Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Danny Williams had never pictured himself on an island. Certainly not this island, where the air smelled like plumeria and salt instead of exhaust and hot pavement, and where the skyline was less glass and steel than mountains that looked like they’d been painted into the clouds.

But custody battles had a way of twisting your arm until you bent. Rachel had remarried, Stan’s company had transferred him to Honolulu, and suddenly “moving to Hawaii” wasn’t just a brochure in Grace’s school folder—it was a court order if he wanted to see his kid more than a few weeks a year.

So Danny packed up his life, boxed his suits, kissed his parents goodbye, and told himself he could make it work.

What he didn’t plan on was Hawaii not wanting him back in the way he wanted. Detective jobs were scarce, and the few that opened up went to locals with ties, people who hadn’t just flown in from Jersey with an attitude problem and a résumé full of Newark homicide.

For weeks, he applied. Knocked on doors. Sat through interviews that ended with polite smiles and the dreaded “we’ll keep your file on hand.” Each rejection cut a little deeper, until even Grace started noticing, tugging on his sleeve with that worried look that made him want to snap the world in half just to give her peace.

One night, after another “thanks but no thanks” email, Danny sat at his kitchen table with a beer and a headache, staring at the framed degree he’d dragged across the country. Criminal justice, sure, but with a concentration broad enough to cover law, history, hell, even sociology. He’d always brushed it off—he was a cop, not a professor—but the more he stared, the more the idea itched.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered to himself, tipping his head back. “I’ve got a degree. I can… teach.”

The idea tasted wrong in his mouth at first. Him? In front of a classroom instead of a crime scene? But desperate men made strange choices, and three weeks later, he found himself standing in the Hawaii Pacific University in a classroom with thirty pairs of skeptical eyes staring back at him.

Danny adjusted his tie for the fifteenth time on the walk from the parking lot to the front office. It was already sticking to his neck in the Hawaiian humidity, and he cursed under his breath—quietly, but maybe not quietly enough, because a passing sophomore giggled behind her hand.
Great. He hadn’t even made it inside yet and he was already a joke.

The secretary smiled too brightly when he checked in, handed him a laminated visitor badge, and chirped, “You’ll do great, Mr. Williams! Don’t let them smell fear.”

Fantastic advice. Real reassuring.

The classroom looked bigger than it had during orientation, mostly because thirty desks sat waiting, their surfaces carved with initials, hearts, and the occasional obscene doodle. On the whiteboard, he wrote “Mr. Williams” in block letters. It looked too neat, too stiff, and he immediately regretted the formality.

The bell rang, and in they came—young adults in flip-flops and hoodies despite the heat, eyes glazed with the practiced apathy of kids convinced nothing interesting would ever happen in a classroom. A couple slouched immediately. One kid in the back popped his gum loud enough to echo.

Danny clapped his hands once. “Alright, settle down. I’m Mr. Williams. Yes, from Jersey. No, I don’t surf. No, I don’t know your cousin in New York. Let’s get that out of the way now.”

A ripple of laughter went through the room. Not big, but not hostile either. He’d take it.

He leaned against the desk, loosening his tie just enough to breathe. “So, I know the last guy taught this class by, uh, showing you movies and then handing out worksheets he didn’t grade. That’s not how I work. You’re gonna think. You’re gonna argue. You’re gonna learn how to tear apart an argument until you can put it back together better than before.”

A hand shot up in the second row. “Why should we care?”

Danny grinned, sharp and unbothered. “Because someday, you’re gonna want to tell your boss—or your landlord, or your parents—that they’re wrong, and you’re gonna want to win that fight. That’s what I teach: how to win.”

That earned him a few interested looks. One kid muttered, “Sounds kinda badass,” and Danny pretended he didn’t hear it, though he couldn’t stop the corner of his mouth from twitching.

By the end of the period, the gum-popper was actually leaning forward in his seat, and two kids in the back had argued so fiercely over due process that Danny had to cut them off before the bell. When it rang, the students shuffled out noisily—but more than a few glanced back at him, curious instead of bored.

Danny exhaled, tugged his tie off completely, and muttered to the empty room, “Well. Didn’t die. Guess that’s a win.”

The first months were rocky—he talked too fast, swore under his breath too much, scared the vice principal half to death with a rant about constitutional rights during a staff meeting—but his students loved it.

Apparently, the guy before him had been a checked-out relic who graded essays with one eye closed. Compared to that, Danny’s fire and sarcasm felt like a breath of fresh air.

By October, word had gotten around: Williams doesn’t play.
The students liked to whisper it in the halls—half warning, half admiration. He didn’t scream, didn’t slam books, didn’t hand out busywork like candy. Instead, he was sharp, sarcastic, and mercilessly fair.

Week 2.
A kid tried to text under his desk. Danny didn’t even pause mid-sentence. “Unless you’re coordinating a heist, put it away. And if you are coordinating a heist, I want in—I got some bills.”
The whole class laughed. The phone disappeared.

Week 4.
Parent-teacher night. Grace sat proudly at a desk in the front row while Danny explained constitutional rights with the energy of a courtroom drama. Parents nodded, impressed; one even muttered, “Man, wish my Professor had been like this.”
Grace glowed, later bragging, “My dad makes school sound like TV.”

Week 6.
He started bringing in old case files (sanitized, no gore, but juicy enough) for debates. “If you were the prosecutor, how would you argue it? Defense, you got five minutes to destroy them. Go.”
The kids got vicious—in a good way. The shy ones found voices. The loud ones got humbled. Danny leaned back and thought, Huh. This might actually work.

Week 9.
One morning, the vice principal dropped in for a “routine observation.” The class was in the middle of an impassioned debate on search-and-seizure laws. Danny leaned against the desk, moderating with quick jabs and sarcastic encouragement.
The VP left ten minutes later, eyebrows raised. That afternoon, Danny found an email that read simply: Whatever you’re doing—keep doing it.

Week 12.
Grace sat at the kitchen table, scribbling on a worksheet. “Danno,” she said casually, “some kids at school call you scary.”
Danny paused mid-bite of takeout lo mein. “Scary?”
She grinned. “Scary good. Like… you’re the teacher no one wants to disappoint.”

Danny tried not to smile, but failed.

By winter break, his classroom was full of students actually arguing about case law, parents requesting their kids be transferred into his class, and colleagues grudgingly admitting that the loud Jersey transplant had somehow become the most effective teacher in the building.

And though he’d never admit it out loud, Danny liked it. The rhythm. The routine. The way Grace bragged about him like he was a superhero.
It wasn’t detective work. But it mattered.

By the end of his first semester, kids who’d barely scraped by were asking him for extra credit. Coworkers dropped by his room just to sit in on his debates.

Grace bragged to her friends that her dad was a teacher now, which beat the hell out of “my dad’s a detective who misses every recital.”
And for the first time in a long time, Danny felt like maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t screwing everything up.

It started at the beach.

Grace had begged all week—“Please, Danno, please, everyone else goes after school”—until Danny finally caved. He sat in the shade of an umbrella, tie stuffed into his bag, watching his daughter run wild in the surf with kids she’d only met that afternoon. She was laughing, loud and bright, and for the first time in weeks, Danny let himself relax.
“First time here?” a voice asked.

Danny turned. An older man stood a few feet away, late sixties, maybe early seventies, with sun-weathered skin and a slow, easy smile. His hair was more gray than dark now, but his stance—straight-backed, hands clasped behind him—hinted at discipline that never really faded.
“Uh, yeah,” Danny admitted. “Well, first time with a kid old enough to demand it.”

The man chuckled. “They don’t stop demanding, believe me. Mine never did.” He extended a hand. “John McGarrett.”
“Danny Williams,” Danny said, shaking it. The grip was firm but not overpowering.

They stood in companionable silence a moment, watching Grace squeal as she tried to body-surf a wave half her size.
“You just move here?” John asked.

Danny nodded. “Couple months. Jersey to Hawaii. Still figuring out how to breathe the air without choking on humidity.”
That earned another chuckle, warm and knowing. “It takes time. My wife used to say the island either embraces you or it doesn’t. But kids—they adjust faster than we ever do.” His eyes softened on Grace. “She seems happy.”

Danny swallowed. “She is. And that’s the point.”
Something in his tone must have landed, because John’s smile turned a little sad, a little familiar. “I know that look,” he said quietly. “That’s the look of a father who’s had to fight for time.”

Danny blinked. For a moment, he felt stripped bare. Then he nodded. “Yeah. Exactly.”

John sat down in the sand beside him, lowering himself with the slow care of a man whose knees had known better days. “You’ll do fine here. Just make sure she has memories. Take her to Waiola for shave ice. Hike the Makapu‘u trail—it’s easy enough for kids. And let her fall in love with the island on her own terms.”

Danny found himself smiling despite the knot in his chest. “You some kind of tour guide?”

“No,” John said, eyes still on the waves. “Just an old man who misses his kids.”

Danny looked at him then, really looked, and for the first time since he’d landed on this rock, he felt a flicker of connection. Someone who understood. Someone who didn’t need the whole backstory to get it.
Grace came running up, dripping and breathless, holding out a shell for both men to see. She thrust it into John’s hand without hesitation. “Look what I found!”

John studied it with mock seriousness. “That’s a good one. Must be lucky.”
Grace beamed and darted off again, already chasing the next wave.
And Danny thought, Yeah. Maybe we both got lucky today.

Two days after the beach, Danny caves to Grace’s pleading and drives her to the spot John had mentioned.
Sure enough, John is already there at a picnic table, cup of rainbow shave ice melting slow under the sun.
Grace squeals like they’ve run into Santa Claus. “Mr. John!” She plops herself down across from him like they’ve had this planned all along.
Danny mutters, “Sure, invite yourself, why don’t you,” but he doesn’t stop her. When John slides his extra spoon across the table, Danny takes it without hesitation.

Saturday morning, Danny takes Grace to the playground. John’s there again, newspaper folded neatly on his lap. He waves them over.
Grace runs to the swings, leaving the two men sitting side by side.
John, without looking up from the paper, says, “You’ll learn to stop checking your watch every five minutes. Time stretches when you’re a parent—longer than you think, shorter than you want.”
Danny leans back, sighs. “You always this philosophical, or am I just lucky?”
John chuckles. “My kids say it’s old age. I say it’s practice.”

One evening, Grace insists Danny doesn’t know how to explain her math worksheet “the right way.”
John ends up at their kitchen table, pencil in hand, calmly working through the problem while Grace nods in rapt attention.
Danny crosses his arms, muttering, “I could’ve said the same thing.”
Grace doesn’t even look up. “But you didn’t.”
John shoots Danny a grin over her head, the kind that says Don’t take it personally, kid. This is the job.

