AU: Trope Minefield

[haole_cop]

He's pretty sure this goes against his contract.

Actually, he's sure it goes against not only his contract, but also the various non-harrassment papers they all have to sign every time some aide in the Governor's office gets a little twitchy.

Like after Lori left. And after he and Gabby...

Well.

So maybe he hasn't made the best choices in the world, in the last few years. Maybe things have been a little extra rough, for him and Steve and the rest of the team, between Doris and Kono wandering around looking for Adam and --

(he doesn't think about Reyes, or about Matt, unless he has to, and he doesn't have to, tonight, so he just skips, like a record needle scratching)

-- well, that building. With the bomb. (And Amber, who -- speaking of bad ideas. Good kid. But a kid.)

Anyway you slice it, they deserve a win, Five-0. All of them do. It's been a hard few years, and they've all taken their lumps.

So when this got served up to them, it seemed too good to be true. Right? Straightforward. Sleek facade concealing sleazy underhanded deals, that first came across Duke's desk for possible fraud and tax evasion, now linked to not one, but two murders -- which means it's theirs, now.

Danny was even happy about it, until it turned out they'd be going in UC, until he's the one pulling open the door, stepping into a wash of air conditioning and dim lighting from Hawaii's sultry Saturday night, until this plan started looking less like recon and more like a heist.

At least this suit still fits.

Comments

[thebesteverseen]

Steve's been here almost an hour and half already.

Officially he's a one-to-two night stand-in, who came with golden, perfect, references, pre-booked by a look/talent request to a fly-over guest meeting for mergers in Hawaii before flying out in another night or two. The kind with deep pockets, who didn't like to be told no. Or had many questions asked about his Business. Or his 'business.'

Officially he's gotten a green pass from the high enough up rat in a pack of workers who was actually sacred shitless enough to come crawl out of the woodwork once two people died. Even these kinds of people, the ones who knew they'd get thrown before the court for it, didn't always want to die, stabbed and gutted in the alley out back, while just trying to get home.

Not that Steve wasn't sure this wasn't the kind of place that made you wonder if they had or hadn't already.


The place is full of faces both that he knows from the surveillance the last few days, and even more than he doesn't know. Not everyone knows it's a front. Some people come for what it says it is on the tin. A safe place for a less than always safe crowd. Some, whose eyes rove just a little too much, or who try to make nice with the staff, the bar tender, obviously know something more, but can't always get into it.

While some just breeze through the front door and the back door in as little time as it takes to cross the room. Hardly a word spoke between themselves and anyone else in here. Even the backdoor bouncer, who looks almost nothing like one in his perfectly generic, but fitted, black tux. But Steve knows that look without trying.

The span of his shoulders. The bored slouch he could throw into action at a moments notice. Made to be a brick wall.



Steve's got a glass of red wine, a second, that he's not bull rushing through by any means, when he finally spots Danny at the edge of the crowd. Noticable posture and the light catching his hair. There's an urge to catch his eye, but Steve bites it down. Looking back to the crowd specifically. Even if he'd officially have the man's profile and be on the lookout to do his job. But that's not the game in these places. It's not about being the arrow and showing up on the spot, over eager and naive and obvious as two dollars.

Which isn't what Five-0 needed either. There was some time still.

To case the front crowd for the guy with the few features anyone had reported as the possible suspect.

[haole_cop]

It's only the work of a few glances around to find Steve, but he could pick Steve out of Times Square on New Year's Eve, these days, without even a second look. They've worked together too long, been sucked too often into each other's space. Danny spends more time with Steve than he does by himself. He doesn't even pause to make sure, just lets his eyes keep roaming over the mix of people in the room, while something settles a little relieved into his gut, loosens.

So far, so good.

They've cased this place pretty thoroughly, and they know who -- and what -- they're looking for, in this quiet press of men: dressed sharp and talking lightly, while the room slowly fills with tension, like water is bubbling under the cracks of the doors and threatening them all.

It's a very particular place, for a very particular kind of man. It's not even unlike a few places Danny's allowed himself to look into, in the last few years: everyone here has an agenda. It's simple enough. It's not even the fault of ninety percent of the patrons here that the place will probably end up shutting down and boarding up: most of them are innocent of anything more than wanting a very specific kind of liaison.

But one of them isn't.

He's made a full case of the crowd by the time he finds himself at the bar, but their guy's nowhere to be seen. Still, he leans against the polished wood and gives the room a slow pan, to give Chin and Kono a better look, and reminds himself its still early.

no matter how much he just wants to get out of here, and get a beer, drink it watching the waves off Steve's beach, instead of the scotch he just ordered. Still, it goes with the suit, the look, the persona, the night he already wishes was done, filed away and slid into a drawer for reports tomorrow morning.

Not yet. But he can at least get eyes on Steve again, now that he's in, and settled.

[thebesteverseen]

He can look. It's not out of part for him.

Danny, well-dressed in that grey suit again, making his way through the crowd, sliding between other men as equally well dressed as himself. Earning himself a handful of eyes that follow him once he's passed them, both those with companions already and some who aren't, the second of whom stare even longer. Something rankles at Steve, but it's not new and what's also nowhere near new is that so far Danny doesn't seem to have even noticed. Any of them.

Sure, there's the occasional smile he throws out at passing people. Polite. But no different from the kind he'll slap on for people he's passing when he doesn't have his head stuck in the sand for good or bad reasons. They've all had enough of those to go around. It's not the one that stops people in their tracks yet, which means the job itself is probably catching up with Danny right around the ankles. With ice.

Even though Danny was the one who said to go with it. Who hadn't seemed against the scheme once it was laid out.

They did what they needed to do to get the job done. Keep people alive. Catch a killer. Close a hothouse.



Steve's got the rounds, glass in hand. He smiles at those people who pass him, even tosses some words into it when he needs to. To direct someone where to go, or who just drags him in for a question about himself. He has a telltale to those who know how to spot it, and he notices the exact second people see it, and then start considering him, while he has to pretend he's anything but delighted to be raked over suddenly like a potential meal plate and not a person who could break them in at least thirty ways before they got the breath for a first word.

A single red rose bud is pinned to his lapel. Innocuous looking, even to the small black-edged white ribbon at the base.

But the ones who are looking for it, know it on sight. They stop him for casual conversations. Where's he from. Did he see the game. The stock market today. How's his night. It's all good. Especially since he refrains from the response he wants to say. Letting it boom in his head a little stronger each time. That it'll be ever better once he put his fist through the jaw of another killer and takes him in.

[haole_cop]

The thing is.

The thing is, people notice Steve. They always have. Always will. It's why he's the one here, with a flower pinned to his chest, instead of Danny or Chin or Grover, because they, sure, would appeal. To a niche market. But Steve? Especially Steve as he is, now, smiling and approachable, the tux he's wearing fitting like an expensive glove, like the fabric just loves to be on him, to follow the lines of his body; Steve with classic leading man looks, effortless and traffic-stopping?

He appeals to everyone.

