So, what happened here, basically, is that hermette and I were talking about our shared love for caught in a rainstorm/soaking wet and freezing cold h/c fic. And she said, it is a shame about H50 being set in Hawaii, because that kind of can't happen when it's warm all the time. And I said, PSHAW, PSHAW, I WILL WORK AROUND THAT FOR THE SAKE OF THIS PLOT DEVICE, HERE, LET IT BE STORY TIME.
And then she took all my crazed caplocked rambling and turned it into an outline for me. And then she cheered me on through writing the damned thing. AND THEN SHE BETA-READ IT FOR ME, BECAUSE SHE IS A GODDESS. Seriously, this fic would have languished in my brain for all eternity, but instead here it is, in all its. Er. Shamelessness? Glory? Shameless glory?
IN ANY CASE: THANK YOU, hermette. PLEASE ACCEPT THIS NONSENSE AS A TOKEN OF MY LOVE.
Title: bring you out under this flooded sky at any price
Summary: In which Danny puts his family first, New Jersey weather is as unpleasant as advertised, and absolutely no one is impressed with Steve.
Danny gets the call in the Camaro on the way to the office; Steve knows something’s gone wrong from the set of his shoulders, from the way his mouth turns down. “You’re kidding,” Danny says, and then, “That bastard,” and Steve wishes obliquely that the world would give Danny a little bit of a break already.
“That was my sister Amy,” Danny says, when he’s promised to catch the next flight out and slammed the phone into the cup holder. “Apparently, her good-for-nothing husband decided right now would be the best time to confess his affair, because it’s not like the family hasn’t gone through enough in the last few months. Jeez, I always knew he was bad news, I told her when she married him that he was a shmuck, but it was ‘no, no, Danny, he’s a good guy, really, don’t be so overprotective, Danny.’ Like I’ve ever been overprotective, I am just protective enough, okay, if anything I should be more protective, since my batting average for keeping my siblings out of trouble is not exactly--”
“Hey,” Steve says, “hey, hey, let’s not play that game, Danno. You know what happened with--”
“Are you incapable of letting my have my guilt trip here?” Danny demands. “Is that not in your DNA, huh? Maybe I like my guilt trip. Maybe this guilt trip is the vacation I’ve always wanted.”
“You’re in Hawaii,” Steve says. “For most people, this is the vacation they’ve always wanted.”
“Yeah, well, I am not most people,” Danny says. “Also, uh. I may have told my sister I’d fly out to Jersey.”
“Really,” Steve says, very dry. “Because I didn’t hear that, seeing as you’re three feet from me and all.”
Danny makes a noise, something between dismissal and irritation, and Steve’s surprised by the lack of comeback. He glances over, and Danny’s shoulders are hunched; he’s clenching and unclenching his hands in his lap.
“Eyes on the road,” he says, without even looking at Steve, and Steve sighs.
“It’s okay, you know,” he says. “You going to Jersey. We’ll manage without you--family first, right?”
“No, I know, I didn’t think--” Danny says, and winces. “I mean, sorry, maybe I should’ve asked, but I figured--”
“Right,” Danny says, and this is always how Steve can tell when he’s really worried about something--his anger fizzles away, leaving him quiet and tense, twitching in little ways people without Steve’s training probably wouldn’t notice.
It’s disconcerting. Steve wishes he would stop.
He waits him out, though, because he’s been in this car with Danny enough times to know the rules. He waits him out, and after a minute or two Danny lets out a long breath and glances out the window.
“You know what’s so funny,” he says, “is that I don’t want to go. And how fucked up is that, huh? Because all I’ve wanted to do is be in Jersey for god knows how long but--Amy’s a tough girl, right, tough as nails and so fucking smart, and if everything with Matt wasn’t so--she probably wouldn’t need me, okay, and Bill can get fucked for all I care, but this would’ve been Matt’s job, you know? Matt was better with this, and when we were kids he and Amy were...shit, I don’t know.. Going back makes it real, I guess.”
