Sorry... RL caught up with me and I've just had no time to sit down. The next part has been started and will hopefully be up for Christmas.

As always, thanks to everyone who's taken the time to favourite, follow and review.

Finally, I'm not a doctor or a paramedic, so everything you read here should be taken with a pinch of salt. All mistakes are mine since this is not beta-ed.

ETA: Thanks to ireadwritesail for spotting the silly mistake I made when I was editing this chapter (I tried to PM you but I can't, for some reason). :)

Mary's text comes through just as I'm getting in the car, and I plug her address into my Sat Nav, before following the voice instructions to Piikoi Street, where I crawl along the street until I spot Steve's truck in one of the driveways. Instead of pulling in behind it, I bump my car up onto the curb outside (just in case) and then jog up the garden path to where Mary is pacing along the length of the front porch, lit cigarette in her hand. When she spots me, she quickly stubs it out on the railing and comes to meet at the top of the steps.

"He kicked me out, said I was in the way and could I please let him throw up in peace," she grumbles, although the way she's fidgeting with the hem of her sweater tells me that her annoyance stems from concern rather than anger; she reminds me of Danny in that respect, except the detective tends to take the whole hiding-behind-a-mask-of-sarcasm thing a little further than Mary has by adding insults.

Following Steve's sister through the front door into the living room, I can't help but smile when I spot the 'Happy Birthday, Grace (Hau'oli la hanau)' banner that's hanging from the upstairs landing. From the state of the living room, I'm guessing Gracie's party was a roaring success; there's wrapping paper scattered over the floor and a princess tiara sitting on top of the coffee table and then, in front of the dining room slash office, there's an archway made up of balloons in every color of the rainbow. The dining table is dotted with paper plates containing varying amounts of leftover birthday cake.

I wish I hadn't had to work.

"How did it go?" I ask Mary, only to frown when she replies, "Yeah, it was good. It would have been better if Steve was there, though – Kono and I ended up manning the grill between us, so it was a miracle that there was any food at all."

"Steve missed Grace's party?"

Mary nods, and says, "I know, right?" and I can't help but think that it's such a shame - Steve must have been feeling pretty awful to have voluntarily missed it. Mary confirms my suspicion when she tells me, "He's been throwing up for hours – it wasn't that bad to start with but now… I tried to drag him to Urgent Care but he refused to go."

"Right," I murmur, running my thumbnail over my lower lip when I realize that Mary expects me to work a miracle and talk Steve into seeing a doctor (assuming he needs one). He obviously hasn't confided in her about our bust up and I'm half tempted to warn Mary that I might not even get as far as making sure her brother is okay before he tries to kick me out. And by 'okay' I mean relatively, because Steve's obviously not okay okay if he's spent most of the day in bed.

"I'll see what I can do," I tell Mary as I make my way towards the staircase in the corner. She doesn't question me but I can feel her eyes on the back of my head all the way from the bottom riser to the last step onto the upper landing at the top. Knocking on Steve's bedroom door, I poke my head around it when I don't get an answer and then slip through the gap into the darkened room; the blind above the bed has been pulled and the curtains are drawn over the French doors that lead out onto the upper Lanai but there's a sliver of light shining out from under the door to the en-suite and I head over, only to hesitate for a moment before gently rapping my knuckles against the doorframe. There's a muffled cough and then Steve grumbles, "What part of go away do you not understand?"

"It's Chloe... Can I come in?"

Unsurprisingly, the answer is no, but well, I can be just as Stubborn as Steve when I have to be and I'm not leaving until I've talked to the former SEAL face to face.

"Look," I say, leaning forwards until my forehead is resting against the painted doorframe. "I get that I'm not your favorite person right now but your sister called me. She's worried about you..."

I am, too, I add silently, wrapping my fingers around the door handle when the sound of retching, followed by the toilet flushing, reaches me on the other side of the door.

"Please," I continue out loud. "I just want to make sure you're okay."

