Shades of the Past

by Drachesky

(Sequel to The Bunker) A dangerous ex-con has revenge in mind. Steve, Danny, and Kurtis Foster all try to put the past behind them, but some things refuse to stay in the past.

15. Chapter 15: Deleted Scenes

A/N: This story sat around as the first 4 chapters (really chapters 5 – 8) for a long time before I came back and did anything with it. And it went through a ton of revisions. I actually like most of these better than the final story- I feel like Steve sounds more like Steve and Danny sounds more like Danny, but I just couldn't get everything to make sense the way I wanted. So, for one reason or another, all of this got cut.

Note that some names changed during the story, so if you see someone you don't recognize... they probably just had a name swap at some point.

1. Martha Foster visits the prison

A/N: More or less how Federal visitation works, but it didn't seem to contribute much to the story, so I cut it. Being in the visitation line is like riding a Greyhound bus: you see a little bit of everything in life.

Outside the main gate of the federal prison in the Halawa neighborhood a crowd waited impatiently, muttering in low, puffy voices in the thick fog. They formed a rough line along the chain link fence that wrapped around the parking lot, nearly seventy persons in total. Eight o'clock had passed several minutes earlier.

"Why don't they open the gates?" a loud woman complained near the front of the line. "I'm gonna call them- they can't leave us out here!"

"Don't do that," another replied tiredly. "They'll just keep us waiting longer."

"Well, it's past eight. Someone needs to know it's time to open these damn gates."

"They know what time it is," a man replied with a hint of a chuckle. "They just don't care."

"And no one is doing anything about it?" asked the very put-out woman.

Someone further down the line laughed.

"It must be her first time," someone said.

The woman flushed and fell silent.

A few minutes later, a buzzer sounded and the gates opened. The crowd surged into a small anteroom where the veterans of the visitation process immediately seized the limited supply of clipboards and began to fill out the attached forms as quickly as possible. The new, the slow, and the unlucky were forced to wait.

After the forms came a second wait, and then another door to a different room, and then another form, and then a third wait. Among the last to finish this lengthy procedure was a petite, older woman who kept looking nervously around as though expecting some mass escape or sudden violence to occur at any moment.

She jumped when her name was called.

"Mrs. Martha Foster?"

"Here. Miss Martha Foster," she corrected to the guard.

He blinked impassively. "The visitation hall is through that door," he gestured. Then he continued rapidly in a flat monotone, "Once inside, find a seat and remain seated unless using the restroom or getting a drink. Contact is limited to the beginning and the end of the visit; otherwise, you are required to maintain physical separation from the prisoner at all times. If you choose to leave, there will be no reentry until the next visitation period." His mouth snapped shut as he finished and he blinked at her, apparently waiting.

"I understand," Ms. Foster said softly. She stepped through the door.

…

Kurtis looked better than she expected- tired, haggard, but unscathed and in one piece. The green uniform appeared comfortable enough, and certainly looked better than the bright orange jumpsuits the inmates wore at the state prison down the road. He stood awkwardly as she approached, shuffling his hands as though not sure what to do.

She offered a small smile and a quick pat on the arm. Despite all that he had done, she still felt something for him. Not love really- it was hard to love the violent, sullen man that he had become after Colin died- but she certainly still cared for him. Still, she could not bring herself to embrace him in a hug.

"We should sit," he muttered after an uncomfortable pause. "The guards get itchy if you stand up for too long."

Most of the chairs in the visitation room were taken, but they found two empty spots at the end of a row and sat down.

Martha looked around curiously. "What is this place?"

"Rec room. Which means TV room since we don't have anything else to do in here."

"What are all these little rooms attached to it? Offices?"

"Counselling. We do our small group sessions in those. My group is third on the left," he said, pointing at a plexiglass-windowed door that looked into a small room with a low bookshelf and a circle of chairs. Faded motivational posters hung crookedly on the cinderblock walls. It reminded Martha of a classroom in one of the city's older, run-down schools.

"And your bedroom?"

"My bunk? Down that hall," and he pointed at a heavy door on the other side of the rec room. "Wouldn't call it a 'bed'room, though. We don't get pillows- just mattress and a thin top sheet."

He was looking for sympathy, but Martha was in no mood to be manipulated. Instead, she surveyed the other men in the room. "Is your roommate here?"

"Yeah." Kurtis straightened and peered around for a moment, then indicated a dark-haired man in his 30's sitting with a young woman two rows over. "That's Andy."

"What did he do?" Martha asked curiously. "I mean, if I can ask?"

Kurtis shrugged. "No secrets here. He killed a man, but he only got fifteen years." A whining twinge soured his tone as he voiced the unfairness of the situation. "He'll be out before me."

Martha made a soft sound.

Misunderstanding her, Kurtis continued, "It's because these prisons are for profit- the more prisoners they have, the more money they get. It's in their best interest to keep us in here. But, that's the 'justice' system for you," he finished with a sarcastic chuckle.

His wife studied him quietly. "You think Andy shouldn't have gotten fifteen years?"

"He explained the whole thing. It was an accident, self-defense."

"Then why was he convicted?"

"The judge was corrupt."

"I see." She looked down at her hands. "And you believe him." It wasn't a question.

"Just because he's in here, doesn't mean he's guilty. He's a good man. And you can ask any man here about that judge."

Martha debated whether to say something back. In the end, she tiredly decided it wasn't worth it and steered the conversation in a different direction. "Your 'job' is going well?" She knew he worked in the kitchens, doing dishes after the last meal.

"Sure. For all of two dollars a day, it's great."

"But it keeps you busy, doesn't it? You like keeping busy… or you did."

"What I like is fair compensation for my work."

Sensing another argument, Martha again fell silent. Kurtis filled the void, rambling on about the other inmates, the atrocious food, the miserable mattress, the limited television access, one complaint following the other until Martha felt ready to scream. Lunch time came and went- the only permissible food came from a half-stocked vending machine in the corner- and still Kurtis continued to complain. Martha sighed tiredly.

He stopped. "What?"

"I don't know how you're going to make it twenty-one years."

"What do you mean?"

"With that attitude, you won't make it past the first five."

"Haven't you been listening?"

"Yes, and all I can think about is that poor man you beat up."

Dark anger flooded his eyes. "So you're taking his side."

"What 'side'? You tortured him."

"We've been over this…"

"And you keep offering excuses. Trying to prove you don't need help, blustering about, saying the same things over and over again… all I hear are excuses. I'm sick and tired of your pride. I wish you would just show a little humility, but it's too late for that now." She stopped then, seemingly surprised by her own show of strength.

He leaned back and shook his head. "I can't believe this, that you would believe someone else over your own husband."

"Ex-husband."

"So you came just to twist the knife?" He barked a sharp laugh. "Maybe I'm better off in here, since you clearly don't care at all."

"I do care…" she began, missing the switch to defensive.

"This whole system is corrupt, and now you've believed all that junk they tell you." He shook his head. "It's rough in here, I'm practically starving to death, I can't get enough to eat or enough sleep, I don't get paid for the work I do…"

"The court fine…" she attempted to point out, which was the reason for him working the kitchens in the first place, but he had moved on.

"… and they don't even give us our legally-allotted yard time. There's always some excuse for keeping us in, but that's against the law."

A sad look softened her face. "What you did is against the law, too."

He scowled. "You're just going to harp on that all day, aren't you? Didn't you hear me tell you what I had to eat yesterday? A single slice of cheese between two pieces of bread. That's cruel and inhumane treatment."

Despite the hours she'd spent preparing and planning for this visit, she dropped her head again, struggling to not feel guilty. Although she knew he used it against her, she still could not help caring for him. She hated herself for that weakness, and she hated him for manipulating her with it.

Biting her lip, she finally stood. "I think I had better go."

And before he could respond and convince her to stay, she left.

...

2. Scenes with Kurtis and Steve

A/N: Initially, there were a lot more scenes with Foster and Steve in the basement, and it took Foster a lot longer to make up his mind to go for help. In the original version of the story, he and Steve talk while he gives Steve food and medical attention, and Steve gradually convinces him to do the right thing, even if it means being arrested on suspicion of hurting Steve. That version didn't jive with the severity of Steve's injuries and Foster's scenes with Danny later, so it eventually got cut.

McGarrett tracked his movements as he rambled, but when Kurtis pulled out a bottle of water, he froze.

Kurtis noticed. "Are you thirsty?"

The commander made no response.

"How long has it been since you had something to drink?" Kurtis asked.

Still, McGarrett did nothing. He only stared.

"If I take off the tape on your mouth and give you water, will you scream?" It wasn't the screaming that he minded as much as the noise and the possibility of somebody else hearing it. Hearing it and then calling the police, who would assume Foster was the cause of the it.

McGarrett said nothing, his eyes fixated on the bottle.

Kurtis sighed. He uncapped bottle and carefully began to pull the tape away from the man's mouth. He was shocked to see how dry the lips and mouth looked and quickly held up the bottle to his lips. McGarrett gulped once, then stopped.

"Is that it?" Confused, Kurtis lowered the bottle. "That's all you want?"

"Drugs?" McGarrett asked hoarsely.

Kurtis flushed guiltily, remembering the last time he had offered the commander a water bottle. "No drugs."

"Prove it," McGarrett whispered. "Drink."

Taking the bottle, Kurtis took a long gulp and clearly swallowed. "Not poisoned," he insisted. He raised the bottle to the man's mouth and was relieved when the commander downed half of it before forcing himself to stop. Then Kurtis pointed at the swollen, bloody ankles.

"I'm going to untie you. Don't try anything." He was surprised when McGarrett nodded wearily. As the commander leaned his head back and closed his eyes, Kurtis crouched down and began working on the electrical cable around his ankle. Whoever had tied it- Scott, probably- had certainly done a good job; he could hardly work the knot and struggled for several minutes before the pieces finally came free. Unwinding the cable, he studied the bruised and torn skin with his flashlight.

The skin was swollen and hot; infection had apparently set in. Kurtis was not surprised. "Need to clean it," he grunted, turning the foot back and forth in his hands. "Gonna hurt."

McGarrett made no response.

