Post 3.01 - The McGarrett Family Home

[gonna_owe_me]

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.

Comments

[thebesteverseen]

He doesn't know what he's expecting. The muscles between his shoulder blades tensing slowly like a clock, winding only inside, the longer Danny stares at him and he has no idea what's going on behind that face. Doesn't even feel that qualified to be guessing at the fleeting shadows coming and going, as Danny seems to be taking his time to come up with the right answer, and some part of Steve is holding still.

Wondering if the answer is the same as it was earlier. Two seconds from coming in. If that actually was the answer, and Steve didn't listen. When he left. When he said he didn't want to come inside. When he stared at his drink. When he was yelling about how all of this, all of it looks obvious, even if he's wrong.

Until he says those two words. And Steve went even more still, if it was possible.

Not because he doubts it. If anything his chest squeezes inward on his heart shuddered somewhere in his chest. It's not that he doubts. It's not even that he'd make Danny stand behind any of the words he's said in the last almost two weeks now. It's that he's not going to forget. He already knows that. Even if Danny changes his mind, and he's said it. One, two, maybe three times.

Danny might change his mind. Quiet. Even. Like he's going to be okay with because he has to be. It might happen.

But he's not going to forget any of it. He didn't get to over the last year. He didn't when he left the country, or last night.

They are two words so easily said, and swallowed by the silence of the room. That slip into his chest and inflate like someone is shoving helium in on double time. Like his lungs were already flattened behind it. Because those words aren't about all of this. This, right here, these last thirty minutes. It's about all of it. And maybe that makes it about the last thirty minutes, too.

He doesn't know. He doesn't know at all. But he knows those words. He knows the way his throat tightens on something so much bigger than words. The rolls through him, shifting everything in a sudden rain the way the skies just open here, when they feel like it. Making it impossible to swallow or breathe. Almost like it he did either, if he even moved a muscle the whole world might fall apart from every edge.

It's not an apology. It's an offering. A steady reminder. Something bigger than any of this, of now.

Still possible. Cath knows now, someone does. Still possible.. Danny jumped to the wrong conclusions, and tried to run away, but didn't. Still possible. Steve wanted to throw him at door more than a little. Still possible. They've stood here for over fifteen minutes yelling about the edges of all of this. Still possible.

How profane is to hear that, knocking straight through his chest, along with the knobby-kneed sudden race of his heart, beating against his ribs, hear it and understand, and only be left with the sensation that all of this is still happening, and that makes it seems that much more impossible. That this is all real. That he's here. That Danny is saying --

Still possible.

Before Danny is digging out even more words. Words that seep into whatever space was left in him, eating it away. Like acid. Except not. Except made with light. With the careful, compelling way Danny is looking at him and not looking away now. Like he has to get the answer right, and Steve has to hear it this time. I want to be with you.

And his voice drags off. Eyes shooting away, like suddenly that might not be everything, might not be enough, might not be more than words. So much that Steve can see the effort it takes to look back. To just leave it at that. Not to pile it under other words. Like maybe there are no other words in the universe. In all of Danny. Like maybe they end and begin there. Like maybe everything in Danny did.

Still possible.

I want to be with you.

Leaving him stricken beyond the need for air, beyond the need for anything but for Danny to be five or six feet closer than he was. For a recorded to always have those words to hear, not just painstaking tattoo into his memory on this face once. When the only thing he can seem to force out of himself, out the expansion in his that still feels like everything is pressing outward until it's going to leave him a stain beneath it is to nod, and say, quiet and rough, "Okay."

[haole_cop]

He thinks right away that it was probably too much.

Too much, and too specific. While still not being specific enough. When wanting to be with Steve is the only thing he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt, but it's so much harder to admit than that he wants Steve. But still maybe too cowardly. Still maybe open for interpretation. But with all his millions of words, the only ones that ring clear, like coins dropping on a marble floor. It's what he wants. It's still true. Still possible. On his end, anyway, which is the only end he can even pretend to control. When even that pretense is a bald-faced lie, because he can't control this, can only measure it out in two, or six, bare words and a meaningless tag.

Part of him wants to backpedal. To cover those words with an avalanche of others, hide them from plain or easy view. Take the high road of having said them, but behind a smokescreen, and it takes more than he'd be proud to admit not to, when Steve doesn't say anything at all, for a long time.

But then he does.

Not in words. The single, gruff one what feels like minutes later isn't Steve's answer. It's painted across him. In broad strokes over his face, the set of his shoulders. The strange, impossible stillness of him. When he's not waiting to pounce on a suspect. Isn't coiled and ready. Isn't loose, lazily undone, like an unlaced boot. Just, still. Perfectly so. Like he's preserving this in amber, in perfect quiet.

When his face clears, and he's not smiling, or laughing, or relieved. He's not angry or embarrassed. He looks. Like he's suddenly gotten to experience seeing the ocean for the first time, all over again. Paused, with something written in clear letters across his face that looks like nothing Danny's ever seen before. Like. God. Like an arrow shot straight into his chest, and he can't even breathe around it, and now Danny is wrestling with the sticky spider-strands of commercially-approved romantic messages, but then he says that one word, agreement, and relief floods Danny's chest like a dam breaking, carrying pieces of ice away and threatening to crack his ribs like someone snapping a wishbone.

He's no prize. He gets that. He knows. But he chooses to be here, and he wants to be here, and that look, that expression Danny can't name but thinks should belong to some offering greater than his messed up head and heart and self, that look says Steve wants him here, too. Even messed up and making him angry. Even saying the wrong things, all the time. Or too many things, or not enough. "Okay."

His voice has gone a little rough, making him his throat against the tightness there. And, Christ, but he really, just, can't be far away from him anymore. He feels almost lightheaded, like there's not enough air in the room, feels sore all over, and bruised. As exposed as a snail dragged out of its shell and dropped on a rock in the sun.

"So." He feels out of breath, like he's been punched in the stomach, or just finished sprinting a mile, but he puts out his hand anyway, palm up, pinky and ring finger curled just slightly in. Holds it out to Steve. "Will you come away from the door now, please?"

He could go. He could take the few steps back to Steve, get in his space, push his shoulders into the wood of the door and drag him down. But it feels like he needs that okay to be more than a word. Like he's drifting out on this wide blue sea, and he needs to haul himself back to shore, because he hates the sea, it is terrifying and awful and can't be trusted, but Steve gets it and maybe if Steve is adrift with him, it won't be so bad.

