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sirona_ficsYou may remember that strange weird story I moaned and whined about a while back, the one that whacked me around the head and demanded to be written, taking a piece of my soul with it for good measure. Well, here it is!
Title: Still a whisper on my lips
Pairing: Steve/Danny
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 5,300
Warnings: D/s (under)tones, bondage, some angst, spoilers for 1.08.
Summary: John McGarrett's garage is not the first time Steve and Danny meet. In fact, they meet ten years earlier, each of them looking for something to make them forget. Unfortunately, that night is not something Danny can just leave behind. An exploration of trust in its various incarnations.
Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
h50_flashfic's Alternative Universe challenge. Countless thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
delicatale, stjarna1984, and imaginarycircus for the read-overs and hand-holding; this fic really needed it for some reason! And as always, all my love to SuperBeta zolac_no_miko for fic wrangling duties! Title from Days Go By by Dirty Vegas. Originally posted at h50_flashfic
Look, it's not like he's planning to spend the rest of his life with the guy. Sure, he's tall, lean, long lashes and longer legs, and there's a wildness around his eyes, a desperation matching the one Danny's feeling; but Danny's under no illusions about what he's getting himself into. This thing will end long before the light of dawn.
It's just that this damn case, it's messing with Danny's head. The vic is a fifty-six year old white male, salt-and-pepper hair, short and sturdy, hands calloused from handling equipment -- he was with the FDNY.
He looks so much like Danny's father that Danny's stomach clenches every time he has to look at the crime scene photos. He feels out of control, desperate to regain it. And this guy, he's taller than Danny if not as bulky, powerful muscles standing out in his arms as Danny winds his tie around one strong wrist and secures it to one side of the headboard. His head is bowed, neck a solid column of muscle and tendons, still so very tense.
The man grunts breathlessly when Danny plasters his chest against his back, wiry curls of hair teasing at the gorgeous smooth skin, tanlines clearly visible now that the man is stripped of anything but Danny's tie. The other wrist is secured to the opposite corner of the bed frame with the remaining length, dark and light blue stripes starting to pink the unmarked skin. The man tests his restraints with a contemplative twist of his mouth, and Danny is suddenly positive that the man can get out of them in moments. Then his taut back relaxes, like all the fight has gone out of him, like he chooses to surrender. It's exhilarating.
"What's your name?" Danny murmurs, lips pressed to the nape of the man's neck; the man shivers in his arms.
"James," he says after the slightest hesitation, and Danny's not stupid; he knows there's no way that's the man's real name -- but he'll let him have that small win, because it's going to be the last thing he gets for a while without Danny giving it to him.
"Okay, James," he says, just enough inflection to let the guy know he's not fooling anyone. His voice slips into that space where he expects obedience as his due. "Spread your legs."
James lets out a shivering breath, slides his knees a little wider along the crisp cotton sheets of the motel bed. "I said spread 'em," Danny barks, and James jerks, droplets of fresh sweat beading at the hairline to trail down the back of his neck. He moves again, until his thighs are straining to hold his balance.
"Good," Danny praises, because that's the game they're playing -- control is their currency tonight, freely given and taken. "That's very good. Now then, James. What shall I do with you, all spread out for me, waiting to be taken, filled with my cock until the world disappears and all that's left is me?"
James whines, a small noise of supplication that sets Danny's blood on fire. He lets his palm stroke along the lean muscles, up his back, over his shoulder and down his chest, thumbing over a stiff nipple. James jerks, a tiny move forward into the touch before he leans back against Danny's chest, offering himself to Danny's hands.
Danny trails his other palm down James's side, gets a handful of taut ass, spreads him open until he can see his hole, fluttering a little with anticipation. He ducks down and licks a long stripe all the way up his crack, tongue stabbing inside a little. James lets out a strangled yell, shoving himself back down on Danny's mouth. Danny hums a little, savouring the taste of sweat and musk, the man's rich scent bursting on the roof of his mouth. Fuck, he's missed this.
He takes his time taking James apart, revelling in all the sounds falling unchecked and raw from his throat. There's a fine layer of sweat over James's skin now, and his thighs are shaking a little. Danny knows he's been drawing this out; that James can still hold that posture after almost forty-five minutes speaks of impressive muscle control. James's shoulders bunch with the need to get closer, ink standing out starkly against the golden skin. Danny runs his tongue over that, too, dark lines on the right and lighter on the left, bites right over the meat of the deltoid muscle. James groans and presses backwards into his chest, arching his back so Danny's cock rests between the scorching heat of his ass cheeks.
"You think you're ready?" Danny asks, more because he's teasing than asking an actual question. His tongue has already loosened the ring of muscles enough so that two of his lubed fingers slide inside with almost no resistance, once James grunts a 'yes, fuck, come on'. James clenches down on them, draws them into his body, and Danny bites his lip viciously to keep from burying himself inside him right this minute.
Then he remembers there are better things to bite.
James moans brokenly when Danny sinks his teeth into the delicious-smelling place where James's neck meets his shoulder, his ass tightening around Danny so hard that for a moment Danny thinks he's miscalculated and hit on some old trauma by mistake. But then James sobs out a 'fuck, please', and it's all Danny needs to hear. He shoves a third finger inside, drawing them out and stretching the hell out of him, because he craves control, not pain. He wants to break this man to pieces, but he's not interested in those pieces not fitting back together properly. He's got his pride, and nothing makes him feel more powerful than bringing someone so much pleasure that they forget their own name.
"Now, please, now," James stutters, hips jerking fitfully.
Danny withdraws his fingers roughly, shuffles forward until his knees rest between James's thighs, until the head of his cock, sheathed and lubed some time ago, just nudges at James's hole. He slides his hands to James's hips, feeling the small tremors of need under his fingers, and draws him back and down, slowly, until his cock is sliding inside and James is letting out helpless moans, trying to shove himself down on Danny. Danny's got him, though, fingers digging into the skin until he's sure they'll be able to scan his fingerprints off it in the morning.
Slowly, so slowly, he lets James sink onto him, the angle leaving him completely at Danny's mercy. He pulls James into his lap, balls resting snugly against his perineum, until James is wide open for him, desperate for more. James lets himself lean back against Danny's chest, sweat-slick skin sliding together, lets Danny set the pace with his hands and his hips and the whispered words of encouragement in his ear.