Kurtis tore off part of the cloth he had brought and wadded it up to use as a washcloth. Then he soaked it with water from the jug and began to wipe the grime and grit off the ankle. It was slow, tedious work, and he quickly realized he would need more than just one jug of water. Still, best to do what he could now with what he had. He tried to be gentle, and McGarrett made no sound, but when Kurtis glanced up, he saw the lines of pain between the commander's eyes.

"Might sting," Kurtis muttered as he pulled out a bottle of rubbing alcohol. There were better antiseptics and disinfectants, but this one was the cheapest and being in prison didn't exactly leave him with a lot of money. He dabbed some on a new piece of cloth. "You gonna scream?" he asked.

McGarrett shook his head.

Kurtis patted the soaked cloth over the cuts and scrapes, working as quickly as possible. When he stopped, McGarrett was pale and a fresh sheen of sweat covered his face. Kurtis uncapped the bottle and gave him another drink of water, then wrapped up the ankle with gauze from the first aid kit and tied it off with another strip of torn cloth. Then he stepped back to admire his work.

What McGarrett really needed was a hospital. Hospitals, though, meant people, and that meant video cameras and awkward questions and witness statements that wouldn't work out in Kurtis's favor. Of course, taking him to the police would have the same result.

Kurtis stopped what he was doing as his brain turned over the various options. He couldn't win this one. The cards were stacked against him. If there was a god- and Kurtis had long ago quit believing in any deity- then god must hate him. Losing his son, divorced from his wife, imprisoned, and now, just when life was starting to go his way again, now this had to happen.

"I didn't ask for this," he muttered. "I just got out a few weeks ago. Been in counseling, on medication, got a job…" He rubbed at a piece of stubborn dirt in a cut on McGarrett's other foot. "Got to see my grand-daughter. She's not a baby anymore- about to start middle school. My daughter-in-law is back in my life. I get to see them each week." The highlight of his week, getting to hold that little girl in his arms. He found McGarrett's gaze. "I wouldn't risk losing it," he said softly. "You've got to understand that."

But if he'd been hoping for any kind of acknowledgement, he was disappointed. The Five-0 commander remained as silent as ever, his wary gaze never leaving Kurtis's face.

Kurtis gave up. Maybe there was no convincing him. Maybe he'd have to trust that there was evidence pointing to Scott Agaran. Trust in an alibi for whenever the kidnapping took place. Trust in a fair process from people who hated him.

Fair process, McGarrett had said… Kurtis knew he would go to jail. McGarrett's coworkers would see to that, and Kurtis didn't blame them. He'd do the same thing. Why look for a hidden enemy when an obvious one is on your doorstep?

I'm not his enemy, though, Kurtis thought, glancing at McGarrett. Not anymore.

But McGarrett didn't know that.

…

The spoonful of applesauce was pitifully small. Barely enough to taste, it wasn't worth the effort to swallow, and Steve let it rest on his tongue, savoring the slight tartness. Steve had known Foster wouldn't untie him, so he submitted with no complaints to the humiliating task of being fed. He had been spoon-fed before, after a serious injury landed him in the hospital temporarily paralyzed. Danny and Catherine had fed him then, and washed him and clothed him, but that was different.

The spoon brushed his lips, catching a dripple of the tan sauce that had somehow escaped. Steve opened his mouth again as his stomach, having now tasted food, demanded more. Foster grimaced sympathetically.

How genuine was this performance? Foster's plea that he wasn't responsible, and his desperation for Steve to believe him seemed real enough, but Steve wasn't sure. His mind returned to the water bottle in the bunker several years ago- how genuine had Foster seemed then? Steve had believed him, had accepted the gift, and it nearly killed him.

The applesauce jar was now empty, and Steve watched longingly as Foster capped the empty glass and tucked it away in the bag.

"Hospital?" he risked in a hoarse whisper when he noticed Foster cleaning up the other supplies.

"Not tonight," the other returned gruffly.

"When?" Steve demanded. Emboldened by food, he gave Foster a hard stare. "I need a hospital," he rasped out.

"I know, I know." Crouching next to him, Foster reached for one of the bandaged ankles, unsurprised when Steve flinched away. "If I take you in now, in this condition, they'll arrest me on the spot. And I can't… I just can't face that right now." He turned the ankle back and forth in his hand.

Steve waited tersely.

"I didn't do this," Foster said, gesturing to Steve's bruised and battered body. "I know you don't believe me- you don't have to. Hell, I know I'm not supposed to be anywhere near you."

Steve let out a breath as Foster set his food gently on the ground.

"I want to do the right thing," Foster continued, spreading his hands. "But that's easier said than done."

…

Steve didn't realize the tension in his posture until the trapdoor closed and the footsteps receded into the night. In the pitch black, he finally relaxed and slumped against the dirt wall. He was surprised to find that his hands were shaking. Taking a deep breath, he clenched his hands into fists and released them slowly, repeating the motion until the shaking finally stopped.

He didn't know what to make of the encounter. He was still naked and cold, and he still felt feverish from the infected cuts and the pain from the rubbing alcohol, but… he had some food, he had water, his wrists and ankles had been bandaged, and he was not in nearly as much pain as he expected.

In fact, he felt sleepy. Genuinely tired, not the starved lack of energy that had forced him to sleep the previous two nights. Still… he stayed awake for another hour, listening in case Foster returned.

His last thought before he drifted off was that Foster had left the gag off.

It must be Sunday tomorrow, Steve thought wearily as he tried to find a comfortable position on the hard, cramped space. The Arboretum would be closed and no one would be hiking the garden trails. Even if I scream, no one will hear.

And with that somewhat troubling thought, he finally drifted off to sleep.

…

When Kurtis first entered the room yesterday, the smell of the place made him gag. He thought prison had smelled bad, but this? This was far worse. Urine, sweat, feces, and blood, marinating in the damp basement for several days: it wasn't a smell he would soon forget.

In truth, he was surprised that McGarrett wasn't in worse shape. He must have been extremely prudent with his limited space in the cage, Kurtis reasoned, or else his wounds would have been far worse. Cleaning and bandaging the worst of the injuries wouldn't fix the overall stench of the room, but it would at least help McGarrett be more presentable for whatever came next.

And what did come next? Kurtis wasn't sure. He knew the Commander couldn't stay here forever, but every option that occurred to him ended with jail time, this time for good.

The silence was awkward, broken only by the soft spritz of the water bottle and the occasional hiss of McGarrett when Kurtis rubbed too hard at the raw or broken skin.

"I know I should let you go…" he reasoned aloud, trying to fill the silent void, "and take you to a hospital. I know I could call a tip line or Five-0 or something, but…" He rinsed the dirt out of the cloth, soaked it with fresh water, and began again. "I know you don't believe me. You'll tell them I beat you and hurt you, that I did all of this." He wrung the cloth out and soaked it again. "I don't know what to do," he said honestly as he scrubbed away the blood and grime. "If I let you go, you'll put me in jail. If I don't…" he wrung out the cloth again, "then someone else will."

Finishing, he stepped back and studied his handiwork. It wasn't great by any stretch of imagination, but it was better and mostly clean and that was the important part.

…

"Can I ask you a question?"

Steve looked up from his soup warily, but Foster was sitting cross-legged on the ground, exactly like he'd been before. Not threatening except for his presence, and that was threat enough. Realizing that the man was expecting an answer, Steve finally nodded.

"What do you remember? About the man who took you?" Foster clarified.

What did he remember? Steve frowned. He remembered the deep creak of a heavy foot on the stairs, the shattering of the lamp beside his bed, and the shrill cry of a bird outside as it flew away into the night. He remembered a dark shape and a heavy glove, a blow to the head, and a chloroformed cloth. And he remembered the pain. Lots and lots of pain.

…

3. Foster carjacks Danny

A/N: In the original version, Foster never enters the 5-0 building. Instead, he waits outside until Danny comes out. I actually prefer this scene over the one I used; however, I needed some exposition, which meant Foster needed to come inside and talk to Danny. Maybe there would've been a way to keep this version, but I reworked it several times and just couldn't get what I wanted.

It took Detective Danny Williams an astonishingly long time to notice the man hiding in the trees in the parking lot outside the Five-0 building. After another long and fruitless search for his missing partner, he decided to stay late at the office and sift through tips coming in from the anonymous tip line. If even one tip led to something, it would be worth the late hours and overdose of caffeine… but nothing did. The vast majority of the 'tips' were easy to dismiss and some were downright insulting, like the woman who wanted to know if McGarrett was available for dating, and, if he were ever found, could a date be arranged for them to meet? People were despicable.

The back of the lot was dark under the kukui trees, and Danny cursed under his breath as he fumbled his keys and ended up dropping them next to the car. He didn't notice the figure emerge from the trees and had just straightened up when something hard was shoved in his back.

"Don't move."

Danny froze.

"Put your hands on the car," the voice growled.

Danny leaned forward slightly and placed both hands on the roof of the car. He felt one hand reach around and snag the gun from its holster. Then the same hand lifted the handcuffs from his back pocket and the cell phone from his left.

"Hand over the keys. Slowly."

Danny held the keys behind him and the man snatched them from his fingers.

"Hands on your head. Interlock your fingers. Now move."

Hands raised, Danny walked slowly around the hood of the car to the driver's side, then waited as his captor unlocked the door and shoved him inside.

"Cuff yourself to the wheel."

In the darkness of the parking lot, Danny couldn't see the man's face. "Idiot. Stupid, stupid, stupid," he chided himself, but the harm was done. With the man watching closely, he cinched the metal of his own handcuffs tight around his wrist, then waited as his kidnapper moved to the passenger seat and handed him the car keys. "Drive."

"Where to?"

"Manoa Valley Arboretum."

"Why?" It was a strange request and certainly not what Danny had expected. "It's probably closed now. What do you want?"

"Need your help," the man said softly.

"If you needed help, all you had to do was ask," Danny grumbled as he started the car and pulled out of the parking lot. "Hey Detective, could you come help me with something? The gun and handcuffs are really unnecessary."

The man in the other seat chuckled humorlessly. "I don't think you know who I am, do you?"

A cold knot settled in Danny's stomach. "Should I?"

