Thirty-Six Hours and Fifteen Minutes

by leupagus

Summary:

It turns out knowing that Steve's breath catches whenever you press teeth against his throat doesn't mean he can't still make you want to murder him whenever he launches himself off a roof in pursuit of a suspect or decides there's not enough time to put on his vest before busting into a meth lab and beating people up.

Chapter 1: Comfort Levels

There are a lot of drawbacks to this thing with Steve - not the least of which is that Danny hasn’t figured out what to call it, other than “this thing with Steve.” It’s not really dating because they only ever go to the beach house, and it’s not fucking because so far they’ve just done some junior-high-level making out. Danny’s not sure which one of them has been keeping things above the waist, but he knows he’s grateful in an abstract kind of way. Steve’s done this before, Danny’s sure of it - sure with the same stab of wild, unreasonable jealousy that he used to feel for Rachel, knowing someone else had touched the skin under his fingers - but kissing a guy is one more new experience for Danny on top of all the new experiences he’s been collecting like pennies since he moved to the tail-end of the country.

Kissing itself, though, is warm and welcome and so easy. They spend a couple hours most nights sprawled on Steve’s couch, trading insults and jokes in between slow, gentle kisses, hands safe on shoulders or curled around a hip. It’s nothing like they are anywhere else -- Steve is careful here, and normally that would piss Danny off but he suffered through enough couples counselling to know about levels of comfort and all that shit.

He goes home every night hard and breathless and a little wild around the edges, but he goes home. He never asks if he can stay and Steve never pulls him back down when he mutters, “I should probably get going.”

Besides, in between the not-dating and the not-fucking they still yell at each other and get into pissing matches over how to proceed in an investigation and complain about each other’s driving. It turns out knowing that Steve’s breath catches whenever you press teeth against his throat doesn’t mean he can’t still make you want to murder him whenever he launches himself off a roof in pursuit of a suspect or decides there’s not enough time to put on his vest before busting into a meth lab and beating people up.

Still, Danny figures if the thing’s going to give him all this aggravation, he’s at least going to give it an actual fucking name. So when Friday afternoon rolls around and Kono and Chin abandon them for the beach, he turns to Steve and says, “I was thinking. I’m going over to pick Grace up in a few for my twenty-four hour weekend, but maybe you want to see a movie tomorrow night? After I drop her off?”

Steve freezes in the middle of packing up his bag. “Uh. Like one in the theater?”

“No, one at a drive-through -- of course one in the theater,” which isn’t his best comeback but Steve looks tense and worried, which isn’t how Danny was expecting this to go.

Steve just says, “There used to be one in Waikiki. Shut down when I was a kid, though.” He clears his throat a few times. “Uh. I guess if you wanted?”

“You’re coming on a little strong there,” Danny says, “You maybe want to sound less enthusiastic?”

“I’ll call you tomorrow and we can figure it out,” Steve says, and swings his bag up onto his shoulder. “Go get Gracie.”

And that’s the promising start of the most profoundly terrible date of his life.

It starts off okay; Steve comes to pick him up on Saturday and spends the entire ride to the theater making fun of the fact that Danny put on a tie. “I’m just saying,” Steve says, pulling into the parking lot, “That while I can just barely, if I squint and have had maybe three beers, see your point about wearing a tie on a weekday, today is Saturday.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is, Saturday. That’s my point.” They get out of the car and drift toward the entrance.

“Look,” Danny says, “On a date, I like to look nice, okay? We can’t all just throw on a henley and suddenly look like some Abercrombie and Fitch -- what, what’re you making that face for?” Danny asks, because Steve’s looking a little bit like someone just strapped a bomb on him. (Again.)

“A date?” he asks.

Danny can feel the whole thing unravelling right here and now. “Uh. Well, I asked you to go to a movie, you came and picked me up,” he explains. “And probably after this you’ll at least be kissing me on my doorstep or something, so. Yeah. Date.”

“Oh,” Steve says.

Shit.

They end up at the 7:45 showing of The Green Hornet, which is bad on a level Danny hadn’t really believed possible. Steve sits down and stares at the screen for two hours like it’s some kind of Navy torture training and Danny can’t even get distracted by Cameron Diaz’s ass because it feels disloyal. He’s not sure about the etiquette either; is he supposed to slide an arm over Steve’s shoulders? Try to hold hands?

The lights come on and Steve wakes up (the fucker fell asleep, what the hell), and he stretches in his seat and says, “Fun date.”

“Oh, you know what? Just--” and Danny gets up and leaves Steve to stumble after him, because they’re about to have one of those fights that can clear whole buildings and if he ends up having to beat Steve’s head against something, he’d rather it happen inside Steve’s truck where at least there’s a modicum of soundproofing.

He gets out into the parking lot; it’s dark and already mostly deserted since out here there doesn’t seem to be such thing as the late showing. He can hear Steve behind him, so he turns around ready to yell.

But Steve’s got a vaguely apologetic look on his face, and the first thing he says is, “Look, I’m sorry.”

Danny lets out a huff. “You know how much it bothers me when you derail my argument before I’ve even made it, right?”

“I’m sorry about that, too,” Steve adds, a smile tugging at the side of his mouth. He puts his hands in his jeans pockets and just stands there, waiting.

“Fine,” Danny sighs, “I just -- I wanted a name.”

“A name?”

“Yeah, a name. For us, for--” he flaps his hands between them, “This, for whatever. We’re not dating and we’re not fucking but we’re doing something, don’t ask me what, but I just figured it’d be... I don’t know,” he admits. “I like definitions.”

“So you want to date,” Steve says, like he’s trying to follow one of Toast’s more esoteric and pot-headed explanations of hack theory.

“Sure, yes,” Danny says.

Steve nods thoughtfully. “What about the other thing?” he asks, squinting into the bright parking lights.

“What?”

“You said we aren’t dating, and you want to. And we aren’t fucking, either. So,” Steve says, and trails off the way he always does when he doesn’t really want to ask the question, just wants you to psychically intuit what’s going on in his brain. Danny’s so distracted being irritated that he doesn’t realize what Steve’s asking for a second.

When he does, he’s even more irritated. “Yes! Of course I want to, I just -- I figured we weren’t. I don’t know!” He feels embarrassed and furious about it, because it was Steve who started this whole shitshow, Steve who caught him by the elbow the night before Thanksgiving.

Steve who looked so lost, so weirdly determined, when he tugged Danny close and put his other hand on his waist, every movement like he was monitoring Danny’s reactions. Steve who leaned forward and kissed him, no tongue, barely a brush of lips before pulling away.

Waiting.

And maybe Steve never stopped waiting -- or at least hadn’t stopped before this second, because in more than eight weeks Danny’s never gotten kissed like Steve’s kissing him right now, pressed against the cab of the truck and moaning into his mouth. He’s greedy, and kind of mean with the teeth. Danny gets a hand in Steve’s hair and tries to get some of his own back, maybe even push Steve against the cab for awhile. But Steve slaps his hand around the side of the truck until he finds the door handle, and he jerks it open and all but throws Danny inside. “I’m not kissing you on your doorstep tonight,” he says after he’s circled around and climbed into the driver’s seat. “Just so we’re clear.”

