AN: We're finally at the scene/climax that inspired this whole story, prompted when I heard the song below for the first time. It's also the last angst chapter and we're through the woods after this!

Cody Fry's "Silent Nocturne" helped a lot as well when writing the tone of this chapter, if you get the chance to listen to it.

'It's the evening light
Shining through the curtains,
Time before the night
When everything is golden.

Sun is going down
Your skin is like a painting
Light is perfect now—
But I can feel it changing.'

"Photograph" ~ Cody Fry

~OL~

Steve breaks on a perfect day. Perfect in every single minute detail.

No one could have designed it better, the kind of day he used to dream about on cruel nights hidden in a trench—

Afternoon sun spills through the westward wall of windows, Danny dozes on the couch, Grace is off in Steve's car to share her favourite ice cream place with Charlie, the pleasant scent of linguini simmers in a white wine sauce on the stove—his first time attempting this recipe—and it's so quiet that Steve can hear waves if he focuses just right.

It doesn't happen fast, not all at once like stories talk about. For once in Steve's life, he does something slowly.

Nor does Steve feel it coming, for this is easily the most peaceful day they've had since Chin's visit, absent of little feet. Only four days remain until Christmas.

Expansive warmth nests in Steve's stomach at this oasis.

He stirs the sauce until steam rises off its congealed surface. On the arm of the couch, Danny's hair fluffs out over his pillow in buttercup flares. He hasn't slept well either and so has taken to napping whenever the house is quiet. A silent timer on Steve's phone blinks to remind him to add ground turkey.

He turns back to the stove, scooping meat out of the frying pan and into his nearly finished pasta with a wooden spoon, so it doesn't clatter. Even Grace's picky palate should enjoy this dish.

Suddenly, a floorboard squeaks.

Steve just grins. "You finally joining the land of the living? I thought you'd sleep the whole day away."

No answer.

"Danno?"

And when Steve turns around—no Danny on the couch.

He took his eyes off Danny for two minutes and the man somehow developed the ninja skills necessary to evade a trained SEAL's notice. It's almost kind of funny, that Danny has taken up a personal challenge sneaking around Steve to see if he can get away with it.

Steve is astonished, but he finds it in himself for a small laugh when he spots Danny by the sliding door. "Well done, buddy. You got me."

But Danny still won't answer, and the truth hits Steve right when Danny manages to finagle the door open with his eyes closed. He steps outside, onto the patio.

Right towards the shoreline.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, hey—"

Steve runs around the island at a dead sprint. Heart lodged in his mouth. It hits him that he's still not fast enough, and this is proven when Danny's feet hit water just before Steve makes it to the door.

Danny's balance is fine, no wonky steps like back in June, yet this is somehow worse to watch. His confident steps aim in the direction of the breakers.

Steve vaults down the steps. He's not sure he's ever run so fast in his life. "Danno!"

Danny makes it all the way up to his knees, a feat considering a) the water is exceptionally cold today and b) Steve hears a frantic keening sound only to realize it's himself. Not to mention the broad swells that threaten to yank Danny clean off his feet. Steve sloshes through the waves, briny from the wind tossing up ocean life.

"No, Danny, we're not doing that. No drowning for you today."

Steve says it right as his hand latches onto Danny's bicep. He clenches the sweater's cotton between shaking fingers, tighter than he needs to. Steve hauls his partner backwards until both bare feet are on dry sand. Steve's heart isn't quite racing, but sweat pools along his hairline.

Danny's legs stop. He still isn't awake, Steve senses, even with his eyes flicking back and forth under his lids.

"Come on, Danno."

But Danny won't move, and against Steve's hand he shivers a little. Tugs away from the grip. For a heart stopping moment, Steve thinks Danny is about to fight him, about to march once again into the chilly waves, and Steve will have to sling him back like a sack of potatoes.

The constricted pressure on Danny's arm finally wakes him, along with Steve's pat to his cheek. Lashes whisk open in time with a sudden return of colour to Danny's skin.

He scans around the beach first, then down at his wet feet, then into Steve worried eyes. They must be closer than Danny expects, for he takes a disoriented step back. Still leashed by Steve's hand, he doesn't get very far.

"How'd I…?"

