my monkey, huh?”

She answers her father with two enthusiastic arms slung around his waist. They just reach if she stretches on tiptoes a bit, her blue uniform shirt and pleated skirt fluttering in a stiff afternoon breeze.

“We had a science test today. Your monkey needs ice cream,” she declares into Danny’s stomach.

Danny pretends to huff and grump, betrayed by a half grin. “Is that so? Ice cream deficiency? Incurable?”

“Only with mint chocolate chip.”

“Ah, of course! The best treatment for most ailments, really. Silly me for forgetting.”

Grace breaks into that chirping laugh Danny is prodigious at drawing from her.

Steve smiles at the scene while rounding the car hood, his stomach just that little bit warmer when Danny leans down and pecks her brow. They’re the rock in a sea of parents and children, and Danny holds on to her a little tighter than he normally would, which is saying something. Saturday shook him up too.

Steve will never tire of the way his hard-jawed partner unwinds whenever his baby girl is around. Worlds away from the man who stopped a mugger this morning with naught but a growl and a well-placed upper cut.

Suddenly, Steve finds his legs clamped tight too. A blonde head, tilted back to see his face, greets him when he glances down. Braided into two plaits.

Steve lights up. “Lucy! Hey, sweetie.”

He hugs back around her tiny shoulders, feeling giggles just above his knees.

Steve tweaks one of her braids. “I didn’t think you went to this school.”

“She just transferred since her family moved,” says Grace, who gets in on a hug from Steve too once Lucy lets go.

She takes Grace’s hand when they step back and the way the girls swing their arms makes Steve’s knees goopy. It reminds him why he insisted upon coming with Danny to pick up Grace in the first place, instead of being dropped off at home first like he normally would. The sight of them alight with that glow of content children softens something that’s been alert inside him since the camping trip.

Danny watches the interaction and his grin widens at the same rate as his partner’s. He runs a hand over Grace’s hair. “The more friends, the merrier. Maybe we can all go for ice cream, if your parents are okay with it, Lucy.”

“Actually…” Grace glances from her new friend up to Danny. “I offered to give her a ride.”

“Oh you did, did you?” Danny shakes his head. “I’m becoming a taxi service now. We gotta drop this animal back home too.”

He jabs a thumb at Steve, just so he can hear the girls giggle again. Steve knows full well what Danny’s doing and plays along.

“You offered!”

“That doesn’t mean I love toting your sorry behind everywhere.”

“You should be nice to him,” Lucy points out. “He saves the island every day.”

“Oh yeah, and what am I good for?”

Flushed with humour, Grace reaches up for Danny’s hand. “Ice cream!”

“Unbelievable.” Danny says it around a shrill of laughter from the kids between them. He lifts Grace off the ground a few inches with his good hand as if to inspect his child, making her giggle harder. “You see this? You’ve corrupted young minds, McGarrett. We’re a regular barrel ‘a monkeys over here.”

Steve smiles. “Hey, I’m not the one who hinted at dessert before dinner.”

Danny is about to return fire when their attention is caught by a woman with matching blonde hair. She waves at them from farther down the pick-up lane. “Detective Williams!”

Danny sets Grace down. “I’ll be right back. Let’s go sort out particulars with your mom, Lucy.”

“Okay!”

While Danny and Lucy saunter off to chat with the woman, petite boned like her daughter, Steve feels a tug on his shirt and looks down. The tentative motion is met with equally hesitant eyes that seem older than they should for a ten year old girl. Grace’s cheeks are still rosy from the earlier fit and it gentles the look.

“Uncle Steve?”

“Yeah, baby.” Seeing the pensive expression, Steve kneels at once. “What’s up?”

Grace’s gaze fidgets away for a moment, fingers twisted around her own shirt hem where a section has come untucked. Steve waits her out, a soft hand on her arm. He watches several emotions play across her face. It settles on a grimace, with a hint of raw nerve behind her eyes that’s inherited directly from Danny.

“Lucy goes to a doctor.”

When Grace finally speaks, these are the last words Steve expects.

He blinks, first at Lucy now bobbing up and down next to Danny, presumably in excitement over ice cream, then back to Grace’s out of character timidity. She tends to just say what’s on her mind rather than skirting a topic, though much more tactfully than some. Rachel’s influence there.

“I hope so,” Steve settles on. “Most people see a doctor of some sort throughout their lives.”

Grace shakes her head. “No, I mean Lucy sees a…a…” She searches for a word. “A doctor who just talks with her. Who makes her draw pictures and look at cards with emotions on them.”

Steve’s gut drops anchor, a heavy iron thing that droops his mouth along with it. “Did Lucy tell you this?”

Grace nods, then her eyes bug. “Don’t tell her I told you! I think it’s a secret. She told me yesterday at recess when she got pulled out to talk to the doctor.”

“That’s alright, Gracie. I can keep a secret. Plus, it’s Lucy’s right to tell whoever she wants.”

“Oh.” Grace deflates. “I thought I was in trouble.”

That brings Steve’s lips back up. “Not at all. You want to know why Lucy sees that kind of doc and not you, is that it?”

Grace doesn’t respond right away, proving wrong Steve’s assumption that this is natural childhood curiosity or simple confusion. Then she puts her tiny fingers on top of Steve’s where they rest on her forearm. They’re warm, a touch clammy, and the touch propels a lump into his throat. “She never used to. And she says she doesn’t like to go to sleep sometimes.”

Steve swallows, then swallows again for good measure. “Lucy is talking to someone called a therapist or a psychologist. Sleeping can make us feel vulnerable.”

“Why?” Grace sounds completely lost.

Steve pauses to search for words, just like she did. “When something…frightening…happens to us, sometimes those memories are hard to put to bed, so to speak. They intrude on our thoughts throughout the day. I think the Aloha Girls trip, when Lucy and I were in the woods, is one of those memories.”

Grace glances over at her friend. Her eyebrows beetle together. “She was scared a lot then.”

“Yeah, we both were.”

Grace squeezes his hand in surprise. “You were scared?”

At this, Steve outright laughs. Something inside him swells for this precious kid. “Yes, honey, even I get scared.”

This stuns Grace long enough for Steve to take both her hands in his own. She looks again at Lucy for a moment. The wind tosses loose sections of her ponytail into a lattice around her eyes.

“Do you ever feel scared thinking about what happened?” Steve asks suddenly.

Grace shuffles on equally tiny white sneakers. “Sometimes. Mommy asks if I get nightmares or-or cry thinking about it, but I don’t. Well, sometimes I cry. After…after what happened with Mr. Peterson…”

Steve’s grip tightens but he doesn’t speak, doesn’t dare interrupt her for fear she’ll stop.

“Mom offered to let me see a doctor then too, but cops in uniform only scared me for a week or two after that. Then I was fine. Can doctors make the bad stuff go away?”

Steve’s throat aches, with love, with sadness, with lots of his own mental images…

“Not exactly,” he finally answers. “But they help it not feel so overwhelming. A manageable memory. They help us see that things aren’t our fault or remind us we’re safe now.”

“That the scary time isn’t still happening.”

“Precisely.” It strikes him again what an astute kid she is for her age.

“Okay.” Grace wiggles her thumb over his palm. “Thanks, Uncle Steve.”

“Anytime, baby. You can share anything with me.”

Grace smiles, revealing the last hole of her missing baby teeth. “Like what I picked out for Danno’s birthday?”

Steve taps her nose. “Now this I’ve got to hear about. Tell me everything.”

She does, when they end up going for ice cream at a stall by the beach, a miniscule place nestled in the local surfer’s cove. While Danny buys them tall cones of one scoop mint chip, one scoop cookie dough each, Grace sits across the picnic table from Steve and Lucy and babbles all about her genius idea—with purchasing help from Rachel, of course.

“What are we talking about?” Danny walks over to their spot, handing out cones from the tray.

Lucy takes a massive bite of cookie dough and talks with her mouth full, shameless. “You.”

Danny groans. “Here we go.”

“Not the Scouts thing,” Grace clarifies. “Your birthday coming up.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Scouts?” asks Lucy.

Grace leans in to whisper, in what is not even remotely a whisper. “They kicked him out.”

Lucy whips around to stare across at Danny. “How does someone even get kicked out of Boy Scouts?”

“Thank you!” Steve holds up his hand, where she sits next to him and swings her legs under the table. “This is what I’ve been trying to weasel out of him all week.”

Lucy high fives Steve.

“You’re gonna love your gift.” Grace perches her temple on her father’s shoulder for a moment. Steve’s sharp eyes check, but the motion doesn’t appear to cause Danny’s bullet wound any pain.

As predicted, Danny melts faster than the mint chip. He tugs her under his free arm. “I’m sure I will. I love everything you give me.”

And with the chatter of two kids in a steady stream from messy mouths slathered in ice cream, and Lucy slowly migrating onto Steve’s lap, sticky hands and all, and with Danny throwing fond looks over at Steve throughout, and cookie dough dripping onto his pants, and the sun shining off perfect white caps along the waves…

Steve takes what feels like his first full breath since Saturday. The images of a gun pointed at the girls and Lucy’s head in particular have been playing on a loop; now it finally fades out of the foreground of his thoughts. Especially when her head tips back to rest on his chest.

They’re fine, all of them.

Danny flicks him another one of those mellow, relieved glances and Steve knows he’s feeling it too. The faint circles under Lucy’s eyes don’t look so pronounced now, in their sparkle of enjoyment.

At the moment she’s even laughing against Steve at something Grace said. Her sandals bump his shins, braids tapping each bicep. He cinches his arm securely around her and ducks forward to steal a bite of her leftover mint chip, which she uses to wave around rather than eat.

“Philistine!” Danny declares. “Ice cream thief!”

This sets Lucy off even more, eyes scrunched up so much now that Steve can barely see them. The bubbled sound of giggles, loud, carefree, pop around them.

Hutchins’ offer yesterday comes abruptly to mind. Steve wonders at the contrast of the war zone he’d be facing versus this homey scene, children at their happiest, that military help protect every day. He barely liked kids when he first returned to Hawaii, let alone cared for them like he does these two.

He wonders how many of these moments he’ll miss if he says yes.

Chapter Text

“Are you crazy?”

“This feels like a trick question.”

“You’re insane, McGarrett. You hear me?” Danny loads another handgun clip with a barely-there shake of his hands. Each breath come fast and short, like his temper. “Insane.”

Steve ducks behind a metal barrel at another volley of bullets. Danny already squats behind a forklift, but he pops back up after the hail dies down to shoot back, wrists braced on the forklift’s leather seat. The rat-a-tat-tat gunfire is louder from Danny, both because he’s closer to Steve and because his gun doesn’t have a silencer like their gangbanger.

“Some might call me inspired, you know.”

A growl makes it past Danny’s pressed teeth. He fires off another round, this one purely out of spite, Steve’s convinced. He hardly bothers to aim. “Send me the next one who does—I’ll set them straight.”

“It’s a good plan, Danno.”

Danny dives down and so does Steve, eyes cringed shut at the orange spray of bullets off metal around them. They’re just over an arm length apart, across from each other in the lane of shipyard paraphernalia, and this sends a funny clang through Steve’s bones. He can’t reach over and squeeze the back of Danny’s—very red—neck. He can’t reach his partner at all.

Then again, perhaps this could work to his advantage…

“It’s a death wish!”

“I’m out of ammo, right?” Steve tries to reason.

“That’s not a good enough reason to get shot.”

“I won’t get shot.”

“You don’t know that!” Danny wipes his wrist across his forehead, smearing a trail of gun oil and sweat. He’s totally oblivious to it, and the clang in Steve’s joints thunders. “Let me run back to the Camaro and get more clips for your gun!”

