Henry Coles

Steve hadn't been expecting mail, let alone a thick manila envelope emblazoned with the seal of the US Navy and delivered overnight express. He'd been in the military long enough to know that unexpected paperwork was seldom a good thing, and so he thanked the delivery guy and took the package into the living room, sitting down on the sofa to open it.

He tipped the envelope over and a small black box fell into his hand, followed by a sheaf of papers. He opened the box first. Silver oak leaves on black velvet. An off-cycle promotion.

His stomach turned into knots as he picked up the sheet of paper on top. Cardstock. Calligraphy.

Honorable Discharge.

"Commander Steven J. McGarrett was honorably discharged from the United States Navy on June 15, 2010," he read aloud in a shaky voice. "This certificate is awarded as a testimonial of honest and faithful service."

And a tiny part of him, the one who knew just how logical and cold the military was, knew it was coming. He'd be on anti-rejection drugs for the rest of his life for the liver transplant. He couldn't be deployed like that. He couldn't serve like that. The Navy wasn't ever going to hug him back.

He'd hoped for an exception. For an explanation. For a phone call first.

Shit.

"Shit," he said, wiping his eyes.

Steve had been gritting his teeth and pushing through pain all week, nourished only by bland, terrible food, decaf coffee, and stubbornness.

(He was also fueled by his transplant anti-rejection pills, which he'd take for the rest of his life. He hated that.)

He wasn't running, but he was definitely walking up and down the steps of the island until his calves burned, and then did it for another half hour.

(His body had betrayed him after decades of work making it a finely oiled machine. He was punishing it just a little.)

And now he was back in the apartment, looking for something interesting to eat. There was nothing interesting to eat, but he was looking anyway.

[OOC: For Danno.]

Steve and Danny had arrived back from Hawai'i late last night after being released from the hospital earlier in the week. (Well, they thought it had been earlier in the week. Time had gotten weird traveling back from 2010.) They'd taken their bruised selves to separate bedrooms (it had taken only one night to realize that two people with still-healing liver transplant scars and restless sleep habits did not mix) and had gone to sleep.

And now Steve was waking up feeling amazing. Dare he say that he even felt swell?

Because he felt a lot like a super-soldier in the 1940s. He leaped athletically from bed and headed out into the kitchen, preparing to eat all the food he found there while trying to figure out why he wasn't still in London in 1945.

[OOC: Yes, I've swapped to a different Steve again.]