gonna_owe_me | Post 3.01 - The McGarrett Family Home

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Post 3.01 - The McGarrett Family Home

It doesn't come as any kind of surprise to her that she hasn't been able to stop thinking about Steve.

Neither does the fact that those thoughts come with a hefty side-helping of guilt. She should have known those trees were too close to the window. She should have been faster, more alert. Maybe they could have caught him, if she'd been doing the damn job Steve told her to do, if she'd done it the way he thought she could.

No surprise there: like she told him, she's not a bodyguard. She's a long way from basic, or doing anything that isn't in a gym or in front of a computer, and he doesn't blame her, but in some ways that just makes it worse.

So she puts in her request for leave right away, requests the weekend, and it's granted without too many hoops to jump through, but she's got to give up her Friday night and part of Saturday morning, which is fine, too. All she needs is to change, find a pair of shorts and a breezy, teal-colored top that hangs loose off her shoulders. Slides a pair of sandals on, brushes out her hair, washes her face, puts on a little makeup. She skips the gym, but throws running shoes, shorts, and a sports bra into the little bag she packs, along with a swimsuit, before slinging it over a shoulder and hitting the pavement.

The sun is high and hot, and she stops at a food truck, first, grabs two cardboard boxes, steaming with a scent that makes her stomach rumble and curl in on itself, before hailing a cab and sliding into the too-warm, hot polyester scented backseat, and giving the address.

It's been a while since she's been here. Cab rolling off in a faint crunch of gravel, leaving her with the tote over her arm, the food in her hand, looking up at the house with eyes squinting in the sun.

Doris left last night. Right? That gives Steve last evening, all night, and this morning to do his thing, be alone, brood if he wants to, deal with the admittedly ridiculous hand he's been given, and she'd have respected that, even if she didn't have to work, which is why she didn't call or text, just let him be, but it's daylight now, and it's gorgeous out, and there's only so much alone time Steve can really take. No matter what he might think.

Leading her up the path to the door, to knock, adjusting the slippery straps of her shirt, brushing hair out of her eyes as she waits. Rearranging her expression just like she does her makeup, or her clothes, so that when the door opens, she's got nothing there but a smile and the usual pleased light at seeing him.

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"You obviously have some control left, if you can keep talking."

Jesus fucking Christ on a pogo stick, he really is the most aggravating person Danny's ever met, makes Danny want to snap at him even now, even when he's pushing into Steve's hands and rolling closer, wanting Steve pressed flush against him, all lean long six feet of him, every infuriating inch that Danny alternately wants to burn down or shut in a corner so Steve can think about what he's done.

Because Danny was fine before he met Steve. In that way where fine meant he hated everything and everyone, never got close to a single person other than Gracie and, eventually, Meka. Hating Hawaii, and Rachel, and HPD, and not knowing the language and digging in his heels to make sure he never did. Hating Steve more than any of it, all of it. Until one day he wasn't hating Steve anymore, one day Steve was his best friend and the person Danny trusts most in the world and now --

And now Steve is teasing him with fingers and mouth and stupid, smug words, pointing out the fact that Danny clearly lost it long ago, and, okay, he probably has a point, but Danny's certainly not going to give it to him that easily.

He's gone crazy. Steve makes him crazy. Making him want to rip those rules to shreds, the ones that say they shouldn't, can't, be here. That they both know exist. And he should listen to them, but all that thought does is spark a sudden, deeply horrified thought that maybe Steve will listen to them, that maybe that's how this is going to go, cut off even before they get anywhere, which is insane, which only goes to show that, yes, he has actually lost his mind.

He doesn't care. It makes him press up into this kiss, palm sliding heavy up the back of Steve's neck to his hair, down again, arm wrapping around Steve's waist and tugging him bodily closer. Steve's a big guy, but Danny can move him around, always has, has got zero issue with getting in Steve's way and putting him exactly where Danny thinks he should be, which is usually further from some poor scared sucker of a witness than Steve likes.

Hauling him further onto him, and, yeah. Okay? Yeah. Words dark and muttered low into Steve's mouth.

"Oh yeah? You know what I want, huh, Steve?"

He's idiotic. He's giddy. It's gone straight to his head like thirty year old Scotch, and he's pretty sure Steve could answer that question, challenge, dare, with just about anything, and it would be right, because it would be Steve, Steve, Steve. Name tight and winded, pressed into the single drowning breath before he kisses him, again.

He's being pulled at and shoved, and the last thing Steve's about to do, even when he's trying not to laugh at the irritating making sharp edges out of all of Danny's words, is not follow. God. Like there's any way he'd move anywhere else. Anything else in the world, the universe, needed more than following those hands. Being drug so that he's covering even more of Danny, laying on top of him.

Unable to keep a groan from slipping through his lips, into Danny's mouth. Because he might have been fine with just driving home the damn point, but Danny would not be. And his own body is making it stunningly clear, especially when he's manhandled like he's anything smaller and easier moved than he is, that it really likes all of this. Which is not a surprise. But it still has his back arch, stomach muscles all crunching tight, grinding down into Danny at a flash of actually unexpected sparks.

"Yeah," Steve shot back. Not a single second's hesitation for Danny's question, that wasn't taken up in kissing Danny.

In driving the man's head into the pillow, by a handful of hair, or into the bed with the hand at his hip still. Before he slid his face, like he couldn't get close enough. Didn't want a single inch between his mouth and Danny's ear. Like Danny could possibly miss it. Even from five inches away.

When Steve barely permits the one in the smoldering, golden, doubtlessness of, "Me."

Every bit of him. Somehow. No matter how crazy, beyond of control, it is and he is and they get. Danny keeps saying it.
Keeps dragging him in, and pushing him further, harder, higher. Always meeting him and giving him just as much, too.

"Look at that, you're getting it."

