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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[haole_cop]

Part of him wishes Steve would keep talking, just so he could keep making that gorgeous, incredible noise, the one that curls, satisfied, behind Danny's breastbone and expands to fill his chest and smother any attempt at breathing he might be able to make right now.

Not that he cares. He cares, of course, but air isn't as important as the way Steve's whole body tenses and arcs like a perfect, strung bow, every muscle suddenly pulled tight, cording under tan skin, fingers gripping at Danny's mattress, and he better not have torn the sheet.

(Again? Maybe it would be again, maybe they're already ruined, in which case, Danny's not going to worry about it right now.)

Holding Steve's hips down as they try to push up, to keep from sudden choking and the sick immediate rise of his gag reflex, while his fingers hold Steve's hips so hard they're leaving marks just to buffer that thrust.

And it's all he wants. Steve, hot and heavy on his tongue, filling his mouth, scent in his nose and in every breath, the faint burn at the back of his throat, the muscles already starting to complain in his neck and back. He doesn't give a shit. It's morning, and Steve's back, and he's wanted to do this basically since Steve left, wanted to wake up with him and be awake with him, keep him in bed, steal away all his words and sardonic humor and leave only this, those raw sounds, the helpless push and thrust of hips and body. Wanted Steve to want this, him, to make sure Steve still wants this. Him.

Two weeks is more than enough time to reconsider.

More than enough time to remember all the things he loved before he said he loved Danny, before this was a thing, before Five-0 was a thing, and Danny won't pretend it's not a relief that Steve hasn't. Changed his mind, reconsidered. Is still right here, writhing under his hands and his mouth, while he holds his hips down and goes deeper, lifts back up, deep again. Maddeningly slow at first, and then picking up the pace, tongue licking up skin and finding the sensitive spots that he knows make Steve's brain melt and his words shatter. Which is exactly what he wants.

[thebesteverseen]

The world goes up in a flash bomb. Not in front of his face, not even if his vision still has a wash of lights and spot, but up through his spine, like series of ramping things, that set off their detonators at the base of his head, shuddering through all rational thought. A blast of massive heat, before he can even regain the ground. That isn't the ground, it's the feeling of a sheet training under his heels between them and the mattress, with Danny lodged between his legs.

Danny. Danny, who he's not even thinking of being there, because Danny, the thought of him, his name, a glance downward that seizes the muscles in his stomach, is caught in the coil of heat that keeps winding for brief seconds in his gut, only to let loose a bolt of lightening, hammering that spot like a fist and sending chaotic jolts of electricity through the rest of his nervous system. When he shouldn't be looking, he shouldn't, but he can't stop himself.

Like running face first into a moving car, a firing gun, a brick wall with each one.

Because nothing is like this, okay, nothing. Danny, real and here, and his hair just everywhere, tickling Steve's stomach and groin into a confusion of impulses when his mouth comes down hard, and his mouth. How is Steve supposed to even. Think. See. Danny's mouth, Danny's lips, the way they frame his skin and keep moving. Nothing. Nothing is as good as this. No second he closed his eyes to remember. Even when it's sending flames licking up his throat and making him shudder and thrust upward, uncontrollably, a little more.

No imagine cobbled together from too many dozen nights and too much fodder in his head he'll never forget. Still not as good as this, even if they are real. This is more. This is more real, than real, pulling the nerves from his spine. Making him fight against those hands holding him down just that much more than he's trying not to, trying to hold still at all, to help as much as thwart those hands shoving him into the bed, making it not a full contact attack at Danny's face, his throat.

The way abandon doesn't want to give a damn when sweat is beginning to bead on his skin and his abdominal muscles are going from their faint complaints of being used again so soon, to not even being something he can hear. Because he can't. All he can hear is his blood pounding out his heart beat in his ears. The way he can't keep his breaths regulated because of Danny. The shift of Danny's back under what's left of the sheet and the occasional suck of air there.

Because everything, everything, everything is wrapped into him. The world fallen aside like something they pushed off the bed, out the window, never needed to begin with. He never needed anything but Danny. God. It's so true. So true, and so shoved sideways by a flare of pleasure stabbing like a knife, he might not have even noticed those words falling off his tongue, while his fingers were desperately finding Danny's head, all that hair.

That hair that is nothing like regimental, and everything like Danny, and perfect for his hands.

[haole_cop]

He loves doing this. Being the one who gets to do this. The world is full of people who want to take Steve to bed, who probably wonder what it's like, what he's like, the sounds he makes and the way he tastes, the shadows that dip across his body. Girls who wonder if he has more tattoos than the ones on his arms. Guys who challenge themselves, say they could be the one to pin him down and keep him there.

But none of them do. None of them get to see this, any of it, because it's his, only his. Even if there were people before, women, men, whatever. None of them are here anymore, but he is, and Steve keeps coming back to him, came back to him in the middle of the night. Him, not the house. This bed, not his own. And Danny gets to have him, just like this.

Gets to wake up next to him, and hear those first sleep-addled words, watch the way lashes smudge against his cheek when Steve refuses to open his eyes, squeezes them closed. Gets to kiss his way down this body, while it tenses and arcs into his touch. Is allowed to.

It makes him want to be reverent. Careful, and precise. To soak in every detail, everything he can, against the day he's not this person anymore, against the day he won't be allowed, can't have.

He wants to burn these sounds Steve's making into a record, to play over and over and over again, the half-gasped, groaned, words that don't make any sense, that are just fodder for Danny to quicken his pace, tongue flat against hot silky skin, sinking deep around him and staying there for an excruciating moment, deep as he can, hollowing out his cheeks and only relaxing them when he lifts up to the head, gives his aching jaw a break and wraps his hand around Steve to keep the pace up, while he glances up, mouth quirking in a half, dark-eyed grin.

"Sorry, what was that?"

[thebesteverseen]

There's nothing in the world, nothing at all, that isn't Danny. Danny's mouth dragging lightning up and down his skin, setting off depth charges in his gut, that trigger and explode with each clean swipe, and explode outward shaking the bones and frames of his body, like it's a house under siege and he doesn't want it to stop. Fingers knotting into Danny's hair, low sounds getting stuck against his ribs, and caught at the back of his throat.

