Danny took a few seconds to collect himself before following Chin over to the middle of the room. As he approached Grace, he caught Steve looking at him out of the corner of his eye, and he favored him with a smile that he hoped didn't look as forced as it felt.

Steve smiled back, and if Danny hadn't known him, he wouldn't have thought anything of it. But he did know him – the lines of pain etched in his face, the tense set of his shoulders, the way his jaw worked beneath the stubble on his cheek – so to him, it did look forced.

He just hoped, for Steve's sake as much as Grace's, that she didn't know him quite so well.

Forcing his eyes away, he caught Grace by one of the shoulders and turned her around to face him. "Hey, Monkey, you remember Chin, right?"

Grace nodded.

"Well, he's gonna take you home to your mom's, if that's okay."

"Why can't you take me home?" Grace asked.

It was amazing how easily Grace could make him feel guilty. And the worst thing was, she wasn't even trying. Clearly, he was screwed when she hit her teenage years. "Well, because I've got to stay here with Uncle Steve and keep him out of trouble. M'kay, Monkey?"

She didn't look happy about it, but eventually, Grace nodded. Bless her heart, she was such a good sport. She even smiled as Chin introduced himself, and after giving Danny a hug and Steve a beam and a wave, she followed him out.

As soon as she was gone, Danny turned back to Steve.

The change in him was almost immediate.

It was like, all of the sudden, his battery was drained empty. He sunk down into the bed, his hitched breath coming out a little too much like a groan for Danny's liking. As his head fell back against the pillow, Danny was alarmed to see that there wasn't much contrast in color between the white of the pillow cover and Steve's face.

Part of Danny, in that moment, wanted nothing more than to run out and drag the nearest person in a lab coat in to fix this. But the other part knew that there was nothing they could do. Not for another couple hours. Some storms just had to be weathered.

Mercifully, they didn't have to be weathered alone.

"Hey," he said, laying a hand on his shoulder. Steve actually started at the contact, but Danny kept his hand in place, stroking his thumb over Steve's collarbone soothingly. "Easy, babe. Easy."

"Danny." Steve's voice sounded terrible: shaky and reedy, like it was a monumental effort just to grind out what he could. "You brought Grace."

Danny winced. "Yeah, sorry. If I'd known you were feeling so bad—"

But Steve shook his head. "No," he said. "Thanks for bringing her." He sounded genuinely grateful, too. Danny guessed it wasn't all that surprising – sometimes, he had a hard time wrapping his head around how much Steve had taken to Grace, and vice versa, but times like this, he was reminded how much his partner really cared for his daughter.

"Happy to." Turning, Danny grabbed the chair from beside the bed and pulled it up close. "So, where are we at on a scale of one to ten?"

Steve's eyes slid closed. "Seven." His voice hitched in the middle, and he grimaced, his eyes screwing up as he shifted, presumably trying to find a more comfortable position.

Unfortunately, something told Danny he wasn't gonna find one. "So, a ten, then."

"Nine."

Danny thought he was probably lying, but he wasn't going to argue. Not with Steve feeling so damn crummy. Instead, he let out what was supposed to be a calming breath. "What can I do to help, babe?" Because he wanted – needed – to do something.

"Lower the bed?"

"What?"

Steve looked like he wanted to answer, but opening his mouth long enough to make words didn't seem high on his to-do list, so instead, he just lifted his hand and tapped it against the upper part of the bed.

Being the skilled, experienced detective Danny was, it wasn't hard to piece that particular puzzle together. "Kay, I got you. Just give me a second to figure out this—aha." Triumphant in his battle with this particular piece of medical technology, Danny mashed his thumb into the right little arrow on the panel on the bed to get the head to start lowering.

By the time the bed was more or less horizontal, there was practically no difference in the color of Steve's face and the color of the pillow case, and Steve's whole body was tensed so tight, Danny was just waiting to hear the pop of every muscle in his body snapping from the strain.

He knew that wouldn't actually happen, but that didn't make him feel much better.

"Alright." He cupped a hand to Steve's cheek. "You're alright." He didn't feel alright. Danny could feel him shaking, could feel how cool and clammy his skin was.

