AU: Trope Minefield

[haole_cop]

He's pretty sure this goes against his contract.

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

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

Well.

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least this suit still fits.

Comments

[haole_cop]

Steve does reply, but it takes Danny's brain a second to catch up with it, because it's breathed out against his lips between kisses that feel like being dipped into hot oil, over and over again. Covering his head. Boiling him alive.

And Steve would. He thinks. Steve laughs at him all the time, because Danny is his favorite joke, and Danny is his favorite punchline, but -- "Laughing isn't what I thought you'd do."

It's not the anger he expected, cold and furious and betrayed. It's not a fist to his jaw (even if it feels like one to his stomach, repeatedly). And when his back hits the door -- again, and again, for the third time tonight, Steve's pushed him into a door and kissed him -- it just sends a new flush of heat scudding across his skin.

His hands are following rules of their own. One slipping out from under Steve's jacket, only to track up his side and his arm to cup the other side of his neck, while the other slides down between them until Danny's palm is against his chest. Another spot his hand has rested, a hundred, a thousand times, but never like this. Not with Steve's heart jack-rabbiting beneath it because of Danny, and not the fight he wants to get into or break up.

He's so warm. Danny can't get over it, how warm he is, even beneath the layers of fabric that are starting to feel stifling on his own back, sticking between his shoulder blades.

Everything tipping up and down and absurd, and the joke is still that Danny knows Steve would laugh, but Steve wouldn't take it this far and Steve was never supposed to find this funny, but he wasn't supposed to kiss Danny, either, but then Steve's forehead is heavy against his, and Danny's blinking into his face, while those words come out. A swear, and his name, like he's never heard it, punching an ice pick into his chest, because Steve is saying his name like he's just climbed Everest, or been dragged out of the back of a truck, or was shot.

Like this has, somehow, not just wounded, but heart-shot him. Killed him. Hit him, center mass, and he's bleeding out all over Danny and the floor and about to drop.

Making Danny's hands slide up to frame the sides of his head, fingers gentler than they have been, because it's Steve. Like he just realized. It's Steve, and Steve is the toughest and most able and most capable person he knows, and Steve is also the most broken. The vulnerable spots he still has, that are the reason Danny loved him to begin with, because Steve's a person and not just a weapon, a weapon doesn't care if its hurt or tossed aside, and Steve cares too much --

Two words, that hit sore and leave him feeling bruised and too raw, while he's shaking his head against Steve's, fingers tightening, a little, possessive now, instead of just aggressive. "Yeah. I know. Come on, c'mon, c'mere, babe."

Tipping his mouth back up to Steve's. Needing to drink him in, even while this low, ragged voice is still coming up, quiet in the quiet room.

"You drove me crazy all night."

[thebesteverseen]

He doesn't expect this either. Danny's hands on his cheeks. Danny's voice, telling him to come closer, come back, come to him. Which hits harder into his chest. Somehow. He can't explain how. Turns it sore, instead of hot as fire. Like someone Dany gets it. Something. Even when he can't. Because Steve doesn't, but it's been so long since Steve thought that was a reason to stop, to even question his orders. Steve doesn't question Danny in this voice.

Danny's hand had been poised over his heart. The place no one touches except Cath. No one is allowed.

It's too much of a risk. It's too close to the kill shot you can't come back from. The hearts pumps out 2,000 gallons everyday, so it bleeds out in seconds, and Danny's hand was there. Making every warning go off. Making him shudder and want to push into it. Because Danny would never. Because Danny has his back. Has him. Always has. Can have whatever part of Steve he wants. Ever wanted.

Especially with voice that drags him. The careful, calm one, that sounds like it hurts, too. The one Danny only uses so rarely. When Doris left, and when Cath left. When he told Danny about Freddie, too late, but without him yelling either. The nights when Danny just sat by him and was smart enough to be careful when he reached out to touch Steve, or didn't at all. Knew too well how much more dangerous and fast Steve was when he didn't know why even if he kept mouthing the reasons.

Danny kisses him. Again, and again. Those hands still on his face, fingers pressed in. Like Danny is trying to prove some point. Adding those words that make Steve want to roll his eyes. Like Danny could never understand. Not really. That Danny has driven him crazy for years. The most important person he's possibly ever met, and how many of the things that made Danny the happiest he'd been in these years -- barring Grace, never Grace -- had been the things Steve wanted to hate.

Pushed him toward. That joy that made him make that face. That face he was just making at Steve blinding him.
That it hadn't mattered. The madness. Sting. If Danny was happy. It was more than he got living the madness for missions.

"You?" Again. That unrepentant words. With too much in it. Not a question. A rebuff. He can hear it in his voice, when it's flushed through him. Like Danny can't have any possible clue. That if it's even true, then Danny still has the lesser of that load, and somehow Steve has to prove it. Or can't stop himself. Both. When one hand veers from Danny's shoulder, across the seam on Danny's vest. Too heavy, slow, purposeful. "Have you seen yourself?"

There's something dark in it. Yearning. Impossibly not okay. With himself. "I hate this suit. I've always hated it."

Because it looks so good. It hugs every line of Danny's body. Not like those shirts, with their straining buttons that play havoc with Steve's mind and even more with his dreams. This one is painted on all of Danny. Crisp lines. Form fitting. He's wanted to put his hands on it from the first time Danny walked out. Strutting. Grinning that shit eating grin, before twirling Kono right there in Bull Pen, ready for their UC.

Touching her, even joking and showing off, smiling, in a way he would never ever touch Steve. Couldn't know Steve wanted. Except. Except. Those words stumble, drunken into Steve's head again. Danny apologizing. Danny seconds ago saying he didn't Steve would be laughing. Danny minutes ago saying. What had he been saying. Steve could punch him. Steve could fire him. And the whole world would laugh at that.

"I could never--" just falls out of his mouth, against Danny's. Refusing to let the those thoughts exist in the world. So wrong, and absolutely impossible. When Danny is the best man, the best cop, the best detective, the best friend he's ever had. He can't even imagine, or understand, the people who walk away from Danny. He can't imagine hating Danny, reviling him, even if he didn't feel this way. Even if his fingers are heavy on Danny's buttons. But don't. He doesn't.

His hand coming back up, finding that loose open collar and pulling Danny's head to him. Kissing him more. Trying to tell him.

He'd relieved Danny of duty for only that one time. With the man who had chained and hurt little girls. Who Danny took to a deep personal place he couldn't not go to as a father, with Grace as the center of his entire existence, and Steve couldn't even be allowed to touch, or he'd do so much more than he let Danny. There wouldn't have been a smear left if Steve had allowed himself. He hadn't stopped Danny, or mentioned anything about his oaths in Columbia. Not before, or after, that gun went off.

There's nothing Steve could ever do, willing to do any of those things to Danny for. He had Danny's back. He'd break almost any rule. Maybe any rule. For Danny. He'd follow Danny into hell. Sheild, gun, get away. Whatever Danny needed of him. Everything he did. Even if he didn't know what it was, and Steve had to run it. Like on that plane to Columbia, with all the cash in a bag. There was nothing Danny could say to him, ask of him, need him to do that he wouldn't do. He could never. Never. Not ever. It wasn't in him.

