hawaii 5-0 fic: happiness like a bullet in the back [steve/danny, nc-17]
1. HOW IS HE REAL:
Burro: Hey, while I'm home, can you teach me to use the stove?
Me: Oh my god, you want to learn to cook?! Yes, YES, let's pick some of your favorite dishes and I'll show you how to make them--oh my god, what about the beef stew with the bacon and the red wine, you love that--
Burro: Wait, hold up--okay, I don't want to risk not getting the stew, though. You have to promise me you're still gonna make the stew, but you're just, I feel like I should stop you before you get excited. But you're still gonna make the stew if I tell you this, right?
Me: I...yes? What--
Burro: Stew is too hard. I mean like, those packages of rice, I keep buying them and I can't make them work.
Me: Packages of rice?
Burro: Yeah, you know, like with the flavors and shit! There's a chicken one and a beef one--
Me: Oh my god, those Lipton things!? Dude, there are directions on the package.
Burro: They're too hard!
Me: You just boil water and--oh my god. Oh my god, please tell me you can boil water.
Burro: Shit's harder than it looks, that's all I'm saying. You can judge me all you want, I don't care. I wear my sunglasses at night because my future's...wait, you're still making the stew, right? YOU PROMISED.
daslkdaskd I love this kid so much oh my god.
2. DFHDSJKFHDS ALMOST H50 TIME ALMOST ALMOST ALMOST, HAPPY SHOW DAY!! I am not watching until 11 EST, so if you guys could do me a massive favor and keep spoilers out of the comments until afterwards I would hugely appreciate it :D
3. Oh, right, fanfiction! That thing I came here to post. This is the Steve counterpart to the wild corners, that Danny fic I put up yesterday. 3,000 words this time, god knows why.
Title: happiness like a bullet in the back
Pairing: Steve/Danny
Rating: NC-17
Summary: It occurs to Steve, a little late, that there might be a place for him here already, one he doesn't have to eke out.
i.
Steve's built for a lot of things, but comfort isn't one of them. He's not sure if it's a loss thing, the remains of a home that slid through his fingers too young, or something else, some level of patience he never managed to garner. It doesn't really matter; he pushes because he has to, because he doesn't know any other way, crashing against boundaries until they shatter under his shoulders. He carves places for himself where they shouldn't be and leaves them empty when he goes, hollowed-out testaments to his tendency towards fight and flight. It's not something he's proud of, this rough history of bad calls, but he figures he's allowed--if he can't feel at home he can at least have this, a mile wide trail littered with the words "McGarrett was here."
Danny, for all his bitterness, for all the ways he tries not to be, is at home everywhere he goes. He struggles against it, wears ties instead of t-shirts, bitches about the heat and the surf and the beach until he's blue in the face, but he knows, and Steve knows he knows. He knows what it means to be someone's family and he knows what it means to be someone's friend; he has his feet rooted firmly in reality, ties up all his loose ends so neat the knots might as well be military grade.
It mystifies Steve, the way Danny can slide into this strange, personable guy, the way he chats with shop clerks and jokes with kids. He's angry all the time, except when he isn't, when he defaults to pages from some rulebook that apparently missed Steve's mailbox; he makes friends by accident, running up bar tabs and running his mouth. Even like this he's loud, exuberant in kindness like he is in everything else, and he doesn't have to turn it on--it's an effortless thing for him, a default setting, an easy jump. Steve can't decide if he's more jealous of the people who get him like this, this softer version, or of Danny himself, for being able to be that guy at all.
Danny as Steve gets him, a little jagged at the edges, at a permanent low-grade boil, is more complicated. Danny as Steve gets him is exhausting and exasperating and furious; Danny as Steve gets him is overwhelming, always on, never, ever calm. Steve doesn't know what to do with him most days, with the heart he doesn't wear on his sleeve so much as his lips--Steve tries to carve a place for himself and fails, because Danny's personality is set in stone, far too big to make room for anyone else.
It's only after months of doing it his way that he tries it Danny's, lobbing affection rather than bombing him with it, keeping it all at a low, constant hum. It nearly breaks him, the struggle to keep himself in check, and he watches Danny watch him and curses his detective's eye.
"Babe," Danny says finally, eyes crinkling with a smile that isn't on his lips, "I gotta tell you, you're trying too hard."