You'd have to be blind, or completely asexual, not to know it, and Danny, he's not blind. He's not asexual. He maybe spent a lot of time perfecting the art of not thinking about it, and not ever prodding it, that jealous snarl that likes to clog up his thought processes when someone on the beach does a double-take or a bartender hands Steve a free drink with a smile and a napkin with a phone number written on it. And it's old enough that it doesn't take him by surprise, or do anything other than make his mouth tighten, a little, when an older man with silver at his temples and a suit that probably cost more than Danny's car catches himself on Steve's rose, and stops near him for some idle chat.

But it's still there. Not that it's new. Being jealous about Steve is almost as old as knowing Steve, and he's better than that, so he just swallows it down with a sip of scotch, and looks away, catches the eye of a younger guy, a few tables away.

It feels strange to smile, to do anything other than throw up walls and negations, to look like he's open to...something, while Steve's in the room, but it's part of the gig, part of the job. Blending in, and making it look right, so their mark doesn't even realize they're there.

Which won't work out if some shark tries to pick Steve up before the guy even gets here, but Steve can handle it. They've got a plan, and they both know to stick to it.

[thebesteverseen]

Being stopped isn't a surprise. The flower is like a spotlight, albeit a subtle one.

He knew it would stand out to the right crowd from the moment he stepped in, and it has. The way it should. Would. He doesn't end up standing alone very long. Hasn't since he got into this room. Even though he's good at stepping away, with a leading sort of smirk that lends itself to hoping no one will take him up on anything and everyone will just laugh and wait for him to circulate again.

It's how to rounds go. Even though he's not specifically on one, and not everyone plays along. Which is part of it, too.

Being picked out, and picked over. Watching the merchandise, or ordering ahead for the night.

So being kept isn't the surprising part, but it does take some effort not to go a little still or to look down at his arm when the man that's stopped him this time, sets a hand on him before he back step or side step. Like maybe he's been watching Steve do this a while. Or maybe he was one of the people from an hour ago. They blend. They shouldn't. But he's looking for a killer in their faces, and they are all hungry in their own ways. It's roulette wheel of trying to find the wrong one.

(In a den thats whole point to being subtle, refined and secret is that it's considered the wrong one.)

Perhaps, he's not flawless in that first moment, because the older gentleman's fingers release their pressure if not their position, while he says, "I hope you don't mind, but I have to ask. Is there a problem with your wine? Not a fan of reds?" Steve's eyebrow only puckers slightly, because the man is still rolling on without the need for a response. As though it is an opener rather than a conversation. "You've had this one for a while."

It's a queer feeling, and he doesn't miss the irony of the phrasing in his own head.

The way his back wants to stiffen, and he wants to shake the hand on his arm. Find Danny. Make sure Danny hasn't seen...

Except that there's nothing for him to not being seeing. This is the case. The undercover. Even when it trips its feet in the long, ropey mass of Steve's guts. Feeling like he shouldn't. Be here. Be touched. Be seen. Like this. Easy at it. Good at it. Especially when Danny here. But that's idiotic. Because the case. It's not like he'd choose this kind of place. Or would have back when it was a thing he was doing. Back before the last few years. Before he'd been focused on other things.

Other people. (When Cath is and was and is still just as complicated as she absolutely isn't, too.)
Put away like a hundred other redacted files. Things that were real, but that could never be real, too.

Things that haunted his dream and reached up to punch the air out of his chest now and then. But that was that.

"It's my second." Steve catches himself, adding in what feels like an easy smile, while he lets himself consider the glass.

"It must not be good enough, then," The man declares and with this his fingers tighten more than marginally, again, above Steve's elbow. (Where Steve's certainly not entertaining the image of how to drop his arm straight, twist back, grab the hand and pull him about by his wrist as the bones slide, sharp and hard together under his own.)

He doesn't. Fight it. Or the being propelled toward the bar (and Danny at the edge of his vision), with easy steps while the man is still talking at him more than to him. "There's always a room for an upgrade to your vintage. I've always said life is far too short to be drinking anything but the best, don't you agree?"

[haole_cop]

He doesn't like the guy.

Walks in too smoothly, takes Steve's arm like. Like he's allowed. The way Danny might, does, on a regular basis, and, hey, Danny went into this thing with eyes wide open, knew they'd be getting attention, knew Steve would get the lion's share, argued himself into the necessity of it, but it turns out, he's not prepared.

Not for the sudden rush of rage, clutching his stomach, flooding his chest with heat and making his skin go cold. Not for the desire to walk over and pry that hand off Steve's arm, one finger at a time, and take grim pleasure in each snap of bone and shriek of pain.

It's not allowed. It's not -- his business, he knows, and it happens, girls at bars, surfer boys with wide white smiles and too-friendly hands clapping on Steve's shoulder -- but it's not just that. It's wrong, to see Steve accept it. Rankles teeth into Danny's gut and grinds them in, with each second Steve doesn't wrap the guy's arm around his own back, snap his elbow into a dozen pieces, and Danny is dimly aware that he needs to be paying attention to more than just Steve, but he can't. Keeps looking back, even while he's panning the room, and sipping at his scotch, while something furious leaps in his stomach and that other thing chokes it back down again.

The one he's gotten used to, over the years. He likes to think of it as his not-yet-demolished common sense, proof that even after years of Steve, Danny still hasn't quite lost his mind. Not enough to ever act on it, say anything about it, do anything more than stew, or get a little too sharp about them. Girls. Bartenders. (Catherine.)

It's not. And he knows what tonight is. It's not a date, and it never will be. It's a mission, and Steve's his partner.

Which is, actually, finally, a reason for him to find a way to intervene.

If he's needed. He might not be. He's aware he might just be rationalizing, but he's not sure he cares: just watches out of the corner of his eye, the way anyone might, if they were waiting their turn, hoping for this attempt to fall through so they could get a shot with Steve.

[thebesteverseen]

The man doesn't take his time. Doesn't even need Steve's response about the wine.

Steve's free hand has only touched the bar top, his glass hasn't even gotten to down, when the man is both leaning past him to get a bartender and the hand on Steve's elbow transfers itself to his back. A place where it's impossible to say he doesn't stiffen slightly first. Fingers across the space right above the small of his back. Spine and muscles tensed by the awareness of it. Refusing for long seconds not to stay rigid.

Even when the smallest glance to man who now hovers right against him, not talking to him, says he's not even paying attention in the slightest to Steve's reacton. That's not what this is. It's a touch that simply makes Steve chosen property of the moment. Doesn't even ask for a vote. Consent. Doesn't even look over like it's a request first. He keeps his smile calm, because the reasons for being here hasn't changed.

Not even if this is just reminding him how it's absolutely nothing he could have ever found himself doing in his life. No matter what went sideways when, or where. This is not it. He has to keep his mouth shut about a lot, and his opinion or vote comes even less into his military career than Five-0, but it's entirely where the comparison to this ends.

Steve doesn't have to keep his opinion to himself in Five-0's line of work. On a leash, at times. But not under this.

This necessity for a demurred response as though someone putting their hands on him in a suit is fine.