“Glad to hear it.”

*

They stumble through Steve’s front door; Steve’s got Danny’s tie wrapped around his fist and keeps tugging at it like it’s going to make Danny magically grow six inches and Danny can’t seem to stop fisting his hands in Steve’s hair. It’s not gentle, is what he’s saying, not slow or careful, and Danny’s teetering on the line between Holy Shit Yes and Holy Shit What The Fuck.

Then Steve pushes Danny up against the wall and slides his thigh between Danny’s legs and Danny tips over the edge. “Holy shit, what the fuck, yes.”

“Jesus,” Steve laughs, “You kiss your mother with this mouth?”

“Shut up and -- keep doing that,” Danny demands, wishing he sounded a little more bossy partner and a little less slutty cheerleader.

“Oh, I will,” Steve promises, “I’m going to get you begging for it, just wait--”

“Christ, now I find out you’re a talker,” Danny complains, but that just gets another laugh and a bite high on his shoulder. He drags Steve in closer by his belt, fitting himself along the stretch of Steve’s body. The press of Steve’s cock against his hip is weird but mostly hot, and Steve finally lets go of his tie in order to grab at his ass. Danny’s so turned on he’s thinking he might actually die if he doesn’t get off, but Steve doesn’t look like he’s got big plans to go anywhere soon. Still, Danny hasn’t come from dry humping since he was fifteen and isn’t about to relive that experience, gay-style. He keeps his grip on Steve’s belt and pushes him back, enjoying Steve’s stupid-befuddled expression as he starts steering them toward the stairs. Steve resists for a second, and when Danny looks up at him he’s got those lines between his eyebrows that mean he’s going to start thinking.

“Where’re you going?” Steve asks.

“Okay, your house is not that big,” Danny says. “There’s a limited number of places I could be headed right now.”

“Are you, uh,” Steve says, and he’s actually trying to fucking hold Danny by his shoulders and any second they’re going to discuss their feelings. For a guy who was talking a good game a few minutes ago, Steve pussies out fast.

“If you ask me if I’m ready for this, I’m going to punch you in the face,” Danny tells him, hauling him up the stairs.

“Hey, maybe I’m not ready for this,” Steve says, but he’s grinning his Hey-Wouldn’t-It-Be-Awesome-If-I-Blew-Up-The-Bad-Guy’s-Car grin and grabbing at Danny’s ass again. “It’s a big step in any relationship.”

Danny shoves Steve through the bedroom doorway. “Yeah, the way you were rubbing one off on my leg really makes me think you’re looking for a promise ring.”

“I’m serious,” Steve protests as he backs up toward the bed. He pulls his shirt off by the hem and tosses it into a corner. “Maybe we should take it slow.”

“Take it -- we’ve been making out like Amish people for a month, how much slower is this gonna get?” Danny says, distracted by the flush across Steve’s chest as Steve sits down on the bed, leaning back on his hands like he’s laying himself out for some magazine photoshoot.

“Whatever you want,” Steve answers, which doesn’t make sense but they’re bickering more out of habit right now anyway.

Danny comes to stand between Steve’s knees and Steve reaches out for his tie again. Danny swats his hand away. “What is it with you and my tie, seriously.”

“It’s ugly,” Steve argues, yanking at Danny’s shirt instead. He gets it untucked and skims his fingers across the small of Danny’s back, warm and already a little possessive.

“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” Danny mutters, his throat dry.

“Maybe if you took it off I wouldn’t have to bitch about it so much,” Steve replies, tilting his head up in this expectant way, like Danny’s going to kiss him just because he wants him to.

“Maybe I’ll keep it on the whole time,” Danny says, “And you’ll have to resign yourself to the fact that you’ve got the hots for some be-tied mainlander who doesn’t even--”

“Is that what you’re into?” Steve asks brightly. He pushes himself up and Danny leans down just far enough, biting at the swell of Steve’s lower lip where he’s sweetest. Steve hums a little against his mouth -- he likes it when Danny uses his teeth, Danny notices these things -- and adds, “You want me naked while you’ve got your tie and your shirt and your awful shoes--”

“Seriously, so much yammering.”

“It’s important to communicate our desires, Danny,” Steve says seriously, and honestly? Danny puts his hand over Steve’s crotch partially out of curiosity and partially out of desire but mostly in the hope that it’ll make Steve shut his goddamn face.

And it works, too -- a little better than Danny anticipated. Steve sucks in a sharp breath and collapses back on the bed, his arms limp at his side and pushing his hips up into Danny’s hand. He looks -- Jesus, he looks like a porn star chick, wanton, like Danny’s doing something so good he can’t control himself. Danny really wants to blurt out something stupid like, “How the hell long has it been for you?” except he remembers Lieutenant Tall Dark and Lovely from last fall just fine.

So instead he climbs up onto the bed alongside and keeps his hand right where it is, working Steve through his jeans. Steve’s hard and warm and every time Danny slides up to where the head of Steve’s dick is pressed against the zipper Steve makes this really amazing sound in the back of his throat, like he’s turned on and kind of pissed off about it.

“See, this could be a problem,” Danny says conversationally.

“Uhhh,” Steve replies. “What?”

“Well, on the one hand,” he says, and he swears to God he can’t help the way he squeezes Steve’s cock right then, because his grandfather made a lot of puns and who is anyone to deny their heritage, “I’ve figured out a way to shut you up. On the other, it’s going to be really awkward if I do this at the Five-0 headquarters.”

Steve struggles to get his elbows under him, propped up and looking so fucking outraged that Danny actually snorts laughing. “You’re fired,” Steve tells him.

“Really?”

“Yes,” Steve says, though he looks a little less certain when Danny squeezes again.

“Really?” Danny repeats.

“Ye -- no, fine, okay Jesus Danny,” Steve gasps.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I mean, I’m with the union, so you’d have to fire me for cause, and I don’t really see that hearing going down well.”

“Now who’s the talker,” Steve mutters, sprawling out again.

Danny’s sure the next step should be something big and important but mostly it’s just a pain in the ass to try undoing someone’s pants when they’re squirming around this much. “Okay, you need to hold still for one goddamn minute,” he finally hisses.

“What, you want help? And seriously, why are you attacking my jeans while your fucking cuff sleeves aren’t even unbuttoned yet?”

“God, you’re just obsessed with keeping us on an equal-nudity level, aren’t you,” Danny sighs, and gets his tie loose enough to pull over his head. He gets the first three buttons of his shirt undone before Steve sits up and tugs it up and over, yanking hard when the cuffs get caught on Danny’s wrists.

“Hey,” Danny protests, but it takes second place to the way Steve pulls some fucking Navy SEAL move on him and gets him flat on his back. They didn’t bother turning on lights, but there’s a full moon out and Danny can see Steve watching his own hand as he trails it down Danny’s chest. His fingers are light enough that Danny jumps a few times, ticklish.

