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Title: Dinner and Television
Fandom: Hawaii Five-0, sort of crossed over with real life.
Pairings: Steve/Danny pre-established
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3,000
Warnings: Swearing, LOTS MORE YELLING, that one episode of Criminal Minds where Alex O'Loughlin plays a serial killer. Sideburns. Danny talks in caps lock a lot.
Summary: IDK my bff Vincent? Danny gets a surprise when he's watching Criminal Minds one day. Crack and schmoop occur in equal measures.
Disclaimer: lol not mine
A/N: **head in hands laughing** I'm so sorry for this. I would like it to be known that my thoughts on Alex O'Loughlin are not the same as Danny's in this fic. In fact, pretty much anytime Danny is indignant about him I am the opposite. I don't know what emotion that is, but I am it. I'M SORRY MR. O'LOUGHLIN I COULDN'T HELP IT. I HAVE NO SELF RESTRAINT. SAME TO YOU MR. CAAN OH GOD I WROTE THAT AS MS. AT FIRST I'M SORRY FOR THAT, TOO. ORZ
"Oh my god, oh my god, OH MY GOD STEVEN GET IN HERE."
There's the sound of a crash, the heavy thunking of bare feet, then Steve's head materializes from around the molding.
"What? What is it, Danno?" Danny just points emphatically at the screen and it's his silence more then anything that has the hairs on his arms standing up like little antennas sweeping the airwaves for "danger danger" signals. His eyes dart back and forth assessing the threat, but when he stalks over there's nothing but the glare of the TV.
"What-" Danny slaps his arm rapidly like short little Jersey bullets and points a little more viciously at the screen. Steve, perplexed, turns his attention to it. Danny makes an unattractive high pitched noise like a squealing rabbit.
"Uh," Steve says intelligently. It's some kind of cop show, he thinks. Danny seems to like them, anyways, or at the very least likes to yell about how even though their knowledge of police procedure is clearly so non-existent as to be black holes for proper justice everywhere, they are no where near as spine tinglingly, primordially barbaric as Steve is while taking a nap. So Steve has a sort of affection by proxy for them.
There doesn't seem to be anything interesting going on on the screen right now. Some waify floppy-haired kid is explaining something about handwriting, how it trails off and tapers. Interesting, but other then that Steve's got nothing. He makes a small sound of confusion and Danny practically dislocates his arm dragging him down onto the couch.
"Danny, dinner-" Danny slaps a stubby hand over his mouth. Steve grunts a muffled protest.
"No, shut up, shut up and look," Steve rolls his eyes, but does so anyways. There's a woman on the screen smiling earnestly. The man she's talking with is tall and nerdy. It takes until the woman shows up dead with a knife wound to the gut for Steve to realize what Danny's having a panic attack about. Take away the dorky glasses and the weird long-johns and he looks a little like himself, he thinks. Sort of? Steve gingerly removes Danny's hand from his mouth. Danny doesn't look away until the commercial. Steve knows he shouldn't be, is going to get in so much trouble, but he can't wipe the grin from his face. Danny punches him in the arm.
"This isn't funny you asshole. You stabbed that woman and now you are stalking some blind kid and clicking at him like a demented beetle and let me tell you mister, that is an inappropriate face to be making when phalliclly thrusting stainless steel into someone’s bowels."
"There's an appropriate face for that," Steve wonders to the air. Danny smacks him, again.
"I should arrest you right now, McGarrett." Steve rolls his eyes, again.
"With all this domestic abuse you’re inflicting on me it would never hold up. You do know that's not me, right?" Danny just flaps a hand at him and the show comes back on. Steve leaves him with a pat on the shoulder and goes back to dinner. For the next forty-some minutes all Steve can hear from the living room is pained, horrified noises. Steve is frankly impressed be his range. Steve spends the time alternately stirring the sauce and imagining what’s going on on the TV through interpretive Danny noises. The one where he brays like a startled horse implies some kind of impending doom; maybe he's planning another murder. He warbles at it, and starts hitting the couch. Yeah, some murder.
