The first time Danny noticed, they were picking up groceries. Steve squinted at a bottle of protein shake, gave a little shrug, and put it in the cart. Danny stole a glance at it while Steve was perusing the leafy greens.
It was full of sugar. And preservatives.
There was no way Steve had read that label.
The next thing he noticed was that Steve had taken to leaning back in his office chair. Not slouching, mind you. Steve rarely slouched.
But he was definitely leaning back, subtly moving his chair away from the desk while he read the computer screen.
His arms were long enough that he could still type just fine, so only a close observer would notice.
Danny was nothing if not a closer observer, especially where Steve was concerned.
Since their venture into the restaurant business, they'd enjoyed visiting some new places — now, it didn't feel like a homework assignment. They were at such a place tonight, an Asian fusion that looked promising; red meat for Danny and sushi for Steve.
Steve frowned at the menu, then ordered the most predictable dish imaginable.
Danny decided it was enough.
"Babe," he said gently, "I would've been glad to help you out with the menu."
Steve scoffed. "What? What are you talking about?"
"Steve. It's obvious that you're having trouble reading."
Steve bristled, six feet plus of righteous indignation. But when Danny reached over and took his hand, he sighed and linked their fingers together, relaxing into the touch.
"Just up close," he admitted.
"It's okay, you know. It's a normal part of the aging process." As he said it, Danny realized that Steve lacked the experience of watching his parents grow old. He mentally cursed WoFat, the Navy, and the CIA. It wasn't the first time.
"Then what, adult diapers?" Steve sulked.
Danny recognized the sulking for what it was — Steve's cover for all things uncertain and fearful. He ignored the diapers for now.
"We are getting older, you know. It's a side effect of surviving all of the insanity that's been thrown at us."
Steve sighed again. "Yeah. I don't like it."
Danny stayed silent, brushing his thumb across Steve's scarred knuckles, waiting. Steve was a long way from the emotionally cut-off person that Danny first met, but it still took some time for him to overcome his reluctance to share his thoughts, to allow himself to be vulnerable.
"I don't like feeling like my body is betraying me," Steve said, quietly. "What happens when . . ."
"When you can't throw yourself off a building or tackle a perp?"
Steve nodded.
"I don't know," Danny admitted. "It's coming for me, too, you know. We'll figure it out together."
"Maybe we shouldn't have given up on the restaurant."
Danny groaned and shook his head. "I like this angle on restaurants much better — if we had stayed in that we wouldn't have to worry about aging. That place would have killed us."
"If we hadn't killed each other first," Steve said, smirking.
Danny raised his glass of wine. "To staying alive."
Steve clinked his glass against Danny's. After a thoughtful sip, he started to speak, then hesitated.
"What is it?"
"I think . . . I don't think I expected to. Stay alive, that is. I'm at a loss, here, Danny. I didn't plan for age, for retirement."
"Look, it's gonna be a long time before we check into the nursing home, okay? Look at us. Couple of guys still in the prime of their lives."
Steve grinned lasciviously at that. Danny rolled his eyes.
"Whatever, keep it in your pants until after dessert. I'm just saying, it's not the end of the world. It's not the end of anything. We'll adapt."
"Okay, Danny. If you say so."
"I do. Now, let me help you with the menu tonight, and for God's sake, tomorrow go get your eyes checked, would you?"
Steve excused himself, without explanation, the next morning.
That weekend, he grudgingly asked Danny to read the fine print on their new joint checking account.
Danny was starting to wonder if maybe Steve hadn't gone to the base eye doctor, after all, that day he left without explanation. That is, until the evening he came home from returning the kids to Rachel, to find Steve sitting at the desk in his (their, he corrected himself) home office.
Wearing glasses.
Steve, in a soft, well-worn flannel shirt, his face illuminated by the soft glow of the desk lamp, with the end-of-day stubble and a pair of classic tortoiseshell glasses, looking far more confident with his laptop and a stack of reports on the desk in front of him.
Danny had a passing thought to the benefit of less eyestrain on his way to the pressing thought of Steve, in glasses, looking hotter than he had any right to look.
"Holy shit," he blurted, making up for his lack of eloquence with his enthusiasm.
"What?" Steve asked. He was immediately self-conscious, reaching up –
"Don't you dare," Danny said, striding toward the desk. He stood over Steve – and wasn't that a nice change of pace, really – and took Steve's face in his hands, thumbs brushing over the shadow of Steve's beard, a few silver hairs there and at his temples glinting in the soft light. "You look . . . wow. You look good."
"Yeah?" Steve made to duck his head, but Danny wouldn't let him.
"You only wear these for reading?"
"Yeah. Still 20/20 for distance. Driving, flying . . . shooting." He said it quietly, but Danny felt the undercurrent of relief. For all the things that made Steve six feet tall (more than, but who's counting) and bulletproof, his vision hadn't given an inch.
"Good. Because you wearing these at the office is going to be enough of a challenge, I don't think I could survive you wearing them in the field. God, your sunglasses are already enough to . . . but these."
"Really?"
Danny decided that he'd used enough words, and that actions – namely, his lips and hands over every square inch of non-eyeglass covered skin he could get to – would best convey his . . . appreciation of Steve's new accessory.
They were showered and mostly toweled dry, limbs casually tangled atop clean sheets. Danny was dozing pleasantly, the anticipation of waking to a quiet Saturday at home adding to his bliss, when Steve's bony foot poked into his calf.
"What?" he said, opening just the one eye half-way.
"So . . . sunglasses?"
He closed his eye again. He didn't need to see to know that Steve was smirking.
