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When Steve finally gets his brain in gear again, he scans his mirrors, but Joe's gone. He slides the truck into drive and hits the gas hard. The squeal of the rear tires grabbing traction sends a savage buzz down his back and into his groin. He ducks forward, checking as best he can for headlights headed his way before he slides the truck left through the next red light and guns down Pali Highway to hit the Lunalilo. He rides the left lane, passing on the right when he has to, driving well over the limit. The radar beeps a K band warning and he takes his foot off the accelerator, but doesn't hit the brakes.
The cop, parked on an on-ramp, is looking down at his laptop and as soon as he's by him, Steve takes off again. The surface streets are empty through his neighborhood and before long he pulls into his drive. The house is dark and empty. He lets the engine idle, but this isn't where he wants to be. He swipes the drying sweat off his face with his sleeve and then scruffs his fingers through his hair. This isn't what he wants. He wants Danny. Wants his harsh breath and his rough hands and his damnation.
He wheels the truck around and back out onto the street. The Hilton is less than fifteen minutes away. He parks way out, in the back of the lot that fronts the ballrooms. He climbs out and opens the rear door. Places his gun and badge on the seat and then strips off his vest and thigh holster and stows them under the rear seat, where they can't be seen through the window. Although his personal Sig is nestled inside his waistband at his lower back, and he's got a Walther on his ankle, he settles his service gun into its clip on holster and places it on his belt; slides his badge into his rear pocket; grabs the short sleeve button-up on the seat and slips it on to cover the gun. He doesn't need security flashing him tonight.
He stops after he slams the door shut, his thumb hovering over the lock button on his key. Danny will be pissed. Even though Steve stayed to the bitter end and cleaned up his own mess with having dropped Sutherland to his death... God, Steve can still feel the jacket tearing in his hand. It took so fucking long to finally break away. His left shoulder aches from where he tried to brace it on the crossbar above him for leverage and he couldn't- he couldn't do it, he had no strength and it had hurt like a bitch, but if he could have held on... The horn honks, startling Steve out of his thoughts. He stares at his thumb pressed hard on the key and the truck's lights flash, blinding him.
Danny.
He shakes his head and heads towards the huge, double doors of the Conference Center entrance. It's almost cold inside, the air conditioners kicked on high. The endless, wide hall stinks faintly of chemical carpet cleaner and makes his eyes burn. There are people huddled in groups of two and three among the detritus of their long business day. Steve keeps his head down and walks fast. The escalators take him up to the lobby level and the nearest elevators to the Aliki Tower. Danny's in a smaller suite now, but the Hilton likes having Five-0 on hand, so they swung him a sweet deal in return for being at their beck and call when off-duty. Neither he nor Steve wants that deal drawn out for very long, but until Danny finds whatever the hell he's looking for in a place to live, at least it's not a shit hole and at least Steve has his nights to himself again.
Like he wants them. Like he wants the aftertaste of bile in his throat every time he climbs the stairs or the reminder that brings of Gracie huddled on the ground behind Danny's legs. Like he wants the empty space on the floor that greets him every time he opens the damn door, where he had felt Danny hard against him, almost felt whole for all of twenty seconds before Danny shoved off and ran away.
To the Hilton.
The elevator doors open and Steve strides out.
He's been okay, been able to accept Danny's reluctance. Danny might not think so, but Steve has been blown off before. He just never really cared about it before. This is different. He's never actually craved somebody's company in the way he craves Danny's. And he knows what the word 'craves' actually means. He has craved oxygen and meat and that one time, water. He remembers the swollen dryness of his throat, the burning lead ball wedged against his diaphragm, the dry rub of his eyelids, the ache that rode him. Danny's water right now. Steve needs the weight of his presence, the depth of his voice, the caress of his gaze . He wonders if Danny even knows how often his eyes land on some part of Steve, so that the heat of Danny's regard soaks into his skin, reminds him that he's home, not somewhere lost in the world- out there.
Danny.
He's walked four doors past Danny's and he spins on his heel and backtracks, but then can't make himself knock. There's a murmur from the room, the TV on low. The elevator rumbles to a stop and the doors open again, disgorging a young woman who looks both ways down the hall before she sets her face with determination and comes his way with confidence, dragging her little pink suitcase behind her. She hesitates only minutely before she plows on by him, trailing a sweet, citrus scent, and it's only then that he realizes she might be scared of him as he stands there loitering in the hall.
