Glad you're still with me and support me on this story. Thanks a lot for all the lovely reviews.

Not much is gonna happen in this chapter, but I felt like I should provide more of Steve's point of view and his thoughts as time passes.

Steve sat there in his cell, his back to the wall, for much of what he thought might have been a day or so, dozing in and out of sleep. He wished for something to occupy his mind, other than its wild bounces from worry and uncertainty to longing thoughts of home and people waiting for him back there.

It seemed like forever before the door in the corridor finally opened again, making Steve fully alert. He'd expected Richardson to be brought back, but only a guard had shown up. The one he'd never seen before. His heart sank in disappointment and fear for his friend.

The guard was alone, and he wasn't equipped with a gun like most of his colleagues. Instead, he held a rusty metal tray with two plastic bottles of water and two small bowls on it. Without making any eye-contact, he put one of each in front of Steve's cell, just enough for him to reach it, and walked away to do the same for Lynch. After that, he was gone as fast as he'd arrived.

Biting back the pain, Steve shuffled forward and grabbed the bottle greedily. His tongue felt like it was glued to his mouth and his head was about to explode. The small bottle would hardly help with dehydration, but any drop counted. He downed half of it in a second, grateful for the unexpected luxury, and left something for later, afraid he wouldn't get another one anytime soon. It wasn't nearly enough to quench his thirst and moisturize his chapped lips. It was barely enough to keep his weakened body functioning.

The food in the bowl consisted of a horrible-looking, tan-colored gruel, and it didn't even look edible. But there was no telling when, if at all, he'd get something to eat again. And if he wanted to survive, he had no choice but to eat as much as he could handle. He forced the tasteless mass down his throat and carefully leaned against the wall again, hoping Richardson would come back in one piece. There was no doubt he would be hurt, but Steve still hoped it wouldn't be too bad.

Lynch hadn't talked much since his friend was taken away, and Steve didn't expect him to speak now either. But a faint voice carried over to him.

"He had a phone," Lynch said. "The guard. Have you seen it?"

Steve drew his brows in confusion. "No." Was it possible his brain was enough of a mess not to notice such an important thing? Or was it Lynch's mind making him see what wasn't real? "You sure?"

"Positive," Lynch replied. "Left pocket."

If Lynch was right, and Steve hoped it was the case, it'd mean they could figure out a way to get to it somehow and call help. He knew the Navy wouldn't risk sending more people out here to look for them. More than the lives of the operators would be at stake. It would mean admitting they were here. But Commander Mike Turner, Steve's commanding officer for this op, was a smart man. A good man whose main goal was to always get everyone home safe. So maybe… maybe if they could figure out their location and get a hold of the phone, let the operational centre know they were alive, Turner would figure something out without adding any fuel to the fire. It was a lot of maybes and ifs, but right now that was their best bet.

They both agreed on taking the first chance they had at it, and continued waiting for whatever came next in silence.

It was hours later when the door opened again. This time, though, Steve's heart skipped a beat when the new arrivals came into view. Or who they were dragging across the floor, to be more specific.

The barely-noticeable rising and falling of Richardson's chest was the only sign he was still breathing as two guards dragged his unconscious form back to the cell. His face was swollen and bloody, his wrists raw from fighting the restraints, and his naked torso covered in cuts and bruises.

Rage filled every inch of Steve's body and all he wanted at that moment was to make them all pay. The guards let Richardson's body drop onto the ground with a thud, and with angry snarls on their faces, they locked his cell and left.

Lynch's calls to Richardson were breaking Steve's heart. There was nothing either of them could do for his hurt friend. The hated feeling of utter helplessness was eating up on Steve, and he wasn't quite sure how to deal with it. He knew that sooner or later they'd come back for one of them again and nothing he'd do or say could stop them. Nothing he could do would protect his men from the brutality of their captors.

As he sat there, unable to fall asleep again despite the exhaustion, waiting for Richardson to come back to senses, Steve once again wondered whether others were still alive and if so, where they were. Whether they were doing better than the three of them. He knew for sure at least two of his men didn't make it through the ambush, he'd seen their lifeless bodies as proof of that. Which brought another question - what happened to them? The questions about their teammates certainly bothered his fellow prisoners too, but none of them had mentioned their fear and doubts so far.

The thoughts of home bothered him no less than the thoughts of his fellow prisoners and fallen comrades, though. He thought about Grace and Charlie. About the team back home. About Danny. About the promise he'd made when he'd last spoken to his best friend. A promise he'd broken.

He had no idea what day it was, or how long he'd been here, but he thought it was well after Christmas. If Danny knew what had happened, he would certainly kick his butt for ending up here, hurt and imprisoned, instead of enjoying the holiday cheers surrounded by people who loved him.

Steve thought about the pressure Danny must be under, all the worry and pain he must be feeling, not knowing why his friend hadn't shown up yet, with no way of contacting him. He wished he could call him, even if just for a few seconds. Tell him not to worry.

He started to allow himself to imagine what it would be like to go home. How it would feel to see his ohana again. How life would be when he got back. And his heart was aching for all that seemed to be nothing more than a wishful dream at the moment.

After a few minutes of daydreaming, a loud, pain-filled groan echoed the silent cells, notifying Steve of Richardson waking up. "Hey, buddy, you good?" he asked.

"Never been better," Richardson's voice came back. "Missed me?"

It felt good to hear his voice again.

