Disclaimer: See initial chapter.

A/N: This is very short, and does not have all of the details, but focuses on the aftermath of what happened. I wrote the bulk of this on my phone while flying from San Francisco to Hawaii, and fleshed it out on my computer just now. This installment does feature a kiss at the end (slash).

There are splinters in his fingers from digging at the walls. He hadn't made any headway. The walls had remained impenetrable, and left no trace of his desperate, yet futile, attempts at escape. They'd let him out only when they were ready to, after Five-0 had gotten a lead on his whereabouts, not a second beforehand.

He knows, in some logical part of his brain, that the walls hadn't been closing in on him. Knows it like he knows the back of his hand, the way that Steve's eyes crinkle in the corners when he smiles, the way that Grace's eyes light up whenever she's got something exciting to share with him...

Knowing and feeling, however, are two different animals entirely. For all that he told himself that the walls were immovable, repeating the words over and over aloud, and in his head when his lips refused to carry out the mantra - "The walls aren't moving. I am not suffocating. I will not be crushed." He still hadn't been able to shake the feeling that the wooden walls (so much like a coffin, though made of something other than oak) were steadily closing in around him; an above ground tomb comprised of wood and steel and Danny's blood and sweat. At the time, he'd thought of Star Wars. He hadn't laughed.

There was a door. He remembers tracing the edges of it with bloodied fingertips, leaving his DNA behind in the cracks; minute samples of blood and torn strips of skin, like a victim scratching at their attacker, leaving bloodied gouges behind, gathering traces of identifying materials that would later be used by police and prosecutors. Except, there had been no one attacking him. He'd just been taken and locked in a dark, wooden room without water or a pot to piss in.

His nails are worn down to jagged nubs. He used to bite his nails when he was a kid. A nasty habit he'd carried into early adulthood, and one he picks up now and again when life pushes him too hard. There's nothing left to bite now, though he needs the comfort of his dirty little habit like he needs air that isn't stagnant with his sweat, piss and blood.

He'd been there just shy of three days. Steve'd told him that like it was some kind of miracle that they'd found him before he died of dehydration.

His skin feels like an old man's. Dry, desiccated. The back of his hands are wrinkled and powdery.

"Hey." It's a gentle command, and the hand that grasps his, pulling it away from his mouth, and not for the first time since he was found, is warm, calloused, familiar in a way that brings comfort.

"None of that now." It's a soft reprimand spoken in love, not anger.

The tears fall unexpectedly. A wetness against Danny's cheeks. Another miracle. Lack of tears is a sign of dehydration. He rarely cries. The thumb that brushes them away is gentle. Danny's not sure he deserves it. All he did was panic and wear his fingers down to bloody appendages and then beg, without words, because his tongue was too dry to form them, when he was released.

The kiss is not wholly unexpected. Despite how Danny feels about himself, he knows Steve. Steve doesn't talk when he can prove his feelings through actions.

The kiss is a lot like breathing in its familiarity. It's tender, little more than a press of lips to lips and a broken sigh, and yet it's enough of an affirmation that Danny's alive, that he'd survived, and that he's home in the arms of the man he loves.