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]

Steve is going to stand there, against all those words, lodging at him, and go right over it again. Because, okay, he might get offended at Danny's clothing being on him -- with is admittedly his own actual problem, especially now that Danny is getting into a penchant of taking them off for him, or letting Steve strip them straight right off him -- but he was not -- Was. Not. -- the one who said, only second ago, the jean should be tossed out.

Right against Steve having said they should keep them around.

They were two completely different insinuations.

Which is just clouded up and confused more, like his head doesn't have its own problems, between travel and sleep and everything that happened between Asia and Hawaii last week, but Danny's hands are on him. Dropping to his side. Thumbs catching in the lines between solid muscle and tracing down through it. Causing muscles all along his stomach and his back up into his shoulders to tense.

Like it doesn't feel good. Except it does. He can't even stop the way he leans into the touch, like some part of him had drastically slammed a wall like it was over, like they were heading toward a cliff or a steep waterfall plummet, and the slightest brush makes him shamelessly press into it like it's air after being down too long. Necessary as air. Not enough already. Like his skin totally is beyond needing to check in with his head before reacting, wanting more, moving.

As if the touch was somehow more important than the words making absolutely no sense.

The touch that roughens his voice, unexpectedly, with too much air, when he's dragging his own hand up Danny's back, slow, searching touch, spreading his fingers and palm wide across Danny's skin, pulling him closer, with solid movement once his hand finds the middle of Danny's back. "Seriously? You're just not going to tell me?"

Would be sharper if it could, but it can't, stumbles out just distractedly low and pointedly knowing.

Not cut with everything else. Not cut with insane relief at Danny touching him, at the way Danny's awkwardly trying to smile.

[haole_cop]

At least Steve is still pulling him in. At least his hand is still there, flattening warm and secure against Danny's back. At least his tone is nowhere near angry, not even pissed off or argumentative, even if Steve might want it to be.

Instead, it just sounds sort of, what. Wistful, almost. Low and a little rough at the edges. Making Danny's other hand slide from the back of his neck, arm curving around Steve's so he can curl his fingers over Steve's shoulder from the back. Closer. Which might help.

Telling Steve might help, too, if he weren't sure Steve wasn't going to think he'd lost his mind. It's sort of a hopeless case, though, when Danny really has, when his brain just tripped right out of his head and ignored all the evidence right in front of him to present him with the worst possibilities ever. He's not sure Steve would get it if Danny said just quit it with the jokes, I don't want closet space, because he's not sure it would make sense to anyone outside of the walls of Danny's head.

But he doesn't exactly feel great about lying and pretending everything's fine, either.

And Steve's seen this, before. Which is why Danny knows he won't get it. Because to Steve, a cup of coffee is just a cup of coffee. It isn't divorce papers being served up along with your biscotti, alright, not to Steve.

But these things start small, and this is already a thousand miles further than he was before two weeks were up with Gabby. Moving faster, being reckless, careless.

And when the idea of losing Steve already dropkicks him like a mercy rule field goal, he's in way too deep. Already. Meaning a joke like that, the reality of it, is too damn close to being the beginning of the end. Already.

And it's too soon. Okay. Too soon. After just being sure Steve was already gone. He's already sure he's nuts, here. He doesn't need Steve looking at him like he is, too.

"You like the jeans, I get it. Fine, they can stay. I may even wear them once in a while."

Which is not what Steve was asking. And not the point. But maybe it's rewinding far enough back that there won't be any more questions.

[thebesteverseen]

Least convincing set of words in the world, which might as well be a yes to his question. Because Danny's going to keep talking about his pants, flipping it back to whatever Steve said, like that's suddenly the right answer. Like the hyper, frenetic energy behind the whole thing isn't stil there, thrumming loud and present. While Danny is still pulling him closer, too.

Like neither of them can keep from answering that part. Demanding more of it. Danny pulling at his shoulder, until he's coming another step closer. Like there's even room to get closer. When Danny was already pressed against the side of the mattress, and it's frustratingly, almost desperately and suddenly, like the only thing on the table. Following the pull on his shoulder forward, pushing further into the fingers against his stomach.

Even more into Danny's space, up against Danny. His own hands just moving. Tracking from Danny's back, up his shoulder, and against his neck. Voice growing more flippant and edged, challenged frustration and keen abject loss that was anything but passive. "Right. Great." Fingers heavy on Danny's neck, wrist against his shoulder, when Steve's leveling, catching the edge of his chin and turn Danny's face up toward him. "Was that really so hard?"

The question that isn't even asked as a question, because, obviously, it was. Somehow. For some reason. Like pulling teeth suddenly. No, not even that. Like pulling five hundred ton bricks from a cemented-in wall suddenly. Where absolutely nothing was wrong, and no problem was being had, with that frantic, exasperated, anything to make you stop tone kept coming out as parts of his very few escaping words. Jokes that were nothing like Danny when he was joking. Giving in like nothing it was either.

Anything, everything, that wasn't whatever whatever else was. Which is just winnow the whole world, pants included, to go burn itself down. Elsewhere.

[haole_cop]

Look, it's not that he doesn't feel bad. Okay. He does. Especially because Steve is calling him on his bullshit, and looking disappointed and a little pissed off.

But this is so different from explaining to Steve why asking Gabby out for a cup of coffee was such a bad idea, why Danny was digging in his heels the whole way and had to be shoved into doing anything of the kind. It's one thing when Steve is an outside observer, and Danny has to clear it up for him.

It's something else entirely when Steve is the one Danny's scared as hell to lose. Okay. He gets that it's ridiculous. Maybe even hypocritical. Self-preservation instincts should mean nothing at all, by now. Not when he's already in so far over his head.

So he can't stop them, but he can at least be aggravated by them. Great.

Maybe even more so than Steve, though it doesn't look like it from here, when Steve is tipping up his chin and fixing him with that interrogation room stare, the one that Danny knows can crack the hardest of criminals, and it's not like he hasn't seen it before, alright, but it's definitely working on him, too. Making him want to spill everything, no matter how incredulous Steve looks.

Which is maybe why there's a rueful look back. Wry, with: "You're telling me."

Because Christ, it is hard. It wasn't always. Not years ago, back before he had any clue that Rachel might one day pick up and leave. She used to be able to wheedle anything out of him, and it almost never took any kind of effort. You talk to each other, right? That's part and parcel of the whole thing.

Like he talks to Steve. Tells Steve everything. And sometimes, yeah, Steve makes fun of him or argues with him or looks at him like he's completely whacked in the head, and that's all fine, totally fine, except right now he's not sure he wants any of that to happen. Still feeling raw, now that the flush of heat is gone. A protective, selfish hand curling over the words Steve said. Out loud. Into the living room air. I want you. Only you.

Words Danny doesn't want to change. Or that suddenly need to be rethought, qualified. "Very nice interrogation methods, though. Much better than hanging me off a roof."