It occurs to Steve, a little late, that there might be a place for him here already, one he doesn't have to eke out.
ii.
Like the rest of him, Danny's hair is more bark than bite; without the gel he uses to keep it in check, it falls loose over his face, into his eyes. Steve laughs himself sick the first time they fuck, when he wakes blinking and bleary to the sight of Danny with bedhead--Danny gives him the finger and tries to tame it, muttering under his breath. But for all his neuroses, he's no good at self-conscious, and after a few months he stops bothering, padding around in the mornings with it everywhere. He look younger, fuzzy and sleep-stained, a battered first edition of himself; Steve wants to capture and keep him, refuse to share him with anyone else.
"That is the creepiest thing you've ever said to me," Danny tells him, fond, when Steve actually admits it one night. "And it's got some competition, okay, you tried to tell me about mitosis during sex one time, don't think I've forgotten about that. There is something so wrong with you, McGarrett, I swear to god."
They're too drunk to be talking about things--Steve is too drunk to be talking about things, too drunk to be this close to Danny and his indulgent smile and his crazy hair. The things Danny says about his control freak tendencies aren't wrong, exactly, but it's just because Steve knows himself; left to his own devices he can be too much too fast, can push harder than even he thinks is wise.
But Danny's Danny, all easy affection he only pretends is hard, and he just laughs when Steve blinks at him, trying to get his bearings.
"Go on, you big freak," he says, "get it over with, come on, you think I don't know you, you're not subtle, go ahead."
Steve shouldn't do it, is gonna push Danny over the edge one of these days, has enough trouble straddling the line of appropriate behavior as it is. He leans across the table anyway, buries his hands in Danny's hair, rubbing it all loose. He can't help the grin that takes over his face when Danny groans, scowling like he means it even though Steve knows, knows he doesn't--he can tell when Danny's really angry with him, and anyway he got permission, and anyway he's stupid attractive like this, mussed up and mock-furious.
"You're a goof," Danny says when he's released, running his own fingers through the mess Steve has made, trying to undo all his hard work. It's fruitless, though--he still looks like he stuck his finger in an electric socket, and Steve leans against the wall and laughs until tears pool at the corners of his eyes.
"Oh my god," Kono says, coming back from the bar with Chin and their next round of beers, "Danny, what are you, a Chia pet?"
Danny squawks his indignation, a thousand shades of righteous fury, laughing a little underneath. Steve relaxes under Chin's approving look, something like relief in his eyes, and takes another pull from his Longboard.
iii.
Danny's the loudest fuck Steve's ever had, and he's not short on experience--he's had sex in and out of port, up and down a thousand coasts. He's known his share of talkers, filth spilling out of them unasked, leaving Steve wincing and uncomfortable by proxy, but Danny's not like that; it's not what he's saying but how he's saying it, the avenues he uses to make his points.
He speaks with his hands, even here, pushing Steve around, nudging him into position; he runs his palms down Steve's sides and coaxes him closer, ruts up against him like an invitation and a declaration both. He kisses like he yells--hard and too fast, swallowing Steve's air, making it hard for Steve to get a thought in edgewise--and he's bossy, never afraid to ask for what he wants. It's Not like that, Steven, are you trying to break me in half here, Christ; it's Oh fuck, babe, you feel so good, you feel so fucking good and you'd feel even better, fuck, yes, if you'd just--harder, McGarrett, I'm not a wilting flower you've got here, yeah, that's it, that's so good, come on.
"Affanculo," Steve says, his head pressed into the hollow between Danny's shoulder blades, his cock wedged tight in the curve Danny's ass. "Damn it, Danny, fuck you, shut up, I'm trying to--"
"Yeah, yeah," Danny gasps; he wrenches his head around, the position impossible, and licks into Steve's mouth. It's not helpful--Danny's a cruel bastard who likes to win, likes to watch Steve come apart at the edges, likes to make him shout when he comes so he can say Look what I did to the big bad SEAL. Steve groans his frustration into Danny's mouth, the sensation unbearable, and tightens his grip on Danny's cock; Danny surprises him by coming, shooting off into his hand with a wild cry, falling back against the pillows.
Steve can't breathe now, Danny's come slicking his hand, can't keep a rhythm, can't handle it at all. He thrusts wildly, riding the edge, until Danny blinks and turns his head, slanting him a sideways smile.