[haole_cop]

Have you seen yourself? Steve asks, into Danny's mouth, with a tone that's almost vengeful, and it doesn't make sense. None of this does, is only believable in the very slightest of degrees if it's actually just another dream, that Danny will wake up from feeling guilty and turned on in equal measure, but that is an especially impossible thing for Steve to say.

Sure. Danny's seen himself. He knows how he looks, knows he keeps himself in decent shape, is overly-protective of his hair and the few pieces of nice clothing -- more, now, ever since he started making a better salary -- and tonight, he made an extra effort, to look the part. Wore his best suit, the one that looks most like it belongs on this island, crisp and light. His best shirt. And he still didn't look anything like Steve, or half the other men in that joint. And there are people who look like Steve, who wear a tux like Steve does, but they're in movies and on magazine covers. They stop traffic, and pick up phone numbers like dropped pennies.

They don't get stuck on Danny. It's absurd. The very idea of it. That he could have been driving Steve as insane in that room, as he felt. Like his skin was about to boil right off. Wanting to snap each one of that guy's fingers, where they lay on the small of Steve's back, one by one, slow and satisfying.

Looking down, to follow the line of Steve's fingers, as they drag down his chest, to the buttons of this vest, that Steve already undid once tonight, without knowing it was like he was unbuttoning Danny's sanity, one at a time. "What's wrong with this suit?"

There's nothing to hate about this suit. He loves this suit, paid more for it than for any other single item of clothing he's ever owned, and it was worth every penny. Tailored precisely. A little different. Classic lines, that Steve is painting with heavy pressure, and clouding up Danny's head, catching Danny's breath as his fingers pause at the buttons, only to reach up and drag him in by the collar of his shirt, while Danny's hands shift down, to Steve's hips, partly to keep him close, and partly to keep his balance, and partly because he's still not at all sure this is even happening.

Steve saying never. But not meaning the never Danny still thinks, believes, knows it true, because he can't start being sure that down is up just because he feels like he's tumbling into the sky. This was never going to happen. Steve was never going to understand it or want it. The very best case scenario was always that Steve, finding out, wouldn't hold it against him, because sometimes things happen and peoples' feelings get complicated.

It was never, never, this.

[thebesteverseen]

"Everything." That means nothing. Nothing is wrong with that suit, except everything it makes Steve think. Want.

When his mouth is saying all the things he should never say. Never. Wasn't supposed to look at in the light of day. It didn't matter if he'd spent most of that first night awake, pillow pressed into his face, trying to force sleep, or suffocation, if it would help, and unable. "I hate it on you." Beat. "And the idea of it off of you-" Steve's teeth almost snap, but his body is humming, like he's in the middle of a hard run.

God. He remembered. Okay. He remembered, like he's supposed to remember everything. Hating watching Danny leave. Broad shoulders, skip in his step, the swing of his hands. Hating the idea he was going home. Maybe even to Gabby, while still looking this good. Hated his mind for thinking about delicate fingers, thin and graceful, professionally polished, on this vest, on the collar. Maybe even a casual brush of lipstick on the folded edge of it.

Other things. Of course. Because he just said. Admitted. He'd thought about it not on Danny. Somewhere else.
When Danny isn't stupid enough to miss his voice and just assume Steve meant hanging up and not left on the floor.

Danny, who is an idiot. At least as much as he is. Bristling up his ruffles at Steve's insult, that wasn't, even when he's not letting go. Even when his hands find Steve hips and Steve's chest wants to let go of another sound he shouldn't, can't, won't, as they collide into each other again. Sending a shuddering hard jolt through his body because of it. The walls cracking all around him. But not the ones holding up the door. Never those. They stand silent vigil over all the sins in this house.

He can believe it, but he can't. The way Danny looks just the edge of antagonist, puffed up, defensive. Proud of his suit. Not certain if Steve is just lying to him. Like anyone could miss it. Danny cuts a line through a room, and maybe everyone doesn't look. But enough people. Enough people that Steve wants to chunk things at their heads. Because they can look. Do. As he's forced to watch. Pretend he doesn't care, notice, mind.

Maybe it's even part of the reasons, the unlooked at ones at least, more than half the time, that he bulls ahead and expects Danny to follow in the wake he makes, so he doesn't have to see it. He knows it's happening. Especially when Danny is happy. Shined up so that people get dazed by his smile and his ebullience. A million words and that happy go lucky tone. Making the whole world pale before it.

Making Steve unable to look away, but unable to lean into the feelings that batter him like bullets, sends him into a hurtling into a faster, harder free fall than jumping out of an airplane, that he has had to find the strength and will, again and again and again, to wrench himself from. How it's impossible, and a given. Like breathing air. He breathes in even when he doesn't think about, holds his breath without thinking about it. He wants Danny, even when he doesn't think about. Even when he's busy with other things. Other problems. Other people.

Tries not to think about what shoves in like bamboo under his nails. That maybe this is part of why, too.
Because there's so much he's given Danny, can't not give him now, that he couldn't share. Not even with Cath.

That it happened even on a daily basis, brushed off like the random rainstorms. In the car, and in the office, and on the job. Danny. Every day. Always on some lower level. Something he just handled and accepted. Like Doris being gone, and Wo Fat being more than he'd thought, but less than he assumed. Danny. With his stupid dome of perfect hair and --

"And your stupid shirts," Steve shakes his head. "Are you trying to drive me crazy?" Because it worked.

"What is with this look like you are waiting for your clothes to just fall off if you actually remember to take a breath?"

[haole_cop]

Five minutes ago, he would have said he was as surprised as he was going to get, tonight, when Steve leaned in -- pushed in, shoved in -- and kissed him, instead of breaking his jaw, or simply never speaking to him ever again, but that was before now. Before those words, punching their way out of Steve.

Getting strangled off like there could possibly be more to that sentence, but if there is, or if Steve says anything else, Danny can't hear it. Can barely feel Steve's fingers against his collar. Those other words coming like Steve's saying them under water, under glass, beneath a mile of ice, muffled and unimportant. Something about his shirts, except Danny can't care about his shirts, or even what Steve thinks of them, because Steve hates this suit. Hates it on Danny, and the idea of it off of Danny.

Because he has apparently been thinking about it off off Danny.

Shutting off Danny's ability to think, breath, or react like he hit a power switch, because Danny's brain is currently a wash of white noise and confusion. When. Okay. Maybe it wouldn't be so surprising. Maybe he shouldn't be so stunned. It's not an unusual thing to hear from someone who has spent the last ten minutes dedicatedly kissing him into the door.

But it is, because it's Steve. And Danny hasn't even been able to wrap his mind around this news that Steve wants him, comes to a hard stop at the thought that maybe Steve has wanted him for a while.

I've always hated it. This suit. Steve's always hated it. Danny's thoughts backpedaling in a furious panic to try and even figure out when the first time Steve saw this suit was, and coming up with...

That can't be right. That's too long. That's not tonight. That's years. Almost back to when Danny himself figured it out, years.

The kind of years that were filled with two girlfriends (him) and the return and subsequent departure of Cath (Steve) and too many close calls along the way, years.

Years in which Steve has hated this suit. Imagined it off Danny. Somewhere on a floor. That isn't this one.

