Two Weeks

[haole_cop]

 Danny hates this.

He hates picking up the role of 'head of Five-0,' he hates meeting with Denning, he hates that he's been so short with the team that Kono has probably only been restrained from outright murder by the fact that Chin really would rather not book and imprison his own cousin. 

At least he was acceptably apologetic, after the last time, because he's not sure Chin would have actually bothered holding Kono back, and, fine, maybe he's been riding them a little hard, maybe his temper has been on the short side, maybe the only bright spot in this miserable world was his time with Grace last weekend. He catches the glances Kono and Chin shoot to each other, and he hasn't been totally unaware that they've both tried to get him to come out to bars or home for dinners or to the beach or to Kukui High's football games a lot more often, okay. He knows what they're doing, and why.

Just like he knows exactly how long, to the hour, to the minute, Steve's been gone.

It isn't Japan all over again. It won't be six weeks, only two, and he knows exactly where Steve is, even knows, mostly, when he'll be home. Not that he's been counting down the days, but it could be as early as tomorrow. Maybe. Probably. 

And they've kept busy. The two weeks, they haven't dragged -- there was that drug bust that kept them hopping for most of the first, and a number of smaller cases with more relaxed timeframes during the second, and he's been plenty busy, all right, he's barely had time to notice the days turning over, and he's even almost gotten used to sleeping alone in his own bed again.

But he hates it. He hates that Steve is gone. He hates that Steve is gone, and out of his sight, and nowhere where Danny can have his back if Steve needs it, and he's sure the Navy's got great people working there, he is, but none of them are him and he is Steve's partner, should always be there in case things get hot, and they always get hot, it's Steve. He runs at a perpetual fever grade.

He's fine. Danny knows he's fine. And he'll be back tomorrow, or the next day, and he'll have that same stupid moon of a smile and his cheeks might be slightly thinner and his hair will be shorter but he'll look exactly the same as ever, and Danny will stop being able to sleep for an extra half hour in the mornings because he'll probably be going back to needing to drive to his house for new clothes.

Not that he's actually taken advantage of that half hour. He's been in early and stayed late almost every day, and today was no exception, but there's only so long the human body can tolerate that kind of nonsense, because unlike Steve, Danny does not stay in a perpetual cycle of denying himself things under the misguided notion of calling it training, so when he blinks and realizes he'd nodded off on the couch and missed an hour of the DVR'd Jets game, he gives up the ghost, shuts off the TV, and shuffles, yawning, back through the house to brush his teeth, head to the bedroom, hitting lights along the way.

And maybe tomorrow he'll sleep better, back at Steve's, but he's so wiped that for once, for now, it doesn't matter, and it only sort of matters that the sheets and pillow don't smell anything like Steve, and he's out like a light, clutching one pillow and buried in another, before five minutes have clocked out.

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[thebesteverseen]

He was supposed to be telling Danny he got home early. He remembered that part of the plan. The surprising him. Back before Danny was asleep like a grandmother at midnight, and before Steve was stuck staring at him like he's gone blind. Maybe he had. He'd made it this far in, and he couldn't even convince himself he should be allowed to breathe in and out once, circulate the air in his body and the room, lest it wake Danny up. Like suddenly that was the sin.

When everything was going everywhere, like someone dropped a box full of marbles and they were going every single direction at once. He should probably stay here, nearish the wall, but he wanted to creep closer. He wanted to look at Danny's face from only inches away. To hear the soft mumble of his sleeping, when sometimes his dreams still needed his mouth moving. To just, to just be nearer, closer. Like closer could ever be close enough.

Like he didn't already have the urge to run a finger down the back of that hand fisting a pillow.

To follow it with his hand, and the words he could never make form on his tongue. That just seeing him, touching him.

Steve needed that. Wanted it more than everything except his need to go. That kept him running when he was gone. That he could close his eyes and remember he was coming back to this. Danny. That this was all real and waiting for him on the other side of those days. That when people joked he must be happy to be going home, and meant Hawaii, he just agreed. He didn't need to clarify that it wasn't the island he was glad was getting closer and closer to being back to.

Steve can't help the way he steps back, instead of forward, when Danny starts thrashing. Like maybe that one breath finally did do him in. Struggling against the will of the universe for Danny not to wake up, suddenly. Except that goes out the window as soon as though, because he is. Fighting with his blanket, the pillow, and then just as suddenly he's shooting out of bed, looking in every direction.

Just, Christ, he's always loved Danny's instincts. He should feel bad, but that goes without even a first pass consideration. God. He's glorious, confused, in a muddle, tangled in his blankets, swearing and startled, looking like he's still considering reaching for wherever the closest gun might be. Steve barely wonders if the shout makes it past the walls, except it's not an apartment anymore either. And he really doesn't care.

He should, but he can't stop the twitch upward that's happening with one side of his mouth, while Danny is snapping at him, like Steve can't see the movement of Danny's chest expanding and his shoulders, each going fast and heavy with every single hard, fast breath still. Doesn't stop the way he loves that it doesn't stop Danny from throwing words at his head like at bullets either.

"You should invest in better security," Steve says, drawling his voice like it's a school insult, and an important 'x' against the house itself. Even when he couldn't stop the tug of his mouth toward what was trying to be an unruly smile, only hidden by the darkness of night and the shadows of the room. "It can't have taken even three minutes to infiltrate this place. I thought you said this place was safe for Grace."

[haole_cop]

"Who is going to infiltrate my home, would the NSA, would terrorists, is this part of your drill? Were you required to break into my house, Steven, or did you just forget how to use your cell phone while you were off with the other cavemen? Jesus."

His heart is still racing, and a hand goes to his chest, fingers spreading over it like he might be able to calm that racehorse beat, takes a deep breath, and glares at Steve -- who is looking anything but abashed, who is looking outright pleased himself, like breaking and entering is less of a crime and more of an endearing if unusual personality quirk. "You are defective, you know that? This is twisted. Did you even bother knocking? You, you were supposed to call me. Call. Like a normal person."

He's shifting throughout this tirade, untangling ankles from the sheets that grabbed at them, grinding the heel of his hand into his eye until lights burst there and prove this is all real.

Steve really is standing in his bedroom, still wearing his uniform, all delighted with himself for making Danny think someone was about to murder him in his own bed, and that means Steve's back.

Danny's pretty sure that a few hours ago, this would not have led to feverish fantasies of strangling the guy, but what are you gonna do?

"What are you doing here? Did you just drop by to comment on my home security system, which is fine, you freak, or was there something else you wanted? Perhaps to say 'hi, Daniel, I'm back in town, you don't need to come pick me up, because I'm going to ninja my way off the base and home on my own, thanks, by the way, it's good to see you'? Because I feel like that could have all been said over the phone."