Steve just waits, letting his partner figure it out. Sauce on the stove inside hisses a distant warning but Steve doesn't look. Can't look. He's locked onto Danny, hands, eyes, and soul, and won't let go.

After a minute, Danny's face falls. "Sorry, Steve."

"Not your fault." Then, softer—"You don't have to look for me, Danno. I'm right here."

Danny nods, though Steve can tell he hasn't processed much yet, groggy and blinking up into Steve's too-close face with bald surprise.

Steve notices he still has a hand on Danny's cheek and lets it drop. It shifts up to the base of Danny's neck instead, the junction where shoulder meets clavicle. His index brushes over hairs at the back of Danny's head.

Under Steve's fingertips, a heartbeat flutters. His stomach flutters in echo, with a tenderness that's so strong it's almost painful.

Danny's cloudy eyes refocus and he swallows. "Not a great way to go for a swim."

They share a shaky laugh and with it the tension pops. Danny clasps Steve's wrist as they part, the one at his neck, and Steve squeezes his arm in reply—You're welcome.

"A drive?" Steve asks, because right now that sounds far better than anything involving brain power. He needs to do something with his hands and not his mind, part of why he took up baking in the first place.

Danny shrugs while he leads the way back inside the living room. "Sure. Fair warning—I might not be able to stay awake."

"That's okay, sleeping beauty," Steve goads with a poke in Danny's side. He shuts off the burners on his way by and covers the food, throwing a blanket at a still-pale Danny from the recliner. "I'm driving anyway."

Danny returns fire via a pointy elbow to Steve's kidney. He doesn't do a thing to steal his own car keys, however, even with Steve dangling them from his finger; proof of how exhausted he is. He stops only long enough to towel his legs free of sand.

"Of course you are. Try not to kill us before the kids get home."

And even counting the dozens of car rides they've had since this whole nightmare began, it's one of the most relaxing so far. Danny rolls himself up in Grace's fuzzy blanket, and for a long while they just drive and watch the sunset.

Not talking, not fretting, not trying to solve anything.

Danny knuckles at scruff on Steve's cheek for a moment before the hand tucks away inside the blanket, and that's all there is to it.

Steve heads around the highway to a more rural area, free of trees or houses so they can drive parallel to the coast. Christmas lights fade with the city. The radio mumbles in the background, Steve's favourite oldies station.

"I dreamt."

"Hmm?" Steve glances over at Danny, since this is the first time either of them has spoken in twenty minutes.

Danny nuzzles his nose in the blanket's top fold. "Normally when my feet go…looking…I don't really dream. Just kind of a gray haze. This time…"

Steve dangerously takes his eyes off the road again to get a cue from Danny's face. No luck. It's blank.

"And this time?"

"This time I dreamt about our case with the diplomat's wife." Danny's words lilt with that musical, half awake quality he gets in the morning sometimes. "Where she confessed to killing her husband."

A strange zip of something flashes through Steve's chest. At first he thinks it's affection, courtesy of Danny's giant heart on that case and how snuffly he looks right now, and to a certain extent it is.

But then the zip burns a little on the way down. His hands tighten on the wheel.

"You dreamt about a random case? While sleepwalking?"

A flash of unease crosses Danny's face, almost but not quite in the same category as fear. "She and I had to ride in that cargo truck. We sat on cold mats until we reached Kamekona's safe house."

Steve does remember, and now he recognizes the emotion surging inside of him as anger. He'll never forget his abject fury over hearing the Thai consulate arrested Danny for protecting an abused housewife. Even Tani shuddered at Steve's yelling on the phone. Heads nearly rolled for that injustice, and even still Steve sometimes regrets he didn't do more.

"Maybe it's because we've been driving so much lately," Steve offers, which is stupid and they both know it.

Danny's eyes droop, snap back open. "I had to trust that you'd get us out of that one. You were my partner, even if you weren't physically there."

Steve deliberately loosens his fingers around the wheel. They leave tiny sweat imprints, like bruises on someone's neck.

"Would you have gotten me out, even if you couldn't save her?" Danny asks suddenly, though his eyes open slower this time. "Or would you have—"

"Yes."

Danny blinks. "What, you don't…you're not gonna think about that one for a second?"

