Sorry it's been so long since I posted. I got so excited about tonight's episode (OMG, it was awesome) and I've been blogging up a storming, so I got a little blocked and a little distracted. When I was finally unblocked, the plot kind of took a turn of its own, so there will be another part after this one. Thanks so much for your patience and reviews. They are mind-blowing!

Chapter 3

Danny dreamed the same dream on a perpetually repeating loop. A villain of the worst kind, cloaked in darkness and evil swirling around him like Saturn's shot him with electric pain. Danny fell through glass and steel, convulsing from the pain and encroaching evil. The Shield of Justice was no match for the forces of darkness. Danny was weak, letting the villain kill and rape and maim while he writhed in the wind, unable to move.

He lay on the ledge for the thousandth time, the pain oozing from his belly to his back to his chest and throat. He needed help; he needed to fight. There was something unfamiliar about this version of the dream. The sky wasn't a sinister plane of rolling black with red tinged clouds. It was lighter, bluer. Danny clutched his Shield of Justice and pushed harder against the pain and encroaching defeat. He had done this a thousand times, but this was the ten-thousand-and-first. Maybe the trick to defeating the devil was in the details.

The sky was lighter and bluer, darkness giving way to the sun and plumes of a heavenly white. Danny watched as dazzling rays slicked through the murk and gloom. It was glittering and good and something he'd seen before. Instinct told him what it was, and that it was the loveliest force in the world.

It was Grace.

Danny's eyes popped open to a blurry tiled ceiling, the smell of plastic and a horrible pressure in his chest, back and head. The pain was fluid, covering him like a second skin. Weak and confused, he was pretty sure he whimpered, because leaving the villain and the ledge was just trading one hell for another. His eyes were filled with grit; his mind stuffed with cotton. Reality felt brittle and dark.

"Danno, hey, man. Can you hear me? We're all here for you. Just relax and rest. Rest some more."

He fell away, darkness claiming him again.

He was climbing through levels or surfacing from the blackest ocean. Sometimes he surfaced to nonsensical shapes, dreadful sensations and calming voices.

When he surfaced for good, it was to Grace's voice, tinny and small, but real and golden.

"Mom says you probably won't be able to make pancakes for Pancake Sunday, but maybe I can make pancakes for you or we can buy them. I just hope I get to see you this weekend and that you feel better."

Danny turned towards the voice, but it only triggered a cleaving agony in the back of his head.

He tried to breathe through the worst of the pain, but even taking a full, cleansing breath was agony. The longer he was conscious the more his body opened up, discovered new agonies and discomforts; the more he panicked. He knew immediately that something horrible had happened. He just didn't know why, and his head hurt too much to try to remember. It was all he could do not to throw up. He thought Grace was nearby, but wasn't sure why anymore.

"Danny, hang on." A raspy voice said gently, but firmly. Hands clasped his shoulders, holding him still. "Open your eyes."

"…Grace…" Danny muttered, but it sounded like white noise.

Steve's face appeared, above him, a half moon in the shadows. He looked scared. "It was a voicemail, Danny. She's fine. I wondered if that would get you to finally wake up. Hang on and let the nurses check you out."

It got even more frenzied then, because strange faces were hovering over him, barking questions and making strange requests. He slipped away a few times, needing the refuge of the inky black abyss, but they were there when he returned. Awareness expanded and soon facts and details began to permeate Danny's slippery brain: he was in the hospital; he'd been hurt in the line of duty; he had internal injuries and a concussion. There were snatches of unmitigated terror and blood spatter on walls, but the last thing he remembered was fish for breakfast.

After a dizzying amount of scans and tests and far too much medical jargon and more sleep, Danny was blinking blearily out of the gritty hospital window, staring at the palm trees creeping over the tops of the buildings, trying not to be succumb to the fear of being pinned to the bed by tubes and monitors or the pain. It was constant—blunted by the narcotics—but barely below his tolerances.

Steve entered the room with his hands in his pockets. He walked over to Danny's side of the bed, looking worse than he felt with bags under his eyes and unusually pale complexion. His arms were crossed over his rumpled polo.

Moving his head made him want to claw his eyes out, so Danny just lifted his eyes and tried to track Steve's pacing. The former SEAL's slab of back muscles were bunched taught and he paced back and forth like an angry bull. But when he turned to finally face Danny, the emotion on his face was crystal-clear even for Danny's drug-addled mind.

"…Use your words, buddy…." Danny winced. His throat felt like he swallowed a weedwhacker.

Steve said nothing, but leaned over the bed and gingerly spooned ice chips into his mouth. The water was delightfully cold and soothed his throat. Setting the cup down, his partner got up again to pace and seethe.

"I have gray hair." He announced. The tone was eerie and calm, and Danny could only imagine the storm that was about to follow.

Danny frowned. "I hate to break it to you…but you've always had…"

"Shut up." Steve snapped. "I've had gray hair since I was sixteen. I found my first ones a month after my mother died. Stress and grief does odd things to the body. Did you know that? But now, I have more gray hair because of you, because you broke cover and got shot and fell through a damn window and I thought…" He whirled around in a flail that wasn't with his usual fluidity or control.