Out of the corner of his eye, his saw his captor shrug. "We never really had a chance to get acquainted."

"Should we have?" A new thought occurred to him. "You didn't choose this car by accident, did you? Is this about Steve? Do you know where he is?"

But the man didn't respond.

...

4. Foster, Danny, and Steve in the basement

A/N: Foster initially kidnaps Danny without really knowing what he wants the detective to do. This seemed to go against Foster's character, so I eventually had to change things. Also, some of Foster's dialogue doesn't sound quite like him. But I liked some of the scenes I got from it.

"Turn yourself in."

Foster shook his head. "I didn't do the other things. Whatever Scott did to him- that was all Scott Agaran. Not me."

Danny didn't believe him.

Kurtis Foster growled and rubbed a hand roughly over his short, grey hair. "Look, what do you want me to do? If I turn myself in, I'll go straight back to prison."

Danny studied the damp, musty basement again. Any good evidence- footprints, fingerprints, fibers- had probably been ruined or destroyed by Foster and himself, but he had seen evidence collected from worse situations. "If- if- Scott Agaran was here, we'll find evidence of it. But you aren't doing yourself any favors if you don't turn yourself in, and the longer we stay here, the more evidence we're destroying. Agaran could have left shoe prints or fibers, and that stuff is all ruined now thanks to you." It was the height of stupidity, but there was no fixing that now, so Danny plunged ahead. "And let's talk charges: holding us here- that's kidnapping. If Scott Agaran is guilty of torturing Steve, then hindering our investigation and keeping us here could be construed as aiding and abetting a fugitive." He fixed Foster with a hard stare. "Either way, you're looking at serious time, and the longer we stay here, the worse it'll be."

"I'm not going back," Foster said adamantly with a curt shake of his head. "I just got my first supervised visit with my grandkid. I'm not going back in."

"You may not have a choice," Danny responded. He watched Foster do another loop around the small basement.

"So that's your advice, Detective Williams? Turn myself in?"

"Yes."

"What would be the charges?"

"Kidnapping, for starters. Assault. Possession of a weapon by a convicted felon," and he nodded at his own gun in Foster's hands.

"Tell me honestly, detective: do you think I would get a fair trial?"

Danny nodded slowly. "I think you could. And I think turning yourself in would go a long way toward making a good impression." He tensed when the gun suddenly reappeared and pointed in his direction. "See that's not making a good impression. Okay… now what?"

"Up against the cage. By your partner."

"Okay, okay. Easy." Danny backed up swiftly until he bumped into the metal bars.

Foster pulled out a ring of keys- Danny's own set- and threw them to the detective. "Cuff yourself to the bars. Nice and tight."

Danny did as ordered. "There," he said, showing off the wrist that was now attached to the cage. "Nice and tight," and he threw the keys back.

Foster nodded, not quite paying attention. "I need a few minutes," he muttered, more to himself than to Danny. After he slipped the flashlight off its hook, he stumped up the stairs and lowered the trap door behind him, plunging the room into darkness.

Danny sank slowly to the ground. "Steve?" he whispered into the darkness.

"Right here, D," and Danny felt something tap his leg. "Need to run through the '86 Mets lineup?"

His offer, the fact that he had even remembered Danny's claustrophobia in the midst of his own suffering, touched Danny with gentle surprise. "I'm fine, Steve." Danny nudged Steve's arm away with his free hand. "I haven't been trapped here for days with an escaped psycho."

"Foster? He didn't escape, Danny; he was released." Steve shuffled around until he was sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with the detective. "I got the report a few weeks ago. He's been a model prisoner. The warden felt he'd changed for the better. He made parole."

"Ha." Danny's shortly-barked laugh lacked any humor. "They should've consulted you first, babe."

"You know that's not how this works, D."

"Yeah." Of course Danny knew how it worked. "How come you didn't tell me he was being released?"

Steve didn't speak for several minutes, but when he did, Danny felt him shrug. "I don't know. I knew you'd worry. Make a fuss. Complain…"

"And I would've been completely justified." Despite the fact that Steve couldn't see his gesturing in the dark, Danny still felt that somehow the emphatic nature of the statement was lacking without it. "I don't need good lighting to see that you're a mess thanks to him. Are you going to walk me through all your injuries this time, or do I have to wait to read it in your medical file?"

Steve opened his mouth to respond, but Danny beat him to it.

"And don't you dare say I'm fine."

"Okay… I'm not fine."

"See, there you- wait. Really? Uh, good. I mean not good, but thank you for being honest."

…

"How long do you think he's going to leave us down here?" Danny was doing fine; his claustrophobia was nicely under control, but he wasn't sure how long it would stay that way.

Next to him, Steve's shoulders bumped against his as he shrugged again. "Maybe an hour. Might be all night."

"Great." Danny wasn't sure he could stay here all night.

Steve nudged him again. "You got your phone?"

"Yeah," Danny fished around in his pocket and pulled it out, "but that doesn't do me much good, does it? No signal." The faintly glowing screen also showed a dangerously low battery. "I guess Duke could triangulate my last position before I went out of range, but that'll be a wide swath of Manoa Valley. Not much to go on."

…

Foster leaned against the pillar, the gun dangling loosely from his hand as his foot tapped a nervous staccato against the dirt floor. Danny couldn't read the expression on his face- anger? Guilt? Exhaustion? He braced himself cautiously against the cage in case he needed to move suddenly, but Foster seemed in no great hurry to do anything. From time to time, his lips moved silently as though arguing with himself, but he made no sound.

To his left, Danny could feel Steve quivering slightly from exhausted tension. The man didn't deserve this, Danny thought bitterly, and yet here he was, once more at the mercies of a psychopath who seemed intent on keeping Steve from a peaceful, happy life. Danny wanted to tell Steve to relax, that he would handle things, but knew it wouldn't do any good: Steve would stay awake and alert until the situation was over or his body collapsed, whichever came sooner.

Danny could only hope it was the former and not the latter.

After an undetermined amount of time, Foster finally looked up. "What do you think of bravery, Detective Williams?"

"Bravery?" Nonplussed, Danny shrugged. "It's good, I guess. Why?"

"Because you are asking me to bravely accept an undetermined fate and place myself in the hands of two people who consider me an enemy. It doesn't matter how innocent I am in the matter; I feel I stand very little chance of ever being free again."

"What'd you do in prison, major in philosophy?" Annoyed, Danny gestured to the handcuff securing him to the cage. "It doesn't matter how I feel- I follow procedure, and that means that, like it or not, you get the same fair chance as everybody else we arrest."

"And what about him?" Foster asked with a nod at Steve.

"Lucky for you, he's too injured for you to worry about how he feels." Danny didn't doubt that if Steve felt better, they would not be having this conversation right now because Foster would either be dead or incapacitated. "Corrupt cops- and certain ex-SEALs- bend the rules, and sometimes that means the prisoner ends up in the trunk instead of the back seat. Me, I think rules are meant to be followed. That means you'll end up safely at Five-0 and dropped in a holding cell, you'll be interviewed, and you'll eventually get your phone call and a lawyer, if you want it."

Foster's eyes flickered over Steve. "And if he lies?"

"Why would he do that?"

Foster rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Scott messed him up pretty good. What if he doesn't remember things properly?"

"Let us worry about that, alright?" Danny cast a glance at his partner, but Steve was entirely focused on Foster, his tired eyes fixed on the other man and on every slight movement that he made. "We'll collect evidence and if you're telling the truth, something will eventually back it up. Even if there's no evidence here, there might be some on his body or his clothes."

…

"Then what did you do?" Danny asked.

Foster pointed to the remnants of the sheet where Steve sat. "I brought water and supplies. I cleaned and bandaged his wounds."

"But you didn't release him."

"What was I supposed to do? If I had driven him downtown or to any hospital in his state, I would've been arrested immediately."

"You're going to be arrested anyway."

Foster sighed resignedly and stood up. "I know." He paced back and forth in front of the pillar. "I know," he said again. "Hindsight is always 20-20. I can't go back and fix yesterday."

"But you can fix tomorrow."

"Maybe." He looked at the gun in his hand and Danny wondered if he was going to shoot them both now or whether he'd wait a little longer.

Longer would be better.

"Sometimes," Danny told Foster, "miracles happen."

"Not in my lifetime," the convict replied.

…

5. Initial 'escape'

A/N: I toyed around with Foster either deliberately or accidentally allowing Steve and Danny to escape. It would give Danny a moment to shine, but it opened another can of worms with why on earth Foster would do that.

Danny dozed, his head lolling from side to side, constantly shifting from discomfort. The faint sound of birds reached him and he shook his head groggily and tried to sit up. Something raw pulled at his wrists and he inhaled sharply. He'd forgotten his hands were cuffed behind the post. Sometime in the night, he had fallen asleep with his head on his knees. Now he ached in every bone and muscle. Blinking, Danny coughed and nudged his partner with his foot. "Steve?"

Steve groaned.

Danny tried again. "Steve. Wake up."

Steve mumbled something and shivered.

"On your feet, sailor!"

That did the trick. Steve's head shot up and feverish eyes looked around deliriously. "What?"

Danny frowned. He watched Steve blinked, his gaze glassy. "You with me, buddy?"

Steve's head swiveled slowly to take in the room. "Where's Foster?" he asked sluggishly.

Danny had wondered that, too. "Must've left in the night." If they were lucky, Foster had thrown himself off the nearest waterfall. He watched Steve's chest rise and fall in shallow pants. "How're you doing?"

"Been better," Steve admitted.

Danny snorted softly. While he looked his partner over, however, he noticed something else. "Hey Steve? Think you can reach one of those?" he nodded at the scraps of electric cable that Foster had left on the ground.

Steve hesitated. Danny knew he was in pain, and he hated to ask something that he knew would likely cause even more discomfort. Finally, Steve grunted and leaned forward tiredly, snagging the wires with his free hand. "It's not a handcuff key, D," he rasped, passing the wires behind the post to Danny's waiting hands.

"Will you shut up," Danny chided with no malice. "It's my turn to be MacGyver today."

He picked the rubber away from the wires and tested the stiffness. Not ideal- the wire bent easily in his hands. Danny stripped it down further, then twisted the exposed wires together and tested it again.

