haole_cop | (no subject)

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"All I'm saying is, if we'd stayed on land last week, the chances of us getting boat-jacked and left to die out in the middle of the ocean in a sinking boat -- I'm sorry, dinghy," his hand drops from where it had lifted, preemptively, to stop Steve from arguing, "dinghy, I know, I know -- would have been much more slim. I'd say that there would easily have been a zero percent chance of that happening. Mainly because one does not use boats -- or dinghies -- on land. Don't get me wrong, I fully accept the possibility of something else horrible happening. It always seems to, every time we leave civilization."

Which is why they are here. At a bar. Having a few drinks, while Danny eyes the pool table and the TV with equal amounts of casual interest, catching a few glimpses of the previous week's games and keeping an eye out for the Jets.

More to the point, as great as it is that Steve wants to show him his favorite hiking trails or mountainous drives or fishing spots from when he was a kid, the guy is already surrounded by memories of a life that, all of a sudden, turned out not have been necessary at all. The thought of Doris McGarrett, hiding out somewhere on the island, unapologetic for doing what she'd called necessary and what Danny counters was cruelty, makes rage spark low in his stomach and burn up through his chest, so they're out of the house that she'd left so miserable and broken twenty years ago and planted solidly in the present.

There are worse ways to wrap up a week. Actually being around other people, instead of opting for Steve's lanai or living room or kitchen. When, somehow, miraculously, Danny is still wanted there. Around. And they've fallen into something almost like normality.

He hasn't thought about it too hard. That's how you jinx a good thing, and this is good, a bright light shining somewhere in the cave of bullshit that collapsed around them the day Fryer was murdered and Shelburne turned out to be Steve's not-nearly-as-dead-as-she-had-previously-appeared-to-be mother. Add it all to the firestorm of a custody battle from hell, and, look, all he wants is a decent night out at a bar before, hopefully, going back tipsy to Steve's house and enjoying the comfort of his couch or bed.

Is that really so much to ask?

"Best to just resist the impulse to tempt fate, my friend."

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Danny is talking. He's aware. Beyond his closed eyelids. Beyond the warmth pouring slowly out from five different spots on his head. The semi-circles of nails and the blunt, deeper focused, pressure of finger tips. The warmth and they way it shouldn't really, only being pressure against nerves and skull, seriously make him feel like Danny's found a second way, in less than half an hour, to pour his brain out the back of his head.

It's drags up a quiet, low content noise, in the back of his throat, that he can't stop. Or doesn't. Maybe doesn't even care to consider doing so. It's not like that statement needed a response, right? And he didn't always throw words back at Danny. Though usually that was during the day, feet apart. Not when he's got this warm, fluid urge, to just shift even closer.

When his chin is somewhere braced against a shoulder again, and he can feel which muscles it requires him to tighten and use, up his neck, just to top his head and look toward Danny's new words, the ones down his temple. But the tension and tightness involved with just looking toward the place where Danny's voice is, not even getting to opening his eyes, had him reluctant to do so.

Causing him tug Danny's hip, like it would get him closer. Like somehow that would help, when they're already like this and the stupid pillows are not at all near him, them. When he's following the nice earlier sound up now with one of consternation and a face, even in the dark, "I didn't say that."

No, he didn't say he wanted to. He asked if Danny wanted to. He didn't want to move at all.

Well, maybe to pull Danny somehow closer. Flush with him. Somewhere, something, solid against the fading day.

Steve is plastered against him, and Danny wouldn't risk moving and shattering this peace for anything less than a full scale crisis requiring them both to get up and get to work. Still, he asks anyway, because that's what they do, what he does, what Steve expects, and Steve ought to bat it back again, but it seems like his thoughts are stuck somewhere in touch-generated molasses, because it takes him a minute, and he's tugging at Danny, possessive, like he thinks Danny might actually try to do what Steve suggested and sleep. Edge away, grab a pillow, get under the covers.

Which might not be a bad idea, if they could be like this, but Danny's not willing to risk it, just yet. Not when Steve's hand is there, tugging, or when Steve's voice is scraping the bottom, rusted-out and hovering somewhere between petulant and complacent. "Oh, okay."

Fingertips moving in circles, fingernails scratching lightly, twisting strands into twirled threads between them before letting go and running along scalp. "My mistake. I was foolwed by you cleverly disguising your alertness by looking like you're about to drop off any second."

Between this breath and the next, maybe. Chin grafted to Danny's shoulder, forehead close enough that Danny can lean his cheek against it and contemplate the insanity of wanting to press a kiss there. The absurd contradiction of wanting to be gentle with Steve, who is a battering ram of a person, for whom the word gentle would seem inapplicable.

And yet there it is; that feeling. Wanting to be gentle. Wanting to kiss him until he catches his breath, or rub fingers over his head, or watch him fall asleep. Thoughts that pinion Danny's heart, make it ache and tighten and feel oddly reckless with itself.

Wanting to follow that tug on his hip, to slide closer. Slip legs together, sling an arm over Steve's side, settle his cheek into that hair, and sleep. "I guess I was mistaken."

