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sirona_ficsTitle: I want you to want me
Pairing: (central) Steve/Danny, many minor pairings.
Word Count: ~46,000 (~9,700 this part)
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Graphic violence (of the fistcuffs variety), hints of child neglect at the start, minors fighting, minor character death (pre-story), canon character death, angst. Don't worry, though -- this is meant to be a happy story, I promise. We'll get there.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five
Exactly one month later to the day, all hell breaks loose. Danny gets the call half-way through the morning, and the address makes his blood freeze in his veins, even though he knows that the only person that has lived in that house for years now is John McGarrett. Nevertheless, when he pulls up to find the street completely covered in police cruisers, the apprehension in Danny's gut only rises. Nothing good can come on the tail of a sight like this.
John McGarrett is slumped in a plain kitchen chair, hands and feet still tied to it, his chin pressed into his chest. There's really no way this could be anything else but a crime scene; the spray of blood everywhere is just an afterthought.
"You're taking the case, Williams," his Captain tells him gravely. "I've been informed you knew the victim, too, but not as long as the rest of us, and you're still fresh off the mainland. Let's see how far you can get."
Danny is stunned -- pretty much no one in HPD apart from Meka gives him the time of day, and he would have imagined that the whole department would have been up in arms about the murder of one of their own -- a decorated war hero, no less, and someone who has spent most of his life in the precinct. But even though the other officers at the scene are angry and bewildered, they fall in line with the Captain's decision with an ease that feels vaguely wrong to Danny. Yes, their training dictates that they take orders as they come, without question, but to swallow something like this so easily, when Danny's sure most of them are seething at the idea of putting a haole on John McGarrett's murder, it feels like brainwashing to Danny. He's never held with blindly following orders, and this unquestioning obedience makes him uneasy.
Jimmy, when Danny remembers to call him, is devastated. He's known John McGarrett for upwards of thirty years, and to lose him like this is, while not completely unexpected given their line of work, still heartbreaking. Danny is sure he hears Clara crying quietly in the background, and promises to go round that evening, if for nothing else than to share their grief, see if there's anything at all he can do for them.
He doesn't go to the funeral; he's too busy burying himself in paperwork, ferreting out leads, ordering taps on useless weapons dealers, chasing up dead ends. He took his time on the scene the day before, but this morning, after he drops Grace off at school, he heads back over to the house, dread pooling into his stomach.
He's not an idiot. He is, in fact, one fine detective, if he says so himself. So he's perfectly aware that one of these days he's going to round a corner and walk smack into Steve McGarrett, a blast from the past that still has the power to destroy him, much as Danny laments the imposition.
He just isn't prepared to walk into the McGarrett garage and come face to face with the man himself right this moment.
"Drop your weapon," Steve roars, and Danny's yelling the same thing before his brain kicks him but well and good, cluing him in as to just whom he's faced up against.
Danny lowers his weapon from sheer shock, because it's impossible to miss the resemblance this man bears to the sixteen-year-old boy Danny loved. The broad shoulders, the dark hair cropped much closer to the head than Danny's used to seeing, those steely eyes boring straight into his.
"Steve," Danny says quietly, half-greeting and half-confirmation, and Steve narrows his eyes at him, calculating, assessing, gun still pointing unerringly at Danny's head.
"What--Danny?" Steve says, voice thick with disbelief, blood-shot eyes widening with surprise. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Danny sighs, shoving his gun back in its holder. "It's a very long story," he says, walking closer. "First, though, I'm very sorry for your loss." He offers Steve his hand, meeting his eyes for the brief moment he can force.
Steve just stares at him, gun still in hand, and after a moment Danny drops his hand and makes an aborted motion to run it through his hair. He contents himself with running a palm down his tie, a way to keep his hands busy and cover up the fact that he's floundering, caught with his figurative pants down.
"Look, I'm really sorry, but you can't be here right now," he forces out at last. "This is an active crime scene."
"Doesn't seem all that active," Steve snaps back, and okay, Danny gets that he's grieving, that he's still in shock from the news of his father's death, but this is just too much.
"I am not at liberty to discuss the investigation, you know that," Danny says, non-negotiable.
"So you're the haole detective they put on the case. Chin might have warned me," Steve mutters to himself, and okay, Danny has no idea what he's talking about, but he resents the fact that he'll always be defined as the outsider on this damn island.
"Yes, I am, and I promise you I'll get to the bottom of this, but right now I need you to leave, okay?"
Steve stares at him some more, wary and suspicious, like this is the first time he's ever met Danny; and yeah, Danny knew that Steve had forgotten him a long time ago, but it still slices through him like a blade.
"Fine," Steve says, grabbing hold of a red tool box that Danny knows for a fact was sitting right there in the garage yesterday afternoon.
"What the hell are you doing?" Danny bristles when Steve makes to walk past him. "You can't take that, it's evidence. What, you never watched any cop shows as a kid?"
Steve looks furious for a moment, opens his mouth like he means to rip Danny a new one, but snaps it shut before anything comes out. Danny can see it in his eyes when Steve considers bullshitting his way out of this one, and also the decision not to.
"What, are you going to book me, Williams?" and oh, fuck, does that one hurt.
"Sure," Danny grits out. "Maybe call an ambulance while I'm at it."
Steve's lips twitch, and if the bastard laughs at him Danny will not be responsible for his actions. But all Steve does is pop the tool box on top of what Danny knows is the covered Marquis Steve and his dad used to work on together, and pull out his phone.
"Oh, what now?" Danny complains, crossing his arms over his chest. Steve makes a condescending 'just a second' gesture, and oh my god, Danny has never wanted to punch anyone more in his life. He wonders for a strange, out-of-time moment when Steve became such a prick. He feels a little stupid for being so hung up on a guy that it's glaringly obvious no longer exists, replaced by some stranger that trusts no one and thinks the fact he's 'Lt Commander McGarrett, US Navy' gives him the right to boss people around like it's his job.
He watches, bemused, as Steve gets the Governor on the phone, accepts some deal or other, and gets sworn in as a police officer right there in front of him.
"Now it's my crime scene," Steve growls, picks up the damned toolbox and stalks out of the door, leaving Danny staring at the empty space Steve left with a lost feeling in his chest.
---
He doesn't have long to wallow in self-pity before someone is trying to knock his shitty front door down, and he's pretty sure whom he's going to find on the other side. Steve slides past him without so much as a 'by your leave', taking the room in with a few short glances that grate on Danny. His eyes linger on the photo of Grace, and oh man, Danny does not expect the welling regret for not being the one to tell Steve about his daughter. This is going to get old very soon.
"This your daughter?" Steve asks, and there's something dark in his voice, something an awful lot like hurt, and what. Where does he get off being hurt about--Danny doesn't even know.
"That's my Grace," Danny answers, deceptively light, well aware there's a warning in his voice Steve would do well to heed.
"You let your daughter stay here?" Steve says, making a show of looking around, and okay, Danny really does not like that tone of his, or the hints of a sneer on his face.
"Hey," he says, and this time Steve really can't mistake the warning to back the fuck off. "Are you suggesting I don't take the best care of my daughter?" Jesus, what happened to the guy Danny used to trust, who used to think the world of Danny?
Time, Danny supposes. Time grinds even the sturdiest rose-tinted spectacles to dust.
Steve just shrugs, giving the place a last once-over before dropping it, though his gaze keeps straying to the small photo frame. He shakes himself, and Danny watches the 'all business' expression steal over his face. It's not unlike his 'study' face from all those years ago, although the addition of deadly SEAL into the bargain is something new. It's--interesting, and in another time and place Danny would be intrigued. As it is, he just wants to get this over with. To think that he'd imagined, fantasised even, about Steve coming back, about their reunion--well. Reality always disappoints, and that's all there is to it.
So he really is not expecting for Steve to conscript him into his little personal vendetta against anyone and everyone who might stand in his way in his pursuit of justice. When Steve gives him his reasons for choosing Danny, dissects his psychological profile right there in Danny's dingy apartment with a detachment that looks practiced, something inside Danny snaps, fragile and stretched to the end of its tether.
And then the complete bastard goes on to get him shot. Danny ignores the odd urgency in Steve's voice when he yells Danny's name, the aborted move in his direction, a red-hot mist of rage and pain taking over, lifting him up and around the house, out on the other side, dodging and twisting in between market stalls, trying to catch a glimpse of Doran, using it when he's got it to put a bullet through his head when it looks like it's him or Steve. And then. And then. The self-entitled fucker.
He's really not all that surprised when he watches himself, as if from a distance, haul back and punch Steve in the face with everything he's got. He knows for a fact it's got to hurt -- just because Danny got married and had a kid does not mean he's let his past slide completely. There's a trail of bruised opponents all the way back to Jersey to testify otherwise. To his surprise, Steve says nothing apart from a murmured "son of a bitch", which even Danny allows is fair.
The easy banter surprises him even more, he's not going to lie. Steve has changed, true enough, but the quick sixteen-year-old is still there, even when he's buried so deep inside, Danny wonders if Steve realises he's even there at all. It makes Danny thaw a little, lets him give back as good as he gets from Steve's default deadpan setting.
When Steve says they're on their way to visit an old friend, Danny could not have possibly imagined whom he's about to come face to face with. Chin looks tired, drawn, nowhere near the bright-faced rookie cop Danny had last seen all those years ago. Danny knows half of the story, of course he does; new or not, Meka has dropped enough hints for Danny to work out that something seriously wrong went down with Chin, and that for some reason his name is taboo in the precinct. His first reaction on hearing just why Chin resigned is to haul ass back to work and punch a few choice people in the face for believing this bullshit about one of the most honest guys Danny knows.
But he knows that won't solve anything. Chin looks surprised at Danny's indignation on his behalf, and that more than anything just makes Danny sad. And when Steve gives his little "Come with us now, and we don't have to talk about it again" speech, well. Danny kind of wants to kiss him, and that is the worst news he's gotten all day, even worse than Steve's return in the first place. Because it's not like Danny doesn't remember what Steve's lips tasted like against his; decades later, it's still as sharp as the day he flew off, Steve's taste still in his mouth, Steve's sad face still etched behind his eyelids. Danny wonders distractedly what Steve would do if Danny just said fuck it and kissed him, licked his way into Steve's mouth, shut him up for a blessed few minutes. Steve might be a dick, but damn if he hasn't grown into the promise of his young self. He's still freakishly tall, but he's bulked up, and his shoulders are almost as wide as Danny's, his arms muscled and taut, his chest...
This is really not the kind of thing Danny should be thinking about when he's driving hell for leather down the highway towards North Shore. And when he claps eyes on Kono, fresh from the water like some goddess come to life, he really should not be thinking about how interesting Steve looks with those glasses on, straight nose supporting the frames, short hair ruffled by the wind, standing there with his feet braced apart and his arms crossed against his chest. Danny wants to tackle him into the sand and do truly filthy things to his person.
He attempts a decoy, flirting with Kono because she's there and she looks amazing and she used to reach his chest the last time he saw her and now she's almost taller than him. She laughs him off, and that's that -- Danny backs off gracefully, and ignores Chin's amused look.
And then the fucker goes and loses his shirt, and who does that, whips off their clothes at the slightest provocation, god, he has a freaking bedroom, he could change there just fine, but no, he has to mess with Danny's head, doesn't he; he has to show off those damned tattoos, those muscles, Jesus Christ, how is this fair.