"MacGyver or Houdini?" Steve asked hoarsely. He couldn't see Danny's work, but he could guess what the detective was doing.

"Oh, you know Houdini but not superheroes?"

"I know superheroes. Superman, Batman, Spiderman…"

"Iron Man?"

"There was a movie about him, right?"

Danny rolled his eyes. "They all have movies, babe," he retorted, pleased that Steve was bantering with him. Inserting the twisted wire into the cuff, he wiggled it around, trying to catch the small latch. After a moment, something in the cuff clicked and Danny jerked his wrist, yanking the cuff open. Pulling his hand around, he hissed when he saw the raw and torn skin. It burned fiercely, and Danny opened his mouth to complain when he saw the scars on Steve's legs which protruded from the sheet.

He snapped his mouth shut and turned his attention to opening the other cuff.

Beside him, Steve nudged open one of the plastic bags Foster had left behind and pulled out another gel packet. For a moment, he struggled to tear it with his teeth. "Little help?" he whispered finally.

Danny ripped it open and handed it back wordlessly. He couldn't think of anything funny to say in response- all his snappy retorts sounded harsh in his mind.

A moment later, he had freed his second hand from the cuffs. He tucked them into his pocket and started work on the chain holding Steve to the pillar. "Don't suppose Foster left a cell phone down here?" he asked.

Steve shook his head. "No weapons, either."

"Guess we'll have to make do." Pushing himself to his feet, Danny moved stiffly to the pile of broken furniture piled in a corner. Most of the stuff was useless, rotten junk, but one or two chairs still looked solid. Danny yanked a mildewed chair leg off its base and tapped it experimentally in his hand. It might work. He turned back to Steve, who was struggling to stand on his injured feet. "Ready to go?"

"Just waiting on you," Steve huffed as he leaned heavily against the pillar.

Danny swung his partner's arm over one shoulder and shifted as much of Steve's weight as possible onto himself. Moving slowly, one small, stiff step at a time, they crossed the basement and climbed the stairs.

…

A/N: This scene follows the previous one. Foster is debating whether to end things or not. Danny, in need of car keys, has deposited Steve somewhere and gone in search of Foster. The problem, of course, was that I couldn't justify Danny leaving Steve unless absolutely necessary. And are car keys absolutely necessary?

Lamar Foster sat on a damp stone at the base of the waterfall, his feet dangling over the creek as he stared absently into the water. He could feel the hot sun beginning to crack through the canopy, but it was still cool under the trees.

The detective's gun rested loosely in his hand.

Lamar scratched at the stubble that had begun to form on his cheeks. He'd missed his check-in last night. It would take a few hours for his absence to be reported up the chain to the right sources, but soon someone would put the pieces together and realize: Lamar Foster… Steve McGarrett.

The entire island would be looking for him.

The cold water began to seep into his pants, but Lamar made no move to get up. He slipped a thin wallet out of his back pocket and cracked the new leather open. He didn't have much in it- his ID, a few miscellaneous cards, and a picture of his granddaughter. Lamar pulled out the picture and stared longingly at the bright smile. He could almost hear her laughter.

Snap.

Lamar didn't turn around. He continued to stare at the picture.

Footsteps shuffled in the leaves behind him.

Lamar sighed. "I know you're there, Detective."

A moment of silence passed between them. Then a cough, and the detective moved into view. The shorter man held a stick- no, a chair leg- tightly in one hand and moved with an uneasy prowl as he stayed just out of Lamar's reach.

Lamar raised an eyebrow at the makeshift club. "Nice weapon."

"Yeah, well… you have my sidearm," the detective observed. "Trade?"

Lamar snorted. The detective had a sharp sense of humor, something Lamar might have appreciated in a different situation. He looked the man up and down, noting the mud on his pants and dirt smeared across his shirt. "I see you got out."

"No thanks to you."

Lamar frowned. "Why are you still here? Looking for revenge?"

Detective Williams shifted and lowered the club slightly. "Look, you might be the world's biggest schmuck, but I meant it when I said you'd get a fair shake with me. I'm not gonna beat you to a pulp… as much as I really want to."

"So why are you here? Doesn't your partner need a hospital?"

"Car keys," the smaller man grunted. "Someone made sure he couldn't walk."

"Someone isn't me," Lamar responded. He stuffed a hand in his pocket and fished out the keys. "Here," he tossed them into the dirt at the detective's feet. He didn't miss the detective's flinch. "Relax," he added with a soft chuckle. "If I were going to shoot you, I'd have done it already."

"Well if you're not going to use the gun, then…" the detective stuck out a hand.

Lamar regarded him evenly. "I might change my mind."

"Just surrender."

"It's not that simple."

"Sure it is." Williams shifted back and forth and cast a glance over his shoulder toward the church, clearly eager to get back to his injured partner. "Look, it's a limited time offer. Give me the gun and let me take you in. No rough stuff. Scout's honor."

Lamar contemplated this. He knew- and Williams knew- what happened to guys in custody who had beaten up cops. 'Suspect tripped while getting into squad car' was the usual excuse on the report. Or the classic 'Suspect resisted arrest.'

"The moment I get to my car, that deal expires." William's tone shifted and his eyes hardened. "And when that deal expires, you can be darn sure that my team will hunt you down."

And kill me, Lamar finished unnecessarily. He'd heard the stories about 5-0 in prison. "What about Scott?"

"He's on my list, right after you." Williams glanced at his watch and began to move away. "Clock's ticking, Foster."

Lamar watched him leave.

He stared at the gun in one hand.

Then at the photograph in the other.

Then he made up his mind.

...

6. Hospital Scenes

A/N: The story kept dragging out, so I cut everything from the hospital.

Danny dropped Steve off at the ER doors where he was promptly whisked away. As much as Danny longed to go with him, he was forced to wait until Chin showed up to take Foster off his hands. By the time that was accomplished, Steve had disappeared into the back for treatment and no amount of blustering and badge-waving could get Danny access from the Samoan nurse at the desk. So, he paced, disgruntled, and waited for news.

Reports trickled in slowly. Danny was pleased to hear that most of the damage was cosmetic, although kidney function was of concern given his time without food and very little water. In between the tests, he was told Steve was sleeping, an exhaustion-induced sleep brought on by the ordeal and not any medication.

Finally, in the late afternoon, Steve was admitted to a room upstairs, sending Danny on a despised round of Hide-and-Seek through the facility looking for his partner. On the third floor, he finally found a nurse who directed him to a doctor, who in turn insisted on speaking with Danny before revealing Steve's room.

Danny nodded impatiently while the doctor briefed him on Steve's condition, only half-listening until he heard the magic words: "… his room, 348, just down the hall."

"Thank you," he said breathlessly and spun on his heel in the indicated direction. Steve's room was at the end of the corridor. Danny knocked softly, but heard no response.

Going in, he tensed at the sight of the empty bed, but immediately relaxed upon seeing his partner standing by the window, somewhat cleaned up and in a gown.

"Hey," Danny murmured softly, not wishing to startle him.

Steve grunted.

Danny glanced down and saw he had tilted his feet sideways to avoid standing on the soles. He could see Steve's legs shaking, and how he clutched his IV pole like a lifeline. "Aren't you supposed to be in bed? Resting?" He wasn't even sure how the man was still upright.

Steve cast a half-hearted glance at the hospital bed and shrugged. "Wanted to see outside," he said softly, although the building faced the city and, in Danny's opinion, had a pretty crappy view. "And wanted to stand up for a bit."

Never mind that his feet likely ached and his legs trembled from the exertion of simply standing, Danny thought; Steve had been cooped up in the cage for far too long. At least the pain medication hopefully took the edge off his excruciating soles. Standing, his legs fully extended, probably felt good, even though he looked like he couldn't do it much longer without falling.

Danny hovered nearby, just within reach, but remarkably silent.

Steve finally turned away with a sigh. Leaning heavily on the IV pole, he limped slowly to the bed and sat on the edge of it.

"Need anything?" Danny asked.

"Nah. I'm good."

"How's the back?"

Steve rolled his shoulders and felt the slight pull of fresh scars under the hospital gown. "Good."

"It won't keep you from sleeping?"

"No." Steve doubted anything could keep him from sleeping at this point. "Where's Foster?"

"Locked up at the Palace." Danny had reluctantly asked Chin to place Foster in their only overnight cell, equipped with a small bed, toilet, and sink. Undeserving though the man may be, it was still Danny's duty to follow through on due process, and he felt he had fulfilled this duty, albeit unwillingly.

Steve remained seated on the edge of the bed, his legs dangling over the side.

"You gonna go to sleep any time soon, or do you need me to tuck you in?" Danny asked.

"It's not night time."

"It's night time somewhere, babe."

Steve sighed and reluctantly swung his legs onto the bed, wincing slightly as he pulled the covers over them. Easing himself back gingerly, he stared at the bland, pasty ceiling and finally closed his eyes. He heard Danny move toward the door.

"Danny?"

"Yeah?"

"Leave the light on."

Danny stopped, his hand hovering over the light switch. "You sure?"

"Yeah. I, uh… I've had enough of the dark lately." He listened to his partner move back across the room to the chair. "You don't have to stay," he added.

Danny didn't respond. Steve heard the quiet squeak as Danny pulled the chair across the floor and then a slight groan when Danny finally settled in. A dip in the mattress told him his partner had propped his feet up at the end of the bed.

"Watching me sleep, Danno?" he murmured. "S'not creepy at all."

"Go to sleep, you moron."

Steve's face relaxed, almost a grin. He allowed his head to sink into the luxury of a pillow. Then sleep claimed him.

…

"Well, Mr. McGarrett," the doctor flipped through the pages on his patient's chart, "I think that about wraps it up. Things look pretty good, but we're going to keep you here overnight for observation."

"My partner can observe me at home." Steve craved his own bed, his own clothes, and a shower- a long, hot, un-Navy-regulation shower.

"We're concerned about damage to your kidneys from the dehydration. That's not something you can easily monitor at home," the doctor countered.

"Look, doc," Steve tried to sound reasonable and not like he was begging or whining, "I was locked in a cage for three nights. I don't want to be locked up for one more."

