Fever When You Hold Me Tight
Title: Fever When You Hold Me Tight
Summary: Steve comes down with a bad case of the flu that's a little more than he bargained for. Luckily for him, Danny is still awesome. Written for 10_hurt_comfort (shocking, I know) for the prompt “fever.”
Characters: Steve/Danno
Rating: NC-17, established relationship
Wordcount: 3,269
Disclaimer: Oh, so very much not mine. None of it, and more's the pity.
Warnings: Sex! I realize I don't really have to warn for that, but yeah. Swearing, and angst. Hoo boy, is there angst. Aaaaangst.
Neurotic Author's Note #1: I am obsessed with my new prompt table! And my new fandom! And the combination of the two! I don't really get it, but I am choosing not to argue with the muse.
Neurotic Author's Note #2: The muse also apparently decided that today was the day I should write full-blown gay porn. IDEK, okay? BE GENTLE! This is unbeta'd, and I have never done this before, mmkay? Got it?
Neurotic Author's Note #3: I feel like I should apologize for yet again writing sex that really isn't about the sex, even if it is explicit. So, um, sorry?
Neurotic Author's Note #4: Christ on a cracker, I wrote actual m/m porn. /o\ No, I'm still not over that. Don't mind me while I huddle in this corner and rock for a while. Cripes. On the plus side, it means I won't be writing the gay pr0n for the first time for my SPN Big Bang, right? Right? Yes. Silver linings, we likes them, preciousss...
Steve has long since lost track of the time when Danny gets home. He’s curled on his side, shivering a bit, eyes closed against even the pale light of the advancing evening. He remembers feeling too hot a while ago, which is why he kicked off his sheet, but he’s freezing now and definitely regretting that particular decision. He tried pulling the sheet back, but it’s tangled at the foot of the bed and he can’t quite make sense of how to sort it all out anymore. He thinks that, under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t be as complicated as it is now.
He hears the creak and thump of Danny trotting up the stairs and tries to sit up, but the throbbing behind his eyes tells him that’s a really bad idea, so he gives up and just lies still until he feels the bed dip on the side Danny usually occupies.
“Hey babe,” Danny puts a hand on his hip, and Steve can feel the warmth from his palm seeping through the thin fabric of his boxers. “Still not feeling better?”
“A little,” he says, hoping he sounds convincing.
“Liar,” Danny says fondly. “You take the meds I left?”
Steve shivers a little harder. “Yeah. I’m cold,” he adds, a plaintive note creeping into his voice.
“That’s because you kicked your sheets off, moron,” Danny clucks his tongue, pulls the bedclothes out from where they’re clinging like tendrils around his calves, and tucks them tenderly back around his shoulders. Then he presses a hand to Steve’s forehead, all casual, as if he does this all the time. “Fever’s worse.”
Steve squirms under the touch. “Danno…”
“Don’t ‘Danno’ me, McGarrett. I swear, you are the worst patient ever.” Danny leans over him and grabs the bottle of ibuprofen he left on the night table this morning, tilts two pills into the palm of his hand, and bodily hauls him upright. “And since I have a seven-year-old kid, that’s saying something. Here, swallow,” he says peremptorily, shoving the pills at Steve along with a half-empty water bottle.
It hurts a little going down, but his throat isn’t as sore as it was, and it feels kind of nice, propped up against Danny like this. Reassuring, after spending most of the day on his own, even if he was asleep almost the entire time. Danny’s still wearing his shirt and tie, and so he reaches up and catches the cotton between his fingers, tugging on it experimentally.
“Trying to choke me already?” Danny jokes, pulling him closer. “I’ve only been back five minutes. Hey, easy, babe,” he laughs a little as Steve leans against him, nearly knocking the both of them over. “I’m not going anywhere. Just got here, in fact.” He runs his fingers through Steve’s hair, the gesture soothing, and Steve is too damned miserable to care what this looks like. “You think you could stomach some soup, if I made it?”
He shakes his head. “Not hungry.”
“Yeah, except you haven’t eaten all day, and that whole ‘starve a fever’ thing is a crock. I’m going to make soup. Just broth, okay? And maybe a noodle or two. Nothing you can’t handle.”
“Don’t want soup.” He knows he sounds like a petulant child, but all he wants is to go back to sleep, preferably with Danny there to hold onto, but he’ll take what he can get.