He hates this Steve, Danny reminds himself. This Steve is an asshole. Really. An assuming, control freak asshole, who waits for a special occasion to apologise for getting someone shot, okay, this is not cool in Danny Williams' book of How It's Done.
But. Steve's sitting there, staring into the ocean, occasionally throwing small glances at Danny that Danny would classify as disbelief mixed with delight, if he didn't think it was just wishful thinking on his behalf.
"So," Steve says, head flopping to one side to look at Danny properly. "You got married."
"And divorced," Danny says, flopping his left hand at Steve, the one where the wedding band outline is just starting to tan over. "And you? Navy SEALs, really, Lt Commander?"
"Really," Steve says, a small smile playing at his lips. He looks pleased that Danny's noticed, which is so patently ridiculous that Danny wants to laugh, but he knows where they are, knows what Steve found in the house behind them just that morning, knows -- or at least suspects -- what Steve's life must have been like for the past sixteen years to put the happiness that someone noticed his achievements on that expressive face, and Danny wants nothing more but to go back in time and fucking--punch John McGarrett, something, he doesn't know.
"Your daughter?" Steve says, breaking into Danny's thoughts, looking genuinely interested.
"Grace is eight, she'll be nine in November," Danny says, and okay, it's not like he can keep the pride out of his voice.
"That's great," Steve says warmly. "So you, uh." He looks awkward all of a sudden, shifting in the deck chair. "You moved because of her?"
"Back on this pineapple-ridden island of doom, you mean? Yeah. Rachel moved Grace, I followed. That's how it works in our bizarre little family unit."
"Huh," Steve says, looking away. After a while, during which Danny tries not to stare and fails, Steve clears his throat. "I meant to ask. I know it was a long time ago, and you probably don't remember, but, uh. There was a letter I left with--"
"Catherine?" Danny interrupts, and of course, of course he's going to bring this up. Damn McGarretts, they can never let anything go. "Yeah, I got it."
Steve blinks. "You did? You never--" he clamps his jaw back shut and jerks his head away, looking furious with himself.
And oh. Danny blinks a few times, heart beating double-time. Steve hoped Danny would call, went against his dad's wishes in leaving the number, most likely, and then Danny never did.
"Steve. Steve, look at me."
For the longest time, Steve wouldn't; and then he does, defiant, a wall between him and the world.
"Steve, the number was smudged. I promise you, the number, half of it was gone. I don't know how it happened, looked like it was splashed with water. I'll show you the letter if you don't believe me."
Steve is staring at him, like he's looking for the tiniest sign that Danny is lying; Danny looks back openly, letting Steve see the truth in his eyes. Finally Steve shudders, like some weight has disappeared from his shoulders, and oh my god, he's smiling, he's smiling at Danny, and Jesus, Danny is not equipped to handle this, not the way Steve looks at him like he's the sun dawning, like Danny is something Steve didn't think he was allowed to have.
"Oh," Steve says, beaming at Danny, "I thought--um. Nevermind."
Which is, of course, the moment Steve's phone rings.
---
With the take-down set up for tomorrow, Danny decides it's high time he left, because this, it's all too much to process right now, and Steve keeps looking at him, and Danny has no idea what is going on anymore.
He drives around aimlessly -- or so he thinks, but apparently his hind brain knows better than him what he needs, because when he next focuses on his surroundings he's idling outside a familiar iron gate, staring at it unseeingly.
The intercom next to his driver's seat beeps. "Was there something you wanted, Daniel?" Rachel says, voice tinny but still -- always -- distinct.
"Uh," Danny says eloquently.
There's a pause and then there's a clang and the gate swings open, an unspoken invitation. Danny switches into first in a daze, and the Camaro jerks a little as it climbs the slight incline.
Rachel's waiting for him at the door, a barely noticeable frown furrowing her brow. "Is everything okay?" she asks, and Danny marvels once more that there's only concern now in her voice, no longer the barely veiled exasperation, the hint of contempt. Finding Stan really had done wonders for their after-marriage relations.
Danny stands there helplessly, not knowing where to start. Rachel reaches forward, takes his wrist and tugs him to stand beside her at the door frame. "Is it the case?" she prods, and Danny grimaces.
He'd long ago told her about his previous time here in Hawai'i, back when the flush of love was still fierce and new, when they'd wanted to know everything about each other. So she knows of Steve, and what he meant to Danny. And she knows of John McGarrett's murder, because Danny had, to his furious disappointment, had to reschedule his Grace weekend for next week, and had had to explain why.
So "Kind of," he replies, thrusting his hands in his pockets and looking down at his shoes. "Steve came back," he admits at last.
"Oh," Rachel says on an exhale, and when Danny looks up, her eyes are kind. "Well. Would you like to talk about it, or where you blocking my driveway because you missed me?"
Danny makes a face at her, and she smirks. Still, she opens the door and steps aside, and Danny has no option but to brush past her and go in, because at this point he needs to get his head straight or he has no idea what he'll do when he sees Steve again.
Rachel leads the way into the kitchen, fixes Danny a cup of coffee from the space-age coffee maker Stan favours and makes a cup of tea for herself. They sit at the kitchen table in silence for a while until Rachel loses patience with him and raises an eyebrow, something she knows drives Danny up the wall.
Danny huffs, but folds and recounts the events of the morning, up to and including the punching Steve in the face, and the Steve taking his shirt off the first chance he gets, and the look on Steve's face when Danny told him about the phone number. Rachel listens -- she's always been so very good at listening, taking the time to wheedle all the details out of him right before she knocks him out for six (damn Rachel and her cricket obsession) with a well-placed observation that turns his world around.
Today is no exception. She puts down her cup of tea and fixes Danny with a shrewd look. "Danny. I know this isn't easy for you, after what happened last time. But you have a second chance here. Maybe it won't work out, maybe it was never meant to. But maybe, just maybe, in him you'll find what you've been looking for all this time--shut up. You know I'm right; this thing between us, it was never going to last the distance," she finishes, and Danny snaps his mouth closed on his protest.
Danny looks down into his coffee like it holds all the answers. "It's just, it's so hard to superimpose the sixteen-year-old onto that--that--"
"Hunk of manflesh?" Rachel supplies, smirking again.
"I was going to say military-trained killing machine," Danny kvetches. "Don't go putting words in my mouth now."
"Right, of course. You need the space for other things."
"Rachel!" Danny gasps, shocked, feeling like a 60-year-old spinster. His ears are burning, and the image of him on his knees in front of Steve, well. He's not going to forget that one in a hurry.
Rachel laughs, one of those filthy chuckles that used to have Danny hard in seconds. She winks at him, and he feels the old stirring, he does, but there's just too much between them now, and with Steve shouldering his way back into his life, Danny's just too confused to deal with it.
Rachel seems to sense that, because suddenly there's a hand over his on the table. "Oh, Danny, I'm sorry," Rachel says, looking contrite. "I shouldn't tease. I know this must be difficult for you. It's just, this is the first time I've seen you this affected by another person, since we…"
"Yeah. No, it's okay, Rachel. I'm sorry. It's just so confusing. I remember the other Steve, but this Steve is him, too, only -- the improved version, I guess. And I have no idea how he feels about that stunt of ours all those years ago, whether he just wants to forget it, or..."
Rachel hums, braces her head on her hand, elbow perched on the table. "You need to talk this through with him, I'm afraid. I couldn't possibly imagine what he might think about it. But," she sighs, drops her hand and looks him in the eye. "Danny. What is it you want?"
Danny--blushes. This is mortifying; it's hasn't happened to him since those all-too-brief months half a lifetime ago when he'd believed himself to have found the one person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.
"Oh," Rachel says again, and this time she's full-out beaming at him. "Well. That's certainly interesting." She winks at him again; Danny bites his lower lip, feeling his heart flip as he allows himself to acknowledge that yes he wants this, wants Steve, for all that Steve's pretty much insane, and even more of an adrenaline junkie than he used to be.
A shriek from the doorway startles him, and he turns just in time to catch Grace throwing herself on top of him.
"Daddy, Daddy, what are you doing here? It's not Saturday yet!" she yells delightedly, squeezing him tightly.
"It isn't? Well, that's the worst news I've gotten all day," Danny pouts theatrically, and she giggles. "Actually I came to talk to your mom, monkey. And to see you, of course, now that you're done with your homework. You are done with homework, aren't you?"
Grace makes a face at him. "English is boring. I did my math problems first, they were really easy!"
"You are so much smarter than me," Danny says, hugging her to him and dropping a kiss over her head.
He listens to her talk about school for a while, and lets the peace of her sweet voice settle his doubts and insecurities. When Rachel looks at him and tilts her head towards Grace questioningly, Danny mouths 'later', shrugging when she raises her eyebrows. It's not like she won't meet Steve eventually.
---
The weight of his realisation follows him throughout the next day, the next week. Working with Steve is not what Danny expects. The shootings and explosions aren't too surprising, but the easy laughter is, the way Steve gets him, the way he never has to explain because Steve is already on it. The staggering intelligence, the mind like a steel trap, the lightning-quick reactions Danny knows from before, they've all come together to create something incredible, something Danny finds himself watching more and more often, losing time a little as Steve pulls together strands of intel and hunches to create if not a complete picture, at least most of one that gives them the chance to get one step ahead in the game.
And more than that, Steve listens. While before he would roll over anyone who'd try to get him to do things differently, now he takes it on board, whether he likes it or not. And he cares. He cares about his team, about the cases, about the victims and those left behind. Danny wonders whether that last insight is new, or something that goes way back to losing his mother, since Danny never had the chance to find out. Danny's never worked with anyone whose heart is such an open door for everyone to sneak their way in. It's getting to the point where Danny's starting to feel a little concerned about just how much Steve takes things on, things he can't fix, people he can't bring back, a quest for revenge that is in no way over with the death of Victor Hesse.
"You can't save everybody," he says to Steve a few days later on their second case together, because he can't, and Danny worries about it getting to Steve, about Steve feeling let-down and heartbroken. It's not a thought Danny can resign himself to lightly.
Not that Steve listens. Oh, he bears with Danny's rants; Danny even gets the impression he enjoys them, if the smirk in the corner of his mouth is anything to go by. Take them on board? Not so much. It's difficult, this caring for a psycho who makes it his personal mission to not let any more kids lose their parents.
It's two weeks after his transfer to the Governor's task force (they have got to come up with a name for it, this is so lame) when Chin suggests they all go catch the next Kukui Kings game, and Kono and Steve agree enthusiastically.
"I have Grace that day," Danny says, "I get to pick her up after school."
"Great, bring her with," Steve says, and Danny does a double-take at the tone. Surely Steve isn't--
"You don't mind?" Danny asks for form's sake, but Chin and Kono second the invitation immediately, and Danny is left to wonder why Steve should be nervous about meeting Danny's daughter.
Steve refuses to oblige him when Danny tries to catch his eye, so Danny drives home that night with plenty on his mind. Like the fact that Steve obviously wants to meet Grace enough to invite her, but at the same time he's also worried enough that he tries to hide it from Danny.
Grace skips ahead of him when they enter the stadium on the day in question, but obediently waits for Danny to catch up before she starts climbing the tiers.