[thebesteverseen]

"I got one, if it'll help," Steve gave a direct, short, kick of movement with his head, gesturing with his chin, toward the door leading from his bedroom on to the wide porch, with the thin rails that would actually hold a marginal amount of body weight. But it was very suspect, the whole idea if might hold his body weight and someone else's on the fulcrum of the railings. It'd probably be a really messy way to meet the backyard more than anything else.

"Maybe if you stop feeding me crap, I'll be nice enough not to remind you it was your idea, when you're trying not to fall off it."

It's smack, and it's starting to get sharper the longer this drags, but he doesn't move anywhere toward the door. He doesn't even take a step, or move an inch away in any direction. Not even shift, loosen or tighten his fingers on Danny's face. Because, it's not like Danny's actually fighting him. He's just digging in. Heels down, flush under whatever the hell he can drag between them, even if it's snarky words and thrown insults to his technique for the job.

Especially when at least, for this second, Danny is letting it slip that there is something. If only in the fact he's not denying it. He's just criticizing Steve's words and the actions he's going about trying to get at the whatever it is. Like badgering and insulting Steve will help him anymore than the long string of denials. "What the hell, Danny?"

Because things were absolutely fine minutes ago. Maybe not absolutely fine for the whole time since Danny got here. With Cath, and the front yard, and all that. Before definitely they had still been ten or fifteen minutes ago. Now all he knows is that something is wrong, or at least it is for Danny, that could really only have to with them or them. While Danny is really just giving out sign after sign he'd like to forget whatever it is, wants Steve to just pretend it isn't there or ignore whatever it is and bulldoze right over.

But. Okay. See. The last thing he's ever been able to do, for any of this year, is ignore anything about Danny.

Especially when he's torn between wanting to shake him by the shoulders or kiss him because he's certain either would elicit something real.

[haole_cop]

Oh, good. They've made it to threats now. That took, what? Thirty seconds? Steve is getting slower. Or maybe he's just softening around Danny.

Either way, he's glad to not have been thrown into a door or wall or actually hung off that balcony.

"Will you drop it, please?" His fingers lift, and then the rest of his hand does, off Steve's shoulder, to wave in the air nearby. "For one thing, that railing definitely would not hold me and I have no desire to break a leg falling into your backyard tonight."

No, thanks. Although in some ways, it might be preferable to staring down the barrel of Steve's disapproval. "Secondly, I do not actually have to explain every little blip to you, okay? And staring me down like you think I should sweat it out in the interrogation room for the next thirty-six hours is not, in fact, going to make me feel any more like sharing. Especially when the thing you're after is, as aforementioned, a blip. A kneejerk, meaningless, stupid reaction that has absolutely nothing to do with anything at all except that occasionally, and you should appreciate this, I drive myself crazy. And I should mention that it would probably be strange to not have a couple of fumbles on this particular weekend, alright. The level of stress from the last few days is enough to knock out an elephant. But I promise you, it really, truly, does not need to come to, what was that? Fear of death. Honestly."

It's all beside the point. He already knows it was ridiculous, a stupid thing to catch onto. He doesn't need Steve to tell him so.

"So are we going to bed or are you going to hang me off your balcony, because one of those options involves a whole lot more paperwork to fill out in the morning."

[thebesteverseen]

Like Danny wouldn't crack before fear of death. The man wasn't designed to be hung off a building, or tortured until he rather choose to die than give an inch toward being willing to give in to whatever was wanted from him. Which was fine. It was. Not everyone was supposed to be. Trained to be. Should be expected to be. Or have the faintest clue what the hell that took to be part of you. When the only thing on the planet like that for Danny was maybe Grace in danger.

"Pretty sure that's what I've been trying to do," Steve hit back. At least it's like one.

Low, a little fierce, exaggeration of honesty lacing into the annoyance.

"Since we got up here." Since they were backing into this room. With hands and words and mouths. Fingers around his wrist. Before it felt like the room started sucking in. "Since before whatever it is you're not talking about, that has nothing to do with your jeans."

The worst part about the stressing bubble of annoyance is the slick slide of relief running down the backs of ribs, and his breast bone. Like somehow it can't be all that bad if Danny's finally gone back to throwing words at the air. Even if they are words that don't add up to much more than everything he's said before. Except that he had some reaction. To something. That Danny, himself, thinks is stupid. Is driving him crazy.

And Steve hates, almost too suddenly, not knowing even more. Like it slams him from a blind side with the weight and velocity of a moving vehicle. A car. A semi. A tank. Slamming through the whole part where it drives him crazy not knowing what happened, what he did, for himself, for how to go forward, this burns almost worst. Not knowing, so he can't take it from Danny's hands. Drag it out of him. Tease him, taunt him, give him something else to rail at, rant about, make it better or at least distract him from it.

Which is impossible when he has absolutely no idea what it is, or if what he'll choose will be that one thing it is about, only that Danny is ranting about it, only that it happened right here. Because there is nothing about Danny freezing up, denying and ranting, that makes it 'absolutely nothing to do with anything.' The words itself make Steve want to diagram the whole like minute and half of getting up here to figure what the hell could matter that much in the slightest.

That he can't do that either. No diagrams. No roof tops. No one he hurt, nothing he can punch. All he really has is letting go of Danny's chin, and dropping his hand to shove at Danny's bare chest, dropping the arm and hand between them, while Steve's trying not to grit his teeth and lock his jaw even momentarily. Making himself take the breath, even when it's just a snarling tangle from each direction.

"Get in the bed," taking a side step from Danny, to yank at the blanket and sheets down from under the pillow. The stupid pillow he spent half the night curled around, because it even smelled a little like Danny. Raising a finger on his free hand to point, far less menacing that even he wants it to be. "But don't think for a moment I wouldn't have brought you all the paperwork to do for yourself, on yourself, even if it did land you in the hospital."

[haole_cop]

"I certainly hope so."

As he's slipping to the side, letting Steve by, stepping with the push at his chest and breathing out relief. At least Steve isn't fighting him on it. Well. Not really. Steve isn't still trying to drag it out of him, which is nice, which Danny doesn't expect to last, but which is nice. A nice reprieve. "There are at least three different forms to file against you if you did, you maniac. I'd want them done right."

Actually, there's probably a decent amount of paperwork that should be involved with them going to bed together, too, that neither of them has actually brought up. Which Danny's not sure how to feel about on the best days, and which is doomed to failure and paranoia on an evening like this, after the shock of opening the door and finding Cath there.

Cath who knows. Who is the only one who knows. When they haven't told the Governor, or the rest of the team. Like it's.

Except that way lies madness. It's not that it's a secret because either of them are ashamed of it. Right? They are keeping it to themselves because it is an extremely complicated situation and they want to get a handle on it before inviting anyone else into their private lives.

