hawaii 5-0 fic: we believe in the sum of ourselves [steve/danny, r to nc-17]
There are some new tags today, people! One of them reads "hawaii 5-0 goddamnit," in a direct homage to my delicious tag for H50 fic (hawaii50.goddamnit, in case you were wondering). Another reads "accidental fandom," because that's what this is. IT IS A PROLONGED ACCIDENT. It's...oh god, you guys, I don't even like this show, there are so many things wrong with this show, but it's like some kind of terrible terrible candy you can't stop eating and then suddenly feel compelled to write fanfiction about. And I wouldn't have written fic at all, except for how lately I've had some writing anxiety and can't seem to crank out Inception fic to save my life, and this was unsettlingly easy and as such very calming. This isn't even the Hawaii 5-0 fic I'm primarily working on, this is a post-ep that just kind of spewed out of me while I was taking a break from other shit, I TURNED AROUND AND IT WAS HERE, WHY AM I LIKE THIS.
Look, in summary, angelgazing should never have let me near a show where one of the mains is short, angry, blond and obsessed with food, and I'm really fucking sorry about this. I really am. Oh, god, am I ever.
Title: We Believe in the Sum of Ourselves
Pairing: Steve/Danny
Rating: R to NC-17
Wordcount: 4615
Spoilers: Post-ep for 1.16, and, as such, spoilers up through that.
Summary: This is Danny out of of control.
Here's the thing about Steve McGarrett's line of work: it's not something you can succeed in if you're not good at compartmentalizing.
Maybe that's not true. In fact, to a certain degree, Steve's sure it's not true--Danny's a damn sight better at this kind of work than he has any right to be, considering how he can't seem to choke off how much he cares about shit for anything. Steve doesn't know why that surprises him so much, why the way Danny constantly brings emotion to the table leaves him so off-kilter; maybe it's just that it's Danny, and pretty much everything about him leaves Steve feeling a little wrong-footed, a little unsure.
But Danny's not the issue, not at all, except for how he's always the issue these days. Steve doesn't know how Danny does it, but that doesn't matter, because Steve knows how he does it, and that's what gets him through. His M.O. largely involves shutting off his emotions for later, involves thinking about whatever it is when he has time. It's why he was able to sleep with Kath while they were serving together without it becoming a thing. It's why he keeps screwing up cases that center around his fucking inconvenient daddy issues, because he can't figure out how to shut that down, and he's never had to try this hard before.
But the point, right, the point is that he's Steve Mc-fucking-Garrett, and he knows what it means to go to work. He can re-inflate people's lungs with twigs and he can figure out the square root of ass-kicking without a calculator and, given enough of a head start, he can leap smallish buildings in a single bound. On the job, Steve doesn't even fear fear itself, because fear itself is his bitch.
And all of this, all of these basic truths of his existence, are the reasons he's able to tune out the voice in the back of his head screaming DannyDannyDannyDANNY until he's gotten Julie Masters delivered safely to WitSec.
Shit kind of hits the fan after that.
"Chin," he says, letting his voice go cold even though Chin hasn't done anything today except be the best employee a guy could ask for, "you got a location on Danny?"
"Was I supposed to be getting one?" Chin asks, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Because, no offense, boss, but it's been kind of a long day."
"Tell me something I don't know," Steve snaps. In his hand, his cell phone rings through to Danny's voicemail for the fourth time, and he resists the urge to crush it into little pieces in vengeance. Chin, for his part, just raises his eyebrows enough to indicate that he won't be spoken to like that, and Steve deflates, guilt itching at the back of his spine.
"Jesus," he sighs, passing a hand over his face, "sorry. Sorry, that was--"
"No, brah, it's cool, I get it," Chin says, and claps him on the back. "Give me a ride to HQ and I'll run a trace on his cell, alright? I'd rather not get back on my bike right now."
"Done and done," Steve says, and then, "wait, hold that thought," because his cell is ringing. It's an unknown number, and Steve frowns at the screen before taking the call, worry pooling in the bottom of his stomach.
"McGarrett," he snaps, and he's already running through the possibilities--Danny's in the drunk tank, Danny's killed Step-Stan, Danny's driven his car off the edge of a cliff in the throes of a rage-induced aneurysm…
"Um, hi?" says the girl on the other end of the line. She sounds mildly terrified, which Steve can't exactly blame her for, considering his tone. "This is Becky? At SysTec Home Securities?"
"Talk," Steve barks, recognizing that it's not going to help with her nerves and not caring at all. "Has there been a break-in? What?"
"No it's, um, it's just," she coughs, uncomfortable, and continues, "well it's just that someone just deactivated your alarm, but they punched in three wrong tries first and we, um, have a policy to call? When that happens?"
It probably says something about the level of Steve's fixation with Danny that he knows immediately what's going on. Danny knows his alarm code, because Danny had made him put the damn system in to begin with, and had also been there the first time Steve forgot it and had to break into his own home; Danny knows his alarm code so well that Steve has to call him sometimes and ask for it.
Danny also has some peripheral vision issues when he's too furious to function properly. Solving the mystery of who's in his house right now is not exactly rocket science.
"Let me guess," Steve says, holding up a hand to stop Chin from getting in the car. "The failed attempts were each a digit off?"
"Um, yeah," says Becky, "how did you--"
"There's no break-in, it's fine, thanks for calling," Steve says, and hangs up. "Chin, forget the trace, I found him. You take my car, I'll take your bike, we'll trade back tomorrow."
"Sure," Chin says, catching Steve's keys and tossing his own over. "Call if you need anything, yeah?"
Steve shakes his head. "It's been a hell of a day. Take the night off, maybe check in on Kono--"
"I think maybe she should check in on me," Chin says, his smile something between proud and wry. "She laid that lady out today."
"Yeah," Steve says, smiling a little in spite of himself. "She really did, huh?"