“Well, tough. You have to let go of me, McGarrett, so I can change. You know, if anyone had asked me before, I would have said I was the clingy one in this relationship, but that was before I knew that you were a gigantic octopus masquerading as a SEAL.”
Steve grunts noncommittally, but he doesn’t relinquish his hold on Danny’s tie. His partner pries his fingers loose, and gently nudges him back onto the bed.
“Come on, Barnacle Boy, let go. I promise I’ll come right back.”
With a sigh Steve curls back up under the bedclothes, wishing he was unconscious. This particular strain of ‘flu has already made the rounds of HPD, but he’d hoped it would skip over Five-0 entirely until both Chin and Kono came down with it almost simultaneously last week. Danny had bitched about being down two team members, although Steve was amused to note that he’d managed to cook up two batches of his home-made chicken soup for them (“It’s a family recipe!”) and left it for them along with a reminder that he was just a cell phone call away. Steve had pointed out that going to visit people with the ‘flu was a great way to catch it himself, and Danny had just shrugged, grinned, and bragged about his iron constitution.
“You get sick, you won’t get any sympathy from me,” Steve had told him, and the irony wasn’t lost on him at all two days ago when he started feeling chilled and achy.
He managed to hide how crappy he was feeling from Danny for all of a few hours before his partner figured it out (“Hello, detective here! I detect for a living, you know.”), and then packed him off to bed along with a dose of Theraflu and a steaming mug of tea. Since then he hasn’t been able to so much as get out of bed except to stagger to the bathroom a couple of times when it was absolutely necessary, the rest of the time spent alternately sweating or shivering under his bedclothes. There isn’t much to this ‘flu except a sore throat and general malaise, except for the fever that won’t leave him and keeps spiking at seemingly random intervals and leaving him all but useless for anything other than sleeping.
Danny returns wearing nothing but a t-shirt and boxers and bearing a mug full of warm soup, along with a newly-filled bottle of water. “Come on,” he coaxes. “Up you come, babe. I put it in a mug, even, so you don’t even have to bother with a spoon. See how awesome I am?”
Steve tries to pull the covers over his head, but Danny is holding onto them with one finger, smirking at him. “You’re a giant pain in my ass, Danno.”
“Only for the people I love. Come on. Quit whining and drink. It’ll be over with, and you can go back to sleep, I promise.”
“Fine,” he huffs, struggles to sit up, and ends up leaning against Danny’s chest again, not that Danny appears to object at all. On the contrary, he shifts until he’s sure Steve is comfortable, and even helps hold the mug in place when Steve’s hands shake a little too much to keep it steady.
Danny presses a quick kiss to the side of his head, which Steve pretends not to notice, because he’s too busy being miffed at being forced to consume soup against his will. “This thing is really kicking your ass, huh?” he says, his tone genuinely commiserating. Say what you will about Danno, he’s got a heart as big as the state, and everything that comes out of his mouth is sincere. It’s one of the things Steve loves the most about him.
He nods. “Sorry. I know I’m being a jerk.”
“You’re sick, so I pretty much expected that. You’re cranky even when you’re healthy, McGarrett. So you get a pass. Besides,” Danny presses a kiss to the side of his neck, his lips cool against Steve’s overheated skin, “I can totally think of ways you can make it up to me later, when you’re better.”
Steve snorts, but a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t believe you. I’m practically dying, here, and all you can think of is getting laid.”
“I brought you dinner,” Danny says reasonably. “That means you should put out. I’m being generous in not demanding it right away, I’ll have you know.” He places the backs of his fingers against Steve’s forehead, checking his fever for what feels like the thousandth time, the gesture belying his words. “I don’t think the Advil is helping. I’m going to get the thermometer, see where we’re at, and if I don’t like what I see then you’re getting another dose.”
Steve thinks he manages to hum an agreement of sorts, and lets Danny pull away, lying back and pulling his pillow closer before closing his eyes against the throbbing of his head. He drifts for a while, and keeps his eyes closed even when the thermometer beeps shrilly in his ear, making him wince and flinch away, and Danny insists he swallow some more ibuprofen. When Danny finally stops prodding at him he burrows further into the bed and lets himself succumb completely to the pull of sleep.
