Contrary to popular opinion, the most terrifying words in the English language are not, 'Hello, I'm from the government and I'm here to help you.' They are, 'Good morning! Are you here to give?' Particularly when they are spoken by a sweet little old blue-haired lady with a clipboard.
Don't panic, Daniel! They can sense fear.
But Danny knew he was trapped. Trapped like a rat, with no one but himself to blame.
The flyer saying, 'Give the Gift of Life,' with today's date printed clearly, had been pinned to the bulletin board with the EEOC and OSHA guidelines, along with the sign-up sheet for the Spring Fling Luau and the flyers from people looking for apartments, lost dogs and keys. He had strolled past it every day for two weeks, planning to be anywhere else that day, and then gone and walked smack into his worst nightmare!
You had to give it to the Red Cross—they'd hit that lobby like Gold Beach on D-day. Check-point Charley right by the front door gave them full tactical control and nobody was going to waltz through their lines un-blooded.
Not without a damn good excuse.
Cops take blood drives seriously.
Dithering in the reflective glare of her bifocals, it occurred to him to say I gave at the orifice, and thought better of it. Experience with LOBL's wielding clipboards suggested she'd probably hit him with it.
"You are giving blood today, aren't you?" There was steel in the question, this time.
Fight or flight?
Desperately looking for an escape, he spotted Kono and knew it was far too late to go out and sneak in through the back. She was giving him the thumbs-up from the other side of the stanchions, deep in enemy territory. He gave her the high sign back and accepted the clipboard with a brave bright smile.
"Wonderful! Take a seat over there, read this over carefully and bring it back to me."
"You got it," he said.
Parking himself where indicated, he wondered if there was some rule that folding chairs always had to be icy cold. With a sinking feeling, he opened the laminated brochure attached to the clipboard, and read, 'Is there is any reason why you should not give blood today?' He almost shouted out loud. Hell yes! The thing might as well have said, 'Get Out Of Jail Free.'
He would have played it that way, too, except that a pair of well-used green cargos thumped down in the seat next to him. The man inside them spread his knees, opened his copy of the brochure, closed it, and caroled, "Ready to bleed for your country?"
McGarrett.
All of his smug, gung-ho enthusiasm, combined with the smell of just-showered-male, was too much an insult to Danny's manhood. He flipped the brochure closed, bounced to his feet, and said, "Let's go!" Like waiting for you is the only reason I was sitting there.
McGarrett was right behind him. "Dibs on the Fig Newtons. They never have enough Fig Newtons at these things."
But, there was another table and another clipboard and another brochure. This one was entitled: What you need to know about giving blood. There were questions to tick off,and if they were intended to scare him, they succeeded. Another sheet underneath again asked: Is there any reason why you should not give blood today…? There were some 'Yes' and 'No' stickers with it.
Danny was tempted to peel off 'Yes' and hand it in. Sure, he'd have to slink out of Dodge with his tale between his legs, but…a very attractive wahine in scrubs stepped from behind a green baize screen. "You're next," she said. "Please, take a seat in number four." He took a seat in number four and waited.
All of the nurses were wearing yellow hibiscus that morning. A nurse with a flower in her hair is, by definition, the gentlest and most sympathetic creature in the world. He would explain. She would understand. It was unfortunate that the nurse in charge of number four had a little jasmine lei dangling from his badge and resembled Pete Rose. He jabbed a thermometer in Danny's mouth, slapped a blood pressure cuff on his arm and proceeded to carry on like Torquemada.
"Have you travelled to any countries in sub-Saharan Africa, to Haiti or to the United Kingdom in the last…?"
"No."
"Had a blood transfusion in the last…?"
"No."
"Had unprotected sex with..?"
"I already answered these."
"Did you?"
"No!"
His finger was pricked and a shiny red drop, just loaded with strength-giving iron, plummeted to the bottom of the vial.
"Is there any reason why you should not give blood today…?"
"Because I'm likely to puke."
"Don't worry. We'll clean it up," Torquemada said. "Here's your donor number. Take a seat over there and wait to be called."
Danny accepted his number, along with a rubber-banded bundle of milky plastic, and advanced to the holding pen. Kono had already been spirited away by the angel-demons of phlebotomy and, somehow, McGarrett had gotten there ahead of him and was sitting in the first chair in the front row.
Danny could have sat in any one of the empty chairs, other than the one next to McGarrett, but it would have looked funny, and besides, another nurse turn up. She called, "Eight!" and his knees folded.
"Nine."
There was nothing to do but watch the doomed passing to their fate.
"Ten!"
As far as 'by the numbers' went, the Red Cross was worse than the army. Luckily, the real action was behind screens, so the atmosphere was deceptively peaceful. There was no moaning or groaning or shrieks of agony…
"Good turn out," McGarrett said. A line, mostly uniforms, was waiting for clipboards.
Danny let McGarrett burble and concentrated on breathing…exhale…slowly…inhale…slowly. He caught a whiff of McGarrett's just showered smell again…what was that soap called? 'For all your 2000 parts…'
"You know, it's funny about blood drives, I've seen SEALs, real brave guys, guys who've even been wounded in the field, spilled it all over the place, who would rather take a bullet than donate a pint."