It's insane and perfect, eyes barely open, when they aren't looking down. The fringe of his eyelashes, and the gray of the room, fuzzing everything else out until the next slam to him him the very next second, making him try to drag in lengths of air that won't come, that his body needs and does not give a damn about. He's made it without air before. But he can't imagine making it even seconds without Danny. Danny here. Danny waiting. Danny loving him. Danny's mouth. Danny's fingers digging into his skin.

The way the whole world, and the edges of Steve's head, are caving into that heat when Danny lingers.

Everything except that second Danny pops off next, that smacks like a brutal cold snap, air finding all of his skin, even when Danny's hand starts chasing it next while Danny's voice it making it to him on bubbles. Bubbles in the air, the way music and sound travel through water. When he feels like his head was plunged up over the water, after being submerged for hours, when his hips are already making the best of trying to match Danny's hand, because they've been freed on one side.

And his mouth, his mouth is full of crap. Half because he can't quite remember what he said, if he said, it wasn't important. Or it wasn't repeatable one of those. When his head is lolling back at the pillow and he's making words out of fire and throwing them down at that face. That smug, warm, dim-morning shadow dipped face that means everything, that's splintering about all of himself and he wants to fall apart for, because of, be shoved over by.

"I love your mouth." Is as breathlessly sarcastic as it is true, as it might as well be that sentence minus one point.

At least until he throws other words out, insanity against the insanity. Words to match that smug expression too far from being grabbed and kissed, not far enough away he doesn't want it already back, already more, to be buried and lost in that warmth, heat, wetness again. Like he can't feel the rush of Danny's catching his breath, moving the air against his skin. "Why do I ever let you talk, when you could be doing this instead?"

[haole_cop]

"Because you love my mouth."

He's certain of a few things, in moments like this, and he cherishes that certainty, holds onto it, because he knows it'll slip away through the day and his own self-doubts, until they get back here again and it all seems so clear. He knows, one hundred percent, lying here, that Steve's telling the truth. That he loves Danny's mouth, whether it's on him, or full of words that won't leave Steve alone. He knows, one hundred percent, that Steve loves this. All of it. The talking and teasing and Danny all over him, wanting him, and wanting to own him, too. He knows that Steve loves him. Him. Danny Williams, who hasn't ever been good enough for anybody, who Steve picked up because he was useful, and kept around for God knows what reason. He's good enough for Steve (he's not good enough for Steve, but Steve doesn't seem to see it that way). Steve wants him. Steve loves him.

Even if he's sounding put-upon and frustrated, and like he wants to throw that pillow at Danny's head as much as roll his back into it, and it's honestly endearing, really, it's so perfect that Danny's tempted to tease him more, amp that growl up into a fight and not just this exasperated groan, but it's not better than the sounds Steve was making before, so he ducks his head, slides his mouth back around Steve's head, chases his hand all the way back down to the base.

Faster and harder than before. Palm and circle of fingers following his mouth, up and down, tongue swiping a long flat stripe up, flicking at the ridge just below the head.

If Steve wants to go crazy, Danny's happy to push him there.

[thebesteverseen]

He does. He does. He loves Danny's mouth.

The cheeky, warm, boasting way those words slingshot from those lips and bounce around inside his head, like the sun is rising up through Steve's ribcage, even through every burst of crackling light that is crawling up and down his spine with the slide of Danny's hand. He never wants Danny to sound anything but that. Certain. Certain he's full of crap, every time he opens his mouth and says anything but that Danny is everything.

That he'd fight the whole damn world and turn over every stone, use every favor, to get back to him, here. Now. Yesterday. Tomorrow. Every day he can still breathe. The way he can't even pretend there's a reverse button on the way he's pushing up into those fingers, chasing everything Danny's doing to him, letting him, wanting him to.

Maybe he was about to say that, or say anything, but then the world went in a wash of firecrackers that must have taken his ear drums for a second there. Because wet heat swallows him down again, making nothing slipping past his lips anything made of words, or letters, or syllables. It's just black tar and a dark sound of pleasure so white-hot it burns everything it touches, dragging his spine out the bottom of his body, singeing the air from his lungs.

Making him not even care. It's harder and faster, and if his head is still reeling, with spots in his vision, his body doesn't care.

Not in the slightest. The sputter of his hips shaking shock from the return of Danny's mouth slams in thrusting upward into that. Those fingers holding down like cement into one hip. Those fingers curled around him, chasing up to Danny's mouth, hot, and fast and hard. Making every clear thought, or half-clear thought, chased by a baseball bat smacking the center of his body, that he's pushing toward rather than running from. Fingers knotting into the sheets, or the pillow case.

The haze of morning and Danny's anything but careful attention taking anything like focus from him, when he can feel everything building so fast and so solid toward a snap that it feels like his bones, and his blood, are all beating a race toward it, straight over and through him.

[haole_cop]

He knows. He does. That it's all just borrowed time. That the words I love you can come to mean absolutely nothing, that every promise ever made can and probably will, eventually, be broken. He knows it's stupid, when everything with Grace is so on the line, and he's not even sure it's a good idea to have the two of them spend much time together because of it. Grace is smart, and he doesn't want to lie to her, but he can't open that door, for either of them, and just be forced to slam it shut again.

She already loves Steve. It'll be bad enough if she's pulled away from him, and Chin, and Kono, and Malia, just as is, just the way she already knows and loves them, okay? Better not to get her hopes up.

At least he can manage that for her, even if he's already doomed.

Of course he's doomed. He's sunk, entirely, was the second he realized what this was and refused to admit it, fought tooth and nail to do anything but come clean and had to anyway, because this is too much for him, and he was washed away long before he even realized the tide was coming in.