"RUN KID, RUN. YOU BLIND BASTARD RUN," and then he sounds a little like a bottle rocket streaking through the sky, interspersed with noisy gasping, like he's having a heart attack. Not the killer then, probably the blind kid he keeps freaking out about. He imagines the killer in the house, sitting in the closet with his knife just watching him sleep, never blinking. It’s what he would do.
Sometime after that he makes a noise like Steve's old broken washing machine, which rattled so hard it resembled a jet engine taking off and it's probably another murder, something with some kind of build-up that gets him going louder and louder as it plays out. "STOP TOUCHING HIM STOP TOUCHING HIM HE'S GOING TO KILL YOU WHAT DID I TELL YOU," Okay, that's pretty self-explanatory there. A few minutes after that and:
"OH MY GOD STEVEN THAT IS NOT A SANITARY WAY TO DRESS YOUR WOUNDS DID THEY NOT TEACH YOU BETTER IN THE NAVY I AM NEVER LETTING YOU NEAR FIELD DRESSINGS AGAIN, ESPECIALLY NOT ON YOURSELF. OR BREAD. YOU STAY AWAY FROM MY BREAD YOU FREAK." Steve is slightly intrigued by that one but, pretty much he's still got nothing, all he says is "Not me," loudly back. Danny throws a pillow at the kitchen and it skids across the table, knocking over the salt.
The concert ends on a choked off sob. Danny comes wandering into the kitchen looking like he's been running a case on no sleep for a week, expression sitting grumpily on his face. Steve has to fight the urge between making him coffee and just laughing at him, concentrates on plating the food and setting it under his nose, instead.
Dinner is an affair with Danny making a mulish face and only grudgingly admitting how good he thinks it is. ("For a serial killer," "Not me,") Steve decides he has to do something about this and resolves to use the time Danny spends making insulted noises at his food like he's offended it doesn't taste like murder and death or something to plot his plan of attack.
He takes their dishes away, silently, pulls out a two Longboards from the fridge. When he hands Danny his he lets their fingers brush, just a light feather of contact. Danny makes a face and goes to pull away, when Steve bring out the big guns, slides a hand around the small of his back and curling his fingers against his spine. It's always been a sure-fire way to get Danny weak in the knees and Steve feels a smile curl one side of his mouth.
Danny squawks and slaps his hand away.
"No. No I am not having sex with a serial killer." Steve gapes after him, arms flung out to the sides as Danny sets his beer down and slams the door to the bathroom behind him. The sound of piss hitting water is surprisingly. . . pissy.
Steve slaps his arms back down from the 'come on' gesture. He decides to just count his losses and go to bed.
"And you call me crazy," he mutters as he climbs the stairs.
"I HEARD THAT," Steve sighs and crawls into bed alone. It's not even his fault this time, he didn't do anything. Okay, he may have been a little overzealous with their suspect, might have just a little bit broken a bone or twelve but Danny already stopped being actively angry about it. It had been three whole days ago and he is not pouting. No, Steve McGarrett has not pouted since the twelfth grade. That would be silly.
He rolls over with a huff and throws the blankets over his head.
He wakes up sometime around four in the morning, sleepily rolls over with the vague dream thought of curling around the furnace of heat that is a sleeping Danny. His hand encounters only cold sheets. Steve's eyes snap open, suddenly alert. He gets out of bed and slips out of the room. A flickering blue glow radiates from down the stairs and Steve sighs and sets the heavy comfort of his knife down on a side table, pads down to ground level.
"Danny," he calls, quietly. "What are you doing?" He's sitting up at the computer, hair a wild mess around his head and he nearly jumps out of his skin when Steve speaks, knocking his hip on the table. The laptop goes tumbling and in two strides Steve is there, steadying Danny and rescuing the computer from an untimely death in one move.
"Whoa, hey, it's alright, it's just me." Danny flails at him, eyes blood shot and sleep deprived.
"Are you trying to give me an aneurysm, it's not enough being a vampire now you gotta come after me, too?" he hisses into the dimness. Steve blinks at him, glances at the laptop still in his hands. "This Alex guy is clearly a menace." Danny says seriously.