As if it isn't obvious. As if he hasn't been saying so since the first day. In words, touches, looks. The way every now and again he honestly can't take his eyes off Steve, even when he's not doing anything particularly interesting. Even if he's just sitting at his desk, or on his couch, or driving the car, or drinking a beer or one of those horrifying green shakes he's so fond of.

Snagged on him. Stopped dead in the middle of whatever he was saying or doing to wonder what the hell is wrong with the way he thought the world works, that he somehow gets this. Gets Steve. No matter how soon or how ugly the end might be, he has him, right now. In bed. Whispering that words into his ear, with absolute confidence. So fucking beautiful it takes Danny's breath away, which is a lot more appealing in movies and music than it in real life, when it means a sudden sharp crack in his chest, the inability to catch any air at all.

Not that it matters, when Steve just steals it again.

Or when Danny tips his head to the side, and drags Steve back up from his ear to find his mouth, because he's sick of talking. Yes. Even him. There are times. Times to swallow words he's already got lining up to be let out, because Steve is a lunatic and it's dangerous to give him too much free rein, but at this point, the car is already sailing off the cliff, so he might as well go ahead and set it on fire.

He really doesn't have long to look smacked over with smug, because Danny's not giving him the time. Words. Words, come out, a little biting and just enough edged with humor, like Steve was a child who might have announced the sky was blue. And maybe that goes to his head, too. Flippant, sharp and amazed. Because really, Danny being so completely on level fine with the reference still makes his heart race faster.

Something he can barely think about either, when Danny's face is turning and he's being drug, over, back up. Direction doesn't even seem to matter, or exist anymore. It's just finding Danny's mouth, and meeting the kiss that's gone looking for him. This touch that feels at once like a reckless challenge, and vicious surrender. Nothing easy in them. Maybe on the outside. When this, this entire push and shove, bark and bite, taunting and teasing, thing feels like the easiest thing in the world.

Feels like the single, one and only, thing he doesn't have to fight. Doesn't have to struggle to feel real, keep breathing, his head over water.

When he doesn't think, it happens in the space of breathing. The whole world falling away on the taste of Danny's skin. The movement of his lips. The ways his fingers always find their way into Danny's hair. The way he can never, may never, get enough of the feel of Danny's hands captured from the air, plastered on his skin. Like for the first time in his life there isn't enough of it. His skin, his body. Usually too much, and too tall, and perfect for slamming into things, but careful else wise. Compact unless he's at ease.

Like Danny might find all of it and keep going, elsewhere, once its done. Insane, feverish thoughts. When he can't get over the smallest space of Danny. The sound of him breathing. The feeling of his stomach muscles under the hand Steve has drifting between his hip and his side. Like there could never, never, be enough hours in a day, a weekend, a month to memorize all of it. All of him.

Apparently that's good enough, or distracting enough, because Steve drops the act and the words and stops taunting Danny only to set about burning down the room around them, the bed underneath them. Letting himself be hauled onto Danny, while Danny's leg bends at the knee, brackets him in, leaning hard against Steve's leg. Danny's arm tight around the back of his waist. Meeting that kiss like a goddamn landslide, threatening to bury Danny under it all, and, Christ, he wouldn't care. Would be happy to let it happen, because he never wants to leave this spot, okay.

Whether Steve is attempting to shatter him, or drag Danny's lungs right out through snapped ribs, or muffling him into the mattress, or not. He likes it here. Said so.

Here is where Steve's hand is flat against his stomach, making Danny's muscles contract, hard, against his touch, like they've been zapped with a jolt. Back arching, shoving shoulders down, torso up. Against Steve's weight. And he'd like to keep his eyes open to watch all this, to make sure it's happening, but he can't, because Steve's mouth is destroying him and building him right back up again, brick by broken brick. Wanting him. Even against the rules.

Danny has never been so glad Steve has never met a rule in the time he's known him that hasn't been left crumpled and cracked open on the wayside.

It's a lie that there's nothing left to say. There's plenty. All about how he still isn't this kind of girl, Steve, only, it appears he is. Falling back into bed, the most complicated bed there is, right here, again. With zero plans to stop it before it stops on its own. And about how Steve should really rethink this Viking mentality, okay, Danny is not a village to be burned and pillaged and sacrificed to whatever horrifying three-faced god or deity that allows Steve to pull the shit he pulls with barely a scratch here and there.

But it just comes out as Steve, Steve, tiny and damaged against Steve's mouth, a fucking litany, like he still can't believe it, even with proof in his hands, pushing against his body, setting off, huh, sparklers in his eyes.

Not the kind to do damage, though. Which, that really was just sick.

For a smaller, if deceptively stocky, man, Danny has a pretty constant habit for locking him into a place. Or at least doing his best to throw all of himself at it, or the idea of it. Any other time or place or person in his life, Steve's pretty sure he would have a few more issues with it. But here, now, all he wants to wrap Danny around himself, or vice-versa, and never resurface. What would be the point. Why should they.

The world could keep from trying to poison and kill itself for a few days, right?

So that he could give into this. Not just a few hours. Feeling like he's stealing each second from the sun. Both the one that set and the one getting closer with each passing minute. When Danny's been gone, or he was, or the world, in its many facet's was trying shake apart in their hands. So that Friday is a blur, and most of the weekend, aside from Cath's laugh, and her shock, and the hellish endless day, comprising many days without sleep, in the week before it.

Back to nearly the beginning of last week. Or maybe right before the beginning. Which is insane. That one can't still be the first weekend, and they can't have lost this whole week. Lost the chance to even note it was still here, because they weren't, hadn't been. Here. Got caught up in so much else going on out there. But it is. It's already gone. With every single jagged bite it took out of every obvious and not-so-obvious place already.

It's almost possible to forget it entirely, when Danny's got his leg curl over the backs of his, and he's got an arm almost like a bar against Steve's back. Holding him there. Again. Like Steve had plans on getting up and go anywhere else, doing anything, anyone, else.