He missed the first few sentences about the wine. Zeroing back in as the bartender -- also, well dressed, a black tux, but no flower -- took his glass from his fingers, with a brilliant liars smile flashed at him before the eyes went back to the the man, still nodding along with him to Steve's side. "Of course, Mr. Campbell. Two glasses of your reserve coming right up."

A regular, then, and, not even just that, but a wealthy enough one he kept his own stock in someone else's bar.

The man, Mr. Campbell, turned into him, while his fingers flattened, and pressed on one side of his spine making Steve's teeth feel like they tense. A conversation of complicit following, for him to turn, which he did. Marginally. Without pulling away from the hand or finding the closest, weak spot on the man to exploit. Even though he was beginning to examine the game of how he would.

"Now that that's taken care of for us, I don't believe I've seen you around here before and that's a rarity if there is one."

Us. The word snags even as Steve is stacking details about the man. His standing reserve. His easy hint that he knows everything here. He's a long standing customer, and probably at least a prominent one. He's an old hand, the way Steve is supposed to be. Steve who makes himself keep is posture even if it's artfully relaxed. Forcing himself to stand and look at ease.

"I haven't been. It's my first time to this location." Steve says it easily, broadly, warm and unconcerned. Just enough approval and impressed sentiment injected into his voice when he gives the place a look behind them (and another skim for those few details matching anyone), but he doesn't need a guide to know the look that crossing Mr. Campbell's face when he gets back. Like he just became the kind of challenge to this man that he'd see someone give a soldier or a traveler.

The difference is this one thinks he's a shark, free to do whatever he wants, but he's just bottom feeder break laws with his cash.

Steve'd been desperate for company, or relief, before. But he'd never been this desperate. Idiotic. It wasn't an option.

He'd never been the guy who needed to keep up a bednotch race. Or one who went there first.

[haole_cop]

There are a few things he registers all at once, when he sees Silver Fox over there slip his hand from Steve's arm to the small of his back, in almost exactly the same way Danny might, except that Danny isn't a predatory asshole stalking an upscale gay bar, and he doesn't touch Steve like -- not with that intention, and anyway that's not the point, right, except that it is. That Steve doesn't like to be touched.

But he lets Danny.

Which doesn't mean Danny's now thinking about how he started touching Steve, unthinking, the very first day, started dragging him around by wrist or arm or shirt without even a week going by. He doesn't think about how he's the only one who's allowed to touch Steve, except for the times he does, like now.

Now, when Don Johnson over there wouldn't notice, but Danny sees like it's lit with a spotlight, like it happens in slow-motion with an announcer and color commentator explaining each possible angle: how Steve stiffens. The slight tension in his jaw, and the way it threads down along his neck, shoulder, and into his back. It's a hairline adjustment, nearly invisible to the naked eye, and, okay, if he were called on it, Danny wouldn't be proud of the fact he can read Steve so well, but he can. He sees it, the things no one else does. The times Steve won't even let himself feel the things that are threatening to break him, hurt him, confuse him.

Steve doesn't admit defeat, he's a fucking SEAL. That's why he needs Danny.

Even if he probably doesn't need the simultaneous reaction, the other one clouding Danny's thoughts and tunneling his vision: this punch in his gut, the visceral, absolute negation of it. That this guy needs to take his hands off Steve. Right. The fuck. Now.

He's only slightly aware of the red tinge around his vision, of how his pulse is jacked up and his breathing is shallow. All he can see clearly are fingers on the back of Steve's jacket, and Steve's polite, disinterested smile, that probably looks like winning the lottery to anyone who isn't Danny, and the fact that Danny's pushed himself off the bar and started over without really having any kind of plan in mind for when he gets there.

Which means it's probably good, right, that he gets stopped in his tracks by the kid watching him before, even if it takes Danny a second to parse the fact that he's being greeted, smiled at, as winningly as possible, by someone he won't even remember in thirty seconds.

"Sorry," he says, and then, "What?"

It's maybe fifteen feet from him to Steve. Who is fine. Who is an adult, and a soldier, and who can handle this, Danny, and it's just enough of a shock that he can take a second to think about a possible plan of attack, shove his hand into his pocket, and laugh at the kid's joke like it's anything he even heard.

Just in case.

[thebesteverseen]

The movement to the edge of his vision happens too fast for Steve not to notice it. Or at least that's what he tells himself. It could be that. It could, also, be that he knows, almost like a sixth sense, where his people are, whether those people are his men in the field or his team, whom he knows are at his back and his sides without even looking.

Or he could call it that other thing. The other one. That one he shouldn't like as much as he does, but, god, does he.

Which is sending his easy smile into a too broad, too arrogant, flare of success. Like he just won a game he wasn't even playing. Neither of them was. No one was. Until this second. Where Danny Williams, simply because he is Danny Williams, over reacts to everything. Especially people encroaching on Steve's space, while Danny isn't there to but in, get in the middle, demand their attention, and remind them of every reason that Steve's a five year old child and not a decorated hero or the leader of Five-0 for any reason other than a universal fluke.

Years ago he used to look at it sideways. For long nights. Days. Weeks working near each other. Tried to put something into and under that that wasn't there. Sure, it wasn't the kind of thing your best friend did usually. But what did he know about real best friends anyway. Especially ones who were alive, or anything like normal. Most people were not Danny Williams. Most people didn't move to Hawaii and hate it, but still do it for all the right reasons. It was just Danny. So maybe Danny got a bit possessive, a little jealous, a lot childish. Maybe they both did. Had for years. Until it was just normal.

Not anything else. Not hiding anything. Just who they were and how they acted. Their partnership. Friendship.
It'd been 'just a part of Danny' since so far back it stretched to even the first months of knowing each other.

Which meant it really shouldn't make Steve's mouth go curved and slyly smug, but it does. Like kids throwing rocks at each other. Because they could. Because it always happens. Even if by the time Steve's eyes find that side of the bar, over Campbell's shoulder, Danny is blinking confused, stopped in the middle of an attack, eyes at someone else -- some young kid, nicely dressed, decent suit for one that is off the rack -- which leads to one other small problem.

Because Campbell's hand is tightening, sliding further across his back, while he's stepping in more so that his chest bumps Steve's arm still between them, and his own smile is tightening in, when Steve's eyes find his again. Obviously thinking the look that had crossed Steve's face, and was still perched there not yet sure in which direction it was going, was for him. "Well, we'll have to make it a memorable visit for you, then, won't we? Can't have you going back with getting to have a taste of it all. That would be a travesty."

"Of the," Steve tipped his head, like it wasn't resting on his tongue, in every beat of his blood since childhood. Leaning on the bar, rather than into Campbell. Which could be an avoidance, but more than anything he was sure it would be taken for the opposite. A feint to be pursued. But it wasn't as though he couldn't step back. Or break every bone in the limb touching him with nothing more than his own hands.

And he was good at this. At playing affable. Could be. They had time to kill and a fool proof cover. "What'd they call it earlier? The Aloha Spirit?"

[haole_cop]

"I haven't see you around before," says the kid, with a winning smile that lands somewhere about three feet past and to the wide left of Danny, because Danny isn't paying attention, can't.

"Yeah," he says, distracted, "I'm new around here."

