Archive of Our Own ^beta

1.

Evening, December 24th, O’ahu, Hawai’i
Lunch time, December 25th, US Airbase, Afghanistan

For weeks now people had been quietly commiserating with her.

“Hope you can still have a nice holiday, Mare.”

There’d been texts and calls and holiday cards, all with the same sweet, difficult message.

“We’ll be thinking of you guys, you know we will. More than ever. Love to you and little Joanie.”

The kindness of both friends and strangers had been given a signal boost by the season, of course it had. She understood that, could appreciate the extra sentiment. Deep down, though, Mary Ann McGarrett knew that actually Christmas didn’t come into it.

Here she was at 9pm on Christmas Eve in what she still thought of as her parents’ house. She had managed to get the kids to bed (mostly), the kitchen in a muddle (totally), had a sick, irritable fluttery feeling in her stomach (gross), and hardly felt festive at all. Rationally she knew it wasn’t her brother’s fault. That he wasn’t here, running the usual tight McGarrett ship, was beyond his ability to plan this year. Although, let’s face it, waiting for a bad news phone call was pretty much standard operating procedure all year round when it came to Steve anyway.

But this in no way stopped Mary being mad with him.

There had been other holidays with Steve away, sure. Quite a few when she thought about it. Nearly every Christmas after they lost Mom first time around to be honest. But they (which in those days was her and Deb, plus Dad) had always known where he was, could hope for a brief crackly connection down a satellite phone at the very least, an unlikely promise to be around more next year.

This time his family (now Danny and his kids plus Mary and Joanie) didn’t even have the first clue of his whereabouts, and they’d had no contact with anyone on the subject – least of all him – for nearly six weeks. Even Joe White, who tended to be able to track Steve and provide nuggets when he probably shouldn’t, was completely off the radar. That it was Christmas Eve and still there was radio silence strongly suggested action to Danny. Or injury. Both perhaps. Or worse.

It did to Mary too, although she did at least have an inclination towards hand-wavy optimism which Danny didn’t.

She rifled through the bowl for another Gummi reindeer.

Green and red and emptily satisfying.

Sugar didn’t help fluttery stomachs and would probably play havoc with her gut but she figured it was better than booze. Although… that wasn’t a bad idea come to that. There was vodka in the house, she was pretty sure, and probably a lot of other good stuff too. Just like his father before him Steve always kept a full bar. For poker nights and "emergencies", Dad always said.

However, there was this weird thing. Steve was the one who’d always tried to nudge her away from all those lovely addictive helpmeets. And she’d been really good since adopting Joan. Like, for her, really good. Her brother was proud of her, properly proud. It would be too much of a kick in Steve's guts for her to cave now.

But Mary was Mary and had never known how to stop. Danny, on the other hand, was Danny, and he was different. There had to be something really crappy going on for him to start leaning on the booze. And talking of crappy... as bad as all this not knowing was for her - and for Grace who understood enough to worry - it was Danny who was really suffering. Without having given a single sign in front of the kids, Mary could tell he was slowly starting to climb the walls. In a relationship of separations this had been the longest time they’d ever been out of contact and Steve had been due home over two weeks ago. Two whole weeks, during which Navy Family Support seemed to have gone AWOL as well.

Danny was down on the lanai now, too wrecked to be helpful anymore. He was in Steve’s favorite chair with his third beer of the evening and (if he hadn't left it upstairs as usual) his phone within snatching distance - because they never knew when they might hear something, one way or the other.

Mary stood for a moment at the foot of the stairs, listening.

She wiped sticky fingers on her pants. There was no sound from her room where Joan was asleep in the travel crib that was really too small for her now, amidst a sea of plushies. No sound from Danny and Steve’s room where Charlie was crashed, and none either from the room where Grace, up to half an hour ago, had been watching youtube videos on her laptop accompanied by a giant bar of Hersheys.

Snagging a beer and a soda from the fridge, Mary slipped out the door into the quiet dark. She padded down the garden and across the lanai towards the sea.

Such a familiar, weighted route. It made her think of games on the beach when they were young, of Steve at all ages wading into the water to push the limits and show off, of Dad, sitting there alone when he’d sent them away.

As she drew near the chairs she decided Danny seemed pretty relaxed. Off-duty scruffy and in a thoughtful pose rather than a tense one. He was wearing sweats and a t-shirt with a baggy overshirt draped over his shoulders. Mary was half happy and half sad to see the thick, military-issue socks ruched around his ankles. For comfort more than warmth, she suspected. Danny wouldn’t wear many of Steve’s clothes but it seemed he did have a thing for his socks. He sat with one leg bent, ankle resting on his knee, and he was leaning back in the chair, nursing the latest Longboard against his chest.

“Hey,” Mary said to him. About half an hour ago she’d heard him having the ‘no, still no news – yes, sure, if you insist, no news is good news’ conversation with Chin and Kono – again. This one, coming on this day, had seemed to throw him into something of a tailspin.

She put the beer on the table, sat on the other chair with her feet tucked under her.

Danny continued to stare out at the dark horizon. “We good?” he asked without moving his head.

“Charlie’s down. Joanie went about ten minutes ago. Grace’s quiet.”

A short silence. “Usually she’d be driving me crazy at this time on a Christmas Eve.”

“She’s tired.”

Danny came back at her immediately. “She’s worried, and she has no business to be worried. He has no business worrying a child. Putz.”

It was lucky, Mary decided, that she understood how Danny expressed anxiety. Or else she’d continually be defending her brother against a stream of abuse. If it had been any other day, Mary probably would have pointed out with some punch that Danny gladly chose to get himself permanently hitched to a maverick Navy reservist with the kind of career résumé that some of those at Suicide Mission Control still considered shit hot.

Such a reminder wasn’t for Christmas Eve, though – their first since the wedding. In any case, maybe they should be grateful that this time of year, although it was an amplifier, was also a brake.

“Wherever he is,” she said. “I’m sure they’re standing down tonight.” And then she fished out her phone and looked at the time, her customary jumble of words coming on a stuttered sugar rush. “In fact, hey, he could, maybe he’s having his Christmas lunch or whatever right around now, if he’s, you know, anywhere, in that part of the world.”

Danny made a noise at that, and finally turned his head. She could see even in the dimness that his face was moon-pale and strained. He gave her one of his distracted half-smiles.

“Do they even do vacuum packed Christmas lunches?”

“Why not? I’ll bet you could get all kinds of, you know, things, stuffed into one of those little pouches.”

His smile became tired. “Yeah,” he said. He drained his bottle, set it down next to the new one.

“So, I’ve done all my prep cook duties, for tonight anyhow. Never thought I’d say it but I kind of missed the micro-management, you know, and being told I wasn’t doing it right.” Mary stretched one leg under the table and poked at him with a toe. “Any word from Santa?”

“Too drunk to care,” Danny stated, “but that’s OK because before your brother left he worked out a detailed mission plan for both tonight and tomorrow.”

“Yay Steve.”

“Yay.” Danny snagged the second bottle of beer with a swipe, took several large swallows.

Mary gave him a moment, then she asked, “You talked to your folks?”

“And how. Me and Eric have to sign an affidavit swearing we’ll be in Jersey next year. Which would be like a proper Christmas. Unlike this.” He gestured half-heartedly at the ocean.

“Well OK.” Mary pretended offense. “We'll be here as usual. I’m sure Chin will take on Santa. He’s always wanted to.”

He held the Longboard towards her. There was a pause before he spoke.

“Here’s to a happy Christmas all around, then, huh?” he got out eventually. “This year, next year. Wherever the hell we all are, whatever’s happening.”

Mary swallowed a sudden lump of fear, not liking Danny’s mixture of bravado and bitterness.

“Whatever,” she agreed, and chinked against the Longboard with her soda bottle.

They sat for a while in silence, listening to the breeze on the water. Danny was not a huge fan of listening to the ocean, but Mary had a sneaking suspicion that maybe something about the sound made him feel closer to Steve right now. Steve being Aquaman and all.

Danny finished the second bottle of beer and set it down. Then sat leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

“I have to go in,” he said at last, reluctant, almost as if he was steeling himself. Having to make himself break out of some comfort zone.

Mary watched him push up from the chair. It tugged on her heart to see him so down on a night when he’d normally be in such a great mood. “You’re doing good, Danny. You know that, right?”

He peered at her through the dark.

“Well, that’s nice and not necessary but, OK, thank you.”

“There’s no right or wrong way to do this is all I’m saying.”

“You mean this waiting around for weeks to hear something I would never, ever get over as long as I lived?”

The depth of Danny’s feelings for her brother made her heart squeeze, but man, this Jersey worst-case scenario shtick of his, it drove her crazy.

“Danny, there are missions and operations going on all the time, every day, you know that, right? And everyone is fine. Just like Steve will be fine.”

“Sure,” Danny said, “Only Steve is never completely fine, is he? He will be out front, and he will be first, and he will be a target.”

“Right.” Mary uncurled from the chair, reached for her soda as she stood. She slid an arm through his as they began back towards the lights of the house. “Just like you are, and Chin and Kono are, every day when you go do your task force business. He worries about you too, you know.”

Danny pressed her arm against his side. “He does worry.” He seemed to think about that side of things for a moment or two. “Huh, he’s not as big and tough as he thinks.”

“Yeah,” Mary said after a beat. “Yeah, he is.”

And Danny laughed. Which was good.

*

While the evening breeze was brushing over the lanai, Christmas Day had already hit the main airbase north of Kabul.

There was a hopeful line snaking out of the main DFAC doors – even before the kitchens had been signaled open. Military, contractors, support staff, even some locals. And a handful of representatives from the international media corps as well.

