His eyes have fallen closed, a breath out through his nose, gentle and almost relieved, before he blinks those eyes open, slightly, peers down through eyelashes at the arm lying across his stomach, Steve's hip still hitched close to his, Steve's stomach and chest still pressed to Danny's side. Long leg still heavy on Danny's. He's like a log in the middle of a backcountry road: passive, but impossible to move.
Which suits Danny fine. Another breath, deeply in and let out in a way that could almost be a sigh, accompanied by a low, contented rumble of a noise deep in his throat, while his hand slides up over the back of Steve's, thumb rubbing gentle against the delicate bones of Steve's wrist as it's being slid over, palm and fingers coasting slowly, loose but deliberate, up to his forearm, where they come to rest. Fingers following the curve of muscle, tips resting gently.
His other arm is caught somewhere under Steve's side, and he tugs it free without bothering to move the rest of himself, moving slow, caught in some frame by frame progression or air that's turned inexplicably to molasses. Shifting just enough to push that arm back, through what little space lives between Steve's neck and the bed. Curling haphazardly up, so his fingers find the back of Steve's shoulder, and he can tip his head that way, towards the dip Steve's head makes in the pillow or whatever this is.
It's a good thing he feels like he's been punched in the head, because the things he would say if he could talk are absolutely not going to fly.
But he wants them, anyway. Some part of him. (Maybe all of him.) Wants to tuck Steve close and mumble words into his hair, just nonsense things, wants to call him Steve or babe or even McGarrett just to see what the reaction would be. Tease him about being a Neanderthal and how Danny's pretty sure Steve actually might have hit him over the head with a club, that seems like his style. Wants to point out his beautiful in this light, before disagreeing with himself and admitting Steve's beautiful all the time, achingly so, enough that Danny can't concentrate, when Steve's slipping up under his skin like a needle full of sunlight.
How maybe this island isn't so bad, when Steve's on it. How maybe most places wouldn't be so bad, if Steve were there, but Danny doesn't want to leave and find out because he never wants to leave this spot, never wants to be further away than right now.
Wants to run the tip of his thumb along the sweat-damp line of Steve's hair. To cup his whole hand around the back of Steve's head and cradle him close. Which is more absurd than ever. To want to protect the Navy SEAL, the officer, the leader of their task force, who is a force of nature and a force for justice and who definitely doesn't need Danny trying to keep him close and safe but, hey, Danny doesn't try to explain it, it is what it is. Like a hand on Steve's arm and another one his shoulder could fend the world away.
When what he really wants to say is don't go. When all he really wants is to be allowed to stay. And stay.
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Which suits Danny fine. Another breath, deeply in and let out in a way that could almost be a sigh, accompanied by a low, contented rumble of a noise deep in his throat, while his hand slides up over the back of Steve's, thumb rubbing gentle against the delicate bones of Steve's wrist as it's being slid over, palm and fingers coasting slowly, loose but deliberate, up to his forearm, where they come to rest. Fingers following the curve of muscle, tips resting gently.
His other arm is caught somewhere under Steve's side, and he tugs it free without bothering to move the rest of himself, moving slow, caught in some frame by frame progression or air that's turned inexplicably to molasses. Shifting just enough to push that arm back, through what little space lives between Steve's neck and the bed. Curling haphazardly up, so his fingers find the back of Steve's shoulder, and he can tip his head that way, towards the dip Steve's head makes in the pillow or whatever this is.
It's a good thing he feels like he's been punched in the head, because the things he would say if he could talk are absolutely not going to fly.
But he wants them, anyway. Some part of him. (Maybe all of him.) Wants to tuck Steve close and mumble words into his hair, just nonsense things, wants to call him Steve or babe or even McGarrett just to see what the reaction would be. Tease him about being a Neanderthal and how Danny's pretty sure Steve actually might have hit him over the head with a club, that seems like his style. Wants to point out his beautiful in this light, before disagreeing with himself and admitting Steve's beautiful all the time, achingly so, enough that Danny can't concentrate, when Steve's slipping up under his skin like a needle full of sunlight.
How maybe this island isn't so bad, when Steve's on it. How maybe most places wouldn't be so bad, if Steve were there, but Danny doesn't want to leave and find out because he never wants to leave this spot, never wants to be further away than right now.
Wants to run the tip of his thumb along the sweat-damp line of Steve's hair. To cup his whole hand around the back of Steve's head and cradle him close. Which is more absurd than ever. To want to protect the Navy SEAL, the officer, the leader of their task force, who is a force of nature and a force for justice and who definitely doesn't need Danny trying to keep him close and safe but, hey, Danny doesn't try to explain it, it is what it is. Like a hand on Steve's arm and another one his shoulder could fend the world away.
When what he really wants to say is don't go. When all he really wants is to be allowed to stay. And stay.