He realizes his cell phone is ringing sometime during the night, and his heart rate speeds up. He's back in South Korea, the truck jouncing roughly under his seat.
You don't speak to your father nearly enough.
Gunfire erupts all around him, and then it's nothing but flames and screaming and more gunfire as helicopters come out of nowhere. Then it's Hesse’s voice over the phone, implacable, explaining in so many words that he’s about to lose the most important person in the world to him, and he’s thousands of miles away and there’s not a damned thing he can do about it…
My brother's dead, isn't he? Isn't he? Then so's your father!
A gunshot rings out, distorted and tinny through the cell phone speaker, and he’s still screaming at Hesse long after he knows it’s too late.
“Steve!”
He chokes on a sob. He must have dropped his phone, because it’s gone from his grasp. “No! Dad…”
“Steve, come on, wake up!”
Someone’s shaking him by the shoulder, and when he opens his eyes he can only make out a faint silhouette in the darkness, but he recognizes the voice. “Danno?” he asks faintly.
“Yeah, it’s me,” a hand strokes his forehead, brushing back sweat-soaked hair. “You back with me?”
“I don’t… I can’t find my phone,” he tries to sit up, to figure out where he dropped it, except he’s not sure now that he had it at all. His father’s gone and Danny’s here, and it shouldn’t feel like a trade-off but everything’s all mixed up, and he can't make sense of anything, because his father's home in Hawaii and he's sure Danny has never been to South Korea, and maybe if he could just find his phone he'd be able to fix this...
Danny puts a hand on his chest to hold him down. “So, not back with me, then. Shit, you’re burning up,” he strokes his cheek. “Hang on, okay?”
He pulls away, and Steve makes another attempt to find his phone, but everything’s spinning and it feels as though someone has lit a furnace somewhere in the vicinity of his chest. The bed dips again, and he feels like he’s spiralling backward. He flails with one hand, scrabbling for purchase, and strong fingers circle his wrist, anchoring him in place.
“Easy, Steve,” Danny murmurs. “You’re okay. It’s just me, I’ve got you.” He presses a damp cloth to Steve's face, gently wipes away the sweat, then runs the cloth over his neck and chest. “There you go,” he says as the tension slowly starts to drain from Steve's body. “You're okay, McGarrett. It's just you and me, and you're home, okay? Tell me you know where you are.”
“Danny...” he thinks the heat might smother him.
Danny tilts his head, a smile quirking his lips. “Better than nothing, I guess.”
The ringing has stopped. He thinks maybe there never was a cell phone. “I know where I am.”
“Good,” Danny keeps wiping his face, and it helps, the feeling of being smothered fading. “It was just a nightmare, got it?”
He nods, turns and reaches out almost in spite of himself, and Danny lets himself be dragged back down onto the bed, and doesn't put up even a token protest when Steve wraps himself around him, tangling their legs together and trying to wedge them as close together as possible. “I'm sorry,” he says, not quite sure what he's apologizing for, or even to whom he's really apologizing, just that it needs to be said, maybe more than once. “I'm sorry.”
Danny hushes him, pets his hair, and under cover of darkness, in the midst of heat and confusion, it seems okay. Permissible. “Nothing to be sorry for, babe.”
“I'm still sorry.”
“Okay. I promise, it's okay.”
Shriven, Steve feels one last shudder run through him before the darkness claims him again.
When he awakens, light is pouring in through the bedroom window, and the fever is gone. He's lying with his head pillowed on one of Danny's arms, his own arm wrapped around the tapered waist, one leg trapped between his partner's thighs, and he can feel Danny's morning wood stiff against his thigh. Danny's still fast asleep, and he's feeling none too awake himself, but his dick takes an interest in the proceedings anyway, and he shifts a little bit, trying not to wake Danny, who deserves to sleep in after spending half the night up with him. Danny's beautiful when he sleeps, he thinks, and that doesn't help his growing problem at all, but when he tries to pull away, he realizes that he's staring into a pair of amused-looking blue eyes.
“Good morning to you too,” Danny says, and uses the hand not currently under Steve's head to brush the back of his fingers against his forehead. “Fever's gone. How're you feeling?”
Steve licks his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. “I'm okay.” It's only half a lie, if he doesn't count the feeling that he's about to float away at any moment, or maybe come apart at the seams like he's been stuffed with sawdust and sewn back together with flimsy thread. He tries not to clutch at Danny any more than he already has, a little embarrassed now that it's all out in the clear light of day.