Or was?

Which is a thought that kicks Danny in the throat, his throat, that's suddenly gone Sahara-dry and clogged.

When what he might say -- teasing or flirtatious or heavy with sparking promise -- to someone he expected to like this suit and want to peel him out of it doesn't seem to fit, because none of those people were Steve.

And because: "I've had this suit for years."

Slow, like he's just catching up, now. And maybe he is, except he's not sure he wants to know, doesn't want to look too closely at this swelling bubble of dread that's pushing against his lungs.

Because if Steve's always hated this suit, and Danny's had this suit for years, then he's gotten a lot of things very, very wrong, for a very, very long period of time.

[thebesteverseen]

Danny's words catch up with Steve like a bowling ball. His tone a struggling confusion and Steve wants to go still. He needs to take those words back from Danny and from himself. They shouldn't have come out like that. He shouldn't have let them. He needs to get himself back under even a millimeter of control. Even with Danny pulling him into pressing Danny right against the door. Somehow. He needs to. Has to.

His heart jackrabbiting, again, because of what those words betray. Things he shouldn't have admitted. That are stupid, and long. So long he doesn't look at it long. That it's not new for him, whatever Danny's suddenly realized. This impossible thing where Danny was apologizing and afraid in waves earlier because he felt this now. But it wasn't like that for Steve, and something bitter, and remotely shameful, yet sharp defensive of itself, crawls up his spine on the inside. Pricking him with metal splinters from every crawling leg.

He doesn't want to say a word now. Not a single one. He already said it all, didn't he? All, and too much.

That it was already happening at the point when Danny bought this suit, and wore it for the job, and Kono, and anyone else he might have worn it for. That night. To later dates. It's a good suit. An expensive suit. Danny should have been using it. Danny should be happy. With his things. With his people. Except even the thought feels like Steve punched his open face flat on, his fist taking out teeth and driving itself perfect down his throat.

Too much. He said so little and he still said too much. This is why he wasn't supposed to ever speak. That it had been years ago. That it's been years since he was interested. In his male partner, maybe even in other men. Maybe even long before that. Which adds another layer of bile to the stillness that's making him want to pull away from the insane warmth of Danny's body. Danny's eyes. His quick, confused breaths.

When he feels suddenly trapped, between having said the truth and knowing it's nothing like the truth. That if he opens his mouth, or Danny asks, he'll have to say now, because he doesn't lie to Danny. He's avoided it masterfully for years. The way he's avoided everything in those files he can't tell Danny either. All of them with their own special mission code names, redacted lines, shredded photos and records.

Danny has a box like that. In Steve. He always had. Names, and redacted lines, and shredded photos, and records, all.

[haole_cop]

Steve doesn't say anything, but he doesn't have to: it's written on his face like someone pulled down a chalkboard across it and scrawled letters there. That it's both been years, and that Danny wasn't supposed to know.

Which. Well. Explains why he didn't. And he knows why, even if his brain keeps restarting every time he tries to wrap it around the concept of Steve wanted him for years.

Because he didn't say anything, either. Did absolutely everything in his power to make sure Steve never knew, when lying is anathema to his whole being and he's never been able to keep his feelings either stifled or concealed. Which meant they pushed out in strange, obvious ways that he was always sure Steve would see and finally understand: jealousy about Cath, annoyance with the United States Navy and their penchant for plucking Steve up and sending him away without notice. His fury with Steve, every time Steve left without saying anything or asking for backup, or did something deadly and stupid, or was reckless to get the job done, like there wasn't anyone who might miss him once he was gone.

Flying halfway around the world to be there at his hospital bedside. Being here to listen to his worries and suspicions about Doris, about Cath, about Wo Fat. Not leaving the hospital for that whole first, terrible night and day, after they found him in that room, with Wo Fat's body at his side.

His mouth is working, but it's soundless. So flummoxed even his trusty words have failed him, because it's too big to try and hold, too big to try and break into bite-sized pieces, even.

Steve's wanted him for years. Including, probably, most of, or all of, the years Danny spent so much time and energy making sure Steve never knew that Danny wanted any of this, because Danny wasn't supposed to, and it was never going to happen.

Except not never. Except it was there, and he missed it.

It'll hit soon enough, he knows: the regret and the guilt and the anger and sick disgust at himself, for having wasted time that he had no idea was even an option, but for now, all he can do is stare at Steve, and want to swear he won't miss another second.

Not a single one. If Steve wants this. Him. Still. "And here I was, trying to make sure you never had to know about this. When that whole time --"

Shaking his head. Feeling like a mat that needs to be peeled up off the floor. "Jesus Christ, I can't believe I missed it."

He can't believe they could have been here, years ago. Years ago. How much would have changed. If it might have worked out. If there's even the slightest chance that three years ago could have seen them still here, today. "When we could have --"

If he lets himself think about it, those years are going to swallow him whole with all their unknowable possibilities. And it's not even true, maybe. If he'd told Steve back then, it still might not have ended like this. It might have blown up on their faces. It might have been the worst decision they ever made.

But. They could have tried it, at the very least. He wouldn't have had to wait those years since.

And, apparently, neither would Steve.

[thebesteverseen]

Danny's mouth keeps moving, while nothing happens, and for one far too long second he thinks he might have broken Danny. Finally, truly, let on too much. That somehow it was fine to let on that he wanted Danny's hands on him, but that it wasn't to have accidentally spilled that he always had. Or at least nearly. So nearly when looking back that it's only a sliver of their partnership and friendship that hadn't had it somewhere in there, even buried down under the floorboards.

Then the words start rolling out and Steve doesn't know what to make of them really. Steve can't tell what he wants. No, he can. He wants to go back to kissing Danny, and not being able to think, because he wouldn't have to be thinking about whether he wants Danny to be able to talk or talk, to be talking or not.

"We could be now--" Steve stresses, trying to make it a joke, even if his voice isn't entirely playing along. "--if you weren't so busy talking about."

Danny was bound to, though, wasn't he? Have to talk. It's not even a surprise. Even when Steve fought the urge to just smother his mouth and drown him out. Put him back against the door and keep kissing him until those hands moved somewhere else and his brain just shut up. Sometimes you lived when you weren't supposed to, when there was no way out and you couldn't even explain to yourself how it worked. This was like that.

"Besides, you were busy then, too." Is a lie. A bad excuse. Even at honest, and real. Actual. He had been. There'd been other people. Rachel, at one point. Then, Gabby. Then, Amber. "And this, this--" A headroll, tilt, circle, to all of this. Them. The Door. Him. Decidely not large, solid, and definitely not female. "This was not something you were looking for."

Steve says it sharp and certain, but something in his eyes isn't anymore. It's even more unmoored. It's bobbing out there in the dark waves. Slipping through Danny's fingers with trying make sure you never had to know the whole time. When there might be worse things than not knowing. When maybe shutting Danny's head up wouldn't be the only reason to going back to melting his own out from between his ears.

Because didn't. He hadn't. Steve had watched Danny closer than anyone over these last few years. Danny didn't linger after any man they way he could get tripped up, tongue-tied, lean and look for even a second about a pretty girl. Lithe, limber, bright eyed and dark haired for the most. He'd never looked at anyone like Steve. Any man. Except he had looked at Steve.