Like he's even capable of doing anything but feeling the burn in his chest, through his lungs, as Danny surges up against his like a wave. Danny straining up into him, muscles and ribs, and the loud, thundering race of Danny's heart, pressing into Steve's own chest. Before the words come, breaking on his lips, his teeth, and his tongue, and Steve still feels like it's insane Danny doesn't get it. The power he has in a single word. Set of syllables he's heard all his life.

Tripping and escaping, fast off Danny's mouth into his, with the force of a shovel pummeling the back of Steve's head.

When he doesn't know which perverse part of his braincells left clinging on has him whispering, "Breathe, Babe."

Edited 2013-03-04 06:14 (UTC)

It makes him laugh, which is entirely against what Steve's telling him to do, a waste of the air he actually has managed to get, or keep, when it breaks ragged against Steve's mouth, tearing from lungs that don't seem to work right. Just like nothing seems to work right, around Steve. It's the only explanation for the way his body seems to have a mind of its own, control lost, snapped like a thread somewhere against Steve's fingers or his mouth or the words he keeps saying low into Danny's ear. Impossible words, like I want you and you already drive me insane, which, that's not fair. Danny can't be held responsible for all of Steve's crazy, that's like taking responsibility for the country's obsession with reality shows, or for Kim Jong Il.

Except Steve doesn't always seem crazy. Like right now. Instead of shoving Danny closer to the fire, he's holding onto him, arms hard and secure, weight pressing down in a way that's more reassuring than smothering, which is absurd. Steve crowds him. Drags him. Steve turns criminals into sad, smudged spots on the road, with this same body weight.

But Steve's not doing anything like that, now. If anything, he's tugging Danny back from the crumbling edge, voice quiet, tight and constrained, but low. Almost soothing. Like this is as much about, what. Taking care of Danny, as it is forcing Danny to lose every inch of self-control he's got left, wrapping that tattered cloak back around himself.

Making Danny take in a hard, deep breath that scrapes against his lungs like metal, a reckless, stupid smile pulling at his mouth against the helpless laugh. "I sort of thought you were aiming for the opposite."

Christ. How the hell is he supposed to breathe. Remember to. Care to. How could anyone, when Steve is here, shoving a lightning storm under his skin, settling on him like continental drift. When that second word darts past the roiling insanity to stick in something hidden deep and soft, striking with an ache that spreads like lit gasoline across the rest of his body. Something he's heard Steve say plenty of times, sure -- but not like this. Not in that dark, low, lingering voice. Whispered rough into his mouth. Hit like a light switch.

"You are not conducive to breathing."

He's sure he's made that point before, but it clearly bears repeating.

There will never be enough minutes in this night, in these hours, for this.

The inside of his chest filling, steamrollering any lungs and organs stupid enough to be in the way, trying to shove out at his ribs, the way his heart already can't stop tumbling and sprinting toward decimation, as Danny is laughing and smiling right into his skin. That slightly crazy, deeply ragged, bent sound that makes it sound like Steve's suggestion is not only insane, it is literally the other side of impossible.

How is that not supposed to go to his head. How is he not supposed to wrap his hands around it and tug and prod and push at it. Every single time he can. Every single second available to him. How he is he supposed to even turn around, while holding case files, or talking to other officers, and not remember, for a flash of a second, Danny like this. Trembling at the edge of undone.

Letting Steve do this, egging him on with single smart mouthed remark, dragging Steve down into the flame with him.

Steve kissed him, again, even with the words beating at his mouth. Nothing. Nothing was as important as touching him, again. Even when he dragged back with a snort, mouth stretched wide in the kind of smile than was heedless of containment or control, beyond smug and arrogant, into something almost amusing twisted, like Danny had any idea what could be meant by that statement. Danny. "Look who's talking."

Danny wasn't conducive to any of it. His ability to breathe. His ability to think. Whether in here, or even on the job, when it came to certain other cases and specific days in the past. When Steve blew straight past any ability to be stopped, to be willing to listen, to let anything or anyone get in his way, for Danny. Before all of this. Before it was madness spoling out in every direction.

Every reason to stop, to not go forward, beyond the rules themselves already. Every single overturned, rammed through, warning sign. That is a hazy whisper beside all of this. Danny's voice filling his room. Danny's hands mapping his skin, like they are remaking it and burning it down. Danny, himself. Warm under his hands. Under every part of himself, right now, right here. When he can't help rocking a little bit, just to feel Danny. All of him, pressed up tight, even when he's not trying to merge into his skin. Something he'll want to give up.

That's never been true. Right? Did he ever live as a burning coal under Rachel's skin, the way Steve is suggesting he is under his? Did she find it impossible to breathe, in better ways than the times they were screaming at each other until they were blue in the face? Steve keeps kissing him, because somehow kissing Danny is even more important than tossing a reprimand or a taunt back at Danny's head, which is just as bizarre as that taunt being true to begin with. Danny would have bet even money that Steve's favorite thing, aside from large-scale automatic weapons, was to poke and prod and strain Danny's temper, but Steve is making him wonder if he should reassess, because Steve presses a kiss that makes Danny's head swim to his mouth first, before aiming an insult that is actually nowhere near an insult.

"Are you running a fever?" He squints up at Steve, trying to catch his breath. It's catching, rusty and copper-tasting, deep in his lungs, like he just sprinted across an interstate, dodging cars the whole way. "Did you maybe hit your head on something harder than your skull? Like a diamond, or whatever they make space shuttles out of? Because you seem more delusional than usual. I realize that's a little like saying the ocean is more wet today than it normally is, but still."

Even when his voice tugs, hard, into a half-groan at the way Steve rocks against him, making Danny's hips cant up, instinctive, pushing for more, closer, if not rough and fast and mind-erasing yet.

He's joking, anyway. Mostly. It's just, it's impossible, right? Why should Steve think that, feel that. Why should there have been a year's worth of wanting someone like Danny, who can barely manage to keep his wardrobe together, let alone his life?