A man's face stares back at him from the screen and yes he does look like him, but. . . .
"Danno," he says, looking back at him pleadingly. "It's four in the morning. Come to bed, okay? I mean how many times have you nagged at me for just something like this?" He gestures helplessly with his hands full of laptop. Danny glares at him blearily.
"Not a nag," he mumbles.
"And not the point here, partner. Come on, you need your sleep. You're already going to be impossible in the morning."
"Vampire," Danny hisses, again, prodding him in the bicep. "And look at this," he takes the laptop out of Steve's hands, sets it back on the table and bends over it clicking furiously.
"Look, look he wrote a screenplay about over eating, him and his buddy were sitting around one day drinking beers, just like us, only instead of talking about normal things like normal people like football or cars or-"
"How crazy I am," Steve mumbles, repeating his sentiment from earlier. Danny doesn't even pause this time.
"-I dunno, whatever. Normal people things, is what I am getting at here, instead of talking about that they get to conversing about how awesome feeding women fried chicken all day and then having sex with them is. And then they made a movie. What is that even in my life, why does that exist."
Throughout this Steve has been scrolling through the list of movies disinterestedly, listening with a half-ear to Danny’s rant.
"Oh, hey, in this one he's a doctor. Doctors are nice, right?" He gives Danny a hopeless little smile. Danny looks unimpressed, staring at him like he's lost his marbles and that is so not fair right now. The smile slides off his face and he sighs.
"Danny, what is with you and this guy? Why are you freaking out so hard about this?." Danny blinks.
"What? What the hell does that mean? Is everything I've told you not enough? Did you hear about the part with the women and the food and the sex, because I mean-"
"He's an actor, Danny. From Australia. So he's a little weird and he kinda looks like me. I'm not going to go murdering little blind kids because you discovered my doppelganger."
Danny mumbles something under his breath.
"What was that, Danno you have to speak up I can't hear you," Steve says exasperatedly. Danny twitches a shoulder.
"He didn't kill the kid. He took him on a ferris wheel." Steve quirks a brow at him. Danny shifts."He-" his clenches his jaw and looks mulish, again. Steve winces and gingerly reaches out to rub his arm. He doesn't hit him this time, which is nice.
"Danny, come on, talk to me, because I mean dinner? I can sort of get. But this?” He waves his free arm, gesturing at the computer, Danny, the late night itself. “Tell me what's wrong, Danny." Danny opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it, again and it all seems to burst out of him in a wave.
"He got shot, alright. He got shot and it was just like watching you get shot and I kept thinking what if that little blind kid was Gracie and you died in front of her because you're crazy and sometimes you do things that don't make any sense like jump out of moving vehicles and drive helicopters into tornadoes or-" Steve yanks on him, not really thinking, just responding to his frantic tone, cutting him off mid-sentence and crushes him to his chest.
"Whoa, okay, whoa. That's a lot of- I've never done that, Danny, with the helicopters and tornadoes." He focuses on that, tries to buy himself time to figure out how to handle this. He rubs his hand soothingly over Danny's back, who struggles a little, more for the principle of the thing, before stilling stiffly in the circle of his arms. He ruins the effect by pressing his face into the hollow of his shoulder.
"Wouldn't put it past you," he mumbles into his skin. Steve rests his chin on the top of Danny's head.
"Okay," he begins, delicately. "Okay. So you're afraid-"
"-Rationally concerned, McGarrett, we've talk about this."
"There is nothing rational about this, Danno," he says, but it's gently teasing and Danny wuffs against his collar bone.
“I hate you,” he grumbles.
“I know, Danno, I know.” Danny squirms a little.
“Alright, alright I’m fine get off me you overgrown tentacled crustacean.” Steve smiles into his hair and lets him go, though he doesn’t step far.
“Okay, so let me get this straight. You’re upset because- because,”
“You died.”
“An actor died.” Steve says before he can think about it. He winces, Danny glares. “Okay, sorry, okay. This is why you’re upset? Am I understanding this, properly?” Danny looks simultaneously sleep-deprived, uncomfortable and determined.