"Easy, babe," he says, too gentle by half, and Steve's thighs tremble so hard he crashes to the bed as he comes in a white-hot rush.
"I know what you were trying to do there," he says, when he can think again. He means it to come out smug, but he's too sated, feels lazy and soft like a cat. Danny grins at him, rolls his eyes, and runs his fingers along the curve of his jaw; there's stubble there, probably, from the way they catch and pause.
"You caught me," he says, "that was some nice detecting right there, my friend. I'm impressed. Tell you what, just a suggestion here, powers of deduction like that and everything, maybe you wanna start bringing your A-game to the--"
Steve doesn't let him finish; he growls low in his throat and flips him, pins him to the bed. Danny laughs up at him, eyes flush with more affection than Steve knows what to do with, and he ends up burying his face in Danny's neck just to avoid looking at them.
"Easy," Danny says again, but it's lighter now, casual, like a favor. Steve breathes him in and grounds himself in the places their bodies are meeting, in the way Danny shifts under him, in the scent of sex in the air, very much their own.
iv.
It's hard to chart the things that set Danny off; he's less a loose canon than a leaky faucet, always on the verge of giving way and flooding the room. Steve doesn't handle him kid gloves only because he doesn't know how--he'd walk on eggshells if he could, but his feet have always been too big for his body, landing places he doesn't want them to fall. He's learned grace because he had to, skipping over tripwires and silencing his treads, but conversational land mines are harder to avoid.
It's not about the anger. Steve's used to that, and anyway Danny gets angry like it's breathing, like he doesn't have to think about it at all. There's something almost comforting about Danny in a temper, maybe because he's nearly always in one; Steve's learned well enough to wait him out, to egg him on, to poke and prod the life out of him until his voice warbles with it. It's not about the anger, because Steve loves it when Danny gets angry, when he waves his hands and shouts and screams. It's funny and it's hard to handle and it's him, and it leaves Steve lit up inside, an adrenaline rush in and of itself.
But the thing is that Danny's a cop, and Steve knows from cops, remembers his father's eyes going heavy and sad for what seemed like no reason at all. Steve carries his history with him like a talisman, tucked into each tattoo; Danny's is worn into his face, his hands, the way his voice goes flat when the case goes wrong. He's all these people he's lost, mysteries he never solved, victims he never saved--he's the law he swore to uphold, just like Steve's father was. Only it's different, dealing with Danny is different, because Steve's not a kid anymore, and Danny's not a hero whose approval Steve's desperate to win.
It's just--Steve spent the first half of his life letting his guard down and the second half never, ever letting his guard down, and Danny's more pipe bomb than land mine. Steve doesn't know when to expect him, doesn't know how to guess where he'll be and walk around; there's no predicting him, but once he's there he has to be dealt with, diffused somehow. There's only so long you can train before it comes down to cold hard guts, to steady hands, to your willingness to cut the wire and hope to god someone isn't fucking with you. Steve knows Danny doesn't fuck around, knows it's not in his solid, steady nature, but it's wrenching anyway, terrifying, all the time.
He puts his hands on Danny's shoulders this time, bloodspatter still marring the side of his finger, and knows it's not about this case. Steve's the one who gets too close to the families and vics, who takes it too personally--Danny gets caught up in memories instead, associating this weapon with that one, with a time before he armored his underbelly. There's warmth under Steve's palms, seeping out from beneath Danny' s shirt, and he can't breathe for fear of getting something wrong.
But then Danny tilts his head and meets his gaze, and his eyes are unfocused but his hands are moving, tracing the edge of Steve's thumb. Something unclenches in the region of Steve's heart, because of the two of them, he's the tactile one--Danny has enough words for both of them, so Steve has to compensate, ameliorate, somehow. Danny going for touch means he won't go for anything else, means he's not going to start talking in that dry, dead voice, empty of all the raging emotion Steve's gotten used to, now. It's selfish, but Steve's grateful--he never knows what to do when Danny wanders into places he can't follow, doesn't know how to map a world he can't see.
"Beer," Danny says, and Steve says, "On it," but doesn't let go.
v.
Danny tells Steve things he, by all rights, shouldn't--after good cases and bad ones, after two beers or four. He opens his mouth and stories come out, shit that happened in Jersey, stuff Grace said when she was too little to know what it meant. He hands out pieces of himself like they're nothing, leaves them in Steve's backyard and between the cushions in the Camaro, and Steve gathers them up and holds them, not sure exactly where they go.
