AN: This is just a little intermission to hopefully show that contrast of internal peace amidst an external storm, which in writing it was the most important point of the story, even more so than a potential cancer diagnosis. Plus I wanted some soft family feels. :)

If you've never had a Hershey Symphony chocolate bar - they're delicious! I highly recommend.

'I buy the groceries,
He makes the biscuits.
Time isn't on our side,
Someday we'll be polaroids, but
These are my favorite days right now.'

"Favorite Days" ~ Jordy Searcy

~OL~

Paradoxes are a funny thing.

On the one hand, Steve doesn't sleep very much.

He lays awake at night in his own bed upstairs, thinking about his health and how much time he has left, thinking about—and listening for—Danny sleepwalking, listening for if the kids need him, thinking about what the biopsy will say, thinking about legacy.

Thinking about eyebrow scars.

Even stupid things pop into his mind, repairmen he has to call to fix the lights and if he should buy a new sweater for Christmas. (He has a terrible hunch Grace already bought him one. A hideous one just to see his reaction.)

On the other hand…

"Uncle Steve?" Small fingers bunch up in the side of his shirt after breakfast. "Can we go play now?"

"Sure, buddy." Steve extracts lint out of Charlie's cherubic hair while standing from the island stool. "You got your shoes?"

He does indeed and off they head across to Isabelle's front yard for tag with the neighbourhood kids.

Charlie is shy meeting 'the kids' at first—right up until Rose takes his hand and shows him her new Pokémon card collection. They're best friends by dinner time. Steve's pretty sure the two of them and Brady have cooked up some kind of trading card ring that involves candy bribes and stealing more of Danny's ice cream pops.

…On the other hand, Steve has never felt this fulfilled in his life.

Their days in the week leading up to Christmas fall into a kind of rocking rhythm, the uncomplicated delight of a family living in harmony under one roof.

"That's not how you cut snow angels, Dad."

"Oh yeah?" Danny's tongue pokes to the side of his mouth and his scissors flash in the sunlight. "Then how come mine has four wings?"

Longsuffering, Grace sighs. "Those are supposed to be the skirts. You're doing it upside down."

"What are you talking about? For the record, yours looks like a deformed sea horse."

Grace unfolds her paper to reveal a long chain of neatly formed angels; wings, halos, and all.

"Yeah, alright." Danny pretends to grumble. "That's not too shabby."

Steve watches these scenes with a lulled thrum in his arteries. It's something alive, bigger than him. Water could erode stone faster than his heart tires of seeing such embodiment of home.

Whether it's Danny tickling Charlie or Grace reading her brother a bedtime story or Danny cooking them all too much lasagna—Steve tucks each and every moment away into a battered cardboard box at the back of his soul.

And maybe captures a few more photos along the way.

He doesn't understand how he can live at such extremes. How this can possibly be the best Christmas he's ever had, the peak of his life's bliss, and such a devastating grief that he almost doesn't process it whatsoever…at the same time.

Rather than oscillating between these two extremes, Steve somehow exists in both, simultaneously.

He is ripe with happiness and he is numb. He's surrounded by love and he is alone. An island in the sea of paradise.

"…Steve? Paging Steven?"

It also makes him zone out sometimes.

Steve 'wakes' to see Danny's hand pass slowly in front of his eyes, though Danny's joking tone doesn't match the troubled gaze.

"Sorry." Steve blinks at Isabelle where she bustles around their kitchen. She's only halfway done unloading a truly obscene amount of baked goods from a cloth bag. Their counter space is swallowed by Tupperware containers. "Got lost for a second there. Thank you for this, Izzy."

"I cook for all my neighbours at Christmas," she demurs. "Although fair warning—Brady helped with the brownies so I'm not sure they're edible. Pretty sure he got into my spices at one point."

Danny smiles. "Charlie has the stomach of a billy goat. He'll eat anything, these included."