Steve sniffled and tilted his head back towards the ceiling. And Danny could clearly see the head of salt-and-pepper hair that was entirely premature and a unique, wistful manifestation of grief. Steve was only thirty-four.

"McGarrett, c'mere."

"No."

"Don't make me get up." Danny threatened venomlessly. He could barely lift his head.

His partner was more shaken than Danny had seen him in a while, and he felt irrationally guilty, because beneath the weapons training and the muscles and the hatred of Miranda rights, Steve was still a sixteen-year-old boy aching from the death of his parents, the loss of his childhood and so vulnerable he needed to fight and kill and become Jason Bourne to feel in control.

Steve reluctantly turned around and trudged over to the bedside. He sat down in the chair, head in his hands that boasted bruised and scabbed over knuckles.

"I'm sorry."

His head shot up. "You're sorry?"

Danny licked his lips. "Sorry for scaring you."

"You do that again, and I'll kick your ass."

Danny's eyes closed on their own accord, and he gripped the side of the bed to stay awake even if the pain was getting worse. "You'll try." He mumbled. "And if I played hero, I only learned it from you. You give a regular guy a complex with the medals and the uniform. Hate when you wear the uniform."

"You got shot three times, fell fifteen feet and you're alive to tell the story. Danny, you are a hero."

"Superman never had tubes in his favorite place."

"Superman knew he couldn't get hurt, so he doesn't really count."

Silence spread between them, save for the beeping and clicking of the monitors. Danny was tired, but his body wouldn't let him sleep. Beyond the pain, he was uncomfortable and miserable and shaken. He'd never been hurt this badly before. He didn't want to think about it, so he did what he did best. "I wore the vest because I promised Grace. Some kid at school was running his mouth off about cops getting shot or killed. It freaked her out so much she was having nightmares. So I showed her some of my spare vests to explain to her that we were protected. She put the stickers on it, and begged me to wear it. So I put it on just to humor her."

"Grace saved your life, Danny."

He just smiled. "Wouldn't be the first time."

A flash of hot pain in his back yanked a groan from Danny before he could stop it, and his hand closed tightly around Steve's arm and pressed his face tighter into the pillow.

Steve stood up, looking alarmed. "On a scale of one to ten, how bad does it hurt?"

"Infinity."

"I just paged the nurse. She'll give you more of the good stuff."

Danny nodded, sweat beading on his forehead. "Did I imagine Kono feeding me ice chips? I gotta say, that might be worth getting shot. Especially if she wears the bikini."

Steve actually laughed. "Me again."

-5-0-

Danny was pretty sure he was supposed to be thankful for being alive or for not being eviscerated by surgeons or for not dying. He was pretty sure he was supposed to be spouting sonnets and waxing gleefully about the sunrises or the way raindrops splattered his window in silver. He was pretty sure he was supposed to rediscovering his faith in Jesus and wheeling himself to the nearest church, because he'd survived a horrible shoot-out that claimed that lives of five people and he'd shot the person who did it. He was certain that Steve would have signed himself out AMA and been rescuing kittens from trees or running a marathon by now.

But Danny was writhing in some aggravating state of miserable and traumatized and dazed. The pain was driving him batty, but more than that his body felt peculiar and jittery, like it remembered the ordeal even if his mind didn't. The drugs he was on made him feel blunted and stupid, and the colors congeal together. It was kind of cool.

He watched again as yet another doctor lifted his gown to check his abdomen, probing clinically at the nearly black bruises puckering on Danny's belly and chest. Looking at them made him sick, but this doctor, seemed intrigued and awed.

"The bleeding is resolving nicely. I think you dodged surgery, Mr. Williams." He listened intently to Danny's lungs and heart. "We'll get another CT tomorrow to make sure there's no pulmonary or cardiac contusions. Everything sounds good."

Danny nodded, grateful when the doctor replaced his gown and blankets. He shivered a little as he tried to push himself up with strengthless arms. "When can I go home?"

The doctor scribbled on his chart and flipped through a few pages. "I'm not too thrilled with your blood pressure or the fact that you're running a fever. I also want to keep an eye on your kidney function. I think it'll be at least a five more days."

Danny's eye twitched as he saw another weekend with Grace disappear. "Okay, well, when can I get out of this stupid bed?"

The physician was a little smarmy, but seemed competent enough. "We'll give it another day. I'll be here until midnight, so page me if you have another other questions. Just try to be patient, Mr. Williams."

Danny rolled his eyes and scowled for good measure. He hadn't stood under his own power in three days; he felt unclean without having a real shower and shave; but he could still leer with more fury than hellfire. The doctor left with a chuckle, which wasn't exactly what Danny was aiming for. He closed his eyes, fighting back the panic that threatened to overwhelm him whenever his room got quiet or he was left with nothing but his thoughts. He tried to remember what had happened, anything about the day, but there was nothing, and attempting it for so long made his head throbbed. He twitched with restlessness and tried to sleep instead. As a cop, he knew the drill. The more he rested, the faster he'd heal. He closed his eyes, ignoring the tug of stitches in his back and side and the pinch of IVs. As slumber began to claim him, the injured detective heard it, louder than a thunderclap but echoing in his own eyes.