Except Steve hadn't noticed entirely somehow. Something this big. Right under his nose. Hiding. Being avoided. (Again.)

Which just kicks a foot made of ice into his stomach as the thought spins out. If he didn't know about himself, about Danny having any interest in men. . . are there others, then? More than Rachel, and Gabby, and Amber. The occasional bartender or waitress flirted with before Steve drug him away. Were there others, he'd never known about, never seen, been kept from seeing? It lodges in his center, that iceberg, that always makes him want to cut off fingers and snap out bones, suddenly picturing him with them.

Maybe part of the newer, looser Danny that had come about even into sleeping with Amber before Grace met her.

It slides into the heat freezing it in his veins. The idea of it. Phantom hands, kisses, even --

[haole_cop]

Steve's trying to brush it off, like they didn't somehow lose three whole years. It's true. Now is better than never, and Danny's grateful for it, fucking grateful, or will be, once the dust settles and he's sure it's not some big goof, or a particularly painful dream, but he's not sure he'll be as quick as Steve to say they don't matter.

The years before, when he was so sure, and trying whatever he could to forget it or get past it or just deal, on a daily basis, with it, while Steve pushed him at Gabby and commiserated about Amber (Melissa, right, her name's Melissa, not that it matters anymore) and shacked up with Catherine whenever she was in town.

Catherine, who was on the island, when they ran that first UC op with him and Kono, the first time he wore this suit, and he'd think more about the timing of all this, maybe, if Steve weren't already back-pedaling, pointing out why it wouldn't have mattered, because Danny was busy. Making Danny frown, eyebrows pulling together at the word, because busy is one thing, but unavailable is another, and they were both busy, but they both found time for a personal life.

It's a bad excuse, but Danny can't even refute it before Steve's pushing onward, finding something else, adds that.

Words so inaccurate it's almost blinding, and Danny has to take a second to re-calibrate, because it's Steve's turn to be: "Wrong."

Beyond wrong. So wrong. More wrong than Danny knows how to define, because it's a wrong that goes beyond words and down deep into the marrow of everything Danny is and Steve is and they are, together.

All of it, wrong. The phrasing. Looking for. When Danny was perfectly content not to look for anything at all, and only reacted when the world pushed people into his path. And this, this --

Maybe he wasn't looking for it, but it found him, anyway. Crawled into his head and his chest, curled up there, refused to leave. Took up residence to growl and snap at anything that threatened it.

Which he doesn't know how to put into words, but is about to try, anyway, when Steve stiffens under his hands and against him, with no warning and for no easily discernible reason, leaving Danny to watch him in bemusement and no small amount of concern. "Hey, Steve."

Not because Steve's gone tense, though that's never a good sign. Not even because his sentences are a poor excuse at a smokescreen.

It's his face. Gone tight and blank, and unreadable. Shuttered and dark, and drawn in on himself, on some thought, that makes Danny lift a hand to grip his lapel and shake him, drag his attention back to Danny, make him focus. "Hey, knock it off. When you've got me pushed up against a door and you just finished telling me how much you hate this suit on me is not the time to get lost in your miserable rat-trap of a brain, huh?"

Brash and more than a little hypocritical, but he doesn't care: the point isn't to keep tallies or score, to point is to drag that expression right off Steve's face. "What are you thinking, huh?"

Whatever it is, Danny doesn't like it. Not that face. Not the tension. Not the way it came hard on the heels of Steve talking about how this wasn't something Danny was looking for. When maybe he wasn't looking for it, but it came at him anyway like a meteor from on high, and became the thing he wanted.

Fingers gripping the fabric, eyebrows lifted and challenging. "If you're not gonna talk, then you better be kissing me again, McGarrett."

[thebesteverseen]

Wrong, Danny says, throwing his own single word answer back at him.

Wrong about the fact Danny hadn't been, even then, looking for something like this.

A guy? A guy like Steve? Steve? Except it's been years, and Danny is not someone anyone would feel they needed to give a pity fuck to. Or pity for any kind of attention. With those pants, and those shirts, and, sure, okay, maybe the loafers were still a little much. But it's not like he wouldn't turn heads in those places. But he'd never noticed. Even the first year, when that surfer and Toast both hit on him. Obvious as the sun flashing on the water. While Steve stood there smirking, laughing, chucking comments right along, and it went over Danny's head.

Or it didn't. Steve didn't know now. He did. He knew. He had to have known. He knew Danny. He did. He knew everything about Danny. Apparently, excepting that Danny was claustrophobic and liked men. Had. For who knows how long. That he's wrong. When Danny is throwing more and more words at him, mingling with his thoughts, neither of them giving dominance to the other or managing to cross the other out.

When he should be kissing Danny. Wasn't he just bitching at Danny, and complaining in his head, that this would all be easier if they were already kissing and no longer talking. How is that thought is the only one in his head, too loud and too distant when Steve ignores it all for -- "How long?"

How long has he not known this, too? How long has there been this whole other part of Danny's life that he didn't know? How long ago did Steve become part of it? How long has he missed this, too? Were there times when he could have been there for Danny during this, too? Whenever it started? However? Why hadn't he known? Why hadn't Danny told him? Because he was a cop? Because Steve was his boss, or he thought Steve wouldn't be okay with his choices, or that he'd --

Except he had. He'd said those even. That he expected Steve to punch him, fire him.

But that was today. That was his hands all over his body, and his mouth grafted to Steves.

And as desperate as he was for all of that, he still needed to know, what about every day before this one?

[haole_cop]

Steve doesn't take the bait, and that expression doesn't do anything but dig itself a little deeper into the lines of his face, now with the additional aspect of something that isn't anger, but looks almost as intense, and accompanying those two, short words.

Demanding an answer, and, fine, he should get to know. Even if he hadn't told Danny, even if Danny hadn't paid attention or caught that word, before, that kicked all this off, he'd tell Steve, if Steve asked. "Pretty long."

Even if it's been so long, he's not even sure of the exact day, or if there was one. "Since sometime in that second year."

Sometime after Rachel broke his heart for the second time. Sometime after North Korea, and before Mary visited and called them surf buddies. That was when he knows it started. "But I didn't really get it until you left to find Shelburne."

When it actually clicked, somewhere between missing Steve and hating him and not talking about him to anyone, including Chin and Kono, but calling him every day, multiple times, that it wasn't just the jealousy of a devoted friendship, or a few strange dreams here or there, or a fluke. That he wanted Steve back. That he wanted Steve.

Forcing him to rethink everything he'd previously known about himself. Wondering if this made him gay, or bisexual, or something else he'd never had the cause to find a definition to. Wondering if he should be looking elsewhere, if Steve was just the start, if something had clicked in his adulthood that hadn't existed when he was younger. People change. Supposedly. He even put it to the test, a few times.

But it never mattered. None of them were Steve.

(Just like Gabby wasn't Rachel, and neither was Amber. Melissa.)

Which made it just about as complicated and as simple as that. They weren't Steve. He loved Steve. Wanted Steve. So everything else was a wash.

