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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The insult to Hawaii does get a pointed look, but with the faintest shake of his head, like he really can't expect any better of Danny, and he can't, Danny's pretty much bound to dislike Hawaii, only taking the most minuscule of inching steps toward liking anything on it at Grace's behest or a lot of shoving. The thought doesn't stay long though, because watching Danny really is sort of like a spectator sport.

Especially once Danny looks entirely at a loss for how it just happened that he was agreeing with Steve, when he meant to point out he was not agreeing with Steve. Leaving him stumbling over his words. Trying to figure out what just happened, and how Steve wasn't wrong, even when Danny was certain he was at the beginning. It's actually kind of enthralling. Delightful. All these not him words. Bubbling up in his chest. Watching Danny's lips come together into a frown, brow wrinkling toward the center.

There with the urge to reach up a hand and brush his thumb at the skin there. Which doesn't happen, but it holds for a long second, considered, like something being turned over and over in his hand, while Danny is still tossing words together at the air, about having lost his train. Steve just plucks at like its own string. Instead of reaching up to smooth the skin. "You admitting you're just talking to hear your own voice now, too?"

"It must not have been very important, if you've already lost it," Steve goaded, unhelpfully, fixing him with a relaxed loose expression, mouth curved and shoulders back to more relaxed. Because he was, always, disagreeing. Maybe even on principle. They both did. All the time. Ever this was, right now. If just at a different tilt and spin. Turning Danny in circles, unmaking his own decision, ignoring the things that were problems.

For the one that should have been the biggest one, and wasn't. Was, more than not, the person who eased every other one.

"That's funny."

The kind of ground in exasperation that isn't even exasperation anymore, that is so old and routine that it's more like affection than anything else. Steve is talking him in circles, and Danny digs in his heels, mulish, refusing to keep plodding around in the track laid out for him.

Even if it means acquiescing. This once. Because Steve may have a point, and even if he doesn't, the couch is starting to make itself known in very apparent ways that will soon include fabric creases etched into his skin, not to mention how much less comfortable this thing actually gets, when there are no blankets or pillows and he's also trying to share it with Steve, who simply does not fit, anywhere.

Honestly, there are days Danny's amazed he makes it into the car at all.

And now he's just doing this on purpose. Teasing, prodding, like a little kid with a stick, with that stupid, bright smile washing across his face and painting thick stripes of light in Danny's chest.

It's not enough. Not nearly enough. Steve doesn't smile that way nearly as often as he should, and, yeah, the world is a rough place, vale of tears, and all, but this. Man. This is something else. This is Steve, years dropping away from him. Looking pleased and relaxed and fuzzy-edged. Smiling smug and small, whole giant frame loose and easy, taken apart like his joints have been let out a notch or two.

"I thought you wanted to move, I see no movement happening here, just a lot of you deciding to be a smartass instead."

Steve's smile turns sharp and dangerously mischievous on the drop of the words. Eyebrows raising, and pulling back a little.

Too bright and full of himself, instantly, "Oh? I'm not moving enough for you now? We can fix that."

It doesn't really take him more than the second to think about it, not even a pause for the words to pop out and register. Even if he knows there's about to be flailing, possibly smacking, definitely bitching is going to follow in with how easy it is for him to not only consider moving, but shove his body, and shift his weight and roll for it. Or more aptly, toss backwards.

Feet toward the ground, toss his weight on way, balance one hand, using the couch beside Danny, to push up and propel even faster, and the other not letting go of Danny's hand in his, dragging Danny upright along with him.

Not aiming for untangling himself, or even stepping back, so much as suddenly springing toward upward, against the space right in front of the couch. Getting his weight toward his calves and his toes, when he's dragging Danny along with that arm, prepared and preparing for that. Even though he's wrapped and and obviously not expecting anything as sudden as the words provoke in Steve a need to show off were utterly possibly.

"Hey, whoa--"

It's not fair. It's not fair that Steve has so much more leverage, almost always, and that Steve is big enough to gain the advantage even if he doesn't, because there is no law of physics that says he should be able to pull up and drag Danny with him that easily. Right?

(He's not totally sure, high school physics is a long way away, these days.)

He comes loose with a sticky, ripping sound, snapping at his back, which feels raw and stinging with suddenly cool air. Legs forced to rearrange themselves, the back slipping to bend against the couch back to regain some kind of balance, the other sliding off Steve's, awkward and loose.

It lets his free hand come up to bat at Steve's shoulder, at least, castigating, temper flaring into annoyance. "What the hell is the matter with you? Do you have to take everything literally? Is this some kind of medical condition? Please tell me, because it would actually explain a lot about the way you function."

Steve is a freight train, taking the most direct immediate route to whatever he's trying to accomplish, and half the time Danny feels like someone screaming that the bridge ahead is out, with zero effect on Steve's direction or speed. Stubborn asshole.

And then sometimes he drags Danny with him, like now, looking just as pleased with himself as if he could want nothing else but to have Danny shouting at him, annoyed at being moved, manhandled like a toy or teddy bear.