At least, Danny does. He doesn't know what Steve thinks. Isn't even sure what Steve told Cath, aside from that he couldn't be with her. Doesn't have the first clue what Steve thinks of all this, except that it isn't a joke to him.

Doesn't know if Steve would ever tell anyone else, without forcing his hand. Or what he would say.

And absolutely none of this is actually helpful, at all, or conducive to forcing himself to relax.

The bed is good, though, when he gets in, sheets cool and mattress soft, even with Steve's less-than-threatening finger pointing at him, even when he still can't or won't deny that there was something, doesn't disagree with Steve's first statement, which is definitely all true.

Just gets in the bed, and slides one hand under his head, between hair and the pillow, and waits for Steve to do the same, his back aching where it won't relax, stubbornly, into the mattress below. "But this is definitely preferable."

[thebesteverseen]

Steve is still fuming. It's probably even closer to the correct word.

Getting into the bed, shoving his feet, between the mattress below and sheets, to nearly hit the foot board, like they almost always do. And sometimes actually do. Pulling the sheet and blanket up over both and them and dropping back to his pillow, still far too tense. Still sure he's got too much space, and even more skin than he needs. Keeps trying to go back over those so few seconds.

Laughter. Kissing. Teasing. Like frozen flip frames in security camera, washing across his mind, which Danny is settling. Danny who thinks his own head is stupid. Danny who asked him to stop. Danny who's tucking his hand up under his check, cheek bone, temple. All of it just causing something to flare all the more unhelpfully, hard and sharp, behind Steve's breast bone, where the relief is making itself scarce now that it's been felt the once. When Danny doesn't look the least comfortable, no matter what his words are.

Which just makes Steve aware that he's in bed, finally where he wanted to get to, all along, and it's the least comfortable thing at this second. Least thing he'd actually wanted with he'd been pricking and poking Danny about getting here. Hands so much easier, less thought to them. To any of his god damn words. Or how. How anything had done anything. All of the steps. Hands. Teasing.

When nothing makes sense, no matter how he keeps turning it on its head, desperately pulling it apart. Because this was not what he meant. That rigid tension he can see of Danny's posture even laying down. This was not preferable. This was not what he meant. Not what he'd wanted. And being feet away wasn't what he'd wanted them, or even wanted now, no matter what was circulating through his veins.

"No, this is."

Steve said it, making no effort to keep the icy fire, and barely holding still annoyance, there still in his voice from being heard, when he reached out, under the sheet. Hooked a hand around Danny waist and drug him closer, like it wasn't any harder than dragging the pillow had been. Until the middle of the bed didn't seem like a ghost town filling the foot of space that had been there, because it wasn't there anymore.

Stubbornly clenching his teeth and catching his arm up under Danny's, but mostly around against his back. With no clue what the hell now.

[haole_cop]

Steve is still cranky and pissed at him, which is a little unfair because all Danny's done is not told him more of the ridiculous fears that have been cycling through his head. It's doing him a favor, really, but it's clear Steve doesn't see it that way, when there's an edge to his words and no gentleness at all to the hand that sneaks around Danny's back and drags him forward, pulling him flush with Steve in a way that makes Danny lift up on the other elbow to look down at him. Turning Steve gently, slightly, pushing his shoulderblades back to the mattress.

And all this insanity is just. It's sick. And he hates it. Wants Steve to stop looking at him with this defensive aggression, the cantankerous frown wrinkling up his forehead. Nobody wants to be pulled into someone's arms like it's being done not to soothe, but to stifle. Like smothering a fire.

Except it has that effect, anyway. Being dragged close to Steve. Legs pushing together, bellies, chests. His hand finding Steve's side, the tense muscles there, mirroring his own.

Allowing him to breathe out, slow and relieved, like just getting here is lifting a weight, feeling the muscles start unknotting slowly, slowly, in his back, along his spine, tumblers drawing back in rusty, painfully slow pulls.

Voice dropping low, like now that they're in bed, he needs to be quiet. An intimate sort of not-quite whisper. Lids falling heavily low, shifting to find the comfortable spots against Steve, allowing his arm to go further around Danny, if that's what he wants. Words. More of them. But these quiet and getting calmer.

"Relax. Relax, babe."

Without knowing if he's saying it to himself or Steve, but feeling it work all the same. Even as he's leaning down, a little hesitant, because, come on, Steve really might actually hang him off the balcony, to kiss him again. Finally. Like it's the only thing that might breathe sanity and closure into his fucked up head.

[thebesteverseen]

There's nothing about this that makes him want to relax. Nothing. From Danny propping himself up on an arm, and pushing down on his chest and shoulder, until he's laying flat. To Danny curling up next to him, but, also, still propped up, looking down at him. Listening to Danny breathe out, suddenly, unexpected relieved, not as tensely trapped and held inside. Steve wishes that didn't just crank the screws in him even tighter.

That there is something Danny is coming down from. Leaning into him. Pushing Steve and shifting in against him, until Danny finds the places he wants to be. The words belongs hovers somewhere near that thought, but he's so irritable, if it were a bug he'd probably swat at it in the air. Because none of this makes sense anymore, even when Danny is moving finally. Those hands sliding against him, moving him, settling him.

When Danny's watching him with this thing. This quiet, shadowed, stricken thing almost like worried guilt, and the whole thing makes him sick. And angrily annoyed. Shoves at him left and right like he's helpless to make it go the fuck away. Take care of it. Danny Because hasn't a damn clue what put it there, clouding up Danny's face. Only know that it must have been something. Something he said. Something he did. Only hates that in that expression on the face above him is frustration and not quite, but still, nearly regretful, embarrassed.

Before he even touches on the exhausted put upon. The soft, quiet way Danny's voice trips out into the air, when he finally chooses words again. Softer this time. Closer to a secretive whisper, tripping up chest, making have to focus to hear. Asking him again. To let it go. In some part. Any part. Let it go. And he can't really. He can't. It's like his fist tightens around the idea, denied more than dying, forgetting anything, letting Danny think he has to bear anything alone, especially anything that does all of this to him.

Even when Steve can't stop his fingers from spreading slowly over Danny's back, his arm from looping further around the wide expanse of shoulders. Muscles and ribs under his finger tips, somehow pulling strings and directly tugging at his own stiff muscles and ribs. He can't stop it, any more than he can help that he stops breathing for that pause of hesitation before Danny is kissing him. Than he can stop his other hand from finding Danny's cheek, pulling him in closer, even as it sinks his own head further back into the pillow.

Fingers sliding back against Danny's cheek, toward the the shell of his ear, and juncture of his neck, and the beginning of his hair. Eye closing, and kissing him back, like it's suddenly, so suddenly, so achingly clearly, more important than another single breath he might need tonight. Like maybe it can say every single word, or at least another important handful of them, of all the ones Steve keeps fucking up every time he opens his mouth to ask or comment or demand.