"Thank God, Rick," Lynch said. "Can you stop scaring the shit out of me finally?"

"No can do, pal. You'd be bored."

"Idiot."

Steve listened to worry masked by a friendly banter for a little longer, but it just made him miss Danny all the more. He was about to finish his water, when he realized Richardson wasn't given any. He slid the bottle through the bars to the right, hoping he got the distance right. "Here. Have a drink," he said. "You need it more than I do."

There was a hesitant silence for a moment, then Richardson uttered, "Thanks, buddy."

When a guard came in again, he looked rested and refreshed, so Steve assumed it was morning. Or maybe not. It was hard to keep track of time without any daylight.

The next day set the pattern for most of the days in the prison. One of the guards would bring water and food, the same watery gruel Steve had trouble to eat no matter how hungry he was. Then the doctor accompanied by another two guards would come to check on Steve's legs and Richardson's arm, ensuring them both that the gunshot wounds were healing well.

Steve didn't believe him, though. Despite being able to shuffle along, his legs still screamed in agony every time he put weight on them. The wounds on his left leg seemed to be closing, but there was something seriously wrong inside because the pain wasn't going away. Steve suspected a broken bone, which would explain the half cast on it, but the doctor wouldn't tell him anything.

The wounds in his right leg were still open and festering. They didn't look like raw meat anymore, but they didn't look healthy either. The open sores weren't closing and his foot wasn't functioning the way it should. He felt sharp piercing pain with every step, and Steve knew that the clean bandages the doctor had applied weren't going to a thing to fix that problem.

Standing up required a lot of energy he didn't have, and it hurt like hell, so he didn't get up on his feet unless he absolutely had to. He hated looking up at the guards from the floor whenever they would come in, but his pride had to go aside. It just wasn't worth the effort.

All day long that day, Steve worried that at any moment one of them would be further interrogated. Or that there would be consequences of his attempted escape from the doctor's clinic. But so far nothing had happened. He was on constant alert for sounds in the hallway that would indicate they were coming, though. By the end of that day, Steve was utterly exhausted, both from fighting the constant pain and from wrestling with worry about what would happen next.

At this point, he haven't had a shower for ages, and the mess on his skin didn't add up to his overall comfort. His clothes were ragged and covered in dried blood, sand, and dirt. The smell of blood, sweat, and piss hung in the air and it was nearly impossible to ignore it. The bucket he was provided was another source of humiliation for him, but there was no way they would let him out of the cell and allow him the luxury of a toilet, so he didn't have a choice but use it when necessary. The cell was filthy just like he was, and he feared his wounds would become infected at some point. The last thing he needed right now was to become even weaker and more vulnerable.

One thing he was grateful for was the fact he was able to hear the other two men and talk to them. To ask if they were okay every now and then. Often a guard would come in and tell them to shut up, but just like Steve, both of his friends took every opportunity to push the limits, to see how far they could take things. They were prisoners but they weren't ever going to be passive about it. They wanted to make the guards understood there was still a fight left in them despite their circumstances.

The hours dragged on. With the complete lack of things to do, Steve just couldn't turn his brain off to get rest. He found himself playing back the ambush in his head over and over again, wondering when did it go so wrong. He couldn't understand how did they know about them coming in the first place.

Maybe they had been given the wrong intel. Maybe intentionally. If that was the case, maybe there was someone on the inside responsible for this, and more people would be in danger if they didn't find the rat. It was all a speculation, but Steve had plenty of time on his hands and plenty of theories to roll around in his head.

As the hours wore on, he would listen to the men as they kept up their banter back and forth, and he would join them sometimes.

"Hey, Lynch," Richardson said. "What are you doing?"

"I'm getting ready to go out on a date," Lynch replied.

"A date? I thought you were married."

"Yeah, a date. With my wife. I'm taking her to the best restaurant in town and then we'll walk down the beach. What about you?"

"I'm building a house. Brick by brick."

They were exercising their imaginations, using their time to construct images of what they would do if they weren't here.

"McGarrett?" Lynch said. "You doing something useful?"

Steve allowed his lips to curl into a tiny smile with the image of himself and Danny enjoying a cold bottle of Longboard on his small strip of beach. "Just having a drink with a friend, watching a sunset over the ocean."

"Sounds good to me."

When the chatter died out, Steve leaned on the cold wall, listening to the prison going to sleep. He knew he would have a restless sleep missing home, worrying about his team, wondering if they'd be interrogated again, praying for a chance to escape. Despite the worry, he managed to get a few hours of sleep.

The next morning, or what Steve thought might be morning, the routine began again. The guard brought them food and water. The doctor came. He talked to the guys and tried to figure out how to get them home.

Then another day came, and it went the same way again. And again and again, until one morning it wasn't the guard with a tray of food and water who had shown up.

The dark eyes staring at Steve through the bars glimmered with excitement as Scarface's gaze met his. And Steve didn't need to hear the key in the lock of his door to know it was his turn again.

He sucked in a breath, remembering the ethos he'd been holding dear for his entire adult life. The one Joe had engraved in his brain.

If knocked down, I'll stand back up. Every time.

So he did.

He used the wall for support and clenched his teeth to prevent a groan as agony ripped through his legs, and scrambled up to his feet. Threw a hateful glare at one of his captors. No matter how weak he was, no matter how tired he was, no matter in how much pain. Steve stood up because he wasn't going to show this man that he was afraid.

*to be continued*

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