"Over there," Danny says, pointing out a grinning Kono who's waving at them enthusiastically. Grace goes a little quiet when she reaches the three adults -- she's still a little shy of strangers, but Danny knows it won't last.
"Hey, Gracie, I'm Steve. Your daddy talks about you all the time," Steve says, and it's probably only obvious to Danny that while Steve is visibly thrilled to meet her, there's an uncertainty somewhere underneath that makes Danny's chest tight. It's no secret that Steve isn't really a natural with kids, but the effort he's making, well. Danny has to look away for a moment to catch his breath.
He loses it again the next second.
"He talks a lot about you, too," Grace chirps, innocent like only an eight-year-old can be.
Steve looks stunned for a moment, and then his laugh is a burst of happiness so plain that Danny can't quite meet his eyes when he fibs that they commiserate with each other. He can see Steve isn't buying it without having to look, but he's relaxed, sprawled loosely over the seat, and the tension that had gripped him earlier is gone without a trace. He leans closer when Danny goes to speak, and oh my god, the smell of him, the warmth of his body, almost curled over Danny's from behind, the huff of his breath against Danny's cheek, and Danny cannot make himself move away; it feels so much like the brief time when they were together that all Danny wants to do is lean into Steve, tilt his head back, close his eyes and wait for the kiss he knows is coming.
"I'm Kono," Kono says, smiling at Grace warmly while Danny is still trying to gather himself.
"And I'm Uncle Chin," Chin adds, winking.
"Are you a football player?" Grace asks, delighted.
Danny listens to Steve boast about beating all of Chin's records--and realises a fraction of a second too late that he has maybe talked about Steve a bit too much to Grace when she goes still and her eyes widen. He can only sit back helplessly and watch her turn to Steve properly, and Steve lean over encouragingly.
"Are you Danno's Steve? The one who moved away when Danno used to live here? Danno, you never told me your Steve came back! Now you won't miss him so much!" And god, she looks so thrilled for her dad, how is Danny supposed to bear this and the turmoil inside him?
Danny had always thought those people who sported full body blushes to be some kinds of freaks of nature. Now, though, he thinks he understands, because his whole body feels too big for his skin, like any moment now it's going to crack all around him, and his heart is beating triple-time, and he can't seem to breathe properly. Steve has gone oddly still, like a predator who's caught the scent of his prey, and Danny feels an itch on the back of his neck, a pair of hazel eyes boring into him; he's such a coward but he just can't, can't look back to meet Steve's eyes.
Kono and Chin take great care to appear absorbed in the game, which is how Danny knows they're listening to every word -- they're cops, of course they would be. He appreciates the illusion of privacy, though. He appreciates it even more when Grace pipes up that she's hungry again.
His protest is half-hearted at best, and he feels relief beyond measure when Steve calls out "Hey, get me some," like it's normal, like his daughter didn't just out him as the kind of guy who pines after someone he's only known a few months, even sixteen years later, like it isn't the most pathetic thing Danny can think of.
Grace is oblivious; for all that she's sharp as a tack, her mind is focused on nachos right now, for which Danny is so, so grateful. He lets his mouth run on automatic as his brain tries to process what just happened back there, and how much damage control he is going to have to run to salvage their partnership.
The thugs with guns? Danny could fucking kiss them.
---
Ten minutes later, he's not feeling nearly as charitable.
"Rachel, calm down. Calm down, it's okay, we're all safe, Grace is safe, an officer is bringing her home now. I'll come see you tonight. I know you're upset, but just--no, just wait," he repeats, trying not to snap at a hysterical Rachel. Fuck, that's just all he needs right now, Rachel freaking out. With his luck, she's going to threaten to take him to court again. Rachel isn't too rational when the safety of her daughter is on the line -- which, okay, Danny can understand; he isn't either. It's the only reason he isn't full-out yelling at her. "Look, I'll come round tonight and explain, okay? I have to go right now, I've two dead men on my hands. Just, please don't do anything rash--"
She hung up on him. He supposes he deserved that. He sighs, pockets his phone and turns round to see Steve watching him carefully from beside Kono.
"Can't wait to meet your ex," Steve says, not unkindly.
Fuck, if they ever do meet, Danny is doomed.
"Yeah, the two of you can plan my demise," he says, and is really glad Steve can't read his mind, because the exact nature of his demise at their hands is not something Danny wants to consider too much when there's this many people around and he can't go hide somewhere until it all goes away.
He's never going to get tired of this, though, the way the two of them just work, never mind that one of them is apparently the kind of maniac who lets armed teenagers go once he's confiscated their weapon, and throws informants into shark cages to get them to talk. By the time they're sitting in a goddamned Ferrari (and Danny is damn straight driving that back tonight), watching Steve smirk at him as he speeds them away from the car full of gorgeous ladies, there's this warmth in Danny's belly that he's sure has nothing to do with the way Steve looks in a suit, white shirt open at his throat to showcase the tanned skin disappearing underneath, pants and jacket cut perfectly to make him look tall and loose and lanky and irresistible. Danny has to sit on his hands not to touch, not to run his hand over the tempting inner thigh inches away from his, follow it all the way to the bulge Danny knows damn well is there -- that is one fine car, and in different circumstances Danny would tell Steve to pull the hell over, and--
Anyway. Danny shifts uncomfortably, angling his groin away from Steve's eagle eyes. By the way Steve's fingers twitch on the steering wheel, Danny has a feeling he hasn't done too good a job of it. Thankfully, Steve says nothing, but the situation really is unacceptable -- Danny is going to have to talk to him, address this like the huge pink elephant it is before it tramples all of them to death.
Danny should probably lay off the metaphors when he's this wound up.
Steve's quiet "He doesn't know what he's talking about" when Danny complains about the discrepancy of their looks gives Danny hope and makes him cringe at the same time because, oh god, he is being far too obvious, and he needs to stop if he wants to salvage their relationship as it is now. There is a new light in Steve's eyes when he looks at Danny, which sure as hell wasn't there before today -- Danny would have noticed. He puts it aside to think about later, when they're not infiltrating an arms deal about to go down.
He's reminded how screwed he is when kissing Kono does nothing, nothing for him, even when by rights there should at least be a twitch, strolling head-first into danger notwithstanding.
By the time they've wrapped it up, it's far too late to head to Rachel's; freaking them out is the last thing Danny wants. He's not too clear on how they end up at Steve's place, though. They'd dropped off the sleek beauty they'd been driving back at the impound and picked up Danny's Camaro from HQ, and then suddenly Steve's behind the wheel again, and Danny's closing his eyes just for a second...
"Hey, Danno, wake up. We're here."
Danny blinks his eyes open; his mouth follows swiftly. "I don't know where 'here' is, but this definitely isn't my stop, so off you go, and I'll head on home," he says more or less without a single thought entering his head. He's so tired he could sleep in the car if Steve would let him.
"You're not driving anywhere in the state you're in. Go on, get inside."
"Inside where?" Danny slurs, head still tipped back against the headrest -- he's crashing, crashing hard.
"The house, Danno. Come on," and then Steve's opening the passenger door and helping Danny out, bracing him against his side and walking him to the front door.
Danny has about enough coherence to voice a protest, but then Steve is pushing him into the soft brown sofa, and it's so comfortable, god, how is something so old this comfortable, it should be against the rules... and then there's only sleep.
---
There's something soft and fuzzy covering Danny when he wakes up, eyesight hazy from all the sunshine flooding the room and trying to gouge his sore eyes out. He rubs at his face as he sits up, blanket falling to bunch around his waist. He's barefoot, shoes aligned neatly with the edge of the couch, which proves that he didn't take them off himself or they'd be lying somewhere where he's bound to trip over them first thing.
Steve's soft voice rumbles from the kitchen as Danny staggers to the downstairs bathroom, taking care of business and splashing his face with cold water. His teeth feel furry, but there's no toothpaste to be found anywhere, so he supposes he'll just have to not breathe on Steve until he's at least had coffee.
He pads into the kitchen, which is when he realises that while Steve is on the phone, it's not his phone he's on.
"Who the hell are you talking to on my phone?" Danny demands, trying to grab it from Steve's hand. Steve is far too nimble on his feet this early on; come to think of it, his hair is wet and curling at the back, so Danny concludes he's already swum round the island or whatever it is Steve does while normal people are on their fourth dream.
Danny went and fell for the only early riser on the whole damned island chain. Go figure.
"Steve, hand the phone over. Right now, if you know what's good for you."
Steve waits a beat, listening to whoever is on the other side before huffing a laugh and relinquishing the phone with a grin that promises nothing good.
Danny looks at the display and groans.
"I heard that," Rachel says when he brings the phone to his ear. "Wasn't very nice, was it, Daniel."
"Sorry," Danny says automatically before frowning. "Wait, no, I'm not sorry. You hung up on me yesterday!"
Rachel sounds terribly amused when she asks, "Just woken up, then?"
"Yeah, five minutes ago." His naturally suspicious nature rears its head shortly after. "What are you doing, talking to Steve?"
"Oh, we were discussing a minor matter concerning yesterday's events. Don't worry, I've got over it. I'm rather used to that, if you'll recall."
"So no lawyers?"
"Not as such, no. But you'll be expected to do something extremely nice to make it up to her this weekend."
Danny pauses for a beat. Steve is pointedly Not Listening; he has his head stuck in the fridge, like he's counting his eggs or whatever demented practice he has this early in the morning.
"I have Grace this weekend?" he checks, because last he remembers, yesterday's father-daughter bonding experience was meant to make up for not getting Grace for the rest of the month.
"Stan has had to leave on urgent business, and I couldn't take the time off work. So yes, I would be very much obliged if you could take her this weekend. I'm meant to be in Maui to meet an investor."
"Right, okay, yes, of course," Danny says, watching Steve assemble a very complicated cup of coffee involving a strange object with a long plunger that Danny eyes askance. "I'll pick her up on Saturday?"
"Eight o'clock at the latest, I'm afraid," Rachel says apologetically, but it's not like Danny has any desire whatsoever to grumble.
He ends the call and watches Steve for a moment as he wrestles with the bizarre contraption. There are so many things he could say; 'what the hell were you thinking, calling my ex-wife'; 'who gave you the right to run my life for me, asshole'; 'where do you get off making me feel this way about you again, you fucking bastard'. In the end, though, he knows it won't change anything. It's too late to back out now; it's been too late from the moment he set eyes on Steve again. As far as Danny's heart is concerned, Danny's been spoken for, for a long, long time now. So he might as well start as he means to go on.
"Okay, I have to ask. What in the hell are you doing to that poor coffee? You know torture's no help when you want results."
Steve stops struggling with the thing and looks at Danny over his shoulder, eyes guarded. "Coffee machine broke on Tuesday. Meant to get it fixed, but we've been kind of busy if you remember. This is my mom's old French press, only there must be something wrong with it, because it won't fit--"
Danny takes mercy on both the coffee and Steve, walks over and tugs it out of his hands. "Okay, step away from the counter, Superman. I'll go get us some coffee from some place that doesn't need to wrangle theirs."
"No," Steve says, far too quickly, gaze darting away from Danny's as Danny stares at him. "No, Danny, I'll go. You're in my house, the least I could do is get you a nice coffee to start the morning."