It is real, Steve wants to say, even though he knows that Danny knows that. He’s had to bite down on his urge to spew harsh realism these last few months, because he knows it’s not what Danny needs--he knows Danny’s got more than enough of that on his plate, is just looking for escape. But it’s hard, catching the sharp line of Danny’s mouth out of the corner of his eye; Steve remembers that kind of grief, still feels it catching in his own chest some days. He’s always been the type to deal with things he can’t handle by hitting them with a battering ram, but he and Danny are different people, and even if they weren’t, this wouldn’t be the same. There’s a difference between tragedy and betrayal, a difference between losing something and realizing you maybe never had it to begin with.
“After my mom died,” he says instead, for reciprocity’s sake, “nobody went into the garden for six months. That was always her thing, and none of us wanted to go admit that she wasn’t coming back. By the time me and Mary left the island it was like a jungle back there; I guess my dad must’ve hired landscapers or something, that’s what I do now.”
“I just wish,” Danny says, and stops. He laughs after a second, a bitter little chuckle, and Steve kind of wants to drive the car off the road just to hear him yell. “Well, really what I want to do is beat Bill’s face in. His secretary, how much of a stereotype is that, am I right?”
“They got kids?” Steve asks.
“No,” Danny says, sighing, “no, Amy’s the youngest, they’ve only been married a couple of years, she wanted to wait. Probably better, but shit, you know?
“Yeah,” Steve says.
They sit in silence for a few minutes, and then Danny says, “For the love of god, McGarrett, turn on the radio or something, I’m dying here.”
Steve flips the dial. Barry Manilow’s voice comes warbling out of the speakers, and Danny’s bitching about it in under a second, hands waving everywhere, voice only a little unsure. Steve lets it rush over him, the warm weight of Danny’s near-constant anger, and loosens his grip on the steering wheel just enough to turn the corner.
He drops Danny at the airport that afternoon, his hastily packed back tucked under one arm, his face drawn.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, McGarrett,” he says, leaning in through the window. “If I come back and you’ve gotten the whole team hacked into pieces or something, we are going to have words.”
“Team in one piece, check,” Steve says, rolling his eyes. “Anything else, boss? Oh, wait, you’re not the--”
“Do not start with me,” Danny warns. “I’ve got a flight to catch, I don’t have time to deal with your authority complex right now, okay?”
Danny clearly wants a fight, something to carry with him, but Steve can’t bring himself to fire back. It’s a selfish thing, and Steve doesn’t know why he’s like this with Danny, why he can never control his impulses, but he just says, “Okay,” his voice soft and laden with more meaning than he intended.
“Jeez,” Danny says, and moves half a centimeter forward, like he’s forgotten something. Then he shakes his head and steps back from the car, his hand raised in a mocking salute.
“I meant it about keeping your sorry ass alive!” he calls, turning to walk towards the doors, and then he’s inside and out of sight, and Steve’s driving home.
It takes Steve four days to realize something is very, very wrong.
Not with Danny. Steve knows there’s nothing wrong with Danny, because he’s been keeping odd hours to catch Danny’s calls. Danny gives him shit about it, but he still calls every night--morning, there, after his sister’s gone to work. He talks about nothing at all; about Amy, sometimes, and about Matt, but mostly about Jersey, places he’s been visiting, shit he remembers.
Steve is pretty sure Danny would ramble into his voicemail if he didn’t pick up the calls, which is a large part of why he makes sure to answer every one.
But, okay, it’s the fifth day since Danny’s left, and Steve’s running on too little sleep, and Chin and Kono keep giving each other meaningful looks over the table every time he opens his mouth. And yeah, maybe he’s been a little...short...with them, which he feels bad about--he keeps trying to balance it out by bringing lunch, by letting them out of the office early, but he can tell it’s not really helping.
He wonders if this is what the team would be like, without Danny to wave his hands and talk a mile a minute, without Danny to tell him when he’s coming down too hard. It’s not exactly a pleasant thought.
The point is: they get a call, a routine check on a suspect in this latest fraud case, and shit goes sour fast. The guy is armed--and what the fuck is a check forger doing with an M-16 anyway, how does this happen--and he’s got the crazy eyes, no question about it. Steve thinks “FUBAR,” and turns to raise his eyebrows at Danny, turns to cock his head and tell him to duck--
--only it’s Kono behind him, because Danny’s in Jersey, and Steve feels his heart drop out of his chest even as she steps forward and knocks their perp out with her bare hands.