Chin opens his mouth like he's going to go on, and then shakes his head and waves a hand. "Go, go, I'll call you about picking up the bike tomorrow."
Steve is a professional; he draws the line between work shit and personal shit better than anyone he knows. He still doesn't need to be told twice.
--
Steve's not sure what he expects to find at his house, though he runs through the possibilities on his way. Danny getting drunk on his couch, maybe, or sitting in the backyard glaring at the ocean; Danny standing guard at the front door with Grace locked up safely behind him. He's prepared for any of these eventualities as he cuts the engine on Chin's bike and walks inside, much as he kind of wishes he wasn't.
What he doesn't expect to find is his front door wide open and Danny inside, hair wild, digging through his kitchen drawers.
"Oh, good," he says, looking up from Steve's stash of kitchen knives with red-rimmed eyes, "it's George of the goddamn Jungle."
"Hey," Steve says, trying for normalcy. "I didn't think housebreaking was on your list of police-approved activities."
"Would you know," says Danny, "that as it turns out housebreaking is the theme of the fucking day? Or maybe it's doing things that aren't on my list of approved police activities, I'm not sure, it's hard to tell, I'm having a little trouble keeping track what with all the screaming disaster and everything. Not that you have a leg to stand on, McGarrett, because I could count for you the number of times you've busted into my apartment uninvited but I'd rather not, since the last thing I need right now is to remember how fucking crazy my life's turned out to be since you went and--"
"Hey," Steve says, "Danny, hey, why don't you tell me what you're looking for, huh? Can you do that?"
Danny sucks in a breath through his nose, and Steve realizes all at once that he's been wrong about something essential to Danny's character for awhile now. He'd thought he'd seen Danny out of control after that first case, what with the yelling and the hand waving and the general insanity. And then he'd thought it again after that thing with his old partner and the guy strapped to the hood of his car--thought he'd seen Danny at his limit, was sure of it, knew it in his bones.
But he'd been wrong, because this--his hair everywhere, his face rigid with a mixture of fury and panic, his hands twitching by his sides--this is Danny out of control.
"You want to hear a funny story?" Danny asks, and then he laughs, but it's wrong--shredded raw, agonized. "So Stan, right, Stan-the-Man, who loves my daughter, apparently, isn't that so great for them, aren't they such a happy family--Stan goes to the housing commissioner for some, I don't know, whatever bullshit thing he does that keeps my ex-wife in Manolos, who the fuck knows. And this guy asks for a bribe! But Stan's a good guy, right, he turns out to be such a good guy, isn't that fantastic, except for how he's an idiot and went and told this guy that he'd taped the whole thing, the whole conversation, and so Mr. Dirty Housing Commissioner figured he'd scare him with a little car-jacking, go to his house and find those pesky tapes, and that's how my daughter ended up with a gun in her face this morning."
"Jesus," Steve breathes, trying to catch up. "Wait, hold up, Bruce Hoffman is dirty? I didn't--"
"Hey, hey, didn't anyone ever teach you not to interrupt a rant?" Danny demands. "It's like waking a sleepwalker, okay, and I'm not even close to done, because I still haven't explained what the fuck I'm doing here, I got a little off topic, it's easy to do that when your entire fucking life is a goddamn shitstorm of fucking--"
"Danny, whoa, you need to try to--"
"Like hell I do!" Danny snaps, and slams the drawer closed. "You can shut the fuck up, Steve, alright, because what I did today was save Stan's ass, and now I've got these fucking tapes and I've threatened a guy with murder, okay, which means there's a target on my back and a target on Grace's because I'm stupid, I'm so fucking stupid, but I'm gonna bring this bastard down anyway because I've dug my grave and so I might as well fucking lie in it, only that means I need the tapes. And I thought about taking them to HQ and using the super-future-table-computer or whatever the fuck it is to copy them, only then I thought hey, hey, Daniel, what've you got here, you got dirty officials, you got dirty fucking cops, so what you really need is one of those black boxes like in a goddamn airplane, and hey now, Detective Williams, let's use those investigative skills, who do you know that might have something like that on hand--"
"Danny--"
"Where is it?" Danny demands, and he's yelling now, really yelling, not that agitated half-shout he does when he's pissed about procedure. He's screaming at Steve, face purple, and Steve's never felt less grounded in his life. "I know you fucking have one, Steve, you've got everything, you're a fucking Navy SEAL and you're what I've got, okay, Stan's got money and Rachel and a clear conscience and my fucking daughter and I've got you--"
"Yeah," Steve says, because this, at least, he's sure about, "yeah, Danno, you fucking do," and he's grabbing Danny by the wrists and forcing him into a hug before he can really think about it.
Steve expects Danny to fight him on it, because Danny fights him on everything, because Danny is just like that, always jumping into the fray, always throwing down. He expects Danny to fight him and so he's ready when Danny pushes back; Steve holds him still, waits for more, but it was apparently a token protest. Danny's gripping the back of his shirt a second later, his breath hot and fast against Steve's neck, and he's saying "fuck fuck fuck" under his breath like he's dying or drowning or something.
"Danny," Steve says, tightening his own grip, "Danno, Jesus, breathe, we're going to figure this out."
"You always think that," Danny snaps, and he's the only person Steve's ever met who can sound murderous while clinging to someone like a limpet, and that's probably why Steve likes him so well. "You're so predictable that way, you think you can fix everything and save everyone but I've fucked this up, just because you think you're god's gift to law enforcement doesn't mean you can undo what I--"
"Stop," Steve says against his hair. "Just stop, stop talking--"
"What the fuck is wrong with you, stop talking," Danny growls. "It's not like I'm going to stop thinking about it, is it just that you don't want to listen to me because you've got a lot of nerve, McGarrett, to get all grabby and then not even be willing to--"
"Shhh," Steve says, "Danny, I swear to god if you don't let yourself calm the fuck down I will do it for you."