When he starts responding, dragging his more painful moments into daylight and dropping them at Danny's door, it's mostly out of reciprocity. He's pretty sure feelings shouldn't be bartering chips, pretty sure this is one of those thoughts Danny would smack him for if he knew, but Steve can't help it--it's not fair for him to have so much of Danny, and he feels heavy with it, weighed down. He tells Danny about his father because Danny tells him about Matt; he tells Danny about Afghanistan because Danny tells him about working narcotics.
He doesn't know when he stops keeping the tally, doesn't know why or how it happens, can't help wondering when he realizes. Danny's looking at him over the counter, leaning on his elbows, as active a listener as he is a talker--his eyes dance and tighten at the right moments, he laughs when he's supposed to, his mouth twists when Steve hopes it will. He's talking about his childhood, about Mary and his mother, and he thinks despairingly that Danny's wasted on him; they're both frayed at the edges, worn a little too thin in places they shouldn't be, but Danny, at least, has a handle on it. Steve doesn't have a map for these waters, can't calculate the depth or distance, isn't even sure what shore he's planning on docking at when the time comes.
"Whoa there, Blackbeard," Danny says, waving his hands in front of Steve's face, "let's take a big step back, huh?"
"What?" Steve says, wrinkling his brow. "What are you talking about?"
Danny waves his hands around, and Steve kind of smiles at him, because he's so predictable sometimes it's almost funny. "I'm talking about Aneurysm Face, that's what I'm talking about," he says. "I'm talking about you going all scary on me right there, seriously, the therapy thing is not a funny joke, McGarrett, I am not kidding, the help, you need it--"
"Blackbeard?"
"Because of the plank," Danny says, scowling, "that you were walking down, quit making me explain myself--and stop looking at me like that, oh my god, how do you do that, what the hell."
"Sorry," Steve says. He doesn't really mean it--Danny's wasted on him, he is, but Steve's so grateful for it that it aches, burns in his chest. He vaults himself easily over the counter, because he can if not because he should, and captures Danny between his legs to haul him in.
Danny's complaining before Steve even manages to catch his mouth; about being manhandled, about walking around the counter like a normal person, about what is this, Steven, the Olympics? Steve kisses him anyway, muffling him, and Danny's hands end up on his hips, a light touch.
"--your words," he says, when they break apart, finishing a sentence he never started.
"What about them?"
"Use them," Danny says, "Jesus, you animal, you fucking caveman--"
"You like me," Steve says, because that much, at least, he's sure of.
Danny opens his mouth, shuts it again, looks at Steve with narrowed eyes. Steve's expecting to get yelled at, and he settles in for it, looking forward to it in an abstract kind of way--Danny's probably right, there's probably something wrong with him, but he doesn't mind so much.
But then Danny sighs and says, "No, actually, god help me, I really don't," in a tone that's so soft and sure that Steve can't parse it at all. He stares, and Danny rolls his eyes, like he didn't just--like he didn't just make a massive tactical error, like he didn't just give up his whole position, and maybe Steve should stop thinking about love the way he thinks about war.
"You," he says, and then, "wait, what?"
"You want me to write you a report?" Danny says, mocking but kind too, giving Steve more leeway than he probably deserves. "Bullet-points, lay it all on the line? Not that you'll read it, because I know you don't read them--"
"I read them sometimes," Steve protests, "when I need to, I read them, you're just obsessive about--"
"Doing actual policework, yeah, I know, it's such a flaw," Danny says. "Would you just get off the counter, please? It's not like you need the height advantage, it's pissing me off."
"Everything pisses you off, Danno," Steve says, but he gets down. "The beach makes you angry."
"The beach is angering," Danny says. "You'll see that someday."
He's still wearing his stupid tie, the knot loose, and his hair's starting to slip free from the gel and puff out at the edges. Steve looks at him and doesn't have any idea how he works, the furious clockwork of emotion that must run inside of him--he's a mystery, a contradiction in terms, Steve's own personal enigma.
Steve's good at it, though, for all he can't chart these waters--good at this, good at Danny. He smiles, feels it washing over his face like the morning tide, and feels Danny's sigh more than hear it.
"Seriously," Danny says, "a goof, that is what you are."