With that non-sequitur Steve swipes the keys to the Camaro that he must have fished out of Danny's pockets last night (and isn't that an interesting observation) and is out of the door before Danny can so much as open his mouth, which is a hell of an achievement.
"Okay, what," Danny asks the empty house, listening to the Camaro's engine growl to life.
Oh well. He might as well go take a shower while he waits, because he feels utterly filthy and sorely in need of soap. Steve won't mind. He trudges upstairs, taking off shirt, tie that had been half-loosened already (probably Steve's doing), pants, dropping them in a heap on the bathroom floor. Only when he's dripping wet and using Steve's towel to dry off does it occur to him that a) he's using his partner's towel without a second thought, it still smells like Steve's hair, and do not ask Danny how he knows that; and b) he has nothing clean to put on.
Perhaps he should have thought this through better before just saying 'fuck it'.
He ambles into Steve's bedroom, and Jesus, he's about to go through his partner's stuff, this could be seen as just a little too invasive. But the alternative is waiting for Steve wrapped in Steve's own towel, and Danny's not sure he can handle that, not with the way Steve has been making himself at home under Danny's skin. Not that Steve won't find out about the towel; he'll figure it out in two seconds flat, but Danny won't be in it when he does.
He eases open one wing of the wardrobe and sighs in relief -- jackpot. Row after row of clean T-shirts present themselves to Danny's attention, all in various shades of green, grey and blue. He reaches for the one on top of the stack--and freezes.
The shade is lighter than he remembers, made all the more unrecognisable by the way it peeks from between piles of clothing, like it's winking at Danny, the brightest blue in the closet. Danny tugs it out carefully, noting that it might be much-washed, but it's barely stretched. It would probably fit him perfectly now. He stares at it as pieces of the puzzle start rearranging themselves in his head, all of them pointing to Steve not faring much better than Danny when it comes to being hung up on a certain someone from his past.
A strangled sound reaches him from the doorway and Danny whips around to come face to startled face with Steve, bearing two take-away cups of coffee and staring at Danny, the towel, the sweater, everywhere at once.
"I--" Danny starts, but has to cut himself off so he can concentrate on clamping both hands over the towel that's making a bid for freedom. "I was going to borrow some clothes. I took a shower," he finishes lamely, but Steve seems focused not so much on Danny's words as on Danny's--other things.
The silence stretches, neither making any move to break it. Danny can hear the click of Steve's throat as he swallows dryly, eyes fixed somewhere below Danny's face. Danny makes an aborted motion with the hand holding the sweater.
"You kept it," he says quietly.
Steve looks torn between denial and feigning nonchalance, but in the end he just nods.
"Yeah," he croaks and has to stop to clear his throat. "Yeah, I kept it, Danno. It was the only thing of yours I had."
Steve looks away at last, places the coffees on top of a chest of drawers and tugs out the one in the middle. He lays a pair of sweatpants on the bed, darts Danny a look. "You'll want it back, of course, I remember you saying. Uh, about your mom. So yeah. I'll just be downstairs when you're done--"
Danny drops the sweater and the towel at the same time. Steve's words dry up as Danny stalks forward, stops a scant inch before their bodies touch.
"Tell me. Tell me I've read this wrong; tell me to back off and I will," Danny says , lips so close to the line of Steve's jaw they're almost brushing against the stubble Steve hasn't bothered to shave.
Steve lets out a broken sound and surges forward, mashes his lips against Danny's, threads one hand through Danny's damp hair, fastens the other on Danny's hip and tugs, plasters Danny's chest to his, presses them together until Danny can feel every breath, every twitch of Steve's muscles against his stomach, every whimper as it leaves Steve's mouth and travels into his. He grabs hold of Steve's T-shirt, clutches at it like Steve might disappear if he lets go, feels the twist of muscle under his palms. Every inhale is Steve's scent, every push forward is the unyielding wall of Steve's body, every twist of his fingers brings him closer to the warmth of Steve's skin under his T-shirt.
Danny can't get enough. He tugs at the fabric frantically, and Steve shucks it like water, only letting go of Danny for the fraction of a second it takes him to whip it over his head and throw it away. Danny's fingers slip in the sweat gathered at the small of Steve's back, trying to gain purchase so he can push Steve's sweatpants away, but god, it's just not happening, damn them -- and then he's falling, landing with a grunt across Steve's bed while Steve hooks his thumbs in the waistband and pushes them off his hips, leaving them to pool at his feet as he licks his lips and stares. Danny would feel self-conscious if it wasn't blindingly obvious just how much Steve wants him, just how much he can't wait.
Steve climbs on top of him, and it's clumsy, Steve's habitual grace gone into hiding, all raw need and desperation. Steve falls over him, presses him into the bed with his weight and Danny is in heaven, or he would be if Steve would just fucking move.
"Danny, please, I need--I need--" There are kisses pressing into every inch of Danny's skin, and Danny can barely catch his breath to reply.
"Yeah, yeah, babe, okay, yes, just--slow down a second--"
"I can't, Danny, I can't--"
"Okay, okay, fuck, where do you keep--"
"The drawer on your left, please--"
"Jesus Christ, Steve, you're going to have to stop doing that if you want me to--wait, no, fuck, forget I said that, hey, come back here--"
"Got them, just--"
Danny has had enough. He uses Steve's uncharacteristic spatial confusion to flip them over; Steve yelps but goes, his hands never leaving Danny's body, keeping him spread astride over Steve's lap, cocks brushing together with every twitch of their hips.
Neither of them is going to last long; they are both too wound up, and Danny doesn't know about Steve but he knows that he is going to blow his top with no regards for reciprocity pretty damn soon, so if Steve wants to--"fuck, yes, there" --uh, where was he?
Oh yes.
Steve groans long and hoarse when Danny arches his back and sinks two lubed fingers inside himself, too desperate for any kind of finesse. He's done it before; he'll be sore as fuck tomor--later today, but he can take Steve in with minimum stretch, provided there's plenty of lube and he's this turned on, oh god, he isn't going to be able to hold it, not with Steve looking at him like that, blown pupils and bitten lips and lowered lashes throwing shadows over his cheekbones, slick tongue leaving his mouth wet and shiny, perfect, Danny wants his cock slipping through those lips, wants to watch himself fill Steve's mouth over and over and over again, and that is really not helping his self-control.
He twists three fingers inside himself, and almost loses his balance when he grinds a knuckle against his prostate without meaning to. Steve lets out a small sound of supplication, one hand following Danny's arm until he's working a fourth finger inside, and fuck, it's too much too soon and it hurts, but Danny never wants it to stop.
"Enough," he growls, pulling out and lining up Steve's cock with the hand that's still dripping with lube, giving him a quick stroke to spread whatever's left down Steve's length until it's shiny and slippery and looking gorgeous.
"Wait," Steve yelps hoarsely, struggling with the condom wrapper; it's proving a fucking arousal dampener, the way it twists through his slick fingers.
"Jesus," Danny swears, wipes his fingers on the sheet and tears the thing open, spreading it over Steve's cock as Steve squeezes a too-large dollop of lube over the head, but Danny doesn't give a fuck because finally he's sinking over Steve, taking him in inch by inch, twisting his hips and forcing himself open around him. Steve's eyes are squeezed shut and his chest is slick with sweat and his hands are slipping on Danny's hips and he's gritting his teeth so tightly a muscle is jumping in his jaw and Danny has never wanted another human being more than in this moment.
Finally he's sitting in Steve's lap, all of him inside, and he gives himself a second because a) fuck, it's been a long time since he's had someone so fucking thick inside him, god, the stretch, and b) he's going to come in two and a half seconds if he doesn't.
Steve is making helpless little motions with his hips, and Danny can see the strain in takes for Steve to stop himself from thrusting inside Danny until Danny gives him the okay. Which he does, and after that it gets a little blurry. Steve is so hot inside him, giving, alive, and the body writhing under him is the stuff that dreams are made of. It's frantic, and fast, and just this side of too much, and fuck, his leg is trying to cramp under him from keeping him in place through Steve's thrusts, and yet...
Danny loses time, seconds stretching way into the distance as Steve twists and presses and tugs Danny closer. He watches Steve's eyes rolling into the back of his head, teeth bared in a snarl of 'yes, now'; watches as if from a distance as his own hand wraps around his cock and twists, watches Steve watch his cock slide in and out of the circle of his fist, and then there's another hand closing around it, fingers different from his own rubbing over the head as it peeks from between Danny's fingers. His breath leaves him on a sob as he watches Steve lift his forefinger to that mouth of his, suck the drop of precome hanging off the tip between his lips as he twists his other hand over Danny's on his cock, and--
He comes to sprawled face-down onto the mattress with Steve's heaving body next to him, hears the ragged exhales Steve's lungs push out desperately, the sucking inhales, the little unconscious noises of coming down, and realises at least half of them are his.
He tries to speak, but nothing more than a hum manifests itself from his mouth, a 'nnngh' that's long and languid and so self-satisfied his lips curl in a grin of their own volition.
"Yeah," Steve manages, and suddenly there's a hand over Danny's ass, rubbing a thumb against the sweat-slick skin fondly. "Yeah, Danny."
Steve's voice is wrecked, deep, rasping. Danny wants to hear it just like this at least once every single day for the rest of his life.
He shuffles his limp muscles until he's managed to throw a leg between Steve's and an arm over his chest. Steve sighs contentedly and there's a hand on Danny's arm, following the length of it until it finds Danny's and hooks their little fingers together, a single long finger stroking over the back of Danny's hand. Danny hides his smile in Steve's shoulder.
He's almost asleep when Steve takes a deep breath and says, "You should move in with me," fast like he needs to get it out before Danny cuts him off.
"What, now?" Danny manages, trying and failing to lift his head. He nestles it more comfortably instead.
"Danny, I've waited for you for sixteen years. I think our courtship is done, don't you?"
"How can you even think right now?" Danny grumbles, but the idea is not even remotely unpleasant. In fact, it has considerable merit. Like not having to ever move after something like this.
Steve huffs a laugh; it ruffles the small hairs by his ear, and Danny rubs his nose against Steve's skin in complaint.
"Yes or no, Danny?"
"Jesus, give a guy a second," Danny groans. The stroking over his hand, which had paused when Steve spoke, resumes its lazy path. It's a suitable reflection of Steve's unnatural patience when it comes to getting things his way.
He's almost asleep again when Steve starts running his free hand over his spine, long, slow trails of his fingers that makes something tighten in Danny's stomach even after everything.
"You are a menace," Danny complains, and feels the tightening of Steve's chest as another amused huff makes its way out. The fingers, he notices, never pause. He sighs in defeat. "Fine. Okay. If I say yes, will you desist?"
"Not on your life, Danny," Steve says, and rolls them over.
"For the record," Danny says when Steve starts sucking a trail of kisses down his throat, "you can keep the shirt."
Steve stills on top of him, raises his head to look at Danny, a goofy look brightening his face. "Really?" he says, and god, that look in his eyes, it should not be doing these kinds of things to Danny.
But, he supposes, it's part of taking the plunge, making a home somewhere, with someone who has been a part of his life for so long; of finally admitting that even after all those years, this is the only place Danny ever wants to be: on this island, with this goof, his daughter not five miles away.
"Yeah," he says at last, linking his fingers to Steve's and pulling his hand up to brush a kiss against his knuckles, sappiness be damned. "One less thing to move."