He offers a belated 'hey', that comes out as a grunt and knocks hard on Danny's door. In his peripheral vision, he can see the woman turning to look back at him once she's found her room. She struggles with the keycard and he glances over at the same time she checks on his location again. Reaching for the handle, he crowds into Danny's door and knocks again. “Danny,” he calls, trying to keep his voice soft, but it comes out harsh and a little too loud for after midnight. He lays his palm flat on the door. He's sweating again, his skin hot enough he wishes he could shed it like his vest. “Danny, hey, Danny.” His throat closes up. He slaps the door, just as the handle drops under his hand. A rush of cool air hits his face as he jerks back.
Danny scowls at him.
Steve thrusts his body at the narrow opening, one hand on the frame and one on the door, but Danny just steps back, giving way, pulling the door with him, so that Steve stumbles on the lack of resistance, falling into the room.
“What the fuck,” Danny says as he closes the door and Steve's turning around to face him.
His hair is down over his ears, swooping in an arch above his forehead and draping one stubbled cheek. All he's wearing are boxers. He shoves his hair off his face, crosses his arms over his bare chest and leans back against the door. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what, Danny,” Steve challenges before he thinks not to.
Danny just shakes his head. “Why are you here?”
Steve opens his mouth, but the words clog in his throat. Sighing, Danny kicks off the door to brush past him, but Steve grabs his arm. The world stops spinning and Steve can feel the ground beneath his feet for the first time in hours.
“Don't, Steve,” Danny growls. “I'm going to pour us a drink while you wash up.”
It's like he has to tear his fingers off one by one, but Danny just waits for him to get it done, staring past the couch and cluttered round table at the window, covered in black out drapes. What Steve wants is to hold on tighter. He doesn't even want sex or whatever it is Danny thinks he's come for- he just wants Danny.
He forces his feet past the tiny kitchenette and into the bedroom. The TV is on, throwing its wavering light over the king bed, covered in a tangle of sheets, the comforter in a heap and hanging half off the mattress and onto the floor. Edging into the bathroom, he picks Danny's wet towel off the counter and tosses it over the shower rod before he lowers the seat on the toilet and sits down, his elbows on his knees, and takes a couple of shallow breaths before he can force a deeper one- fill his lungs all the way. He can feel Danny in the next room. His heart beat, which he hadn't even realized was fast, slows. His hands are shaking.
After a couple of minutes of steeping, his body decides he needs a piss after all, so he takes care of that
and then washes his hands and splashes cold water on his face. He dries off with a washcloth and then wipes his neck. He looks pale and thin under the fluorescents and there are large dark circles under his eyes. Maybe Danny has a point with all the nagging and harping and putting food down in front of him whenever he sits down.
When he comes back out, Danny's on the couch with his feet on the coffee table. Steve loiters in the bedroom doorway, trying to decide if he should sit next to Danny or at the table by the window, covered in papers and a half-case of water. Convincing Danny that Hawaii's tap water is the best in the nation and cleaner than the bottled stuff will be the work of a lifetime. How he can't just taste the difference is beyond Steve. Maybe his taste buds were ruined in Jersey.
“For god's sake, Steven, sit the hell down,” Danny complains, slashing his hand through the air.
As Steve steps into the room all the way, Danny scoots over a little. Steve takes the hint and flops down next to him. The couch isn't big, but they still aren't using all of it. Sitting thigh to thigh, Danny's shoulder close enough he can feel the heat coming off him, the knot in Steve's chest gives and air rushes into his lungs so fast he almost chokes on it. Danny offers him the tumbler of amber liquid in his hand. Tilting it to his mouth, he breathes in the familiar, reassuring smell of whiskey. It burns all the way down into his belly before it spreads out in a pool of easy.
They pass the glass back and forth for a few minutes. Danny leans forward and snags the bottle off the floor, Jameson's, and pours another two fingers before he finally speaks.
“Is this because of Owen Sutherland or something else?”