"Yeah," Steve says, "yeah, I know."
Burro: Hey, while I'm home, can you teach me to use the stove?
Me: Oh my god, you want to learn to cook?! Yes, YES, let's pick some of your favorite dishes and I'll show you how to make them--oh my god, what about the beef stew with the bacon and the red wine, you love that--
Burro: Wait, hold up--okay, I don't want to risk not getting the stew, though. You have to promise me you're still gonna make the stew, but you're just, I feel like I should stop you before you get excited. But you're still gonna make the stew if I tell you this, right?
Me: I...yes? What--
Burro: Stew is too hard. I mean like, those packages of rice, I keep buying them and I can't make them work.
Me: Packages of rice?
Burro: Yeah, you know, like with the flavors and shit! There's a chicken one and a beef one--
Me: Oh my god, those Lipton things!? Dude, there are directions on the package.
Burro: They're too hard!
Me: You just boil water and--oh my god. Oh my god, please tell me you can boil water.
Burro: Shit's harder than it looks, that's all I'm saying. You can judge me all you want, I don't care. I wear my sunglasses at night because my future's...wait, you're still making the stew, right? YOU PROMISED.
daslkdaskd I love this kid so much oh my god.
2. DFHDSJKFHDS ALMOST H50 TIME ALMOST ALMOST ALMOST, HAPPY SHOW DAY!! I am not watching until 11 EST, so if you guys could do me a massive favor and keep spoilers out of the comments until afterwards I would hugely appreciate it :D
3. Oh, right, fanfiction! That thing I came here to post. This is the Steve counterpart to the wild corners, that Danny fic I put up yesterday. 3,000 words this time, god knows why.
Title: happiness like a bullet in the back
Pairing: Steve/Danny
Rating: NC-17
Summary: It occurs to Steve, a little late, that there might be a place for him here already, one he doesn't have to eke out.
i.
Steve's built for a lot of things, but comfort isn't one of them. He's not sure if it's a loss thing, the remains of a home that slid through his fingers too young, or something else, some level of patience he never managed to garner. It doesn't really matter; he pushes because he has to, because he doesn't know any other way, crashing against boundaries until they shatter under his shoulders. He carves places for himself where they shouldn't be and leaves them empty when he goes, hollowed-out testaments to his tendency towards fight and flight. It's not something he's proud of, this rough history of bad calls, but he figures he's allowed--if he can't feel at home he can at least have this, a mile wide trail littered with the words "McGarrett was here."
Danny, for all his bitterness, for all the ways he tries not to be, is at home everywhere he goes. He struggles against it, wears ties instead of t-shirts, bitches about the heat and the surf and the beach until he's blue in the face, but he knows, and Steve knows he knows. He knows what it means to be someone's family and he knows what it means to be someone's friend; he has his feet rooted firmly in reality, ties up all his loose ends so neat the knots might as well be military grade.
It mystifies Steve, the way Danny can slide into this strange, personable guy, the way he chats with shop clerks and jokes with kids. He's angry all the time, except when he isn't, when he defaults to pages from some rulebook that apparently missed Steve's mailbox; he makes friends by accident, running up bar tabs and running his mouth. Even like this he's loud, exuberant in kindness like he is in everything else, and he doesn't have to turn it on--it's an effortless thing for him, a default setting, an easy jump. Steve can't decide if he's more jealous of the people who get him like this, this softer version, or of Danny himself, for being able to be that guy at all.
Danny as Steve gets him, a little jagged at the edges, at a permanent low-grade boil, is more complicated. Danny as Steve gets him is exhausting and exasperating and furious; Danny as Steve gets him is overwhelming, always on, never, ever calm. Steve doesn't know what to do with him most days, with the heart he doesn't wear on his sleeve so much as his lips--Steve tries to carve a place for himself and fails, because Danny's personality is set in stone, far too big to make room for anyone else.
It's only after months of doing it his way that he tries it Danny's, lobbing affection rather than bombing him with it, keeping it all at a low, constant hum. It nearly breaks him, the struggle to keep himself in check, and he watches Danny watch him and curses his detective's eye.
"Babe," Danny says finally, eyes crinkling with a smile that isn't on his lips, "I gotta tell you, you're trying too hard."
It occurs to Steve, a little late, that there might be a place for him here already, one he doesn't have to eke out.
ii.