[thebesteverseen]

It's amazing, you know. Nothing short of spectacular.

If the Navy could harness the energy difference between Danny asleep in his bed not two minutes ago and this full on, steaming, tirade, of five thousand words, one moving hand, constantly shrill notes of tone, they could power a small city. At least for a few minutes. Just look at him go. He was stillness and everything crushing Steve's chest seconds ago. It was only seconds ago, and now he's all movement. All sound and fury, fast and loud, making Steve chest fill with helium, like it's going to burst out his lungs, his ribs, and lift him off the ground once it fills his whole body.

He was wrong, too. Not Danny. Steve. But not about any of the things Danny is presently ranting about.

He was wrong about wanting Danny to be asleep, to stay asleep, and wrong about thinking about Danny was anything like being. Beyond one thousand percent right about getting two cargo planes home, over night, a day early, just to get an ear full of Danny acting like someone had jumped up and down on his prone, sleeping form, instead of like Steve just showed up a day, two days, early and didn't even tell anyone except the people he was paying for services from.

"I got home early," Steve said, with a shrug, like it's both absolutely nothing, something anyone could manage with the right will and charm, but with a smile like it's the best surprise ever, and it's just for Danny, and it's just because he's the best that ever was, and no one was ever going to get in his way between leaving as soon as he could and getting here. Like he pulled out all the stops and deserved a commendation just for it. From Danny.

Mouth still gone crooked and chest maybe even a little more puffed, as he keeps watching Danny, fighting free of the bed, and maybe that means he slightly amble toward that side of the room. Even if amble isn't quite an amble. They're still smooth, sure steps, just the other side of not being a march. Heavy boots that feel that feel like they should be a march.

But they don't have to be. Because he's home, and Danny is right there. Which is not quite right here yet.

But it's so much a smaller and smaller space, every minute of the last fourteen hours. Even these now.

It's so easy to add, without refuting any of that, like it's obvious, "I thought you'd like to know."

[haole_cop]

"You are deranged."

He's glaring at Steve, who is actually smiling, the psychopath, because he thinks shit like this is not only a good idea, but probably cute as well; hell, in McGarrett's twisted mind, this may well count as romantic. "Does your phone not work? I ask out of idle curiosity, and because that is probably what you should have done, you maniac. In what world is breaking into my house and watching me sleep, like some kind of serial killer, the better option? You're lucky that, unlike you, I don't sleep with a gun under or anywhere near my pillow."

Worse, Steve is actually advancing, and Danny's awake, fully awake, but he's still caught in a sticky net of exhaustion, and it's wreaking havoc with the alarms being set off all over his body, tripped by proximity to Steve. It's been two weeks, two weeks is too long, his skin is practically singing to be touched, his stomach is all tied up and snaked into confused knots, but he holds his ground because he'll be damned if he's intimidated by Steve, ever. Even in the middle of the night, after being pitched into a shock of cold terror.

(He looks ragged and tired and he's wearing those damned camos and he's got at least a day's worth of scruff or more, but, Christ -- Danny's fingers itch to reach out and grab him, make sure he's real.)

If he'd known, he would have stayed up. He would have met the plane, and there's a definite surge of annoyance that Steve didn't tell him, that they wasted the hour or half hour since he landed, that Danny missed it, was asleep alone instead of waiting for him. "I would've come to get you, asshole, if you'd called me. Or did you decide to put your newly-honed SEAL skills to the test just for fun?"

Annoyed, the verbal equivalent of batting Steve away, while he's sitting up, propping a pillow between his back and the headboard, watching Steve come closer with exasperation and something all too like hunger.

It's been two weeks. He was wrong before.

Two weeks is a damn lifetime.

[thebesteverseen]

It is the better option. It is so much the better option that he can't even conceive of how to put it into words. Danny, cantankerous and loud, here, and not just as this disembodied voice on the phone at his ear. It's better than any extra fifteen seconds or two minutes he could have taken on a phone. It's better because he can watch it all, these most minute second pauses Danny might not even be aware he's taking.

But Steve is. Feels like there's a lamp light on each one.

When Danny is throwing words at his head like encyclopedias, but he's stopping and looking Steve over in a way Steve knows is not about whether he's regimental enough. Even if it is the first smack reaction that answers back. Habit of the last two weeks. Everything, every single stitch in the right place. There's an itch to smooth a hand down his shirt, to make sure it's still properly tucked, straighten his spine and look perfectly forward. Which is insane. He's here. He could be wearing anything else. Or nothing.

But Danny isn't looking at him like that. Isn't looking for loose strings, untucked edges or seams that are veering a quarter inch in the wrong direction. He's looking at him in flashing passes like he's making sure Steve's head and arms are all still attached. That he's there. Really there. Even though he's been there for minutes now. Like Danny can't really look away from him, not even to set up moving his pillows, not entirely. Like Steve might vanish in those seconds.

He shouldn't be giddy on that. He shouldn't want to see that on Danny's face. Shouldn't feel the surge of possessive, victorious something that crashes through his veins, when that is breaking through Danny's tirade. These cracks in the anger. Like not even that could be a strong enough shield over it and Steve can't help that all it does is drag his crooked list of his mouth out even more. Like every single secret cent of it dropping out means he wins more, was right more.

Letting him drop on the side of the bed, close to Danny, hand spider-webbed wide on the blanket not even half an inch from Danny's leg, with a rusty laugh. Like the sound says everything Steve needs to. About how Danny needs the reminder. To stop living thirty minutes ago, or two minutes, or any minute that isn't this ones. This one where every minute is cutting down miles and feet and inches, like a thundering magnet. Steve pressing into his space, daringly, by leaps and bounds, like it's a fence he can shove his fingers into and watch crumble.

Amused and aware, wry and smug, but even so thick and lower when he says, "I'm here now."

Like somehow that should be the answer to everything on Danny's lips, or maybe like it's the answer to everything of Steve's.

[haole_cop]

"Oh, are you? I hadn't noticed."

It's annoyed, curt, aggrieved, but the bed is sinking under Steve's weight and Steve is giving him that certain crooked smile he's perfected for when he knows he's being a jerk but that he'll get away with it anyway, because he thinks it's a genuinely good idea, and he's so close.

He's so close, and he hasn't been this close in weeks, and Danny has missed him, the jackass, missed being woken up by a Steve dripping with sea- or shower-water, missed morning coffee in Steve's kitchen and getting kissed into Steve's door. He's missed the company in the Camaro -- Kono is Kono, and she's amazing, but she's not Steve, doesn't have the same terrible taste in music and her interest in the details of Danny's life can usually be sidelined.

(Not that she's allowed this chance to interrogate him about the new woman in his life to go by without a fight.)

