Work Text:
The humid air of Honolulu hangs heavy over the lanai of the house on Piikoi Street. It is early morning, and the residence—a space Steve McGarrett and Danny Williams have spent five years turning into a home—is usually a sanctuary. Today, however, the atmosphere is stifling. Steve stands over the kitchen island, his jaw set in a hard line that Danny has come to recognize as his "mission commander" face. They are hunting a ghost; a high-profile prisoner named Victor Hesse has slipped through the cracks of a transport van, and the trail is freezing over.
"He didn't just run to run, Danny," Steve says, his voice a low rasp. He taps a finger against a grainy surveillance photo spread out next to a half-empty mug of Kona coffee. "Prisoners like this, they have a destination. We find the motive, we find the man."
Danny, leaning against the counter in a button-down shirt that is already beginning to succumb to the tropical moisture, sighs. He’s been trying to convince Steve to eat breakfast for twenty minutes. "Maybe his motive is not being in a cage? It’s a classic motive, Steve. Very popular in the criminal community. Can we talk about the motive for you eating a piece of toast?"
Before Steve can retort, his phone vibrates with a force that suggests a different kind of emergency. He checks the screen, and for the first time today, the mission commander facade cracks. "I have to go to the airport."
"The airport? Hesse is halfway to the North Shore, and you want to go watch planes?" Danny throws his hands up in a classic Jersey gesture of frustration.
"It’s Mary," Steve says, grabbing his keys and his sidearm. "She’s been arrested. Federal offense."
The TSA holding area at Honolulu International is clinical and bright, and it smells faintly of industrial floor cleaner. Mary Ann McGarrett sits on a rigid plastic chair, her arms crossed tightly over a leather jacket that looks far too heavy for the eighty-five-degree island heat. Her eyeliner is slightly smudged from a long flight and perhaps a few frustrated tears, but her expression is a defiant shield. When Steve walks in, flanked by a bewildered-looking federal marshal, she doesn't look up.
"A smoke alarm, Mary? Really?" Steve’s voice isn't angry; it’s exhausted. He hands over a clipboard of release papers, signing his name with aggressive, practiced flourishes.
"I was stressed, Steve. It’s a long flight, and the guy next to me smelled like old tuna," Mary snaps, her mainland accent sharp and fast, cutting through the soft, slow vowels of the islands. "And since when did you become the guy who bails people out? I thought you were busy being the big island hero."
"I'm bailing you into my custody," Steve clarifies, nodding to the marshal as the handcuffs are finally clicked open. "Which means you stay where I can see you. No smoking, no alarms, no disappearing acts."
As they walk toward the silver Silverado in the parking garage, the silence between them is a physical weight. The palm trees sway in the distance, mocking the tension with their easy grace. Mary stops by the passenger door, her shoulders dropping an inch as the bravado leaks out of her.
"I messed up. I know. I’m sorry," she mutters. The apology sounds like it’s being pulled out of her with pliers, raw and jagged.
Steve leans his arms on the roof of the truck, looking at her across the hot metal expanse. The grief he’s been suppressing for a month—since the funeral of their father, John McGarrett—bubbles to the surface. "I didn't see you at the funeral, Mary. I waited. I kept looking at the back of the service, thinking you’d walk in at the last second."
Mary flinches as if he’d swung at her. She looks away, toward the shimmering tarmac and the heat haze rising off the runway. "I haven't seen you since Mom’s funeral, Steve. Ten years. Ten years of nothing but occasional postcards and 'duty calls' phone calls that lasted three minutes. And now you want to talk about funerals?" She looks back at him, her eyes bright with a sudden, stinging moisture. "Why can’t we just have picnic reunions like normal families? Why does it always have to be a crime scene or a casket?"
Steve has no answer that won't start a second world war. He just opens the door for her.
An hour later, the Silverado screeches to a halt near a cordoned-off perimeter in a quiet residential neighborhood. Forensic teams are swarming a small bungalow, and the blue and red lights of the HPD cruisers pulse rhythmically against the tropical greenery. Steve's radio is crackling with Danny’s impatient voice, demanding to know where the hell his partner is.