"Yeah, funny," Danny said.
"It's the needle."
"Really funny."
"You okay?"
"Yeah. Of course I'm okay. Why wouldn't I be okay?"
"I don't know. You look a little pale."
"You're loving this, aren't you? That is so like you."
"What do you mean that is so like me?"
"Eleven!"
"That's me!" McGarrett might as well have stood to attention. Before striding away, though, he leaned over and whispered in Danny's ear, "Lie back. Relax. Think of me eating all Fig Newtons. It won't hurt a bit."
"Bite me!" Danny mouthed at his retreating form. There was an iceberg in his stomach, and he couldn't imagine a better time for an emergency.
'Fourteen!"
Why was there never a bomb threat when you needed one?
"Number fourteen!"
Shit!
His own particular fiend was a little dumpling of a woman in purple scrubs. It wasn't fair that she was as cute as a kitten and so full of purpose that Danny found himself behind the screen, laying on a gurney with his left sleeve up and his arm stretched out, and not entirely sure of the intervening stages.
While she swabbed the inside of his elbow with iodine, he concentrated on the lush gold center of her flower. He was cold, but there was an oily film of sweat on his face and he hoped she wouldn't notice.
"Is this the first time you've donated?"
"No. Course not."
"Cold?"
"No—yes. Maybe, a little." It was a good an excuse for the gooseflesh as any.
"Make a tight fist for me."
Danny made a fist and turned his head. The panel of the screen next to him was embellished with a welcome cluster of distracting cartoons. An unfortunate number of them featured vampires and blood banks, but one was a sketch of a crane trying to swallow a big fat frog. It looked like the crane was going to gulp it in one go, despite the frog's legs sticking out either side of its beak, kicking and waving. It was all over for that frog—until you realized that the frog had arms and that the arms had hands and those hands were around the crane's neck and that frog was squeezing for all its life was worth. Squeezing as tightly as the tourniquet constricting his arm. Suddenly the pressure was gone! What?
"There you go."
He hadn't even felt the needle go in and made the mistake of looking down.
"Oh, God!"
"It was just a little sting."
Oops! Never impugn their skill; it just makes them stick the tape where the hair is.
Actually, Nurse Dumpling taped the needle and tubing down with commendable efficiency.
"Here, give this a squeeze every sixty seconds," she said, slipping a soft rubber toy in his hand. "I'll be back shortly."
At least the worst was over. Danny closed his eyes and concentrated on counting and squeezing. Don't think about the needle. The needle was… Don't think about the needle! Just count and squeeze. Count and squeeze. Like that frog. Frog was probably a SEAL. Only a SEAL frog would think it could escape being Big Bird's lunch that way. Frog's name was probably McGarrett.
"Hey, Danno!"
Speak of the devil.
He'd been successfully ignoring the disgusting amount of chat and laughter happening nearby.
"Yeah?"
"What's a vampire's favorite dessert?"
"I don't know. What is a vampire's favorite dessert?"
"Leeches and cream."
"Never tell that to Grace."
"Spoil sport. Don't eat all the Newtons."
What now? He peeked sideways, carefully, so he wouldn't see the needle.
The gurneys were arranged into open squares and McGarrett was grinning at him cat-corner across the aisle. The nurse attending him must have been detained by other victims, because the collection bag dangling from his gurney rail was empty. At that moment, his nurse was actually bending to examine McGarrett's shoulder and running her finger over the safety-pin-through-the-tongue tattoo that decorated it. McGarrett gave Danny a broad wink; he claimed he could always spot the kinky ones!
What? Wait a minute! Danny opened his eyes wide. Yes! The collection bag was empty! All he had to do to scoop the Newtons was keep on squeezing his soft toy. He was going to win! It would have been rude to crow before victory, but he intended to settle down to some serious squeezing.
Just at that moment, McGarrett's nurse whipped a blue rubber band around his arm. She said something, McGarrett tensed and the muscles of his arm sprang into relief. Danny saw a vein that was usually hidden, winding proudly up his arm like the secret track on a magical treasure map. It stood out even under the tattoo. Danny couldn't have looked away if he'd wanted to. Completely captivated, he saw the butterfly-needle slide into McGarrett's flesh. A red streak zipped through the tube and spurted inside the collection bag.
As cold as Danny had been just moments before, he was hot now.
His immediate reaction was, Whoa! That's…different!
"Don't cross your ankles like that!" Nurse Dumpling was back. "If you're feeling faint, hold this to your neck." She handed him a can of cold soda and bent to check his collection bag. "Wow! You're done already. You're a good bleeder!"
"Thanks," he said. "I think."
To his great relief, it was over. Mostly over. While Nurse Dumpling uncoupled him and wrapped his arm in a stretchy pink bandage, she gave him the drill to follow for the rest of the day: Light meals, increased fluids, no alcohol and no heavy lifting. If you experience swelling at the site…
But, he couldn't leave because there was another volunteer waiting to press fluids on him and McGarrett to eat Fig Newtons in front of.