"Just so you know, this does not actually negate the 'being a smartass' factor. Huh? Are you happy with yourself? Was there a part B to this plan, or have we reached a dead end?"

It shouldn't make him smile when Danny follows through on what he knew was coming. A wash of movement. Fluttering mess of blonde hair. And suddenly waving hand, smacking his shoulder. Words turned pointed and sharp in the brace of a passing second. All of which shouldn't be making him smile. It shouldn't. But it is. Standing there. Naked, and grinning, watching Danny looking suddenly like he shot someone without cause.

Like Danny didn't just prod him about not moving, and is now yelling about moving too much, too fast.

It does leaves him standing, at least, even if he's grinning down at Danny looking as disgruntled as ever. Feeling the pull in the muscles in thighs and all through his lower abdomen. It's not so bad after everything else, swimming and hiking and running. But he'll definitely be feeling it a while. Even if it's completely on the sidelines from everything else he's feeling about Danny and his rumpled up expression and his hair.

The sorry state of the couch that'll need seeing to. Like the kitchen's dishes. And themselves. A reckless, exploded mess.

Leaving Steve groping for a second for where he threw his own shirt, even when he's bending to pick up a handful of the pile of pants and boxers not far off the couch itself. A pile at its, and their, feet befitting such a crazy rush, things half turned inside out. His own boxers still shoved inside his cargo's. Danny's peeled off jeans that he really would not mind seeing a whole lot more of.

"You asked for movement," Steve said, easily, like Danny wasn't shouting at him.

Widely and wildly unapologetic, which was totally an answer for that question about whether it made him happy. It might have been insane. But all of this, did. Which was. Insane. You know. Well. No one knew. Well. Except Cath, now. But it did. Make him stupidly happy for sets of seconds. Even the yelling. All of this made him happy with himself. Danny, still looking bowled over and blown out, and still managing shouting.

"Well," Steve tossed Danny his jeans, mouth getting the better of him. Maybe never not having the better of him, already. "I am going up-" Pointed and pressed on and poking, arrogant assumption ladled all over it, about what Danny will do and who he'll choose over what, even when he's being terrible. "-but you can stay on the couch, if you feel you haven't bonded with it long enough,"

There is definitely going to be an impression left behind. The cushion he'd been lying on is starting to breathe itself back into shape with a faint wheeze, and his back is cold against air instead of leather.

And Steve is standing there, laughing at him. Smiling and smug, arrogantly amused, expectant. And, okay. Going upstairs with Steve really is, probably, the best possible outcome to all this, but Steve is looking smug and pleased with himself and that's almost enough to make Danny dig in his heels and keep arguing.

Instead, he pushes up off the couch, catching the jeans as they're flung at him, and ignores the fact that he's buck naked and so is Steve, in a way that feels weird now that they aren't pressed up close and tight, neat as a key in a lock. Like this could be normal, like he could have made that entire episode up in his head, if it weren't for the fact that Steve's walking around totally at ease in his bare skin and his clothes are piled everywhere, tossed and forgotten.

"Like I haven't spent enough time on your couch."

Like he would ever willingly sleep on a couch, as long as this keeps miraculously happening, as long as Steve wants him upstairs instead. Couches mean fights, couches mean platonic charity. He wouldn't stay down here even if Steve weren't talking to him, were angry instead of amused, cold instead of inviting. Okay? Couches are out.

Instead, he waggles the jeans, eyebrows pointed. "Or is this an invite to get myself dressed and out of here?"

Doubtful. Because Steve has just about said so, but two can play at this whole teasing game.

Edited 2013-02-20 02:34 (UTC)

Danny comes up, catching his clothes and punching back on the reference with his own dig about whether should leave. Waving the pants in his hand like they are supposed to be some kind of red flag being flung in front of him. It might help more if Danny looked even slightly like he was considering the option. But he isn't. He's still undressed and completely undone.

Not looking like he's focused any of his attention on alleviating either of those issues at any point relatively soon.

"Yeah, Danny," Steve said, expression smoothing long and blandly amused, on a rise of his brow that went pretty much with his forehead. And this tasteless flat sort of playing along, where his voice completely gave away the fact he wasn't agreeing in the slightest. "Because that's exactly what I've been saying all night."

Leave. Go home. Get out of here. Be anywhere else. With anyone else. He hadn't let him leave. He had vehemently hated the automatic assumption Danny had. He was so much closer, only minutes ago, to knowing the truth was still the same as it had felt for over a year. Not that he didn't want something, but that he wanted absolutely everything he had and absolutely everything he didn't on top of that.

Everything that was Danny. That was what he wanted, even if he couldn't put it into words. Details. Sense.

When he reached out a hand, finding Danny's shoulder, and dragging his fingers up it. Grazing a faint red circle already coloring on it. Up to his neck, finger tips tightening a little at his neck, against the shell of his ear and the hair behind it. When the position is more like he could drag from there forward, but instead he leans in, towers down toward Danny.

"Do you really need a written invitation still?" That part is soft, almost unwavering intense, not looking away from Danny's face or tossing it away like the joke it was brought out as. Like somehow he could pack the last hour, or two, or whatever it is, every minute, all of this since he came in. Every bit of it. Into that last word. Still.