But then Steve turned his head away. He started trying to turn his whole body away, in fact, but he was turning onto the side he'd been shot, and Danny knew that wasn't a good idea, so he held him back.

"Hey, no. Believe me, babe; you don't want to do that. Just try to lie still."

Steve shook his head, though, and started turning onto his other side. His jaw was clenched tight, and part of Danny knew what the problem was before Steve even opened his mouth.

"Gonna be sick."

All the same, the confirmation was helpful.

"No," Danny said quickly. "No, you're not. Just lay back, breathe through your nose, all that jazz." He knew it wasn't that easy – he'd never actually had any problems with pain meds, personally – but he also knew that, if Steve was in a world of hurt now, it'd only get worse if he started throwing up.

Sadly, there were some things even Super SEAL couldn't control, no matter how nice Danny asked. He'd barely even managed a few more breaths before he was rolling over, a hand going out to push Danny back as he lost his fight with his tossing stomach.

Reflex had Danny jumping back, enough that he didn't get caught in the crossfire so to speak. As soon as he had, though, he was moving back in again, albeit a little closer to the head of the bed and to the side of Steve's street pizza.

"Can we get a nurse in here?" he shouted, before turning his attentions back to Steve. "Okay, okay." He put a gentle hand on Steve's back, rubbing small, soothing circles between his shoulder blades. "Just get it outta you, babe. You're okay." As he spoke, he made a conscious effort to breathe through his mouth. He hadn't thrown up since May 18, 1996, and he wasn't looking to break his streak. The problem was, it wasn't really the smell that was getting to him – it was the feel of Steve's sore muscles seizing beneath his hand, the knowledge that every one of those spasms battered broken ribs and abused an already-aching head.

By the time the nurse came in, nearly a minute later, Steve was mostly just dry-heaving. She came in, seemed to take stock of the situation, and then started to duck back out.

"Hey, hey, hey," Danny said. "Where—where are you going? Why are you leaving?" She hadn't done anything. She hadn't helped.

"I'm going to get his doctor," the nurse said. "And a janitor."

Danny subsided a little. "Oh." That didn't sound so bad. Actually, that sounded like a plan. "Okay."

The nurse favored him with a small smile that Danny was pretty sure was supposed to be reassuring, and then left the room.

Once again, Danny was alone with his ailing partner. It was hard to believe all this was because some meds didn't agree with him. But then, maybe that wasn't it, he thought. He wondered if Steve's marathon that morning might be catching up with him. Normally, he'd point that out, maybe give Steve a hard time for being stubborn and screwing himself over.

Now, though, he just sidestepped the puddle of sick on the floor and speedwalked to the in-room bathroom to wet a couple paper towels with some cool water before coming around to Steve's other side.

Steve flinched when the first paper towel touched his lip, but Danny caught his head with his other hand, cupping his cheek and keeping him still. "Take it easy, babe," he said gently. As soon as Steve's mouth was clean, he tossed the first towel in the trash and started running the other over Steve's sweat-sheened face.

Steve muttered something, his eyes peeling open to reveal two red-rimmed, glassy blues.

"I didn't quite catch that."

"I said, 'I'm sorry'."

"You're sorry?" Danny tried not to sound incredulous, but it didn't work. "Why are you sorry?"

"Almost threw up on you," Steve mumbled.

Danny resisted the urge to rolls his eyes, and instead favored Steve with a small smile. "Yeah, well, you know what they say: almost is only good for horseshoes and hand grenades."

To Danny's near bone-crushing relief, Steve actually managed a smile as well. It was tiny and strained, but it was a smile nonetheless. "Right," he said. He shifted his head a little bit, until the pillow seemed to set just right, and as Danny ran the wet towel over his cheeks and brow, his eyes slid closed again.

Danny winced as a cough rattled in his chest, but it didn't drag out or anything. It still seemed to hurt, though, and it got Steve restless again.

The janitor coming in only made it worse. Steve prized his eyes open again, and he tried to push himself up on the bed a little as the short older woman came in with her little cart of supplies.