Grace insists on a picture at the zoo: John in the middle, Grace hanging off one side, Danny awkwardly squeezed on the other.
The photo ends up on Danny’s fridge. Grace calls it her “Hawai‘i ohana.”
Danny never corrects her.

One late afternoon, when Grace is chasing birds along the shoreline, Danny asks quietly, “Do you ever stop missing them?”
John takes a long breath, staring out at the horizon. “No. But the missing becomes softer. Like waves. Some days they crash hard. Some days they just lap at your feet.”
Danny swallows, throat tight. “Guess I’ll hold out for the softer days.”
John pats his shoulder, firm and steady. “You will.”

Grace is digging through John’s beach bag looking for napkins when she finds an old photo tucked into a worn leather wallet.

It’s faded, folded twice. Two kids in Navy dress whites—one beaming with wild energy, the other calm, serious-eyed.

“Who’s this?” she asks, holding it up.

John takes it, looks at it for a beat too long.
“My son. Steven. And his friend from the Academy.”

Grace squints. “He looks like you. But also kinda scary.”

John chuckles. “He can be.” A pause. “But he’s a good man.”

Danny watches quietly. John doesn’t offer more, and Danny doesn’t push. But later that night, he finds himself wondering where the guy is now.

John is telling a story about an old Navy mission gone sideways—classic "almost got court-martialed" stuff—and Danny’s laughing, loose from a long day.

But near the end, John glances at the stars and says,
“Steven would’ve handled it better. Smarter than me in a lot of ways. Too smart, sometimes.”

Danny leans forward. “You talk to him much?”

John hesitates, just for a second. “Not lately. We’re… stubborn men.”

Danny doesn’t push. Just nods. “I know the type.”

Grace draws a family portrait for class: Danny, her, John, and a fourth figure in Navy uniform she’s never met and a young woman.

“Who’s that?” Danny asks.

“Grandpa John’s son and his daughter,” she says simply. “They are part of the family, right?”

Danny stares at the drawing longer than he means to.

Grace sat on the porch steps, knees tucked up to her chest, her pink sandals abandoned in the grass. Her eyes were red, and every so often she sniffled, trying to hide it like she wasn’t just eight years old and carrying a world too heavy for her shoulders.

Danny hovered uselessly behind her, hands on his hips, heart breaking. “Monkey…” He crouched down, trying to catch her eye. “I know it’s hard. I know you love your mom—”

“I don’t wanna go with her.” Grace’s voice cracked, small but fierce. She swiped at her eyes, shaking her head. “I don’t wanna move again. I like it here. I like my friends, and my school, and I wanna stay with you, Danno.”
Danny’s throat tightened so hard he couldn’t get words out.

John eased down onto the steps beside her, joints creaking, moving slow like he had all the time in the world. He didn’t crowd her, just sat there, watching the sky shift to sunset. After a moment, he said, “You know, when my son was about your age, the Navy wanted to send me to California. He cried for a week, didn’t want to leave his baseball team.”

Grace blinked up at him, wet lashes trembling. “What happened?”

John smiled gently. “We stayed. Because home isn’t where someone tells you to go—it’s where your heart feels safe.” He reached out, brushing a damp curl back from her cheek. “And from where I’m sitting, I think your heart’s already made its choice.”

Grace sniffled, looking between him and Danny. Then she launched herself into her father’s lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I wanna stay with you, Danno. Forever.”

Danny hugged her tight, burying his face in her hair, eyes burning. He mouthed a silent thank you to John over her shoulder.

John just gave a small nod, his expression soft, almost wistful. Like he was remembering his own kids at that age. Like he was grateful to be here now, filling a space he didn’t know he’d missed until Grace climbed into it.

For the rest of the evening, Grace sat wedged between the two men on the porch, her tiny hand holding John’s weathered one and Danny’s calloused one at the same time. And for once, she didn’t cry.

Rachel’s heels clicked sharp against the marble floor outside the courtroom, every step as precise as her tone had been during the hearing. “Daniel, you’re being unreasonable. Grace deserves stability, not to be caught between you and me like—like some pawn.”

Danny matched her stride, jaw tight, tie loosened just enough to keep him from choking. “Stability? Rachel, she’s been in Hawai‘i less than a year. She’s finally made friends, she loves her school, she’s happy—”

“She’ll be happy in Las Vegas,” Rachel cut in, voice clipped. “Stan’s transfer is an opportunity. She’ll have more resources, more security—”

Danny stopped dead in the hallway, turning on her with that fire she hated. “No. No, you don’t get to just uproot her because you’re chasing security. You already dragged her from Jersey to here. You don’t get to keep dragging her every time Stan’s job changes zip codes.”

Rachel’s eyes narrowed. “And what exactly are you offering her, Daniel? Chaos? Danger? You think the court will favor your…  your volatile temper?”

Danny’s mouth opened—ready to fight, ready to swing with words—but before he could, a low, steady voice cut in from behind.
“Actually,” John McGarrett said, stepping up beside him, “the court seems to think Mr. Williams has done a damn fine job.”

Rachel stiffened. “And who exactly are you?”

John extended a hand, old-school polite but edged with authority. “John McGarrett. Retired HPD. I testified today because I’ve seen what kind of father he is.” He gave Rachel a level stare. “Grace is thriving here. Moving her again would only serve your interests, not hers. Judges don’t like parents who treat custody like a travel itinerary.”

Rachel bristled, lips thinning, but John’s reputation carried weight—thirty years on the force, respected even in retirement. His words weren’t just casual; they were taken seriously.

Minutes later, the judge’s ruling came down: Grace would stay in Hawai‘i. Stability mattered more than convenience.

Rachel stormed out without looking back. Danny stood frozen in the hallway, the words echoing in his ears: Grace stays.

When he finally breathed again, he realized John was still beside him, steady as a mountain.

“You did good,” John said, clapping him once on the shoulder. “Sometimes standing up isn’t about being the loudest. It’s about being the one who won’t move.”

Danny swallowed hard, his chest tight with something that felt like relief and gratitude tangled together. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”
John shook his head. “You could’ve. You just needed someone to remind you.”

Across the hall, Grace came barreling out of the waiting room and threw herself into Danny’s arms, chattering about how they could still go to the beach this weekend. He held her close, burying his face in her hair, while John watched with a soft, bittersweet smile.

Danny stops by to drop off a school fundraiser form. He finds John with the phone in hand, thumb hovering over a contact.

John startles a bit, sets the phone down.
“Old habits. Thought about calling Steven. I was gonna tell him about Grace’s school project—she wrote about me.”

Danny nods. “You should. He’d want to hear it.”

John offers a tight smile. “Yeah. Maybe tomorrow.”

It was a Sunday morning, sunlight spilling through the slats of the blinds, the smell of pancakes thick in the kitchen. Grace was perched on a stool, proudly stirring batter while Danny kept one eye on the stovetop and one on her enthusiastic mixing.

The TV hummed in the background, local news running low volume. Danny wasn’t paying attention until Grace gasped.

“Danno! That’s Grandpa John!”

His head snapped up. On the screen was a photo—John, younger but unmistakable, in uniform. Underneath, a banner scrolled: Retired HPD Commander John McGarrett Fatally Shot Outside Home.
Danny dropped the spatula. “What—” He lunged for the remote, turning up the volume.

The anchor’s voice was too calm, too polished for the words she was saying: ambushed, execution-style, investigation ongoing. Police had no suspects in custody.

Grace’s mixing bowl clattered to the counter. Her eyes went wide, shining wet. “No. No, Danno, that’s wrong, right? He—he was supposed to take us for shave ice today.”

Danny froze, the world tilting sideways. His chest tightened until he thought it might crack. He knelt, pulling her into his arms as she started to cry.

“I’m sorry, Monkey,” he whispered, voice raw. “I’m so sorry.”

She sobbed against his shoulder, and he held on, blinking hard against the sting in his own eyes.

Over her small shaking body, the news kept playing—shots of HPD cruisers, yellow tape, neighbors staring hollow-eyed from porches. Danny stared at the screen, fury boiling up through the grief.

Somebody had murdered John McGarrett.

And Danny Williams wasn’t going to sit still and let it go unsolved.

Grace was quiet the whole drive to school. Too quiet. Usually, she filled the car with chatter—about homework, about friends, about what she wanted for lunch. Today she just stared out the window, hugging the bunny John had given her, knuckles white against the worn fur.

Danny kept glancing at her in the rearview, heart twisting. He wanted to say something—anything—that would make it better. But what could? So instead, when they pulled up in front of the building, he turned in his seat and brushed her hair gently behind her ear.

“You don’t have to pretend to be okay today, Monkey. Not for me, not for anybody. If it gets too hard, you call me, yeah? I’ll be here faster than you can blink.”

She gave a tiny nod. “Will you… will you find out who did it?”
Danny swallowed hard. “Yeah,” he said, fierce enough to surprise himself. “Yeah, I will.”

She studied him for a moment, like she was measuring whether she believed him. Then she leaned over and hugged him tight. “Okay. Bye, Danno.”

He watched her walk inside, shoulders hunched like the weight of the world had settled on them, before he turned the car around and headed straight for HPD.

Chapter Text

The first time Danny walked into HPD, he was calm. Polite, even. He asked at the front desk who was lead on the McGarrett homicide and waited with his hands clasped behind his back like he was still wearing a badge.
The detective who came out to meet him—Harris, according to the nameplate—looked irritated before Danny even opened his mouth.

“Mr. Williams, right?” Harris asked. “You were a friend of John McGarrett?”

Danny nodded. “Professor Williams, please. John was more than a friend. My daughter called him Grandpa John. Look, I’m not here to cause trouble. I just want to know what steps you’ve taken so far. Has the scene been secured properly? Have you canvassed the neighborhood? Pulled surveillance from the street cams? I know the ATF had a file on organized gunrunners who passed through O‘ahu last month, could be worth cross-checking.”

Harris' expression pinched. “Sir, we can’t share details of an active case.”
Danny tilted his head. “I didn’t ask for details. I asked if you followed procedure. Two different things.”

“Still not something I can discuss with you.”

Danny leaned forward, voice soft but cutting. “I’ve worked homicide, solved 84 murders. So trust me here, I know what the first 48 hours mean. And I also know what happens when the wrong cases get deprioritized. I’m telling you right now—don’t let this be one of those cases.”

The second time he came in, he brought notes.
“Okay, look,” Danny said, flipping open a notebook on the front desk as the same weary sergeant sighed. “I’ve been keeping track. Three days in, no press conference. That tells me either you don’t have a viable suspect pool or you’re holding something back. Which is it?”
The sergeant rubbed his forehead. “Mr. Williams—”
“Professor Williams, yes, we’ve established. You’ve got chain of custody on the weapon? No? Then let me guess—you don’t even have the weapon.” He smacked the notebook closed. “Come on, you’re not even trying.”