[thebesteverseen]

The truth is simple. It take no preamble. It doesn't wait safely caged. Doesn't give you time to breathe or a warning to duck.

It's just there. The way Danny's hand is. Paler on the inside, but still harder than it was the first time he saw them. Holding out from him. A request that is as much words as it is that gesture. Asking him to move and let go of all of it, and he really doesn't think about that part. Because the only thing he thinks looking at Danny's hand, is that if Danny asked he go anywhere. Anywhere.

It's the opposite and exactly the same as when he dropped the letter on Danny's desk. Crisp white edges, and the anything but quickly scrawled Danno. Because he knew. He knew, even before all of this, even without all of this, that if Danny said it was a bad idea, that he shouldn't go, mustn't go, they needed him, Danny needed him, he might never make it to that plane.

There might be so very many problems because of that.

But the tiny voice that says that is shushed almost completely in the way Steve's hand slides into Danny's.

Shoulders loosening, if not dropping, when he's walking toward Danny, even once that has happened. Leaving it behind.

[haole_cop]

It's ridiculous how he suddenly realizes how tense he's been, once Steve's fingers slide across his palm. Like his muscles all jolt back into reality all at once, and the thing that makes Danny aware of the strain they'd been under is the sudden lack of it, now.

When he's already moving towards Steve, too, because it's one thing to say he's going to hold his ground and ask Steve to come to him, but it's impossible in practice, because he'll never leave Steve hanging, will always be right there with him, for whatever the world throws at them. Even if Steve had taken only one step, it would have been enough for Danny to take the rest of them.

As it is, Steve's moving towards him and Danny doesn't have far to go, fingers folding around that hand until Steve is close enough and it can let go, to find the side of his waist, mirroring the other one as it lifts, and thank God he put down that beer, because there is nothing like the feel of Steve under his hands. Even through this shirt. He's warm and lean muscle and thrumming blood, a five o'clock shadow smudging his cheeks and jaw, and he's still looking at Danny like, Christ, who knows. There's too much there to contain. A force like wind or gravity, knocking Danny over and pushing him back up and shoving him over a cliff edge, but onto a saving soft landing, even if it's not usually soft enough to not knock his breath out of his body.

But Steve came, without question or argument, like all Danny ever needed to do was ask, and that thing in his chest is making it hard to breathe, aching and impossible. Too big for Danny. Threatening to spill out everywhere, messy and longing and hopeful.

And there are still things he should ask, should know. Tonight is a prime example of why they should clarify this, because Danny's lost without a map, and God only knows where Steve is or what he wants, but right now the only thing he wants in this world is to press close and warm and certain and kiss Steve. Without making a point. Without making an argument. Just to be able to feel his breath caught for a new reason, and because Steve came.

[thebesteverseen]

It falls away. The concern, and the knowledge it'll come back. Later. Much later. With Cath, later. And it's silly how the thought of Cath is a trigger for an entirely flight of dominoes kicking over. Because Cath knows. Because Cath probably knows more in the fact he ran out of the house, than Danny's seem to know since he opened the door.

And if Cath knows, if Cath is already going to read him the riot act, and still left them here anyway. Shouldn't Danny?

His muscles are sliding slowly, from rock to slippery rubber under Danny's hands. At his waist, brushing the span from his hips, through his stomach, to his ribs. A shadow of the brush of his lips. Of the way everything aches, like he can feel every single crack in himself, warmed in this. In Danny. In those words still ringing in his ears. I want to be with you.

When that kiss so slower smoother, and there's a second he closes his eyes, when it ends, before he's looking down at Danny. Crossing off the options. Of saying it against his mouth, of trailing down his cheekbone or along his jaw, and saying it in his ear, like there are no lights left and no one to hear him. When he wants it to be heard, he wants to see Danny, and that, that alone, makes his stomach pull in, before he pushes on a second later.

Reaching up a hand to brush back a piece of blonde hair probably messed up by him, earlier. When his eyes go from his fingers, back to Danny's face, and he doesn't let himself pause. Not anymore than he'd let himself, jumping out of a plane. Because he's already fallen into whatever this is. He already ran away from the only easy thing, for this. For the earlier vibrant ability to take it and dish back, as much as this face right now.

That quiet, raw ache summed up on pinked lips and those endless blue eyes. Things that make up his day and night now.

Enough that he drags his hand at the same time he says it, the pad of thumb brushing the edge of Dany's mouth. "I want you." Which he's said, before, but maybe not enough. Or not clear enough. Not if earlier. Not if he didn't understand, still. "Only you."

He didn't know if it meant anything else, if he could be anything else he wasn't if it would even stay, or not change.

But he knew it was true right now. He knew it was true through Cath and other people during the last year.

"No one else, nothing el--" Steve stopped in the middle of that word, half considering, with a look up and then down. Before settling Danny with the first very faint curve toward a smile since the door opened, hiding under something that looked like a put upon confession. "Well, and an FGM-148 Javelin, if i'm being totally honest."

"But aside from a Javelin," Steve said, with faintly more emphasis, thumb tracing against Danny's skin lightly and no amount of actual seriousness displaced for the aside, except that maybe it made his mouth just slightly more toward normal, as he looked at Danny. "Only you."

[haole_cop]

Maybe that arrow thing wasn't a bad metaphor, after all, because those five words hit like darts in Danny's chest, bursting everything along the way until the walls of his ribs are splashed with surprised warmth, painted thick and disbelieving.

That Steve could want him. Which he's heard. A couple of times. But, want. It's such a tricky word. It can mean so much, and so little. Could mean falling into bed. Could mean placing the whole world in his hands and telling him to be careful with it. But that Steve could want him. Only him.

Not Catherine. Not Kaila. Doesn't want Danny walking out the door. Wants Danny. Only him.

Was it hard to breathe before? Did it seem impossible? It's laughable, now. When Steve is looking at him with eyes so serious, and that thumb touching the vulnerable corner of Danny's mouth, so gently. Too gentle for Steve, right, for the way he's seen those hands take down criminals, handle a football, fire a gun. Except it's not. And these soft little moments, when Steve's touching him just to touch him, not to set him on fire and burn him to the ground, not clinging in desperation, not shaking him to get his attention or shoving him, no hard edges or flat surfaces or gripping, grabbing, hard fingers -- they trip him up every time. Send his heart catapulting into his throat, where he swallows, hard.