“Tell me you wouldn’t freak out if it was me,” he says arms crossed over his chest like a challenge and Steve’s self-aware enough that he already knows the answer to that.
“So you following my example, that gonna be a regular thing? Because I don’t know what I’m going to do when it’s you who’s jumping out of moving vehicles.” He tries the little smile, again, Danny snorts but he’s kind of smiling back. Between the two of them there might even be a nice, regular smile there.
“Been there, done that, got the post card, remember?” He says mildly.
“Oh, yeah.” A silence falls for a moment. It’s not tense, just there hanging between them. Steve hates these moments, never knows what to do when they fall in his hands. They trip him, tangle in his reason and drag hooks into the awkward boy he left behind on a Hawaiian shore over 10 years ago. He’s about to say something monumentally stupid like “hey your hair looks like that urchin I stepped on last week,” and “Oh, I wasn’t supposed to tell you about that. Sorry Danno, I don’t think it was poisonous.” And god that really wouldn’t go over well right now.
Danny saves them both when he shuts the laptop with a resolute snap.
“Okay, alright. I’m done, this is done. Let’s just go to bed,” and he turns to go upstairs.
Beds. Yeah, Steve knows beds.They're not done with this by a long shot, but he lets himself grin a little as he trails after Danny, steadying him when he sways. He can do beds.
Danny’s just taking off his tie when Steve grabs him by the arm and spins him around. He slots him into a kiss, tangles his fingers in his ridiculous hair and pushes him back until his knees hit gently against the mattress and he falls into it.
“Steve,” he starts, sounding disapproving but Steve just shoots his eyebrows up and climbs onto the bed.
“Uh-uh, no. You’ve been talking all day. Just shut up and let me make you feel good.” Danny laughs.
“You’re terrible at seduction, babe. I can only shudder imagining how horrible the people who nick-named you “smooth dog” are.”
Steve looks at him reprovingly and he is still not pouting, okay? Danny rolls his eyes and drags him back down.
“Serial Killer,” he complains and Steve sighs and sucks a kiss into his neck, slips up and up. He kisses Danny easily, thoroughly, tongues tangling lazily together.
I’m here, Danno, I can’t promise you forever, but I can promise you as along as you want me to be here, as long as I can be, I’ll be here. And maybe Danny doesn’t get it now, but Steve isn’t going to stop saying it as loud as he knows how.
Sometime around the next evening, after they’ve rested up, ("Up and at ‘em, Danno.” “Ugh, Jesus, Steve, it’s- Oh. It’s noon.”) eaten and stopped by work to check up any new cases, Steve sits down at the television. It’s Danny’s turn to make dinner this time and the sounds of him crashing pots cheerfully against each other as he sings off-key nineties hits is soothing. There’s nothing much interesting on, not a game or a terrible music concert in sight. The concert is especially tragic because Danny will usually switch to singing along to it without even realizing what he’s doing and when he notices he tends to throw the most epic of fits. So anyways, there’s nothing on and Steve just really wants to zone out for awhile as his third best option. He stops on some action fluff movie about cars or something, with the vague thought of having some eye candy at least.
Steve bursts out laughing. He bursts out laughing and he can’t stop.
“Danno,” he wheezes and it comes out covered in mirth and tossed with too little air. “Oh God, Danny.”
Danny makes his way into the living room carrying the pillow he’d launched at Steve last night in his fist, looking like the most ridiculous Chekov’s gun Steve’s ever seen when he’s squinting with laughter. He makes to toss it back on the couch and freezes when he notices the state Steve’s in.
“Uh, babe? Babe are you, uh- I mean, it’s just-” he gestures with the pillow. “That’s a- a real good look on you.” He finishes lamely.
Steve just puts his head between his knees and points at the screen, still dissolved into giggles. Which is disconcerting on a full-grown man, is what it is. Danny turns his attention what he’s pointing at.
“. . . Oh no, that does not even almost look like me, no it does not, you are insane McGarrett, insane.”
“The side burns,” Steve manages to choke out. Danny smothers him with the pillow.