"I understand what you're saying," the doctor nodded sympathetically, "but keep in mind that you aren't locked up here- your friends can come and go, and you aren't trapped in this bed or even in this room- you can spend the night walking up and down the hall if that's what you want." Taking a seat in the armchair beside the bed, he opened Steve's chart again and pulled a ream of papers from the back. "I pulled the report from your previous encounter with this man. It says that he gave you poisoned water to drink- is that correct?"

Steve nodded. He already knew where this was going.

"And did you eat or drink anything that he gave you this time?"

Steve nodded again. "But wouldn't the effects be obvious already if it were poisoned?"

"That depends on the poison. We're running a tox screen right now on the samples the nurse drew earlier. Some of the tests take a while to process. If this were simply malnourishment, I'd been fine with your friend watching you at home tonight, but do you really want him to have the responsibility of dealing with the effects of an unknown toxin in the middle of the night?" the doctor asked.

Steve considered the last time, when he had stopped breathing on the helicopter while the unknown drug ransacked his system.

"That's not fair to him," the doctor finished unnecessarily.

No it wasn't. Steve sighed. "Okay. I'll stay."

"Good man."

...

7. Scenes around the 5-0 office after Steve's rescue.

A/N: Initially, Danny didn't know Foster was innocent. Once I changed things so that Danny overheard Foster and Scott Agaran talking in the church, this scene no longer worked, so I removed it.

"So…" Chin Ho Kelly began a few days after the incident, broaching a topic Danny had been hoping to avoid, "Kurtis Foster."

Danny had a feeling Chin already knew the answer to the unasked question. Something about the Hawaiian man's intense, level stare always seemed to pierce straight to his soul. Feeling suddenly annoyed at the thought, Danny folded his arms and kicked back in his chair, fixing Chin with something of a challenging defiance. "Yeah, yeah, he claims he had nothing to do with it."

Chin eyed him calmly from the office doorway. "You believe him?"

"I don't know." It was a lie, a bald-faced lie. Foster didn't do it- Danny had heard enough inside the church to know Scott had planned and carried out the whole thing. But the setting- Foster in interrogation, Steve in the hospital- was too familiar, too similar to the events that had happened a decade earlier. Danny remembered those days, he remembered the tense hours at Steve's side, begging him to wake up, to come back for Grace's sake. And then, once Steve finally awoke, there were the countless sleepless nights, bad dreams, nightmares, endless doctor appointments and specialists and therapists…

"He have an alibi?" Chin asked, interrupting his thoughts. Chin had been busy following up on leads provided by Charlie Fong, and he and Danny hadn't had much time to discuss things yet.

"Yeah, right here." Danny slid a paper across the desk.

Chin glanced at it. "Seems solid. What about you, though?"

"What about me?"

"He kidnapped you, didn't he? This alibi is for the night of Steve's kidnapping."

Danny grimaced. "We didn't talk about me."

Chin cocked his head slightly. "Does Steve know?"

"That I talked to him? Or that he has an alibi? Or that I was kidnapped and he claims had to do it in order to get me out there to save Steve? No to all of the above. Haven't told him." Danny paused. He didn't relish the idea of wasting Steve's few waking moments with case-related news; better to talk about sports or even the weather. "Don't give me that look- we'll talk. Just… later, yeah? Not today." He couldn't deal with that just yet.

A/N: At first, I had Steve check himself out AMA, but I liked the idea better of Danny picking him up and taking him home, so I kept the scene with Danny and Grace talking about Steve coming to stay for a while, and I cut this one.

The next morning, Danny arrived at the office early, flicked on the lights, fixed himself a cup of coffee, and was halfway across the bullpen when he came to an abrupt stop. Coffee sloshed from his mug, staining his blue shirt and scattering dark droplets across the floor. Ignoring the mess, Danny took two steps backwards. He looked into his partner's office. Then he shook his head, blinked tiredly, and looked again.

Danny set the cup aside. He marched into his partner's office.

"Steven."

Steve glanced up from the paperwork on his desk. "Danny," he acknowledged and immediately returned to his work.

Danny leaned against the doorway of the office and narrowed his gaze at the man sitting behind the desk.

The man sitting behind the desk ignored the pointed gaze.

"You're out of the hospital."

The man ignored this, too.

In the doorway, Danny shifted his weight and tried to make eye contact, but Steve kept his eyes dutifully on his papers. "You get released, or check out AMA?" the detective tried.

"There was nothing wrong with me, Danny. Nothing that a few beers and a long swim couldn't fix."

Danny's eyes widened. "Please don't tell me you went for a swim." He caught a flicker of what might have been a smile and groaned. "Not funny, Steven. This isn't a joking matter."

"Who's joking? You're the one making assumptions."

"Assumptions? You just said there's nothing wrong with you."

"And there's not."

Danny ignored the glaring lie and focused on his main point. "That doesn't answer my question: did you check out AMA?"

"Maybe you should stop asking stupid questions." Steve made a show of shuffling the papers, signed the top one with a flourish, and slid the entire stack into a folder. "And before you think about suggesting it, I'm not going home."

"Wasn't going to." But Danny didn't leave, either. Leaning against the doorway, he watched, not missing the slight tremor as Steve capped the pen, and the momentary hesitation when he opened a drawer the slid the papers inside. "Still got a sleeping bag in the closet?"

Steve glared at him.

Danny waited a beat, then added, "Do you have two?"

Steve eyed him shrewdly. "I don't need a babysitter."

"I wasn't offering."

Steve glared.

Danny watched him shuffle files for a few minutes. Then: "You make that appointment with the shrink yet, babe?"

"None of your business."

"It is, actually."

"Fine, yes I did."

"So you don't mind if I call to confirm?" Danny pulled out his cellphone. "Have some paperwork of my own that I have to fill out."

With an exasperated sigh, Steve pushed back from his desk, took the whole stack of papers from his desk, dropped them into the filing cabinet, and slammed the drawer. "Fine, Danny, I lied. There. You happy? Gonna lecture me? Go ahead."

But very much to Steve's surprise, Danny stuffed his hands in his pockets and shook his head. "No lecture. Not today." He turned to leave.

"Where are you going?"

"To see Foster."

A/N: Initially, Danny kind of harasses Foster a bit, but then I figured Danny would want to do things by the book so that the case against Foster wouldn't run into any legal trouble and get dropped. So, this scene had to go.

"Wakey, wakey!" Danny announced, throwing the cell door open with deliberate force. It banged loudly against the cinderblock wall, and he watched in grim satisfaction as the man on the floor started awake. "C'mon, Sleeping Beauty- rise and shine."

Kurtis Foster groaned. He struggled into a sitting position and blinked wearily at the detective. "It's been 24 hours, Detective Williams."

"Has it?" Danny checked his watch. "Huh. Hadn't noticed."

"What are you charging me with?"

"Kidnapping. I figure that's good enough to keep a judge from approving bail." He motioned Foster toward the door. "Bathroom time. Hurry up."

The older man struggled wearily up from the mattress and shuffled slowly past Danny, the chain clinking quietly between his legs. "Do I get a lawyer?" he asked as Danny escorted him down the hall.

"You want the call now?"

"After I eat. Or are you planning to starve me to death?"

"Thought about it."

Foster stopped and turned to face him. "I didn't hurt your partner, Detective. You were there- you heard Scott admit to everything."

"I heard him admit to some things. I also heard him say that he left Steve behind for you to finish off."

"I didn't hurt him," Foster insisted.

Danny didn't particularly care what Foster had to say, and shrugged off-handedly at the man's statement. "You better hope the evidence proves it."

A/N: This was before I made some major edits to the story and decided Martha probably wanted nothing to do with him.

"Can I help you?"

The older woman tried to smile, but failed and looked quickly away. "I'm looking for my husband. Ex-husband," she amended quickly. "They told me he would be here."

Steve frowned. "HPD headquarters is housed here, ma'am," he said, "but they usually don't hold prisoners here. Did an officer tell you to come to this location?" It wasn't uncommon and had certainly happened before.

"Yes, a Mr. Williams. The police told me to talk to him, and he told me to come here. He said 11 a.m., I believe, and so… here I am." She looked around the empty office in some confusion. "Is Mr. Williams here?"

"No ma'am. He stepped out briefly. Would you care to sit down?" Since his office was the only one with extra furniture, Steve ushered her inside and gestured to the couch. "Can I get you something? A glass of water, coffee…?"

"No thank you. And you should sit down as well." She patted his arm, this time with a genuine smile. "You don't look too good yourself," she observed, nodded at his cane.

"It'll be fine," Steve said quickly. He limped to the desk and carefully propped the cane against the polished surface. "Who were you here to see?" he asked, sinking thankfully into his own chair and opening his laptop. "I may be able to help you before Detective Williams returns."

"I'm here to see my ex-husband," the woman repeated. "Kurtis Foster."

…

Steve momentarily blanked out. The room greyed, and he grasped the desk, shaking away the sudden blurriness as he tried to process her statement. "Kurtis… Kurtis Foster?" he stammered. "You are Mrs. Foster?"

"Yes. And you are?"

Steve wondered if she knew his name. How much of her ex-husband's case had she followed? How many of the details did she know? "McGarrett, ma'am. Steve McGarrett."

Her reaction was immediate. She straightened suddenly, exclaimed "Oh!" in a horrified voice, and clapped a hand over her mouth. Her eyes went immediately to the cane. "Oh dear. Did…?" She hesitated to finish the question. "Did he do… that… to you?"

"Ma'am, when did you last hear from your ex-husband?" Steve asked, avoiding the question.

"A few nights ago. He called to arrange the next visit with his granddaughter." Her eyes travelled over his face and the rest of his body, lingering on the scars and not missing the bandages hiding at the edge of his long sleeves. "I thought he was getting better," she whispered.

A/N: I experimented with showing the fight scene between Foster, Scott Agaran, and Danny through the eyes of a detective that interviews Danny afterwards. Decided I wasn't really a fan of how it turned out.

"He gave you back your gun?" Detective Roberts asked.

