McGarrett's House,
Oahu, Hawaii,
September, 2010

The chaos of colours, softly swaying in the thick flowery patch by the gate, evokes a small smile on Catherine's face. They bloom beautifully, but the lack of proper care is obvious, a hint of the past glooming around the house and garden. Whether John really didn't have a hand for plants, or the memory of his lost wife was keeping him from changing anything, the bushy mess of blue, white and pinkish heads betrays the hidden story buried deep within the walls of the lovely beach house.

Catherine lets her fingertips brush over the violet petals tickling the inside of her palm, like they're asking to be touched. There's a hint of regret clenching her heart as she looks at the flowery grounds underneath the wooden framed arbour, through which a cobblestone path leads to the porch.

Once again her thoughts run to the fence surrounding the small, blueish house in Coronado.

Not more than a few weeks ago, she was imagining herself and Steve building a big arbour in their garden, under which they could place a table and a few benches. Their backyard is really small, but she could easily picture a patch of herbs just under the kitchen window, blooming bushes of peonies along the fence, grape vines stretching their green withes on the bower, maybe a swing set, where her laughter wouldn't be the only one resounding in the cool air...

A sad tug on her heart disperses that image into a blurry, quickly forgotten dream. Something tells her the destination of their future is no longer connected to Coronado, and the flowers now tickling her hand will be the ones she tends to.

With a shake of her head, Catherine pushes that thought to the back of her mind. Nothing is certain yet, both of them are still trapped in the ongoing nightmare of the presence that ripped through their lives, forcing them to withhold any securities.

Many times they were forced to make abrupt decisions, that's what the Navy required sometimes, but in personal matters they both tried to be cautious. Even the engagement, though unexpected back then, was in fact a step that was thought through thoroughly. And she is certain, that any decision regarding their solid future after these events, will be a compromise for both of them.

"Cath?" Steve's hand touches her back, stirring her from her thoughts. He had been watching her for a few minutes, having paid for the taxi they took from the airport and throwing her duffel bag over his own shoulder.

It feels like being back in this place is as surreal to her as it was for him.

"Sorry," she sighs, turning around to face him, nervously wiping her palms on her pants. "Got a little lost in thoughts," her tiny, sad smile sinks Steve's heart, overwhelming it with the realization of how strongly she experiences everything he's feeling, part of it being her wonderful skills of empathy, but mostly because she cares so much – for him. This home holds only a few summer memories for her, but she remembers every detail and feels the pain, that being here now brings, because it's his heart at stake.

Steve knows the situation isn't easy on her either, maybe it's even worse, having to deal not only with the loss and grief, but most of all putting up with his state of mind, which can be hard to handle when he's being in this constant push and pull between seeking justice and wanting to crumble into pieces. Letting himself tremble within her arms is too easy, too enticing. Less than an hour ago he almost let himself do that, when he picked her up from the airport, but the second the alertness struck, he had pushed her away. It hadn't been harsh, but still it's the avoidance that is tough to deal with sometimes.

So many people accuse him of coldness and the habit of building up walls that can't be taken down, and only Catherine and Freddie stayed by his side, though God knows he has annoyed them with it many times.

And he feels bad, the guilt gnawing at his heart for brushing off her concern when she has asked him about his well-being.

Cath sees right through him and Steve tries to be honest and fully open with her, but his tongue and actions tend to be quicker, therefore the stupid, "Fine," that had sounded colder than needed, hurting him now more than it had pierced her at that moment.

He pours all his effort into the tenderness of each gesture towards her, hoping she won't pull away, punishing him for cutting her out.

To his relief, Catherine keeps close to him, her hand resting on top of his on the drive here, a look of worry cast his way without any further pushing or questioning. He can feel her relaxing into his side now as they take a slow pace down the cobblestone path towards the house, stiffening whenever she feels him tensing.

Pushing himself into the whirlwind of investigation, Steve had avoided being here as much as he could, but had transported all of his stuff from the hotel. It's not easy, he still thinks it would be better for them to stay at the hotel, but there's something about this place that gives him a certain boost of determination. He finds it easier to think, even if each corner is soaked with memories, and the sudden sounds evoke echoes of the gunshot and his own scream. A part of him sees it as a form of self-punishment, forcing himself to stay in a room where his father was killed, so he won't back down, whatever the cost might be.