Listen, it's crazy, but honestly if Steve's been Bodysnatched, it would make a lot more sense out of the last few weeks.

"I mean, you aren't insulting me. Did I hit my head? Is this opposite world? Have I fallen down the rabbithole?"

God. It's glorious really. Fingers tightening on Danny's hip. One hands sliding between Danny's hair, and down his neck, only letting him away so far, even as the high never fades from just watching him. The taste of Danny on his lips, under the brush of his tongue on his own bottom lip, while Danny is dragging in air. Deep and wide, expanding into his chest, squinting down at Steve and tossing words at his head.

Words that would work so much more if his voice wasn't so thick and full. Making Steve want to lean up and taste the words. Run his mouth against Danny's throat while he's talking, like he could feel them take shape. Ideas that flame through head, and fade into ashes about as quickly as they spark into life. Because Danny's words just leave him staring at this face. Digging his teeth into the path his tongue just took, when Danny groans and hitches up into him.

Sliding his hand under, into the small of Danny back. Like somehow it'll be possible to pull him, push him closer.
Like there's any space left to be rid of between them, anyway to explain how much Danny is wrong. Has been wrong. Is.

That isn't the few seconds when his eyelids flicker closed, before he's looking down at him again. All the words that have been thrown at him nothing near the actual truth. How insane it is. Was. Realizing, and then having each week only make it more true.

"You have a problem with that?" With Steve. With the fact Steve can touch him like this, slide slow and heavy against Danny, and aim for that same reaction again, and insinuate every dirty truth that's wrung him inside out. When he can shove at Danny, push at him, in every other way, too.

"You think I'm putting you on? That you haven't driven me fucking crazy, for longer than you can even grasp," Which might sound like any other dig, like the play back to Danny's words it was meant to be, if it weren't for the way his voice is rubbing into scatter shot gravel, while his skin tightens against the feeling the same slow friction digging it's claws right back into him, tightening muscles ans causing his shoulders to roll slightly forward, shoulder blades pushing back.

It's ludicrous, to be caught on the way Steve bites his bottom lip. A sharp press into skin pinked and slick, and Danny realizes that he has actually lost his mind, right, because he's staring, gutted like a fish, on even white teeth, the bunching muscles in his jaw. He's such a goner.

"Problem, no, I have no problem here, I think that's great. It's definitely only fair, considering --"

Which turns into a strangled sound at the way Steve moves, sliding, slow and deliberate, and, Christ, he inspires the filthiest thoughts, things Danny should never, ever, have been thinking about his partner, things he had to be half-asleep to even allow, that he was always worried might somehow teleport themselves through space straight into Steve's head. Thoughts about Steve's long, lean body, and his long, quick fingers and the squared off angle of his jaw, the shadows it drops against his throat that Danny wants to taste like they might be different from the rest of him. He'd wanted to know exactly how much of Steve's body was covered in ink, wanted to trace every line with his fingers and tongue.

Wanted to hear Steve's voice turn threadbare and wanting. Wanted to be shoved against a wall, to shove Steve against a wall. Wanted to feel him hot and hard against his thigh or belly.

And it turns out, when it all happens, like it was never supposed to happen, he gets as hung up on Steve's mouth, alone, as anything else. When Steve isn't even doing anything with it, except letting out a few words, dropping curses that plop with a sizzle into Danny's stomach. "You're already crazy, that hardly counts."

Putting him on? Maybe not. But that doesn't make it any easier to believe. Even when Steve's hand is pressed firm and sweet to the small of his back, pulling them close in a way that's not just about a rut and tumble of heat and blurring, world-shaking sensation. That feels almost protective. That vulnerable spot, where Steve's hand fits completely, like it was always supposed to be there, which is exactly the kind of romantic nonsense Danny should not be thinking about a hand that he has, personally, seen turn people's faces into blurry red sponges.

That is now pressed, flat and warm and perfect, tucking him closer, neatly, and Danny's just going to give, up, alright. If this is insanity, they may as well park him in an institution and leave him there, because he would go willingly.

That might be one of his newest favorite things. Danny struggling to speak, shoving all of his words together, still frantic and sure he can, to have have it come crashing down on him like a the roof of a building still on fire at Steve's command. Turning, without warning, into that sound that slides between every inch of Steve's skin and the muscle beneath it, cutting it free, setting it on fire.

Overwhelming Danny and shooting Steve up into the air, like he'd filled with helium, when he makes sure he doesn't.

Shoot up into the air. Pull back. Give any more space. To breathe. To come back down easy yet.

When Danny is catching air and still pushing himself into managing other words. Words, that are insults, like hand rails Danny can cling to. Attacking Steve's head, like normal, like somehow that is normal, he's so crazy that wanting Danny, wanting Danny to such an endless great distraction, that it felt like it could burn off his skin, was just another shade slipping into and out of it.

Steve laughed. This rumble caught somewhere in his chest, more than out loud, on a point he's not about to fight.

Because Danny is gorgeous, falling into him, shifting into him. Throwing out excuses, like he isn't wrapped on Steve right now.

Steve who was barely willing to press it all into the shapes of facts like this, warm and dark and used the same as shoving bright, burning coals under Danny's skin. Barely able to believe it's still happening. Somehow Danny didn't leave, even if he almost did. Especially, then. That Danny is here. Under him, writhing and canting in slow certainty.

The curve of his back, knobs of his spine pressed to the inside of fingers, muscles bunching and releasing there. "What's your excuse then?"

Because Steve isn't sure there aren't words really. To explain how this happened, how it started, what's happening now. But Danny'll try.

Jesus. If he thought a kiss, or a bite on the lip was bad, it's nothing to what Steve's laugh does to him. Dissolves him like a sugar cube in hot water. He can actually feel the edges of himself melting into this ludicrous goo that is all that's left of his internal organs. He thinks he could literally be spread over toast, like butter. "Obviously your crazy is catching. Like the flu."