[thebesteverseen]

Danny talks about a few years ago, making something in Steve's heart and his face soften against a fierce ache of confusion, but it's like someone sagging behind a set of bars, iron steel and artic cold, because it's not what he needs yet and he needs to know before he can let himself fall into it. He knows he's being an idiot. He knows he might be ruining this. He knows he shouldn't give a damn, because of Rachel and Gabby and Amber and Cath and anyone else he might have had for any of those 'just a moment, just a night' things that didn't matter and he'd never want to admit to Danny.

He should give that same benefit of the doubt and understanding to Danny. But he doesn't want to.

He can hear it in his voice, how flat and trying for empty of reaction it is when he prompts, "And before that?"
He adds it, like somehow he can say this without hit guts tightening even to acknowledge the lunacy. "Before me?"

Before he became part of this. Something Danny was interested in. Wanted to touch, kiss, avoided mentioning for years for that reason, too. He wants Danny's hands on him. He wants to kiss Danny through the door and burn any other persons hands off of him. Out of his own memory. Because it's suddenly violently, in such utter stillness, in his head, not okay with him. He doesn't want to understand. He doesn't want to be patient. He wants to know everything.

He wants it cut open and dissected on the floor in front of him. Even when Danny's hand on his waist and his collar. He wants to know, needs to know. Danny's never not told him anything this important. It was shock enough when he wouldn't walk into the cave. That Steve might have missed this even if annoying fear in his partner, that might effect any case. That they'd gone years. That was a surprise enough. Made him feel like a heel and an idiot. Unobservant. Bad at his job. Maybe at their friendship.

But this. This reigns a hairline fracture away from unsettling him entirely in a completely different way. Cut through his intenses, twining knives up into his lungs, wrapping in and out between each rib. Because he can handle this. Whatever Danny says. Whenever, however long, whoever else has been here, he'll know, okay. Because he needs to know. Because Doris is gone, and Cath is gone, and Danny can't be gone, or even only partially here, partially real, but not as much as Steve'd thought he was, kept relying on him to be every time something else broke in his hands.

Especially not when Steve's got him pressed between his own body and the door. A tower against the light.

[haole_cop]

"Before you?"

It's almost as much of a surprise as Steve's slip earlier had been, and Danny has to pause for a second to mull it over, eyebrows crawling together, taken aback. Not the answer, but how simple that answer is. Before Steve. A completely alien concept he hadn't really even considered, before. "There wasn't a before you."

He knows he might be shooting himself in the foot, here. It's not the kind of thing most people like to hear: that they are the only option, the only one, the first, the singular. A lack of experience can be a deal-breaker, and feeling that way towards only one person might seem like...who knows, deflected urges, or something.

But this is not that. Danny's always been this way. There was Rachel, and she was everything, the only person he wanted, the only one in his mind, heart, world. And then there was Steve. And it was the same damn thing, and that was when Danny knew he was really in trouble. "Just you."

When it might be too honest, but Steve's face looks like it's going to crack from the strain, and Steve's questions are too quick and too hard and it might be a little hypocritical of Steve, but Danny doesn't care. They're not the same kind of person. He tried, a couple of times, but it was never enough, never even enough to make a full night of.

It wasn't Steve, and that was a dealbreaker. "It was only ever you."

Which Steve should know, because Steve knows Danny. Knows how Danny operates. How he is when he falls for someone, which is nothing like how he is when he thinks he should probably try dating someone. There wasn't time to be nervous, or to second-guess it, or to worry over dates: it hit like lightning, like a car crash, like a bridge crumbling beneath his feet.

While Steve stares at him, looking like the last thread of his sanity is slowly snapping, and while Danny just realizes that they've been having entirely different conversations for the last few minutes.

[thebesteverseen]

Steve stares, long and hard, like he's not sure he heard right. Even when he did.

Like he's listening for something miles off. Staring that five thousand yard stare. Into Danny.

Because. That's impossible. Isn't it? Like entirely impossible. Like it made sense for him, okay? Even if it was backwards and misplaced. Falling for his partner. Wanting to suddenly push him against a crate or drag him upstairs from the beach. Feeling like his heart stopped every time Danny nearly died. Not the first time. Not the first guy. But maybe the first one who really stuck. Longer than a night. Longer than a desperate need to feel. Longer than not being real at all. Because his career was all.

Danny keeps saying it. Small, single sentences so certain. Reluctant. Almost embarrassed. Like this is the worse admission. Not that it's been years. Not that it was a lie. That it was Steve. Only Steve, only ever Steve. Who feels like the room is shrinking again. That can't be right. It can't be. No one would. Has ever. Except Danny isn't looking away, and he knows Danny's face. The one that can't lie to save itself. That has tic's that read bright as the moon at midnight to Steve at least.

Staring up at him, almost beseeching. Not to shove his fingers and holes into this. Don't laugh. Don't tear it apart. This is the look he had when Steve got out of Hawala. The look he had all the time after Matt left, especially when he admitted. Not being able to pull the trigger on his brother. For weeks and weeks after they saved Grace. Off and on the evening, then weekend, after Rachel gave birth to Charlie with him at her side. After Reyes, and the way he pretended he didn't look after Amber's ex stabbed him into another hospitalization.

That floundering, flopping thing, with absolutely no defense against itself: Danny's heart. The victim of everything it loved.

You're my best friend, and I love you, swims up from somewhere. Meeting, merging, diluting entirely into it was only ever you, and setting off an explosion that Steve can't tell if is in his heart or his head. All he knows is he has to kiss Danny now. He has to. Pushes into it like maybe he hasn't this whole night. Not when it was just about giving in, but not giving in. Not when it was about the sudden shattering insanity of Danny's mouth on his, hands wandering here in his house.

Danny. Danny loves him. More than -- maybe not like that, but more than they've been saying. Too. Maybe not world-ending. Not like Grace. Or Rachel. But more. Somehow. Someway. More than he thinks he should. Wants Steve so much more than he thinks he should. Enough to feel scared and embarrassed of the bare facts. That he has. That it all started with Steve, even if he never let Steve in on it. It's supposed to be making sense, but his brains cells are popping in a grand crescendo with too much power and too much light, and there are no words for this feeling. None. None at all.

He's got a hand on the side of Danny's face, but it's moving down his throat, to his shoulder and back up. Because he's joked that Danny was smaller than an average man more times than he can't count, but suddenly it's true in both ways. Suddenly he's too small in the scope of the world, too impossible, too nothing like anyone else in Steve's whole life or anyone's he's met, even five years later and he's, also, too large, and Steve's hands have to start somewhere before the rights to even touch it, no less map it, suddenly fade from his grip.

[haole_cop]

He's starting to wonder if he said the wrong thing, if maybe he should be concerned, because Steve is staring at him like he's aiming down the sights of a sniper rifle, laser-focused and intent, looking for, Christ, Danny doesn't know. If it's the truth, maybe. That would make sense, considering how many people Steve has trusted, who turned around and lied to him again and again.

Danny won't. Not now, even when he knows it's probably too much, too soon, too sensitive. Maybe ruining their friendship, or making Steve second-guess everything Danny's ever done for him or said to him. Possibly freaking him out, because feelings are heavy, even if there was that knife-edged thing in his voice earlier, bracing himself for Danny to tell him about someone else. Some mythical, impossible other man, or men.