[haole_cop]

At least Steve settles back. At least Steve is wrapping him closer, pulling Danny further, until his hand is sneaking between Steve's back and the mattress, ribs against his fingers, heavy weight on his palm. Sliding a little more upright, enough to slip one leg over one of Steve's. Like enough contact, bare skin to bare skin, feeling Steve's pulse, lifting with each of Steve's breaths, will be enough to erase the ricocheting shots in his head, echoing there in a stubborn refusal to leave.

It's fine. He just needs to keep a handle on it. Just needs to make sure things don't go too fast, so he can keep them from hurtling towards the cliff edge of loss. Just needs to push that crazy away, acknowledge it's there, use it as a warning signal, and forget about it.

Which is easier said than done, but not impossible, not when Steve's fingers are slipping across his cheek, cupping his head, firm instead of gentle, like he's still not sure he doesn't want to push that same head into a wall. Not when Steve's arm is secure around his back, and his hand is spreading, like he needs to get as much of Danny under his fingers as possible. Not when Steve is kissing him like he's trying to make a point, like the argument is still going, just translated into the pressure of lips and slide of tongue and puffing breath.

Because Steve isn't giving in. Danny's not even sure Steve is actually dropping it. Just because he isn't glaring anymore, or arguing; just because he's using touch and holding Danny close and tight and a little exasperated doesn't mean he's forgotten. Because he hasn't. Steve has a memory like an elephant, and they aren't done with this.

But maybe there can be a break. Maybe Danny can convince him it's not the end of the world, not even that important, he's going to fuck up, of course he is. He's rusty at this, and it already means too much, is already going to take the ground with it when it goes. It's not a joke. Nowhere near it.

None of it. Not the way his back unlocks, inch by inch, under Steve's hand. Not the way he can feel something less definite unlocking in the same way, edging cautiously out from behind the gate it slammed. Careful. Relax, relax. Breathing deep when Steve pulls him closer, deep into the pillow and sheets, muddling everything around them, the dark settling back into place from the stir of earlier. When he can just sink into this. Stop talking. Words keep screwing up, anyway. His face keeps screwing up. His head. The instincts to rabbit the hell away from the sudden gaping maw of everything he knows could happen, that probably will, because there is no part of himself that won't get blown out when this goes.

But it hasn't gone yet, and that means he can firm his fingers against the back that's pushing them down into the bed, arm muscles tightening, pull Steve closer, and kiss him like maybe it could light the whole room and clear away these stupid shadows.

[thebesteverseen]

If he doesn't let go, can't let go, it's almost like he can't hold on at the same time, too. Not the same way. Not when Danny's leg is sliding across one of his, making enough room for itself between both of his legs. Pressing them even closer together. Thighs, stomachs, sides, chests. Each expand of Danny's chest for a breath pushing in on his chest, or out against his hand on Danny's back. Blotting out the space, from somewhere in Steve's head.

That high pitched alarm, that somehow slipped and started murmuring against Danny's skin and his mouth, still here like the jackhammering flutter of a hummingbird heartbeat. Which doesn't make anymore sense than the rest of it, but at least Danny isn't holding himself apart, barely using words, barely moving his hands. At least this he gets. Or can't not get. Or can't not feel himself sliding on slick too fast toward.

The brush of Danny's lips, this kissing that just pulls at him. That his focus moves toward like a plant moving toward water or sunshine it hasn't seen in ages. Like everything else short circuits, briefly electrocuted, beyond comprehension of any other choice or action that could be taken. Fingers sliding further into Danny's hair, heedless of the mess it's become. Heedless of the mess it feels like everything all around them, including them, has become.

Unable to stop the burn of relief from clouding up his lungs, when his own lips keep sliding open, keep following Danny's mouth, like it's a hook he got caught on and can't get free from. Causing his focus to slip, some. Ebbing into this. The need to trace Danny's lower lip, against the taste of salt and friction of stubble. The brush of his tongue. The way breath puffs from that mouth against his own. His mouth, his skin.

Danny being more receptive in seconds to this, than he had been the entire last few minutes standing. Talking. They way Danny loosens only slowly, dragging Steve back and forth like a tide between effect and a cause that is still beyond elusive, but still there is ever smallest pausing hesitation, like Danny is bringing himself back, still. From wherever he'd gone, whatever had bitten him. How achingly hard and easy it is, to want, to know, to try to pull Danny back to him, slow and sure, or how much slow and sure is the last thing other parts of him want, too.

[haole_cop]

He can feel it all starting to slip away.

Look. Danny knows better than anyone how things can snowball, how communication actually is important, not just words thrown at a wall by some quack therapist. Maybe if he'd known how unhappy Rachel was, maybe if they'd talked instead of argued...

Except he had known. He just hadn't wanted to admit it. Had dug his heels in, stubborn, and insisted nothing was different, that things were fine. Promised to come home in one piece after work every day, shrugged off hospital stays or poor psych evals. So maybe it was all doomed to begin with, from the moment she hit his cruiser and pretended she didn't know how to drive.

(Which still boggles the mind, finally learning the truth, years later. That Rachel wanted to meet him. That she did it on purpose. That, once upon a time, she chose him. First. Which only confuses his feelings about her leaving more. Both times.)

But at least the pressure is off. He no longer feels like he's a kettle whistling in panic, desperate to get away from sudden heat and too much pressure. It's seeping out of his skin, in the spots where Steve's hands and fingers are pressing. Tugged out where Steve's hand and fingers are sliding into his hair. Breathed away against Steve's mouth. Noted and forgotten, stenciled into Steve's skin with the pads of his fingers.

Because Steve is still here. Pulled him back from the front yard. From the door. From the couch. Up the stairs. Pushed him into bed. Wants him here. Only him. Responding even when Danny is taking cautious, tiny steps. Gaining breath from this kiss, instead of losing it. Warming back into relaxation.

Shifting a little further over him, so his free hand can palm the side of Steve's neck, thumb brushing over stubble. Like. What. Like he needs to make sure. Because he does. Needs to pin this, someplace, so he can point to it when those thoughts circle around again, buzzards just waiting for a crippled animal to die. Point at it and say, we're not there yet. Not yet. One joke isn't the starting point for the destruction of everything. He's not going to end up on the opposite side of a courtroom from Steve, that's insanity.

[thebesteverseen]

The tension moves out, uncurling against his fingers on Danny's back. This slow slide, against other movements. A hand heavy at Steve's throat, while he's ignoring the faint twitch of too much hyper sharp awareness, that one that makes it easy, too easy, to trigger the low warnings of touch at a very vulnerable spot.

Danny's fingers against which muscles, how far his larynx is from being touched.

Even when Danny's thumb is only brushing his skin, rubbing friction only into the stubble on his jaw.

