self control, what is it
Pupdate: I have been chilling with the stray in my garage, staying low to the ground and chatting at her. She has gotten closer to me, but not all the way there yet. Baby steps, etc. She's adorable, you guys, thank you so much for your help, I'll keep you posted as things develop.
In other news: tomorrow I'm going to post a story that I'll have to come up with a better title for than "The one where it took me 7,000 motherfucking words to get to the scene I intended to write in the first place." It's done and everything! More or less, anyway. I just have to, you know, stuff and things at it. Polish, as it were. Make postability happen, what have you.
Until then, you get the story of that time my father thought the possum was a raccoon, and further scenes from Steve and Danny's house, this time with title! Because everything is words and nothing hurts, or something. I don't know, guys, it's two in the morning, thoughts are hard.
That Time My Father Thought The Possum Was A Raccoon:
My Father: There's a dead raccoon hanging by its tail in the garage!!!
Fourteen Year Old Me: Um. That seems unlikely.
My Father: Go see for yourself!
Fourteen Year Old Me: *sees for herself*
My Father: I told you.
Fourteen Year Old Me: Dad. What...do you think raccoons look like?
My Father: ...is it not a raccoon?
Fourteen Year Old Me: No, it's not a raccoon. It is an opossum. And it's not dead. It's playing possum.
He also labored for years under the belief that pigeons were, in fact, "grey city seagulls." I can't necessarily fault him for that, though, because they do kind of act alike.
Danny/Steve Nonsense:
dodging your fit fueled artillery
Steve sits still like water in a broken glass, which is to say: badly, and not for very long. He's discharging his weapon or disarming a suspect, swimming a mile or running a lap--he's threading his hands through Danny's beltloops, through his hair, impatience humming out of him like a goddamn siren song. When he has to for a case, he can go rigid like his life depends on it...but it usually does, and anyway that's different. Stilling for survival is movement in and of itself, isn't the same as leaning back and letting go.
It's not that Danny, a man who waves his hands when he means to flap his mouth, doesn't know from motion. It's just that he appreciates an afternoon off, beer in hand, feet on the table; it's just that he has learned, in more ways than one, to shut up.
At home, Steve putzes. He's sorting through books or rewiring the remote, checking the alarm system a fifteenth time. He twitches even in repose, trapped energy obvious and almost painful, making Danny ache in sympathy.
"Stop it," he says, and then, "McGarrett, quit it, Christ."
Steve looks at him like he's crazy, always, and Danny feels crazy; for loving this man who can't power down for anything, for wanting to lend him a kind of calm he doesn't possess himself. He tries to explain sometimes, when he's feeling particularly sentimental, but--there are words and then there's words, right, and it's hard to know if Steve can even tell the difference.
He hates it, Danny hates it, and then he doesn't. Then, suddenly, it's as normal as breathing, the muscle spasming under his cheek, the pulse drumming against his chest while they're stretched across the couch. Danny thinks, drowsy and sun-dappled, that it's just like McGarrett, to go and turn relaxation into a contact sport.
"What," Steve says, and he sounds pretty easy, pretty fucking loose, the pads of his perpetual motion fingers dragging a slow slide over Danny's shoulder. "What's funny?"
"Babe," Danny says, and pulls him into a kiss, flush now with the urge to move and not afraid to show it.
In other news: tomorrow I'm going to post a story that I'll have to come up with a better title for than "The one where it took me 7,000 motherfucking words to get to the scene I intended to write in the first place." It's done and everything! More or less, anyway. I just have to, you know, stuff and things at it. Polish, as it were. Make postability happen, what have you.
Until then, you get the story of that time my father thought the possum was a raccoon, and further scenes from Steve and Danny's house, this time with title! Because everything is words and nothing hurts, or something. I don't know, guys, it's two in the morning, thoughts are hard.
That Time My Father Thought The Possum Was A Raccoon:
My Father: There's a dead raccoon hanging by its tail in the garage!!!
Fourteen Year Old Me: Um. That seems unlikely.
My Father: Go see for yourself!
Fourteen Year Old Me: *sees for herself*
My Father: I told you.
Fourteen Year Old Me: Dad. What...do you think raccoons look like?
My Father: ...is it not a raccoon?
Fourteen Year Old Me: No, it's not a raccoon. It is an opossum. And it's not dead. It's playing possum.
He also labored for years under the belief that pigeons were, in fact, "grey city seagulls." I can't necessarily fault him for that, though, because they do kind of act alike.
Danny/Steve Nonsense:
dodging your fit fueled artillery
Steve sits still like water in a broken glass, which is to say: badly, and not for very long. He's discharging his weapon or disarming a suspect, swimming a mile or running a lap--he's threading his hands through Danny's beltloops, through his hair, impatience humming out of him like a goddamn siren song. When he has to for a case, he can go rigid like his life depends on it...but it usually does, and anyway that's different. Stilling for survival is movement in and of itself, isn't the same as leaning back and letting go.
It's not that Danny, a man who waves his hands when he means to flap his mouth, doesn't know from motion. It's just that he appreciates an afternoon off, beer in hand, feet on the table; it's just that he has learned, in more ways than one, to shut up.
At home, Steve putzes. He's sorting through books or rewiring the remote, checking the alarm system a fifteenth time. He twitches even in repose, trapped energy obvious and almost painful, making Danny ache in sympathy.
"Stop it," he says, and then, "McGarrett, quit it, Christ."
Steve looks at him like he's crazy, always, and Danny feels crazy; for loving this man who can't power down for anything, for wanting to lend him a kind of calm he doesn't possess himself. He tries to explain sometimes, when he's feeling particularly sentimental, but--there are words and then there's words, right, and it's hard to know if Steve can even tell the difference.
He hates it, Danny hates it, and then he doesn't. Then, suddenly, it's as normal as breathing, the muscle spasming under his cheek, the pulse drumming against his chest while they're stretched across the couch. Danny thinks, drowsy and sun-dappled, that it's just like McGarrett, to go and turn relaxation into a contact sport.
"What," Steve says, and he sounds pretty easy, pretty fucking loose, the pads of his perpetual motion fingers dragging a slow slide over Danny's shoulder. "What's funny?"
"Babe," Danny says, and pulls him into a kiss, flush now with the urge to move and not afraid to show it.