"Look at you," Danny murmurs, nosing at the damp hair at the nape of James's neck. "You want it so bad, so bad you'd let me do anything to you if it means you'll get to come."
"Yes," James grits out, voice breaking with need. "Please, Danny."
Danny's hips jerk upwards without warning, his name in that voice... "Say it again," he commands, pulling James down roughly as he thrusts into him. "Say it."
"Danny," James moans desperately, head falling down on Danny's shoulder and baring that gorgeous neck to his appreciative gaze.
Danny rewards him by sliding a hand along his twitching stomach muscles, creeping lower, curving over the base of James's cock and giving it a firm tug, twisting over the head to gather the dripping precome and rub it into the shaft as Danny pushes into him again.
"Danny," James yells, hips stuttering backwards and forwards, like he doesn't know what he wants more, to take Danny deeper inside or to push further into his tight fist.
"That's it," Danny rasps, voice gone rough with need. "Come on, you're so close, come on, James, give it up for me, I want it, I want you to come, now." He sucks a rough hickey onto James's neck, and it's like that's the last thing James can take, the final drop to tip the bucket, and James's orgasm comes tearing out of him, hoarse yells squeezing his chest, stomach muscles tightening so much they could be cramping, and ropes of come pulsing out of him to smear onto the sheets and the headboard. His fists clench on Danny's tie, tugging because James must know the knots are secure enough to take it. His spine bends into a tight arch, pressing his hips down onto Danny's cock while his head digs into Danny's shoulder.
It's quite possibly the hottest thing Danny's ever seen; the blonde twins threesome in college doesn't even come close.
"Jesus fucking Christ," he grits out, head reeling with the scent of arousal and climax--his brain shorts, fucking finally, how much more can he take in the face of this?! He lets himself go to the sound of James fighting for breath as his spine uncoils from the rigid bow and he slumps forwards against the headboard, still twitching around Danny as he empties himself inside.
"Fuck," James grunts, sounding wrecked. It makes something possessive flare in Danny's belly, even though he knows he's not likely to ever meet this man again. He doesn't understand the acute sense of loss he feels at the thought, like he's letting something precious slip through his fingers.
Something tells him the man in his arms isn't quite the settling type, though.
He ties off the used condom, throws it in the general direction of the waste bin and unties James's wrists gently, feeling like James's letting him, yet again, because he could have been free in the blink of an eye if he'd so wished. He runs careful fingers over the reddened skin, grateful that he'd worn his plain cotton tie today, the one that's just smooth fabric with no rough edges. James sucks in gulps of air, until his breath evens out and he lets himself sink into Danny's side, still kneeling on the bed. Danny draws him down until they're both stretched over the messed-up sheets. James groans a little as his tensed thighs unclench, shaking from the strain. Danny runs a soothing hand down them, fingers digging a little to help the muscles relax. James hums gratefully and curls into Danny's side, laying his head on Danny's chest. Danny settles a proprietary arm over his shoulders, even though he knows he hasn't the right, but it's part of the game -- after-care, he's heard it called. He lets James huff warm breaths over his damp chest, lets James worm a leg between his, and feels a sense of peace settle over him that he hasn't felt in a long, long time.
When he wakes up in the morning to find himself alone in the bed, it's somehow not surprising at all that the warm glow of satisfaction he'd been looking forward to last night, when he’d first set eyes on his soon-to-be bed partner, feels hollowed-out, empty, a 6'1''-shaped hole right through the middle of it.
---
Ten years later
This case, this fucking case, this fucking island, his fucking life, god, he hates this place so much, and now here's another dead body that looks eerily like Daniel Williams Sr., GSW through the head, blood splattered all over the wall, the desk, the glass cabinet full of years-old sports trophies. Danny doesn't look much like his father, but this man could be his long-lost, 80 lbs heavier brother, and Danny resigns himself to making another long-distance phone call he can't afford tonight, because the need to hear his dad's voice in his ear, alive and well and missing him, is overwhelming.
He cases the house, walks through rooms as empty of presence as a tomb, like nothing but ghosts have lived here for a long, long time. There are two kids’ rooms upstairs, undisturbed except for a fine layer of dust that John McGarrett will never get to wipe down now. Danny recognises some of the band posters on the wall in one of them, and it gives him a bit of a time frame for how old the kids must be now -- approximately his age, give or take a few years.
The house itself is very tidy, not a thing out of place, even though the decor is hopelessly dated. Danny tries not to touch anything, even though the crime scene techs have been and gone. He doesn't spend much time there -- the house is lovely, but the air inside is dry and lifeless, and it gives Danny the creeps. Still, it's his case, and after he drops Grace at school he heads down Kalanianaole Highway, parks the car in the driveway and makes his way to the garage -- because going through the front door still feels so damn invasive, no matter how many years he's spent in this job.
Which is how he winds up with a gun pointed at his face, and a tall, lean, dark-haired man yelling at him in the most intimidating manner he's yet to hear in this pineapple-infested circle of hell. There's something eerily familiar about the guy--Steve McGarrett, John McGarrett's son, oh god--but Danny'll be damned if he can put his finger on it.
He would later remember the moment he put his badge away as the last moment he was fully in control of his life, before this maniac turned up and fucked it up beyond recognition.
Steve McGarrett is a damn persistent bastard, Danny finds out when he shows up at his apartment and conscripts him without giving him a chance to get a word in edge-ways -- quite an achievement when it comes to any member of the Williams family. And still Danny can't figure out why the hell the guy seems so familiar.
Until he gets shot in the arm, and it all becomes crystal clear in one blinding flash of "Danny!", urgent and hoarse and unmistakable.
"Go, go," he calls, on automatic, because his name in that voice, it's been haunting his dreams for a decade, even after he met Rachel and fell irrevocably in love, and everyone else around him lost their appeal.
He's still reeling when he shoots Doran in the head, but not so much when Steve is glaring at him and grouching that Danny just shot his, his only witness, the assuming fuck, Danny's not gonna stand for that.
The punch is teeming with the pent-up frustration of ten years of waking hard to the sound of hoarse cries echoing in his ear, ten years of startling in the middle of the street because a tall, lean, dark-haired man just walked into his line of sight. Ten years of missing someone he never even knew.
