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sirona_ficsOh my god, I can't stop writing those two. /0\ This is what happens when I think of Danny burrowing his face in Steve's neck. Warning for trauma-induced nightmare.
Just Breathe
Steve/Danny
Hawaii Five-0
~600 words
Danny jerks awake, a shout ringing in his ears. The room is empty around him, the covers on the other side of the bed pushed back as if someone has thrown them off in a hurry. Danny blinks a few times, wide awake yet still half-asleep, that strange state that comes over him sometimes when he’s pulled out of a deep sleep with nothing to ground him.
He trails a hand over the messed-up sheets -- still faintly warm, so his bedmate can’t have gone far. He lies there for a moment, thinking about going back to sleep, rubs palms over too-long stubble and sits up instead. He knows from experience that any sleep he falls into while Steve’s up and about will be fitful at best.
“Where have you got to now, McGarrett?” he mutters to himself, voice sleep-rough and weary.
Flashes of a dream--no, memory, whip before his eyes -- Steve falling fast, followed by that boulder narrowly missing him when he hits the ground, and he wants to call out--oh. The shout that woke him up was his own. Explains the tightness in his throat, he supposes.
He sits on the edge of the bed, runs shaky hands through his hair, hangs his head, clenches his teeth and forces himself to stop reliving that moment over and over again -- for the time being. He’s pretty sure he’s never going to forget the split-second of terror, of helplessness clawing at his throat, of the rope slipping through his hands, tearing off skin and breaking fingernails in its wake, and all of that not even comparing to the stop-start of his heart, of the squeeze in his lungs when he sees Steve come to a sliding stop mere inches from tipping over the edge of the cliff.
There’s painful stinging in his palms, and he realises he’s digging his nails into the sore skin, drawing up faint crescents of blood. The soft footfalls behind him startle him so bad that he nearly slides right off the bed, legs like jelly and knees that knock clumsily together.
“Hey, hey, Danno,” Steve murmurs behind him, warm hand rubbing soothing circles into his shoulder. He draws a shuddering breath that hurts when it goes past a throat too-tight with remembered panic. He allows Steve to draw him back into bed, tug him down gently as he settles so his face is pressed into the crook of Steve’s neck (‘it’s okay, hey, it’s okay, c’mere, c’mere’), breathing in the musky, sleep-soft smell of him, a hint of soap from the shower earlier, a hint of chalk from the cast that presses against Danny’s side, holding him in place.
It’s all Danny can do to just breathe, to stop the tremors that threaten to tear him apart, to let himself settle against the warm, solid, body under him and allow his muscles to unclench. Steve’s chest rises and falls rhythmically under his, heartbeat strong against Danny’s palm where it curls over Steve’s heart. A hand winds its way into his hair, scratches ever so softly at his scalp, gentle, soothing. An involuntary whimper falls out of Danny’s lips when Steve rubs a stubbled chin against his forehead, a tiny caress, a point of contact that Danny latches onto like a lifeline, presses his head into, as if every single tiny hair is another point that fixes him to the here-and-now.
Steve doesn’t say a word; just breathes under him, easy, in-out, in-out, thud-thud, thud-thud, alive. If Danny listens long enough, maybe he’ll start believing it’s true.
-----
Just Breathe
Steve/Danny
Hawaii Five-0
~600 words
Danny jerks awake, a shout ringing in his ears. The room is empty around him, the covers on the other side of the bed pushed back as if someone has thrown them off in a hurry. Danny blinks a few times, wide awake yet still half-asleep, that strange state that comes over him sometimes when he’s pulled out of a deep sleep with nothing to ground him.
He trails a hand over the messed-up sheets -- still faintly warm, so his bedmate can’t have gone far. He lies there for a moment, thinking about going back to sleep, rubs palms over too-long stubble and sits up instead. He knows from experience that any sleep he falls into while Steve’s up and about will be fitful at best.
“Where have you got to now, McGarrett?” he mutters to himself, voice sleep-rough and weary.
Flashes of a dream--no, memory, whip before his eyes -- Steve falling fast, followed by that boulder narrowly missing him when he hits the ground, and he wants to call out--oh. The shout that woke him up was his own. Explains the tightness in his throat, he supposes.
He sits on the edge of the bed, runs shaky hands through his hair, hangs his head, clenches his teeth and forces himself to stop reliving that moment over and over again -- for the time being. He’s pretty sure he’s never going to forget the split-second of terror, of helplessness clawing at his throat, of the rope slipping through his hands, tearing off skin and breaking fingernails in its wake, and all of that not even comparing to the stop-start of his heart, of the squeeze in his lungs when he sees Steve come to a sliding stop mere inches from tipping over the edge of the cliff.
There’s painful stinging in his palms, and he realises he’s digging his nails into the sore skin, drawing up faint crescents of blood. The soft footfalls behind him startle him so bad that he nearly slides right off the bed, legs like jelly and knees that knock clumsily together.
“Hey, hey, Danno,” Steve murmurs behind him, warm hand rubbing soothing circles into his shoulder. He draws a shuddering breath that hurts when it goes past a throat too-tight with remembered panic. He allows Steve to draw him back into bed, tug him down gently as he settles so his face is pressed into the crook of Steve’s neck (‘it’s okay, hey, it’s okay, c’mere, c’mere’), breathing in the musky, sleep-soft smell of him, a hint of soap from the shower earlier, a hint of chalk from the cast that presses against Danny’s side, holding him in place.
It’s all Danny can do to just breathe, to stop the tremors that threaten to tear him apart, to let himself settle against the warm, solid, body under him and allow his muscles to unclench. Steve’s chest rises and falls rhythmically under his, heartbeat strong against Danny’s palm where it curls over Steve’s heart. A hand winds its way into his hair, scratches ever so softly at his scalp, gentle, soothing. An involuntary whimper falls out of Danny’s lips when Steve rubs a stubbled chin against his forehead, a tiny caress, a point of contact that Danny latches onto like a lifeline, presses his head into, as if every single tiny hair is another point that fixes him to the here-and-now.
Steve doesn’t say a word; just breathes under him, easy, in-out, in-out, thud-thud, thud-thud, alive. If Danny listens long enough, maybe he’ll start believing it’s true.