Danny's always been able to see right through him, though, and grabs him before he can pull away more. Danny's still hard, and Steve is well on his way there as well. He moves a hand between them, runs his fingers through the thick blond hair on Danny's chest, and smiles briefly when a brush of his thumb against Danny's nipple makes his partner stiffen and suck in a startled breath. But that's all it takes, because a moment later Danny's lips are brushing against his, teeth scraping lightly along his bottom lip, and his free hand travels down Steve's body, caressing and teasing ever so slightly with the edge of a fingernail, until he's able to pull down Steve's boxers and take hold of his dick, now achingly hard. He grasps it lightly, gives a gentle tug, thumb moving over the head, and Steve has to grab onto his shoulders with both hands as a shudder runs through him.
“You sure you're okay?” Danny murmurs, a little brokenly, and Steve just tightens his hold a little and nods.
Danny's grip tightens, and Steve rests his forehead against his collarbone as he begins moving in long, smooth strokes that threaten to make him come undone seconds after they've started. His fingers dig into Danny's shoulders, hard enough to leave bruises, and it's all he can do not to thrust into the perfect, dry heat of Danny's hand, to just let himself come now, as they are. He lets out a slightly breathless moan when the contact suddenly stops, but it's only because Danny has paused to pull down his own boxers and is lining them up again, taking them both in his hand and using his own pre-come to smooth the way, jacking them together in a way that has Steve gasping and shuddering and trembling in seconds against Danny's chest.
“That's it,” Danny's encouraging, him, his voice rumbling in his chest, low and growling in a way that goes right to Steve's cock. “That's it, babe, come on.”
He's falling. He's falling and Danny's ripping him apart like nobody else has ever been able to, exposing everything to the light. His eyes sting and his breath lodges in his throat, and this is everything he's ever wanted except that it's too much, too fast, and he doesn't know what to do to keep himself from falling backward and splitting open at the seams except to hang onto Danny like a drowning man clutching at a buoy. He almost doesn't recognize the quiet, almost desolate sounds that spill from him, gasping and choking and filled with needy desperation. His cants his hips, thrusts harder against Danny, the friction delicious and terrible and not quite enough, and Danny leans in to kiss him again, his hand moving more roughly now, twisting and jerking, fingernails scraping lightly against oversensitive skin.
“Fuck,” Danny whispers against his mouth. “C'mon, babe, that's... yeah, that's it, that's good... come on, Steve. I got you, I got you, you're okay,” he keeps up the mantra, somehow understanding that it's exactly what he needs to hear right now. “You're okay, I got you. Come on, come on, Steve, come for me, babe...”
That's all it takes. Suddenly he's coming so hard it feels like he's convulsing, spurting in warm bursts over Danny's hand, his eyes squeezed so tightly shut that he can see residual flashes of light behind his eyelids.
He keeps his eyes closed after that, breathing hard, but he can feel Danny continuing to move, stroking himself to a slightly more gentle rhythm. Slowly he removes one of his hands from where he's been hanging onto Danny like a piece of driftwood and slides it between them, moves his fingers over Danny's, slick with come, then slides his hand between Danny's warm palm and his cock, waits until Danny's hand closes over his again, and begins to stroke. He lets Danny set the pace, works his thumb along the vein just under the head the way he knows Danny likes.
Danny lets out a groan. “Steve... fuck! That... I... fuck, that's good,” he gasps, the rhythm of his hips beginning to jerk and stutter, and Steve opens his eyes so he can look at the expression of wonderment on Danny's face, like he can't quite believe what's happening either. “God... fuck, please... Steve, I'm...” his breathing turns ragged, and Steve speeds up both their hand movements until Danny is thrusting desperately against him until he comes hard against Steve's stomach.
There's silence after that, punctuated only by the harsh sound of panting, and the blood still roaring in Steve's ears. He thinks he'd be content to stay here like this forever, if he could, eyes closed, wrapped up in Danny like a blanket, the world safely trapped outside where it can't get in. Danny's breathing is slowly returning to normal, and he bends his head a little to whisper quietly into Steve's ear.
“You okay, babe?”
Steve opens his eyes, and smiles. “Yeah, I'm okay.”