As if Steve were not the catalyst and result, both.

He doesn't know what else he can say, how much more clear he can be, but he should say something, right, because Steve is still just staring, a whole new sequence of expressions flicking across his face, one by one, until they start blurring together and Danny's mouth opens just in time for Steve to lean in and capture it.

Drag a soft, surprise, wounded sound out of Danny, instead of words, that's all sore relief and longing so pure it shocks Danny himself, because it's only been a minute or two, and he'd lived years without it before ten minutes ago, but he'd missed it. Steve's mouth on his. Needed it, back.

Steve's mouth, and Steve's hand, where no one but Steve would be allowed to touch. Heavy against his throat, that should make him tense up, because it's such a vulnerable spot, easy to crush, easy to pin him -- but then it slides down to his shoulder, and back up again, like Steve doesn't know how to touch him, or how to keep his hand in one place.

While kissing him. Like. God. Like Danny is his first glass of water in a week. Or like he's sucking in fresh air after being nearly smothered. It's not trying to burn him down, or break him into pieces.

Just Steve, curving into him like the tide, and overwhelming him, until Danny's head is spinning and his fingers are tight in Steve's clothing, all over again.

[thebesteverseen]

Danny doesn't stop him.

It's still part of the first confused, consuming ground shaking effect through everything in him, when Danny's mouth is already open. That sound coming up out of him. Soft, almost painfully needful sounding. Socking Steve with a punch he wasn't expecting. Tightening his ribs and taking any air he had only seconds ago. When it's impossible, all of this is impossible. It can't be only ever him, when no one, no one at all has ever wanted only ever him, and this.

No one has ever stayed.

(No one except Danny.)

Making this sound Danny gives up splash into Steve's head like acid, burning through thoughts and walls alike. Like Danny wanted him, needed him, this, already. Kissing him like he understood. That somehow, without anyone telling them, this is the air and not the moment before hand when either of them was capable of drawing breath in. When Steve's clothes are suddenly tight in fisted fingers, again, pulling him closer, close as possible.

Danny too solid to be a shadow between Steve and door, not actually small enough to press into it, to cover him entirely, but it's like they're trying. When Danny is holding on tight, kissing him back, and Steve isn't leaning in so much as pushing in. To Danny, even if that means he's pushing Danny into the door. Them. The door could die. Burn. Vanish. As long as it wasn't right now, while they are crowded against it. He can fix the things in the house.

He doesn't know how to fix this, or even how to have it, but he can't stop. Doesn't want to. Is afraid he'll have to.

The taste of Danny, and the weight of his hands, telling Steve where to go, move, stay, screaming louder.

[haole_cop]

It was the right thing to say, maybe. Or the right thing to do. Inasmuch as there is a right or wrong in this situation he never expected and had no plan for, that could still explode beneath his fingertips without a second's warning. Steve staring at him, just then, feeling like the red light that was pinned to Danny's chest years ago. This kiss like the thing going off.

Except he wanted it to explode, this time. Didn't want any careful fingers or professional manipulation to dismantle it. He's not sure he wants to be safe, when
safe would mean this never happened, didn't exist. In a safe world, he and Steve went their separate ways tonight, and were awkward for a little while, and then moved past it, and it was never brought up, considered, bared.

An hour ago, he might have thought that was the better option. Now, he can't even stand the idea of it.

Missing this. Again. Like he's apparently been missing it for years. The way Steve curves into him. The door at his back. Steve's mouth hard on his. Steve's hands roaming over him, more than they ever have, and still not enough.

The giddy insanity that still hasn't sobered up, even after the last few minutes, because Danny's still stuck on the things Steve has said and done since they got in here, since Danny saw him at the club, since they met, in the garage, the first view of each other over the barrels of their guns.

Which feels sort of like it's happening all over again, now, when Danny's trying to haul himself back through the last ten, fifteen minutes, and make sense of it, while it's falling through his mind like flipping cards, and Steve is trying to burn him down.

"You know, I really don't think you've given this suit a fair shake."

[thebesteverseen]

Steve isn't certain Danny should be talking at all. Danny has always talked too much, and Steve has always yelled at him. Insulted him talking too much. Made fun of his words. While paying more attention than he thinks Danny, or any person in the rest of the world, has paid any attention to, too. Except when he asks Danny questions and watches the small surprise flicker past that Steve paid attention to some small detail. While he wasn't looking, or was acting like it was all crap.

Danny knows. He does. Even when it's not something they say. Never has been. It moves circles no one could draw.

The way Danny starts talking suddenly when Steve was busy over here. Danny had seemed to have been busy, too. Fingers in his clothes and just as adamant about what had replaced the talking. Like his breath wasn't coming faster while he started spouting words that Steve had to cobble his brain together to translate, even as they came through clearly, into his inability and unending order to never let himself fall apart.

When it catches. Danny is talking about his suit, again. Back to the topic that had started evening stopping. When Danny had froze and Steve had realized how far he overstepped. Idiotically. Betrayed. Misspoken. Even at the truth. Too far back. Too indicative. Danny swamped with it. Realizing. Pulling apart the more important, to him, part of it. That Steve had been 'hating' this suit for years. In ways that had nothing to do with hate.

Closing his eyes, pillow compressed to his face, until he gave in.

Until his eyes were still closed, but it wasn't a pillow in his hands, put himself.

Feverish with the thoughts of it. With every line of the soft gray and match of the crisp white. Every crease and seam. Every second a hand had laid against it, Danny's or someone else's. Letting his mind burn down when he let himself think, gasoline and oil, what it would be like if it was his. His business. Touching Danny's suit. Touching Danny himself.

When Steve pulls back a second at these words, and the direction they are not even drunkenly sauntering, but that Danny is shoving back at him. The inclination that Steve had. implied. Not, entirely informed a too good detective. That Danny could have avoided. Entirely. Danny does. Knows how to. Avoid things. He doesn't want. They hold each others secrets like that, too. They know which things not to ask about. Not to shove guns and fingers into while pointing and refusing blindness.

Danny could entirely blow off the entire topic which pointed to Steve thinking about Danny sans suit. Naked. Being had.

But he doesn't, and Steve thinks his hearing might be turning into some kind of bubble where nothing else is.

Danny doesn't want him to pretend he didn't say it, and he absolutely would have. Even if his hands are too heavy, too erratic. When Danny is complaining about his suit. Suddenly jumping back to its defense and Steve looks down. Glazed, dark eyes and sudden seriousness. At the perfect shoulders, the shirt that's starting to get rumpled from friction, the buttons, and those pants that fit his ass far too well, even if Steve can't see that vantage from this spot.

"No," Steve declared. No mercy and no apology. For the thick rust in his voice, or the heavy spectre of how he looked down Danny's body. Almost electric with the fact he could. Danny was putting it out there. Letting him look. Asking him to reconsider. Consider him. That way. This suit, and everything under it. Blistering Steve's thoughts and his skin. When want bubbled like lava fighting for the surface.

His gaze flicked back up to Danny. Jumping without looking. "It's a travesty."

He should know better. Danny takes an inch, Steve takes a mile. "You should get rid of it."