How could he even have a choice? Steve's -- beautiful, he's beautiful, arching against his bed and pushing up into his mouth and fingers, head thrown back and throat exposed, the wild careening stampede of his pulse hammering hard from the artery in his thigh against Danny's ribcage, which is suffocatingly tight against the hot flood of this feeling. How he couldn't sleep without Steve. How he couldn't breathe without Steve. The way his heart tripped over itself and fell, tumbling, without regret or care, at the way Steve smiled at him in the dark, because, seriously, how is it possible in this or any world that Steve is so happy to see him, that Steve forced the world to get him home sooner, to get him here, sooner. Just to be with Danny.

Fighting to get back, while Danny's fighting not to leave, because this is going to break everything. It's going to shatter that fragile thing he's trying to hold so carefully in cupped hands, leave his chest littered with glass shards all over again, because he loves Steve. He loves Steve, and he's absolutely helpless in the face of it, is grateful every single day that Steve doesn't use it against him, because he wouldn't be able to help himself. He has to follow this hapless, reckless, insistent tug on his heart, even as it threatens to climb right out of his chest and slip somewhere under Steve's skin, like ink, like the Hawaiian sunshine that's left him golden and perfect. Outlined now in hazy pre-dawn darkness, skin shining with a thin sheen of sweat. Ragged breaths and restless moans all knocking Danny's heart around like a ping-pong ball in a hurricane.

He can't say any of it, can't tell Steve he's beautiful and Danny loves him and that he's got him, so come on, come on, but he can keep following the slide of his mouth and tongue with his hand, quickly lift the other off Steve's hip to put the tip of his finger in his mouth, before going back, one hand wrapped around him, Steve heavy on his tongue, against his cheek, nudging the back of his throat, while the other hand slips swiftly down between his legs, and presses the tip of that finger against the ring of firm muscle, slides in. Just a little more, just to push him that much closer to the edge.

[thebesteverseen]

The world is melting down, melting away, leaving him with bones too big for the tight skin holding them in. Everything, everything tightening, hard, down, in the middle of him, which is happening and impossible because he's not holding still, he can't. Every inch of his skin is pushing towards Danny's hand, toward his mouth. Toward those impossible eyelashes, and his nose, the wash of blonde hair, tipped with his sweat, tickling his skin.

When Steve can feels the cracks peeling through him like a pane of glass going in slow motion, and Danny isn't close enough. Somehow still. When desperate want is hitting a high whistle in his head, burned up and burning alive, and he wants more, wants Danny. Wants to kiss him, and touch him, and run his hands over all that skin that somehow isn't a dream he had to wake up in a bunk convincing himself was real. This whole unending fluke.

Needs to feel him. Driving him to curl, and finding Danny's head, even when he can't stop the rest of his body, and its still moving to its own tempo. But he has to find Danny. Let his fingers tangle in his hair, slide down to his neck, as his named is battering its way out of Steve's mouth, threadbare and desperate, a warning, a request. He doesn't know. It's just his name. And Danny's skin under his fingers. And Danny every where else, pulling his skin from his bones, frying him alive.

Smacking him over the head with wave after wave of hot, wet, fast. The smoothness of his mouth and his lips, followed by the rough tightness of his fingers, shuddering explosions on a daisy chain through his gut, that has the world shaking. Or the bed. Or maybe it's just him. While his skin is trying to figure why he hasn't imploded entirely yet, since that's Danny's whole goal, and it's what's happened. Smashing his face into it, and it into him every few seconds.

Not enough to even breather. Or even want to. Until there's a second an odd pause and it takes him almost to the second Danny finds his skin again, and Steve remembers he even as a ruin that was once his lungs, to realize Danny is a bastard. It's really the only last thought, and there's no cent of insult in the words. It's like hearing the click of the tripwire before you spotted it. Knowing that you're fucked. Entirely.

He can feel that finger, and the way his body tightens in one half second of shivering awareness before pushing toward that to. Shoves hard like jumping off a cliff, because he never wants to know better. He wants to get lost and found on Danny's mouth and his hands as often as he can, in every of the million ways he always does. Including this. When he's arching up into that mouth, and those fingers, and there is that finger pushing into, invading, warm, hot, lightning pain and pleasure.

That snaps, everything, without warning. Fingers tensing into Danny's neck, body bucking beyond his fingers or his feelings, slamming through him, hot and heavy. Overpowering his thoughts, his ability to focus. Rolling out like a fog of white, with the weight of raining bricks, while his body shakes through it.

[haole_cop]

It's probably not going to stop being strange and a little unpleasant, sharp taste and liquid warmth hitting the back of his throat, but he's getting used to it, and it's well worth the result of Steve bucking against his hand, up into his mouth, shaking, wrecking himself on Danny's tongue and fingers and going up in a blaze of glory that Danny wants to record and be able to see over and over again. That he never tires of, or wants to stop trying to push Steve into. It's beautiful like a bonfire, destructive, violent, every muscle taut under sleek skin, clumsy fingers threading into his hair, hot against his neck.

Maybe never wants to hear his name said any other way that this, like a desperate prayer with no hope of redemption, ragged and thin out of the back of Steve's throat. God. It's been months, and it still hits like a depth charge, gently blows everything in his chest to splinters, melts it all down to a liquid molten pool that floods down his spine. Flashes tendrils of heat that follow the swift beat of blood racing under his skin, while Steve's crashing through and he's riding it out, low sound at the back of his throat, shoving Steve straight through that glass wall as hard as he can, until those hips stop shaking and tilting, and Steve's going lax like someone pressed a chloroform rag to his face.

Months. It's been months, and Steve is still here, still came here, and that thought sends something knocking around his chest, all wobbly on hopeful newborn colt legs, as he carefully takes back his hands, shifts against the ache in his neck and shoulders and jaw, and slides back up along the length of Steve's body. He's pausing now and again, to check in with a hipbone, his stomach, the curve of his ribcage, pressing soft kisses against sweat-soaked skin, before he finds the pillow again, drags it close to Steve, close enough to lie curled towards him, one hand possessive on his belly, thumb stroking back and forth, while he watches that face.

The one all socked senseless in the dark. The gives him a pang, an urge to lean in, kiss Steve's forehead, his cheek. Be the kind of sensitive Steve's always making fun of him for.

