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Nalo a loaʻa

-loosely translate to "lost and found"-

CHAPTER FIVE

Scotch never tasted good drunk alone, or so Steve told himself as he looked at the amber liquid in his glass. Passing a glance at the chair to his left, Steve hated seeing it empty.

Over the years, Danny had occupied it more often than not, taking in the sea view he hated, drinking in the sound of the crashing waves he only liked for Grace's sake, and moaned until he was blue in the face because that was how he loved those closest to him.

The fact he wasn't here now was not something lost on Steve. If anything, Steve was becoming accustomed to the loneliness. It may have only been a little over a week since he had come home, but it worried him how much he was getting used to this new way of life.

His weekend had passed in a way he never had expected – quietly.

He had imagined his homecoming so many times, and it had always been with a kaleidoscope of laughter and Ohana. He would heat up the grill, the fridge would be full with beer and food, music would be playing, Grace would be in the sea with Charlie, and Danny would bitch about the good life back in New Jersey. All the while Steve would grin and know that deep down, Danny loved his hell on this pineapple infested rock.

Except he spent it noiselessly, watching his cell in case he got a call he knew wouldn't come.

Now, it was Tuesday, marking his eighth day home, and he realised that nothing was getting easier outside of his lonelier existence. Lou tried, but Steve didn't want to cause more friction than he had already, so he had pulled away a lot.

It wasn't that he didn't value the man's input and support, but with the rest of the team still icy toward him, he told himself he didn't deserve it. Of course, that hadn't stopped the Chicago cop from sticking his nose in, keeping an eye on Steve every time he had a chance.

Lou had guessed he hadn't been sleeping, but it was so much more than that. Even awake, Steve wasn't granted any peace. Only thirty minutes earlier he was sitting in the recliner in the dark when a flashback from the warehouse struck him.

Except this was different.

The moment his back hit the crate that had knocked the wind out of him following the warehouse explosion, the tin roof above him disappeared, and he was assaulted by desert sand and blistering Middle Eastern sun.

Danny was still somewhere close, screaming his name, begging him to move, but the crate was gone, replaced by a Humvee, part of his convoy from a previous mission. He knew the team shouldn't have been there, the fact they were a part of this was a punishment Steve hadn't expected. Snapping back to reality when a second explosion occurred, Steve had bolted upright, looking around the living room, his breathing a heavy pant.

It hadn't taken him long to find a bottle of scotch, a glass, and the Adirondack chairs.

And he was yet to move.

Ever since Steve's burial, Danny had wished for just one more second with Steve. One stupid, dopey-assed grin from his partner was all he wanted. Hell, he'd take Steve casually using a grenade on a door or pulling out a smoke bomb from the trunk of the Camaro over not having him at all.

"I know I should've told the kids, but every time I do, I can't find the right words." He reached out, wiping off debris from across Steve's grave. "They have a right to know, but I can't make sense of any of it."

He came here when the kids were with Rachel and he needed to decompress. Especially when he felt like the weight of the world was close to crushing him.

"The amount of times you've run off on some mission and come back from is too many to count, but this feels different. I'm scared they'll learn you're alive only to lose you again. I can't do this again, Steven," Danny admitted, hanging his head as his eyes watered. "I've seen you shot, stabbed, tortured, fuck, I've seen you fall off a cliff, but you always came back … that day in April…"

It had gutted Danny.

If he was honest, he was a haunted man because of it.

"You were a mess, Steve … you had pushed me and taken the brunt of it. You had my six," Danny laughed humourlessly, using Steve's term. "And I felt like I didn't have yours. Then I find out I had actually saved you by dragging you out and you were a one-man army to save the day as a result." Danny sat down, extending his leg, feeling his ACL twinge from the old injury. "How does one man make enemies by fighting for the greater good?"

When all of the mess with Wo Fat ended with the man taking a bullet to the head, Danny had assumed Steve's life would be easier. The vendetta that brought him to the island and into Danny's life was over, and Steve could pursue a normal civilian lifestyle while remaining in the Navy reserves.

Foolishly, Danny had assumed that someone as selfless as Steve could be couldn't make more than one enemy – one that was his by default to begin with – because the notion of someone like Steve, who pulled strangers together and formed a family, who didn't speak of love but showed it, who would take a bullet if someone else didn't have to, could have more than one enemy was unfathomable.

But Danny didn't know half of what Steve had done in his past life.

"Classified," Danny muttered bitterly. "Everything is so classified about you that we have no idea what direction you have enemies coming from."

And what made it harder was that Danny knew revenge plans and outrunning enemies. When Peterson had kidnapped Grace, Steve stuck by Danny even when he had gone rogue. He even followed him to Columbia and stood by him as he put a bullet in Reyes for killing Matty. When shit hit the fan, Steve never left. Which was why he had assumed Steve wouldn't have gone about this on his own.

"Where do we go from here, Steve?" he asked, and realism hit him.

Danny was suddenly aware of the grave he was sat at, Steve's father's nearby, and the events of the last eight days.

"Talking to an empty grave," Danny jested, looking at the tombstone commemorating his best friend. "When I could be actually talking to you."

He didn't hang around after that, he got up and walked over to his Camaro, bitterly looking at the keys in his hand. The fact Steve hadn't fought to drive and just accepted whatever happened told Danny that Steve hadn't really come home. The Steve McGarrett he met, the one who held a gun at him, trod on toes, took names, and got the job done without even breaking a sweat, hadn't come home.

A ghost of the man had and that unsettled Danny, but it melted when his ire flared.

Getting into his car, he pulled away from the cemetery and headed towards the highway, knowing he should go home, but really, he wanted a beer, the beach and his best friend.

Pulling into Piikoi Street he drove the familiar street, only to reach Steve's home and continue on driving.

He wasn't calm enough to deal with Steve and the deceit he had brought down on them.

Not today, anyway.

Maybe tomorrow.

Maybe.