Still, Danny is a cop, he's a professional, he's going to do his damned job, and he's damned if he's going to throw that one night in Steve's face, who probably forgot it the moment the door closed behind his back. He's not that petty, or that desperate. It'll just be his little secret.
He does not anticipate how fucking hard it would be to look, but not touch, especially when he watches Steve whip his shirt off that very afternoon, all smooth muscle and tanned skin and those damned tattoos, Danny remembers what they fucking taste like, how is this fair??
He makes it a point to not. Not stare, not show any prior recognition, not take Steve's shit, not press Steve to the wall and make him give up those breathless moans that Danny's been jerking off to for years, after things with Rachel went sour. It doesn't get easier after Steve drives the police car onto the Chinese freighter, long minutes of his heart punching at his throat before he sees Steve, bruised and bleeding, standing on top of the container, grinning that smug grin at him.
The "Danno" thing makes things a little easier, only not really. Because while Steve saying "Danny" makes Danny want to bodycheck him into the nearest wall and kiss him until he's gasping, "Danno" makes him want to curl up with Steve on his sofa, press into his side while they mock the football players messing up on TV, and maybe wake up with Steve curled around him, and maybe let Steve hold him down for a change -- he's mellowed a lot since his angry 20s, no matter what Steve thinks--
Steve doesn't think. Because Steve doesn't remember Danny at 24, and Danny's ten kinds of fool to think he meant anything to Steve other than a means to an end.
He's got to stop thinking about it, or it'll drive him insane.
---
Steve suits him much better than "James". Not that Danny's been thinking about it. Because he hasn't.
---
The third time he wakes up with Steve's name on his lips and his hand stuffed down his pants, Danny knows he's in a world of trouble. Because he can deny it all he wants, but his body's pretty determined when it knows what it needs.
He's never told anyone about Steve. He met Rachel a mere four months afterwards, so there had been no point. He'd even stopped thinking of him for a while, but he has a feeling it's one of the things that contributed to his marriage imploding, even though Rachel had never said a thing and they'd had enough problems without muddying the waters with that one.
It would be so easy if it was just the sex. He could go out, find a guy, fuck it out of his system once and for all, superimpose new memories over the old ones, mess them up until he can't remember the way Steve's head had sunk back onto his shoulder, offering Danny his bare neck.
But it's not that simple, is it. Because now that he knows the way Steve smirks sideways at him, like he's trying to hide it but can't help but be amused, the fondness in Steve's voice when he banters with Danny, the gentle way he is with Kono when he's guiding her through processing the body of Mano Sapulu, it just makes something clench in Danny's chest, a suffocating need he has no chance of surpassing. He just can't get over the realisation that this man, who doesn't trust anyone but those select few, who is certifiably insane and a control freak to boot, is the same guy who had trusted Danny enough to let him see the other side, the vulnerable underbelly below the inch-thick Kevlar armour. Even if the anonymity factor is taken into consideration, it still does not explain the way Steve had curled into Danny afterwards, the wildness faded from his eyes but nowhere near erased. Now that he actually knows Steve, beyond the anonymity of a fleeting encounter, Danny wonders what could have broken him so bad that he'd needed to be taken apart to fix it.
It's a problem. And then Meka dies, and it only gets worse. Because Danny hadn't even realised how much he was taking Steve's trust for granted, until it hits him that he maybe never had it in the first place.
It's like a punch in the gut. He walks away, because if he stays, he's going to do and say some things that he's going to regret for the rest of his life. Because he's not that guy -- he's not the guy who spills the beans about another person's moment of weakness just to make himself look stronger. But the urge to yell at Steve about not trusting him is so violent that he's on his fourth beer by the time Chin finds him, and he's nowhere near close to pulling himself together.
He doesn't sleep that night; he can't. His mind shies away from reliving the decade-old memories all over again, but he's helpless to stop thinking about it. About the need to be trusted by his partner, who has become someone Danny can no longer imagine his life without.
He's bleary-eyed the next morning when he sits across the glass from Sang Min, exhausted but restless, searching for the smallest crack in the guy's façade of indifference. When he finds it, the satisfaction is hollow, purely by rote. He just wants this case to be over, wants his friend to be cleared, wants to not have nightmares about Amy Hanamoa's crying face, and Sang Min's testimony is just a way of getting there.
Seeing Steve sitting on the hood of his car, when he hadn't expected to see him any time soon, is like a kick in the nuts, a furious hurt that makes it hard to breathe. He can't hold back the bitterness in his voice when he asks Steve, what if IR showed him a ten-inch-thick pile of evidence against Danny, would he believe it?
"No, I wouldn't," Steve says instantly, no need to think, just his gut response.
"Why not?" Danny asks, and this time it's hope he can't keep hidden, and Steve's self-deprecating huff of laughter is like a balm to his frayed nerves.
"Okay," Steve says, 'okay', like it's just that simple, and Danny can't quite draw in his next breath; it aches deliciously under his breastbone and spills liquid warmth through his entire body. Steve's looking at him like there's no one else in the world but Danny, right there before him.
"Okay," Danny repeats, not quite a question, but Steve answers it anyway.
"Okay, we can move on."
It's later on in the evening that Danny's carefully laid plans go straight to hell. He doesn't realise it immediately, of course; there's too much going on, too much to process.
"Grab his legs and tie them. Spread his arms," he barks at Steve, and Steve stills, the way only rigorously trained military personnel can -- like he's been frozen in time for a fraction of a second. Just as soon as it happens, it's over; Steve does as he's told, holds the informant down until Danny can throw the ropes over his limbs and secure them. If he pays particular attention to the knots Danny uses, Danny assumes it's to make sure they'll hold. He climbs inside the car without a word; five minutes later he's back to baiting Danny, and Danny dismisses the moment from his mind in favour of scaring the piss out of the guy until he spills all they need to know.
He thinks that's that; Steve doesn't behave in any way out of the ordinary -- he's still a crazy bastard, and he's just as focused on clearing Meka now as he was on convicting him before. When he and Kono and Chin show up at the funeral the next day, after it's all over and they've come out on top yet again, Danny is pleased, yes, but not exactly surprised.
Until Steve looks him right in the eye and says, "I know you." And there's something in his eyes, a way of looking at Danny, and Danny's left staring at him in dismay. There is an intent in Steve's stare that Danny's never seen before, but every instinct he has screams at him that Steve remembers.
