He had often wondered what it would feel like when he died.

It was something that had crossed his mind the first day of BUDs training. Wait, actually, no - further back than that. The first time it had crossed his mind was the day he was selected for the SEALs. He knew that he would be asked to do the impossible, and that at some point, his best probably wouldn't be enough, and that would be it. It would be over. So really, he'd lived quite a long time, wondering what it would be like when he died.

He hadn't expected it to be like this. Quiet, in a back alley within five miles of his childhood home. There were at least half a dozen times other times when he had expected it, was prepared for it - all noise, and explosions, and dust, and blood.

But this . . . well this was almost ridiculous, he thought. He chuckled a bit, making the blood bubble up into his mouth. He turned his head to spit, his eyes falling on the already lifeless body of the man he'd just shot. Not before he'd slipped a switchblade perfectly between Steve's ribs, unfortunately, but at least he wouldn't be getting back up to kidnap and murder anyone else. Ever. Case closed.

Steve had his hand pressed against his side, awkwardly, but from the pool of blood rapidly forming beneath him, and the blood trickling from his mouth, he knew it was pointless. Someone would come along - there had been a gunshot, after all - but it wouldn't be in time. That much he knew for sure. He glanced idly at his phone, barely out of his reach, and realized that he didn't feel compelled to pick it up, to call for a bus, to call for Danny.

He realized, to his surprise, that all he felt was an overwhelming sense of relief.

Calm acceptance . . . that was what he had always hoped he could manage; well, that or to not even know what hit him. Yeah, acceptance. Like Freddie. Like his dad. Dying with honor, with dignity, going down fighting to the end.

He sighed, the gentle exhale pushing a bubble of blood from his mouth. He was really, really tired of fighting. He could stop now. WoFat was done. His father's death had been avenged. He'd brought Freddie home, told his little girl her daddy loved her. He let the relief flood over him.

Sure, there were more bad guys - there always would be - but his fight was over. Chin would take over Five-O, he reassured himself. His name had been cleared; he was now one of the most highly respected law enforcement officers on the island. Capable, talented, a natural leader. Five-O was in good hands, he was sure of it. Sure, Chin might be a little lonely, but he would keep moving forward - Kono would see to it.

He smiled, remembering the day he met Kono. Now she had Adam, and she would make sure they took care of Chin. Kono wasn't a rookie anymore, he could relax; there wasn't anything else that he needed to teach her. Some fine tuning of investigative skills, maybe, but Danny would take care of that.

Danny. He reflexively pressed his hand a little harder against his side as he thought of his belligerent partner. Danny would yell at him for going after the guy without back up. But he would understand, he would, when they processed the pockets. It was a picture of Gracie, for God's sake, it was Gracie that he had been stalking as his next victim. Gracie was safe, and Danny had her, and Charlie, the the rest of the ohana. Danny wasn't alone on the island anymore; he'd created a family, put down roots. Steve didn't have to watch over him. Sure, Gracie was growing up, but Charlie was little yet. And someday Kono would be having kids - her kids would be gorgeous - and Danny could dote on them until Gracie had children of her own.

Steve let himself relax completely. He could stop now. He'd lost everyone that he could bear to lose - Freddie, his dad, Catherine - oh, yeah, he'd lost her, he knew that, regardless of whatever vague, open-ended 'I love yous' they'd finally shared. He wouldn't ever have to go through that again; wouldn't have to worry every day if he was going to lose Chin, or Danny, or Kono.

He let his hand fall away from his side. They would be fine, all of them. He could stop now; stop fighting, stop worrying, stop waking up shaking in the middle of the night. Oh God, he could finally just rest. How had he not realized how tired he was of all of it? This . . . this was such a relief.

Danny barely turned off the ignition before he launched himself out of the Camaro and took off at a dead run down the alley, yanking off his button-up shirt as he ran.

"Steve!" he yelled frantically, skidding to a halt on his knees next to his partner. The blood soaked through his pants instantly, as he pressed his wadded up shirt against Steve's side. The sirens sounded so faint, so impossibly far away.

He gently patted Steve's cheek, and shouted at him again when there was no response.

"Come on, you arrogant son of a bitch, don't you do this to me, Steve, don't you go after some asshole without backup - what have I told you about backup, Steven - and go out knifed in some stupid back alley. How will I explain this to Gracie, hunh? Your Uncle Steve was an idiot. Don't make me explain this to her, Steve."

Steve's eyelashes fluttered ever so faintly against his much too pale cheeks.

"There you go, buddy, that's more like it," Danny encouraged. "Come on, Steve, stay with me, partner."

Danny frowned at the sight of Steve's cell phone, barely an inch from his hand. They had tracked it, Danny yelling and pacing while Chin's hands flashed over his beloved computer table. He didn't even remember what had spooked him, just his gut instinct telling him that Steve going off to follow up on a lead rarely ended well, and that today would be no exception. They'd been able to trace it, and Danny had expected to find it smashed.

Because Steve hadn't called. And the only reason Steve wouldn't call would be if his phone was smashed.

Right?

But one of Steve's hands was covered in blood from where, at some point, it had been pressed against his side, and the phone was a fingertip away from his other hand, so he'd obviously had time to call. Danny fought the urge to pull out his own phone and look one more time because he knew that he wouldn't see it; he wouldn't see a missed call.

"Oh, babe," Danny breathed. "Oh no. No, Steve, no."

Steve's eyelashes fluttered again, and of course, he had managed to ignore all of Danny's ranting but this, this quiet, desperate plea, this uncharacteristically monosyllabic appeal - this, of all things, is what Steve would respond to, because he was just that obstinate, wasn't he?