Isabelle saved the best for last: she digs into the bottom of the bag and produces a whopper of a pavlova cake, pistachio green with chocolate layers.

Danny's eyes bug. "How long did this take you? Pavlova's a finicky customer to make."

"Not too long." But Isabelle's smiling and hands both of them a fork each. Then, for the first time, the exuberant woman looks hesitant. "Oh, maybe you don't want it before lunch…"

"You kidding?" Danny slices himself a piece onto a paper plate. "We'd love to try it now. Sláinte is táinte."

Isabelle exhales in relief and echoes the Irish blessing. The smell alone makes Steve's mouth water, even before he digs in for a generous scoop. Danny takes a more mannered bite.

Steve thinks, with no small amount of pleasure, how much terrible food he's eating lately. There's something about it, be it ice cream, pavlova, or Grace's sugar cookies, that screams peace time. He can let his guard down, even with food.

Then the taste hits his tongue.

"It's good?" Isabelle clasps her hands. "You think the kids will like it?"

Danny quirks a brow. "I can genuinely say I've never had anything like it."

Flushed with pride, Isabelle thanks them and takes their own gifts for her—Danny and Steve bought her a new garden gnome to go with the old one, along with an apron—tucked away in the bag.

"Merry Christmas!" she calls on her way out.

Steve waves. "Happy Hanukkah!"

The minute the door closes, Danny's face turns apple red and he sets down the plate. "This is, uh…"

"Yeah."

Steve stares at Danny.

Danny stares at Steve.

Somewhere in the middle they start to grin.

It's a wonky kind of grin from both of them, rising on one side of their mouths before the other. Their faces ripple with a humour that passes from simple amusement to something in the realm of release. Like the very outer edges of fireworks when the main burst has died but some hysterical light lives on.

"Paprika?" Steve finally asks, voice wavering too. His chest sparks.

Danny loses it first, the second most unexpected twist in this day. He hides his giggles behind a hand. "Definitely paprika. And lots of it. My whole life is just one string of bad chefs trying to kill me."

Steve turns red too—it takes him two solid minutes to stop laughing.

~OL~

Somehow the bonfire nights become a thing.

Every time Danny gets a fire going and they start in on their first s'mores, more people show up. It starts with Brady—apparently Charlie's new best friend. Sometimes Rose comes along, dragging Isabelle and her husband Mark by the hand as the neighbourhood honorary parents.

One night, even Logan appears. A phantom, he materializes out of the shadows to an oooohhhh chorus from the kids. It doesn't appear to bother him a bit, and he sits calmly beside Jason to roast a marshmallow. He doesn't say very much, just watches the motley group interact.

"That's the vampire," Rose whispers to Danny. "Or we think maybe he's one of the undead."

Danny ducks down and whispers back—"It's rude to call people names. And he's a bat."

Rose snickers.

And yet…and yet. Despite the guitar's presence most nights, Steve never sings. Not once. The kids invent all sorts of ridiculous songs and make Isabelle do the clapping bits, but Steve's mouth stays stubbornly closed, save a dopey grin every so often that shows his teeth.

Danny catches Steve's eye at one point, pointedly singing along, but Steve just steals a quick video with his phone.

'Pick your battles' is one of the most important lessons Danny's learned as a parent. It's more applicable with Steve than he's ready to admit.

Tonight, Danny relaxes deeper into his chair. Firelight dances across their beach in the dark, no stars overhead thanks to a thick bank of clouds. Placid waves lick at the shoreline. His eyes travel over kids sitting on drift wood logs and child sized lawn chairs from their own homes. Rose passes Jason and Luella, his older sister, a fat marshmallow. Charlie is in an animated discussion with Brady over the best way to stoke a fire.

None of these options apparently appeal to Steve: he sits in the sand like he prefers to every time, back against Danny's legs. The guitar rests across stretched out legs, folded at the ankles and facing the fire. Mina taps her feet along with the bluesy rhythm Steve plucks in an arpeggiated strum pattern. He holds out the guitar neck so she can play with the strings.