The kid's smile is wide and white and it would probably be a balm, any other day, to have this attention: like it was with Amber, young and beautiful and smart, even if she was stupid the same way this kid is, being interested in Danny. There's nothing for him here, just like there wasn't for her, and Danny's still got enough of a grip on his own mental state to think it's not all because of Steve.

That would be stupid, and he knows it. Has known it. It's not even a thing to know. It's not them. It's him. How Danny finally had to come to the conclusion that Steve was always going to get in the way, because Steve is never not going to be in some kind of trouble, and need back up, and that's Danny. That's not a question, and it hasn't been for years. He's the back up, and maybe it's slowly taken over every aspect of his life not already owned by Grace, and shouldered its way into even a few of those, but he can't look back on it now and say he'd be any better off if he'd taken that same energy, time, dedication, and put it into a romantic relationship -- one he wouldn't have time or space for, anyway.

So maybe it is because of Steve, because Steve's his partner and they're in this together, so when the kid -- who might have introduced himself, Danny's not sure -- leans in a little, making some comment about fresh off the mainland, Danny reaches to put a hand on his arm, friendly, but dismissive. "Sorry," he says, already moving past, "I just remembered, I hate scotch."

They aren't far, which means that, first, he has almost no time to come up with some kind of reason to make his way there and butt in, and, second, that he's not sure he cares, because the guy's turning to face Steve, and Danny can see the way his lapel brushes against Steve's sleeve, feels it in his own chest like a punch. How the guy's smiling. How Steve's smiling back.

And not pulling away. Like he would. Like he should, which Danny recognizes as an insane thought, which is a kind he's come to recognize quickly, because Steve has slowly but surely stripped away any resemblance of sanity Danny might once have enjoyed. It's gone, blown into bits on grenades and blinded by flashbangs and lost, adrift, on the collaborator's grin Steve will shoot his way after a good day, after a day when no one dies and they catch the bad guy and Steve maybe gets to bodily tackle someone into the water.

Gone, but it's left a ghost of itself, like the shadows left on walls after a nuclear explosion, that still whispers to him, as he comes meandering by, close enough for it to be idle, and comes to a rest near Steve's free side, shaking his half-empty glass at the bartender, because there's one thing he can always do, rely on, use:

He can complain, and he can be loud. "This," he says, to no one in particular, but aiming slightly over his shoulder at Steve, "is terrible. It's like nobody on this island has ever tasted decent booze before, how is that possible? Is the trade-off for living on an island paradise losing the use of your taste-buds, huh?"

[thebesteverseen]

Steve is looking between Campbell and Danny with the kid. The kid who is glued to Danny the way people get all the time. When he's teasing them over buying coffee, or joking about things in the grocery store line, getting fast food, the cops downstairs on his way up, running Grace's groups. The way bugs go toward light and filings towards magnets, and Danny doesn't even look like he's registered it. But then Danny never does, not even when he's gone goofy, tripping over his tongue, because someone's caught his attention. He still never notices he has theirs.

Steve jokes that he's dense when he points it out and Danny denies him. But that's just Danny, too. Like Danny walking away and passing him, and Campbell, the almost ignored, while the kid stands there like an unmoored buoy looking at the retreating form of Danny with this deer in headlights look of confusion, utterly uncertain what he did wrong.

Steve almost feels sorry for the sap. Kid. Almost.

But Danny doesn't notice. He's on the job. He's walked off.

Steve has a grim satisfaction in it, that he tells himself is the job. That he can always rely on Danny to stay on top of it, on focus, eyes on the prize. Even if there's a warmth under the current of Campbell talking that tells him its not about the job. He knows that one like old hat, too. He's not supposed to feel it. But he feels it still, carried it like a photograph in his pocket, the ache in an old battle wound. Done and over, even if never started, never was real, but there all the same. Ignorable.

Feel it, then cut it off. Push it down. Burn it off. Barely two seconds all told.

Campbell's still in the middle of talking about The Aloha Spirit, voice getting thicker and lower as it's beginning to imply just how he'd love to welcome the establishments new arrival on the behalf of Hawaii. Like it's his pleasure, and not a service. Like he wouldn't be purchasing Steve to do whatever he wanted, to have Steve do whatever Campbell wanted, regardless of his own opinion of it or any promises made this side of the VIP area.

But Danny gets loud right by his side. Voice cutting in suddenly like a siren in Steve's ears, making Steve aware of every single inch of where Campbell is presently touching him, and causing Steve's back to stiffen more out of surprise (it's totally surprise, only surprise, it's not the other thing, Danny doesn't know, there's nothing to know) than anything else. Like he hadn't noticed until that second that Danny had gotten to right behind him.

Which annoys him. He hates having his back to a room. Anyone.

(But he lets it sit. Danny has his back. Danny always has his back.)

Steve's still smiling, when giving an, also, disparaging look at the guy to his side. Danny. Noisy and complaining. He could just walk up and brush Campbell off. Steve's already officially his for the night. Set to the schedule. Because it was more convenient that way. The cover making it so neither of them had to worry about other people if they were pushed to that problem, while Steve rolled his eyes and made potshots about being Danny's date. One breath, and a different profession, and too much respect for both of them, and a little wariness toward the concept, away from actually letting himself get to joking that he was Danny's whore for the night.

Steve head-tipped to Campbell who was all but grumbling. His posture had grown inconvenienced, Steve could tell without looking. "Supposedly they've got the ritz on tap if you have the right connections."

[haole_cop]

"Well, the thing is --"

He's leaning on the bar, on his forearms, but when Steve glances over, and the pilot fish there trying to score a night with him sends a dirty look Danny's way, he just can't stay still. Pushes back, with both palms on the bar edge, shoulders setting straight, and then turns to lean back against it, idly glancing over the room, elbows on the bar, lounging against it like he owns the damn thing. One hand drapes next to his own ribs, the other waves lazily, almost enough to catch on Steve's sleeve. "Me, I don't have those connections. I'm new in town."

It's like playing those old teenage party games, right. Two lies and a dare.

Someone meets his eyes from across the room, and he winks at them, with a crooking smile, before glancing back up to Steve, and easily ignoring his entirely forgettable companion.

Which, guy like him? With connections, and a suit that probably cost more than Danny's car?

Yeah, that ought to piss him off just exactly how Danny wants it to.

Like he's a nobody. Less important than a waiter trying to get Steve's drink order.

While Danny's looking up at Steve with his best, absolutely certain, smugly victorious smile, like they've already got an in-joke, a rapport. Like Steve's already his.

(Which lands a little sour in his stomach, because he is. The plan. Bought and paid for. But. Not like that.)

They do. Have in-jokes, a rapport. But tall, dark, and fuming over there doesn't need to know that, just like he doesn't need to know it's easier than instinct for his hand to brush Steve's arm, plucking the material of his suit between his thumb and the knuckle of his index finger. "But hey, maybe I didn't come here to drink, anyway. What about you, stretch? You like it so far? Or you, uh..."

Now his eyes do slide, derisively, to the other guy, and he shrugs, looks back at Steve. "Always let somebody order your drinks for you? Did I miss the sign that says this is the kids table?"