But his mouth slides just enough toward teasing, when his head tilts. "I'm sure there's paper in the desk somewhere if it'd help."

Still. Like there's no question. Like there couldn't possibly be a question. Because Danny is an idiot even for joking about it, and okay, mostly, it was, is, a joke. Right? Steve already said. He's already naked, for God's sake. This isn't like slinking back, half-dressed and rumpled, to sleep at home. Hasn't been since the first day. Stay. Said now in five or six different ways, at five or six different times.

"I don't know," he says, and he pretends it's actually as light and disinterested as he wants it to be, doesn't snag on that awkwardly placed tine in his chest that keeps twirling everything tighter and tighter. "There's something sort of classy about a written invitation. Not that I'm suggesting you have that kind of class, alright, that's just the sort of wishful thinking I sometimes indulge in."

But Steve's hand is curling light just behind his ear, and his skin is still tingling from the path it took up and over his shoulder, and they're just words, anything, whatever he can toss at Steve to make him find the faces Danny's used to: the frowns and eyerolls and smugly arrogant smiles. Because this --

This is. It's Steve softened. Steve lightened. And it strikes like a match against all the parts of Danny left rough and sandpaper-abrupt. A tiny signal flare, bursting into small, steady life. Things Steve keeps touching, like fingers are brushing straight through skin into all the twisted up miserable thoughts tacked like torn, crooked photographs on the walls of his skull. Tugging them straight, or bypassing them completely, and leaving him in this strange, confused spin that leaves him blinking and bemused, staring at a completely different view than he'd thought was in front of him.

Steve's specialty, he guesses.

Steve, leaning down, towards him, close enough that all it would take would be an inch forward and up, and that shouldn't still make his mouth feel dry, should it? "But thank you for the offer."

It should say something immediately. The way his eyes --light, bright, half focusedstill-- flicker at the antagonizing words.

Ballsy and arrogant, like there's no cliff he couldn't climb, surmount and leap off of. Right this second. Just like this. Without a stitch of clothing. With Danny leaning in against his fingers, and his voice tumbling, out all show, even when his pulse is softly racing not far from where Steve's hand is, and breathe comes thiner in it. All of it in his view looking down.

He lets his hand fall from the side of Danny's head, easy as his next breath, with an exaggerated raise of his eyebrows, taking up a gauntlet not even actually thrown down. Or not anymore thrown down or out than anything else that ever comes out of their mouths. Fingers falling through the air, close enough half an inch, an inch, at the most, would have some force of friction graze Danny's chest.

But he doesn't touch him. In fact all he does is smirk like he knows he could -- touch him, drag him close, kiss him -- like the insult and insinuation is nothing more than a compliment worse than gone straight to his head, like too many beers after the end of case where everything finally worked out, without any deaths, and even an easy, fast sentence.

When Steve steps back, and turns. Heading toward the desk in long, fast, efficient strides. Stoping only at the side, to start pushing things around. Locating a yellow memo pad and a red pen, neither the best choice with any thought. But thought isn't the point. Not even slightly. Especially not when he's looking up after he jots something, sizing Danny up for a second, and crossing out something, and suddenly, instead, writing another word.

Only to look up, smirk even more menacingly pleased with himself, all focus on the paper on top of stacks, and long limbs and tan lines, broken only by yellow light and shadows and the dark ink on his upper arms and lower back, before he amends the last word. Again. The smile at his lips, as he does such, a clear warning all its own.

Steve is rarely a fan of the expected maneuver. He prefers the abrupt, the alarming, the downright blunt, and Danny knows this, but he still isn't used to seeing it in action. Two years down the line, and he probably won't ever be, because his brain does not take the cataclysmic leaps off the train tracks at which Steve's excels.

So Danny shouldn't be surprised when Steve breaks away, dropping his hand and leaving the back of Danny's neck cold and tingling, side-slipping Danny's equilibrium off-balance, but it leaves him staring over his handful of jeans, watching Steve walk away. Moving with the same sense of efficiency and efficacy as he'd use at work, like he's heading to the computer table, or to his desk. The long, wide, flat, polished one; not the ancient piece left here by John McGarrett, that's probably older than Steve himself.

Staring that dissolves into exasperation, eyebrows pulling together and eyes turning unimpressed.

"Really?"

Whatever Steve's writing, making him look so pleased with himself, he's pretty sure he doesn't want to see it, will only drag himself further into this mire he's so stuck in, that he should have known better, and just never had the chance to avoid because he never once saw it coming.

"Cute, that's very cute, I like it."

Steve's grinning at him, that slant to his smile looking more mad cat than ever, and it should only worry him, right, should only wind that gear that tightens to its breaking point every single day at work.

That funny little hop just behind his breastbone just proves how crazy he's actually gone.

The hand holding the jeans moves, jerking towards the stairs, and his eyebrows lift, incredulous. "Should I wait? Or are you going to pass me a note? Are we back in seventh grade now, did I miss some sort of time warp, here?"

