Part Two: It Ain't Me Babe (Nah), It Ain't Me You're Looking For (Babe)

[tourdefierce]

<3<3<3

Painkillers make his brain fuzzy when he first wakes. His mouth is dry, like he's back in college waking up after three bong hits and a bag of Cheetos. His neck hurts, twisted at an odd angle and he has to pee. Did he mention that his knee still throbs painfully? Or how about his chest?

"Jesus-fuck," Danny groans, turning his wheelchair around to find Steve, all six-foot-three of him, looming in the doorway. He's got his "I-have-Daddy-issues" face on but that can't be right, so Danny blinks and when he refocuses, it's a little bit better—the "My-guilt-complex-is-immense" face suits the situation a little better.

Danny should wheel himself to a taxi and go home to his lonely, one-bedroom shit hole and sleep for days. He should call Rachel and rearrange the schedule so Grace won't have to see him so beat-to-hell. He should let the painkillers and details of Grace's day lull him to sleep. He should just let it go.

Enough emotional bullshit for one day and all.

Instead he says, "Come on, I'll let you take me home."

He gets a raised eyebrow, as if McGarrett has no idea that Danny's onto him, but then his face gets all scrunched up and stupid, shifting through all his ridiculous faces until it finally lands on his standard, blank-SEAL face.

His shoulders are all slumped, dejected in the teenage-hormonal sort of way that he gets when Steve has manly angst.

Danny would know. He's feel the same way.

"Right, let's go," Danny says, running over Steve's foot and making his way toward the door.

Steve follows at more sedate pace, creepy and stalker like, until Danny hauls himself into the Camaro's passenger seat.

Steve looks pissed. Danny rolls his eyes. "Go give that wheelchair back to whoever you stole it from, freak."

He slams the door.

<3<3<3

Danny's asleep before Steve comes back and the drive back to his house is silent. Lt. Commander McAbs is brooding, all dark and handsome and distracting Danny from the facts of the day, as he slips in and out of sleep. His knee hurts less than he thought it would, only a dull ache but his chest feels like it's on fire and he's half afraid of what he's going to find when he unbuttons his shirt. He might still have some Bengay (hilarious, really) or Vicks in his medicine cabinet at home that will ease a little bit of the suffering. If it feels awful now, it's really going to hurt like a son-of-a-bitch tomorrow and oh, isn't that a pleasant thought.

Except, the next time he opens his eyes, he's not on the way to his shitty apartment.

"Steve—"

"Can we just not, I mean, Jesus Danny, can you just shut up?" He growls it out, not taking his eyes off the road for a change and Danny shifts to get a better look at him. His jaw is tight and his hands are white-knuckled from his grip on the steering wheel.

Danny sighs. They keep driving.

Steve attempts to help him out of the car. The ensuing argument is conducted mostly with glares, flailing arms and grunting. By the time Danny is halfway to the house, Steve is already inside, banging things around and pouting—like he's the one who was beat up by the geriatric ward.

He's literally seconds from sinking down onto Steve's couch when he shows back up in the doorway, arms crossed and a scowl firmly planted on his face.

"Don't sit down."

Danny rolls his eyes. "I'm a fucking gimp right now and you want to fight with me?"

"Danny, the couch is not gonna be good for your knee. Will you just hobble yourself up the stairs?"

Danny wants to argue. He should be on the couch and not anywhere near Steve's bed, which is apparently so prone to gay sex that it might actually kill him but he looks up from the couch to see Steve, face pinched and scowly, and so he caves. If anyone asks, it's because of the painkillers.

It takes Danny ten minutes to get up the stairs. Surprisingly, Steve doesn't fire-man carry him up the stairs—nor does he hover, tutting behind him. Instead, Steve is busy doing something in the kitchen until, magically, Danny makes it up to the top of the stairs and Steve appears.

"You're sleeping in my room," he says sternly, pointing down the hall. "None of the other beds have clean sheets."

Danny scoffs, feeling a slightly bitter and more than a little winded from the climb. "And your sheets are clean? I'm supposed to believe that after this morning?"

Steve blinks. "Yes?"

"Right, of course, cause that would make so much sense," Danny bitches, dragging his body down the hallway. "You would change your sheets, all ninja-like, after—is that a military thing? Are you going to be up at like four in the fucking morning vacuuming the hallway or something? Because let me tell you something, asshole, I will not stand for it. Not enough painkillers in the world will make me put up with your OCD, Naval Academy bullshit."

Steve doesn't really seem to be listening and that's fine with Danny because he doesn't really know what he's saying. It feels good to mindlessly rant.

