The review thing is fixed and I'm having a small party in my head! I will sit down tonight and do some hard-core replying to everyone :)

Guest reviewer who wanted to know who the person is in the cover photo I'm using- he is just someone I know, no one famous. He is a physicist and that equipment is stuff he works with. The wacky outfit is just because he is... wacky. There is no link with H50 at all, except that I like them both!

On with the story.

Again, medical specifics come largely from the brain of KomodoQueen who notably shook me hard and told me to do the alcohol thing PROPERLY. Thank you, your majesty (bows).

CHAPTER 5- OAHU

Danny had been an in-patient in the psychiatric unit at Tripler for two days, two days that he and Steve had spent side-by-side, Steve providing constant support and re-assurance as Danny tried to settle into the new routine amid a flurry of attention from medical professionals.

Everyone wanted to visit. Everyone.

Grace, Charlie and Rachel, Chin, Kono and Lou, Kamekona, Toast, the Governor for God's sake, and many more besides.

Steve told them 'no'. All of them, every last one. Not yet. He was convinced it would be too much for his partner to take. Danny was still wary at best of people in general and his friends and family were effectively complete strangers. But Steve himself dreaded seeing each face as they took in Danny- thin and scarred and mentally damaged as he now was- for the first time. He dreaded seeing the disappointed realization, the hurt, materialize as it became clear to them, one by one, that no, Danny really didn't remember them. He wanted to protect Danny from those reactions and he wasn't ready to see them himself.

It would have to be enough for everyone right now to know he was finally home, finally safe.

Grace had sworn at Steve on the phone. She had apologized, but it had still stung. Just thinking about it made his thoughts return to the contents of the backpack in the trunk of his car. He hadn't touched it, not since Colombia, but he couldn't fucking stop thinking about it. He bit his lip.

In truth, he hadn't realized how far gone he was until he was having to do without alcohol for Danny. Steve felt ill. Sweaty, shaky and sick. He had dismissed the developing symptoms until today because he was tired and the whole Danny thing- it was huge. But he had come to realize he had been kidding himself. He was just genuinely shocked things had gone this far. He hadn't had a drink for nearly four days now and he was in withdrawal. It was the DTs. He was an alcoholic and he had never even seen it coming.

He had pulled out his cell when it had first dawned on him, had looked on the internet to find out more. And by fuck was he in trouble. Willpower had always been one of his strong points but as it turned out coming off alcohol wasn't a simple matter of just not letting himself drink… the symptoms of the DTs could be nothing short of horrific. Sweating and nausea, yes, but also mood swings, anxiety, chest pain. He might even suffer hallucinations and seizures. Jesus. That simply couldn't happen, not right now when Danny needed him so badly.

In a different situation he might have hidden out, gone cold turkey where nobody could watch. But he couldn't do that. He had to keep himself going for the sake of his partner. He had resolved to speak to Danny's doctor and ask for help the next time the man was in while Danny was asleep. But the idea of telling someone- that was beyond daunting. He could do it though. Maybe.

Right now everyone's focus was on Danny, just as it should be.

Danny had a private room at Tripler. It was on the top floor with a nice view that Danny had peered at briefly, wide-eyed and silent. His drug regime had already been reassessed. Now he was so much more aware- completely aware, really- the risperidone and lorazepam he had been on for some time would eventually be cut back. Meantime they had added paroxetine to his drugs schedule to help control his blatant symptoms of PTSD. He had a bewildering array of therapists to see on top of that- physical, occupational, cognitive, speech- the list went on and would apparently vary as time went on and his needs changed.

The extraordinary level of care Danny was now receiving could have left Steve side-lined but in reality the opposite was true. He remained key. Every last medical professional who had assessed Danny thus far had taken Steve to one side and asked politely if he would be willing to stay at least until Danny's confidence had improved. The unequivocal answer was yes. A second bed had been provided to accommodate him in Danny's room.

Danny was handling everything well, considering. He hadn't retreated into himself once in over a day, for all he looked perpetually apprehensive. But he still couldn't tolerate being touched by anyone unless Steve was by his side, his bodyguard, his rock. He needed Steve to stay close all the time, that apprehension morphing rapidly into anxiety if Steve so much as went to the john, that anxiety spiraling into panic if he was away a moment too long.