And this time, it's true.
Summary: Steve comes down with a bad case of the flu that's a little more than he bargained for. Luckily for him, Danny is still awesome. Written for 10_hurt_comfort (shocking, I know) for the prompt “fever.”
Characters: Steve/Danno
Rating: NC-17, established relationship
Wordcount: 3,269
Disclaimer: Oh, so very much not mine. None of it, and more's the pity.
Warnings: Sex! I realize I don't really have to warn for that, but yeah. Swearing, and angst. Hoo boy, is there angst. Aaaaangst.
Neurotic Author's Note #1: I am obsessed with my new prompt table! And my new fandom! And the combination of the two! I don't really get it, but I am choosing not to argue with the muse.
Neurotic Author's Note #2: The muse also apparently decided that today was the day I should write full-blown gay porn. IDEK, okay? BE GENTLE! This is unbeta'd, and I have never done this before, mmkay? Got it?
Neurotic Author's Note #3: I feel like I should apologize for yet again writing sex that really isn't about the sex, even if it is explicit. So, um, sorry?
Neurotic Author's Note #4: Christ on a cracker, I wrote actual m/m porn. /o\ No, I'm still not over that. Don't mind me while I huddle in this corner and rock for a while. Cripes. On the plus side, it means I won't be writing the gay pr0n for the first time for my SPN Big Bang, right? Right? Yes. Silver linings, we likes them, preciousss...
Steve has long since lost track of the time when Danny gets home. He’s curled on his side, shivering a bit, eyes closed against even the pale light of the advancing evening. He remembers feeling too hot a while ago, which is why he kicked off his sheet, but he’s freezing now and definitely regretting that particular decision. He tried pulling the sheet back, but it’s tangled at the foot of the bed and he can’t quite make sense of how to sort it all out anymore. He thinks that, under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t be as complicated as it is now.
He hears the creak and thump of Danny trotting up the stairs and tries to sit up, but the throbbing behind his eyes tells him that’s a really bad idea, so he gives up and just lies still until he feels the bed dip on the side Danny usually occupies.
“Hey babe,” Danny puts a hand on his hip, and Steve can feel the warmth from his palm seeping through the thin fabric of his boxers. “Still not feeling better?”
“A little,” he says, hoping he sounds convincing.
“Liar,” Danny says fondly. “You take the meds I left?”
Steve shivers a little harder. “Yeah. I’m cold,” he adds, a plaintive note creeping into his voice.
“That’s because you kicked your sheets off, moron,” Danny clucks his tongue, pulls the bedclothes out from where they’re clinging like tendrils around his calves, and tucks them tenderly back around his shoulders. Then he presses a hand to Steve’s forehead, all casual, as if he does this all the time. “Fever’s worse.”
Steve squirms under the touch. “Danno…”
“Don’t ‘Danno’ me, McGarrett. I swear, you are the worst patient ever.” Danny leans over him and grabs the bottle of ibuprofen he left on the night table this morning, tilts two pills into the palm of his hand, and bodily hauls him upright. “And since I have a seven-year-old kid, that’s saying something. Here, swallow,” he says peremptorily, shoving the pills at Steve along with a half-empty water bottle.
It hurts a little going down, but his throat isn’t as sore as it was, and it feels kind of nice, propped up against Danny like this. Reassuring, after spending most of the day on his own, even if he was asleep almost the entire time. Danny’s still wearing his shirt and tie, and so he reaches up and catches the cotton between his fingers, tugging on it experimentally.
“Trying to choke me already?” Danny jokes, pulling him closer. “I’ve only been back five minutes. Hey, easy, babe,” he laughs a little as Steve leans against him, nearly knocking the both of them over. “I’m not going anywhere. Just got here, in fact.” He runs his fingers through Steve’s hair, the gesture soothing, and Steve is too damned miserable to care what this looks like. “You think you could stomach some soup, if I made it?”
He shakes his head. “Not hungry.”
“Yeah, except you haven’t eaten all day, and that whole ‘starve a fever’ thing is a crock. I’m going to make soup. Just broth, okay? And maybe a noodle or two. Nothing you can’t handle.”
“Don’t want soup.” He knows he sounds like a petulant child, but all he wants is to go back to sleep, preferably with Danny there to hold onto, but he’ll take what he can get.