Steve's room isn't particularly personal but at least it looks like he cleared out his dad's old stuff and replaced it with new things that don't have horrid memories attached to them—not like the rest of the house but Danny can dream. The bed is large, a California King at least, and Danny almost smiles because of course Steve would indulge after years of living in the jungle or in barracks or where the fuck he was living during his years as a G.I. Joe. There isn't a comforter, just pale blue sheets that Danny doesn't hesitate to sink down onto. He sits, groaning a little at the relief, and stares out of the balcony doors.

"This bed is divine," he says, resisting any and all desires to flop onto it, curl up and never leave. That train of thought leads to madness—or at least a further embarked course of madness that Danny is nowhere near ready to address. He's barely past I'm extra gay for Steve more and Steve's a homo-ninja. His head is nowhere near above water. He hasn't even had time to decide if he's repressing the events of today or not.

"Kono and Chin are checking out a lead," Steve says from behind him. "There was an arson HPD handled a couple weeks ago that might be linked."

Danny doesn't turn around. "You should go. I know you want to, you control freak. I'm not going anywhere."

There's silence behind him. Not the thinky-kind but the awkward kind and this, this, is exactly why Danny has never let himself fall for a co-worker. If he could turn back time and tell himself one thing, other than the lotto numbers, it would be Be on your guard, Danno. Navy SEALS are not to be trusted with anything but explosives. No. Seriously. Stop it trying to give that man your heart. Stop it right now.

"Nahhhh," Steve drawls, in a forced sort of casualness that makes Danny unsure how he ever got through under-cover ops. "I'd rather stay here and work out my control issues on you."

Danny laughs, it's rough and humorless, making him rub at his chest because it hurts. "I'm in no mood, Steven. I've got a boot-print the size of a smug-rapist, which for your information is big—very big and my knee feels like it wants to secede from the union of my body. I just want to sleep. I want to sleep forever—"

"Wait, what's wrong with your chest?"

Danny is going to reply but is stopped by Steven-fucking-McGarrett's coming around the bed, pushing him down and unbuttoning his shirt at a speed that is truly unnatural. Danny's in shock. Really. All he can seem to think about is the cool slide of Steve's hands, how soft the bed is beneath him and that furrow of Steve's brow that Danny desperately wants to rub with his thumb.

He's losing his mind.

"You didn't say anything about a rapist, fucking-Christ Danny," Steve spits out, his hand running over the bruises a little too roughly and Danny twists, hissing.

"That hurts, dickhead," he says, because he's twelve and high on painkillers, emotionally stunted and just a little bit hard.

"Danny," Steve breathes out. "This looks awful."

His voice is all soft, worried and kind of breathy, making the rest of the braincells Danny has firing to just melt into a puddle of Steve-charmed goo. He moves his hands to still Steve's, which are still too rough on his bruise.

"You know it looks worse than it feels."

"Does it?"

But Steve's face is so open that Danny looks away, looks at the smattering of truly black bruising on his chest and then says, "Nope. It hurts like a bitch."

"Get up on the bed properly," Steve says after a minute, his voice still soft around the edges and so Danny obeys. He shucks his shirt off the rest of the way and pulls his tie until it comes undone. By the time he leans back against the headboard, Steve is already back with a bottle of Vicks in his hands.

"I didn't have Bengay," Steve says, sorrowfully, like Danny is going to drown kittens because of it.

"It's fine," he replies. What else is he supposed to say? This face, whatever expression is etched into Steve's face is new and he really can't deal with anything but himself right now. "Give it here."

Steve shakes his head, all stubborn without sense. "You won't do it right," he says, climbing onto the bed and not giving Danny anytime to protest before he slathers the sticky substance all over Danny's bruise.

The moan that comes out of his mouth is completely out-of-character and not Danny's fault.

It's just... Steve's hands are gentle, working the Vicks into his chest with tiny little circles of his fingers and Danny is memorized by the way Steve's cuticles catch on his chest hair, or the way his tongue sticks out as he frowns in concentration. On top of the fact that Steve's hands are touching his bare skin, the Vicks feels good on the bruise, like it's lifting the pressure and achy pain from his chest. There is also the fact that the wrinkled frown in between his eyebrows is still there and Danny wants to kiss it. It's all very distracting.

Not nearly as distracting as Steve running his fingers over Danny's nipples—his nipples for God's sake— and sucking in a breath when they harden underneath his care, like he didn't know it would happen like that because it's not like they're nipples or anything—like Danny is just one big-fucking-surprise.

Danny shakes his head and tries to breathe but it feels a little ragged.

"You get checked out?"

"It's fine," Danny chokes out, "just some bruising."

The scowl on Steve's face deepens. He continues working the Vicks in, finally finishing with a few careful swipes at Danny's chest (and totally going for the nipples again, don't think that Danny didn't notice) before he takes his hands away and simply scowls down at Danny's chest.

Then,

"Take off your pants," he says before disappearing.