"Would you like orange juice, cranberry juice or a nice Hawaiian Punch?"
"Are you kidding? Give me the orange juice."
"Chocolate Chip or Snicker Doodle?"
"Fig Newtons! I want all the Fig Newtons you've got in that basket!"
"Gosh, I'm sorry. Officer Kelley took the last three. How about some Oreos?"
Other than that, the rest of the day turned out pretty well. It was true that with everyone sporting stretchy pink bandages on their arms, the atmosphere in the squad room was a trifle subdued. Time was spent returning calls, resolving accounts and filing reports; the sort of work that the bulk of police work actually is. Lunch was sandwiches and iced tea from the Roach Coach. But no bombs exploded anywhere, no international terrorists were spotted at customs, and no dead bodies were discovered under circumstances designed to embarrass the state of Hawaii.
Come to think of it, it was a very good day, and for most of it, Danny, despite wishing loudly and often for the air-conditioning to be turned down, felt as though he were floating through it. He'd always thought that people who said they got high from donating blood were nothing but big damn liars and made a mental note be more open minded on the subject in the future. It was, for the most part, a pleasant, drifty feeling, but, every now and then, he'd catch sight of McGarrett leaning over a screen, or reaching, or stretching, and his brain would stop—just stop like a DVD—paused on the image of that red streak. And whenever that happened, a swell of intense arousal would sweep over him. The first time it happened, he wondered if that was that what Nurse Dumpling had meant by swelling at the site.
In one of those moments, he considered googling to see if other people reported being turned on after giving blood. Then, he decided he didn't want to know; if there were, and if there were a lot of them, it would have put a whole new complexion on altruism for him.
Twice, he caught himself fantasizing vividly. Once, that he was feeling the back of McGarrett's elbow; there was a scar back there, just a thin raised line; he was following it all the way up. That was fairly innocuous; but the second time, he had McGarrett on the table screen and was working his t-shirt up and his pants down… Daniel! He brought himself up short. You are not thinking of making a pass at Mr. Machismo! Cause, if you are, boy, you have lost it, big time!
That second surge was so powerful, though, that he turned around and looked at Kono—just to make sure he hadn't gone gay, all of sudden.
It happened to be a moment Kono was bending to look for a folder in the lower drawer of a file cabinet. The position gave him a compressive view of her hips and thighs. He spent some time analyzing the gentle curves of the female form, while mulling over the novelty of his reaction to McGarrett's knobs and angles.
He gave it too much thought. Somebody cleared their throat, and suddenly, he was aware that McGarrett and Chin Ho, who had been leaning over the table screen with their heads together, discussing the evidence from the Chamber's murder, were staring at him staring at Kono's ass.
Kono looked up, caught them all staring at each other, and straightened up abruptly. "Something wrong?"
"No!" Danny blurted out. "No, I was just thinking…I meant to tell you how great you look today. Not that you don't always…look great…every day." He swung back to the computer, hoping to heaven there wasn't enough blood left in his body left to blush with. Not cool, Daniel. Not gay, either.
He completely missed the questioning look, the eye roll and the shrug exchanged among the other three.
It was a relief when it got to be five o'clock and the growling of his stomach roused him up out of the fog.
"Who's hungry?" he announced. "I'm hungry!"
"Details at eleven," Kono said.
"There's some Spam musubi in the fridge."
"Chin, you bought that at the Seven-Eleven three days ago."
"It's still good."
"Thank you, all the same, but I would rather eat road kill."
McGarrett stepped out of his office. "I could murder a rare steak," he said. "Anybody up for the Broiler Room? I think we deserve it."
"You buying?" Danny hinted.
"No!"
"Just asking—don't get your commanderly self in an uproar—I'm in."
"Chin?" McGarrett said.
"I'm in."
"Kono?"
"Hell, yes! Tell the cook to slap a cow on its bottom and throw it on a plate!"
"Ew!"
"Stuff it, coz!"
The Broiler Room wasn't the place to go if you wanted a light meal. They couldn't get into the dining room without borrowing jackets, but it was better sitting out on the patio, anyway. There the Steaks were grilled in a fire pit and served to order with fried green pepper rings. Restorative fluids arrived in pitchers of draft beer.
They'd been warned about drinking alcohol, but, the fact is, beer isn't really alcohol.
Nevertheless, take one part camaraderie dissolved in two parts beer, and it didn't take long before Danny was basking in a mellow, golden glow that moved to acknowledge, at least to himself, that even if Hawaii wasn't New Jersey, there were compensations. Good friends not being the least of them. What a great bunch of guys he worked with! He made a mental apology to Kono for the guys. Of course, she was a girl-er-woman, yet he couldn't think of a better way to express that she fell into that category of persons labeled 'to whom I will entrust my life.' And she was beautiful. Golden. Like an hibiscus flower. He turned a critical eye on the other two. And, yes, Chin Ho and McGarrett were beautiful, too, in their ways. What were their ways? Chin Ho was easy—Chin Ho was one of the big cats; fierce, cool and enigmatic. But McGarrett…? He didn't have an easy answer for that one.
