Title: Ties, Aneurysm Faces And, God Forbid, Feelings
Author: thewhiterose3
Pairing: Danny/Steve, slash
Disclaimer: Not mine. I only wish they were.
Rating: T, for language. Rating may go up in the future, depending on how daring I am.
A/N: Okay, before we begin, a few housekeeping items.
1) A HUGE thank you to everyone who has reviewed and alerted my story, I am truly honored and am quite glad that you like it.
2) Be warned, this chapter might be a bit on the dramatic side, because I am the worlds largest hopeless romantic.
3) I am planning an M rated 4th chapter, but it will probably take me awhile (yes, possibly even longer than this one, apologies) because that is not something I feel confident doing. But I'm willing to give it a try. If the M rated stuff is not your thing, than this particular story could quite possibly end with this chapter. But really, who knows where my muse will lead me.
Enjoy!
After leaving Chin's office, Steve placates Danny's post-Grace interrogation by offering dinner at his place with a promise that yes, he will finally tell him what the fuck has been going on today. Danny brings the pizza, because Steve really has more important things to discuss than what toppings are and are not abominations against nature, while Steve supplies the beer.
As Steve waits for Danny to show up, he paces. As he does before every action, no matter how thoughtlessly reckless they may seem, Steve assesses the possible outcomes. This conversation could either go very well or very badly. Given the intel collected both from Chin and personal experience, the former seems more likely, but Steve is still nervous. His life hasn't exactly been awash with happy coincidences.
Very well could end up in Steve's bed (he's already put on a clean set of sheets just in case) and very badly, well Steve doesn't even want to think about that. Very badly would be Danny transferring because Steve's advances were unwelcome. Maybe he should take Danny's advice again, get into the suspects head, suss out the relevant information without revealing too much. That's it, this time he'd go in with a plan. Talk about Danny's feelings without showing his hand.
Finding at least a temporary solution, Steve looks up and directly into an intense pair of blue eyes. And Steve's not sure if he can really read Danny that well or if it's just his imagination, but he swears he can see at least a half dozen emotions swirling in their depths. The foremost seem to be worry, confusion and fear. Like Danny can deal with the Steve that has an ego the size of a mack truck who attacks every situation with more confidence and bravado than a damn army (it's the Navy, Danno. Navy.), but this pacing, terrified to talk to his partner Steve is utterly baffling. Behind those is a steely determination that underlies Danny's every action. This time it manifests itself in helping to fix his partner no matter how the hell he happens to be broken this time. And it's almost as if he can feel Danny forcibly not running away from whatever the fuck is the source of Steve's unease.
After what is probably no more than fifteen seconds, but is still longer than Steve's looked someone in the eye without his walls up in years, Danny mans up and breaks the silence.
"So, are we going to eat or is the grease going to slowly eat away at my hand until there's nothing left?"
That's when Steve takes in more than those ever-expressive baby blues. Danny's leaning against the door jam, still dressed in his work attire, in his defense Steve hasn't changed either. Just standing there in all his betied glory, pizza balanced on his right hand like he could hold it there for ages.
"Well, you do look comfortable."
"Had some practice. Wasn't always a cop, you know."
And Steve's instant mental image of Danny half-covered in flour, cheeks bright from the heat of the ovens, tossing pizza dough in the air is enough to make him salivate and not for the pizza.
"So is that why I should trust your opinions on toppings? Because you're a professional?"
"Damn straight. Now what we've got here," Danny opens the box with a flourish, "is the best damn pizza I've found on this god-forsaken island thus far. No fancy shit, no god-damned fruit, just mozz, sauce, and dough."
"Well, lets get to it then, pizza connoisseur." Steve resists the urge to chuck a slice of pizza at Danny just to get him out of his Jersey-cop-wear. Just to see Danny rumpled by something other than danger. And possibly to lick off any sauce that didn't land on his clothes.
Steve will never fully understand how they communicate without words or actions, but somehow both he and Danny simultaneously pass up the table, the ocean-view, and another glorious sunset and instead immediately settle on the couch.