Having Catherine by his side reminds him that there's a limit to everything. There are costs he doesn't want to pay.

His fingers fumble with the key as he tries to open the door, a myriad of thoughts crossing through his mind, evoking bigger pangs of nervousness. Taking a deep breath, he steadies his hand and gets the door open finally.

A stream of light surges through the ajar door, spreading the dust-filled rays over the cluttered space of living room; in all honesty, Steve has no idea how that happened, because he never leaves a mess. But it's definitely his doing, no second presence that would purposely come to throw all the equipment around. He glances at Catherine as she takes a step in, her eyes scanning the darkened space, expecting to see shock in her eyes. Yet, the way she wraps her fingers around his hand a little tighter, her eyes taking in the sight of various items, indicates she's not surprised, but worried.

The mess is not of clothes thrown around - something that would never happen, unless the clothes were discarded in a hasty race to get each other naked - it's a display of an imperfectly organised operation centre. A variety of weapons on the coffee table, a line of props found at home, but which could be used by a Navy SEAL if needed during an improvised op.

She notices Steve's duffel bag, half-way unpacked, with a neatly folded pile of fresh T-shirts placed next to it on the sofa. He sleeps here, if he sleeps at all. Cath's eyes briefly glance up towards his old bedroom, wondering if he has even stepped inside, or if he has limited his presence to the ground floor.

Then her gaze lands on the spot between the living room and the study, not only clean and shining, but seemingly surrounded by the chaos, cut off from everything that's happening around. She doesn't know the details about John's murder, but it must be the exact spot where it has happened. Not wanting to interfere with this particular place, as if it might suck him into the painful memory, Steve's subconscious had kept him away from it. Or maybe, by some reasoning, he felt like contaminating the scene, even though the CSU had got everything already.

Catherine tugs on Steve's hand abruptly, releasing her fingers from between his only to move her hands around his neck, pulling him down for a hug. A tight warm embrace, which holds a different strength than the long one at the airport. That was the reflection of longing and happiness upon being within each other's arms, while now she gives the best she has to provide him safety, to say without words how she hurts for him.

The first second Steve freezes, he always does, an instinct which even with Catherine makes him need a flash of recognition to let himself relax and melt into her. Burying his face in the crook of her neck, he shudders lightly at the feeling of her hand cradling his head, the way his own hand often does to her when she needs comforting. The quivering of his tense muscles betrays the immense amount of pent up sour pain, which hasn't yet dared to spill out.

Catherine's heart already breaks for the outburst that will come soon, not today, but when the wave of adrenaline settles down and the house will be filled with a void, and not the eerily repetitive echo of gunshots.

"So," she clears her throat, when Steve gently pulls away, his hand rubbing hard on his eyes in an attempt to get rid of the stinging tears daring to fall. She knows he needs a distraction now, so her tone aims for the snarky playfulness, which always brings happy crinkles to his face, "If you think I am going to help you clean all of that, you are wrong."

Steve smiles at her, the relief and appreciation clear in his eyes. "Wouldn't even dare to ask you," he says, a grin spreading on his face when she snorts at him, because yes, he would try to.

As he settles her duffel bag next to his own on the couch, Catherine lets her eyes scan each of the items precisely spread around, hoping to recognize what kind of plan exactly has developed in her husband's head. Her gaze falls on the small computer on the desk, one she recognizes immediately as part of the field equipment, set with satellite phone and undoubtedly connected to the secure line.

"Steve," she draws his name out hesitantly, eyes not leaving the computer screen, now displaying some man's files and a table of processing data next to it, "Is that the..."

"I called in for a favor," he is quick to explain, knowing it only slightly minimizes her worry, because if someone finds out he is using military equipment from the Pearl base on a civilian case, which he shouldn't be even part of, heads will roll.

"I have it till the end of the week, but I hope to return it sooner," the flash of determination is back in his eyes as he moves towards Cath and steers her closer to the desk, "Chin should be setting up a meeting with a source as we speak." She notices the instinctive twitch of his fingers against his pocket, like he's eager to finally take that call and run out of the house. A part of her hopes it won't ring too soon, taking him away from her just when they reunited, but she also understands the sooner the case is solved, the sooner they can have much needed time alone.

