Epilogue:
~Two Weeks Later~
The ceremony is small and unofficial. It's in Steve's backyard and it involves fire.
It's only been two weeks since Chin revealed Wo Fat's death, and Steve is still not sure he quite believes it, especially since the CIA denied ever having Wo Fat or Frederich Buchanan in their custody.
He has one more month of painkillers for his gunshot wounds and three more weeks of antibiotics, but he feels almost normal again, aside from a slight twinge here and there when he's overexerted himself. Danny's already in therapy for his shoulder, and he's done with his pills. Steve envies him a little.
Kono is looking happier today than she has for a while, but Steve remembers the nights she'd stayed with them when his nightmares had been more than Danny could handle alone. She'd always cried herself to sleep long after she thought he'd been asleep. He doesn't have the courage to ask her why.
He's branched out a bit, able to hobble around the beach for a small walk every morning without dragging Danny with him, but every time he'd have to hold Danny's hand for an hour after to calm down.
Kono is sorting through a huge stack of paper Chin brought with him, separating them into neat piles of pictures and words. She hands everyone a folder with their name scrawled over the cover, different colors, same information.
Steve's folder is blue, Danny's green.
Steve sinks into his chair gratefully, a little worried that he still aches there. Danny hands him a painkiller and a soda with a knowing look and Steve spares a tired smile.
Automatically, he reaches for Danny's hand when it lingers on his armrest, but he forces himself to stop. Dr. Irmish and he are working on his independence from others, and one of the things Steve is supposed to do is let others initiate contact.
Steve ignores Danny's hand, staring resolutely at the bottle in his own, watching the way it shakes as he feels the anxiety crawling up his spin. It wraps cold fingers around his throat and squeezes, leaving him gasping quietly in the sudden airlessness of the backyard.
It hurts, this breathlessness, and Steve whimpers softly.
Danny peeks at him from the corner of his eye, looking away just as quickly even as his hand clamps firmly onto Steve's, creating a point of reference that Steve can focus on, can use to pull himself away from the paralyzing sensations.
"Thanks," he whispers as soon as he can breathe steadily again, hating the way his voice trembles and cracks. Danny just nods.
Kono kindles the fire, stands up, dusts off her hands, and picks up her own pink folder. She waves at them, and Danny lumbers to his feet, Steve following just as clumsily.
"Do we eat first?" Danny wonders, seemingly to himself but for the way he catches Steve's eye.
"I don't feel hungry," Steve replies, "but that's just me."
"Supper's ready," Kamekona calls, making up their minds for them. "You eat up, bruddah," he says, clapping Danny pretty hard on the shoulder. Luckily his good one. Then he leans in, stage whispering, "Make sure he eats, too."
Danny glances at Steve, and Steve raises his eyebrows to say, I'm right here. Danny nods, his default communication since he's been spending most of his time with Steve.
Grace says it's Uncle Steve wearing off on Danno and she'd asked when he was going to be himself again.
Steve had tried not to be hurt, had tried to stop relying on Danny as much, but then the meds that stopped his dreams were taken away, and now he can't go five minutes without Danny by his side.
Danny sits him on the edge of one of the picnic tables that has permanently migrated from Kamekona's dormant shrimp truck, scooting in next to him. Grace tucks herself on Danny's other side, handing them both good-sized rocks that she's painted.
"Napkin weights," she says, as Mary passes by, white squares decorated with Kamekona-shrimps trailing in her wake. Grace demonstrates how the rocks work, simply plopping hers on top of the napkin so it's trapped, beaming widely when a breeze proves her invention necessary. Of course, Danny praises her highly and frequently. Steve finally manages to speak when Danny goes up to get drinks for them.
"I like the pattern," he says, tracing the thick blue lines flowing around his rock. Grace glances up from a plate of chicken Chin handed her earlier, staring at him with a knowing gaze. He points to the rock again, "It's, uh, it's really nice. Reminds me of when I first learned to surf."