Two slices in and Steve's limited patience has run its course. He begins rethinking the sitting on his hands approach because he can feel himself wanting to reach out to Danny, to make him understand in a way that doesn't involve fucking words. So much can go wrong with words.
"So, what the fuck?"
And of course Danny would say it just as Steve takes a gulp of beer, leaving him sputtering, half-choking, and unable to answer.
"No, really dude. So far you've been twitchy as hell, short of breath, even more fucking ADHD and unfocused than usual," Danny ticks off Steve's symptoms on his fingers and Steve cuts in before Danny can start diagnosing him with even more psychological problems.
"You… you love me?"
Danny just stops. Stops mid rant, mid gratuitous hand gesture, and it seems like all of that warring energy has gone straight into his eyes. If Steve thought Danny could say a fucking novel with just a glance earlier, it was nothing, absolutely nothing compared to the multitude flitting through those baby blues right now. The foremost are anger, worry, fear, relief, and is that hope? Suddenly, they all come to grinding halt and settle on the most neutral expression Steve has ever seen grace Danny's features.
Danny slowly sets down his pizza slice and beer, wipes his pizza-hand on a napkin (when did Danny get napkins?), then turns to Steve and takes his beer and sets it on the end table as well. He then proceeds to lean into Steve's personal space ever so slowly and Steve hadn't realized how close they were already sitting. Steve's breathing starts to become unsteady as Danny stops inches from his face, eyes locked with Steve's, and punches him the arm. Hard.
And because Steve was leaning into it, definitely not because of the shock of not getting kissed, he rather ungracefully falls off the couch.
"That's it? That's what you get for scaring me. Really, man, that's it? I thought you were fucking dying or something. So, no tourette's? No random disease that your body is in the process of mutating in order to overtake the human race? Good. Because I have Grace this weekend. And since it seems that she won the bet, which I should have known because sometimes I swear she knows me better than I know myself, it means that we have to go to that god-awful restaurant with the singing waitresses and the funny hats. Fuck, I hate that place."
"You know? Hats… Grace… Bets? What the fuck, Danny?"
"Of course I know, asshole. Its pretty hard to not be aware of your actions, reactions, and feelings when a seven year old watches you continuously and calls you on your shit. Do you know what its like to have your kid ask you why you look at, yell at, talk about Uncle Steve like you used to with Mommy. I mean shit, she's seven. If this is what we talk about at seven, I have no hope for when she's a teenager."
Danny's confession is a catalyst because Steve is now in motion. And without making a conscious decision, he's up off the floor, has pulled Danny off the couch, and is pinning him up against the nearest wall, mouth devouring, claiming. There's a problem, though, because Danny's eyes are closed and he's not moving, not responding. But he's not pushing Steve away either.
So Steve abandons those lips he's been fantasizing about to kiss his way down Danny's jaw and swipe the flat of his tongue over Danny's adams apple, breathing his name.
"Danny, earth to Danny, you in there buddy?"
Awareness seems to come into Danny all at once because the next thing Steve knows, he's the one pressed against the wall. Boxed in by Danny's looming presence. Since when could a man seven inches shorter manage to loom? Steve wasn't sure, but fuck was it ever hot.
"Say it, tell me," Danny breathes, demands, still not touching Steve. Breath ghosting over Steve's jaw, his throat, anywhere Danny can reach.
The image of Danny still fucking looming over Steve, trembling slightly, refusing to touch until he gets an answer, looking up at him through his lashes with smoldering eyes and fuck if it isn't the hottest thing Steve has ever seen. Eyes that know how much Steve is getting turned on by this, know how much they both have to gain and lose by going through with it. Eyes filled with lust, heat, something so much deeper that can only be love, an overriding hope, and as always more than a hint of challenge.
And something in Steve breaks, snaps, rises to the challenge by way of letting go.
"Yes, fuck Danny. Want you. Now, later. Love you, Danno. Please."
It wasn't the most coherent declaration ever uttered, but it must have been enough because the next thing Steve knows, he's surrounded by the taste and presence of Danny.