“Now look who’s making up insane plans,” Steve snaps. “They’d pick you off in seconds, not to mention the fact it would take too long and our gang members are pinned. If you leave or stop, they’ll just bolt. We’ll lose the first solid lead on this cartel we’ve had in weeks.”

Danny sounds less certain this time. “Back up’s on its way…”

“SWAT will never get here in time for your plan.”

“Yours is still nuts,” Danny hisses, with a bite to it that makes Steve’s nostrils flare. “I mean, seriously? You’re going to run out there and what, wave your arms, ‘shoot me, please!’ That’s not a plan.”

“We need to draw them out from their cover. If I run to the other side of the factory building, they’ll be forced to step out onto the balcony, right—”

“Steven.”

“—So then you’ll have a clear shot.”

“Please, Steve.”

“The Navy approves of my methods.” It bursts from Steve in an injured tone. “Admiral Hutchins told me in my office that he thinks certain risks ‘get the job done.’”

Danny’s eyes switch from the rookie gang kid in the second story warehouse window to Steve. “When was the Navy in your office? Why did this Hutchins personally come see you in your office?”

“Thursday—they want to offer me a more involved status. Part time leadership of SEAL team two.”

The abrupt scuff of loafers on cracked gravel is the only warning before Danny’s crimson face drains nearly translucent. He plops down, not seeming to care that the seat of his pants is getting dirty. His ‘O’ mouth goes lax. It searches for a few seconds.

“When were you planning to tell me?”

“Soon, I guess. Didn’t think I needed your permission to—”

They’re interrupted by a barrage of lead, shot straight at their cover spot. Rude expletives are shouted at them, some of the more creative ones of which earn an eyeroll from Danny and a glare from Steve.

“Just cover me.”

“Steve, wait, I have something to—”

“It’ll only take a second and then we can be done this standoff.”

“Steve—”

But Steve’s done talking and being second guessed. He rushes out from behind the barrel with the barest hint of a wolf’s smile. This is where he excels, putting himself in danger to end the overall bloodshed. It’s the way combat should be, whether at home or in the field. Generations of McGarretts have lived by this creed.

Danny tries to grab at Steve, but that distance is too far and his fingers flex around empty air. Steve’s off to the races, hunched over yet pumping his arms as broadly as he can. Hopefully it’ll be enough of a neon sign for both trapped youths. His heart pounds along with his feet in the sweaty nook of his throat, muscles around his knees igniting with adrenaline.

A surprised holler. The sh-cli-clack of loaded rifle clips. Native New Jersey swear words spit back at their gang members.

And sure enough—

BANG! BANG!  

The gunfire stops.

Danny takes out both men with just two well placed shots and another snarl. This one has Steve’s name baked into it, furious at him as much as the gangsters trying to kill them. SWAT, EMTs, and Chin choose this moment to arrive, a storm of approaching noise along the water’s edge.

Danny finally stands from behind the forklift, once the shipyard resumes some sense of order and Steve winds his way back.

“You okay?” Danny asks, clipped.

“Yeah.” Steve nods, panting, polo shirt collar soaked. “Yeah, I’m fine. Not a scratch. They didn’t have great aim.”

“Ha.” Danny smiles in what is still an incredibly unhappy expression, hand over his shoulder cap. “There’s some irony in that.”

Steve doesn’t understand what he means at first, watching emergency personnel flood the scene. One gang member walks—limps—out a few minutes later in handcuffs, bullet lodged in his thigh, and the other under a white sheet on a gurney.

Case closed. This is all the evidence they need of association to their larger drug ring leader. Both men will be printed and booked into the system as known ties. Steve’s just hoping they can use the one still alive as a CI, maybe get to the bigger fish.

Not a bad work day, all things considered.

Then Danny removes his hand—his fingers come away dark.

Steve bolts to Danny’s side in an instant, eyes and hands all over his partner. His heart races. “You hurt? They hit you?”

“Yes and no.”

Steve’s hands spasm around the wound. “Danny.”

Danny’s lips thin. “The stitches just popped, Steve. When I ducked against the forklift that last time, loose nails snagged the bullet hole.”

A messy, exasperated breath slips past Steve’s lips, his hands still tight on either side of Danny’s arm. His pulse, just recently calmed, is back at DEFCON four. Something in Steve’s belly slithers. Danny lets him hold an ACE pad against the wound while they walk over to EMTs, with only mild complaining.

Steve doesn’t let him get away with the laissez faire attitude for a second. He’s under no illusions, not with that much blood leaking through the bandage. This is just under the amount it bled the first time.

His chest spasms too, in spaghetti twists. Fresh regret at not being the one to dig out the bullet and help his partner.

His suspicions are proven correct ten minutes later by the paramedic’s dry, flat words to Danny where he sits on the back of an ambulance. “You tore a track through regrown skin entirely, Detective, not just the stitches.”

“Fabulous,” says Danny, eyes on the phone in his other hand. He texts a clumsy update to Kono. She’s confirming that she recognizes their two gangbangers from her stint undercover.

One tetanus shot, eight stitches, and two dextrose tablets later, Danny’s cleared to go. Reluctantly, mind you, but even the EMTs admit Danny doesn’t need a hospital trip. Steve refuses to leave his side the whole time, despite Danny’s out of character silence during the examination.

Danny puts his phone away with a sigh after they update Chin as well. Once they’re left alone, Danny’s talking hands slow down in steppe increments.

Steve pokes his wrist, a reminder to keep eating the sugar tablets. There’s a weariness in Danny’s gaze that makes him squirrely. It’s one turn away from defeat and Steve’s jaw tightens.

“I still say it was stupid.” Danny’s voice floats just under the hustle of uniforms around them.

“It worked.”

“You could have been shot between the eyes, Steve.”

“But I wasn’t.”

Danny glances up at Steve. “This time. This time.”

Steve folds his arms.

Danny points to his bicep. “This same arm got shot the first day I met you, you know.”

It’s a left field segue, a little out of the blue. Just enough that most people would buy it and be puzzled, maybe drop their point.

Instead, Steve nods—he does know. Very well. He has a mental list of all his partner’s injuries over the past three years. Catalogued by location and severity. He’s seen the new scars form in uncomfortable detail.

The spaghetti twist sticks to the inside of his rib cage, making each breath an effort for a moment. So much blood…so many times he wasn’t sure…

Danny seems to be able to decipher even the words Steve doesn’t say, for his face breaks into a sunny, razor smile. He claps his hands free of the excess sugar and hops to his feet. His shirt is ruined but he only has eyes for Steve.

“For the record.” Danny pats his partner’s chest on the way by. “Earlier, I was just trying to suggest that you run back to the car while I provided cover, put on a vest first before the blaze of glory run. But you had it handled, right?”

He walks away without looking back.

It’s a long time before Steve finds any words at all.

“Come on. You can’t keep dodging forever.”

A short laugh, the staccato giggle that can only belong to one person. “Oh yes I can.”

Curious, Steve listens to Kono’s teasing voice and the evasive murmur of Danny’s answer in his approach. They’ve set up camp in Steve’s office, since the weather decided to withhold sunshine for the day. Rain pours across spooned palm leaves in waterfall bursts outside the windows. Wind lashes it against the glass. It’s not exactly a tropical storm, but it did make the waves too high for surfing or swimming this morning.

Not to mention eating lunch outdoors.

Steve balances two takeout bags under his arm, box of cartel files in the other, sent over by the DA’s office for their case. Just their luck that none of them have been digitized yet.

He’s thankful for the rain now, in that it seems to have reduced criminal activity for the day. His gut still flip-flops after yesterday’s scare, not helped by the new puffy spot under Danny’s white shirt. Steve hasn’t been able to take his eyes off it all day. Chin helped Danny change the bandages this morning, and Steve tries not to feel hurt that he wasn’t asked.

“You gonna stand there and pose as scenery or are we eating today?”

Steve rolls his eyes, but the joke gets him moving from his lurk in the hallway. “Impatient toddler.”

“Trigger-happy maniac,” Danny fires right back.

The floor of Steve’s office is shiny, recently waxed, which allows trees outside the window—and the effusive hands of both Danny and Kono—to cast miasmic shadows across its surface.

There’s something in the sight that settles Steve’s stomach, Kono’s feet up on the desk, Chin smiling so wide his laugh lines are at canyon proportions, and Danny ruddy from laughing. Steve finally steps in from the doorway and hands the bag to Kono, a tiny retaliation.

She hardly notices, still locked on Danny. “Why won’t you tell us?”

“I was ten years old! What’s the big deal?”

“Brah,” Chin interjects. He snatches the bag from Kono to rifle for their individual lo mein orders. “No one gets kicked out of Scouts for nothing. Kicked out. That’s some serious penalty.”

Steve hooks his ankle around a chair and drags it over to complete the quartet circle around his desk. Danny sits in his padded office chair, naturally.

Steve smiles indulgently at his friend, then distributes curried vegetables out of the other bag. “Chin’s right. There’s a reason I’ve been hounding you.”

Danny makes a face but mutters “grazie” when Steve hands him the less spicy box.

Kono talks around a mouthful of noodles. “Cough it up, Danny. Whose stuff did you steal?”

“No one’s.”

The cool answer has Chin’s eyebrow rising.

“He keeps insisting he smuggled in cigarettes or something,” says Steve.

Chin and Kono both groan. Danny throws a dirty look at Steve for the comment—and his smug face. Steve quickly stuffs it full of broccoli to avoid a snitting match.

“Come on.” Kono taps her toe on the desk lamp. “Even I know that one’s bogus.”

A faint, fanned wrinkle appears around Danny’s eyes. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

“You’re really not going to tell us?” asks Chin. “For real?”

Danny opens his mouth, but before he can speak, Kono snickers. “You know, I hear Grace has been wanting to learn some kick boxing moves.”

“You wouldn’t dare. My daughter doesn’t need to learn that kind of thing.”

With an innocent bat of her eyelashes, Kono flicks Danny’s pointer finger away. “And we don’t technically need to learn why you got booted from Scouts, but…”

“How did you even find out?” Danny’s the only one not using chopsticks, and he wields his plastic fork like a laser pointer. It strays towards Steve. “Huh? How did you two squeeze it out of him?”

Chin’s left eyebrow goes up to join the other. “We didn’t have to. Grace told me at last week’s barbecue. I told Kono.”

“Heathens, the lot of you.”

Kono laughs into her coconut water. Chin busies himself stealing some of Steve’s mushrooms and for a few minutes there’s a humming, companionable quiet while they eat. Elbows knocking, pouring more water for each other, they murmur theories about the case. Danny texts a picture of his dessert dumpling, in the shape of a mini panda, to Grace. She sends back a heart eyes emoji.

Kono’s already halfway through hers, a duck, licking chocolate off her lips. “Whatever you did that was so bad, Danny, at least it clearly didn’t follow you into your career. You left the delinquent life behind.”

Her playful words ignite something in Danny’s eyes, a micro flare of fire and electricity. It vanishes so fast Steve doesn’t even have time to decode the expression.

Then Danny’s face twitches into a smile. It doesn’t reach his gaze, suddenly flat and poised. “Yeah, thank goodness for that.”

Chin must be able to hear something too, for his chopsticks pause. He and Steve catch each other’s eyes. Steve reaches around the corner of the desk with his foot, subtle as he can, brushing it against Danny’s. Danny doesn’t react, rigid.

“We can always call your parents and ask them.” Kono’s mischief is on full display, even behind her puppy dog eyes. She doesn’t catch the sudden tension. “I’m sure they’d love to wax on about their oldest son.”

Danny sets down his fork. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Probably not,” Steve admits. A smaller heel nudges his own and he relaxes. They haven’t pushed at something too sensitive, then, haven’t leapt one of Danny’s boundaries.

