Given the sheer number of people who've asked if they were married, for crying out loud, Steve doesn't think people would be too surprised to find out that he and Danny are . . . partners. At least, no more surprised than he is to find himself - the product of conservative parents and the US Navy - mid-life, DADT repealed, and with a loud Jersey cop as his . . . partner.
He's still getting accustomed to the vocabulary, okay?
No, people don't seem to have too much trouble getting past the obvious assumption that two alpha males, one a Navy SEAL and one a tough Jersey detective - with an ex-wife and daughter, no less - are straight, work-only partners. But it amuses Steve, really, that there are so many lingering assumptions beyond the obvious.
Not that he has the time or inclination, really, to correct any assumptions of a sleazy heroin dealer currently in the back of the car.
And he's chatty, the drug dealer, as they drive back to the palace for booking. Trying to get under their skin, goading them. Apparently, their undercover behavior in the club had been a little too convincing, he's informed them, and now he's amusing himself with a running litany of - insults? Are they supposed to be insults?
"I bet you are always in the driver's seat, am I right? Yeah, big guy? All those muscles and tats, I bet you just love taking control, right?" the guy is rambling, half strung out.
Steve's not insulted. Amused, and if he's honest, glancing at Danny, at that slow, secret smile, a little turned on.
It continues in the interrogation room. Kono has joined them, because this is something she's still learning - and Steve rolls his eyes when Danny pauses to remind them, just outside the door, that they're trying to teach Kono proper interrogation techniques, and that she is not a Navy SEAL and that here, in the civilized world, there are procedures, and protocol.
And the guy starts up again, a running commentary under the strange blue lights. "What took you guys so long? Did you take a few minutes in the locker room? Did you at least lock the door before you put the blond on his knees for you?"
Steve glances at Kono; he could care less, he's heard it all, but Kono is a lady, damn it, and . . . well, never mind. Kono's eyes are wide, and she's unselfconsciously running her tongue over her lower lip. Because, in addition to being completely badass, Kono is also a special brand of crazy. She had known about him and Danny being . . . partners before Steve had even known about it, and when he'd called her into his office to tell her - after hours, unofficially, this is awkward but I think you should know - she'd laughed until she'd snorted indelicately, and patted his cheek affectionately, and told him he was so cute and oblivious. So no, he didn't need to worry about Kono's delicate sensibilities being offended now.
She's not offended. Steve realizes, glancing at Danny with his patented Not My Fault face, that she's a little turned on.
"It's a co-ed bathroom, and I like to watch," Kono drawls, her voice going into that register that she usually saves for undercover. And that's it, it's pretty much over at that point, because the sleazy heroin dealer's brain short-circuits and he forgets to be cool and slick, and gives up every shred of information they need, while Kono nods and tilts her head at him and twirls that silky chocolate hair around one long, delicate finger.
"You're welcome, boys," Kono says breezily, as she flicks her hair back and saunters out of the interrogation room. She turned back, eyes flashing darkly, and looks at Danny. Straight, unmistakably at Danny. "I'll go get started on the paperwork. Boss."
Oh. Oh. So, Kono apparently isn't operating under any mistaken assumptions. And who's surprised, really?
And they both have to take a moment, outside the door, in the empty hallway and . . . adjust. They're only human.
"What just happened?" Steve asks, and if his voice is a little strangled, Danny graciously ignores it. "I thought we were supposed to be teaching her interrogation technique?"
Danny looks at him. "I don't know, big guy. You're the one in control." His voice is full of amusement, his blue eyes crinkling in fond affection. "You just love it, don't you, letting people assume?"
Steve grins and shrugs because it's true.
Danny grins and shrugs because it doesn't matter.
Because, in reality, people's assumptions would be shattered. Decimated. Utterly destroyed.
Once Steve had gathered up the nerve to question the first and most obvious assumption about himself, really, everything was up for question, wasn't it? It all came back to that moment, that one moment when Steve, still secure in his alpha male, heterosexual self-image, jacked Danny's arm behind his back, pushing him down, making him submit, damn it . . . and then in that very same moment, Danny rocked his world with a sharp right hook, and everything Steve had ever believed about himself was suddenly up for debate.