The earth doesn't tilt and it doesn't feel like flying or free-falling and Steve doesn't hear music. Because Steve has experienced all of those things first hand, usually accompanied by gunfire (yes, even the music) and really, they aren't all they're cracked up to be. But kissing his best friend, fighting for dominance with ever touch, is like surfing. Like catching that perfect wave, that rush of adrenaline at finding the prefect moment where skill and nature come together to achieve a common goal. Like the island sunshine on your skin basking in the warmth of another perfect day. Kissing Danny is like coming home never really was, finding that nostalgia didn't exaggerate a damn thing. It's better, so much better.
It's like Danny can hear Steve's inner monologue because Danny does something positively sinful with his tongue and Steve's world narrows to wet heat, roaming hands over still clothed bodies, and "holy shit, Danny."
Steve's whimpering into Danny's mouth as Danny greedily swallows the sounds, smirking into the never-ending deliciously intense kisses. The tiny part of Steve's brain that isn't distracted by Danny's assault on his senses, and it's a very welcome offensive, responds in the only way Steve knows how. Oh, it is ON.
Danny is on his tiptoes trying to get leverage when Steve takes advantage of this fact to further dislodge Danny's shirt and finally, finally gets his hands on Danny's muscled chest. Touching Danny, skin on glorious skin, is instantly an addiction Steve never knew he had, mostly because now its Danny's making such delicious noises. When Danny has to dislodge himself from Steve's lips to pant rather heavily against Steve's throat (and no, of course that wasn't Steve who whimpered at the loss of contact), the tiny competitive bit of Steve's brain begins a surprisingly detailed touch down dance.
But then its Steve's turn to lose his breath and wonder if he hasn't suddenly contracted some ailment because watching your partner slowly and deliberately removing his tie (mumbling about not having enough good shirts to sacrifice one no matter how hot Steve tearing it off would be) should not be that damn sexy. The sight of those practiced dexterous fingers exposing the last few inches of Danny's throat shouldn't make Steve lightheaded, shouldn't make Steve harder than he's been in ages. But holy shit, if Steve isn't mesmerized by the sight. And Danny, the fucker, knows it.
"So, all those times you ranted and raved about my ties, my suits. It was all because you were fantasizing about me taking them off? Seems like I've found a way to distract the ultra-focused Commander. Next time I need to win an argument, I'll just loosen my tie and watch your eyes glaze over."
And all Steve can do is growl and dive in, unbuttoning the top three buttons and mapping Danny's throat with hands and lips and tongue. Steve brings his hands up, dragging Danny's button up and undershirt up and off him in one go and Steve can't help the shiver that erupts at the sight.
Because seeing a shirtless Danny feels like an honor, a privilege, because Danny is always so damned covered with those goddamned long sleeved button ups in fucking Hawaii. And Steve has the sudden desperate urge to memorize this moment with all of his senses, to pay homage to every inch of Danny's beautiful body. Because there is a small part of Steve, located just behind the competitive streak that fears that he won't get the chance again.
So Steve starts his quest with that spot directly underneath where Danny's damn ties usually lie. Bracketing his hands on Danny's neck, he simultaneously massages and pulls Danny up, closer as he continues his newfound obsession with testing the tendons of Danny's throat with teasing teeth followed by therapeutic tongue over and over and over again. Steve wonders idly if he's leaving a mark but there is another much stronger possessive voice that hopes the fuck so because Danny is his, dammit, his.
And fuck yes, Steve was right because Danny becomes incoherent, his hands stilling, clutching, fitting perfectly in the hollows of Steve's hips, and leaning back to give Steve better access.
"Steve, God, fuck Steve. Yes. McGarrett, we need to… do that again, Steve."
Before Danny, Steve never knew how the utterance of his name could mean so many different things. Anger, fear, amusement, concern, but Steve's favorite thus far is this breathless pleading, wanting version. Because Danny wants this, wants them, loves Steve, and its all there in his name. It makes Steve want to do dirty dirty things and unexpected romantic things and then dirty dirty things again to Danny just to prove to him that he feels exactly the same way.