He groans.

His head hangs between his knees and he's holding it between his hands, fingers gripping tufts of hair as if he's afraid it might simply roll off his neck if he lets go.

Last night may have been too much.

Again.

Too much of a fine Scotch; not enough of thinking things through.

Gingerly he tries opening his eyes, only to quickly slam them shut again.

Still too much.

He's been trying to force himself to get up from the couch for the last hour or two, trying to tell himself he needs to at least drink some water, or maybe even try eating something. Anything to stop the roller-coaster in his head, the roiling in his stomach.

A dry chuckle reaches his ears, the sound slightly off as if coming from a great distance. As if passing through layers of earth.

Filled with dust.

He opens one bleary eye and blinks before settling on the hazy figure sitting across from him.

"Rough night, huh?"

The voice sounds off as well. It's the same voice he's known for so many years, the same voice that always managed to either calm him or rile him up, talk sense into him or astonish him by its sheer audacity. Yet it's different in every aspect that matters. It's wrong, somehow.

And he's been hearing it for three weeks straight now.

The roving blue orb in the right side of his head manages to still long enough to focus on the long legs stretched out across the coffee table, taking in the tattered green t-shirt tucked partially into the shredded cargo pants, seeing the dark stains on both items of clothing.

"I wish you'd change those clothes, McGarrett. You're starting to reek."

The dark head on the other side of the table dips down as a long arm lifts up, then switches to the other side.

"Hm. Yeah, you're right."

There's a sigh.

"Actually, there's not much I can do about that, Danno. Obviously."

His response is a high-pitched giggle, followed by a softly groaned "Yeah, obviously."

He opens his other eye, switching to put less strain on his eyeballs. They feel like they're about to implode. Explode. Whatever eyeballs do when there's too much stress placed upon them after a hard night's drinking. After several weeks of hard drinking, actually. Whatever, it won't be good if he lets them do what they want. He groans again, hears another dry - dusty, earthy - chuckle.

"Oh come on, Danno. You know what my old man used to say about drinking. A man at night ..."

He snorts.

"... a man in the morning. Yeah yeah, McGarrett. Save it for those who care. Or haven't heard that story, like, a million times already."

A soft laugh.

Tears suddenly fill his eyes, and his breath hitches in his throat. That laugh ...

"You know I miss you, right? I really, really miss you, Steven!"

Three weeks. It's been three weeks, during which thoughts like "we should've taken the other door" and "we should've planned it differently" and "I should've made sure he wore his flack jacket!" have been driving him crazy; been driving him nearly insane.

There's another sigh.

"I know, Danno. I miss you guys too. I miss you."

The silence that follows feels oppressive, like dirt stacked on his chest.

When he opens his eyes again, his sight shimmering from tears and too many shots of whiskey and not enough hours of sleep, he seeks out the figure across the table, only to find he's gone.

Again.

"McGarrett?"

Gingerly lifting his head, he slowly swivels it from left to right, scanning across the room.

There's nobody there.

Of course.

Sighing, he manages to tuck his legs underneath him and slowly get up from the couch, only to cock his head as the distant sound of a dirt-dry chuckle reaches his ears.

He feels a slow, bitter-sweet smile spread across his face.

"I'm glad you're still enjoying yourself, McGarrett."

He sighs, fighting against the sudden sharp ache in his chest as he makes his way to the kitchen.

"Wherever you are right now."