“The idea is not to look too keen,” freelance cameraman Ezra Standish murmured to Mary Travis, his current reporter from KCNC-TV out of Denver. He was fresh from sleeping off another late night playing cards with a group of bored, twitchy contractors.

Mary had been in the edit suite laying down a rather winsome voice track when Ezra had turned up at the Media Center to drag her to Christmas Day lunch. And he was apparently in a bossy mood.

“Let the nice military types go first – but not too many of them or we’ll be left with nothing. You know they don’t do manners.” His voice was its usual honey southern drawl.

“I forgot,” she said, moving out of the way of a bunch of satellite operators in fatigues and tinsel. “You were here before.”

“Not here here. I was in Lashkar Gah a few years ago, although the Brits have a different lunch. Puddings and Brussels sprouts and all that other dubious fare. So, right. You see those third platoon guys just coming through? We should slot in behind them, nice and smooth. Just smile and shimmy.”

“Do you calculate everything?”

Ezra blinked his green eyes at her, disarming. “Don’t you?”

“The Desk called,” Mary said, attempting to do as he’d suggested. “They want a package for the nine.”

“Let me guess. Messages from home, last night’s carol service, all the sentiment?”

“Uh-huh. And then they’d like a new piece on the fallen comrades ceremony. I already checked with the padre and he’s OK with that.”

“Always with the heartstrings. And the work.”

Ezra kept on steering her by the elbow until she stopped him. His need to be gallant was, on occasion, welcome, but not always. Mary felt her position as the only female journalist on the base right now very keenly. It was important, at all times, to show she was equal to everything. She filled her tray, snagged some juice, and then headed to find a spot for them, determined to take the lead.

There were a few faces she recognized. And then a couple of soldiers with whom they were both on closer terms. The medic attached to second platoon's B-Troop was sitting with their padre at the end of a near-empty table and she wound a way through to him, Ezra on her heels.

“Gentlemen,” she said, “may we?”

“Feel free,” the medic, Lt. Nathan Jackson, said, looking up with a nod. It was rare, but not entirely unknown, for the professions to mix. The fact that it was Christmas Day made a difference.

Mary weighed up her plastic trays of food as she sat. It smelled pretty good, considering. She and Ezra had only recently returned from a forward operating base – their whole reason for leaving the capital in the first place - and, in solidarity with the soldiers they were embedded with, had eaten nothing but vacuum packs for five days. Her late husband would have been impressed. Ezra, of course, definitely hadn’t been.

She noticed him glancing sideways more than once at the ever-growing line, scanning those already in the mess.

Ezra was missing someone.

“Are you expecting your Captain Larabee?” she asked Lt. Jackson helpfully and Ezra mashed potato rather too forcefully into his gravy and created a small tsunami.

Jackson exchanged a look with the padre, Josiah Sanchez.

“No, actually.”

“Oh, why not? I understood B Troop were off duty today. As it’s Christmas.”

“Always questions, Ms Travis,” the padre said with a toothy smile. He was a big bear of a man with a wiry gray beard and muscles. His food trays were already empty. “Do you people never stand down?”

Mary sipped her cranberry juice. “Well,” she said, “Like your good selves, it’s just... you know, we’re pretty good at picking up on signals. And the signals, not to mention all those helicopters last night, are telling us something’s happening.” She smiled, pleasant. “Is it anything to do with the hostages? Are they coming out?”

“On this occasion,” Sanchez said, “You know about as much as we do.”

“Maybe more,” Jackson added, giving Ezra a meaningful glance.

“Oh no,” Ezra said. “The good Captain has told me nothing. He’s much too professional for that.” He gave a small sigh. “Although he did give me to understand we might see him at lunch today – and he, and his team, are clearly not here.” He waved a hand around. “I tend to notice details like that.”

“He gave you to understand?” Lt. Jackson sounded a tad gruff. “What does that mean?”

Even though she’d been the one to introduce it, Mary now decided she needed to cut this line of conversation off at source. She really hoped that Jackson was merely poking at what he thought of as rumors. And goodness knows this place was always, always full of rumors.

Ezra was a fine cameraman when he put his mind to it, had given time and sweat to this mad, beautiful country, and he had the whole Pashto thing down impressively pat. She enjoyed working with him, she really did, but Ezra had his own agenda on some things. Like always finding an angle which would be to his advantage. And, yes. Like conducting torrid affairs with very single, serving army officers.

His current liaison with the sad-eyed, widowed Captain of B Troop no less, had apparently been going strong since the Captain was deployed here ten months ago, which rather marked it out as something serious. Ezra had spent time out on patrol with him and his men long before Mary had been assigned, jumping through hoops for a gung-ho young CNN reporter who’d thought it was all great until the guy in front of him had lost a foot. So yes, they’d gotten pretty close, although you had to be part of the inner circle to know that. This place, like any of the military bases, was a hidden hotbed of sexual encounters, but anything not leading to a boy-meets-girl apple pie conclusion really needed – still, unfortunately – to be kept under the radar, so to speak.

She trod on his booted toe to stop him answering the medic.

“Admit it, there’s been talk of an extraction for days now.” Mary was as pushy as she dared. “And we all heard the tracer fire. More than usual, I mean.”

They’d noticed a sudden influx of NGO people from the capital too, last night. Not that non-profits on the base was exactly unheard-of, but the timing seemed interesting.

“Talk is cheap,” Sanchez said in a mild way that actually didn’t seem very mild at all.

“Indeed so.”

There was a strained silence.

“Well,” Ezra said, treading back on her toe so she winced, “as I believe is the custom, may we wish you gentleman a very merry Christmas. Although perhaps not quite as merry as we might have liked since that kind of celebration is sadly impossible.”

Jackson grinned at that. “Maybe not impossible,” he said. “But almost certainly inadvisable.”

They all chinked juice boxes across the table.

“Thank you for your good wishes.” The padre had softened up again. “And the same to you. I hope you managed to speak to your boy, Ms. Travis.”

Mary’s heart squeezed at that, suddenly painful with its load of guilt and longing. She’d done her best to be ridiculously busy the last few days, just so she wouldn’t think too much about Billy. Because thinking too much about Billy sometimes made her not want to do her job anymore and that, she suspected, would not end well for her. Ezra had played along, had hardly stopped talking most of yesterday. It had worked, too.

“I did speak to him,” she said around the lump in her throat. Billy had been off-guard, full of love for his hard-working mama and too sleepy to ask difficult questions. She smile-nodded at the padre. “He’s with his grandparents, having a very lovely time.”

“And I’m sure knows he’ll be seeing you soon,” Lt. Jackson added. He tipped his chin at Ezra. “Same as your mother knows she’ll be seeing you.”

“My mother,” Ezra said, with a theatrical eye-roll, effectively drawing them back to firmer ground.

“Now, son.” Josiah was grave. “Despite everything you have told us, I am sure she is a wonderful woman.” He exchanged an amused look with the medic. “And now you must excuse me – I have a service to prep.”

“We’ll be along shortly,” Mary assured him, as he stood, grateful for the new distraction. “As long as that’s still fine by you?”

“You’ll be very welcome. Although there’ll be no bells and whistles.”

“We are actually capable of subtlety and restraint in our work,” Ezra said.

“So I’ve heard tell.”

The padre gave another of his toothy smiles and clapped Ezra on the back as he passed behind him on the way out.

“Seriously, though,” Mary said, turning her attention back to Nathan Jackson, who was already on to dessert. “It does seem likely, doesn’t it? That something’s happening.”

He swallowed a mouthful, dark eyes on her face and half amused at her persistence. “Well I’m on standby,” he said, letting them make of that what they would. Then he shrugged. “But then again, I always am.”

Ezra heaved his shoulders in discontent. The more he was realizing that Captain Larabee was not about to materialize in the lunch line the more worried he’d become. And a worried Ezra could be a handful. Mary guessed she’d have to repay his efforts from yesterday and work hard to take his mind off it.

“Did you have a message from home, Lieutenant?” she asked in the meantime.

A pleased smile broke out on his face. “I did,” he admitted. “My girlfriend, Rain. It was good to hear her voice. To hear all that normal.” He snagged the last spoonful of rubbery-looking pumpkin cheesecake. As he wolfed it down he pointed the spoon at their trays. “How are you enjoying your Christmas meal?”

“Not quite what I’d have served myself, but it’s not half bad.”

“Coffee?”

“How very civilized, thank you,” Ezra said. “Good luck with jumping the line.”

When they’d been left on their own, Mary quietly cleared her tray, glancing at her colleague from time to time. His bright mood from earlier seemed to be evaporating, and she knew why. Hard to explain, but there was definitely the feeling that some information, some rumor, some piece of news, was beginning to travel around the DFAC. Those already sitting down to their meal were behaving more or less as usual (apart from the smattering of Santa hats and sparkly reindeer antlers) but Mary had developed an ear for the military whisper since she’d been out here. And Ezra was an expert.

“Hey,” she said. “If something’s happening, and your Captain Larabee is part of it, at least you’re in a position to be the first to know.”

“Captain my captain,” Ezra said, heavily ironic, accent to the fore. But he did acknowledge her efforts. “You’re quite correct, it would be worse to be back home. And of course, soon it will be worse to be back home.” He sighed. Mary knew that unlike nearly everybody else here, Ezra wasn’t looking forward to the end of his current ‘tour’.

They tracked Lt. Jackson’s careful progress back to the table with three styrofoam cups.

“Getting busy,” he remarked, setting them down.

“It’s nice,” Mary said. “Feels like a celebration.”

“Except we all have to work.” Ezra was caustic.