That tearing sensation ripples across Steve's fingers and palm and he closes his hand into a fist against it, seeing again the way the rebar rose from Sutherland's chest, blood unfurling like petals around a stem. He wants to tell Danny about Joe, how furious he is with the man, wants to tell him about wrapping his arm around a man's neck, the push of his muscles against Steve's own throat as he held on, about literally firing into the dark and still managing to hit his target, how he left him alive only because of Danny's voice in his head, about how pissed Adam Noshimori is now and how they need to watch each other's backs just that much more. But Danny's already wary when it comes to Joe and Shelburne and Steve doesn't want to hear it just now.
“Steve.”
“Yeah,” Steve offers.
“Yeah,” Danny sighs. “You are just a fount of information, aren't you. Hold this,” he adds, shoving the glass back at Steve. He gets up and snags a bottle of water and bends over the far chair while he talks, rustling around before he comes up with granola bars. “I'll bet you didn't eat, and I'll bet this little visit has more to do with your covert investigation and Joe White than about that bastard, Sutherland. Don't bother with the 'I can neither confirm or deny' line, I already know you're talking more to Chin than you are to me.”
He drops back down on the couch. “Finish that and then drink this,” he demands, cracking the cap on the water and holding it out. Steve obediently swallows the whiskey and exchanges the glass for the water. Danny rips one of the granola bars open with his teeth and Steve can't tear his eyes away, thinking of the condoms in the glove compartment of his trunk. “Stop it with that face. Drink the damn water.”
Steve holds his hands up in surrender and drinks half the damn water.
“I don't know why they think they have to make such strong wrappers.” Danny hands him the naked granola bar and strips the wrapper from other. “It's not like a mouse can't still chew through it and if I can't get the damn things open, imagine some ten-year-old or an old guy trying to get a little sustenance in the middle of their day.”
“Sustenance?” Steve repeats and leans back into the sofa.
“Yeah, y'know, the stuff you've rarely been partaking in as of late.”
“I eat, Danny,” Steve says, taking a huge bite of the granola bar even as his stomach rolls from the odor.
Danny nods, his mouth full of the dry granola. “Not enough.”
Steve concentrates on chewing. He takes a swig of water to help wash it down. “I had oatmeal, two sandwiches, an apple, and this,” he says, holding up the rest of the granola bar.
“I rest my case,” Danny retorts and grabs the water back. He takes two swallows and hands it back.
Steve finishes it. They eat the rest of their bars in silence. In the bedroom, the volume of the TV ebbs and flows with the commercials. It sounds like the ocean to Steve's ear, and he relaxes a little, the tension releasing in fits and starts. Danny retrieves another bottle, sips out of it and hands it over. Steve raises his brows, accepting it.
His chest is kind of hollow and swirly, which doesn't help the low, tight ache he's been carrying in his belly since he pointed his truck towards the Hilton in the first place. So Danny's not okay with kissing, but he'll share his spit in other ways. Steve's dick doesn't think there's much difference, apparently. He shifts, stretching his legs out to relieve the pressure a little.
Danny pokes his chin out as he sits back down. Steve rolls his eyes and drinks more water. Danny grins at him and refills the tumbler. Steve lets his gaze follow Danny's first sip as it passes his lips, watches his adam's apple bob as he swallows, the tip of his tongue as he licks a bead of whiskey off the edge of his upper lip, catches Danny's sideways glance as he notices Steve's focus.
“So, you're not going to tell me,” he says, settling back.
Steve looks down. He fingers the bottle sitting between his legs. The tumbler appears over his thigh, startling a laugh out of him. “No, Danny, I'm not, and that's not going to help.” And fuck it if Danny can't handle him. Ignoring the glass, he takes Danny's wrist, turning as he pulls Danny forward and slides his other hand to the back of Danny's neck.
He's already opening his mouth as he pulls Danny into the kiss, his tongue demanding entrance, but Danny doesn't resist, just opens his mouth, their teeth clashing. Steve eases his grip on Danny's neck to adjust their angle and then lets himself gets lost in the wet heat, Danny's tongue sliding over his and licking into his mouth, tasting of oats and whiskey and something indefinably Danny that Steve needs more than he needs their friendship or his job or the illusion of his heterosexuality.
Danny breaks the kiss and pressing his palm flat to Steve's chest to keep him at arm's length, takes a deep breath with his eyes closed. Steve waits, conscious of the rapid, shallow rise of his chest under the firm weight of Danny's hand. His arousal twists and burns, a living fire writhing in his gut. He's so hard already that he aches with the need to move. He doesn't, just closes his fingers a little tighter on Danny's wrist, on his neck, his fingers slipping a little against the sweat Danny's broken just from overworking his brain.