He makes the introductions in a daze, and it takes him a while to realise the simple truth staring him in the face -- Steve remembers, but he's still right here, standing by Danny's side, pushing their shoulders together now and again, warm and solid and not running away. That Steve remembers, and he's okay with Danny knowing that side of him, the one not always in control, needing to not be in control for once. That he trusts Danny enough to keep that secret for him.
It's a rush like none he's ever felt in his life, save perhaps for the first moment the nurse had put a newborn Grace in his arms.
He stays until the mourners start drifting off home, and his team stays with him. Steve has yet to move from his side when he hugs Amy and promises to call soon, to make a playdate for Billy and Grace so they can visit.
"I'll drive," Steve says automatically, then frowns. Danny only lets him stew for a moment before he's handing the keys over with a fond smile on his face. Steve takes them, looking surprised.
"What?" Danny asks, circling to the passenger side.
"Nothing," Steve says, looking like he's reconciling something in his head.
Danny wonders if he's having his own moment of superimposing the Danny he knows over the Danny of ten years ago.
Steve drives straight to his house, doesn't even make a pretence of heading in the direction of Danny's apartment. Danny doesn't protest -- they need to talk, if only to say 'okay, now you know, so you can just compartmentalise it as a random piece of info and move on'. Steve doesn't hesitate when they reach the house, parking the Camaro in the driveway behind the truck and heading inside without a word.
He kicks off his boots by the door, marches barefoot into the kitchen and fetches a six-pack, transfers it from the fridge to the cooler and walks out with it to the lana'i. He doesn't check to see if Danny follows. They sit in their usual deckchairs and drink until the first two beers are gone and they're each holding a second bottle, sipping more slowly now. The dull ache that's been festering inside Danny since the start of the case starts to dissipate a little; Meka's gone, but at least his name is cleared, and his wife and kid won't have to suffer the pain of him being branded a traitor.
And then there's the issue of Steve, lounging by his side, for all the world as relaxed as any man on the beach with a beer can be -- but underneath the surface there's roiling pools of tension. It's right there in the angle of his shoulders, and the visible tendons in his neck. He's anything but relaxed.
"So," Danny starts, still in two minds about just leaving it -- but Steve's still there, and that more than anything makes his mind up. "You, uh."
Steve turns his head to look at him, then looks at the ocean again, though Danny doesn't miss the flick of his eyes on Danny's fingers wrapped around the beer bottle.
"Look, we don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, seriously, I won't push you, we can just forget it and go on as before," Danny says, starting to get uncomfortable at Steve's silence.
Steve turns his whole body to look at him incredulously. "Oh, you mean like before, where you kept staring at me and I had no idea why? Okay, I had an idea, I'm not blind, but there was always something there, Danny, you've no idea how it's been driving me up the wall. I kept thinking this over and over, maybe I did something wrong somewhere and never realised, but I couldn't work out what--and it's because I didn't fuck anything up, did I; I just did what we both expected to do and walked away."
Danny stays silent, because what is there to say, really? He can't defend himself; he's been a shitty friend, true enough, even though he tried.
"Just forget it," he says. "I'll try not to do that anymore, and now that you know and haven't freaked out, I can stop worrying about my life imploding if you found out. We can just not." He's not looking at Steve, because looking at Steve right now hurts; because he wants to touch so bad he thinks he might crack the beer bottle in his fist from trying not to.
He can feel Steve's gaze on him, and it's like there's an itch under his skin. He needs some space, needs the distance to sort out his head so that they can just be professionals about this. The fact that he's been hung up on a single night with Steve for a fucking decade is pathetic enough that it's not something he wants to discuss, ever.
"Danny," Steve says, reproach and supplication both in his voice. "It's been ten years."
Danny's stomach turns to lead. "I fucking know that, you don't think I know that? I said forget it already. Look, I'm gonna go. I give you my word that I won't bring it up again. I won't make it embarrassing for you, we'll just ignore it and it will go away pretty soon." He's angry, he's so fucking angry that he wants to punch something. He'd never expected Steve to be a fucking asshole about it; he knows it's absurd, he doesn't need Steve to tell him, and he doesn't need Steve's fucking pity, either.
He pushes off the deck chair, but he maybe gets half a step away before Steve's fingers lock around his wrist and Steve pulls, and Danny's folding into his lap before he has time to blink.
"I remember every touch of your hands on my skin. I remember your lips on my shoulders. I had an imprint of your teeth on my neck, and bruises from your fingers on my hips, and for weeks I pressed my own fingers into them, so they wouldn't fade. I had to wear wrist supports for a full week until the skin on my wrists healed, and the only reason I didn't bruise it again was because it was your tie that put them there, and nothing else was good enough. When the marks finally faded, I felt like someone had died."
Danny stares at him, mouth open and breath coming out in short pants. Steve's voice is wrecked, like the words are tearing him apart on their way out, and he's looking down at Danny like he can barely believe he's there. Danny looks at Steve's hand still circling his wrist; Steve's thumb is pressing against his pulse, as if he's unconsciously gravitated towards the proof that Danny's not a figment of his imagination, but right there with him.
"Is--is that what you want?" Danny asks tentatively, because he needs to know, he needs Steve to tell him where this is headed -- because if it's just the sex, Danny doesn't think he could bear it.
Steve looks away for a moment, swallows hard. "I want whatever you're willing to give me," he says carefully, like he's bracing himself for rejection.
Danny's heart soars as he takes in the tension in Steve's frame, as if hope and need are choking him from the inside out.
"And if I said 'everything', would that be all right with you? No, seriously, think about it," he holds up a hand when Steve opens his mouth. "When I say 'everything', you know I mean just that. I want you to be a part of my life, Steven. And I won't always want to be in control, and I'm not looking for someone to boss around. You're my partner, and I want that in every sense of the word. And you know I come with a lot of complications, so you'd better be damn sure that you understand what you're getting yourself into if you say 'yes', because--" he goes cross-eyed trying to look at the finger Steve lays on his lips.
"Danno, for once in your life, shut up," Steve says, and his eyes are smiling, warm and so desperately fond, and there's so many feelings tangled in them that Danny thinks it might take a lifetime to unravel.
But one thing comes across perfectly clear, for all of Steve's own complications -- he wants this, he's in this, all the way, with all that he is. And that's not something Danny can build the rest of his life around, well, he doesn't know what is.