He was still grumbling a little when they left the DFAC but Mary let him. It was a good distraction. The more she thought about Larabee’s main B-troop contingent not being here, the more convinced she was that they would have news – of some sort – any time now. If it was going to be bad, she hoped maybe they’d manage to get beyond Christmas Day at least.

The Fallen Comrades service was enough of a gut-punch.

Nice story, though.

Mary was pleased with her voice-track, pleased with Ezra’s pictures.

They sent today’s pieces through for the evening news back in Denver, then got to work on editing for the morning.

“They do know, right, that Media Center here doesn’t mean what Media Center does back home?” Ezra said at eleven, peering into his empty plastic coffee cup.

“Doesn’t need to be shiny,” Mary told him. “In fact, they like the raw cuts.”

He snorted, tossed the cup neatly across the second of the two cramped little edit booths into a trashcan. For a moment he flipped through the pile of paper stacked on the very edge of the fold-up table. She watched him scan the press release on top yet again – two Dutch contractors, one US aid worker, one local fixer. Their four headshots were like a series of Wanted posters at the top, with all the blurb about who they were underneath. Mary knew the bios nearly off by heart. Ezra flexed his fingers, restless.

“It’s the hostages, isn’t it?” he said in the end. “I mean, it has to be. Do you think it’s worth going to speak to the C.O.?”

“Chris Larabee’s C.O.?” Mary patted the back of her head, pulled off the glittery scrunchie which Ezra had given her as a Christmas gift, then re-tied her work pony-tail. “You wish. I’m all for asking questions, but the more likely something’s about to happen, the less likely they’ll tell us. I just think we have to be ready. Ready to jump to it.”

“It’s nearly not Christmas Day anymore.”

Mary studied his profile. Fine bones, pretty mouth thinned in discontent. And worry.

“Maybe you’ll get to spend next Christmas together,” she suggested, surprised at her own daring. “If he’s here, I’m sure you can wangle some desk somewhere to send you over. And if he’s not, well... I’m sure you’ll find a way. Seems as if it’s meant to be.”

Ezra turned his distinctive eyes on her. “My dear Mrs. Travis,” he said, amping up the drawl. “Seeing your hard-nosed performances in the press call, one would never surmise you were such a sentimental soul.”

“Don’t deflect me, Ezra.” She narrowed her eyes, half joking. “Or patronize me.”

He grinned. “That’s a nice picture you paint, of me and my captain, happy ever after.”

“Well, I just think you need pictures like that to hang on to. Don’t you?”

“Wise words. And yes, it so happens that I do. Now, I think we need more caffeine.”

“God yes.” Mary stretched. They had another couple of hours ahead of them at least. “If any of the machines have Diet Coke I’d pay top dollar for that right now. Oh, and hey. You’re good at bumming cigarettes from soldiers, right? I could really go for that right now too.”

Ezra grinned, delighted. “I am good at bumming cigarettes from soldiers,” he agreed. "Leave it with me, dear lady. I may take a turn around the locality, see if there’s anyone talking.”

“You never give up, do you?”

“That’s why we work so well together. And anyhow, grubby investigative photojournalist much? My mother is sooo proud.”

Mary giggled a little at his tone as Ezra wafted out of the booth.

Then she turned back to the screen, pulled her head into the game.

2.

12.30pm, Christmas lunch, O’ahu, Hawai’i
5am, 26th December, airbase, Afghanistan

Chin and Kono arrived at the house at midday with Nahele. No way the kid wouldn't come to Christmas lunch at his mentor’s, whether his mentor was there or not. They also brought a bag of gifts for the kids, several plates of lomilomi salmon and what looked like a crate of booze.

Danny had woken after a bad night determined that today was not going to be about Steve not being here. Even though he wasn’t here and that was just wrong.

He knew there’d be more guarded calls later - Max, Kame, Rachel. His Mom. One or two of Steve’s buddies maybe who weren’t serving anymore and so would have nothing to compromise by talking to him. Possibly even the Governor. But he wasn’t going to let that be his focus. Either the talking about it calls, or the not talking about it calls. Today, he’d decided, standing with his coffee on the water’s edge first thing, was going to be about the kids.

He’d almost enjoyed the whole dressing up as Santa thing as much as usual. Almost. Even though he’d had to get up particularly early to be ready before either of the two little ones were awake.

“Rum?” he said on a yawn to Chin when they’d unpacked the car with their offerings. “Really?”

Chin gave him a look. “Yeah, so we don’t do egg nog here.”

“My cousin,” Kono said turning from the cupboard where she was already looking for glasses, “just happens to make the very best Mai Tais anywhere, ever. We brought limes, we brought syrup, we brought curaçao. All we need now is ice and a cocktail shaker.” She gave Danny a suspicious look. “Steve does have a cocktail shaker?”

“We,” Danny said pointedly, “do indeed have a cocktail shaker.”

Kono nearly blushed. “Sorry, boss, I forgot.”

“In fact, we have two cocktail shakers. One that is apparently a family heirloom from the 1940s, and one which my lovely sister-in-law bought us as a wedding present.”

“Even better,” Chin said. “I can set up a production line.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong.” Danny waved a hand around. “But is your idea for this seasonal family celebration that we all get totally wasted?”

“Well duh,” Kono said.

“Fine.” Danny wandered out of the kitchen into the main room. He needed to go fire up the grill outside, and not think to himself that he and Steve usually fought each other to be the one in charge of it. He needed to go see how the kids were getting on with their haul of loot from Santa, and not think how very much Steve would be enjoying his first official Dad Christmas right about now, if he was here.

“Hey,” Nahele said to him from underneath a bouncing Charlie and Joan and Danny wagged a finger at them.

“Don’t break him.” He pretended to knock their heads together, then swiveled to gesture at Grace that she needed to make sure her little brother and cousin didn’t make Nahele’s life a living hell.

There was a clattering sound as Mary came down the stairs waving Danny’s phone which he’d evidently left up there – again.

“Max,” she said, plumping it in his hand before skidding off into the kitchen.

“Hey, Max. Yes, thank you, and the same to you. Yes, of course you may come over later, we’d be pissed if you didn’t. Yes, Eric will be here. And yes, I’m doing fine, thanks for asking, buddy.”

Actually, he thought he’d handled that call pretty well. Although, Max of course was both inhibited and discreet (when he was sober, at least) and so was unlikely to ask emotional questions. Outside a car had drawn up and whoever was in it was leaning on the horn. Danny rolled his eyes. His nephew, right on cue. Who had no inhibitions or discretion button. Not to mention no idea of how to be a thoughtful neighbor.

He wandered back into the kitchen. “Any chance of getting a drink around here?”

“Here,” Chin said, presenting him with a pale pinky-orange drink crammed with ice, a wedge of pineapple and a cherry on a stick. “I made the first one for you.”

“What is this, fruit salad?”

Chin ignored him. “You want mint, brah?”

“Ooh, Danno, what’s that?” Grace said behind him. “Can I have one?”

“No, monkey, you cannot have one.”

“I can do a version without the rum,” Kono offered. “It’s actually kind of neat.”

“Like a Shirley Temple?”

“Way better than a Shirley Temple, sweetie. Is that OK by you, boss?”

Danny actually suspected that mocktails could lead to other things, but he had no resistance today.

“Do it,” he said. “If my daughter becomes corrupted I will know who to blame.”

He turned round as Eric appeared in the doorway, hair, t-shirt and boardshorts looking as if he’d just crawled out of bed.

“Hey, Uncle D, hey McGarrett family people.” Eric was cheerful and borderline loopy, as usual. “Heyyyyy, is that a... ? Whoa, who’s making Mai Tais?”

“Lieutenant Kelly,” Danny said. “Who is a very responsible adult in law enforcement.”

“Sweet.”

“Well terrific as it is to have my kitchen smelling like a bar, I really need to get on.”

“Danny,” Mary said. “You go drink your Mai Tai. Everything, but every last little thing, is under control.”

“Really I don’t see how that is possible, but fine.”

Danny wandered back out of the kitchen with his drink, nearly lost a knee cap to Charlie’s brand new fire truck.

Chin took control of the grill in the end. And everything else somehow got put on dishes and taken to the table. They ate lunch between the terrace and the main room, standing or sitting, walking and talking, the meal a really rather pleasant, casual mix of rum, salmon, and steak. Chin or Mary or Kono found wherever he’d left his phone each time a call came in, began to field those calls for him after a while. He was not allowed alone time.

And it was good. It was nice. The house was full of spirit and solidarity. It was full of love and family. The Christmas lights twinkled and the sun shone. And Danny tried not to think too often that of course that was exactly what Steve would want. What he wished Steve could have.

Joanie and Charlie missed their naps, but that was okay because it was Christmas and who wanted to take a nap at Christmas? Nobody, that’s who. Max arrived in time for dessert, bringing both Pictionary, the idea of which gave Danny severe stomach ache, and the Star Wars edition of Operation.

“Defective droid parts?” Danny said, squinting at the blurb on the box.

“It really is quite entertaining, Detective,” Max assured him.

There were plenty of gifts and quite a lot of jokes, and Joanie was so excited that eventually she was sick. Of course. Kono came to the rescue. Mary drank one too many Mai Tais, became more than a little morose and Danny sat with his arm around her on the couch.

“I could punch him in the face right now,” he said.

“Of course you could,” Chin said to him from across the room. “And he loves you too.”

*

A few hours into Christmas lunch on O'ahu, dawn had broken over the airbase. Cold and clear.

It had been minus twenty-five at the bottom end up in the high mountains. Energy-sapping temperatures.

Captain Chris Larabee pulled off his helmet, arm heavy with fatigue. He still had a slight ringing in his ears. Rubbing the back of his forearm across his face, he looked across the compound, buzzing with people.