Making him forget every word he ever learned, like the dictionary is evaporating, page by flickering page, from his head. And he can't even strange a laugh in response to that side comment. Can't feel anything except that thumb, though he knows his hands are tightening on Steve's sides. They have to be, because he feels like any motion at all right now would knock him over like Steve clocked him in the jaw instead of said that. Those.

Only him. Wanting only him.

Molten, golden warmth pouring straight through every vein, bright enough that he's sure it's seeping out of his skin, and he'd check, but he can't look away from Steve, who isn't lying, who is serious and so beautiful it hurts, and Danny feels so lightheaded, his heart giving a crazy jerk and he is breathless. Has anyone ever.

"Well, unfortunately, I don't think I can help with the Javelin." His voice sounds terrible, like it got smacked right out of his windpipe and is being hauled back, word by word.

"But you've got me."

[thebesteverseen]

There are fingers digging into his sides, as he stares at Danny and wills him to believe, to understand even the smallest bit of what he's said every other way tonight already. There couldn't have been anything else. Because even if he was here alone, or whether he was alone with Cath, this was still here, Danny was still here, even gone across the city, with him, too.

Filling up all the spaces, just as much his family. Newer, and sharper, and in every room of his house as much as it's always been every space in his head. Because Cath might have been willing, but she wasn't Danny, and he wants Danny. More than breathing, or logic. And he gets to watch it, turn over and over, in Danny's eyes.

The first flutter of confusion, like he must have heard it wrong. Before his hands tighten and you can almost see the struggle. Between the part that still believes it, and the part, without those hands tightening, that won't let go, that is suddenly, so clearly listening to the words, rusty and cobbled and not even well thought out first, or made to look nice by any means.

With a joke, for God's sake, about a rocket launcher. Which just goes to show he's always known his odds here, too. With Danny.

They were absolutely nothing. Not slim. Not minute. Not one in a six billion. They were absolutely non-existant. This was never supposed to happen, and Danny's fingers are digging into his sides, like if he let go, he might fall out of the Earth's gravity, and it's the first time in days Steve's felt like someone might be feeling anything near to what he was. How far off, how far out.

How the ground is gone. But in this one case, unlike the team, unlike his- Doris, he wants this one.

Enough to push out the rest. Enough that his mouth curves in an odd smile at the sound of Danny's voice, like someone ran him over, or it's being scraped up from beneath his shoes, sounding even momentarily apologetic about what Steve is sure would not be apologetic if Danny knew he were referencing one-man portable rocket launcher with fire-it-and-forget it anti-tank missiles.

But that really isn't the point. The point is the words that come after it, even when he's dragging Danny in closer to him, letting mouth and his hands get the best of him. Pull him in until there's blonde hair brushing his chin, and his fingers fall down the back of this plain cotton t-shirt, with normal sleeves, and -- "In blue jeans, no less. I think I might owe Kono for bet on that."

Though he really doesn't seem to care, when he's stretching for a moment to test tucking his first three fingers in one of his back pockets.

[haole_cop]

Steve's already tugging him close, and it's such a relief to go there, to take that last shuffling step and come close enough that a deep breath in would press them skin-close. Maybe even a little because Steve is no longer searching his face, even if it's accompanied by that quirk of a smile, by something else fond and warm in his eyes. Like he gets that Danny's struggling, thrashing around in his head over five words, simple and simply stated. Knows it, and isn't going to call him on it.

Just pulls him in, close and warm, close enough that Danny's elbows bend and his hands relax their grip enough to slide a little towards the dip of Steve's spine. Relearning the path they'd taken on Saturday morning, or Tuesday, or last Sunday. The handful of days this has been happening. That somehow are still adding up, slowly, one by one.

The plain amusement in Steve's voice sending a little current of warmth up the back of Danny's neck, stubble scratching gently at his temple.

"Yeah, well, I hate them, they were a terrible idea. They're too hot in your crazy island weather, they get too heavy when it rains, like it always does, and the pockets are too tight."

Which Steve apparently feels the need to test, pressing closer to him, flush together, curving down to slide fingers into those back pockets, leaning low enough that Danny has to, can't help it, turn his head, brush his lips along the lowest part of Steve's neck, where it starts curving into his shoulder, sensitive skin interrupted by a shirt collar. Fingers sneaking further around to his back, lighter now, even though his pulse is starting to kick up and he can feel heat start trapping itself under his skin.

[thebesteverseen]

Close, that is almost not close enough. Not when he said those words, and he has to leave them there. Uncertain of where they will go, and whether they even are entirely understood, especially if he's going to make a joke near them. Right after Danny calling him on that for Danny's words. But something about the warmth of Danny being this close, makes him hope.

That Danny gets it. At least some of it. Maybe at least as much as Steve does, which might not be truly an amazing amount, but he's been living with it here, in his head, under his skin, for so long that whether it was setting him on fire, making him want to scrub his skin off with a wire brush, or blow through any number of rules personal or professional to help Danny in a bind or in a relationship, that it just is. It almost feel like it always has been. Almost.

Not always. Steve knows that in the bare flicks of vision he's seeing of the rest of the room, over Danny's head, fingers in his pocket. Things that would not stand or react to a yelling contest, inanimate objects and so many memories that cannot be touched, except to be more and more tainted. That he could not run from this, from Danny, or let it run from him, doesn't mean he's ready to think about anything else that way.

Especially when there are fingers dipping into the low vulnerable small of his back, his spine. Fingers finding their way across the fabric of his loose shirt, like they need to map him. Both known, and unknown, like it needs to be felt, again, retraced to make sure it hasn't changed. Even if it hasn't. Even if it's only been a little less than two days.

"I like them." Is a little more hollow than he expected, because he'd been testing putting his fingers into pockets, silly and small and almost a distraction from the huge letters and words standing right behind his beyond, inside his eyes, still loud against his heart beat and breath, still echoing here. Still not quite sure what might happen to them, or him, or Danny with them.

But he hadn't expects that puff of hot breath on his neck that turned his skin electric in a less than a second. Or the lips that followed. Gently, smooth, warm, tracing against his skin, making his torso shiver, and his hands grip in slightly with those fingers against Danny and rough denim. Trying to still make out the words, he'd been trying to make follow out the other ones, seconds ago.

"Grace probably did, too." His eyes are half closed and everything inside the quickening pound of his blood isn't certain maybe what his mouth is doing, because the rest of it is frozen against that feeling. Warm, like waves pouring onto him from Danny. Not wanting it to stop. Like the other side of it might be more yelling and neither of thinking the other understand, or that they both understand too much.