-----
Title: Still a whisper on my lips
Pairing: Steve/Danny
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 5,300
Warnings: D/s (under)tones, bondage, some angst, spoilers for 1.08.
Summary: John McGarrett's garage is not the first time Steve and Danny meet. In fact, they meet ten years earlier, each of them looking for something to make them forget. Unfortunately, that night is not something Danny can just leave behind. An exploration of trust in its various incarnations.
Notes: Written for
h50_flashfic's Alternative Universe challenge. Countless thanks to delicatale, stjarna1984, and imaginarycircus for the read-overs and hand-holding; this fic really needed it for some reason! And as always, all my love to SuperBeta zolac_no_miko for fic wrangling duties! Title from Days Go By by Dirty Vegas. Originally posted at h50_flashficLook, it's not like he's planning to spend the rest of his life with the guy. Sure, he's tall, lean, long lashes and longer legs, and there's a wildness around his eyes, a desperation matching the one Danny's feeling; but Danny's under no illusions about what he's getting himself into. This thing will end long before the light of dawn.
It's just that this damn case, it's messing with Danny's head. The vic is a fifty-six year old white male, salt-and-pepper hair, short and sturdy, hands calloused from handling equipment -- he was with the FDNY.
He looks so much like Danny's father that Danny's stomach clenches every time he has to look at the crime scene photos. He feels out of control, desperate to regain it. And this guy, he's taller than Danny if not as bulky, powerful muscles standing out in his arms as Danny winds his tie around one strong wrist and secures it to one side of the headboard. His head is bowed, neck a solid column of muscle and tendons, still so very tense.
The man grunts breathlessly when Danny plasters his chest against his back, wiry curls of hair teasing at the gorgeous smooth skin, tanlines clearly visible now that the man is stripped of anything but Danny's tie. The other wrist is secured to the opposite corner of the bed frame with the remaining length, dark and light blue stripes starting to pink the unmarked skin. The man tests his restraints with a contemplative twist of his mouth, and Danny is suddenly positive that the man can get out of them in moments. Then his taut back relaxes, like all the fight has gone out of him, like he chooses to surrender. It's exhilarating.
"What's your name?" Danny murmurs, lips pressed to the nape of the man's neck; the man shivers in his arms.
"James," he says after the slightest hesitation, and Danny's not stupid; he knows there's no way that's the man's real name -- but he'll let him have that small win, because it's going to be the last thing he gets for a while without Danny giving it to him.
"Okay, James," he says, just enough inflection to let the guy know he's not fooling anyone. His voice slips into that space where he expects obedience as his due. "Spread your legs."
James lets out a shivering breath, slides his knees a little wider along the crisp cotton sheets of the motel bed. "I said spread 'em," Danny barks, and James jerks, droplets of fresh sweat beading at the hairline to trail down the back of his neck. He moves again, until his thighs are straining to hold his balance.
"Good," Danny praises, because that's the game they're playing -- control is their currency tonight, freely given and taken. "That's very good. Now then, James. What shall I do with you, all spread out for me, waiting to be taken, filled with my cock until the world disappears and all that's left is me?"
James whines, a small noise of supplication that sets Danny's blood on fire. He lets his palm stroke along the lean muscles, up his back, over his shoulder and down his chest, thumbing over a stiff nipple. James jerks, a tiny move forward into the touch before he leans back against Danny's chest, offering himself to Danny's hands.
Danny trails his other palm down James's side, gets a handful of taut ass, spreads him open until he can see his hole, fluttering a little with anticipation. He ducks down and licks a long stripe all the way up his crack, tongue stabbing inside a little. James lets out a strangled yell, shoving himself back down on Danny's mouth. Danny hums a little, savouring the taste of sweat and musk, the man's rich scent bursting on the roof of his mouth. Fuck, he's missed this.
He takes his time taking James apart, revelling in all the sounds falling unchecked and raw from his throat. There's a fine layer of sweat over James's skin now, and his thighs are shaking a little. Danny knows he's been drawing this out; that James can still hold that posture after almost forty-five minutes speaks of impressive muscle control. James's shoulders bunch with the need to get closer, ink standing out starkly against the golden skin. Danny runs his tongue over that, too, dark lines on the right and lighter on the left, bites right over the meat of the deltoid muscle. James groans and presses backwards into his chest, arching his back so Danny's cock rests between the scorching heat of his ass cheeks.
"You think you're ready?" Danny asks, more because he's teasing than asking an actual question. His tongue has already loosened the ring of muscles enough so that two of his lubed fingers slide inside with almost no resistance, once James grunts a 'yes, fuck, come on'. James clenches down on them, draws them into his body, and Danny bites his lip viciously to keep from burying himself inside him right this minute.
Then he remembers there are better things to bite.
James moans brokenly when Danny sinks his teeth into the delicious-smelling place where James's neck meets his shoulder, his ass tightening around Danny so hard that for a moment Danny thinks he's miscalculated and hit on some old trauma by mistake. But then James sobs out a 'fuck, please', and it's all Danny needs to hear. He shoves a third finger inside, drawing them out and stretching the hell out of him, because he craves control, not pain. He wants to break this man to pieces, but he's not interested in those pieces not fitting back together properly. He's got his pride, and nothing makes him feel more powerful than bringing someone so much pleasure that they forget their own name.
"Now, please, now," James stutters, hips jerking fitfully.
Danny withdraws his fingers roughly, shuffles forward until his knees rest between James's thighs, until the head of his cock, sheathed and lubed some time ago, just nudges at James's hole. He slides his hands to James's hips, feeling the small tremors of need under his fingers, and draws him back and down, slowly, until his cock is sliding inside and James is letting out helpless moans, trying to shove himself down on Danny. Danny's got him, though, fingers digging into the skin until he's sure they'll be able to scan his fingerprints off it in the morning.
Slowly, so slowly, he lets James sink onto him, the angle leaving him completely at Danny's mercy. He pulls James into his lap, balls resting snugly against his perineum, until James is wide open for him, desperate for more. James lets himself lean back against Danny's chest, sweat-slick skin sliding together, lets Danny set the pace with his hands and his hips and the whispered words of encouragement in his ear.
"Look at you," Danny murmurs, nosing at the damp hair at the nape of James's neck. "You want it so bad, so bad you'd let me do anything to you if it means you'll get to come."