"Ith got lines." Mina braces on Danny's knee to bend closer and the two men smile at her, endeared by her toothless lisp and curiosity.

"Those are called frets," Steve explains. "See how they get narrower towards my right hand?"

Mina hums in understanding while her other, sticky hand heads up to her mouth so she can suck on chocolate covered fingers. One of the kids asks for a Kenny Loggins song, of all things, and Steve chords away for them.

"Sure you don't want to sit in your chair like a civilized human being?" Danny asks, once the children are done and dissolve into a fit of giggles.

Steve stretches his neck back just to wink at his partner. "Why bother when I've got a comfy cushion right here?"

"Uh-huh. Yuck it up. I'll be the one fielding complaints when your back stiffens tomorrow."

Steve laughs, which is fair considering he's too active for that particular brand of muscle pain. His easy going smile assuages Danny's worry. He savours the tiny moments like this too.

"You know what I am suffering from, though?"

Steve faces forward again, but Danny tugs a strand of unruly brunette hair to show he's listening. "Do tell, babe."

"Deplorable lack of chocolate. It's a tragedy, really."

"Truly," Danny deadpans.

Maybe he's feeling extra warm and cozy from the red glow of their bonfire; maybe the chatter of six kids reminds him of camping with his parents; maybe he's more tired than he realizes; or maybe he just doesn't see the value in bickering for his pride anymore.

Whatever the reason—Danny simply leans down to the bag at his feet, extracts a Hershey Symphony bar, unwraps it to break off half, and holds the chocolate down near Steve's face.

He expects Steve to, you know, take a hand off the guitar to grab it. As normal people do.

Instead, Steve just tilts his head and bites off a piece.

Danny sighs. "You're unbelievable."

Steve's smile widens, something Danny only knows because his ears raise and lines bunch around his temples. Danny's left hand somehow ends up staying in Steve's hair, longer chunks spun around his index finger to gently scratch the scalp underneath. Steve rests more of his weight against Danny's legs, shoulders slumped a little. Steve keeps playing for the kids, but Danny senses his mind wander away.

Then Steve leans his head back, cradled right at the top of Danny's knee caps. A motion burdened with trust that melts honeycomb in Danny's spirit. The grin Steve throws up at Danny is breathtakingly fond, muzzy at the edges.

His brows waggle and Danny rolls his eyes. But he does, alas, hold out more chocolate. Maybe he's just crazy after all.

"You're exploiting this, aren't you? Dr. Nassir calls you an invalid as a joke once and suddenly I'm hand feeding you all the time."

"Hey," says Steve, betrayed by a chuckle. "Where else am I going to get service like this?"

They don't say any more, not in front of Charlie and their guests, but Danny feels Steve let out a long breath, ribs deflating against his shins, and hears the words anyway. He's just glad Grace is inside calling friends, no other adult present who might be able to parse out the quick words.

It's not perfect, not without knowing how much time they have left, but right now in this moment Danny's heart—his anger—is quiet. No one can ever claim they haven't made the most of what they've been granted, these precious six months.

"You're an animal," he says, hoarse.

Steve closes his eyes. "Love you too, Danno."

Danny kneads his fingers into Steve's shoulders to add to the massage factor, feeling the tension drain from Steve in steady ounces. His slump goes boneless, so relaxed that Danny starts to feel the pressure on his bad knee.

He says absolutely nothing about it, pleased to be able to take care of Steve in this tiny way.

~OL~

"…And his mane came swooooshing down to the ground!"

Steve pauses at the top of the stairs, mug in hand.

Not so much because of the silly voice as a child's echoing laughter. It's not an odd sound for their quiet house, not with so many neighbourhood kids having made themselves at home long ago.

It is, however, an odd sound for ten o'clock at night. The hallway is dim, but a soft light shines from the guest bedroom across from Steve's.