“Alright…if you must know…”

Kono jerks upright, feet off the desk. She talks fast, as if Danny will change his mind in the next five seconds. “Yes, we really do.”

Danny laughs amidst his aimless shuffle of noodles. He pushes them around the plastic take out container with his fork until they’re a twirly mole hill in the corner. Steve gets an eerie sense that the laugh is real—but not light-hearted. It fades off with a snap, Danny’s happy mood locked into a vault.

“I got kicked out for, uh.” Danny curls his hand in the air, and as if grabbing at what he hesitates to say. “For punching Howie Cooper in the face. Alright? There’s the big secret.”

Silence. Kono and Chin exchange a lightning-fast look.

“…You punched a kid in the face,” Kono repeats, every syllable drawn out.

“Yeah.” And now Danny’s laugh sounds full of humour; perhaps a bit vindictive too. It crackles like day-old cereal. “Right on his ugly mug. Broke his nose and knocked out a tooth all in one blow. Well, maybe two blows.”

Shock fills the second round of silence rather than confusion.

Steve grips Danny’s arm before he even registers himself moving. “Are you messing with us?”

“Nope!” Danny pops back a carrot slice with all the nonchalance in the world. “Howie Cooper had it coming, though. Everyone hated him.”

“For what?”

Danny shrugs. “Talking smack about us, mostly. He’d dig at the poor campers or our families or kids who weren’t, you know, a jerk like him. Regular bully, this guy.”

“That’s it?” Steve realizes the absurdity right as he says it, that Danny would be so shifty about such a normal childhood moment, however frowned upon it might be. Kids rough and tumble with each other all the time. “You were embarrassed about punching some random kid?”

Danny sniffs. “No, I just didn’t want Grace finding out what happened. I have to set a good example, even in the stories I tell her.”

Both of Steve’s brows fly up. He opens his mouth but Chin beats him to it.

“Did you really bust his tooth?”

This time Danny’s grin is one hundred percent genuine. “That front canine never grew back.”

Kono’s low whistle fills the office. “Pretty harsh.”

“So was my punishment,” Danny points out.

“You broke his nose!”

“It was still crooked when he came back to school.”

Steve can’t help but mirror the smile, even though he’s stunned to hear this about his normally button-down friend. “Quite a rebellious move, coming from the same kid who handcuffed his brother at the zoo out of…what was it? A sense of ‘justice?’”

Danny moans. “Not this again.”

“It was a monkey enclosure! You, as an eight year old big brother, literally tied your sibling to an animal cage.”

“Matty was being a brat. What else was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know, tell your parents or something.”

“I did tell them!” Danny protests, but he says it around another giggle. “After I cuffed him to the bars.”

Steve checks if his comment about Matty stirred up any tough feelings, but Danny sinks into his chair at the memory and the ensuing laughter of their teammates. The motion pushes his toes into the side of Steve’s foot. Something in Steve’s soul centers, something he didn’t notice was wobbling.

“Whatever happened, I hope this Howie kid deserved it,” Kono declares.

Chin taps his cup against Kono’s in agreement.

With the noisy sounds of the team enjoying themselves, only Steve sees the flame snuff out in Danny’s eyes, replaced by a twist in his mouth. It’s an almost imperceptible micro expression. He’s a spongy candle left out in a rainstorm, dissolving before the wick is even lit.

Only Steve hears the soft, heavy words—

“He did. He really did.”

Chapter Text

Danny has one daughter. Just the one. Steve’s pretty sure about that, has gotten to know her and everything.

Still, for one wild moment Steve consciously reminds himself of this fact at the colourful sounds of little girls running around and singing—off key and with admirable enthusiasm—when they echo from behind the door. He hovers on the stoop and puts his ear to the wood. There’s also a burnt flour smell wafting through the open living room window.

He knocks with one hand, a pink box balanced in the other.

It takes a minute or two for him to be heard over the chaos. But eventually heavier footsteps trundle up to the door.

Danny swings it open. He’s flushed, slightly sweaty—

And haloed by a ring of barrettes.

Heart and star-shaped clips in varying purple shades hold tufts each of his quaff. They catch the fading light like piano keys, played golden by bronzy sunset strips. He still wears the day’s white button front shirt, but it’s untucked and layered under a ‘Jersey Devils’ apron and jeans.

The apron is covered in a substance Steve doesn’t even try to identify.

“Uh…” He stares. “I stopped by for a chat but I see you have your hands full.”

Steve’s voice wavers, to which Danny throws him a withering glare.

“Now you listen here, McGarrett—”

“Danno! We finished our cupcake!”

Grace appears at Danny’s hip, in lion pajamas and pigtails, and shoves a plastic plate in Danny’s face.

His whole stance changes, softens, and he leans down to pick her up. Her legs swing where he sets her on his hip, using his good arm. “That’s awesome, monkey! Chocolate marble?”

“Your favourite!”

It’s a very tiny cupcake, fit for a tiny mouse, but Danny smiles at her and kisses her forehead all the same. “You’re the best, Gracie. I can’t wait to eat it.”

“We paused the movie for you. Uncle Steve can come watch too!”

Danny throws a conspirator’s look at Steve this time. “Oh yeah? How thoughtful.”

Steve turns to the side, gaze off down the street so Grace won’t see him finally release that laugh.

“Get in here.” Danny swings the door wider. “If you brought treats, you’re welcome in casa de Williams.”

Steve holds up the box. “Malasadas. I figured you…well, they’re a peace offering.”

Danny’s hands hiccup in setting Grace down, so she can scamper off to the living room, just a blip of hesitation and a quick double blink before he shakes himself. Grace is long gone by the time he’s back, though not before she runs over for a fast squeeze of Steve’s legs. Being hugged by a ten year old twice in one week is a novelty, something he never pictured himself in the position to experience at thirty-six. He thinks he could get used to it.

“What’s all this?” Steve asks it in earnest surprise, once he rounds the entryway into the living room and sees a real tent staked in the middle of it. Scarves adorn the entrance like a ‘door’ and from inside is lit a solar lantern. It casts curly-haired shadows on the tent wall. “You guys know this isn’t legit camping, right? You’re not even outdoors.”

Lucy pokes her head out. It’s styled much like Danny’s, her blonde locks twisted into complex fish braids and barrettes, courtesy of what looks to be Grace’s handiwork. “Is that the sound of someone who doesn’t want a cupcake?”

“What?” Steve puts a hand to his chest. “Of course I want a cupcake. Whatcha cooking?”

Lucy points inside the tent and Steve crouches to see an Easy Bake oven nestled beside the large tablet where it’s propped against a stuffed bear, paused on an animated movie. “Red velvet swirl.”

Steve smiles. “Count me in.”

“And this is real camping,” she argues back. She too wears pajama pants and an oversized Pokémon T-shirt. “We have s’mores, everything is running on battery or solar power, and we’re using bottled water to brush our teeth. That makes it authentic.”

The thought of Joe White in conniption fits over these simple rules being what makes something ‘camping’ lights a pleasant, impish glow in Steve’s gut. He makes a note to tell the man when next he sees him. Whenever that will be.

Danny’s arms are folded—he’s apparently either devoured or thrown out the cupcake in the last two minutes—but his eyes are as gooey as his face. “After the Aloha Girls disaster trip, Grace and I put this together, just to capture some of that experience they didn’t get to have.”

Grace giggles. “Danno couldn’t get the stakes to stay up at first.”

“Are you ratting me out in front of the Navy SEAL?”

“Yes.”

Danny rolls his eyes, which sets the girls off in another round of laughter. His hand strays from his elbow up to his left bicep—not before Steve spies a dark, cloudy patch. It’s opaque, blood reaching the bandage’s outer layer.

“You can sit with us if you want,” says Lucy, handing Steve his cupcake. He trades her the box of malasadas for it. She opens the lid and lights up. “We need someone to sing Prince Eric’s part.”

Grace steals a malasada with electric reflexes that remind Steve of when her father jumps the hood of a car during a chase. She immediately pops the entire thing in her mouth, chipmunk cheeked.

“That’s very tempting…” Steve is about to share another amused glance with Danny, but the spot where he stood is now glaringly empty. If Steve didn’t feel so worried, he’d be impressed. “But I’ve got to talk with Danny for a minute. You guys go ahead and watch. I’ll be back in a bit, okay?”

Grace crawls back into the tent. “Okay!”

Lucy wraps the other half of a fluffy rose blanket around her shoulders. Their—sloppily—painted toes face the opening of the tent, and they tap to lively music when Lucy restarts the movie.

Steve knows absolutely nothing about Disney movies, but the sight of the girls huddled up, sleepover style, and humming along to what looks like some sort of underwater scene fills a jagged hole inside his lungs, a hollowed-out spot of disillusionment chiselled by the loss of his parents long ago. The precious scene reminds him of mornings curled up with Mary, though they did so for a much less happy reason.

After one last check that the girls are secure and occupied, he wanders into the kitchen, setting the cupcake on the table. Only a stove light shines, the room warm from what appears to be an earlier baking spree. A tray of cinnamon buns cools on the counter.

One bar stool is drawn up near the light, and a stockpile of bandages, tape, and anti-biotic cream sit by the stove. Throwing everything in sickly orange light is a prescription bottle full of white pills.

By a tremble in Danny’s fingers, he’s long overdue for one.

Gone are the apron and barrettes, shirt’s buttons undone. Danny’s right arm is already free from the sleeve, but he struggles with the left.

“Here.” Steve jumps forward. “Let me.”

“I’ve got it.”

“No, you don’t.”

Danny sets his jaw. Steve ignores that and gently grabs Danny’s shoulder to keep it still while he pulls on the cuff. It’s unbuttoned, which makes his job easier. They hit a snag when the shirt bunches at Danny’s elbow—he hisses through his teeth.

“Sorry, sorry.” Steve tilts sideways to see better. “You shouldn’t host the girls when you’re hurting like this.”

Danny doesn’t shrug, though Steve can tell by a twitch in his bad shoulder that he wants to. Sweat sheens along his hairline. “Since the trip they’ve become best friends…I didn’t want to ruin their fun. Besides, I’m hosting Gracie this week while Rachel’s away. What’s one more kid in the mix? Lucy’s great.”

“Just because they’re well-behaved, doesn’t make this easy.”

Danny stays quiet, a strange dearth of obstinance. For once at eye level with his partner, Steve frowns when he can’t catch Danny’s. Danny looks stalwartly to the side. In the calico lighting, his hair crimps with seaweed ripples where the clips pinched.

Shaking his head, Steve holds Danny’s bicep steady and shimmies off the rest of the cloth, leaving Danny in just a white undershirt. It too is ringed with sweat. Despite this, or perhaps because of cooled moisture, goosebumps erupt on his skin.

Danny’s eyes flick up to Steve, just once, a little wide, and only then does Steve realize that he’s in his friend’s space, towering over him.

Steve steps back and retrieves the other stool so they sit knee-to-knee.

“I was gonna do this myself,” says Danny, beginning to peel off bandages one handed. Voice spiced with defensiveness. Something prickly that Steve feels like a soft jab to the skin around his chest.

“Then it’s a good spot of timing I came.” Steve slaps Danny’s hands away from the wound. Then he stops, remembering earlier this morning when Danny asked Chin instead of him. “Are you…is it okay if I…”

Danny’s eyebrows fly up.

Steve reddens. “Asking permission is important. That’s what you’re always ragging me for.”

The joke doesn’t quite make it off the ground, but Danny’s jaw uncoils and he lets out a tired breath. It eases off the pointed pressure. “Sure. You’re just going to keep hounding me until you get your way.”

“No. If you don’t want me to help, I won’t.”