He can almost catch the scent of Steve's skin and hair, and he smells like travel, sure, like sweat and too many people and being awake too long and the same outfit for too many hours in a row, but he smells like Steve, like Irish Spring and salt and sun-warmed skin, and it's heady as mainlining a double of tequila, leaves the same kind of warmth puddling in his stomach and seeping out through his veins.

He's moving closer almost before Steve's all the way down, reaching for whatever's closest: his arm, shoulder. Landing on the back of his neck, fingers curling into too-short hair, over warm soft skin. "You shoulda stopped to shower," he says, as he's leaning in. "You smell like something died."

That doesn't stop him from pushing forward, legs still under sheets and blanket, which are half-pinned by Steve's weight; doesn't stop him from, dragging Steve close enough to be kissed, impatient and affectionate beneath the annoyance, while Danny breathes in sharp, feels it like a shock to his system. The ability to breathe again. Like when Grace was here, and for the first few seconds after solving a case. "Took you long enough."

[thebesteverseen]

There are fingers touching him, a hand, hopscotching across his shirt sleeve up to his neck, and his thoughts are coming so fast they could be the bullets now. Because for a half second he doesn't understand why he even has a shirt. Fuck all the nonsense of even wanting anything else, he just wants to feel all of Danny's hand, and some part of his shoulders sag when that hand jumps again, from his covered shoulder to his neck. Just because of his hand.

Just because it feels like starvation. Suddenly. Not two days. Not nine. Now. When he can't feel it, wants it, and then can.

When Danny's voice is still annoyed, clipped, snippy, and put upon, but Steve's being drug in as much as he's pushing forward. There is no part of him that hasn't already been here, wanted to be here. Hand lifting to find some part of Danny's body, when their mouths connect. When it's a marvel that he doesn't let out some noise, because it feels like his whole world lurches twenty feet in a completely different direction. Like snow is melting. Like his skin remembered to exist.

Fingers knotting in the fabric of Danny's sleep shirt at his side, soft and worn, and as much in the way as desperately wanted. Conflict and need sideswiping whatever smugness had been splattered across Steve's chest and head. Tipping him into Danny, small and solid, making him suddenly aware of just how long the day has been, the week, suddenly now. Against Danny. Who is being just as nonsensical when he opens his mouth again. But Steve doesn't care, because everything in him is, too.

When Steve's shoulders are bowed and he's can see Danny's face so close in the dark, wants to rest his forehead against Danny's, wants to sleep for a week, wants move his thumb and trace the ribs under Danny shirt and skin, to know he's real and here, and that this is home and not a dream. Wants all of it, can feel it beating at the door, even when he only takes a breath in, lick his bottom lip, to complain, even still winded with the taste of Danny. "You aren't making any sense."

Except he is. Even with telling Steve he should have called, and that he should have taken longer to get cleaned up, and that he took too long. He gets it. He gets it, because he knows, too. Because it wasn't yesterday, and it should have been an hour ago, and it's still this minute, which isn't enough yet, is only just barely a whisper. He probably does need a shower, but he wants even less to move away now, to let go of Danny.

To do anything other than throws chips on the pile, saying, "I see that hasn't changed any in my absence."

Before pulling Danny, and Danny's mouth back, because away is wrong. He needs Danny more than anything else. Which is the utter line of something making sense that shouldn't and wouldn't make any other sense at all, isn't it?

[haole_cop]

God. Nothing's changed. Nothing at all.

He still feels like someone's plugged him in when Steve's touching him, even without those fingers finding skin just yet. Still gets a jolt thudding lightning into his stomach, like he's thirteen years old on talking to a girl for the first time since he figured out they did strange things to his thoughts and body. "Why would anything change?"

He's asking it just to be a jerk, just to pretend his chest isn't tight and his stomach isn't a solid ball of liquid metal snakes, all tangled together and still squirming. "It's only been two weeks, that's nothing, two weeks is less time than Gracie gets for Christmas vacation, it's a blip."

A blip that suddenly feels insurmountable, and he's got no idea how he lived through it, now that it's over, because it feels like a goddamn year, like he's been walking around for the last two weeks dragging Jacob Marley chains everywhere he went.

But nothing changed. Nothing changed, in case Steve is actually concerned that it did, that somehow his absence would have allowed Danny to regain his sanity and fall out of love with his stupid SEAL partner who does things like break into his house in the middle of the night just to say hello, that he might not want to be dragged back in, that his fingers might not tighten on Steve's neck and the hand that had been still on the bed might not come up to Steve's side and fist in the unfamiliar fabric of his uniform.

Except...

Except he still smells awful, okay, old sweat and dirty hair and the clinging malaise of travel, and Danny's laughing before he can pull far enough away to do so right into Steve's mouth, shoving at him with one hand and still holding him in one place with the other, and maybe it doesn't actually matter enough to keep from kissing him in between grinned and skipping words. "Jesus, seriously, this is awful, Steve, did you jog home, does the Army not allow showers anymore at all, is three minutes too long? Please, please. There is shampoo. There is hot water. There is a clean toothbrush. If you're going to accost me in the middle of the night, at least shower first."

[thebesteverseen]

He could be buried in this. The way Danny laughs. Just close the mahogany lid, staple a flag down on it with correctly folded corners, and bury him under. Straight into his mouth, like gold, in the middle of sharp words, that aren't even sharp toned anyone more, and middle of kisses, the feel like they are going to crawl right up into his hair and down his throat, like Danny can't even decide which of those three things he needs more.

To be laughing, or kissing Steve, or continuing to tell him what he's still done wrong. It's madness.

But the best kind of madness. The blinding sun on the water, and Steve is snorting at the insanity of Danny and his less than clear intentions of where this is going and what Steve should actually be taking serious. The hands pulling him in by the back of his neck and his hair, the mouth that keeps trying to burn his brain along with his skin, and the hand that keeps smacking at him and pushing at his chest, like Steve could fall apart into pieces to do all of these conflicted orders.

"Navy." Steve reprimands back, catching it on Danny's lip. When he can't stop himself from pressing a kiss into the corner of his mouth and then side of curve jaw, right under his mouth. Couldn't stop the want to lay Danny out and touch every inch of his skin and the golden hair on it, so he can be sure. Danny's real, and here, and whole. Know if anything happened he hasn't been told. Which is insane.

It's not him. He's never been like. But it's electric under his skin. Making him shake his head.
Turn his reprimand, into boasting, and insulting someone else. "But the cargo planes were Air Force."

Hickam's airfield and all. The sling shot he needed. It's a large hub. Something was bound to be headed out this way.

Maybe he should. Shower. Shower, brush his teeth. Steal Danny's bathroom. It's not like he's even stepped out to take a leak since all the moving with boxes started hours ago. It's not hell. It's habit. He hasn't even though about it in half the day. He could probably use all of the above, and something to eat. If he could convince his hands to let go of Danny anymore than Danny's convinced the hand latched on to Steve's neck to let go.