"Stay in the car," Steve commands, checking his magazine before holstering his weapon.
Mary stares at him, her jaw dropping. "Excuse me? You're leaving me in the car like a toddler?"
"It’s a live crime scene, Mary. It’s dangerous. Just... stay."
Mary leans out the window as he starts to walk away, her voice rising to a frantic, mocking pitch. "I am not a dog, Steven!" To emphasize her point, she lets out a series of loud, rhythmic barks that echo off the surrounding houses and cause a lead forensic tech to trip over a piece of yellow tape.
Steve closes his eyes for a three-count, praying for patience. He turns around and spots Chin Ho Kelly approaching with a folder. "Chin! Take her back to the office. Lock her in my glass box if you have to. Just get the barking to stop."
By the time Steve makes it back to the Five-0 headquarters, the sun is beginning its slow descent, turning the sky a bruised purple and orange. He’s covered in a fine layer of dust and sweat, his tactical vest feeling like a lead weight on his shoulders. He enters his office to find Mary sprawled on his leather sofa, throwing a stress ball against the glass wall with a repetitive thwack.
"Sorry for the wait," Steve says, pulling off his damp over-shirt. He goes to a small locker in the corner to find a fresh grey tee.
Mary stands up, her eyes scanning his tired frame, noting the way he winces as he moves. "Is this your idea of a 'Welcome Home' plan, Steve? Pinning me to a cop and leaving me in a fishbowl for three hours while you play G.I. Joe?"
"I'm trying to keep you out of federal prison, Mary. Work with me here."
Mary walks over to him. Her tough exterior softens, just a fraction. She reaches out and adjusts the collar of his fresh shirt, her fingers lingering on the fabric. "You’re like seven years old," she whispers, a small, sad smile touching her lips. "Always playing soldier. Always trying to fix things that are already broken beyond repair."
She lets her hand drop, her voice becoming thin. "I felt invisible to him, Steve. Dad. All those years I was away... he never called. He never asked. I was just the daughter who went away and got into trouble, and you were the golden son who stayed a hero."
Steve steps closer, his voice softening. "He did love us, Mary. He loved you. He just... he didn't know how to show it. He was a cop of a different generation, and after Mom died, he broke. He thought keeping us at a distance was the only way to keep us safe."
Mary looks at the floor, her voice a bitter rasp. "Great job he did. Look how safe we are."
"This is Kamekona," Steve announces ten minutes later, gesturing to the massive, smiling man wearing a bright shrimp-patterned shirt. "He’s going to look after you while I finish up the paperwork on the Hesse lead."
Mary eyes her "babysitter" with pure disdain. "You have got to be kidding me. You've hired a man who is literally wearing a crustacean to watch me?"
"Best malasadas on the island, sister!" Kamekona beams, unfazed. "Come on, little McGarrett. We go reconcile with my ex-girlfriend. You look like the type who knows how to handle a woman."
Mary stiffens for a second, thinking of Moze—of her level-headed, competitive, wonderful Moze back home—but she just rolls her eyes. "Fine. Lead the way, shrimp-man."
It takes exactly forty-five minutes for Mary to vanish. When Steve returns to the office after a grueling briefing, he finds Kamekona looking sheepish. "Boss... she’s fast. Like a little mongoose. We were talking to Leilani, things got emotional, I turned my back to wipe a tear, and poof. Gone."
Steve doesn't even yell. He knows exactly where she went. The Oahu Cemetery is quiet, the grass a vibrant, impossible green under the afternoon sun. Steve finds Mary sitting on the ground next to their father’s headstone. She looks incredibly small against the backdrop of the rolling hills. He approaches slowly, carrying a brown paper bag that smells of vinegary pickles and toasted bread.
Mary hears him and looks up, her face tear-stained. She spots the bag. "What’s in there? Better not be shrimp."
Steve offers a small, genuine smile. "It’s lunch. Two pastrami sandwiches, extra mustard. Just like the ones he used to get from that deli on Hotel Street."