He could. Wants to. Because Steve is still here, and he was never supposed to be here, right? This isn't how Steve does things. He doesn't do months in, and saying I love you, and sleeping in the same bed six nights out of seven. It was supposed to be impossible. Danny was supposed to get his heart broken.

He didn't, but it's definitely done something, because the thing is limping around so pathetically right now and aching so deeply he thinks maybe it's gotten confused, broken itself on how good this is. And how's he supposed to ever recover from that?

[thebesteverseen]

His body is a torrent of low grade shivers. Not even shivers. Pulsating waves from his center, that ruffle through him like his bones and muscles are all marked as optional now. Maybe not even real. Maybe nothing more than a dream he once had because he ate something bad before sleeping. Except nothing feels bad. Everything is this humming, white static of warmth. Dotted with faint pressure, soft and nearly ticklish. Causing him to twitch.

His mouth. His shoulder. His stomach pulled in. Before his eyes roll and he realizes, groggily, somehow in someway, that doesn't feel focused in the slightest, that it is Danny. Somehow. Still. When every impulse is let the heavy, bricks on his eyelids drop back down with the thundering crash that has to happen when they close, and slip away. Which is blending, blurring, into the one that's sensitive and nearly shifting away, and the one that's puddling more warmth, wanting to push in.

But by the time anything get to that. To moving. There's only air, and it makes him frown and have to open his eyes again. Because the bed is moving and Danny isn't there anymore. Isn't touching him. Okay. There's a hand on him. But it's not enough. Nothing is. The whole world in front of his eyes it too much, but it's not enough, too. And it means Steve needs to focus, which makes him nearly frown, but he finds his hand, and can still lift it. It's not even all that hard, even through molasses.

Focus. Lift. Reaching out and find the forearm of the hand on his stomach, and follow it up like path. Fluid and boneless, until his fingers can find the round of Danny's shoulder and he can drag Danny into him. Closer. The closer that is never close enough, and the only enough Steve may even have the idea of existing. Like falling asleep last night, like waking up this morning. Finally able to breathe.

Like now, with Danny's hair finding his face, and the smell of sex and sweat, sharp and clear and closer, his fingers finding their way down Danny's back, while a knee is laying siege to his leg. And he's mumbling, through thick lips, only half real as it is and not nearly as coolly as he thinks he's managing, "This your new plan for making me stay in bed?"

[haole_cop]

He goes, because he always goes when Steve tugs at him, and because he doesn't want there to be any more distance between them for the gray dawn dimness to filter through, and because there's really almost nothing in the world quite as appealing as Steve, laid out and dopey, like he just took a blow to the head, or like a brick building just collapsed on top of him. His hand wavers clumsily in the air before finding Danny's arm and laying claim to it, sleepy and possessive, and Danny watches, amused, as it clambers up towards his shoulder, before curling there and pulling.

"There's nothing new about this plan."

It's tried and true, even if it probably wouldn't actually keep Steve in bed, if they were at his house and the ocean were right there. It definitely won't on a work morning, when Steve's eager to get back in the bullpen and out on the street, but they still have time. Plenty of time; the sun isn't even up yet. "Go back to sleep if you want."

He doesn't think it would take much. Steve's breathing is deep and even, every muscle lax, his whole body a study in complete collapse, arm heavy over Danny's side and back. His shoulder is sticky with sweat when Danny nudges his nose against it, before kissing the round of muscle. "We've got time."

And, yeah. Fine. So sue him, he wants Steve to stay in bed. It's nice and warm and comfortable, and he likes lying like this, in a tangle of limbs, while Steve melts into a puddle beneath him, likes being the one who put him there, who unwound all those knots and slackened Steve's too-tight hold on himself. It's just about perfect.

[thebesteverseen]

Danny curls over into him, all solid and warm, and Danny.

From the faint smell of somehow still not rubbed out drugstore cologne, and hair product that somehow never fades, but annoyingly enough it's more that it smells like Danny's and less like Steve's whatever was cheap this week at the Px tropical assortment. Making it so, even though he barely has the will to do anything more than smooth his hand possessively over that back, he wants to drag Danny back home.

Well. To his house. To his home. To being covered in signs of being his that never stop amazing him.

Like somehow Danny's amused voice sinking into his skin with a kiss isn't the absolute proof of something like that. When his brain feels like swiss cheese. He'd barely woken up before Danny decided his world needed rocking. And hell, maybe it's fair play, given Steve woke him up last night and it happened, or maybe Steve doesn't care at all. Because it already did. And his head's already half gone. And Danny is still plastered warm, solid, and right against him.

He likes it. Everything. All of this. He has nowhere to go from Danny's house. But, also, it's like cheating for the world. It's almost like those R&R's with Cath. The world really isn't expecting him back for a day, maybe two. And nowhere to go. Nothing to do but lay here, blissed, and aware that somehow everything feels right. With that mouth smudging words into his skin, deeper than his ink will ever go. Marking him as forever Danny's.

No matter what happens, or where Danny might have to go next. He'll have left all of these marks all over Steve. Things that will always have Danny's stamped on them clear as day. Which would be more daunting if the world wasn't still coming is dozy black and white waves, between half closed eye lids, mumbling quiet words, "Says the guy who wouldn't usually be up this early without shooting someone." There was a faint hum of noise. "This is definitely a better option."

Than shooting someone. Maybe even better than swimming or running.

He's had a week with both. And none of Danny. And he could just not move anywhere, move at all, might never get enough.

[haole_cop]

"I had something to be up for, today."

He leans further into Steve, nuzzling at the join of his shoulder and neck, presses a kiss there against flushed, damp skin, voice low and amused and so fond, the way his heart is knocking around his chest, the way his ribs hurt, expanding against this goofy, flooding warmth. "I've got two weeks of not touching you to make up for, babe. I'm not wasting a second, okay, you're too gorgeous."

Always. Steve's always good looking, and Danny's pretty sure that the mental image of Steve in uniform has probably accompanied half the island to sleep, okay, but they've never seen this. They don't get to see this. Steve's not half-asleep in their beds, sprawled in tangled sheets, a relaxed landslide of limbs while his too-short hair is getting cowlicks from the pillow. They don't get to wake up in the middle of the night, and roll over to put their palm on his belly, feel it lift and fall with the gentle rhythm of his breath. They don't get any of this. "Like this. When I get you all to myself."