“Well, tough. You have to let go of me, McGarrett, so I can change. You know, if anyone had asked me before, I would have said I was the clingy one in this relationship, but that was before I knew that you were a gigantic octopus masquerading as a SEAL.”
Steve grunts noncommittally, but he doesn’t relinquish his hold on Danny’s tie. His partner pries his fingers loose, and gently nudges him back onto the bed.
“Come on, Barnacle Boy, let go. I promise I’ll come right back.”
With a sigh Steve curls back up under the bedclothes, wishing he was unconscious. This particular strain of ‘flu has already made the rounds of HPD, but he’d hoped it would skip over Five-0 entirely until both Chin and Kono came down with it almost simultaneously last week. Danny had bitched about being down two team members, although Steve was amused to note that he’d managed to cook up two batches of his home-made chicken soup for them (“It’s a family recipe!”) and left it for them along with a reminder that he was just a cell phone call away. Steve had pointed out that going to visit people with the ‘flu was a great way to catch it himself, and Danny had just shrugged, grinned, and bragged about his iron constitution.
“You get sick, you won’t get any sympathy from me,” Steve had told him, and the irony wasn’t lost on him at all two days ago when he started feeling chilled and achy.
He managed to hide how crappy he was feeling from Danny for all of a few hours before his partner figured it out (“Hello, detective here! I detect for a living, you know.”), and then packed him off to bed along with a dose of Theraflu and a steaming mug of tea. Since then he hasn’t been able to so much as get out of bed except to stagger to the bathroom a couple of times when it was absolutely necessary, the rest of the time spent alternately sweating or shivering under his bedclothes. There isn’t much to this ‘flu except a sore throat and general malaise, except for the fever that won’t leave him and keeps spiking at seemingly random intervals and leaving him all but useless for anything other than sleeping.
Danny returns wearing nothing but a t-shirt and boxers and bearing a mug full of warm soup, along with a newly-filled bottle of water. “Come on,” he coaxes. “Up you come, babe. I put it in a mug, even, so you don’t even have to bother with a spoon. See how awesome I am?”
Steve tries to pull the covers over his head, but Danny is holding onto them with one finger, smirking at him. “You’re a giant pain in my ass, Danno.”
“Only for the people I love. Come on. Quit whining and drink. It’ll be over with, and you can go back to sleep, I promise.”
“Fine,” he huffs, struggles to sit up, and ends up leaning against Danny’s chest again, not that Danny appears to object at all. On the contrary, he shifts until he’s sure Steve is comfortable, and even helps hold the mug in place when Steve’s hands shake a little too much to keep it steady.
Danny presses a quick kiss to the side of his head, which Steve pretends not to notice, because he’s too busy being miffed at being forced to consume soup against his will. “This thing is really kicking your ass, huh?” he says, his tone genuinely commiserating. Say what you will about Danno, he’s got a heart as big as the state, and everything that comes out of his mouth is sincere. It’s one of the things Steve loves the most about him.
He nods. “Sorry. I know I’m being a jerk.”
“You’re sick, so I pretty much expected that. You’re cranky even when you’re healthy, McGarrett. So you get a pass. Besides,” Danny presses a kiss to the side of his neck, his lips cool against Steve’s overheated skin, “I can totally think of ways you can make it up to me later, when you’re better.”
Steve snorts, but a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t believe you. I’m practically dying, here, and all you can think of is getting laid.”
“I brought you dinner,” Danny says reasonably. “That means you should put out. I’m being generous in not demanding it right away, I’ll have you know.” He places the backs of his fingers against Steve’s forehead, checking his fever for what feels like the thousandth time, the gesture belying his words. “I don’t think the Advil is helping. I’m going to get the thermometer, see where we’re at, and if I don’t like what I see then you’re getting another dose.”
Steve thinks he manages to hum an agreement of sorts, and lets Danny pull away, lying back and pulling his pillow closer before closing his eyes against the throbbing of his head. He drifts for a while, and keeps his eyes closed even when the thermometer beeps shrilly in his ear, making him wince and flinch away, and Danny insists he swallow some more ibuprofen. When Danny finally stops prodding at him he burrows further into the bed and lets himself succumb completely to the pull of sleep.
He realizes his cell phone is ringing sometime during the night, and his heart rate speeds up. He's back in South Korea, the truck jouncing roughly under his seat.