Danny's backing down on the idea, quibbling, while teasing, and what really actually strikes Steve so much more than the fact he's being ribbed for the topic he brought up, or for the fact he's basically sprawled on Danny with no will in his bones to move at this second, is that Danny suddenly touches him even more. Danny leaning his head.

Warm skin, and stubble, first brushing, like a confused, uncertain question of a movement, before simply staying. Resting there, Danny's cheek against his forehead. Making Steve's chest tighten, even as something strikes up from his center, slamming him with a brick wall of longing to just move closer. Closer, not for his hand, but just tuck his temple in against Danny's shoulder and his neck.

To get lost in his beat of his heart, the way that he breathes, the fingers in his hair. Maybe it's girlie, or too sensitive. Sure, he can fall asleep nearly anywhere. Places other people would never consider, call literally impossible. Things he's done dozens and dozens of times for orders in the field. And his pillows a few feet away are none of those even.

But this. It shoves up into his chest. Hot and disastrously needy. Clinging to the backs of his ribs. Needling into his muscles.

The idea of how easy it would be here. How little he'd have to think about everything else. Just lose himself in Danny, and his skin, and his voice. The arm around him, the hand on his head, still laying on him more than the bed. It's beyond selfish, which he almost never lets himself be, no less see, but he wants it with a blistering pain, flash bright jagged, moment. The only sane thing that has stayed sane, even for all these changes and uncertainties.

They haven't been turned upside down. It hasn't ruined their work, and they've both made a rather concerted effort to keep it that way, Steve thinks. Not seeming to want to jeopardize Five-0, anymore than consider stopping this. Stopping this thing that doesn't stop. That makes Danny possessive and vindictive in one hour, and soft and teasing, like he is no, barely hours later.

When he could sleep. Okay? He admits it. Here. Right here. He could sleep and pretend it won't fade away, blow away, isn't melting closer to whenever, whatever the end is, by each second. He could close his eyes, and just go with the muscles releasing because of Danny, and let himself forget all of that. Anything struggling, straining, still tense in his head, to maintain realism. Pillows. Mothers. Jobs. Endings. Just get lost here.

Which is not an admission that can makes it anywhere past the bottom of his throat, the tight constriction in his chest. When all he does, is keep his long fingers and wide palm, lazily gripped over Danny's hip and side, to mutter, "It feels good."

It's a concession. The smallest drop compared to the thing he can't let out. Couldn't say. Not even here. To Danny.

There's some tiny shift of motion, that's not quite a warning and not quite compliance, either, where Danny's not sure what, exactly, is happening in Steve's head, but it's definitely something.

Again. Something Steve's keeping to himself, with the slight concession of those half-heard words, that are disappearing partially into Danny's shoulder and neck, warm breath and mumbles. They make Danny's eyebrows pull together, amused and a little nonplussed, but Steve is still lying half across him like a wet towel, so he's going to take it as a good thing until it is proved to be otherwise.

He keeps his fingers moving, slow firm circles, drawing loops against Steve's scalp, more purposeful now that he hasn't been told to stop. And, hey, if it feels good? That's all he cares about, right now. Being the one who gets to do this is just icing on the cake, compared to the bone deep satisfaction of seeing Steve flaked out like he's on a beach, soaking up sun and salt air.

It's enough to let him close his own eyes, let out a breath that feels like it deflates not just his chest, but his whole body, rumbling a low, contented noise of agreement deep in his chest. Warm and washing, like sinking into a hot bath.

Cheek against Steve's forehead and hair, feeling heavy, feeling like the slow spin of the world is pinning him here as much as Steve's arm and weight is. And it does feel good. It feels like a perfect fit, which is crazy, and it's crazy that Steve is letting him do this at all, without teasing about him being sensitive or handsy. Who needs a pillow, like this? Why would he possibly want to let go, just to move somewhere else?

It's a toss up really. Between whether he's holding out to see if Danny will mock him about those three words, another well, yeah, it's supposed to, again, as Danny can take anything and make it delightfully something to poke with, or if really, Steve's head will keep melting down his shoulders, making it so he really doesn't care one way or the other.

Just so long as he doesn't stop yet. When what happens first, really, is that Danny gives renewed focus to his fingers, more pressure and attention to it. Making Steve have to catch what might have turned into a soft groan in his teeth and the hold of his jaw. That don't stay long either. None of the tension is staying right now. Coming in and out, flicking in and gone, like fish coming up for air, and then falling right back under.

When Danny lets out a sound that tugs at him, almost matching the one Steve didn't let himself make. Sinking up through Danny's skin and into his. Warm and pleased. When that breath goes out and Danny settles, and maybe they won't move and Steve still won't give a damn. Well. About the pillows and blankets and mess. He should. But Danny seems to be good at diverting his want and will to do anything sensible.

With clean-up or sleep or anything, that isn't laying here, letting himself sink slowly into heated water, muscles relaxing. The world made up of the pressure washing in and out against his head, down all his other muscles. The way it mixes. With the sound of the waves. With the pull of Danny's breath, above his forehead and below his own chest. Mixing together, seeping into and pushing out everything else.