The fourth day in a row, Danny was back at HPD, notebook under his arm, tie tugged loose from teaching all morning. He leaned against the front desk, firing off questions that made the sergeant’s patience visibly fray.

“Ballistics should’ve come back by now,” Danny pressed. “Unless you didn’t mark it priority, which would be—” he snapped his fingers, pretending to search for the word, “—oh, right. Incompetent. And don’t tell me about backlog. I know how this works.”

The sergeant’s jaw worked like he was chewing rocks. “Mr. Williams, we’ve told you—”

“Professor Williams. Yeah, yeah, I’m not family, you can’t share details. I hear you, but you’re not hearing me. John McGarrett was family. To me, to my daughter. And I am not letting you shove his case to the bottom of the pile because you’re overworked or underfunded or whatever excuse you’ve got today.”

The doors opened behind him. The mood of the room shifted like a ripple through water — quieting, tensing. Danny didn’t notice until a voice cut sharp across the lobby.

“That’s a lot of good questions, I would like an answer to as well.”

Danny turned. And the breath stalled in his chest, just for a beat.

Because he knew that face. He’d seen it framed on John’s mantle, caught mid-laugh in a photo with a young Mary. He’d seen it in John’s wallet, worn and folded like a relic. He’d seen it in the way John’s eyes softened whenever he talked about his boy.

“Steven,” Danny said quietly, recognition flickering in his eyes before his walls snapped back up. “You’re his son.”

The tall man strode forward, duffel bag dropped at his feet, his posture sharp enough to cut glass. “Commander Steve McGarrett. And you are?”

Danny straightened, meeting that storm-blue gaze without flinching. “Professor Daniel Williams. Your father was my friend.” His voice edged harder. “My daughter’s grandfather, whether you knew it or not.”

Steve studied him, suspicion carved into every line of his face. “Funny. He never mentioned you.”

Danny’s jaw clenched. “Maybe because he knew you weren’t listening.”
The precinct seemed to hold its breath as the two men squared off — one demanding answers, the other demanding explanations.

The air in the precinct lobby felt heavy, like everyone was waiting for one of them to make the first move.

Steve’s gaze didn’t waver, steady and sharp, the kind of look that made most men squirm. Danny held it, jaw tight, refusing to be the first to blink. He’d gone toe-to-toe with plenty of hotshots before; this one just happened to come with John’s storm-colored eyes and the weight of the Navy behind him.

But God help him, in person Steve was… different.
The pictures John had all over his house, didn’t capture the way the light caught on the hard cut of Steve's jaw, or how broad he was through the shoulders, or the way his presence filled the room like he owned it without even trying. Danny’s brain registered all of it in the same automatic way it always did — filing details, building a profile. Except this time, it stuck in a way that made something in his stomach flip.

He shoved that down hard.

Because the man glaring at him wasn’t just a Navy poster boy with unfairly good bone structure — he was John’s son, bristling with suspicion, and ready to cut Danny out before he’d even opened his mouth.

Danny cleared his throat, dragged his eyes away first. “Look,” he said, tone clipped, “this isn’t the place. You just got here, you want answers, fine. But I’m not some random crank sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong. Your father mattered to me. To my kid. That’s all you need to know right now.”

Steve’s jaw flexed, like he was holding back whatever sharp retort was ready. For a beat longer, they just stood there, tension thick enough to choke on.

Finally, Steve gave a short, curt nod. “We’ll talk.”

It wasn’t agreement. It was a warning.

And Danny felt the simmer in his chest turn into something he couldn’t quite name — anger, grief, maybe something sharper he refused to acknowledge.

Steve didn’t come back to HPD right away. He had his father’s house to walk through, shadows still clinging to the corners. He had old contacts to call, favors to pull, case files to skim for familiar names. He moved like a man on a mission, relentless and silent.

Danny, meanwhile, was trying to hold his life together with duct tape and coffee. He showed up to class Monday morning in a wrinkled shirt, half his tie undone, but his students didn’t seem to mind. They were used to his brand of chaos. He kept them engaged with questions, sarcastic quips, and a little extra energy that felt like overcompensation.

Still, whenever he caught himself staring too long out the window, marker hovering uselessly in his hand, he knew he wasn’t fooling anyone.
As soon as the bell rang, he was back at HPD.

This time, he came armed with printouts — traffic camera maps, city surveillance grids he’d dug up through a friend-of-a-friend, and a half-page list of known organized crime players on the island. He laid them out on the counter like he was briefing a squad.

“Look, I get it,” he told the sergeant, who looked like he’d swallowed a lemon. “You’ve got procedures, red tape, chain of command. But while you’re dotting your i’s and crossing your t’s, the guy who murdered John McGarrett is out there laughing at you. You pulled canvass interviews yet? Or are you waiting for someone else to connect the dots?”

A detective walked by and muttered, “You don’t work here, Professor.”

Danny snapped his head up. “Yeah, well, lucky for you, huh? Because if I did, we wouldn’t still be standing here with our thumbs up our—” He cut himself off, gesturing sharply instead. “Point is, you’re wasting time.”

They threatened to have him escorted out more than once that day. But every time, Danny came back, notebook in hand, questions lined up like bullets.

And when Steve came back through those doors the following morning, it didn’t take him long to hear about the professor who’d practically set up camp in the lobby.

Danny stood at the front desk, notebook open, marker scribbling half notes and half frustration.

“Okay, so traffic cameras within a three-block radius were checked, but you didn’t cross-reference timestamps with nearby ATF intel? And your canvass interviews—did anyone follow up when witnesses recalled new details? Because cognitive recall isn’t magic; it improves over time, and—”
“Mr. Williams—” the sergeant began, exasperated.

“Professor Williams,” Danny corrected automatically, glancing over his shoulder without missing a beat. “And before you tell me again that I’m not family, that I’m not HPD, let me be clear: I don’t care. John McGarrett was my friend. My daughter’s grandfather. That’s all the authorization I need to make sure this case doesn’t get buried.”

Danny had just finished his monologue about the uselessness of the HPD, the words hanging in the air like a challenge, when the doors opened behind him. He spun around, ready to argue with the sergeant again, but the words died in his throat.

Steve McGarrett stood there, looking far too much like a Navy SEAL on a field trip, his eyes fixed on Danny. The expression wasn't angry anymore. It was… considering.

"You're making a scene," Steve said, his voice low but cutting through the lobby's low hum.

Danny bristled. "Well, what do you know, we have something in common!" He gestured wildly. "You walk in here like you own the place and I'm the one making a scene? I'm just trying to get some answers on your father's murder, since HPD seems to be taking their time."

Steve took a step closer. "I saw the pictures. The ones my dad had. The one with you and the little girl."

The fight went out of Danny, replaced with a sudden, aching grief. "Yeah, Gracie." he said, voice a little softer. "He was part of my family."

The two men just stood there for a long moment, the shared weight of their loss filling the space between them. The sergeant behind the desk wisely looked away.

Then, Steve's gaze shifted, and a new look came into his eyes. "You're a professor," he said. "You're smart. You're a pain in the ass, and you don't give up."

Danny blinked. "Is that supposed to be a compliment? Because it's not a very good one."

"It's a hiring offer," Steve said, completely deadpan. "I've got a task force now. Just me. You're the first hire."

Danny stared at him, genuinely floored. "I'm sorry, what? I have a job. I have students. I teach a class in twenty minutes!"

Steve just shrugged. "So you'll do the research from home. I'll get you a laptop. A gun, maybe. We'll work it out."

Danny blinked at him. “You’re insane.”

Steve didn’t flinch. “Probably. But I’m not wrong.”

Danny exhaled through his nose, sharp. He glanced at the clock above the desk. “Listen, McGarrett, I’ve got a lecture to give on the finer points of comparative criminal procedure. My students don’t care about your task force, and neither does the Dean. So as flattering as your… offer is, I’ve got a job already.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “So you’re just going to walk away?”

Danny leaned in a fraction, voice low but steady. “No. I’m going to teach my class. And then, when I’m done, I’m going to keep digging into who killed your father. Because he deserves answers. Grace deserves answers. But let’s get one thing straight: I’m not giving up my students for you or your shiny badge. If I do this, it’s on my terms. Half-time. Research. Consultation. That’s all you get.”

For a moment, Steve just looked at him — weighing, testing, like he was trying to decide if Danny was bluffing. Then he gave the smallest nod. “Half-time. For now.”

Danny snapped his notebook shut. “Good. Glad we understand each other. Now if you’ll excuse me, Professor Williams has a class to run.”

He turned on his heel, heading for the door without waiting for permission. And Steve — used to being the one people deferred to — found himself watching, oddly impressed, as Danny strode out of the precinct like he owned it.

He hadn’t come to Hawaii to get away from being a cop; he’d moved here with the full intention of continuing the career he loved.

But when that door slammed shut, another one opened. He had built a good life here. A job he was good at, one that made him feel useful in a way he hadn’t expected. He loved his students, loved the routine, loved that he could finally be a stable presence for Grace.

And now, here was Steve McGarrett, threatening to drag him back into a world he’d already walked away from—for something better.

Danny’s irritation simmered the whole drive back to campus. He walked into his classroom with a grimace, only to be met with the usual barrage.

“Professor, are we starting the mock trial today?”
“Prof, did you hear about that homicide?”

Danny waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah, relax. Open your books to chapter seven. Mock trial’s next week if you don’t bore me to death first.”

The first ten minutes flowed like muscle memory—lecture, questions, quips. He was in the middle of unpacking the finer points of search and seizure when the classroom door opened.

He didn’t even need to look up. The atmosphere changed on its own. The chatter stilled, replaced by a current of whispers.

Steve McGarrett stood in the doorway. Sunglasses. T-shirt. Cargo shorts. Flip-flops. He looked like he’d walked straight out of the jungle into the middle of a university lecture hall.

Danny didn’t miss a beat. “Close the door. You’re letting all the professionalism out.”

Steve gave a curt nod to the class, then strode to the back and dropped into a seat. He didn’t say a word. Just crossed his arms and fixed his gaze on Danny.

For fifty minutes, Steve sat there like a carved statue while Danny lectured. He didn’t fidget, didn’t blink, didn’t even look bored. Just stared.

By the time the bell rang, Danny’s students were practically vibrating with curiosity. They filed out in hushed tones.

“Who was that?”
“Totally military. You saw the haircut.”
“He was staring at Professor Williams the whole time.”

Danny waited until the last kid slipped out before turning to Steve, arms spread in disbelief. “Did you really just audit my class?”

Steve shrugged, completely unbothered. “I’m a good listener.”

Danny dropped his hands and let out a groan. “You’re unbelievable.”