He sits down on the grass beside her, heedless of the dirt on his pants. He pulls out the sandwiches and hands her one.
"A family picnic," Mary says softly, taking a cautious bite. "Took us long enough to get here."
"We're a work in progress, Mare," Steve says. They sit in the silence of the graveyard, eating in the sun, two siblings finally finding a way to be in the same place at the same time.
By the time they finish the sandwiches, the adrenaline that has been fueling Mary since her arrest finally evaporates. The flight from the mainland, the confrontation with Steve, and the emotional weight of the cemetery have left her drained. Her eyes are heavy, her movements slow and clumsy as she stands up.
"Come on," Steve says, catching her by the elbow as she stumbles slightly on the uneven grass. "Let's get you home."
The drive to Piikoi Street is quiet. The hum of the Silverado’s engine and the cooling air of the late afternoon act as a lullaby. Mary rests her head against the window, her eyes closing before they even turn onto their street. When they pull into the driveway, Steve looks over at his sister. She’s fast asleep, her breathing shallow and even. He doesn't wake her immediately; he just sits there for a moment, looking at the house.
He can see Danny’s car in the driveway and the light on in the kitchen, but for now, he wants to keep these two worlds separate for just a little longer. He carefully maneuvers Mary out of the truck, half-carrying her toward the front door. She’s barely conscious, murmuring something incoherent into his shoulder as he kicks the door shut behind them.
"Steve? Is that her?" Danny’s voice calls out from the kitchen, low and curious.
"She's out on her feet, Danny," Steve whispers back, heading straight for the stairs. "I'm putting her in the guest room. Don't... don't come up yet. Let her sleep."
Danny appears at the base of the stairs, looking up with a softened expression, but he stays put. Steve carries Mary into the guest room and gently lays her down on the bed. He doesn't even bother with her shoes; he just pulls the light quilt over her.
Mary shifts, her face half-buried in the pillow. "Stevie?" she mumbles, her eyes not quite opening.
"I'm here, Mare. Go to sleep."
"Reunion..." she sighs, and then she’s gone, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Steve stands in the doorway for a long minute, watching her. He shuts the door softly and heads back downstairs, where his own life—his husband, his daughter, and the chaos of the Five-0 task force—is waiting for him. The introductions can wait until tomorrow.
The light in the guest room is a weak, watery grey when Mary’s eyes snap open. For a disorienting second, she expects the smell of Moze’s eucalyptus candle and the distant sound of California traffic. Instead, there is a profound, tropical stillness, broken only by the rhythmic shush of the Pacific somewhere in the distance. She groans, her head thudding back against the pillow. Her body feels heavy, a side effect of the emotional exorcism at the cemetery and the deep, unintended coma she’d fallen into the moment Steve’s truck hit the driveway.
Habit takes over. Her internal clock, synchronized with Moze’s rigorous training schedule, tells her it’s time to move. She reaches out, blindly patting the nightstand until her fingers brush the cool leather of her jacket. She digs into the inside pocket and retrieves her phone. The screen’s glow is blinding in the dim room.
Mary: I made it ok <3 got arrested but bro bailed me out
Mary: 2727 Piikoi Street
She stares at the sent bubbles, a small smile tugging at her lips when the response comes almost instantly. Moze is definitely already stretching for her run.
Moze: of course you did. i'll find you <3
Mary sighs, a puff of breath that feels like a release of steam. She sets the phone down and stretches, her joints popping in the quiet room. She considers a jog—her hamstrings are screaming for one—but the thought of navigating the winding Honolulu streets without a GPS or a guide makes her recoil. She’d be lost in five minutes, and she really doesn't want to call Steve for a second bailout in twenty-four hours. She slips out of bed, her feet hitting the hardwood floors. She tiptoes toward the door, feeling like an interloper.
