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Steve flies – rides the ragged edge of adrenaline and morphine for as long as he's able, catalogs the rush of clean air against his face, the glancing press of Joe's hand against his shoulder, the touch of Danny's boot against his thigh. He smiles, and it masks how his head's ringing just a little; feels good, a contraction of muscle that he wills. The rest of his body aches, and so much is sharp, bright, and close, but there's a relief in grinning, in tipping his head back against someone's knee and watching the jungle wash away beneath him. He wants to sleep, to close his eyes and wait out the grit beneath his skin, but they're not home yet, not nearly safe enough, so he smiles and he watches and lets the voices around him fade to a hum. Someone passes him a canteen of water, and he sips, knows the rules, doesn't flood his empty stomach with too much, too soon. It nauseates him anyway. He lets his eyes drift half-closed.
When they land, there's noise and hubbub and movement. Mission, safety – Steve finds his focus, swallows against the tightness in his throat, the urge to throw up what little he has, and he scoots to the edge of the cabin floor, eases his legs into free space, sits for just a second to get his bearings and figure out the mechanics of walking again. And then Kono's right in front of him, breathless, looking worried. She presses the heel of her hand to his temple, fingers threading into his hair, and she searches his face – for what, he doesn't know. She finds it, or maybe doesn't, because her own expression becomes fierce, determined, and she jams her shoulder beneath his arm, hauls him to his feet, and he should have known she was exactly this strong.
Things muddy quickly – a blur of sensation, pain, the disorienting shift of light and texture, daylight, darkness, an antiseptic smell. Steve hears the steady beep of machinery, Korean voices, muffled, as if behind glass. A hospital – he stirs himself, struggles to sit up, to clear his head, says, "I can pay," and then Danny's hand's warm against his shoulder and he's murmuring ". . . gotta get you checked out, that's all. I didn't come all this way for you to rip an artery on the flight home, so hush, shhhh, pipe down, huh?" His voice is gentle, his hand moves to Steve's forehead, pushes back through his hair, and Steve closes his eyes, surrenders to it, the base, aching comfort, the stupid need.
"M'okay," he lies.
"Oh, yeah," Danny agrees in the tone of voice that means he's heard that kind of story from a eight year old before, and Chin laughs softly, says, "Brah," and it's enough.
It hurts, the clean up – the sting of alcohol against his cuts, the tug of sutures, the careful work to debride his burns. Steve locks down, goes to the still, quiet place inside where he feels nothing, where he can give his body over to the people who can help him without letting down his guard, staying watchful, vigilant. He's fuzzily cooperative with everything save the IV lines – resistance flares sharp and clear in his gut when someone swabs the inside of his elbow, and he jackknifes, tries to sit up, grits his teeth against the white-hot pull of his injuries. "No," he says, and Danny's there again, hand against his shoulder, pushing him down against the mattress, murmuring reassurance. "No," Steve says again. He can't slow down; he can't become a liability.
"It's fluids," Danny says. "You're dehydrated, you'll throw up whatever we can give you by mouth, c'mon."
Steve shakes his head, gaze locked with Danny's. "Get me home."
Danny looks tired, beat. "I'm trying, babe. But I need – "
Steve presses his lips together, feels a shiver roll through him. "Danny – "
And Danny takes his hand, clasps it firmly. "Trust me," he says, looking determined, a little desperate. "Trust me."
Steve's eyes burn. He sets his jaw and shakes his head to force everything he's feeling back in place – lock down, he tells himself. Lock down, lock down. He nods once, a tiny gesture, all he can manage. "Okay."
"Okay," Danny says. "Okay." And he rubs his thumb over the back of Steve's knuckles while the line goes in, and Steve closes his eyes, tries to think of flight paths and international clearance, of the ways he'd get his team back into Hawaii if it were up to him, but the details are slippery, and his head hurts, and he's hanging by his hands from a chain, feet barely skimming the ground, and he wants to get her out alive.
_____
He doesn't remember much of what comes after. People fade in and out – Lori by his bedside, telling him about a favorite restaurant in Japan; Kono humming something gentle, soothing; Joe briefing Chin about medical logistics; Danny's running commentary as they load him onto a plane. He feels hot, twisted up, like he's running a fever and can't rest beneath it, and his thoughts double back on themselves ceaselessly. His team came for him; his team found him; he should never have put his team in that position; he should wish that his team hadn't come, that none of them risked that kind of danger. But he can't, he can't – he's too conscious of the moment his bones turned to water, Danny's face appearing at the back of the truck, Danny's hands working at his wrists, Danny telling him to shut up in a voice that sounded wretched, grateful, raw. Steve needs to tell him everything, needs to explain, but his words are stuck somewhere behind his breastbone and he's burning, he hurts, and it's Danny who hushes him, Danny's hand against his forehead again, Danny urging him back to sleep.
He wakes in a hospital. The room is quiet, blankets heavy and undisturbed – it seems like he finally rested. There are flowers on a table by the window: heliconias, gingers, a bright pink hibiscus between lush blades of green. He's back in Hawaii, and he lets out a breath, tries to sit up, grunts at the pain in his shoulders, the ache at his side.
"Stop that," Danny says, and Steve can't place his voice until Danny uncurls from where he's been sitting on the floor, back against the wall, knees pulled up against his chest. He grumbles a little as he stretches and limps over, favoring his right leg over his left. "You want some water?" He looks like shit, jaw dark with dirty-blond stubble, hair in disarray, shadows beneath his eyes.
