Disclaimer: See inital chapter.
A/N: This is the end for this portion of the story. I am planning a sequel (if people are interested in reading a sequel).
Danny's broken. He knows this. Knows that he's been turned upside down and inside out, and he doesn't have a clue what to do about any of it. He feels like he's a shard of shattered glass, or Humpty Dumpty.
He can't stand to be touched – it hurts, even when it's just Grace giving him a quick hug, or Kono stroking the hair back from his eyes. Steve's touch, feather-light, is rare, but it burns like a brand, and it makes Danny's skin crawl. The doctors and nurses – he hasn't bothered to learn their names – are always in and out of his room at all hours, poking and prodding him, and he's grown accustomed to their efficient, yet uncomfortable touches. Chin doesn't touch him, and he wonders why.
Something tells him that he's tainted, that he'll never be clean, or whole, or good again. There are disjointed bits of memory that tickle the edge of his subconscious. There's darkness so absolute that sometimes he thinks he's dead, that Max didn't bring him back to life, that everything he's hearing – Grace's laughter, Steve's quiet sighs, Chin's promises that things will get better – is Hell.
He remembers the thick, cloying odors that bordered on stench – his blood, sweat and piss – and they threaten to choke him through memory alone. Remnants of Anna and Mick are left on his body in bruises that will eventually disappear; scars that will fade from red to a thin, silver ribbon on his skin; and phantom touches that wake him each night, screaming and clawing at air.
There are nights when he can't sleep, and he's left to wonder why Steve, Chin and Kono let Max bring him back from the dead, because he really doesn't know how (or even if he wants to) live anymore. He wants to do it for Grace, for what everyone here calls 'ohana'. But, in the dark watches of the night when the shadows creep and crawl toward him, and he's devolved into little more than a gibbering mess because Anna and Mick are at the forefront of his mind, he just wants it all to end. Not even the thought of Grace (she doesn't belong in the midst of such horrific recollections anyway) can snap him out of it.
Sometimes he knows who's real and who isn't, but there are times when he thinks that nothing is real except for Anna and Mick, and he doesn't believe Steve when the man tells him that he was only with the two of them for a week, because it feels like he was with them for a lot longer than that.
"Hey Danno." Steve's voice is tight, and it sounds like the man's been crying, but Danny doesn't acknowledge him.
He's comfortable, curled up like a cat; no one can touch him when he's like this. No one, apparently, except for Steve. But then again, his partner has never been one for following rules or protocol.
Steve's hand is warm on his back, and while it doesn't quite burn – Mick's hand, gnarled fingers pinching and pushing where they shouldn't be, spreading fire through Danny as they tear skin and soul – it makes Danny feel like millions of red ants have burrowed their way beneath the surface of his skin and are trying to make their way out. He tries to stay still, pretend like he's sleeping, but he can't help flinching, and then Steve's breath hitches in a way that pulls at Danny's heart and he has to turn around, because he can't keep hurting Steve.
"Sorry," Steve says, even as he crowds Danny further by sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, and getting directly in his space. There are dark smudges beneath Steve's eyes that Danny can see clearly, now that Steve's face is inches from his. "But I can't do this anymore."
Danny's heart stops beating, and his vision tunnels. The air whooshes out of his lungs, and he can't breathe. And then he remembers how he died, how peaceful it was, how simple it was to slip into unconsciousness with just the thought of Steve.
"Danny, Danny." Steve's voice sounds like a distant roar.
Danny feels himself falling into nothing, only to be caught by a strong pair of arms that wrap themselves around him like a mantle, offering protection and something that Danny hasn't had or felt in what seems like years – safety. In spite of his aversion to touch – something he can thank Anna and Mick for – he mirrors Steve's actions, his arms moving almost of their own accord to encircle Steve.
It isn't perfect, this embrace of theirs. Steve's legs are dangling off of Danny's bed, and his torso is twisted in a manner that Danny's certain will cause Steve to suffer from sciatica. His neck is titled at a painful angle so that Danny's head can rest snug beneath his chin.
"I can't do this anymore," Steve repeats, and Danny, ear pressed flush against Steve's chest, can hear the sound of his partner's heart beating frantically as it echoes in his chest. "I can't stand by and watch as you try to struggle through all of this on your own."
Something loosens inside of Danny, and he tightens his hold on Steve, afraid that if he doesn't hold on tight, he'll lose the man – and himself – again, like he did shortly after he was taken. He doesn't remember all the details of what happened to him, and doesn't want to, because what he is able to recall is something that Danny would not even wish on Rick Peterson or some of the other monsters that he's helped to put away.