[haole_cop]

"Grace doesn't care what I wear, as long as I'm not actively embarrassing her."

And she has a pretty high tolerance, honestly, given that he still gets to call her Monkey in public and she uses Danno at least as often as she does Daddy, even though she's old enough now to know the difference.

The point, though, is not the jeans and what Grace thinks of them. The point is that he didn't even change out of them, despite hating having put them on to begin with. What's comfortable in Jersey is too clingy and hot and heavy in Hawaii, and he's beginning to wish he hadn't brought any jeans at all.

The point is that he didn't stop to change. Or for anything else. The point is that he came right here, and never even thought for one second about not coming straight back. Of course Steve likes the jeans. Steve comments every time Danny does something differently, something that might insinuate his eventual, reluctant conversion to life on the island. Like that stupid smile when Steve was in prison, and still managed to be smugly delighted that Danny wasn't wearing a tie.

The point isn't Steve liking the jeans, he wasn't even thinking about that. It's that Danny hates them, but he wanted to be here more.

Here. When that word might not even mean the house. When it might mean here, Steve's arms circling him and his fingers searching out light paths across Steve's back, tracking into the dip at the small and climbing a careful path up. Here, with his mouth against Steve's skin, another light touch, breath gusting gently, finding the way the muscles contract and relax against his lips, feeling a flutter of pulse.

"You just like anything that can't be described as professional."

[thebesteverseen]

He wants to say kids always notice. Parents have a uniform. Danny definitely has a uniform. Both of her parents do. They both dress exceedingly well at all times. She'd noticed. Kids notice. Steve notices. Even if right now, Steve's ability to notice is very much torn between denim under his fingers, finger tips tracing up his spine, his ribs, the muscles between and over them, Danny's lips moving, brushing his skin, so lightly, with every new sound to every new word.

How is he supposed to want to breathe. Move. Focus on anything else. Even Grace.

When for such a very clear moment, this seemed like it had slipped out of his fingers. The reason not withstanding, and not even existing, but still gone. Except not gone. Breathing words into his skin, correcting him about what he likes or why he likes it. And for some god forsaken reason, they are still standing here, while he absently wished, for one second, before shoving it away, this was the beginning of the weekend and not the end. Before it is gone.

"It's a good look," is said with a smirk somewhere against Danny's hair, and the side of his face. Still tucked in so close to him.

Before he makes the choice at the same time as the movement. Dragging Danny with him. One hand in a pocket, and the other sliding down to get a thumb inside the top of his jeans and pulling Danny toward the couch. Toward the place where he won't have to lean for a foot or a foot and half down, and Danny won't have to lean up. Even if neither of them say any of these things often.

But it's there. And he still wants Danny here. This close. At least a few more minutes.

[haole_cop]

Steve's starting to move, after a moment when it seemed like every muscle in his body was waiting, listening, reacting with absolute stillness to Danny's touch, and it goes straight to his head like tequila. The fact that he can do that. Is allowed to do it. Is wanted. Only you.

Words stitching themselves into the walls of his chest, needle-sharp and sweet at the same time. That he wants to record and play back, over and over, on the nights like last night. The moments like ten minutes ago. Impossible. But said. And Steve always has been the person to do the impossible.

The stillness doesn't last, even with the low rough smile in his voice, low near Danny's ear, spoken into his hair and skin. Making Danny want to trace a pattern of goosebumps up the line and curve of Steve's neck, lay his tongue against that flickering pulse point, drag a shiver out of Steve, the sounds he knows he can find. But Steve is moving, never really caught in between stasis and motion, never idly considering it without going anywhere the way Danny does. Directing them towards the couch, fingers curving against his ass in that back pocket, the other hand gripping the waist of his jeans, like this whole it's a good look statement is just code for them being excellent handles by which to pull Danny towards the furniture.

Which is fine by Danny. He can't be reasonably expected to hear those words and be able to remain standing with any amount of stability. Not after the shock and sickening loss he'd put himself through, and the sudden brilliant sunshine now clearing the air and proving that everything is actually just like it was. Not lost. Not vanished. This is no fever dream that Steve is going to shatter.

So the couch is a good idea, even if once they find it, they have to shift, can't be all pressed up together, not without lying down. Meaning his hands have to leave Steve's back and their careful exploration there, but one slides up to spread flat along the back curve of his ribs and the other moves up his arm, along his shoulder, blunt fingers slipping into his hair. "It's a weekend look, you goof. What's the point of getting my work clothes ruined seven days out of the week instead of only five?"

Right before the fingers curving into Steve's hair tighten and he tracks back up with the taste of Steve's skin still on his lips to find his mouth again instead.

[thebesteverseen]

It's not all that terrible. Having his ready retort silenced by Danny. His mouth. A kiss that is so much more demanding of an immediate response than any of the words in that question Danny had thrown out. Fingers having slid up into his his hair, and then tightened, dragging him in. No question in that part. No question in the way he answer, just as ready as words. No part of him held at bay.

Tipping into Danny's mouth, lips salty and warm, like a landslide. One arm against the back of the couch, and the other finding Danny's side, again. When he knows, even if he has no way to keep his words, or back them up, or prove them empirically real, that they still are. Are everywhere, in inch inch of his veins. When this feels almost like back to normal. If there is a normal. If you can make a normal in so few days.

Not part of a promise. Not something to steal. Not something to prove a point. Not anything more than Danny wanting to kiss him, so much so that even getting an answer doesn't matters beside it. Not that Steve doesn't still have, doesn't let it fall out, more breathless words than the amusement trying to trickle into his too bare expression.

"Not every weekend. Not last weekend." And Steve would know. The whole lot of them would know. Danny Williams. In slacks and a button up even at a weekend BBQ. There are reasons for those bets. Even more so for the one that held out when and if Danny William's wore, or even owned shorts, that were not underwear or board shorts, and whether anyone was likely to ever see this occurrence take place.

"Unless you're telling me this is another habit you picked up while I was gone."

You know. Like any of this. Hands on Steve's skin, kissing him. This mattering. So much that for a minute it shook everything.

[haole_cop]

"Well, I don't get to be outside with my daughter every weekend, do I?"

Obviously not. Not last weekend, certainly. But he does, on occasion, dress down, Steve. It's not like he has never worn jeans before. And he has even -- "You've seen me wear jeans. It's hardly a strange thing to do."