“Oh man, this is gonna be fun,” Steve grins.

“I am really concerned about your definition of ‘fun,’” Danny confesses.

But instead of laughing or rolling his eyes, Steve bends down and licks him, right across the nipple, and it tickles and feels incredible all at the same time. Danny makes some kind of noise between a shout and a laugh, and Steve must take that as encouragement because next he sucks a bruise onto Danny’s stomach, just to the left of his belly-button. Danny’s too caught up being amazed that his obliques are apparently erogenous zones to notice where Steve’s hands have got to, but all of a sudden Danny’s slacks are open and Steve’s fucking nuzzling his dick, mouthing the shaft through his boxers.

“All right,” Danny croaks, “You’re right.”

Steve looks up at him, chin still pressed up against his cock, and it’s the fucking hottest thing Danny’s ever seen in his life. “About what?” he asks.

“This is definitely fun,” Danny says.

It earns him a grin. “I’m just getting started,” Steve promises, and carefully pulls the waistband of Danny’s boxers up and over his aching cock, pushing them down just far enough to -- “Holy mother of fuck,” Danny gasps -- swallow him down in one move, his fist wrapping just this side of too tight around him. Danny grabs at fistfuls of the sheets and blankets, because any second now he’s going to come or cry or maybe explode. This is too good, nobody should be able to suck cock like this.

Danny can’t stop watching. Steve’s got his eyes closed, not like he’s embarrassed but like he’s enjoying this and doesn’t want to distract himself from the taste of Danny’s dick. Which, hey, that’s a brand-new source of arousal right there. Steve pumps his hand and sucks at the head, using a lot of tongue and a lot of suction and basically ensuring that Danny’s going to be ruined for all time for anyone else’s blowjobs. This is a freaking art form; Danny never wants to come, he wants to stay here and drink in every detail for as long as he can.

Then Steve’s thumb presses into that knot of nerves under the head and Danny’s desperate, jerking his hips up as Steve runs his tongue along the ridge. “I’m gonna, Steve,” and he can’t get anything more coherent than that out before he’s coming like a punch to the stomach. Steve doesn’t miss a fucking beat, just swallows him and keeps his mouth wrapped around Danny’s cock until Danny’s finally stopped twitching.

Finally he pulls off, but instead of sliding back up the bed and doing whatever it is he’s going to do, or asking Danny to do whatever it is he’d like Danny to do, Steve just lays there, breathing heavy, his cheek resting against Danny’s hip.

“C’mere,” Danny says, getting a grip on an ear and tugging upwards. Steve makes an annoyed sound and smacks at Danny’s hand, but he does as he’s told. “Okay,” Danny says, fumbling at Steve’s jeans. “You’re gonna have to give me a little coaching, here.”

“Just, whatever,” Steve says, his fingers bumping with Danny’s as they get the button popped and then the zipper down, and wow, Steve McGarrett is apparently a total slut.

“No underwear. Seriously?” Danny asks, most of his brain occupied with Steve’s cock, long and kind of thin and uncut, which is vaguely surprising. Danny brushes the back of his hand against the soft-hard shaft, and Steve gasps.

“Laundry day?” he tries, and Danny just rolls his eyes and pushes Steve onto his back, propping himself up on one elbow so he can watch Steve’s face while he does this thing.

“Okay, so let’s see what you like,” he says, trying to sound businesslike because that’ll annoy the shit out of him.

Sure enough, Steve gives him the stink-eye. “This is one of those things that’s hard to dislike, Danny.”

“Hey, people like different things,” Danny says, feeling lazy and liquid but determined to get Steve feeling at least as good as he does. “You’re the one who was going on and on about communicating our needs or whatever.”

“Seriously,” Steve says, “My biggest need right now is for you to shut up.”

Danny grins and wraps his hand around Steve’s cock tightly, the way Steve had done for him. He presses down and the foreskin shifts, pulling back to show Steve’s cockhead, red and slick with precome. Danny’s not sure what he was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t a deep twitch in his balls, the kind he gets when he knows he’s not getting it up any time soon but is really motivated to try anyway.

“Jesus, Danno, are you taking notes or something?” Steve whines. Both his arms are behind his head, which would look oh-so-casual except Danny can see the white-knuckle grip he’s got on the pillow.

“I’ll take my time, and do it right,” Danny says, and it gets a brief laugh out of Steve that morphs into this really great whimpering sound when Danny swirls his thumb lightly around his head. He lets go of Steve’s cock, ignoring the half-formed protest Steve’s trying to make, and sucks at his thumb.

Come-flavored, he decides, unimpressed, but the look on Steve’s face is worth it, so he shifts around until he’s got one hand on either side of Steve’s hips and he can lick up the shaft and listen to Steve’s voice change register the higher he goes.

It doesn’t take long, which Danny can understand -- you spend that much time making someone else come their brains out, chances are you’re not too far behind -- but he still feels smug when one curious, careful scrape of Danny’s fingernail against Steve’s balls is enough to get Steve yelping, “Shit, now.” Danny gets out of the way, not quite ready to face the eternal spit-or-swallow conundrum, but the way Steve arches into his orgasm is too beautiful to miss.

Danny flops onto his back, listening to Steve’s breathing and the sound of the waves, and thinks that if it turns out they could’ve been doing this the whole time, he’s going to kill somebody.

*

He must’ve fallen asleep because the next thing he knows he’s blinking sunlight out of his eyes and sneezing Steve’s hair out of his nose. Steve’s on his side facing away toward the windows, and Danny apparently curled in close behind him at some point, slinging one arm around his waist and tangling their legs together.

Steve’s awake, Danny knows, because he’s making those aborted twitchy motions he makes whenever he’s been sitting still too long but can’t move just yet. It takes Danny all of two seconds to figure out that Steve’s probably bracing himself for the Big Gay Freakout or something. It makes sense -- a Navy closet case is bound to have dealt with his fair share of two-beer queers -- except it doesn’t make sense at all. Danny’s not some guy Steve brought home from the bar.

So in the grand tradition of dealing with Steve McGarrett’s massively boring issues, Danny ignores it. “‘Morning, sunshine,” he says, brushing his nose against the swell of Steve’s shoulderblade.

Steve twists around to look at him for a long second. “Hey.” His eyes are bright and awake, but his voice is still dry and sleep-heavy.

“Okay, here’s what I don’t get,” Danny says, “And not that I’m complaining? But I honestly did not expect you to be the little spoon.”

Steve laughs, his stomach shivering under Danny’s hand as he wriggles onto his back. It’s relief as much as anything, Danny can tell. “You know, you’re just obsessed with these ideas of who I am,” Steve says, sounding mournful and tragic and totally full of shit. “There’s a lot you don’t know about the real me.”

“Oh yeah?” Danny says, distracted because Steve’s morning wood is pretty obvious. “For example.”

“For example,” Steve tells him, rolling his hips over so he’s half-sprawled on top of Danny, “I never learned to ride a bicycle when I was a kid.”