[thebesteverseen]

The thing is....Danny is better at this than anything he implied, amid his normal storm of caustic grumbling, that he was too old to be any good at really. The kind of thing he would never do. Scoffed at the idea of. When Steve has to make it an actual effort not to let his eyes travel any further than a good show of being surprised and unable to not look at the man to his side.

He already knows what this suit looks like on Danny. That it is problematic.

When Danny is throwing out a wink toward some stranger, and Steve actually looks.

In a way he hopes is curious and surprised, not the sharp suddenness that flares through him, making it feel like a small jerk in his neck, that fast twist. Only a touch stronger when he sees a guy over there shifting a more upright in his seat, looking surprised that he got it and absolutely in no way having expected it or brushing it off. He doesn't need Danny tossing his face at more people and making them even more trouble for the night.

Except Danny doesn't stop there, Danny never stops there. Not even when the hand on Steve, the one closer to Danny's side but not Danny's (never Danny's, he didn't even mean, but suddenly) tightens on his jacket and ribs, while Danny starts actively, actually, insulting the guy next to him. Before his wine even made it back.

Danny's hand on him, pulling at his suit jacket suddenly, while Danny William's mouth wraps itself around words Steve never even dreamed once, in the worst distracting dreams, ever considered, implying he's here for the things not on the menu. Namely Steve. Namely everything else. (But not Steve. Not anything else.) It's the only reason he doesn't actually freeze and pull back suddenly from the offending hand on his side.

"You missed the one that said this was a private party," Campbell broke in right over both things, his voice made of flat ice.

[haole_cop]

"Yeah?"

Playing it cool isn't usually his strong suit, but it's necessary here, and, besides, it'll make the unlucky man next to Steve over there more pissed off than ever. He's already furious, and it's visible, and he knows it, which only makes him angrier, which is a win, in Danny's book.

Sure. All they really need to do is get rid of the guy. It's not actually necessary to antagonize him, and Danny's pretty sure he doesn't want to look too closely at the impulse to do it anyway, because it's an argument he's never going to win with himself, but he's also not going to just let it slide.

He touched Steve. Whether it's Danny's place or not, he thinks that means the guy ought to pay -- even if it's just a little.

So he rakes an indifferent glance over the guy, standing there, fuming in his nice suit, while the bartender comes back up and wisely remains silent as he deposits two glasses of wine in front of him. "Hey, Anderson Cooper, I don't think I did. It's just I think you mistakenly believe you've been invited."

And maybe -- okay, it's stupid and it's messed up as hell and he's going to pay for it later, when he could have made this easier on everybody, but maybe he kind of wants Steve to pick him.

As if this were actually real. As if there were any reality, any possible universe, in which any element of this situation could come to pass, and he knows there's not, couldn't be, won't, but it's still there. The want to just know, okay. For that part of himself he hasn't been able to shut up after five years and two girlfriends.

His own tone amiable, if bored: just another way to make this asshole feel like he's being undermined, somehow, as if there's something going on he's not in the know about, while he makes a scene with his icy tone and possessive posture that Steve could snap in a second.

He's the kind of guy who hates being ignored, so Danny ignores him, focuses back on Steve like the other guy's just an annoying, buzzing insect, something to be waved away and forgotten.

(It's not like the way he talked over Steve instead of including him endeared him to Danny any.)

"That fancy crap, you like that sort of thing? Because, you know --"

Hand in motion again, while he leans a little towards Steve, angles close enough he can feel his body heat, even through this suit, and that's a thought process he absolutely needs to shut down, immediately. "Don't get me wrong, I love the finer things in life, but when a glass of wine comes with a string attached as long as your arm, maybe it's too pricey, you know what I mean?"

[thebesteverseen]

If there was a time when Steve would have loved this -- and there has to have been, was, really was, for a good long, long while, even if it was just for the night, before he forgot about both sides of the tug-a-war entirely for his own war against being good enough and being the best -- it was a very long time ago now. Makes him feel older than he likes to ever let himself get away with remembering he is, except when something doesn't heal fast enough or aches before it rains.

But that doesn't stop the smile from tugging up his cheeks, smug and entirely cocksure.

When Danny is right in his bubble, pressing him between them. Campbell who's not moving anywhere, especially with Danny posturing up into Steve's space, and Danny. Danny who is so close, his voice is over-powering Campbell and the music, and Steve's need to keep checking the room. Especially because Steve's got a whiff of that cologne Danny wears when he's actually making an effort, that Steve is sure he could pick out in his sleep at this point.

That it was probably true long before he was helping Grace add it to the list of Christmas things she could buy her Dad.

"Excuse me--" Campbell starts, but this time Steve looks only long enough to catch the reddening of his face, before he's looked back to Danny. "-but you--"

"Yeah?" Steve says, and it's not relieved or demurred. It's not curious or concerned. He's not even apologetic when Campbell's breath catches and his hold trembles with a kind of danger he'd put akin to a fly. There's not but a low slung challenge thrown at Danny. Because two can play this game. If that's what Danny wants for this to look like. Something messy and maybe closer to real than it should be. Than it could never be.

A taste of the life Danny Williams would never need. Never want. Steve leaning half back into the arm behind him, as he cocks his head, eyes never leaving Danny except to glance down at how close Danny is, as a clear equivocation of his own offer on the table now. Both of them vying for Steve. Even if he'd be a commodity with slim choice. "And what does yours come with?"

[haole_cop]

The sputtering from Steve's other side is worth it, and it would be for its own sake, but it's even better when Steve cuts off whatever enraged comment was coming Danny's way, and picks up the challenge with the same light in his eye that he gets whenever someone thinks they can shoot faster than he can.

Which leaves Danny with a set of feelings too simple to be called complicated, but which are, because he shouldn't be using this mission as a chance to pretend it's anything like real life. Shouldn't take the vicious pleasure he does in the fact that Steve ignores the other guy, and turns to him, instead. It's not like it's a real situation, where he's actually won the round, and Steve's faked interest wasn't planned ahead of time, wasn't a sure thing, but he can't help feeling mollified, anyway. It makes him want to be louder, to wave his hands more and steal Steve's attention from the whole rest of the room, make him laugh, or grin in that way that means he thinks Danny's a nutjob, but that's coated in five years of trust and affection.

He wishes there wasn't a part of him that feels like looking back out over the room isn't just keeping an eye out for their mark, but could be an actual part of the game. Tagging each other, coaxing and prodding and teasing, like this is a real night at a real bar and he's really trying to steal Steve away, and not because they're partners and it'll just be easier if they don't have to deal with any civilians tonight. "Me?"

Eyebrows arcing up, while he looks back at Steve, that free hand lifting to point at his own chest. "Who said I'm getting you a drink?"

Pick it up, run with it. Like always. Pushing at each other, challenging each other, never giving any quarter and never caring what anyone around them might think.

Danny probably shouldn't love it as much as he does, but he does. Which is fine. He's been crazy ever since he let Steve drag him into this whole mess, five years ago.