Danny leans over to grab a glass of water and two painkillers from his prescription bottle. In a feat of desperation, he toes off his shoes and shucks his trousers, only to find evidence of his feelings for Steve staring back at him because everything about his body is betraying him. Why is that? Why does his body like Steve more than it likes sanity? Hmm? Why dammit. He wiggles under the covers, breath ragged, and turns onto his side just as Steve comes back from the bathroom.

Danny doesn't squeak when Steve slides into bed. He doesn't.

"I always imagined you'd sleep on the right side of the bed," Steve says into the darkness.

"What?"

He moves, turning over and wiggling to get comfortable and Danny glares daggers at the balcony. His mind is still stuck on the fact that Steve is actually in bed with him, he's got a hard on and he's in a fair amount of pain. He really wishes he would have kept his pants on.

Steve clears his throat. "I just, you know, I thought you'd be on this side."

Something twists, dark and nasty inside his chest. What the fuck is wrong with Steve? What is wrong with him? He huffs, curling in on himself and clutching the pillow like it could possibly save him from himself or Steve or Hawaii in general.

"Look, I'm sorry if I ruined your plans tonight. But in my defense, I didn't ask you to take me back here and mollycoddle me like my fuckin' Ma—"

"Mollycoddle? Really, Jersey?"

Danny huffs, pulling the sheet tighter around him. "I'm trying to apologize here, alright? So shut up and accept that I'm sorry if I ruined your plans with Ben tonight. I didn't mean to get beaten up, unlike you, who go head first into dangerous situations, just assuming someone will take care of your sorry ass afterwards. I am a normal and sane human being who does not expect to get demolished on the job and so, again, I offer my apologies for co-opting your time for taking care of my, very minor, injuries, when you could be doing things that incur the wrath of Kono. I know how much you like that."

See? This is the problem with Steve. He's handsy and puppy-dog faces and Danno right from the get-go and yet, anytime there is talk of anything that can't be fixed with grenades or napalm, he reverts back to the silent-military type like he's been burned before and Danny just kind of hates everything. Most of all he hates that he still wants Steven, still wants to put aside all his rage and hug-it-out or something... dick-it-out. Whatever. It's clear that even though there are so many fucking Daddy-issues inside Steve's heart, there's something else too that keeps him from functioning like a normal individual with a vast array of emotions. Sure, Danny's got all sorts of issues with his feelings, but at least he knows it. He knows where it comes from and he's working on it, okay? He's got a nasty suspicion that Steve doesn't understand why he feels too much, or not at all, or how he just stuffs everything in a dark corner of his chest, goes into Super-SEAL I'm being tortured headspace and calls it a day. Apparently, addressing his feelings is like going to Gitmo. Of course it is.

Danny sure knows how to pick 'em.

He doesn't talk into the silence like he wants to. He doesn't fill up the painful, blank silence with anger or just rambling. He wants to but he resists. Instead, he just breathes, uncomfortable and pissed off and just a little bit high.

"Ben? What are you talking about?"

Danny flails his hand out. "You know what I'm talking about, Steven. Did I just hallucinate that experience, you know, where Kono tried to inflict major bodily harm because you were shtupping her first boyfriend or making the entire island gay by dazzling them with your shirtlessness and your complete and total disregard for real things like police procedures? This isn't Gitmo, buddy. I mean, you were—"

"Danny," Steve interrupts, again, grabbing Danny's waving hand and holding onto it just a little bit too hard. "What—"

"We really doing this now?"

"Are you high?"

"Give me back my hand!" Danny yells, tugging on his hand but Steve won't let go. "Steven, let it go. Let me go, you neanderthal."

"I'm not tupping—"

"Shtupping, you nudnik," Danny corrects automatically because what else is he supposed to do?

"Okay, Danny, okay. I just—" Steve stops and breathes against the back of his neck, making it perfectly clear just how close he is. Sometime in the short snippet of conversation he had plastered himself up against Danny's back like a freakin' octopus and now Danny is subject to goosebumps and warm breath against the soft hairs of his nape.

It feels fantastic, causing Danny to shiver underneath the covers.

"You cold?"

Danny snorts, pulling weakly where Steve still has his hand. "It's Hawaii, dumbass. It's like seventy degrees right now."

Steve huffs. Danny can feel it.

If he wasn't already lying down, Danny's sure he'd be lightheaded and blaming it all on the painkillers. As it is, he's practically trembling with Steve plastered to his back and holding his hand. Surreal.

"Can I have my hand back?"

There is a pause and Danny imagines the slow blink that Steve's probably got going on. He tugs a little, reminding him what he's talking about. Steve sighs against his neck and makes a small, unhappy sound that sounds a little like when Gracie accidentally left her Slinky in the driveway and Danny backed over it with his car.

"No," Steve says firmly. "No, you can't."

