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The Progress of a Beating Heart (Steve/Danny, ~1300 words, tag to 1x24, adult) (also on AOOO and a podfic by painted_pain!)
Danny drops him off at home, says he'll be back soon, watches while Steve levers himself out of the passenger seat. He waits until Steve's punched in the alarm code and let himself inside before he drives off again, and then it's just Steve and the clothes on his back and the quiet, musty house. He wanted to ask Danny to stay, wanted to tug him out of the car and keep him close, but he gets that Danny's probably giving him some time to get his head straight.
What that means, Steve's not sure. He's on autopilot when he throws open the living room windows, letting in the breeze, but the wash of salty air makes it easier to breathe. He heads to the kitchen to do the same thing and sees that there's fresh fruit on the counter, mangoes and papayas piled up in bowls, and that Danny's stocked the fridge with beers. The mangoes are so ripe that he can smell them, and it makes his mouth water; he can think of a hundred things he should be doing right now, but suddenly this is the only thing he wants to do. He peels one over the sink, eats it slice by slice, closes his eyes against the burst of sweetness on his tongue, the feeling of sticky juice dripping between his fingers, the solid weight of the paring knife in his hand.
And then he knows what's next-Danny probably knew, too, and Steve holds onto that thought while he finds trunks in the laundry room, peels out of everything he's wearing, kicking the pile toward the washer, pulls them on and jogs down to the beach.
The water's warm, buoying him, and when he dives under where it's cooler, holding his breath for as long as he can and surfacing again, he finally feels like he's coming back to himself.
He swims hard and fast after that, and he has to fight the urge to keep going, farther and farther out, away from everything. He makes himself turn around, and when he does, he can just see a speck on the shore. And now it's easy to head back, a mantra of Danny, Danny, Danny running through his head in time with every stroke and kick.
Danny's waiting for him at the edge of the water, and even though Steve's dripping, Danny pulls him into a hug, pulls him flush against Danny's body, and in a day that's already overwhelmed him with sensation, this is the best yet. Danny's skin is warm through his shirt, and his mouth is hot when he pulls Steve's head down and licks his way in. "You found the mangoes," he murmurs, and Steve doesn't know whether it's because he saw the evidence in the sink or because he can taste it on Steve's tongue. Steve clutches at him, says, "Thank you," and he means everything, everything he's wanted more than ripe fruit or cold beer or the tug of the ocean.
They pull apart long enough to stumble toward the house, Danny making a face as he plucks at his damp clothes, but Steve's going to get him out of them as soon as he possibly can, so he really, really doesn't care.
He pauses at the door to brush the worst of the sand off his feet, and he has to swallow hard when he looks up and sees Danny tugging his tie loose. He says, "Ah, ah!" holding out a hand and backing away when Steve advances, draping it carefully over the back of a chair before he lets Steve hustle him upstairs.
The bedroom window's open, too, when they get up there, curtains billowing, and the quilt and sheets are pulled back, and Steve has to grin when he sees it. "Aw, Danny, my very own turndown service."
He bites back the rest of what he's about to say, a joke about Danny going into hotel work if this police gig doesn't work out, shying away from the thought as soon as he has it, too close to what could have happened, and Danny's talking over him anyway, saying, "Shut up, okay, I just didn't want you to get distracted from the task at hand, here," gesturing between them and the bed. He's a little pink, like maybe he got caught out being sentimental or something equally embarrassing, but he's right, Steve doesn't want to be distracted from this, from Danny, so he skims out of his wet trunks and says, voice coming out rougher than he means for it to, "Yeah, okay."
Danny just stares at him for a second-Steve knows the feeling, doesn't want to stop looking at Danny, doesn't want to stop touching him. "Danny, come on," he urges, and it kicks his brain back into gear, gets Danny unbuttoning and unzipping and tumbling Steve down onto the bed.
Steve kisses him again, slides his hands to either side of Danny's face and holds him where he wants him. Danny's hands are roaming, kneading Steve's shoulder and carding through his wet hair, fingers warm against his scalp, and when Steve slides his mouth away to get at Danny's throat, Danny says, "What is this haircut, huh? This is not good grooming, Steven."