There was a group around the first helo. Medics, top brass, diplos, aid people.

The rescued American guy Tanner, with the long hair, was in their midst somewhere, poor bastard. Probably didn’t know which way was up. Lucky, too. He’d been the final one of the hostages they’d located, while still under heavy fire from hostiles. Some mission leaders would have signaled retreat by then, figuring it would be better to get out while they were winning. But not, apparently, the leader of this mission. Or, apparently, himself.

Chris had caught a clear glimpse of Tanner’s face in the gray daylight as the receiving team had helped him to solid ground – thinned out by stress, scruff-jawed, red-eyed. Their eyes had met across the yards of dust for some reason, just briefly. Almost unrecognizable from the photograph of the handsome, blue-eyed young man profiled on his organization’s website. He hadn’t looked as if he’d taken any physical hits – or not recently at least. But expecting to be executed every day for six weeks certainly didn’t do much for your head. He’d acknowledged Chris somehow, though. Through some spark in his eyes, or tilt of his chin. Or maybe it was just his over-fired imagination that made Chris think that.

He swiveled his gaze, looking for Josiah. Never mind all the government guys, Tanner certainly needed someone like their padre more. He hoped Nathan would be there, too. His face scrunched against the cool, bright sun.

“You good, Captain?” a jittery voice said behind him.

It was Buck, somewhere on the line between friend and subordinate, still gripping his M4. His eyes, dangerously sparky with adrenaline, shone from the layers of camo on his face. His helmet strap was dangling and his eyebrows and mustache were coated in dust. J.D., black hair plastered against his scalp, was at Buck’s side, chugging from a canteen.

“I’m good thank you, soldier.” Chris, guts in their usual turmoil after an op, was overwhelmingly glad to clap eyes on them. He hadn’t seen their faces clearly since they left the base on the way out. He’d felt their presence, though. Always. Right with him. “You want to go wash up, I’ll see you at the DFAC. Better move your asses or we’ll miss out. Debrief 1600 sharp.”

“Yes, sir, Captain.”

“And good work,” Chris added to Private Dunne who was stowing his water canteen.

“Thank you, sir.” J.D. Dunne tried very hard not to smile his utter pleasure at the praise, but didn’t quite manage it.

“You go, kid, I’ll catch up,” Buck added, knocking him with an elbow. When J.D. had disappeared, he said to Chris, “So. That, back there.”

“You want to wait for de-brief, Buck?”

“No.”

Chris sighed. “OK, what’s on your mind?”

“It was pretty much textbook, huh?” Buck was edgy, practically vibrating. “Apart from the fucking high level of engagement we had of course. Kids like J.D., even the ones who’ve done the amount of patrols he has, haven’t been trained for that.” Buck ran a gloved hand through his dusty hair. “Did you know it was going to be that kind of op, Chris? Do you know that SEAL commander whose insane backside we had to cover?”

“No,” Larabee said, jaw locking slightly.

Buck blew out a tense breath, circled a lazy, crazy finger next to one temple.

Chris hadn’t seen the lead SEAL team since they landed. They’d come in the first helo with the hostages but had somehow evaporated into thin air. In that way they did. The elite guys tended to rub him up the wrong way anyhow, so he wasn’t sorry. They always flew in at the last moment, took charge, took the glory, fucked off again. All the day to day grind and dust-eating, the IED patrols, the regular enemy contact, the fucking understanding of the enemy – that was left to men like Chris’s troop. Not that he didn’t respect the hell out of how special ops trained and what they did – and the speed and clinical efficiency with which the team leader had taken them into that heavily-fortified bunker up in the mountains had been a mind-bending sight to behold – it was just that in his experience, once out of the theater, they were either off the scale unhinged or else complete dicks. Usually both. And God knows he’d been head-hunted often enough by their senior officers to know.

“Let it go, Buck,” he said. “You need to eat. And aren’t there phone calls to make? I mean, isn’t half the female population of New Mexico waiting around for a Christmas Day message from you? Never mind half the female population here.”

“Oh, funny,” Buck murmured under his breath, but he almost grinned, the unnatural sparky light of combat in his eyes beginning to seem warmer and more normal.

“Lunch, Buck,” Chris coaxed him. “It’s Christmas. I’ll catch up to you, OK?”

“OK. For now.” Buck bent to pick up his kit, swung around to look for the next transportation back to the billets.

Chris watched him go, gut finally settling. Buck would be fine in another fifteen minutes or so. He’d forget he was mad and that it had been a spectacularly close call. He’d lose his tactical gear, clean himself up, find the nearest willing female to be glad he was OK.

And now what his own instincts were telling him was to go find Ezra, show him he was OK, too. Strange the revelation that he had someone here, on the base, that he owed that to. Who’d be worrying themselves skinny for him. His stomach flipped and he knew it wasn’t the remains of action. It was something else entirely. Something damn good that he needed to enjoy while he had the chance. Ezra – sharp and tricky and pretty as fuck – would be back in Kabul in a day or two. And then he’d be going home, to worry for Chris across the miles instead.

“Captain Larabee,” a seriously dust-slaked voice said behind him.

Shocked from his reverie, Chris swung round, collar prickling.

He had to work hard not to curse because the SEAL team-leader was standing there. Still covered in mountain grit, not to mention still strapped tight into his body armor. He was neither as old nor as broad as Chris had guessed from having been given the barest of detail about his background, and then from having seen him in the dark, in action. With a quick scan of his identity badge, Chris got a grip on himself and stood up a little straighter.

“Commander McGarrett.”

McGarrett, contrary to what Chris had assumed – dropping from nowhere into an extraction op nobody had been expecting so soon – looked as if he’d seen plenty of action recently. Late thirties, almost painfully fit, with a dark half-beard. He also had that lean, feral look about him that suggested sustained time out in the field, and several tell-tale healing cuts and bruises to his face which spoke of recent too-close for comfort combat.

“Just wanted to thank you,” the Commander said. Chris somehow felt as if McGarrett wanted to shake hands but had decided against it at the last moment. As if he wasn’t quite sure what protocols they should follow. He had the regulation wall up, of course, so there could be no sight of any personality. “Your troop did a stand-out job, Captain. We’d been preparing for a number of weeks for this, but you had to go in blind. Outstanding work.”

“Sir.”

“You and your two front-line boys in particular.”

Chris swallowed, feeling a wave of pride and a need to say their names. “Lieutenant Buck Wilmington, Private J.D. Dunne.”

“Good choice.”

“I put them up because I know they’ll get out there and won’t be afraid.”

McGarrett nodded in recognition. Admiration, too. “Honor to see action with you and your men, Captain.”

“Likewise, Commander.” It must have been the first time he’d ever been personally acknowledged by any of the glory boys, the career specialists. And it felt good if he was honest. Not so good he wouldn’t add something of his own thoughts, however. Buck would expect no less. “Wasn’t expecting the hit and run to be honest. Always risky.”

McGarrett pursed his lips, apparently unfazed by the implicit criticism. “We’ve been in the region preparing for over a month,” he said. “Just didn’t know when the intel would check out. When it did, we had to move. And we asked for the best men available to provide ground cover.” He shrugged. “You fit the profile.”

“OK. Fair enough.”

“Have long to go?” McGarrett asked, slightly warmer than mere polite.

“Another five of fifteen.”

“You lost many this go around?”

“Not since August. Mortar attack off-base.”

A pause to acknowledge that, then, “It’ll be good to get home, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

The slightest tweak at the corner of McGarrett’s mouth at the ‘sir’ suggested there was some humor behind that wall of control, although he didn’t actually smile.

“I see us as equals, Captain. Especially just after an op like that. The fact the hostages and both our teams got out in one piece is mostly down to your accuracy and skill. And it’s Christmas.”

Chris caught a hold of his own smirk, just in case it was overstepping the mark. “How are the hostages?” he asked.

“Better than they could have been.” There was a wealth of bitter knowledge in that clipped, stiff, first response that piqued Chris’s curiosity. Then the Commander relaxed a tad. “The aid guy Vin Tanner’s been through the wringer, although he’s holding it together like no civilian I’ve seen before. He did mention he’d like to make contact with you. I mean you in particular. Your intervention in the final phase probably saved his life and he’s sharp enough to appreciate that. In fact, told me so himself. I know it’s not encouraged, but seems like a meeting between you two at some stage might help some with closure.”

Chris was taken aback. Partly that the guy Tanner had enough about him to be thinking so straight after his ordeal and partly that such things also seemed important to McGarrett.

“Taken on board,” he said. And then, suddenly curious to expand this unexpected contact, “Are you planning to join us for lunch in the DFAC, Commander? I think they’re doing a repeat of yesterday’s festive um… specials.”

McGarrett’s eyes, gray and focused, swept towards the DFAC block and then away again. There was a flash of regret in them. “Not possible I’m afraid. We debrief right away then head out again to the airport. I really just wanted to thank you personally, and deliver the message from Tanner. But, I hope you and your boys enjoy your lunch.” He met Chris’s eyes squarely, as if underlining the connection and Chris felt as if he recognized something, although he wasn’t sure what. Seemed it was a day for meeting new kindred spirits.

Hell of a way to do it, though.

“Thanks,” he said. “We’ll raise a juice box to you.”

McGarrett again didn’t quite smile although Chris could tell he appreciated the sentiment. “Who knows, Captain Larabee, maybe our paths will cross again.”

Hell, and didn't that sound like a coded offer.