[thebesteverseen]

Steve doesn't even hesitate. Nothing in him knows how to. (Even if that's lie. Even if it's been a lie for a few years now. He hesitates now in ways he didn't. Ways that he shouldn't. Didn't used to. But this isn't that.) This is only Steve cocking a eyebrow and being entirely flagrant when he says right back, no single beat of breath, no shift from Danny's space, or looking away from his face, "Who said I was asking about the drinks?"

As though the whole bar part wasn't what they were really talk about. As though Steve was asking him about the other part of the equation he'd mentioned. The longer price tag, not the bloom on the rose. The humid buzz in the base of the room, in the people who knew, like the man beside him. The unspoken agreements and acknowledgement about what this game, this dance, was really about.

Not even like a normal bar, when he was going to them, even a handful years back, where you might find someone, you might get along, you might end up in a dark corner plastered somewhere, or drug home due to the kind of liaison it was. This place only had the veneer of paint of looking like it was chance to the oblivious ones. It was the obvious and the sought in those who were in the know.

Steve wanting to know just for a second. Flirting with a darkness he'd never play with.
Live with and without. Long enough that it didn't matter, and it didn't.

Because so many things mattered more where it came to Danny.

Maybe he's a bastard, dragging it shamelessly to sex and tawdry, bought and paid for sex, in back rooms, when the volition is complicit and the actions are about as x-rated as one could get if they wanted to, without anyone blinking. But Danny started it, and he wants to know if Danny will keep playing with it. Danny who wanted to go with the gay thing not so long ago. Wants to know if he dish it out as much as he just blew it off like it could be normal. Something that never would be.

That Danny knows nothing about. But he wants to shove it at Danny and see if he'll keep up still.

"See here," the voice fumes from his side. The hand on his side trying suddenly to actually move Steve. Not realizing until the moment he's trying to that Steve is brick wall, a goddamn solid brick wall, when he wants to be. Not just because he's tall and he's built like one. But because he's trained. Because people don't get from him what he doesn't want to give.

Which means Steve feels it when Campbell strains confused at his effort not making Steve shiver even.

He looks confused, a little darkly, someone who doesn't know no's or having to make an effort, when Steve glances back, maybe a little smugger than he should be for his cover. He recovers though, his hands going nowhere, pushing forward against Steve instead, and looking toward Danny instead of Steve who is only instigating instead of rejecting. "We were busy already over here. If you have any manners, you would see that and find someone who isn't."

[haole_cop]

So there it is, dropped in the air between them, while Steve waits to see if Danny will bat it back, or let it drop like a hot potato.

And it will. Burn his fingers, singe the inner lining of his lungs with how true it can't be, how he'll have to deny with every breath after this the reality of it, words in his mouth, images burning onto flimsy photo paper in his head that curl in on themselves in flames. Lit on the way Steve's watching him, eyes dark and that smile playing around his mouth, like he knows he's given Danny an impossible dare, even if he doesn't know why. Filling his head with white noise, and steam. Warmth creeping up along the collar of his cool white shirt.

Except he doesn't get a chance to say anything, because the other guy manages to finally bluster his way into the conversation that he hasn't been a part of since Danny came over. It's probably for the best, because Danny's pretty sure that whatever was about to come out of his mouth, already half-open to respond, wasn't going to be anything like pretend.

Fortunately, Cialis Spokesman over there provides both the perfect distraction and the perfect punching bag on which to work out the frustration of everything he can't say, do, want. "Wrong," he says, leaning one elbow onto the bar and addressing the guy directly, head-on for the first time since he came over here, "You were busy. And, hey. The thing is, you're mistaking me for someone who has manners. I've got no reason at all to care about your rules, and, you know what? Neither does he. Hey."

Directed back to Steve, batting the back of his hand against Steve's shoulder, and tilting his head as if to say c'mon, let's blow this popsicle stand. "How about it, hotshot? You like manners? C'mon."

The last word lower, in register and volume, coaxing and intimate. The hand that had just smacked Steve's shoulder -- and that's usual, he does that all the time, it's familiar, and comfortable -- pauses, and then crooks the index finger, runs it down Steve's arm, while Danny's eyes follow it.

Mind churning a thousand rotations a second, in panic, at this touch, that's nothing like all the millions he's smacked at, pushed at, grabbed at Steve over the years.

Clutching in his chest, like teenage nerves. Cracking him open to that wide, wide wash of longing that he can normally shove down, bury with work and duty and every reminder of Catherine he could ever force on himself.

Until he reaches the edge of Steve's sleeve, and reaches to crook that same finger into the belt loop just below, which requires slipping up under the edge of his jacket, like he's allowed.

Like Steve won't mind. (He hopes Steve doesn't mind. It wouldn't be great for the cover if he got punched right now.)

Eyes finally coming back up to meet Steve's, eyebrows lifting in challenge. "You gonna make me ask you to prom?"

[thebesteverseen]

That Steve continues to hold still has less to do with Campbell's continued presence against his side now, that is actually beginning to grate in a fashion that isn't going to be good for the continual existence of him having a hand or an arm, but what is happening to his own other arm. As Danny suddenly decides to invade his space the way he always does, but in a way he's, also, never done before.

Danny's always in his space. Danny is always waving his hands, and leaning all over him, using him as a physical prop, in fashions Steve has become so accustom to he doesn't even give it a glance sometimes on the job. Because it won't get in the way and it is just Danny being Danny. Even if it's not something anyone else, even Cath, would ever have done. So it's not the first part that gets to Steve so much.

The finger dragging down his sleeve, even as Danny stares at it. Playing his part well.

It's when his hand rumples the bottom of Steve's jacket, threading through his belt loop and tugging barely.
That's when Steve doesn't take a breath in, and other parts of him that shouldn't tighten in his chest, inside his head.

He wants to make a joke about whether these are what Danny's moves actually look like, voice absolute mockery, to break the tension pushing up his spine, but riding the high line edge of a blade on not wanting to know, but wanting to keep push it, seeing how far he can push, what he might get, Danny might do, while he really shouldn't. He should be pulling back, but he isn't. Can't. Too. It wouldn't fit here unless he was rebuffing Danny and it wouldn't fit the cover already in place. (Plus, he's a fucking hypocrite. Because he knows that isn't why at all, too. But it's convenient, and it's necessary, too.)

"Yeah. Maybe. Why should you get anything for free?" That Campbell hadn't, was implied.

Because at least one of them was putting in some kind of effort. (One of them actually wanted something from him.)

"Sir, your drinks." A voice interrupted entirely, again.

Making Steve look back to the bar and realized the same second that hand had come off of him somewhere in the last short while. He should have noticed. He should have been watching. Red wine glasses on the counter. Bartender who, with the air of someone who was very used to not seeing and no judging whatever was in front of him, even three men seconds ago in a strange tangle, was studiously looking at nothing but the man who ordered.

Campbell straightening his cuffs while he barked, clear and calmly, "They won't be needed anymore."

[haole_cop]

He stopped breathing, somewhere around the second he actually started touching Steve with purpose, and his chest is contracting now with something that is probably the need for air, but feels like something else. Something huge and immovable, that he should have tried harder to move, that lurches like a boulder when he gusts out a breath of a laugh, that feels more wry than it should, for their cover. "Oh, I'm sure I'll pay for this."