Fandom: Hawaii Five-0, sort of crossed over with real life.
Pairings: Steve/Danny pre-established
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3,000
Warnings: Swearing, LOTS MORE YELLING, that one episode of Criminal Minds where Alex O'Loughlin plays a serial killer. Sideburns. Danny talks in caps lock a lot.
Summary: IDK my bff Vincent? Danny gets a surprise when he's watching Criminal Minds one day. Crack and schmoop occur in equal measures.
Disclaimer: lol not mine
A/N: **head in hands laughing** I'm so sorry for this. I would like it to be known that my thoughts on Alex O'Loughlin are not the same as Danny's in this fic. In fact, pretty much anytime Danny is indignant about him I am the opposite. I don't know what emotion that is, but I am it. I'M SORRY MR. O'LOUGHLIN I COULDN'T HELP IT. I HAVE NO SELF RESTRAINT. SAME TO YOU MR. CAAN OH GOD I WROTE THAT AS MS. AT FIRST I'M SORRY FOR THAT, TOO. ORZ
"Oh my god, oh my god, OH MY GOD STEVEN GET IN HERE."
There's the sound of a crash, the heavy thunking of bare feet, then Steve's head materializes from around the molding.
"What? What is it, Danno?" Danny just points emphatically at the screen and it's his silence more then anything that has the hairs on his arms standing up like little antennas sweeping the airwaves for "danger danger" signals. His eyes dart back and forth assessing the threat, but when he stalks over there's nothing but the glare of the TV.
"What-" Danny slaps his arm rapidly like short little Jersey bullets and points a little more viciously at the screen. Steve, perplexed, turns his attention to it. Danny makes an unattractive high pitched noise like a squealing rabbit.
"Uh," Steve says intelligently. It's some kind of cop show, he thinks. Danny seems to like them, anyways, or at the very least likes to yell about how even though their knowledge of police procedure is clearly so non-existent as to be black holes for proper justice everywhere, they are no where near as spine tinglingly, primordially barbaric as Steve is while taking a nap. So Steve has a sort of affection by proxy for them.
There doesn't seem to be anything interesting going on on the screen right now. Some waify floppy-haired kid is explaining something about handwriting, how it trails off and tapers. Interesting, but other then that Steve's got nothing. He makes a small sound of confusion and Danny practically dislocates his arm dragging him down onto the couch.
"Danny, dinner-" Danny slaps a stubby hand over his mouth. Steve grunts a muffled protest.
"No, shut up, shut up and look," Steve rolls his eyes, but does so anyways. There's a woman on the screen smiling earnestly. The man she's talking with is tall and nerdy. It takes until the woman shows up dead with a knife wound to the gut for Steve to realize what Danny's having a panic attack about. Take away the dorky glasses and the weird long-johns and he looks a little like himself, he thinks. Sort of? Steve gingerly removes Danny's hand from his mouth. Danny doesn't look away until the commercial. Steve knows he shouldn't be, is going to get in so much trouble, but he can't wipe the grin from his face. Danny punches him in the arm.
"This isn't funny you asshole. You stabbed that woman and now you are stalking some blind kid and clicking at him like a demented beetle and let me tell you mister, that is an inappropriate face to be making when phalliclly thrusting stainless steel into someone’s bowels."
"There's an appropriate face for that," Steve wonders to the air. Danny smacks him, again.
"I should arrest you right now, McGarrett." Steve rolls his eyes, again.
"With all this domestic abuse you’re inflicting on me it would never hold up. You do know that's not me, right?" Danny just flaps a hand at him and the show comes back on. Steve leaves him with a pat on the shoulder and goes back to dinner. For the next forty-some minutes all Steve can hear from the living room is pained, horrified noises. Steve is frankly impressed be his range. Steve spends the time alternately stirring the sauce and imagining what’s going on on the TV through interpretive Danny noises. The one where he brays like a startled horse implies some kind of impending doom; maybe he's planning another murder. He warbles at it, and starts hitting the couch. Yeah, some murder.