In her mind, she has Steve’s life mapped out: a minimalist bachelor pad, perhaps a few dusty Navy plaques on the walls, a fridge containing nothing but beer and expired mustard, and maybe some free weights cluttering the hallway. She opens the door and steps out, her eyes still adjusted to the shadows. She passes the first door in the hallway and stops. It is decorated in a way that can only be described as an explosion of pink. There are Japanese characters—Hello Kitty, she realizes—intermingled with decals of baseballs and crossed tennis rackets. It is a garish, confusing sight that doesn't fit into the "Super-Seal" aesthetic she’s assigned to her brother. She frowns, opting to ignore it. Maybe Steve took in a very confused roommate?
She continues down the stairs, her hand sliding along the banister. Halfway down, her foot catches on something soft and fuzzy. She stumbles, catching herself just before she can go head-over-heels. She looks down. A bright pink pompom stares back at her. Okay, she thinks, her lip curling in a mix of amusement and judgment. So Steve has a girlfriend. A very, very young-at-heart girlfriend. She remembers the night before—or rather, the muffled, rhythmic thumping that had vibrated through the guest room wall before she’d fully drifted off. The wall had rattled with enough enthusiasm to suggest a very healthy physical relationship.
"Good for you, Stevie," she mutters under her breath, reaching the kitchen.
The kitchen is modern, clean, and surprisingly well-stocked. She finds the coffee maker—a high-end model that looks like it requires a flight manual—and begins brewing a pot. She needs caffeine before she deals with the "pink pompom" lady. As the machine begins to hiss and drip, the front door swings open. A woman in athletic gear, radiating a "Navy brat" discipline even in her sweat, jogs into the foyer. She’s focused, checking a stopwatch on her wrist.
Mary leans against the counter, crossing her arms. "Morning," she says, her voice dry. "Heard your big night. Celebratory, was it?"
The woman, Catherine Rollins, jumps nearly a foot in the air. She spins around, her hand instinctively hovering near her hip as if looking for a sidearm that isn't there. Her eyes wide, she takes in the sight of Mary in her wrinkled sleepwear. "Big night?" Catherine repeats, her brow furrowing. "What? Who are you? How did you get in here?"
Mary raises an eyebrow. "Oh, right. Hi. I’m Mary, Steve’s little sister. I’m the one who didn't get an invite to the housewarming."
Catherine exhales, her posture shifting from combat-ready to a more relaxed, though still guarded, stance. "Right. The sister. Steve mentioned you might... show up. I’m Cath. I’m Grace’s defense instructor."
Mary blinks. "Grace? Is that the girlfriend?"
Catherine looks genuinely baffled. "No. Grace is... wait, what did you mean by 'big night'?"
Upstairs, the sound of a door opening and heavy footsteps echoing on the landing draws both their gazes upward. Steve and Danny appear at the top of the stairs. They look like they’ve just rolled out of bed—hair mussed, eyes squinting against the morning light. They’ve clearly heard the voices, but they’ve only caught the very end of the exchange.
"Well," Mary says, looking back at Catherine with a knowing smirk. "This house is old and has thin walls. I’m just saying, I could hear everything from the guest room."
The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. Catherine’s face transforms into a shade of crimson that rivals a sunset. She purses her lips tightly, her shoulders shaking as she tries to suppress a laugh that wants to burst out. Steve, standing on the stairs, turns an even deeper shade of red. He looks like he wants the floor to open up and swallow him whole. Behind him, Danny lets out a muffled sound and buries his face into the crook of Steve’s neck, his shoulders heaving with silent mirth.
Mary, still entirely clueless, shrugs. "It’s not a problem. I’m a big girl. I just thought I’d let you know for future reference. Maybe buy some soundproofing?"
Catherine finds her voice, though it’s strained. "I’m sure your brother will be glad for the feedback. But... I don't live here, Mary. I just have a spare key so I can start Grace’s lessons early."
Mary’s smirk falters. "But you... So, you weren't the one making the walls rattle?"
Danny can't hold it back anymore. He lets out a loud, boisterous laugh that echoes through the house. He moves around Steve and starts walking down the stairs, wearing nothing but a pair of lounge pants. "’Fraid that was me," Danny says, his grin wide and mischievous. "Great first impression, right? I’m Danny. Steve told me about the dog impression, by the way. Very creative."