They sat in Danny's office with the door closed, sequestered there for over an hour while Danny gave his statement. Roberts had listened impassively, interjecting a small question here or there, but otherwise making no comment. When Danny described Foster returning his weapon shortly before the fight in the basement, however, Roberts looked up in surprise.

"Just to clarify, he did not simply set the weapon down with the intent to take it up again later? He knew you were there, and your obtaining the weapon was intentional on his part, not an accident?"

Danny shifted in his seat, uncomfortable not just with the line of questioning, but also with his own response. He'd replayed the scene a hundred times in his head, and he still couldn't quite believe what had happened. "Foster knew I was there," he said slowly, "and even though he never looked at me, I believe it was a deliberate act on his part to return the weapon, yes."

Roberts scrawled something on his notepad. "Any idea why?"

"I think he wanted to clear his name. He… he mentioned a granddaughter, and he assumed if he went back to prison, that he would die there. I think it was a final, last-ditch effort on his part to avoid jail time."

"But he still kidnapped you, in the parking lot outside. Did he not think there would be repercussions from that?"

"He was very focused on Scott. I don't think he'd considered anything else."

"I see." Roberts made another note. "And what happened once you had your sidearm?"

Danny proceeded to describe the conversation that had taken place between Foster and Scott before he had engaged Scott in a brief shootout. When he finished, there was a moment of silence as Roberts reviewed his notes.

"You're certain this conversation is accurate?"

"As best as I can recall."

"Have you discussed this conversation with Mr. Foster since his arrest?"

"No," Danny replied, feeling a little disgruntled.

Roberts crossed his legs and studied Danny thoughtfully for a moment. "Tell me something, Detective Williams: if you were still in charge of this investigation, what would you do with Mr. Foster?"

"What do you mean?"

"I realize your team had only begun to process the evidence, but based on what you know right now, at this moment, what charges would you bring against Mr. Foster?"

"Kidnapping," Danny replied immediately. "Possession of a firearm by a felon. Associated charges."

"Kidnapping… you?" the detective sought to clarify.

"Yes."

"And what about Commander McGarrett? Any charges against Mr. Foster relating to the Commander?"

"I don't know… I'd like to, but… I'm not sure the evidence is there."

"I see." Another note. "And how does Commander McGarrett feel about this?"

"We haven't talked about it."

A/N: I wanted the final chapters to be more ambiguous about Foster's heart and headspace. Has he really changed? Danny is never completely convinced, and Foster never completely makes amends.

"My partner is convinced you're innocent."

The older man sitting across the table from Danny shrugged. "Doesn't matter, does it, Detective?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're still pressing charges."

"Damn right I am. You kidnapped me. Took my weapon. Took my car. Not exactly your brightest moment."

Foster chuckled humorlessly, catching Danny off guard.

"What?" the detective snapped.

"It must feel good, having me right where you want me. Don't tell me you didn't spend the last ten years wishing you could have gone a few rounds with me out back- I hear it in your voice."

"How I feel about you is beside the point."

"Is it?" Foster shook his head. "It's amusing, isn't it? Life's not fair- isn't that what they told you as a child, too? The whole time I was in prison, hating McGarrett's guts, life was fine for me. Don't get me wrong- prison sucked- but I made it work, you know? But now that I'm trying to move on, life seems determined to get in the way."

"I don't call 'kidnapping' a problem of 'life' getting in the way."

"I wish I could say I'm sorry, Detective, but I couldn't think of another way to get you to come with me."

"We've been over this. All you had to do was ask."

Foster raised a dubious eyebrow. "If that's all it takes to draw you out to some dangerous place, then I'm not sure how you're still alive." He leaned forward, fixing Danny with a sharp gaze that made the detective a little uncomfortable. "See, I think there's more to it than just a simple request. I already asked for help once, at the police station, and I was turned down. And then I asked you, and you turned me down. So then what? I'm back to kidnapping again. The kidnapping was inevitable. All I did was speed things up and skip the part where I say pretty please and you still say no."

"I hope that's not the excuse you're planning to use in court."

Foster's face darkened. "If you're looking for an apology, then fine, here it is: I'm sorry I couldn't think of another way to rescue your partner. That's it, though. That's the only apology you're going to get."

"And fifteen years ago?"

"People change, detective. Circumstances change. I'm not the same person I was then, just as I doubt you are the same person now. I won't apologize for another person's actions, and if I did, it would be to McGarrett and not to you."

Danny left the room with a sour taste in his mouth.

A/N: I ended up removing Chin and Kono entirely. I wanted it to be a Steve and Danny story. But I still liked this scene.

The next morning, Steve had dark circles under his eyes. Danny made no comment as his partner stalked moodily across the bullpen and ignored the dark glare that challenged anyone to ask him how he was doing. As soon as the office door shut, however, Danny saw Steve's shoulders slump and the slight limp reappear as Steve moved slowly to the window and pulled the blinds.

"What's that about?" Kono wondered.

"I've got a couple of ideas." Danny muttered under his breath. "Just give me a minute."

"Don't do it, brah," Chin warned. "Steve's looking for a fight. Don't give him one."

"This is ridiculous, though!"

"Of course it is."

That simple acknowledgement took the wind out of Danny's sails. He exhaled limply. "You're right." Glancing at the notes on the bullpen, he tried to refocus. "All right: what've we got?"

A/N: Foster and Danny talk. (Danny talks; Foster listens). Except Foster strikes me as the kind of guy that would just sneer at Danny and rile him up with sarcastic remarks, whereas the Foster in this scene is actually a bit intimidated.

"How is Commander McGarrett?"

The apparent look of genuine concern on Foster's face made Danny feel sick. "You don't get to ask that," he growled. "You shouldn't even be allowed to say his name."

Foster nodded slowly. "I understand."

"No. No, I don't think you do." Danny glanced behind him at the small camera in the corner where the red light blinked rhythmically. "You know what I really want to do?" He thrust a finger at the camera. "I want to go turn that thing off and come back in here, just you and me, so I can give you a taste of some of the absolute hell that my partner has lived through because of you!"

He paused, panting heavily, and paced the room. Foster watched him warily.

"He still has nightmares- did you know that? No, of course you didn't. Not nightmares from what just happened, although god knows he'll have plenty from this little 'incident,' but from ten years ago, when you got your hands on him the first time."

"I didn't-"

"SHUT UP!" Danny shouted, suddenly flinging his own chair across the room. It crashed against the cinderblock walls and tumbled into a corner.

Foster flinched violently and leaned back in his seat. His eyes flicked toward the camera.

Danny closed in and jabbed him in the chest, hard. "You don't get to speak. You have not earned the right to speak."

The smallest of nods was all Foster dared to give in response. Eyes wide, he waited until Danny finally withdrew. The pacing resumed. Danny ran a hand over his hair, first the left, then the right, a meager attempt to control what he could when the rest of the world seemed to be things he couldn't.

Finally, in more controlled tones, he continued, "You know, for all of those moments where Steve is kicking ass like some freaking warrior ninja, there's other times when he is completely the opposite. He really cares, you know? Except you don't know, so I'm going to spell it out so even a pea-brained putz can get it."

Grabbing the chair that had been flung away, Danny dragged it back and sat down, eliciting a faint flinch from Foster. "We were in the car one time, held hostage by some murderer. Steve's cuffed to the wheel, and I managed to get the gun away from the guy, and that's it, right? The guy goes off to jail, we go home to our families… but no, suddenly my partner decides he believes this guy. Steve decides he's going to give the guy another chance. He drove off, outran the cops, pissed off Lou Grover like you've never seen… all to prove this guy was innocent of just one little crime."

Danny paused and shook his head. How many times had Steve stuck his neck out for some dipstick that didn't deserve it? Nahele, Adam, Toast, Kamekona… how many people had gotten their lives turned around because Steve hadn't pressed charges? Who knew that his killing-machine beast of a partner was secretly harboring a heart the size of Texas?

"I'm sorry," Foster said earnestly. "If I could go back and change things-"

"But see, that's the thing- you can't. You were given a second chance, Foster, and you blew it."

"I didn't know-"

"That your former cell mate was holding a massive grudge? That McGarrett put him in prison? You spent years living in close quarters with a man and you didn't know even the most basic facts about him? You really think a judge will buy that? Or maybe you didn't think it was strange that he was giving you a 'present' that's somehow hidden up in the jungle somewhere."

"He didn't say th-"

"You know what most 'presents' look like, Foster?" Danny interrupted. He mimed a box with his hand as his voice escalated, "They're in boxes, wrapped in pretty paper and some ribbon, maybe a little bow. They're not chained inside a filthy cage like an animal in the basement of some abandoned, rotting corpse of a church!" Spittle flew from his mouth, his furious face inches from Foster's own. Foster flinched. Breathing heavily, Danny drew back, wiping his mouth.

"Something else you may not know," he continued after a moment. "That job you have- had- with the hardware store- Steve got you that job."

Foster's eyes widened slightly.

Danny snorted. "Yeah. I didn't know, either. Wouldn't have known, except one of my people drove up there to check on your alibi. Talked to the proprietor, Mr. Okuma, and then to the officer that set the job up after your parole. Turns out, it was my partner who suggested the place for you. And being allowed visitation with your granddaughter? Living on your own instead of a halfway house? That was all him, too."

Foster's mouth opened and shut. His eyes were clouded with emotion, and he looked away. "I didn't know," he said softly, in a very different tone.

"Obviously." Danny studied him for a moment and finally shook his head. "The thing is, for reasons I genuinely don't understand, Steve wanted to see you get better, so he made sure you had everything you needed to get back on the right path. Me? I would've just locked you up and thrown away the key. But for all his faults, that's not the kind of person he is."

...

8. Foster(Lamar) is released

A/N: At some point, I wrote a scene where Danny was forced to release Foster due to lack of evidence. Except… obviously there was evidence. So this just doesn't work.

It was midday when Detective Williams allowed Lamar to leave. Lamar could see from the dark look in his eyes that the detective didn't believe his innocence for a minute and was unhappy to turn him loose, but the evidence was on Lamar's side for once and the detective had no choice. Work by one of the team's analysts, some kid named 'Junior,' supported the most important part of Lamar's story: that he'd been working late the night that McGarrett disappeared and could not have been anywhere near McGarrett's house when the SEAL was taken. Lamar wasn't clear on the details- he'd only caught snatches of their conversation- but he gathered that this 'Junior' had apparently recovered audio files from McGarrett's phone that confirmed Mr. Okuma's testimony placing Lamar at work.