At the moment, McGarrett was telling a story from his SEAL training. "I'd got up to the rim and saw the guy who had me on belay had found a snake. I'd never seen one like it before, so I stopped where I was. He's petting it and starts telling me to stop screwing around and finish the climb; it's just a little corn snake." McGarrett's hand mimed petting a snake. "And I would have, but the instructor comes up and asked him what the hell he thinks he's doing with that coral snake! The guy screams and drops the snake. On me! Dropped the belay, too. Fortunately, the instructor braked me before I hit the ground!" He paused and took a sip of beer. "To this day, I do not know who was more scared, me or that snake."
Laughter started. McGarrett, pleased with his friend's reaction to his story leaned back in his chair. Tall as he was, he could have been awkward, but all that length of body and limb was powerful and controlled. You couldn't help noticing the long swimmer's muscles. Too, you couldn't help noticing, that even laughing, there was a fretful little squinch between his eyebrows. Sometimes Danny itched to smooth it with his thumb. He had beauty, strength and sadness. A stag, Danny realized. McGarrett's a stag.
He, Danny, was the ugly duckling in the group, if anyone was. It was okay. He was far from home, but he had Grace; he sort of had Rachel; and the rest of his family was well and safe, even if they were back in Jersey.
The waitress arrived with another pitcher of beer. Danny had lost count of how many that was, but if he was starting to get maudlin, it was time to ease off.
That turned out to be a wise decision. The extended negotiations over the check demonstrated that, of the four of them, he was the only one sober enough to drive. A quick call to Kamekona's cousin, the one who drove a taxi, and Kono and Chin were easily disposed. But, then there was McGarrett, the inevitable hassle of getting the keys away from him and pouring him into the passenger seat. It was a process Danny could only compare to stuffing a boa into a basket. Each time you thought you were done, you'd find another loop of snake had popped out or, in McGarrett's case, another hand feeling him up for the keys. Danny finally threatened to cuff him.
Thankfully, McGarrett subsided once the door was shut, and when Danny started the car, he put the seat down and closed his eyes. It looked like he fell asleep. Even asleep, that little squinch remained between his brows. Danny concentrated on his driving.
A left on Pahoa and a right on 7th brought them to the junction of 72. Danny guided the car onto the eastbound ramp, controlling it easily with one hand. Without really thinking about what he was doing, he let the other hand rest on the passenger seat close to McGarrett's hip. He could feel body warmth even through the heavy fabric of the cargos.
When he hit Kalanianaole, the traffic was lighter along the Makai side. Then he pushed the limit and lowered the windows, letting the rush of air fill his other senses, only slowing down when he saw the sign for Hind Drive.
The house was set well back from the road, hidden in the trees; even in daylight, you had to keep a sharp eye out or you missed the turn. Once you'd turned, though, the abundant big trees that surrounded the property protected it from the lights and the noise of the surrounding development. The first time Danny had come here, investigating Jack McGarrett's murder, he'd been struck with what a secret paradise it was. It was like slipping into another time. There was even a bit of private beach; all McGarrett had to do was walk out the back door.
It must have been the car slowing that woke McGarrett. He sat up as they pulled up to the garage, and said, "Want to come in for a drink?"
"No, we've both had enough tonight. I am going to come in, though, to make sure you drink some water and get to bed. I don't want to hear about a hangover when I come back to collect you in the morning."
"Spoil sport."
The way inside was through the garage and through the kitchen. They made it easily across the living room, as far as the staircase. There McGarrett stumbled and sat down abruptly on the fifth step. "Something's the matter with my legs."
Danny laughed. "You're pixilated."
"I am pixilated." McGarrett agreed. "Kiss me."
"Now, you're just drunk."
"Kiss me, anyway."
Danny shivered. With McGarrett sitting on the stair, they were the same height and it would have been the easiest thing in the world to do.
"Come on," he said. "Up you get!"
"Anyone tell you you're no fun?"
"My ex-wife. Often."
Groaning theatrically, McGarrett rolled over and crawled up the steps with Danny pushing from behind. At the top, he managed to get upright and stagger into the bedroom where he first threw himself face down on the bed and then rolled over on his back. "Room's spinning," he complained. "Danno make it stop."
Danny felt for the light switch but couldn't find it. Still, there was enough moon to see to undress a drunken man, prop him up with pillows and make sure, worse come to worst, that he didn't choke in his own vomit. So much for romance. He sat on the bed and picked up a foot. "Anybody ever tell you you're a cheap date?" he said. "A real waste of candlelight and flowers."
Shoes and socks were easy. The pants—McGarrett's pants were always hanging precariously, anyway—peeled off, revealing a pair of low-riding boxer-briefs that were probably colored gray and looked like they covered, barely, a substantial package which in spite of all probability seemed to be expressing an interest in the proceedings. Danny left the briefs right where they were. To get the shirt off he was going to have to get McGarrett upright and here again the subject proved uncooperative, burrowing into the sheets, refusing to sit up. Danny eventually had stand up, take him by the hands and pull. "Upsy daisy!" he urged. "Come to poppa!"