"That doesn't mean anything," Danny says, "you're just mixing words up in random order, that's not how sentences work," but he quiets after that.
He's so close that Steve can feel him swallowing, again and again, like he's trying to choke down something that sits wrong in his throat, and this should be weird. Regardless of all Steve's ridiculous unbridled pent-up feelings, regardless of all the things he'd do to Danny given half the chance, there's no reason for this to feel normal, no reason for Danny to fit so well in his arms. He's standing in the middle of his kitchen holding his partner, for god's sake, this is not standard operating procedure, this is not how this should go.
But then again, for all the shit Danny gives him, neither of them have ever been particularly inclined towards playing by the rules.
"You want know something awful," Danny says after minute. It's not a question, not the way he says it, but Steve sighs anyway and shifts, gets his palm flat on Danny's back.
"Sure," he says.
"I wanted it to be Stan," Danny says. "I wanted him to be screwing around on Rachel or in with an arms dealer or insider trading or something, I wanted to take him down hard. What the fuck kind of person does that make me?"
"A human one?" Steve suggests. Danny snorts, and some part of Steve's brain is saying frantic things like You're still hugging it's been too long he's going to kill you, but most of him is focused on not letting go. "Look, I'm not saying it was a great thing to be thinking--"
"I mean, god knows why but Gracie loves him, it's stable, she's stable, what kind of father--"
"Oh fuck no," Steve snaps, and pulls back enough to grab Danny by the shoulders and meet his eyes. "You don't get to do that, Danno, what the fuck. You went to the mattresses for that kid today."
"Jesus, a Godfather reference," Danny mutters. "What are you, reading Jersey guidebooks now?'
"Something like that," Steve says. Somehow one of his hands has ended up curled across Danny's neck. His fingers are in Danny's hair and his thumb is swiping across Danny's cheek and he should step away, he really should, he's going to, but he's got something to say first.
"Hey, listen. There's a difference between having a bad day and being a bad father, okay? Hating Stan doesn't mean you don't love Grace, I know you know that."
"I would have sent him to jail," Danny says, his jawline going tight. "I would have done it in a second, I would have loved to--"
"What part of that is supposed to make you a shitty dad?" Steve demands. "The part where you want your kid to be safe, or the part where you wish you didn't have to share her? Because from where I'm standing, Danno, you packed up your life and moved across the country for her, and that makes you a hell of a lot better at this than most people."
"I don't think you're really the right person to be giving parenting advice," Danny snaps, clearly reflexively, and then winces. "Fuck, Steve, I'm sorry. It's like I'm determined to be an asshole today."
"And that's different from every other day of the week how?" Steve asks, and does, finally, step away. Danny smiles at him, wavering and off-balance but still a smile, and Steve'll definitely take it. He turns, runs a hand through his hair, and sighs. "Right, so, I don't actually have an airplane box, but if you'll tell me where the tapes are I think I can--"
"Steve," Danny says.
Steve looks back, and has a spilt second in which to register the fact that Danny's making a face he's never seen before--half furious determination and half something else, something he'd call vulnerability on anyone but him. He'd study it further but he doesn't have time, because Danny's stepping in again and kissing him, open-mouthed and frantic, hands sliding up into his hair.
Chin likes to joke that Steve was born without a fear gene; he says it all the time, on almost every case, to the point that it's gotten routine. And on the job, it's mostly true--there's nothing Steve won't do for his country, nothing Steve can't overcome for his team. But the thing is that everyone has a fear gene, no one's ever exempted from one, and it's as frightening a thing as Steve's ever found, the taste of Danny's tongue in his mouth.
"Whoa," he says, pulling away over the roaring hunger of every instinct in his body, "hey, Danny, wait, I don't want to--I wouldn't want you to--"
"In the interest of avoiding the kind of awkwardness that could seriously taint our working relationship," Danny says, his hand still in Steve's hair, "let's get some things clear. Is this you saying 'I'm straight, Danno, what the hell are you doing,' or is it 'You've had a bad day, Danno, and my Boy Scout honed traditions of honor and valor or whatever prohibit me from taking advantage of you in the way you so clearly desire?'"
"I don't sound like that," Steve says, affronted.
"Yes you--no, no, wait, we're not doing this. Answer the question. Former or latter, right now."
"Latter," Steve admits, "but, Danny--"
"Right," says Danny, "so you're an idiot, tell me something I don't know," and kisses him again.
Steve goes with it for a long minute, because even his self-control has a limit. He growls down Danny's throat and draws him in, cupping his ass with both hands, biting at his lower lip--and then he jerks his hands away and yanks his head back, remembering himself.
"Danno, I'm--"
"What do you want," Danny demands, "my written permission? You want me to sign a contract that says I want this, because I fucking will--"
"I'm not interested in manipulating your emotions while you're obviously--"
"Oh my god, there really is something wrong with you," Danny says, and steps clear to fold his arms across his chest. "Look, McGarrett, if you want me to detail how long I've wanted this, I can, I can type it up and print it in triplicate for you, but I think it would be embarrassing for everyone involved and also pretty fucking time consuming. And yes, okay, fine, sure, it's been the shittiest day ever and I'm kind of worked up, but I don't see what that has to do with you finally acting on all the covert looks I see you shooting at my ass when you think I'm not paying attention."
"I don't," Steve says, "I wasn't--wait, you saw those?"
"Do they not teach subtlety in SEAL school?" Danny asks. "Yes, I fucking saw those, anyone with eyes could see those, do you actually have brain damage?"
"Is this supposed to be seducing me?" Steve asks. "It's not really working."