Like the rest of him, Danny's hair is more bark than bite; without the gel he uses to keep it in check, it falls loose over his face, into his eyes. Steve laughs himself sick the first time they fuck, when he wakes blinking and bleary to the sight of Danny with bedhead--Danny gives him the finger and tries to tame it, muttering under his breath. But for all his neuroses, he's no good at self-conscious, and after a few months he stops bothering, padding around in the mornings with it everywhere. He look younger, fuzzy and sleep-stained, a battered first edition of himself; Steve wants to capture and keep him, refuse to share him with anyone else.
"That is the creepiest thing you've ever said to me," Danny tells him, fond, when Steve actually admits it one night. "And it's got some competition, okay, you tried to tell me about mitosis during sex one time, don't think I've forgotten about that. There is something so wrong with you, McGarrett, I swear to god."
They're too drunk to be talking about things--Steve is too drunk to be talking about things, too drunk to be this close to Danny and his indulgent smile and his crazy hair. The things Danny says about his control freak tendencies aren't wrong, exactly, but it's just because Steve knows himself; left to his own devices he can be too much too fast, can push harder than even he thinks is wise.
But Danny's Danny, all easy affection he only pretends is hard, and he just laughs when Steve blinks at him, trying to get his bearings.
"Go on, you big freak," he says, "get it over with, come on, you think I don't know you, you're not subtle, go ahead."
Steve shouldn't do it, is gonna push Danny over the edge one of these days, has enough trouble straddling the line of appropriate behavior as it is. He leans across the table anyway, buries his hands in Danny's hair, rubbing it all loose. He can't help the grin that takes over his face when Danny groans, scowling like he means it even though Steve knows, knows he doesn't--he can tell when Danny's really angry with him, and anyway he got permission, and anyway he's stupid attractive like this, mussed up and mock-furious.
"You're a goof," Danny says when he's released, running his own fingers through the mess Steve has made, trying to undo all his hard work. It's fruitless, though--he still looks like he stuck his finger in an electric socket, and Steve leans against the wall and laughs until tears pool at the corners of his eyes.
"Oh my god," Kono says, coming back from the bar with Chin and their next round of beers, "Danny, what are you, a Chia pet?"
Danny squawks his indignation, a thousand shades of righteous fury, laughing a little underneath. Steve relaxes under Chin's approving look, something like relief in his eyes, and takes another pull from his Longboard.
iii.
Danny's the loudest fuck Steve's ever had, and he's not short on experience--he's had sex in and out of port, up and down a thousand coasts. He's known his share of talkers, filth spilling out of them unasked, leaving Steve wincing and uncomfortable by proxy, but Danny's not like that; it's not what he's saying but how he's saying it, the avenues he uses to make his points.
He speaks with his hands, even here, pushing Steve around, nudging him into position; he runs his palms down Steve's sides and coaxes him closer, ruts up against him like an invitation and a declaration both. He kisses like he yells--hard and too fast, swallowing Steve's air, making it hard for Steve to get a thought in edgewise--and he's bossy, never afraid to ask for what he wants. It's Not like that, Steven, are you trying to break me in half here, Christ; it's Oh fuck, babe, you feel so good, you feel so fucking good and you'd feel even better, fuck, yes, if you'd just--harder, McGarrett, I'm not a wilting flower you've got here, yeah, that's it, that's so good, come on.
"Affanculo," Steve says, his head pressed into the hollow between Danny's shoulder blades, his cock wedged tight in the curve Danny's ass. "Damn it, Danny, fuck you, shut up, I'm trying to--"
"Yeah, yeah," Danny gasps; he wrenches his head around, the position impossible, and licks into Steve's mouth. It's not helpful--Danny's a cruel bastard who likes to win, likes to watch Steve come apart at the edges, likes to make him shout when he comes so he can say Look what I did to the big bad SEAL. Steve groans his frustration into Danny's mouth, the sensation unbearable, and tightens his grip on Danny's cock; Danny surprises him by coming, shooting off into his hand with a wild cry, falling back against the pillows.
Steve can't breathe now, Danny's come slicking his hand, can't keep a rhythm, can't handle it at all. He thrusts wildly, riding the edge, until Danny blinks and turns his head, slanting him a sideways smile.
"Easy, babe," he says, too gentle by half, and Steve's thighs tremble so hard he crashes to the bed as he comes in a white-hot rush.