“Jesus,” Steve says. “That was impressive.”
“Yeah, well,” Kono says, rolling her eyes, “I’ve maybe got a little pent up aggression because my boss has been riding my ass all week.”
“Your boss?” Chin says, bending down to ziptie the guy’s hands. “I don’t know, cuz, he can’t possibly be as bad as my boss has been this week. I’m thinking of quitting.”
“Really?” Kono says. “I was just going to go with murder, but there’s this other guy I work with who’d get really bitchy about that.”
“Wait?” Steve says, “Quitting? Quitting, I--Chin--please, I didn’t--”
“I’m kidding, brah,” Chin says, standing up and wiping his hands on his pants. The perp grunts, and Chin steps on a him a little, casually enough. “Not about you being an ass, though.”
“I don’t know what he’s talking about, I’m totally serious about murdering you,” Kono adds, her eyes narrowed. “Look, it’s not that we don’t get that you miss Danny--”
“I do not--”
“Oh come on,” Kono says. “I hate to break it to you, boss, but there’s this river in Egypt, and if you honestly think this isn’t about Danny, then you are definitely floating on it.”
“Denial,” Chin adds helpfully. Steve groans.
“Yes, thank you, I got that,” he says. “Can we just get this guy booked, please?”
“See that?” Kono says, pointing at him. “That right there, that face you just made--you wanted to say ‘Book ‘em, Danno,’ didn’t you?”
“No,” Steve says. It’s not really very convincing, even to him.
Chin claps him on the back, a lot harder than is really necessary, and maybe it’s about time for Steve to okay that computer table upgrade he’s been wanting--something to make up for his behavior this week.
“Can I make a suggestion?” Chin says, and does not wait for permission before continuing. “Go home, take the weekend, do what you have to do, and figure this out. Because, no offense, but if you’re still like this on Monday I will help Kono hide your body.”
“I could totally take you,” Kono says, cool as a cucumber. Steve would like to argue her on that, but he’s pretty sure she’s right.
So: Steve misses Danny. That much is kind of obvious, as much as he’d like to deny it. He misses Danny’s running commentary and his crazy hair and the way he talks with his hands, misses his constant presence and his terrible eating habits. Hell, Steve even misses being yelled at, which says things about him he probably shouldn’t consider too much.
He toys with his beer, feet sunk into the sand, and stares out at the ocean. He misses Danny, and part of it--maybe the worst part of it--isn’t even rational. He wants Danny to be here, he does, but it’s more that he wants to be there, wants to be sure that Danny’s doing okay, wants to have Danny’s back the way Danny’s always got his. And that’s such a stupid thing to think, because Danny’s a grown man, is more than capable of handling himself.
He wonders if this means he doesn’t trust Danny, and wants to laugh, because that’s ridiculous.
Then he wonders if he’s in love with Danny, and finds it’s not nearly as funny.
“Oh, fuck,” Steve says, his beer suddenly heavy in his fingers. Because now that he thinks about it--about Danny’s hair and how he wants to run his fingers through it, about the crinkles around Danny’s eyes, about that smooth expanse of skin he always keeps tucked up under ridiculous ties--”Oh, fucking fuck.”
Steve is pretty sure it makes him a terrible boss that he forgets to call Chin until he’s in the airport.
“Er,” he says, “So, I’m...going to New Jersey?”
“Oh, god,” Chin says, “please promise me you won’t come back married to Danny, Kono will eviscerate you both if she’s not in the wedding.”
“Married,” Steve sputters, “married, how do you--what are you--”
“You work with a team of crack investigators,” Chin points out, sounding bored. “Did you think we wouldn’t figure it out?”