Nodding shortly, knowing he won't give her much detail, she motions toward the screen, "So who is that?"

There's something familiar about that face, a flash of certainty that she has seen him, or at least that photo, before. Catherine's mind is full of data, details and many faces she has seen in the files she has been working on. She has to memorise many of them, sometimes a split of a second when going through surveillance is the most crucial. That man has probably appeared in one of a thousand files, but it hasn't clicked yet.

"Jovan Etienne," he answers, stepping closer and hunching over the desk, "File says he worked for the Russians as a computer programmer in SVR," Steve's brows knit slightly, a small sign of the thought that invades the analytical process going on in his brain. Cath notices the way the muscles in his arms flex, there's a twitch in his jaw and his eyes darken as he spits out, "He was here when my father was murdered."

The struggle to keep composure and not let himself be taken over by rage strains his whole body, his fingers pressing so hard into the wooden surface, she almost believes it's cracking under the force. But it lasts only a few seconds, a deep breath that he takes slowly helping him regain control. Shaking his head slightly, to get rid of the image that suddenly pushed its way into his mind, Steve focuses on the file.

"I found his palm prints in the study, partial boot prints in here," with a wave of his hand he points at the clean space on the floor.

Catherine looks at him, frowning, "Wait a minute, how do you know the boot print didn't belong to Hesse?"

"Hesse wears a size 11," Steve's answer is simple and sure, a logical observation of detail, which surely got omitted by the CSU.

"Like yours," she nods, not even remotely surprised Steve knows the size of Hesse's boots. Over six years of chasing two men, every small, seemingly irrelevant element has its own great value, helping predict some of the possible moves the gun dealer can make. People are creatures of habit, and even if they cover their tracks meticulously, the nature of their routines can become their weakness.

Steve averts his gaze from the screen to look at her, his brows rising in astonishment, "You know my shoe size?" Before she can answer, or even glare at him tellingly, he chuckles a response to himself, "Of course you do."

The assurance of it not being only the spouse knowledge gained over the years they've been together, but a reflection of how everything about him matters to her, makes him smile. There's rarely a time to appreciate such small detail, but each time it tugs on his heart with a warm wave.

"I know your every size," a sly smile curving Cath's lips matches the mischievous sparkles in her eyes, evoking an instant rush of blood through Steve's body.

"Stop talking dirty, Lieutenant, you're distracting me," he smirks, letting his eyes focus on her lips for longer than needed.

Falling back into their comfortable teasing pattern is so easy, so enticing, and God knows it's been too long since he felt her skin underneath his fingers. With all the adrenaline and tension coursing through his body, the physical reactions jolt with quick, needy urges, displaying a variety of vivid images of Catherine's body spread out on this desk. But it isn't only the longing and love, it's the circumstances that are making it more of a need to get rid of all the frustration than making love to his wife, which brings a pang of annoyance with himself.

It's not like the sex was never instrumental or provoked by a rush of need, but Steve doesn't like the feeling of it at the moment, with all of his instincts and actions being focused on the task. A small voice in his head suggests he's slipping on his humanity and softness, the parts to which he always desperately holds on to.

Flashing her a lopsided grin, he leans in for a quick kiss, before retreating back to the previous stance, his head titling to the side.

"The prints I found were smaller," he explains, "And Hesse gets his footwear custom-made. Direct-injected polyurethane mid-sole with a nitrile rubber outsole."

"You developed some shoe kink that I need to know about?" Catherine laughs, a sound so soft and natural that it widens the stupid smile on Steve's face even further.

"So," she points to the screen, "You're trying to locate Etienne? Make a recognition of possible places he could be, or crimes he can be linked to?"

Steve nods, his eyes drifting to the right side of the screen, watching the lines in a column appear and disappear in a slow process of analysing files and links stored on a military server.

"Have you considered searching for Etienne's counterparts?" Catherine bends lower, her face level with the screen, "You got the link here on the island as to who helps Hesse escape, but it's possible Etienne has reached for his resources too. Also, if we track who he's been working with before, it might give us a lead to Hesse's contacts overseas."