Then, because he's absurd and Danny has lost control over his life, Steve brings both their hands down until they're resting on the mattress, cocooned around Danny's waist and hips.

"What—"

"Jesus Christ," Steve hisses, "would you just shut up and go to sleep?"

Danny wants to protest but before he can't get anything out, Steve is squeezing his hand like they're fifteen and on their first date at the movie theater—terrified that if they do anything someone's dad is going to pop out of a closet and lecture them using diagrams. Danny feels another wave of dizziness go through him and concentrates of the rhythm of Steve's breathing, hoping to regulate the amount of air going to his brain.

By the time he calms down enough to berate Steve into answering the question about Ben or figuring exactly, maybe even with a fucking map, how they got here—whatever it is going on between them—Steve's asleep and Danny gives in to the pull of the painkillers, chasing dreams before the next breath hits them.

<3<3<3

Danny has a list for mornings. He has a list of The Best Ways to Wake Up and lately, the top of that list has been mostly populated by very strong coffee, Kono in a bathing suit (even if she has ill intentions that involve Danny in the water) and Gracie, screaming about Hannah Montana or some other such nonsense.

Groping hasn't seen the top of the list in a while.

It's on the hypothetical list, along with Stan being blown up by terrorists, the tectonic plates shifting so drastically that Jersey is magically next to Hawaii and, more recently, various naughty things involving his partner's Navy-trained, Hawaii sunned, body. But that's the thing, isn't it? It's a hypothetical list. It's not real. These things, on this list, aren't supposed to happen.

Danny's head is pretty fuzzy from the painkillers and his chest feels like he's been run over by a shipping container full of Chinese immigrants but he's fairly certain that there is a hand down the front of his boxers.

The sun, blinding as ever, is streaming through the balcony windows and Danny has to blink a few times to get his eyes to adjust to the light. When he looks down, yep, there is still a hand stroking his hip and getting dangerously close to his morning erection.

"I accidentally slept with Ben," Steve says in his ear, voice rough and sleep warm. It's one of the most erotic things Danny has heard in his entire life—which is saying something considering all the porn he's watched and the fact that the sentence has another man's name in it.

His own voice is croaky, not at all sexy and he can literally smell his own rank breath. "I'm just as confused as Kono," he says, swallowing around the lump in his throat and fighting the urge to stare at Steve's lazily moving hand. If he looks at it, he'll want to move into it and he's not exactly sure if that's the best tactical move at this point. "How does one accidentally bone someone?"

Steve huffs and it prickles the back of Danny's neck. "I was trying to bone," he says with a certain amount of amusement at Danny's vocabulary," you but I got too drunk."

Danny remembers that night vividly. It wasn't too long ago and they had all decided to go for a few drinks, unwind after a case. It had been a pretty wild night, Spring Break driving the locals from their usual haunts and into the cop-beat. Chin had been tense all night, family all round him and Kono had forgotten about Ben as soon as she realized what was happening. Two beers in, Kono left with Chin and Danny had stuck around for a little while, chatting up HPD friends until he needed to make a decision, stay and get trashed or go home and sleep. Steve had disappeared, holing up in a corner with some locals and when Danny had found him to say goodnight he was telling SEAL stories to a group of people who clearly thought Steve was some sort of God. At the time, Danny hadn't recognized Ben but he must have been there.

"Wait," Danny says, hand automatically going to still Steve's. "You tried to sleep with me that night?"

"Yes."

Danny frowns. Steve acted the same as he always did that night.

"You suck then because I had no idea you were trying to seduce me," Danny settles on.

He can't see Steve pout, since the bastard is wrapped around him from behind and rubbing all over him like a fucking cat, but he can feel it against the back of his neck.

"It was a strategic retreat," he says haughtily.

"Ha! That's the biggest loud of crap—"

"I really like morning sex."

Danny blinks. "So what? We're done talking about this because you say so?"

"Danno," Steve huffs, pouty and petulant like Danny's the lunatic here. "Sleeping with Ben just happened, it isn't a thing, alright? It's casual."

"And what? This, between us, the cuddling and hand holding and your hand down my pants—that's a thing? Or is that just casual too?"

There is an awkward pause, where the line of Steve's body goes rigid and Danny's heart feels like it's in his belly now, vulnerable and fleshy, not protected by the cage of his ribs. This is the crux of it, isn't it? Danny's not into being a casual fling or hell, Steve McGarrett's accident. He's been making lists and none of them involve that sort of low risk gamble. They're all in bets, Gracie's hopeful heart and Danny's scared and scarred one, right on the line.

"I want it to be," Steve says. For the first time, he sounds softer around the edges. His voice is just as rough but raw too, honest and full to bursting. "I want it to be a thing—if you do." The end is whispered, a little cop-out that Danny knows is supposed to be Steve's way out. It's a shit way out, but Steve's always got one, even if it's blow it all up and just sort through the rubble.