Mary stares at him. She looks at the blonde man with the Jersey accent, then up at her brother, who is still hovering on bottom stair, looking like he’s undergoing a root canal.
"I’m sure he told everyone," Mary says, her voice flat. "What is going on? Why is there a defense instructor in the kitchen, and why is Jersey Shore here?"
Catherine clears her throat, trying to regain some professionalism. "Is Grace awake?"
"She had a big day yesterday with Step-Stan," Danny says, reaching the bottom and heading straight for the coffee. "She’ll be an hour late today. Stan had her out late at some baseball thing."
"That’s fine," Catherine says, already heading back toward the door to escape the awkwardness. "I’ll do another two laps and come back, yeah? See you in an hour."
She vanishes out the door before anyone can say another word. Steve finally descends the rest of the stairs, joining Mary and Danny in the kitchen. He looks exhausted, and not just from the "rattling walls."
"Steve," Mary says, planting her hands on the counter. "What is going on? And why were the walls rattling if you weren't... or, wait..." She looks between Steve and Danny, the gears finally clicking into place.
Danny pours himself a cup of coffee, leaning back against the sink. "Well, you know why the walls were rattling. Physics, Mary. Action and reaction."
"But I’m not with Cath," Steve says, his voice low and serious, trying to reclaim some dignity. "I’m with Danny. He’s my husband, Mary."
"Husband," Mary repeats. She reaches out and swats her brother’s arm, hard. "You got married and didn't tell me? Ten years, Steve! You could've sent me an invitation. I would've worn a dress! I would've been 'normal' for a day!"
"We didn't exactly have a big ceremony," Steve mutters, rubbing his arm.
"And wait," Mary says, her eyes darting toward the stairs. "Who’s Grace? The girl with the pink room?"
Steve takes a deep breath, looking at Danny for support. Danny just nods, his expression softening.
"She's our daughter, Mary," Steve says. "She’s eight. And she’s probably going to want to know why her new aunt was barking at people yesterday."
The kitchen on Piikoi Street smells of freshly ground Kona beans and the faint, lingering scent of the rain that hit the roof just before dawn. Mary sits on a high-backed stool, her fingers wrapped around a ceramic mug as if it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to the floor. Across from her, Danny Williams is a whirlwind of domestic energy. He moves around the kitchen with a practiced ease, pulling out cereal boxes and fruit, all while keeping a sharp, blue-eyed gaze fixed on her.
"So," Danny begins, leaning against the counter. He has a way of looking at her that makes Mary feel like she’s back in the airport holding room. "The smoke alarm. Was it a protest against the airline industry, or just a really poorly timed craving for nicotine?"
Mary groans, hiding her face behind her mug. "I told Steve. I was stressed. My ears wouldn't pop, and the guy next to me was literally snoring on my shoulder."
"Right, right. Stress," Danny nods, his expression mock-serious. "And the barking? Was that part of the stress management, or are you just a big fan of Lassie? Because I have to tell you, Steve’s partner—that’s me, by the way, in case the 'husband' thing didn't sink in—usually gets a little more warning before the family starts communicating in canine."
Mary feels the heat crawling up her neck. "I was proving a point. He was treating me like a pet."
"And then there’s the Kamekona incident," Danny continues, relentless but with a visible glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "Running out on a man that size is an athletic feat, Mary. It’s like trying to dodge a mountain that’s also offering you shrimp. He’s very hurt, you know. He thinks his malasadas weren't up to code."
"He was talking about his ex-girlfriend's feelings!" Mary defends, though she can't help but let out a short, dry laugh. "I couldn't take it. And I didn't know he was... whatever he is to Steve."
"He’s family. Just like this house is full of people who actually care where you are," Danny says, his tone softening just a fraction. He tops off her coffee. "Even if you did call me Steve's 'new girlfriend.' Which, for the record, is a blow to my ego. I like to think I bring a little more 'grumpy detective' energy than 'new girlfriend' energy."