"Yes," James grits out, voice breaking with need. "Please, Danny."
Danny's hips jerk upwards without warning, his name in that voice... "Say it again," he commands, pulling James down roughly as he thrusts into him. "Say it."
"Danny," James moans desperately, head falling down on Danny's shoulder and baring that gorgeous neck to his appreciative gaze.
Danny rewards him by sliding a hand along his twitching stomach muscles, creeping lower, curving over the base of James's cock and giving it a firm tug, twisting over the head to gather the dripping precome and rub it into the shaft as Danny pushes into him again.
"Danny," James yells, hips stuttering backwards and forwards, like he doesn't know what he wants more, to take Danny deeper inside or to push further into his tight fist.
"That's it," Danny rasps, voice gone rough with need. "Come on, you're so close, come on, James, give it up for me, I want it, I want you to come, now." He sucks a rough hickey onto James's neck, and it's like that's the last thing James can take, the final drop to tip the bucket, and James's orgasm comes tearing out of him, hoarse yells squeezing his chest, stomach muscles tightening so much they could be cramping, and ropes of come pulsing out of him to smear onto the sheets and the headboard. His fists clench on Danny's tie, tugging because James must know the knots are secure enough to take it. His spine bends into a tight arch, pressing his hips down onto Danny's cock while his head digs into Danny's shoulder.
It's quite possibly the hottest thing Danny's ever seen; the blonde twins threesome in college doesn't even come close.
"Jesus fucking Christ," he grits out, head reeling with the scent of arousal and climax--his brain shorts, fucking finally, how much more can he take in the face of this?! He lets himself go to the sound of James fighting for breath as his spine uncoils from the rigid bow and he slumps forwards against the headboard, still twitching around Danny as he empties himself inside.
"Fuck," James grunts, sounding wrecked. It makes something possessive flare in Danny's belly, even though he knows he's not likely to ever meet this man again. He doesn't understand the acute sense of loss he feels at the thought, like he's letting something precious slip through his fingers.
Something tells him the man in his arms isn't quite the settling type, though.
He ties off the used condom, throws it in the general direction of the waste bin and unties James's wrists gently, feeling like James's letting him, yet again, because he could have been free in the blink of an eye if he'd so wished. He runs careful fingers over the reddened skin, grateful that he'd worn his plain cotton tie today, the one that's just smooth fabric with no rough edges. James sucks in gulps of air, until his breath evens out and he lets himself sink into Danny's side, still kneeling on the bed. Danny draws him down until they're both stretched over the messed-up sheets. James groans a little as his tensed thighs unclench, shaking from the strain. Danny runs a soothing hand down them, fingers digging a little to help the muscles relax. James hums gratefully and curls into Danny's side, laying his head on Danny's chest. Danny settles a proprietary arm over his shoulders, even though he knows he hasn't the right, but it's part of the game -- after-care, he's heard it called. He lets James huff warm breaths over his damp chest, lets James worm a leg between his, and feels a sense of peace settle over him that he hasn't felt in a long, long time.
When he wakes up in the morning to find himself alone in the bed, it's somehow not surprising at all that the warm glow of satisfaction he'd been looking forward to last night, when he’d first set eyes on his soon-to-be bed partner, feels hollowed-out, empty, a 6'1''-shaped hole right through the middle of it.
---
Ten years later
This case, this fucking case, this fucking island, his fucking life, god, he hates this place so much, and now here's another dead body that looks eerily like Daniel Williams Sr., GSW through the head, blood splattered all over the wall, the desk, the glass cabinet full of years-old sports trophies. Danny doesn't look much like his father, but this man could be his long-lost, 80 lbs heavier brother, and Danny resigns himself to making another long-distance phone call he can't afford tonight, because the need to hear his dad's voice in his ear, alive and well and missing him, is overwhelming.
He cases the house, walks through rooms as empty of presence as a tomb, like nothing but ghosts have lived here for a long, long time. There are two kids’ rooms upstairs, undisturbed except for a fine layer of dust that John McGarrett will never get to wipe down now. Danny recognises some of the band posters on the wall in one of them, and it gives him a bit of a time frame for how old the kids must be now -- approximately his age, give or take a few years.
The house itself is very tidy, not a thing out of place, even though the decor is hopelessly dated. Danny tries not to touch anything, even though the crime scene techs have been and gone. He doesn't spend much time there -- the house is lovely, but the air inside is dry and lifeless, and it gives Danny the creeps. Still, it's his case, and after he drops Grace at school he heads down Kalanianaole Highway, parks the car in the driveway and makes his way to the garage -- because going through the front door still feels so damn invasive, no matter how many years he's spent in this job.
Which is how he winds up with a gun pointed at his face, and a tall, lean, dark-haired man yelling at him in the most intimidating manner he's yet to hear in this pineapple-infested circle of hell. There's something eerily familiar about the guy--Steve McGarrett, John McGarrett's son, oh god--but Danny'll be damned if he can put his finger on it.
He would later remember the moment he put his badge away as the last moment he was fully in control of his life, before this maniac turned up and fucked it up beyond recognition.
Steve McGarrett is a damn persistent bastard, Danny finds out when he shows up at his apartment and conscripts him without giving him a chance to get a word in edge-ways -- quite an achievement when it comes to any member of the Williams family. And still Danny can't figure out why the hell the guy seems so familiar.
Until he gets shot in the arm, and it all becomes crystal clear in one blinding flash of "Danny!", urgent and hoarse and unmistakable.
"Go, go," he calls, on automatic, because his name in that voice, it's been haunting his dreams for a decade, even after he met Rachel and fell irrevocably in love, and everyone else around him lost their appeal.
He's still reeling when he shoots Doran in the head, but not so much when Steve is glaring at him and grouching that Danny just shot his, his only witness, the assuming fuck, Danny's not gonna stand for that.
The punch is teeming with the pent-up frustration of ten years of waking hard to the sound of hoarse cries echoing in his ear, ten years of startling in the middle of the street because a tall, lean, dark-haired man just walked into his line of sight. Ten years of missing someone he never even knew.
Still, Danny is a cop, he's a professional, he's going to do his damned job, and he's damned if he's going to throw that one night in Steve's face, who probably forgot it the moment the door closed behind his back. He's not that petty, or that desperate. It'll just be his little secret.