"Sign here," the detective grunted, shoving a clipboard at Lamar, along with his car keys, wallet, cell phone, and small change that he'd had on him.

Lamar signed and pocketed the items. He wanted to ask about the Commander's condition, but decided against it.

"I'll be watching you, you know." Williams jabbed a pen at him, his eyes narrowed mistrustfully at Lamar. "If you do anything I don't like- go anywhere, see anything, call anyone- I will know, and I will personally throw you in a hole so dark you'll forget that light even exists."

Lamar jerked his head in a nod.

"You might not be responsible for the actual kidnapping, but I can still charge you with conspiracy. And if any of the evidence from the hospital links back to you-"

"It won't," Lamar said softly.

The detective escorted him to the parking lot where Lamar's car was waiting for him. It seemed like ages since Lamar drove downtown from the gardens- not 36 hours. And although he'd had very little sleep, he still turned onto the H1 and drove back to the hardware store to finish off what remained of his shift.

Mr. Okuma asked him no questions. Lamar had a feeling the old man already knew.

A/N: I played around with the idea of Danny agreeing to drop charges against Foster if Foster goes undercover to set a trap for Scott Agaran.

The rest of the day passed without incident. Lamar worked, went home, ate supper, and went to bed. The next morning, he continued with his routine. Tuesday, Wednesday, and most of Thursday passed without incident.

Thursday afternoon, however, he had a visitor.

"Heard you got picked up." Scott Hideko cast a glance up and down the aisles as he sauntered into the shop, but the store was empty. "What did the great 5-0 say?"

Lamar stopped sorting screws and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "They're suspicious."

"What do they know?"

"Not much. Nothing that can be traced back to you or me."

"And have you 'cleaned up'?"

"I'm not finished yet. A few more days."

A dark scowl crossed Scott's face. "You're putting us both at risk," he hissed. "The longer you wait-"

"Maybe you shouldn't have nearly killed him first," Lamar returned, allowing some bite to seep into his own voice. "I can't work with a dead man. Just relax; it'll get done."

"It better."

Lamar watched him leave, feeling nervous. Reaching into his pocket, he turned off the recorder. It wasn't much. Williams had told him what they needed before bringing Scott, but getting a confession out of him was easier said than done.

…

On Saturday, Scott came again. Lamar had decided to work the weekend shift, feeling safer at the store, where there were at least a handful of security cameras, than at home. This time, he spotted Scott before the other man entered the store, and he activated the recording device.

A few other customers were milling around, and Scott waited until Lamar had dealt with most of them before finally making his approach.

"He's gone." Red in the face, and obviously angry, Scott kept his voice lowered to a rough hiss as he parted his jacket, revealing a 9mm tucked inside. "What did you do?" he demanded in a low growl. "Did you go to the cops?"

Lamar looked around quickly, relieved that no one else was nearby. "Relax," he murmured, "I just moved him."

"What?"

"If I went to the cops, don't you think it'd be all over the news?" Lamar held up a copy of the Honolulu Timesfrom behind the counter. "Front page- they're still looking. Nobody's found him yet."

"Then why'd you move him?"

"Saw some kids up there," Lamar lied easily. "I wanted someplace more remote."

"So? Where'd you put him?"

Lamar didn't have a good answer for that, so he changed tactics. "You already had your turn." He watched tensely as Scott considered this, and relaxed when the killer finally nodded.

"Fine," Scott zipped up the jacket, "but that was stupid. No kid is going to find that basement."

"Nobody is going to find this place, either," Lamar said.

…

Later, when he sent the audio clip to the detective, he borrowed Mr. Okuma's phone to call Williams directly. He didn't trust his own phone.

"Scott is nervous."

"Good," Williams said.

"He had a gun. 9 millimeter."

"Did he threaten you with it?"

"Not in so many words. Mostly just making a statement."

"So what's the problem?" Williams might be obsessed with McGarrett's health, but he clearly didn't care one way or the other about Lamar's. "Did you get a confession?"

"I got closer," and Lamar relayed the conversation.

"So he's been to the church…" the detective mused. "And you didn't tell him a new location?"

"I thought you might have a place in mind."

"I know one or two." Williams could be heard typing something in the background.

"We can't keep this going forever. What if Scott finds out?"

"Shoulda thought of that a long time ago, bub." The Jersey accent rolled out strong this time, something that seemed to happen whenever the detective was upset.

…

[Danny takes Lamar back into custody, and the two go to the church to hide out and wait for Scott to show up]

Lamar watched the exchange uneasily. He had hoped to come in, grab McGarrett, and quickly leave. The longer they stayed, they greater the chance that they might be discovered. Scott had given his word, but Lamar knew it meant little. As the detective reached down to lift McGarrett to his feet, Lamar heard a faint sound.

He stood up, shushing the detective hastily, and stared at the ceiling.

The noise came again, a faint shuffling somewhere overhead.

"Scott?" Detective Williams mouthed.

Lamar nodded. He held out his hands, but the detective shook his head emphatically, nodding instead for Lamar to sit down in the corner again.

Overhead, the footsteps approached, carelessly creaking the weathered floorboards. The detective's attention was torn between the noise above them and the heavy SEAL slumped against him. He did not seem to notice as Lamar slip a small piece of heavy gauge wire from his pocket.

Lamar bent the tip carefully. It was, ironically, a skill he learned from Scott, but not one he ever planned to use outside prison. As the detective continued to look back and forth between him and the ceiling, Lamar inserted the wire into his cuffs and carefully unlocked them.

This was his chance to prove his innocence- if he could get Scott to talk, and if the detective would just listen, then everything would be made clear. But the detective wasn't likely to let Scott and Lamar have a nice, friendly chat. And that posed a problem.

As the cuffs around his wrists loosened, Lamar studied the detective- tense posture, protectively hovered over McGarrett, eyes flickering nervously between the SEAL, Lamar, and the faint noises above. Lamar knew would likely have just one chance, a tiny window of opportunity.

When the chance did come, it came suddenly.

A sharp scuff on the floor above turned the detective's head sharply. Lamar leaped up, tossing aside the handcuffs, and threw himself at the detective.

A/N: Rewrote this a couple of times but finally sent it to the round file.

The cell door ground on its hinges as it swung open, and Danny entered, carrying a chair in one hand and a folder in the other. Behind him, the door slammed shut. Danny dragged the chair forward and sat down heavily. He opened the file on his knee and looked over it, not really reading the contents. His teeth worried his bottom lip.

Seated across from him, the other man did not move. The pale overhead lights deepened the shadows under the man's eyes; it was impossible to read their expression. Time ticked by slowly.

At last Danny heaved in a breath and looked up. Foster hadn't said a word; his gaze rested on Danny expectantly. Danny rubbed his temple, pinched his nose, then blew out a long breath. "Steve is not pressing charges," he said at last.

There was a slight, audible intake of air from the other man.

Danny continued, "He also- somehow- convinced the DA to not file charges against you for violating the conditions of the restraining order. Seems to think you 'couldn't help it' or some b.s. like that."

Foster nodded slightly. Still he said nothing.

Danny tugged at his collar, the air in the cell somehow hot and stuffy despite the cold AC rattling in the vent overhead. "I, uh…" He stopped, his fingers tapping the paper. Foster waited tensely. Danny sighed. "You know, your lawyer should really be here to tell you this, but… after much deliberation, and against my better judgement, I talked to the DA they've agreed to offer you a plea bargain for the kidnapping and related charges. I can't make any promises, but it looks like the sentence will be minimal if you plead no contest."

The man across from him straightened; his eyes widened in surprise.

With a wave of his hand, Danny continued, "There is still the issue of trespassing on the Arboretum grounds. However, I have it on good authority that they will also be pursuing another plea deal with no further jail time."

Foster seemed frozen.

"Well?" Danny asked after a moment's silence.

"Is… is that it?"

"The charges? Yeah. Yeah, that's it."

"A plea deal?" Foster asked, an incredulous look dawning on his face.

"Your first preliminary hearing is tomorrow, so you need to understand that this could all change. It's not official until the judge signs off on it, you understand?"

Foster nodded eagerly.

"But yes, if all goes according to plan, then very limited jail time."

The ex-con looked as though he still didn't quite believe it. "McGarrett agreed to this?"

"It was his idea." Danny couldn't quite believe it himself.

"Can I see him?"

"Ah, sorry, no." Danny stood up, snapping the folder shut. "I'm sure you understand."

Slowly, the other nodded, with a fleeting look of disappointment. "How can I thank him?"

"You can't." Scooping up the chair in one hand, Danny headed for the exit.

As he pulled the door open to leave, Foster called out, "Detective Williams?"

Danny turned around a final time. Foster stared at him without speaking for a long minute; despite the crappy lighting, Danny thought his eyes seemed rather wet.

"Thank you."

Danny couldn't bring himself to share his good mood. "Don't mention it," he muttered and left, the door slamming shut behind him.

...

9. Original final scenes

A/N: I was having trouble ending this scene. So I ditched it entirely and tried something else.

Danny wasn't sure exactly why he was here. He'd been watching his partner suspiciously all afternoon, ever since Steve had invited him over for burgers, but his partner was curiously exhibiting no symptoms of distress, irritation, pensiveness, or the urge to blow something up. There were none of his usual quirks. Instead, Steve was cheerful. Making jokes. Seemingly happy. In fact, if Danny didn't know better, he'd say Steve was doing this for him.

They grilled burgers- just the two of them, no team, no kids- ate, cleaned up, and then headed out back to enjoy the cooler air of the evening on the lanai. The sun was setting over the ocean and orange streaks rippled toward the horizon as they pulled the chairs out from under the eaves.

Steve plunked down a 6-pack at Danny's feet and lowered himself carefully into the adjacent seat. For a few blissful minutes, there was silence between them. Danny could hear the waves washing up on the sand, the wind in the palms, the distant hum of traffic…

"Is it over?"

Danny blinked . "What?"

