I'm rather stuck with Ho'omau at the moment so I'm hoping that dusting off the cobwebs and writing something new will help.
This is un-beta'ed so any and all mistakes are mine.

Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing to do with Hawaii Five-0 and promise to put Steve back when I'm finished whumping him.

Warnings: mentions of illness, various bodily fluids and death so read on at your own risk...

Ho`olana i ka wai ke ole: Life floats on the water (near death). I took that to mean that life is precious.

Five-0 HQ, Iolani Palace.

1039 AM.

There's a gray splodge hovering in the right hand side of his vision, blocking out everything from the door to his office to the pillar displaying some of Five-0's more prestigious awards, and Steve sighs when he realizes that it can only mean one thing: a migraine. And just in time for his budget meeting with Denning.

Reaching for the drawer he keeps his meds in, Steve wonders if he'd get away with sending Danny in his place because, while there's no pain yet, he knows it won't be long until it hits. He'll be about as much use as a chocolate teapot once it does; never mind discussing spending budgets, Steve will be lucky if he manages to speak at all. His tongue already feels overly thick and heavy in his mouth and he's sure that if he were to say something out loud, his speech would be slurred and stilted-sounding. And then there's the tingling feeling in his left hand, like pins and needles only duller. If he didn't know any better, he would probably suspect that he was having a stroke.

But no, it's a just an oncoming migraine - a doozy, if the tingling in his hand is to be believed, but a migraine non-the-less - and Steve reminds himself of that as he flexes his fingers before wrapping them around the packet of pills near the back of the drawer. Fumbling with the cardboard sleeve, he drops it onto his desk and then hangs his head in despair when he realizes he gave his last pill to Kono a few weeks back. Normally he would never grudge any of his team anything but he's definitely regretting being so generous now that he's going to have to go without and, sighing, Steve leans his elbows on his desktop and runs his hands up over his face. There's nothing else for it – he's going to have to cancel his meeting with the governor.

Reaching for the phone, he calls Denning's office and manages to convince Linda, Denning's secretary, to push his meeting back to the same time next week. Thankfully, Linda doesn't pepper him with questions about why he's not going to make it - she just thanks him for calling and promises to let Denning know, and Steve is extremely grateful to her for not reaming him out for cancelling at the last minute. He knows better than to expect the same from the governor when they meet next Wednesday.

Setting the phone back in its cradle, Steve rubs at his right eye in a vain attempt to clear the blind spot and then reaches for his cell phone and truck keys. If he leaves now, he should be able to make it home before the pain hits and he's forced to spend the rest of the day curled up in bed or kneeling in front of the toilet. Either way, he'll be waiting for the inevitable and as he rounds his desk, knocking his hip off the corner in the process, he briefly considers sticking his fingers down his throat in the hope that forcing himself to be sick will hurry things along. It's naïve thinking at best but Steve allows himself that little glimmer of hope as he makes his way across the bullpen towards Danny's office.

Even though he can physically feel the polished metal handrail under his fingers, mentally, his hand feels detached from his body, like it belongs to someone else. It's unnerving and Steve glances down at it to reassure himself that no, his hand hasn't magically separated from his body as he pushes his way into his partner's office. He props himself up against the doorjamb and, unsurprisingly, it's not long before a snarky comment is directed his way.

Danny looks up from the report he's typing up and frowns. "What's with the aneurysm face? Did we get something?"

Steve ignores the jibe. "I'm out for the rest of the day," he tells his partner, working hard to not slur or stumble over the words. The gray splodge hovering in front of his right eye has grown enough to obscure the majority of his vision in the time it's taken for him to get up out of his chair and walk the 60-odd feet to Danny's office so he needs to make this quick if he's going to make it home; squinting in the bright sunlight that's streaming in through the blinds behind Danny's desk, Steve adds, "You're in charge," before using the doorframe to push himself upright.

"I'm sorry, what?"