He doesn't know why, alright, but he has to keep putting up a fight, like he needs to save face, or something, but the truth is he's not sure he's wrong. There's just no vaccine for Steven McGarrett, SEAL extraordinaire and all-around Superman in cargo pants. No vaccine, and Danny's not even sure he'd have tried for one if it did, impossibly, decide to exist. Not now. Not now that he knows. He hates not knowing things, being in the dark, being on the outside of understanding, and this has pulled the wool over his eyes for too damn long, alright?

"Maybe it's something in the water. Or it's a side effect of the chronic sunstroke that every miserable day on this island bestows on me."

Alright, fine. He's pale and he burns easily and he doesn't like the sun or sunscreen, but he hasn't really had sunstroke except for maybe like the first few weeks here. He might be reluctant to acclimate, but he kind of hates dizzy spells and fever more.

This sort of feels like that, though. The sudden shift in his body, just because he was suddenly in sun and hundred-degree heat all day, because the days were about half again as long as they are at the height of July in Jersey. The sun doesn't fuck around, here, it sort of futzes about rising, but once it's up, everything is pounded with heat and the sort of brilliant prismatic light that only comes from being surrounded by water. And it took a toll. Wore him out, skyrocketed his core body temperature, left him dizzy in a way he wasn't again until that spilled milk, that dead body, that doorway, the one a year ago.

The one that Steve said was the first tripping step into all of this.

And now he feels it again. Shortness of breath, spinning head, rapidly rising temperature. Like heatstroke, because Steve is like all of Hawaii rolled into one, island-warm, blood beating like waves, the ocean Danny mistrusts and hates that he can't mistrust or hate when it's Steve, Steve's ocean. Perfect under Danny's hands, smooth skin, rough stubble, reacting to every touch and kiss and word like Danny never thought possible.

When the truth is, he has no excuse. "Maybe I never had a chance."

What is he supposed to do with this man? Seriously.

This man, with his too blue eyes and insane touchiness about his hair, and his shoes, not to mention miranda rights and human rights, the one who screams blood murder at the drop of a hat or even someone forgetting to drop the hat, and hates agreeing with anyone, hates paradise, who makes that tiny piece of grit that got stuck in Steve's throat trying to admit anything, about everything he is beyond those, everything Steve can never forget, never not see, never not be blown away by, and shift it into a boulder the size of the bed, clogging up his throat, with the smallest handful of words, tacked on at the end, like some forgotten detail.

The hearing of which somehow wasn't actually supposed to eradicate all of the air left in Steve's chest.

That makes something flare dangerous bright and tight, aching, near the bottom of his lungs

How it is, such an effort, an epic feat, shoving it down, not letting it bubble up.

Pulling on anything else but that. Leaning down toward kissing Danny with a sarcastic sort of snort. Amused, but blowing it off. "Just so long as you know that's not going to be forgotten."

"Danny Williams--" Punctuated with kissing him short and fast, or well. Maybe meaning to, but still getting caught up on his mouth, on the burn coating his stomach muscles in a refusal to be closet away. Even when he's pulling back to finish. Smart mouthed and crowing. "--admitting to surrendering first."

Like Steve hadn't beat that out. Hadn't fallen before. Or yet. Definitely not every single time he'd pulled anyone else close, and smothered that feeling growing in him, even if it only ever lasted for seconds or minute, if even really that long. Certainly not every time he pretended it wasn't there and supported Danny through everything, everyone, else. Not once, not nightly, not in the black.

Not Steve McGarrett. Never give in, never say die. Maybe it's why there aren't words. Maybe it's why he has to be kissing him now.

"Wait a minute, hold on."

Which, he has to, because Steve is kissing him, in a way that starts out sharp, like it's supposed to be punctuation, but then his lips part and his body shifts fluidly over Danny's, and it makes Danny want to bury fingers in his hair, keep him from ever moving his mouth away, because this is so much more necessary than air. Even when he has to keep at it, needs to keep pushing it. "Who said anything about surrender?"

He, Danny Williams, is the prince of lost causes. He knows it. Steve knows it. He can move on in a case, but when it's personal? Done. There has never been a thing he's been able to let go of. How much easier could the divorce and move gone if he hadn't clung to the shattered remnants of his marriage? He gets all tied up in it, he always has, and now he's tied up with this, with Steve. For whom there is no cure. For whom Danny's feelings are so far past his control he'd have better luck deciding the weather. If there was a chance, it's long past, now, because he knows this, alright, he knows it, the way Steve is at the edge of every thought and how Steve smashes into his dreams the way Steve has, regularly, smashed through actual physical walls or windows.

But that doesn't mean he gives up. Oh. Hell no. He might not be fighting this feeling, but he's sure as hell not going to roll over and let it swamp him, either. Clinging by his fingernails to whatever piece of solid ground he can find, still reaching for land even while he's being swept out to sea.

Or maybe just reaching for Steve. Hand stealing low, smoothing over his hip and the round of his ass, like he owns this, Steve, every inch of his skin and every part of his body. Even the kiss Steve's drowning him with, making lights flash, hard and stuttering, somewhere between his eyes and the ceiling.

It distracts them both, even as they push and pull with words. They both seems to fall under the same, too. The way a kiss stops everything. Not because they mean to, but because one of them slides, and the other one seems like all they can do is follow. Tangled up, sinking beneath the waves. Tumbling deeper into each other, until someone needs air and words suddenly exist at the same time.

Bubbling up, forcing more space, air, thoughts through the endless press of pressure slowly building up and up and up.

Prying in the lights, with the curl of amusement and pleased denial in Danny's voice. The way Steve can hear it coming. He's wrong. He's pushing, prodding, choosing the right words. And Danny is coming right along with him into it, too. And how did this happen. When did it go from something Steve couldn't even consider, not even side-eye what it all was, not even when he was listening to Danny swear and rant and beg on a voicemail, to that fact they're all tangled up, joking about it?