Another inscrutable look. Danny’s eyes are big and young and warm like summer heat filling the kitchen. Steve sets the shirt aside without looking way from them.

Danny doesn’t reply verbally. Instead, he hands Steve the roll of gauze.

Floored down to his heels, Steve swallows and takes the gauze with a grasp of Danny’s hand. Their fingers fall apart, tangled ivy shoots of tender growth, but Danny’s tension has smoothed into a faint smile.

“I’m kinda glad you’re here, actually. I can’t get the bandages straight when I do it by myself. Did you really come all this way just to bring me malasadas?”

With ginger fingers, Steve unpeels the gauze from Danny’s skin. He winds his hands around in an efficient back-and-forth pass.

“And an apology.”

“An apology?” Danny throws the dirty bandages away in a nearby trash can while Steve preps new ones. “What’d you break this time?”

It’s Steve who’s silent this round.

In this crisp, unfolded paper kind of quiet, Lucy’s garbled voice and Grace’s songbird notes float in from the living room. Lucy’s pitch is somewhere off in the stratosphere but for some reason the sound of her confident rasp twined around Grace’s melodic tone enhances the beauty of the duet. The song is upbeat and fast. Something about a crab.

Steve jabs a thumb over his shoulder with a questioning grin.

“The Little Mermaid,” Danny explains. “Grace’s current favourite. Lucy’s learning to surf, so she loves it too. This is the second time they’ve watched it today alone.”

Steve snorts. “Never seen it.”

“I’m not surprised. Tell me at least Mary watched it growing up.”

“We didn’t do movies a lot in our house.” Steve avoids Danny’s eyes, in a curious reciprocation. He winces at the sight of the inflamed skin. “This doesn’t look good. You’ve been straining it too hard, picking up Grace.” He can’t quite keep the accusation out of his voice.

Danny gives in to the shrug, with his uninjured arm. “Not the first time I’ve been shot and I’m sure it won’t be the last. Hasn’t stopped me from picking up my baby before. It was just that nail during our shoot out that’s causing it to heal slow.”

Steve’s breath catches.

“Steve?”

“I’m sorry about that.”

Danny leans back, so Steve’s torso is forced to follow. “For what, exactly? You didn’t shred the stitches. None of the bullets did either.”

“No, but…”

Danny recenters and so does Steve. Steve takes a bottom of the well breath.

“Are you sorry I got injured or sorry I was angry at you?”

Steve’s brows hunker low over his eyes, broadsided by the question. He sighs and plays with the cream tube to give himself time to think. “Both. I mean, no. I’m sorry my plan got you hurt.”

Danny hums again. He holds still while Steve applies some ointment, Danny’s skin hot under his fingertips. Potentially infected. Danny seems to be analyzing every single one of Steve’s motions without looking at them. Danny too inhales a big breath and it knocks at Steve’s knuckles, where he applies a new bandage and gets ready to wrap the whole thing in gauze.

“Let me ask you a question,” says Danny suddenly.

“Shoot.”

“Would you have jumped in front of an active shooter like that if Lucy or Grace was with you?”

“What?” Steve pales. His hands trip over their ablutions. “No! Of course I wouldn’t. You know I’d never allow them in harm’s way. The only reason I’d do something like that is if it put me between them and the gun.”

“Did you pull a stupid move like that in the jungle with Lucy?”

Steve’s eyes go hard. “You were there to take her statement right along with me. You know I didn’t.”

Danny cants his head, studying. His gaze is on some point near Steve’s shoulder, so Steve has no idea what he’s looking at exactly. He’s beginning to realize there are a lot of things he doesn’t understand about his partner—yet.

It’s a new sensation. Baffling. To be in the dark about people he serves with isn’t something he’s experienced. He trains and works with this team, his partner, more than the SEAL team he’d lead if he accepts the offer…but somehow they’d be easier to dissect than the hurting man in front of him.

They count less too. The responsibility of understanding Danny presses weighty and comforting on his chest.

“You’d want them to come home.” Danny’s voice is hushed now. It’s a parent’s tone and fragile at the same time. Steve has only to tap hard enough and he’ll break.

“Yes. It’s why I’d never do something like that.”

“To their families,” Danny insists, terribly sotto voce compared to Steve’s vehemence.

He pictures Grace behind that forklift instead of Danny. His nose scrunches, repulsed. He’d sooner be shot than even let them suffer in a situation like that. Grace is ten but she’s just a baby really, in his eyes and very much in Danny’s.

Steve whispers, words feverish. “I’d make sure they got home without a scratch.”

Danny fiddles with an empty white mug near the sink. Rolls its base around the granite, plinks it back down.

Roooooll, plink. Roooooll, plink…

“What would you be if you weren’t a SEAL or cop?”

Steve blinks. He’s ashamed that his immediate response is ‘dead.’ Not because he’d be suicidal, but because he can’t imagine himself doing anything else. If he’s not getting up every morning to defend people, then he’s buried in a box. What else is his purpose? What would be the point?

“A classical pianist,” Steve jokes.

Danny gives a half-hearted scoff. “I’m glad you have my back, Steve.”

Every nerve ending in Steve’s hands short circuits. He pauses, watches Danny’s eyes drift from that nowhere point back to his face. Somewhere out in the night, a gull calls. It echoes for a long time.

Danny’s half smile looks old and like a child’s all in one go. “I just wish you’d let me have yours.”

“I do,” Steve answers at once, breathless. “You’re my backup.”

Down goes the one flipped up side of Danny’s mouth.

Steve treads through uncertain waters the same way, whether metaphorical or in the ocean. Straight ahead, no stopping. He tapes off the bandage and reaches behind for Danny’s neck. Squeezing the back of it, he’s startled to see that the sheen is not just on Danny’s skin. His eyes are too shiny to blame simply on pain.

Still, Steve grabs the pill bottle with his other hand. “Thought you dumped these.”

“I did. Chin went out and refilled the prescription without telling me.”

Danny’s tone is gruff, but his eyes fond.

Steve untwists the cap and sets one in Danny’s palm.

Long before Steve fills that mug with water—still one handed, loathe to let Danny go—Danny shakes his head. “I have to stay alert for the girls. These make me drowsy. I can barely brew coffee with the minimum dosage, let alone take care of two children.”

“I’ll stay over and help, then. I’m not going anywhere, Danno.”

Danny’s head, where it’s started to hang, snaps back up. For the first time all night, Steve senses Danny actually look at him. Not through him, not around him, but fully in the present. This is proven when Steve’s jaw slides and Danny’s eyes follow the movement.

His fingers close around the pill, while the hand on his bad arm clasps Steve’s wrist. Steve squeezes again and the sheen disappears. “Thanks for coming tonight, Steve.”

“Always, Danny. I’ll always come.”

Danny finally throws back the pill. “You’d better.”

They’re running.

Runningrunningrunningrunrunrunrunthudthudthud—

They’re running so fast Steve barely feels his boots touch the ground. Whispers of grass tickle his legs but they hardly make contact. Bleariness seeps away with each blink.

They’re running and his ankles throb but his body shivers in the morning air. Heat seeps from his shins, so contrasted against the unseasonable chill that Steve is surprised they don’t steam.

He’s never, in all their years together, seen Danny run this fast.

It’s practically flying, on both their parts. Danny takes almost double the number of strides that Steve does but somehow he’s in the lead, and a high school physiology lesson about how shorter limbed people sometimes make better sprinters floods in from the recesses of Steve’s memory.

They’re running and the sky is slate and the grass is emerald and the warmth is brown and Danny’s bobbing crown up ahead is amber. Steve finds his mind compartmentalizing by breaking down the insanity of the situation into colours and sounds.

Sounds are very important, because they’re being screeched at. Loudly. 

Men shout twenty feet behind them in the field, trees sparsely dovetailed. Steve almost wishes they were being shot at, that guns pose the biggest hurdle here. They don’t. The only hope in all this is he had time to call Chin and Kono first before the impromptu marathon began.

It started so simple. They set up a stakeout near the abandoned mine to watch for their suspected kingpin, in case he decided to show up. He did. With bells and whistles.

A boring stakeout up to that point, mind you. Steve and Danny clustered together in a boar hunter’s nest in the trees above the mine from midnight until this dawn fox chase. It was just a platform with plastic camouflage draped over it, but they weren’t spotted at all, and its coziness combined with hours of monotony helped them feel safe enough to doze. They took turns sleeping, and Danny nodding off on Steve’s shoulder will remain a cherished memory.

Or blackmail material. He can’t decide which.

“I’m going to gut you!” a man hollers.

Danny swears at this latest threat, right as he ducks around a low hanging branch. At least with the shipyard shoot out they’d been the ones doing the chasing. Now Steve feels like a rabbit—pursued, driven to the point of exhaustion, longing for escape like water in the savannah.

“Can we hide?” he pants to Danny. “Just until help arrives? Chin’s tracking my phone.”

“No.”

No elaboration follows, but Steve hears it anyway. The quartet of armed men would see Steve and Danny crouch into a concealed spot before it could to any good.

It’s a miracle they haven’t been shot yet, but the cartel was caught by surprise too. Most rifles are stored inside the mine, not out in the entryway where the chase started. The few that had sidearms weren’t in the best physical shape for an extended sprint.

They run towards a cemetery, which feels apropos.

Well. At least they solved the mystery of who pulls the cartel strings.

“I can’t believe praying mantis kid is our kingpin.” It costs Steve a lot of breath to say this, but shock rings in his ears.

Danny glances back and Steve swears later that he grins. “He’s the kingpin’s son. Try to keep up.”

It’s a literal and figurative piece of advice.

“Guns…?”

“They got mine too,” Danny bites off.

Steve’s turn to curse. How had everything gone sideways so fast? This was supposed to be recon only, no engagement with the cartel.

That went out the window the moment biker boy spotted the Camaro on his way to the mine and recognized it, slashing the tires. A quick search while on the line with Chin revealed he got out of jail thanks to posted bail. Paid in under thirty minutes flat. Typical.

“Y’okay?” Danny calls. “Holding up?”

Steve grits his teeth. “Just keep moving.”

Only four out of a dozen men have managed to keep pace with Steve and Danny, but it’s only a matter of time before a vehicle roars up the gravel strip that separates the field and cemetery.

They’ve almost reached it. Steve can hear the distant wail of sirens. Their team. Freedom. Rest. Relief for the raw strips of skin and fabric torn off his shins where he half fell from the tree in the mob that swarmed them.

Fresh painkillers and cream for the tender skin around Danny’s bullet wound would be nice too. He remembers a gang member punching it at some point. It’s not bleeding through Danny’s shirt, but Steve notices he doesn’t pump his left arm as hard as the right, favouring it close to his ribs.

The sight vomits words into Steve’s mouth. “I’ve got an idea.”

Danny ticks his ear in Steve’s direction.

“We have to split up, Danny.”

“What? What the hell is the matter with you?”

“They’ll be forced to thin their numbers. Two on one I can take.”

“We should fight together.” Danny’s body sways to one side. He catches himself from a hidden pock with the grace of a ballet dancer. “We have a better chance if we pool our skills in an open space.”

“It won’t work—but two on one will.”

“How do you even—”

But Steve doesn’t wait to hear the rest of the protest. He veers off to the left, into a dense bank of trees. He knows what’s coming next. Sure enough…

Wwwhhhhhr-THUNK.

A dagger quivers from a tree trunk. This gang has an affinity for knives. And machetes. Butterfly knives. Anything sharp they can kill someone with, up close and personal. These are no cowards, punk kids on the street looking to feel cool.

These men are ruthless.