Steve's pushing toward standing up again, ripping off the bottom two inches of the yellow lined paper without much attention to where the paper rips. Madcap and amused, weight shifting back into his feet and away from the lean into the desk, fingers holding the paper, wrist writing quickly. Pen dropping, forgotten as soon as it's left his fingers, rolling across the desk, unheeded until it hits something else that, at least, isn't the floor this time.

Steve can't be bothered to think about the pen at all. Or the desk. Or even Danny's hands, and jeans, waving, heavily castigating words. Okay. Well. That last one, only tucks his smirk in broader, as he's headed back. Danny waving his pants, not making on move to put them back on cover himself back up. It's a sight that is still so new and different he can't help noticing all of it, even in that second of turning.

Strong, thick muscles along arms, legs, stomach, shoulders. All of it edged with the fuzz of hair that covers so much of Danny, catching the room's light and giving a soft halo to the space around his skin directly under it. All of it. All of it seizes something in his chest and his stomach. Disbelief and amazement, caught up in that high, smart smugness on his features. That Danny is here. Like this. That all of that just happened, is still happening.

"You're the one who said you wanted more class here," Steve said mockingly. The paper gets held like it's the best answer to any of those. Waiting for Danny's hand to grab the single folded over paper, before he stands there. The smirk stays there, thick and warm on his mouth.

Waiting for Danny to open it, and find the message written, fast and not even as neat as the little paperwork he like to, with Come to bed, ~~idiot~~. The last word crossed out. Then under it, directly is ~~Danno~~, also crossed out. With right under it written, once more, Idiot. With a messy line flicked out, right under, underlining it. All of it, actually, underlined by the way Steve's face never actually falters, even in adding impatient patience to waiting for Danny to catch up to his thought about it two minutes back.

It's unfair, is what it is. How that goofy grin on Steve's face makes Danny feel like someone's twirling a spaghetti fork in his guts. Self-pleased smirk crooking his mouth, blue eyes warm and full of the kind of gleeful brilliance that wipes ten years off Steve's face, and it is, shouldn't be, something alarmingly like endearing.

Whatever's in his bent head, whatever he's written that he holds out on that yellow legal paper, that he's holding out, with a look like Grace gets sometimes when she's found something she loves and that Danny will probably, definitely, hate with the fire of a thousand exploding suns (including but not limited to: small creatures from the beach, talking dolls, singing stuffed animals, and anything to do with boy bands), and it's off-putting, to say the least.

The way his chest and throat constrict, with the way Steve is watching him. Like Danny is still the best part of this, whatever he'd come up with that he clearly thinks is the greatest dig of all time, because Steve occasionally cracks himself up in ways that no one else gets. Resulting in things like this square of legal paper that Danny looks at, suspicious, before huffing a breath through his nose, and reaching to pluck the thing away, flipping it open and scanning it quickly.

Mouth twisting and eyebrows sinking into an exasperated frown, before his eyes move back to Steve, and he waves the paper, flapping like a crippled butterfly. "You call this an invitation? This is the worst invitation I've ever seen, and I'm including the construction paper ones handed out in fourth grade to the stupid birthday parties at the roller rink. This is terrible."

But it is an invitation, and the knot existing in his chest jogs hard at the smile in Steve's eyes, bright and strangely gentle behind the smug smirk painted arrogantly across his mouth, and his hand is reaching before he knows it, fingers wrapping Steve's wrist and tugging as he turns towards the stairs in a way that belies the aggravated tone of voice.

"You done? Can we go, or do you have any more desire to continue being a smartass?"

It should be wrong, how much his chest stays warm and tight watching Danny's eyes track across the few words there. The way his mouth twists, unsurprised and harried, toward a frown. Eyebrows lowering, even when Danny looks up. Like Steve is the worst this he has to put up with in the world. That paper being flung through the air, waving with his hand, the point to drag in, drag Steve's eyes back to.

Like his gaze can be peeled off Danny's face. Aways from that aggravation that doesn't actually change the exasperated warmth in Danny's blue, blue eyes. Or the way his hair is a mess, everywhere, hanging around his face, brightened up by the lights, making him want to thread his fingers into and drag Danny, and every crease at the edge of his eyes and mouth, back closer.

Like twenty feet to the desk, and the two or three left between them, once he got back, was too far all of the sudden, and, again.

A prize for pushing even more buttons, making Danny rant even more, like he can't stand Steve's harebrained antics.

Which might be true, in some small part, if it were not for that other hand, and those fingers that curl around his wrist. If Danny's eyes weren't making a drunken sway around his face, hooked against his mouth. Up and down, eyes meeting, drifting, fingers curling on his skin. Shoving at each other, more and more, and dragging it further away. Dragging Steve further away.

From the desk, and the couch, and the living room. And most any recollection of the front door and the lawn. When the only urge is to follow that hand. The cuff of warmth that it feels like all the blood in his body reacts to, like a siren sounding. So that Steve follows without any hesitation. The direction of that hand, of Danny, of the stairs, and the voice throwing words at his head like the rubble still loitering the ground all around them, like the clothes and shoes lost and forgotten somewhere far behind him.