Danny throws his hands in the air. "Yeah, asshole, maybe if someone would get off their asses and make a fucking move once in awhile--"
"You swear to god you're not going to accuse me of taking advantage of your fragile state tomorrow," Steve says, just to be sure, and Danny more or less shoulder-checks him into the wall.
"I have no idea why I find you attractive," he says, "it is the great goddamn mystery of our time," and then they're kissing again, Danny's mouth hot and furious against his own.
It takes Steve a second--more than, probably--to properly catch up. He just kind of waits there, kissing back but standing still, a little shell-shocked at the idea that this is actually happening. Luckily, a lifetime of military service has trained him in the art of bouncing back from shock, and he shakes himself out of it just in time for Danny to pull off and make a face at him.
"What," he says, "is that all you got?"
It is at this time that Steve mentally declares it open season on Danny Williams.
"Oh fuck yes," Danny hisses, when Steve grabs him by the collar and flips them around, grinding Danny into the wall. "C'mon, McGarrett, hold back and suffer the consequences--"
"Is there actually no way to shut you up?" Steve asks against Danny's neck. He's fumbling at--no, no he's not, he's expertly undoing Danny's belt buckle, and Danny's laughing, the first real laugh Steve's heard from him all day.
"Many have tried," he says, "but few ever succeed. Shutting up a Williams is an art form."
"I will gag you," Steve warns. "Don't think that I won't."
"Why would I ever think that?" Danny says, and Steve spares a moment to despair for his sanity, that he and Danny are arguing when they could be fucking and it's already the best sex of his life. "I'm surprised you haven't already, if anything your track record with craziness lends itself to the conclusion that kinky sex is a regular part of your--"
He trails off then, because Steve's dropped to his knees and pulled Danny's pants down with him, is mouthing at his cock over his boxers.
"You want to talk?" Steve says. "Fine, we can talk. Why don't I tell you a story about how this is going to go--when you're ready to stop with the chatting I'm going to pull down these boxers and--"
"Jesus, Jesus, I'm sorry, stop talking, I take it all back, I'll shut up, fuck," Danny says, all in one breath, and Steve smirks against his thigh as he works his boxers down. Danny, on seeing this expression, adds, "Goddamn it, Steven, is there no arena in which you don't feel it necessary to be the smuggest guy in the room?"
"You're really bad at shutting up," Steve comments, but he takes pity when Danny groans and pulls his cock into his mouth.
To be honest, Steve kind of expect Danny to ramble through the blow job--he's almost looking forward to it, actually, to the way his breath will catch around the edges of his never-ending sentences, the way he'll shout as he comes. Instead Danny fists his hands in Steve's hair, pulling just enough to assert himself, and doesn't say much at all. Steve's name, a few times, in a ragged voice that sets his spine tingling, and a few iterations of the word fuck; he gasps again and again like he's going to start speaking and then just jerks his hips, fucking into Steve's mouth.
"Oh shit, babe, I'm going to--oh, god, I'm--" he chokes eventually, and then he's coming like it's been forced out of him at gunpoint, burningly satisfying down Steve's throat.
He sinks to the floor when he's done, his grip in Steve's hair painfully tight now, and slumps against him, rests his head against his shoulder. "Just give me," he says, "just, shit, give me a second, okay, I'm--"
"Danno," Steve starts, but he's not sure how to follow up, and then Danny's biting down on his collarbone and reaching down to unzip his pants.
It doesn't take Steve long to come into Danny's hand--he's been too close for too long, thought about how it would feel far too many times, and the reality is so much better, the callouses on Danny's palm new and beautiful against his dick. He groans out loud as he loses it, a noise he's never heard himself make, and Danny's saying "Jesus Christ, McGarrett," against his throat, and Steve actually closes his eyes like a fourteen year old and waits to wake up.
Except that when he opens his eyes again it's still just Danny, and his hair's still wild, and his eyes are still tight, but he's smiling.
"You took advantage of my fragile state," he complains, clearly trying to sound wounded and succeeding only in cracking up halfway through. Steve musters what energy he has and smacks him in the arm, and Danny doesn't even yelp, just puts his head back down and laughs, shoulders shaking slightly, into the folds of Steve's muddy t-shirt.
Steve can't help himself--he lifts his arms and pulls Danny closer, that last crucial fraction of an inch, and holds him there for a long minute. Danny doesn't even shift, just sighs like he's stupidly, damnably comfortable, which, really, Steve can sympathize.
Then, breaking the moment, Danny says, "Ugh, McGarrett."
"What?"
"You need…" he pulls back enough that Steve can see his face, which is twisted up in mild horror, "look, I say this with all due respect and everything, I know you've been out tracking assassins and that's great, real proud, and I'd really like it if the whole dick-sucking aspect of our relationship to continue, so try to just take it as fact when I tell you: you need to hit the showers. Like immediately. Like yesterday, oh my god."
"See, I don't know why you felt it necessary to put it like that," Steve says. "Would it have been so bad to just--"
"Tell you that you reek like the entire Nets locker room after--god, I can't even think of a win, how sad is that," says Danny. "Yeah, somehow I didn't think you'd like that so much, but if we're going for brutal honesty I'm happy to provide."
"I could have sworn brutal honest was your middle name," Steve mutters, and then makes an undignified sound when Danny bites his neck in a less-than-sexy way. "Jesus, Danny! Are you a Jersey vampire now? I'm up, I'm up, control yourself."
"God, I smell like it," Danny says, sniffing at his shirt in despair. "You see what you've done here? See if I ever--"
"Let me suck you off again?" Steve finishes, eyebrows up. "Careful there, Detective, you might say something you'll regret."
"I regret smelling like your gym bag," Danny says, but he's grinning, cock-sure and obnoxious and himself. It's more of a relief than Steve is really prepared for, and he wonders absently when he got this dependent on Danny being Danny, when this crazy loudmouthed asshole because a necessary part of his life.