“You haole pig!” The insult thunders at top volume, in a dead sprint towards Steve. He begins to slow, pretending he’s tired. “I hope you rot in—”

Steve whirls at the last second. His right wrist sickles through the practiced maneuver of swinging a fist onto the man’s forearm—a sensitive nerve running the inside of his forearm, to be exact.

A machete in his fingers drops instantly. He howls with pain and Steve grabs the machete before he can. When the man rears back for a haymaker to the side of Steve’s head, Steve digs the blade across his side. He goes down instantly.

The second gangbanger is even easier than the first, with a strategic stab in his shoulder to leave him incapacitated but not dead. Blood drips onto the grass when he pulls the machete from muscles ringing the man’s clavicle.

Ha! Steve’s teeth bare in a vicious expression of triumph. His techniques do save lives, thank you very much, and the injured men on the ground are living proof.

Two down, two to go.

Steve wheezes, chest heaving. Weapon now in hand, fresh adrenaline races through system. His palms sweat, high voltage energy arced in each muscle.

He looks between a gap in the trees and there’s Danny near the cemetery, mid-punch to a man’s meaty throat. He’s half squatted, stooped to avoid a scythe swipe of the man’s knife. The man crumples.

Danny stands alone now—and he looks petrified. He lunges towards Steve with a furious snarling sound. “Steve!”

What did I do wrong this time?

He can’t imagine what Danny is so worked up about now. The threat’s been neutralized. They’re fine. Case closed.

Suddenly, something catches Steve across his gut. Thin. Dense. He stumbles.

“Steve!”

Forget running. Steve’s never heard Danny scream like that. Not once. The sound is a tortured wail after it’s been distorted through a metal grinder.

Steve almost doesn’t recognize his own name. Danny shrieks again, stuttered from him racing into the trees.

Steve doesn’t understand at first, doesn’t comprehend the absolutely feral manner in which Danny grabs a bloody hunting knife off the ground—blood? Where did that come from?—and whips its handle across the last man’s skull. He falls in a heap at Steve’s feet, out cold.

“Steve!” Danny clamps both of Steve’s shoulders in constricting fingers. “Steve, hey, don’t clock out on me!”

The fingers hurt, they’re so tight. Steve is about to ask Danny to alleviate the pressure, but suddenly the warmth is all over his body.

Pain. He’s in pain.

Scratch that. He’s in agony. Flames soar up his torso.

“Babe. Hey, hey, hey. No, no—”

It’s a good thing Danny’s hands are so tight, in the end. The charcoal of the sky sifts away into a buttercup yellow crop of sunshine, dawn through the clouds. Funny, Steve doesn’t remember looking upwards.

Danny’s head appears in the sky. No, wait. He’s hovering, controlling Steve’s fall to the ground. Danny lowers Steve onto his back with gentle fingers. They quiver. He leans close, close enough that the heat of his chest filters through even the brightest flames.

Danny’s palm presses to Steve’s stomach and Steve slams his eyes closed. “Ah!”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry.” Danny rips off his outer shirt and holds it to the fire. It doesn’t douse the inferno whatsoever. More brown. More warmth. It weeps between Danny’s fingers. “The ambulance is right over there, Steve. You’re going to be okay. It’s all over.”

“I…didn’t see…th’other one.”

“I bet you didn’t,” Danny snaps. Then he sighs, with the tiniest of sounds that’s almost a whimper. “Sorry. Shouldn’t be raking someone over the coals who just got slashed.”

“Already am over the coals.”

“I’m just grateful he didn’t stab you.”

Steve puts a hand over Danny’s, half trying to shove it away—stop that horrendous pain—and half to feel the veins jump in his hand, at piston speed. Their fingers slide, slick. His pulse flutters like butterfly wings in his neck too. Danny’s always felt like a beautiful, wild creature. Tamed only through the sheer amount of love he hands out to people.

Danny braces his other hand on Steve’s sternum. The thumb strokes soft skin at Steve’s throat. It leaves a bloody print on Steve’s shirt collar, he can just see in his peripheral vision. Swirls and all.

“Your naval is shredded,” says Danny, eyes pinched.

“Yeah, it is.” Steve smiles, a little sad, and Danny asks him what for. “‘S just punny, is all.”

The whites of Danny’s eyes get bigger. “I need a medic over here! Right now!”

Boots thud thud thud towards their spot in the grass.

You’d figure the cavalry and its arrival would signal a decrease of noise, situation in hand, but the yells continue. Much louder even than they were before. Bedlam reigns. A flood of people deluge onto the scene, clad in white scrubs and black SWAT gear and a Hawaiian shirt where Chin directs traffic.

Only instead of insults, everyone shouts blood pressure stats and Miranda rights at the arrested gang members and the insistent words over and over again—“You’re gonna be fine, Commander. Just stay calm. You’re gonna be fine.”

I am calm. As calm as someone can be when their nerve endings are this on fire.

Steve closes his eyes for the briefest of moments, feeling only once the backboard appears underneath him that maybe their part in this is done. No more chases and bad guys for a while.

Then someone bodily wraps an arm around Danny from behind, where he kneels over Steve.

And promptly hauls him out of the way.

He looks just as surprised about it as Steve feels. The arm yanks and there Danny goes, snatched in a blink. With medical personnel in a cloud around Steve, he can’t see his partner at all now.  

He struggles to rise up on one elbow. “Hey.”

Steve can yell when he wants too. Everyone on site freezes. The sheer authority in that one word, three measly letters long and a deep well of protective anger, stops even Chin in his tracks.

Kono materializes from what seems like absolutely nowhere. She kneels. “Easy, Boss. Stand down. Danny needs to get checked out too.”

“Danny—”

“Is in the way if he stays your shadow.”

Steve isn’t so sure about this, but the sky throbs now, hazy like his mind. Danny’s never been a burden, no matter how much he complains. If Danny’s at his side, he’s able to move forward. Simple as breathing.

Forward…stepping…

“Steve? Steve!”

There’s the slimmest break between all the bodies, just big enough for him to finally catch Danny’s eyes, blue and terrified and bloodshot.

Someone packs the fire in his stomach full of white.

This time it’s Steve who screams.

Chapter Text

He drifts in and out of an uncomfortable tide until a caterwauling breaks through.

It isn’t an angry caterwauling so much as desperate. Appallingly desperate. Steve hopes someone calms them down, and soon. They sound like they need help, maybe even more than he does.

Suddenly, a hand.

It latches onto his in a manic dive before he even registers EMTs starting to protest. The fingers fumble, as if not expecting to reach their goal and startled that they did. After a moment of twitching, the hand relaxes. It nestles inside the babushka doll of Steve’s.

He squeezes.

What would Steve be if he wasn’t a SEAL? Steve finally has an answer. He thinks this right here is it, smaller hand burrowed in his hand, a golden flash in the sea of white shirts, that familiar voice washing over him—even despite its desperate fury—with the lull of ocean waves. Steve relaxes.

He’d be here, he’d be whole. What more is there?

Especially when that caterwauling works and the hand stops being tugged away.

Steve doesn’t possess the strength to fight for it anyway, but he’s glad he doesn’t have to try. Nothing else makes sense for a dozen or so heartbeats except for the grip and its bird-like pulse. He could live in this moment until he dies.

For the first time since the start of this hellish case, stillness blankets Steve’s heart.

Time ceases to hold meaning for what Steve later learns is about forty minutes.

Forty minutes is more than enough time to rush him onto a gurney, hoist him inside the ambulance where they finally let Danny stay, and then into the trauma ward of Tripler.

Contrary to what everyone around him seems to think—they’re panicking; controlled panic, but panicking nonetheless—he doesn’t actually lose consciousness for any of the trip. Fades in and out, sure. Sees a few mouths moving without hearing any of it.

But he’s there, consciously speaking. At least after he wakes up in the ambulance, post unconscious stint on the forest floor, which by Steve’s calculations can’t be more than ten minutes.

Plastic nuzzles over his face. A bumpy ride with the cough of an ambulance engine that needs a new fuel line. Honking of morning traffic. Lights flashing by overhead. Danny’s hand pumping his like a lifeline until he’s forced out of the way at Tripler.

A series of X-rays and MRI tests flash by in a soup that Steve nods for in all the right places but doesn’t really register.

Cohesion glues the sensations back together into a whole perspective when the last stitch is tied and knotted. The emergency room doctor gave Steve a local anaesthetic so he could suture the area, but Steve didn’t need it anyway. He hasn’t been able to feel much since the blade. Numb with relief that he made it out of this particular scrape alive.

Joe White’ll have a field day when he hears about this incident. Maybe thump him on the back with a “good for you, son” and take him out for a beer. Steve thinks maybe eighteen stitches are worth it just for that.

Danny can’t be waylaid for long. He appears at the hospital room door, looking shaky and sick, like he threw up at some point. Steve’s the one who lost a pint of blood, but Danny competes with him for palest skin. Faint, woozy.

Danny has to put a hand on the wall once he opens the door. He’s re-dressed at some point in fresh jeans and a pullover sweater, one of Chin’s, free of Steve’s blood and sweat and rips where the gang members tried to tear him apart. A fresh bandage adorns his neck, just a nick. But he limps slightly with each step—that slip in the field hurt his ankle more than he let on.

The doctor turns while snapping off his gloves. “There you are, Detective. I wondered when you’d show up. EMTs said they could barely pry your hand off.”

Steve still feels this too, an afterimage on his nerve endings.

Danny has the grace to blush a little. “Can I chat with him for a bit?”

The doctor stands and waves Danny towards the chair. “Be my guest. I’ll get your discharge papers ready, Commander. Remember…”

“No strenuous activity or cardio for two weeks,” Steve recites.

“And in exchange, hopefully you won’t see me again anytime soon.” The doctor chuckles at his own joke and pats Danny’s shoulder on the way out. The door shuts with a soft click.

Silence.

A dimple forms one side of Danny’s mouth, but it’s low, and a complex myriad of emotions gallops through his eyes. They lock on bandages across Steve’s bare stomach.

“You alright?” he asks quietly. Fear and dread stain his tone.

“I got lucky.” Steve’s fingers tic. He wills them back down. Danny’s own fingers flex in response to the gesture and he steps closer, hands still at his sides. He refuses to sit in the chair.

Steve’s heart pangs at the absence of Danny’s fingers in his. He forges ahead with a bracing breath anyway, careful not to take one too deep. “No organ damage. No blood transfusion needed—only just. I essentially got the mother of all cuts. The blade wasn’t even jagged. Might leave an impressive scar.”

“It went in deep.”

Steve adjusts his head on the starchy pillow. “Deeper than the doc liked, but it’s just tissue and muscle damage. No arteries.”

“Good. That’s good.” Danny nods to himself. And there go his hands, fiddling with the rolled cuffs on his shirt.  

“You’d uh…you’d be injured a lot like this with the SEALs? If you led Team Two?”

Steve flinches at the reminder of a conversation they should have had two weeks ago. “Maybe. This was just a fluke though.”

“Just a fluke.” Danny’s voice marbleizes in a way Steve can’t read.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Danny.”

Danny glances up, though his head stays down. “That’s not why I’m…that’s not what hurts.”

“I just…I didn’t want to face…”

Danny’s tone is quiet, almost the same volume as machinery humming around the room. “Face what?”

Steve runs a hand down his face. His subconscious instinct is to reach up and trace the bandage on Danny’s throat, small though it may be. He does so several times in his mind before he catches the longing. His hands clench into fists to stop from fulfilling the mental action. Not when Danny’s shaking like that, not when his eyes simmer with emotion.

Steve feels its warning hiss under his own skin. “I didn’t want to face the team’s disappointment. Or get some lecture on how I don’t have to prove myself. I’m considering it because I…maybe I want to. It’s familiar, routine. Maybe I’d save more lives that way.”