“There’s nothing to figure out!” Steve says. He realizes he’s waving his hands, has the brief, terrible thought that Danny is contagious and he doesn’t even mind, and stops. “Danny and I aren’t--I didn’t even--”
“Wait,” Chin says, “wait, what? You guys aren’t--”
“No!” Steve cries. “No, we’ve never--I mean, we might--I’m kind of going to--”
“Jesus,” Chin says. “Okay, Steve, I’m sorry, but I have to call Kono, because you two are the biggest idiots alive, and I’m trying not to laugh at you too obviously, but it’s not the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”
Steve drops his head into his hands in despair. “Can you just do me a favor and keep an eye on things at the office for a couple of days?”
“You got it,” Chin says, choking on his laughter, and hangs up on him.
There’s nothing to do now but wait. Steve is recognizing, a little belatedly, that he maybe didn’t think this through all that well--he’d just gotten in the car and driven straight here, booked his way onto the first flight out. He’s going to have a layout in San Francisco and another in Houston, and he’s not worried about that so much as his lack of cell phone charger.
But this is one of those things Steve just has to do, isn’t it--like patching up the bullet holes Bullfrog left in his house, like putting Mary on that plane. He has to do this, because if he doesn’t he’ll just stew in it until Danny gets back, let it grow thicker and heavier in him until he’s choking on it and can’t get the words out. And the thing is, if he tells Danny and it doesn’t go well--which he’s considered, he’s not stupid, this is a tactical operation and one must rationally confront all possible outcomes--he’s going to need to figure out a way to salvage their working relationship. He’s going to need to find a way to be Danny’s partner without being his partner, and he imagines the likelihood of that being possible will decrease exponentially the longer he waits.
He thinks about asking one of the gate attendants for a pencil and some paper so he can sketch out his plan of attack, and then decides better of it.
He sleeps instead, fitfully, on the plane to San Francisco, in the Houston airport. He sleeps and wakes up feeling less rested each time, his stomach churning like it used to before bomb drops and missile attacks. There is no reason for this to be the most stupidly nerve wracking flight of Steve’s life--he’s flown through hurricanes and firefights, has jumped out of planes at 15,000 feet--but he can’t breathe for tension, feels his blood humming with it.
“Don’t worry, honey,” the woman next to him says, when he boards the flight to Newark. “Flying’s actually much safer than people think it is.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Steve says, and thinks that he’s never felt less safe in his life, but maybe that’s alright.
It’s pouring rain and fucking freezing in New Jersey, not that Steve really expected anything less. This is one of those arguments against settling somewhere for long--the Hawaiian heat is part of him again, like it was when he first left the island. He remembers his first few months at Annapolis, the bitter chill that was constantly nipping at his heels, and that was in Maryland; this is almost unbearable, and he bites his lip against the wind as he hails a cab.
Possibly--probably--he should have brought something warmer than cargo pants and a long sleeved shirt, but hadn’t really been thinking clearly when he left.
He rattles off Danny’s sister’s address, procured through some probably objectionable methods, and settles back against the seat. His body aches they way it always does after long flights, prolonged inactivity being far worse for him than any kind of strain, and he stretches futilely against the leather, trying to work out the kinks in his spine. The rain’s coming fast now, thunder echoing faintly over the roar of traffic around them, and Steve watches each droplet trace a furious path across the window.
They crawl forward for fifteen, twenty, thirty minutes, and Steve’s going to lose his mind in the cab, if he hasn’t lost it already. He’s not, has never been, a patient man, and this is fucking torture, this creeping pace giving him time to doubt himself.
“How long?” he asks. The cabbie grunts noncommittally, obviously not overly concerned with the time constraints of his passengers, which Steve can’t exactly blame him for. If he had to live with this kind of traffic, he wouldn’t be particularly fazed by irritation either.
He pulls up the GPS on his phone, mostly to give himself something to do, and realizes he’s less than a mile from their destination. That’s not even as far as his morning run, and he’s been out in worse conditions before--he’s paying the cabbie and hopping out into the street before he can think better of it.
The stuff the sky is pissing down is not quite rain and not quite snow, is something thicker and colder than either, somehow, and it’s sneaking under his collar and settling in his boots. He’s soaked through in under a minute, and realizing all too rapidly that his morning run is in Hawaii, not New fucking Jersey. He’s running anyway, though, he can’t help but run, the burn in his tensed muscles a salve against the panic building in his chest. It’s not enough, and he’s so fucking cold he could die, but it’s a distraction--the thought of Danny’s face if this goes wrong is not something he can bear to consider.