Danny saw his eyes open and he didn't want to look; he was terrified of what he would see in Steve's eyes. More terrified than he'd been of anything since that day that Steve had pulled a gun on him in his father's garage, and there had been many terrifying things. Many.

But it was Steve, and he was kneeling in a pool of his blood, more blood splashing up onto his formerly white undershirt, and the sirens were getting closer but they weren't there yet, so he looked - he had to look, of course - and he saw it.

Disappointment.

He hadn't called Danny, and now Danny was here anyway, and he was disappointed.

"Oh, Steven. Babe, please, no," Danny's voice broke. He started to think of all the things that he could say to convince Steve to fight, to hang on. They needed him, the island needed him, Gracie needed him . . . damn it, he needed him.

And that's when Danny realized, how exhausting it must be for Steve, to carry that weight of need. Of responsibility. His gift - his uncanny, incredible, horrible gift of taking on evil with his bare hands - was equal parts his curse. And he shrugged it off like saving the world was all in a day's work, but when it came down to it, he hadn't been able to save the ones closest to him, had he?

Steve was still looking straight at Danny, his eyes questioning, pleading . . .

Understanding? Forgiveness?

Permission?

Danny bit back his own desperate pleas . . . tamped down hard on the instinct to invoke Gracie and demand that Steve fight for her sake, if no one else's . . . because, God knows, if nothing else would do the trick, that might.

No. He owed Steve more than that.

"Oh, God, Steve, I get it, I do," Danny said, his voice low and urgent. The sirens were very close now. Maybe two blocks. He pressed harder on the wound. "I understand, Steve. But I can't, buddy, I can't tell you that it's okay to let go. I just can't, you understand, right?"

Steve blinked once.

"You're loved, Steven. You crazy, reckless, Neanderthal. You are loved, and you have a family, and there are a lot of us. Because you draw people in and you make us a family. Even Grover, and don't ask me to explain that. But now there are a lot of us, Steven, and I can't promise that nothing bad will happen to any of us, because that would be stupid, but they say there's strength in numbers. So let us be strong for you, okay? Let us carry some of this weight for you and with you. I understand, Steve, why you didn't call me. I hate it . . . God, I hate it so much I can't even tell you, but I understand."

The sirens were close enough that Danny could see the reflection of the flashing lights on the building.

"Help is here, Steve. The medics are here, and if you're willing, hang on one more time. Not because you have to save us. Hang on this time, and give us a chance to save you a little, okay? You're not alone, Steven, and you're loved."

Danny felt something stir by his knee . . . Steve's hand. He reached down and grabbed it, squeezing hard, and almost sobbed in relief when he felt a faint pressure back. As the ambulance - finally - screeched to a halt, and the medics leapt out and raced toward them, Steve closed his eyes.

But as he did, he nodded. And Danny choked out a sob, because Steve McGarrett was a man of his word, and if he'd just agreed to hang on one more time, then come hell or high water, that's what he was going to do.

"Thanks, partner," Danny whispered. "Thank you, Steve . . . you just . . . oh God, Steve you have no idea. This . . . this is such a relief."

Everything about the hospital stay was longer, this time. Longer for Steve to come out of the anesthesia; longer for the doctors to repair the damage. Longer for the antibiotics to do the trick and knock the infection that took hold.

Danny sat vigil, as he always did. He told Steve that they had found Gracie's picture - Gracie's picture, Steven - in the perp's pockets. He assured him constantly that his ohana was there. He made no demands on Steve to fight, damn it, Five-O needs you . . . and Kono and Chin picked up on the unspoken but unmistakable shift.

They didn't update with cases, or ask advice, or talk shop; instead, they each brought offerings of murmured conversations and hands to hold during the hours that stretched into days that stretched into the unthinkable week of unconsciousness.

Chin, with stories of football records set and broken, and plans for the best Thanksgiving football game ever come November. Kono, with stories of disastrous attempts at cooking dinner, but Adam loved her anyway, and thank God he could cook, and how they were already thinking about a baby, someday, and could you believe that?

Danny, of course, offered stories of Gracie, and Charlie, and memories of New Jersey. He grudgingly admitted that Hawaii was actually pretty nice, and that he would like to see some of those mountain trails, now that his knee was so much better. And horseback riding - he'd never been, and thought maybe he'd like to take Gracie.

It was the day that he admitted that maybe - just maybe, it was possible - that at some point he would try pineapple on pizza, that Steve opened his eyes.

"'m I dead?" Steve croaked.

"Are you - no, my friend, you are not dead," Danny choked out around the impossible lump in his throat.

"Pineapple?" Steve said, raising his eyebrows in question at Danny.

Danny didn't know whether to laugh or cry so he just went ahead and did both. When he regained the ability to speak, he grabbed Steve's hand firmly in his own.

"Steve," he said, "you scared the shit out of me."

Steve nodded slightly. "'m sorry, Danno," he said.

Danny shook his head. "No, buddy, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I didn't see . . . that we didn't realize . . . I couldn't just let you go, though, you've got to understand that."

Steve nodded again. "Un'erstand, Danno."

They'd never really needed words to understand what the other was thinking. Danny liked to use words - lots of them, and interesting ones - but that was for effect, not necessity. Steve preferred armed combat to articulating his feelings.

So when the two partners searched each other's eyes to figure out where they stood, it took them only a split second to assure themselves that they were, as usual, all appearances to the contrary, feeling exactly the same thing:

Relief.

A/N: This came out of almost nowhere and demanded to be written. Now, back to the work in progress.