And that's the truth. Steve and I may not be talking but that doesn't mean that I don't care about what happens to him – I care a little bit too much, if I'm being totally honest, and even through I instigated our falling out, it hurts to think that I've ruined things between us.
I guess I was trying to protect myself after the whole Eddie Ray fiasco – by forcing Steve to snap, I gave myself a reason to push him away and, to add further insult to injury, I hit him below the belt by using his protective streak (which is the size of the Grand Canyon on a good day) against him.

You're probably thinking what a bitch, right? Why should Steve forgive someone who didn't even have the decency to let him explain his actions before they bit his head off?

Well, the answer's simple: He shouldn't. End of story, bye bye, see ya later…

And even if he did forgive me, things between us probably wouldn't be the same. It kinda sucks to think that this whole thing could have been avoided if I'd just taken a new pen out of the box in the rig, like Heather had suggested. I guess hindsight is twenty-twenty after all…

On the other side of the door the former SEAL retches again, causing me to grimace in sympathy as I come to the conclusion that it's easier to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission (for what I'm about to do, not what I've already done) and then open the bathroom door. Poking my head through the gap, I push the door open fully when I spot Steve sitting on the floor in the space between the toilet and the wall.
His forehead is cushioned on his forearms, arms folded across the rim of the bowl as he works to get his breathing back under control and he barely acknowledges my presence as I ease myself down onto my knees beside. When I twist to peer at his face, I frown at the bright pink splotch on his cheek and then press the backs of my fingers against the flushed skin – just by feel, it's pretty obvious that Steve's fever has worsened significantly.

"What is going on with you?" I murmur as I sit back on my heels to try to work out how I'm going to fit the commander's mish mash of symptoms neatly into one box. Food poisoning seems like the most obvious choice, what with the seemingly endless puking that's been going on, and I rub small soothing circles over Steve's back as I ask him, "Think you might have eaten something bad last night?"

But that theory goes out the window when he shakes his head and mumbles, "Gracie's fine," in between gasping breaths.

"And you guys had the same thing," I conclude. "Okay, what about today?"

Steve shakes his head again, which I take to mean that he hasn't managed anything as I tick food poisoning off of my list of possibilities; there's so many options that I'm not really sure where to go next in terms of figuring out whether or not I need to drag Steve's stubborn butt to the ER and I end up chewing on my lower lip as I try to figure out a game plan.

"Okay," I say, reaching for Steve's arm once I've decided what to do. "Sit yourself up for a minute." I gently tug on his wrist until he pushes himself away from the toilet with a groan, using the wall to prop himself up while I get to my feet and then head over to the mirrored medicine cabinet above the sink to rummage through it for a thermometer. Steve does actually own one – albeit, one of the ancient mercury types that I haven't seen since my brother and I were kids - and I quickly clean it under the tap with a little bit of soap before giving the glass tube a short, sharp flick.

When I turn back to Steve, he tries to bat my hand away, protesting, "It's just a bug. I'm fine," pigheadedly and I snark back, "Yeah, you look it," as I go to restrain his good arm and then hold the thermometer at his lips.

"The sooner you do this, the sooner I'll stop poking at you and leave you alone. C'mon…"

I just about manage to resist the urge to pat him on the head when he grudgingly relents after another minute or so of prodding; letting his head fall back against the wall, Steve winces when he uses his sore arm to take the thermometer from me and he complains, "You're worse than both Danny and my sister put together,' halfheartedly before putting the thin glass tube in his mouth.

Smiling to myself as I set the timer on my watch, I tell him, "That's because I – we - care about what happens to your stubborn ass. Now hush, or we're going to have to start over."
When my watch beeps I reach for the thermometer to check the reading (103.8) and mutter, "You don't do anything halfway, do you?" under my breath as lean forwards to unzip the gray Naval Academy hoodie Steve's wearing; he shivers, even though the small bathroom is warm enough that I'm sweating, and mumbles something about hiding his phone from his sister – Mary must have taken it to get my number – as I strip off his top layer and then drop it on the floor behind me.