But as much as he wanted to stay mad, Danny couldn’t ignore the truth: for the first time since John’s death, the knot in his chest had loosened.

Danny had told him. Half-time. Research. Strategy. After hours. It was a compromise Danny could live with — a way to help solve John’s murder without detonating the good life he’d built.

Apparently, McGarrett had heard something else entirely.

Because when Danny walked into his classroom the next morning, there he was again — six feet of Navy SEAL wedged into a desk in the back row, sunglasses hooked on his collar like he belonged there.

The ripple of whispers started before Danny even set down his notes. He didn’t have to look up to know. His students weren’t subtle.

Danny pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed, and muttered, “You have got to be kidding me.”

By the time the lecture ended, he’d powered through with the long-suffering patience of a man pretending he didn’t have a SEAL-shaped distraction boring holes into the back of his head. But packing up his notes after, Danny could still feel Steve’s gaze following him, steady and silent. It set his teeth on edge in a way that was… unsettling. Not bad unsettling. Just unsettling.

Finally, he turned and jabbed a finger at Steve. “You. Out. This is a classroom, not your personal stakeout.”

Steve stood, stretching like he’d just had the most relaxing hour of his life. “I learned a lot,” he said mildly.

“Oh yeah? What’d you learn?” Danny demanded, shoving papers into his bag.

Steve thought about it for a beat, then nodded. “That you care too much about comma placement.”

Danny stopped dead, glaring. “I was teaching constitutional search and seizure, not grammar!”

“Mm. Could’ve fooled me.”

Danny groaned. “Unbelievable. I agree to help you part-time, part-time, and suddenly you think my classroom is your personal observation post?”

Steve’s smile was small, but real. “Research comes in all forms. I’m studying your process.”

“My process,” Danny repeated flatly. “This is not research, this is stalking with a syllabus.”

Steve shrugged, unbothered. “You said you wanted balance. I’m respecting that.”

Danny stared at him. “Balance? You sitting through a lecture on Terry v. Ohio is balance?”

“I thought it was interesting,” Steve said, utterly sincere.

Danny jabbed a finger at him. “You don’t even know who Terry is.”

“Sure I do. Guy who made you rant for twenty minutes about probable cause.”

Danny pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why me? Why couldn’t you find some other poor schmuck to harass?”

“Because my dad trusted you,” Steve said simply. “And because you don’t scare easy. Most people would’ve bolted by now.”

Danny sighed, hauling his bag onto his shoulder. “I should’ve bolted.”

Chapter Text

Danny was grading midterms in his office, glasses perched low on his nose as his red pen sliced through yet another mangled explanation of search warrants. Grace’s stick-figure family drawing was taped to the desk, bright and steady against the sea of sloppy handwriting.

A knock. Too soft to be a student.

“Come in,” Danny said without looking up.

The door swung open. McGarrett. Of course. He didn’t bother with pleasantries—just walked in, dropped a manila folder on Danny’s desk, and leaned against the bookshelf like the room belonged to him.

Danny looked up over the rim of his glasses, scowling.

“You ever heard of boundaries? Or doors that stay closed?”

“You were a cop,” Steve cut in. Calm. Certain. “In Jersey. Detective, right?”

Danny froze. “You did a background check on me?”

Steve didn’t even blink. “I do background checks on everyone. Point is, you know what to look for. And my dad… he didn’t trust HPD. He didn’t leave me files on anyone. Just you. There are photos of you and your daughter all over the house. He trusted you.”

Steve just nodded at the folder. “Read.”

Danny muttered something under his breath but flipped it open anyway. The second his eyes hit the tab—McGARRETT, JOHN – HOMICIDE—his sarcasm evaporated. He bent closer, pen already circling timestamps and contradictions. “Traffic cams, witnesses, ATF notes… okay, yeah, this checks out. And you didn’t cross-reference timestamps here—” He tapped the page with his pen, already analyzing, already thinking.

Steve didn’t move. Just watched. His gaze tracked the way Danny’s glasses slid down when he leaned closer to the page, the way his brow pinched when a detail didn’t fit, the quick, precise circles of his pen.

“You see this?” Danny muttered, circling a timestamp. “Witness statements don’t line up. Either somebody’s lying, or HPD can’t run a canvass to save their lives.”

Danny’s pen hovered above the page, his hand twitching like he wanted to underline the whole damn report into submission. He felt the weight of Steve’s stare again and finally snapped his head up.

“What?”

Steve didn’t flinch. “You’re good at this.”

Danny blinked. “Good at—what? Reading? Congratulations, McGarrett, I made it through the fourth grade.”

“Patterns,” Steve said evenly. “You see them fast. You connect dots most people wouldn’t.”

Danny snorted, flipping another page. “Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you spend a decade watching perps try to lie to your face. You get good at spotting the dumb ones. Spoiler alert: most of them are dumb.”

Steve’s mouth curved, not quite a smile, but close. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

Danny felt heat crawl up his neck, and he shoved the folder a little closer to Steve, like that would put distance between them. “Don’t start with the flattery. I’ve already got a kid and an ex-wife trying to guilt me into things, I don’t need a Navy SEAL piling on.”

Steve didn’t move the folder. Just kept leaning against the bookshelf, arms crossed, steady gaze trained on Danny like he was the only thing in the room worth looking at.

Danny shoved his glasses up his nose, refusing to meet those eyes for longer than a second. “You gonna stand there smoldering all day, or are you actually gonna help me cross-reference this?”

That earned him a low chuckle, and Danny hated the way it tugged at the corner of his own mouth before he buried himself in the file again.

Danny tapped his red pen against the margin, circling a timestamp. “Here. Witness statement says they saw the suspect’s car at nine-thirty. Patrol log puts the vehicle a mile across town at the same time. Can’t be both. Someone’s lying, or someone’s covering.”

Steve stepped closer, leaning over his shoulder to read. He smelled like salt air and coffee, and Danny could feel the heat of him at his back. Too close. Way too close.

Danny cleared his throat. “You got a personal space issue, or is this just standard SEAL operating procedure? Breach and clear my office?”

“Just making sure I see what you see,” Steve said, voice low, steady. His hand braced on the edge of the desk, right next to Danny’s.

Danny refused to move his own hand, even though it would’ve been easier to breathe if he had. “Congratulations, you can read. Go tell your kindergarten teacher.”

But his pen tapped faster against the paper, betraying the restless energy sparking in his chest.

Steve didn’t bite back this time, just hummed like he was filing away the rhythm of Danny’s thinking. “You’re sharp. You dig where others skim.”

Danny glanced up at him over the rim of his glasses, scowl in place, but it didn’t quite land. “And you’re laying it on thick. I said I’d help, not that I’d let you stare at me like I’m the Discovery Channel.”

The corner of Steve’s mouth tugged, faint but undeniable. He didn’t deny it either.

Danny groaned and shoved another page under his nose. “Fine. Here. You want patterns? Read the depositions. Spot the inconsistencies. Put that laser focus to good use instead of—” He waved a hand vaguely between them. “—whatever this is you’re doing.”

Steve leaned in closer, voice pitched just for him. “What if I’m doing both?”

Danny’s heart kicked hard against his ribs. He slammed the folder shut and shoved it back at him, glaring. “You’re impossible.”

But Steve only smiled, like he’d already won something Danny wasn’t ready to admit.

Danny gave up pretending to be annoyed after the third contradiction he spotted in the statements. The red pen flew again, sharp slashes and circles, muttered commentary spilling out under his breath.

“Unbelievable… guy says he was on patrol, but his partner puts him at the other end of the island? Either someone’s lying or they’re covering for something bigger—” He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, eyes narrowing at the page, hair sticking up where his fingers had raked through it.

Steve didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt. He just watched. Noticed the way Danny leaned into the page, like the weight of the puzzle pulled him closer. The way the frustration sharpened into focus, everything else falling away. The professor veneer melted off, and there was the detective, fast and relentless, digging until the ground gave way.

“You see it?” Danny asked suddenly, glancing up, eyes bright with the thrill of the chase.

Steve didn’t answer right away. Not because he didn’t see—but because he was caught on how alive Danny looked in that moment, glasses sliding down, pen tapping, mind five steps ahead.

“Yeah,” Steve said finally, voice low. “I see it.”

Danny squinted at him like he didn’t believe it, then went right back to the files. “Good. Because if you’re going to haunt my office like a six-foot-tall shadow, you’d better be useful.”

Danny’s pen slowed, then stilled, the clock on the wall pulling him back to reality. He cursed under his breath, shoving the folder aside and yanking his glasses off.

“Alright, that’s it. I’m done.” He capped the pen, stuffed it into the cup on his desk, and started sweeping papers into a messy pile.

Steve frowned. “Done? You were just—”

“I’ve got to pick up my kid,” Danny cut in, standing so fast his chair squeaked against the floor. He grabbed his jacket, his bag, muttering to himself as he went. “Because unlike some people, I don’t spend my life lurking in offices and skulking around crime scenes.”

Steve straightened from the bookshelf, that faint smile still lingering. “You’re walking away in the middle of a lead?”

Danny slung the bag over his shoulder and grabbed the manila folder. “No. I’m taking the lead with me.”

That gave Steve pause—but only for a second. “You sure?”

Danny shot him a look. “You dropped it on my desk. It’s mine now.”

Steve’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “I’ll expect your notes.”

Danny was already halfway to the door. “Don’t wait up.”

Then he was gone, the folder under his arm, the office still smelling faintly of coffee and red ink.

Steve stayed behind, gaze drifting to the red pen Danny had left behind in the cup. His notes had cut through the case with a precision Steve hadn’t expected—and that focus, that sharpness, lingered longer than it should have.

Danny sat at his kitchen table after Grace had gone to bed, the manila folder open like a wound across the wood.

And now he was knee-deep in it again.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, scribbling notes across a legal pad. “They didn’t re-interview the neighbors. Witness statements contradict the coroner and nobody caught it? What are they even doing over there, knitting sweaters?”

Flip. Scowl. Flip. “Traffic cam on Ala Moana just happens to be down the night of the murder? Sure. And I’m the King of England.”

By midnight, he had three pages of notes and a headache that felt like nails behind his eyes. He leaned back, rubbing his temples—then his phone buzzed. Unknown number.

You’re still reading it. What do you see?

Danny glared at the screen. “Of course he knows.”

He saved the number and typed back before he could stop himself:
I see HPD dropped the ball. Again.

The reply came quick.
McGarrett: 0800. My dad's place. Bring notes.

Danny groaned, thunking his head against the table. “I hate him. I really, really hate him.”

I've got a class to teach, so no. I already told you half-time.

But his hand still went to the folder, stacking the papers neatly, building his case like the detective he swore he wasn’t anymore.