Like magic, McGarrett sat up. But so quickly that he almost knocked Danny off of his feet. McGarrett also also saved him by wrapping his arms around Danny's waist and hanging on like a barnacle. When Danny was sure it was safe to move, he drew the shirt over McGarrett's shoulders and was trying to get it over McGarrett's head, which McGarrett seemed to be trying to bury in Danny's stomach, when he realized that McGarrett was undoing his belt buckle with his teeth. Since McGarrett still had his arms around Danny's waist the only thing Danny could do was unpeel him one arm at a time. "Stop that. What are you an octopus? Stop!" By the time the shirt was off, McGarrett had had his way with the belt and had started opening Danny's zipper the same interesting way. "You...you stop it! Lie down!"
McGarrett flung himself back and lay there with his arms stretched over his head. All of him that wasn't covered up by the gray boxer-briefs was exposed for Danny's delectation. "Stay here with me," he begged.
Danny shook his head, "I gotta go, man."
McGarrett had a leg hooked behind his knee before he could move.
"Stay." By moonlight the look on McGarrett's face was heartbreaking.
"I can't, babe," Danny said. "You know I can't."
"What would it take to make you?" The twined leg tugged, threatening his balance.
"Not much," Danny admitted.
Quick as a snake, McGarrett had his other leg and the only reason Danny didn't fall like clear-cut timber, was because McGarrett caught him in his arms and rolled over on top of him.
The kiss tasted of beer and lasted a long time.
When it over, Danny was being impatiently, but expertly, stripped and he had to admit that he'd been played. Those hands were too skilled—too knowing. And the care McGarrett was taking with his shirt? No way had he been drunk.
Danny gave in and let his own hand go a wandering—down the long torso and narrow hips—over and up. Between the thighs, under the legs of the boxer-briefs, were curious patches of rough, rigid flesh. But he was too busy searching for treasure. He found it when his hand folded over the damp cotton pouch. He pressed and the shaft sprang against his hand, begging to be petted. He decided those damn boxer-briefs had to go. They were a nuisance; an impediment to what he wanted—a true wedding of mouth and swollen flesh. He rolled them down, got them off with a little help from McGarrett and threw them across the room. Then he curled around until he could get his face between McGarrett's legs and while he was sucking and savoring the salty, bitter flavor, hands were spreading him wide open. A finger probed, questioning closely. Yes! He pushed back. And almost lost it. He had to stop and get control or he couldn't keep sucking. The finger withdrew. A hand ringed him and he lasted, up until the moment that he felt McGarrett's hair brushing his thighs. Breath and lips and tongue teased his prick lightly. It was too much. The moment had been too long coming. "Now, baby! Now!" He cried. He couldn't help spilling his soul into McGarrett's mouth. The cock in his own mouth thrust and crowed.
That quickly it was over but, afterwards, their tongues, oh, their tongues made promises to the future and he fell asleep glued to McGarrett's side.
Sometime later, he woke up in the dark, a little confused at first as to where, but not with whom. Feeling next to him, he discovered that he was alone and the sheet was cold. Maybe McGarrett had had to get up and gone to the bathroom. Then he realized that he could hear the surf crashing, loudly. That meant the tide was in. That made it early.
He sat up and saw that the door to the lanai was open and through the rails, could see breakers running up the beach. He remembered McGarrett saying how shallow the coast was along here. During the war this stretch had been pegged as a likely spot, if the Japanese invaded. There were still the remnants of a mortar emplacement down there, hidden in the overgrowth. The sky was blue-black but it had to be nearly dawn. Maybe McGarrett had gone for a swim.
Danny got up and went to look out.
McGarrett was sitting on the lanai, cross-legged in the shadows. Even in the shadows Danny could tell that his hands were moving between his thighs and see the glossy head of the cock standing between them. Was he masturbating? A sense of outraged possession swept over him. You could—you should have woken me! You brat! That's mine! All your hard-ons belong to me! Uh-Daniel? Yeah? Don't you think that's a wee over the top? Maybe. A little. It looked like he was going to have to add jealousy and selfishness to thegrowing range he was discovering about his feelings for McGarrett. Conscious that his own cock had swelled and grown heavy, he put the thought aside. If you can't join him, beat it!
He started fondling himself, trying to match his hand to McGarrett's. But McGarrett's strokes were too…disjointed. He couldn't get a rhythm; it didn't feel right. It felt like he was some perv in a peep show, jerking off alone. Danny let it go. The man out there was his,though; he couldn't help watching just a little longer. They'd broken some of HPD's rules last night, but they'd barely crossed the boundaries of each other's skin. There was so much more for the future. The not too distant future…
The sky had grown bluer in the short time he'd been standing there and now he could see how McGarrett's shoulders and chest were quivering and Danny's skin started to prickle and crawl. Such tiny controlled little jerks; time to reassess; it didn't look like he was getting much pleasure from what he was this was some form of meditation. God knew; with McGarrett, it could easily be the essential spiritual exercise of some esoteric martial art. Either way, it was wrong for Danny be spying.