Danny stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, holding him to the bed. "Where do you think you're going? Stay put," he said.

"Danny—"

"Stay."

Steve stayed. He didn't look happy about it, but with a paler, greener version of his "aneurism face," he sunk back into the bed and stopped trying to get up. For the sake of Steve's pride, they would both pretend that it was because he chose to, and not because he just didn't have the juice to do anything but.

"Thank you," Danny said, Steve muttered something unintelligible in response – Danny didn't make him repeat himself this time – and closed his eyes. For a second, Danny thought he was pouting, but then he noticed Steve leaning into his hand, and he figured it was safe to say there were no hard feelings.

Steve didn't stir as the janitor finished her business and wheeled her cart out. To the outside observer, it might've even looked like he was sleeping. Closer inspection, though, revealed the sweat beading on his upper lip, the way his whole body alternated between trembling and impossibly rigid. So yeah, to the outside observer, he might've looked okay, but to Danny, he looked the farthest thing from it.

"Hold on," Danny said, even as he pried Steve's fingers from their death grip on the sheets; he laced his own through them and gave him a reassuring squeeze. "You'll be okay." Careful not to move him too much, he brought Steve's hand up and pressed a kiss to the back of it. "The doc'll be here in a few minutes. Just hang tight."

It was a sign of just how bad it was that Steve didn't even try to tell Danny he was fine or okay. He just tightened his fingers around Danny's – not enough to hurt, but Danny probably wouldn't have minded if it was – and breathed steadily through his nose.

With his free hand, Danny smoothed over the lines of tension from his boyfriend's furrowed brow. "You still with me?"

Steve's response was a hitched grunt, and to Danny's chagrin, he started shifting again. He knew Steve was just trying to find a more comfortable position, but Danny was positive by now that he wasn't going to find one.

"Moving's just gonna make it worse, babe," Danny told him. It came out sounding kind of like a sigh, and kind of like a plea. He just wanted Steve to stop hurting, and included in that was keeping him from hurting himself.

"Well, let's see what we can do to make it better."

Steve's eyes snapped open, and he gasped at the sound of a voice from the doorway. Danny was already ready to intercept him when his Super SEAL reflexes told him to sit up, and he kept a hand on his shoulder to hold him in place.

"Slow down, Speed Racer," he told him. "It's just the doc."

Sure enough, standing in the doorway was Steve's attending, Doctor Kaila Maheloa. She was probably a little older than Danny, slim and short, with dark hair pulled tight into a bun. On her face was a pleasant smile, and Danny felt a surge of relief.

"Alright, Commander, let's see what we've got here," she said as she rounded the bed, picking up the clipboard on her way to the newly-cleaned side. "Codeine not doing it for you, huh?"

"I'm good." There it was. Danny didn't know whether to be relieved or annoyed.

He settled somewhere in between. "Allow me to translate," he interrupted. "What he means is, no, it is definitely not doing it for him."

"I'm sorry to hear that." She actually did look sorry, too. "But we're going to get you sorted out right now, okay?"

"You can do that?" Danny asked. Chin had made it sound like there wasn't anything they could do. Which was nothing against him; Danny figured that was probably what he'd been told.

Doctor Maheloa smiled. "I certainly hope so," she said. "Otherwise, the PhD after my name's kind of a moot point." As she spoke, she flipped through Steve's chart, her eyes darting across various lines on different pages, until she finally flipped it all closed. "Okay, so I have some good news, and some bad news, Mister…"

"Danny. Just Danny."

She nodded. "Danny. So, the good news is, we can give him some Phenergan to help with the nausea and help him rest a little easier."

"That—that is definitely good news," Danny said. "What's the catch?"

"Well, it looks like we will be extending Commander McGarrett's stay for another day or two."

That got Steve's attention. "What?"

When he started trying to push himself up again – Christ, Danny thought, he was like a jack in the box – though, Danny just shot him a look. "Seriously? Are you serious right now?" he said, and then he looked back up at Doctor Maheloa. "Ignore him – he's a lunatic. How soon can we make this happen?"