He talks too much -- always has, probably always will, and it gets him in trouble, okay, he talks himself into pits that take years to climb out of, only to shove himself right back in again as soon as he clears the edge, but he can't stop. He wants to press kisses all along Steve's body, again, convince himself it's real, that he can have this, have Steve. It's been months, and he's still not convinced of it; even with those words, the ones fluttering frantically in his chest right now like a trapped gull under a basket, threatening to choke him if they don't get said again. And again. And again. As many times as he can, okay, because this is what Steve's gotten himself into, that he brushed off so many weeks ago, that there's no escaping. Nudging his forehead against Steve's temple, and breathing out a deep breath, ribs expanding and deflating, while his arm rests heavy over Steve's stomach, fingers tucking between him and the mattress, and his eyes are closed, because he's still a coward, really, about all of this, and it's easier that way. "When you're all mine."

Like that last word isn't a yawning abyss, filled with poisonous spike and venomous snakes, like it's not a rickety, wobbly, single plank pretending to be a bridge over a hole dug infinitely deep that Danny could go toppling into at any second. Nobody owns Steve, except the Navy, and Danny has to share, with the Navy, with the world, with the job. Any daydream that this might be his is only an illusion.

But, Christ. He wants it to be true so badly he can't help but give in, every now and again. In the small hours of the morning. In the pitch black of night. Months ago, ambushed by it whenever he paused work to take a breath, to dial Steve's number, just to hear him not pick up.

All he's got to offer in return is himself, and he knows, he knows that's not enough, that guys like him are a dime a dozen, and guys like Steve don't exist at all, except for Steve, but that doesn't stop him from wanting. And, maybe, every now and again, thinking it might be just possible.

[thebesteverseen]

There's a low, quiet rumble of noise, somewhere in Steve's chest, that he can feel the vibration of more than hear the sound, when he's following that mouth, shifting drunkly between into it and stretching to give it more room. The trail of it from his shoulder, spotted, to his neck suddenly. Warm and mobile, so much faster than him.

With all that dizzying noises it always has, that he wants to hard on so tight to, so he can't miss anything, because everyone always misses Danny, and they are all idiots, because it's Danny, and none of it is to be missed. Not even the endless sound and fury.

Definitely not the way his lips trace for purchase, against sweat and Steve's skin. Dropping bombs into his skin between kisses. All of them rolling in to his head like waves, coming in with the rocking tide, buffets of steel. It's not like he's never heard the first part. The part about being away, or the part about how what he looks like effects everything about how people remember him, why they miss him when he's gone

But the rest. I'm not wasting a second and when I get you to myself and when you are all mine like Danny doesn't understand. Doesn't understand even now. After he's knows about how long all of this has been dragging him around, and how he did whatever he could just to get here, last night, middle of the night, not even long enough to stop for a single phone call, a single minute, before he could be here. Here.

Wrapped up in the mess of Danny Williams, mouth that never stops moving, always surprising him.

With waking him, and with those words, that are wrong. So wrong. Because the idea under them the idea he ever isn't. Even for minutes. Seconds. Like he can choose it. Or outrun it. Or set it aside. It's laughable. The idea he isn't Danny's, hasn't been Danny's the last few weeks while he wasn't here. That he didn't stare at the wrong cold ocean, and the problem wasn't being landlocked, it was that the blue reminded him of a different blue in Danny's eyes. Or the unk was too small, and Danny wasn't there when he rolled over. Or when he'd turn to say something, smart assed an off, and no one was there to say it to.

Because he's never not. Never not Danny's. It'd be like saying there were weeks he figured out how to go without breathing. He's a SEAL. But he's not entirely superhuman. It's ludicrous. Makes him snort, even as he's shifting his head while tipping his head up, into the head against his, like a magnet, a satellite, adjusting, seeking out his cheek, and where his mouth is, saying, cloudy, foggy, full of sleep and a certainty so steel true its gone to for granted, "I'm always yours."

[haole_cop]

"Shut up and go to sleep, you big goof."

Murmured with a smile he can't stop, that's stupid and relieved and helpless against Steve's mouth, this clumsy kiss that's so straightforward, like this is, what. Something he should just know. Something he can take for granted. That Steve is his. Always.

It has to be impossible, because Danny doesn't get people, Danny gets the short end of the stick, Danny gets to shout into the howling madness of the world and be ignored. He's the one who holds on, with the heart that's never been content to just stay put in his own chest, has to go off and tack itself to someone else. No one has ever wanted to be his.

But Steve is saying it's true, and not just saying, but scoffing at the idea it might not be, that there are times when he's anything but Danny's, as if there might ever be times when water might be dry as sand and the moon might burst into flames and become a new sun. He just rolls right over it without even glancing at the concept, trailing lips across Danny's cheek until they find his mouth and he can press dozy, impossible words there, like it's the next best thing to getting Danny to say them. They're there now, on his lips, just as if he'd said them, himself.

It's absurd, right? What could a guy like him possibly have to offer anyone, let alone someone like Steve, who already has just about everything, aside from the ability to remember how to act like a normal human being, from time to time? He's got a nice house that's filled to the brim with the issues and baggage Steve's always harping on at him about, has zero filter and no ability to stop himself from digging his own grave, over and over and over again, and yet, Steve wants him. More than that, Steve wants this. Is, already, Danny's. "Hey."

His hand lifts from Steve's side, comes up to palm the side of his face, fingertips sliding gently into short brown hair, so Danny can tip his face, and kiss him, slow and specific and certain. "I love you."

He's helpless in the face of it, can't stop saying it, won't stop, needs to prove it with these moments that are still stolen, no matter how many they get. Each one is rescued, saved, cherished, and he's got to remember them all. "Go back to sleep, huh, someone woke me up in the middle of the night last night, and it's too damn early to be awake."