And, okay. Maybe not usual. Because the job takes up ninety percent of his time, and the rest of the time, he's dressed for it anyway because it spills over into that last slim percentage more often than it doesn't. Besides, he didn't bring a lot of casual clothes with him, and they're a useless expense so he doesn't buy them, either, only gave into buying board shorts when Gracie started raising eyebrows at the cutoffs he'd been using.

But Steve's smiling at him, and ragging on him in a clumsily gentle kind of way, and Steve's hand is warm and steady on his side. And maybe he feels a little guilty for accidentally chasing Catherine off the couch, but not by much, okay. Not when he gets to be here, instead. Feeling a goofy smile lighting like a slow-starting fire, finding its way back onto a mouth that felt like it forgot what the expression even felt like. Eyes half-lidded, dropping to Steve's lips, tongue darting out to wet his own, unconscious.

"Who said it's a habit? I didn't say it was a habit. It's the weekend, I can wear jeans if I feel like it, it's no big deal."

Jeans are just jeans. They are hardly habit-forming. Not like Steve. Getting under his skin and staying there. Causing cravings as bad as any nicotine fit or alcoholic tremors. Habit. Maybe it is. Except it feels like so much more than that. A habit is making the bed every morning. Having a cup of coffee. Reading the paper. Steve is a whirlwind of necessities that Danny hadn't ever realized could be a part of the world. He's not a habit so much as, what. A lifeline, maybe.

But there's something sort of hopeful about that sentence, pricking the balloon Steve is making of Danny's heart in a way that just makes it go higher, fill tighter, instead of bursting. "One new habit at a time, babe. Anything else is too distracting."

And he doesn't want to be distracted from this. Not from the different shades of Steve's smile and how his eyes go from ocean-blue to green to dark to brilliant. Not from the way his muscles shift under Danny's touch, like they're rearranging themselves for better access. And not those words. Never those words.

[thebesteverseen]

It's not a habit, and it's not no big deal, but it is amusing. Amazing. Like learning to breathe for the first time, all over, again. Watching the light in Danny's eyes come back on as he deflects, dragging out that smile that stays even when he's defending himself. Like Steve couldn't probably count on less than his hands and feet the number of times Danny Williams has ever been see in jeans by him.

There were more holidays in each of the years since Danny was drafted, against his will, into Five-0.

Like Danny's eyes dropping to his mouth -- making Danny's body breathe in, chest rise, lips licked -- don't distract him entirely.

Talking, talking, talking words Steve is supposed to be hearing, is hearing, is getting drowned out on wetted pink lips and the way Danny focusing on his mouth makes Steve whole chest tighten like it's the air inside a fist, compressed suddenly to nothing. And why, why, again, can't he be in Danny's head. Touch the second that somehow this all started in him. Where and how and why, earlier. And this second. This second in his head.

When the thought and the words and Danny's face are all completely different places and things, and he wants all of them. All of Danny. Even if he swallows hard, like there's a boulder clogging his throat the moment Danny's eyes shoot up. Making him strangle a scoff and grab the only words he can like a defense. Like he isn't drowning, like he isn't already leaning down, back toward Danny's mouth, fingers at his side, pulling at his shirt, wanting skin, wanting Danny's heart beat and the feel of the breaths that catch, right there under his finger tips.

Inconfutable evidence. That's the word. Even if it might be in Danny's voice in his head even. Burning through him to make it that, when he's saying low and quiet and close. Goading, insulting, warm, "The state of Hawaii is paying you far too much if you can't even multitask."

Before he's leaning instead of taking that last breath. Finding Danny's mouth, and kissing him only to slip from it half a second in, tugging on that lip that had been brushing by Danny's tongue. Like he has to touch, trace the echo of that touch, taste that want against his own lips, the edge of his teeth. Drag it out, further. Pink and soft on one side, and rough with stubble on the other.

[haole_cop]

He feels like a home run. Not like the batter; like the ball. Smacked clean over the fence, flying high and impossible, without any tug of gravity or reality. Except for the way Steve drags him back in, something lit dark in his eyes, grabbing at his shirt in suddenly forceful fingers, leaning into him to claim Danny's mouth, like he's the only one who should ever get to decide what words do or don't come out of it, and how it is used.

After breathing that insult against his lips. And there's so much Danny could say to that: the state of Hawaii doesn't pay him nearly enough for the crap he goes through every week, where the hell is the hazard pay from being Steve's partner, that's what he'd like to know. And no, he is not a multitasker, he likes to focus on one thing at a time, and right now, that thing is Steve, Steve's mouth and the way he crushes any possible reaction into the space of a breath Danny can no longer take and doesn't want, because breathing is another distraction. And it's not important.

Nothing is, except Steve's fingers tucking at his shirt like he wants to climb up under it already, and this being a habit of the most insane variety. He shifts on the couch to get a better angle, tucking one knee into the dip where the cushions meet the back, the other leg almost straight, propped from the floor, so he can turn fully towards Steve, fingers sinking into hair, traveling down from ribs to the waist of his pants. It's going to suck for his knee, but he doesn't give a damn about his knee when this way he can lean towards Steve, brace himself, give into the need for closer, more.

Breathless and winded, eyes wanting to fall closed, dazed and with his head spinning when Steve slides to his bottom lip and Danny can feel the tip of his tongue and the gust of his breath. It winds him up like a spring about to blow, stomach contracting, heart leaping and slipping and falling all over itself, because Steve wants him and he can't get over it no matter how many times he reminds himself of those words.

Voice coming winded and barely there, even when he's trying to keep up conversation, like this is all totally normal. "I like my regular pants. They're comfortable and far more useful."

[thebesteverseen]

The question Danny should be asking is not whether he wants something else, someone else. It's how would it even be possible for him to consider anything, anyone else when he compares it to this. Danny pushing up, moving his weight, almost towering a little above him with that shift and gathering of bearing, new position. So that he's looking up into the light of Danny's face, breaking open, with the smile Steve never sees enough.

When he feels it all like it must be painted on him. This. This, this, this. Danny. Cath's nearly painful, Oh, Steve. That he knows. He can't not know. He can't not see. How this doesn't line up with anything else. Compare to anything else. Her, any of of them. How this was already here for a year, before it was anything in Danny's eyes. Irremovable fire and connection.