Fingertips pressing marginally more into the skin of Danny's back, as the only reaction that has to let itself out. Not entirely to gripping or pushing him, but just enough. When he pulls back more, against and into the pillow, away from Danny's mouth, barely, not far enough breath isn't crashing on his lips like waves on the shore. Eyes opening, to look up at Danny, through the shadows of the room, as well the position.

When the war of reactions is still nowhere near settled out under his skin. When he wants to reach up and kiss Danny, again. Push up, and turn him back, and kiss him until whatever it is could be seared from his head. Not knowing is at least a dozen reactions, each next to really better than the one before, when he'd had no idea what to do, except run after, the first time Danny had stared at him like he'd stabbed him without warning tonight. Even pissed insult hadn't hit him that fast. Only desperate necessity.

Steve stared at his eyes, brow and jaw still slightly knit, if not tense anymore. Just taking in Danny's expression, his face. This face, the one Steve feels like he knows better than he knows his own breath. Even when he never could have predicted this. This thing, where Danny is naked against him, in his bed, his hand is in Danny's hair, thumb brushing at his temple, not letting him pull away any. Unable to stop himself, "It can't be that bad."

The smallest of first chosen, unsurrendered, words, only barely not brushing Danny's mouth when he says. Because it can't be. Right? It can't actually be worse than Danny running away, certain beyond any doubt that he'd slept with Cath, looking like Steve had stabbed him, or detonated a bomb in his center, turned his back on all of this, no matter how unstable and lack of any future it is, at the first chance of anything else.

That this, this thing, this them sparking up and burning down everything that had made sense. Breaking every rule like they didn't matter. The way nothing, nothing in the whole fucking world, mattered except Danny in seconds like this. Or the one when Cath had nearly kissed him. Or anytime he reached the end of the day when he was gone too far away, to do more than reach into silence, for Danny's voice, even his anger or desperation trapped in a recording.

[haole_cop]

Steve pulls away, about as far as he can get into the pillow, and it wouldn't stop Danny from leaning down and kissing that tension right off the corners of his mouth, except there's something in Steve's expression, the way he looks at him, that makes him hold back. Because Steve's watching him, but it's not those lazy bedroom eyes, despite being in bed, despite Steve's arms around him, despite Steve's fingers in his hair. Despite kisses that felt like drowning, or, no. Less cataclysmic. Like sinking into a warm bath.

But Steve's paused now, searching out -- something. Answers, maybe. Whatever might be written across Danny's face, and he knows, alright, he knows that it's probably pretty clear, he's never been able to keep a decent poker face. Not in moments like this, when everything else is laid out and vulnerable. When he doesn't actually want to hide anything from Steve. Especially not when Steve is watching him with something so much like actual trepidation.

Like Steve thinks this is somehow his fault. Like he can be help responsible for the crap floating through Danny's head, and you know, he might be the one who jokes about that shit, but this is not Steve's responsibility. He should be able to crack jokes. Anyone should. These things are meaningless, and Danny is the one handling them like a grenade about to go off when to the whole rest of the world, they're plastic Easter eggs.

Harmless. Absurd. Maybe silly, but certainly not painful.

And definitely, definitely not on Steve's shoulders. He'd admit to it, if it would wipe that expression of Steve's face. Maybe should. So Steve stops thinking whatever it is that's making him cautious, still prodding at it.

"No. No. No. Definitely not that bad."

Thumb rubbing light along the line of Steve's jaw, like he could draw the truth of it right into his skin. Not that bad. Not Steve's fault. It isn't Steve's fault that Danny is a wreck. That he's a handful. That he's sensitive.

He avoids the word fine, because that's just like pulling a trigger, and shakes his head in negation of whatever is pushing through Steve's brain right now, that made him stop, that made him bring it up again. "Seriously. I just trip myself up. It's not that bad, and you can stop looking at me like you want to put yourself in the corner, okay, it's not you."

Well. It is. But nothing he did. Nothing he is. It's the fear of losing him.

Nothing new.

[thebesteverseen]

This is maybe not terribly worse, when Danny doesn't pull away. In fact, there's the whole question left hanging, by flickers of movement, leaning, pulling back, barely even half inches, when he wonders if Danny won't even permit him to breathe, think, speak. Wants to just push him back under. Has any clue how easily that would be accomplished give enough focus toward shoving at him.

Like this. Here. Danny. Everything, and, even, anything, Danny is. Will. Can. He couldn't stop. Wouldn't want to.

Except he doesn't. He stays there. Barely an inch away, looking down. Maybe a little pained for the reminder. Like some part of him was certain Steve would, could, just forget for the breath of a kiss. For the rubbing warmth, enfolding weight and cover, of Danny slowly ending up across more of him. Their legs, and the arm across his chest, leading to the hand curved at the bottom of his face.

How simple that would be. How normal. Easy. Even, damnably, tempting. Except that this is Danny.

Except that even when he wants that, to slip under it, shove all of this away, it's Danny. And he always wants more. Wants everything.

When believing him is a two-fifths game of chance. Especially after the frantic, long winded, spiel of absolutely nothing about anything is wrong. But there is nothing frantic about these words here. Nothing drastic, or desperate. It's just quietly pained and sore. His thumb still stroking Steve's skin in a way, that sends warmth and friction rippling down through his skin and muscles like hot water. Dragging his eyelids lazy, and a small leaning into that touch, that feels harder to resist that necessary.

If Danny isn't pulling away, why should he. Even if he doesn't really believe the words fall around him. Like raindrops. Commentary. Shading in an absent shape. Negative space around the unknown. When all of it has a twined fire and ache. Shifting a little in Danny's touch, reaching up and nearly brushing his lips, again. Frustrated want in different directions, for wholly different things. Everything.

Brushing the his nose against the skin of Danny's cheek, when he's leaning into him, dragging him down a little, letting his mouth touch against Danny's, the whisper of a touch, of an arch into the man above him, against him. His words so much more smart mouthed, in and of themselves, than that tone they fall out with, quiet and rough and just the hairsbreadth beyond flatly pushing, negating. "Little early for 'it's not you, it's me,' isn't it?"

They were both here. Both here, with their hands, and their making a mess, and he's pretty sure whatever it is wouldn't happen it Danny wasn't. Here. Which does make it his fault. Something he should have known. Should have stopped. Should be able to make better. Everything could not have happened earlier, to fall apart right here, and now.

Not when Danny is touching him like this still. Not when every part of him is focused on touching him back. While he can. Dipping his fingers into Danny's hair and pulling him, like it's necessary, like it isn't the space of a breath, lifting from the pillow at the same second, to kiss him, again. Again, while he can, as long as it's possible he still can.

[haole_cop]

He almost doesn't notice that there are words. How is anyone supposed to notice words when Steve is shifting under them, fingers steady and firm in their hair, nose brushing against cheek, lips brushing against lips. Voice so low Danny feels it more as a vibration than hears it, feels it as a puff of breath against his lips, one that's already got him leaning down to find Steve's again, like kissing Steve is the absolute only gravity left in the world, before he figures out something was said. Smart and prodding, except not. Except drawn out from someplace deep and bottomed out.