“You're thinking too hard about this,” Steve whispers.
Danny swallows and then opens his eyes and Steve wishes he hadn't. He doesn't know what to do with that look, has never... it hurts. It hurts. He knocks Danny's hand away and captures his mouth, half-standing to shove Danny onto his back and then sinking to cover him, hips moving already, finally, finding enough relief that Steve can focus again on Danny's mouth, Danny's fingers digging into his biceps, his ass, the harsh upward thrust of Danny's body against his as Danny digs his heels into the couch to bring them together.
He can feel the ripple of Danny's abs, the hard, hard slide of his cock, the tip catching on his hip, the wiggle-push that gets them centered again as Danny gets their legs untangled and wraps both his around Steve's thighs, pinning him where they both need to be. He rolls his hips with a shimmy-shove that takes Steve's breath. Ripping his mouth from Danny's, he gasps for air, buries his face in Danny's neck, hearing the 'fuck' that peels itself from his throat. Saying it feels so fucking good, takes the sharpest edge off as he chases his need. “Fuck,” he groans again. “Fuck, Danny.”
Danny hushes him, fingers curling into his hair, scratching his scalp. Steve sucks in the skin under his chin, bites into Danny's neck and Danny throws his head back on a strangled cry, rolls up into him hard. Steve wants to mark him, can't stand the want, need, take coursing through him with Danny trapped beneath him. He wants more, but can't make himself stop enough to get it, doesn't want the separation of more, instead trying to get closer, doesn't understand until Danny's breath on his collarbone makes him shudder, that he's stretched himself out, that he's rutting, that he's already gone, gone, gone.
“Christ,” Danny hisses and draws him impossibly closer, goes still, every muscle rigid and Steve can feel him, can feel Danny pulse against him as he comes. Steve grasps for brain cells, rocks his hips slow. Pleasure jolts in almost painful bursts across his every nerve ending as Danny moves with him. After a minute, he gives, sinks into the couch under Steve's weight, mouthing an open kiss at the juncture of Steve's neck and shoulder.
Steve shifts and Danny lifts his head to meet his mouth. The kiss is languid and slow and lasts years and years. Danny comes up for air and Steve whispers swear words against his lips at the heat that's already condensing again, winding itself into coils he knows will spiral tighter and tighter.
Danny bites at his lower lip, licks into his mouth again before he breaks the kiss for real and shoves enough to get Steve rolled against the back of the couch so that they are both on their sides. Steve squirms, getting comfortable.
“No, uh-huh,” Danny says, actually working himself free of Steve's grip. He scrambles a bit until he's sitting and then rubs his face, swipes his hair back. He plucks the tumbler from the carpet and sets it on the table.
Steve sighs, cold already in the draft from the air vent blowing down on them. “Danny.”
“I don't want to hear it. Get up. Take your fucking guns off.”
“What?”
Danny turns, grabbing the front of his tee and pulls as he stands. Steve has no choice but to go with him. Danny yanks at the clip on his service holster with his left hand, pulling it off Steve's belt. He wraps his right around Steve's waist, fingers scrabbling. Steve doesn't know what to do with his hands. He puts one on Danny's shoulder to steady himself and reaches back to catch Danny's hand in his. “Danny,” he says, trying for calming, but it comes out hoarse.
Danny leans into him, forehead to his chest.
Letting go of his hand, Steve tugs the holster holding the little Sig out of his waistband. He pushes Danny back a step, holds it out and Danny takes it. Bending, he unstraps his ankle and then hands that gun over, too. Danny won't look at him, just nods. He backs away, goes around the coffee table and into the bedroom.
Bewildered, maybe a little bit dizzy from the whiskey and sex, Steve just stands there. He shouldn't have come. Danny already said he didn't want this, but Steve can never leave well enough alone. Can't leave the best thing that's ever happened to him alone, can't revel in having a best friend, a partner he knows better than anyone else he's ever known- he always has to push the boundaries, whether it's shutting down or opening up. He's never let anyone so far in and he wants it right back, but Danny doesn't. Danny barricaded the door last time and just because Steve's used a battering ram to take him down tonight doesn't mean Danny wants it.