Steve nuzzles the back of his neck, nervous and fidgety like he gets when they haven't had much action with serious artillery in a while. His hand is white-knuckled and sure to be bruising Danny's hip but it's grounding.

"I guess I could get used to morning sex," Danny replies, just as softly. "You know, as long as there is a distant prospect of coffee."

Steve's grip doesn't loosen but he does mutter a hasty and blatantly relieved, "thank god" that has Danny reeling a little bit—like Steve wasn't aware that Danny was a sure thing; like Danny hasn't been making lists and having revelations and hiding under his desk far too often; like he hasn't been wearing his heart on his sleeve and everybody has been waiting for someone to tear it to shreds; like Steve just didn't know Danny loved him, even when he was wearing a tactical vest and smelled like kevlar.

"Steve—"

But he's already being maneuvered onto his back bringing Steve's face front and center.

"Morning," he says and if this were anyone else, Danny would swear that there's a blush on Steve's cheeks. Instead, Danny just swallows, takes in the ridiculously attractive planes of his face, his sleep tousled hair and that grin. It's not his normal, I-just-got-to-jump-out-of-a-helicopter-and-discharge-my-weapon sort of grin. It's more private, just as enthusiastic, but smaller and gentler, like he's been given something extremely special.

"You're a doofus," Danny says because it's the only thing that doesn't plainly give himself up. Steve grins a little wider anyway and says, "You have terrible morning breath," before kissing him. It's not a tentative or gentle kiss, it feels familiar and a little desperate, like Steve can't decide what he wants to devote his attention to first. He kisses with a short attention span until Danny is frustrated and opens his mouth to tell him the what-for when Steve ninjas his tongue between Danny's lips and then, well, then it's not so ADHD and more like suction. Steve licks into his mouth with determination, moaning when he discovers Danny's back teeth with his tongue. Embarrassingly enough, the sound makes Danny arch up into the kiss because Christ Steve sounds like every wet-dream Danny's been having since he came to this island and now he's making those sounds again and again as he takes Danny's mouth over with his tongue like he's claiming it for all of America.

Unfortunately, all that arching in pleasure pulls on the muscles at his chest.

"Oh fucking-fuck!" Danny swears, wrenching his mouth away to gasp as his chest lights up with pain. "Wait," he practically screams, pulling Steve back in when he moves away suddenly. "It's fine, keep going."

Steve blinks at him.

Danny tries to smile. "It's fine, McGarrett. Get back down here."

Steve just shakes his head. "I've been waiting for this—this—this shtuping to happen for a long time and I'm not going to have you die in the middle of it."

"I'm hardly dying! I've still got an erection."

Steve narrows his eyes. "Look who's lecturing who on safety and protocol."

"You're actually going to be smug right now? My injuries are stopping us from having, what I'm sure would be pretty fantastic sex and you're being smug right now?"

Danny shakes Steve by the shoulders, just a little bit. Steve blinks.

"You're right," he says, jaw firmly set. "We need to change positions."

They both get to work, ridding Danny of his boxers and Steve of his briefs with only minimal distractions. (Meaning that Steve spends three whole minutes staring at Danny's cock and when Danny asks "What the fuck is the hold up, McGarrett?" his only answer is: "I really like to suck cock" and then Danny spends the next twenty seconds swearing, cursing the heavens for his injuries before Steve shuts him up by sucking on his tongue.)

Finally, the move back into the position they were in this morning, except now, Danny's thighs are slick with lube Steve dug up from under a pillow and Steve's long, leaking cock is sandwiched between them. Steve's Gorilla-like arms are holding Danny across the collar bone and stomach, keeping his body prone except for tiny jerks of his hips.

"God, Danny," Steve moans, and Danny just nods, pushing back when Steve slides forward and moans into his ear. "Touch yourself, fuckfuck--I'm not gonna last," Steve moans, driving his hips forward to pound into the space between Danny's cheeks, his cock slick against Danny's balls.

Danny wastes no time wrapping a tight fist around his dick and stroking in rhythm with Steve's forceful thrusts. The position takes all the pressure off Danny's chest and knee, leaving Steve entirely in control, which of course, makes him hotter. It fucking figures.

There's a little hint of surprise, when Steve mumbles and babbles throughout the entire thing, moaning into Danny's ear and saying some seriously filthy things that make Danny so hot and wet, his cock goes sliding through his fist as if he'd lubed his hand. Although he's got a habit of rambling, Danny's fairly silent during sex. His mind just switches off and God, now, here, it gets lost in the hitching breath of Steve's voice, the way he fumbles through phrases and spends most of the time just moaning through vowels with every twist and desperate thrust between Danny's thighs.