This is not the way he should be doing this; this is not the way this operation should go. This is crazy, even for him, has been crazy from the moment he decided to do it. It’s just that the idea of turning back, at this point, seems even crazier.
He reaches Danny’s sister’s house eventually, and fuck, fuck, he’s shivering like he’s coming apart at the seams, shaking like a goddamn leaf, and this is hardly the first impression he’d chose to present. He’d be misrepresenting himself and his background, to knock on the door pathetic and frozen like this, but he doesn’t have the chance to come up with a new plan--the door is open, suddenly, a woman dressed in rain gear behind it.
She’s got tired eyes and Danny’s hair, and she looks him up and down like he’s the least impressive thing she’s ever seen.
“You m-must be Amy,” Steve says, and hates the world. His teeth can’t actually be chattering, that’s not happening, he is not the kind of guy who--
“Oh, jeez,” Amy mutters, “well, I guess that answers that question. You’d be his Commander McGarrett, huh?”
Steve nods, not trusting his voice to keep from humiliating him further, and Amy rolls her eyes.
“Hey, Danno,” she calls, craning her head back to direct the yell upwards, “looks like something followed you home from Hawaii.”
“If you think this is going to get me out to the bar with your friends you’re out of your mind,” Danny calls back, over the clatter of his feet on the stairs. “This is a weak play, okay, and don’t think I don’t know that Melissa Patterson from high school will be there, I know that, I am onto you, you are not that smooth, and I am not going on a fix-up. You shouldn’t be trying to fix me up anyway, I am here in a supportive brother capacity only, and I don’t--”
He stops, having reached the landing, and stares at Steve with his mouth wide open, speechless for once in his life.
“Yeah,” Amy snorts, “not looking like I’m going to be fixing you up any time soon, is it? You know, next time, when I say ‘Hey, sounds a little bit like you’re schtupping your partner,’ maybe you could try a little harder with the lie. Because, Danny, seriously, this is not the most convincing case that’s ever been made for a platonic relationship, am I right?”
“Shut up,” Danny says automatically, not looking away from Steve. “I just--give me a second, Amy, god.”
“Oh, I’ll give you more than that,” she says, and pushes her way past Steve to step outside and open her umbrella. “Try not to wake the neighbors, Danny, I’ll give Melissa your love. Nice meeting you, Steve, though you might have tried for a less dramatic entrance, you know? And buy yourself a coat next time, for fuck’s sake. Where do you think you are, Hawaii?”
Danny’s still looking at Steve, but he’s waving at Amy, a complicated hand gesture that must mean something in their already incomprehensible non-verbal language. She laughs and heads down the stairs, which leaves Steve staring at Danny and his rapidly reddening face.
“You,” he starts, and then he shakes his head and reaches out. “What is the matter with you, huh? You couldn’t have called like a normal person? What, I ask you, is so wrong with picking up the goddamn phone?”
Steve should say something, he really should, now is the time, but he can’t. He’s so cold, so glad to see Danny, so caught up in the surrealism of this moment, that just lets Danny grab a fistful of his sodden shirt and yank him forward, swearing under his breath. And really, he’s pretty sure Danny just meant to get him across the threshold so he could shut the door, but Steve’s feet are strange beneath him, squelching in his soaked-through shoes, and he trips over them before he can help himself. Danny catches him, a hand at his waist, and Steve can’t help but lean into all the warmth he knows, he knows will be there. Danny’s always warm--even in Hawaii, under those ridiculous shirts and those ties, he’s always running hot.
“Jeez,” Danny says, “Jesus, you asshole, you couldn’t have timed this better? Stop shaking, I’m going to fucking kill you, Steve, I swear to God.”
“Not the first person to say that to me today,” Steve admits, and is pleased to note that he can, kind of, talk again.