[haole_cop]

"Cargo planes? Did you say cargo planes?"

Of course he did. O course he did. Naturally, Steve opted to be shipped out like a box of books or one of those fruit baskets where everything's wrapped in foil and that weird styrofoam netting, rather than take a commercial airliner like a normal person, maybe get a mimosa or two, have a decently comfortable flight.

Well, more comfortable than on a cargo plane. "You borrowed Air Force cargo space to get home? You really were in a hurry."

Which also explains the lack of personal hygiene, the scruff and stubble currently scraping Danny's skin, which suddenly feels all too tender, enflamed under the rough scratching. "No wonder you didn't shower, did you even eat? How long have you been traveling, you idiot? Don't you know Hawaii isn't going anywhere, it's not going to move without telling you."

But his fingers are flattening out across Steve's chest, palming over his uniform shirt, running over the embroidered MCGARRETT on his breast pocket, seeking out the ribs at his side, slowing down. All he wants to do is fist those fingers, lean back against the headboard and drag Steve with him, until they're flush against each other, until all that distance is nothing but another bad memory, one that can just get washed away with the taste of Steve's mouth and the feel of his skin under Danny's hands.

Except he's not twelve, thanks, and he's got some degree of willpower, still, and Steve has been traveling on cargo planes, because Steve is an idiot who probably hasn't eaten anything in the last twelve to twenty-four hours, so Danny pulls back without tugging Steve with him, watches him with exasperation. "Food? Do I need to feed you, because I am one hundred percent sure you forgot to feed yourself, how are you an adult, how have you managed to survive on your own this long, these are questions that haunt me, daily. Food, shower, and then, maybe, I'll let you get in bed, all right, because this, Steve, this is seriously, this is unbearable, will you please for Christ's sake hurry up?"

[thebesteverseen]

It wasn't fast enough. It's the only thought in Steve's head and he's not sure what's worse.

That it stumbles into his head drunken, on Danny's mouth and his hands, as fast as the speed of light. Or the instant feeling of guilty annoyance from himself about the fact he shouldn't want to leave his duty sooner than he ever has to. Or the faint flood embarrassed warmth that smacks his cheeks because he actually did think it, can't stop it entirely while Danny's fingers trace his name.

He wasn't afraid of Hawaii moving. He wasn't afraid that any of his people wouldn't be here. Logically, Danny wouldn't move anywhere over two weeks. He's been gone two weeks. Two weeks wasn't enough time for Danny to bitch properly about any new city, no less choose a house, and abscond with his daughter, against the law he loved too much to ever cross. But there's something small and cold and wobbly in his gut at the joke. Like there is something there.

Something that could have change, could have moved, while Steve was gone. Even while Danny stood still.

Maybe all of this could have changed. Maybe he'd never even let himself really focus on it until now.
Now when it makes even less sense, because Danny has his hands everywhere on Steve's uniform.

"A shower," Steve hedges, haggles, like there is some kind of bartering system going on on Danny's bed over his sleep warm body. "Maybe." Is smug, again, and just begging to be smacked. Because, seriously, how is he supposed to want to walk away, even if a shower sounds great. "But food can wait until morning. It's past zero hundred hours."

Too late for food. Too late for him to want it. He just wants Danny. Maybe some hot water. A bed, with the distant sound of the waves crashing. And more Danny. Everything else is marked down under superfluous and unimportant, not part of the mission parameters, things that can wait until he's found other clothes, getting ready for work and a different kind of daily routine. When maybe he'll splurge for malasadas, or Liliha's, and coffee on their way to work, too.

[haole_cop]

"Fine. Deal."

Even if he's not quite able to convince his fingers to let go, just yet, because Steve is leaning in and close and he's got that smile, the crooked one Danny can't ever quite decide if he want's to hit or kiss, and his eyes are half-lidded and promising. "Go shower. Clean up, and you might even get laid."

Spoken like Steve would be lucky as hell to have the possibility out there, even if Danny's whole body is already charged up and ready to go, two weeks of nothing but his own hand and the memory of Steve around to slacken that chain. Like it doesn't feel wrong, deep in his gut, to widen his fingers against Steve's chest and shove at him, pushing back towards the headboard as he does. Like Danny's not a sure fucking thing, these days, when Steve looks at him like that, when Steve's fingers can't leave his side, when his skin is humming with need and want and he's pretty sure there might be actual sparks flying, that as tight as his chest feels, it'll be even harder to breathe when Steve's gone again, even if it's only for the requisite three minutes.

"You keep bragging you can take a speedy shower, come one, let's see that Navy training in action."

If Steve doesn't hurry up, Danny will have to come with, and he doesn't want to get back in bed soaking wet in the middle of the night, just wants Steve, shower-clean and warm, smelling like Danny's shampoo and soap and fresh water, wants to drag him under the sheets where Danny is all sleep-warm and relaxed.

Even if there's something appealing about the thought of taking over his bathroom, too. "Go on, get out of here."

[thebesteverseen]

Steve bounces back, all coiled up reflexes sprawling out into a standing form, and a laugh that fills up the darkness.

When he's grabbing his shirt, and yanking it over his head, even as he's only rocking back off the mattress and on to the heels of his boots being under him. He doesn't even seem to need time to think about it, before he's flinging his shirt at Danny's head, and turning on his heel, very about march. Headed for the door, while calling back, "Don't make promise you can't keep, Williams. Some of us don't need sleep to function."

He feels alive. The pores in his skin and the hair down the back of neck. That furiously pleased racing thing in his chest, a tangle of torn up reactions, giddily running itself in neverending circles, and whining confusion about why he's headed the opposite direction from shoving Danny straight into the headboard and the sheets, until there are fingers fisted in his hair and Danny can't talk to even complain about cargo planes and showers or do anything more than mangle his name up perfectly.

His boots are the only thing that take a moment once he hits the bathroom and turns the faucet on. Dog tags left on counter, before he's yanking at the knots in his boots and throwing a look at the mirror. He doesn't look like death warmed over and stumbling toward a grave. He's come back looking so much worse. Not from drills. But from Japan, and from South Korea, and from a lot of places Cath always knew better than to ask pin-point questions about.

Scruffy and sleepless, but all in one piece. No new scars. Just a low key set of drill weeks spent on a base.

But the boots go. Dropped without looking on the floor, followed by the haphazard of pants, a matching white set of undershirt and a pair of briefs, all left in a pile he can see to after. Because he wouldn't mind clean, but he wants even more to be through it. Back to Danny, all mouthy and golden even in the dark. But that doesn't stop the ragged sort of soft groan caught in the back of throat, closed mouth, that happens when the hot water hits his shoulders and chest.