"You asked for it," Steve sniped, right back, all sharp edges, if sharp edges and mocking would or could be made of blistering warmth and pleased success, of that way his mouth curves wide, head ducking slightly in contrast. They were still headed up the stairs, toward his room, after all. No matter how it happened, how it turned on its head, Danny dragging him, shaking his head and complaining, fingers circled like a necessary leash to drag him, it still felt like he'd won in the end.

Danny was staying and Danny was dragging him up, shaking his head at himself and Steve, the whole world.

"Incorrect. I said nothing about invitations, and, if I had, I definitely would not have asked for one with an insult tacked onto the end. What are you, six, that you think that's funny?"

Because he does, clearly. It's smacked clear across Steve's stupid face, how amusing he finds all of this, how he obviously thinks that was basically the greatest brainwave of all time, and Danny's pretty sure he'll be smirking about it for at least the next twenty, thirty minutes, easy.

All night, even, which ought to be annoying as hell, and it is, sure, but Danny will also get to be here all night and he's pretty okay with that plan, no matter how aggravatingly pleased with himself Steve is. "That was your big idea. Admittedly, I should know better than to encourage you, but you know, I live in hope."

Making determinedly for the stairs, fingers still wrapped firm around Steve's wrist, like the guy might try to make a break for it. He might. It's possible. No matter how often Steve tells him to stay, or makes fun of him for wanting to be sure, there's still that niggling doubt, burrowing in the back of his head, latched on to his skull. Pointing out, unhelpful, that Steve could change his mind any time.

Which doesn't match up with anything Steve's said or done, so Danny can only conclude it's not actually about Steve, that voice. He might have his worries, but the available evidence suggests Steve wants pretty much the exact opposite, right, otherwise he wouldn't have told Cath, would have spent the weekend hooking up with her like usual. He wouldn't have run after Danny onto the front yard, wouldn't have watched him like he did, splayed out on the couch, dark blue eyes following every movement Danny made, trained on his face and blown wide open and soft instead of just feverish.

No. Well, yes. It still could happen, and Danny's sure it will, at some point, but Steve's taken to looking outright offended at any sort of suggestion headed in that direction, so Danny can only conclude it's his own fucked up head saying this to him, convincing him it's true.

Which doesn't make it easier to ignore, but does allow him to vastly enjoy the way Steve follows him up the stairs like Danny's fingers around his wrist are some sort of leash, some imperative thing he can't help but follow.

It's totally funny. At least that's what the smirk staying pressed into the groove of his mouth is saying. When Danny neither sounds nor looks as angry as Steve knows he can get. Not even all that, honestly, put upon. Steve getting into his way, at the first set of stairs, jostling Danny's shoulder, but never moving in the slight to extricate the hand that it would take so little to.

Maneuver's for freedom slip into and out of his head unneeded. Never once dimming his look, or being given the time of day. Not when he can ungracefully, and purposely, end up in Danny's space, continue needling at him, in a fashion that brash and ultimately, entirely transparent at this point. Words for no more sake that the pleased, sizzle of sound they make between breaths, the catch of eyes and the heavy, slow, stomp of feet. "Hey, it's no skin off my nose, if you can't recognize class when it's in front of you."

It's worth every bit of it. Danny turned up five or six notches, still complaining, still walking away and dragging him behind, by that loose ring of fingers. Like Steve would go anywhere else, had anywhere else to go to. Anywhere else he wanted to be. Than headed up the straights. Skipping the occasional step as they went, leaving lights and piles behind, again. Something that catches at just short of the landing.

Lights at the edge of his vision, tipping his vision that way. Except that it's not the clothes that get caught up in the momentary sweep of the living room. It's not even the shadows that never move, even in the pitch dark. It's just that room, and this house. How it prickles everything under his skin, like a fine layer of glass dust, suddenly shifting to remind him it's there. Between his bones, sunk into his muscles. Tightening the ones in his upper back.

This house. The living room where Danny and Cath have both spent time trying to fill the gaping maw all that spaces and endless reaching floor have become. A place completely solid and yet now thinly, translucent like glass. Inverted in on itself, like it could snap with the faintest pressure, shatter into more pieces than china. That there's something in the black of his head, quieter than a whisper, than any voice, trying to imply it already has.

And, really, the lights and the mess can stay. Because the last thing he wants in that second is to go back down there this second.

"Let me explain something to you: yellow legal paper and crossed out words do not a classy invitation make."

He's had more than enough of legal pads these days, seriously. There are times when just seeing that particular shade of yellow makes his blood pressure sky rocket and drifts a haze of red across everything he sees.

Not here, okay. Not with Steve. But sometimes. Yellow legal pads and phone calls and miserable lawyers breathing down his neck, waiting for him to slip up, making sidling comments about his apartment, his job, his lack of a serious committed relationship, as if lawyers have any right to tell him how fast or slow to move with anybody.

Still, he'll bet Rachel's team will be more than happy to hear that Gabby is no longer in the picture. And this would probably be the best ammunition he could possibly hand them: sleeping with his partner and best friend who is also his boss. Someone he'd actually gone into North Korea for, went after the CIA itself for, and if that wasn't foolhardy, if those didn't jack up his potential demise and the possibility of leaving Grace without a father, then he doesn't know what might.