You don't speak to your father nearly enough.
Gunfire erupts all around him, and then it's nothing but flames and screaming and more gunfire as helicopters come out of nowhere. Then it's Hesse’s voice over the phone, implacable, explaining in so many words that he’s about to lose the most important person in the world to him, and he’s thousands of miles away and there’s not a damned thing he can do about it…
My brother's dead, isn't he? Isn't he? Then so's your father!
A gunshot rings out, distorted and tinny through the cell phone speaker, and he’s still screaming at Hesse long after he knows it’s too late.
“Steve!”
He chokes on a sob. He must have dropped his phone, because it’s gone from his grasp. “No! Dad…”
“Steve, come on, wake up!”
Someone’s shaking him by the shoulder, and when he opens his eyes he can only make out a faint silhouette in the darkness, but he recognizes the voice. “Danno?” he asks faintly.
“Yeah, it’s me,” a hand strokes his forehead, brushing back sweat-soaked hair. “You back with me?”
“I don’t… I can’t find my phone,” he tries to sit up, to figure out where he dropped it, except he’s not sure now that he had it at all. His father’s gone and Danny’s here, and it shouldn’t feel like a trade-off but everything’s all mixed up, and he can't make sense of anything, because his father's home in Hawaii and he's sure Danny has never been to South Korea, and maybe if he could just find his phone he'd be able to fix this...
Danny puts a hand on his chest to hold him down. “So, not back with me, then. Shit, you’re burning up,” he strokes his cheek. “Hang on, okay?”
He pulls away, and Steve makes another attempt to find his phone, but everything’s spinning and it feels as though someone has lit a furnace somewhere in the vicinity of his chest. The bed dips again, and he feels like he’s spiralling backward. He flails with one hand, scrabbling for purchase, and strong fingers circle his wrist, anchoring him in place.
“Easy, Steve,” Danny murmurs. “You’re okay. It’s just me, I’ve got you.” He presses a damp cloth to Steve's face, gently wipes away the sweat, then runs the cloth over his neck and chest. “There you go,” he says as the tension slowly starts to drain from Steve's body. “You're okay, McGarrett. It's just you and me, and you're home, okay? Tell me you know where you are.”
“Danny...” he thinks the heat might smother him.
Danny tilts his head, a smile quirking his lips. “Better than nothing, I guess.”
The ringing has stopped. He thinks maybe there never was a cell phone. “I know where I am.”
“Good,” Danny keeps wiping his face, and it helps, the feeling of being smothered fading. “It was just a nightmare, got it?”
He nods, turns and reaches out almost in spite of himself, and Danny lets himself be dragged back down onto the bed, and doesn't put up even a token protest when Steve wraps himself around him, tangling their legs together and trying to wedge them as close together as possible. “I'm sorry,” he says, not quite sure what he's apologizing for, or even to whom he's really apologizing, just that it needs to be said, maybe more than once. “I'm sorry.”
Danny hushes him, pets his hair, and under cover of darkness, in the midst of heat and confusion, it seems okay. Permissible. “Nothing to be sorry for, babe.”
“I'm still sorry.”
“Okay. I promise, it's okay.”
Shriven, Steve feels one last shudder run through him before the darkness claims him again.
When he awakens, light is pouring in through the bedroom window, and the fever is gone. He's lying with his head pillowed on one of Danny's arms, his own arm wrapped around the tapered waist, one leg trapped between his partner's thighs, and he can feel Danny's morning wood stiff against his thigh. Danny's still fast asleep, and he's feeling none too awake himself, but his dick takes an interest in the proceedings anyway, and he shifts a little bit, trying not to wake Danny, who deserves to sleep in after spending half the night up with him. Danny's beautiful when he sleeps, he thinks, and that doesn't help his growing problem at all, but when he tries to pull away, he realizes that he's staring into a pair of amused-looking blue eyes.
“Good morning to you too,” Danny says, and uses the hand not currently under Steve's head to brush the back of his fingers against his forehead. “Fever's gone. How're you feeling?”
Steve licks his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. “I'm okay.” It's only half a lie, if he doesn't count the feeling that he's about to float away at any moment, or maybe come apart at the seams like he's been stuffed with sawdust and sewn back together with flimsy thread. He tries not to clutch at Danny any more than he already has, a little embarrassed now that it's all out in the clear light of day.