"You could shower with me," Steve says. "I've got a place to put those tapes too--not an airplane box, but close enough."
"I don't know if I want to know," Danny groans, but he lets Steve haul him to his feet, drag him to the shower. And when Steve caves and says "You okay?" with his hands pressed into Danny's stomach, Danny just growls something unintelligible and reaches behind him, jacks Steve off like it's a fucking afterthought.
Steve figures he's going to have to hone his compartmentalizing skills something fierce if Danny's going to keep doing shit like that. He can't really bring himself to mind.
Look, in summary, angelgazing should never have let me near a show where one of the mains is short, angry, blond and obsessed with food, and I'm really fucking sorry about this. I really am. Oh, god, am I ever.
Title: We Believe in the Sum of Ourselves
Pairing: Steve/Danny
Rating: R to NC-17
Wordcount: 4615
Spoilers: Post-ep for 1.16, and, as such, spoilers up through that.
Summary: This is Danny out of of control.
Here's the thing about Steve McGarrett's line of work: it's not something you can succeed in if you're not good at compartmentalizing.
Maybe that's not true. In fact, to a certain degree, Steve's sure it's not true--Danny's a damn sight better at this kind of work than he has any right to be, considering how he can't seem to choke off how much he cares about shit for anything. Steve doesn't know why that surprises him so much, why the way Danny constantly brings emotion to the table leaves him so off-kilter; maybe it's just that it's Danny, and pretty much everything about him leaves Steve feeling a little wrong-footed, a little unsure.
But Danny's not the issue, not at all, except for how he's always the issue these days. Steve doesn't know how Danny does it, but that doesn't matter, because Steve knows how he does it, and that's what gets him through. His M.O. largely involves shutting off his emotions for later, involves thinking about whatever it is when he has time. It's why he was able to sleep with Kath while they were serving together without it becoming a thing. It's why he keeps screwing up cases that center around his fucking inconvenient daddy issues, because he can't figure out how to shut that down, and he's never had to try this hard before.
But the point, right, the point is that he's Steve Mc-fucking-Garrett, and he knows what it means to go to work. He can re-inflate people's lungs with twigs and he can figure out the square root of ass-kicking without a calculator and, given enough of a head start, he can leap smallish buildings in a single bound. On the job, Steve doesn't even fear fear itself, because fear itself is his bitch.
And all of this, all of these basic truths of his existence, are the reasons he's able to tune out the voice in the back of his head screaming DannyDannyDannyDANNY until he's gotten Julie Masters delivered safely to WitSec.
Shit kind of hits the fan after that.
"Chin," he says, letting his voice go cold even though Chin hasn't done anything today except be the best employee a guy could ask for, "you got a location on Danny?"
"Was I supposed to be getting one?" Chin asks, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Because, no offense, boss, but it's been kind of a long day."
"Tell me something I don't know," Steve snaps. In his hand, his cell phone rings through to Danny's voicemail for the fourth time, and he resists the urge to crush it into little pieces in vengeance. Chin, for his part, just raises his eyebrows enough to indicate that he won't be spoken to like that, and Steve deflates, guilt itching at the back of his spine.
"Jesus," he sighs, passing a hand over his face, "sorry. Sorry, that was--"
"No, brah, it's cool, I get it," Chin says, and claps him on the back. "Give me a ride to HQ and I'll run a trace on his cell, alright? I'd rather not get back on my bike right now."
"Done and done," Steve says, and then, "wait, hold that thought," because his cell is ringing. It's an unknown number, and Steve frowns at the screen before taking the call, worry pooling in the bottom of his stomach.
"McGarrett," he snaps, and he's already running through the possibilities--Danny's in the drunk tank, Danny's killed Step-Stan, Danny's driven his car off the edge of a cliff in the throes of a rage-induced aneurysm…
"Um, hi?" says the girl on the other end of the line. She sounds mildly terrified, which Steve can't exactly blame her for, considering his tone. "This is Becky? At SysTec Home Securities?"
"Talk," Steve barks, recognizing that it's not going to help with her nerves and not caring at all. "Has there been a break-in? What?"
"No it's, um, it's just," she coughs, uncomfortable, and continues, "well it's just that someone just deactivated your alarm, but they punched in three wrong tries first and we, um, have a policy to call? When that happens?"
It probably says something about the level of Steve's fixation with Danny that he knows immediately what's going on. Danny knows his alarm code, because Danny had made him put the damn system in to begin with, and had also been there the first time Steve forgot it and had to break into his own home; Danny knows his alarm code so well that Steve has to call him sometimes and ask for it.
Danny also has some peripheral vision issues when he's too furious to function properly. Solving the mystery of who's in his house right now is not exactly rocket science.
"Let me guess," Steve says, holding up a hand to stop Chin from getting in the car. "The failed attempts were each a digit off?"
"Um, yeah," says Becky, "how did you--"
"There's no break-in, it's fine, thanks for calling," Steve says, and hangs up. "Chin, forget the trace, I found him. You take my car, I'll take your bike, we'll trade back tomorrow."
"Sure," Chin says, catching Steve's keys and tossing his own over. "Call if you need anything, yeah?"
Steve shakes his head. "It's been a hell of a day. Take the night off, maybe check in on Kono--"
"I think maybe she should check in on me," Chin says, his smile something between proud and wry. "She laid that lady out today."
"Yeah," Steve says, smiling a little in spite of himself. "She really did, huh?"
Chin opens his mouth like he's going to go on, and then shakes his head and waves a hand. "Go, go, I'll call you about picking up the bike tomorrow."
Steve is a professional; he draws the line between work shit and personal shit better than anyone he knows. He still doesn't need to be told twice.
--
Steve's not sure what he expects to find at his house, though he runs through the possibilities on his way. Danny getting drunk on his couch, maybe, or sitting in the backyard glaring at the ocean; Danny standing guard at the front door with Grace locked up safely behind him. He's prepared for any of these eventualities as he cuts the engine on Chin's bike and walks inside, much as he kind of wishes he wasn't.