"RUN KID, RUN. YOU BLIND BASTARD RUN," and then he sounds a little like a bottle rocket streaking through the sky, interspersed with noisy gasping, like he's having a heart attack. Not the killer then, probably the blind kid he keeps freaking out about. He imagines the killer in the house, sitting in the closet with his knife just watching him sleep, never blinking. It’s what he would do.
Sometime after that he makes a noise like Steve's old broken washing machine, which rattled so hard it resembled a jet engine taking off and it's probably another murder, something with some kind of build-up that gets him going louder and louder as it plays out. "STOP TOUCHING HIM STOP TOUCHING HIM HE'S GOING TO KILL YOU WHAT DID I TELL YOU," Okay, that's pretty self-explanatory there. A few minutes after that and:
"OH MY GOD STEVEN THAT IS NOT A SANITARY WAY TO DRESS YOUR WOUNDS DID THEY NOT TEACH YOU BETTER IN THE NAVY I AM NEVER LETTING YOU NEAR FIELD DRESSINGS AGAIN, ESPECIALLY NOT ON YOURSELF. OR BREAD. YOU STAY AWAY FROM MY BREAD YOU FREAK." Steve is slightly intrigued by that one but, pretty much he's still got nothing, all he says is "Not me," loudly back. Danny throws a pillow at the kitchen and it skids across the table, knocking over the salt.
The concert ends on a choked off sob. Danny comes wandering into the kitchen looking like he's been running a case on no sleep for a week, expression sitting grumpily on his face. Steve has to fight the urge between making him coffee and just laughing at him, concentrates on plating the food and setting it under his nose, instead.
Dinner is an affair with Danny making a mulish face and only grudgingly admitting how good he thinks it is. ("For a serial killer," "Not me,") Steve decides he has to do something about this and resolves to use the time Danny spends making insulted noises at his food like he's offended it doesn't taste like murder and death or something to plot his plan of attack.
He takes their dishes away, silently, pulls out a two Longboards from the fridge. When he hands Danny his he lets their fingers brush, just a light feather of contact. Danny makes a face and goes to pull away, when Steve bring out the big guns, slides a hand around the small of his back and curling his fingers against his spine. It's always been a sure-fire way to get Danny weak in the knees and Steve feels a smile curl one side of his mouth.
Danny squawks and slaps his hand away.
"No. No I am not having sex with a serial killer." Steve gapes after him, arms flung out to the sides as Danny sets his beer down and slams the door to the bathroom behind him. The sound of piss hitting water is surprisingly. . . pissy.
Steve slaps his arms back down from the 'come on' gesture. He decides to just count his losses and go to bed.
"And you call me crazy," he mutters as he climbs the stairs.
"I HEARD THAT," Steve sighs and crawls into bed alone. It's not even his fault this time, he didn't do anything. Okay, he may have been a little overzealous with their suspect, might have just a little bit broken a bone or twelve but Danny already stopped being actively angry about it. It had been three whole days ago and he is not pouting. No, Steve McGarrett has not pouted since the twelfth grade. That would be silly.
He rolls over with a huff and throws the blankets over his head.
He wakes up sometime around four in the morning, sleepily rolls over with the vague dream thought of curling around the furnace of heat that is a sleeping Danny. His hand encounters only cold sheets. Steve's eyes snap open, suddenly alert. He gets out of bed and slips out of the room. A flickering blue glow radiates from down the stairs and Steve sighs and sets the heavy comfort of his knife down on a side table, pads down to ground level.
"Danny," he calls, quietly. "What are you doing?" He's sitting up at the computer, hair a wild mess around his head and he nearly jumps out of his skin when Steve speaks, knocking his hip on the table. The laptop goes tumbling and in two strides Steve is there, steadying Danny and rescuing the computer from an untimely death in one move.
"Whoa, hey, it's alright, it's just me." Danny flails at him, eyes blood shot and sleep deprived.
"Are you trying to give me an aneurysm, it's not enough being a vampire now you gotta come after me, too?" he hisses into the dimness. Steve blinks at him, glances at the laptop still in his hands. "This Alex guy is clearly a menace." Danny says seriously.