"They definitely have more space," is said, somewhere around his fingertips finally finding Danny's skin, still staring. The joke dying on that tone, because he can't even make it happen. He can't. It's everywhere, seeping into everything. Danny is still here, and he looks like this.

Because, Christ, those eyes. All pleased and bright, like they weren't shattered an hour ago. Like somehow looking at Steve makes him shine up even a little the way Grace does. Like from this way, it's not like the opposite suddenly. The opposite of the earlier thought looking down. Like this is the only way to look up. Like the only sun is up, up, up, through that those, that endless hunders of feet of water. Caught with so much light it feels like you can touch it.

Like there is no prayer true enough to be able to touch enough of it. Sunlight though water made into stain glass.

Until it's going to burst. His heart -- because it is his heart, God, he wouldn't care, she wouldn't care, if it wasn't.

Fingers brushing down his at once too thin and far too thick shirt. Like he can't breathe for the sensation, and like if it was gone, Danny's fingers would be brushing right against it. Not his skin. His heart. The whole concept dark and faulted, and too close. Too close to everything last week. But he doesn't know how to look away from the truth. How not to jump in front of bullet.

How not to feel like this every time he looks at Danny and would rather drown, sink down and down and down, than choose another path. How he couldn't stop feeling before Danny even noticed, and now that he has, it's gone from an uncontrollable bonfire in an endless, raging forest fire. Taking out every last wall and tree and division in its way. Until there is just Danny.

Only Danny, and the insane want to shove ever last aching part of himself into those hands.

Because, somehow, even five seconds of it, would be worth the moment, worse than that door opening, when it goes.

[haole_cop]

He doesn't know this look, either.

He could have sworn he knows every one of Steve's expressions, from delighted to smug to hurt to exasperated. He's seen axe-crazy determination, and glee, and cold-blooded anger.

But this is new. It looks like it slapped Steve in the face and stayed there, splashed over every corner of him. Like Steve's on a table and someone's cutting open his chest, his stomach, leaving him flayed and wide open and helpless.

Only there's nothing painful in it. It's just, like. Awe. Baffled and disbelieving, with an edge of such innocent hope that Danny swears he must be getting it wrong, right, because this is Steve, fearless, feckless Navy SEAL. Who dives headlong into gunfire, takes a ship all by himself. Blew into Danny's life with a vengeful storm ripping up everything in its path. He can be crass and idiotic, has the filthiest mouth Danny's ever heard, when he's had a few too many and started reliving days aboard ship with other foul-mouthed sailors. There is nothing about Steve that should make Danny think of vulnerability, or innocence.

Except that there is. Because of what happened to the kid Steve used to be. Because he was fifteen, and then he was in the Navy, and became this. Because he's never stopped in all that time to have anything for himself, or keep anything for himself. And half the time Danny's pretty sure Steve barely knows how to interact with regular people at all, when they aren't targets and they don't need saving.

But here he is, staring at Danny like he's, what. Like he's, Jesus. The world. Or something. Spread out in front of him. Eyes wide and almost startled.

It's insane, but the way Steve is looking at him, it's like Danny is every word in the dictionary and few more thrown in for good measure, and it's too much, right, definitely too much, and his hand has to lift from Steve's side to join the other in cradling his head. Fingers too big, too blunt, but gentle, because it's like Steve just shoved something huge and fragile into his hands and Danny has never been so afraid of dropping something in his life. It's like holding Grace for the very first time, petrified he'd drop her, terrified he'd be a terrible father. But his heart caught on a string, so in love with the tiny hand no larger than the tip of his too big, too blunt, too clumsy finger.

He can't breathe past it, this thing in his chest, so he leans forward, bypassing the joke, not hearing anything but the threadbare way it leaves Steve's throat. Stops any others from showing up with another kiss, that starts out careful but can't stay that way, has to deepen, electrify every inch of his skin and release a little of this, this thing, because it can't stay locked up in his chest without breaking everything within reach.

[thebesteverseen]

He knows.

Like he knows the way the waves roll in and the waves roll out. Like he can figure out any gun set in his hands in seconds.

This is a door he can't open, even look at, not if he can, at all, possibly still close it. Hands are finding both sides of his jaw, his cheeks, his face, and Danny's looking down at him with this bewildered, bright fragileness. Danny. With his heart on his shoulder. Danny, who is the most loyal and determined, and easily hurt person he may have ever met.

Cradling his face like it hasn't been beaten dozens on dozens of times. Like it's something precious. Like maybe he's fragile.

Something he's can't look away from, no matter how scary this all might be, too. And it is. He saw those faces earlier.


And, god, maybe he is. Because even if he can do all those things he can do, when Danny lowers his face. Slow. So slow. So slow it's like his eyes catch every inch, without Danny looking away, every line on the pads of his fingers, the smallest breath in between those lips, before they are touching him, and every crack, every fracture through him, and there are so many, god, there so so many, ache.

Like he could shatter on this single press of lips.

Not the yelling. Not watching Danny get wrecked over and over, again. Not waiting. Not being alone in Asia. Not Delano, or Wo Fat, or Doris. This single second. When the slide of lips. Not rough, not deep, but so lasting it feels like everything else is falling out of him. And he knows. Of course he knows. He belongs to all his people, and they belong to him. All of them, family. Respect. Trust. Loyalty. Love.

But with Danny it's always been more, and this year. These weeks. He knows. He knows, like he knows the sound of his blood when it's leaving his body, like all of his will is trying. Except he knows the rest, too. He knows that face on his doorway, and the one on his front yard, and he knows that he can't ever say it, not even think them, not name this feeling thats throbbing through everything, unless he knows he isn't going to earn that face Danny showed him tonight.

And he might. He really might. It's more likely than any single thing happening right now. He never stays. He's not this. It's not even twelve real days. So he's not going to think it, not going to say, not if there's a single chance he could just be one more of those people fucking Danny over and breaking him a little more, because Danny never stops them, Danny wouldn't stop him, even if he can't stop it, stop himself.

It doesn't matter beside that. It doesn't matter at all. He doesn't.

And that, isn't that odd for his life, especially after this week and Doris, is it?

He's just going to shift. Reach a hand up, fingers into Danny's hair and shift. Shift. Twist and turn sideways, facing Danny and drag them both down. Like the wind and waves, like an under tow. Put that feeling into the way his lips move, slow and definitive, against Danny's, unable to keep that to himself ever, and keep it at that. Danny is here, again, finally, and Danny wants to be with him. And he wants that, wants Danny.