The Commander slipped his glove, extended his hand. That was a surprise, but Chris did likewise. McGarrett’s long fingers were bruised and marked, each knuckle individually taped, as if he was in training for a fight. OK, so he wasn’t eating dust and taking enemy fire every day for fifteen months, but when he was out there, he really was out there. Chris clasped the large hand in a firm grip. McGarrett’s shake in return was confident, strong in genuine respect rather than for show.

Chris nodded at him. “Safe travels, Commander.”

A sudden, warm smile appeared and then vanished just as quick as their hands fell away. He gloved up again. “You too, Captain. And Merry Christmas.”

And then he’d turned away. He’d melted, ninja-like, into a group of people before Chris had quite taken stock, although that was no surprise. The elites often moved on quickly, because nobody was more of an optimum target . Chris just hoped, despite the battle-ready look of him, that the Commander was going to get to go home soon - seemed like he needed it. Although, McGarrett was almost certainly one of those guys whose entire life revolved around being away. There’d be parents back in the States maybe, and siblings, but otherwise chances were he’d be one of those sad sacks with a string of broken relationships, no ties, and a girl in every port.

Chris was on his way to catch a truck across to his billet when someone else materialized beside him. Someone in a red North Face jacket, suspiciously clean caterpillar boots, and sunglasses. After the mix of sweat, blood and aircraft fuel from the last few hours, the tang of clean hair and cologne was enough to send Chris giddy. A grin cracked his wind-tight face.

For a few seconds they fell into silent step.

“Who was that?” Ezra asked finally, bumping shoulders with him. “The handsome gentleman in all the tac?”

Chris cocked him a look. “Hi, nice to see you, too. And yes, I’m fine, it went well, thanks for asking.”

“I never doubted you,” Ezra said smoothly, although Chris knew that was a cover. Knew, too, that Ezra had given him a thorough once-over, checking for signs of injury.

“Did you get us coming in?”

“Just the helicopters and the hubbub. Mary did a live on the sat-phone. We’re not allowed anything else until the press conference at the Intercontinental. Boring pictures.”

“But good news, right?”

Ezra acknowledged that, although his tone was acid. “Excellent, and admirably timed. Thanks to your unexpected disappearance I spent Christmas Day with indigestion.”

“Not our choice, you know. We just got called up in the middle of the damn night. And anyhow.” Chris swung the conversation back to Ezra’s earlier comment. “Handsome?” He guessed it was true, and was mostly amused that Ezra would have noticed and seen fit to comment.

“I’m an expert, Captain Larabee. Hence my interest in you.”

“Sweet talker.” Chris adjusted his kit on his shoulder. “That was the commander of the SEAL team we went in with.”

“That was him?” Ezra sounded interested. “McGarrett?”

Chris was jolted at hearing the name come from Ezra’s lips. “Yes, how the hell do you know that?”

“Mary’s been digging for intel ever since we figured there was an op doing down and that you were up to your neck in it. She can’t help it. Don’t worry, she knows better than to broadcast the name too widely.” Ezra quirked a brow, tantalizing. “Did find out some very fascinating facts, however.”

“Such as? And keep your fucking voice down.”

Ezra rolled his eyes. “Give me some credit.”

“So go on then, what’s so fascinating?”

“Lieutenant-Commander McGarrett, Steven J., is married with two step-children. Lives in Hawaii.”

Chris came to a halt and stared at him. OK, so it might not have been what he’d expected – although it didn’t negate the girl in every port theory either – but hardly an earth-shattering revelation.

“Seriously, that all you got? That the guy’s married?”

“His husband,” Ezra said, rounding out the word and evidently enjoying it very much, “is a cop. They were married in June at his house on O’ahu.”

Chris stared some more. “No.” Try as he might, he couldn’t picture it. That he and the Commander had something like this in common – well, almost – was entirely unexpected. “You sure?”

Ezra smiled so wide his gold tooth glinted in the harsh sunlight. “It seems so. Which of course puts all kinds of ridiculous ideas into my head.”

“Ezra, your head is stuffed so full of ridiculous ideas I’m not sure there’s room for anymore.” Chris was a little short.

He began walking again. Well aware of what Ezra was waffling about, Chris was mainly struck by the chilling thought of what the enemy might make of such knowledge and how, supportive as the Navy may or not be, it might fatally compromise someone like McGarrett. Or fuck, even someone like himself should things go pear-shaped out on some patrol one day.

But, maybe not this week. This week hopefully McGarrett would bear the standard for them – get the hell on his way home to his husband.

“Well I’m not very flattered. I was rather hoping Commander McGarrett might serve as a shining example to you.”

“Ezra, you’re talking crazy.”

“Really.” Ezra’s voice dropped even lower as he fell back into step. “Why don’t you bring your rather fine military ass to my tent and tell me that.”

“You don’t sleep in a fucking tent, you idiot.” Chris felt an unexpected laugh bubble in his chest but he suppressed it.

“Well you know what I mean.”

“I thought we agreed we were going to leave it until we get out of here?”

“You agreed to that. I’m sure I never did.”

Chris knocked his shoulder, hard. “You need to let me go get cleaned up. On my own. I said I’d meet Buck and J.D. over at the DFAC. And I know you’re supposed to be working. Are you trying to get me court-martialed for lewd behavior?”

“Always.”

Chris did laugh then. He needed it. Made him warm and glad for the craziness of being the Captain of B Troop and having Ezra Standish as his secret squeeze.

Hell though, but it was the last laugh he had that day.

Ten minutes into the mission de-brief, the duty chief of coms, Major Louisa Perkins, in whom Buck had what he insisted was a ‘sincere’ interest, interrupted with an urgent message for the C.O.

The word to the rest of them on what it was about came barely seconds after the C.O. swept from the room on her heels.

An incident, high importance, high priority.

The Media Center and the coms room had found out at about the same time there’d been an attack on a small US military convoy on the main road between the base and Kabul airport. And there were fatalities, beyond the fucker on the motorbike with the exploding vest – one, two, or three of them, no confirmation yet.

Scrambled to the scene along with Nathan and his troop, Chris had one main thought.

Shit and fuck and fuck.

Maybe Commander McGarrett wasn’t going the hell home to his husband after all.

*

Rachel called later in the afternoon of Christmas Day, and Danny had to take that one.

It was while he was talking to Rachel, standing outside the doors to the terrace, that Nahele turned on the TV. The kid kept the volume very low, surfing through a few channels. Danny saw a movie or two flash past. Bright colors. Then monochrome. Nahele didn’t seem interested in those.

“And the Navy people haven’t called you?” Rachel was saying, scandalized.

“To say merry Christmas?”

“Well I don’t know. Isn’t there some family liaison person there to make you feel better about everything?”

“Listen, if they haven’t got anything to tell me I’m not sure I want that kind of call anyway.”

“I suppose. How are you holding up? Do you need me to get the kids early?”

“Good, Rachel. I’m doing good. And no, they keep me busy, you know?”

Another old movie came on for a few seconds. And then a couple of the news channels one after the other.

BREAKING, they said.

The strap line was the same on both.

Danny saw the words flickering before his eyes, not really processing.

“Listen, I have to go. Can I speak to Grace and Charlie?” Rachel asked.

“Sure, wait a second.”

Automatic, Danny turned away from the house, carrying the phone down to the beach where Eric was playing with the kids and possibly overly amusing them with his antics.

“Mom,” he said, holding the phone up at Grace who came skipping across the sand, face wreathed in smiles, pink from exertion. “Let Charlie have a turn too, okay?”

“You all right, Uncle D?” he vaguely heard Eric say. And then he vaguely heard himself reply, “Do me a favor and don’t call me Uncle D.”

Then he walked back up to the house.

The news channels were still on, volume still very low, the same stories scrolling across the screen as Nahele switched between them, almost robotic.

US aid worker rescued north of Kabul, said one.

Followed immediately by Military convoy attacked near Hamid Karzai airport. Three dead.

Danny began to process.

Nahele looked up at him from his position leaning forward on an easy chair. He didn’t say anything. Danny frowned and looked towards the kitchen. All the others were in there, engaged in a mixture of clearing up and laughing a lot. Supplies of rum had long run dry. Which was probably just as well. Danny could smell coffee. He wanted to break away from the Breaking News on the TV, go join them. But somehow he couldn’t. He sat slowly on one arm of the couch.

“You want I turn it up?” Nahele said. “Do you think it could be Steve?”

“No,” Danny replied. “And I don’t know.”

They both watched the footage without listening to the words. An airbase. Helicopters. Library pictures of soldiers training. Military vehicles on fire. A reporter back in the studio. People talking. Speculating. Then back to the same footage. An airbase. Helicopters. Library pictures. Fire.

“You want I turn it off?” Nahele said in a small voice.

“Yeah,” Danny said, standing up.

His heard hurt with the effort not to give in to the fear.

No, no, no, he thought, determined. No.

And then, caving a little, just fucking tell us already.

3.

7pm, 26th December, O’ahu, Hawai’i
11.30am, 27th December, US airbase, Afghanistan

The day after the convoy was targeted, Chris was still on duty.

They resumed the interrupted de-brief first thing in the morning although its whole tenor had changed, and Buck, who’d been out at the scene with him, was channeling his emotions in a whole other direction than he had yesterday.

The base was in its usual measured turmoil whenever there were casualties. And that was on top of the overspill from the hostage extraction. Nathan had been more than busy with the injured, Josiah with the dead and the traumatized both here and overseas. Such events always seemed to focus everyone all over again, especially as word wasn’t good on a couple of the guys brought back from the explosion. Several times during the morning Chris saw Ezra and Mary somewhere in his peripheral vision. They were working, very professional. Ezra was wearing green today, Chris noticed. It was a rich and jewel-bright color, very different to the sea of khaki and gray around him.