Mary takes a slow sip of her coffee, looking at him over the rim. She likes him, despite the teasing. He’s sharp, he’s honest, and he clearly adores her brother in a way that makes her feel a strange, sharp pang of envy. "Ten years," she says quietly. "Steve mentioned it. A lot happens."
"It does," Danny agrees. "You want to talk about those ten years? Steve says you’ve been on the mainland. Doing... what, exactly? Besides making work for the TSA?"
Mary tenses. She thinks of the apartment in California, the late-night jogs, and the way Moze’s competitive streak always comes out during board games. She thinks of the life she’s built that feels so separate from the McGarrett legacy of badges and blood. "Just living," she says, her voice becoming cagey, her eyes darting toward the window. "Working retail for a while. Moving around. Nothing as exciting as chasing escaped prisoners."
Danny watches her, his detective instincts screaming that she’s holding back, but he doesn't push. Not yet. The sound of a door creaking open upstairs ends the interrogation.
"Here we go," Danny whispers, glancing at the ceiling.
The heavy, rhythmic thud of small feet on the stairs signals the arrival of the household’s true commander. Mary freezes. Her posture goes rigid, her hands tightening on her mug. She’s handled surly bosses, aggressive flight attendants, and her brother’s stony silence, but children are a foreign species. Grace McGarrett-Williams appears in the kitchen doorway, a vision in bright pink pajamas decorated with small, smiling Hello Kitty faces. Her hair is a mess of sleep-tangled curls, and she’s rubbing one eye with the back of her hand. She stops when she sees the stranger sitting at the counter.
Steve and Danny exchange a quick, silent look. They don't move to intervene. Steve leans against the refrigerator, raising his mug to his lips to hide the small, expectant smile on his face. Danny stays by the coffee pot, looking like a man watching a high-stakes chemistry experiment. Grace doesn't seem intimidated. She walks straight to the kitchen island, her eyes fixed on Mary with an intensity that is pure McGarrett. To bridge the height gap, she climbs onto a wooden stool, perching herself on the edge so she can look Mary right in the eye.
There is a long, heavy silence. Mary feels like she’s under a microscope. She notes the pink poms she tripped over earlier and the way the girl carries herself with a quiet, observant confidence.
"Hi," Grace says finally. It’s simple and direct, leaving no room for escape.
Mary swallows hard, her throat feeling like it’s full of sawdust. "Hi," she manages to croak out.
Grace tilts her head, her gaze shifting to Mary’s smudged eyeliner and then back to her eyes. "Are you the one who was barking at the crime scene?"
Mary looks at Steve, pleading for help. He just takes a slow, deliberate sip of coffee. She looks at Danny; he’s busy examining the labels on a cereal box. "Yes," Mary admits, her voice a notch higher than usual. "That was me."
Grace considers this for a moment. "Danno says you’re Stevie's sister. That means you’re my Auntie Mary."
"I guess I am," Mary says, her defensive walls starting to vibrate with a strange, unfamiliar warmth.
"Do you like baseball?" Grace asks, leaning forward. "Because Danno says girls can be pitchers too, but Step-Stan thinks I should stick to cheerleading. I like both. But I want to be a pitcher who cheers for herself."
Mary blinks, the sheer logic of the eight-year-old catching her off guard. She thinks of Moze’s fierce competitiveness on the field and her own stubborn refusal to be put in a box. "I think," Mary says, her voice steadier now, "that being a pitcher who cheers for herself is the smartest thing I’ve ever heard."
Grace beams, a smile so bright it seems to light up the dim kitchen. "I like you. You’re weird, but I like you. Can you make pancakes? Stevie burns them."
"I don't burn them," Steve interjects from the fridge. "I sear them. It’s for texture."
"He burns them," Danny confirms to Mary, finally stepping in to grab a bowl.