“Which part,” Danny says, and then, “no, no, stupid question, I am sure I am not the first person to threaten you or insult you today, why would I be, what with you being the most irritating person alive. What’d you do, huh? Do you even have any luggage, no, no, you don’t, I would see it, what the hell is the matter with you? How did you think this was going to go, you wanna tell me that? Did you think you’d just show up here and the sky would open for you and little bluebirds would--for Christ’s sake, McGarrett, did you walk here?”
And the thing is, Danny sounds angry--Danny usually sounds angry, really, that’s a thing about Danny that Steve’s just gotten used to by now--but his hands betray him as being something else. Because they’re everywhere, aren’t they, at the back of Steve’s neck and running up his arms, skating over Steve’s shoulders, soft and concerned the way his voice isn’t. And, fuck, Danny’s fingers are at the hem of his shirt now, and he’s being pulling up the stairs even as it’s being yanked over his head, even as Danny’s saying, “Get you out of these wet clothes, since you’ve decided to just deliver your hypothermic ass to my sister’s doorstep like it’s a fucking favor, Jesus.”
“Not a favor,” Steve tries, and Danny glares at him.
“No,” he says, “you don’t get to speak, you are not allowed words, that privilege is revoked. You know when you would have been allowed words? When you called me, if you had called me, and said ‘Hey, Danno, by the way, I’m hopping a flight to New Jersey because I am a crazy person who can’t wait the four days for you to get back,’ so that I could have told you not to, or, at very least, to bring a fucking jacket! Seriously, what’s gone wrong in your head, what the hell is the matter with you--”
“You asked that already,” Steve reminds him, and oh, hello, there’s a bed in this room, that’s either encouraging or distracting or both.
“You’re right,” Danny says, “don’t let it go to your head, it’s just this once, but yes, yes, I did. I ask that question several times a day, to you and everyone who knows you and whatever higher powers are up there, I say ‘What is the matter with Steve McGarrett, huh, why is he like this,’ and yet somehow, somehow, I never get a satisfactory answer. You wanna explain that to me, huh? Or, hey, maybe you could tell me if you’ve just made up all that military nonsense, because it is looking like you have never left Hawaii, my friend, because if you had, you’d know better than to go out in this kind of weather.”
Steve stares at him, and Danny stares back, and he’s going to make a stupid decision, take a ridiculous risk, because he has to. Because Danny’s saying, “C’mon, don’t you have anything to say for yourself,” and Steve has so many things to say that he could choke on them, but he can’t begin to piece them together, hasn’t yet found the thread he’d need to follow. He just leans in and kisses Danny instead, burying his hands in his hair, sinking his tongue into Danny’s mouth like maybe the heat will radiate up and out, like maybe Danny will understand without him having to say anything at all. Because that's the great thing about Danno, isn't it--it's that way that for all his words he doesn't need them, he never needs Steve to say anything, is always right where he should be before Steve even has to ask.
It’s brilliant for a second, warm and slick, Danny opening up under him, and then Steve’s being shoved back into the wall so hard he can feel bruises forming. And he’s terrified; Chin is fucking wrong about his fear gene because he’s never been scared like this in his life, but then Danny’s yelling, so maybe it’s going to be alright.
“You couldn’t have done this in Hawaii?” Danny cries, jabbing him in the chest with his index finger. “You couldn’t have done this without showing up at my sister’s doorway and giving me a goddamn heart attack? Why do you always have to do things the hard way, McGarrett, huh, why is that, are you some kind of punishment for something in a past life, because I can think of at least twelve times that you could have just gone ahead with this, and none of them involved trans-continental flights or you wandering around New Jersey in a goddamn t-shirt!”
“It’s okay if you’re worried,” Steve says, smirking a little, because this, at least, is firmer ground.
“Worried,” Danny spits out, “worried, he says, worried, you are the one who should be worried, I tell you what, worried about how I’m going to beat your head in for this,” and then they’re kissing again, furious, Danny’s hands burning hot where they’re brushing Steve’s hips.
“Cargo pants,” Danny mutters against his mouth, “the man wears cargo pants to New Jersey, maybe it’s something that’s wrong with me, okay, and not you, because I should not be attracted to you--seriously, did you glue these to your body, we have to get these off of you, what the fuck have you done here, McGarrett--”
“Do not,” Danny says. “Do not say a damn thing, Steven, I swear to god.”