[haole_cop]

He balls up the shirt and tosses it at Steve's retreating back. "You're a lot of talk and not enough action, McGarrett."

But Steve's moving, finally, moving fast and sure, and once he disappears, Danny hears the bathroom door closing and the shower spitting into life, the tone and frequency shifting after a few seconds, when Steve must be getting in.

And it's tempting. It's so tempting, to go and join him, to turn a three minute shower into a fifteen minute one, to help wash the sweat and dirt of travel off Steve's tan skin, get hands and fingers all over him, until they're both clean and gasping and someone gets shoved into the tile because they can't wait any longer.

Just the thought is enough to make him groan, roll over to find the pillow and shove it in his face, trying not to think about the slick glide of soap, of Steve's fingers on him, the way he already feels like he'll explode if he's so much as touched, mattress and cotton sheets suddenly too present against too sensitive skin and body parts, body heat getting trapped to feverish levels around him.

He can control it. Right? He's not just a creature of wants, he can let Steve shower in peace, he can wait right here and he won't go crazy, because Steve is back, the hissing shower is proof.

He'll just need to bury his face in the pillow and hope that three minutes won't kill him, and maybe that Steve can prove he really is the best, and can completely shower in less than that.

[thebesteverseen]

It's tempting to stand for a few seconds, maybe like he's waiting. Waiting, just to see if Danny's actually going to leave him alone and roll right back over, and possibly even fall asleep again. It's happened. A lot of things have happened. He's sure they have to be nearing some kind of hundred box of all the things they've done and keep doing Steve was certain would never happen. Not with Danny, and really not with anyone ever. Because he just...didn't.

Things like this didn't happen in his world. His life. SEAL. Task Force leader. It hadn't mattered. Certain things didn't stick. So maybe he is waiting, wondering, some part of him insanely keyed up now. When the hot water is running rivulets down all of his skin and he's scrubbing the same shampoo into his hair and then his skin like he's been in a jungle, a swamp pit, snow drifts, and not just the back of a plane for hours. Like there's a reason to make it a minute and half.

Because Danny could turn up any minute now, too. Because that's happened, as well. Enough to end up with water running cold, and secondary showers having to be taken, while Steve jokes about which of them is lacking in having any patience now. When the answer is both of them. They're like flint and steel, going up in a explosion of heat and brilliance every time. Leaving him listening through the water, once he's scrubbed it all and gotten back under the water.

Rubbing it all off with wide hands and helpful water. As much loving the heat as entirely distracted from it, too.

But the door knob doesn't turn, and the tirade of noise doesn't ever follow him into the bathroom. Which is fine. It's not always. But some part of him is harping, wishfully, warningly, it could be now. Or now. Or now. But it keeps not being it. Which, just as much, keeps tripping up his feet, like ankle shackles, even when he's pushing the faucet handle back in and everything goes to silence, while he's rubbing water off. But no Danny.

Pushing the curtain open and grabbing a towel, still dripping water half of everywhere on that bathroom rug while he borrows the toilet. Giving an odd look to the rug, because he has the second. To notice it, like all the homey touches in this place seem just a little out of place to him, more toward a Danny Steve has taunted him about not being and who might have existed years ago and there are suddenly small signs of everywhere.

Things he's not certain he likes now that is happening. When it's insane. Because the Danny who bought the bathroom rug that matches the whole generic bathroom set, whenever that was, with this house, and all its other little homey touches and changed opinions on places, which he knows are all for Grace, is still the Danny threw his shirt back at his retreating back and threatened not to let him get laid if he didn't get into and out of the bathroom fast enough minutes ago, is still the same Danny. At least hypothetically. Right?

He steals Danny's toothbrush, with something not quite making it to a frown. Toothpaste and in that goes, while he's glancing at Danny's razor and giving his cheek the odd brush over with his other hand. Wiry and wet, the amount of a day only, because he still had to look ship shape this morning, even if it will take him a few more minutes just to do fast, rough job of getting it neat more than gone.

[haole_cop]

Steve is taking forever.

It must be well past three minutes. Right? It's well past three minutes, and heading into infinity; Danny can feel himself getting older as the seconds, minutes, years tick by, while the shower finally cuts off, only for the toilet and the faucet to start running a few seconds later.

"How long does it take to brush your teeth?" he wonders out loud, rolls onto his back with his arm lying across his face. "Doesn't that get timed in the Navy?"

This is ridiculous. No one should be expected to stay in bed and wait while Steve McGarrett is naked in their bathroom, freshly showered, and it's been two weeks since the last time he was under their hands, all right? It's superhuman, this patience, and he groans into his own arm, wondering if maybe he was insane to kick Steve out before, if he should've just dragged him in right then, because the truth of the matter is that they're probably both going to need another shower in less than an hour, a thought that flicks a flame into life just below the roiling metallic mess in his gut, starts melting it all over again. "Jesus Christ, how slow can jet lag make you?"

That's loud enough that Steve ought to be able to hear it, and he doesn't care that if the roles were reversed he'd be taking his own sweet time, enjoying his shower and hot water and the feel of freshly-shaved skin, but, Christ, he hopes Steve doesn't bother shaving. What would be the point, what would it possibly do except slow him down further?

[thebesteverseen]

Steve is trying not laugh. Nearly everything carries to him, even if it's a low indiscernible muttering, which isn't too surprising, and it's also something he should keep in mind, not that he's positive he'll ever be in this house, in this position, during any time when he'll need to be keeping it in mind other ears could probably hear, too. But it's worth noting. Like all the other things he knows about Danny, and about Danny's things.

But the last part definitely gets to making him laugh. He can't really help it. Even if it's probably idiotic of him to give into it, because he's got a blade against his face with nothing between him and it but a handful of mostly already dripped away water. Having forgone shaving cream and mostly just taking the edges off of looking maybe the other side of having seen nothing of civilization for the last twelve hours in a hold of carrier. It's not close, and it's not sheer, but it's manageable until morning.

Especially because he probably couldn't get himself to stand here another five minutes and make it perfect and smooth even if he was offered double his best hazard pay. Because there's a note of downright rebelliously dissenting whining carrying through the house that smack Steve in his gut and makes it sizzle. Because Danny is bitching now about Steve actually doing what he said, and taking what Steve is certain might only barely be at five minutes now. There's really no answer to that but to laugh.

To laugh, and drop the razor in a cup, pulling the towel from around his waist and using it to pat his cheeks and his chin. Before tossing it over the shower rod without much really looking at it, or straightening it out, or any amount of considering picking up all the things he left on the floor and the bathroom counter in his wake. Because there is no point in hanging around, when everything else in him is the taut pull of that magnet in his chest and the warm heady amusement.