Some of the liquid pain bubbles over and Danny’s eyes flash. “I get that this was private. But you could’ve consulted me.”

“I would have told you before making the decision. I just needed time to process the offer.”

Thankfully, Danny nods, understanding that at once. “You’re more than what you sacrifice, Steve.”

Steve’s embarrassed that his breathing suctions to the inside of his throat for a moment. I know that, is what he wants to reply, but doesn’t. Isn’t sure he can.

“Right,” he finally breathes.

Danny says nothing, and that’s the scariest thing so far. Instead, he plays with the IV port, saline and a few ccs of Dilaudid, leading to Steve’s wrist. A bandage shines on the inside of Danny’s right elbow too, Steve sees now, a long, skinny one with Steri-strip edges peeking out. Danny catches the look and rolls down his sleeve so it’s out of sight.

Something about his strange avoidance makes Steve clear his throat. The absence of his touch.

“Quite an eventful ending to this case, huh?”

Danny’s gaze leaps from his elbow to Steve’s face. Crimson twines around his ears, but still his voice is hushed—“What were you thinking?”

Steve blinks. “Danny…it’s over. We’re done. What are you going on about?”

“Are you kidding?” Danny asks, sincere, without an ounce of banter or bitterness.

“Nobody died today, not even the cartel members. We caught that biker kid and his father’s most trusted lackeys. Newsflash, Danny: most people call that a success.”

Defensiveness in Steve’s tone ups the volume in Danny’s. “You got blindsided by a guy with machete. All because you thought they’d split up into twos instead of three on one. You didn’t even realize the other hadn’t gone with me.”

“So we had to improvise—”

“No, Steve!” Danny’s abrupt shout sounds more like a cornered dog’s desperate bark and it halts Steve’s tongue. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s heard Danny truly furious. Not just irritated or opinionated. “You’ve done a lot of stupid things over the years. But assuming you could take on that many blades by yourself is borderline insane!”

“I had it handled!”

Danny huffs, eyes bright. Hands a mess, everywhere at once. “Did you even think to consult me with this plan?”

“There wasn’t time…”

“Did it occur to you that I might have had some suggestions for this lunatic move? Did you even mean what you said about having my back the other day?”

Steve gapes at his partner. “Of course I did! That’s why I had to try something drastic, to minimize the danger.”

“Minimize the danger.” Danny’s brows shoot up. “By throwing yourself into the line of fire and getting stabbed?”

“I wasn’t stabbed—”

“So this is the rest of my life.” Danny paces to the foot of Steve’s bed and back. “Why do you have a death wish?”

“Death wish?” Steve feels the first niggle of guilt. “These types of maneuvers save lives.”

Danny slaps the bed rail. “No, Steve—I saved your life. That man was about finish what he started and stab you in the chest before I came along, by the way. When you went down…” His breath snags. He stills a quiver in his lower lip. “And all for a near-suicidal stunt that had almost no chance of success.”

Steve’s nostrils flare. “Splitting up is a tried and true technique to weaken the enemy’s resources and disorganize the threat.”

“Don’t.” Danny points. “Don’t you quote that at me like I’m a soldier. I don’t care what the Navy says about your techniques. At this rate, you’re going to die by them one day.”

The world under Steve’s feet rumbles. His heart struggles to find purchase.

“What would you have done, then?” Steve can’t help his return holler. “Wait for them to pick us off?”

“Gosh, if only you’d asked me that question before your Rambo impression. You know, like a normal cop.”

Steve bristles, scowling. “I’m asking now.”

“We were running for the road, Steve! Backup was close! We just had to keep up that pace for five minutes. Five. Minutes.”

“We couldn’t know for sure Chin and the others would arrive in time.”

Danny growls. Honest to God growls. Steve’s too well trained to startle at the sound, but his heart skips a beat.

“Neither could we be sure your plan would work! Don’t you get it? You went lone wolf on me when I was right there. And it almost got you killed.”

“Why does this matter so much? It worked, case closed.”

“Why do you guys always take the risky shot first?” Danny yells back. He massages the bridge of his nose. “I’m surrounded by people who put their jobs before their loved ones!”

“Wait.” Steve’s brain, even medicated and lacking in sufficient blood, notices an anomaly. Danny’s never said anything like that before. “Who else in your life…”

Danny doesn’t hear him a lick, on an apoplectic roll. “…And running into burning buildings! You’re not Superman, alright? And you never think about the people you’d leave behind.”

Steve reaches out, reeling, looking for purchase in the normal bedside routine of hand holding and safe, pointless bickering. But Danny steps back. Steve’s heart plummets into his stomach. He swallows loudly enough for them both to hear it.

The brightness in Danny’s eyes starts to swell. His hands close, white knuckled. Empty. He turns away, and every single one of Steve’s eighteen stitches pinches.

“You know what? I can’t do this right now.”

“Danny—”

“Find your own way home.”

Steve’s hand is still stretched out when Danny slams the door.

Sneaking away from a highly trained detective shouldn’t be this easy.

The only stipulation on being discharged is that Steve has to be driven home by someone he trusts. No operating a vehicle on these meds.

With the army of fire ants in a crawl up and down Steve’s limbs, however, remaining inactive for another minute sounds tantamount to water torture. Chin enters the hospital room with a set of civvies in hand, takes one look at him, and sighs.

“Need a ride, I’m guessing?”

“That obvious?”

“Danny’s long gone so I figured…” Chin rests a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “We caught Harvey Lehrman and he squealed within an hour. We’ll pick up his kingpin father shortly, now that we know the location of his secret hideout.”

“Harvey?”

“The kid with the insect bike.”

“Ah.”

“I just have to sign for your release and we’ll spring you out of here. How’s that sound?”

Steve gives a thumb’s up and it doesn’t even tremble. Bonus points.

“Was he okay? Danny?”

Chin hesitates this time. “Skin around his bicep was inflamed, but they actually fixed some of the stitches and it’s a lot less infected now. He just looked upset when he drove off.”

Steve blows out a very slow, very deliberate breath of air. The fire ants scurry towards his heart.

Chin drives him home and promises to take care of all the paper work on this one. Steve agrees that they need the rest of the week off, after nearly sixteen days of non-stop casework and shoot outs.

It’s laughably easy, in the end. All Steve has to do is ask if Chin will pick them up some takeout, since he doesn’t feel like cooking and the fridge is woefully empty. His treat. Easiest con in history.

“I’m on it.” Chin dumps Steve on the couch, pillow over his stomach to protect it from errant movements, and cues a speed dial number on his phone. “Teriyaki?”

“Sounds great. Thanks for this, Chin.”

Chin’s worried look melts. “Anytime, brother. You gave us all quite the scare.”

“What else is new, apparently?”

Chin laughs and a sour taste lingers on Steve’s tongue, that if Danny would only have the same reaction to stuff like this, they’d get along much better as partners. 

The minute Chin’s car purrs out of the driveway, Steve jolts into motion. Muscles twitch and contract and demand release. He’s exhausted from the stakeout alone, not to mention the dulled bonfire in his gut.

But none of it makes him sleepy. Everything buzzes, keyed up to an extreme with no choice but to ride it out. Adrenaline quills every hair on his body.

Steve grabs his keys.

It’s senseless. And potentially lethal. He’s better trained than this, and Freddie would have his head if he could see such a reckless move.

But Steve doesn’t care about his health right now, doesn’t even spare effort for wondering if this will come back to bite him.

He just hops in his truck and drives. With the teriyaki place twenty minutes into town, one way, Steve calculates that he has more than enough time for a quick drive up the coast and back. Chin never need be any the wiser.

And hopefully it’ll allow Steve to take a breath deeper than a thimble.

The truck engine hums as it starts up—and Steve’s shoulders instantly lower. He shifts the stick, finally in control of something today. At this angle, his wound feels pretty good too; half reclined but still upright enough that the blood has no time to pool near the stitches.

Steve’s almost mad no one is around to see how well he drives. You’d never know he’s on prescription medication. 

It’s surgically precise driving, and he makes sure to stay well below thirty miles an hour, even with the lack of traffic. The urge to close his eyes is strong at times but he fights it. His emotions help, caustic even more than the stitches. They churn, writhing. Danny’s shouts ring in his ears.

None of it fits into the frame of life as he understands it. Nothing makes sense, all of a sudden.

Steve went from a working world where honour was best expressed through placing yourself between someone and the blast. The more you risked, the more you cared. Simple mathematics of the soul.

Now…now…

Steve wipes a hand down his sweaty face and turns off onto a rural section of the coast. He chooses this route for its pin-straight road. It’ll be easier to turn around here and head back in a bit too, with fewer cars.

“What did he mean people?” Steve murmurs to himself. “What other people?”

Who else in Danny’s life does stuff like this? Steve’s methods work. Period. If they’re good enough for the top stealth teams in the world, they should be good enough for distracting a bunch of knife-happy drug runners.

Kono maybe?

“No…” Steve catches himself swerving into the middle lane and rights the wheel. “Danny’s never mentioned being bothered by her behaviour before.”

Farms zip past the windows to his right. Corn fields. Cow pens. Horses at hay bales. A rancher fixing a tractor shades her eyes and waves to Steve. He doesn’t dare lift a hand off the wheel, but he nods back.

Why is this such a big deal?

That’s the real question.

Nobody else seems to care or be this distressed but Danny. Chin and Kono never complain, other than to advise in a mild fly-by comment that he should tone it down sometimes. But they usually give him a smile or a fist bump after a rash stunt.

Steve pumps the brakes to slow while he thinks.

“It’s a bit rich,” he mutters. “The guy who goes around punching bullies—and me—suddenly getting self righteous about…”

Steve’s arms jerk in surprise, eyes huge. The truck veers in a sharp curve to the right.

“Holy crap,” he pants. Images of Danny’s stricken face talking about Howie Cooper clash overtop of his riot act lecture this morning. Only…only they don’t clash at all. “Son of a—”

WHAM!

Something winged glances off the windshield.

For a split second, the truck skitters out of control and Steve thinks that’s it. Game over. He survived a drug cartel trying to gut him and he’s going to die out here in the middle of nowhere because of the stupid need to go for a drive while medicated. He hopes they don’t put it on his tombstone.

A beat to process all this, then Steve smashes to a stop. Dust plumes around the idling engine block and Steve leans back with a weak cough. He’s just grateful the air bag didn’t go off against his torso or he’d be looking at another hospital trip, probably in an ambulance.

He sits there and wheezes some more. Tiny rockets blast off in his stomach, all the way up to a burn behind his eyes.

Danny. Danny, why didn’t you tell me?

‘Burning buildings,’ he’d said. Dismay claps over Steve’s head, a football field of dominoes falling all at once.

Steve covers his eyes with his hand, not caring that he hit a fence post and is half off the road or that he just left impressive skid marks on the blacktop. When he’s done beating himself up and drops his hands—

Orange and red feathers flutter onto the hood like a gentle snowfall.

Steve blinks at the novel sight. Illusions can be a side effect of strong painkillers, his training narrates.

Reality kicks him in the teeth. “The chicken!”

Steve scrambles out of the truck and a very irate hen appears, pecking at his shoes. He jumps out of reach. She’s missing a few feathers in a scraggly spot near her wings.

The same rancher runs up, brown hair flying, and Steve hurries to apologize. “I’m so sorry, ma’am, I didn’t even see her flying towards me. I know I veered too close to the fence.”

“Don’t worry about that.” She looks from Steve back to his truck. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. What do I owe you for the damage?”

The woman chuckles a little. “Damage? Fence post is still in tact. Loretta is fine, I think.”

Loretta seconds this by squawking at Steve. She pecks at his calf and the rancher hastily scoops her up.