-----
Pairing: (central) Steve/Danny, many minor pairings.
Word Count: ~46,000 (~9,700 this part)
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Graphic violence (of the fistcuffs variety), hints of child neglect at the start, minors fighting, minor character death (pre-story), canon character death, angst. Don't worry, though -- this is meant to be a happy story, I promise. We'll get there.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five
Exactly one month later to the day, all hell breaks loose. Danny gets the call half-way through the morning, and the address makes his blood freeze in his veins, even though he knows that the only person that has lived in that house for years now is John McGarrett. Nevertheless, when he pulls up to find the street completely covered in police cruisers, the apprehension in Danny's gut only rises. Nothing good can come on the tail of a sight like this.
John McGarrett is slumped in a plain kitchen chair, hands and feet still tied to it, his chin pressed into his chest. There's really no way this could be anything else but a crime scene; the spray of blood everywhere is just an afterthought.
"You're taking the case, Williams," his Captain tells him gravely. "I've been informed you knew the victim, too, but not as long as the rest of us, and you're still fresh off the mainland. Let's see how far you can get."
Danny is stunned -- pretty much no one in HPD apart from Meka gives him the time of day, and he would have imagined that the whole department would have been up in arms about the murder of one of their own -- a decorated war hero, no less, and someone who has spent most of his life in the precinct. But even though the other officers at the scene are angry and bewildered, they fall in line with the Captain's decision with an ease that feels vaguely wrong to Danny. Yes, their training dictates that they take orders as they come, without question, but to swallow something like this so easily, when Danny's sure most of them are seething at the idea of putting a haole on John McGarrett's murder, it feels like brainwashing to Danny. He's never held with blindly following orders, and this unquestioning obedience makes him uneasy.
Jimmy, when Danny remembers to call him, is devastated. He's known John McGarrett for upwards of thirty years, and to lose him like this is, while not completely unexpected given their line of work, still heartbreaking. Danny is sure he hears Clara crying quietly in the background, and promises to go round that evening, if for nothing else than to share their grief, see if there's anything at all he can do for them.
He doesn't go to the funeral; he's too busy burying himself in paperwork, ferreting out leads, ordering taps on useless weapons dealers, chasing up dead ends. He took his time on the scene the day before, but this morning, after he drops Grace off at school, he heads back over to the house, dread pooling into his stomach.
He's not an idiot. He is, in fact, one fine detective, if he says so himself. So he's perfectly aware that one of these days he's going to round a corner and walk smack into Steve McGarrett, a blast from the past that still has the power to destroy him, much as Danny laments the imposition.
He just isn't prepared to walk into the McGarrett garage and come face to face with the man himself right this moment.
"Drop your weapon," Steve roars, and Danny's yelling the same thing before his brain kicks him but well and good, cluing him in as to just whom he's faced up against.
Danny lowers his weapon from sheer shock, because it's impossible to miss the resemblance this man bears to the sixteen-year-old boy Danny loved. The broad shoulders, the dark hair cropped much closer to the head than Danny's used to seeing, those steely eyes boring straight into his.
"Steve," Danny says quietly, half-greeting and half-confirmation, and Steve narrows his eyes at him, calculating, assessing, gun still pointing unerringly at Danny's head.
"What--Danny?" Steve says, voice thick with disbelief, blood-shot eyes widening with surprise. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Danny sighs, shoving his gun back in its holder. "It's a very long story," he says, walking closer. "First, though, I'm very sorry for your loss." He offers Steve his hand, meeting his eyes for the brief moment he can force.
Steve just stares at him, gun still in hand, and after a moment Danny drops his hand and makes an aborted motion to run it through his hair. He contents himself with running a palm down his tie, a way to keep his hands busy and cover up the fact that he's floundering, caught with his figurative pants down.
"Look, I'm really sorry, but you can't be here right now," he forces out at last. "This is an active crime scene."
"Doesn't seem all that active," Steve snaps back, and okay, Danny gets that he's grieving, that he's still in shock from the news of his father's death, but this is just too much.
"I am not at liberty to discuss the investigation, you know that," Danny says, non-negotiable.
"So you're the haole detective they put on the case. Chin might have warned me," Steve mutters to himself, and okay, Danny has no idea what he's talking about, but he resents the fact that he'll always be defined as the outsider on this damn island.
"Yes, I am, and I promise you I'll get to the bottom of this, but right now I need you to leave, okay?"
Steve stares at him some more, wary and suspicious, like this is the first time he's ever met Danny; and yeah, Danny knew that Steve had forgotten him a long time ago, but it still slices through him like a blade.
"Fine," Steve says, grabbing hold of a red tool box that Danny knows for a fact was sitting right there in the garage yesterday afternoon.
"What the hell are you doing?" Danny bristles when Steve makes to walk past him. "You can't take that, it's evidence. What, you never watched any cop shows as a kid?"
Steve looks furious for a moment, opens his mouth like he means to rip Danny a new one, but snaps it shut before anything comes out. Danny can see it in his eyes when Steve considers bullshitting his way out of this one, and also the decision not to.
"What, are you going to book me, Williams?" and oh, fuck, does that one hurt.
"Sure," Danny grits out. "Maybe call an ambulance while I'm at it."
Steve's lips twitch, and if the bastard laughs at him Danny will not be responsible for his actions. But all Steve does is pop the tool box on top of what Danny knows is the covered Marquis Steve and his dad used to work on together, and pull out his phone.
"Oh, what now?" Danny complains, crossing his arms over his chest. Steve makes a condescending 'just a second' gesture, and oh my god, Danny has never wanted to punch anyone more in his life. He wonders for a strange, out-of-time moment when Steve became such a prick. He feels a little stupid for being so hung up on a guy that it's glaringly obvious no longer exists, replaced by some stranger that trusts no one and thinks the fact he's 'Lt Commander McGarrett, US Navy' gives him the right to boss people around like it's his job.
He watches, bemused, as Steve gets the Governor on the phone, accepts some deal or other, and gets sworn in as a police officer right there in front of him.
"Now it's my crime scene," Steve growls, picks up the damned toolbox and stalks out of the door, leaving Danny staring at the empty space Steve left with a lost feeling in his chest.
---
He doesn't have long to wallow in self-pity before someone is trying to knock his shitty front door down, and he's pretty sure whom he's going to find on the other side. Steve slides past him without so much as a 'by your leave', taking the room in with a few short glances that grate on Danny. His eyes linger on the photo of Grace, and oh man, Danny does not expect the welling regret for not being the one to tell Steve about his daughter. This is going to get old very soon.
"This your daughter?" Steve asks, and there's something dark in his voice, something an awful lot like hurt, and what. Where does he get off being hurt about--Danny doesn't even know.
"That's my Grace," Danny answers, deceptively light, well aware there's a warning in his voice Steve would do well to heed.
"You let your daughter stay here?" Steve says, making a show of looking around, and okay, Danny really does not like that tone of his, or the hints of a sneer on his face.
"Hey," he says, and this time Steve really can't mistake the warning to back the fuck off. "Are you suggesting I don't take the best care of my daughter?" Jesus, what happened to the guy Danny used to trust, who used to think the world of Danny?
Time, Danny supposes. Time grinds even the sturdiest rose-tinted spectacles to dust.
Steve just shrugs, giving the place a last once-over before dropping it, though his gaze keeps straying to the small photo frame. He shakes himself, and Danny watches the 'all business' expression steal over his face. It's not unlike his 'study' face from all those years ago, although the addition of deadly SEAL into the bargain is something new. It's--interesting, and in another time and place Danny would be intrigued. As it is, he just wants to get this over with. To think that he'd imagined, fantasised even, about Steve coming back, about their reunion--well. Reality always disappoints, and that's all there is to it.
So he really is not expecting for Steve to conscript him into his little personal vendetta against anyone and everyone who might stand in his way in his pursuit of justice. When Steve gives him his reasons for choosing Danny, dissects his psychological profile right there in Danny's dingy apartment with a detachment that looks practiced, something inside Danny snaps, fragile and stretched to the end of its tether.
And then the complete bastard goes on to get him shot. Danny ignores the odd urgency in Steve's voice when he yells Danny's name, the aborted move in his direction, a red-hot mist of rage and pain taking over, lifting him up and around the house, out on the other side, dodging and twisting in between market stalls, trying to catch a glimpse of Doran, using it when he's got it to put a bullet through his head when it looks like it's him or Steve. And then. And then. The self-entitled fucker.
He's really not all that surprised when he watches himself, as if from a distance, haul back and punch Steve in the face with everything he's got. He knows for a fact it's got to hurt -- just because Danny got married and had a kid does not mean he's let his past slide completely. There's a trail of bruised opponents all the way back to Jersey to testify otherwise. To his surprise, Steve says nothing apart from a murmured "son of a bitch", which even Danny allows is fair.
The easy banter surprises him even more, he's not going to lie. Steve has changed, true enough, but the quick sixteen-year-old is still there, even when he's buried so deep inside, Danny wonders if Steve realises he's even there at all. It makes Danny thaw a little, lets him give back as good as he gets from Steve's default deadpan setting.
When Steve says they're on their way to visit an old friend, Danny could not have possibly imagined whom he's about to come face to face with. Chin looks tired, drawn, nowhere near the bright-faced rookie cop Danny had last seen all those years ago. Danny knows half of the story, of course he does; new or not, Meka has dropped enough hints for Danny to work out that something seriously wrong went down with Chin, and that for some reason his name is taboo in the precinct. His first reaction on hearing just why Chin resigned is to haul ass back to work and punch a few choice people in the face for believing this bullshit about one of the most honest guys Danny knows.
But he knows that won't solve anything. Chin looks surprised at Danny's indignation on his behalf, and that more than anything just makes Danny sad. And when Steve gives his little "Come with us now, and we don't have to talk about it again" speech, well. Danny kind of wants to kiss him, and that is the worst news he's gotten all day, even worse than Steve's return in the first place. Because it's not like Danny doesn't remember what Steve's lips tasted like against his; decades later, it's still as sharp as the day he flew off, Steve's taste still in his mouth, Steve's sad face still etched behind his eyelids. Danny wonders distractedly what Steve would do if Danny just said fuck it and kissed him, licked his way into Steve's mouth, shut him up for a blessed few minutes. Steve might be a dick, but damn if he hasn't grown into the promise of his young self. He's still freakishly tall, but he's bulked up, and his shoulders are almost as wide as Danny's, his arms muscled and taut, his chest...
This is really not the kind of thing Danny should be thinking about when he's driving hell for leather down the highway towards North Shore. And when he claps eyes on Kono, fresh from the water like some goddess come to life, he really should not be thinking about how interesting Steve looks with those glasses on, straight nose supporting the frames, short hair ruffled by the wind, standing there with his feet braced apart and his arms crossed against his chest. Danny wants to tackle him into the sand and do truly filthy things to his person.
He attempts a decoy, flirting with Kono because she's there and she looks amazing and she used to reach his chest the last time he saw her and now she's almost taller than him. She laughs him off, and that's that -- Danny backs off gracefully, and ignores Chin's amused look.
And then the fucker goes and loses his shirt, and who does that, whips off their clothes at the slightest provocation, god, he has a freaking bedroom, he could change there just fine, but no, he has to mess with Danny's head, doesn't he; he has to show off those damned tattoos, those muscles, Jesus Christ, how is this fair.