“You’re talking enough for the both of us,” Steve says, because he is, he always does. It’s really not something Steve’s ever minded--Danny’s big stupid mouth is trailing sticky kisses along his jawline now, even as his broad, calloused hands are finally making headway in divesting Steve of his pants. And oh, oh, fuck, Steve’s cock is jumping up already, and he should really be too fucking cold for that; the science of the thing would suggest that he’d be limp and lifeless down there, but Danny apparently has other plans.
“Babe,” Danny says, rubbing at him over his clinging boxers, “would it be too much to ask that you not be a giant everywhere, huh?”
“Why?” Steve says. “You complaining?”
“Nope,” Danny says, and for once he’s the one smirking. “I’m not even jealous--when it comes to Ms. Pacman and this, I’ve definitely got you beat.”
“You’re still lying,” Steve says, for the sake of it, “about Triple Banana.”
“You really want to set me up for a banana joke right now?” Danny asks, but then he’s slipping out of his own pants, pulling Steve’s boxers off in the same movement, and wow, okay, he’s not kidding.
“Danny, Jesus,” Steve says, staring. Then, recovering himself, he adds, “You go commando in your sister’s house?”
“Oh, for fuck’s--” Danny starts, but Steve kisses him quiet, burying a hand again in all the ridiculous hair. Danny groans into his mouth, the sound of it rumbling up from the back of his throat, even as he grinds into Steve’s hip, catches the back of his neck with one hand for balance.
Steve’s not sure which one of them pushes towards the bed first. It’s probably Danny, because Danny’s the pushy one, really--Steve isn’t pushy so much as decisive, but this isn’t a situation in which he can make any kind of choice. He wants all of Danny, everywhere, right now, wants Danny any way he can have him, and he’s too busy choking on the fact that he can, he can, to make any kind of call. So he’s stumbling, and he’s not really a stumbler, not usually, just tonight, but he’s tripping over his feet and crashing onto the bed, Danny splayed across him.
“Graceful,” Danny murmurs, straddling him. “You’re still shivering, jeez, could you quit that, you’re kind of distracting me here, let a man do his work, am I right?”
“Well, you’re still talking,” Steve points out. It takes pretty much all of his remaining brain cells to string the sentence together.
“That,” Danny says, “is because I know that secretly, buried deep in your heart of hearts, you like the sound of my voice enough that you, hmm, what was it that you did--oh, right, you flew across the country just to hear it.”
“If it was just about your voice I could have called,” Steve says. “That was pretty much your whole--”
“Would you just,” Danny says, frustrated, and angles his hips against Steve’s, so their cocks are rutting together in a disjointed rhythm.
It’s not enough, but Steve’s starting to wonder if it ever will be--he thinks about burying himself in Danny’s tight ass, of putting his mouth around Danny’s ridiculously thick cock and sucking him dry, and shudders. It’s not enough but it’s too much too, and Steve feels every nerve ending in his body come screaming to attention where Danny’s touching him. And Danny’s touching him everywhere, draped over him like a blanket, a thousand points of warmth; Steve wants to pull him in closer and closer, until neither of them can breathe, until the rest of the world fades out in the face of the here and now.
He keeps waiting for Danny to resist, to push him away, to tell him it's too much--because it is, he is, Steve knows he's too much most days--but Danny just keeps hissing “Oh, fuck, babe,” in his ear, keeps pressing down and in, licking the line of his collarbone and gasping against his neck. And Steve hasn’t done anything this reckless, this desperate, since he was 19 and horny at Annapolis, since it had to be kept in close quarters and close to the chest. But this is nothing like that, because the way Danny is touching him doesn’t make him feel like a strung-out teenager; the way Danny is touching him makes him feel hungry, like he’s summiting a mountain, like he’s drowning and surfacing at once.