“Stop,” Danny demands and Steve jumps, opening his eyes as he steps back. Danny's standing right in front of him. “Stop beating yourself up.”
“But...”
Danny rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Stop.”
Whatever it is that washes over him is stronger than a barrel wave and Steve closes himself against it, squeezing his eyes shut as his hands fist. He's nearly panting against the pressure in his chest. A little distressed huff of sound escapes Danny, but he doesn't say anything. His hands close warm and firm on Steve's arms, long enough to ground him; brush his chest, his face, his lips. And then he's gone.
Steve takes deep breaths and tries to unclench his fists and listens to Danny moving around in the bedroom. The water starts in the shower. Steve releases his muscles, one by one. Starting with his toes and working his way up. He jumps again and hisses when Danny's hand lands between his shoulder blades. Danny pulls at the shoulders of his over shirt until Steve shrugs out of it, and then lifts the back of his tee. Steve frowns and tries to turn, but Danny shoves at his shoulder and tugs at the shirt again. Taking the hint, Steve raises his arms, lets Danny strip it off him. It falls at his feet. Pressing a kiss to Steve's back, Danny crowds him and unbuckles his belt, and then unbuttons the cargos. “Strip, I'll meet you in the shower.”
Steve waits until he hears the slide of the shower curtain and then carefully folds himself until he's sitting on the couch, uncomfortably aware his belly is damp and sticky. He unties his boots and toes them off, willing his brain to static, shoving away every thought that boils up. Strips his socks before he stands to hook his thumbs in his briefs and push them down with his cargos. He kicks his boots under the coffee table and snatches all his clothes up to dump them in a pile on the couch.
The familiar shape of his knife under his fingers has him liberating it. He wonders where Danny put his guns. Checking that the hotel door is locked, as useless as that is, he pads past the open door of the bathroom, listening for Danny, but he can't hear anything above the irregular splash of water. All three guns are visible, one on the nightstand, above the drawer Steve is sure Danny has placed his own in, and two are on the dresser. Easy to reach.
The fluttering in Steve's belly smooths itself out, but his pounding heart is still beating in his throat. He eases into the bathroom. The steam rolling over the curtain is soft and clings to his lungs and skin, warming him. He sets the knife down without a sound, not wanting Danny mad at him right away.
“Stop lurking, McGarrett.”
Startled, Steve huffs out his breath, irritated that he's so jumpy. Everything spooks him these days. It's like everything's just a little too sudden- too loud, too bright, too fast, too much. He knows it's episodic, that'll he'll get past it again, but it pisses him off. Stepping to the back of the tub, he rips the curtain open harder than he intends.
Danny's standing with his back to him, his hands against the wall and the hot spray beating a red patch at the base of his neck and over his shoulder blades. He straightens as Steve steps in, giving him room, and turns, knocking the shower head up with one hand, so that the spray hits Steve mid-torso. He flinches. It's hotter than he normally sets it.
“Here,” Danny says, offering Steve a mini-bottle of shampoo.
Reaching out, Steve takes it, not knowing what it is he's supposed to be doing here, what he's supposed to be feeling. Danny leans a shoulder into the corner and looks for all the world like he's completely at ease. Steve can't help looking at him. All of him. Wide temples to square jaw and graceful, bull neck. Defined chest and biceps tapering down to a pleasing lattice of abs and narrow hips. His dick is thick and at half-mast, curving full and hanging to the left over his well-formed sack. Rounded quads drop off his pelvic groove in a firm curve above wide, sturdy knees and gorgeous calves and strong, blunt feet.
When his eyes wander back up, Danny grins at him. He steps into the spray, reclaiming the shampoo, and pulls Steve's head down. Steve lets him work the mild soap into his scalp, thinking he'll step back any second now, but his body won't move once Danny has his hands on him. Steve knows just when Danny realizes Steve's not going to do much but stand there. His hands slow down. They gentle until Danny's stroking his head and neck more than scrubbing. He tugs a little, until Steve ducks down a little farther and Danny can rinse the suds away. He takes up the tiny little bar of soap and runs it over Steve's shoulders while Steve watches him concentrate.