What he doesn't expect to find is his front door wide open and Danny inside, hair wild, digging through his kitchen drawers.
"Oh, good," he says, looking up from Steve's stash of kitchen knives with red-rimmed eyes, "it's George of the goddamn Jungle."
"Hey," Steve says, trying for normalcy. "I didn't think housebreaking was on your list of police-approved activities."
"Would you know," says Danny, "that as it turns out housebreaking is the theme of the fucking day? Or maybe it's doing things that aren't on my list of approved police activities, I'm not sure, it's hard to tell, I'm having a little trouble keeping track what with all the screaming disaster and everything. Not that you have a leg to stand on, McGarrett, because I could count for you the number of times you've busted into my apartment uninvited but I'd rather not, since the last thing I need right now is to remember how fucking crazy my life's turned out to be since you went and--"
"Hey," Steve says, "Danny, hey, why don't you tell me what you're looking for, huh? Can you do that?"
Danny sucks in a breath through his nose, and Steve realizes all at once that he's been wrong about something essential to Danny's character for awhile now. He'd thought he'd seen Danny out of control after that first case, what with the yelling and the hand waving and the general insanity. And then he'd thought it again after that thing with his old partner and the guy strapped to the hood of his car--thought he'd seen Danny at his limit, was sure of it, knew it in his bones.
But he'd been wrong, because this--his hair everywhere, his face rigid with a mixture of fury and panic, his hands twitching by his sides--this is Danny out of control.
"You want to hear a funny story?" Danny asks, and then he laughs, but it's wrong--shredded raw, agonized. "So Stan, right, Stan-the-Man, who loves my daughter, apparently, isn't that so great for them, aren't they such a happy family--Stan goes to the housing commissioner for some, I don't know, whatever bullshit thing he does that keeps my ex-wife in Manolos, who the fuck knows. And this guy asks for a bribe! But Stan's a good guy, right, he turns out to be such a good guy, isn't that fantastic, except for how he's an idiot and went and told this guy that he'd taped the whole thing, the whole conversation, and so Mr. Dirty Housing Commissioner figured he'd scare him with a little car-jacking, go to his house and find those pesky tapes, and that's how my daughter ended up with a gun in her face this morning."
"Jesus," Steve breathes, trying to catch up. "Wait, hold up, Bruce Hoffman is dirty? I didn't--"
"Hey, hey, didn't anyone ever teach you not to interrupt a rant?" Danny demands. "It's like waking a sleepwalker, okay, and I'm not even close to done, because I still haven't explained what the fuck I'm doing here, I got a little off topic, it's easy to do that when your entire fucking life is a goddamn shitstorm of fucking--"
"Danny, whoa, you need to try to--"
"Like hell I do!" Danny snaps, and slams the drawer closed. "You can shut the fuck up, Steve, alright, because what I did today was save Stan's ass, and now I've got these fucking tapes and I've threatened a guy with murder, okay, which means there's a target on my back and a target on Grace's because I'm stupid, I'm so fucking stupid, but I'm gonna bring this bastard down anyway because I've dug my grave and so I might as well fucking lie in it, only that means I need the tapes. And I thought about taking them to HQ and using the super-future-table-computer or whatever the fuck it is to copy them, only then I thought hey, hey, Daniel, what've you got here, you got dirty officials, you got dirty fucking cops, so what you really need is one of those black boxes like in a goddamn airplane, and hey now, Detective Williams, let's use those investigative skills, who do you know that might have something like that on hand--"
"Danny--"
"Where is it?" Danny demands, and he's yelling now, really yelling, not that agitated half-shout he does when he's pissed about procedure. He's screaming at Steve, face purple, and Steve's never felt less grounded in his life. "I know you fucking have one, Steve, you've got everything, you're a fucking Navy SEAL and you're what I've got, okay, Stan's got money and Rachel and a clear conscience and my fucking daughter and I've got you--"
"Yeah," Steve says, because this, at least, he's sure about, "yeah, Danno, you fucking do," and he's grabbing Danny by the wrists and forcing him into a hug before he can really think about it.
Steve expects Danny to fight him on it, because Danny fights him on everything, because Danny is just like that, always jumping into the fray, always throwing down. He expects Danny to fight him and so he's ready when Danny pushes back; Steve holds him still, waits for more, but it was apparently a token protest. Danny's gripping the back of his shirt a second later, his breath hot and fast against Steve's neck, and he's saying "fuck fuck fuck" under his breath like he's dying or drowning or something.
"Danny," Steve says, tightening his own grip, "Danno, Jesus, breathe, we're going to figure this out."
"You always think that," Danny snaps, and he's the only person Steve's ever met who can sound murderous while clinging to someone like a limpet, and that's probably why Steve likes him so well. "You're so predictable that way, you think you can fix everything and save everyone but I've fucked this up, just because you think you're god's gift to law enforcement doesn't mean you can undo what I--"
"Stop," Steve says against his hair. "Just stop, stop talking--"
"What the fuck is wrong with you, stop talking," Danny growls. "It's not like I'm going to stop thinking about it, is it just that you don't want to listen to me because you've got a lot of nerve, McGarrett, to get all grabby and then not even be willing to--"
"Shhh," Steve says, "Danny, I swear to god if you don't let yourself calm the fuck down I will do it for you."
"That doesn't mean anything," Danny says, "you're just mixing words up in random order, that's not how sentences work," but he quiets after that.
He's so close that Steve can feel him swallowing, again and again, like he's trying to choke down something that sits wrong in his throat, and this should be weird. Regardless of all Steve's ridiculous unbridled pent-up feelings, regardless of all the things he'd do to Danny given half the chance, there's no reason for this to feel normal, no reason for Danny to fit so well in his arms. He's standing in the middle of his kitchen holding his partner, for god's sake, this is not standard operating procedure, this is not how this should go.