That's enough for today. Maybe enough for forever if it has to be. Maybe he can break everything else. But not Danny.

[haole_cop]

He doesn't understand how this happened. Doesn't get how those words could be true. Only you. No one else.

But they seem to be. And even if words lie, even if he doesn't trust them, throws them like pennies even when it's absolutely necessary that he find and choose the right ones, words are one thing. This, Steve's face, that stark clear certainty there, that is something he believes.

Because Steve can't hide this for shit. Sure. He can run a con, a strategic op. Can mask everything under the SEAL, the soldier. Shoves it all back behind grim eyes and a squared jaw and the upraised barrel of a gun.

But he can't hide this, now. Here. When his eyes are so full, so clear that they almost stop Danny dead to rights, unable to do anything but be caught, his hands warm on either side of Steve's head, palms brushing against his jaw, fingers in his hair. Shifting lungs, heart, every necessary organ in his chest three feet to the right and hollowing out the rest of him. Just looking at him is threatening to undo Danny completely, is unlocking padlocks and safes he hadn't even realized were still stored back there, shoved so deeply away he'd managed to pretend they weren't there at all. Slamming open doors and lifting windows. Pouring light straight into the lonely boxed-up room Danny's been living in since the divorce.

And it's shining all over him. Steve. Looking like he's been smacked in the face with a cloud, in a way that makes Danny smile, baffled and delighted all at once. Just because. It's a good look. And he is so beautiful. Staring up at him like he's never seen Danny before. Or like the rest of the world has just evaporated and Steve couldn't care less.

Which is sort of the page Danny's on, when fingers sink into his hair, and Steve's lips are parting under his, nudging a tiny, soft, bewilderingly longing sound from his chest. Because Steve wants him, and that's crazy, but Danny wants Steve, wants Steve more than he's ever wanted anything for himself in his life, and it is so selfish, because it leads to things like Steve getting angry with him and blocking the door, or him over-reacting, leads to arguments and something that is anything but simple, or easy. When Steve has lost so much in his life, and the thought of being one more thing freezes Danny's heart in his chest, strikes up panicked disagreement, denial.

He never wants to see the face Steve was wearing, hurrying out into the dark after him. Like he'd run off a cliff to keep Danny from falling alone, but all Danny wants is for him to just stay here.

But right now, it is simple. It is easy. When Steve is pulling them both towards him, and Danny follows, because he's helpless to do anything else. Following that kiss down, shifting carefully on the couch, easing his knee into an angle that won't scream at him. One hand moving, carefully, to palm the side of Steve's neck, fingers light over the shell of his ear. And it's different, this kiss. There's deliberation that's scraping the bottom of his chest and leaving it raw and sore. As perfectly defined as those five words. Like Steve is still trying to say them, or something else.

But what he's doing is slowly filling Danny's skin with light. The golden, long, low-laying beams of sunset. Calm and perfect. Sweet in unexpected ways. And Danny could stay here what feels like forever. Kissing Steve like this, falling into it. Handing himself out to Steve, in a quieter sort of way. Giving him, his mouth, his skin, body and anything else he can touch, the sort of awed, fervent attention he deserves. Like prayer, except this. This is something he can believe in.

[thebesteverseen]

Maybe he breaks it down to small things. The feel of Danny's hair slipping through fingers, and the other hand that catches at his side, helping hold him while Danny's shifting his legs and Steve's finding a place for his own, to which the honest answer would be, is, anywhere that is not this couch. But Steve doesn't care. Kicks one leg over the arm of the couch and the other is sort hanging off, at a right angle, foot actually flat on the floor.

But he doesn't care when Danny's settling after figuring out his own.

When it's just his fingers against soft cotton, and the solid warm weight of Danny landing, slowly, heavily against him. Twinging his rib just enough he feels it. Not enough he cares, and nothing like the rest of him, in his head, being pushed slowly, steady back. Away. Against the feeling in those fingers. Warm heavy had on his throat, fingers against his ear. That every ounce of two decades training says snap to attention for, but he doesn't have to.

Against the taste of Danny's mouth, and that soft, low sound that seems to be heard by his ears but be amplified inside every corner of his chest. Like that one sound can paint the inside of him. All the things he's counting, like grains of sands in the palm of his hands, waves rolling in, stars appearing. Exact, details. Every sensation. Paid a more full, and specific, attention. While he lets that other thing put itself away.

In boxes of boxes somewhere else. Quiet, dark, slowly, painstakingly, further and further away for now.

Until he can summon it in himself, small lopsided quirk of his mouth, in one of those seconds when air suddenly seems necessary, to toss out. Well, up. Head resting at that angle on the arm rest looking at Danny, gorgeous and lighter, bright, making it so easy to keep his own expression easy, fingers rubbing along the muscles on one side of Danny's lower back. "You never did answer the question."

[haole_cop]

In no world is there actually room for them both on this couch, if they aren't sitting on it the way God and the makers of the thing intended, but it's not stopping Steve. He just unfolds, long legs shifting under Danny, hanging over two sides of the couch. Hand persistent on his side, his back, sending ripples of electric sensation over skin he hasn't even touched yet, which is unfair, and should be impossible. One hand sneaking under the hem of his shirt should never be able to shut him down so completely, send all focus to those few inches of skin and the fingers brushing over it.

But Steve lives in the world of the impossible, apparently even in this situation, so it's almost distracting enough to keep him from trying to figure out where the hell to put himself, here. Steve's bruises are old now and less painful, but that cracked rib can't possibly be healed yet, and he's trying to be careful, but that's the one thing Steve isn't, won't let him be, either. Not with his fingers sinking into Danny's hair and his mouth under Danny's lips, laying himself out like a rug and dragging Danny down to lie on him, until Danny's legs are sort of fitting themselves one on either side of the one Steve's still got mostly on the couch, and he's shifting up to be able to keep kissing him. One hand leaving Steve's face to brace against the arm of the couch as they slide down, before it leaves the leather and finds Steve's shoulder, fingers curving, sliding down to his chest.

And yeah. It's still sort of strange to think about, how wanting slim, small, soft curves turned into needing Steve instead, heavy lean muscle flexing under his touch, but it doesn't matter, it's a stupid distinction to make or care about. It's all just bodies anyway and Steve is warm and big and more comfortable than Danny would ever have guessed, and it's Steve, which is the important thing. Blinking open lazy blues eyes that catch at Danny's heart and squeeze it painfully, long lashes, slow easy smile, and those fingers, smudging prints into his skin.