He also stops because there, hugging a sweater to her chest, is Grace, sitting against the wall by Steve's door. Eyes at half mast.

"He romped and he roared and he raced around the village."

"What did the people do, Danno?"

"You're going to have to wait and find out."

Steve shuffles over. "This seat taken?"

Grace shakes her head, then immediately rests it on Steve's shoulder once he lowers himself down and settles. Their legs are bent, Steve so he can balance the mug of hot chocolate on his knee and Grace so she can curl up into what looks like the smallest ball possible. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree in that respect.

Danny's voice lulls while he flips a page, then starts up again. Something to do with a lonely lion outside an African village. He's got a high-pitched voice for the elder woman and a deep, crackling one for the lion that makes even Steve impressed. Danny reading to his kids is not something Steve gets to hear very often, a rare treat.

"He tells it different every time," says Grace, her voice buzzing against Steve's arm.

Steve offers the mug, since she looks like she needs it more, and she sips at it. A chocolate foam moustache lingers on her upper lip.

"Isn't he reading from a printed book?" Steve asks.

"Yeah, but Dad never sticks to the words. This is one of the first books he read me as a pre-schooler—every night for two months, and it was never the same."

"Ah." Steve smirks. He should have expected as much from Danny, who, though religious in his supposed following of procedure, has no regard for such institutions in other endeavours. "I thought Danny tucked Charlie in ages ago, after the bonfire."

Grace snuggles her cheek on Steve's shoulder. Amusement flickers in her dark eyes, and they match the hot chocolate. "He roped Danno into a third story."

Steve would laugh at Danny for that, but he's just as wrapped around the little boy's finger. They can never deny him anything, not in whimsical childhood arenas like this.

The pair listens for a while, to Danny's wild rabbit trail of a story and Charlie's increasing laughter. If this story is supposed to make him sleepy, Steve thinks Danny didn't pick it very well.

Only as the story winds to a close with the lion being sent by his new friend to start his own pride, out into the swaying savannah grasses…driven by the sun…listening to frogs sing…does Steve understand how effective it is. Both for sending Charlie's mind off to dreamland and reminding him that he's home, loved.

Something inside of Steve's stomach sizzles, surrounded by warmth from Grace and Charlie's chirping voice and Danny taking extra time to be goofy with his son. Their voices quiet down. Charlie's begins to slur with sleep.

This is what Steve always wanted, ever since he was a teen and realized that his parents were broken long before he grew up.

Steve glances down at Grace. His arm winds around her petite shoulders, tugging her closer. He's about to ask if she's cold, if she wants to put on that green sweater…

When he sees that it's one of Danny's. She's held it to her nose for a while now. It smells faintly of smoke and Danny's hair products.

"Are you and Danno okay, Steve?"

Steve thumbs back a few strands of Grace's hair to better get a read on the pinched lines around her eyes. Eyes that are up and fixed on him. She's got her mother's iris colour but the intensity is all Danny.

It also doesn't escape Steve's notice that she drops the 'uncle' from his name more and more lately. Somewhere along the line, he stopped being a family friend and is now just family.

"Sure we are, Gracie. Why would you ask that?"

She shrugs the shoulder not melded to Steve in a very Danny-esque way. "I don't know. You and Dad have seemed…off, even before we got here."

Out of the mouth of babes. Steve puts on a confused face just the same.

"Off? You wanna clarify that, Miss College Sophomore?"

Nose wrinkled, Grace doesn't take the bait. Steve's attempt at humour doesn't even get him an eye roll.

He's honestly feeling a bit chastised and probably deserves it. Here she is coming to him with something serious and he brushed her off. "We're fine, monkey. You don't need to worry, alright?"

It stings, and it's a lie, but Steve doesn't want any more people losing sleep over this until they get results back. The kids deserve a restful Christmas.