"I'm sorry," is drawled, with a heavily dripping mocked arrogance, when Steve is headed from the bathroom toward the door of Danny's bedroom, without a stitch of clothing or self consciousness. Just a golden ribbon of smugness and the tingle of the the water left on his skin turning cold with movement. "Weren't you just saying something about how awful and inhumane the back of a plane was?"

He actually pauses to accent these words, standing there in the first part of Danny's bedroom. Damp skin, and all but blinding smirking. Because who wouldn't be. Who wouldn't want to drag Danny straight over the coals, if Danny was talking about them like this. Like he was a teenager, like they both were and it was impossible to make five minutes. Like they hadn't just done fine with two weeks. But another minute would break the world in half, and they'd break it now at thirty seconds because even that was too long.

So, he stands there, a right bastard and gone proud and high pretty much with all of the insane lot of it. "Who was it that shoved me out of their bed and asked how could I have not have stopped and showered first? How could I have not brush my teeth before accosting them in the middle of the night? After traveling a whole day in subpar conditions to get there?" There's a flourish of one hand in the darkness of the bedroom, that comes to rest on bare hip. "I'm definitely sure it wasn't me."

[haole_cop]

Steve can laugh all he wants, setting Danny's skin burning and his gut knotting, remembering the way that laugh feels against his mouth, thinking about how it lights Steve's whole face, turns him from something perfect and predatory to human, warm as a Hawaiian beach laid out under a baking sun, suddenly available, approachable. Allowed. He can laugh, as long as he hurries up, gets back in this room before Danny's resolve snaps like a twig and he has to toss back the covers and pin Steve right to the counter in his own bathroom, where it won't be nearly as warm or comfortable and is distinctly lacking the bedside table with its drawer of handy supplies.

He doesn't have to, though, because he can hear Steve moving around, sounds with finality; the flood of light when he opens the door and the subsequent click of the switch and sudden swallowing darkness.

Not dark enough not to see, though. Not dark enough not to tell, that when Steve walks in, he's left the towel behind. Not dark enough that there isn't enough light to catch on the water-glossed angles of his shoulders and hips, the definition of muscle, the way he moves, all shoulder, like a few steps faster would allow him to stride straight through a wall.

Except he doesn't keep coming, just stands there, looking satisfied with himself, hand on his hip while he points out that Danny was the one who insisted on the shower, anyway, and he did, he did, is still pretty sure it was the right choice, but he's not thinking about Steve being clean, when he's shoving at the sheets and blanket and getting his feet on the floor; isn't patting himself on the back for making Steve brush his teeth and -- yes, shave -- when he's pushing up off the mattress and making a beeline straight for his partner, the asshole, who's been gone now two weeks and five minutes too long. "You saying you didn't enjoy my shower?" he's saying, but it's all but growled, and he's not stopping or slowing the closer he gets to Steve, just keeps walking right into him, lifting a hand to get on his chest and shoving him back until Steve hits the wall and his chest hits Steve's, and then he's got a hand in Steve's hair to drag him down.

And he doesn't care, okay. It's great that Steve is warm and clean and shower-fresh and that he tastes like mint, but those five minutes, they felt like fifty years, and Danny has never been so desperate to get something under his hands before, doesn't give a damn that he's still in his t-shirt and boxers and his hair is wild and his own stubble is thick and prickly.

All he cares about is getting Steve's mouth back on his, feeling the way the world lurches, feeling that near-sob of a sound catching in his chest, soft and raw where he's breaking right open, because Steve is back, Steve is home, and he couldn't even wait long enough to sleep in his own bed, to take the flights he was supposed to take. And Steve is saying, he just said, he said he took the cargo plane, flew in the back of an Air Force cargo plane, to get here.

Not to his house. Not back to Five-0. Not back to Hawaii.

Here. He took it to get here. Back to Danny.

And that's exactly where Danny's not going to let him leave.

[thebesteverseen]

Steve fights for a response, but even that's a lie. He's not fighting for one. He makes a noise that could have been the beginning of a worded response, would have been a response, if his back weren't being shoved into a wall and a hand weren't grabbing his neck, and sliding into his hair, dragging him down like the wrath of angry, bitter, forced to wait too long, God, and it's only a tender mercy or a miracle that he doesn't make that sound again. The one from the hot water and shower.

The one long gone, along with that bluff of words, because everything else turns sideways and Chinese, as unimportant as instructions in a box. Because Danny's chest hits him, and then his hand, and then his mouth, and there's something nye on punishing about it. Like no one should ever make Danny wait again. Shooting through Steve's veins like fire, tightening every inch of his skin, when his hands are on Danny, one in coming up and finding his head and the other fisting his shirt and dragging him closer.

It's like bursting into flame and not caring. Everything boiling and burning under Danny's hands. A demanding kiss, that makes him want to fight back just as hard. Demand from Danny everything. His anger and every single ounce of missing any of this, every single hint from his tone. He wants more of that sound, the one that gets stuck between them, between their mouths, put out and swallowed in the same gasps, nearly knocking teeth and the scratch of the wall on the knobs of his spine, but the way it's almost soft and ragged and raw, so real its nearly painful. That sound.

None of which matters, nothing, nothing, nothing matters but kissing Danny back. Wanting him, all of him, and not having it. The way that spikes like an assailable threat and Steve's hands are on that shirt, fisted in the cloth, dragging Danny against him, between his legs, with even as he's dragging it upward, coughing up air somehow to say, "Off. Off. Off," into Danny's mouth, all sharp short annoyed orders, dragging his last two fingers solid firm up those ribs to Danny's armpits with the cloth.

He wants all of Danny, and he's not asking. He never is. They never are. It's always like a war, and he missed that last week. Having a fight in his drill somewhere, and having Danny shoving at him like his own personal little war, that never gives in and never gives up, never relents to make him want to bring everything just a hard, all of himself, right back at Danny. Makes him shove words, hard and hot, against Danny's tongue and his lips, "How do you still have clothes? You had five minutes."

Like Steve had somehow granted that time to Danny and not the other way around. Steve who'd had and managed to shove everything into his barely five minutes, and Danny was laying on a bed complaining and he couldn't even take the time to get his clothes off after saying this was coming.

[haole_cop]

He's laughing and gasping for breath in the same second, drunk on it all, on Steve smelling like his shampoo, on Steve's bare skin under his roaming hands, on Steve here in his room, on Steve, Steve, Steve, the best, worst, only drug he'll ever want. "Who's impatient now?"

Steve is, and it'll never stop being a smack in the face of giddy, childish glee that Steve is impatient for Danny to lose his shirt, every stitch of clothing, that he wants this, Danny, as much as Danny wants him, that he can't wait anymore, not even the two seconds it takes to skin thin cotton off his back. His stomach and chest are brushing up against Steve's as he grips the hem of his own shirt and pulls it off over his head, drops it, somewhere unimportant, everything is unimportant except this. Except Steve.