"Wanna suck you off, fuck your face and hold you down with your tie—fuck, Danny, want your cock in me so badly," Steve whimpers then and Danny can't help it, he comes over his fist with choked moans. Distantly, he can hear Steve babbling on about fucking his ass but it's all overshadowed by Steve's wrenched out sobbing growl as he comes and coats Danny's thighs and ass cheeks with come. He's filthy with his own come, all over his stomach and hand, while Steve's dick is still pulsing with wild little jerks between his thighs and it's actually pretty disgusting how much lube and come is on Danny's skin right now.

It's fucking awesome.

Steve doesn't move. He's still octopused around Danny and nuzzling the back of Danny's neck. It's a bit surreal but not weird and Danny can't do anything but ride out his post-orgasm haze in Steve's tight hold.

"I need a shower, coffee and like, three Vicodin, and not necessarily in that order," Danny grumbles after five minutes of having his neck sucked on by Steve.

"Hmm, mouth wash too," Steve murmurs and Danny can do nothing but smack him until they both start laughing.

It's good. It's all really stupidly good.

<3<3<3

Steve disappears after making out with various parts of Danny's neck and shoulders for a good twenty-five minutes. Danny tries to complain but ends up dozing through most of it, until Steve rolls him over and kisses his mouth, soft and loving and so familiar that Danny wakes up immediately. Of course, that's when Steve rolls out of bed.

"Where are you going?"

Steve ignores him and goes to dig around in the chest of drawers. "Morning swim."

Danny groans. "You just spend the better part of the morning cuddling with me," Danny says, smashing his face into the pillow so he doesn't stare at Steve's deliciously bare backside (even his ass cheeks are tan). "Who are you foolin', tough guy?"

But Steve just laughs and says, "I like my morning sex with a swim" and disappears with a shit-eating grin that Danny's seen so many times before, on the other end, and something smothers him a bit from the inside, knowing he's the one who put that look on Steve's face and not Ben or Catherine or any other of McGarrett's accidental lays.

Danny spends another ten minutes in Steve's bed before the sheer filth of his own skin starts to gross him out. He takes a twenty minutes shower, scrubbing off the results of their earlier activities before he gets to the layer of grime left over from yesterday's fire and other emotionally scarring incidents. He curses a bit violently, leaving him out of breath, when he finds that the soap Steve has is fucking pineapple and coconut scented. It's too late by then with it rolling down him and seeping into his pores like nuclear waste oozing into vital parts of the ocean. Toxic shit.

There's extra razors in the cabinet but Danny forgoes shaving his day and half stubble as to cover up his beard burn. He has beard burn because he's just fucked a man. A man who happens to be his boss.

"No big-gay-freak-outs," Danny says to himself in the mirror with a firm nod and the moment, however fleeting, disappears. He takes a few breaths, easy and deep, before rooting around in the drawers to find a newly packaged toothbrush. He uses the last of the toothpaste in retaliation for the soap.

He spends a good deal of time studying his bruises in the mirror after he's done with his teeth. Both his chest and his knee look considerably worse than yesterday but that's to be expected with those types of hits. Still, the skin is mostly black, turning purple on the edges and honestly, really nasty. He's generally not a self-conscious guy—he's always been short but has never had any trouble keeping himself in shape enough to run down meth-addicts so high they can't even feel pain anymore. But the outrageous amount of bruising covering his chest spreads nipple to nipple and makes him wince.

He washes down two painkillers and wills himself not to think about it.

His trousers from yesterday are disgusting and there is no way Danny's putting them back on his body. Instead, he paws through Steve's truly appalling collection of clothes. (Seriously, his dress blues are the only thing not designed to also be swimwear. Even his cargos zip off into shorts. It's fucking insanity.) He finds sweats with NAVY fading down one leg and pulls them on. Even after three rolls, he's still swimming in them.

"Fucking giant," Danny grumbles, pulling on a white t-shirt and navigating his way down the stairs without falling, only wincing slightly and really wishing those painkillers would kick in a little bit faster.

After conducting a thorough examination of the kitchen, Danny comes up dangerously short. He's staring at the sink when Steve comes in, drying himself off with his towel and generally looking way too perky.

"Where's your damn coffee machine?" Danny says, waving around vaguely to the kitchen. "Is there some sort of secret compartment? Is there a code word? Oh wait, do we need to call Catherine to locate it with her fancy super-secret skills of Naval Intelligence? Because let me tell you, I passed my Detective Test with flying colors and I'm pretty sure finding something to produce coffee is like, the first step in anything Hoboken PD does."

When Danny glances at Steve's face, he's blinking again, which means he's trying to look innocent and only managing to look a little simple. This man was in Special Ops? With a face like that? Dear Lord.

"Steve, where—"

"I guess this is the time where I let you know that I don't have a coffee maker?"

It's Danny's turn to blink with incomprehension.

"What?"