Steve knows it's too long, and a little lopsided, curling haphazardly at the nape of his neck, but he also figures that what Danny's really doing is cataloging the differences, because he's been doing the same thing-noting the dark circles under Danny's eyes, the thumbnail that's been bitten down to the quick. "You can take me to your barber," Steve says, scraping his teeth against the stubble under Danny's jaw because it makes Danny shiver every time, because he wants to make sure it still makes Danny shiver.
It does-Danny shudders, mutters, "Don't think I won't," but he presses closer to Steve and grates out, like he can't help it, "God, I missed-" Steve kisses him hard, because if Danny says it, Steve's going to say it, and Steve's afraid it will come screaming out of him. Danny's hard against his hip, and Steve reaches down to touch, to curve his palm around Danny and hold on.
Danny groans quietly, pulls away from Steve's mouth so that he can watch himself sliding in Steve's grip. Steve watches too, and then he watches Danny's face, the way his eyes drift shut, the way his tongue slips out to wet his lips. Steve squeezes on the upstroke, and Danny makes a small, breathy noise in the back of his throat and drags his fingertips over the back of Steve's hand, tender, a feather touch that makes Steve's whole body jerk to attention.
He huffs out a laugh and finds it's hard to suck enough air back into his lungs, and then Danny's rearranging them, saying, "Come here, come here, come on," while he lines them up, while he holds them together and rolls his hips and rests his other hand on Steve's belly, sure and grounding. Steve's hands slip where he tries to get a grip on Danny's skin, slick with sweat, and he feels his own skin prickling all over, like every nerve ending is plugged in, like every part of him is tuned in to Danny's frequency. He reaches down again just in time to tangle his fingers with Danny's and feel himself spill hot over both of them, and Danny gasps out, "God, Steve," and follows him.
The sheets are damp anyway, so Steve uses a corner to wipe them off before wrapping his arms tight around Danny. "Beers later," Danny murmurs, pressing his lips to the side of Steve's head, right where he knows there's a patch of gray, and he laughs and shakes both of them, shakes the whole bed when Steve says, "Sure, yeah, Danno. They're on me."
Danny drops him off at home, says he'll be back soon, watches while Steve levers himself out of the passenger seat. He waits until Steve's punched in the alarm code and let himself inside before he drives off again, and then it's just Steve and the clothes on his back and the quiet, musty house. He wanted to ask Danny to stay, wanted to tug him out of the car and keep him close, but he gets that Danny's probably giving him some time to get his head straight.
What that means, Steve's not sure. He's on autopilot when he throws open the living room windows, letting in the breeze, but the wash of salty air makes it easier to breathe. He heads to the kitchen to do the same thing and sees that there's fresh fruit on the counter, mangoes and papayas piled up in bowls, and that Danny's stocked the fridge with beers. The mangoes are so ripe that he can smell them, and it makes his mouth water; he can think of a hundred things he should be doing right now, but suddenly this is the only thing he wants to do. He peels one over the sink, eats it slice by slice, closes his eyes against the burst of sweetness on his tongue, the feeling of sticky juice dripping between his fingers, the solid weight of the paring knife in his hand.
And then he knows what's next-Danny probably knew, too, and Steve holds onto that thought while he finds trunks in the laundry room, peels out of everything he's wearing, kicking the pile toward the washer, pulls them on and jogs down to the beach.
The water's warm, buoying him, and when he dives under where it's cooler, holding his breath for as long as he can and surfacing again, he finally feels like he's coming back to himself.
He swims hard and fast after that, and he has to fight the urge to keep going, farther and farther out, away from everything. He makes himself turn around, and when he does, he can just see a speck on the shore. And now it's easy to head back, a mantra of Danny, Danny, Danny running through his head in time with every stroke and kick.
Danny's waiting for him at the edge of the water, and even though Steve's dripping, Danny pulls him into a hug, pulls him flush against Danny's body, and in a day that's already overwhelmed him with sensation, this is the best yet. Danny's skin is warm through his shirt, and his mouth is hot when he pulls Steve's head down and licks his way in. "You found the mangoes," he murmurs, and Steve doesn't know whether it's because he saw the evidence in the sink or because he can taste it on Steve's tongue. Steve clutches at him, says, "Thank you," and he means everything, everything he's wanted more than ripe fruit or cold beer or the tug of the ocean.