"I can get a nurse to come by in a few minutes. We'll probably keep him on IV analgesics the rest of the night and try him on Percocet in the morning."

"Why Percocet?"

"Well," Maheloa said, "according to his charts, that seemed to work alright for him when he was," she glanced at the chart again, "hit by a car?"

It was sad, Danny thought, that he almost had to ask which time she was talking about. He'd really only been hit once, technically, on that Russian Embassy case, but he and cars had had a few run-ins in the past.

Instead, though, he just smiled and nodded. "Sounds good."

"No."

It seemed Steve had decided to rejoin the conversation, and both Danny and Maheloa looked at him. He'd used Danny's distraction to push himself up a little on his elbows, and it was hard to tell how much of the grim set of his face was determination, and how much of it was sheer willpower to keep from sinking back down or just passing the fuck out.

Because he looked like he was gonna. Pass out, that is.

Doctor Maheloa raised an eyebrow. "No?"

But Danny waved her off. "I'll take care of it," he told her. "If you could just send that nurse, that'd be great."

She eyed them for a second, a little skeptical, but she nodded all the same. "Someone should be by in a bit," she said. "Let me know if there are any problems."

Unless Danny was mistaken, there was a hint of amusement on the doctor's face as she left the room. However, he was too preoccupied resisting the urge to grab his stubborn lover by his shirt and shake some sense into him.

"What's a matter with you?" he snapped.

Steve's expression stayed firm. "I'm not staying."

"You aren't?" Danny feigned surprise, folding his arms across his chest. "Really? So, what? You're just gonna get up and walk home? Is that the plan?"

"Kinda hoping you'd drive."

Danny let out an incredulous laugh. "Right, no, see, because I actually have this thing where I don't like seeing people I love in pain and doing stupid things. So you can kind of see why I might have a problem with being your getaway driver."

Sighing, Steve slid back onto the bed. It seemed his show had spent the last of his reserves, because he was so white he was damn near transparent. "Danno, I'm—"

"Sick as a dog and sore all over?"

Steve's jaw clenched beneath the shadow of his stubble. "I was gonna say fine."

"I know you were, babe," Danny said. "That's the part that scares me."

More lines formed on Steve's forehead as he furrowed his brows. This time, though, it was more confusion, he thought, than pain. "Danny?"

It was Danny's turn to sigh. "I know you hate hospitals, Steve. I hate them for you. But you cannot go home like this. You know this. So what we're going to do, is we're gonna stay here another night, get you fixed up with the good stuff, and in the morning, you're gonna take it easy, take your meds, and maybe I'll take you home. Capische?"

Steve's brows furrowed deeper, and for a second, Danny thought he was going to argue. But then, "'We?'"

Danny nearly groaned. All that, and that was what he bumped on. "Yes, we, you Neanderthal animal. Now be a good boy and take your medicine so I can stop worrying about you. I think I've got some new gray hairs from today."

"Still look fine to me," Steve muttered.

It was a hell of a way to do it, but Danny knew Steve well enough to know that was his way of throwing in the towel.

Not to say he was happy about it, of course. Steve pointedly kept his eyes closed when the nurse came in and emptied a syringe into his IV. He wasn't pouting, Danny didn't think. He pegged it more along the lines of the face he made when he was just too tired to be assed with anything else, so he just decided to block it out.

Danny could be okay with that.

Steve still looked like he was hurting for a while after that. Danny had taken the seat again on Steve's "good" side – the one that didn't have a bullet hole in it – and was absently brushing a hand through hair as he flipped through the sports page on his smart phone. He'd gotten a text from Chin a little while ago saying he'd gotten Grace home okay, which lifted a weight Danny hadn't realized was there off his shoulders.

Finally, though, Danny heard Steve's breathing even out, and when he glanced up from his phone, he saw his face had relaxed. That was a weight he'd been well aware of, and as he pocketed his phone and stood, he felt it lift just a little.

Bending over the bed, he pressed a light kiss to Steve's brow. "Sleep tight, babe."

And then he sat back down, and went back to reading about UH football.