He hates this Steve, Danny reminds himself. This Steve is an asshole. Really. An assuming, control freak asshole, who waits for a special occasion to apologise for getting someone shot, okay, this is not cool in Danny Williams' book of How It's Done.
But. Steve's sitting there, staring into the ocean, occasionally throwing small glances at Danny that Danny would classify as disbelief mixed with delight, if he didn't think it was just wishful thinking on his behalf.
"So," Steve says, head flopping to one side to look at Danny properly. "You got married."
"And divorced," Danny says, flopping his left hand at Steve, the one where the wedding band outline is just starting to tan over. "And you? Navy SEALs, really, Lt Commander?"
"Really," Steve says, a small smile playing at his lips. He looks pleased that Danny's noticed, which is so patently ridiculous that Danny wants to laugh, but he knows where they are, knows what Steve found in the house behind them just that morning, knows -- or at least suspects -- what Steve's life must have been like for the past sixteen years to put the happiness that someone noticed his achievements on that expressive face, and Danny wants nothing more but to go back in time and fucking--punch John McGarrett, something, he doesn't know.
"Your daughter?" Steve says, breaking into Danny's thoughts, looking genuinely interested.
"Grace is eight, she'll be nine in November," Danny says, and okay, it's not like he can keep the pride out of his voice.
"That's great," Steve says warmly. "So you, uh." He looks awkward all of a sudden, shifting in the deck chair. "You moved because of her?"
"Back on this pineapple-ridden island of doom, you mean? Yeah. Rachel moved Grace, I followed. That's how it works in our bizarre little family unit."
"Huh," Steve says, looking away. After a while, during which Danny tries not to stare and fails, Steve clears his throat. "I meant to ask. I know it was a long time ago, and you probably don't remember, but, uh. There was a letter I left with--"
"Catherine?" Danny interrupts, and of course, of course he's going to bring this up. Damn McGarretts, they can never let anything go. "Yeah, I got it."
Steve blinks. "You did? You never--" he clamps his jaw back shut and jerks his head away, looking furious with himself.
And oh. Danny blinks a few times, heart beating double-time. Steve hoped Danny would call, went against his dad's wishes in leaving the number, most likely, and then Danny never did.
"Steve. Steve, look at me."
For the longest time, Steve wouldn't; and then he does, defiant, a wall between him and the world.
"Steve, the number was smudged. I promise you, the number, half of it was gone. I don't know how it happened, looked like it was splashed with water. I'll show you the letter if you don't believe me."
Steve is staring at him, like he's looking for the tiniest sign that Danny is lying; Danny looks back openly, letting Steve see the truth in his eyes. Finally Steve shudders, like some weight has disappeared from his shoulders, and oh my god, he's smiling, he's smiling at Danny, and Jesus, Danny is not equipped to handle this, not the way Steve looks at him like he's the sun dawning, like Danny is something Steve didn't think he was allowed to have.
"Oh," Steve says, beaming at Danny, "I thought--um. Nevermind."
Which is, of course, the moment Steve's phone rings.
---
With the take-down set up for tomorrow, Danny decides it's high time he left, because this, it's all too much to process right now, and Steve keeps looking at him, and Danny has no idea what is going on anymore.
He drives around aimlessly -- or so he thinks, but apparently his hind brain knows better than him what he needs, because when he next focuses on his surroundings he's idling outside a familiar iron gate, staring at it unseeingly.
The intercom next to his driver's seat beeps. "Was there something you wanted, Daniel?" Rachel says, voice tinny but still -- always -- distinct.
"Uh," Danny says eloquently.
There's a pause and then there's a clang and the gate swings open, an unspoken invitation. Danny switches into first in a daze, and the Camaro jerks a little as it climbs the slight incline.
Rachel's waiting for him at the door, a barely noticeable frown furrowing her brow. "Is everything okay?" she asks, and Danny marvels once more that there's only concern now in her voice, no longer the barely veiled exasperation, the hint of contempt. Finding Stan really had done wonders for their after-marriage relations.
Danny stands there helplessly, not knowing where to start. Rachel reaches forward, takes his wrist and tugs him to stand beside her at the door frame. "Is it the case?" she prods, and Danny grimaces.
He'd long ago told her about his previous time here in Hawai'i, back when the flush of love was still fierce and new, when they'd wanted to know everything about each other. So she knows of Steve, and what he meant to Danny. And she knows of John McGarrett's murder, because Danny had, to his furious disappointment, had to reschedule his Grace weekend for next week, and had had to explain why.
So "Kind of," he replies, thrusting his hands in his pockets and looking down at his shoes. "Steve came back," he admits at last.
"Oh," Rachel says on an exhale, and when Danny looks up, her eyes are kind. "Well. Would you like to talk about it, or where you blocking my driveway because you missed me?"
Danny makes a face at her, and she smirks. Still, she opens the door and steps aside, and Danny has no option but to brush past her and go in, because at this point he needs to get his head straight or he has no idea what he'll do when he sees Steve again.
Rachel leads the way into the kitchen, fixes Danny a cup of coffee from the space-age coffee maker Stan favours and makes a cup of tea for herself. They sit at the kitchen table in silence for a while until Rachel loses patience with him and raises an eyebrow, something she knows drives Danny up the wall.
Danny huffs, but folds and recounts the events of the morning, up to and including the punching Steve in the face, and the Steve taking his shirt off the first chance he gets, and the look on Steve's face when Danny told him about the phone number. Rachel listens -- she's always been so very good at listening, taking the time to wheedle all the details out of him right before she knocks him out for six (damn Rachel and her cricket obsession) with a well-placed observation that turns his world around.
Today is no exception. She puts down her cup of tea and fixes Danny with a shrewd look. "Danny. I know this isn't easy for you, after what happened last time. But you have a second chance here. Maybe it won't work out, maybe it was never meant to. But maybe, just maybe, in him you'll find what you've been looking for all this time--shut up. You know I'm right; this thing between us, it was never going to last the distance," she finishes, and Danny snaps his mouth closed on his protest.
Danny looks down into his coffee like it holds all the answers. "It's just, it's so hard to superimpose the sixteen-year-old onto that--that--"
"Hunk of manflesh?" Rachel supplies, smirking again.
"I was going to say military-trained killing machine," Danny kvetches. "Don't go putting words in my mouth now."
"Right, of course. You need the space for other things."
"Rachel!" Danny gasps, shocked, feeling like a 60-year-old spinster. His ears are burning, and the image of him on his knees in front of Steve, well. He's not going to forget that one in a hurry.
Rachel laughs, one of those filthy chuckles that used to have Danny hard in seconds. She winks at him, and he feels the old stirring, he does, but there's just too much between them now, and with Steve shouldering his way back into his life, Danny's just too confused to deal with it.
Rachel seems to sense that, because suddenly there's a hand over his on the table. "Oh, Danny, I'm sorry," Rachel says, looking contrite. "I shouldn't tease. I know this must be difficult for you. It's just, this is the first time I've seen you this affected by another person, since we…"
"Yeah. No, it's okay, Rachel. I'm sorry. It's just so confusing. I remember the other Steve, but this Steve is him, too, only -- the improved version, I guess. And I have no idea how he feels about that stunt of ours all those years ago, whether he just wants to forget it, or..."
Rachel hums, braces her head on her hand, elbow perched on the table. "You need to talk this through with him, I'm afraid. I couldn't possibly imagine what he might think about it. But," she sighs, drops her hand and looks him in the eye. "Danny. What is it you want?"
Danny--blushes. This is mortifying; it's hasn't happened to him since those all-too-brief months half a lifetime ago when he'd believed himself to have found the one person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.
"Oh," Rachel says again, and this time she's full-out beaming at him. "Well. That's certainly interesting." She winks at him again; Danny bites his lower lip, feeling his heart flip as he allows himself to acknowledge that yes he wants this, wants Steve, for all that Steve's pretty much insane, and even more of an adrenaline junkie than he used to be.
A shriek from the doorway startles him, and he turns just in time to catch Grace throwing herself on top of him.
"Daddy, Daddy, what are you doing here? It's not Saturday yet!" she yells delightedly, squeezing him tightly.
"It isn't? Well, that's the worst news I've gotten all day," Danny pouts theatrically, and she giggles. "Actually I came to talk to your mom, monkey. And to see you, of course, now that you're done with your homework. You are done with homework, aren't you?"
Grace makes a face at him. "English is boring. I did my math problems first, they were really easy!"
"You are so much smarter than me," Danny says, hugging her to him and dropping a kiss over her head.
He listens to her talk about school for a while, and lets the peace of her sweet voice settle his doubts and insecurities. When Rachel looks at him and tilts her head towards Grace questioningly, Danny mouths 'later', shrugging when she raises her eyebrows. It's not like she won't meet Steve eventually.
---
The weight of his realisation follows him throughout the next day, the next week. Working with Steve is not what Danny expects. The shootings and explosions aren't too surprising, but the easy laughter is, the way Steve gets him, the way he never has to explain because Steve is already on it. The staggering intelligence, the mind like a steel trap, the lightning-quick reactions Danny knows from before, they've all come together to create something incredible, something Danny finds himself watching more and more often, losing time a little as Steve pulls together strands of intel and hunches to create if not a complete picture, at least most of one that gives them the chance to get one step ahead in the game.
And more than that, Steve listens. While before he would roll over anyone who'd try to get him to do things differently, now he takes it on board, whether he likes it or not. And he cares. He cares about his team, about the cases, about the victims and those left behind. Danny wonders whether that last insight is new, or something that goes way back to losing his mother, since Danny never had the chance to find out. Danny's never worked with anyone whose heart is such an open door for everyone to sneak their way in. It's getting to the point where Danny's starting to feel a little concerned about just how much Steve takes things on, things he can't fix, people he can't bring back, a quest for revenge that is in no way over with the death of Victor Hesse.
"You can't save everybody," he says to Steve a few days later on their second case together, because he can't, and Danny worries about it getting to Steve, about Steve feeling let-down and heartbroken. It's not a thought Danny can resign himself to lightly.
Not that Steve listens. Oh, he bears with Danny's rants; Danny even gets the impression he enjoys them, if the smirk in the corner of his mouth is anything to go by. Take them on board? Not so much. It's difficult, this caring for a psycho who makes it his personal mission to not let any more kids lose their parents.
It's two weeks after his transfer to the Governor's task force (they have got to come up with a name for it, this is so lame) when Chin suggests they all go catch the next Kukui Kings game, and Kono and Steve agree enthusiastically.
"I have Grace that day," Danny says, "I get to pick her up after school."
"Great, bring her with," Steve says, and Danny does a double-take at the tone. Surely Steve isn't--
"You don't mind?" Danny asks for form's sake, but Chin and Kono second the invitation immediately, and Danny is left to wonder why Steve should be nervous about meeting Danny's daughter.
Steve refuses to oblige him when Danny tries to catch his eye, so Danny drives home that night with plenty on his mind. Like the fact that Steve obviously wants to meet Grace enough to invite her, but at the same time he's also worried enough that he tries to hide it from Danny.
Grace skips ahead of him when they enter the stadium on the day in question, but obediently waits for Danny to catch up before she starts climbing the tiers.