"Sometimes Danno's smiles look tired or you get all emotional tucking Charlie in. And you've been…I saw you coming downstairs to open Dad's door the last few nights."

Steve's gut flips. Tense fingers curl into a fist on his knee. "Do you remember how Danny had some trouble those two months after he got shot, walking around?"

"When he was asleep?" Grace thinks about this, then nods. "Uncle Lou told me something like that happened once."

Not just once. Steve treads carefully around possible responses, how to be truthful without scaring her.

"Danny's just had a little relapse of that," says Steve. "So I like to check on him during the night, make sure he's still there and not wandering around. Sometimes we sit up and chat for a while."

"Oh. That makes sense." Grace's eyes hardly blink, locked on Steve. "You sure you're okay?"

"I'm absolutely positive."

Steve kisses the top of her head.

In the room, Charlie's light switches off in time with Danny's whispered, 'love you, buddy' and wind sighing.

Then Danny sings a song Steve sort of recognizes, the melody low and simple. It's some old seventies tune, a Broadway number turned lullaby. Grace's eyes go misty. Charlie hums it note for note, as if Danny has sung it to them both a million times.

Outside, the crickets chirp along.

Steve's mouth is dry.

~OL~

"I never told anyone about all the radiation poisoning side effects."

Danny is a detective.

Well, he used to be a detective, but it's one of those careers you don't retire from. Investigating is a pie slice of Danny Williams' inner being and as such he can't turn it off. He was like this from the time he wore diapers, hardwired to take meticulous notes on peoples' behaviours, to look for patterns.

Because of this—or perhaps even in spite of it—he doesn't react to Steve's sudden words after fifteen minutes of quiet. Something's eaten at Steve all day and it's about time he brought it up himself. Plus, Danny's had a lot of practice staying composed in the face of crazy things his partner says.

He just tilts his head.

They're in the kitchen chopping vegetables for a stew. Danny has one eye on the carrots he's slicing into neat coins and another on his kids playing in the surf outside. Grace laughs while showing Charlie how to balance when a wave hits his knees, both brother and sister wet from the splash.

"I was at all of your doctor appointments, Steven," Danny replies. Very calm. He's quite proud of just how calmly he says it. He even manages a hint of tranquility.

I held you after you threw up when we moved here, he almost says, then refrains from that too.

Steve carefully cuts up the center of a celery stick to begin mincing it. He's one track-minded on the knife blade and making sure each slice is stupidly precise. The distinctive sound of knives hitting their wooden cutting board fills a duplet of silence. Elbows knock together in the inches between them.

"Yeah." Steve concedes this easily. "But they gave me a print out of possible ways it would likely affect me down the road."

Danny also, in a deliberate move, doesn't look at Steve. His knuckles go white around the carrot. "And?"

Thu-shunk…thu-shunk…thu-shunk…

Steve's jaw tightens. "And apparently radiation affects fertility, my ability to have kids. Got tested last year to confirm."

Thu-shunk…thu—

Danny stops chopping.

Worst case scenario kind of guy that he is, or used to be, he's also quite proud that his first thought is not, 'oh hey, my best friend has a secret lover and can't get her pregnant and this is his way of telling me.' Ten years ago, and he'd already have said as much by now, ludicrous as it is.

Instead, Danny's first emotion is shock, then a serrated flutter of pride over Steve trusting him enough to share this. However bizarre the segue. They've come far if Steve feels safe enough to start an emotional conversation without prompting or embarrassment. All those therapy hours are paying off.

Then a mallet swings home into Danny's chest, knocking all the wind out of him.

He drops his knife.

Steve keeps chopping, but the cuts go wonky and his hands aren't steady anymore. He minces a potato next, so paper thin the slices are translucent.

"I'm…" Danny wraps tentative fingers around Steve's wrist. It doesn't stop moving. "I'm so sorry."

"I'm not."

Well. That's light years away from the reaction Danny expected.