But then again, for all the shit Danny gives him, neither of them have ever been particularly inclined towards playing by the rules.
"You want know something awful," Danny says after minute. It's not a question, not the way he says it, but Steve sighs anyway and shifts, gets his palm flat on Danny's back.
"Sure," he says.
"I wanted it to be Stan," Danny says. "I wanted him to be screwing around on Rachel or in with an arms dealer or insider trading or something, I wanted to take him down hard. What the fuck kind of person does that make me?"
"A human one?" Steve suggests. Danny snorts, and some part of Steve's brain is saying frantic things like You're still hugging it's been too long he's going to kill you, but most of him is focused on not letting go. "Look, I'm not saying it was a great thing to be thinking--"
"I mean, god knows why but Gracie loves him, it's stable, she's stable, what kind of father--"
"Oh fuck no," Steve snaps, and pulls back enough to grab Danny by the shoulders and meet his eyes. "You don't get to do that, Danno, what the fuck. You went to the mattresses for that kid today."
"Jesus, a Godfather reference," Danny mutters. "What are you, reading Jersey guidebooks now?'
"Something like that," Steve says. Somehow one of his hands has ended up curled across Danny's neck. His fingers are in Danny's hair and his thumb is swiping across Danny's cheek and he should step away, he really should, he's going to, but he's got something to say first.
"Hey, listen. There's a difference between having a bad day and being a bad father, okay? Hating Stan doesn't mean you don't love Grace, I know you know that."
"I would have sent him to jail," Danny says, his jawline going tight. "I would have done it in a second, I would have loved to--"
"What part of that is supposed to make you a shitty dad?" Steve demands. "The part where you want your kid to be safe, or the part where you wish you didn't have to share her? Because from where I'm standing, Danno, you packed up your life and moved across the country for her, and that makes you a hell of a lot better at this than most people."
"I don't think you're really the right person to be giving parenting advice," Danny snaps, clearly reflexively, and then winces. "Fuck, Steve, I'm sorry. It's like I'm determined to be an asshole today."
"And that's different from every other day of the week how?" Steve asks, and does, finally, step away. Danny smiles at him, wavering and off-balance but still a smile, and Steve'll definitely take it. He turns, runs a hand through his hair, and sighs. "Right, so, I don't actually have an airplane box, but if you'll tell me where the tapes are I think I can--"
"Steve," Danny says.
Steve looks back, and has a spilt second in which to register the fact that Danny's making a face he's never seen before--half furious determination and half something else, something he'd call vulnerability on anyone but him. He'd study it further but he doesn't have time, because Danny's stepping in again and kissing him, open-mouthed and frantic, hands sliding up into his hair.
Chin likes to joke that Steve was born without a fear gene; he says it all the time, on almost every case, to the point that it's gotten routine. And on the job, it's mostly true--there's nothing Steve won't do for his country, nothing Steve can't overcome for his team. But the thing is that everyone has a fear gene, no one's ever exempted from one, and it's as frightening a thing as Steve's ever found, the taste of Danny's tongue in his mouth.
"Whoa," he says, pulling away over the roaring hunger of every instinct in his body, "hey, Danny, wait, I don't want to--I wouldn't want you to--"
"In the interest of avoiding the kind of awkwardness that could seriously taint our working relationship," Danny says, his hand still in Steve's hair, "let's get some things clear. Is this you saying 'I'm straight, Danno, what the hell are you doing,' or is it 'You've had a bad day, Danno, and my Boy Scout honed traditions of honor and valor or whatever prohibit me from taking advantage of you in the way you so clearly desire?'"
"I don't sound like that," Steve says, affronted.
"Yes you--no, no, wait, we're not doing this. Answer the question. Former or latter, right now."
"Latter," Steve admits, "but, Danny--"
"Right," says Danny, "so you're an idiot, tell me something I don't know," and kisses him again.
Steve goes with it for a long minute, because even his self-control has a limit. He growls down Danny's throat and draws him in, cupping his ass with both hands, biting at his lower lip--and then he jerks his hands away and yanks his head back, remembering himself.
"Danno, I'm--"
"What do you want," Danny demands, "my written permission? You want me to sign a contract that says I want this, because I fucking will--"
"I'm not interested in manipulating your emotions while you're obviously--"
"Oh my god, there really is something wrong with you," Danny says, and steps clear to fold his arms across his chest. "Look, McGarrett, if you want me to detail how long I've wanted this, I can, I can type it up and print it in triplicate for you, but I think it would be embarrassing for everyone involved and also pretty fucking time consuming. And yes, okay, fine, sure, it's been the shittiest day ever and I'm kind of worked up, but I don't see what that has to do with you finally acting on all the covert looks I see you shooting at my ass when you think I'm not paying attention."
"I don't," Steve says, "I wasn't--wait, you saw those?"
"Do they not teach subtlety in SEAL school?" Danny asks. "Yes, I fucking saw those, anyone with eyes could see those, do you actually have brain damage?"
"Is this supposed to be seducing me?" Steve asks. "It's not really working."
Danny throws his hands in the air. "Yeah, asshole, maybe if someone would get off their asses and make a fucking move once in awhile--"
"You swear to god you're not going to accuse me of taking advantage of your fragile state tomorrow," Steve says, just to be sure, and Danny more or less shoulder-checks him into the wall.
"I have no idea why I find you attractive," he says, "it is the great goddamn mystery of our time," and then they're kissing again, Danny's mouth hot and furious against his own.
It takes Steve a second--more than, probably--to properly catch up. He just kind of waits there, kissing back but standing still, a little shell-shocked at the idea that this is actually happening. Luckily, a lifetime of military service has trained him in the art of bouncing back from shock, and he shakes himself out of it just in time for Danny to pull off and make a face at him.