And Steve doesn't even give him a chance to respond before he's pushing up, muscles tensing under Danny's fingers, sending Danny's head spinning, making him take in a sharp breath before his eyes close and he's opening his mouth to a kiss like an implosion. Fingers tightening on Steve's back, muscles contracting as he tries to get him closer, pull him up, push himself down. A short fuse lit and following a dancing spark in his head.

When it's the only fucking thing in the world that makes him feel like he can breathe. Like maybe things are okay. Will be. Even after the shock of opening the door. Even after Rachel, and Doris. Even with all the pitfalls he keeps tripping into.

And he'd be happy to continue not noticing words, but Steve is not letting him off the hook, and Danny knows better than to think a kiss is going to be the end of it, so he slews a little to one side, tracing lips across the corner of Steve's mouth, his cheek, toward the angle of his jaw. Wanting to be as much of a smartass, except Steve isn't being a smartass. Not really. Not with that tone. The one that half expects Danny to, what. Go? Actually mean it, that phrase, the way it's been defined by people for decades, probably since the beginning of human civilization? Like Danny's going to actually hand him the world's best-known break-up phrase when that is the thing that terrifies him the most.





Or, was. Before he realized that maybe they're together enough to merit a break-up, which is a thought process he really, seriously can't go down right now.

"Way too early, I agree."

It's never too early for things to go wrong, but it was far, far too early to suggest they might be insurmountable. Right? Even though it is him. Would be him. Someone Steve might want, but Steve has no idea what kind of role wanting actually plays in being with someone without wanting to set the air they breathe on fire. He can think of plenty of people he's wanted who he hasn't liked. It wouldn't stop hatred from settling in.

But it isn't that now. It isn't what Steve's insinuating now, and Danny can go ahead and draw it right across his skin. Or at least, he can try.

[thebesteverseen]

Danny's mouth is an incredibly good distraction, and if he hadn't meant to be distracted by it, or to distract Danny by pressing against it, he might have thought a little more before he was kissing him. Not that he can. Not that he ever does. Not that he did that morning in his living room, when the world obliterated on so few words, the strangest disjointed questions, and the inability to not. To not step into Danny's space, and take everything.

Fingers in his hair, finding Danny's mouth and tasting everything right off it. Every real word and impossible fantasy.

No part of him that really wanted to keep fighting, not for another minute, another second when those words. The way his muscles clench and he stretched long and out under Danny's weight, against the warmth of his breath. The press of his lips. Danny's mouth shifting across his face. Drawing heat down across his cheek, toward his jaw. Breath pressed into him, friction that makes his head rush, eyelids straining to close, tilting his head away.

Leaving himself at the mercy of Danny's touch, whatever skin Danny wants. Even when it's all, everything else, important still, only hanging on by tender hooks, under the heavy breaths escaping out his nose, causing his chest to rise slightly faster. Fingertips digging in against muscle on Danny's back for purchase, when he's pushing up against Danny's mouth. Tracing against his skin, words trapped there, not argued. Like maybe his point isn't lost. It's not black and white. One or the other. Danny can't own it all.

Uncertain whether he's going to manage focusing, or simply loose it along the way. Hanging on against that touch, the fire singing itself into his skin, under Danny's touch, fingers creeping further into Danny's hair, cradling his head close against him, even when he's giving him as much skin as he could possibly want, anything he wants. "And we're in this together, right?"

Not one sided. Not casual. Not other people. Not ending today, tonight, tomorrow morning. Not keeping each other in dark about what's going on. Where they're going, what they're doing. Doesn't that mean this, too? Or does it? He doesn't even know. Wants. To know. Needs to. Wants. Him not to stop, or pull away, right now, again.

[haole_cop]

It's amazing how one question can take the floor right out from under him, again. But this time without the panicked drop. One question. One word. Suddenly emptying out this huge hollow space in his chest that just as swiftly expands out further, because it isn't actually empty, it's so full, cracking with light. Aching so hard. Like Steve shoved the entire island under Danny's breastbone.

Together. And we're in this together. Right?

Like it could be questioned. Ever. Like he doesn't always want to be right where he is. Right next to Steve. Like he doesn't always want Steve to be right where he belongs, next to Danny. This huge tilting plain reaching wide through his chest, threatening to burst him wide open.

How could he forget? How could that not have factored into it? Except he knows this panic. This panic is brought on by together suddenly being separate. Separate beds, separate bank accounts. Dinner at separate times. Separate weekends with Grace.

But Steve's not Rachel. Steve's in this. With him. Together. "Yes."

He can't lift his head to look Steve in the eye, make sure he understands, make sure he knows, because Steve's hand is cradling him close and Steve's head is tipping to let Danny's mouth search its way down the column of his throat, so words end up getting smudged into skin, as he works closer to Steve's ear, the only chance he's got of being even slightly clear. Even though his voice is suddenly sounding sandpaper-rough. "Like always. You and me."

Together. Like every day. Except when Steve left, when Danny felt as abandoned as if Rachel had closed the door on him one last time, just for kicks. Because that wasn't together. That wasn't partners. That wasn't him being able to get Steve's back. It was him, alone. Steve, alone. Wrong, in every sense of the word. This is them. Together. Always. It's theirs. Whatever shape and form. Together, against everything the world has got, and it's got a lot, but not this. Never this. This belongs to them.

His hand sliding back over Steve's side, along his stomach, up his chest, burying fingers in hair, back down to his shoulder, his arm. Not slow, but not rushed. Wanting every single inch of Steve under his palm, against his fingers.

[thebesteverseen]

Like always. You and me.

Steve doesn't even know where it comes from, or how it all goes. But it's like the walls explode. Seize sharp, unexpected. Always. Like two years, like two weeks, is an always that can displace everything. Everything that suddenly is so scattered around like rubble. More than two decades against it. When he doesn't want to remember, doesn't mean to, and it comes unbidden anyway. I never stopped loving you.

Just because I wasn't around, doesn't mean I wasn't your mother.

Words. The last words he wants to hear when Danny mouth is dragging a line of fire up his neck, brushing the bottom of his ear. In a tone that is suddenly so rough, and so true, it almost hurts. Or maybe that's the rest of it. He can't tell. His lungs feel like they are obliterating. Turning into steam under the warm breath on fragile, thin skin. The rush of his pulse, crashing throb behind his eyes. The pain slamming in the middle of his chest.