Steve shakes his head. "You okay?" His voice is rough.
Danny laughs softly, mirthlessly. "Am I okay, he asks." He pulls a chair toward Steve's bedside – the metal legs squeal against the floor, and Steve flinches, catches himself, plucks at the blanket as if it didn't happen. "How about you?" Danny asks, settling, rubbing at his knee. "You okay?"
"I asked first," Steve offers mulishly.
"Yeah, you did." Danny lets his head hang for a second, as if it's too heavy between his shoulders, a dead weight. "I saw her."
Steve swallows hard and shifts in the bed, reflexively trying to move somewhere, anywhere else. It's useless – he's weak, he's sore, his head is stuffed full of cotton, but he tries nonetheless, panic building in his chest.
"What are you – hey, would you – hey," Danny says, resting a hand against Steve's forearm, pressing down firmly. "What?"
Steve darts a look at him, then away. "I let her down."
"Jesus." Danny squeezes his arm, runs his free hand through his own hair.
"I let her down, let you all down. I didn't mean for – " He sets his jaw because there's too much he wants to say and none of it can possibly help.
Danny breathes out heavily, shakes his head. "She sold you out."
"She had no choice," Steve says, feeling the certainty of it.
"She had a choice – she could have come to you, come to all of us, we'd have helped her, we'd have figured this out."
"He had her fiancée. She wasn't thinking – what would you have done, huh? What? If he had Gracie, or Rachel, or – "
"Or you?" Danny asks bitterly.
Steve closes his eyes because he's suddenly sure he's going to embarrass himself, weep, of all things, weep because he's so tired he can't focus and he can't think about Danny pacing, waiting, wondering, can't think about what he'd have done in his position.
"You're a fucking mess," Danny says softly, the pad of his thumb swiping across Steve's cheek. His voice is low, cracking on the hard edge of syllables. "But you're here, and I don't even know how to –" His breath catches and he breathes out, falls silent.
Steve opens his eyes, stares up at the ceiling, tries to marshal logic and reason, to speak with care. "I figure she thought if anyone could get out of that . . . if someone could go in there, be a bargaining chip, get out alive, she thought it was me."
"Probably," Danny agrees, sounding exhausted. There's the whisper of fabric as he shifts, and then his lips press against Steve's temple. "You are precious to me. Do you get that?"
Steve turns his face toward him; their noses bump. "Yeah," he says, risking everything, and Danny's so close he aches with it. "You, too. Me too? I – "
Danny smiles at him, pained but fond. "Hopeless."
Steve fumbles a hand to find Danny's. "Maybe not."
"You did not fail her, you hear me?" Danny squeezes his hand – his eyes are bright, his voice low and urgent. "You did not fail her, and you did not fail us. I wish it were different, I wish we could have helped her some other way, I wish we could have brought her home." He pauses, visibly tries to steady himself. "She was in over her head, and some part of me's gonna be angry about that for a long time, but god, she was one of us, you know?"
Steve nods. He knows; his heart's about ready to tear apart with how much he knows. "She didn't have anyone else," he offers roughly. "Her folks were gone – "
"She had us." Danny cups his face. "You have us."
Steve nods, swallows hard as he glances down at their tangled fingers. "When can I get out of here?" he asks, hoarse.
"Tomorrow."
He shakes his head – too long.
Danny shifts the chair, lifts Steve's hand to his lips, kisses the broken knuckles. "Go to sleep," he says gruffly, pushing Steve's hair back from his face, and it's become familiar, this gentle gesture, betraying a fondness Steve can barely stand. "I'll be right here."
"Me too," Steve mumbles, and that doesn't make sense, but the pull of sleep is too much to fight against, and all he can do is hold on, let go.
_____
They gather on the scrap of beach at the back of Steve's house, right as the sun's ducking beneath the horizon. Steve's joints ache; he can feel the twist of his spine as he favors one hip; his back hurts; his torso's still tender. Kono's at his left, hand in his, Danny at his right, pulling on a beer. Chin sets his own bottle in the sand as dusk begins to settle; Lori lights the hurricane lamps, stands a little to one side.
The hibiscus flower Chin sets on the tide is vibrant orange, flame bright against the creeping edge of a safe, known darkness. He murmurs something softly as he lets it go, stands up as the ocean pulls the flower from the shore, tossing it playfully before it drifts. Lori's flower is white, Kono's pale yellow, Danny's a pink that's almost red. Steve's muscles protest as he crouches in the sand, as he sets a rich, golden blossom on the water. "I'm sorry," he says, and the flower nudges against his foot before the ocean pulls it away.
It's Chin's hand that settles on the back of his neck to break his reverie. "Pa'ipunahele," he says, and Steve smiles, ducks his head.
"Kua'ana," he says gratefully, turns to hug him, hug each of them in turn, thank them, feel them warm and alive and close. Lori passes him a beer, Kono decides there should be music, Chin calls shotgun on a beach chair while Danny sits down in the sand.
Steve lowers himself awkwardly beside him, savors the taste of hops and rye against his tongue. "You okay?" he asks, and Danny checks him gently with his shoulder.
"Getting there," he nods, and leans against Steve's side, burrows his toes into the sand. "Just thinking. About everything."
"Me too," Steve murmurs and gathers him closer. He watches the ocean, picks out the stars.