“Huh,” Danny says, palming Steve’s ass and really enjoying the way his hips stutter.

“And I’m allergic to almonds.”

“That’s too bad.”

“And,” Steve continues, catching hold of Danny’s earlobe with his teeth and giving a gentle tug, “I really, really like morning sex.”

Danny laughs and gasps in the same breath as Steve’s hand finds his cock. “I’ll be sure to remember that."

Chapter 2: Complex Relationships Toward Inanimate Objects

Summary:

He finds his shirt still crumpled in the corner of the room. It’s got a huge, un-fixable hole at the shoulder. Fucking Steve.

"Don't worry, I'll remind you," Steve murmurs, settling into a slow, steady rhythm that is nevertheless going to get Danny off in a hurry. It should probably be embarrassing, but what the hell, he hasn't had any coffee yet. Besides, Steve's got his face buried in the crook of Danny's neck and his cock rubbing lazily against Danny's hip, and there's nobody in the world who's going to last long with that happening.

"I've got no problem with that -- Christ," Danny adds, because Steve's doing that thing with his thumb again. "You're cheating."

"I'm cheating?" Steve sounds kind of offended, but he hasn't moved his mouth from where it's busy under Danny's jaw.

"Yes. You. With the cheating."

"In the bedroom," Steve adds. Danny frowns.

"What?"

"You know. Professor Plum, with the candlestick, in the library."

Danny moves away so he can look Steve in the eye. "What?"

Steve looks embarrassed. "Maybe just ignore what I just said. Hey, I'm jacking you off, how about we focus on that?"

"Good plan," Danny agrees and pulls at Steve until he's sprawled on top, their cocks slick against each other with sweat and precome. Steve stares down at him like he's had the most amazing idea and Steve can't believe he didn't think of it first, which is pretty gratifying.

Until Steve screws up his face and says, "Man, your breath -- did something die in there?"

Danny grins and exhales noisily into Steve's face, which makes him laugh and squirm away, which -- "Oh," Danny says, rocking his hips up harder, faster, and when Steve grinds down hard that's it, he's coming.

He opens his eyes and Steve's got his lower lip clamped between his teeth; his expression is a lot more wild. "Come on," Danny urges, maneuvering so he can work his hand between them and get a grip on Steve's cock, "Come on, come for me, do it--"

Steve lets out a low groan (and his breath is hardly minty-fresh either) and tenses above him, jerking a little as he comes. Danny's so distracted with watching that he forgets about his come-covered hand until he slides it out. He makes a face as he wipes it on the sheets.

"Hey, these were clean," Steve mumbles, crumpling down so he's slumped over Danny's entire body.

"And we all know how you're a paragon of cleanliness and order," Danny says. "I thought Navy SEALs were all about being psychotically neat -- did you skip that day or something?"

"Well," Steve starts, then gives it up and scowls. "You've got bad breath. Still. Some more."

"Yeah, your comebacks first thing in the morning need a little work." Danny kisses Steve on the chin. "Come on, I need coffee. And apparently a gallon of Listerine. Up."

Steve grumbles but manages to get to his feet. He flips the covers down and retrieves his jeans and Danny's pants and boxers from where they'd tangled in the sheets at the foot of the bed, tossing the boxers and pants over. Danny frowns.

"I don't remember even taking these off," he admits, hopping on one foot and then the other as he puts them on.

Steve snorts, examining his jeans for a moment before tossing them on a nearby chair and turning to dig in his dresser drawer. "That's because you passed out, Danno," he says, pulling out a pair of swimming trunks. "I had to wrestle them off you."

Danny leans against the doorway, appreciating the curve of Steve's ass as he bends over. "I didn't pass out, I fell asleep. Sex does that to me -- sex does that to most guys."

"I've seen you fall asleep, Danno," Steve says, smug as all hell. "Trust me, this was a sudden loss of conciousness. I guess I'm just that good."

"God, there'll be no living with you from now on, will there," Danny mutters. "And seriously, when you said it was laundry day, I didn't really believe you, but this--" he waves at Steve's shorts-- "Is just sad. How old are you? Thirty-five? And you still use the 'I ran out of underwear' as a barometer for when to do a load?"

"Thirty-four," Steve replies, apparently offended. "And I put these on because I thought today I could teach you some of the basics of surfing."

Danny can't help the snort of laughter. "Excuse me?"

"Come on, you've been here almost a year. It's a travesty that you've never even tried."

"Okay, okay, okay," Danny says, waving his hands around because he just cannot contain all the ways in which this is not going to happen. "First of all, if I haven't gone surfing after living here for a year, maybe it's because I don't want to surf. Second of all, you just came all over my stomach like, five minutes ago. That's not enough new experience for you to have provided me with today?"

As he's saying it, he wonders if Steve's going to get pissed, or worse he's going to twist the meaning around into something stupid, but Steve just grins and does that thing where he kind of flops his head around. "Okay, maybe you've got a point."

Danny sighs. "I need coffee."

There's an ominous silence behind him as he wanders down to the first floor and pads into the kitchen. In a minute he realizes why.

"Steve," he calls.

"Uh, yeah?" Steve calls back; Danny can hear him coming down the stairs.

"Where's your coffee maker?"

"Yeah. About that," Steve says, rounding the corner. He's doesn't come any further into the kitchen, and he's a little nervous.

Danny puts two and two together. "You don't have a coffee maker."

"I... no. I don't."

Danny rubs his face with his hands. "So you don't have coffee."

"Yes. I mean, no."

"Okay." Danny tries to contemplate the rest of the day without coffee. He has a feeling Steve's not in a hurry to get rid of him, which means he could feasibly be having sex all day. That sounds promising, but if he has to do it un-caffinated he's going to die halfway through whatever athletic sex shenanigans Steve's got planned for Round Three. "Okay," he tries again. "Here's what we're going to do."

Steve nods with every indication of seriousness, but he looks about ready to burst out laughing and just for that Danny's going to do something really unkind to him at some point today.

But for now, he just powers through. "I'm taking your truck and getting some coffee. You, go surfing for a while, work on your melanoma, whatever."

He walks past Steve to get to the stairs, but Steve grabs him by the arm and yanks him off-balance. Danny flails and tumbles into him, cursing, but before he's got a chance to yell Steve's kissing him, one hand buried in his hair and the other running his fingernails lightly down Danny's back. Steve must've stopped by the bathroom because his mouth tastes like mint.

By the time Danny's allowed to come up for air he's out of breath and already thinking about the possibility of doing Round Three right here and now. "What was that for?"

"I just love it when you tell me what we're going to do," Steve says, shrugging. He lets Danny go and takes a swat at his ass. "Go. Get dressed, get your coffee. I swear to God I'm getting you on a board sometime today."