“It’s my fault for waiting to fix the hole in my chicken coop, really.”

“Let me give you my card, just in case.”

“Oh there’s no need to…Five-O.” The woman stares at his name and title when Steve hands her a spare business card from his wallet. “What are you doing all the way out here? Catch a big lead on a case?”

Steve swallows. “Something like that.”

You have no idea, lady.

The churn in his gut froths into a creamy dollop of shame.

Chapter Text

Tricking Kono is even easier. She appears promptly at one pm on his doorstep the next afternoon, burritos in hand.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” she chides, seeing him on the couch sifting through a folder of forensic photos.

Steve pushes back against his pillows. “I’m just sitting up.”

“You must be going stir crazy, cooped up in here with nothing to do.”

“Oh yeah. It’s brutal,” he agrees, grateful he drove back yesterday just before Chin returned with takeout. Thankfully the stitches weren’t harmed by his swerve off the road. Other than a miniscule dent on the truck grill and a bruise on his knee where it slammed the truck door, there’s no evidence of what happened.

Just his own sleepless thoughts.

Kono tilts her head. She sizes up the living room, then the stack of books and magazines and movies Max saddled him with this morning for entertainment after a medical check up. The untouched glass of juice. The bags under Steve’s eyes from a fitful night.

Going to bed with Danny still angry with him, somewhere out there, drapes darkly over his mind.

No, not really angry. If Danny’s bluster was truly anger, it would be an easy thing to settle. Well…he was angry, but not the injurious type people get when they’ve been offended. This was hurt, and that was always harder.

Hurt and fear. Lots of fear.

“How about a drive?” Steve asks.

“You’re not allowed to work a microwave, let alone a car on these meds. Get real.”

Steve pretends to look glum.

“You know what?” Kono snatches the folder from his hands. “Why not? It’d get you out of the house, but if I drive, technically that doesn’t count as strenuous.”

Success! Steve already has his feet on the floor. “Any catch?”

“No catch, but I’m DJ for the entire car ride.”

“Deal, Kalakaua.”

Clouds obscure most of the sunshine today, but Steve still enjoys sitting in the passenger seat of her car and rolling the window all the way down. Balmy winds sail through his hair. Kono hums along to an ABBA song and only steals the occasional look at Steve.

“In any pain?” she asks at one point.

“I’m good. Just took my meds.” Steve checks his phone for the umpteenth time. “Any word from Danny? He hasn’t returned my calls. Chin texted saying Danny isn’t at home, when he stopped by.”

Kono’s good humour dims. “Something about this time spooked him, Steve.”

Boy, do I know.

Still, he asks, “Spooked him how?”

“He didn’t…he wasn’t able to put this one in a neat mental box and shelve it. Seeing you fall made some of his fears real, not just hypothetical.”

Steve reads it in her grimace. “You know where he is, don’t you?”

“Sort of.”

“How do you ‘sort of’ know where a person is?”

Her hands flex on the wheel. “I know where he is but I don’t know if you should. He called and said he needed some alone time.”

“Kono, please.”

That please unravels her resolve in real time. She makes an ‘ugh’ sound of defeat and puts her blinker on. “Alright. But only because he sounded really sad.”

‘Really sad’ looks to be an exaggeration, at least externally. They pull up to Danny’s favourite lookout spot and there he is, sitting on the wall where he can face the ocean. The cloudy day darkens his hair to a dull bronze. He’s in a blue T-shirt and jeans, and in this lighting the white bandages on his bicep and neck stand out in uncomfortable disparity.

He must be able to hear them, a car engine at his back next to the parked Camaro with its fresh set of tires, but he doesn’t turn.

Steve’s lungs feel tight. “Hey Kono, can you uh…give us a minute? If Danny’s still speaking to me, he’ll probably drive me home.”

To her credit, Kono actually waffles on it. Then she eyes the slump in Danny’s shoulders and nods. “Be good, you two.”

I’m trying—but apparently not hard enough.

Steve gets out and stays standing until she drives away, until waves are the loudest sound. He’s grateful there’s no one else around at the tourist lookout today. He sits beside Danny in a very slow motion, so Danny won’t feel crowded. A good double hand span separates them. Steve eases into a relaxed stance by increments, careful not to push on tissue around the slash.

Danny eyes fix far in the distance. His face certainly appears calm. None of the sorrow Kono detected taints his expression except a subdued tension in his forehead.

Steve looks over at Danny’s clasped hands. A bloody crescent rings underneath his right thumbnail, either too deep for him to notice or too far back for him to scrub in that minimal time at the hospital.

Steve’s eyes ache again. He closes them, attuned to the crash of white caps and Danny’s gentle whir-hunhh breathing. Nothing can replace the feel of his pulse, but Steve knows this sound better than he knows the creak of the fifth stair in his childhood home.

“You know…” Steve too gazes out over the valley. “When I was eight years old, my father almost died. Mugger in Chinatown.”

Danny’s eyes remain forward, but his head swivels a few degrees.

Steve nods. “The crazy part? He wasn’t even on duty. Some elderly lady was closing her restaurant for the night and a kid came out of the alley with a gun.”

Memories assault Steve, the smell of his mother’s perfume, the sight of his father shaken and trying to hide it. The fact that he’d gone to Mary’s room to tuck her in, even though she was already asleep.

“Of course Dad jumped to help. He survived by a hair margin and still managed to knock the mugger unconscious. Bullet just grazed his chest.”

Steve narrows his eyes. “Mom was furious. She couldn’t believe he’d take a risk like that without thinking it through. Reamed him when he came home.”

Every muscle in Danny’s body stills.

“We were on edge for a few days after that,” Steve finishes. “Even…even at school or with friends.”

They’re almost a foot apart, but that’s close enough for Steve to hear Danny’s shuddering exhale. Steve’s throat aches now too. For three precious minutes they watch a surfer miles below catch a wave. She tumbles off halfway through, but her friends on the beach clap anyway.

“How soon before the camping trip, Danny? How soon did he…?”

“That same week.” Danny’s whisper sounds small like Seve feels. It’s plenty sad.

“I’m sorry, Danny.”

“Dad almost died the Wednesday before that Scouts trip and then…”

Danny raises his hand, lets it drop.

“Kids are mean,” says Steve. “And petty. It still hurts.”

Danny’s gaze shutters, distant for a moment. “We got so lucky we were blind to it, you know? We were spoiled by the fact Dad didn’t have close calls. Not like other fire fighters. Oh sure, sometimes he’d have a cough for a few days from too much smoke or get a burn on his arm. But not like…not like that day.”

Steve dares to place a warm hand on Danny’s wrist, pleased he doesn’t pull away. “Bad fire?”

“He was almost out, you know? His job finished and he was walking towards the ladder.”

Steve doesn’t need a road map to see how this story ends. He’s lived it personally, seen his father nearly die for it, and mourns every day that his estranged mother can’t see how it destroys her and everyone she loves. “Why’d he run back?”

“Little boy was hiding under the couch.”

“He went back inside the fire for him.”

“Yeah. Even though his chief told him to wait. The floor of the apartment completely collapsed while he stood in the middle of it. The fourth floor.”

Steve winces.

“Most don’t even live through something like that.” Danny’s eyes flick down to his hands. Steve’s hand. “The doctors kept telling us what a miracle it was, couldn’t we see how ‘fortunate’ we were? I didn’t understand it. My dad had burns on forty percent of his body, almost paralyzed, and they called him fortunate.”

Steve’s hand tightens.

“Only months of physiotherapy gave him his life back, let alone his job.” Danny stops, hands clenched into fists. Muscles ripple under Steve’s fingers. “Howie Cooper always made fun of us, just dumb stuff to get under our skin. But one night…”

Steve holds his breath.  

“That night he made a barbeque joke about my dad and I just snapped.”

Something hot flashes in Danny’s eyes even now, twenty-six years later. It reminds Steve, yet again, how relieved they all should be that Danny stands on their side of the law. He wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley when he’s that kind of angry.

“My dad loved to save people. Like that little boy—who survived, by the way.” Danny sniffs. Wind rustles loose hairs at the base of his neck. “But sometimes I think he liked it more than coming home.”

Ice forms around the walls of Steve’s lungs. Each breath burns.

After several false starts, Danny’s eyes eventually find their way to Steve’s face. “He put his job before his family. Found most of his identity in it, though I wouldn’t grasp that part until I got older.”

Steve trained for torture with the SEALs, not to mention experience facing down some of the world’s worst criminals. None of that prepares him for the intense bolt of pain that crackles down his chest upon meeting Danny’s eyes.

Relief swims around his head too, but that transference of sorrow through the empathy and love he has for Danny makes Steve feel about an inch tall.

“Your father loves you,” Steve whispers. “Deeply.”

Danny nods. “He does, to such a degree that it made him do rash things sometimes in the name of protecting us as kids. But my point is that he didn’t even feel like himself unless he’d been the hero before walking through our front door. It’s why I promised never to be like that with Grace. I’m a cop, but I’m a father first.”

The ache in Steve’s eyes threatens to spill.

“Danny…I’ve worked for my government a long time now. I don’t…I’m not sure how to be anything else.”

Danny’s mouth falls open. He pulls his hand away and Steve makes a faint sound in the back of his throat, wracked, until Danny puts that same hand on Steve’s knee. Both brows drop low.

Steve waits for the reprimand, a repeat of yesterday’s performance. Maybe some more barbs about what a Navy robot he is and how this is the culprit for his lack of people skills.

“Grace would be crushed if anything happened to you, you know.”

Steve replays the words five whole times in his brain before he actually hears them. He and Danny sort of stare at each other in unabashed wonder and confusion, for separate but perhaps not so unrelated reasons.

“I’m sorry, you’re saying…”

“A part of her would never recover,” says Danny again. “That’s what loss does, especially to a child with her favourite uncle.”

Those meds must be a stronger dose than Steve’s doctor claimed; he’s hallucinating rain and it hasn’t even started yet. Storm clouds linger far to the east.

“What did you call us in the bare bones office after that first case?” Danny pushes.

“Ohana.”

“So we’re family, right?”

This feels like a court case establishing that yes, the sky is indeed blue. Asinine. Danny being family is so entrenched Steve almost doesn’t catch where he’s going with this.

“It’s…” Steve has to clear his throat. “It’s my top priority that you stay alive and well for Gracie, that you all make it home to loved ones at the end of a dangerous case or shoot out. Hence the stunts.”

Danny sighs, but it’s a fond sound. “Steve, you’re so stupid.”

He leans forward, catching something shiny off Steve’s cheek with his thumb. His eyes just blur more.

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe you need to come home to us? That you’re included in that mission objective?”

The rain deluges in steady pitter patters now. No, no it really hasn’t occurred to Steve. A bewildered alarm blares through him—at the epiphany that he’s crying, at the thought Grace loves him as much as Matty, at the realization that he doesn’t want to be anything like Doris, at Danny so full of love even after the copious times Steve’s messed up.

“Your worth is not found in how well you protect this island or close a case, Steve. It’s found in the people who care about you. Don’t leave them behind in the name of saving lives if you can’t even be there for theirs. Please promise me you’ll think about that.”

A vague, pleasant dizziness rattles Steve. The earthquake in his heart ceases. “I will. And I’m sorry about how reckless I’ve been. None of it is fair to you. But you have to promise me something in return.”

“Shoot.”

“You have to let me protect you.” Danny nods, a resolution to something inside Steve he didn’t even notice is hanging by a shoe string. “But I’ll change what that looks like, take less risks.”

“I’m counting on it. Because I…” Danny’s eyes well too, tears along with a scared kind of heartache. “I can’t keep doing this, Steve. I can’t keep wondering if the latest crazy move will be your last. If I’ll have to drive you away from the scene in a body bag.”