[thebesteverseen]

Danny is mumbling words, but it's half blotted out, even this close, even when he's not aiming to miss anything, but his mouth is getting in the way. His, or Danny's. Or that warm, fuzzy kiss, of a night's stubble and older rubber, and it should be horrible, disgusting, sour and sharp, but he wants to bury himself forward and kiss Danny more because of the warmth it spider webs under his ribs.

Even when Danny doesn't sound in the slightest like he's believing. Rumbling words, and a tone, like when Steve talks about being a boy scout, or something the SEALs, taught him. They way it's all suspect and hilarious all at once. Amusing the way, things that kids tell you are. But lacking in weight. And Steve would have more words, but Danny's lips are moving against his. Clumsy and stuttered, and maybe not entirely rejecting, nearly peeling Steve's eyes back open.

Especially when Danny stops and is addressing him. Fingers on his face, tipping his face and causing his eyes to open again and focus on Danny's face in the quiet, low dim of barely morning. At least for the second before Danny is kissing him again. And there's nothing about his second kiss that is sleepy or clumsy or uncertain. It's slow and dark and dim as the morning, slipping into all of the cracks of the last week, making Steve scoot closer into Danny's body, push up into his mouth, fingers spread wider over Danny's skin, calf curling over Danny's calves.

And then those words. Those words that always make Steve feel flat footed and made of only left feet, like something too big and too precious was shoved in his hands, like no one told Danny all he does is break things. His dad, his men -- his friends. And he wants it so bad. Thrives like a plant thats so far back from the sun that even the sun is a myth. He wants to kiss Danny again and just suck those words in, pull them down in the void in the center.

That empty missing ache that was Danny's replacement while Danny was gone. Because Danny was gone.

"Good," isn't the right response. But he's selfish. He always has been. He wants this to be his, regardless of everything else. He wants to hoard all of it. Danny's love. The kind of feeling Danny feels for anyone in this world he just meets multiplied times a thousand for those he loves. Unwaveringly. Cosmically. Somehow focused on him. Wants to take it from all of the rest of them -- except Grace. He's fine knowing Grace's sharing Danny with him and not the other way.

Even if she doesn't know, Steve knows the truth of that. Another unquestionable, enviable thing of Danny;s love.

But he wants everything else. Every part of Danny you wouldn't give your child. Every part that Danny wants for himself. In the dim, with his rough callused fingers spread wide over the spine of Danny's lower back, he can almost believe all his malformed, mission-only and nothing else, pieces might fit somewhere else. With someone else. That he might be able to steal from the world hearing those words another time still. Steal Danny and his impossibly real, impossibly unbroken, love from it.

"I would be, but someone is talking," Steve said, all rough mouth, swallowing at his dry throat. "I wonder who that could be."

[haole_cop]

It is good. Even if they'll be in oh god a universe's worth of trouble if Denning finds out, not to mention the horror that would ensue if Kono ever catches wind of it all, it's so good, loving Steve. He loves that goofy, cracked wide-open smile on his face, that's just a slight curve of his mouth in the dark; loves that Steve doesn't pull away from Danny's hand, just leans into it. He even kind of loves that Steve says that, that one word, good, because if they were actually trying to keep this from snowballing and rolling them both under, they'd have to admit it's not a good thing, that it's a damn stupid thing, dangerous and impossible to keep up. There are so many reasons why this exact scenarios should never take place, why people in their positions aren't allowed to be together like this, because all those feelings of love and loyalty and friendship and partnership are convoluted enough already, okay?

It would already have been impossible, if something happened to Steve out in the field, but now Danny sometimes thinks about it happening, and can't breathe until his head's gone spinny and standing makes him dizzy with the spots he sees.

It's stupid. It's impossible. It's only going to hurt them both more in the long run, so there's no reason at all why either of them should think it's good, right? Potentially career-ending. Reputation-destroying.

But, God. It's so good. Lying here, wound up together, with Steve relaxed and slipping back towards sleep, and knowing he'll wake up with Steve still here, go to work with Steve at his side. Like always. Exactly where he should always be, grousing at him just like he's doing now, while Danny grins, and nudges his forehead against Steve's, closes his eyes with a deep, bone-weary sigh. "Shush," he says, moving his hand, index finger laying over Steve's lips, before it slides down to his side, drapes over so his fingers can splay across Steve's back. "No one's listening anymore."

[thebesteverseen]

He's rough and solid and pushy, and a space hog as much as a space heater, and Steve would bitch, but his eyes are heavier than the ocean gone black and tight around him with too much pressure, and it's hard to remember why he'd want to imply anything other than that he would carve out everything in his chest, with the half broken bits of a dull plastic spoon even, without hesitating, to make more room for Danny to shove into.

When a head is shoving into his, and a sigh, is breathing heavy and loose across his skin.

Because he doesn't want anything more than this.

Even if some part of him could argue he always wants more, the rest of him would argue that he's never been able to keep even a quarter of this in his life for long, and his muscles are too heavy for that fight. Because it's true. All of it. Both of those, and the other thing. That he doesn't want anything more than this. To collapse like a pile of bricks against Danny, collapsing like a pile of bricks on him. Hand getting everywhere, still.

But that's Danny. If Danny's hands weren't moving Steve would have to check for signs of a heart attack or a brain embolism.

Or something. He doesn't know. The whole world is rushing in and out, on the warm breath coasting against his skin, tickling it, cold and warm in turns, making him think of the ocean he swears he can hear, even now. And. Thinking is overrated. It can wait for when they wake up, again. For now he mumbles a sound, like a muffled chuckle, even he doesn't remember where started or ended, except that it is -- was? -- always will be, at Danny, and rub his face against the blonde strands catching in the stubble on his own cheek, and just lean into the warmth of the sun. His own personal one.

Like he always does. Like always wants to be doing. And drift away, without letting go at all.

[haole_cop]

His alarm goes off too damn soon.

It's always true, but it's especially true when his phone is chirping a scale up and down, and the quiet of the morning is shattered by the sudden tiny square of light on his bedside table, the incessant, slowly getting louder chime that he desperately wants to believe is just part of his dream.