Danny stops by the bathroom in search for some mouthwash, because if Steve's going to keep bodychecking him into making out, he should probably not smell like he ate a dead pigeon. A quick search of the medicine cabinet gives no joy, but then he actually looks down at the sink and--

There's a new toothbrush, still in its plastic wrap. It's the same kind that's sitting in Steve's toothbrush cup, but it's a different color and just looking at it is making Danny seize up a little. So he just busts it out and brushes his teeth as fast as possible; when he's done, he tosses it into the cup next to Steve's and refuses to think about it. Like, ever again.

He finds his shirt still crumpled in the corner of the room. It's got a huge, un-fixable hole at the shoulder. Fucking Steve.

Danny wavers for a minute before deciding what the hell, the guy put out a toothbrush. So he goes into the dresser and grabs one of the ass-ugly white v-neck tees that Steve seems to live in. It's tight around the chest and smells like the whole house smells -- of salt, of old wood, of soap.

He finds his socks and shoes and goes downstairs again; Steve's out on the patio, crouched over a surfboard and doing something to it with what looks like a bar of soap.

"I just don't want to know," Danny says, coming out into the blazing sunlight. It's January and like eighty degrees; sometimes he doesn't understand his life.

Steve squints up at him. "It's sex wax," he says. "Makes the board sticky."

Danny stares at him. "You've got to be shitting me."

"Have a little trust, Danno, would I lie about something like this?"

"Of course you would, have you met you?"

Steve grins up at him, then narrows his eyes. "Is that my shirt?" he asks.

"You ripped mine," Danny says.

Steve looks totally, completely unrepentant. "Not my fault you're so irresistible."

"So much hatred in my heart," Danny promises.

"Whatever. Get me some malasadas," Steve orders, and gets to his feet with the surfboard under one arm. For a second he hesitates, and Danny lifts an eyebrow.

"What, you want to kiss me goodbye?" he asks, meaning to sound sarcastic but of course he's talking to Steve McGarrett.

"Sure," Steve says casually, and slides his free arm around Danny's waist and just -- breathes into his mouth, like he's planning the most effective attack. "You found the toothbrush," he says, so quiet that Danny mostly knows what he said because he can feel Steve's lips moving against his.

"Uh," Danny replies, because he's pretty sure there's another conversation they're having, between the shirt and the toothbrush and the malasadas and the kissing goodbye, but he doesn't speak this language, never had to learn it before he met this psycho. "I uh. Yeah. I did."

"Mmm," Steve replies, and lets him go. "Keys are on the kitchen counter." And with a half-assed salute, he turns and jogs off toward the beach.

Steve's truck is ridiculous; Danny learned a long time ago to deal with the fact that he's five-foot-too-damn-short, but driving Steve's truck is like maneuvering a fucking blimp. He manages to get it out of the driveway and point it toward the coffee shack a few miles south. He just hopes no children or, you know, cars get in his way. He wouldn't be able to feel running over them.

He coasts into the parking lot and takes the space furthest away from Perk It Up, which is the stupidest name for a coffee shop ever but the malasadas are the best on the island and the coffee will keep him alive to fight another day. Or, whatever. He's still busy processing all the weird things that've gone down in the past twenty-four hours.

Which is why he literally runs face-first into Kono.

"Watch where the fuck you're -- Danny?"

"Wow, I mean, hey," Danny says. Kono's wearing her weekend uniform -- namely, a binkini and a scowl and salty-wet hair -- and it's just unfair that half his team wanders around the island looking like this in their off hours. At least Chin keeps his goddamn shirt on. "What're you doing here?"

"I'm catching up some with some guys who're here off the circuit," she says, her frown lessening marginally. "We had a little friendly competition going this morning, so I'm bringing the losers a consolation prize." She holds up the two bags in her hands.

"Great," Danny says, "That sounds like fun. So, I'll see you--"

"Is that Steve's shirt?" Kono asks. Then her jaw drops. "Oh my God."

"Okay, look," Danny says, because right now is really not a good time for his brain to be offline. "I... um."

But Kono is busy pulling out her phone from... actually, Danny has no idea where. "Finally. I was wondering how long it'd take. I've gotta tell Chin."

"Uh. What?"

"You and Steve. You did it, right?" she asks, not looking up from her phone.

"I'm not -- okay, having this conversation in the doorway of Perk It Up is a little surreal," Danny confesses. "And are you -- please tell me you're not actually texting Chin right now."

Kono glances up; Danny can remember getting that same look from his little sister when she found out he'd kissed Christina Osworth at the homecoming dance. "I'm not texting Chin right now? And I'm definitely not telling him he owes me a hundred bucks?"

"You had a bet on whether or not Steve and I'd--" Danny can't even complete the thought.

Kono snorts. "Uh, no. We had a bet on whether or not you'd tell us," she says. "'Steve and you' were pretty much a foregone conclusion."

Danny glares at her. "That bikini looks terrible on you."

"It looks amazing, don't lie," Kono dismisses. "Give the boss a kiss from me."

"I hope you wipe out!" he shouts after her as she strolls out to her car. "And break your face!"

"Have a good weekend!" she calls over her shoulder. "There's a drugstore down the road that sells flavored condoms! Be safe!"

"God, I hate her," Danny sighs, and goes to get some coffee, ignoring the way pretty much everyone is giving him the hairy eyeball.

The coffee goes a long way to restoring his faith in humanity, although on his way back to Steve's place he gets an irritable text message from Chin -- U OWE ME FIFTY BUCKS U COULDNT KEEP IT 2 URSELF TIL AFTER VDAY??? -- that nearly sends him careening into somebody's mailbox. He maneuvers the car into the driveway and tries to wipe the malasada crumbs off his shirt, just in case Steve's already back from the beach.

He's not -- it's quiet inside, and when Danny drops the keys on the kitchen counter they make the loudest noise in the house. He sets the bag down on the table and looks out the window; he can barely see a figure in bright blue shorts, bobbing on the waves.

Going out there and watching Steve from the beach will just feed into the guy's horrifying ego, so Danny settles himself at the kitchen table and spreads out the paper he snagged from the front stoop. He wonders absently if the subscription is from Steve's dad, and Steve just never bothered stopping it -- he knows Steve doesn't read it, because he's seen Steve's conscientious recycle bin and the papers are all piled in there, neat and tidy and untouched.

He works through the paper from the sports section to the business, saving the front pages for last because half the time their next assignment comes out of whatever disaster's plastered all over Page One, and with any luck Steve'll get back before that has to happen.

Right on cue, just as Danny's finishing the comics the patio door opens and Danny can hear Steve calling, "You better not've eaten all of them."

Danny looks up, the better to aim a malasada at Steve's head, but then he actually takes in the sight of Steve McGarrett, Surfer Dude: fresh from the ocean and still out of breath, those stupid swimming shorts riding so low they're going to fall off any second. It's just not playing fair, he decides, and gets to his feet.

Steve looks confused, then more confused as Danny pushes him backwards. "Are you," he starts, eyes flicking up from Danny's hand planted on his chest to Danny's face. "Is everything okay?"

"Oh, peachy," Danny replies as Steve hits the patio door with his ass. Steve's skin is damp and he wants to lick at his collarbone, see if it tastes the way he's imagining. It takes him a second to remember that he can.