Which is a terrifying truth that he doesn't want to look at too closely: the sure knowledge that those things he said to Steve on the first days, I am not getting killed for your vendetta, might not be entirely accurate, anymore.

Because there's nothing he can do, if Steve needs help, but to go there, and do whatever he can. Anything he can.

Thankfully, none of that's needed tonight, not when he's got Steve by the wrist and he just had two good days with his daughter. Except Steve isn't looking smug anymore; Steve is looking behind them at the living room, and his expression has side-slipped into something else, a little of that treading water feeling of the last few days, faintly lost, almost confused.

There are no words for the level of fury Danny feels at Doris McGarrett right now for putting even one glimpse of that expression on Steve's face, but at least that doesn't show, though his fingers tighten, tugging at Steve's attention.

"Come on, this was your idea, like you've got something so great up here. I know leaving a mess insults your Army sensitivities, but it'll keep for one night without anyone giving you twenty four hours of cold water training or whatever it was they did in SEAL school if you didn't tie your shoelaces."

Any maybe the growls are a little more purposeful than usual, but Danny wouldn't ever admit to it, even if caught red-handed.

Steve's brow wrinkled, catching it half a second late, but -- words in a whirlwind, trying to tug at his thoughts, his focus, the annoyed slippery slope of all those seconds. Doris sleeping, Doris nearly crying, Doris saying ... all she said, Doris potentially lying through every single one. Layered with that noise that couldn't be missed, or heard, like speaking or listening in a sand storm, until it was -- like someone had just wafted shit under his nose.

Causing him to turn his head, with a grimace at the obnoxiousness of a single word, well-worn insult.

One that by now was never used except like a cattle prod, and never stopped hitting every time either. "Navy."

There's something to it. Like the echo that comes when you snap a chuck of ice hanging. That needs movement. More movement. Like he'd been frozen for a second. Even one second, and that was too long. Too still. Too in danger of being caught up in it, or found by it. And not now. Not now. Not here. Not while Danny was here. But it doesn't stop him from pulling his arm free.

Needing to move. Needing not to be held still. Needing not to be in one place. Or held to something. Which doesn't actually keep him from slipping Danny's hand with a fast twist of his own wrist, elbow, shoulder. "I should make you go get it all--" Beat. "--and the kitchen--" With the stack of plates and bottles from dinner, still waiting. "-- since you can't even seem to remember the most basic of things anymore. If you ever did."

At that same time as he's using his newly freed hand to push Danny toward and through the bedroom door. Hand catching him across a shoulder blade. Warm, sweat dried skin, under his fingers. Every single opposing message from his words, far more direct. Demanding they were followed through on more than anything else, passing between them, or him and this place.

It's wrong, how that snapped response makes him want to grin. It has to be. It's like rubbing the fur on a cat the wrong way, until its back arches up and it bats a paw in aggrieved temper. Of course he knows. They all know Steve's background. Five years Naval Intelligence before joining up with the SEALs. He's seen the uniform, the casual work shirts. Of course it's the Navy. He's known that since he first got assigned John McGarrett's murder and read his file.

That just makes Steve's aggravation all the more enjoyable.

Besides, it knocks that other expression right off his face, replaces it with heavy exasperation, and Danny can't even mind when Steve twists his wrist out of Danny's grip, because he doesn't go anywhere, doesn't do anything except keep complaining, while pushing Danny into the bedroom in direct contradiction to the words coming out of his mouth. "Yeah, I can tell that's your grand plan. Whose mess is that, by the way? I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure getting rid of clothes was definitely started by you."

Sort of. Except for the way he'd stared at Steve, and told him to lose the shirt, that is was better that way, so much better, and, Christ. They're still naked, and Danny's still got his jeans in the hand that hadn't been busy with Steve's wrist, and he honestly had sort of forgotten all about that. Not that he doesn't enjoy it, of course, or the view, when Steve is in front of or next to him, but it's so --

Natural. Like there isn't anything weird or off-putting or worrying or stressful about having no clothes. Like they're already at the point when they can just walk around each other, naked, and not get uncomfortable.

Which...they are, apparently, and that's a strange little twinge even as he's tossing his jeans at a chair and turning to face Steve, with a well-practiced and familiar frown of disgruntlement that barely lands on his features at all, means nothing, just like the hand that lifts to push at Steve's.

"Besides, I've definitely been very specifically invited up here."

"To bed," Steve said, clarifying, with a small bit of a shove toward it, some combination colliding between a roll of eyes and straight forward challenge. Like somehow he could have meant anything different, than rolling Danny into his bed. Like he was splitting the hair on Danny's point of being exactly where he'd been asked to get to, and not being only about five to ten feet from actually at the point.

Like in the hall, or on the stairs, or in the bedroom were not actually listed anywhere on that paper. The same with that whole fact, it wasn't at all like Danny could have ripped the small yellow piece of paper in two, pointed at him ranting up a storm about the rocks in his head, until he kissed him and forgot. As if he didn't note the triumph flare in Danny's eyes, even through the heavy helping of a frown he was using like a crutch over there.