[haole_cop]

He'd always known, right, that giving Steve any kind of opening was playing with fire. That Steve has one single reaction to a challenge of any sort: to accept, and engage, and overwhelm.

Keep grenades in the car. Equipped Five-0 with military-grade tech and weaponry. Runs faster, farther. Hits harder. Will never allow anyone to think he'd shirk from any dare.

So Danny really should know better. Or maybe he did, and he wanted to see what would happen, anyway. If Steve would take the statement and run with it, or if he'd flip it back to Danny, like he does, sometimes. It's a thing. They do things all the time.

Except he doesn't, this time. Catches the hot potato Danny threw to him, and hands back a lit stick of dynamite. Pulling back, stepping back, not to move away, but to look Danny up and down. Assessing. Eyes tracking slow and specific in a way that makes Danny feel like he's being slowly dipped into a vat of boiling oil. "I don't know."

He's watching Steve's face, while Steve is looking him up and down, feels like an explosion someone muffled under a glass bowl when Steve looks up and meets his eyes again. "This is kind of making me think I should keep it forever."

Even if he, also, just sort of suggested it could come off. And Steve told him he should. Get rid of it. Leave it on the floor. Fulfill whatever images Steve had collected over the years, of how this suit distracted him when it was on and how he thought about it being off.

While Danny thinks about what it would be like. Taking it off. Losing his vest, shirt, pants, shoes, here at Steve's front door. Puddles of gray and white on the floor. What Steve's crisp jacket and dress shirt would feel like against his bare skin.

Watching Steve undo those buttons, all over again, but with meaning and intent behind it, this time. Because Danny will have told him to. Suggested. Offered. "If anyone's going to get rid of it, it oughta be you."

[thebesteverseen]

He puts it out there. Maybe for no other reason but to restate his point. It had already been out there. He'd already said it. It was a challenge that could have been one or not. Danny hadn't even answered anything he said about it this time, and he could say anything to this one. He could sidestep the thing entirely. Or even Steve. Entirely. Even with the pressure of the last kiss still pulsing against the muscles around Steve's mouth.

Which makes sense that Danny's response is almost something like casual, without actually being it. That first sentences. This insinuation that he should keep it. Forever. If it does this to Steve. Like he'd wear it for Steve, or if not for, like he didn't wear it tonight for Steve, wasn't wearing it for Steve right this second, he'd wear it knowing it did this to Steve. Liked that it did it. Wanted to evoke this response in Steve. This heat that couldn't simmer under his skin.

Before he says that. Before he's looking into Steve's eyes and kicks the bars off. Instead. Instead of playing it safe. Stepping back and making it a joke, even one that was scattering ashes and debris everywhere. When Steve's actually surprised for a beat, before everything rolls over. Impossibly fast, his fingers moving before his head is even catching up. Maybe won't anymore. Maybe it's been kicked clear to the moon, too.

"I hate your mouth, too." Not like it's new. Like it's always been that way. An endless complaint. A daily one.

Danny never knowing when to shut the hell up. Which is definitely why Steve is kissing him, again, right after saying them. Pressed back against that mouth. Where all those words come out, and madness has started exploding more from every twenty seconds. Kissing him back, and saying things like that. Things Steve can't even think clearly through, but he doesn't need want to think about it. Isn't.

Not when his mouth is on Danny and his hands shift. The whole world is upside down and he doesn't know how that happened. When. Where. Why. Danny is filling up everything that used to hold anything else. The smell of his cologne, and some hair product Steve fingers had mostly shoved apart in clumps. The hollow, breathless, dark, soldering need taking up a smoking, burning space in his lungs, that needed to kiss Danny a dozen more times anytime he just barely started another.

The only light in a world that wouldn't stop exploding, running downhill at the fastest space, when he knew what he was doing and that it was madness. Fingers finding the buttons at the top of his loose collar and pulling on them. Fast, and hard, like Danny might change his mind, like Steve had outrun a decade, himself, and anything like the need to tell himself to stop with Danny's own words telling him he should already be doing it.

[haole_cop]

There's a long beat where Steve just looks at him, and Danny wants to lick his lips, as they feel suddenly dry, or lift his hands, or say something else, anything else, because that stopped Steve like a record scratch. Leaving him just staring at Danny, who. Okay. He won't apologize. Maybe it's not what Steve expected, or what he expected, and maybe it's not what would be his go-to on a first...whatever this is.

But this isn't a first. Not really. It might be first kisses, first touched, first getting physical, but he's already been involved with Steve for so long they might as well be married. He doesn't need to pause, because he's already lost, already gone. Is already as deep into this, into wanting Steve, as he's ever been in any other relationship, and they've lost years, it turns out. Years.

So there's some lost time to be made up.

And Steve might mock him for being nervous, and he knows for certain that he'll spend too much time worrying all of this over later, but right now, he wants to see how far he can push it. Wants, insanely, to see how far he can push Steve, when he's never actually seen Steve hit a limit.

When he's normally the one trying to hold Steve back, and everything's flipped, sideways and upside down and leaving him dropping challenges, instead, daring him. As if that won't lead to explosions and rule-shattering and possible bodily harm, as if Steve can resist or ignore a challenge.

Steve, who leans in, ducks in, fast and aggressive, stealing Danny's breath like a punch, and saying those words, making Danny laugh, low and stupid, against his mouth, while Steve's fingers are busy at the buttons of his collar.

Undoing them. More of them. It's insane. It's impossible. It's happening, somehow, and Danny's a little afraid he might spontaneously combust, right on the spot, against Steve's door, just from the brush of Steve's fingertips against the skin at the hollow of his throat.

Sending sheets of fire wafting across his body, while his hands grip Steve's hips a little tighter. "That's such a lie, you love my mouth."

Obviously. In ways Danny had never even previously considered, before tonight, but has suddenly found a whole new realm of use for.

[thebesteverseen]

"Wrong," Steve says, an exacting rejection, like any other day -- but, with a strange, smothered note of hilarity under it.

That word. Again, that word, that keeps popping up. When he has to pull back far enough to be giving Danny a withering look through it. Like Danny is the one entirely off his rocker, and definitely it is not Steve. Lying. Or pulling buttons faster and faster, fingertips brushing starch cloth and hot skin. Not feeling Danny's heart racing against the side of his hand as they keep moving further down.

"I hate it." Steve leaned back in. Fast specific, but with a deviation. Finding the edge of Danny's jaw, and chasing a madness the welcome mat of the opening shirt made him remember. Want to reclaim. Claim, again. Claim, for the first time. "You never shut up--" Is pressed almost to the juncture of his jaw and the space beneath his ear. "--and you never say anything important."

Steve wants it back. That sounds Danny made earlier. The sudden dark note when he'd forgotten. Not to touch Danny like this, and it had slipped. A little more than half not for the case, when his lips had slid against the skin of Danny's neck, hovering like insanity against the race of his pulse. The way it isn't not. It's not for the case and he's not apologetic. When Danny will know that Steve wants it entirely. Is choosing to this time.

"It's just talk, talk, talk--" Steve fingers hadn't stumble even when they reached the vest, and had to start undoing one vest button and then the shirt buttons below it, so he doesn't stumble here, even if the words disjoint against his neck, his shoulder, nosing the shirt from his way. "--even though no one is listening to you."