Because, in reality, the one thing Steve needed most in his world was to not have to be so perfectly strong and in control twenty four hours a day.
So people can assume what they want, but in reality, it's Danny who curves himself around Steve at night, his hand resting warm and weighty on Steve's hip, or splayed across those ridiculous abs. What people don't notice, because of those ubiquitous dress shirts, is that Danny's broad shoulders and strong biceps easily rival Steve's; which means that in the quiet hours of the night, when Steve is shaking from a nightmare, it's Danny's strong arms that are wrapped around him, soothing him.
Because they'd danced around it, slinging innuendo and loaded glances and "babe" until Danny flung open the back of the truck in North Korea. And when they finally landed at Hickam, it was Danny who slid behind the wheel of the Silverado as if he had done it a thousand times, Danny who steered them home, Danny who held him in the shower and carefully washed away the blood, and the grime, and it was Danny who finished taking him apart, piece by piece, and then slowly started putting him back together again.
So every day, Steve is the consummate commander: barking out orders, disregarding things like procedure and protocol and personal safety. He can understand why it would be easy to assume that continues off the clock, but then, people don't see the exhausted slump of his shoulders when they drag themselves back to Steve's house after a rough case . . . their house, now, but that's new, Danny's only moved in a few weeks ago . . . and it's Danny who locks the door, sets the alarm, and holds out his arms.
"Come'ere," he says, and Steve simply . . . goes. Goes into Danny's arms. And it should feel ridiculous, and backward, that he rather towers over Danny and yet it's Danny who is holding him, telling him that it's okay, that they'll get the bastards tomorrow. Or Steve holds it together until he gets in the shower, but just, and it's Danny who slips in behind him, and keeps him from crashing face first on the slippery tile.
It would be easy for people to assume that Steve is the one giving orders, staying in control. Unless, of course, they see the two of them staggering home at sunrise, right after telling someone their father will never come home. Or their mother. In that case, they would see Danny gently propel Steve to the chairs overlooking the water; they would see the way he stands over Steve, his hands a quiet, steady weight on Steve's shaking shoulders.
And when Steve walks - no, swaggers - onto a crime scene, all combat boots and thigh holsters and honest-to-God grenades, it would be easy to assume that he swaggers that way up the stairs and into the bedroom.
And, okay, that would be true sometimes because, seriously. It's Steve.
People might be surprised to know that more often, it's Danny swaggering up the stairs while Steve is up there, waiting for him, because Danny sent him to the bedroom ten minutes ago with explicit instructions on how he wants to find him. And Steve is so, so very good at following orders.
Because, in reality, Danny is a toppy topper who tops.
Then there are the days - many of them - when Steve whips off his shirt to do some super SEAL shit and it would be so easy to assume that Steve is the adventurous one, that Danny - blond, all-American, previously married, proud father - is positively vanilla next to six feet of sun-kissed, exotically tattooed Navy SEAL. But while Steve was being raised by the aforementioned conservative parents and the US Navy, Danny . . . well. Danny spent several years in college completely and utterly unhindered by DADT, much to Steve's quivering, pleading, gasping amazement.
Danny might look like sunshine, fresh air, and lemonade, and Steve is sure as hell not going to disabuse anyone of that assumption. No, sir; he will be damn happy to keep Danny's bent toward moonlight, musk, and bourbon all to himself.
Steve will happily, desperately let people assume anything they want; anything that will keep Danny under the radar of everyone else.
Because, when Steve's assumptions about himself were shattered by Danny's right hook, apparently, his assumption that he could handle anything life threw at him by the sheer force of his will was shattered as well. Somewhere between that right hook and WoFat's cattle prod, Steve had become attached and dependent on someone for the first time in his life.
And Steve doesn't assume, not for one minute, that he will be able to go on, to function, to keep breathing, if anything ever happens to Danny.
If that reality is just a bit terrifying, well, Steve assumes that's what happens when you have a . . . partner.