They pull apart long enough to stumble toward the house, Danny making a face as he plucks at his damp clothes, but Steve's going to get him out of them as soon as he possibly can, so he really, really doesn't care.
He pauses at the door to brush the worst of the sand off his feet, and he has to swallow hard when he looks up and sees Danny tugging his tie loose. He says, "Ah, ah!" holding out a hand and backing away when Steve advances, draping it carefully over the back of a chair before he lets Steve hustle him upstairs.
The bedroom window's open, too, when they get up there, curtains billowing, and the quilt and sheets are pulled back, and Steve has to grin when he sees it. "Aw, Danny, my very own turndown service."
He bites back the rest of what he's about to say, a joke about Danny going into hotel work if this police gig doesn't work out, shying away from the thought as soon as he has it, too close to what could have happened, and Danny's talking over him anyway, saying, "Shut up, okay, I just didn't want you to get distracted from the task at hand, here," gesturing between them and the bed. He's a little pink, like maybe he got caught out being sentimental or something equally embarrassing, but he's right, Steve doesn't want to be distracted from this, from Danny, so he skims out of his wet trunks and says, voice coming out rougher than he means for it to, "Yeah, okay."
Danny just stares at him for a second-Steve knows the feeling, doesn't want to stop looking at Danny, doesn't want to stop touching him. "Danny, come on," he urges, and it kicks his brain back into gear, gets Danny unbuttoning and unzipping and tumbling Steve down onto the bed.
Steve kisses him again, slides his hands to either side of Danny's face and holds him where he wants him. Danny's hands are roaming, kneading Steve's shoulder and carding through his wet hair, fingers warm against his scalp, and when Steve slides his mouth away to get at Danny's throat, Danny says, "What is this haircut, huh? This is not good grooming, Steven."
Steve knows it's too long, and a little lopsided, curling haphazardly at the nape of his neck, but he also figures that what Danny's really doing is cataloging the differences, because he's been doing the same thing-noting the dark circles under Danny's eyes, the thumbnail that's been bitten down to the quick. "You can take me to your barber," Steve says, scraping his teeth against the stubble under Danny's jaw because it makes Danny shiver every time, because he wants to make sure it still makes Danny shiver.
It does-Danny shudders, mutters, "Don't think I won't," but he presses closer to Steve and grates out, like he can't help it, "God, I missed-" Steve kisses him hard, because if Danny says it, Steve's going to say it, and Steve's afraid it will come screaming out of him. Danny's hard against his hip, and Steve reaches down to touch, to curve his palm around Danny and hold on.
Danny groans quietly, pulls away from Steve's mouth so that he can watch himself sliding in Steve's grip. Steve watches too, and then he watches Danny's face, the way his eyes drift shut, the way his tongue slips out to wet his lips. Steve squeezes on the upstroke, and Danny makes a small, breathy noise in the back of his throat and drags his fingertips over the back of Steve's hand, tender, a feather touch that makes Steve's whole body jerk to attention.
He huffs out a laugh and finds it's hard to suck enough air back into his lungs, and then Danny's rearranging them, saying, "Come here, come here, come on," while he lines them up, while he holds them together and rolls his hips and rests his other hand on Steve's belly, sure and grounding. Steve's hands slip where he tries to get a grip on Danny's skin, slick with sweat, and he feels his own skin prickling all over, like every nerve ending is plugged in, like every part of him is tuned in to Danny's frequency. He reaches down again just in time to tangle his fingers with Danny's and feel himself spill hot over both of them, and Danny gasps out, "God, Steve," and follows him.
The sheets are damp anyway, so Steve uses a corner to wipe them off before wrapping his arms tight around Danny. "Beers later," Danny murmurs, pressing his lips to the side of Steve's head, right where he knows there's a patch of gray, and he laughs and shakes both of them, shakes the whole bed when Steve says, "Sure, yeah, Danno. They're on me."