He doesn't even try racking his brain for whatever Steve's talking about; it's long gone.

"Please repeat the question and I will attempt to answer it to my fullest ability."

[thebesteverseen]

He won't really be able to move around like this. It isn't that he's pinned. There are at least three or four different ways he could flip Danny off of him from right here, with only the leverage of a hand on the back of the couch. But he won't. And it's not all that bad, honestly. Danny laid out, figuring out where to balance, how to fit himself on the couch. The fact Danny probably would fit on this couch, while Steve is akimbo and overflowing on it when he's by himself, even falling asleep during a game.

Heavy warmth spreading over his chest as the faint whispers of discomfort fade from lack of attention, or from easy inundation. From the feel of Danny spread across him, almost like the blanket or a roll of heavy, heavy fog. Fingers finding their way to making sure all of him is still there, under Danny, in the right places. Across his shoulder, briefly brushing his bicep as it flees to run toward part of his chest. The way it continues to make him push-up, surging just a little up against that roaming touch.

The way it remakes his skin, grounds him back here. Not drifting away as everything else. Keeping him here, even if the rest of it fades a little. The thoughts, the walls in the rooms around him, the couch. On that crazy bright smile, like Danny thinks he's insane for the comment. And maybe he is. There isn't a chance in all the hells out there Danny has the smallest clue, now, what the hell just came out of his mouth.

The smile is so great, like his fingers, tracing down muscles in Danny's back can almost be touching that smile.

"Your weekend with Grace," Steve prompts, mouth warm and wide, smile turning cocky. Like he's proven he can think more than Danny. Remember more than Danny. Has muddled Danny's head more than Danny has done his. "You never said how it was."

Because good might have squeaked out in that moment of shock and terror tearing apart Danny first few seconds. One swallowed word, before he was gone, was not a answer from Danny. Steve didn't care at all that it had made sound, and from him it might even be a full answer. One word was never an answer from Danny Williams, and Steve wanted more of those. It was easier when he was going on.

Maybe it's a distraction. Even from something about Danny, himself. Danny's storm of words often are. Even from himself. But the question is honest, too. And he does wonder and want to know. How Grace is, whether there was an aquarium, if she knows about Rachel n' Stan, how she got him into the jeans and whether he can make that happen again under some kind of possible, similar circumstances.

[haole_cop]

"Oh, that question."

Not even asked by Steve. Asked by Catherine, accompanied by the kind of bright, easy smile that can only be found in the bliss of total ignorance, right before he bolted and that ignorance was shattered. Because not even Catherine, who knows Steve better than anyone, would think the person he was suddenly involved with was Danny. Why would she?

But it's not Cath asking now, it's Steve. Who pushed him out the door on Saturday morning and didn't even let him waffle about whether he should go or not, because Steve knows. Steve knows he always has to, not just because of this new mess, but because there is no time, not even after this hell of a week, that Danny can't go to her like a moth to a light. Not when he gets so few chances, and when just seeing her smile is like all the crap he pushes through every day gets airlifted away in a hot air balloon. "It was good."

He shifts a little, without really thinking about it. Hand lifting away from Steve's face, elbow sneaking between Steve and the couch back so he can rest his head on his palm and prop himself up. Other hand lifting from Steve's chest to gesture idly, before returning again. Lifting again. Returning. Forearm resting on the slope of muscle dipping from Steve's chest to his stomach. Settling more on his side, like Steve's not even on the couch, or is part of the couch, and Danny is getting comfortable to watch a game, or have a normal sort of talk. Thoughtless fingers toying with the fabric of Steve's shirt, watching them idly, without paying any real attention to them.

"We had fun. You know, aquarium. She loves the uh, the fishes. The more colorful, the better." Fingers flicking through the air, as he's remembering, like fins flicking through water. "I think she's about this far away from trying to feed them peanut butter sandwiches. You know, like in that movie. She was all..." Fingers spreading wide, smile spreading wide, just to think about it. "Plastered against the glass. I think, uh. I think Stanley is going to have to shell out for one of those fancy home aquariums."

It's barely even a jar, but it's there. Stan. Stan and his money. Stan and Vegas.

Stan who wasn't there all weekend, so screw Stan.

"We went out, had a nice dinner. God." His eyes focusing on something that isn't his hand on Steve's chest, isn't the room, this moment. Remembering Gracie sitting prim and proper at that table. Little purse hanging over her shoulder. The only concession to being a little girl still the shade of pink she picked to wear. "She's getting so big."

[thebesteverseen]

This is where Danny actually gets comfortable. Not hands all over him. Well. Okay. Hands still all over him. Because those hands don't stop moving almost ever. But he shifts and settles in a different way. Like it's not exactly Steve's body under him anymore, like the focus or remembering it is slips. Settling like he's laying on something. Like a board or a couch or a bed. Which somehow makes Steve mouth stay curled.

Fingers gently tracing the slope down the small of his back, only to go still when Danny starts talking. Not because he specifically wants to, but because he can't even think to be doing anything else. Having this so close, watching it splash across Danny's face. Bright as sunshine on the water, direct to the water. Not a golden molten lava fading at the end of the day, or that silver in the morning. That intense, blinding white when it catches hard and can even blind the best surfer.

Something you can't not see. Because it's everywhere and so much bigger than you could ever be.

Steve hasn't a clue what movie Danny's talking about but that's fine. Some kids' movie. Doesn't matter. Inconsequential detail beside the way Danny has lost him entirely. Laid out on top of him, shifting like Steve's just a cushion under him, looking through him to his most favorite place in the world. The way any tension in his face almost fades, like there's no way to fight it, keep it, in the face of Grace.

"You got a long time still." Steve says it because it's the first thought. She's young, and she's going to be young a lot longer than the next five minutes or five days. Before the thought of Vegas even appears seconds later. Doesn't make it any less true. Whatever happens. Danny's got years.

Steve fingers track down. Easy, economic move. Trace half a inch above the line of denim and skin, before tugging the top of the jeans between thumb pad and the side of his pointer finger, dragging out a smirk, and poking Danny for more. More of all of this, on that curve of his smile. "You're telling me you wore these to a nice dinner. Seriously? You hit your head on something?"

Steve loved it. He was pretty sure Danny meant yesterday about dinner. But he couldn't keep himself from the thought.

Every time Danny looked anything like he belonged here, like he might like it here, it needed ragging and dragging out a long while.