Despite Steve's flush, his tone is just as sure. "No. Maybe I should feel guilty, but I don't. If I could get you both out, like we did, great. If it had been down to a choice, I would pick you. Every time. Over anyone."

Universal constant number two. Steve won't deviate on it for all the money or threats in the world.

"What about civic duty and sacrifice?"

"My mom, and to a certain extent my father, put their country over our family. I won't make the same mistake."

"Huh." Danny's eyes shut and don't open again. A slight blush graces the tips of his ears. "Guess I was…just thinkin' about that…you not being here…without…without realizing…"

"Anyone, Danno," Steve reassures him again.

Danny's down for the count for good, proven when Steve reaches over to adjust the blanket and run a hand over Danny's head and he doesn't even stir. Faint breaths puff at hairs on the back of Steve's hand. Danny's head lolls away from Steve, but he can see his partner's reflection in the passenger window.

Steve studies it when he can steal a look away from the road.

Facial lines relaxed in sleep, a leaf of hair has fallen over Danny's brow…and the scar. Purple blanket fuzz is lost in the lashes of his right eye. Fingertips on his left hand peek out of the blanket, clutched loosely around the fabric over his stomach.

I'd choose you over the whole world, Danno.

The thought is an old one at this point. It doesn't do much to Steve other than soften his eyes.

He needs this sight, of Danny at rest, both for relief from the earlier sleepwalking scare and because it's what he fought for all those years. Security. Quiet. Serenity. Home.

People have told Steve that time heals all wounds, that it is the most valuable currency he'll ever own. And they're right.

But what is a man to do when he's poverty stricken?

Steve has never known how it feels to be financially bankrupt, but he knows better than anyone the shackles that lack of time straps to one's ankles. How it freezes deep inside the marrow of his heart. Leaves him out in the wind to shiver and his love to struggle to survive, without any guarantee his best efforts will work in the end.

He is joining the ranks of infamous McGarrett family members:

Leaving, like Doris.

Like John.

Like Deb.

Like Joe.

Leaving is the McGarrett legacy and he's carrying it on beautifully. It's tragic not just because he can't stay.

But because he wants to.

Steve is the first who doesn't want to go, who hasn't accepted that he's leaving his heart behind. Nothing matters with such weight anymore than being there for his family, no matter what the Navy tried to drill into him. It's Steve's last mission.

The long-awaited break isn't caused by Danny's sleepwalking, not the looming diagnosis, not having to put on a brave face for the kids—

No, what finally breaks Steve in the end is glancing over to the passenger's seat at Danny for the nth time, when he's lit up in scarlet and gold by the last of sunset's wine. The perfect ending to a perfect day.

What breaks Steve is not knowing how many more times he'll get to do it.

What breaks Steve is peace.

Finally…finally…finally peace.

A bubble wells inside his chest, propelled by an odd quaff of air. Up into his throat. Stinging behind his eyes.

The bubble breaks in a sob.

A ragged exhale follows an inhale that sounds as excruciating as it feels. Strangled and soft, the sobs hover just under engine noise, lost in time. Steve still claps a hand over his mouth. It trembles against his palm.

They're the only car out on the road at this dusk hour, stars beginning in the east. It's one of the most gorgeous sunsets Steve has ever seen, even counting those in Hawaii. Better than a postcard.

Pink and crystal blue feathers swirl around bronzy strips of cloud. Shadows slant inside the car, leaning at the same angle as Steve's thoughts. Tears haze in front of his eyes and he wipes them out of the way only for a fountain more to take their place. He cries, the kind of low, sighing sobs that hurt worse than if he screamed.

"I'm s-sorry, Danny," he whispers.

Stretched too far, Steve's grief stops time for one brief minute. One beautiful minute that spins the stars the wrong way. Everything suspends.

It's an unorthodox version of an old carol on the radio now.

'Silent night…holy night…'

Piano notes braid around the flawlessness of this moment. Inside this car is everything Steve has ever wanted. He couldn't have designed the scene better.

And it's the end.

Despite this, or maybe because of it, that impulse tugs at Steve's breaths again. His father never condoned singing, claiming it was for little girls and sentimentalists and drunk people.

Steve was taught that emotion is best left stuffed inside a trunk or he would be less of a man. That duty is more important than being vulnerable.

But then, well…Danny turned Steve into a sentimental person anyway. Quite without his permission, right under his nose.

