A/N: okay I just want to real quick thank you all for all your reviews/favorites/follows it means a lot to mean and I'm jus treally happy and exicted that you guys liked it so much! Thank you!
(I'll try and update frequently, but no promises: I have a lot of school)
Something was not right.
Danny knew this almost as assuredly as he knew he was breathing. Just something in Steve's gaze, his unusual silence and irritability, it just...it nagged unpleasantly at Danny.
He didn't like it.
If the goddamn super-SEAL would just talk about these things, say anything about what was going on inside that thick, stubborn, slightly psychotic head of his, Danny would not have to spend so much time worrying that there was something important Steve wasn't telling him.
But Steve had said that he needed time to think, and Danny could respect that.
If the dude needed space, he needed space. Even Danny needed to decompress sometimes, and this case had hit Steve close to home.
It was fortunate that it was Friday, so if all went well, Steve would be back to his normal, infuriating, pyromaniac self by Monday.
Danny tried to ignore the part of him insisting that he was very, very wrong.
Fuck.
Steve leaned heavily against the door, ignoring how the handle dug into his back, and squeezed his eyes shut.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck.
He could feel his heart pounding, throbbing way too fast to be proportionate with the distance from the driveway to his front door. A walk from the Camaro to his house shouldn't have tired him like this. Which could only mean that he was a lot more stressed than he thought.
Physically, he was in Hawaii, in his parents' house, safe from most threats, but mentally...
He opened his eyes, and an image of miles and miles of desert and heat and sun flashed before his eyes, before the living room snapped back into focus.
Fuckfuckfuckfuck.
He needed to get his meds. Now. He staggered towards the stairs and stumbled up them as fast as he could. He burst into the bathroom and yanked open the cabinet over the sink.
There they were: innumerable oranges bottles of relief. Steve swallowed thickly, suddenly feeling nauseous. This was a normal thing, to be expected of someone who'd been through what he had; it wasn't a sign that he was weak, or anything. He knew that. But still, the brutal reality that those bottles brought to mind, the reminders of-
No, he needed to cut that train of thought off before it derailed his entire mind.
Man up, McGarrett. They're fucking prescription meds. You can do this.
Steve reached for the first one he could see-Yocon 5.4 mg, the bottle read-and unscrewed the cap, absently noticing how badly his hands were shaking.
Just pop the pills, take a nap, and it'll resolve itself. This isn't hard.
Two pills should do it, right?