Steve shifts closer, so their elbows knock. “Danno?”

“Steve?”

“I will do everything in my power to be different from the legacy of our families, to put ohana before work.”

Tension in Danny’s brow drains at once. His hand squeezes Steve’s knee, then strokes his arm. Steve gets the sense that Danny’s dizzier than he lets on. Affection rounds the angles of his face until he’s flush with it. “I’m your backup.”

“Exactly.”

“Then let me do my job. Sometimes your backup has better ideas than you anyway.”

Steve laughs, hoarse. “Sounds like a plan.”

And honestly? It is. It’s the best plan he’s heard all week.

In the end, Danny does indeed drive Steve home.

It’s one of those rare, lazy moments when Steve prefers to be a passenger. Both because of renewed pain licking up his abdomen and for the opportunity to gaze at Danny’s loose grin.

Steve closes his eyes almost without meaning to, rocked by the knowledge that Danny will get him home safely—and that he’s expected to be a part of that.

Case in point, when they make it back to Steve’s house, Danny doesn’t leave. He supports Steve until he can buckle onto the couch, perpendicular so his feet are propped atop the coffee table. At this curled slant, his stitches cease their punishment.

He and Danny exhale a breath in unison.

Danny doesn’t putter around or fuss. Just plops down beside Steve, much closer than he needs to. There’s a whole four feet on either side but Danny ignores it in favour of huddling up against Steve.

Steve’s eyes have closed again, sans his permission, but he leaves them that way to savour the warmth of Danny’s hip against his, a pointy elbow where it sweeps his stomach. The bob of Danny’s knee to a tune inside his head.

Lips press at Steve’s temple and retreat. “Glad you’re okay.”

“‘M not leavin’ you for anything,” Steve slurs.

They don’t turn on the TV, listening to ocean waves out the open lanai screen instead. Even without the car, the world still rocks…soothed, comfortable.

“Thanks, Kono.”

“Not a problem, Danny. I was near the school anyway.”

“You’re a lifesaver.”

A soft laugh, though it isn’t denied. “You good for the evening shift? Need another pain med?”

“Yeah, I got him. And yes, please.”

Steve doesn’t know how long he’s dozed—long enough for his neck to tip back into the cushion and grow stiff—when he hears Kono’s voice and the door open. Tiny flip flops shuffle off a pair of tiny feet.

“He’s okay?” a voice whispers.

The pad-pad-pad of bare feet rounds his coffee table and towards Danny. Danny shifts away from Steve for a moment, exposing cool air. Steve doesn’t bother opening his eyes, lost in the delightful soup of an afternoon nap. All his muscles have checked out for the day.

“Just a cut, remember?” Danny whispers back. He grunts and leans back to sink into his place melded to Steve. “Uncle Steve is fine.”

“Do yours hurt?”

A hum, the sound of a quick kiss. “Just a smidge.”

Ha. Steve knows how much agony ‘just a smidge’ can encompass.

“Here.” Kono’s voice hovers over Danny. “I’m giving you two pills. I know you haven’t been drinking enough water either.”

Apparently not. Danny downs what sounds like a whole glass in one go before Kono’s satisfied and steps back, out the door. It’s quietly closed behind her parting goodbye. “Call if you need anything.”

Danny hums again. Little fingers stroke Steve’s arm. His eyes prickle, but he keeps perfectly still. So does Danny, his weight resting more fully against Steve until he feels Danny’s temple on his shoulder.

Grace seems on the same page. She sighs, content, into Danny’s shirt. She must be tilted sideways in Danny’s lap, for her toes to brush Steve’s ribs.

It’s unorthodox, them wanting a nap at four o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon, let alone a ten year old fresh home from school. But they all need it, need this simple pocket of time to recline in and the promise that there will be many more to come.

Home.

No more of Steve’s tears make it to the surface…but a slow, faint smile does.

Danny and Grace somehow fall asleep before him, their breaths even and calm against his side. Grace’s thumb twitches, right over a scar on Steve’s arm.

The water and wine of family and identity, purpose, swirl together inside Steve’s heart. A slosh of sudden peace. They blend into a blushed rose colour, to match his cheeks.

Right before he dozes off, he peeks open one eye to memorize the sight of them—

Grace is smiling too.

Pineapple cakes are a real thing. No, really. Look it up. Turn over cakes, spiced pineapple cakes, funnel cakes. You can even get full sized artisanal cupcakes decked out and stuffed with pineapples.

The way Steve howled in delight when he learned this fact is topped only by the scrunch on Danny’s face when he plops it in front of his partner. Kono cackles.

Danny points to the yellow monstrosity. “Uh…”

“Happy Birthday, Danno!” Steve spreads his arms wide and the team echoes it, where they sit on either side of Danny on the picnic bench. “Here’s to many more.”

Grace leans on her father’s elbow. “Blow out the candle, Danno. You’ve got to make a wish!”

“How about I wish us up some real birthday cupcakes, huh?”

“This is a real birthday cupcake,” Steve wheedles.

“It’s an abomination, is what it is.” Danny pretends to shield Grace’s eyes. “People ought to be locked up for baking these things.”

Chin knocks on the table top. “Alright, alright, ladies. Steve, you’ve had your fun.”

He reaches underneath his spot and Danny perks up. “Please tell me you brought something that’s not a citrus nightmare.”

“You didn’t really think we were gonna try and split that measly cupcake six ways, did you?”

“Chin, I love you. I’m naming my next child after you.”

Chin half bows. “Much obliged. You do still have to blow out the candle though.”

Danny glances around. “What should I wish for?”

“A horse!” says Grace, with gusto.

Danny taps her nose. “That’s what you wished for at your birthday party.”

“You could always wish for less paper work,” Kono offers, ever the troublemaker. She winks at Steve. He rolls his eyes and helps Kamekona unload the tray of shrimp orders for everyone.

Chin sets a mammoth black forest cake on the table, heavy enough that their plastic cutlery bounces. Danny ‘ooo’s and ‘aaaahhh’s at it, a spark of something genuinely happy in his full smile. Steve sits on Danny’s other side and Kamekona rounds out the party in a lawn chair at the head of the table.

Danny thinks about his wish longer than is probably normal for a full grown adult, while the others dig into their food.

“Alright, I got it.” Danny blows out the candle in one puff—with generous assistance from Gracie—and quirks a brow. “We’ll know shortly if that one comes true.”

“You wish for more hair gel? This is a pretty stiff breeze.”

“Har dee har.” Danny’s flat tone doesn’t match amused blue eyes. They slide up to Steve’s at his words. Steve spies a note of gratitude, one of those sappy expressions Danny reserves just for moments like this.

By the time they finish eating, Grace’s squirms reach epic proportions. She waits for everyone to lay down their napkin and dig into fat slices of chocolate cake, with Herculean patience for a ten year old. Steve’s amazed her sense of etiquette lasts that long.

He leans around Danny to grin at her. “You wanna give Danno his special gift now?”

“Yeah, yeah!”

Grace dashes off to the Camaro parked nearby and lifts a big box from the back seat. Danny’s fork drops in surprise. He startles.

“Baby, what did you buy?”

“Well…technically Mom bought it.” Grace huffs and puffs her way back to Danny, at which point he relieves her of the bulky burden. “But I picked it out all by myself and wrapped it.”

“No matter what it is, I’m impressed already.”

Grace beams.

Danny tears off the giraffe wrapping paper, not quite covered in certain spots. Danny must be able to see something of what’s underneath, with all the gaps of tape and scrabbled paper, but he puts on a show of being in the dark.

Steve suddenly feels a little sappy too.

“Whoa!” Danny holds the box at arm’s length, eyes wide. “Monkey, you got me an ice cream maker?”

Grace shows him a list on the side of the box. “This one makes gelato too. I know you miss the Little Italy shops back in New Jersey and this way you can whip up some whenever you want.”

Danny’s eyes mist over, his smile a puddle now. He kisses the top of Grace’s head. “This is the best gift ever, thank you. I’ll be sure to make some gelato for us this weekend.”

“Mint chip flavoured?”

At a chorus of laughter, Danny smacks his forehead with an open palm. “Of course! How could I forget about the wondrous powers of mint chip?”

More gifts are presented—a homemade coupon for surf lessons for both he and Grace, from Kono, some grill utensils from Chin, and an offer for free lunches for a weekend from Kamekona. It’s oddly generous of the man, and Steve turns to ask him about that, but one glance at his soft eyes on Danny, interacting with Grace, and Steve doesn’t bother. He wears that look half his life at this point.

Steve goes last, mostly on purpose but also because if they tease Danny for being overly sentimental, this gift makes him a giant hypocrite. His box is tiny, with a wrap job that’s only slightly more polished than Grace’s. A square package the size of his palm. He’ll be lucky to live it down before he dies.

Danny eyes the box when Steve holds it out. “Is this a very compact greeting card?”

“Would you open it already?”

“I hope you at least had an inspiration for this gift. Not some last minute commercial purchase.”

It’s another quip. A clear joke that even if Steve did exactly that, Danny won’t care one bit. Danny throws it out while he focuses on extracting the box from all that tape.

Steve still tries to shrug it off, literally, and fails. “Let’s just say family should never be untied.”

Danny’s eyes snap up to Steve. His fingers pause around the lid and he raises a brow in question. Steve nods his chin towards the box.

Danny flips off the lid and whatever comeback he has lined up dies on his lips. “How did you even…”

“The bracelet I made you!” Grace admires the tight knotwork. “I thought this got ruined, Danno.”

“I…I thought it did too. You re-weave all this yourself, Steve?”

“Eh. I just spent a few evenings in front of a game with it. Watched a lot of YouTube tutorials.”

“Nice work, Steve,” says Chin. Even he looks wowed by the complex weft of threads.

Danny slips his hand under the table and grasps Steve’s. There’s the familiar heartbeat. “Thank you. You didn’t have to go and do this.”

“I wanted to.”

Steve practically puffs with pride. Seeing Grace’s joy and Danny’s meaningful look around the table at his family, sliding on the bracelet so it fits snugly on his wrist, is all the thanks Steve needs.

Ringing tears Steve from the moment. He digs out his cellphone. “Excuse me.”

After stepping away from the table for some privacy, he clicks to accept the call. “This is Commander McGarrett.”

“Commander, I hope I’m not bothering you on your afternoon off.”

“Admiral Hutchins.” Steve chances a glance at Danny only to see his head whip around. They share an extended gaze. “…Good to hear from you again.”

“I was just checking in to see if you’ve made up your mind about this new reserve status.”

“Right, your offer…”

At the table, Grace has chocolate cake smeared across her nose. Kono attempts to wipe it off and only succeeds in getting it all over herself too. Chin snickers at them both. Kamekona retrieved his ukulele at some point and serenades the cozy party with an Elvis Presley tune.

They’re a mess, full of sunshine and rain. Wind blows the dirty napkins onto Chin and now they have a new problem. Kono has to put her head down on the table, she’s laughing so hard by the end.

But they’re his mess. They’re the reason he needs to come home every night too.

And in the eye of the storm is Danny who, though he helps clean his daughter, never takes his eyes off Steve.

“You know what, Admiral? It’s a generous offer and it would certainly be an honour to lead Team Two.”

Steve nods, and after a shy moment Danny returns it. Trust. He’s not making decisions alone now.

“But I’m going to have to decline.”

Danny’s face threatens to crumple and he plants a hand on the table, like he’ll fall over if he doesn’t. ‘Thank you,’ he mouths.

“Are you certain? This would be a real career booster and could really enrich your life.”

“No, that’s alright.” Steve commits the happy chaos to memory, the sight of Danny’s radiant face amidst it all. “I’ve got everything I need right here.”