I SEE YOU, HAOLE!

His eyes snapped open, and the beeping of the heart monitor sped up. He panted, which igniting crushing pain his chest, which trigged a dominoing of agony throughout his battered body. He didn't know what was worse—the inexplicable terror or the pain. He flailed in a moment of sheer panic, pulling the oxygen from his nose, clawing at the cords tethering him to the bed in desperate need to get out and away.

-5-0-

Steve moved through the hospital halls with a comfort that had nothing to do with his time as a SEAL. Born a natural daredevil, he'd spent much of his youth in the bank of ER chairs next to the vending machines with a broken arm or bloody face. He could still his see mother pacing in front of him, shrilly and profanely scolding him for God and the entire ER to hear for doing backflips off the roof on a dare or diving off the bluffs and for fun. Years ago, his mother's braying love for him chaffed the badass teenager, but Steve ached for it the second he knew he'd never have it again. After fifteen years and Danny's near death, he appreciated her position so much more.

"How's the leg, Commander?" A familiar voice questioned from beside him as he reached the elevator.

Steve looked down to see Dr. Savannah Jensen standing beside him. She was wearing pink scrubs and a pleasant smile. "It's fine." She was prettier and shorter than he remembered.

"I'll bring some icepacks to Detective Williams' room. Maybe you'll actually use them. I can check your stitches, too."

And she was just as shrewd. He huffed a laugh as he stepped onto the elevator and hit the number for Danny's room. "I know better than to fight you, Dr. Jensen."

"Good boy. How's your partner? I haven't had time to check on him."

They exited the elevator, and ventured down the hall towards Danny's room. "He's hangin' in there. I'm surprised he hasn't driven off a few of your nurses. He's a bit of a pitbull…"

The alarm blaring didn't alert Steve, but Dr. Jensen sprinted down the hall like she was on fire, as did a three other nurses. His heart didn't plummet into his feet until the party darted into Danny's room. Steve bolted down the hall, hearing the drone of the flatlining heart monitor before he skidded just outside of the doorway. He'd expected to see rib-breaking CPR or even Dr. Jensen calling time of death. It had been days, but Steve still couldn't quite absorb that Danny was alive and recovering from his ordeal. Inside the room, Danny was sitting up under his own power, sweating profusely, but muttering to the nurses and trying to get out of bed. His fingers tore off the remaining two leads on his chest.

Savannah grappled with him a little longer, trying to get him to calm down without hurting him, but Danny was far stronger than he looked and shoved her away with more strength than he probably realized. Undeterred, Savannah dodged his grabbed his grabbling hands as they pulled at his second IV. Steve had seen enough.

It was two large strides to Danny's bedside. He slipped in between the nurses, and grabbed Danny's chin, forcing the man to look at him. His striking blue eyes were clouded, pupils slightly mismatched. "Danny, it's Steve. What's going on?"

Danny's lips were pale and bloodless and he twisted the sleeve of Steve's shirt. His muscles were clenched and bunched as he vibrated like a tuning fork. But he didn't speak.

Taking advantage of distraction, Savannah angled around Steve and reattached the heart monitor leads and blood pressure cuff, checking the readings on the monitors. The flat tone gave way to a frenetic beeping of his elevated heart rate.

Steve's impatience turned concerned anger. "You spend 21 hours of your day constantly talking and now you go mute? Tell me what's wrong, Danno. Right now."

"'I see you, haole.'" He whispered.

Steve's heart broke and he hung his head for a beat before grabbing Danny's eyes again. "You remembered?"

Danny's head wobbled in a jerky nodded. "I fell."

The nurses were buzzing around, but Steve didn't care.

He focused on his partner and friend. He gripped his shoulders and gingerly pushed him flat. "Do you remember shooting him in the face before that?"

The heart monitor was slowing in its urgency, and Savannah placed an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose. "…the neck…"

"That's right. And I emptied my clip into his head. He's more than dead, Danno."

"…you sure?"

"He's not Hesse…but I checked. A lot. I could have some pictures taken if you like." Steve offered.

Danny's lips twitched, "poster-sized for my office, maybe some wallets."

"I hate to interrupt this heartfelt conversation, but Danny's doctor is here and he wants to run a few tests, make sure he's okay."

Steve ignored her and regarded his partner again. "Do you want me to stay?"

Danny's eyes were swimming with exhaustion and he waved his hand weakly towards the door. "Pretty sure this…is gonna be an ass-out situation. I'm good, Steve."

"Liar."

Dr. Jensen walked with Steve to the nearest waiting room. He flopped into the closest chair, and ran his hands through his hair. "This is the second time I thought he was dead in three days. I think he's doing this on purpose, paying me back for the car chases and the shark tank."

"I think he's going to be just fine, Commander. We'll see what the tests indicate, but I think it was just a combination of remembering what happened to him, the concussion and the painkillers. He's a fighter."

"I feel like I failed him. Like him getting hurt was my fault."

Dr. Jensen, a woman who was all pretense and protocol, sat down beside him and rubbed his back soothingly. "In my experience, all good partners do."