Danny comes back before Grace says anything, thumping a plate of grilled shrimp and half a steak in front of Steve, guarding his own plate of a full steak, potato salad, chips, and, improbably, celery.
Steve tries to grip the knife in his left hand. Danny watches him carefully, and Steve ignores him.
Just because he'd needed tetanus shots and his hand is still in bandages doesn't mean Steve needs help eating. He does switch hands on the knife so it's easier, and the shrimp he just scoops up with his fingers. Danny leaves again when he realizes that Grace accidently tipped her cup over the table and Steve can't grip his glass with slippery fingers.
Not hungry to begin with, Steve abandons the steak and shrimp in favor of the root beer shave ice Kamekona brings him. Danny comes back with water for Grace and a straw for Steve.
"We're about ready to begin," he says, wet naps already out and swiping across Grace's face and Steve's palms.
Steve lets himself be pulled to his feet and led to the fire. They are pushed to the front and someone hands them the folders they left on the chairs. Steve swallows hard, feels his saliva drying up and his throat sticking closed. Someone puts a hand on his shoulder and he flinches.
"It's okay," Danny murmurs, and the hand grips him. Usually it would calm him, but the panic only grows until Steve thinks he's going to lose control. Then he shoves the folder into the flames, pages spilling out and igniting as they settle over the heat. He steps back only when Danny nudges him so he can drop his folder in too.
Steve turns away, the acrid smoke burning his sinuses, making him feel like sneezing or crying. He sits at the table again, Grace's abandoned water in hand, fingers ripping at the label. He swallows over and over, still feeling the dryness.
"It doesn't feel real, still," he says to Danny, who's followed him. "You know? It's…I know he can't hurt me, but…"
"You still sense him, you still know he's coming," Danny finishes, grabbing his own bottle to denude.
"Yeah." Steve falls silent again, spinning the bottle. Then he shoots a glance at Danny. "Will you do something for me?"
"Anything," Danny promises, and Steve leans close to him and kisses the corner of his mouth. Danny freezes, but Steve's already pulling back.
"I'm sorry," he says thickly, not quite sure why he'd done it in the first place. "I didn't mean to. I know Gaby—"
"Shut up, Steve." Danny's growl is low, and he's squeezing his bottle. "I understand it. I really do, but I have to draw the line at intimacy."
"That's just it," Steve says, angry now. "It's not about the intimacy. It's about feeling safe. Danny, you make me feel safe." He stops himself there, fixing his eyes on his hands, also strangling his bottle. Beside him, Danny sighs.
"It's Danno," he finally says, and Steve stares at him. "You can call me Danno."
"Now it's lost all its novelty," Steve muses, and then, "Danno." Nope, still good. Danny glares at him without any real malice, but he smiles after a beat.
"Danno," he agrees, poking at Steve's chest without making contact, "Stevo."
Steve shakes his head, but he's laughing, so Danny calls him "Stevo" again. They bump shoulders gently, spinning their bottles in tandem, and then Danny leans close.
"Do me a favor, hey, Steven?"
Steve nods. Danny presses a small kiss to the corner of his mouth. "You make me feel safe too despite all of my complaints."
Steve smiles again, and they bump shoulders again.
"To ohana," Steve says, raising the bottle. "Mahalo."
~ The End ~
A/N: This story was a long time coming. It took me the better part of six months (or a year) to write (2012-2013). Once I typed it up (yes, I handwrote it first. My hand aches just remembering it), it took another two years to even get to a place where I could read it and edit it properly. There's still so much wrong with it, but I think all the loose ends were tied up (except for the Cusacs—the lawyer and the cyanide-provider. They're supposed to be brothers or cousins, and Michael is working a long con with the CIA to take down Wo Fat in retaliation for Jems' death).
I apologize if this story caused any distress, and also for the fact that I am not a medical professional and have made the injuries neither realistic nor believable.
Thank you for taking the time to read, favorite, comment, or follow this story.
Until next time and happy reading,
Scaredbeingsinthedark (aka WalkingDictionary)