"That isn't what you just said?" Steve taunted, eyebrows raising, mouth curving wide. Making the entire reaction over the top.

Even when it's gutted. Threaded thinner by the fingers crossing over his skin, causing him to tip and shift. Pushing into him, reactively, only to stretch and arch up into Danny hands, even as his muscles tightened against the skin that's so much more sensitive. The skin to prickle behind and around where those hands touch him. Gutting his thoughts. Blistering through the thought, like air's necessity, there will never be enough of this.

Of these hands. Of the way all of this feels. All the touches and the teasing. All the warm, sharp words. The surprise rushes of heat and want.

Edited 2013-03-06 00:40 (UTC)

"Look, just -- shut up, shut up."

Threaded thin, edged with a desperate whine at the press of Steve against him, fever-hot between bellies, burning away any last resorts, any single final ability to think clearly, or at all.

What is there to think about? It's Steve. Who he trusts. Who he stayed for. Who has given him more than Danny has ever deserved out of a job or the miserable life he'd planned for himself here.

He doesn't want to have to admit it, okay, not all the way, is still holding up the battered shield of attitude and insult, but, Christ, Steve, muffled against Steve's neck as Danny curls up into him. Shaking hard with muscle contraction, and something else. Something huge, swallowing him up, which is how it must have felt for Jonah with that whale, right?

"What I said was." Low, tilting crazily towards dangerous, or dark, a confused smoke of amusement. "You are unfair, okay, there should be rules against you, how was I supposed to know you were going to fight dirty."

Which is how Steve always fights, but he didn't know he was this time, so Danny really shouldn't blame him, but Danny does. Being the kind of upstanding, lunatic, super-human, whackjob of a supremely incredible human being he is, how the hell was Danny supposed to fight back, huh? Him and his smile and his blue eyes and the way he cares about everything and everyone, how he has to save the world, which is too much, McGarrett, but he does it anyway. And then turns around and is so surprised at each and every offer to be kind to him that Danny's heart trips all over itself and splats facedown on the sidewalk.

And it's really aggravating, all right. Danny had no say in this (he can't imagine not choosing it, but that is not the point). He's already lost.

With no chance. Not one, ever. Not now. Not once there's awareness. Now he knows.

He's not laughing. No, really, he isn't. Which is kind of hilarious, or maybe it's just insane. Because he wants to laugh. Maybe he even meant to laugh. Or grin at Danny words turning sharp, underlined desperate. Railing at him to shut up. It would be the right, and perfect, place for a laugh. A joke. More fierce prodding. Except he can't make it happen. Because everything else is just rolling itself like a boulder right over it.

That thin desperate edge under Danny's voice. The way he shudders, hard, fast, and curls up into Steve's skin, Steve's body, holding on and pushing back. Muffling far more desperate words into Steve's neck, half escaped, half wanting, all of it like he's injecting alcohol straight into Steve's blood stream. It's slamming his head, and tightening his fingers on Danny's back as he tries to hold on, through the onslaught of Danny, of his shaking. Gets smacked with wanting that even, too.

Just to curl Danny up into him, curve around Danny, and never let him move forever. Hold him close. Keep him safe.

Never need him to worry about any of the things Steve's brain refuses to think enough to supply belonging here, in this thought. Just burning in and out the image of pulling Danny to him, and keeping him, curled up like this, to him, against him, in his arms as long as he could. Beyond the sensation burning through him, steadily more blinding.

Steve even loves this voice. The threat and darkness of the words being shoved at him. Biting at him, words like sharp knives, the wash of the ability to think, to do more than feel, that is chipping further and further away, like ice that can't stand, can't stay solid under the roaring torment of flames. When somehow it seems right and proper and just too impossible to deny, just to retort, "You started it."

Not that he knows if he means, giving those words in the conversation. Or falling in that doorway. Or simply being the person Steve could never look away from, never burn out with someone else. Or maybe even for only making it, barely, six hours the morning he returned. It didn't matter. All of it was true, but most true at the moment was everything burning away except this feeling at the bottom of it all.

Endless, corrosive, overwhelming. The way control slips on this conversation, this point, this joke, this whatever. The way it always does with Danny. When he knows his jaw his is tightening and he's moving more deliberately. An actual rhythm, and not points of insanity occasionally. The fingers on Danny's back coming up, around a shoulder, to find his head, his hair, and tip his head, because he has to be kissing him. Again. Now.

Can feel the ragged edge of desperation growing, pricking everywhere like thin, tight needles across his skin in so many places. The want to shove it all into Danny, until he is feeling it, until Steve can see it on his every movement, hear it in every word, every impossible to catch breath. When surrender isn't even the right word anymore, because it's nothing that clear, that concise, even.

It's the just the whole world shattering on them, between them, while all they can do is hold on and fall apart, all at once.

He has got to shut up. He has got to stop opening his mouth, because God only knows what will start falling out if he doesn't: curses, endearments, long-held secrets. This thing knocking around his head like falling rocks, that he absolutely cannot say out loud, partly because there's -- he just won't, and partly because it is rapidly dissolving into blunted bricks of itself. That Steve is beautiful, that Danny wants him, that those two things are everything that's beating in his blood and soaking through every cell in his body. That Steve is unbelievable in all the best and worst ways, and that there is nothing, nothing in the world like this, curling into him, wanting to wrap that ridiculous long body with every part of himself, wanting to hold onto Steve and promise things Danny should never promise.

That the world can just back off, alright. That everything is going to be okay, that they will make it okay, that Danny will, somehow, if Steve lets him try. That no matter how bad everything is, it can get better, because look at them, look at this, in the middle of an avalanche, bullshit of epic proportions, and yet Danny feels like he can breathe. Like he doesn't have to throw hatred and cynicism at the world, that it's not him, alone, screaming at a universe that never bothers to listen to him or even notice he's there.

