Happy birthday, Hilde!
Keeping my fingers crossed that this will post...
Here is a little snippet for hildejohanne whose birthday it was yesterday. I hope you had a great day, hon! *hugs*
It's not often Danny gets the opportunity to watch Steve sleep like this. Usually, he's already up and splashing around in the ocean by the time Danny drags himself out of bed in the morning. (Not that Danny's complaining, since this means there'll be a half-naked, dripping wet McGarrett in the kitchen when he comes down for breakfast.)
However, there is something serene about watching Steve sleep in the morning. All that intense, restless energy, for once reined into stillness. His legs are tangled in the sheets, leaving the rest of his skin bare to be illuminated by golden sunlight. Danny lies on his side, propped up on his elbow, watching sleek muscle relaxed in sleep, the soft brush of long dark eyelashes against Steve's cheekbones, the graceful line of his neck stretched out on the pillow.
There's a bruise marring the skin just where Steve's shoulder meets his collarbone. Danny doesn't know where it comes from. The drug bust yesterday? The foot chase through Honolulu the day before? Possibly it's from where Steve bumped into the doorframe of his office just after midnight, too caught up in the never ending argument about Army vs. Navy to watch where he was walking.
Danny reaches out, traces the bruise with a fingertip. Steve usually wakes up at the drop of a hat, alert and ready to go. Today he just blinks slowly, murmurs something that was probably meant to have a question mark tacked onto the end.
"Nothing's happening," Danny assures him. "Go back to sleep, babe."
Steve yawns and stretches, burrows a little deeper into the bedding and drops back into a lazy doze, a content smile playing around the corners of his mouth.
Here is a little snippet for hildejohanne whose birthday it was yesterday. I hope you had a great day, hon! *hugs*
It's not often Danny gets the opportunity to watch Steve sleep like this. Usually, he's already up and splashing around in the ocean by the time Danny drags himself out of bed in the morning. (Not that Danny's complaining, since this means there'll be a half-naked, dripping wet McGarrett in the kitchen when he comes down for breakfast.)
However, there is something serene about watching Steve sleep in the morning. All that intense, restless energy, for once reined into stillness. His legs are tangled in the sheets, leaving the rest of his skin bare to be illuminated by golden sunlight. Danny lies on his side, propped up on his elbow, watching sleek muscle relaxed in sleep, the soft brush of long dark eyelashes against Steve's cheekbones, the graceful line of his neck stretched out on the pillow.
There's a bruise marring the skin just where Steve's shoulder meets his collarbone. Danny doesn't know where it comes from. The drug bust yesterday? The foot chase through Honolulu the day before? Possibly it's from where Steve bumped into the doorframe of his office just after midnight, too caught up in the never ending argument about Army vs. Navy to watch where he was walking.
Danny reaches out, traces the bruise with a fingertip. Steve usually wakes up at the drop of a hat, alert and ready to go. Today he just blinks slowly, murmurs something that was probably meant to have a question mark tacked onto the end.
"Nothing's happening," Danny assures him. "Go back to sleep, babe."
Steve yawns and stretches, burrows a little deeper into the bedding and drops back into a lazy doze, a content smile playing around the corners of his mouth.