Steve stares at her for a long moment, watching the delicate profile in the dimmed daylight, few strands of hair sticking to her sweaty neck, but most of all he's amazed by the way she easily falls into the rhythm of the association process. The train of her thoughts builds a vast, complicated web of possible links and outcomes, scheduling the dangers and obstacles. A similar way of thinking was taught to him in the SEALs, to recognize and assess outcomes of taken actions, minimizing the risks, but with Catherine it's not only the experience and years of Intel work. He has learned about the brilliance of her skills on that very first assignment, quickly understanding why his commanding officer appointed a young ensign to a mission so important. Over the years he got used to that, but it still amazes him at moments, igniting pure admiration towards her mind.

"Good idea," he nods, "But most of it is contained in the classified section. I can't access all of them without raising some flags," a frown of annoyance creases his forehead, once again it feels like someone is throwing logs under his feet and closes the doors, "Maybe I could ask the Governor to..."

"You need a few minutes of break," Cath's hand rests atop his, giving a gentle squeeze, which seeps warmth through the strained muscles.

"And a beer," she adds, smile spreading on her lips as he looks up at her, his lost gaze focusing on her bright face, "We both do. And I could also use a shower," her nose scrunches up cutely, "So why don't you grab some bottles and I'll meet you up in the back in a few?"

Steve opens his mouth to protest that he is fine, but she seals his lips with a tender kiss that melts any stubbornness. The tip of her nose brushes affectionately against his, Catherine's soft mirth evoking a broad grin on his face.

Watching her run up the stairs, he stands frozen in place for a few minutes, until the noise of the water fills the silence. He knew her presence will bring that calming wave, it had been this way since her weakened body held his broken one through the deserted wilderness, trembling hands tenderly combing through his hair as she tried to talk some courage into both of them. But it's an immense relief, how suddenly everything seems more bearable. The pain is still here and the screams seem to be creeping up on him from every corner of this house, but now there's also a feeling of safety, hands that may caress him to sleep, adamant support that will help him get up, if he falls.

With a shake of his head, Steve gets himself back into reality, stepping into the kitchen to get the beer and then heads out through the French door into the sun soaked backyard.

The fresh, warm breeze caresses his face as he walks toward the deckchairs at the brim of the garden, where the dark, juicy green of grass disperses into the sandy beach. The sand squishes under his boots, a sound that reminds him of agonizingly long runs, all soaked and rolled in sand, down the Coronado beach during the BUDs. Without the harsh voice yelling at them and the burning strain in his muscles, the memory quickly dissolves into a different one, where all the noises resounded as if through a haze, blurred and barely recognized by his dizzy, feverish mind.

It's all calm now, no need for him to rush down the shore, or to slump his heavy body into that smaller posture.

Steve closes his eyes at the sudden thought piercing through his mind, clenching his heart with the newly found string of guilt. How often has he been a burden to Catherine?

He had started in a very literal way, his heavy, wounded body crushing her as they had stumbled down on the rocky ground, when she tried to get them safely through the unknown territory. Then the whole baggage of emotional chaos, which - to be completely fair - they both were responsible for, or maybe neither of them was. And when it seemed everything had finally settled, the last years burdened only with the distance and longing, his father's death doubled the heaviness and pressured them both.

With a sigh he opens the bottle and takes a long swig. He will not go down that road - the slope of self-blaming and doubts, pushing people away just to test them, to check if he's still worthy of their attention. He won't do that to Catherine. Long ago he had realized there's probably nothing in the world he could do or say to make her stop loving him.

"What are you thinking about?" Catherine's voice surprises him. He hadn't hear her footsteps, deep in his thoughts and the faint echo of repeated ocean waves.

"Oh," Steve stirs and hands her the other bottle, "Nothing much. Just... some realizations."

His gaze runs slowly down and up her body, taking in the sight of her damp hair, thin trickles of water soaking through the navy blue T-shirt. As his eyes fall on the black running shorts, the knot on them tightly tied to keep them from sliding down her butt, he cracks a chuckle. "Are those mine?" he points at the slightly worn out pair.

"Nope," Catherine replies, smirking as she takes a small gulp of beer, "Marital property."

Steve's laugh is wholehearted, though not loud, just light-hearted. Cath feels like some of the bitterness residing in her stomach melts upon seeing the twinkles in his eyes, the crinkles in the corners.