Like always. Your and me. Words beating themselves into him, like fire on metal, like a life raft against the rest. All the other things, he doesn't know if are true. Aren't just words. Wishing he could grab these five and hold them. So they don't suddenly seem so insubstantial, that question makes his entire head and sense of reality buck at. Twisting further, dominoes crashing. Chased by lips on his skin, and then by a hand getting everywhere. Tugging at something too big, and too endless, threatening to flood everything in the middle of him. And where they hell did that come from. That wasn't the point. It wasn't his.

He didn't expect Danny's voice to almost shake with sudden, undeniable feeling, nearly right in his ear. Causing his stomach to clench, desperate and wanting. For there to be any truth in it, no matter what he can or can't do with it beyond this second. Just let it be true right now. Here. In this second. With Danny pressed against him. When he turns his head, back, cheek and jaw pressing against a mass of hair, words turning faintly feverish, even pressed. "Then, talk to me, Danny."

Fingers staying threaded in his hair, voice winded and low, the air staying everywhere but in his lungs. When he doesn't tug Danny up, doesn't make him look up, or move, from where he's buried against Steve's neck, the humming race of his pulse. Maybe is even grateful it's not Danny's face. It's just Danny's hair. Like there's nothing to make have to back up that any of these words, words, words that are never his, are falling out of his mouth, into Danny's hair. "It's just us. You and me. Here, right now."

Maybe it's hypocritical, he doesn't know if he'd even know what to say, wouldn't go utterly silent if Danny said the same to him. He just knows he wants it to be true. He wants to know. Wants to drag it out from existing anywhere in Danny. Replace with only those words a second ago. That sound in Danny's voice. That are so undeniably true there, that his heart is pounding more about that voice than any part of Danny's hand, Danny's mouth making their way with his skin. Wants to know. Know what not to do again. To keep it like this, as long as possible.

Danny, here, with him. Saying words like that out of nowhere and making him want to break the whole damn world if they'll just be true.

[haole_cop]

It's ridiculous. No, really. Steve being the one to talk him down.

Except Steve is always the one to talk him down. When he decides not to be a dick about things, he can actually hit the nail right on the head. Does things like turns his face into Danny's hair, which just makes any fight left at all evaporate right out of his muscles. Pausing. Before making the conscious decision to let it go. To stop pressing kisses to Steve's skin, and instead bury his face there, nose nudging against Steve's neck, eyes closing. Breathing in deep, getting cotton and detergent and Steve. Warm and rich and the most addicting, the most compelling thing that's out there.

Breathe. And talk to him. He can do that. Right? When Steve is asking so quietly. When Steve's hand is cradling the back of his head, and Danny feels protected. Comforted. When Steve is pointing out what should be obvious: that it's only them, that it's okay. Reminding Danny of the one truth he knows is constant, aside from his love for Grace.

That he trusts Steve. With his life. With his daughter.

And now he needs to trust him with this, too. We're in this together. Meaning Danny can't have secrets. Meaning Danny can't brush things off, because they belong to Steve now, too, just like Steve's problems belong to Danny. They're partners, best friends, and. Whatever this is. Together. No one else. Not Cath. Not Kaila. Not the ghost of Rachel or the reality of Gabby.

Which means Danny doesn't need to deal with these things haunting his head, alone. Right? Is that what Steve is saying?

It's just us. And they have taken on so much. He can tell Steve anything. Has always told Steve everything. Will listen to whatever comes out of Steve's mouth, when he might choose to open it.

But he's still glad that he doesn't have to look at him for this.

Hand finding Steve's side again, slipping up to cup the back of his shoulder. A grip that would be hard to get away from, possessive and this edge of desperate, softened into something that might pass as affectionate, or, at the most, faintly skittish.

"We are just so far past a cup of coffee already. You know? How did that happen? It's been zero to a hundred and sixty in no time."

It is an answer. It is. Even if it might not seem that way. It's bringing it back to a conversation that started. A year ago. When Steve was talking him down from the same ledge, without any idea that one day Danny would have the same reaction to him. Everything there is. Everything he can lose.

Voice low, and still rough at the edges. Because, what the hell. This matters. It all matters. Steve matters. And Danny doesn't want to lose him.

It's what it boils down to, maybe.

[thebesteverseen]

Well, he asked for that, didn't he?

Danny's fingers gripping into his shoulder, like he might need to be stopped from leaving, and Danny's voice, small and quiet and uncertainly fast, against his skin, where Danny's face is now pressed. Where he'd held still, except for that breath Steve could count through inhale and exhale in the perfect sudden stillness of the room before those words spilled out suddenly. When he wasn't certain he'd just cracked the glass and pushed too hard. Again.

Like Danny might just get up and go, or say nothing at all, because Steve kept not letting it go. Even after he was asked. Repeatedly.



And then there were those words. He doesn't know if they are an answer, or the answer, but he does know they are a point. At least he's sure of that much through the sudden, unexpected tension in his chest, the feeling of Danny's hair in his fingers, even when he isn't moving his hand in the slightest. Because. Yeah. Okay. He knows that. Or at least he's relatively sure, and has spent some time trying not to know it.

Has spent a year trying not to know. The last two months, especially, clutching something, something he couldn't ever acknowledge. Still hasn't.

Steve wants to make the joke it did start with one. A cup of coffee. Or rather with Danny attacking a coffee cup, in the defense of all of this, even before Steve got it. When Steve thought he was just being a bitch about Kaila or something with Gabby, or, hell, even just for getting touchy and grouchy over nothing more than not having slept for nearly two days, and was ready to ream him for every phone lecture he'd never reached Steve to give over walking away without a face to face.

Except it wasn't nothing, which makes the joke rock-hard and three times too big for his throat.

It wasn't ever nothing. Not when Danny was banging on the edges of the cup, over and over, with his spoon.

Not when Steve was making flippant, low, heated comments about wanting to kiss him until he didn't taste the coffee.

Not when it's barely two weeks later, and he knows on the other side of his front door there's a blistering lecture waiting. The first of what might be many, the least of which could effect his record. But one that could effect the respect of his longest friendship. Or. His job. Eventually his job. He knows that, too. And he's still here. Fingers in Danny's hair, breathing out in the same space, nodding, staring at it, again, and still not letting go, not pulling away.

"I know." He does. He knows. It's insane. God, all of it. Wanting more than he can ask for, and he had earlier, did the once even. Which he knows. He knows it's like a damn landslide clobbering him for Danny in comparison to what he watched with Gabby. For what he still has no quite mapped time frame for when it started with Rachel. From when they were fighting, before she was suddenly in his arms, that night in hospital.

But the last year. The last year, it had taken gargantuan feats of annoyance and brow beating honesty to get Danny to even consider taking those small steps. A cup of coffee with Gabby. Like digging up boards with his bare hands to have Danny answer questions about how they were doing, or to mention her at all. And involving Grace? God, beyond himself, beyond that sharp, heavy, half drunk weight that covered that butterfly in his head, Danny had nearly had to be dragged, kicking and screaming, to that.