For months, if not years. Even if Steve never cottons on, this is the stuff his dreams are made of, when it comes to giving Danny a hard time. At the very least, Danny will pay for every single liberty he takes tonight by being the butt of jokes, which will honestly be the best possible outcome, because it would beat it all getting erased in a miasma of embarrassment, never spoken of again because Steve's too weirded out by how naturally it all came to him.

But he'll pay, regardless. Even if Steve does nothing. Even if it changes nothing. He knows Steve's weight, and how much effort it takes to haul him back from some scumbag Steve wants to turn into a red smear, and he's pushed and pulled Steve around, bodily, before, but not like this. Not this tiny tug, that still manages to shift him, a little. That feels more intimate than the thousand things he's not allowed to dream of and sometimes wakes from, anyway, flushed and sweating like a thirteen year old who just discovered girls.

He'll pay for it just like he's paid for all the rest of it, every day and every time he stays over at Steve's place and every time they're a little too close or Steve lets Danny touch him for a little too long, every time Steve's there with a six-pack or whatever else Danny might need, to listen to him or back him up. It's just one more thing to toss in the coin jar he carries around, make it a little heavier, a little less easy to ignore.

Unlike the other guy, who Danny remembers only suddenly when it's become clear that he's given up, leaving Danny with the feeling of having swum up from deep water, blinking when he breaks back into the air.

The guy giving in. Graceless, and annoyed, and about to leave, which means he'll have to let go of Steve's beltloop and try to stop feeling like he'd spent the last five minutes scuffing wool socks over a carpet until all the hair on his body stood on end. "Have a nice night," he says, to no one in particular, because he's still caught on watching Steve, even if some of it is studying now for when the mask drops and Steve starts being Steve again, not his cover, not the person who might be interested, who'd let Danny touch him like this and flirt like this and make heavy, sparking promises.

He likes to just keep an eye out for when the hammer drops, okay.

[thebesteverseen]

As much as Steve jokes about it, insults it, tears it down, and rolls his eyes, like he's plagued with a child on his hip, Danny is good at his job. He came good at his job. He stepped up to the plate of what The Governor, and Steve, needed the task force to be capable of and he hasn't backed down since. Danny has done whatever he needed Danny to do for years now. Which isn't the same as everything he's ever wanted Danny to do.

But it's better. He can admit that to himself. Even when he can't ever find the words to admit that to Danny.

Which is usually when he's beat to all fuck in a hospital bed, opening his eyes to find Danny there. Still there. Always there. No matter where there is. In the back of a truck. In other countries. Under the rubble of a whole building. On the floor of that warehouse. Every time it should have been the last time. Every time no one else, not even his men from his SEAL team might have been able to make it, he opens his eyes and Danny is there.

Danny. Jersey-turned-Hawaiian cop. With no more training than general police.
But more will and more loyalty than Steve would even be able to believe in if it weren't for him.
Steve knows Danny is good at his job. It's the reason he can depend on Danny. Does. Even when he hates it.

When Danny is screaming at him about his motivations or the depravity of his plans, lack of plans, or decisions about how to handle the person they're after. When they butt heads, even half a decade later about the differences between they way they would each take a case at that point. But he's never bad at his job. He never lets Steve steamroller him. Knows Steve values his work. Knows Steve knows he's good at his job, the way Danny needs that to be known and seen.

The way he is now. Pulling Steve in by that small tug on his belt loop that Steve shouldn't slide a half step toward him over, but his body has listened to Danny pulling him directions without fighting it for years. Because Danny moves him around like he isn't half a foot taller, several pounds heavier and capable of taking him in a no bars, no mercy, fight if he had to. The way he does now. Doing the job right. Dragging Steve into him. Making their legs bump together.

Making Steve need to remember that when Danny is looking at him like this. Danny's good at his job.

He doesn't mean in it in the slightest. Danny doesn't go in for this kind of thing. He's never needed to. With his train of dark haired, and bright eyed, petite, classy, beautiful, younger women. (Women.) The only reasons he has his hands on any part of Steve like this is because the case calls for it. Because he's good at his job. Which Steve intones in his head like a mantra he needs to keep him grounded. As thought that isn't Danny's unspoken job, too, for as much as his hands and eyes aren't helping.

Because he's doing it too well right now. Steve can feel it in his skin. He's going to go home and fall on his bed and remember this face. Try and fail not picturing what it would feel like if Danny's fingers had chosen hooking into his pants and somehow brushing his skin instead of the length of shirt tail. But it won't. Danny won't. He's good at his job, and it's what Steve needs more than anything else. Because the last thing he actually needs is any of this from Danny. He hasn't in years. He never did, if he's honest.

Danny is already more than Steve could ask for. Or deserve. And he doesn't leave.



Steve doesn't need more than that from Danny. It's more than anyone's ever given him already.
(He shouldn't need that. But he knows he does. Knows he drinks it down like an obliterating black hole.)



Which is all he can think, a little sour and more true than he likes to face in the light of day -- even the low lights and the faint thumping music that is low and not agressive -- when Campbell's voice is cold and further away. While Danny just says goodbye to the man without looking at him. Eyes never leaving Steve. These blue blue eyes Steve knows better than his own in the mirror. Just like the ocean and just as readable, if you know how to read it.

Danny's good at his job. Keeping this up without blinking, without freezing, and Steve can do it, too. He's a SEAL. He's done worse for both less and more. Actively broken piece of his body without paying attention to them broken and bleeding. He can ignore this, too. Ignore the rush of warmth when he leans in, the steady thunder of his pulse in his ears, pressure points. Make it flippant, even if his voice is low, and he's leaned in toward Danny, leaned in to make it look like he's whispering something in Danny's ear, dirty and tawdry and letting this second guy win, the one who bought and paid for him, the way he should be.

"Feeling the need to intimidate your competition?" There's a laugh in it. Sticking to mocking. Teasing. Bullshit.

[haole_cop]

Steve moves when Danny tugs him, because Steve always moves when Danny tugs him, and not for any other reason, so it should absolutely not go to his head, and make him wonder what else he might be able to get away with, here. What Steve would let him do, for the sake of their cover. What he might be able to get.

Which is wrong, on so very many levels, not least of which is the one where it's not even what he would want, right, it would be cheap and more than a little sleazy, because it wouldn't be right. The right thing to do. Making Steve do or accept something he doesn't want, just so Danny can live out a few of those fantasies he shouldn't be having, anyway.

Steve's his friend. Best friend. His partner. His boss. The guy who's always there, for everyone, who'll break down doors and push through rubble and fight through armies just so no one is ever left behind, or alone. Who has saved Danny's ass on more times than Danny can count, and been there every single time Danny needed him. In his uniform at Meka's house or in the courtroom, speaking passionately about how Danny is a great father. In Colombia. Talking him down from panic, while a laser paints Danny's chest red. Talking him down from panic, while a building crumbles around and over them.