A man's face stares back at him from the screen and yes he does look like him, but. . . .
"Danno," he says, looking back at him pleadingly. "It's four in the morning. Come to bed, okay? I mean how many times have you nagged at me for just something like this?" He gestures helplessly with his hands full of laptop. Danny glares at him blearily.
"Not a nag," he mumbles.
"And not the point here, partner. Come on, you need your sleep. You're already going to be impossible in the morning."
"Vampire," Danny hisses, again, prodding him in the bicep. "And look at this," he takes the laptop out of Steve's hands, sets it back on the table and bends over it clicking furiously.
"Look, look he wrote a screenplay about over eating, him and his buddy were sitting around one day drinking beers, just like us, only instead of talking about normal things like normal people like football or cars or-"
"How crazy I am," Steve mumbles, repeating his sentiment from earlier. Danny doesn't even pause this time.
"-I dunno, whatever. Normal people things, is what I am getting at here, instead of talking about that they get to conversing about how awesome feeding women fried chicken all day and then having sex with them is. And then they made a movie. What is that even in my life, why does that exist."
Throughout this Steve has been scrolling through the list of movies disinterestedly, listening with a half-ear to Danny’s rant.
"Oh, hey, in this one he's a doctor. Doctors are nice, right?" He gives Danny a hopeless little smile. Danny looks unimpressed, staring at him like he's lost his marbles and that is so not fair right now. The smile slides off his face and he sighs.
"Danny, what is with you and this guy? Why are you freaking out so hard about this?." Danny blinks.
"What? What the hell does that mean? Is everything I've told you not enough? Did you hear about the part with the women and the food and the sex, because I mean-"
"He's an actor, Danny. From Australia. So he's a little weird and he kinda looks like me. I'm not going to go murdering little blind kids because you discovered my doppelganger."
Danny mumbles something under his breath.
"What was that, Danno you have to speak up I can't hear you," Steve says exasperatedly. Danny twitches a shoulder.
"He didn't kill the kid. He took him on a ferris wheel." Steve quirks a brow at him. Danny shifts."He-" his clenches his jaw and looks mulish, again. Steve winces and gingerly reaches out to rub his arm. He doesn't hit him this time, which is nice.
"Danny, come on, talk to me, because I mean dinner? I can sort of get. But this?” He waves his free arm, gesturing at the computer, Danny, the late night itself. “Tell me what's wrong, Danny." Danny opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it, again and it all seems to burst out of him in a wave.
"He got shot, alright. He got shot and it was just like watching you get shot and I kept thinking what if that little blind kid was Gracie and you died in front of her because you're crazy and sometimes you do things that don't make any sense like jump out of moving vehicles and drive helicopters into tornadoes or-" Steve yanks on him, not really thinking, just responding to his frantic tone, cutting him off mid-sentence and crushes him to his chest.
"Whoa, okay, whoa. That's a lot of- I've never done that, Danny, with the helicopters and tornadoes." He focuses on that, tries to buy himself time to figure out how to handle this. He rubs his hand soothingly over Danny's back, who struggles a little, more for the principle of the thing, before stilling stiffly in the circle of his arms. He ruins the effect by pressing his face into the hollow of his shoulder.
"Wouldn't put it past you," he mumbles into his skin. Steve rests his chin on the top of Danny's head.
"Okay," he begins, delicately. "Okay. So you're afraid-"
"-Rationally concerned, McGarrett, we've talk about this."
"There is nothing rational about this, Danno," he says, but it's gently teasing and Danny wuffs against his collar bone.
“I hate you,” he grumbles.
“I know, Danno, I know.” Danny squirms a little.
“Alright, alright I’m fine get off me you overgrown tentacled crustacean.” Steve smiles into his hair and lets him go, though he doesn’t step far.
“Okay, so let me get this straight. You’re upset because- because,”
“You died.”
“An actor died.” Steve says before he can think about it. He winces, Danny glares. “Okay, sorry, okay. This is why you’re upset? Am I understanding this, properly?” Danny looks simultaneously sleep-deprived, uncomfortable and determined.