Back, and in one piece, and the first thing he wanted to do was scare the living daylights out of Danny, because he couldn't wait even one more night for this, because neither of them could, and five minutes for a shower and clean teeth is five minutes and an eternity too long. He's got his hands back on Steve as soon as the shirt is gone, and it's still not soon enough. He wants his mouth on the pulse point under Steve's jaw, and he wants to never this clash of a kiss that's more warfare than affection, and he wants to taste that vast expanse of clean warm skin, and he wants it all now, now, now, can't stand not to have it all under his hands.

It's been gone so long. Steve's been gone so long, and it's driving him crazy. "Come on, come on, there's a bed over here, didn't you see it?"

Rough and ragged, like he's not the one pinning Steve to this wall, like he wasn't the one who left that bed and came here, because he just couldn't wait any longer, not even the few seconds it would have taken Steve to walk across the room. He needs this like air, like sunshine, like the job, like life. Hands skating up Steve's back and along Steve's sides, tracking patterns over skin and leaving it real behind them; palm flat over a hip and down a thigh and back up to cup the side of Steve's neck, hard and demanding, because he's damned if he'll ever back down, even now. Especially now.

And their are still boxers, but Steve's a smart guy. Danny's sure he'll manage to take care of them somehow.

[thebesteverseen]

Impatient is not the word. Not when Danny's voice is coming out shattered like ice chips, but made of molten heat. Accented by the press of his fingertips, dulled nails, insistent lips and rough stubble into Steve's own skin. Dull points of pain that sing furiously through him, wanting only more. When he's being pushed into the wall, while Danny presses his joke right back on him. But Steve wasn't the one complaining, nor was he was he the one saying what was going to happen before he was shoved up against a wall.

But thinking, thinking is a terrible idea. It's splintering like a sledge hammer taken to a china cabinet. When Danny is laughing, gusting hot breath on to his skin, throwing his shirt and putting his hands right back on Steve, shaking him and asking questions like somehow Steve missed the rest of the room and Steve was the one who chose to be shoved up against this wall, under the weight of his partner.

It's hard to say with any honesty that the idea of moving is tempting, when Danny is pressing into him and his hands are running down Danny's back, grabbing on to his hips and pulling him even closer. Because the wall is good, and so is the floor. So is anything, anywhere, that means he doesn't have to give up touching Danny. Because not touching him sounds like grounds for treason and shooting someone, even if his gun and his badge and everything needed isn't anywhere near him.

The logic is faulty. Fuck him. Logic existing at all in the world seems faulty, when he wants to spin them and pin Danny, pin Danny against the wall, hands above his head, and map every inch of his skin with his mouth and whatever hand is left, but Danny's hands are already mapping down his own, and his own are slipping inside Danny's boxers without any direction. The fabric that's left rubbing on his legs and stomach, and everything else thundering a marching band through his head with every square inch of pressure, and wrestling friction. When there are fireworks going off under his skin, and behind his eyes, and it's not enough.

Like calling wouldn't have been enough, and tomorrow or the day after wouldn't have been enough. Like this is barely enough. It's the first strike of a match and Steve is just going to cannibalize it all without looking back. "What bed? Hmm?" It's rusty and dark, and there's a sadistic slight to it, when Steve's fingers are straining against the fabric of Danny's boxers. One hand curving around his hip.

So that he can stretch his hand, tilt his hips harder into the wall, and brush the pad of his thumb and maybe half of it, but only that, up the length of Danny's cock between all of that soft, smooth, hardening skin and the stretch of boxers. The fabric doing nothing but antagonizing Steve's own skin, and nothing at all to keep Steve from feeling every inch of Danny, pushing against his leg, his stomach, him. Nothing at all, from making Steve tip in, and lower toward Danny, even a little more, when he's prodding Danny with more words, "Where's that?"

[haole_cop]

He makes a strangled sound at the brush of Steve's thumb along electrified skin, every nerve in his body sputtering into life there, making his boxers feel too small, his skin even smaller. It shivers all the way along his back and up into the nape of his neck, while his hips tip helplessly into Steve's touch, and he's going insane.

He must be. There's no way to take this and live, no way to come out of it without a shattered, useless mind. It's already too much, too good, and not enough, and not nearly enough, all at once, but there's nothing he can do about it except keen a desperate, ragged sound into Steve's mouth, while Steve mocks him. Like Steve can actually keep his head on his shoulders right now, thread words together into something approximating a sentence, when the only thing Danny wants to do is make Steve forget how to say even his own name.

The problem is, he's not sure he'd even be able to make it back to the bed. His knees feel watery and his muscles are shaking, quads and hamstrings tight enough to tremble. "Where? You mean you didn't case the place when you broke in? Pathetic."

It's all but gasped against Steve's mouth, while he's seeking air like he's drowning, and maybe he is. Steve's always been a force of nature, like the ocean, a solid wall rising and slamming into him, before everything dissolves and he's dragged under, washed out to sea, but who could blame him? He's almost going under, just from the rush of having all this under his hands, because Steve is all go go go and it seems like two weeks was two weeks too long for him, too. "But we're gonna end up on the floor if you don't find it, babe."

It's not a threat. It's certainty. He's not going to be able to keep standing against this avalanche; he doesn't want to spend even a second's thought on gravity and what it would do to his knee if he hit the ground without any warning. He wants nothing at all on his mind except this: Steve under his hands, teasing under his boxers, searing hot against his skin, laughing into his mouth with a low dark chuckle that burns like well whiskey. "God, come on, come on. Don't stop."

[thebesteverseen]

Christ. That is perfection. There is no memory of that as good as it happening.

The strangled gulp of air and sound when Danny's body goes taut in reaction, like everything gets electrified by a jolt so hard, he can't even move for the breath of one half-second. Before it explodes into that ragged sound and Danny shoving into his fingers, into his body. That sound that Steve wants to frame. No, wants to hear echoing on these walls, because it goes to his head like too many shots, something headier and hotter than fire.

He wants to swallow it whole, and he wants to pry it writhing from Danny's skin. Over and over and over again.

Until he's shuddering and begging and it's all that come out instead of words and thoughts.

Even when Danny's shaking into him, hips grinding upward into one errant thumb, which is really wholesale the rest of Steve's body, making him bite into his own lip and nearly into Danny's. There's momentary savage longing to just let it snap past his control, in a gout of burn heat and blistering light, tensing up his back, when he's sliding down, fingers digging into Danny's skin with a tremor, and they are going anywhere but backwards toward the bed at the moment when Danny is crashing toward him and wall, talking about the floor.

