It's easy as breathing, really. As opening his eyes. As sliding Five-0 to back pocket, except off of shit, when he goes on Reserve Weekends or Extended Mission make-ups. It's like waking up, and falling asleep, and knowing how it feels to give over to the rocking of the ocean, every morning, how it's always the same, even when every set of waves is always different from the last or the next. As known as the feeling of his gun.
The way his hands find the skin on her sides, slide into the curve of her waist, without a single thought taking place, when she moves in close. Dark eyes bright with such uncomplicated promise and warm willingness that the first impulse is easily to just fall into it. Roll out. To barely hear how the door closed behind her, for the way her voice dips low and familiar, untainted by every single other thing outside that door, or inside this room.
When he doesn't have to look at any of it, because he's arching against the finger tips and military regulations filed nails of one hand, threading into his hair, pushing against his scalp, curving into a quiet demand as much as invitation and dragging him close. Gentle enough it's not actually a demand, it's just a firm offer. The way she knows works. Has always worked. Fingers on his skin, promise of so many days and years unchangeable in her tone, breath beating out against his lips.
The whisper of warmth, tugging up an ache across the entire inside of his chest. One he's gotten used to lately.
And it's that second that his chest seizes on the perfect opportunity, his head filled with Danny's face suddenly.
The moment on the porch as he sputtered out things like Look, shut up. Just, shut up. Stop joking. I figure, you know, you might appreciate a minute to consider, or reconsider. Which is definitely not to say that I want that, okay, that is pretty much the exact opposite of what I want, but, you know, I am not really good with casual sex -- the whole 'keeping it casual' factor.
Right down into that blurry moment in the dark when Danny had said Steve had to tell Cath, like he needed to inform his girlfriend of a change of adress. Or whatever it was. Whatever was happening. Whatever was happening so much that the center of his was seizing like ice, angry and sad and desperate in such waring clashes, as his hands had slid up to her shoulders in the second of sensation and realizing.
Grabbing the edges of them too hard and pulling her feet back, fast and sudden. At the same time as his head and shoulders jerked back from being near her face. The words almost as damning, and hated, and confusing to every other sensation in him, as they fell out, wretchedly fast, "I can't." Desperately grasping for a solid answer he doesn't even have. "There's-" Because he doesn't know. He doesn't know at all, okay?
But he knows Danny stayed last night. And he knows that he fucked up whatever his answer was about Cath the first time.
And he knows that whatever he just wanted, consider doing, still feels in the tumbling race of his heart, between warmth and panic, trained so easily to making him even higher into hyper wired, toward exact focus, never loss of it, would take whatever it is and decimate it even quicker than it's already going to go. Because even if it does, if it's minutes or months, it's true.
It's always been true. It'd just never been real. And that pale imitation of reality, more fragile than glass shards in an already bombed house, decimating this, even taking this from him, too, he can't let go of it. Still. Even when he can feel the edges of it cutting through the his skin of the hand grasping it suddenly, taking the last untouched thing, with that one breath and repeat.
no subject
The way his hands find the skin on her sides, slide into the curve of her waist, without a single thought taking place, when she moves in close. Dark eyes bright with such uncomplicated promise and warm willingness that the first impulse is easily to just fall into it. Roll out. To barely hear how the door closed behind her, for the way her voice dips low and familiar, untainted by every single other thing outside that door, or inside this room.
When he doesn't have to look at any of it, because he's arching against the finger tips and military regulations filed nails of one hand, threading into his hair, pushing against his scalp, curving into a quiet demand as much as invitation and dragging him close. Gentle enough it's not actually a demand, it's just a firm offer. The way she knows works. Has always worked. Fingers on his skin, promise of so many days and years unchangeable in her tone, breath beating out against his lips.
The whisper of warmth, tugging up an ache across the entire inside of his chest. One he's gotten used to lately.
And it's that second that his chest seizes on the perfect opportunity, his head filled with Danny's face suddenly.
The moment on the porch as he sputtered out things like Look, shut up. Just, shut up. Stop joking. I figure, you know, you might appreciate a minute to consider, or reconsider. Which is definitely not to say that I want that, okay, that is pretty much the exact opposite of what I want, but, you know, I am not really good with casual sex -- the whole 'keeping it casual' factor.
Right down into that blurry moment in the dark when Danny had said Steve had to tell Cath, like he needed to inform his girlfriend of a change of adress. Or whatever it was. Whatever was happening. Whatever was happening so much that the center of his was seizing like ice, angry and sad and desperate in such waring clashes, as his hands had slid up to her shoulders in the second of sensation and realizing.
Grabbing the edges of them too hard and pulling her feet back, fast and sudden. At the same time as his head and shoulders jerked back from being near her face. The words almost as damning, and hated, and confusing to every other sensation in him, as they fell out, wretchedly fast, "I can't." Desperately grasping for a solid answer he doesn't even have. "There's-" Because he doesn't know. He doesn't know at all, okay?
But he knows Danny stayed last night. And he knows that he fucked up whatever his answer was about Cath the first time.
And he knows that whatever he just wanted, consider doing, still feels in the tumbling race of his heart, between warmth and panic, trained so easily to making him even higher into hyper wired, toward exact focus, never loss of it, would take whatever it is and decimate it even quicker than it's already going to go. Because even if it does, if it's minutes or months, it's true.
It's always been true. It'd just never been real. And that pale imitation of reality, more fragile than glass shards in an already bombed house, decimating this, even taking this from him, too, he can't let go of it. Still. Even when he can feel the edges of it cutting through the his skin of the hand grasping it suddenly, taking the last untouched thing, with that one breath and repeat.
"There's someone else."