“Tell me you wouldn’t freak out if it was me,” he says arms crossed over his chest like a challenge and Steve’s self-aware enough that he already knows the answer to that.
“So you following my example, that gonna be a regular thing? Because I don’t know what I’m going to do when it’s you who’s jumping out of moving vehicles.” He tries the little smile, again, Danny snorts but he’s kind of smiling back. Between the two of them there might even be a nice, regular smile there.
“Been there, done that, got the post card, remember?” He says mildly.
“Oh, yeah.” A silence falls for a moment. It’s not tense, just there hanging between them. Steve hates these moments, never knows what to do when they fall in his hands. They trip him, tangle in his reason and drag hooks into the awkward boy he left behind on a Hawaiian shore over 10 years ago. He’s about to say something monumentally stupid like “hey your hair looks like that urchin I stepped on last week,” and “Oh, I wasn’t supposed to tell you about that. Sorry Danno, I don’t think it was poisonous.” And god that really wouldn’t go over well right now.
Danny saves them both when he shuts the laptop with a resolute snap.
“Okay, alright. I’m done, this is done. Let’s just go to bed,” and he turns to go upstairs.
Beds. Yeah, Steve knows beds.They're not done with this by a long shot, but he lets himself grin a little as he trails after Danny, steadying him when he sways. He can do beds.
Danny’s just taking off his tie when Steve grabs him by the arm and spins him around. He slots him into a kiss, tangles his fingers in his ridiculous hair and pushes him back until his knees hit gently against the mattress and he falls into it.
“Steve,” he starts, sounding disapproving but Steve just shoots his eyebrows up and climbs onto the bed.
“Uh-uh, no. You’ve been talking all day. Just shut up and let me make you feel good.” Danny laughs.
“You’re terrible at seduction, babe. I can only shudder imagining how horrible the people who nick-named you “smooth dog” are.”
Steve looks at him reprovingly and he is still not pouting, okay? Danny rolls his eyes and drags him back down.
“Serial Killer,” he complains and Steve sighs and sucks a kiss into his neck, slips up and up. He kisses Danny easily, thoroughly, tongues tangling lazily together.
I’m here, Danno, I can’t promise you forever, but I can promise you as along as you want me to be here, as long as I can be, I’ll be here. And maybe Danny doesn’t get it now, but Steve isn’t going to stop saying it as loud as he knows how.
Sometime around the next evening, after they’ve rested up, ("Up and at ‘em, Danno.” “Ugh, Jesus, Steve, it’s- Oh. It’s noon.”) eaten and stopped by work to check up any new cases, Steve sits down at the television. It’s Danny’s turn to make dinner this time and the sounds of him crashing pots cheerfully against each other as he sings off-key nineties hits is soothing. There’s nothing much interesting on, not a game or a terrible music concert in sight. The concert is especially tragic because Danny will usually switch to singing along to it without even realizing what he’s doing and when he notices he tends to throw the most epic of fits. So anyways, there’s nothing on and Steve just really wants to zone out for awhile as his third best option. He stops on some action fluff movie about cars or something, with the vague thought of having some eye candy at least.
Steve bursts out laughing. He bursts out laughing and he can’t stop.
“Danno,” he wheezes and it comes out covered in mirth and tossed with too little air. “Oh God, Danny.”
Danny makes his way into the living room carrying the pillow he’d launched at Steve last night in his fist, looking like the most ridiculous Chekov’s gun Steve’s ever seen when he’s squinting with laughter. He makes to toss it back on the couch and freezes when he notices the state Steve’s in.
“Uh, babe? Babe are you, uh- I mean, it’s just-” he gestures with the pillow. “That’s a- a real good look on you.” He finishes lamely.
Steve just puts his head between his knees and points at the screen, still dissolved into giggles. Which is disconcerting on a full-grown man, is what it is. Danny turns his attention what he’s pointing at.
“. . . Oh no, that does not even almost look like me, no it does not, you are insane McGarrett, insane.”
“The side burns,” Steve manages to choke out. Danny smothers him with the pillow.