It must be, right? It can't be morning, not yet. His eyelids feel glued together, and he feels more tired now than when he went to bed the night before, and the bed is that perfect temperature, sheets soft and warm while the air is cool against his cheek and throat. It can't possibly be time to get up, and he can't possibly be expected to leave this perfect little cocoon, right?

One hand reaches sleepily for the phone, hits the button and shuts off the alarm, plunging the room back into silence, broken only by the slight shuffle of sheets as he rolls back into that spot, the perfect one, where the mattress dips under his weight and Steve's chest is firm against his back, Steve's arm heavy over his side. He half-drags the pillow with him, enough to bury his face in the cotton and refuse to acknowledge the morning light now streaming through the window.

He's throwing it back. The morning. The upcoming day. All of it. He doesn't want any of it, wants to stay right here, in his nice comfy bed where absolutely no one has ever tried to kill him, and he wants Steve to stay right where he is, too, just for good measure.

None of which comes out as words, just a long, drawn-out groan into the pillow, that feels ripped from the very marrow of his being, and a stubborn ignorance of the rising sun by keeping his eyes shut and his face pressed into the pillow cover, hair sticking up wildly in every other direction.

"No."

[thebesteverseen]

It happens in a snap, and even when he's used to it, there are times he hates it.

Like this second. With that clunky, clumsy feeling of warmth wrapped around his ankles and his feet like he was just somewhere else, doing something else, and it'd been important, or meant something, or had to have all of his focus, but a wave or a cloud passed -- you know, the kind with a glaringly, jarring electric ringtone meant to be "soothing" -- and suddenly it was just gone.

But really before Steve had anytime to do anything more than be alert, there were growling noises of annoyance coming from the pile of warmth he was still curled right tight up next to. Like Steve might have been surprised it wasn't just the bunk room lights suddenly flashing on at dawn, but Danny, who owned the phone, was suddenly plotting the death of the device for disturbing him. Like he hadn't programed it to go off, to do just this -- wake him up from a sound sleep. Which was tugging at Steve's cheek before he was even aware he was at smile.

It was hilarious and perfect. Feeling Danny curl in toward his chest, like an utter rejection of hearing it, a snake or a bear coiling down to deeper and darker, only to have to send an arm out to attack the noise and light and make it stop. Like it took a second to realize that had to happen. It makes him move, nearly lift from touching Steve's body, but it's only gone long enough to realizing it's almost completely, before Danny is falling right back down into him.

Dragging the blanket and his pillow, and Steve's arm, like Steve is just another blank that Danny owns, and Steve can't help the way something gets confused and splashes the inside of his chest with brilliant light and flooding warmth at the thought, while he's curving back around Danny. Steve counts it for maybe three seconds, that awareness of Danny being too rebelliously still, prepared to attack the world if it dared one second more, to actually be back asleep. Especially when that word cracks the newly achieved morning quiet.

It's not a laugh in any sense of the word. There isn't a sound, but Steve chest shakes regardless of that mattering. A soundless laugh, shivering the barrel of his chest into Danny's back, at Danny's vehement refusal to acknowledge the morning, or the next day. It's not even the first time, but he's not usually in bed for this. Not really. And not on work mornings. He's gone long before this.

Long before Danny could be curled into him, indignant and hair a mess, caught in stray low morning light.

Which maybe makes him prize it a little higher on this morning. His first morning back. Stretch his shoulders, even when he's nuzzling his nose down through that utterly terrible, and wonderful, mess of Danny's hair, searching for the skin at the top of his neck to rub his lips against, while saying all rough and quiet with morning, like he's not being a belligerent ass and stating the utter obvious, "It's morning."

[haole_cop]

"No, it's not."

Mumbled, sullen, into the pillow he's got his face pressed into, while he huddles away from the light but not away from Steve, hand finding Steve's wrist and pulling it down across his stomach. All he wants to do is go back to sleep, just let this weight of arm and sheet and blanket pull him back down, back rounding into Steve's chest, stealing Steve's ankle under his. It's not morning, because it can't be morning yet, they haven't had enough time and that was definitely not enough sleep, okay? He needs his solid seven, eight, hours, if he's going to be chasing hopped-up meth-heads all day.

And he doesn't appreciate that tone, either, the one like Steve thinks morning is just the best joke ever, like it's actually, somehow, a good thing, instead of something that ought to be dragged out back and shot, put mercifully out of its misery. It's not morning. He didn't say it could be morning, so it isn't.

He just wants to stay right here, maybe forever, with Steve's lips ghosting down the back of his neck and Steve's nose nuzzling into his hair and Steve's arm over him and Steve wrapped around him, breathing deep and easy and Steve's voice, all rusted out like he'd used it up while he was gone and he's got nothing left but the tar-thick stuff scraped off the very bottom. He wishes it were Saturday, or Sunday.

It's selfish, but he's selfish. Is okay with keeping Steve from Chin and Kono, or keeping them from him, because he just wants this all to himself, all right? Wants to believe those words, the ones he's not sure weren't dreamed somewhere in the middle of the night: I'm always yours. Wants it to be true, to be fact.

And he just wants to stay in bed, okay, it's comfy and warm and Steve is here and he likes it like this.

[thebesteverseen]

This is what he missed. Danny's skin, dry and warm against his lips when he can slide a little down the skin of his neck before there's going to be no way to get any further down without moving entirely. Which is almost tempting, tugging back on Danny when Danny steals his hand, like its any other part of his bed and curls in around it, Drags Steve closer, tighter in, like a rejection of Steve having any vote about his own appendages still. Or being awake.

"Sun's up." Steve kissed the nape of Danny's hair. "Alarm going off." The inch below it. "You're arguing with the dawn, like its awake and listening to you." He placed a kiss maybe half an inch below that, straining against having to tilt his head and stretch down. "Sounds like morning to me."

A perfect morning. The best kind of morning. The kind where fifteen or fifty other guys weren't pulling on clothes, or rolling out of the same bunks, headed for brushing their teeth and getting to the mess hall before everything looked like an unidentifiable mush. This -- Danny steal his hand and him, and angry at morning -- this was perfect. It was everything yesterday wasn't. Everything worth remembering in a flash of seconds as annoying it wasn't there.