He does not anticipate how fucking hard it would be to look, but not touch, especially when he watches Steve whip his shirt off that very afternoon, all smooth muscle and tanned skin and those damned tattoos, Danny remembers what they fucking taste like, how is this fair??
He makes it a point to not. Not stare, not show any prior recognition, not take Steve's shit, not press Steve to the wall and make him give up those breathless moans that Danny's been jerking off to for years, after things with Rachel went sour. It doesn't get easier after Steve drives the police car onto the Chinese freighter, long minutes of his heart punching at his throat before he sees Steve, bruised and bleeding, standing on top of the container, grinning that smug grin at him.
The "Danno" thing makes things a little easier, only not really. Because while Steve saying "Danny" makes Danny want to bodycheck him into the nearest wall and kiss him until he's gasping, "Danno" makes him want to curl up with Steve on his sofa, press into his side while they mock the football players messing up on TV, and maybe wake up with Steve curled around him, and maybe let Steve hold him down for a change -- he's mellowed a lot since his angry 20s, no matter what Steve thinks--
Steve doesn't think. Because Steve doesn't remember Danny at 24, and Danny's ten kinds of fool to think he meant anything to Steve other than a means to an end.
He's got to stop thinking about it, or it'll drive him insane.
---
Steve suits him much better than "James". Not that Danny's been thinking about it. Because he hasn't.
---
The third time he wakes up with Steve's name on his lips and his hand stuffed down his pants, Danny knows he's in a world of trouble. Because he can deny it all he wants, but his body's pretty determined when it knows what it needs.
He's never told anyone about Steve. He met Rachel a mere four months afterwards, so there had been no point. He'd even stopped thinking of him for a while, but he has a feeling it's one of the things that contributed to his marriage imploding, even though Rachel had never said a thing and they'd had enough problems without muddying the waters with that one.
It would be so easy if it was just the sex. He could go out, find a guy, fuck it out of his system once and for all, superimpose new memories over the old ones, mess them up until he can't remember the way Steve's head had sunk back onto his shoulder, offering Danny his bare neck.
But it's not that simple, is it. Because now that he knows the way Steve smirks sideways at him, like he's trying to hide it but can't help but be amused, the fondness in Steve's voice when he banters with Danny, the gentle way he is with Kono when he's guiding her through processing the body of Mano Sapulu, it just makes something clench in Danny's chest, a suffocating need he has no chance of surpassing. He just can't get over the realisation that this man, who doesn't trust anyone but those select few, who is certifiably insane and a control freak to boot, is the same guy who had trusted Danny enough to let him see the other side, the vulnerable underbelly below the inch-thick Kevlar armour. Even if the anonymity factor is taken into consideration, it still does not explain the way Steve had curled into Danny afterwards, the wildness faded from his eyes but nowhere near erased. Now that he actually knows Steve, beyond the anonymity of a fleeting encounter, Danny wonders what could have broken him so bad that he'd needed to be taken apart to fix it.
It's a problem. And then Meka dies, and it only gets worse. Because Danny hadn't even realised how much he was taking Steve's trust for granted, until it hits him that he maybe never had it in the first place.
It's like a punch in the gut. He walks away, because if he stays, he's going to do and say some things that he's going to regret for the rest of his life. Because he's not that guy -- he's not the guy who spills the beans about another person's moment of weakness just to make himself look stronger. But the urge to yell at Steve about not trusting him is so violent that he's on his fourth beer by the time Chin finds him, and he's nowhere near close to pulling himself together.
He doesn't sleep that night; he can't. His mind shies away from reliving the decade-old memories all over again, but he's helpless to stop thinking about it. About the need to be trusted by his partner, who has become someone Danny can no longer imagine his life without.
He's bleary-eyed the next morning when he sits across the glass from Sang Min, exhausted but restless, searching for the smallest crack in the guy's façade of indifference. When he finds it, the satisfaction is hollow, purely by rote. He just wants this case to be over, wants his friend to be cleared, wants to not have nightmares about Amy Hanamoa's crying face, and Sang Min's testimony is just a way of getting there.
Seeing Steve sitting on the hood of his car, when he hadn't expected to see him any time soon, is like a kick in the nuts, a furious hurt that makes it hard to breathe. He can't hold back the bitterness in his voice when he asks Steve, what if IR showed him a ten-inch-thick pile of evidence against Danny, would he believe it?
"No, I wouldn't," Steve says instantly, no need to think, just his gut response.
"Why not?" Danny asks, and this time it's hope he can't keep hidden, and Steve's self-deprecating huff of laughter is like a balm to his frayed nerves.
"Okay," Steve says, 'okay', like it's just that simple, and Danny can't quite draw in his next breath; it aches deliciously under his breastbone and spills liquid warmth through his entire body. Steve's looking at him like there's no one else in the world but Danny, right there before him.
"Okay," Danny repeats, not quite a question, but Steve answers it anyway.
"Okay, we can move on."
It's later on in the evening that Danny's carefully laid plans go straight to hell. He doesn't realise it immediately, of course; there's too much going on, too much to process.
"Grab his legs and tie them. Spread his arms," he barks at Steve, and Steve stills, the way only rigorously trained military personnel can -- like he's been frozen in time for a fraction of a second. Just as soon as it happens, it's over; Steve does as he's told, holds the informant down until Danny can throw the ropes over his limbs and secure them. If he pays particular attention to the knots Danny uses, Danny assumes it's to make sure they'll hold. He climbs inside the car without a word; five minutes later he's back to baiting Danny, and Danny dismisses the moment from his mind in favour of scaring the piss out of the guy until he spills all they need to know.
He thinks that's that; Steve doesn't behave in any way out of the ordinary -- he's still a crazy bastard, and he's just as focused on clearing Meka now as he was on convicting him before. When he and Kono and Chin show up at the funeral the next day, after it's all over and they've come out on top yet again, Danny is pleased, yes, but not exactly surprised.
Until Steve looks him right in the eye and says, "I know you." And there's something in his eyes, a way of looking at Danny, and Danny's left staring at him in dismay. There is an intent in Steve's stare that Danny's never seen before, but every instinct he has screams at him that Steve remembers.