On his way back from the daily check at the armory, Chris saw another out-of-place figure walking towards him. Making for him specifically, it seemed, judging by the determination. He slowed up, let the figure reach him. A slight smile touched his face. It was the freed hostage, Vin Tanner, in jeans and a big coat. Given the number of people who’d been buzzing around him since they got him out it was good to see him upright and out on his own. Not that him being out on his own was quite protocol. Chris reckoned he’d maybe slipped his minders.

“Morning,” he said as they both came to a halt by some breeze-blocks opposite Josiah’s pop-up interdenominational chapel.

“Morning.” Tanner slipped off his dark glasses. Close up Chris could see there were fading bruises on his face and a small scar curving under one cheekbone. “Do you have a moment?”

“Sure.” Chris glanced around, eyes lighting on the Army and Airforce Exchange across the way. “You want coffee? I can grab some from the machine in there.”

“No, thanks, I’m good. Anyhow, I was just talking to this journalist guy who told me not to go near anything hot from any of the machines.”

Tanner’s face remained straight but Chris was amused anyway. “Journalist guy is right,” he said. “The DFAC’s not far.”

“I was on my way back there.” Tanner sounded as if he wandered around the airbase quite at home every day.

Although he obviously still looked hollow-eyed and faintly haunted, Tanner had cleaned up pretty good, Chris decided. He was smooth-jawed today, long shaggy hair moving in the breeze. There was a real toughness about him Chris appreciated, and that he wouldn’t have expected. The non-profits were generally good people, but they didn’t have many hard edges and in his more cynical moments Chris wondered what good they really did out here. Tanner had hard edges all right. Else he wouldn’t be walking around shooting the breeze the day after he’d been rescued from a bunch of madmen who wanted his head. Literally.

“Strange circumstances to meet,” Chris said.

“Wouldn’t have chosen them.” Tanner’s eyes crinkled very slightly, although it seemed like an automatic response rather than whole-hearted humor. He’d be in a weird emotional no-man’s land of shock and exhaustion still.

“Glad it turned out OK.”

“That’s why I wanted to speak to you.”

“Speak away.”

“It was to say thank you, that’s all. Didn’t get a chance back there to warn you about their second flank, but you had it covered. Saved my life. You and your boys and… the guy in charge.” He visibly swallowed when he mentioned McGarrett, and then carried on. “He and his team took out a hell of a lot of hostiles before they even got to us. Took a hell of a lot of fire too.”

“Hostiles?”

Tanner looked abashed. “Yeah, so,” he said. “I did some time in the Rangers. Not long, just enough.”

“Right,” Chris said. “Well that makes sense, although I’m guessing most people don’t know about it.”

“It’s not on the bio. Kind of left under a cloud to be honest.”

“Well,” Chris said, “as to the op – you’d kept yourself and the other hostages well protected. Impressive anticipation. Might have gone differently for you if you hadn’t known what to do.”

Tanner’s eyes drifted towards the chapel. “Yeah,” he said on another dry swallow.

Chris let some moments pass. The guy was doing good, but probably only on the surface.

“You spoken to your family?” he asked in the end.

“Friends, yes. Don’t have no family to speak of.” His blue eyes wandered back over to Chris, that almost-smile hovering again. “Which maybe is just as well. Don’t envy those back home while this kind of shit’s going down.” He shook his head. “Especially after what happened yesterday. Those families that won’t quite know what’s hit them. Your padre’s doing a good job.”

Chris felt his chest tighten. They let a silence draw out. A silence full of thoughts and a strange companionship born of a lot of wrong things. And hopefully some right ones, too.

“Thought they’d be keeping you under tighter wraps.”

“Yeah, I don’t do so good being corralled. Bad enough I gotta go do a press conference later.”

“The capital?”

“Uh-huh. Some embassy types are flying me in this afternoon. Not risking the road.”

“Good call.”

“Yeah. That’s why I’m on the way to the DFAC. Supposed to be meeting your padre there – he’s coming with.”

“I’ll walk you over.”

“Keeping an eye on me?”

Chris grinned. “Since you’re already flying solo I’m not sure I’d fare any better than anyone else has.”

They began across the compound, walking slow. Tanner seemed stiff, as if his back hurt him. It was a cool, overcast day, only a couple of degrees above freezing. The base was busy and they had to wait for a long line of trucks to pass. Tanner was quiet, seemed happy to be. A junior officer stopped Chris to ask a question outside the DFAC doors and he let Tanner go on ahead. A few minutes later he went in and stood for a moment or two looking round.

It was nearly lunch time again. The institutionalized rhythms of his life were both a comfort and a frustration.

On a table at the far end where B Troop nearly always congregated, Chris caught sight of Josiah. He was on his feet, Tanner next to him, a kit bag over his shoulder. Nathan Jackson was seated at the table with a sandwich in his hand, looking as if he’d been up all night, which he probably had. Buck and J.D. were there, too, which wasn’t unusual. They were down for night patrol later, were getting in some down time while they had the chance.

A warm feeling suffused Chris’s stomach. At the far end of the table, part of the group and yet properly separate, sat Ezra - in a muffler, as if it was snowing indoors. It wasn’t clear who’d come to join who.

Chris weaved a way through the other tables.

“Captain,” J.D. said, standing as he approached.

“At ease, soldier.” He looked around the table. There was a bunch of styrofoam coffee cups, some empty, some full, and a plain brown box full of what looked suspiciously like donuts, something Chris hadn’t seen for many a long month. His immediate thought was to wonder where in hell had Ezra sourced those from.

“Another day in paradise,” Buck said, mustache dotted with sugar. He pushed one of the full cups of coffee towards Tanner who tipped his chin in thanks.

Chris glanced at Nathan. “How’s everyone doing?” he said, meaningful.

“Eh,” Nathan said. “Fair to critical. Transferring two of them out later today.”

Sorry to hear they’d be losing Nathan for a few days, Chris heaved his shoulders. “Hear you’re off on a support mission too, Josiah.”

“Just overnight.”

“So press conference, world’s media, and then what?” Chris asked Tanner. “You get to go home?”

“Texas,” Tanner said musingly, and now Chris could hear the faint twang. Not to mention the unwillingness. He wondered what was back in Texas. “Well, maybe for a while. Still plenty to do out here.”

Chris found himself grinning. “You’ll be back,” he said.

At the doors of the DFAC a young Sergeant who worked with Louisa Perkins was signaling. Josiah clapped Tanner on the back, indicating their transport had arrived. Tanner was cool. He finished his coffee, crumpled the cup in his hand.

“If I am,” he said to Chris, “and if you’re still here, hope you’ll let me stand you a beer. Hear they keep the Exchange well stocked.”

“Hell, reckon we can run to something better than that. I get into the capital from time to time.” He let his eyes flick towards Ezra, tried not to smirk at him. “Have a friend there who knows places where the beers are cold and the Taliban are scarce.”

“Sounds good.” Tanner nodded instead of smiling, not seeming to notice the near-smirk, although Buck rolled his eyes. His hand came out, easy. “’til then.”

“Yeah, ‘til then.” Chris reached for the hand.

“Stay safe, Captain.”

“You too. And call me Chris.”

“Vin,” Tanner said.

“Well, this is delightful,” Ezra drawled from the other end of the table.

“Journalist guy?” Chris asked Vin.

“That’s him,” Vin said, and his lips quirked.

*

Kono had taken Grace to paddleboard and Mary was a little way along the beach with Charlie and Joan when the call came.

It was a really nice late December day on O’ahu, early cloud blown away, the temperature pleasant.

“You going to be all right on your own?” Mary had asked Danny before she’d set off, brow wrinkled.

Danny had steered Joan in the right direction with a hand to her head.

“I will be more than all right. Trust me.”

“Well OK.” Mary had seemed doubtful. She’d been glancing at him strangely for the last twenty-four hours and he wondered if maybe he was starting to show some cracks. Or if his hair had gone gray overnight while he tried not to think about the convoy and the silence, and the outstandingly huge lack of information. “If you need us, you know where we are.”

He’d managed to plant a kiss on Charlie before the kid was bombing out of the door.

And then the house was quiet, and Danny had liked it for about five minutes before his stomach began to knot up again.

He was in the kitchen – where else – doing the kind of stuff he did everyday when he wasn’t at work and the kids were with him and not Rachel. Transition from one meal time to another. Clearing up crud, planning for later. Methodical, painstaking, filling his head with the minutiae of who’d eat what and when.

Most of him was profoundly glad and grateful to be here, in this house, amongst the mess and rhythms of family life. His and Steve’s family life. A smaller part of him wished like hell he was at the Iolani with Chin, free to complain and offload with much bad language, free to be Detective Danny Williams, gay haole divorcé enjoying vigorous commitment-free sex with a Navy SEAL or whoever the hell else he liked, and definitely free to be distracted by other people’s disasters.

Several times while he was unloading the dishwasher, then loading it again and stacking plates in cupboards, he thought he heard a faint buzzing sound. Then it went away and he carried on.

When he heard it a third time it came to him what it was.

His phone. Oh for… not again.

“Shit,” he said out loud, and shoved a pile of cups on to the worktop with a dangerous clatter.

He tore to the foot of the stairs, took them two at a time, hurled into the bedroom. His phone was lying in the very center of the bed - where else - now completely quiet. As he snatched it up, breathless, Danny saw he’d missed three consecutive calls from the same number.

“You moron, Williams.”

Someone, somewhere, really wanted to talk to him. The caller ID was withheld, and wasn’t that just a kicker.

Danny then thought two things, one after the other.

No ID. Which possibly meant no Steve.

No ID. Which... oh, God. Almost certainly meant somebody official.