He would have turned and slunk back to bed, feeling hideously guilty, but for catching a harder flinch of McGarrett's shoulder and the flickering of something in his hand.
Danny's skin had understood before Danny did.
The shadow on McGarrett's hands—was blood. And that flickering thing was an old fashioned, straight-back cut-throat razor—with which he was cutting the inside of his thighs. On fire to explore and lay claim last night, Danny had felt the ridges of scar tissue. Idiot! What did you think they were? Real bad rope burns? No way was this the first time he'd done it.
After years of police work, it's easy to convince yourself you're past all shock; you never are. Danny wasn't. He felt sick to his stomach. He wasn't going to freeze in the clinches, either.
He slipped through the doorway.
With the wind freshening, it was cold outside and the sisal matting that covered the lanai was rough underfoot. Danny didn't twitch or shiver or make any sudden moves; it wasn't the time to interrupt delicate artistry. Carefully, he knelt in front of McGarrett and put his hands together as if in prayer. "What cha' doing, babe?" he said.
"Remembering." McGarrett smiled a dreamy smile. "Remembering last night."
"Seriously?" Danny put his hand over McGarrett's, stilled them and took the razor away, never so grateful for anything that McGarrett let him. When he turned to throw the damned thing as far away as he could, though, McGarrett grabbed his arm. There might have been a fight then, but Danny controlled himself and settled for smacking it down on a nearby bench. "We have to talk," he said.
"No-no talk!" McGarrett was doubled over, gasping and wheezing, as if he'd been punched in the gut. "'s part of the package. Take it or leave it."
"Part of the package?" Danny screamed, cuffing the side of McGarrett's head. "That's part of the package!" He clipped the other side. "That's part of the package! Goddamned beautiful eyes!" He landed a few stinging slaps on each cheek. "Those are part of the package! Your mouth? —I wanna fuck it so hard!"
McGarrett didn't try to defend himself. He put his arms up instinctively when Danny started wailing on his shoulders, though. Whack! Smack! Right! Left! Danny nailed the tattoos. "God-damned fucking tattoos!" Fuck those for being part of the package!
He could put up with them, but he hated them. Fucking sun sign! Fucking obscene gecko! Anybody who saw those damned things was staring right at McGarrett's nipples like his body was some kind of illuminated erotic manuscript! Why didn't he just put a ring in them!
The reaction was to the shock more than anything. Quick as it started, the storm passed and Danny found himself with his hands in his hair, and panting. "Fuck! Fuck it! Fuck!" over and over. Get it together, Daniel; somebody has to be the grownup. He dragged his hand through his hair, but there was nowhere to wipe his dripping nose, except the backs of his hands. "Oh, fuck!"
McGarrett reached out, caught him and pulled their heads together so they were touching, forehead to forehead. "I love you," he whispered.
Three words to bring a strong man under.
Danny was done.
Empty.
In the east, the sky had turned a glorious gold but his world was what he could see between McGarrett's legs, his senses whelmed with the fetid smell of drying blood and semen. At least it was good for you, babe.
The testimony of last night was a row of parallel slices, starting in the hollow of the thigh and arcing over the top of the muscle. None of them looked very deep, but they were scarily close to the tendon, never mind penis and scrotum. It made Danny's neck creep, but he touched anyway. Under the blood he could feel an older lacing of scar tissue. Most of the threads were as thin as spider silk, and wavered like lines on a seismograph. But on the inner thigh, there were deliberate patterns of scarified ridges. Feeling one of those, he wondered what tectonic transference it commemorated.
If the rest of McGarrett's body was for the public record, these scars were the secret text. Unlike the tats,only a doctor, or a lover, would ever see them, unless McGarrett wanted them to be seen. Danny wasn't betting many doctors got a shot and, as for lovers—they were written in such a private cipher he could spin them anyway he wanted.
…unless McGarrett wanted them to be seen.
He did wantme to see. All of it.
It was momentary glimpse of how much McGarrett trusted him. He would have given anything for the space to think about it, but the part of his brain that was always a policeman had been analyzing the background noise: those sirens had to be an accident on Kalanianaole—not a major one, but now he could hear a helicopter rotor, growing louder—had to be a news chopper coming up—it was going to be over the house any minute!
Danny scrambled to his feet, hauling McGarrett up the arm. "Move it—unless you want to be filler on the morning drive time!"And, once he had inertia on his side, he didn't waste time hustling McGarrett into the bathroom and shoving him down on the toilet seat. He took a washcloth from the bar and turned on the water. He was still shaken and knew he didn't have a firm grip on the levers, but professional experience said take charge while the subject is docile and don't let up the pressure. He accused, "You should've told me."
McGarrett spread his hands. "How…?"