Danny's always been able to see right through him, though, and grabs him before he can pull away more. Danny's still hard, and Steve is well on his way there as well. He moves a hand between them, runs his fingers through the thick blond hair on Danny's chest, and smiles briefly when a brush of his thumb against Danny's nipple makes his partner stiffen and suck in a startled breath. But that's all it takes, because a moment later Danny's lips are brushing against his, teeth scraping lightly along his bottom lip, and his free hand travels down Steve's body, caressing and teasing ever so slightly with the edge of a fingernail, until he's able to pull down Steve's boxers and take hold of his dick, now achingly hard. He grasps it lightly, gives a gentle tug, thumb moving over the head, and Steve has to grab onto his shoulders with both hands as a shudder runs through him.
“You sure you're okay?” Danny murmurs, a little brokenly, and Steve just tightens his hold a little and nods.
Danny's grip tightens, and Steve rests his forehead against his collarbone as he begins moving in long, smooth strokes that threaten to make him come undone seconds after they've started. His fingers dig into Danny's shoulders, hard enough to leave bruises, and it's all he can do not to thrust into the perfect, dry heat of Danny's hand, to just let himself come now, as they are. He lets out a slightly breathless moan when the contact suddenly stops, but it's only because Danny has paused to pull down his own boxers and is lining them up again, taking them both in his hand and using his own pre-come to smooth the way, jacking them together in a way that has Steve gasping and shuddering and trembling in seconds against Danny's chest.
“That's it,” Danny's encouraging, him, his voice rumbling in his chest, low and growling in a way that goes right to Steve's cock. “That's it, babe, come on.”
He's falling. He's falling and Danny's ripping him apart like nobody else has ever been able to, exposing everything to the light. His eyes sting and his breath lodges in his throat, and this is everything he's ever wanted except that it's too much, too fast, and he doesn't know what to do to keep himself from falling backward and splitting open at the seams except to hang onto Danny like a drowning man clutching at a buoy. He almost doesn't recognize the quiet, almost desolate sounds that spill from him, gasping and choking and filled with needy desperation. His cants his hips, thrusts harder against Danny, the friction delicious and terrible and not quite enough, and Danny leans in to kiss him again, his hand moving more roughly now, twisting and jerking, fingernails scraping lightly against oversensitive skin.
“Fuck,” Danny whispers against his mouth. “C'mon, babe, that's... yeah, that's it, that's good... come on, Steve. I got you, I got you, you're okay,” he keeps up the mantra, somehow understanding that it's exactly what he needs to hear right now. “You're okay, I got you. Come on, come on, Steve, come for me, babe...”
That's all it takes. Suddenly he's coming so hard it feels like he's convulsing, spurting in warm bursts over Danny's hand, his eyes squeezed so tightly shut that he can see residual flashes of light behind his eyelids.
He keeps his eyes closed after that, breathing hard, but he can feel Danny continuing to move, stroking himself to a slightly more gentle rhythm. Slowly he removes one of his hands from where he's been hanging onto Danny like a piece of driftwood and slides it between them, moves his fingers over Danny's, slick with come, then slides his hand between Danny's warm palm and his cock, waits until Danny's hand closes over his again, and begins to stroke. He lets Danny set the pace, works his thumb along the vein just under the head the way he knows Danny likes.
Danny lets out a groan. “Steve... fuck! That... I... fuck, that's good,” he gasps, the rhythm of his hips beginning to jerk and stutter, and Steve opens his eyes so he can look at the expression of wonderment on Danny's face, like he can't quite believe what's happening either. “God... fuck, please... Steve, I'm...” his breathing turns ragged, and Steve speeds up both their hand movements until Danny is thrusting desperately against him until he comes hard against Steve's stomach.
There's silence after that, punctuated only by the harsh sound of panting, and the blood still roaring in Steve's ears. He thinks he'd be content to stay here like this forever, if he could, eyes closed, wrapped up in Danny like a blanket, the world safely trapped outside where it can't get in. Danny's breathing is slowly returning to normal, and he bends his head a little to whisper quietly into Steve's ear.
“You okay, babe?”
Steve opens his eyes, and smiles. “Yeah, I'm okay.”
And this time, it's true.