Reaching for his arm, I press my fingers into the underside of his wrist to check his pulse (a little fast) and then gently pinch the skin on the back of his hand; it takes a few seconds to go back to normal, which means that I'm dealing with mild dehydration – I should be able to sort it by getting Steve to drink a solution that's made up of a little salt and some sugar dissolved in water, and if that doesn't work then it's off the Emergency Room we go.

I'm hoping it won't come to that, though. I figure that if I can get a handle on the puking (and in turn, the dehydration and the fever) then I can leave Steve to try to sleep this thing off, assuming that there's nothing more sinister than a stomach bug going on. If not, then all promises of being left in peace will be rendered null and void with immediate effect.

"Does anything hurt – stomach, head… back?" I question, taking Steve's hoodie with me when I stand and then draping it over the side of the bath on my way to check what meds are in the mirrored cabinet over the sink.

He mumbles, "Yeah, my back from sitting like this all afternoon," under his breath and I turn in time to see him shift uncomfortably before he admits, "Everything's kind of achy. It feels like the flu on steroids."

Right, I think to myself as I select an amber bottle from the row on the medicine cabinet's top shelf. Turning it round to check the label, I do a double take when I recognize the generic name of the little blue pills – they're anti-depressants that are used in the treatment of PTSD, amongst other things (I remember my auntie taking it after being diagnosed with postnatal depression) and it's a little disconcerting to think that Steve, who's always seems so strong, could be so haunted by the memories of the things he's seen and-or done that he felt like he couldn't cope with them anymore.

I run my tongue over the sharp edge on my front tooth as I swap the amber bottle for a white one containing antibiotics left over from last autumn. The rest contain painkillers of various strengths, from Aspirin all the way up to Oxycodone and I select the Advil after a minute's thought, setting the container down on the side of the sink before I tell Steve, "I'll be back in a minute."

Mary's hovering just outside the bedroom door, scratching at a nick in the wooden handrail that runs the length of the upper floor, and she rounds on me like a dog on a bone when I step out onto the landing and pull the door closed behind me.

"Is Steve okay? He didn't kick you out, did he?"

"No, no…" I shake my head and point towards the stairs as I reply, "He's a little dehydrated but I think I can sort it – I just need to borrow your kitchen."

"Right…" Mary chews on her thumbnail uncertainly and then glances over my shoulder at the door to her brother's room, and I squeeze her shoulder comfortingly before saying, "Come downstairs and show me where you keep everything. I don't know where anything is."

I don't know if more Mary's thankful for the distraction or the company as she follows me down the stairs into the kitchen, where she rummages through the cupboards for salt and sugar while I fill the kettle and put it on to boil. The room is silent apart from the low rumbling of the water heating up and it's like déjà vu when young woman sets the two condiments down in front of me, and then pushes herself up to sit on the counter.

She swings her legs back and forth while we wait for the kettle to come to the boil, only stopping momentarily to point me towards the cutlery drawer when I ask her where I can find a teaspoon, and I quickly measure out six teaspoons of sugar and a half-teaspoon of salt into a measuring jug before dissolving the mixture in a liter of water. It gets set on the counter to cool and I lean back against the island in the middle of room, and think to myself, God, I hope this works.

If this stays down and I manage to get Steve's fever down a little bit then I can put him to bed - with precautionary trash can, just in case - and head home to fall face-first into my own. And if it doesn't, then… well, I'll come to that if and when I have to. Once my homemade electrolyte solution has cooled, I pour some into a glass and carry it up the stair to Steve, who takes it from me with shaking hands and then balances it on his bent knee.

"It's not going to do any good sitting there," I scold as I ease myself down onto my knees beside him, clutching the Advil that I'd left on the side of the sink in my fist. Lifting the glass off of Steve's knee, I thrust it at the former SEAL's chest and then tell him bluntly, "Drink or you're going to end up in the hospital."