"No, wrong." Ground out, almost into Steve's hairline, the sensitive skin behind and under his ear, where short strands tickle against Danny's breath. "You are -- the instigator, always."

Steve started it. Steve picked him. Dragged him into partnership and Five-0, when Danny hated everything in the world and nothing so much as this asshole, pulling a gun on him and demanding ID, sort of like he's demanding Danny's mouth right now, sort of like how he's pushing them both into a steady rhythm that's burning Danny from the inside out, like a coal fire simmering underground, hollowing ribcage and stomach and replacing it with heavy hard something, splitting him open in a way that will leave him feeling raw and scraped later.

Being outpaced by his own breath, losing the beat of his own pulse until it's nothing but a hummingbird hum in his head, a dizzy pounding in his ears, and he's wrapping arms around Steve hard enough that he shouldn't, should think about that rib, the few bruises left.

But he can't, because nothing else even exists. Just the need to hold him as close as he can, curl up into him, like he could crawl right out of his skin and under Steve's, and even that wouldn't be, couldn't be, close enough. Nothing is.

It's amazing. Above and beyond, far away, somewhere deliriously past it. When Danny is literally all but graft himself in, and Steve's hand has to find the bed, because someone, somewhere, in this pile of arms, and mass of bodies, has to be able to support all of this. Which is ludicrous, when Danny's lips are brushing his hair and his skin, and going to his head, as clearly as if he shoved Steve's head into hot water.

Causing his brain to feel like the impulses behind even thinking about thinking are shorting out. Sputtering. Causing him to shudder and close his eyes, only pressing into Danny more, only wanting to shove into him, through him, this second, the next minute, when it seems like Danny is doing his literal best to just wrap around him. Arms around his body, tight and firm. Words. Words falling out, through the water in his ears, while Danny is still arguing.

Always arguing. Even when his voice is catching, ground out on skin. It's insane. It's perfect.

Let words, tumble from his mouth, head turning a little into Danny's. The solid block of it at the side of his, his neck. So that he's catching hair, and only a little skin, when he's letting those few sounds scatter and shatter out. Sound about as impossible as his words do. "How are you even still talking?"

"Danno--" That one words, like a hot flared grasp for more attention, is too low, dark and antagonizingly smug.

When he shifts his hand from Danny's hip finally. In against skin, moist and hot from movement, from prolonged contact, while they were laying here. Sliding it between them, the rough moving muscles of stomach and bones of both their hips on this side catching on his wrist and forearm. Hardly stopping him. Barely inches even. Far less burn than a bullet.

To wrap his fingers around Danny's skin, and start pulling, as he finished, so much more taunting than ordering. "--stop talking."

How?

Because it's his natural state. He talks like a shark swims: often aimlessly, sometimes just to stay afloat and breathing, occasionally with actual purpose. These words are none of those, though; these words exist because Danny's brain is misfiring, like the last jerks of a nervous system with some sharp object embedded in it.

"Me stop talking, you are such a hypocrite --"

Before it's choked off in a tight, high whine against the grip of Steve's fingers and the helpless jerk of his hips in response. Skittering legs chase over his skin, sink into the back of his neck, claws dragging down his spine, melting away into boiling liquid silver pooling in his gut. He's got to push his head back, sink it deep into the pillow to open his eyes are far as they can go, barely half-lidded, and look up, find Steve's face, too blurry in the dark, but there, God, there. And there's not enough room, but he reaches, anyway, manages to extract one arm from that death-grip around Steve's back to slide between them. Banging knuckles, crushed between bodies, making him shift so there's some room, so he can find Steve, wrap around him, because if they're going down in flames, they're going down together.

Even if this is stupid. Even if it's against the rules. If Steve told him to turn around and leave after this, if Steve said this was it, the last time, the last night, he's really not sure he could actually listen, because fuck the rules. The rules aren't sending keening, aching pleasure up his spine and washing across the inside of his head. The rules won't do jack shit for him in this situation, except make the one other good thing on this island no longer possible.

So screw the rules.

Except none of it is really coherent. Just gasping, rasped breath, and a deep conviction that he never wants to let go, never, that the burn of his shoulder and hand brings him to life, that Steve's weight is like an anchor, that he could go flying off the island and out of sanity if it weren't for the landslide of lunatic SEAL on top of him right now.

He has a few seconds to relish Danny's reaction, and he's getting to be collector of these seconds. Unpredictable, so much better than any squander blip of imagination. The way his body fires back first, before his head, and especially his mouth, even realizes. Barely the pass a second between the two. But he gets to see it. When there are hips thrust up. In to his hand. Sending them, and it, into his own body.

Shoving light into his eyes, and flickering his eyelids, eyelashes, as he holds on, through a burning sensation that is more perfect than taking a breath after breathing noxious fumes. Because this is worth it. Watching Danny fall back, push back. Shoulders and head down, but never losing momentum. Looking up at him, through the heavier and heavier shadows of night cloaking the world and this room, blown wide open.

God. Gorgeous is not even the word. Gorgeous is like a toddler only just discovering finger paints and motor coordination. And Danny, and this look on his face. This heavy lidded desperate need to find his face, that even when the need for other things doesn't release him, he relaxed, his face does, just a tick, and somehow Steve can see it. Like the world orients on him. There is no word for it. Nothing big enough, true enough, right enough.

Nothing that explains Danny Williams needs only a second, only to catch his eyes, and that scoops out, with less than a breath, every single bit of his insides. Every single bit of who he is and how he exists, flattened without the ability to bring it back, without the damn to care, if he can just fall into this, see this, and never need to see anything else, again. It'd be fine. Just this. Just Danny.