"Did I say talk? That was a rhetorical question; it does not require an answer." Danny gave the washcloth a vicious twist, just to make the point that it could easily be McGarrett's neck. "Nevertheless, I will give you a clue. You start by saying, 'Danny…' I feel we should be on a first name basis for this conversation. You say, 'Danny, I want to fuck you cross-eyed, but I think you should know that I'm twisted as a slinky!" McGarrett opened his mouth; Danny aimed a warning finger at him. "And me, thinking you're talking about—oh, I don' know—mink lined handcuffs—I say, 'Steve, that sounds like fun! Let's do it!'
"And then, maybe, after a couple dates, we've gotten to second base, and I'm planning the wedding…" Danny aimed the finger at his own temple and drew little circles there. "Then you spring it on me! That is how you do it.
"So why do you do it?"
"It takes the edge off," McGarrett snapped.
"God!" Danny said. "I could hit you!"
McGarrett shrugged. "I'd probably enjoy it."
"I think I deserve better than that," Danny said. "But, for right now, be very smart and shut up."
Searching the medicine cabinet for some kind of antiseptic, it came to no great surprise that was organized with military precision; easy to find Band-Aids and a tube of bacitracin in their own boxes on top shelf above the electric shaver. There was a dusty little bottle of Gun Oil, too, Danny noticed. It was full.
"You're right," McGarrett said. "I'm sorry."
Danny's only response was a manly grunt; partly because he was pissed-off; partly because kneeling between the legs of the guy he was pissed-off at, washing blood off of his manly bits and smearing ointment on same, was not a place he wanted to be having a serious conversation. Most especially because, even though he was really pissed-off at McGarrett, he was trying not to let him see that his hands were shaking. If McGarrett decided to take his silence as an invitation to continue keeping his mouth shut and start brooding, Danny didn't correct him.
When he was finished, he said, "Now, get out of here and let me think." McGarrett got.
Danny found another washcloth and made use of it. Dry sweat, adrenalin and fear; God knew what he must smell like."
Now what, Daniel?
Good question.
It wasn't as if he hadn't known McGarrett had issues. He'd 'been knowing that' ten minutes after he met the man.
It hadn't stopped him from falling in love, though, had it?
No. It hadn't.
He could see McGarrett in the mirror, on the bed, sitting with his back against the headboard and his knees drawn up. There must have been something fascinating about the far wall.
He's waiting. You going to take it or leave it?
Part of the package, uh?
It was time to find out how big a mortgage on the future he could afford.
Danny turned off the water and folded the washcloth back on the bar. He opened the medicine cabinet and took out the bottle of Gun Oil. As an afterthought, he tucked the Band-Aids and bacitracin back from where he'd gotten them.
Let's see if there's room to negotiate.
McGarrett continued to be fascinated by the wall for the time it took Danny to locate his slacks in the heap of clothing on the floor. It wasn't until Danny sat on the bed and started going through the pockets, that he turn his scowl in Danny's direction.
"Color me curious," Danny said, conversationally, "but what was it made you decide last night was the night to seduce me?" Prize winning dahlias would have grown in the look McGarrett gave him. "You may speak now."
"Thank you," McGarrett said, "and fuck you. I figured, the way you were ogling Kono, I hadn't got much to lose." He shrugged. "I could always say 'I was so blind last night, even you looked beautiful.'"
"Didn't I? Weren't you looking at this golden god-like package yesterday, and thinking, 'God, I want to have my wicked way with that'?"
"You looked like a zombie most of the day." The corner of McGarrett's mouth twitched. "You really that scared of giving a little blood?"
"Like you said, it's the needle. Ah…" Mixed with the keys and the coins, Danny's hand found what he was looking for. "Here's the thing," he said, "I want…hell, we didn't even get started last night…but my mother always told me 'never marry a man who uses an electric razor; you don't know what other bad habits he may have.'" Danny held the knife where McGarrett could see it and popped the button on the hinge. The blade snapped into place with an audible snick! It was only a couple of inches long, but it was sharp. Very sharp. "So we're going to have some rules."
"Rules?" McGarrett said, suspiciously. "How can there be rules?"
"Listen! I cannot even pretend to imagine the kind of pain doing that…" Danny waved a hand toward McGarrett's crotch, "is preferable to. So, yeah, there will be rules. Here's Number One; it's the important one: every time you cut yourself, you cut me. If you do it to yourself, you do it to me."
"You can't be serious!"
"Why can't I? You only want to be on the sharp end? That is so selfish." Danny slapped the knife on the bed table and set the bottle of Gun Oil lube next to it.
As he slid over to the other side of the bed and stretched out on his stomach, McGarrett looked at him appalled. "Keep it where it don't show and stay away from the family jewels. Those are numbers Three and Two. Other than that it's all yours, babe." Thinking it over, he snagged a pillow and slipped it under. "Make it work for me."
"You're out of your mind!" McGarrett put his feet on the floor.
"I'm out of my mind?" Danny locked onto his wrist to stop him from getting up. "If anyone else pulled that shit out there, I'd have run him in for a psych evaluation so fast his head would still be spinning next week. Now, let's get it on, before I remember I'm a cop."