Danny was still bleary-eyed when he dropped Grace off at school the next morning. She leaned over from the backseat, her arms looped around her backpack straps.

“Danno?”

“Yeah, Monkey?”

Her voice was soft, hesitant. “Are they gonna catch who hurt Grandpa John?”

Danny gripped the steering wheel tighter. He forced a smile into his voice. “Of course, sweety. They’re working on it.”

She tilted her head. “But you don’t trust them, right?”

Danny blinked. “When did you— you heard that?”

“You were yelling in the kitchen,” she said simply.

He sighed. “Don’t worry about it. You let me do the worrying, okay?”

She nodded, hopping out to join her friends. But Danny carried the weight of it all the way to campus.

His students didn’t make it easier.

“Professor, any updates on the McGarrett homicide?” one kid blurted as soon as Danny walked in.

Danny froze mid-sip of coffee. “What are you, a news anchor? No, there aren’t updates. Open your books.”

Another raised his hand. “But, sir, didn’t you know the victim personally? Shouldn’t HPD be running victimology, cross-checking associates? They don’t even have the surveillance chain of custody right.”

Danny stopped dead at the whiteboard, his marker hovering. “Excuse me? What do you know about chain of custody?”

The kid grinned. “Read ahead in the textbook.”

“Read ahead,” Danny muttered. “You’re killing me.”

By the time Steve showed up outside his lecture hall, Danny was already wound tight.

“You’re stalking me now?” Danny hissed as students filed out.

Steve just lifted the folder like an offering.

Danny groaned. “I hate you.”

“Good,” Steve said easily. “Hate me on the way to my place. We’ve got work to do.”

Danny parked outside the McGarrett house and sat for a long moment, fingers tight on the wheel. He’d been here a hundred times before—Grace bounding up the steps with John right behind her, Danny juggling grocery bags, the smell of overcooked chicken drifting from the lanai.

Now the curtains were drawn, the yard too quiet. John wasn’t here. He wasn’t going to be again.

Danny exhaled, sharp and unsteady, then climbed out. “Ten minutes,” he muttered. “Yell at the SEAL, hand back the file, get to class. Easy.”

The front door was already ajar. Of course it was.

Inside, Steve was barefoot on the same hardwood floors Danny had crossed a hundred times, moving with a folder in hand. The dining table was spread with papers, maps, photos—some crime scene, some family shots Danny knew by heart.

Danny stopped in the doorway, the overlap of then and now punching harder than he expected. “You realize this is insane, right?” he said. “Your dad used to burn steaks on that table. Now it looks like you’re running the CIA out of his living room.”

Steve didn’t bother defending himself. He just picked up a photo from the sideboard and held it out. “He kept this in his study.”

Danny took it automatically—and his chest tightened. Grace at her eighth birthday, perched on John’s knee, laughing so hard her nose crinkled. Icing smeared on her cheek. John’s arm steady around her shoulders. Danny had been behind the camera, grinning at them both.

Steve’s voice was quieter. “He trusted you. Enough to make you ohana.”

Danny swallowed, setting the photo back on the table with more force than he meant to. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make this about Grace. About family. You don’t need to sell me—I already agreed to help. But don’t drag her into it. She’s already lost enough.”

Steve studied him for a moment, unreadable, then nodded once. “Fair.”

Danny sat down, shoulders tight, eyeing the sprawl of notes and photos. “You’re still out of your damn mind.”

“Probably,” Steve said, sliding the binder closer. “But you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want to know what HPD missed.”

Danny’s hand twitched toward the file before he cursed under his breath and pulled it open. “I hate you.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, settling into the chair across from him. “So you keep telling me.”

Danny marched into his classroom with his best nothing-is-wrong, everything-is-fine face. He’d stayed too long at the McGarrett house, spread over crime scene photos until midnight, arguing with Steve until his voice went raw. Then he’d gone home, paid the sitter, kissed Grace goodnight—and instead of sleeping, he’d sat at the kitchen table rearranging notes like a lunatic.

Now, standing at the front of the lecture hall with forty pairs of eyes on him, he shoved the file to the back of his mind and picked up his marker.

“Alright, people,” he said, slapping his folder onto the desk. “Chapter eight. Miranda rights and what happens when cops forget you have them.”

A hand shot up immediately in the front row. “Professor Williams, you look tired.”

Danny scowled. “That’s an observation, not a question.”

Another hand. “Were you out late? You smell like coffee.”

“I always smell like coffee,” Danny shot back. “If you think that’s unusual, you haven’t been paying attention. Now, unless one of you plans to interrogate me without a lawyer present, eyes on the book.”

There was muffled laughter, but the room never fully settled. They’d noticed. Of course they had.

Sure enough, ten minutes in: “Professor, are you gonna tell us who the scary guy was?”

Danny froze mid-sentence. “What scary guy?”

“The one in the back row last class. Military haircut. Arms crossed like he was about to storm the room.”

Danny cleared his throat, aiming for casual. “He’s… nobody you need to worry about. Just a Navy friend.”

That earned him skeptical looks, but no one pushed further.

“Anyway,” Danny said, snapping his fingers as he turned back to the board. “The point is, no Miranda, no case. Everything falls apart in court. Poof. Gone.”

He scribbled on the whiteboard, but his focus slipped. The inconsistencies in HPD’s notes. The traffic cam that went down too conveniently. Steve, leaning across John’s dining table with that infuriating mix of calm and certainty.

Danny’s grip tightened on the marker. “Poof,” he repeated, softer this time—less lecture, more vow.

Meanwhile, across town, Steve leaned on the hood of his truck outside a garage. Chin Ho Kelly closed it behind him, wiping his hands on a rag.

“You’re really serious about this?” Chin asked.

“Dead serious,” Steve said. “HPD isn’t going to touch this the way it needs. I need people I can trust. You. Me. And… a professor who doesn’t know when to shut up.”

Chin raised an eyebrow. “You mean Williams. I heard about the scene at the station.”

Steve allowed the faintest grin. “He’s already in. He just hasn’t realized how much yet.”

Chapter Text

Danny paced the front of the lecture hall like a man preparing for war — jacket off, sleeves rolled, chalk tapping rhythmically against his palm.

“Probable cause,” he said, voice sharp, “is not a magic phrase. It doesn’t override constitutional rights. It has standards. Limits. And when law enforcement forgets that? Cases fall apart.”

CREAK.

The back door opened.

Heads turned. A ripple of whispers surged like a classroom-wide group chat gone live.

“Oh my God, it’s the hot guy again—”
“Is that McGarrett?”
“Why is he always here??”
“I think he lives here. Like a cryptid but hotter.”
“No way he’s just interested in the law.”

Danny didn’t stop at first. He underlined limits on the board. Twice. Hard.

Then he turned.

Danny’s jaw tightened. He straightened his tie like it owed him money.

“This is a lecture hall,” he said, voice clipped. “Not an open house.”

Steve didn’t blink. “We’ll sit in the back.”

Danny stared. Exhaled through his nose like a man suppressing murder. “Fine. Back row. No questions. No talking. And if you breathe too loudly, I will have you cited for academic disturbance and emotionally prosecuted in the group chat.”

A student in the front snorted. Danny ignored her.

Steve nodded. “Appreciate it, Professor.”

He walked to the back like he wasn't ruining Danny's blood pressure on purpose.

He headed for the back row. Like he belonged there.

“Did he just—call him Professor?”
“He said it like it meant something.”
“This is weirdly intense, right?”
“I’m not imagining the tension. There’s definitely something going on.”
“Like a very sexy jurisdictional dispute.”

Danny turned back to the board. “Page one-eighty. Let’s go.”

The students were still glancing back, but when Danny picked up right where he left off, they followed.

Still, the whispers didn’t stop. Not completely.

The rest of the hour ran tight. Sharp. No wasted motion, no wasted words—though Danny could feel Steve’s gaze burning through him like a security camera with opinions.

When the bell rang, the room dissolved into the usual shuffle of bags and caffeine-deprived ambition. But this time, as the students filtered out, their eyes kept flicking toward the back row. Toward him.

“You think they’re a thing?”
“I don’t know. But I do know McGarrett never takes notes.”
“He stares like he's memorizing Professor Williams’ soul.”

Danny stood at the front, arms folded, waiting.

The last student gave a wide-eyed look to Steve on her way out, then stage-whispered, “Good luck, Professor,” before disappearing into the hallway.

The door clicked shut.

Danny didn’t bother softening his glare. “Alright. You want to tell me why you’re crashing my lectures like it’s career day for ex-cops and dramatic footwear?”

Steve didn’t blink. “Chin’s in. We’re building the task force.”

Chin Ho Kelly stepped forward, calm and steady, extending a hand. “Chin. Used to be HPD.”

Danny gave him a once-over, then shook. Firm, brief. “Williams. Used to be Newark PD. Now apparently full-time law professor, part-time babysitter for freeloading Navy SEALs.” Steve’s mouth twitched — again — but he didn’t take the bait.

“Chin’s in,” he repeated. “We’re putting together the team.”

Danny blinked. “We’re—what? You don’t just build a task force like it’s a sandcastle.”

“It’s not a sandcastle,” Steve said. “The Governor signed off.”

Danny paused, hand halfway to his coffee cup. “I’m sorry, the Governor what?”

“Gave us authority. Immunity. Resources.”

Danny turned to Chin. “And you just… signed up for this?”

Chin’s answer was calm, steady. “After what happened to John? I trust Steve more than I trust half the brass in that building.”

Danny ran a hand through his hair, pacing. “This is insane. It’s insane. You know that, right?”

But the fire was already in his voice. That edge — the one that showed up when the case files got under his skin and he started scrawling questions in red ink at 2 a.m.

Steve saw it too.

“You’re already in,” he said. Voice low, sure. “You know it.”

Danny shot him a glare. “Don’t get cocky, SEAL. You sit in my classroom again, I’m putting your name on the syllabus under ‘Constitutional Violations and Bad Decisions.’”

That got a flash of grin — brief, sharp.

“I’ll bring coffee,” Steve said. 

Danny groaned. “I’m being audited by a man in flip-flops.”

That earned him the faintest grin, quick and sharp, before Steve said, “See you at the house. Bring your notes.”

Danny didn’t go to the house.

He told himself it was because he had papers to grade, a lecture to finish, Grace’s science project to help with. But really?

It was because McGarrett had said it like an order.

And Danny didn’t take orders. Not anymore.

He figured Steve would get the message.

He underestimated just how annoying Navy SEALs could be.

Danny was mid-lecture, chalk in one hand and coffee in the other. “Alright. Say you’ve got evidence collected without a warrant—what happens?”

“It’s inadmissible!” came the answer, like a group of students had been personally wronged by the Fourth Amendment.

Danny nodded. “Good. Latin for ‘the prosecution’s worst day.’”