Laughing into his mouth, half threat and half promise, making Steve grin a sort of grim, smile into Danny's mouth, and his cheek, before he's pushing himself up. Because he has so many more aims than that. Just falling into a resolute pile on the floor. Or jerking Danny off so hard and fast Danny would forget his boxers are still on and the ceiling is up, that anything exists except holding on. Not that it isn't deeply tempting when Danny is telling him not to stop.

But he's not stopping. Not when he straightens up, weight dropping back in calves and the balls of his feet, even when his fingers are curling around Danny. Pretending the notion of right here, right now, doesn't have a devastating appeal, when his fingers make a cage around Danny's skin, and slide down and up, while he's standing, even though he can't stand up entirely doing it. He's not aimed at it, but he's nudging Danny back with a shoulder at the same time.

Off of him, off of the wall. Taking the first steps toward the bed that will be better than any bunk he's been staying on, which is really just starter steps to get Danny actually back to the thought process of walking that he's sure his hand isn't helping in the slightest. But he's not letting go. Or stopping. And hell, he's not really helping with the other one either. Finding Danny's mess of hair, all soft and crazy, and tilting his face to catch his mouth, again.

How did he breathe without any of this for weeks. Was it even breathing. Because this is barely enough air to be.

Kissing him, while saying, straight into his teeth, "Bed." A smug reminder. "I want all of you."

[haole_cop]

There's no term for the sound he makes when Steve's fingers wrap around him, warm and firm and callused. It's a sore, helpless noise, the soft tissues in his chest tearing like damp Kleenex, catching soft claws in his throat, and he'd swallow it out of pride, but what's the point? Is there seriously any reason at all to pretend he doesn't want this exactly as much as he does?

Because he does. Has been damn near dreaming about it every night, and, sure, most of those fantasies didn't start with Steve breaking into his house, but they mostly skipped ahead to this part, anyway: to surprisingly soft skin over the hard plane of muscle, to the way he smells, to the glide and gnash of their mouths and the way Danny almost unbalances when Steve starts walking him backwards. "Come on," he says, thick, manages just barely to make it a taunt and not a plea. "I know you've been -- fuck -- come on, come on, tell me, tell me how you've been thinking about this for the last two weeks, how bad you wanted it, how you want all of me."

He's never let Steve just roll him over and he's damned if he's going to start now, even when his skin feels like it's about to start melting off just from this first touch. He won't, will only push back, keep challenging, hauling on the back of Steve's neck and dragging him along as they stumble back towards the bed and its rumpled and perfectly soft sheets.

It's not far, thank God, because Steve's got freaky long legs and they keep banging knees into each other and Danny trips more than once, barely able to breathe, knowing he should try to slow this down, because it's not like tonight is the last night they'll ever get. No one almost died, and no one is leaving, and nothing horrible happened, for once. So there's no need for this fire to burn so brightly, right? No need for this desperation, like he might actually die if he doesn't get Steve under his hands and under his body and feel him everywhere, on every inch of his skin.

No need. So someone should tell that to his lungs, which are working overtime, and his brain, which isn't working at all.

[thebesteverseen]

How was he supposed to wait? Bubbles of the strangest, insanest, clarity, that aren't anywhere near clear, keep escaping, like bubbles in boiling water, surging for air. How was he supposed to wait two days or two planes or two more minutes, before this? Before he could be here? Before Danny was dashing sounds on his lips like he's being cut open, raw and bleeding want instead of blood, while those fingers are digging hard into his neck and the base of his head.

When Danny is somewhere between begging and asking, words falling everywhere, while they're doing the most disjointed version of walking anywhere, but Steve can't even deny it. God, no. He thought of this. Fell down on beds that aren't unlike any other bunks he'd slept in off and on for weeks and weekends for most of his adult life, and found it harder to sleep than ever before. Especially five or six days in.

A night, two or three, sometimes, but it was never a week anymore. Never two. Danny was always there somewhere. In his space. A six pack, and some food. Still talking about the case of the day or the newest round of things with Rachel's lawyers, before. Things. All those things he should be asking about. Thinking about for more than another milliseconds escaping air bubble but he isn't. He's thinking about the feverish way it was impossible not to think about Danny.

Rolling over in bed at nearly a week, confused about being alone, even in a bunk that would make a twin bed look spacious. That could not, without much banging of heads, knees and elbows, ever fit two people, no less them. When his skin felt foreign and more incapable of becoming numb than he could ever remember. Maybe never had. And now, here, with Danny, everything was awake, on fire, pressure and want surging head first through a well of denial.

Because Danny is here, his, under his hands, and they run into the bed at just about the perfect moment. Which is the second before Steve is going to give up on the bed and take Danny up on the damn floor, because two minutes and five minutes and ten feet from the wall to the bed, it's all too much now. And he does have to let go, but it isn't like letting go sounds. It's the snap of his hand and his patience, with the words, "Every day," just falling out, like an accusation.

When he's pushing Danny down into his sheets. The hand in his hair finding his shoulder and shoving it until Danny's flush with the bed, held down by his weight on that hand and shoulder, while Steve's still in motion. His free hand, still skin warm not even stopping, painting itself fingers-wide spread across Danny's chest, all muscles and hair, hand dragging down his breast bone and his stomach. Like Steve found mecca in his skin. Maybe he did, had, would.

Because he was leaning down to kiss Danny's chest. "The beds aren't even-" Then, again. Lower.

Shaking his head, because it's five kinds of fucked up insane, if this is normal. "--and there are two dozen other guys-"

Which is a problem, and not that he hasn't rubbed them out in a room full of men under blankets. All of them have, and all of them have rolled over and looked the other way while other people were. Boats and tents are only so big, and sometimes the next day is only exponentially worse if there's nowhere a man can catch some kind of break. But it was never what he wanted. It was never enough. It was never this.

The skin of Danny's stomach flushed hot under his lips and fluttering, while his hand is grabbing the waistband of those boxers and shoving downward, because they need to be gone. An unsightly, insulting enemy to be vanquished. Along with the fact he's still trying to string words, and not just burying his nose into Danny's skin. "--and all I could think about was this," gets ground out somewhere right below Danny's navel. "You."

When his fingers have abandoned Danny's shorts, not even at his knees entirely, for curling back around Danny's cock. Stronger grip, and stiffer fingers "Your skin." The way it smells. Warm and rich, heavy with work, faint cologne and hair products, things Steve doesn't keep anywhere. "The way it's tastes -- the way you --" But Steve, Steve doesn't have words. Words, are Danny's, and if Danny doesn't have them, then maybe they are just blown away in the wind.

Because there is nothing else in the world but Danny and Danny's skin, the way it's here, right now, and the way his fingers slide back when his mouth wraps around Danny, and the whole world comes down to those two things with such overwhelming necessity. The way Danny's smells and tastes, hot and heavy on his tongue when he's taking as much as he can, because he can, because there isn't anything else that exists.