Chastened, Steve grudgingly takes a cautious sip and then pauses, as though he's expecting his stomach to revolt almost instantly against the meagre amount of water. When it seems like it's going to stay down, he swallows the Advil that I press into his hand without any complaint.

In hindsight, pushing meds so soon was a mistake on my part; less than a minute after taking the little red pills, Steve's jaw clenches against a rising wave of nausea that sends him scrambling for the toilet, where he heaves and chokes so violently that I'm concerned he's going to end up passing out. Cupping the former SEAL's forehead with one hand, I use the other to rub circles over his back while he coughs and splutters and when it's over – and Steve's breathing like a sixty-year-old fat man climbing a flight of stairs – I ask him tentatively, "Think you're done for now?"

I get a muffled 'Hmmm' in reply and then Steve goes to push himself up, away from the toilet bowl. But his arm buckles and I end up lunging forwards to try to catch him in case he whacks his head off of the rim on his way down.

"Woah!"

I manage to get my arm around Steve's chest and then grunt in pain when I fall sideways onto my butt, knocking my hip on the side of the toilet as I go down. It's awkward as hell trying to keep his almost dead weight from pinning me to the floor and I wonder if I should maybe shout for Mary as I use my shoulder to try to hold the former SEAL up long enough to bring my other hand back round under his arm – I'm thinking she had the right idea when she tried to drag Steve's stubborn butt to Urgent Care earlier as I manhandle her brother upright and prop him up against the wall.

Murmuring, "Relax, you're okay," I scan the room for a washcloth or a hand towel – anything I can use to wipe down Steve's pale, sweaty face – and then twist to look over my shoulder when the door opens behind me. Mary pokes her head into the small bathroom and her eyes widen almost comically when she takes in my slightly frazzled appearance (my top is damp with sweat under the arms and my hair looks like I stuck my fingers in the wall socket – I knew I should have plaited it when I got out of the shower). When she spots her brother, who's still not quite with it after his near face-plant, she quickly slips through the gap, her pretty face crumpling as she takes in the way Steve's slumped against the wall with his head cradled in his hands.

"What's wrong with him?" she asks me quietly once she's managed to drag her gaze away from her brother.

"I don't know."

Rubbing at my hot, gritty eyes, I worry at my lower lip as I try to figure out how the hell I'm going to convince Steve that he needs to see a doctor - because that's the conclusion I've come to; if he can't keep fluids down, he's going to dehydrate even further, which will raise his body temperature, which in turn will cause his heart rate to increase and his blood pressure to drop. This so-called 'stomach bug' could end up landing Steve in a whole lot of trouble.

"Help me get him up," I say to Mary once I've decided that dragging Steve's stubborn butt to the emergency room is the right decision. She dutifully steps over her brother's outstretched leg while I push myself up onto one knee on the former SEAL's other side.

I'm sorely tempted to try to get him downstairs and into the car while he's still a little out of it, mainly because I don't think either mine or Mary's already elevated stress levels could take another one of Super SEAL's obstinate 'I'm fine' protests, especially right off the back of him swooning like a Victorian lady getting her corsets laced. I, personally, think that I would be perfectly justified in doing so but then, I don't think my back could take having to essentially carry him down the stairs; Steve's six foot three and a hundred and eighty pounds of lean muscle (believe me when I say there's not an ounce of fat on him) whereas I'm barely five four in Katie's highest heels.

So, since I kinda like be able to walk without looking like a ninety-year-old woman with a hunch, I try to bring Steve round a little bit before Mary and I attempt to get him to his feet – whether or not he'll stay there is another matter, but first thing's first…

"Hey, Steve?" I call softly, gently pulling the former SEAL's hand away from where he's digging the heel of it into his forehead. When I set his arm down across his lap, he turns his head to squint at me and then his sister, who's crouched down in the small space between him and the wall and a tiny groove appears between his eyebrows when I tell him, "I think it's time to admit defeat. Can you make it to the car or do I need to call for help?"