Steve steps a little closer, his eyes flickering between Danny's mouth and his eyes. Danny is too stunned to really care that Steve's face is transitioning between don't-kick-the-puppy to I'm-a-sexy-SEAL. He's more concerned with the fact that there isn't a way to get coffee inside of him.

"Do you even have coffee beans? At this point, I'm willing to fucking eat them straight."

Steve reaches for him but Danny turns away, facing the sink and running the water into the cup.

"Don't touch me," he grumbles but Steve just laughs and presses up against his back. Once again, this octopus thing is a serious affliction of Steve's.

"Are you seriously gonna get pissy because I don't have coffee?"

"I will literally eat the coffee bean, unbrewed, that is how much I need coffee right now," Danny says, trying to stay stern but it's practically impossible when Steve smells salty like the ocean and sun warmed skin. Damn him.

"I have something else you can eat," Steve literally leers and presses his very wet, trunk-clad cock to Danny's backside.

Danny jerks his head around. "Are you serious? Are you seriously trying to get a blowjob right now? Because let me tell you something, babe, you can't just go denying a Jersey boy his coffee and then expect to get rewarded! You're like a dog, McGarrett. You need to be trained. This is not proper behavior befitting a man of your station," Danny goes for casual but Steve's grinding his wet dick into Danny's lower back like he's slutty for it and Danny's voice goes a little breathy in the end.

"Nahhhh," Steve says, all charm. He presses his mouth to Danny's neck, tonguing the mark Danny had traced in the mirror before moving to press hot kisses behind Danny's ear. "Blowjobs are always good, with or without coffee."

"McGarrett—"

"Come on, Danno," Steve purrs. "I'll make it easy on your knee. You can just lie back and I'll feed it to you. It'll be good, Danny. So good to have your mouth on me, make you hot and I taste good, promise you, Danny. I taste really good."

How is he supposed to say no?

The Vicodin makes him looser than normal, pliant in Steve's hands when he coaxes Danny around to face him. Any anxiety Danny has about taking a dick into his mouth is chased away by Steve's tongue. He kisses like a man starved. Danny tries to take control once or twice but Steve just whimpers into his mouth and laps at his lips until Danny gives up, making Steve moan and clutch at his hair like a teenage-boy. It shouldn't be hot. It really shouldn't.

But Danny ends up on his back, laid out on the couch in sweatpants too long for him as Steve scrambles to get his dick out of his board-shorts, panting with lust-blown pupils and looking unabashedly eager.

"This is why grown-ups have zippers," Danny says, watching Steve scrape his cock against the velcro at the top of his pants and curse. "Seriously, if you would just dress yourself like an adult..."

Steve gets his dick free, pushing his shorts down awkwardly until he can straddle Danny's shoulders and still have enough room for his balls. It's really hilarious looking but for some reason, Danny can't seem to laugh.

He licks his lips.

"Danny—"

"Yeah," he says, nodding slightly. "Alright."

Steven groans, hand going to grip the base of his cock as he slowly lowers his crotch to Danny's face. It's not as strange feeling as Danny would imagine, lying on his back like this. Instead, on the first stroke in, Steve goes down a little easier than he would if Danny were on his knees, especially since it's been a while.

"Holy fucking hell, Danny," Steve curses, hips stuttering a little when he pulls out, sliding back in and clearly trying to keep his control.

Danny hasn't even started yet and Steve's a mess.

He hums in response and Steve swears, one hand going to slap against the wall as the other wraps into Danny's still-damp hair. Danny sucks a little too hard in retaliation for messing up his hair but Steve doesn't seem to notice, his hips picking up speed a little and grinding into Danny's mouth. There's not much rhythm to it, as Steve looks too blissed out to understand the concept, but Danny lets him do whatever he wants as long as he doesn't go too deep. Steve sticks to shallow thrusts, head tilted back as he moans, near constantly while he uses Danny's mouth.

This way, Danny certainly does taste him and Christ, McGarrett isn't wrong, his precome isn't very bitter. There's a sugary taste to it that has Danny swirling his tongue to get more and causing Steve to babble more.

"Yeah, Danny," he groans out. "So good, feels so good on your tongue. Yeah, Christ."

Soon, Danny's jaw will start to hurt if they don't hurry this along. There's enough spit dribbling down his chin that when he brings his finger up, it coats it with saliva. Danny wastes no time in working that finger in between Steve's flexing cheeks and sliding home.

"Fuck! S'good, Danny, fuck me. I love it, god, you have no idea how much I love getting it up my ass," Steve moans, hips getting a little erratic. Danny moans, because yeah, Steve McGarrett is probably a shameless slut and when did that happen and why have they just now gotten around to this?

He works one finger but it's not enough, he can't really reach Steve's prostate from this angle with only the one. He's going to add a second one when the front door flies open.

