There's a little nip, gentler, like an apology, but it still shoots daggers into Danny's gut, where they melt into a pool of boiling lead along with the rest of his organs and what feels like any possible remaining sense of restraint or willpower. Kissing him in a way he hasn't since, Christ. Maybe that first day, when Steve came back and he wasn't dead, wasn't broken into pieces, was gone for six weeks and came back with that stupid look on his face and his breathless book 'em, Danno.

Because he's still here. Came running out to stop Danny from leaving, to explain, not to say it's been fun, see you at work, not to point out that any man in their right mind would prefer Cath and her simplicity, her familiarity, to Danny and all his fears, all his sensitivity and petty jealousies. Who needs the aggravation?

Steve, apparently. Steve, who pushes up to kiss him again, hard and hot, like Danny might dissolve underneath him, hands running heavy over every part of exposed skin, pushing up to find a little room between them, which Danny hates, even when it leads to fingers fumbling at the button and zipper of his jeans, the ones Steve liked so much. Enough that he almost might wear them more often, on a weekend or after work, now and again, just to see what happens, to see if he can catch the second Steve's pulse lifts and his eyes catch.

But the jeans are done, now, too hot, clinging to hips and legs and harder than they look to push off, especially since he's still wearing shoes. Those getting toed off and dropped someplace, one hand leaving Steve to shove at denim, and he's laughing, or groaning, impatient and exasperated at the same time, into Steve's mouth.

"I told you I hated these things, why are jeans so hard to get off?"