Seemingly resigned to his fate, Steve doesn't argue. Instead, he mumbles, "Yeah," and then slowly pulls in his outstretched leg, digging his socked heel into the tiled floor for purchase as he goes to push himself up.

"Hold on a sec. Let us help you," I say, putting a hand on Steve's chest to stop him while Mary grumbles, "I told you we should have gone to the Urgent Care clinic earlier," at her brother as she none-too-gently tugs his other arm down and the wraps her hand around it. I copy her, although I take a little bit more care so that I don't jostle Steve's sore shoulder as I get ready to take his weight, and then on three, we haul the former SEAL to his feet. He tries to help but mostly ends up flailing; Mary grunts under the strain of trying to keep him from going back down and I hear her mutter, "You really need to lay off the malasadas," under her breath as we prop her brother up against the wall.

Once we're sure he's going to stay semi-upright for a moment or two, we swap sides. Mary heads downstairs to grab the keys to her brother's truck while I shift under Steve's good arm and then twist my hand in the waistband of his sweatpants - it's not quite as effective as hooking my fingers through a belt loop but it'll have to do. Glancing up at Steve's face, I grimace and then readjust my grip to get a better hold on the fabric; there wasn't much color in the former SEAL's face to begin with, but whatever little was there is now long gone – he's white as a sheet as he drops his head and then swallows hard, and for a moment I wonder if we're going to end up back on the floor since Steve appears to be losing the battle with his protesting stomach.

I check, "Okay?" and then shift my other hand's grip on Steve's wrist even though he nods (because his throat is still working overtime to push down on that horrible sick feeling). Still, it's a little while before he actually makes an effort to move towards the door and then there are a few near misses trying to navigate the stairs; from the way Steve's breathing, you'd think we were running an ultra-marathon and not just walking the fifty-odd feet between the en-suite and the driveway. My lower back is screaming by the time we reach the porch steps and I grit my teeth, muttering, "Almost there," when I feel the commander starting to lag – it's almost like his body is giving up and I honestly feel like crying when Steve's knees buckle just a few steps away from the truck.

"No, no, no… The truck's right there," I whine as I struggle to keep the both of us upright. "Please…"

Of course, Mary's nowhere in sight, having gone back into the house to grab her brother's wallet and a trashcan, so my options are pretty limited - I could try to shout for her (and wake up half of the neighborhood in the process) but who knows how long it would take for her to come, or if she'd even hear me in the first place? But it's fine. I can do this… I mean, women lift cars off of their babies all the time and they weigh as lot more than Steve does. This should (hypothetically) be a piece of cake… right?

Yeah…

"Okay, you need to at least try to help me out, here," I tell Steve, somewhat desperately as I dig my heels into the ground and push up against the almost crushing weight that's pressing down on my shoulders. "C'mon, Super SEAL, this is nothing compared to BUD/S… The only easy day was yesterday, right?"

Steve nods weakly in reply and mumbles something that sounds like it could be never quit under his breath before taking a stumbling half step towards the Silverado - it's not the most comfortable feeling in the world, trying to keep the weight at the back of my neck from pitching both of us forwards, but at least we're moving.

Trying to get Steve up into the back of the cab is like a skit in a bad comedy (or possibly what it's like wrestling with an over-amorous octopus) and I end up laughing semi-hysterically out of sheer relief once I've gotten his legs into the foot well and shut the door. As I'm wiping my eyes (it's been a hell of a long day and I'm suddenly feeling a little emotional), Mary appears holding a bucket and I follow her around to the driver's side, where I climb into the back seat next to Steve and then set the bucket down at my feet. Mary slips in behind the wheel and starts the engine, and then hastily reaching for her safety belt, while I lean over her brother to fasten his and then slide into the middle of the bench. Guiding Steve's head onto my shoulder, I tell Mary, "Okay, let's go."