So he does and Steve just shudders, going limp against the glass and carding one hand through Danny's hair. He tastes pretty good -- sounds even better when Danny sucks a mark onto his collarbone. "Oh," he murmurs, and wraps his free hand in Danny's shirt -- his own shirt -- like he wants to anchor himself down.

Before he can psych himself out of it, Danny curls his fingers around Steve's waistband. "I want to try," he says, not sure how even to finish the sentence.

Steve picks his head up from where it had thunked against the door. "Your knee's gonna make that pretty tricky if I'm standing up," he says mildly, but his eyes are dark and he's breathing heavy for all new reasons now.

"Wow, look at Mr. Helpful here."

"I'm just saying, if we're going back to bed I'm taking the malasadas with me."

"I thought you hated them," Danny says.

"I have a complicated relationship with them," Steve tells him, and twists out of Danny's grip. "Come on."

"You have a complicated relationship -- is there anything you don't have a complicated relationship with?"

Steve grabs the pastry bag and Danny's half-finished coffee and starts walking backward toward the stairs. "I'm pretty straightfoward about socks," he says, then waggles the coffee cup back and forth. "C'mon Danny, come and get it!"

"Oh, you little--"

Danny never took the lid off, which is the only reason there isn't coffee all over the stairs by the time Danny catches up to him. Steve practically shrieks as Danny tackles him against the wall in the hallway. "Don't spill!"

"Whose fault is it if I do?" Danny demands, grabbing the coffee and hauling Steve toward the bedroom.

"Uh, yours," Steve replies, snotty and smug, and the asshole is actually rustling around in the bag and taking a big bite out of a malasada, chewing with his mouth mostly open.

Danny can't believe he wants to put this guy's dick in his mouth. "You're disgusting, you know this, right?"

Steve shrugs and tosses the bag onto the bedside stand. "I've got food and the distant prospect of a blowjob, man. I'm just enjoying life right now." Danny sets his cup next to the bag and takes a seat on the bed; Steve comes to stand in front of him, still chewing noisily.

"Yeah, that prospect is growing ever-more distant by the second," Danny tells him, ignoring the bead of sweat or ocean water that's navigating its way down Steve's stomach.

"You sure about that?" Steve asks, sliding his hand into Danny's hair again, his thumb pressing right behind Danny's ear, and fuck Steve anyway for knowing all of these weird hot spots. Danny's really starting to worry about how many people Steve must've slept with.

He glares up at Steve's grinning face. "Let me be clear: you try fucking my face, I will bite your dick off. Got it?"

If anything, Steve's grip on his hair tightens and his grin goes completely caveman. "You really need to stop being so hot when you get pissed, Danno," he says, licking his lips. "It's just causing problems for you."

"You are, like, all my problems," Danny mutters, swearing at the stupid drawstring that's keeping Steve's stupid shorts on his stupid hips. Steve laughs and yanks at his hair, pulling his head back so Steve can kiss him hard, his mouth sweet and his lips salty. Danny tries not to whimper as Steve opens his pants one-handed, rubbing at his cock idly through his boxers like it's just a nice way to pass the time.

"Let me," he murmurs against Steve's mouth, and he can feel Steve's smile.

"Like I'm going to stop you," he says, and lets go of Danny's hair in order to tackle the mess Danny's made of his drawstring. Danny leans back and watches and tries to find the nervousness that he was sure he'd feel. Steve's a guy, a man, with a cock and no tits and Danny knows that the Big Gay Freakout should've happened hours ago. But Steve's swearing softly in Hawaiian (at least, Danny assumes it's Hawaiian -- assumes it's swearing) and contorting his spine in a frankly kind of unsexy way, and there's nothing here that Danny could ever be unsure about.

"Fuck it," Steve says suddenly and leans over to the bedside stand to rummage in the drawer. He comes back with a Swiss army knife and Danny doesn't even have time to talk about how bloodplay really isn't his thing before Steve's cut the drawstring and shoved his shorts down.

"I'm getting worried about how much clothing we're destroying, here," Danny says, but he reaches out to fit his palms into the cut of Steve's hips. He watches his thumbs run up and down along the happy trail leading down to Steve's cock, already hard and curved just a little to the left.

"Worthy cause," Steve says breathlessly.

Danny leans forward, then catches sight of Steve's hand, still holding the knife. "Okay, seriously, I'm just not that kind of girl," he says.

Steve knits his brows together. "What?"

Danny nods at the knife. "I'd rather you didn't express your appreciation for my burgeoning technique by accidentally stabbing me in the ear," he says. "Lose it."

"Oh my God, say 'burgeoning' again," Steve groans and tosses the knife across the room with a flick of his wrist, where it lands -- somewhere. Danny's got other things to deal with.

Steve's skin still tastes like the ocean, the bitter-smooth taste of precome getting stronger as Danny lets his tongue drag slowly across the head. It's easy, this time, to let his mouth fall open wider and push himself down over the ridge until he's sucking his way down Steve's shaft. It's -- strange. And yeah, a little bit freaky, but mostly Danny wants to keep fitting more and more of Steve's cock down his throat because these noises Steve's making, they should be illegal. Danny pulls off a bit, but he's almost as hungry for it as Steve seems to be, and pretty soon he's pulling Steve in closer, losing himself in this.

He keeps his eyes open, and so he gets to watch the way Steve's hips just roll into it, the flex of his stomach as his breathing gets less and less steady. But he doesn't look up until Steve settles one hand gingerly on his shoulder, fingers stroking his neck.

Danny meets Steve's eyes and Steve looks wrecked, like he's dying by inches. It's scary and beautiful all at the same time and Danny shuts his eyes against it.

"Fuck, Danny, please, I'm, I'm," and Steve's coming in his mouth, hot and sudden. Danny coughs and pulls off; he feels come running out the corner of his mouth, and he probably looks pretty slutty but he manages to uncurl his hand from its iron grip on Steve's hip and wipe the trickle away with his thumb.

Steve mutters something in some language, and Danny opens his eyes just in time to see Steve leaning down for a kiss, practically climbing into Danny's lap. Danny catches him and falls back onto the bed so he can push Steve's weight down on his aching cock.

"Just for the record," Steve says, mouthing his way across Danny's cheek and jaw and neck, "Come and coffee? Terrible combination."

"Shut up," Danny says, "And get. Me. Off."

"You're really bossy, you know that? Maybe it wouldn't kill you to just take things as they come every once in a while, you know, relax and--"

"Fine," Danny says, and tips Steve off him.

"Hey," Steve protests.

Danny manages to get his pants and boxers down off his hips and kick at them until they land in a heap on the floor. "If you want a good job done, and all that jazz," he says.

"You get that off a fortune cookie or another of those self-help books you pretend you don't read?" Steve asks, but there's something rougher about his voice, and when Danny looks over Steve's got his head propped up on one arm and is watching with something a little sharper than academic interest. Steve notices his look and makes a go-on motion. "Please," he says, like he's holding a door open for somebody.