And Danny was here. Now. Not being dragged. Not kicking and screaming. Not even two weeks. Hell. If they were being honest, not even one day. Not even half of one. Not five, ten, fifteen minutes after Danny'd said those words. Before it was like the world was on fire. Upside down. More insane than a nuclear bomb going off. Before clothing was being forgotten on his floor, and the day blurred. Into that file. Into that next night and his own furious desperation. Into that weekend. Into the days at the beginning of this week.

Into the blur that happened whenever they touched. Sometimes, even so little as a single look. Like the look Danny pinned him with before running. Into something so much bigger than every moment. Like the words that fell out of his mouth Friday night before Danny could leave, before Danny tumbled into him and never let go.

It feels too long ago, with the so much. So much has happened. So much keeps happening. Keeps throwing itself at them, at Five-0. Barely keeping them above water. Delano. Wo Fat. Doris. Malia. Kono. Chin. Both of them. But it's only been days. Only nearing two week since he got home, the first time. And the only other thing he's ever seen Danny agree to in hours, in days, was being requisitioned to Five-0, which wasn't this smooth, wasn't this necessary, wasn't hard to fight than giving up breathing. So, he knows, okay. He knows.

The same as he knows that as much as he knows those things, desperate and fierce and too piercingly blindingly clear right this second, against Danny's voice, he doesn't know why or how this happened, why Danny is here with him, now, has been, almost every step, but he doesn't want to slow down, doesn't want to stop this, getting this far, having Danny like this, doesn't know if those are going to be the next words, even when all of tonight still fits into all of that.

[haole_cop]

He does think he knows. That's true. Danny doesn't doubt that for a second. Steve has seen him through the giddy rise and subsequent sickening drop of Rachel, was the one who dragged him, past reluctance into actual anger, into the few small steps he'd taken with Gabby. So Steve has some idea, has some clue.

But he doesn't know how terrifying it is. Steve is fearless in a way Danny has never been. Injury to self is the last thing on his mind. It doesn't even compute. The leaps Danny's head takes, from jokes about closet space or the consideration of asking someone out for a cup of coffee to divorce and hatred and ruin wouldn't make sense to him. They would seem like lunacy, because they are lunacy. And Steve hasn't had to do this, before.

Okay. Well. Obviously, parts of it he's done. There are places here where Danny knows Steve's experience far outweighs his own, but he's not talking about the physical stuff, alright, he's talking about the kind of damage a divorce like his leaves behind. Cracks splintering everywhere, all of them widened, weakened again when Rachel stopped picking up her phone and he found himself begging to her voicemail. Begging. So far past distraught. Broken down into something that didn't give a damn how short of a straw he pulled, as long as he got to keep it.

Steve knows what it's like to lose everything. To have the entire world shatter around you. But it happened to Steve when he was just a kid, which makes it more unfair, but also changed him irrevocably. Sure. Danny only knows, really, about the last two years. He supposes it's possible there was someone, someone other than Catherine, someone Steve loved like Danny loves Rachel. Anything is possible. Just like it's possible he'll wake up tomorrow and be able to have a friendly lunch with Rachel and Stan while Grace plays nearby and no lawyers show up at all.

Right? Anything is possible.

Like this is somehow possible. Steve, breathing quiet and steady against him. Steve's fingers in his hair. Steve, naked and wanting him here. Arms around him. Letting Danny's fingers trail over bare skin. Letting Danny think, and talk. Like Danny could just. Talk. The way he might into an empty room. Talk until he's worked it out for himself. Until the panic has been boxed away in words. Until he can breathe, and think straight. Until he no longer feels like he's hanging over the edge of a cliff, gripping for dear life onto a rope that's already snapping. Because Steve is being quiet, and Steve is being softer. Voice low. Not pushing or prodding. Not teasing or taunting. Just opening the door a crack more, instead of kicking it down or blowing it off the hinges.

And it's such a relief. Such a fucking load off. Seriously. They are tiny things, but they let Danny breathe like he's just been let out of a sealed box.

"Look, you know me. I make these leaps. I'm not ready to start considering what it might take for you to start hating me, alright? I know it's nuts. I know it's not even two weeks, and nobody even knows anything except Catherine, and that was by accident, and that I am a lunatic to rival even your most ridiculously out-of-bounds moments, alright. I understand that. I am -- we are -- just, occasionally, a little nerve-wracking."

Call it self-preservation. The kind Steve doesn't have. The kind Danny knows is useless, because he's already here, already in it. Because they are so far past a cup of coffee. Because this is something he knows and recognizes and is not nearly dumb enough to not know or recognize when the evidence is right in front of him, not once it's been lined up like this.

Because he's already fallen off that cliff. Holding onto a trailing end of rope that's falling with him is no more than a stubborn instinct; it won't help when he hits.

Except. When they. They. Because they're in this. Together.

[thebesteverseen]

Steve doesn't move. It's hard to say which instinct has that down really. Stay. Still. Don't. Move. Keep. Breathing. Keep listening to Danny's voice. The way Danny is rambling in against his shoulder, against his neck. He knows these words. Had these conversations. From the outside. When it was never. It wasn't going to be him. Because Danny was falling on his ass for an admittedly pretty face. And then running as far as possible as fast as possible.

Because he remembers. Danny terrified, angry and sure. Insanely, sure. But still there, too.

When it was easy to say coffee was just coffee. Gabby was a pretty easy bet in that way.

A sure thing, if Danny would pry his damn feet off the ground. Coffee, dinners. Dating. Grace. The easy, logical progression. That Danny skipped to ending, and Steve just shoved toward being good, making Danny happy. And any of those other words clog. Hard. Against all the muscles. His jugular. The race of his pulse, like it isn't slowing. Slamming his head with a wall. Because he isn't moving.

The only thing moving is Danny. Spilling all these words out on him, making him aware of one very clear thing.
He isn't a sure thing. He didn't. They. This situation. It's not like he could start hating Danny.
It's not like he ever found a way to bury this in a hole ten feet deep.

But it's not like he can even offer Danny --

"Cath probably wouldn't agree with that." Steve shifted the hand in Danny's hair to rub at his own forehead, barely an inch, maybe two, between them, Danny's head and where his still is, against it, when he shook his head, closing his eyes briefly against the rub. "She'll probably use several more choice words than 'ridiculously out of bounds' for this."

But then Cath expected him to fall on any bomb, terrorist, mission grade objective placed before him. Without hesitation. To the level of his ability. Ballsy, arrogant, best there is, oath living and breathing SEAL. Something she got, to a clear and perfect understanding, that Danny didn't have. Or might have had and didn't want to know if was anywhere near accurate, for his sanity or the teams. Or maybe even Steve's.

But she didn't expect this. She didn't expect to find him fallen on Danny. Not actually. Not like this. Ever.

Dying, swearing to be more than human for the job, fine. But breaking all the rules. For Danny. With him. By him.