He figured this was an airing out of painful truths, the worst kind of show and tell, but necessary in light of what they can't talk about around the kids. On the backburner of Danny's emotional stove, he feels a stew mix of hurt—that Steve thought he had to bear this alone—and wonder, that he managed to keep the secret for so long.

But here is Steve, stating it with total acceptance.

"You're not?" Danny lets go of Steve's wrist, mainly so the man doesn't cut himself by accident. "It must have been hard, carrying that around all alone. Why didn't you tell me?"

Steve's aggressive cuts slows down and he too looks out the window. "At first, I just felt…I don't know. Ashamed or something. Like life had snatched away yet another good thing."

Compassion seeps into Danny's tone. "Service to your country took its toll in so many ways."

Steve shakes his head. He braces his knuckles on the counter, his right still holding the knife. Its sharp point gleams in decaying afternoon light. "The women I dated, I had to tell them eventually. It wasn't right otherwise. For both Lynn and Brooke, then Catharine on the plane…"

"It turned them off," Danny says, so Steve doesn't have to. This reveal answers a lot of questions for Danny, about why Steve could never seem to commit to someone—and why no one ever fought for him.

Steve nods, eyes bright. "Not every woman…but a few. All I wanted was a family."

It's quiet in the house, so quiet Danny thinks if someone were to listen close enough, they'd hear his heart shatter. Just like that. Into tiny little slivers of glass. They nick at his lungs and he misses a painful breath.

"Oh Steve…"

Steve shakes his head again, eyes sliding from the kids to Danny's face. "No, Danny. That's not why I'm sharing this. Don't you get it?"

Danny really doesn't. He's paralyzed with grief over this awful truth. First and foremost, his best friend will never get the one thing he's wanted since childhood. A better family. People to love him, kids to call his own, a legacy. He himself can't imagine not having kids, dying childless.

As he has countless times, Danny wishes he'd been the one to disarm the dirty bomb.

Steve turns and leans his hip on the counter so they're in direct eye line. His own blaze. They're the crack of a volcano, bright with hot magma underneath the sway of green things right before it erupts. The look Steve throws Danny is so forceful that for a moment Danny mistakes it for anger.

Then he eyes the upturn of Steve's lips. Danny's stomach foams in response.

"Danno—I don't have to wonder what it would be like to have kids."

Danny blinks, first at Steve, then Charlie now digging a little hole for sand dollars he found. Sunlight dances off Grace's hair.

He gets it, of course he does—they joke all the time that they have shared custody—but at the same time he doesn't at all. Danny knows better than anyone that being an outsider to a pre-existing set of relatives can be a lonely experience. Watching ohana without being a part of it.

"You gave me what I couldn't have," Steve whispers, the magma in his voice now. "I want you to know that, how much I love you for it. I won't get to have my own kids, but…"

"Yes you do." The words spill from Danny's mouth in time with the overflow of his heart. His tone is louder than Steve's. Not firm, but blankly certain like he's stating scientific fact. "They're yours just as much as mine, I hope you realize that."

By the sudden slack in Steve's jaw, he didn't until just now. His stare is wide and long, and by virtue of that Danny softens all over.

"Whatever happens…I got to know what it was like to…" Steve runs a hand down his mouth. "They're not a replacement for the real thing—Charlie and Grace are the real deal for me."

Danny's dry tone contrasts the caressing hand he places on Steve's cheek. "That's good, because they're pretty attached to you."

"Oh, just them? No one else who lives in this house?"

Danny has his quippy response all lined up and ready to go—"I'll let you know once I see how this latest cooking disaster turns out."

Instead, Danny pecks just over Steve's heart and sighs out a mellow note. "Couldn't go through life without you, babe."

AN: I have a special ops military friend who watched the episode with the bomb in the jungle and went, deadpan - "are we not going to talk about the fact that Steve is probably now infertile?" And basically that comment has haunted me ever since, so I wrote this scene to talk about it.