Mary looks at the little girl in the pink pajamas, then at the two men who have built this bizarre, beautiful life together. For the first time since she landed, the "stranger" feeling in her chest begins to ebb. She doesn't know how to be an aunt, but looking at Grace, she thinks she might be a quick learner.
"I can make pancakes," Mary says, sliding off her stool and reaching for the flour. "And I promise not to bark while I’m doing it."
The kitchen is warm with the scent of vanilla and sizzling batter. Mary stands at the stove, a spatula in hand, watching as Grace meticulously decorates a stack of pancakes with a Hello Kitty face made of blueberries. The domesticity feels fragile but real, a temporary truce with the chaotic McGarrett bloodline.
Suddenly, the synchronized chime of two blackberries shatters the quiet. Steve and Danny pull their phones from their pockets with a practiced, simultaneous motion.
"The hijacked chopper just touched down on the north end of Molokai," Steve says, his voice dropping an octave into his Commander register.
"Dawkins," Danny mutters, already reaching for his holster.
The transition is instantaneous. One moment, they are two tired dads in a sunlit kitchen; the next, they are a tactical unit. Steve catches Grace by the shoulders, pressing a firm kiss to the top of her head.
"Be good for Auntie Mary, Gracie. We have a break in the case."
Danny follows suit, kissing her cheek and then catching Mary’s eye. "Watch her. Don't let her talk you into anything involving power tools or motorcycles."
"Wait—you're just leaving?" Mary asks, the spatula still raised like a weapon. "The pancakes aren't even finished!"
"Welcome to the life," Danny calls out over his shoulder as they sprint toward the front door.
Mary turns to Grace, her eyes wide with alarm. "Is it always like this? They just... vanish?"
Grace shrugs, unfazed, and takes a bite of a blueberry ear. "It's normal around here. Don't worry, Auntie Mary. My dads and the team always get the bad guy. Danno says they're the best in the world, and Danno doesn't lie about stuff like that."
The air on the remote landing strip is whipped into a frenzy by the rotors of the Five-0 helicopter. Chin Ho Kelly is already on the ground, his rifle raised as he signals to Steve. Danny, meanwhile, has flanked the perimeter, his eyes scanning the dense tropical foliage for any sign of movement. They find the hijacked chopper abandoned near a cluster of palms. The pilot is slumped in the seat, executed with cold-blooded efficiency.
"Steve, we've got a family," Danny’s voice crackles over the radio, tense and sharp. "The tourists he snatched at the trailhead. He’s using them as a shield."
Danny moves through the brush, his heart hammering against his ribs. He spots Dawkins—a man with nothing left to lose—dragging a terrified couple and their two young sons toward a waiting boat. Danny steps into the clearing, his weapon leveled.
"Dawkins! Drop it! Nowhere to go!" Danny yells.
Dawkins spins, pulling the youngest boy in front of him. "Move, detective! You don't need to be involved in this. I just want the boat."
"I'm not moving," Danny says, his feet planted, his voice a low growl. "Let the kid go."
Dawkins’ eyes turn feral. He realizes Danny isn't flinching, so he shifts his aim, pointing the muzzle toward the child’s legs. Danny doesn't think; he lunges, trying to close the gap and force a cleaner shot for Steve or Chin.
Crack. The sound of the gunshot echoes off the volcanic rock. Danny feels a white-hot iron rod drive through his right knee. He hits the dirt, a gasp of pure agony escaping his lips.
"Danny!" Steve’s voice is a roar from the treeline.
Chin moves like a shadow, positioning himself as a physical barrier between the family and the gunman. Dawkins tries to adjust his aim for the downed detective, but he’s too late. Steve rounds the back of the palms, his face a mask of cold fury. He fires twice. Dawkins falls; the threat is neutralized permanently.
Steve doesn't even look at the body. He tosses his rifle aside and sprints to Danny. "Danny! Danny, look at me!"
"The family..." Danny wheezes, clutching his shattered knee, his face pale and slick with sweat. "Are they...?"