He covers every inch of Steve's body, save the soles of his feet, because Steve doesn't move, letting Danny press into him to reach his back, delve down between his legs. He shivers, fingers hard on Danny's hips as Danny's fingertips trail over his perineum, brush his balls, before he steps back, soaps his sack properly, closes his fingers around Steve's hardening dick and jacks it with a couple of slow slides of his hand. To keep from falling over from the sheer torment, Steve has to widen his stance when he tilts his head back, finally closing his eyes to Danny's slow frontal assault, but Danny doesn't linger, just runs his hands on up, over his belly and chest, scratches over his nipples in a way that makes Steve bite his lip, trying to still the quiver that racks him.
The water's not such a shock this time when Danny turns sideways, lets the spray ease onto him. He chases the soap from Steve's skin with his hands, finally steps back completely, adjusts the shower head so it's actually helpful and makes Steve move his feet, so he can get his back, his ass, his thighs, roughly sluicing it all away before he rinses himself again, ducking and turning, and shuts the water off.
He slides the curtain and steps out, grabbing at a towel hanging over the rack. He wraps it around his waist, covering up his hard-on, and slaps another towel onto Steve's chest. Steve fumbles it, but manages to hang on to it. Danny stalks through the bathroom door without a backward glance. Taking his time and a few deep breaths, Steve dries his back and hair. His eyes catch on his knife, lying right on the edge of the bathroom counter. No wonder Danny seems mad. His dick flags a little, which helps his thought processes tremendously. He needs to get his clothes and go.
But then Danny comes back in fresh boxers and a tee and throws a shirt at him, keeping the boxers in his fist. Steve drops the towel to catch the shirt.
“Stop frowning, it's yours.”
“Mine?”
“Yeah. One of those from the endless supply of Army shirts you have.”
He doesn't mean to raise his brows. They have a life of their own sometimes, he swears.
“Got in with my stuff. What can I say?” He spreads his hands in typical Danny fashion, but he doesn't grin and Steve can't read his expression. Guarded, is the word that comes to him. His tone is pure pissiness.
“Are you mad about the knife?”
Danny's gaze flickers to it, but he shakes his head.
Steve thinks his body's finally catching on, Danny's attitude acting as a dampener, until he pulls on the tee, and holds his hand out for the boxers. Danny's not looking at him, instead he's eyeing the way he's hanging below the shirt and Steve's knees threaten to buckle, his blood rushes downward so fast. In seconds, he's hard again, all of his attention riveted on the sudden change in Danny's face. He wants what that look promises- to be laid open, flayed raw, bruised in ways he'll still be feeling this time tomorrow. “Why are you so pissed?”
Danny waves his hand between them. And yes, Steve is aware that Danny said they weren't doing this. But they have. They are. Just the thought makes Steve's dick throb. He brushes his hand over it, faintly embarrassed under Danny's silent scrutiny. He shifts, the puddle left in the tub is cold on his feet. Heat rises in his chest and face as he's reminded of the stroke of Danny's hands on him just minutes ago.
Straightening his shoulders, Steve holds his head up a little higher. To show himself off, he reaches overhand to pull the shirt back off and throw it back at Danny, who doesn't even attempt to catch it, just stares back at him, his jaw clenched tight. “I'm more experienced than you think.”
Danno doesn't give an inch, doesn't blink, doesn't open his mouth. Steve can play this game. He crosses his arms, and settles his weight through his hips, trying to ignore his erection. Danny's gaze has weight to it as it slides back down his body, as firm as a caress. Steve shivers.
“You don't know what you're doing,” Danny murmurs.
To me, Steve hears in his head, as clearly as if Danny had finished his sentence. “I do.”
“Come here, then.”
The command in Danny's voice is clear and reminds Steve of the bruises around his wrists from last time. He drops his arms, skimming the skin of his right wrist with his thumb. His breath hitches, but he goes, steps out of the tub and stops in front of Danny.
Steve isn't really clear, later, on how they end up kissing. Steve thinks he could be happy even if all Danny ever gave him was his mouth. Danny breaks the kiss, nips at Steve's lower lip and sinks down onto his knees right there to take Steve in one long slide, his tongue swirling along the underside and up over the head. He pulls off and Steve gasps, breathless. Licking his lips, Danny anchors a hand on his hip and takes hold of the base of Steve's dick with the other before sucking him in again. Steve bites his lip and tries to concentrate on the softness of Danny's hair beneath his hands. God, he's already come tonight, it shouldn't be this hard not to lose it again, not this soon.