'…all is calm, all is bright…'

The sky tears raggedly down the middle outside the windshield, half starlight, half waning sunset. Snot and tears cake to Steve's skin. He wipes across his face one handed. This time it works and the tears lessen a little.

He checks again on Danny, slumped further down in his seat. Curled up in the usual ball. His head rests on the window, fogging up the glass.

'…sleep in heavenly peace.'

Steve closes his eyes too for a second. Just a second. Salty breezes waft through his hair, up through his clothes like the song…he's weightless…

Steve McGarrett opens his mouth on a perfect day, when he knows it's the end:

"Silent night, holy night…"

If someone took an ice pick and tore up the inside of Steve's gut in a bloody simulacrum, it might come close to what the first notes feel like. They roll out of his lungs and into his mouth with the grace of vomiting burdocks.

He's not a bad singer by any means. But singing is peeling open your skin to let someone see inside your veins. It's being honest even when your feelings might be trampled underfoot. Everything in Navy man Steve says it's not right, not even in an intimate context like this.

"…Here at last, healing light…"

Still he sings, for retired partner Steve knows better. The notes warble between his teeth at first, broken. Cracked.

"Abundant grace for our intent…"

The words hit him and stutter over a sob. What was the purpose of this second chance if it's being snatched away so soon? Steve wonders what he did wrong to have such a gift removed from his feeble hands.

And then the notes grow, still hushed, but louder than he's sung in a long time. Louder even than the radio.

Moonlight and the last dollop of sunset bathe his hands in creamy white and golden filigree on the steering wheel. Somehow it's the most comforting thing he's seen all day, for it's them.

Danny is Steve's sun and yet here he is, flying out of orbit.

"…sleeps the world in peace tonight."

Danny sleeps on, Steve sings, and time has stopped. It's perfect.

And it is the end.

He drives until the road blurs.

~OL~

After ten minutes of searching the house, the beach, and their rooms, Danny finally finds him—slaughtering their flower beds.

At first he curbs the thought as blatant exaggeration. Slaughtering might be a smidgen harsh and for all the vigour, they do still have flowers to their name. That counts for something. Not a lot, but at least Steve's not trying to kill someone. Maybe Danny's initial impression is wrong.

Then he gets up close and no, actually. Slaughtering is pretty generous.

Steve kneels in front of a flower bed that rings two sides of the house. Both arms shimmer with sweat and his brow hunkers low over his eyes, once Danny carefully—oh so carefully—rounds his partner to get a good look. He moves with slow steps, hands in his pajama pant pockets, to avoid startling what looks to be a trance on Steve's part.

Danny really doesn't have any other name for it. Steve is slicked up to his elbows in dirt. He flings plants this way and that, a growing pile in a halo around his knees. First the Easter and tiger lilies, then a bush of hostas. Soil flies everywhere and Danny steps out of the way to avoid a large clod.

He clears his throat. "How long have you been up?"

Steve grunts, in a way that reminds Danny of the early days of their partnership. "Never went to bed."

"You…" Danny's hands flail out of his pockets. "We got home from driving last night and you didn't even—"

"Couldn't sleep," says Steve. He wipes his forehead, leaving a curlicue petroglyph of sweat and dirt. "Came out here at sunrise."

Now that Danny's looking for it, he spies dark circles under Steve's eyes to go with the taut muscles in his hands. They don't shake, but Danny's known his friend long enough to understand what the silent tension means.

"Okay." Danny glances around, but at six in the morning, it's too early for kids to be up. Grace and Charlie still sleep soundly upstairs. The two men are alone on the street, no nosy neighbours watching Steve steadily butcher their garden. "You could have left this for Dylan. I told him he was welcome to the job."

Another grunt.

Steve starts in on a tiny patch of daisies. The sight of them trembling under the force of Steve's manhandling winches Danny's gut. He comes closer, his fingers a faint pressure on Steve's soaked back.

Danny doesn't rest his whole hand there, just the pads of his fingers enough for Steve to feel his presence. His earlier reservations about this being a panic or trauma response to a hard memory evaporate, and some part of Danny almost wishes that's what was happening. Bad brain days he can deal with.

Angry Steve…

The thought materializes in high definition before Danny's eyes right as he thinks it, that at long last Steve is feeling something. He's not completely numb.