He makes the introductions in a daze, and it takes him a while to realise the simple truth staring him in the face -- Steve remembers, but he's still right here, standing by Danny's side, pushing their shoulders together now and again, warm and solid and not running away. That Steve remembers, and he's okay with Danny knowing that side of him, the one not always in control, needing to not be in control for once. That he trusts Danny enough to keep that secret for him.
It's a rush like none he's ever felt in his life, save perhaps for the first moment the nurse had put a newborn Grace in his arms.
He stays until the mourners start drifting off home, and his team stays with him. Steve has yet to move from his side when he hugs Amy and promises to call soon, to make a playdate for Billy and Grace so they can visit.
"I'll drive," Steve says automatically, then frowns. Danny only lets him stew for a moment before he's handing the keys over with a fond smile on his face. Steve takes them, looking surprised.
"What?" Danny asks, circling to the passenger side.
"Nothing," Steve says, looking like he's reconciling something in his head.
Danny wonders if he's having his own moment of superimposing the Danny he knows over the Danny of ten years ago.
Steve drives straight to his house, doesn't even make a pretence of heading in the direction of Danny's apartment. Danny doesn't protest -- they need to talk, if only to say 'okay, now you know, so you can just compartmentalise it as a random piece of info and move on'. Steve doesn't hesitate when they reach the house, parking the Camaro in the driveway behind the truck and heading inside without a word.
He kicks off his boots by the door, marches barefoot into the kitchen and fetches a six-pack, transfers it from the fridge to the cooler and walks out with it to the lana'i. He doesn't check to see if Danny follows. They sit in their usual deckchairs and drink until the first two beers are gone and they're each holding a second bottle, sipping more slowly now. The dull ache that's been festering inside Danny since the start of the case starts to dissipate a little; Meka's gone, but at least his name is cleared, and his wife and kid won't have to suffer the pain of him being branded a traitor.
And then there's the issue of Steve, lounging by his side, for all the world as relaxed as any man on the beach with a beer can be -- but underneath the surface there's roiling pools of tension. It's right there in the angle of his shoulders, and the visible tendons in his neck. He's anything but relaxed.
"So," Danny starts, still in two minds about just leaving it -- but Steve's still there, and that more than anything makes his mind up. "You, uh."
Steve turns his head to look at him, then looks at the ocean again, though Danny doesn't miss the flick of his eyes on Danny's fingers wrapped around the beer bottle.
"Look, we don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, seriously, I won't push you, we can just forget it and go on as before," Danny says, starting to get uncomfortable at Steve's silence.
Steve turns his whole body to look at him incredulously. "Oh, you mean like before, where you kept staring at me and I had no idea why? Okay, I had an idea, I'm not blind, but there was always something there, Danny, you've no idea how it's been driving me up the wall. I kept thinking this over and over, maybe I did something wrong somewhere and never realised, but I couldn't work out what--and it's because I didn't fuck anything up, did I; I just did what we both expected to do and walked away."
Danny stays silent, because what is there to say, really? He can't defend himself; he's been a shitty friend, true enough, even though he tried.
"Just forget it," he says. "I'll try not to do that anymore, and now that you know and haven't freaked out, I can stop worrying about my life imploding if you found out. We can just not." He's not looking at Steve, because looking at Steve right now hurts; because he wants to touch so bad he thinks he might crack the beer bottle in his fist from trying not to.
He can feel Steve's gaze on him, and it's like there's an itch under his skin. He needs some space, needs the distance to sort out his head so that they can just be professionals about this. The fact that he's been hung up on a single night with Steve for a fucking decade is pathetic enough that it's not something he wants to discuss, ever.
"Danny," Steve says, reproach and supplication both in his voice. "It's been ten years."
Danny's stomach turns to lead. "I fucking know that, you don't think I know that? I said forget it already. Look, I'm gonna go. I give you my word that I won't bring it up again. I won't make it embarrassing for you, we'll just ignore it and it will go away pretty soon." He's angry, he's so fucking angry that he wants to punch something. He'd never expected Steve to be a fucking asshole about it; he knows it's absurd, he doesn't need Steve to tell him, and he doesn't need Steve's fucking pity, either.
He pushes off the deck chair, but he maybe gets half a step away before Steve's fingers lock around his wrist and Steve pulls, and Danny's folding into his lap before he has time to blink.
"I remember every touch of your hands on my skin. I remember your lips on my shoulders. I had an imprint of your teeth on my neck, and bruises from your fingers on my hips, and for weeks I pressed my own fingers into them, so they wouldn't fade. I had to wear wrist supports for a full week until the skin on my wrists healed, and the only reason I didn't bruise it again was because it was your tie that put them there, and nothing else was good enough. When the marks finally faded, I felt like someone had died."
Danny stares at him, mouth open and breath coming out in short pants. Steve's voice is wrecked, like the words are tearing him apart on their way out, and he's looking down at Danny like he can barely believe he's there. Danny looks at Steve's hand still circling his wrist; Steve's thumb is pressing against his pulse, as if he's unconsciously gravitated towards the proof that Danny's not a figment of his imagination, but right there with him.
"Is--is that what you want?" Danny asks tentatively, because he needs to know, he needs Steve to tell him where this is headed -- because if it's just the sex, Danny doesn't think he could bear it.
Steve looks away for a moment, swallows hard. "I want whatever you're willing to give me," he says carefully, like he's bracing himself for rejection.
Danny's heart soars as he takes in the tension in Steve's frame, as if hope and need are choking him from the inside out.
"And if I said 'everything', would that be all right with you? No, seriously, think about it," he holds up a hand when Steve opens his mouth. "When I say 'everything', you know I mean just that. I want you to be a part of my life, Steven. And I won't always want to be in control, and I'm not looking for someone to boss around. You're my partner, and I want that in every sense of the word. And you know I come with a lot of complications, so you'd better be damn sure that you understand what you're getting yourself into if you say 'yes', because--" he goes cross-eyed trying to look at the finger Steve lays on his lips.
"Danno, for once in your life, shut up," Steve says, and his eyes are smiling, warm and so desperately fond, and there's so many feelings tangled in them that Danny thinks it might take a lifetime to unravel.
But one thing comes across perfectly clear, for all of Steve's own complications -- he wants this, he's in this, all the way, with all that he is. And that's not something Danny can build the rest of his life around, well, he doesn't know what is.
no subject
Date: 2011-07-08 02:26 pm (UTC)