(no subject)

[haole_cop]

"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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[thebesteverseen]

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.

[haole_cop]

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.