"Chin’s got them. They're safe," Steve says, his hands shaking as he rips open a trauma kit. His focus is laser-targeted on his husband, the rest of the world fading into a blurred background. He’s doting, frantic, and desperately tender in a way that would have been unthinkable to the Steve McGarrett of ten years ago.
Mary’s phone buzzes on the kitchen counter two hours later. It’s Kamekona. "Little McGarrett? You need to bring the keiki to the hospital. Danno took a hit to the leg. He’s okay, but the Boss is about to vibrate out of his skin."
The drive is a blur, with Grace providing surprisingly accurate directions from the backseat. When they arrive at the recovery wing, they find Danny sitting in a wheelchair, his leg encased in a heavy splint and a sturdy cane leaning against the armrest. He looks exhausted, but he's arguing with a nurse about the quality of the hospital's "low-sodium" crackers. Steve is hovering behind him, his hand resting firmly on Danny's shoulder. Every few seconds, Steve’s thumb brushes against the nape of Danny's neck, an unconscious gesture of reassurance. He’s adjusted Danny’s blanket three times in the last five minutes.
Mary stands in the doorway, watching them. She sees the way Steve looks at Danny—with a vulnerability that is raw and honest. Danny is good for him, she realizes. He took the sharp edges off the soldier and made him a man.
"Alright, let's get you out of here," Steve says, signing the discharge papers with one hand while the other remains anchored to Danny.
The drive back to Piikoi Street is filled with Grace’s excited chatter and Danny’s colorful descriptions of why Dawkins was a "total moron." Mary drives the Silverado, stealing glances in the rearview mirror at the way Steve keeps his hand over Danny’s on the center console. As they pull into the driveway, Mary’s heart suddenly performs a somersault. Sitting on the front steps, looking cool and collected in a pair of athletic shorts and a racerback tank, is Moze. She’s leaning against a pillar, her phone in one hand, looking every bit the level-headed realist Mary loves.
"Who is that?" Steve asks, his protective instincts instantly flaring as he eyes the stranger on their porch.
"Is that a ninja?" Grace asks, leaning forward.
Mary doesn't answer. She slams the truck into park before the engine has even fully died and scrambles out of the driver's seat. She runs up the path, her boots thudding on the pavement. Moze stands up, a look of amused surprise crossing her face just before Mary envelops her in a crushing hug.
Moze stumbles back a step, laughing into Mary’s hair. "Hey. I told you I'd find you."
Mary pulls back, her face glowing. She looks at Moze's beautiful, smirking face and doesn't care who is watching. She grabs Moze’s shirt and pulls her down into a deep, lingering kiss. Behind them, Steve helps Danny out of the car, his arm around Danny’s waist to provide support—though mostly it’s an excuse to keep his hands on him. They stop a few feet away, both of them blinking in shock.
Steve clears his throat, the sound loud in the quiet afternoon. "Uh, Mary? Introductions?"
Mary turns, her arm still hooked firmly around Moze’s waist. "Steve, Danny, Grace... this is Moze. My girlfriend."
Moze offers a polite, confident nod. "Nice to meet the legendary brother. I've heard stories. Mostly involving property damage."
Grace’s eyes go wide as she notices the small tennis racquet insignia on the hem of Moze’s shorts. "Wait! You play tennis? Professional?"
Moze’s competitive side lights up instantly. "College circuit. I hear you've got a decent backhand, but I bet your serve-and-volley needs a bit more top-spin to deal with the humidity here."
"I told Stevie that!" Grace exclaims, stepping toward her. "But Danno says I should focus on my grip first."
"Your grip is the foundation," Moze says, kneeling down to Grace’s level. "But if you're playing on hard courts, you have to adjust the angle of the face, or you're just giving the point away."
"What about the follow-through?" Grace asks, her brow furrowing in deep concentration.
Steve, Danny, and Mary stand in a line, watching as the two of them launch into a rapid-fire technical analysis of court surfaces and string tension.
"I have no idea what they're saying," Danny whispers to Steve.
"Me neither," Steve admits, a small smile playing on his lips as he pulls Danny a little closer. "But I think they're going to be just fine."