His mouth became dry, and his fingertips began to go numb. He held the phone in front of his face, staring. When, after what seemed like an eternity, it began to vibrate in his hand he was almost frozen. A certainty that this was a very bad phone call indeed almost swamped him.

No Caller ID.

As he tapped the screen with a sweaty fingertip to take the call and lifted it, heavy, towards his ear, he closed his eyes.

“Williams,” he said, the sensation already strong that he wasn’t actually here doing this. That he was somewhere else watching himself.

There was a strange silence, an odd whistling noise on the line.

And then.

Then.

Echoing, gruff, and faintly crackly, he heard, “Danny?”

“Hello?” he said, not even recognizing the voice at first. “Who is this?”

“Danno,” the voice said, a little more urgent. “Hey. Thank God. It’s me. I’m OK.”

There was a strange roaring sound, but it was in Danny’s ears, not on the phone connection. He tried to take a breath but couldn’t. His heart was thundering so hard his temples hurt.

“You.” He squeezed shut his eyes even tighter against the emotion. “I don’t even.”

“Hey, Danny.”

God, Steve sounded terrible. Fucking miles away on a terrible line, his voice rough and broken up and unfamiliar.

“Where are you?” Danny said at last, eyes popping open. He felt as if all the stuffing had just been ripped out of him in a battle between relief and anger. His hands were tingling as if he was about to have a panic attack. He became plaintive. “Steven, where the hell are you?” And then, mad. “Where the fuck have you been?”

“It’s not important.”

Danny pressed the phone harder against his ear, found himself turning in a circle, as if that would make the connection better. “Oh, I see, and what the fuck’s happening in It’s Not Important?”

“You’re funny, you know that?”

Danny managed a breath or two. “You in Coronado? In transit?”

There was a long-blown sigh of weariness at the inevitable questions. And a faint thrumming sound in the background. Like aircraft engines maybe.

“Danny.”

“What’s been going on?” Danny could hear, he could feel, the control in his own voice beginning to shatter. “Jesus, Steve. I mean, after all this time. Where in the hell have you been?”

“You know I can’t tell you.”

Inevitably Steve sounded wrong and stilted and strange.

“We saw the news. The hostages. The convoy. Were either of those you?”

Shots in the dark and he knew they wouldn’t hit the mark.

Danny took another deep breath at the silence on the line, tried to fill his lungs. “Do you still have all your limbs?”

“All four.”

“And are those four limbs intact?”

The slightest hesitation. “There may be a little crease here and there.”

“Jeez.” Danny processed that, the spectrum of possibilities endless. “And your face? Is your face still the same?”

A soft laugh, at last. “I’m led to believe.”

“Do you have any holes in you that you didn’t have before? Or less blood?”

“No.”

“So. Right. Good. Just the creases then.”

“Yeah, just that. And would you stop now? I’ve missed the fuck out of you, Danny. How are our beautiful babies? And Mary and Joanie? How’s the team?”

Danny didn’t think he was going to, but he laughed, a hitched, grateful laugh which sent sparks of warmth into his shaky legs. It was if a spell had been broken. That easy phrase – ‘our beautiful babies’ – was enough. Steve needed the reassurance, too.

“Good, we’re all good.”

“And so go on, did you have a great Christmas?”

Danny clenched one fist in a familiar rush of irritation that, weirdly, he almost welcomed.

“No, idiot. Jeez, I swear! Six weeks, Steven, we’ve been waiting to hear something – anything – for six damn weeks. Do you have any idea what that’s been like? How pissed I am with you right now?”

“You’re breaking up, D. I think you just asked if I knew how pleased you were with me right now.”

Danny took yet another deep breath. The stew of emotions was beginning to make him light-headed. He could have responded with something sassy, or something bitter, something to put the big idiot in his place, but all that would come out was, “When?”

“Soon.”

“You can’t say?”

Don’t be needy, an inner voice lectured him. You know how this goes, you know what you signed up to.

“Not yet.”

Danny swallowed. “Jeez,” he said again, clutching at his hair.

“Hey.” Steve’s voice was still rough, uncertain.

“Hey what?”

“All this.” A pause as the connection wavered.

“Still here,” Danny said, straining against the phone.

“Yeah. I mean this – me being away and all the not knowing and crap. It doesn’t make you wish- I mean you’re not thinking-?”

Now who was needy?

Danny pressed the phone so hard into his head it hurt. “No I’m not thinking, doofus. Believe me, it hasn’t even entered my mind. And the only thing I wish is that we’d pulled our heads out of our asses sooner. ‘kay? That and that the Navy would maybe see sense and put you out to grass once and for all. Without you being thrown in the brig as part of the deal of course. But just... jeez. Just come home to me would you? Come home and be with us.”

There was another pause. This time it didn’t seem to be the connection. The sound of aircraft engines, or whatever it was, seemed louder for a moment, or perhaps it was just Steve not saying anything that seemed louder.

“There’s seriously – seriously, god – nothing I want more.”

Even with the roughness, the distance, the background interference, the tone of Steve’s voice spoke volumes. Volumes that made Danny dig the nails of his free hand into his palm.

“I know.” Danny didn’t want to be cross with him anymore. Ever again to be honest.

The voice came back again, stronger, speeding up as if it was a sudden race to speak before he was cut off. “But hey, listen, listen. I have to go, OK? But it’ll be soon, Danny, I swear.”

“Good,” Danny said, “because... good.” And then he said, in a rush, because he had the feeling the call was about to drop out, “You know what I mean by that, right?”

“Yeah, I know. Me t-.”

And that was it.

The signal went, the call dropped, the duty called. Whatever it was. Instant severance.

Danny sat down on the bed before his legs gave way. He lay back on the pillows with a thump, let the phone fall out of his nerveless hand back on to the quilt.

His breathing took a while to even out. He huffed, and puffed, and scrubbed at the inner corner of his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. There might have been a sob. Maybe. Just the one. Although, perhaps it was only an oxygen grab. After a while he began to hear the waves on the shore. And he began to think about not lying in this bed on his own, and about not having empty arms, and about being able to lose the constant feeling of dread.

He swallowed, hard. Because otherwise there might have been another oxygen grab.

A few minutes later he felt around for the phone and called them down on the beach.

Mary said, “See, didn’t I tell you?” and then burst into enough actual sobs for them both.

4.

6pm, December 29th, O’ahu, Hawai’i
10.30am, December 30th, Kabul, Afghanistan

It was something very rare – and precious, if he thought about it – that Ezra woke up with another human body pressed against his.

Such a thing didn’t happen much these days, not when he was out on the road. Or while he was working with reporters at the base, come to that, where it was impossible. Here, though, in his temporary home in the capital, there were sometimes chances.

As usual it was the sound of car horns that disturbed him.

The apartment block in its dusty compound was downtown, near enough to the Mustafa Hotel for meetings with others of his tribe, and right on the road. Sometimes the power went down and sometimes the plumbing went 19th century, but it sufficed. He shared with two other journalists, both currently away.

Which meant, apart from peace to pack up his things for the next homeward trip, there was also a window of... opportunity.

Chris was on seventy two hours leave from the base. A US Army Captain, off duty, off radar, and currently stretched out completely and gloriously naked under his sheets. And apparently undisturbed at present by the traffic which was at its usual hectic level out there.

Life was pretty sweet right about now, Ezra decided.

He allowed himself a stupidly devoted smile as he settled on one elbow. Chris’s sun and dust-lightened hair was clumped against the pillow and the sheet was wound around his waist. He was flat on his back, head stretched back. Thus exposing the sculpted glory of his chest and arms and... my God, that throat. Ezra had to lean forward, had to touch his lips to it, moving his face up to rub against the scruff of beard.

“Unnghhh,” Chris murmured, swallowing and tilting his head further back.

“Morning, my very delicious captain.”

“Wha-?”

“My very delicious and inarticulate captain.”

Chris’s eyelids crawled open. When he focused on Ezra rounded over him, right up close to his face, a lazy smile curled his lips.

“Hey, you.” He stretched a little, groaned as fatigue swamped him.

“No, don’t move. Just lie there a little longer looking fetching.”

Chris shook his head against the pillow, still bleary. “Jeez, Ezra, you fuckin’ wore me out last night.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. As I recall I was doing all the work.”

Chris groaned again, louder, let his eyes drift shut. “Dear God,” he murmured. “Your mouth.”

“This mouth?” Ezra asked, tongue against the salty smoothness at the junction between Chris’s neck and shoulder. Then he lifted his head and grinned at him.

“That’s the one.” Chris reached out and slid a hand round the back of Ezra’s head, pulling him down again, this time for a kiss. Then he said, “Hell, Ezra, you sure you have to leave?”

Ezra pulled back with a sigh. “Mary’s due at some big junket in Islamabad, but I’m out of contract again so have to go home for a while.” He traced the line of Chris’s jaw with his fingertips, from one side to the other. “Yes, I have to leave. But I’ll be back. Experience pays.”

“Why on earth would you want to come back?”

It was a running joke between them.

“I can think of a few reasons. Money. Excitement. Glory.” Ezra ran his eyes down Chris from his head to his groin. “Sex.” He poked him in the chest. “Besides, you do the leaving thing too.”

“Yeah.” Chris blew out a breath. “There has to be better ways of getting shot at.”

“I’m not so sure. Well, apart from law enforcement.” Ezra shuddered at that. “Alternatively, you could find a way to not get shot at.”

“Like?”

“Well, you could become a farmer, say. Or breed horses. Country life and animal husbandry is as much part of your make-up as all the cowboy gun antics, no?”

“There’s one big flaw in that genius plan.”

“Which is?” Ezra asked, already knowing.