Steve's always talking him down from something, the one who drags Danny back to earth, is the brick wall at his back, supporting him, when he needs to face his fears -- and there are so many fears. Fear of water. Of small spaces. Of heights. Of crowds. Of losing Grace. (Of losing Steve.) Of being a terrible father, or boyfriend. Of failing as a cop.

Steve's heard them all, and he's talked Danny down from every single one.

But he's not talking Danny down, now. Not when he's leaning in, closer, focused like a sniper's site on Danny's face, and Danny should be letting go of that beltloop and laughing it off right now, but he can't. Isn't sure he can breathe, or think, when Steve's breath is ghosting in his ear and Danny can feel the heat he's throwing off like he's standing next to a furnace.

He should let go. That's what should happen, and not what does, which is how his fingers tighten, reflexively, with the instinct to pull him closer, pull him down make it so his lips and not his breath are brushing the shell of Danny's ear, that he's never aware of but which suddenly has all his focus, every nerve in his body reacting to each mocking word Steve's whispering.

Teasing. Making fun of him, like Danny knew he would, while Danny's getting wrecked on impossible possibilities and Steve being too close, when he's always too close, but it's never like this. Never when it's anything other than a casual slap on the back or an arm slung around his shoulders on the couch or even a bone-crushing, air-denying hug, after yet another day when they nearly died.

This is different, feels like he's been dropped into hot oil, sizzling up the back of his neck. "That's the only thing guys like that understand," he says, finally, and makes himself let go of Steve's beltloop, only to lift that same hand and tug on the lapel of Steve's coat, which feels automatically both safer, and frustratingly distant, even while his hand stays gripped lightly there. Hauling himself back into reality, the mission, the goal.

"It wasn't much of a competition."

[thebesteverseen]

Steve's a little surprised to feel his belt loop tugged on again, the fabric getting tighter in Danny's grip on it.

But just as much he isn't, too. It's the location that makes it feel like he's got his hand over a flame, but not the touch itself. Not the fact Danny's hand is always moving even when touching his shoulder, his back, his arm. Little flickers of movement that are part of him, even if it makes things in the wrong places on Steve want to pay more attention than it deserves.

Which is proven a second later with how fluidly Danny just lets go of it. His belt loop. His pants.

The sudden, and undeniably familiar feeling, of feeling like his guts rip out through his skin, wrapped in those fingers.

While Danny is casually answering his question, and tugging on his jacket instead now. Everything above board. Above the flat of where hit clothes fall. Danny retreat to the safe area. The normal ones. The ones where he always is, and always will be. Which is better. It feels like an injection of air pushes itself sharp and cold into Steve's blood, running through him in seconds, while he's only raising his eyebrows, dubious bow of his mouth and dark glint to his eyes.

Can't smack at Danny's hand, like normal (hasn't actually touched him yet, shouldn't yet), so he goes about throwing himself right into the ice bath where he belongs. Making this normal. Making this the job, where they constantly cut each other apart in the car between locations, or in the office between needing to show up and run out. "I would have thought you could have five more seconds, or even a few minutes, before deciding to go jealous on the first guy you saw."

He's looks too smug even for his semblance of a frown. Like Danny's antics upset his plan. Like Danny is his favorite toy.

"You could have waited until I got my eighty dollar glass of wine at least. Do you even know how rarely those things come around?"

[haole_cop]

He hates how easily Steve starts jibing at him, prodding him, and that's got to be a sign that it's the better move, right?

Because this can't happen. Won't, and couldn't ever. Steve doesn't. He doesn't. It's nothing, and it's going to stay nothing, even as the skin of his fingers and palm burn like he removed them from dry ice, and not Steve's beltloop. "What, and have to spend time talking to someone else?"

He lets go of the lapel to tug at Steve's tie, sharp and possessive, before dropping his hand altogether, and leaning back on the bar, eyes sliding from Steve's face to the room behind him, because they're here on a job, not a date, and they'll both get their asses handed to them if their guy wanders in and out without either of them noticing. "You know I hate talking to people."

Which is true. It's even, probably, true of a place like this, if there's any reality in which he had the money or inclination to come to a place like this, but he doesn't. Not either. Call him a sap, but he's never been the guy for pick-up culture, to go to a bar just to bring someone home, get laid, never know their name or care about it. How could he? He's got a daughter. He's got a job that calls him out in the middle of the night. He's got a too-interested in his life, too-paranoid and too-dangerous Navy SEAL of a best friend, who thinks its his God-given right to burst in on Danny's life at any time of day or night without warning.

(And someone would find out. Some cop in HPD. Pass it along to Chin or Kono. And then Steve would know, and Danny would have to see what the rental situation is like for holes in the ground near Honolulu.)

But their guy isn't here, so he rolls his eyes at Steve, unimpressed, and feels immediately better for it. "Yeah, because you always make me buy you drinks, and I don't have the cash for an eighty dollar case of wine, let alone glass. I'm sorry, you want me to go grab your buddy? I've got a feeling he might be a little less pleasant after all that, but I'm sure he could be brought around."

He doesn't know why he says it, except he does. It's a reminder, right, that he can't have this, that Steve's as likely to want Mr. Panties-in-a-twist as he is to want Danny, and it comes out a little sharper than he intends, a little defensive, because he could have waited. Steve can handle himself. And he didn't have to make a thing out of it, could have just pulled Steve aside, like they planned for.

He just didn't like the guy, okay.

[thebesteverseen]

Danny looks away, making it feel, impossibly, like he can finally take a breath in for the first time since that hand settled fingers against his waist. Even three layers from his skin. More of Danny doing the right thing. The thing they shouldn't stop doing. Steve let his eyes follow Danny's, maybe like they'd been discussing Campbell walking off, and he was looking up to see where he'd gone instead of casing the room, again.

But it's only a quick skirt of faces he couldn't paint a second later if he wanted to, because suddenly his shoulders and head are being jerked down, muscles pulling back hard behind and around his breast bone, pressing that breath he got in just as quickly out. Only getting his eyes to his tie in Danny's hand as it's already being let go on. Tugging as he gives that inane response that's as false as anything. Danny could talk paint off a wall if he wanted to.

"And yet you get off on interrupting anytime you can," Steve smacks right into the middle of Danny's words.

Waiting for Danny to stop talking was like waiting for days it was clouding in Hawaii. It wasn't impossible, just a whole lot less than anything near likely. Not that he'd wanted to talk to the guy for long, or even cared about the guy coming back or going away empty handed and pissed off. But there were easier, cleaner, more precise ways to have made that happen than Danny's choice.

Which is what Steve tells himself he's thinking about, and not anything else, when he's reaching up to make sure his tie is still straight after that. Smoothing a hand down the long line of it, down to where it shifted inside his jacket. Already at wanting to not have it on, but fine about ignoring that impulse to the lowest, innocuous hum.

"Nah, he's not the type," Steve says, and he instantly wants to eat the words. Like they are too telling. About the guy. About Steve. Things he knows. Sees. Has done. Even if his brain screams it could have been completely nothing sound either. Making him shove more words out of his mouth, "So you definitely owe me a drink now."