Which is all the seconds he has before Danny hand is slamming into his, blunt nails and solid knuckles, finding room where there isn't, shoving him, so he has to pull back, make room, can't even pretend he doesn't want it, even when he knows thinking will turn into the ash and spray left in the air after a mass detonation. Unable to collect or settle or have any direction. The way the world winnows, and his lungs collapse, and, even expecting it, Steve groans.

The sound torn out through gritted teeth, and a locked jaw, and his weight throws itself, toward the hand still bracing himself, burning down the muscles. The world counting down into such small windows suddenly. The burn in the muscles of his forearm. The one supporting him, even when he's pretty sure his chin just found Danny's shoulder and his face a pillow, or a pile of the forgotten sheet. The other one only ratcheting to go faster, pull more friction, shove every breaker.

Because the only other point of focus is slamming at his entire equilibrium. Not threatening to drag the carpet, already pulling it. Because the world is already tilting and he knows how little of his fingers, finger tips, nails are left holding on after dragging through a maddening, slow, ebbing, lead up. Because it should all be impossible. Today. Ever. Again, tonight.

But the edge of the world is melting, already, and he can't even pretend he cares about anything. Even holding back.

It's all contracting. The whole world. To aching stomach muscles, bunching and releasing. To burning lungs. To his hand, dragging up and down, with no finesse and not subtlety, because it's not about teasing Steve into a tottering tip over the edge, it's about throwing the whole train off the cliffside and watching it burn. While everything left of him has coalesced into a molten, burning ball spinning in the lowest part of his gut, spitting fire at every lift and fall of Steve's hand, fingers on every nerve, wrapping the world in heat and flame.

He'll never last. No matter what he says about not being sixteen anymore, and, God, he wishes he were, almost. To try everything for the first time. To experience it all like it's brand new, without the worries, without the fear or the clinging uncertainty.

Like this. When nothing else exists in the world except Steve. Danny's hand slipping, losing purchase on his sweat-slick back, fingers scrabbling to hold on. Steve's face buried close to his shoulder, his neck, breath gusting hard against Danny's skin, flushed and shiny. The curve of Steve's shoulder bare with faint light from the windows, a stark line, moving like a wave. Power and desperation. And Steve. Collapsing against him, pushing through, digging them both deeper, harder. A low whine has started somewhere in Danny's ears, rusted-out, a weird hum that he would absolutely find incredibly unnerving if it weren't for the fact that the room is starting to splinter around him, like Steve's taking a hammer to a wall of mirrors.

"Come on," he says, low. Says. Gasps. Swears. "Come on, babe, like that."

Shaking at the seams like an old car hitting ninety on the freeway. Gorgeous chrysanthemum fireworks blowing his head to bits, but, God, it's spectacular, Steve is, Steve is spectacular, Danny could be lost on the way moonlight plays across his skin and darkens his tattoos if he weren't so entirely lost already. Gone without a map, or compass, or any desire to ever be found.

The world keeps narrowing, into the rush of heat, and the slap of skin. Furious pumping of his heart trying to leave his chest, his hand on Danny's skin. The bump of knuckles that doesn't even stop or slow down anyone at this point. The insane feeling like absolutely nothing could at this point. The roof could cave in, and the walls could fall out and the second floor could go crashing into the first, destroying more the fifty years of memories and mementos, and that still wouldn't be enough.

The memories are beyond fucked at this point anyway. The only thing that doesn't feel like it's taken it, with some glass and or diamond sharp edged object, beaten into him in every profane and possible fashion, is this. This thing. Beating, wild and terrifyingly untamable, even more under Danny's hands, on his skin, than it ever was before. Untempered. Tangled and messy and wrong and so right the whole world has gone away entirely, and Danny is all that's left.

All that's good in the world. Fingers pummeling his brain. Voice shoving fire down his ears, into his throat. When it feels like getting hit with a wrecking ball somewhere. Those so few words. Urged and dragged, and that word, that shouldn't even feel different. It falls out of Danny's mouth all the time. But not like this. Not low and as encouraging it is desperate pushing. As it falls down, and in, possessive. This thing only Danny calls him.

Taunting. Teasing. Affectionate. Rolled over into this. Like it's his. This word. This name. Steve.

Which slaps something in Steve like arctic water. Too big, and too overwhelming. Painful and jagged and wanted.

Desperately. Brokenly. So huge it feels like it does. Trip the last alarm. Shatter the windows. Take the roof, and the walls and the floor and the bed. And everything else. A domino reaction starting at the base of his spine like a chain of bomb. Slamming through him suddenly. Shoving him beyond sight and sound, into something so good it causes his muscles to all sieze before they start shaking, so far from control, so far from attached.

Steve goes like a mountain shaking off a landslide, tumbling into shudders that shake the whole bed, legs stuttering against the floor, and Danny's hand is suddenly slick with thin, sticky wetness, and that's it, all it takes, for him to come loose and go slamming right through the floor after him.

Like the world is coming apart. Some tornado ripping up the house and sending them spinning through engulfing chaos, and Danny doesn't care, doesn't care about anything except the angry scrape of his breath and Steve's hand, hot and heavy and so good it hurts.

"Fuck, Stev --"

A loving punch to the gut, doubling him up, shaking him loose until he feels like change in a pocket. Muscles so tight they feel about to split, shear right off bone, before everything melts: bed, air, body, thought. And explodes, soundlessly, face muffled against Steve's neck, sounds muffled against Steve's skin, body convulsing hard as if he's in the middle of a thirty floor drop.

Before the door slams. And the fist in his stomach dissolves into warm gold bliss, soothing muscles, dropping joints, leaving him fallen apart, made out of Jell-O with a head full of fluff and distant sirens. Flattened as a penny on a train track.

When everything feels like it creaks, as he pushes back, tugging his hand free and wiping it half-heartedly on the sheet, before letting out a breath that feels like it takes every ounce of strength or energy with it.

Post 3.01 - The McGarrett Family Home

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