Danny's pushing his chair back away from his desk when Steve turns back to squint at his partner slash best friend.

"You're in charge," he repeats slowly, deliberately mimicking the way Danny talks to fourteen-year-old Gracie when he's trying to explain something complicated. It's not so much because his tongue feels like its made out of lead but more because Danny's staring at him like he's grown a second head. And yeah, okay, maybe Danny has a point because Steve can't remember the last time he voluntarily left the office early (hitting off to drink Longboards at the Hilton with Danny, Chin and Kono doesn't count).

So instead of doing that infuriating – Danny's word, not his – thing where he clams up and walks away, Steve throws his partner a bone. It's only fair since he's effectively dumping Danny in it by leaving him to deal with any cases that crop up solo; Chin and Kono are both on Maui testifying against a drug runner whose illicit activities lead him to try to rob one of the governor's close personal friends on Oahu.

Sluggishly indicating the general area around his head, Steve admits, "I'm getting a migraine and all of my meds are at home." He's about to tell Danny that he'll be back in tomorrow and not to call him unless there's an emergency but the sight of his partner closing the lid of his laptop makes him stop and he blinks stupidly at the keys clenched in Danny's hand when the blond man pushes himself up out of his chair.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" Danny counters as he skirts around the end of his desk. Pausing to grab his cellphone, the detective snorts when he looks up to find Steve staring at him blankly. "I'm driving you home," he says, making sure to keep the volume down as he strides past Steve to shove open his office door. "You're squinting at me like I'm an oddity on display at Ripley's Believe It or Not, which I'm guessing means you've got something funky going on with your eyesight. Yes?"

Steve's lip twitches. It's barely noticeable but Danny's been Steve's partner long enough to know most of the man's tells and this is one of them.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Danny mutters, indicating for Steve to follow him along the corridor towards the main door.

In the car, Steve cracks the window and then closes his eyes and leans back in his seat as Danny steers the Camaro towards home. He's starting to feel a little nauseous and he can tell that his partner is making a conscious effort to take the corners smoothly. If Steve wasn't so worried about puking in Danny's precious Camaro, he'd probably make an off-hand comment about his partner choosing today of all days to decide to drive like a man on a mission (i.e., like he does) and not an old lady; the way Danny pulled out of the palace's parking lot made Steve's stomach pitch dangerously and Steve is eternally grateful that Danny noticed him swallowing hard and slowed down before he ended up tossing his cookies.

Thankfully, Steve's cookies are still intact when Danny pulls into his driveway and he waves off the offer of help, telling his partner that he neither wants, nor needs, a babysitter since he plans on sleeping until this migraine is nothing but a distant memory. Danny makes him promise to check in later before he drives away – because, as Danny explains, Steve is a trouble-magnet and shouldn't be left unsupervised – and then Steve waits (out of habit, more than anything) for the Camaro to become a speck in the distance before dragging himself up the porch steps and going inside.

Locking the front door, he grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and then squints blearily at the keypad on the wall when he pauses at the bottom of the stairs to set the alarm. The loud beeps that signals the alarm activating sets his teeth on edge and Steve grimaces as he uses the handrail to pull himself up to the second floor. There's sweat beading beneath the waistband of his cargos by the time he reaches the upstairs landing but he ignores it in favor of using his shirtsleeve to wipe away the sweat on his forehead and then bends down to unlace his boots. The movement causes bile to rise up into the back of his throat and Steve pauses with a hand clamped over his mouth, unsure if he's going to have to make a run for the bathroom.

A minute or so later - once he's sure that his stomach is going to behave - he kicks off his boots and then lets himself fall sideways onto his bed, telling himself that he'll grab the trashcan from the bathroom in a minute, just in case. Ten minutes later, he's fast asleep, lying flat out on his back with an arm over his eyes to block out the strands of sunlight coming in through the blind above his head.

To be continued…

As always, any feedback is greatly appreciated.