The door opened.

Again.

No one even pretended to ignore it this time. Heads turned in unison. Students were already smirking.

“Called it.”
“Is it weird I kind of missed him?”
“Do you think he brings snacks? Like a service SEAL?”

Danny didn’t even turn around. “Seats are in the back, McGarrett.”

Laughter rippled through the room.

Steve walked in, cool as ever, notebook under his arm, and dropped into a seat like he absolutely had a registration code and a student ID.

Danny turned just enough to glare. “I told you: next time you show up, I’m putting you on the syllabus.”

Steve looked unbothered. “Guess I’ll have to start doing the reading.”

More laughter. Someone whispered, “He totally flirts like a federal agent.”

Danny pinched the bridge of his nose. “Unbelievable.”

Still, he kept teaching.

Steve listened. Took notes. Even raised his hand — once — to ask a pointed question about plain view doctrine that had three students frantically Googling and one whispering, “I think I have a new favorite amendment.”

By the end of the hour, Danny was annoyed. The class was delighted.

“You think they’re dating?”
“If they’re not, it’s like a crime.”
“Would explain the tension.”
“Yeah, but like… the lawful kind.”

When the bell rang, Danny leaned on the desk and gave Steve a hard look.

“So what’s next, huh? You want a midterm? Office hours?”

Steve shrugged. “Governor wants me to understand the limits of our immunity. Figured I’d learn from the best.”

Danny blinked. “Was that… a compliment?”

Steve deadpanned, “Don’t get used to it.”

Danny sighed, grabbing his notes. “This is my life now. Navy SEALs in the back row. Terrific.”

Danny was halfway to the faculty lounge when he heard footsteps behind him — too purposeful to be a lost undergrad.

Of course it was Steve. Moving like he hadn’t just sat through an hour of constitutional law with the patience of a monk and the ego of a sniper.

“Good lecture,” Steve said, falling into step beside him. “Clear. Concise. Your board work’s a little aggressive, though.”

Danny stopped in his tracks.

“You heckled my chalk work.”

“Just an observation.” Steve kept a straight face. “You underline like you’re trying to carve it into the wall.”

Danny closed his eyes. “You want to critique my teaching, you can enroll. Otherwise, this—” he gestured broadly, “—is the half of my job that does not involve tactical commentary from men with military haircuts.”

Steve tilted his head. “You mean the part where you pretend not to be investigating this case in the margins of your lecture notes?”

Danny scowled. “Don’t you have a crime scene to commandeer?”

“I do,” Steve said. “I came to tell you we’ve got a lead. Chin’s already on-site. Figured I’d stop by your classroom-slash-office-slash-improvised war room and let you know.”

Danny squinted. “Why here?”

“Because when I called your office, a very stressed grad student said you locked yourself in the copier room.”

Danny muttered, “It’s the only room with a door that closes all the way.”

Steve gave him a long, assessing look. “You know we have an actual HQ.”

Danny rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, and I’m guessing it doesn’t smell like toner and desperation.”

Steve turned toward the exit. “Come on. You’re already half-time. Might as well do your half.”

Danny followed reluctantly, muttering, “Should’ve negotiated for quarter-time. And hazard pay. And backup chalk.”

The building was sleek, sunlit, suspiciously under-furnished. Probably recently sanitized by a SWAT team or a very determined intern. Danny stepped inside like someone entering a crime scene, not a workplace.

Steve was already at the table, flipping through crime scene photos. Chin stood near a whiteboard, making notes. The kind of calm that made Danny feel twitchy.

Danny dropped his folder onto the table with a loud thwack. “Okay. I’m here. Brief me. Then I’m going home to grade papers and microwave leftovers like a normal person.”

Steve didn’t even look up. “Welcome to HQ.”

Danny looked around. “This isn’t an HQ. This is a Bond villain's Airbnb.”

Chin, dry as ever: “It’s rent-controlled.”

Danny stood with arms crossed, frowning at the crime board like it had personally offended him.

Photos of John McGarrett. Surveillance stills from the harbor. Victor Hesse. A growing knot of names, threads, and dead ends.

Chin walked in holding a slim manila file, flipping it open as he spoke.

“Pulled a customs flag from the harbor log. Shipment came in two days before the explosion—military-grade weapons, routed through a dummy shell company in Manila.”

Danny raised an eyebrow. “That part of the tourist brochure?”

“Importer’s name came up in a few past cases. Black market deals, mostly overseas. But this time, local contact.” Chin handed over a printout. “Fred Doran. Used to run guns through the islands for a few outfits. Went quiet after he got out of Halawa last year.”

Steve leaned in. “He supplied Hesse?”

“Working theory,” Chin said. “Worth a visit.”

Danny skimmed the file, raising an eyebrow.
“Let me guess—you want to stroll up to this guy’s place and politely ask if he remembers illegally arming the man who shot your dad.”

Steve shrugged, cool as ever.
“Something like that.”

Danny snapped the folder shut with a tired sigh.
“Alright. Keep me posted. I’ve got to pick up Grace.”

Steve nodded, watching him head for the door.

Grace twirled spaghetti around her fork, then glanced up, sly. “Emma said her brother’s in your class. He said some scary Navy guy’s been sitting in the back all week, looking like he’s auditioning for an action movie.”

Danny almost smiled. Then he sighed and added, more quietly, “His name’s Steve. Steve McGarrett.”

Grace froze mid-bite. “Wait. McGarrett… as in Grandpa John?”

Danny nodded, slower this time. “Yeah. He’s John’s son.”

Her expression shifted — not surprise, not confusion, just quiet understanding. “So that’s why you didn’t kick him out.”

Danny gave a tired smile. “That, and he’s annoyingly persistent. But yeah. That’s part of it.”

Grace was quiet for a moment, then said softly, “So… he’s kind of family.”

Danny felt that word sink in. He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Complicated family. He doesn’t exactly scream ‘Sunday barbeque.’”

But Grace’s smile tugged upward anyway. “Grandpa liked barbeques. If he kept pictures of us next to Steve and Mary, maybe he wanted us all together.”

Danny blinked, caught off guard by how steady she sounded. “You know you’re too smart for your own good, right?” She grinned. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Danny reached over to ruffle her hair. “Just don’t go adopting him. My students already think they’re being drafted.”

Grace giggled, eyes sparkling. “I like him already.”

Danny groaned into his wine glass.
“Of course you do.”

Grace looked up, her eyes softening as she glanced toward the yard. “Johnny’s been waiting by the gate all afternoon. Guess he’s starting to get used to you.”

Danny gave a small smile. “Yeah, took him a while, but he is warming up to me I guess.”

Danny was mid-lecture, chalk in one hand, coffee in the other.

“Okay, say HPD enters a residence without a warrant and finds drugs on the coffee table. What happens?”

A few hands shot up.

“They can’t use it!”

“It’s inadmissible!”

Danny nodded. “Correct. Now—”

The door opened.

Every head turned. No effort to hide it this time. The vibe in the room shifted from “class” to “live theater.”

Steve McGarrett, sunglasses hooked on his collar, strolled in like he’d been summoned.

“There he is.”
“Honestly, I was starting to worry he wasn’t coming today.”
“Should we have a betting pool?”
“I’ve got five bucks on him speaking up again.”

Danny didn’t even glance back. “Don’t mind him. That’s my overly dramatic, unpaid teaching assistant. He refuses to leave and somehow keeps passing.”

Laughter broke out. Steve dropped into the back row like he owned it.

Danny powered through. “Let’s say the officer sees the evidence on the table. Then what?”

A hand went up.

“The plain view exception?”

“Exactly. So—”

“Arizona v. Hicks,” Steve said, calm as ever. “Established limits on plain view. The officer can’t move items without a warrant. Scope matters.”

Twenty heads swiveled.

Danny slowly turned around.

“Did the peanut gallery just cite case law correctly in my classroom?”

Steve leaned back, arms crossed. “You brought it up.”

“Okay but like…”
“He’s kind of good at this.”
“Are we sure he’s not auditing?”
“What if this is their origin story? Like… task force meets law school AU.”

Danny stared at him. “You’re not in this class, McGarrett.”

Steve shrugged. “Could’ve fooled me. I’m learning a lot.”

Danny pointed at the board. “Fantastic. So glad my lecture meets Navy SEAL standards.”

Behind him, Steve smirked.

When the bell rang, the students trickled out—half whispering, half texting.

“He definitely likes him.”
“They fight like it’s foreplay.”
“Someone please start a group chat for this.”

Danny took his time gathering papers.

Finally, he turned.

“You hijacked my class.”

Steve stood. “You’re welcome.”

Danny rubbed at his temple. “Unbelievable. You’re auditing my class now?”

“Part of the job,” Steve said. “And hey—consider it team-building.”

Danny groaned. “You are the worst.”

Steve just smiled. “And yet… you didn’t kick me out.”

Danny’s cramped faculty office was buzzing with the usual Thursday chaos. Three undergrads hovered in the doorway, clutching notebooks. One sat across from him, nervously flipping through a half-written essay. Papers, coffee cups, and a precarious tower of graded assignments covered the desk.

Danny gestured with his pen, halfway through a correction.

“Okay, look, you’ve got the right idea about search warrants, but you can’t just quote Wikipedia and expect me not to notice. Footnotes, people. They’re not optional.”

The students chuckled, one of them scribbling a note like "do not cite Wiki or die."

Danny sighed, rubbing at his temple. “Alright, next—”

The hallway shifted. A ripple of silence rolled through the doorway.

Danny didn’t need to look up.

Steve McGarrett was already filling the frame, casual as ever—cargo pants, T-shirt, flip-flops, sunglasses hanging off his collar like a fashion war crime.

Danny exhaled hard. “No. Absolutely not. Not now.”

The students barely reacted—at least not with surprise. This was not the first time the SEAL had crashed office hours. But it was the first time he'd brought the full smolder.

One of the students murmured, “He’s back.”

Another whispered, “Ten bucks says they argue for five minutes, then solve a murder.”

A third: “I’m telling you, I’ve read this fic.”

Steve leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, tone mild. “You weren’t returning my calls.”

Danny snapped, “I didn’t even give you my number. And I agreed to half-time on the task force — not half-assed teaching. I’m not letting your missions derail my class.”

A student raised her hand, trying not to grin. “Professor, should we… come back later?”

“No,” Danny snapped.

“Yes,” Steve said at the same time, annoyingly calm.

Danny threw his hands up. “I am not sending my students out for your field ops. If anyone’s leaving, it’s you.”

The students all turned toward Steve. One of them—bold, possibly sleep-deprived—whispered to the girl next to him, “Tell me this isn’t their slow-burn enemies-to-lovers arc.”