Danny scrapes his teeth upward and Steve's hips buck in reaction just as Danny plunges downward again. The back of Danny's throat hits him. Hands closing into fists, he stops himself, still deep. Danny warns him off with a sound that vibrates right up through his spine. “Fuck,” Steve growls back. It takes him a second to ease his grip.
Pulling off and standing in one motion, Danny shoves him back with both hands. Steve holds his ground, still dazed.
“Say it,” Danny dares him. “If you know what you want. Say it out loud.”
And Steve does know what he wants. It's what he always wants when he feels like this, when his skin's sandpaper scraping every muscle and nerve and he can't sleep and he's actually happy the nightmares are riding him hard because that usually keeps the flashbacks at bay. But he has only rarely gotten what he wants. And never has he asked someone he knows to give it to him. Danny won't give it to him if he doesn't look him in the eye when he asks, this he knows, right down through his aching dick and his own slow-building anger at Danny making this so hard. “Want you to fuck me.”
Danny's eyes narrow, but he's quick enough, reined in enough, to not show his surprise. Steve clenches his jaw shut on the thought that scorches his throat, keeps it inside, swallows it down instead.
“Bed,” Danny orders, stepping aside.
***
They've only slept a couple of hours when Steve starts awake. The dream fades fast; with just the echo of a chopper overhead left in his inner ear. He rolls over to check the time and finds Danny in his face, breathing deep, with his lips parted. Steve can trace each and every vein under the faint pink cast of his eyelids, count every lash. His eyes are deep set under thick brows that naturally arch- Steve curls his fingers shut to stop himself from reaching out to trace them. But then he thinks better of it, wants to see Danny's lids slide open to reveal the ocean blue of his eyes. He wants Danny looking at him. Seeing him.
Closing his own eyes briefly against the surge of desire that sweeps him, Steve touches Danny. Traces one fingertip over one brow. Over his temple, over the rough stubble of his cheek, across the pout of his lips, one and then the other. Danny's breathing changes and he closes his mouth, but his eyes don't open. Steve huffs out a breath. Strokes his fingers through Danny's hair, slides his palm over his shoulder, down his bent arm to run his fingertips over Danny's wrist, onto his palm. Danny straightens his fingers. Steve grins and obliges, keeping his touch feather light as he traces each one.
He runs his hand back up, and continues to follow Danny's lines, down his flank, the groove of his hip, onto his belly, where he hits Danny's hard-on. It's velvety smooth down into the wiry hair of his sack. Steve rolls each heavy ball between his fingers and Danny groans, trying not to grin, but doesn't open his eyes. Steve kisses him, expecting resistance, but Danny opens his mouth, kisses him back sloppy and deep, curls in at the same time, tangles their legs together so that they're belly to belly, Steve's hand still between them, now closed around Danny.
Steve can't breathe; he wants. He wants so bad. Wants to be inside Danny's skin, wants his heat and his energy and his words lapping over him. His hips stutter and Danny knows, he knows, because he pours more into their kiss, drags his arm up from underneath them and wraps it around Steve's neck, his other arm a hot brand across Steve's back and ass, drawing him in, holding him tight so that he can't really move, can't pull away to do more than just rock against him as Danny rocks into his fist. But then Danny breaks the kiss, breathes into Steve's ear.
“You, too,” he gasps. “Damn it, Steve.” He's pushing at his hip, trying to make room between them.
Steve leans back and Danny slides his hand in, around Steve's, gives a little moan and pants as their hands ride his shaft together. After a minute, he holds the motion of his hand and Steve stops, confused. He pulls his head back and there are Danny's blue eyes, seeing him. He scrunches his shut as his balls and lower back tighten. Beating it back, he glares back at Danny, because Danny's glaring at him.
“Fuck, Steven, really?” Danny grates out.
He relaxes his hand and strokes Steve's fist. Steve looks down at Danny's fingers. Danny groans and strokes up hard. As he draws back, Steve loosens his grip and their fingers slot together like puzzle pieces. Danny squeezes his fingers tight against Steve's and opens his hand, forcing Steve to follow his motion. Capturing Steve's dick against his, Danny presses them together, his head tipping back on their shared gasp. Steve breaks into a sweat, his heart thudding. Danny's fever-hot against him. He pushes slowly up into their hands, taking Steve with him, and oh, the twist that turns Steve's insides out.