So Danny grabs Steve's free hand and puts it on his dick, linking their fingers loosely together. "Oh no, you're helping out," he says.

"What, like lending a hand?" Steve asks, clearly way too delighted with himself over that one. Danny groans but Steve just tucks himself closer, nuzzling at Danny's shoulder and neck. "C'mon, you got to make that stupid pun last night, I don't get a freebie today?"

"You get nothing until I get off," Danny hisses, tightening his grip on Steve's fingers, which tightens the grip on his cock, which makes him screw his eyes shut -- it's good, better than he'd have believed with Steve breathing harsh and hot into his ear, his fingers spasming against Danny's cock.

"God, Danno, I wish you could see this, what you look like right now," Steve whispers, his lips close enough to brush against Danny's ear. "You're so gone, so far fucking gone, the things I want to do with you when you're like this, I just want to keep you here and listen to those noises you're making, yeah, the ones just in the back of your throat -- you think I can't hear how you're falling apart? God, Danno, you're driving me crazy with how good you look, and any minute now you're going to--"

Danny interrupts him with a hitched breath and a tight squeeze of his fingers, because between Steve's hand and Steve's filthy mouth, Danny's coming hard all over their hands already. He can hear the catch in Steve's breath as he rides it out, and wonders if Steve's feeling the same way he felt last night, that heavy certainty that you can't get it up but an insane urge to try anyway.

For a few minutes he just lays there, blissful and come-spattered and really kind of a mess, before stretching out and opening his eyes.

Steve's staring at him, mouth hanging open. "That," he croaks, then clears his throat. "That was."

Danny grins, feeling better than he's ever felt in his life. "Hey," he says, "It's not my fault I'm so irresistible."

Chapter 3: Worth the While

Summary:

Danny's increasingly in favor of this vendetta Steve's got against all clothes everywhere.

Steve slides one leg over Danny's knees and curls his arm around Danny's chest; the overall effect is like being clamped down by an extremely warm and affectionate octopus. Danny's got a vague sense that this whole thing isn't going down the way it's supposed to -- for one thing, the Big Gay Freakout still hasn't happened -- but he can't be bothered to get up when he's this comfortable.

Of course, that's exactly the second his phone starts screeching at him. "Fuck."

"Might be Gracie," Steve mumbles, so Danny sits up and scoots to the edge of the bed, leaning over to grab at his pants and fish out his phone.

"Hello?" he says, wary.

"Daaaaanno you haven't caaaaalled yet," Grace tells him.

"Hey, monkey" he says, falling back down onto the bed. "I'm sorry about that. It's barely noon, though, and I know how much you like to sleep in on the weekend. I had to get you out of bed yesterday with a crowbar."

"What's a crowbar?" she asks.

Steve, who's leaned into the phone shamelessly, pulls back. "She doesn't know what a crowbar is?"

"Hey, I'm surprised you know it's anything more than a blunt instrument," Danny tells him.

"Steve? Is that Steve?" Gracie sounds way too happy about this. Danny jabs at Steve with his elbow.

"Yeah, I'm, uh. Over at Steve's house."

"What're you doing?"

Steve grins at him and runs a hand up Danny's thigh. "Oh, you know," Danny says, his voice way too high. He smacks Steve's hand away. "Just hanging out."

Literally, Steve mouths.

Danny covers the mouthpiece with his hand. "I will shoot you."

"With your gun?" Steve asks, eyebrow raised, complete with air quotes.

"Can I come over?" Gracie asks.

"I... don't think that'd be a good idea," Danny tells her. "You've got piano lessons at one, and then you've got Pop Warner after that."

"Yeah," Gracie sighs, sounding both crushed and calculating. "But couldn't Steve teach me some quarterback stuff instead of Pop Warner? He's more fun, all the boys cry when I play with them."

"That's because you're a bloodthirsty animal, and you make Danno very proud."

"Then can Steve teach me some on Wednesday? Can you ask him? Can I ask him? Please please pleeeeeeeease?"

Discretion's the better part of getting in the middle of this, and Danny hands Steve the phone. "Be prepared for some pretty terrifying negotiation techniques," he says and heaves himself up off the bed.

Steve -- or Steve's dad -- apparently has a thing for ultrasonic showerheads, which Danny does not object to in the least. There are some pretty hilarious shower products in here, and Danny makes a note to ask Steve why there's a rock sitting in the soap dish, but he scrubs with a bar of soap that he's pretty sure isn't called Sex Wax, so whatever. He grabs one of the towels hanging on the back of the door to wrap around his waist and uses another to scrub his hair dry.

By the time he wanders back to the bedroom, Steve's hung up the phone but he's still flat on the bed. He lifts his head to glare at Danny. "Judas," he accuses.

"That's me," Danny says. "Notice how I'm not feeling guilty at all." He's actually feeling pretty content with the way the world's treating him; Steve never bothered to put his shorts back on, and there's something weirdly attractive about the flare of pale skin at his hips and thighs. Not to mention Danny's increasingly in favor of this vendetta Steve's got against all clothes everywhere. He wonders absently what Round Four is going to consist of.

"Your daughter should go work at Gitmo," Steve says.

"What'd you agree to?"

Steve lets his head drop back onto the mattress. "Wednesday afternoon drills, followed by shave ice and some barbecue."

"That's it?"

"She mentioned a pony, but I figured Step-Stan could get on that." Steve frowns. "You took a shower?"

"I did."

"Without me?"

Danny had a brief flash of Steve pressed up against the shower stall. It's a nice image. But he says, "Are you going to be one of those girls who has to do every little thing together, because honestly, we already spend--"

"One of those girls?" Steve demands, but it doesn't have a lot of heat behind it. "Who was wearing whose shirt earlier?"

"Speaking of which, if you're going to do laundry, I should probably toss my pants in there--"

"See?" Steve says, snapping his fingers at him. "You're definitely the girl."

"Hey," Danny tells him, climbing up onto the bed and straddling Steve's hips, the better to shake an admonitory finger at him, "I'm the father of a girl, and I for one do not appreciate the implication that the girl in a relationship is bound by any kind of gender-role -- what, what's that face for?" he asks, because Steve is peering up at him with a speculative kind of look.

"I'm just wondering if I could fit your entire tie into your mouth, or if some of it would stick out," Steve answers.

Danny scowls. "So hey, guess who I ran into at the coffee place."

*

They end up eating the rest of the malasadas on the couch downstairs with the TV broadcasting the Pats getting fucking massacred. Danny stretches out, his feet kicked up on the coffee table, but Steve huddles at the other side and scowls at the TV. Every once in a while he remembers that Kono and Chin have been betting on them and curls into an even tighter ball of misery. "They're never going to shut up about it," he says mournfully.

"Nope," Danny replies, licking some crystalized sugar off his middle finger.

"How much?"

"A hundred bucks. Chin says I owe him fifty, so I'm guessing you'll be getting an order to cough up your half."