"Which you still aren't in," got leveled with stepping in toward Danny, easily adjusting to the lesser light and gravitating into the flip and swing of words. Away from the prick of frozen nails still lingering in his skin after the recognition of everything around him, on every floor and wall, that was not Danny.

"And half of it is totally yours." Steve mouth twisted back toward flippant, dragging out a disgusted smirk as he was pushing Danny toward the bed, until the backs of his legs hit it. "Some of us wouldn't be caught in leather loafers for anything less than threats to national security."

His lips curls with a twitch, shaking his head, at an impossibly terribly quandary. "Maybe not even then. The country might have to take that one."

Steve's back in motion, back to taking control of everything he can, from correcting Danny to pushing him towards the mattress, insulting Danny's shoes.

Again.

"They are shockingly comfortable," he points out. "I know personal comfort isn't even a blip on your radar, but it's nice for the rest of us who don't routinely find the most horrible things we can do to ourselves and make them happen for fun or in the name of training. Not to mention, they are professional. Professional. As in, of, relating to, or characteristic of a profession. As in, my job. Losing the tie hurt enough, okay? I realize cultivating a professional demeanor may seem like a waste of time to you, but I happen to like it, alright, I'm not going to go all Tommy Bahama just because I happen to be working on this godforsaken sand spit, understand. It is still work and I am still a detective."

More work on some days than others. "I can't believe you would consider the very respectable loafer a worse alternative to a break in national security. Surely that would have come up in the eight thousand years you spent chasing war criminals around the world."

The problem -- the only problem, really -- with being naked is that there isn't much to grab onto and tug when Steve pushes at him again, crowding him into the edge of the bed and making Danny sway for balance. There's no belt loops to hook his fingers into, no shirt to snag and pull.

There is the option to back down quietly and get in the damn bed, but when has Danny ever opted for quiet?

So his hand reaches up for the back of Steve's neck, the other landing on Steve's arm, fingers curling over ink that looks smudged and blurred in the dark. Finding leverage. The urge to say make me is rising giddily in his head, but he's not actually thirteen, no matter how much he might be acting like it lately, and that would be like waving a red flag at a bull before holding open the door to a china shop in invitation.

"What, are we in some kind of rush?"

Considering it can't be more than, what, eight? If that?

There's definitely more than enough time for Danny to pull at him and drag him down, if he has too, to find that smart mouth of his and shut it up for a minute.

"It has." Dozens of time. Which the serious honesty is nowhere in Steve's face, when all he does is let the word bull doze out his mouth. Pointed and sharp, like Danny just made his point even more true. He's faced dozens of threats to national security. Years of them. And he'd still choose those over loafers.

He'd probably choose it over nearly anything. He definitely chose it over have 'a normal life' in any location, mediocre or paradise, for decades. But, definitely, there could be no doubt, in that thick, implying, tone. Definitely over loafers.

It being Danny, who when pushed, does almost nothing but push back, getting more and more riled, the more he's pushed. Shoved back, just makes him push himself even more into Steve's space. Pushing his weight down. Standing more firmly without going. Fingers, warm and familiar with Steve's skin, grafting themselves to him. His neck. His arm. Like a threat or a challenge that he can't make Danny. Fall the next few feet. Wouldn't. Couldn't. Hasn't already. More than once.

Like its not instantly distracting Danny is pulling at his neck already. Cutting at the nearly foot of space, with fingers in the muscles there, even if be isn't to dragging Steve forward to eradicate it yet. Danny might hesitate, like he isn't a readable book, isn't considering what could, if it was just given a few more seconds. Solid shoving. More complaining. His face already a clear and obvious and then he'd that Steve can't even resist.

He never was good at remembering to wait.

He's even worse at remembering the idea exists when Danny is looking at him like the.

"It's Sunday. Last I checked, neither Grace or jeans required you to look professional. Or even cared."

Because how the hell is he supposed to resist? That face. Those fingers. Danny ranting like he has any idea really what being perfectly pressed day in and day out from his head down to his shoes even was. His own words making him feel like there were suddenly so few minutes left before work. Work, that he loved, but took this out of his hands, even when Danny at his side all day barely let him forget it for half an hour. Too soon.

All of which together just culminates in skipping forward for Danny, or himself. Shifting forward still, more weight more pressure. Long fingers and large palm wrapping Danny's side, when Steve is leaning down without the direction to. Taking Danny's lips and backing them, both, toward the bed, even as he's kissing him. It's at least one step below tipping them toward it with his weight as a promise it'd happen.

"But even you would wear them if it came down to loafers or letting down the country. Right?"

Obviously. Of course he would. Even Steve is not that stubborn. But Danny can't resist, can't keep from poking further, angling into it like he doesn't actually know better, like there's even a single thing Steve wouldn't do if avoiding it meant failing his duty and oath to protect.

Which Danny knows all too well, because he's seen it in action a thousand times, in a thousand heart-stopping ways, when Steve's lack of self-preservation became damn near suicidal and far too close for comfort. Spiking Danny's blood pressure along the way. Throwing himself heedlessly into anything, whatever was required. When Danny knows Steve would give everything of himself he has, without question, and without looking back.

