So. So. So fucked. Steve walks back into the conference room four hours later and the bottom drops out of Danny’s stomach like someone kicked it free. Oh Jesus.
And thing is, Danny is in his office when Steve struts by-all he gets is a glimpse of the outfit before he’s out of his chair, trailing after Steve like a hound dog following a bone. All he caught was black, too tight, and the back of Steve’s head, and already his mouth is dry to the back of his throat. Such a fucking bad idea.
But, see, Danny thinks there might still be some way to salvage this, shove aside this churning achy gut-deep clutch of panic and lust that has pretty much been gnawing at Danny’s insides from day fucking one of working with Steve McGarrett. He’ll get a real look at Steve and choose one of the many things wrong with his ensemble (not his makeup, Kono knows where Danny sleeps) and bitch about it until something changes or Danny’s voice gives out, and everything will be fine.
Everything is not fine.
Steve is. He turns at the sound of Danny’s footsteps and seems to physically rip Danny’s sight from where they’d stuck on the high, round peach-shape of Steve’s ass in black jeans all-but fucking painted on, faded and worn so thin they’re barely there at all. There’s a hole the size of a matchbox just under the swell of Steve’s left cheek where it joins the strong flare of his thigh, and Danny has to blink, hard, and still that slip of bare skin is imprinted on the back of his eyelids.
His gaze pings up as Steve turns, takes in the sharp, gleaming silver of Steve’s buckle tangled in a nest of studs along his belt, follows the heavy zipper of his jacket up, and up, and Jesus, no, polka dots, no, but they’re small white spots on the jacket which cuts off abruptly at the shoulders, leaving ragged strings of fabric. The shirt Steve has on under it is long-sleeved, solid but weathered black, loose enough that he looks like he’s trying to look buffer than he is, like he has soft, unassuming, un-weirdly-tattoo-ed limbs hidden under there. His thumb is punched through the fabric at one cuff, the other sleeve too ragged to make more holes in, frayed and rotting just a little. Steve nails are black, chipped already, in character.
And then, finally, Danny has nowhere else to look but Steve’s face.
He dyed his hair. Danny can smell it on him from here, can see the results and where Steve’s hair is still damp, tousled like someone used it to hold him in place. And his eyes, jesus fuck. Mascara and eye-liner, eyeliner, and it makes Steve’s eyes look huge and blue and green, makes him look all vulnerable instead of mildly homicidal as he stands his ground and waits for Danny’s verdict.
"Well?" Steve asks, spreading his hands. And his stance.
Danny just about swallows his tongue.
"I don't know about twink," Chin says, and right there are people here. "But I think I just dug up something that might prove you're our mark's type."
"Awesome," Steve grins, and Danny needs to go lie down.
And thing is, Danny is in his office when Steve struts by-all he gets is a glimpse of the outfit before he’s out of his chair, trailing after Steve like a hound dog following a bone. All he caught was black, too tight, and the back of Steve’s head, and already his mouth is dry to the back of his throat. Such a fucking bad idea.
But, see, Danny thinks there might still be some way to salvage this, shove aside this churning achy gut-deep clutch of panic and lust that has pretty much been gnawing at Danny’s insides from day fucking one of working with Steve McGarrett. He’ll get a real look at Steve and choose one of the many things wrong with his ensemble (not his makeup, Kono knows where Danny sleeps) and bitch about it until something changes or Danny’s voice gives out, and everything will be fine.
Everything is not fine.
Steve is. He turns at the sound of Danny’s footsteps and seems to physically rip Danny’s sight from where they’d stuck on the high, round peach-shape of Steve’s ass in black jeans all-but fucking painted on, faded and worn so thin they’re barely there at all. There’s a hole the size of a matchbox just under the swell of Steve’s left cheek where it joins the strong flare of his thigh, and Danny has to blink, hard, and still that slip of bare skin is imprinted on the back of his eyelids.
His gaze pings up as Steve turns, takes in the sharp, gleaming silver of Steve’s buckle tangled in a nest of studs along his belt, follows the heavy zipper of his jacket up, and up, and Jesus, no, polka dots, no, but they’re small white spots on the jacket which cuts off abruptly at the shoulders, leaving ragged strings of fabric. The shirt Steve has on under it is long-sleeved, solid but weathered black, loose enough that he looks like he’s trying to look buffer than he is, like he has soft, unassuming, un-weirdly-tattoo-ed limbs hidden under there. His thumb is punched through the fabric at one cuff, the other sleeve too ragged to make more holes in, frayed and rotting just a little. Steve nails are black, chipped already, in character.
And then, finally, Danny has nowhere else to look but Steve’s face.
He dyed his hair. Danny can smell it on him from here, can see the results and where Steve’s hair is still damp, tousled like someone used it to hold him in place. And his eyes, jesus fuck. Mascara and eye-liner, eyeliner, and it makes Steve’s eyes look huge and blue and green, makes him look all vulnerable instead of mildly homicidal as he stands his ground and waits for Danny’s verdict.
"Well?" Steve asks, spreading his hands. And his stance.
Danny just about swallows his tongue.
"I don't know about twink," Chin says, and right there are people here. "But I think I just dug up something that might prove you're our mark's type."
"Awesome," Steve grins, and Danny needs to go lie down.
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