Like Danny—he's feeling anger.

It's not the emotion Danny expected, and he probably missed the crying phase of processing this—Steve did look a little red-eyed when they pulled into the driveway last night—but in some ways it makes sense. Steve sees being helpless as a personal fault, an indictment against his ability to protect those he loves. As if lack of control somehow displays a glaring flaw on his part, which is absurd.

But then again, this is Steve.

Danny has to remind himself of that a few times before he finds the words he needs. It washes over him in trickles again, that he missed something. Some inner machination of Steve's brain. Maybe it's time he took Chin's advice in all this.

Maybe no source of comfort exists anymore for them but blatant honesty, even when it hurts.

Steve certainly wasn't raised to initiate such a thing. Him confessing the not-being-able-to-have-kids thing was monumental enough, let alone a cancer diagnosis.

Something green sails across Danny's toes. "You don't need to do this right now, babe."

He goes for gentle. That always has a special effect on Steve.

"Yes." Steve finally looks up from his vigorous motions, voice hard. "I do."

Danny's mouth snaps shut. So much for that.

He kneads into ropey muscles with his fingertips, hand stroking along the bony ridge of Steve's spine, and is pleased when Steve lets him.

"I…"

The compulsion to swallow overtakes Danny for a split second. Steve either doesn't notice the false start, doesn't even hear, or is too engrossed to pay it any attention. Probably a little of all three. Danny's thumb catches on the fabric of Steve's T-shirt and spasms in a tiny convulsion.

"I wish it had been me."

The entire world stops on its axis and, mercifully, so does Steve.

Speaking the truth out loud—finally—makes Danny dizzy.

Steve's head whips up and around, straightening from his stoop. The motion dislodges Danny's hand before he replaces it on Steve's cheek for a moment.

"Danny—"

"I wish I'd been the one to get sick, to have complications with my liver." Danny swallows again and it tastes like earth. Now that he's started, he can't stop. "I wish…I wish I'd been exposed to Sarin gas after the transplant, or PCP, or something. Anything to keep it from being you."

The overwhelming sensation that he's draining away assaults Danny. Sand funnels through the hourglass of his soul grain by grain. People always talk about their knees going weak in moments of great emotion, but for Danny it's his abdomen, right at the bottom of the liver scar. He wants to fall on the grass and coil around it until he shrivels.

They are silent communicators now. That fact hits home for Danny when Steve shoots to his feet and plants both hands on him. One on his right shoulder, the other cupping the side of Danny's ribs. Dirt smudges all over Steve but the lines around his wide eyes are clear.

"No," he says.

"Yes," Danny fires right back. "I'm not saying which scenario is better or worse here, I'm just telling you what I…what I feel, okay?"

"I would never have let that happen. You're not getting hurt on my watch."

Red boils up into Danny's face. "I know, Superman. Hence why you're sick in the first place. I'm tired of you taking the hits all the time."

Steve's eyes rove to either side in a flounder response. "I don't know how to fix what you're feeling."

"I'm not asking you to. That's not the point of me sharing this."

That one perplexes Steve, such an obvious expression of bewilderment on his face that Danny loves him a little more, more than he ever thought he could.

Now that Steve is at some semblance of a standstill, Danny realizes Steve isn't tearing their garden apart in a fit of grief-fueled rage—he's weeding it in a fit of grief-fueled rage. Most of the plants are safely in tact; only a pile of weeds and dried up shoots litter their front yard. The flower beds look better than they have in ages, happy white, yellow, and purple accents glaring in colour against the taupe siding.

"Steve." Danny steps closer, and Steve's elbows bend to keep his grip. "I'm so sorry this is happening to you. I feel angry and useless and not what you need right now."

Steve's eyes widen even further. "Not what I—are you kidding? The only reason I haven't given up is because of you."

The sand clogs firmly on its track and Danny hiccups over it.

"I'm so sorry," is all he can say. He could say it a thousand times and it would never be enough. Perhaps because he feels like he will never be enough.

"I'm not," Steve snaps. "Well, I am. I wish this wasn't happening at all. But I'm not sorry you're here with me and I've gotten to do life with you every day for the last six months."