"Please stop pushing me away, and let me help you Danno."
Steve's breath is a whisper's touch against Danny's ear, warm and intimate, and bearing with it the memory of something Danny had forgotten. Something he'd feared he had dreamt up, but was now certain that he hadn't.
Testing the waters, and his faulty memory, Danny presses his lips to Steve's clavicle. He doesn't miss the sharp intake of Steve's breath, nor the way the man's heart skips a beat and his hands slide down to rest lightly on Danny's hips.
He isn't sure of himself, not by a long shot, and his skin feels all pins and needles. His heart is beating out of his chest, and he can feel Anna's dirty mouth where it shouldn't be, and Mick's fingers ghosting a trail along his spine, but Danny forces the torment of them from his mind and focuses solely on Steve. Steve whose body melds itself into Danny's as he shifts his weight on the narrow bed, easing some of the discomfort, giving Danny easier access to his flesh.
Danny moves his lips from Steve's clavicle up to the juncture of where his partner's neck and shoulder meet. He sucks and licks and slowly makes his way up to Steve's jaw, leaving bruising marks in his haste, because now that he remembers what he and Steve had started months before he was taken, Danny's making up for lost time, and he's trying to erase the memory of Anna and Mick from his skin.
When he finally reaches Steve's mouth, the man's smiling, lips parting to allow Danny ingress. Steve's mouth tastes like morning breath – something akin to sour milk and rotting cabbage, offset with a hint of mint toothpaste – and Danny can't get enough of it.
"Mhm," he mumbles into Steve's mouth when he stops to breathe.
"Danny," Steve breathes out like a prayer, "god, I've missed you."
"Steve," Danny pulls back a little, his heart clenching in his chest, "I…"
"Sh," Steve presses a finger to Danny's lips and then plies him with a kiss, "let me help you. Let me love you."
Danny can only nod and bury his face against Steve's neck. He's not sure if he can do this, but he wants to try – for Steve, for Grace, for Chin and Kono.
He doesn't know if he'll ever be the same Danny he was before Anna and Mick tortured and killed him and Max brought him back to life, but, he has a suspicion that Steve, and the others, will not let him face any of this on his own. That they'll be there to catch him when he stumbles and falls on his road to recovery. They'll help him get back on his feet, but they won't carry him, not for long anyway.
Content, Danny closes his eyes, listens to Steve's steady heartbeat, and doesn't resist when Steve helps him lie down and then settles in beside him. He tucks himself into Steve's side, tugs the man closer until they're skintight, and then falls asleep and dreams of the first time they kissed: It was a sunny day. The remnant of a rainbow colored the clouds that hovered over the ocean. Steve slipped his hand into Danny's, pulled him close. He effectively shut him up, mid-rant, with an impromptu kiss that left them both blinking at each other in confusion, hearts pounding with excitement and heads reeling.
It was later that day when the so-called, 'Hyperactive Killer,' case landed on their desks. And then it was a whirlwind of stolen moments – kissing in the car in the parking lot before and after work, chaste touches whenever they thought no one was looking, a night spent at Steve's doing nothing more than watching each other masturbate and getting off on it, and the night Danny was taken, Steve dropping him off at home and kissing him until he grew dizzy and spots danced before his eyes, leaving him with the promise of something more that never came.
Waking with a start – the memory of Anna's fingernails digging into his scalp while Mick fucked him, all the while telling him that he deserved the pain, that he was Mick's to toy with and fuck and kill – Danny grips the fabric of Steve's shirt in a loose fist and snuggles closer to the man, burrowing his face into Steve's chest and breathing in the scent of him – cool, crisp, and salty like the ocean. The smell anchors him.
'Home, safe,' Danny thinks, and he marvels that he's alive, safely ensconced within Steve's arms.
"Sleep," Steve murmurs, "I've got you."
The unspoken, '…and I'm never gonna let you go…' lingers in the air above them as Steve rubs his thumb along the furrow in Danny's brow, and traces circles in his back with his other hand.
"Promise?" Danny asks around a yawn.
"Promise."
Steve's kiss, simple, pressed to Danny's temple, acts as a guarantee that there'll be more to come, and that Steve will keep him safe while he sleeps. Danny doesn't fight when sleep takes him under, though he knows nightmares are waiting for him there, he also knows that Steve will be there to help him through them.
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