Danny pointed toward the hallway without even looking at Steve. “Out. Go lean on a wall or interrogate a vending machine. I’ll be done when I’m done.”

Steve didn’t move right away. Just stood there, unreadable. Then, finally, he gave a short nod. “Five minutes.”

“Fifteen,” Danny countered. “And if you interrupt again, I’m making you teach tort reform.”

That got a laugh out of the undergrads. Even Steve’s mouth twitched.

He backed out of the doorway, letting the door click shut behind him.

Silence.

Then one student said, under her breath, “...They are so married.”

Danny turned back, red pen in hand, deadpan. “Alright, who’s next? And please, for the love of the Fourth Amendment, cite something real.”

He didn’t look toward the door.

But he knew Steve was still out there.

Waiting.

By the time Danny wrapped office hours, the hallway outside was nearly empty—just a few straggling students and the hum of fluorescent lights. He stepped out of his office, tugging at his tie like it had personally wronged him, only to find Steve still leaning against the opposite wall.

Same posture. Same smug face.

“You waited the whole time?” Danny asked, deadpan.

Steve glanced at his watch. “Fifteen minutes. You said so.”

Danny made a noise halfway between a scoff and a groan. “Do you ever do anything halfway?”

“Wouldn’t know how.”

They walked in silence for a moment. Danny had papers in one hand, coffee in the other. Steve was empty-handed, probably because someone else on his imaginary payroll carried all his things for him.

As they passed a group of students whispering in the stairwell, Danny heard one of them not-so-subtly whisper, “There goes the SEAL. They were in his office for fifteen minutes alone—just saying.”

Danny muttered under his breath, “I’m gonna start holding lectures on defamation law.”

Steve didn’t react. But the corners of his mouth twitched.

It was barely 9AM, and Danny was already elbow-deep in red ink and bad citations. The stack of essays in front of him was a battlefield—comma splices, passive voice, and one paper that had apparently cited an Instagram infographic as a legal source.

He sighed, dragging the red pen down another paragraph. The coffee was cold. His patience, colder.

A knock came.

Without looking up, Danny called, “Office hours are Tuesday and Thursday. If you can’t tell the difference between Miranda and Mirage, come back then.”

The door opened anyway.

Danny didn’t look—he groaned. “I really need to put a lock on this door.”

Steve McGarrett strolled in like he owned the lease. Chin Ho Kelly followed, quiet as ever. And behind them: a young woman Danny didn’t recognize — barefoot in board shorts, damp hair like she’d just walked off a surfboard and into a procedural drama.

Danny blinked. “Oh perfect. Now it’s a field trip.”

Steve dropped a folder onto the desk, scattering graded essays like a bureaucratic hurricane. “We’ve got a lead.”

Danny picked up the folder without opening it. “Do you people have homes? Offices? Boundaries? These are future lawyers of America you’re crushing under classified paperwork.”

The young woman stepped forward, casual and unbothered. “Kono Kalākaua. Nice to meet you, Professor.”

Danny pointed at her with his pen. “Professor Williams. And what is this, tryouts for a beach-themed sting operation?”

“Rookie cop,” Steve said. “Graduated top of her class.”

“Terrific,” Danny muttered. “Just what we need. Another overachiever with wet footprints.”

Chin chuckled. “You’ll like her. She’s sharp.”

Danny eyed the three of them, then dropped heavily into his chair. “You know, when I said half-time, I didn’t realize that meant full-time chaos.”

Steve’s tone stayed even. “You read the file. You know HPD’s not going to fix this.”

Danny sighed. “Yeah. I know. Which is why I’m even entertaining this. But you can’t just keep treating my office like it’s your second precinct.”

Steve smirked. “Worked so far.”

Kono raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Does he always complain this much?”

Danny jabbed a finger in her direction. “Yes. And I will continue to do so until one of you brings me a coffee and a signed permission slip from the Dean.”

He looked at Steve, then Chin, then back at the unopened folder.

“If I’m in, I’m still in on my terms. I don’t ditch classes, I don’t ditch my kid, and I don’t take orders from a guy who thinks flip-flops are tactical footwear.”

Steve just nodded. “You’ll come.”

Danny threw his hands in the air. “Unbelievable. Fine. But if I get fired because you can’t stop turning my workplace into an action movie set, I’m haunting you personally.”

Steve’s smirk widened. “Good. I could use the company.”

Kono grinned, unbothered. “This is gonna be fun.”

Danny groaned. “God help me, there’s two of them now.”

Chapter Text

Steve pushed the door open with his shoulder, moving like a man who’d been doing this since birth. Chin followed with quiet confidence, Kono with wide-eyed focus, her hand brushing the holster on her hip.

Danny? Danny was muttering under his breath.

“This is exactly what I said I wouldn’t do. No sneaking into sketchy buildings, no armed lunatics—this is not halftime work, McGarrett. This is a full-blown extracurricular nightmare.”

“Shh,” Steve hissed, scanning the dark space.

Danny froze, then whispered furiously, “Don’t ‘shh’ me. I’m a guest star in your Navy SEAL home video. I get to complain.”

Kono smothered a grin. Chin’s mouth twitched. Steve didn’t break stride.

They moved deeper inside, light filtering through broken windows. Evidence markers still littered the floor from HPD’s earlier sweep. Steve crouched to study one, frowning. “Something’s off.”

Danny leaned over his shoulder, arms crossed. “Yeah, no kidding. Half those markers are in the wrong place.”

Steve looked up sharply. “What?”

Danny pointed, matter-of-fact. “There’s drag here.” He gestured to a scuff along the dusty floor. “That’s where the body was moved. But the marker’s three feet too far left. Somebody either screwed up the scene, or they wanted to make it look tidy for the report.”

Chin crouched, checking. His brows rose. “He’s right.”

Steve’s lips twitched—the closest thing to a smile. “You see that, Professor?”

Danny threw his hands up. “What did you think I did in Jersey, grade spelling tests? I was a homicide detective for twelve years. This—” he jabbed a finger at the drag mark—“is day one stuff.”

Kono looked impressed. “So you really are halftime only?”

Danny shot her a look. “Full-time professor. Halftime task force. Don’t get it twisted.”

Steve stood, eyes glinting with something between amusement and approval. “Not bad, Williams. Not bad at all.”

Danny glared back. “Don’t make that face at me. I don’t work for you.”

Steve smirked. “Sure you don’t.”

Chin and Kono exchanged a glance, both clearly entertained.

As they headed out, Danny kept muttering: “This is exactly how people get shot. And if I get shot because some barefoot Navy lunatic dragged me into a warehouse, Grace is suing all of you.”

Kono leaned toward Chin, whispering, “I like him.”

Steve just grinned, leading them into the sunlight.

The grill was cold, the air still holding onto the ghost of charcoal and something vaguely overcooked from last weekend. Grace sat at the patio table, barefoot, a juice box sweating beside her math homework. The dog — a shaggy mutt with a limp and trust issues — lay flopped under the table, snoring softly.

Danny stood by the side gate, handing a few crumpled bills to the babysitter. “Thanks again, Kelly. He didn’t eat your shoes this time, right?”

She smiled. “Nope. Just stared at me like I owed him rent.”

Danny nodded, solemn. “That’s progress. He used to growl when people blinked.”

Kelly slipped out the gate just as tires crunched in the driveway.

Grace perked up. “Danno?”

Steve McGarrett came through the gate like he owned the property lines. Chin and Kono followed, both with folders in hand. All three looked far too serious for a Tuesday afternoon.

Grace sat up straighter. “That’s him. From Grandpa John’s pictures.”

Steve didn’t say a word, but his posture shifted, something tightening around the edges.

Grace kept going, easy as anything. “You’ve got his eyes. And the same forehead.”

Steve crouched next to her, caught between amusement and something heavier. “Yeah. I’m his son.”

Under the table, the dog shifted. A low thump as his tail hit the wood once, twice. He nudged Steve’s knee with his nose.

Steve blinked. “Uh… hi.”

Danny raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s new. He usually hates strangers. He growled at a pineapple once. Like, full-on menace.”

Steve glanced down again. The dog — scruffy, scarred, eyes too old for his face — leaned against Grace’s leg like a shadow.

She reached down, scratching behind the dog’s ear. “His name’s Johnny.”

Steve stilled. His eyes flicked between the dog and Grace, caught off guard. “Johnny?”

She nodded, voice softening. “I found him the day after Grandpa died. He was hiding behind the shed.”

Danny’s voice dropped a little. “No collar. No chip. Limped on three legs. We think someone dumped him during the night.”

Grace kept her hand on the dog’s head. “He didn’t want to trust anyone at first… but with us, he stayed. Like he knew he finally found a family.”

Johnny nudged Steve’s leg again, resting his head briefly.

Steve looked down at the dog, then back up at Grace. A quiet weight settled between them.

Grace grinned, breaking the silence with the easiest question in the world: “So… does that make you my uncle?”

Steve blinked, momentarily caught off guard — then his face softened into something quiet and a little stunned, like she’d handed him something fragile. “Yeah,” he said after a beat. “I guess it does.”

Danny crossed his arms, pretending not to be affected — even though he was.

Chin broke the silence, setting a folder on the table. “We should go over what we found at the warehouse. Before HPD buries it.”

Kono slid into a chair, already flipping through the pages. “Danny’s right — the drag marks don’t match the report. If HPD missed it, that’s sloppy. If they ignored it…”

“…that’s corruption,” Danny finished, reluctantly pulling out a chair. “And I’ve been saying that since day one. But does anyone listen to the guy with the tie and chalk dust?”

Steve sat across from him, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “I listened.”

Danny shot him a look, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “Yeah, congratulations. You win a gold star.”

Grace piped up, bright as ever, “My teacher gives gold stars when people do good work.”

Steve leaned back, deadpan. “See, Professor? Even your kid agrees with me.”

Danny pointed his juice box at him. “You stay out of my parenting, Navy. You don’t get a vote.”

Kono ducked her head to hide a grin. Chin chuckled low. The banter was relentless, but the undercurrent of teamwork ran sharp and steady — impossible to miss.

Grace looked around the table, eyes wide, and whispered like it was a secret she’d just uncovered. “You guys are gonna be good together.”

Danny groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “I’m surrounded.”

Steve, of course, looked like he’d just won another round.

Danny balanced a stack of case files in one hand and Grace’s backpack in the other, his tie askew like he’d sprinted the whole way from the car. Grace skipped alongside him, unfazed by his stress.

“You sure you’ll be okay sitting in the back?” Danny asked, already fumbling for his classroom keys.

Grace rolled her eyes — in that way only an eight-year-old could. “Danno, I’ve done this before. I have my coloring stuff. And if your students ask me questions, I’ll tell them you yell a lot but you’re actually nice.”