It's Danny turn to stare at Steve, blood rushing in his ears. "I'm angry inside, Steve."

"I know you are."

"I'm sleepwalking again."

"I know that too."

Then why oh why doesn't he get it? Danny shifts, rubs stubble on his jaw, and Steve tightens his hold to keep him from getting too far.

"None of those things are conducive to being a good support system for someone who's…ill."

"Dying," Steve says, and doesn't look as fazed about saying it out loud for the first time as Danny feels just hearing it. Something banshee shrieks under his skin before he schools his expression. "And aside from the obvious fact that you don't need to be anything for me, you're a good support system because you're you."

"Because I'm me," Danny echoes, flat. Steve could have told him there's a UFO in the backyard and he'd be less skeptical.

"Exactly."

"And you?"

Steve shakes his head, like he's got water in his ears. "What about me?"

"Babe." Danny huffs. "If this is how I feel, I can't fathom what it's doing to you."

Steve's mouth works. Then he closes it with a sharp pop and looks away for a moment. Once his eyes are back on Danny, he nods. "I want to…to not be like the McGarretts."

Danny does a double take, blindsided by this. He expected I'm furious or why won't God let me live or I'm crying all the time and trying to hide it from you.

"You aren't."

Steve's lips go white.

"Really," Danny insists. "You're here and talking to me. I doubt John would have handled it like that. You don't want to leave, I'm guessing?"

Tears well in Steve's eyes—score one for the home team.

"Do you know why this is happening, babe?"

Steve's tone is thick. "Because I defused a dirty bomb?"

"No." Danny's voice melts, ice cream soft, like the hand he sets on Steve's chest. "Because you put your family before your country. You defused it to keep me and our kids safe."

Though Danny hates this fact, that events went down the way they did, Steve needs to see how it makes him different than his family, than the tradition of walking away when hard times come.

Steve has become notorious for yanking people into embraces, pulling on their shoulders or an arm for a side hug, pesky kisses pressed to a person's hair when they're doing dishes, arms cinching from behind. He's brash about it just like everything else.

But now Steve tugs Danny in with a slowness that steals his breath. It's gradual, tender, letting Danny set the pace for how fast his feet want to close the gap. The hand at his ribs moves first, fingers bending even more so they dig lightly into his side.

Then the hand on his shoulder slides around, once Danny's close enough for a burly arm to curl all the way around him until its elbow cups the back of his head. The gravitational pull they have on each other ends with them swaying, a waltz done to the tune of wind swishing through their flowers.

Steve buries his nose good and snug in Danny's hair. "Going through this without you isn't even worth imagining. This is all I've ever wanted. You're the only reason I have motivation to get up in the morning anymore."

And that's terrifying. On a few different levels. Danny knows what it is to be dedicated to a person and Steve is hardly the first.

He was dedicated to the wellbeing of his younger siblings even before he learned his multiplications tables; he promised devotion at the altar with Rachel and lived out that vow until the day she said she didn't want him anymore; the instant Grace met his arms as a minutes-old infant, he knew he'd happily bend his whole life around the curvature of her needs; Charlie's big eyes looked up at him on the playground and Danny made a silent oath to keep him safe. Dedication is a familiar feeling, and so is no-holds-barred love.

But dependence…

Danny has been leaned upon for so long that to feel arms pull him forwards, asking that he just…let go…it sends his head a-whirl. The silent invitation to stop punching at the weight of the world and simply rest for a while is almost more than Danny can stand.

But he does, and he wouldn't trade the adoration pouring on him and from within him for the whole world.

"I'm scared," he whispers.

Steve squeezes him. "I'm scared too."

They cling to each other and try not to think about what the future will bring.

"I'm kinda happy too," says Steve, so childishly pure in a sacrosanct way that Danny hugs him tighter. "I got to live life on my terms."

"Me too."

And with that…

They let go.

The penultimate release is awful and messy, with them both trying to support the other's weight until they reach a tipsy balance in the middle, a fulcrum scale precisely measured. Steve laughs and Danny echoes it, almost without meaning to, and he can't tell whether they're mourning or rejoicing.

Maybe it's all the same in the end.

Danny feels a strange, contented gurgle of love inside his belly, accompanied by relief. It drains away all the hopeless sand in one pop.

This is ours, no matter what the doctors say.