"You asked me that question 12 years ago, Danny." Steve uncapped two Longboards and passed one to Danny. "You remember that?"

Danny nodded. "You were drunk."

"I'd had a few," Steve admitted. He tipped the bottle back, drank, and then swirled the remainder contemplatively. "But that doesn't answer my question: is it over?"

"What do you mean?"

"I saw Lamar today."

Danny exhaled stiffly and bit back a curse. Was it too much to ask for just one day where he could pretend that Foster didn't exist? Where he could fantasize a world where the man had never entered their lives?

Steve watched him for a long moment. "You're wound pretty tight, you know that?"

"Might be better if you didn't keep dying."

"Haven't died yet."

"Not for lack of trying," Danny muttered. He felt Steve's eyes on him but refused to turns his head. The sound of a soft snort caught him by surprise.

"You're kind of selfish, you know that?"

"Excuse me, I'm selfish?" Danny felt like he might lose it. "Who keeps ending up in the hospital? Who keeps walking into bad situations without backup? Who has caused my daughter to cry because she doesn't want you to die and is scared that she can't do anything about it?" Danny knew from the silence that he'd struck a nerve. "I'm not being selfish, Steven. I'm trying to be self-preservationist."

"That's not a word."

"How would you know, crayon boy?"

"Those are the Marines."

"Whatever." Ranting helped Danny refocus. "The point is," he stressed, "this isn't some Disney movie, babe. I can't just let it go."

"Why not? He didn't lock you in a bunker ten years ago, Danny- he locked me in there. He didn't threaten you- he threatened me. He didn't torture you-"

"Okay, okay! I get it." Danny slicked back his hair and tried to think of a way to explain. Steve, however, beat him to it.

"I'm tired, Danny." Sitting up in the chair, Steve swung his feet over onto the deck and rested his elbows on his knees, facing him. "I want to put this whole thing behind me, but I can't do that until you finish whatever grudge you've got against Foster."

"I don't-"

"Danny, I don't care what you call it. Vengeance, obsession, grudge… just- whatever it is- just tell me when it's over."

Danny huffed. He lifted the bottle… studied the contents…

"It'll eat you up inside," Steve continued beside him. "Trust me, I know."

"You think I'm really just going to go and shoot Foster? Just cold-blooded murder? Do you really think I am that kind of person?"

Steve stared at him, his expression unreadable. "You shot Reyes."

Justice and vengeance formed a fine line, one that they had both crossed in the past. But the vengeance Danny had sought against Reyes was different. "I don't want to kill Foster," Danny muttered.

"So what do you want?"

"I don't know. A chance at a normal life. I want to wake up and know for a fact that some ghost from our past isn't going to come out of the woodwork and try to murder us today."

"We're cops, Danny. This is as 'normal' as it gets."

"Easy for you to say. You're coming from the extra-crazy life of being a SEAL, so I'm sure that playing detective on a tropical island is a literal walk on the beach to you. But… I dunno… doesn't it get old? Getting shot, kidnapped, tortured… wouldn't you rather have a job like Fong, in a nice, air-conditioned lab, where no one's trying to hurt you or your family…" Suddenly, Danny had Steve's full attention.

"Danny, what are you saying?" Steve asked carefully.

"I'm just saying it might be nice."

"What might be nice?"

"Doing something less dangerous."

"We tried that already. Steve's, remember? The restaurant?"

"That was not its name," Danny muttered.

"My point is, it didn't work. Besides, admit it: you'd be bored running a restaurant."

"I would not be bored; I would be happy. You're getting happy mixed up with other words again, you illiterate Neanderthal. Happy means I'm not worried about you dying or anybody else I know dying, get shot at, blown up, drowned, irradiated, or whatever else happens on this crazy island. Happy is the feeling of going to work with the confidence that you will actually come home from work. Happy is knowing that my kids won't be attending my funeral for at least a few more decades."

"I think you're mistaking 'happy' with 'retired'."

Danny lapsed suddenly into silence. Was that what it would take to make him happy? Retiring early? Working some quiet, part-time job and spending the rest of the time poolside or on the golf course? But no- his own retirement would do him absolutely no good if Steve wasn't there beside him. And Steve wouldn't be happy on a golf course, putting little white balls across manicured grass all day; the man lived off adrenaline. He'd die in a week if some sort of excitement wasn't provided with the retirement package.

"Admit it- you like all the fun we have on the job," Steve said, interrupting Danny's thoughts and breaking out the grin he usually reserved for jumping out of airplanes.

"Like is a strong word, buddy. And your definition of 'fun' is messed up. If the bullets and radiation and poison and grenades don't get me, then the adrenaline rush will."

"You'd hate retirement. You need excitement in your life. You need something to get you up in the morning, something to look forward to, you know?"

Danny looked at him askance. Steve was making retirement sounded downright appealing. "If this is your attempt at reverse psychology, you're terrible at it."

Steve stared at him intently. "You're serious, aren't you? You're willing to give up all this just because I got a little banged up? Or because Foster kidnapped you and held you at gunpoint for a few hours?"

"I don't want to retire," Danny replied slowly, contemplating the beer bottle in his hand instead of looking at Steve, "but I don't want my daughter to attend my funeral before she's at least 40. And I don't want us to attend yours. I just want things to be a bit less crazy, yeah? Is that too much to ask?"

"So how is charging Foster in my kidnapping going to help? He didn't have anything to do with it, Danny- Scott Agaran was acting alone; he even admitted as much."

"How do you-" Danny's eyes widened as he realized Steve had somehow read his notes on the case. "You can't go snooping through my office reading my private files!"

"They were out on your desk, hardly private."

"I'm pretty sure they were in a locked drawer," Danny muttered, but Steve waved him off.

"The point is, you're trumping up charges against Foster because you don't like him…"

"Damn straight," Danny growled.

"…and that's wrong and you know it."

A beat of silence passed. "I'm trying to protect you, you know."

Steve looked at him gravely, and Danny shrank a little. Out of all the people in his life, Steve was the one that needed the least protection, based on his resume anyway, but to Danny's point of view, it seemed like he needed the most. "Don't make my mistakes, Danny. I wasted years of my life going after WoFat, and look where it got me."

"Do as I say, not as I do?"

"Yeah, something like that."

A long silence fell over the pair. Danny studied his partner in the fading light. Steve looked back at him earnestly, his eyes glinting in the encroaching darkness. He was ready to move on with his life, regardless of whether Danny was or not, and Danny couldn't help feeling a slight pang of guilt at the pleading look he saw on the man covered in scars and bruises.

Danny heaved a sigh. "All right; it's over."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. It's done."

And it was.

A/N: I had an epilogue that involved the three men meeting accidentally a few years later when Steve's car breaks down near Okuma's hardware store. In this version, Okuma and Danny never met before (somehow).

"You know, this is why people have AAA."

Steve pulled his head back from the engine, coughing as he waved smoke away from the hood. "What is that? Alcoholics Anonymous Additional?"

"No, you dolt. Roadside assistance. Car help. For, you know, situations like this."

"I don't need help, Danny."

Danny cocked an eyebrow. "Oh, I think I can find a handful of psychologists that would disagree with that statement, babe."

Steve ignored the bait. "It's a simple fix. I just need a few tools. Where's your toolbox?"

"What toolbox?"

"The one in the trunk," Steve stated, matter-of-factly.

"I don't keep a toolbox in the trunk."

"You don't?"

"No, Steven, I don't."

Steve stared at him in amazement, then turned around and stared at the car. "Then how do you fix your car?"

"I call AAA."

Realizing they were at a cultural impasse, Steve threw up his hands. "Fine. You do it your way; I'll do it mine."

Danny held up his phone and turned in a small circle. "Only problem with that, babe, is that I don't seem to have any reception." He looked around them, eyeing the nearby boarded-up gas station with trepidation. "I doubt they have a phone in there. And of course, we have to break down in a place with no shade, on what is supposed to be the hottest day of the year." Rolling his eyes in annoyance, he popped the top few buttons of his shirt and wiped a sticky hand across his face.

Steve looked in the other direction. "You can place your call over there," he said, pointing at a grey building further down the road. He started off without further explanation, leaving Danny to trot after him.

"It looks like a warehouse," Danny commented when he'd caught up.

"It's a hardware store."

"Oh? And how do you know that? I don't see a sign."

"Been there before," Steve replied vaguely.

…

The weak AC in the place came as a welcome relief. Danny stopped just inside the door and closed his eyes, lifting his arms to the cool air. A hunched Japanese man who looked as though he might be approaching the same age as the temperature sat behind the register; as Danny and Steve entered, he looked up and smiled in recognition, raising a wavering hand to Steve.

"Long time since you stopped by, Commander."

"Yeah, sorry about that. Been meaning to see you. Howzit?"

"Not too bad. We've expanded," and the old man waved his hand toward what was apparently a new wing to the store. "Looks good, yes?"

"Looks great," Steve responded with a grin. "Mr. Okuma, this is my partner, Detective Danny Williams."

The two shook hands.

Steve looked around the store. "Is he in today?"

"Yes, sir, in the back."

"He any good with cars?"

"Oh, yes!" Mr. Okuma said with a bright smile, all traces of worry disappeared.

"Tell him I've got a Camaro down the street that could use his attention."

"Of course. One moment."

"Mahalo."

…

Some 30 minutes later, the car was fixed. The repairman, a gentleman with greying hair and a cap over his face to block the sun, had performed the work efficiently, hardly speaking a word, though he did throw a few cautious, surreptitious glances over his shoulder at Steve who stood watching nearby. If Danny didn't know better, he would say the older man was wary of Steve, and that Steve- much to Danny's surprise- was wary of him.

When the task was complete, the old man backed away from the hood and motioned deferentially. "All fixed, Commander."

Steve glanced under the hood and nodded once. "Mahalo. How much do I owe you?"

"Nothing."

Steve pulled out his wallet and extracted a few bills. "Labor isn't free."

"Neither is life."

Danny watched a silent battle of minds between the two; finally, Steve gave a curt nod and tucked the bills back into his wallet. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he thrust out a hand.

The older man took it.

"Thanks."

"No. Thank you, commander. For everything."