"What," he says, "is that all you got?"
It is at this time that Steve mentally declares it open season on Danny Williams.
"Oh fuck yes," Danny hisses, when Steve grabs him by the collar and flips them around, grinding Danny into the wall. "C'mon, McGarrett, hold back and suffer the consequences--"
"Is there actually no way to shut you up?" Steve asks against Danny's neck. He's fumbling at--no, no he's not, he's expertly undoing Danny's belt buckle, and Danny's laughing, the first real laugh Steve's heard from him all day.
"Many have tried," he says, "but few ever succeed. Shutting up a Williams is an art form."
"I will gag you," Steve warns. "Don't think that I won't."
"Why would I ever think that?" Danny says, and Steve spares a moment to despair for his sanity, that he and Danny are arguing when they could be fucking and it's already the best sex of his life. "I'm surprised you haven't already, if anything your track record with craziness lends itself to the conclusion that kinky sex is a regular part of your--"
He trails off then, because Steve's dropped to his knees and pulled Danny's pants down with him, is mouthing at his cock over his boxers.
"You want to talk?" Steve says. "Fine, we can talk. Why don't I tell you a story about how this is going to go--when you're ready to stop with the chatting I'm going to pull down these boxers and--"
"Jesus, Jesus, I'm sorry, stop talking, I take it all back, I'll shut up, fuck," Danny says, all in one breath, and Steve smirks against his thigh as he works his boxers down. Danny, on seeing this expression, adds, "Goddamn it, Steven, is there no arena in which you don't feel it necessary to be the smuggest guy in the room?"
"You're really bad at shutting up," Steve comments, but he takes pity when Danny groans and pulls his cock into his mouth.
To be honest, Steve kind of expect Danny to ramble through the blow job--he's almost looking forward to it, actually, to the way his breath will catch around the edges of his never-ending sentences, the way he'll shout as he comes. Instead Danny fists his hands in Steve's hair, pulling just enough to assert himself, and doesn't say much at all. Steve's name, a few times, in a ragged voice that sets his spine tingling, and a few iterations of the word fuck; he gasps again and again like he's going to start speaking and then just jerks his hips, fucking into Steve's mouth.
"Oh shit, babe, I'm going to--oh, god, I'm--" he chokes eventually, and then he's coming like it's been forced out of him at gunpoint, burningly satisfying down Steve's throat.
He sinks to the floor when he's done, his grip in Steve's hair painfully tight now, and slumps against him, rests his head against his shoulder. "Just give me," he says, "just, shit, give me a second, okay, I'm--"
"Danno," Steve starts, but he's not sure how to follow up, and then Danny's biting down on his collarbone and reaching down to unzip his pants.
It doesn't take Steve long to come into Danny's hand--he's been too close for too long, thought about how it would feel far too many times, and the reality is so much better, the callouses on Danny's palm new and beautiful against his dick. He groans out loud as he loses it, a noise he's never heard himself make, and Danny's saying "Jesus Christ, McGarrett," against his throat, and Steve actually closes his eyes like a fourteen year old and waits to wake up.
Except that when he opens his eyes again it's still just Danny, and his hair's still wild, and his eyes are still tight, but he's smiling.
"You took advantage of my fragile state," he complains, clearly trying to sound wounded and succeeding only in cracking up halfway through. Steve musters what energy he has and smacks him in the arm, and Danny doesn't even yelp, just puts his head back down and laughs, shoulders shaking slightly, into the folds of Steve's muddy t-shirt.
Steve can't help himself--he lifts his arms and pulls Danny closer, that last crucial fraction of an inch, and holds him there for a long minute. Danny doesn't even shift, just sighs like he's stupidly, damnably comfortable, which, really, Steve can sympathize.
Then, breaking the moment, Danny says, "Ugh, McGarrett."
"What?"
"You need…" he pulls back enough that Steve can see his face, which is twisted up in mild horror, "look, I say this with all due respect and everything, I know you've been out tracking assassins and that's great, real proud, and I'd really like it if the whole dick-sucking aspect of our relationship to continue, so try to just take it as fact when I tell you: you need to hit the showers. Like immediately. Like yesterday, oh my god."
"See, I don't know why you felt it necessary to put it like that," Steve says. "Would it have been so bad to just--"
"Tell you that you reek like the entire Nets locker room after--god, I can't even think of a win, how sad is that," says Danny. "Yeah, somehow I didn't think you'd like that so much, but if we're going for brutal honesty I'm happy to provide."
"I could have sworn brutal honest was your middle name," Steve mutters, and then makes an undignified sound when Danny bites his neck in a less-than-sexy way. "Jesus, Danny! Are you a Jersey vampire now? I'm up, I'm up, control yourself."
"God, I smell like it," Danny says, sniffing at his shirt in despair. "You see what you've done here? See if I ever--"
"Let me suck you off again?" Steve finishes, eyebrows up. "Careful there, Detective, you might say something you'll regret."
"I regret smelling like your gym bag," Danny says, but he's grinning, cock-sure and obnoxious and himself. It's more of a relief than Steve is really prepared for, and he wonders absently when he got this dependent on Danny being Danny, when this crazy loudmouthed asshole because a necessary part of his life.
"You could shower with me," Steve says. "I've got a place to put those tapes too--not an airplane box, but close enough."
"I don't know if I want to know," Danny groans, but he lets Steve haul him to his feet, drag him to the shower. And when Steve caves and says "You okay?" with his hands pressed into Danny's stomach, Danny just growls something unintelligible and reaches behind him, jacks Steve off like it's a fucking afterthought.
Steve figures he's going to have to hone his compartmentalizing skills something fierce if Danny's going to keep doing shit like that. He can't really bring himself to mind.