"Over there," Danny says, pointing out a grinning Kono who's waving at them enthusiastically. Grace goes a little quiet when she reaches the three adults -- she's still a little shy of strangers, but Danny knows it won't last.
"Hey, Gracie, I'm Steve. Your daddy talks about you all the time," Steve says, and it's probably only obvious to Danny that while Steve is visibly thrilled to meet her, there's an uncertainty somewhere underneath that makes Danny's chest tight. It's no secret that Steve isn't really a natural with kids, but the effort he's making, well. Danny has to look away for a moment to catch his breath.
He loses it again the next second.
"He talks a lot about you, too," Grace chirps, innocent like only an eight-year-old can be.
Steve looks stunned for a moment, and then his laugh is a burst of happiness so plain that Danny can't quite meet his eyes when he fibs that they commiserate with each other. He can see Steve isn't buying it without having to look, but he's relaxed, sprawled loosely over the seat, and the tension that had gripped him earlier is gone without a trace. He leans closer when Danny goes to speak, and oh my god, the smell of him, the warmth of his body, almost curled over Danny's from behind, the huff of his breath against Danny's cheek, and Danny cannot make himself move away; it feels so much like the brief time when they were together that all Danny wants to do is lean into Steve, tilt his head back, close his eyes and wait for the kiss he knows is coming.
"I'm Kono," Kono says, smiling at Grace warmly while Danny is still trying to gather himself.
"And I'm Uncle Chin," Chin adds, winking.
"Are you a football player?" Grace asks, delighted.
Danny listens to Steve boast about beating all of Chin's records--and realises a fraction of a second too late that he has maybe talked about Steve a bit too much to Grace when she goes still and her eyes widen. He can only sit back helplessly and watch her turn to Steve properly, and Steve lean over encouragingly.
"Are you Danno's Steve? The one who moved away when Danno used to live here? Danno, you never told me your Steve came back! Now you won't miss him so much!" And god, she looks so thrilled for her dad, how is Danny supposed to bear this and the turmoil inside him?
Danny had always thought those people who sported full body blushes to be some kinds of freaks of nature. Now, though, he thinks he understands, because his whole body feels too big for his skin, like any moment now it's going to crack all around him, and his heart is beating triple-time, and he can't seem to breathe properly. Steve has gone oddly still, like a predator who's caught the scent of his prey, and Danny feels an itch on the back of his neck, a pair of hazel eyes boring into him; he's such a coward but he just can't, can't look back to meet Steve's eyes.
Kono and Chin take great care to appear absorbed in the game, which is how Danny knows they're listening to every word -- they're cops, of course they would be. He appreciates the illusion of privacy, though. He appreciates it even more when Grace pipes up that she's hungry again.
His protest is half-hearted at best, and he feels relief beyond measure when Steve calls out "Hey, get me some," like it's normal, like his daughter didn't just out him as the kind of guy who pines after someone he's only known a few months, even sixteen years later, like it isn't the most pathetic thing Danny can think of.
Grace is oblivious; for all that she's sharp as a tack, her mind is focused on nachos right now, for which Danny is so, so grateful. He lets his mouth run on automatic as his brain tries to process what just happened back there, and how much damage control he is going to have to run to salvage their partnership.
The thugs with guns? Danny could fucking kiss them.
---
Ten minutes later, he's not feeling nearly as charitable.
"Rachel, calm down. Calm down, it's okay, we're all safe, Grace is safe, an officer is bringing her home now. I'll come see you tonight. I know you're upset, but just--no, just wait," he repeats, trying not to snap at a hysterical Rachel. Fuck, that's just all he needs right now, Rachel freaking out. With his luck, she's going to threaten to take him to court again. Rachel isn't too rational when the safety of her daughter is on the line -- which, okay, Danny can understand; he isn't either. It's the only reason he isn't full-out yelling at her. "Look, I'll come round tonight and explain, okay? I have to go right now, I've two dead men on my hands. Just, please don't do anything rash--"
She hung up on him. He supposes he deserved that. He sighs, pockets his phone and turns round to see Steve watching him carefully from beside Kono.
"Can't wait to meet your ex," Steve says, not unkindly.
Fuck, if they ever do meet, Danny is doomed.
"Yeah, the two of you can plan my demise," he says, and is really glad Steve can't read his mind, because the exact nature of his demise at their hands is not something Danny wants to consider too much when there's this many people around and he can't go hide somewhere until it all goes away.
He's never going to get tired of this, though, the way the two of them just work, never mind that one of them is apparently the kind of maniac who lets armed teenagers go once he's confiscated their weapon, and throws informants into shark cages to get them to talk. By the time they're sitting in a goddamned Ferrari (and Danny is damn straight driving that back tonight), watching Steve smirk at him as he speeds them away from the car full of gorgeous ladies, there's this warmth in Danny's belly that he's sure has nothing to do with the way Steve looks in a suit, white shirt open at his throat to showcase the tanned skin disappearing underneath, pants and jacket cut perfectly to make him look tall and loose and lanky and irresistible. Danny has to sit on his hands not to touch, not to run his hand over the tempting inner thigh inches away from his, follow it all the way to the bulge Danny knows damn well is there -- that is one fine car, and in different circumstances Danny would tell Steve to pull the hell over, and--
Anyway. Danny shifts uncomfortably, angling his groin away from Steve's eagle eyes. By the way Steve's fingers twitch on the steering wheel, Danny has a feeling he hasn't done too good a job of it. Thankfully, Steve says nothing, but the situation really is unacceptable -- Danny is going to have to talk to him, address this like the huge pink elephant it is before it tramples all of them to death.
Danny should probably lay off the metaphors when he's this wound up.
Steve's quiet "He doesn't know what he's talking about" when Danny complains about the discrepancy of their looks gives Danny hope and makes him cringe at the same time because, oh god, he is being far too obvious, and he needs to stop if he wants to salvage their relationship as it is now. There is a new light in Steve's eyes when he looks at Danny, which sure as hell wasn't there before today -- Danny would have noticed. He puts it aside to think about later, when they're not infiltrating an arms deal about to go down.
He's reminded how screwed he is when kissing Kono does nothing, nothing for him, even when by rights there should at least be a twitch, strolling head-first into danger notwithstanding.
By the time they've wrapped it up, it's far too late to head to Rachel's; freaking them out is the last thing Danny wants. He's not too clear on how they end up at Steve's place, though. They'd dropped off the sleek beauty they'd been driving back at the impound and picked up Danny's Camaro from HQ, and then suddenly Steve's behind the wheel again, and Danny's closing his eyes just for a second...
"Hey, Danno, wake up. We're here."
Danny blinks his eyes open; his mouth follows swiftly. "I don't know where 'here' is, but this definitely isn't my stop, so off you go, and I'll head on home," he says more or less without a single thought entering his head. He's so tired he could sleep in the car if Steve would let him.
"You're not driving anywhere in the state you're in. Go on, get inside."
"Inside where?" Danny slurs, head still tipped back against the headrest -- he's crashing, crashing hard.
"The house, Danno. Come on," and then Steve's opening the passenger door and helping Danny out, bracing him against his side and walking him to the front door.
Danny has about enough coherence to voice a protest, but then Steve is pushing him into the soft brown sofa, and it's so comfortable, god, how is something so old this comfortable, it should be against the rules... and then there's only sleep.
---
There's something soft and fuzzy covering Danny when he wakes up, eyesight hazy from all the sunshine flooding the room and trying to gouge his sore eyes out. He rubs at his face as he sits up, blanket falling to bunch around his waist. He's barefoot, shoes aligned neatly with the edge of the couch, which proves that he didn't take them off himself or they'd be lying somewhere where he's bound to trip over them first thing.
Steve's soft voice rumbles from the kitchen as Danny staggers to the downstairs bathroom, taking care of business and splashing his face with cold water. His teeth feel furry, but there's no toothpaste to be found anywhere, so he supposes he'll just have to not breathe on Steve until he's at least had coffee.
He pads into the kitchen, which is when he realises that while Steve is on the phone, it's not his phone he's on.
"Who the hell are you talking to on my phone?" Danny demands, trying to grab it from Steve's hand. Steve is far too nimble on his feet this early on; come to think of it, his hair is wet and curling at the back, so Danny concludes he's already swum round the island or whatever it is Steve does while normal people are on their fourth dream.
Danny went and fell for the only early riser on the whole damned island chain. Go figure.
"Steve, hand the phone over. Right now, if you know what's good for you."
Steve waits a beat, listening to whoever is on the other side before huffing a laugh and relinquishing the phone with a grin that promises nothing good.
Danny looks at the display and groans.
"I heard that," Rachel says when he brings the phone to his ear. "Wasn't very nice, was it, Daniel."
"Sorry," Danny says automatically before frowning. "Wait, no, I'm not sorry. You hung up on me yesterday!"
Rachel sounds terribly amused when she asks, "Just woken up, then?"
"Yeah, five minutes ago." His naturally suspicious nature rears its head shortly after. "What are you doing, talking to Steve?"
"Oh, we were discussing a minor matter concerning yesterday's events. Don't worry, I've got over it. I'm rather used to that, if you'll recall."
"So no lawyers?"
"Not as such, no. But you'll be expected to do something extremely nice to make it up to her this weekend."
Danny pauses for a beat. Steve is pointedly Not Listening; he has his head stuck in the fridge, like he's counting his eggs or whatever demented practice he has this early in the morning.
"I have Grace this weekend?" he checks, because last he remembers, yesterday's father-daughter bonding experience was meant to make up for not getting Grace for the rest of the month.
"Stan has had to leave on urgent business, and I couldn't take the time off work. So yes, I would be very much obliged if you could take her this weekend. I'm meant to be in Maui to meet an investor."
"Right, okay, yes, of course," Danny says, watching Steve assemble a very complicated cup of coffee involving a strange object with a long plunger that Danny eyes askance. "I'll pick her up on Saturday?"
"Eight o'clock at the latest, I'm afraid," Rachel says apologetically, but it's not like Danny has any desire whatsoever to grumble.
He ends the call and watches Steve for a moment as he wrestles with the bizarre contraption. There are so many things he could say; 'what the hell were you thinking, calling my ex-wife'; 'who gave you the right to run my life for me, asshole'; 'where do you get off making me feel this way about you again, you fucking bastard'. In the end, though, he knows it won't change anything. It's too late to back out now; it's been too late from the moment he set eyes on Steve again. As far as Danny's heart is concerned, Danny's been spoken for, for a long, long time now. So he might as well start as he means to go on.
"Okay, I have to ask. What in the hell are you doing to that poor coffee? You know torture's no help when you want results."
Steve stops struggling with the thing and looks at Danny over his shoulder, eyes guarded. "Coffee machine broke on Tuesday. Meant to get it fixed, but we've been kind of busy if you remember. This is my mom's old French press, only there must be something wrong with it, because it won't fit--"
Danny takes mercy on both the coffee and Steve, walks over and tugs it out of his hands. "Okay, step away from the counter, Superman. I'll go get us some coffee from some place that doesn't need to wrangle theirs."
"No," Steve says, far too quickly, gaze darting away from Danny's as Danny stares at him. "No, Danny, I'll go. You're in my house, the least I could do is get you a nice coffee to start the morning."