When he's pulling up the thin skin between his lips, racing pulse against his teeth, while pulling Danny's white shirt with solid tugs from his pants, to push it back, toward the door, out of his way, put his hands on Danny's bare skin. When he wants to push into this feeling, this warmth, burning through him, boiling the world, his thoughts, words, his hands on Danny's skin. That he's seen enough to know all of it, but he's never touched it like this. Wants, needs, wants, needs. Has to touch all of it. Wants all of it against all of him. With his own suit already burned off.

[haole_cop]

Steve is, he thinks, trying to kill him.

Which Danny takes pretty personally, right, because he's damned if he's going to die before he gets to feel these things, see them, know them for real, and not just as a heated, imperfect, fuzzy fantasy, or Steve making it look good.

All ready with a retort, about how Steve's the one complaining, here, and talking too much, until Steve's mouth touches the spot beneath his jaw, and it all dissolves like a sand castle in a wave. Flipping him unceremoniously back to that dim back room, Steve pressed against him into a wall, his mouth on Danny's throat. That Danny had thought was just Steve playing the part, too well, and too accurately, that might have been -- must have been? -- the thing Danny himself kept trying to hide. That it wasn't making it look real. That he had to keep remembering to pull back so it didn't look, feel, too real. But kept forgetting, because Steve had never been that close and Steve had never touched him like that before, and Danny is only human.

Which. Maybe Steve is, too, and that thought alone is enough to nuke Danny's entire thought process, all over again, this whole evening fulls of starts and stops as confessions are made and connections are drawn, because the idea of Steve couldn't control himself because Danny was too tempting is crazy talk. Beyond crazy. No matter what Steve says about hating or loving this suit.

He slipped up. Did it by accident, because he wanted to so much.

And now he's doing it on purpose, burning strips into Danny's skin, while his fingers are at work on Danny's clothing, and all Danny can really do is hold on, and try to keep breathing, even while his own hands are slipping back under Steve's jacket to his sides.

Vest and shirt finally falling open, but without cooling him off. Only contacting another sheet of flame, when Steve's hands are on his bare skin, and Danny pushed him here, but he didn't know, couldn't have: suit and shirt in disarray, Steve's mouth on his neck, Steve's hands shoving at fabric and taking over his skin. Painting it into real life. Solid and heavy and possessive hands on his stomach, sides.

Less skin that's exposed even at the beach, but so much more intimate, because he's never this undone, never lets a button slip out of place or a hair, keeps his clothes pressed and neat.

But letting Steve take him apart, against Steve's front door, which is probably not the best place, because he's starting to remember that Steve only has one gear: forward, with no mercy and no breaks and no sideslipping or room for uncertainty.

Anything he might say strangled by a dark, needy, whine of a sound that he can't stop, when Steve's teeth are against his pulse, and Steve's mouth is driving it faster, harder, making him dizzy with it, while one hand lifts to cup the back of Steve's head and push his face harder into Danny's neck.

Or try not to, and fail, while Danny swears, helpless, feeling like a burning coal lodged in the wood of this door. "God, Steve."

[thebesteverseen]

He would say Danny isn't responding, but that would be like saying the waves didn't move at all all against the beach. Danny doesn't say a word, but his hands tighten and his body shudders all along Steve's, breath going erratic at a second notice. Danny not stopping him in the slightest, which might be almost smart at this point. When the warm salt on his tongue is only spurring on the explosive black glee and vicious hunger exponentially bigger, hotter, sharper, more necessary than air.

When his hands can't touch enough of Danny's skin. This skin he's seen all of. He's had his hands on, long ago, for surfing lessons, between himself and Kono. On this skin, far too recently, covering it in duct tape, trying to stop the bleeding of rebar. But not like this. Not like this, fingers digging into muscles when it feels like he can't even hold onto the skin of the earth while holding on to Danny's.

Yet he can't stop there.

Not when Danny's fingers suddenly find the back of his head, pushing him into Danny's skin, blackening Steve ears with this sound that is nothing like the one from earlier. An escape that lead to panic and freezing of everyone. But this time it doesn't. This time, Danny's body is pushing into his mouth, Danny's hand is crushing his head down, finger pressing into his scalp, just as hard. Saying that.

God is right. Profane and perfect in his ear after that sound.

Followed by his name said in a way Danny has never said his name, and how he'll never forget even if Danny forgets this. The want, or what's happening. Changes his mind, because this isn't. Isn't whatever it should be. It's a dark, black, gorgeous, perfect, Molotov cocktail dribbling insanity down into his ears, his throat, exploding in his gut. Danny is going to kill him. Not a international terrorist or a stray bullet. Torture gone wrong. Moving just a second too slow, with his reflexes not as good as it once was, because he's no longer living it every minute of every day. Just Danny, touching him like and saying two words.

Making his motions rough. Wanting to fist his fingers into Danny's hair and force him to stay there, kiss him as fast and hot as the universe is exploding out from inside him, but he can't. There aren't enough hands attached to enough arms, and he needs these two for pushing Danny's shirt. Hands off his skin only to give himself more of it, all of it. Pushing it down Danny's shoulders and off his elbows, even if it demands Danny's hands from him as well. Until nothing is left between them he doesn't have to think about it. There being anything left in the world to stop him.

[haole_cop]

Steve never does anything he can't over-do, has never met a limit he hasn't challenged and cracked and left in ashes on the sidelines, and Danny's not sure why he expected anything different, or even if he actually did.

Expect something other than this. Other than Steve's mouth running fire along his throat, and Steve's hands shoving at his clothes. Danny told him to get rid of them, didn't he? He put it out there. Waved that red flag in front of this bull, and somehow didn't consider what would happen when it charged.

When what is happening is that his arms are getting stuck, because Steve is impatient and trying to shove Danny's shirt and vest of arms that still need to move, over hands that are still lost in Steve's clothing, making Danny have to push him a little out of the way so he can get them back, arch his back to get some space, shoulders rolling against the door's wood. "Are you, seriously, going to strip me down, here? Right at your front door?"

Even his grumbles are breathless, sounding too high-pitched, like the hum in his ears that only vibrates louder, brighter, more dangerously, as he wrestles with the fabric and Steve pushes at it and then it's gone, leaving his back bare against the wood and chest and stomach bare against Steve's shirt and jacket lapels and hands.

Most importantly, his hands.

His hands that are all over Danny. That Danny would have already said he knew, intimately, because Steve doesn't touch people much, okay, but he touches Danny. Hand heavy on his shoulder. Bone-crushing, breath-stealing hugs. A hand at his back or arm. On his, in very specific, very short-lived situations involving hospital beds.

But Steve's never touched him like this.

Like he's skin-hungry. An addict let loose and relapsing. As if he could find his way back to sanity on Danny's skin, tracking the lines of muscle, making them contract and release under his palms and fingers.

Mouth on Danny's throat, while Danny's pulse redlines into a straight, continual hum, instead of the beats its supposed to hit. Leaving him gasping, and clutching at Steve again, who is wearing too much, but that's, it's, he can't think that far ahead, yet.

Not when Steve is ruining his ability to think at all. "I'm never gonna be able to look at your front door the same way again."