"I know what you were trying to do there," he says, when he can think again. He means it to come out smug, but he's too sated, feels lazy and soft like a cat. Danny grins at him, rolls his eyes, and runs his fingers along the curve of his jaw; there's stubble there, probably, from the way they catch and pause.
"You caught me," he says, "that was some nice detecting right there, my friend. I'm impressed. Tell you what, just a suggestion here, powers of deduction like that and everything, maybe you wanna start bringing your A-game to the--"
Steve doesn't let him finish; he growls low in his throat and flips him, pins him to the bed. Danny laughs up at him, eyes flush with more affection than Steve knows what to do with, and he ends up burying his face in Danny's neck just to avoid looking at them.
"Easy," Danny says again, but it's lighter now, casual, like a favor. Steve breathes him in and grounds himself in the places their bodies are meeting, in the way Danny shifts under him, in the scent of sex in the air, very much their own.
iv.
It's hard to chart the things that set Danny off; he's less a loose canon than a leaky faucet, always on the verge of giving way and flooding the room. Steve doesn't handle him kid gloves only because he doesn't know how--he'd walk on eggshells if he could, but his feet have always been too big for his body, landing places he doesn't want them to fall. He's learned grace because he had to, skipping over tripwires and silencing his treads, but conversational land mines are harder to avoid.
It's not about the anger. Steve's used to that, and anyway Danny gets angry like it's breathing, like he doesn't have to think about it at all. There's something almost comforting about Danny in a temper, maybe because he's nearly always in one; Steve's learned well enough to wait him out, to egg him on, to poke and prod the life out of him until his voice warbles with it. It's not about the anger, because Steve loves it when Danny gets angry, when he waves his hands and shouts and screams. It's funny and it's hard to handle and it's him, and it leaves Steve lit up inside, an adrenaline rush in and of itself.
But the thing is that Danny's a cop, and Steve knows from cops, remembers his father's eyes going heavy and sad for what seemed like no reason at all. Steve carries his history with him like a talisman, tucked into each tattoo; Danny's is worn into his face, his hands, the way his voice goes flat when the case goes wrong. He's all these people he's lost, mysteries he never solved, victims he never saved--he's the law he swore to uphold, just like Steve's father was. Only it's different, dealing with Danny is different, because Steve's not a kid anymore, and Danny's not a hero whose approval Steve's desperate to win.
It's just--Steve spent the first half of his life letting his guard down and the second half never, ever letting his guard down, and Danny's more pipe bomb than land mine. Steve doesn't know when to expect him, doesn't know how to guess where he'll be and walk around; there's no predicting him, but once he's there he has to be dealt with, diffused somehow. There's only so long you can train before it comes down to cold hard guts, to steady hands, to your willingness to cut the wire and hope to god someone isn't fucking with you. Steve knows Danny doesn't fuck around, knows it's not in his solid, steady nature, but it's wrenching anyway, terrifying, all the time.
He puts his hands on Danny's shoulders this time, bloodspatter still marring the side of his finger, and knows it's not about this case. Steve's the one who gets too close to the families and vics, who takes it too personally--Danny gets caught up in memories instead, associating this weapon with that one, with a time before he armored his underbelly. There's warmth under Steve's palms, seeping out from beneath Danny' s shirt, and he can't breathe for fear of getting something wrong.
But then Danny tilts his head and meets his gaze, and his eyes are unfocused but his hands are moving, tracing the edge of Steve's thumb. Something unclenches in the region of Steve's heart, because of the two of them, he's the tactile one--Danny has enough words for both of them, so Steve has to compensate, ameliorate, somehow. Danny going for touch means he won't go for anything else, means he's not going to start talking in that dry, dead voice, empty of all the raging emotion Steve's gotten used to, now. It's selfish, but Steve's grateful--he never knows what to do when Danny wanders into places he can't follow, doesn't know how to map a world he can't see.
"Beer," Danny says, and Steve says, "On it," but doesn't let go.
v.
Danny tells Steve things he, by all rights, shouldn't--after good cases and bad ones, after two beers or four. He opens his mouth and stories come out, shit that happened in Jersey, stuff Grace said when she was too little to know what it meant. He hands out pieces of himself like they're nothing, leaves them in Steve's backyard and between the cushions in the Camaro, and Steve gathers them up and holds them, not sure exactly where they go.