It drives him nuts, it really does. And if anyone ever asked, he'd be the first to say, loudly, at length, that he would be happy if Steve maybe thought, first, before diving headlong into the fray, or if Steve ever actually considered his own bodily well-being before doing the same, but that's that tiny part, small and sure, walled off from the storm of the rest that knows it's not true. Steve wouldn't be Steve if he were like that, and Danny --

Can't keep from pulling him closer, that smirk dragging itself across Steve's face like a green light beckoning him closer. Not when Steve's moving down, still sniping, and Danny's shaking his head even though his breath feels short. "What's the point of owning shoes I can't work in? Aren't the jeans bad enough? It's a waste of what is, I promise you, very limited bureau space."

And he could probably keep going, too, but Steve's bending down further and now Steve's mouth is on his and words dissolved into a sound that settles in Danny's chest, far quieter and nowhere near as argumentative.

It's probably true. Wherein probably is like saying Steve wouldn't get naked, in loafers alone, if the fate of the world went bat shit insane and required that. But threats to national security never involved shoes. Especially ones he'd, even, vastly prefer his dress shoes to if he had to be pointed that direction. But he really doesn't have to answer when Danny is rambling on with those words, about his shoes, and his jeans.

His jeans which Steve sadly cannot rub his fingers down Danny's skin and still find pressed against his stomach, hugging his hips and his thighs. When even that momentary wistfulness is literally done right under, and burned right over into a crisp, at a violently pleased sort of possession to the memory of them. Having to pull and peel and jerk them off of him. How if Danny doesn't have room for them, Steve would make it.

"I don't know," comes in a gusted laughed, right against Danny's lips. The reluctance to let go of Danny's mouth, of the way Danny dissolves into him, pushing in and up, and meeting him, with the kind of force that goes from a fight to like interlocking puzzle pieces in seconds. Only barely beaten out by the need to toss, sizzling words. "The jeans have done pretty well so far."

Hand traveling down Danny's side, sliding out and back across the inward slop at the small of his back. Blunt, calloused finger tips traveling the decent of his spine, right down against starting curve of Danny's ass. "I'm pretty sure I can find a space on a closet shelf," Theres the flicker of smirk, the movement of his mout probably lost except for movement against Danny, but his cheeks still tug up and along with his eyebrows, "-or the floor, for them, if you can't."

He doesn't mean it.

Danny knows that, okay. He hears the tone of voice and sees that crooked, arrogant smile, and he knows it's a joke. Just like that crack about wedding bands, before.

It's a joke because that is the kind of thing people joke about. Nobody says that twelve days in and means it. Danny's jeans are not going to end up in Steve's closet, or anywhere else in this house that isn't the fucking definition of temporary. There isn't going to be a drawer that turns into a drawer and a toothbrush, that turns into buying groceries and leaving some of them here. And then he'll get pissed about buying too much food and letting it go to waste in his fridge, and the single drawer will turn into half the closet space and half the dresser and, Christ, he can't let that happen, he can't hate Steve one, two, ten years down the line because one of them forgot to buy toothpaste, how are they going to solve cases if they aren't talking to each other and --

He can't. No. Doesn't want to ruin the way Steve's lips brush against his when he's leaning this close and saying things that are making Danny's pulse careen into the red in a panicked, catapulting sprint. A pair of pants in the closet might as well be the death knell.

And Steve is joking, but it doesn't matter. Someone used to tell him jokes always have a grain of truth, and normally he thinks that's bullshit, but right now he's not so sure, is too busy drowning in it, heart thumping hard against his temples.

"Maybe I'll just throw them away."

There, problem solved. No need to find space anywhere, and start with the first of the little annoyances that will invariably end with Steve wishing he'd never seen Danny at all, which is for the best for everybody, right?

He's too close not to catch some of it. Like the second Danny goes still, goes from pushing into him to pulling back a little. That whole movement caught between his own body and the fingers tracing down Danny's spine. When Steve can hear Danny's breath seemingly stop almost in the middle of speeding up. Feel it against his lips. It might not, but his heart definitely does pick up suddenly.

"Seriously?" Steve raised his eyebrows. A little wary, but more confused about the strange set of words. It's less a comment thrown to up the whole of the ludicrous head nod to Steve being owned by a piece of a clothing. And like. He doesn't know. The desperate, almost apologetic set aside of the whole subject. The whole existence of the pants happening at Steve, at all.

Like somehow Steve wasn't saying he liked them. Hadn't been very clear about that. Earlier or right now.

When he doesn't know what Danny's saying, why or how that sentence, and can only attempt to rib him slightly more about it.

Thicken up the obvious smugness, and let his fingers fan out, across the flat of Danny's spine and the curve of skin, tug him closer. Because. Okay. He did not imagine Danny grousing about him wearing clothes, and staring at him with bright eyes blown electric, mumbling his name into his skin like the words was more than air, fingers digging into Steve's hips, holding him so tight and close. "You saying they haven't done anything good for you today?"

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