That was okay. The clinging need brought on by Danny's deep-seated insecurities could have seemed overwhelming but Steve was good with it because an image of his partner from seven days ago was seared forever in his mind and would appear in his nightmares until the day he died. The difference between that and this Danny was already like night and day. Steve now had hope that, in time, Danny was going to be capable of making a new life even if the lost memories never came back. Steve didn't really care if he had to stay by the man's side forever, he was not going to let him slide back to what he had been.

In many ways the preliminary assessments had been surprisingly good. Danny had no problem forming new memories and he appeared to be re-learning facts at a rate of knots. There was nothing wrong with his comprehension, his basic word formation or, increasingly, his appetite.

Strength, co-ordination and, underlying everything, confidence were where he fell far short. As for the mental trauma he had suffered- it was impossibly hard to assess how severely that was likely to continue to affect him until he had the confidence and ability to speak about what had happened and how he felt.

The question of Danny's memory loss was complex. He didn't seem to have suffered any physical brain injury. His amnesia appeared to be psychogenic and essentially a severe form of PTSD. It was his brain's reaction to the sustained and horrific abuse that had been inflicted on him. It seemed likely, one of the specialists had explained to Steve, that Danny's normal memory processing had been blocked by an imbalance of stress hormones when he had been pushed to a specific tipping point. This had resulted in a complete loss of access to his biographical memory up to that moment. Danny could only remember what had come afterwards and what had come afterwards was not good.

Danny's case was as bad as they came. There was no way to put a timetable on any potential recovery, or even guarantee that he would ever recover his memories at all. Helping him strengthen and adjust were the priorities.

Steve didn't even want to think about what those bastards had been doing to Danny when he had reached that mental tipping point. The story that Danny's scars and medical record told was now carefully cataloged in the form of a list in Steve's head- a factual, impersonal list of the things they knew had been inflicted on him- the cuts and burns, the beatings, the sexual assaults. But to think about the reality of what Danny's day-to-day existence had been for so long, to imagine those terrible things really happening to his partner… To try to visualize the moment strong, proud, stubborn Danny had actually snapped... it was unbearable.

Steve tried not to dwell on it, tried to concentrate instead on the here-and-now, on building on the progress Danny had made already. Steve had essentially been winging it in Colombia and it would never cease to astonish him that the things he had tried on the basis of pure instinct had worked as well as they had. But now, courtesy of various doctors, he was armed with specific advice to follow and exercises to work through. And whatever Steve asked of him, Danny tried his very hardest to deliver. Steve had to be careful not to push too hard because he had the unnerving impression Danny would jump off a building if Steve asked him to right then. Baby steps was the key. Nothing too hard or overwhelming.

Steve's assigned task for the morning was to encourage Danny to speak and to gently distract him from the still-frequent counting marathons. The two men were seated, face-to-face, in soft, comfortable chairs one of the many therapists had provided for them in the corner of the room.

Danny seemed to like the change in position for all he had to be carried there. It challenged him physically, gave him a different perspective. In contrast, it was a respite Steve sorely needed from the worsening symptoms of alcohol withdrawal he was trying his hardest to hide from Danny. The room spun nauseatingly and he mopped his brow almost continuously.

He saw Danny look at him uncertainly, an unvoiced question in his eyes.

Steve forced a reassuring smile. "I'm fine. A little tired is all. Right, let's try this again. I'll point at stuff. You tell me what it is. If you can't remember, don't worry. I'll fill you in and we'll try again later. Okay?"

Danny nodded then smiled shyly, looking down at his hands, because nodding was brand new.

Steve positively beamed with pride. "Perfect head motion there, Danno! Full marks. Right, I'm pointing, you start naming."

Danny's eyes followed Steve's finger to the door. He glanced at Steve doubtfully, then whispered "D-door."

"Good. Again." Steve moved his hand.

"F-floor."

"Got it in one. Next."

"Bed."

"Yes. Next."

"F-flowers." The quiet word was maybe a little drawn out, but entirely recognizable.

"Nice one. That was hard! And the flowers were sent in by our team, who are… ?"

"Chin... Kono… Lou."

Steve smiled broadly again because Danny was doing so incredibly well, for all he looked nervous as hell.

"And what's my name?"

"S-Steve."

"And your name?"

"Dann-y."

"And I am your…?"

"Ow-owner."