“You wouldn’t do it with me.”

“That is true.” Ezra stroked a hand up Chris’s inner thigh through the sheet. “Or, all right. How about this? You retire to Hawai’i and marry me. What, why are you looking at me like that?”

“You hate the beach.”

“I’m doing my best here.”

They’d never talked the ‘m’ word before. Or the ‘l’ word come to that. Never even talked up the prospect that theirs was anything other than a mutually satisfactory relationship based on overpowering lust and convenient infrequency.

“You’re joking, right?”

“I suppose.” Ezra sat up, leaned against the headboard. He didn’t really know why the domestic revelations about that good-looking length of muscular insanity that was the SEAL commander had so gotten under his skin. But it had, somehow. Made him discontent. But he was joking really. Of course he was. Chris had been married before, wasn’t looking for anything like that again. And what they had was good. Well, truth be told, it was more than good. Ezra had never experienced anything like it in his life.

“Listen.” Chris pulled himself up too, hauling the sheet with him. He sealed his bare shoulder against Ezra’s. “I’m not planning to leave the army just yet, and you’re not planning to leave your job, either. So let’s carry on doing what we do. Reckon we should concentrate on just sticking together right now.”

“Sticking together?”

Chris plumped a hand on the front of Ezra’s thigh and squeezed. “I’m not looking to wake up in anyone else’s bed than yours. There’s nobody else I’m going to be thinking about when you’re back home. Nobody else I’ll be counting down the days to seeing again.”

Counting down the days. Yes, they only had a few more hours before they’d be on that damned clock again.

The latest farewell would come later today. Chris would need to leave to do some errands, both official and personal, then head back to the base. Ezra would finish his packing, head to the airport for the chaos of international departures. The thought of saying goodbye, of all those miles opening up between them, made Ezra’s heart knock against his ribs, painful. It made his gut twist so hard he felt sick. They’d done it a few times now. Each time was more agonizing than the last.

Because, who knew. Who the hell knew?

Who knew what might happen out on patrol, out on the road, even moving from one part of the airbase to another? Just what had happened to McGarrett’s convoy, that’s what.

“Say,” Ezra said, biting down hard on the thought. “Are you especially keen on breakfast?”

“Why, what else do you have in mind?”

Ezra shoved the sheet away with both feet. He reared up from his seated position, swung one leg over Chris’s thighs so he was straddling him.

“Well quite a few things if you want to know.” He touched his bottom lip with his tongue.

Chris snorted. He slitted his eyes, though, a downright dirty look coming to his face. Both hands lifted, landed, firm, on Ezra’s hips. “You trying to tell me I’d prefer that to a cup of good coffee, some fresh juice and a plate of eggs?”

“Possibly.” Ezra let his eyes rove down, then leaned in, urgent, for a what was more a messy curl of tongues than an actual kiss. He could feel Chris hard against his belly.

“Fuck the coffee,” Chris said, sucking in air as they broke. “Fuck the eggs.”

“I’d rather you fucked me.”

“With pleasure,” Chris growled, fingernails digging so hard into his backside Ezra’s spine stiffened. “Hard enough you’ll feel it all the way home.”

*

Around the time Ezra had woken to the sound of car horns, Steve’s taxi from Hickham Airforce Base turned on to Piikoi Street.

It drew up at the McGarrett-Williams home five minutes later.

For just a moment Steve sat still in the backseat, looking out of the side window.

“Still here,” the driver said with a grin into his rearview, head indicating the house.

“Still here,” Steve agreed. Then he dug for cash.

“You need help?” the guy said.

“No, I’m good, buddy, thanks.”

Steve slid out of the car, careful not to jostle his crocked arm. He reached in to drag his kit-bag out, slammed the car door. Raised his good arm to thank the driver as he pulled away.

Bending from the knees, he hoisted the bag up over his un-braced shoulder, took in the house and garden in the fading evening light as he walked up the driveway. His truck was there, but not the Camaro. Danny, who he’d called the moment he touched down, must still be caught up at the crime scene he’d been bitching about.

Steve dug in his cargoes for the house keys. It did actually always surprise him that he managed to remember things like keys and cash and personal phone when he slid from military to civilian. Over the years he supposed he’d just learned to make the practical transition without hardly breaking stride.

Dropping the keys on the console table just inside the door, he let the kit bag slide to the floor.

The house smelled of cleaning. Furniture polish and that PineSol stuff the cleaner liked that Steve hated and that Danny said he had no opinion on. Everywhere was correspondingly tidy which Steve really did like. He suspected he liked it too much and it meant he was actually the whacked-out control freak Danny accused him of being on a regular basis.

Danny.

One of his sweaters, powder-blue, was folded over the back of a chair and his tablet was sitting on the coffee table with a newspaper, pile of busy-looking notepaper and a pen laid neatly on top. Steve took in Danny’s books, a pair of his shoes, the pictures he’d brought when he moved in, all the signs that this was now a shared space. Some of his dad’s things had had to make way, and were now in storage, but Steve had been fine with that. He’d decided it was good for him. Good for his head.

Steve was glad that he was alone now though. It gave him time to breathe, to adjust.

He glanced out of the window, towards the ocean. The temptation to shuck his clothes and just walk into the water was very strong. He didn’t do it, just opened the doors to the terrace, filled his lungs. Soon – he reckoned in under half an hour – the first creeping edges of mission fatigue would hit him. He’d start losing the thread of his thoughts, have to struggle to concentrate, feel a heaviness weighting down his limbs. If he was still even awake, that was.

But if he could just imprint the reality of home on his mind first, then when he came to after his first sleep he wouldn’t be confused. He would just be himself, at home, straight off the bat.

He walked the house, everything making him feel good. The kitchen was shiny, the cupboards and refrigerator full of food. Upstairs their bed was white and soft and so clean he almost shivered in anticipation. God. To feel those pristine sheets against his bare skin. That. That was a visceral joy hard to explain.

Back in the living room he looked at his kit bag and frowned. It was his custom to get the whole laundry, re-sorting and packing away thing done as soon as possible. Or else the contents of his bag would itch under his skin like unfinished mission business.

But God he was shattered.

The newspaper attracted him and he sat on the couch. He scrubbed the backs of his fingers through the bristle under his chin, then reached for the paper, tipping the tablet off.

And woke with it un-read and warm on his lap an hour later.

Steve opened his eyes to the room lit by one table lamp. He seriously felt as if he could hardly move. His booted feet were nailed to the carpet and he could hardly get his head off the couch back. He could tell the terrace doors were now closed, and there was the faintest tang of something citrus and clean nearby. His gaze wandered from the lamp to the chair opposite the couch.

Danny in an open shirt with the sleeves rolled up was sitting in it, watching him. He had his hands on the arms of the chair. His face, the carefully swept-back fair hair, his strong bare forearms in the soft light were… they were perfect.

Steve opened his mouth but no sound came out.

“Welcome home,” Danny said, voice quiet. Giving him time. He had an almost sad little smile on his face.

“Hey.” Steve had ground glass in his throat instead of vocal cords.

Slowly, Danny pushed up from the chair. He stepped across the room, rounded the coffee table. Steadying himself with one hand on the back of the couch, he leaned down and kissed Steve lightly on the lips. That was all. Then he swept his eyes over the shoulder brace, and the gravel burns on the side of Steve’s face.

“This is not acceptable,” Danny said, flattening one palm against the brace. His voice was still quiet and calm. “But I’ll take it over most alternatives. What happened?”

“I landed against the side of a truck,” Steve said, finding his voice. “So... eh, a little fracture, a little concussion.”

“Oh, a little concussion.” Danny frowned, staring into his eyes as if he expected to be able to see evidence. He lifted one hand to the side of Steve’s head, moved the hair against his skull, still gentle, so gentle, as if he didn’t want to spook him. “You lose consciousness?”

“Not even for a second.” Steve fought the urge to nuzzle up into the warm hand, rub his head against it. “It’s good, I’m good. Can we stop now?”

Danny made his considering face. He pulled back, sat down on the coffee table so their knees were touching.

“Indulge me,” he said. “You got any more little fractures I need to know about? Anything else at all? And I mean at all.”

It was as if he couldn’t get any further with anything else until he knew this information.

“I’m a little banged up down one side.” Steve couldn’t drag his gaze away from the serious blue depths of Danny’s eyes. “Hip, knee, calf. Just a little, you know. Banged up.”

“OK.” Danny drew in a breath, let it out slowly. “I heard you lost one of your guys in that explosion.”

“And a driver from the base,” Steve said, letting a small tide of pain wash over him and then ebb away again. Danny squeezed his knee, didn’t say anything else about it for the moment.

“Could use a shave, McGarrett.”

“Yeah. Sorry.” Steve felt his brows bunch, suddenly feeling terrible, like a real shit.

“Na ah ah.” Danny wagged a finger back and forth like a wiper blade. “We’re good, Steven. So, so good. You hear me?”

“Yeah.” Steve swallowed. His emotions were beginning to swing, wild and dizzying. It was normal.

“You hungry, want to eat?”

“No, I… no.” Now he could feel the weight starting to press on him, making coherence difficult. Steve wanted to explain that to Danny. That he had so many very clear-headed things to say to him which just wouldn’t come out right now.

Somehow, though, Danny seemed to know all that.

He rubbed one eye with a fist. “Yeah, so turns out I’m not hungry either.”

Steve tried to lift his heavy head off the couch back again, and failed. Failed so spectacularly he was almost embarrassed.

Danny just shook his head at him, totally fond.

“You’ve covered a lot of miles, babe,” he said, and reached for Steve’s hand. “Come on, let’s go sleep.”

So they did.

-ends-