Worth the sacrifice of a few days, but it was better. Right now. When he didn't have to remind himself of that.

It's to easy, and it's perfect, itself, too, when his voice goes long and prodding. "You need a shower before you're allowed in my building."

[haole_cop]

Steve's not good at saying I love you. That's fine, Danny gets it, it's not like Steve's experience with love hasn't been spectacularly fucked up ever since he was old enough to understand the concept, and Steve's not exactly an express your feelings kind of guy, so Danny gets it. He doesn't need it said back, the way he says it, like he needs to remind everyone he loves as often as he can about it, just in case each time is the last time, just in case they, who knows. Whack their head and forget.

Besides, he's pretty sure he wouldn't be able to focus on absolutely anything else if Steve did say it more often, just based on the way he sticks on the words that do come out of Steve's mouth: I'm always all yours.

I want you. Only you.

When as far as he could tell Steve's never wanted only one person, ever. Wasn't like Danny, who let the sun and moon set on one single other human being, and put all his weaknesses and vulnerabilities in one spot. Steve hadn't seemed like that. There were girls. There was his friend, Catherine. There were years of history Danny could only guess at, but he's pretty sure his assumptions are shrewd enough, if not entirely correct.

Nowhere in any of that would he ever have thought Steve might want this.

Okay? This is so much more than falling into bed with someone he'd had thoughts about for over a year. It's more than a very not-casual thing. It's more than anything Danny's had since -- in such a long time, he'd almost forgotten what it was like, how the signs went. That just waking up with someone could be as good or better than going to bed with them in the first place. That even waking up exhausted and -- he shifts, makes a face -- still sore as hell is good, because there's a low amused voice pressing words into the back of his neck and a solid warm body wrapped around him and Steve is happy to be here.

That's what that sound is. The low rumble in Steve's chest. The noiseless laugh. The fond warmth in his voice that's painting the walls of Danny's chest with light. It's happiness. Steve is happy. Here. With him. Because there wasn't anywhere else he wanted to be. Because he wanted to be here so bad he made it happen by sheer force of will, almost a day earlier than anyone expected.

And he's expected to have to get up and leave all this?

"You don't own that building. No one in their right mind would give you a lease to an entire building full of government offices."

He makes a complaining noise, draws the pillow tighter against his face. "Getting up right now is a crime. I hate this. I hate it so much."

[thebesteverseen]

"Semantics," Steve shot back, mouth moving back up the side of his neck, toward his ear, in no rush.

Spreading the fingers of the hand Danny had stolen and tucked under himself. Fingers stretching out over the heavy curl of Danny ribs supporting his weight, worming their way under, to drag him back and shift up. Thumb rubbing along other ribs. Danny's skin. The soft mat of hair and hard muscle, still so warm from being deep asleep only a breath ago, while his lips found Danny's ear.

A soft warm touch, for an irreverently insulting tone, "They're still my offices, and you aren't stepping foot into them like this."

For one Steve would never manage to get any work done. Not a minute. Not if Danny looked like this. Warm and solid and naked. Smelling like them. Persistently keeping him the only place he even ever wanted to be, so knotted up in Danny it was like his own body wanted to forget where either of them started and ended separately anymore. Because it seems so much less and less true, especially the more distance that was strung between them.

He should be locked up for how amusing he finds all of this. Danny hugging his pillow like a five year old who is certain if he tries hard enough he can wish away the day, even while making a disgruntled noise that is trying to announce to the world he knows he's not winning and he hates everything and everyone because of it. Well. Not everyone. If Steve presses the wash of a smug smile against Danny's hair for a moment.

If he doesn't look at it too hard, too long, not like dawn, he can hold that. Okay. The idea Danny loves him. And keeps saying it. Keeps seeming to mean it. Stopped insulting him for a few seconds right before he fell asleep to make sure Steve heard it. And he does. He hears it. Everytime. Not like a whisper. Like a jackhammer or the counter of a bomb. Everytime. But also. Something bigger. Something so big that if he looks at straight on the glass will shatter, and everything he's stared out at for so long will vanish.

There is no might. Only a when. But until there he can nip Danny's ear lightly and squeeze the fingers he has wrapped around the other side of Danny's chest, and complain about how, "This is pretty much the opposite of getting out of bed, you know."

[haole_cop]

"Bossy. It was so much less bossy when you were gone."

It was much less of other things, too: fun, interesting, compelling. The days were never boring, but he wasn't thrilled by them, either, okay? Kono and Chin take their own rides to and from work, and even when he's got one of them in the cab with him, it's not like having Steve there. There's less arguing -- usually no arguing at all, actually -- and less joking around, too. He finds himself wanting to install an ejector seat in the car on a far less regular basis, and tends to enjoy a full day of wearing clothes that won't get ruined by Steve accidentally taking him out along with the perp, or instigating a full-scale on foot chase through crowds, or on a beach, or in the jungle.

But it's less --something. More sane, more stable, more calm. Less this. The insanity that takes hold of him every time Steve's within arm's reach. The need to get a hand on his arm, shoulder, the small of his back. The way the face Steve makes only make Danny want to puff up bigger, bluster louder, cobble words into the longest sentences he can string together and throw them at his head, just to get that roll of Steve's eyes, or a flat line of his lips.

And none of this, because this doesn't exist in his world when Steve's not in it, and he's still not sure how it's there when Steve is, but he's not going to question it this early in the morning while Steve runs his lips across Danny's ear and along the back of his neck, and isn't letting go of him, no matter what nonsense he might be spouting. No playful mornings, full of lazy teasing, no nips at his ear that make him push his back in an arch into Steve's chest, like a stretching cat, no company, no floating feeling buoyed in the flood of warmth running through his chest, under his skin, chasing the path Steve's mouth is making. "Well, you're not exactly helping. What I'm saying is, these are some pretty mixed signals."

Voice low and rough and sleep-thick, a bass rumble in his chest, while he breathes deep. His sheets smell like Steve and sex, and he's sore as hell, and the last thing he wants to do is get up and actually leave this spot.

"You're making a great case for staying right here. For the shower, not so much."