“Thanks, Monkey, that’s just the image I’m going for.” Danny pushed open the classroom door. The students were already trickling in, giving curious looks at Grace and the armload of files.

He was halfway through setting his things down when the chatter in the room quieted. Danny didn’t even have to turn around. The air shifted. Again.

“Professor Williams,” Steve’s voice carried from the doorway.

Danny closed his eyes, muttering, “Of course.” Then, louder: “What part of ‘I have a class’ did you not understand?”

Steve glanced around at the students, who were watching with unabashed fascination. “Looks like a smart group. They’ll keep up.”

Grace waved from the back row. “Hi, Uncle Steve!”

Danny whipped around, deadpan. “He’s not your uncle. He’s a menace.”

The students burst out laughing.

Danny pinched the bridge of his nose. “Alright, everyone — open your books to chapter seven. We’re gonna learn about search and seizure law… and how to survive Navy SEALs who can’t follow instructions.”

Steve leaned casually against the wall at the back, perfectly content, like this was exactly how he planned it. Grace giggled over her coloring book. Danny launched into his lecture but felt the steady, annoyingly admiring weight of Steve’s gaze.

The last of Danny’s students filtered out, a few tossing him their usual sarcastic farewells. But more than a couple snuck glances over their shoulders at Steve — still leaning at the back wall, arms folded, calm as ever.

Danny was snapping his folder shut when one girl whispered to her friend, a little too loudly, “Told you, he really is Navy. Look at him.”

Her friend giggled. “Totally. Like… guarding the professor.”

Danny cleared his throat pointedly, and the pair bolted for the door, still laughing.

Another student paused long enough to grin at Steve before murmuring, “Nice work today, sir.” Then he winked at Danny and slipped out.

Danny dragged a hand down his face. “Unbelievable.”

Steve’s expression didn’t shift, but there was the tiniest glint in his eyes.

Grace, stuffing her markers into her backpack, piped up cheerfully, “They think you two are a team.”

Danny shot her a look. “Monkey. Stop listening to college gossip.”

She grinned. “But they’re right.”

Steve smirked. Danny groaned. “I swear, all of you are conspiring against me.”

Out in the hallway, Chin and Kono were waiting. The moment Danny spotted them, he threw his hands up. “Perfect. More witnesses to my downfall. You want to enroll too, maybe start a fan club?”

Kono’s mouth twitched like she was holding back a smile. Chin didn’t bother. “Looks like you’ve already got one.”

Danny pointed a finger at Steve. “This is your fault.”

Chin raised an eyebrow. “We were meeting with one of the cybercrime professors. She's consulting on that warehouse dump we’re working.”

Kono added, “Steve said your class ended at four-fifteen. We figured we’d catch you after.”

Danny narrowed his eyes. “So this is a stakeout now? You’re all doing stakeouts on me?”

Chin smiled faintly. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Grace peeked around Danny, eyes lighting up. “Chin! Kono!” She ran forward, wrapping her arms around both of them. “Danno, they are here for us!”

Danny muttered, “Of course they are,” and looked up at the ceiling like it personally betrayed him.

Steve spoke from behind him, casual as ever. “We’ve got a lead. Something HPD either missed or ignored. Thought you might want in.”

Danny didn’t even turn. “Nope. I’m off the clock. Office hours are over, and I’m not taking field trips with you lunatics.”

Grace tugged at his sleeve. “But Danno…”

He looked down at her — and she gave him that look. Not the wheedling one. The quiet one. The one that cut right through him.

“Grandpa would want you to,” she said.

And that was it. One line, one look — and Danny felt the wind go out of him. He crouched beside her, voice softer now. “Monkey, I am helping. But I also need to make sure I come home. Every time.”

She nodded. “You will. You’ve got people now.”

Danny looked past her at the three of them — Steve, Chin, Kono — standing there like they’d always belonged. And maybe, just maybe… they did.

He stood, rubbed a hand over his face, and pointed at Steve. “One stop. One. And if I miss a paper deadline, you can explain APA format to a room full of pre-law students.”

Steve, already walking, tossed back, “They’ll love me.”

Grace skipped to catch up. “Everyone loves Uncle Steve.”

Danny sighed. “I am surrounded. Absolutely surrounded.”

Chin chuckled. Kono smirked. Steve didn’t even look back — he already knew he’d won this one.

Again.

Chapter Text

The afternoon sun was already slipping low by the time the Camaro pulled up to a row of storage units near the docks — the kind of place Danny usually associated with mob shakedowns, stolen motorcycles, or unpaid alimony, not family field trips.

He stared out the window. “Tell me again why we’re here, and why my daughter is in the backseat?”

Steve didn’t even glance over. “HPD wrote this place off. But my dad’s notes didn’t.”

“Right. Because HPD also wrote off drag marks at a crime scene,” Danny muttered. “Which means their report isn’t worth the paper it’s—”

“Danno,” Grace cut in from the back, “you promised no yelling until after dinner.”

Danny turned in his seat, scandalized. “That wasn’t yelling, Monkey. That was… emphasis.”

Grace smirked, unconvinced.

Kono leaned in from the driver’s seat — she’d insisted on driving today, and Danny still wasn’t sure how Steve had allowed it. “I’ll hang back with Grace. You three go check it out.”

Danny opened his mouth to argue, but Grace was already unbuckling, coloring supplies tucked under her arm. “It’s fine, Danno. Kono’s gonna show me how to make paper flowers.”

“See?” Kono winked. “Safe as it gets.”

Danny groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If my kid ends up folding origami cranes while we’re getting shot at—”

“No one’s getting shot at,” Steve said, already unlocking the unit.

The inside was dim, heavy with dust and salt. Shelves lined the walls — tarps, rusted tools, forgotten tackle boxes. Normal enough.

“See?” Steve said. “Just storage.”

Danny crouched low, fingertips brushing a faint trail in the dust. “You ever notice how ‘just storage’ usually means we’re about to find something terrible?”

Chin leaned in. “What do you see?”

Danny pointed. “Scuff marks. Something heavy was dragged through here not long ago. And that box—” he gestured toward the back—“too clean. No dust buildup. Wasn’t here a week ago.”

Steve frowned. “You sure?”

Danny shot him a look. “Steven, I taught forensics before lunch. Before that? Twelve years of homicide. I can spot a sloppy cover-up in my sleep.”

Chin flipped open the box. Ledgers, carefully wrapped in plastic. He scanned one, his brows tightening. “Numbers. Payout trails.”

Steve’s jaw set. “Corruption.”

Danny rocked back on his heels, arms crossed. “And here we are holding the receipts. This isn’t HPD paperwork—they wanted this buried.”

Steve glanced at him. “Not bad, Professor.”

Danny arched a brow. “You’re lucky I like your stupid face, or I’d walk this box straight to my Evidence 101 class and let them pick it apart.”

From outside, Grace’s voice rang out, cheerful: “Danno! Kono taught me how to make a lei!”

Danny’s posture softened despite himself. He jabbed a finger in Steve’s direction on his way out. “We are talking about this later.”

Steve smirked, pocketing one of the ledgers. “Looking forward to it.”

By the time they rolled up to the McGarrett house, the sky was streaked with orange.

Grace bounded ahead, paper lei around her neck. “Danno, look what we made!”

Danny crouched, admiring it. “That’s beautiful, Monkey. You and Kono make a good team.”

Kono grinned. “She’s a natural.”

Danny tapped Grace’s nose. “Runs in the family. Unlike certain people who still don’t understand boundaries.” His gaze flicked to Steve, hauling the ledger box onto the patio like it weighed nothing.

“If these names are legit,” Steve said, “we’re sitting on a hornet’s nest.”

Chin skimmed a page, his voice tight. “Politicians. Contractors. And more than one HPD badge number.”

Danny slumped into a chair. “So John McGarrett was chasing corruption. And now we’re sitting on the trail he left behind.”

Steve leaned forward. “Or the trail to his killer.”

Danny jabbed a finger at him. “Careful. That’s the kind of thinking that gets people buried.”

Grace tugged his sleeve. “Can I show Uncle Steve how to make one too?”

Danny gave her a crooked smile. “Of course monkey.”

Steve didn’t answer, caught for a moment between surprise and something softer.

Grace darted inside with Kono for more paper. Danny’s voice dropped low. “She’s not getting anywhere near this mess. Whatever’s in those ledgers, we’re careful. We don’t cut corners, we do it the right way. My daughter sleeps at night, my students show up expecting me in the morning, and none of this collapses in court because you kicked down the wrong door.”

Steve’s expression didn’t shift, but his silence carried weight.

Chin and Kono exchanged a glance — both recognizing it. Danny wasn’t hedging. But he was going to keep this team tethered, whether Steve liked it or not.

Grace came back, scattering paper across the table. “Sit still, Uncle Steve.”

Danny muttered, “If he starts folding intel reports into swans, that’s on you.”

Grace giggled, looping a bright strip of paper around Steve’s neck. “You’re good together,” she declared.

Danny groaned, head in his hands. His students had said the same thing earlier that week, whispering behind his back when Steve sat through lecture after lecture. Guarding the professor. Staring at him like he was the whole show.

And now his daughter was joining the chorus.

“I’m doomed,” Danny muttered.

Steve just smiled.

Danny leaned forward, stabbing a finger in Steve’s direction. “Listen, Navy — I’m not your partner, I’m not your soldier, and you don’t bark orders at me. I’m here because John deserves better than HPD’s garbage file, and because I know what corruption smells like. But we do this smart. That means probable cause, warrants, Miranda rights—”

Kono raised a brow. “You really think we’ll have time for all that when we’re chasing the people who killed John?”

Danny threw up both hands. “Yes! That’s literally the job! Otherwise what’s the point? You drag these bastards in, and a judge tosses the whole thing out because we skipped the basics? You don’t just—” he waved both hands again—“smash your way through doors and call it justice. Rules keep a case airtight.”

Steve, maddeningly calm, said, “Danny.”

Danny’s head snapped around. “What?”

Steve’s voice stayed even. “We’re not bound by the usual rules. The Governor gave us authority — immunity, resources. We don’t have to play by HPD’s limits.”

Danny’s jaw worked. “That’s not a gift, Steven. That’s a loaded gun. Rules exist for a reason — chain of custody, probable cause, warrants. You think immunity makes us untouchable? It doesn’t. It makes us sloppy if we’re not careful. And sloppy gets people hurt. Gets cases tossed. Gets Grace left without a father.”

For a beat, silence. Then Chin spoke, low. “He’s not wrong.”

Kono nodded slightly, eyes steady on Danny.

Steve leaned back, unreadable, but a flicker of something — respect — crossed his face. “Alright, Professor. We’ll do it your way.”

Danny crossed his arms, muttering, “Damn right we will.”

Chapter Text