The thing is--the thing is that even Danny's breath comes too hot against Steve's ear, even the taste of Danny’s tongue in his mouth is overwhelming and comforting too, like coming home. And when he comes he kind of can't believe it, the way it rips out of him, the way he's brimming with it everywhere--it screams out of him the way Danny's always screaming, with that same blind, unexpected force, with that same impossible indiscriminate passion. He’s panting against Danny’s neck, his cock going soft and smearing come across Danny’s leg, and for whatever reason, that’s Danny’s last straw. He makes a noise like nothing Steve’s ever heard before, this soft, keening rasp, and jerks as he comes, his teeth sinking gently into Steve’s shoulder.
Steve could come again just from that, just from hearing Danny fall to pieces, just from the ragged edge to his breath. He wants to get up and take Danny apart, wants to make him make that sound a hundred times just tonight. His hands are still shaking, but now he's not sure why--if it's from cold or from orgasm or from Danny, from finally having Danny, even though he hadn't realized how long he'd wanted that.
“Danno,” he says, because he should probably explain himself, “hey, Danny, look, I--”
“Okay,” Danny says, “okay, babe, no, I know that tone of voice, that is your business voice, I do not need to know. If you’re about to tell me that you flew all the way out here because of some criminal and not in your, I don’t know, emotionally stunted need to confess your passion for me or whatever, it is going to have to wait until after the post-coital period, you got that?”
“Oh,” Steve says. “Uh, no. It was--the other thing.”
Danny pushes himself up on one arm, apparently only to give himself enough leverage to make a face. “Steven,” he says, “you showed up drenched at my sister’s doorstep, without any luggage, and then walked inside and hugged me. Are you honestly thinking you need to expand here? Do you think that after all this time I don’t speak McGarrett?”
“Oh,” says Steve.
“Not to mention the sex,” Danny continues. “The sex was very illuminating, I have to tell you, on a number of fronts. Not that you’re off the hook for coming out here, by the way, because you are a lunatic--you know that you’re a lunatic, right? Tell me you know that.”
“Yeah,” Steve says, grinning at the ceiling, “yeah, Danny, I know.”
Danny narrows his eyes, but settles back down against him a second later. “Would you look at that,” he drawls, “fucking makes you agreeable. That would have been useful information for you to disclose. There should have been a form.”
“Pretty sure that’d be workplace harassment, Danno.”
“What is the point in having--whatever it is--”
“Full immunity and means--”
“Yes,” Danny says, “that, what is the point of having that if you can’t use it to get you off the hook for workplace harassment, huh? Are you honestly telling me that a form about the effect of sex endorphins on your person would’ve been worse than that time you threw that guy to the sharks? And also, I hate to break it to you, my friend, but as far as workplace harassment goes, I’m pretty sure this qualifies.”
Steve leans in, lazy like a cat, satisfied to the tips of his admittedly still chilled toes, and kisses Danny’s shoulder. “This isn’t our workplace.”
“No,” Danny agrees, “this is true. This is New Jersey--you didn’t even bring one change of clothes, did you?”
Steve shrugs, and Danny sighs, reaching down to grab the edge of the covers.
“Tomorrow,” he says, “you--you, not me--are explaining this to my sister. And then we are going to the mall, and you are going to hate it, you are going to hate it so much, and that’s going to be so good for me, Steven, I can’t even tell you. I’m going to make you buy a coat.”
“Okay,” Steve says, because he knows it’s true. He knows that tomorrow morning Danny will shove him down the stairs in a pair of borrowed boxers and force him to make small talk with Amy, knows that he will, in fact, hate the mall. He knows Danny will give him shit for not bringing clothing for--probably for the rest of his life, actually, that seems likely, given how tenacious he’s been about the shark thing. He knows Danny will make him eat something that his arteries will object to, that Danny will talk through the whole plane ride home, that Danny will probably make Steve meet his parents before they go.
But the thing is, he’s talking himself to sleep against Steve’s neck, winding down into sated half-mumblings, and the line of his mouth isn’t sharp like its been all these months since things with Matt went wrong. There are realities to be dealt with, harsh ones, but soft ones too, like the way the small of Danny’s back feels against Steve’s hand, warm and solid.
Steve turns into him, the last vestiges of the chill slipping from his skin, and closes his eyes.