Danny relinquishes his hold, letting Steve take them both fully in hand. Fuck. He can so do this. Danny's licking into Steve's mouth, even as he tugs Steve in closer again, and Steve focuses for a second, deepens the kiss as he establishes a motion he can sustain for a while. He jerks them off slow, until Danny's making breathy little noises against his neck and it's hard for Steve to keep a rhythm because they're both pumping, crashing into each other, and shit, well shit, his head is nothing but dazzling brightness. His whole body clenches, and he's spilling, shuddering, pulling Danny in tighter just before he goes rock hard and still against him. Steve finds his hand through his haze, makes it move and Danny comes, hot spurts coating Steve's fist and belly, head thrown back, mouth open on a soundless shout that makes Steve's heart lurch.
He kicks up, hard and fast, finding Danny's hands as he takes him over onto his back, pins them above Danny's head and kisses him, steals his breath and tongue and his own name until they re-surface. They move together, in lazy, long thrusts, against the wet hot slide of them. When they eventually settle, drowsy and satisfied, Steve rolls onto his own back, leaving their heads together on one pillow as they both contemplate the light fingering through the drapes onto the ceiling.
He's gonna be sore, today. His shoulder really hurts. There's a low ache deep in his belly and both thighs. It's been years since he last indulged and Danny took him at his word, taking him deep and hard. He shivers, thinking about it and Danny finds his hand, laces their fingers together.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” Steve mumbles. The effort of speaking seems too much.
“You kill me, babe.” He shifts, squeezes Steve's hand once. “No. Don't tell me. I don't want to know. I really, really do not want to know. I do want to know what the fuck happened last night, though.”
So Steve tells him, using the fewest words he possibly can. Tells him about finding Joe's phone, his impromptu raid on Adam Noshimori's house, how Joe's stonewalling him. He doesn't tell Danny that Joe helped Hiro Noshimori fake his own death. He closes his mouth before the details can take his hard-won peace from him, though he can't really stop it now. Sutherland's blank eyes, staring up at him just like Jenna's, the searing agony of the cattle prod locking him up, his own insane amusement when he realized Wo Fat had no idea who or what Shelburne might be.
Joe knows. Steve's certain of it now. Almost certain. Fuck. He can have Chin put one of his cousins on Joe's apartment. Find out when he's done holing up and starts in again.
“Hey. Hey,” Danny says- right in his face. He's leaning up over him, one hand flat on his chest.
Steve shakes his head and then pulls Danny down for a kiss. “I should go,” he says against his lips and then kisses him again. “I need to swing by the house before work.” He needs to go run, but he knows Danny won't let him leave if he says that.
Danny lets him up, and then stretches out in the bed, groaning.
When Steve's collected his guns and knife and pulled on the clean, balled up Navy tee in the bathroom and found the boxers Danny had offered him and reclaimed his cargoes and boots and shirts, he stands in the doorway of the bedroom, not sure if he should say anything else or just let himself out. Danny's on his belly, pillow wadded up in his arms for his head, blonde hair fanned out around his face, but watching him through half-closed lids. “See you in a bit?” Steve offers as good-bye.
“Yeah, babe. I'll be a little late.”
He raises his brows in question, because he wants to know, but they've crossed another sort of line, again, and Steve doesn't know if he's supposed to ask why. If Danny will understand he's just curious, not demanding an explanation as his boss. Though, he does have the right to know. Maybe. A month ago he'd have just flat out asked without thinking. He hates this.
“I'm meeting Gabby for coffee this morning.”
Steve catches his lips before they betray him too much, straightens them, squashes the wince that tries to climb his cheekbone, takes a measured breath and relaxes his throat before he replies. “Okay. Take your time. I'll text you if anything urgent comes up.” He can't control the flush rising as he turns away on hearing his own words.
“Steven,” Danny says after he's got the outer door open, but Steve finishes closing it behind himself, already telling himself that Danny gave him what he needed, and he's grateful for that. He doesn't need more than the high he's still feeling- the easy give of his loosened limbs, the buzz of his anxiety on mute. Danny gave him that and the least he can do for Danny is to let it lie. By the time he hits the Conference Center, he wishes Danny had also given him some Tylenol.
The walk to his truck is ten miles too far.