"That's convenient," Steve snorts, the bottle pressed to his lips.

She shrugs nonchalantly, hand combing through her wet strands, "You can wear my clothes, if you feel like it. I have some pieces that match your eyes," she grins slyly as he rolls his eyes.

Giving him a moment to relish in the carefree, playful scrap of conversation, Catherine shifts her gaze to look at the vast, shimmering glass of ocean, with all its shades of blue and turquoise. However easy and tempting it is to fall into the avoidance, letting themselves enjoy only the happy tones and teasing, it's not the good way to go through it all. Something they both have learned the harder way, through the therapy process and experience. They also grew to realize that setting their own pace for everything is the key to dealing with problems, so she doesn't press him, but leaves the open window for him to pick up whenever he's ready.

A deep sigh escaping Steve's lips indicates he wants to tell her something, or a part of him wants to, while the other stubbornly struggles. Cath turns her head, looking up at him and waiting.

"We've been through a lot," he says ruefully, slouching slightly, his foot kicking in the sand. Another sigh follows and he lifts his head, eyes focused on the crisp line of the horizon. "I mean you and me, both, we've been through so much shit. I thought there's a limit to the pain we have to go through, but life just fucks it all up again," he takes a long sip, downing one third of the bottle in one gulp.

"True," Cath admits, stepping closer, so their arms almost brush, "And I know at the moment only the bad things are visible, but Steve, we've had so many good things happen to us too."

She takes the beer from his hand and puts the bottle down along with her own on the chair, reaching her hands to touch him. A gentle touch, clasping his palm between her hands, thumbs rubbing slow circles over his wrist as she kisses the inked skin of his arm that peeks from underneath the sleeve of his T-shirt.

"You are my good thing," she mutters, lips brushing against the tattoo.

Her eyes close, a tiny sigh of content bubbling out of her mouth, when Steve turns his head to place a kiss atop hers.

They both groan in unison, when the shrilling ringtone pierces the air. Cath presses her forehead to Steve's arm, fingers wrapping tighter around his hand, while he reaches his free hand to pick up the phone. She doesn't pay much attention to the short conversation, a splash of images whirls in her mind, provoked by worry and sudden bad feeling. It fills her mouth with bitter taste, quickening her pulse to the rhythm of thoughts whispering how bad this all can go. Pushing it to the back of her mind, burying it under a pile of evidence of Steve's skills and practicality, she takes a deep breath and looks up at him in time to see him disconnecting the call.

"Chin set the meeting. Williams and Hanamoa will pick me up in a few," he informs her, and there's a quivering hint of mixed emotions resounding in his voice. Readiness, impatience, but also a glint of fear, that is both a good and a bad sign.

"You have to go," Catherine nods her head, "Just, you know, be careful."

He always is, a doubt never crossed her mind in that matter, but she needs to say those words, even if they're a nature of habit that sank deep into their long distance phone calls.

A ghost of a smile faintly curves Steve's lips, his eyes lighting up for a second, flashing pure love and gratitude. The gasp tickles on Cath's palette as the sudden kiss cuts off her breath. A short surge of intense emotion, Steve pours both happiness and fear into it. "I will," he murmurs against her lips, stealing another, much softer kiss, before he leaves.

Catherine watches his hurried strides toward the house, her eyes fixated on the open French door even as his silhouette disappears completely from view. She stays motionless when the sound of the engine fades, indicating he has driven away. Knowing he's getting himself into a dangerous situation has never been easy, but it appears to be harder now, when she physically felt his body moving away, than when it was via the phone. And staying behind, having nothing to do, is definitely not helping her mind.

It's not only the worry that eats her up. If that was the problem, they would never make it work, being paralyzed with fear each time one of them was in danger - which meant basically all time. Catherine needs a purpose, to feel she's doing something, helping.

And as her gaze lingers on the house, she realizes there is something she can do.

She takes the bottles and heads back to the house, squinting her eyes at the semi-darkness in the living room. Pushing a chair to the desk, she sits down, rubbing her neck nervously. The voice of reason tells her it's a risky idea, one that Steve himself might advise her not to follow, but the weight of arguments supporting the decision is stronger at the moment.

"There are things more important than a career," she mutters to herself as her fingers start typing on the keyboard.