It was blackmail, essentially. If McGarrett refused or, it seemed more likely, just stood up and walked out of the room, Danny would be lying there with his ass in breeze…and a short time after that, they both knew, McGarrett would be answering some highly personal and probing questions from concerned authority.
With the air of someone forced to do an unpleasant chore against his will, McGarrett stretched out beside him. "Anybody ever tell you you're a real son of a—"
"Watch it!" Danny said. "That's your future mother-in-law, you're disrespecting."
McGarrett stared at him, and gave soft yip of laughter. "You really have gone off your nut!" So saying, he planted a quick kiss on Danny's shoulder.
That one touch broke the barrier between them.
McGarrett relax, sighing, and nestled against him. Danny could feel the tension draining from his body; the ice man was melting. Maybe he wants to be human after all. Danny closed his eyes full of tears; afraid they'd reveal how scared he'd been that McGarrett would balk.
He felt McGarrett's lips press his shoulder again, slowly, as if he were committing this kiss to memory. "Don't worry," McGarrett whispered. "I'll make it good for you."
"I know you will." Even if he wasn't expecting to enjoy what was going to happen next, Danny felt no fear.
Something inside of him lifted as McGarrett threw a leg over, and he felt powerful thighs straddling him. There were more kisses, from shoulder to neck, tickling and teasing and growing more intense the more sensitive the skin where they were sited. Gripped as Danny was, there was no resisting the sensations that started fizzing along his nerves. A nip on his earlobe was a bright instant of pain, soothed by a clever tongue. The tongue went on to explore the whorls of his ear and thrust inside. The sound that filled his head was a warning that there was no place in Danny's body that McGarrett wouldn't go. Then McGarrett stretched out and covering him. The pressing warmth covered his body. Urgent husking filled his head. Hardness probed between his cheeks, begging for access. Like a well prepared fire, Danny burst into flame.
He barely felt the touch of McGarrett's cock before it was gone. He tried to get up, but his legs were forced roughly apart and spread wide. If McGarrett was going to permit him no say in what was happening, he stopped struggling. More kisses dropped in the hollow of his spine and then an arm slipped under his waist. It raised him to his knees rump high. The pillow wound the floor, when a hand reached between his legs to cuff his cock. The hand on his ass compelled him to thrust. But they allowed only a short rocking motion between them. Nevertheless, he felt the swell starting to build, but then the hands were gone. He was poking air.
Then hands came again, slick and greasy with the Gun Oil this time. They fondled his balls and ass, spreading heat wherever they touched. Fingers found his center, pushed and probed and slipped inside…outside. Danny was an animal roaring to be cored, but he stayed still, trying to comprehend the pleasurable pain of being readied for it. Finally, McGarrett took hold of his hips and he felt the blunt cock pushing slowly inside him.
Danny could imagine how hard it must be for McGarrett to go that slowly, letting Danny reach an accommodation with every inch. At last, he was there, fully sheathed, bending over, dripping sweat on Danny's back, and moving in him. Danny had known that would feel good, but this new intimacy with McGarrett was shocking in its pleasure. Every breath he took was a prayer it would never end. But pleasure is a verb; it comes. A sudden pang and the hot trickle down the back of his leg pushed him over. He was throbbing and pulsing and pushing and McGarrett was ramming into him, crying, "God! You bastard! God damn!" The bed was in danger of collapsing.
It didn't, but they did. In a ruined sodden heap of sweat and spunk and intertwined legs, where Danny couldn't tell when he left off and McGarrett began. But pleasure is a verb; it passes. For Danny, it was over when McGarrett's cock slipped from his ass, and the hot rush after, and when he tried to take a deep breath, but couldn't because he was being compressed by a huge weight on top of him. He gave it an elbow to the ribs. "Off you big lug!"
"The things I do for you," McGarrett groaned. He rolled off but just lay there with an arm flung across his eyes, breathing deeply. He was still holding the knife in his hand.
With the weight off, Danny could reach the cut on his ass. It felt like a burning crescent on his right buttock cheek. "That hurts!"
"Oh, good," McGarrett snorted. "Now, he's sorry."
"I am not sorry! Look at me!"
McGarrett lifted his arm.
"Do I look like I'm sorry?"
"No. You look fucked. Really fucked." The arm dropped back. "Me, too." The knife in McGarrett's hand waggled. "You want to go wash that. No idea where this has been."
Danny stumbled to the bathroom, sluiced himself down and got the bacitracin out again. He took a couple of aspirin. By the time he was done, McGarrett had rolled over on his side and was snoring into his pillow. So much for the afterglow. The pocket knife was on the bed table. Danny collected it and put it away, considered going outside and picking up the straight-edge razor, but he didn't want to touch it, the thought of the thing disgusted him. He picked the other pillow up off the floor, crawled in beside McGarrett and pulled the sheet over both of them.
As snores went, McGarrett's was a rather pleasing baritone buzz. Danny lay there listening, aware of his aching ring and the throbbing cut on his ass. X marks the spot. Unless it was brand. He should turn both of them in for a psych evaluation. But whatever demons were riding McGarrett, Danny had committed his body to share.
Finish
4/23/11 10:50