Until this is all there is, in the easy in and out of his own breath. Danny. Just Danny. Under him, still laying him out.

Making the world collapse smaller and smaller, darker and darker, warmer and warmer, taking over everything that is anything.

There's no further comment from Steve, who seems to be sinking deeper, slow and steady, relaxing a little more with every breath, muscles like butter. Making Danny rub his thumb against and around his temple, where headaches always spike for him and it can be like pressing a button to switch them off. Even when Danny's not sure how well he'll be able to feel it, because Steve's breathing is evening out, deepening, and if he's not falling asleep right now, he will be soon, without moving and going back to some sort of action.

And maybe they should. Right? Clean up, get under sheets and blanket, find pillows, be comfortable, and sleep while they can, but he just doesn't think he has it in him to interrupt this, now. Steve sleeps like shit anyway, wakes up multiple times in the night, sometimes strung so tensely that Danny thinks he's going to snap something, and he gets up before the sun nine days out of ten, even after a late night bleeding into morning, even after sex and release and relaxation.

So, come on. It's not a crime to let Steve sleep while he can, right? This is comfortable enough, and they can move if they have to, like if his arm falls asleep or it gets too chilly in the air-conditioned room without sheets or blankets, but he's in no rush. What's the point? He'd just want to get back to this, anyway, and Steve's guard is down, right now, which means Danny can do things like run fingers through his hair, rub circles into his scalp, keep arms wrapped around him and pretend like this is normal and not because he couldn't stand the thought of Steve taken away. Like this isn't holding on, like he's not being disappointingly selfish.

But just a little while. It can't hurt. And Steve needs time to let go, to not worry, to feel something other than the weight of everything, every person unsaved, every lie that keeps getting told, every truth that keeps getting shattered.

This is simple, and it's not enough, but it's good. So he just settles his head a little more comfortably, fingers drawing idle circles, and doesn't say anything about moving.

He does register some things, quietly, a sense of them drifting to him on the casual ebb and flow, of water and air. In himself, in everything all around him, slowly losing cohesion. When his arguments why this shouldn't happen are getting thinner and thinner, from brick walls to tissue paper to a fine mist, fading further and further away.

Against Danny's fingers, still moving, still moving and somehow the only solid, foundational thing somewhere under the weight of his head, of everything, as it's thinning away. Danny's fingers and the roll of night, thick and warm, both of them seeming to say the same thing. It's okay. Just breathe. Just let go. Stop fighting. Stop trying. Stop holding on to whatever it was he'd been holding on to. Whatever those things were. They were important, so important. But they're somewhere right outside of his grasp.

To get them he'd have to let go, and his fingers don't want to let go. He doesn't want to let go.

He has to keep letting go of so much. So he isn't stuck, frozen, walled in, slowed down, stopped, no matter what slams him.

But he doesn't want to let go of this. Danny's skin under his fingers. Somewhere not far from his nose. Not his pillows. Danny, himself. Real. Warm. Sex and sweat, and something deeply calming that he won't bury his head into with the same abandon of restraint and control shown his pillow case. But he still shifts in, settling down, and down, and down.

Forehead against a cheek and nose brushing against the top of his shoulder, juncture of his neck, with a breath.

Feeling the whole world, the solidness of everything, even Danny's shoulder beneath him, fingers, slipping from him.

He keeps his fingers in Steve's hair, but they're lighter, now, less a rub and more just a presence, smoothing over coarse, clipped strands, over gray speckles he can't actually see in the dark. And he's considering it. Just telling Steve to sleep. Breathe. Relax, let it all soak into him like bathwater: the dark, the peace, the calm that suffuses the island even when they can't touch it themselves. It's always there. Something beautiful and rich, something to do with the inevitability of the ocean, of beautiful weather, of sunshine and rainbows.

It's too much for him; he likes the bustle of cities and the noise of civilization, misses the hard gray reality of Newark and Manhattan, but right now, just now, here like this, he can appreciate the way Hawaii seems to tell everyone loving there to just chill. Lie back. Let it all just roll over, like a wave, like the perpetually rising sun. Even the persistent wash of the waves isn't as aggravating when it's blending with Steve's breath.

Look. He can't promise they won't get punched in the face with some new crisis or horror, maybe in the morning, maybe in a few minutes. It's possible. Maybe even probable. SO he can't say that this is all okay, that everything is fine and will continue to be fine, because it's not and it won't. Steve still has the reality of his mother to wrap his head around. Danny's still got Rachel and Grace to worry about. Malia is still recovering. And Kono -- she seems okay, but how okay can she really be when her Yakuza boyfriend is trying to revamp his public and not-so-public persona?

So is it any surprise that he wants to hold onto this, that he wants to let Steve have it, too? Steve, more than half curled into him, face tucked into the crook of Danny's shoulder and neck so he can feel every breath, feel the way it inflates an expansive, fragile glass balloon in his chest. Something huge and awkward, stumbling about on coltish legs, prone to tripping, but not shattering, not yet. Glowing too brilliantly to look at head on.

Yeah. He's the last person to tell Steve to wake up and face the world again. Someone's got to take that stand, and it might as well be him.

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