With that non-sequitur Steve swipes the keys to the Camaro that he must have fished out of Danny's pockets last night (and isn't that an interesting observation) and is out of the door before Danny can so much as open his mouth, which is a hell of an achievement.
"Okay, what," Danny asks the empty house, listening to the Camaro's engine growl to life.
Oh well. He might as well go take a shower while he waits, because he feels utterly filthy and sorely in need of soap. Steve won't mind. He trudges upstairs, taking off shirt, tie that had been half-loosened already (probably Steve's doing), pants, dropping them in a heap on the bathroom floor. Only when he's dripping wet and using Steve's towel to dry off does it occur to him that a) he's using his partner's towel without a second thought, it still smells like Steve's hair, and do not ask Danny how he knows that; and b) he has nothing clean to put on.
Perhaps he should have thought this through better before just saying 'fuck it'.
He ambles into Steve's bedroom, and Jesus, he's about to go through his partner's stuff, this could be seen as just a little too invasive. But the alternative is waiting for Steve wrapped in Steve's own towel, and Danny's not sure he can handle that, not with the way Steve has been making himself at home under Danny's skin. Not that Steve won't find out about the towel; he'll figure it out in two seconds flat, but Danny won't be in it when he does.
He eases open one wing of the wardrobe and sighs in relief -- jackpot. Row after row of clean T-shirts present themselves to Danny's attention, all in various shades of green, grey and blue. He reaches for the one on top of the stack--and freezes.
The shade is lighter than he remembers, made all the more unrecognisable by the way it peeks from between piles of clothing, like it's winking at Danny, the brightest blue in the closet. Danny tugs it out carefully, noting that it might be much-washed, but it's barely stretched. It would probably fit him perfectly now. He stares at it as pieces of the puzzle start rearranging themselves in his head, all of them pointing to Steve not faring much better than Danny when it comes to being hung up on a certain someone from his past.
A strangled sound reaches him from the doorway and Danny whips around to come face to startled face with Steve, bearing two take-away cups of coffee and staring at Danny, the towel, the sweater, everywhere at once.
"I--" Danny starts, but has to cut himself off so he can concentrate on clamping both hands over the towel that's making a bid for freedom. "I was going to borrow some clothes. I took a shower," he finishes lamely, but Steve seems focused not so much on Danny's words as on Danny's--other things.
The silence stretches, neither making any move to break it. Danny can hear the click of Steve's throat as he swallows dryly, eyes fixed somewhere below Danny's face. Danny makes an aborted motion with the hand holding the sweater.
"You kept it," he says quietly.
Steve looks torn between denial and feigning nonchalance, but in the end he just nods.
"Yeah," he croaks and has to stop to clear his throat. "Yeah, I kept it, Danno. It was the only thing of yours I had."
Steve looks away at last, places the coffees on top of a chest of drawers and tugs out the one in the middle. He lays a pair of sweatpants on the bed, darts Danny a look. "You'll want it back, of course, I remember you saying. Uh, about your mom. So yeah. I'll just be downstairs when you're done--"
Danny drops the sweater and the towel at the same time. Steve's words dry up as Danny stalks forward, stops a scant inch before their bodies touch.
"Tell me. Tell me I've read this wrong; tell me to back off and I will," Danny says , lips so close to the line of Steve's jaw they're almost brushing against the stubble Steve hasn't bothered to shave.
Steve lets out a broken sound and surges forward, mashes his lips against Danny's, threads one hand through Danny's damp hair, fastens the other on Danny's hip and tugs, plasters Danny's chest to his, presses them together until Danny can feel every breath, every twitch of Steve's muscles against his stomach, every whimper as it leaves Steve's mouth and travels into his. He grabs hold of Steve's T-shirt, clutches at it like Steve might disappear if he lets go, feels the twist of muscle under his palms. Every inhale is Steve's scent, every push forward is the unyielding wall of Steve's body, every twist of his fingers brings him closer to the warmth of Steve's skin under his T-shirt.
Danny can't get enough. He tugs at the fabric frantically, and Steve shucks it like water, only letting go of Danny for the fraction of a second it takes him to whip it over his head and throw it away. Danny's fingers slip in the sweat gathered at the small of Steve's back, trying to gain purchase so he can push Steve's sweatpants away, but god, it's just not happening, damn them -- and then he's falling, landing with a grunt across Steve's bed while Steve hooks his thumbs in the waistband and pushes them off his hips, leaving them to pool at his feet as he licks his lips and stares. Danny would feel self-conscious if it wasn't blindingly obvious just how much Steve wants him, just how much he can't wait.
Steve climbs on top of him, and it's clumsy, Steve's habitual grace gone into hiding, all raw need and desperation. Steve falls over him, presses him into the bed with his weight and Danny is in heaven, or he would be if Steve would just fucking move.
"Danny, please, I need--I need--" There are kisses pressing into every inch of Danny's skin, and Danny can barely catch his breath to reply.
"Yeah, yeah, babe, okay, yes, just--slow down a second--"
"I can't, Danny, I can't--"
"Okay, okay, fuck, where do you keep--"
"The drawer on your left, please--"
"Jesus Christ, Steve, you're going to have to stop doing that if you want me to--wait, no, fuck, forget I said that, hey, come back here--"
"Got them, just--"
Danny has had enough. He uses Steve's uncharacteristic spatial confusion to flip them over; Steve yelps but goes, his hands never leaving Danny's body, keeping him spread astride over Steve's lap, cocks brushing together with every twitch of their hips.
Neither of them is going to last long; they are both too wound up, and Danny doesn't know about Steve but he knows that he is going to blow his top with no regards for reciprocity pretty damn soon, so if Steve wants to--"fuck, yes, there" --uh, where was he?
Oh yes.
Steve groans long and hoarse when Danny arches his back and sinks two lubed fingers inside himself, too desperate for any kind of finesse. He's done it before; he'll be sore as fuck tomor--later today, but he can take Steve in with minimum stretch, provided there's plenty of lube and he's this turned on, oh god, he isn't going to be able to hold it, not with Steve looking at him like that, blown pupils and bitten lips and lowered lashes throwing shadows over his cheekbones, slick tongue leaving his mouth wet and shiny, perfect, Danny wants his cock slipping through those lips, wants to watch himself fill Steve's mouth over and over and over again, and that is really not helping his self-control.
He twists three fingers inside himself, and almost loses his balance when he grinds a knuckle against his prostate without meaning to. Steve lets out a small sound of supplication, one hand following Danny's arm until he's working a fourth finger inside, and fuck, it's too much too soon and it hurts, but Danny never wants it to stop.
"Enough," he growls, pulling out and lining up Steve's cock with the hand that's still dripping with lube, giving him a quick stroke to spread whatever's left down Steve's length until it's shiny and slippery and looking gorgeous.
"Wait," Steve yelps hoarsely, struggling with the condom wrapper; it's proving a fucking arousal dampener, the way it twists through his slick fingers.
"Jesus," Danny swears, wipes his fingers on the sheet and tears the thing open, spreading it over Steve's cock as Steve squeezes a too-large dollop of lube over the head, but Danny doesn't give a fuck because finally he's sinking over Steve, taking him in inch by inch, twisting his hips and forcing himself open around him. Steve's eyes are squeezed shut and his chest is slick with sweat and his hands are slipping on Danny's hips and he's gritting his teeth so tightly a muscle is jumping in his jaw and Danny has never wanted another human being more than in this moment.
Finally he's sitting in Steve's lap, all of him inside, and he gives himself a second because a) fuck, it's been a long time since he's had someone so fucking thick inside him, god, the stretch, and b) he's going to come in two and a half seconds if he doesn't.
Steve is making helpless little motions with his hips, and Danny can see the strain in takes for Steve to stop himself from thrusting inside Danny until Danny gives him the okay. Which he does, and after that it gets a little blurry. Steve is so hot inside him, giving, alive, and the body writhing under him is the stuff that dreams are made of. It's frantic, and fast, and just this side of too much, and fuck, his leg is trying to cramp under him from keeping him in place through Steve's thrusts, and yet...
Danny loses time, seconds stretching way into the distance as Steve twists and presses and tugs Danny closer. He watches Steve's eyes rolling into the back of his head, teeth bared in a snarl of 'yes, now'; watches as if from a distance as his own hand wraps around his cock and twists, watches Steve watch his cock slide in and out of the circle of his fist, and then there's another hand closing around it, fingers different from his own rubbing over the head as it peeks from between Danny's fingers. His breath leaves him on a sob as he watches Steve lift his forefinger to that mouth of his, suck the drop of precome hanging off the tip between his lips as he twists his other hand over Danny's on his cock, and--
He comes to sprawled face-down onto the mattress with Steve's heaving body next to him, hears the ragged exhales Steve's lungs push out desperately, the sucking inhales, the little unconscious noises of coming down, and realises at least half of them are his.
He tries to speak, but nothing more than a hum manifests itself from his mouth, a 'nnngh' that's long and languid and so self-satisfied his lips curl in a grin of their own volition.
"Yeah," Steve manages, and suddenly there's a hand over Danny's ass, rubbing a thumb against the sweat-slick skin fondly. "Yeah, Danny."
Steve's voice is wrecked, deep, rasping. Danny wants to hear it just like this at least once every single day for the rest of his life.
He shuffles his limp muscles until he's managed to throw a leg between Steve's and an arm over his chest. Steve sighs contentedly and there's a hand on Danny's arm, following the length of it until it finds Danny's and hooks their little fingers together, a single long finger stroking over the back of Danny's hand. Danny hides his smile in Steve's shoulder.
He's almost asleep when Steve takes a deep breath and says, "You should move in with me," fast like he needs to get it out before Danny cuts him off.
"What, now?" Danny manages, trying and failing to lift his head. He nestles it more comfortably instead.
"Danny, I've waited for you for sixteen years. I think our courtship is done, don't you?"
"How can you even think right now?" Danny grumbles, but the idea is not even remotely unpleasant. In fact, it has considerable merit. Like not having to ever move after something like this.
Steve huffs a laugh; it ruffles the small hairs by his ear, and Danny rubs his nose against Steve's skin in complaint.
"Yes or no, Danny?"
"Jesus, give a guy a second," Danny groans. The stroking over his hand, which had paused when Steve spoke, resumes its lazy path. It's a suitable reflection of Steve's unnatural patience when it comes to getting things his way.
He's almost asleep again when Steve starts running his free hand over his spine, long, slow trails of his fingers that makes something tighten in Danny's stomach even after everything.
"You are a menace," Danny complains, and feels the tightening of Steve's chest as another amused huff makes its way out. The fingers, he notices, never pause. He sighs in defeat. "Fine. Okay. If I say yes, will you desist?"
"Not on your life, Danny," Steve says, and rolls them over.
"For the record," Danny says when Steve starts sucking a trail of kisses down his throat, "you can keep the shirt."
Steve stills on top of him, raises his head to look at Danny, a goofy look brightening his face. "Really?" he says, and god, that look in his eyes, it should not be doing these kinds of things to Danny.
But, he supposes, it's part of taking the plunge, making a home somewhere, with someone who has been a part of his life for so long; of finally admitting that even after all those years, this is the only place Danny ever wants to be: on this island, with this goof, his daughter not five miles away.
"Yeah," he says at last, linking his fingers to Steve's and pulling his hand up to brush a kiss against his knuckles, sappiness be damned. "One less thing to move."