Steve, partially distracted by his own misery as he was and already considering his next question, almost corrected him automatically, almost said 'friend'... but then the implications of the word Danny had actually selected hit him. He froze, stared dumbly in complete and utter shock and disbelief, jaw hanging slack. He felt like he'd been slapped. Hard. With a brick. "Owner?! No, Danny, you don't belong to me. You don't belong to anyone. Jesus!"

Steve stood up abruptly, walked to the window and pressed his forehead hard against the cool glass, heart beating wildly. The room spun faster and he thought for a moment he might actually be sick for a multiplicity of reasons. He had thought Danny trusted him, saw him as his friend and ally... but the man thought he was his possession?! How the hell had such a fundamental and horrific misunderstanding even happened? So, what, did Danny think he had been stolen? Steve had come to claim him back? Or that he'd been bought and sold, passed between kind and cruel owners like an animal?

Shit!

He turned back to Danny, both hands on his head, breathing hard.

Danny was staring at him, wide eyed. He'd drawn his knees up onto the chair and his arms were wrapped around them tightly. He was counting for the first time in hours. He plainly thought he'd fucked up again.

Steve shook his head, walked over and sat back down. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his legs and realized his hands were shaking violently. Shit. He really, really needed a drink now. "Danny, it's okay, you've done nothing wrong. I've just assumed… way, way too much, clearly! I assumed you understood more than you do and that's my fault, not yours. Those men that had you, they didn't own you, they took you but they had no right to. They were breaking the law when they took you away from us and when they hurt you! I'm here because… because I'm your friend and I want to help you, not because I own you!"

Then that doubt that had niggled at the edge of Steve's mind ever since Colombia came back to him, and now it all made so much sense. Steve reached out and placed his hand on one of Danny's drawn-up knees, wishing briefly he could disguise those fucking tremors better. "Danny, is that why you're always trying so hard to do what I ask you to? Is that why you try to please me? Do you think you have to because you belong to me?"

Danny blinked in confusion, breathing hard as he counted quietly. He dropped his gaze, staring resolutely down at the ground. He looked scared, entirely lost and horribly vulnerable.

Steve felt a renewed surge of protectiveness towards him. He pulled his chair closer to Danny's, then reached out, cupped Danny's chin and gently raised his face so he had to look Steve in the eye. "Buddy, it is really, really important that you get this. I don't own you. Nothing bad will happen to you if you don't do what I tell you, absolutely nothing. You're allowed to say 'no'. I'm not going to hurt you and I'm not going to leave you for as long as you want me with you. Listen Danny, this is a hospital, okay? You're here because you need help to get stronger and to remember how to do things and to think more clearly. You're not a prisoner. Nobody owns you and they never have. I don't know... I don't know where this came from. Did they tell you that? The people who took you, did they tell you they owned you?"

Danny didn't reply, but Steve could see the answer in his eyes, he could see that he was right and God, he wanted to kill those bastards so badly it hurt. He took hold of Danny's shoulders, squeezing gently.

"Danny, you listen to me. They were lying. They were just messing with your head. Shit. Do you understand me, buddy? Whatever it was they told you, it wasn't true. They didn't own you and they had no right to hurt you."

Danny stared at him. Steve could almost see the cogs turning in his mind as the horribly twisted concept of the world that had apparently been foisted on him when he was vulnerable and weak, his mind a blank sheet of paper, was unceremoniously turned upside down. But then Danny seemed to center himself. The counting dried up. There was still fear in his eyes, that was seemingly a permanent fixture, but there was something different there too, something new that Steve couldn't quite define. Danny held out an open hand to him. "Ph-photos."

Steve frowned and sat back, releasing his hold on Danny, confused at the apparent abrupt change in subject. "What? You mean the ones on my cell? What you wanting to see, partner?"

"Tell… you. Who… Who hurt." The words came out awkwardly, but emphatically.

Steve blinked, trying to absorb what Danny was struggling to say to him. "The men who hurt you? Is that what you mean?"

Danny nodded.

Steve stared at him in shock. He hadn't even realized Danny had absorbed any of the brief conversations he'd had with Joe on the subject of the pictures of the suspects. Now he suddenly wanted to try to ID them? "Danny, are you sure?"

Danny grabbed his hand and squeezed it, hard.

TBC

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