When he starts responding, dragging his more painful moments into daylight and dropping them at Danny's door, it's mostly out of reciprocity. He's pretty sure feelings shouldn't be bartering chips, pretty sure this is one of those thoughts Danny would smack him for if he knew, but Steve can't help it--it's not fair for him to have so much of Danny, and he feels heavy with it, weighed down. He tells Danny about his father because Danny tells him about Matt; he tells Danny about Afghanistan because Danny tells him about working narcotics.
He doesn't know when he stops keeping the tally, doesn't know why or how it happens, can't help wondering when he realizes. Danny's looking at him over the counter, leaning on his elbows, as active a listener as he is a talker--his eyes dance and tighten at the right moments, he laughs when he's supposed to, his mouth twists when Steve hopes it will. He's talking about his childhood, about Mary and his mother, and he thinks despairingly that Danny's wasted on him; they're both frayed at the edges, worn a little too thin in places they shouldn't be, but Danny, at least, has a handle on it. Steve doesn't have a map for these waters, can't calculate the depth or distance, isn't even sure what shore he's planning on docking at when the time comes.
"Whoa there, Blackbeard," Danny says, waving his hands in front of Steve's face, "let's take a big step back, huh?"
"What?" Steve says, wrinkling his brow. "What are you talking about?"
Danny waves his hands around, and Steve kind of smiles at him, because he's so predictable sometimes it's almost funny. "I'm talking about Aneurysm Face, that's what I'm talking about," he says. "I'm talking about you going all scary on me right there, seriously, the therapy thing is not a funny joke, McGarrett, I am not kidding, the help, you need it--"
"Blackbeard?"
"Because of the plank," Danny says, scowling, "that you were walking down, quit making me explain myself--and stop looking at me like that, oh my god, how do you do that, what the hell."
"Sorry," Steve says. He doesn't really mean it--Danny's wasted on him, he is, but Steve's so grateful for it that it aches, burns in his chest. He vaults himself easily over the counter, because he can if not because he should, and captures Danny between his legs to haul him in.
Danny's complaining before Steve even manages to catch his mouth; about being manhandled, about walking around the counter like a normal person, about what is this, Steven, the Olympics? Steve kisses him anyway, muffling him, and Danny's hands end up on his hips, a light touch.
"--your words," he says, when they break apart, finishing a sentence he never started.
"What about them?"
"Use them," Danny says, "Jesus, you animal, you fucking caveman--"
"You like me," Steve says, because that much, at least, he's sure of.
Danny opens his mouth, shuts it again, looks at Steve with narrowed eyes. Steve's expecting to get yelled at, and he settles in for it, looking forward to it in an abstract kind of way--Danny's probably right, there's probably something wrong with him, but he doesn't mind so much.
But then Danny sighs and says, "No, actually, god help me, I really don't," in a tone that's so soft and sure that Steve can't parse it at all. He stares, and Danny rolls his eyes, like he didn't just--like he didn't just make a massive tactical error, like he didn't just give up his whole position, and maybe Steve should stop thinking about love the way he thinks about war.
"You," he says, and then, "wait, what?"
"You want me to write you a report?" Danny says, mocking but kind too, giving Steve more leeway than he probably deserves. "Bullet-points, lay it all on the line? Not that you'll read it, because I know you don't read them--"
"I read them sometimes," Steve protests, "when I need to, I read them, you're just obsessive about--"
"Doing actual policework, yeah, I know, it's such a flaw," Danny says. "Would you just get off the counter, please? It's not like you need the height advantage, it's pissing me off."
"Everything pisses you off, Danno," Steve says, but he gets down. "The beach makes you angry."
"The beach is angering," Danny says. "You'll see that someday."
He's still wearing his stupid tie, the knot loose, and his hair's starting to slip free from the gel and puff out at the edges. Steve looks at him and doesn't have any idea how he works, the furious clockwork of emotion that must run inside of him--he's a mystery, a contradiction in terms, Steve's own personal enigma.
Steve's good at it, though, for all he can't chart these waters--good at this, good at Danny. He smiles, feels it washing over his face like the morning tide, and feels Danny's sigh more than hear it.
"Seriously," Danny says, "a goof, that is what you are."
"Yeah," Steve says, "yeah, I know."