Steve doesn't even pull his dick out, he just reaches down behind the couch to grab his weapon and points it at the open door—dick still wedged into Danny's mouth, finger still up his ass.

"Hey boss!" Kono says brightly, stepping inside.

Danny chokes a little bit. Steve pats his head. "Everything alright?"

Kono looks down to where Danny is having a complete and total meltdown and says, "Really? That's how you guys decided to do it?"

"I didn't want to hurt his knee," Steve says, whiny and when Danny looks up to convey that Hey! Maybe they could have this conversation without his mouth full of cock, wouldn't that be great? Steve is pouting.

"I dunno, Bossman," Kono goes on, tilting her head and squinting with what Danny knows to be pure glee. "I think it would work better—"

Danny almost bites Steve's dick off when Chin walks in, and uses the hand that isn't buried in Steve's ass to yank a throw pillow up as a barrier between his stuffed-full mouth and his co-workers.

"Whoa, Jesus-fucking-Christ," Chin exclaims. "Would you warn a man, Kono?"

Danny pulls his finger out of Steve's ass and it jerks him into chasing it with a little huff, consequently letting Danny pull away from Steve's crotch and put the pillow between Steve's dick and Danny's face. (Although, it's so still so hard it could probably drill a hole through the pillow, no sweat.)

"What the fuck!" He manages to get out but it's rough, his voice wet and oh no—

Steve's all crazy-eyes, staring wildly from Kono to Danny's mouth in a frantic, panicked sort of way.

"Let's go get coffee, cuz!" Kono says before pulling him out the door with a wink and a rude hand gesture that Danny doesn't even want to decipher.

Danny wishes he could sigh with relief. He really does. Instead, he turns his head to yell at Steve, only to find him shoving two of his own fingers into his ass.

"Are you kidding me right now?" Danny barely gets out because Steve is riding his own hand and looking down at Danny's mouth like pineapples were actually growing out of it.

"Danny, your voice—"

But then Danny takes pity on him because Chin and Kono are getting coffee right now and Danny has to deal with Steve, who is insanely sexy and really desperate and how is this his life?

The moment the tip of Steve's dick hits Danny's mouth he's coming, all down Danny's chin, streaking his cheeks with little of it actually making it into his mouth.

Steve collapses on top of him.

Danny is trying to figure out what part of the situation he's currently in is worse: the fact that Chin and Kono caught them; Kono and Steve's conversation while Danny had a dick in his mouth; the fact that Danny still hasn't had coffee or the pressing factor of his very hard cock leaking against his sweatpants in conjunction with the new information that Steve likes things up his ass.

"We're never leaving the house," Steve is saying, licking at Danny's chin and cheeks. "We're going to have sex forever."

"I'm sure you have forgotten about work," Danny growls out. "You know, with the fact that the last five minutes of my life were the most unprofessional display of—"

Steve moans and sticks his tongue in Danny's mouth.

They make out sloppily and Steve's just getting around to sticking his hand down Danny's pants, selfish asshole, when Danny's phone beeps.

Text from Kono:
sorry to interrupt the gay-love but we got a lead on our arsonist.

Danny scowls. "They have a lead."

"Dammit," Steve pouts before shrugging, jabbing his knee into Danny's shoulder and launching himself over the back of his couch to look for his spare set of cargo pants.

"Are we really leaving me hanging right now?" Danny says after Steve has gotten dressed in record time, in clothes that seem to have appeared out of nowhere. Steve's trotting down the stairs with his phone and both their guns as Danny stares down at his neglected hard-on. "After your stunning display of teenage-boy desperation and I'm the one who has to go chase down an arsonist with an erection? This is the thanks I get?"

Steve doesn't look apologetic. He looks smug in his stupid cargo pants and really attractive black polo. It doesn't even attempt to cover up the hickey on his neck. Danny wants to hit him.

He holds up his phone with a look, a stupid look that Danny kind of wants to smother with a pillow. "Kono bought you coffee?"

"You will pay," Danny says turning to limp out the door without looking to see if Steve, the annoying bastard, is following. "And we're stopping by my apartment for clothes because I am not chasing down a suspect in your clothes. I will do it in a tie. You will not complain and after all this is done, you will buy a coffee maker and practice making me coffee. No arguments," Danny finishes. Steve is staring at him over the hood of the car, grinning like a loon—like Danny just gave him the best thing in the world—and Danny doesn't know what to do with that so he just yells. "Get into the damn car, you hooligan!"

"Sure thing, Danno."

Danny doesn't smile. He fucking doesn't.

If later, he makes new lists—lists, that if he were a 12-year old girl would have hearts on them or Danny McGarrett at the top—that's really his business, okay?

<3<3<3



Comments foster my will to live. No really. It's been raining none stop here and I'm feeling a little homicidal. ♥ ♥