steve/danny ficlet: gathering
This is some soppy sappy mushy feel-good three in the morning Steve/Danny nonsense, that's what this is right here. Porn not contained herein, insomnia icon applicable anyway. NO SHAME, NO APOLOGIES, NO REAL EXPLANATIONS. ♥
gathering
Steve calls his father a pack rat and then becomes one, slow but sure, under Danny's not-quite watchful eye. It's the takeout menu from the place up the street, tucked haphazardly into the silverware drawer; it's the ticket from the movie they left twenty minutes early--called into the office for an after-hours kidnapping--lost somewhere underneath his collection of spare socks. It's three worn pieces of sea glass left on top of the nightstand (procured from the beach that night they fucked there, sand everywhere but where it belonged), so ridiculous and sentimental that Danny snorts when he sees them.
"Jeez, McGarrett," he says, "I didn't think you were that kind of girl."
"Neither did I," Steve says, like it's easy, like it's nothing, and smacks Danny in the leg with his towel as he passes.
And maybe, maybe, okay, it's not like he's doing it on purpose, it's not like he's doing it at all--but maybe Danny's making it easier for him, just a little, this piecemeal nest feathering thing he's got going on. There's the chance, the slightest chance, that Danny's doing the sort of stupid, sappy shit he hasn't indulged in since he was married; leaving Steve notes on the backs of empty envelopes, sticking Post-Its to his computer while he's off railroading bad guys. "Buy milk, you calcium-obsessed nutcase," says one; "Your ass is distracting," says another, "no more fucking cargo pants, I'm serious." He feels like an asshole every time, like something out of a bad movie, like he's tipping his cards and showing his hand, but it's worth it for the way Steve smiles when he finds them, a little confused, a lot thrilled.
If you'd asked him ten years ago what the key to happiness was Danny would have said "Finding it," cocky with his own success, flush with all his simple, towering victories. Five years ago he would have said "Working for it," thinking of his family, of his daughter, with her big voice and her small, unsteady legs. Now he doesn't know what to say or even how to say it--the world is bigger than it was then and smaller too, plus a team but minus a brother, harder to fit into your average box.
If he had to guess, though, he'd think it had something to do with snatching your partner's wallet to buy the next round, with finding a message in your own hand tucked in there behind the billfold. "Babe," it says, scrawled across the back of a now-illegible receipt, "went for coffee, back in ten, and you better still be sleeping--if you've blown anything up when I get back I'm gonna kill you." Danny stares it, one second, two, long enough to swallow down the fact that Steve McGarrett is definitely that kind of girl and fuck, fuck, so is he, so blown down by this little thing that he can hardly stand it.
"Beers?" says J.J., and Danny blinks, says, "Yeah," watches him walk off to grab them without really seeing it at all. He pays the whole goddamn tab with Steve's cash--Steve owes him, always dodging the bill, always acting the cheap bastard to make up for the way he spends affection so fucking freely--and then takes the receipt when it's handed to him, grins to himself as he folds it in half.
There's a pen across the bar and Danny grabs it, uncaps it, writes, "You big sap," and then, "Seriously, McGarrett, you should be ashamed of yourself," and then "I am so horrified to admit I'm smiling about this," and then "One of these days you're gonna kill me with this shit, you fucking whacko," before he puts it back. He slips this second message behind the first, takes the beers back to the table, and lets Steve list into him, sloppy drunk, while he talks about anything but how fucked-raw desperate stupid sharp-sung crazy in love he is.
He keeps Steve's wallet in his pocket until they get home, and then drops in on the counter. What's within will be there for Steve to find in the morning, deliberate for all it's written messily, saying more just by being there than the letters ever could; like initials, carved solid, steady, into an old oak tree.
gathering
Steve calls his father a pack rat and then becomes one, slow but sure, under Danny's not-quite watchful eye. It's the takeout menu from the place up the street, tucked haphazardly into the silverware drawer; it's the ticket from the movie they left twenty minutes early--called into the office for an after-hours kidnapping--lost somewhere underneath his collection of spare socks. It's three worn pieces of sea glass left on top of the nightstand (procured from the beach that night they fucked there, sand everywhere but where it belonged), so ridiculous and sentimental that Danny snorts when he sees them.
"Jeez, McGarrett," he says, "I didn't think you were that kind of girl."
"Neither did I," Steve says, like it's easy, like it's nothing, and smacks Danny in the leg with his towel as he passes.
And maybe, maybe, okay, it's not like he's doing it on purpose, it's not like he's doing it at all--but maybe Danny's making it easier for him, just a little, this piecemeal nest feathering thing he's got going on. There's the chance, the slightest chance, that Danny's doing the sort of stupid, sappy shit he hasn't indulged in since he was married; leaving Steve notes on the backs of empty envelopes, sticking Post-Its to his computer while he's off railroading bad guys. "Buy milk, you calcium-obsessed nutcase," says one; "Your ass is distracting," says another, "no more fucking cargo pants, I'm serious." He feels like an asshole every time, like something out of a bad movie, like he's tipping his cards and showing his hand, but it's worth it for the way Steve smiles when he finds them, a little confused, a lot thrilled.
If you'd asked him ten years ago what the key to happiness was Danny would have said "Finding it," cocky with his own success, flush with all his simple, towering victories. Five years ago he would have said "Working for it," thinking of his family, of his daughter, with her big voice and her small, unsteady legs. Now he doesn't know what to say or even how to say it--the world is bigger than it was then and smaller too, plus a team but minus a brother, harder to fit into your average box.
If he had to guess, though, he'd think it had something to do with snatching your partner's wallet to buy the next round, with finding a message in your own hand tucked in there behind the billfold. "Babe," it says, scrawled across the back of a now-illegible receipt, "went for coffee, back in ten, and you better still be sleeping--if you've blown anything up when I get back I'm gonna kill you." Danny stares it, one second, two, long enough to swallow down the fact that Steve McGarrett is definitely that kind of girl and fuck, fuck, so is he, so blown down by this little thing that he can hardly stand it.
"Beers?" says J.J., and Danny blinks, says, "Yeah," watches him walk off to grab them without really seeing it at all. He pays the whole goddamn tab with Steve's cash--Steve owes him, always dodging the bill, always acting the cheap bastard to make up for the way he spends affection so fucking freely--and then takes the receipt when it's handed to him, grins to himself as he folds it in half.
There's a pen across the bar and Danny grabs it, uncaps it, writes, "You big sap," and then, "Seriously, McGarrett, you should be ashamed of yourself," and then "I am so horrified to admit I'm smiling about this," and then "One of these days you're gonna kill me with this shit, you fucking whacko," before he puts it back. He slips this second message behind the first, takes the beers back to the table, and lets Steve list into him, sloppy drunk, while he talks about anything but how fucked-raw desperate stupid sharp-sung crazy in love he is.
He keeps Steve's wallet in his pocket until they get home, and then drops in on the counter. What's within will be there for Steve to find in the morning, deliberate for all it's written messily, saying more just by being there than the letters ever could; like initials, carved solid, steady, into an old oak tree.