Steve just crosses his arms with a growl of displeasure.

Danny pokes at him with a foot. "Hey, it's not like they're going to -- they already knew."

"Yeah but how?" Steve asks. "It's not like we've been acting differently." He blinks. "Have we? What clued them in?"

Danny debates the merits of telling Steve about that hickey he'd managed to leave on the back of Steve's neck a couple of weeks ago -- how Chin had seen it and immediately flicked his eyes toward Danny, eyebrows lifted. Danny had high-tailed it into his office and resolutely ignored Chin calling Kono over to "discuss tactics" for their next op. "Guess they're just good detectives," he says mildly.

"Whatever, give me one," Steve huffs, waving at the pastry bag.

Danny holds it out of Steve's reach. "There's only one left," he says, "And you're being grumpy."

"I've been dealing with my partner's big mouth," Steve says, then seems to hear himself and snorts.

Danny laughs. "I've just got too many terrible jokes to choose from, sorry. I can't decide which one to go with."

Steve glares at him.

"What," Danny says, "Did you want to keep this a big secret? You really thought that'd work out?"

"No, I just figured I'd get to be able to tell people myself and not have a rookie figure out we're fucking from a T-shirt," Steve snaps back.

"Right, you're starting to piss me off," Danny decides, and tosses the bag onto the coffee table. Steve barely has time to furrow his eyebrows together before Danny lands on top of him.

"What're you going to do about it?" Steve asks, looking torn between aroused and worried.

"I'm going to try to shut you up," Danny says, and runs his tongue flat along Steve's face until Steve laughs and brings his arms around Danny's waist, lacing his fingers loosely together.

"But I love pissing you off," he says, catching Danny's mouth in a kiss. He bites down gently on Danny's lower lip, licks it. Danny sinks lower into the cradle of Steve's hips. "It's a nice little hobby. Keeps me out of trouble."

"Are you even listening to yourself," Danny mutters. "When have you ever not been knee-deep in trouble."

Steve seems to consider this.

*

They end up drowsing for the next few hours; Danny half-wakes when the Colts dump Gatorade all over Jimmy Caldwell. He shuts his eyes again almost immediately, reluctant to drag himself back to full function. He can't remember the last time he felt so -- usually he's braced, ready for whatever next crisis is going to drive through the nearest wall. But right now he's unprepared for anything but maybe some food. Or a little light groping.

The world's good to him, because instead of a phone ringing or Chin busting through the front door at that exact moment with a hostage situation or something, there's only the faint whistling that means Steve's still dead to the world. Danny carefully raises his head so he can take in the view. Steve sleeps hard; Navy SEAL training probably instilled in him the ability to wake up if an ant drops a crumb halfway across the room, but right now he's gone, face slack and a lot younger than he seems when he's awake. Danny rests his chin on Steve's chest and wonders if it's creepy to watch somebody sleep.

"That's totally creepy," Steve mumbles, shifting his arms and legs slightly. "Jesus, Danno, you're like a fucking space heater."

"I'm hot-blooded, what can I tell you," Danny says, completely unrepentant. "You need to feed me now."

Steve opens his eyes in order to scowl at him. "This is why I never got a dog."

The delivery scene here leaves a lot to be desired, so Danny ends up digging around Steve's kitchen and cobbling a pasta dish together while Steve leans heavily on the counter and critiques his chopping technique.

"Hi, do you have an older sister who's a sous-chefs at Nobu? No? Then shut your face," Danny says, pointing a knife at him.

Steve blinks. "You have a sister?"

"I have three," he confirms. "One older, two younger. And two little brothers."

"Big family," Steve says, sneaking a slice of tomato before Danny can smack his hand away.

"Yeah, me and Hannah were pretty much in charge of raising them -- both my parents had full-time jobs. Hannah'd cook, I'd be in charge of making sure homework got done."

"That explains a lot about you," Steve says, grinning.

The pasta's good, and they talk about families and how they grew up and all the things you say when you're-- "Hold up," Danny realizes, as Steve's clearing the table. "Are we still on a date?"

Steve laughs. "Pretty long date," he says, glancing up at the clock. "Been going on for about twenty-four hours so far."

"Yeah," Danny says, because it's almost nine o'clock and they're expected in the office tomorrow bright and shiny at eight, and it'd probably be good if they didn't look like they'd spent an entire day having amazing sex. Not that Chin and Kono won't spend the entire day giving them shit, but it's the principle of the thing. He clears his throat. "I should, uh, probably--"

"Get going?" Steve finishes, turning around to brace his hands against the counter.

"Well, as much as I've developed a close and personal relationship with your shower, we never did get that laundry done, so I..." he waves vaguely down at the borrowed clothes, the sweatpants that he literally needed to roll up and the T-shirt that's a little stretched out from all the times Steve's grabbed at it over the course of the day.

Steve nods, but more like he's having a conversation and he's agreeing with himself. Which, when isn't he. "No," he says, pushing off from the counter and coming over to stand in front of Danny's chair.

"No, what no," Danny says, more confused than annoyed.

"I mean no," he says, reaching out for Danny's hand; when Danny gives it to him, he hauls him to his feet. "I want you to stay."

Danny lets out a breath he wasn't really aware he'd been holding. "You do."

"Yeah. I do. I did," Steve nods, but he's focusing pretty heavily on Danny's mouth. "I figured I had to say it eventually."

"You've been holding on to that for two months?" Danny asks as Steve crowds him against the table. He hitches his hip half-on so Steve can slide between his legs, easy and warm.

"A lot longer than that," Steve murmurs, kissing him and it's like drinking, like sex, like they could do this all night except Danny's getting a lot more interested in all the other things they could be doing all night. They got a nap in this afternoon and everything.

"I don't know," he teases, in between Steve licking at the corner of his mouth and nibbling at his lip, "I mean, it's out of your way to take me home tomorrow morning and all."

"Who says I'll let you go home?" Steve says, dragging Danny in closer.

"I say," Danny snaps, although it's hard to be annoyed when someone's rubbing their cock on your hip. "I've got to change, remember?"

"Maybe I'll make you go in like this," Steve counters. He sounds way too pleased by the idea.

"Oh, no," Danny says, pushing at Steve. "As much as I find it endearing that you're not being all subtle, by the way, about the fact that you want to broadcast to the entire station that we're fucking, I cannot go into work looking like a beach bum. It is not who I am, it is not who I aspire to be, and at the risk of making this personal, it is not who you've been making eyes at for the past few months." Steve still looks unconvinced, so Danny goes for the jugular. "Maybe I should just call a taxi."

Steve's grip just tightens on his ass. "I'll make it worth your while," he says, and hey, that sounds promising.

"Will you."

"Mmm," Steve nods. "Come on."

"Worth your while" translates into a condom and a bottle of something tossed onto the unmade sheets. Steve peels out of his shirt while Danny picks up the bottle. "Sliquid Organics Silk," he reads, and snorts even as he feels heat pooling in his stomach. "Somehow your eco-friendly lube is not a surprise."

Steve narrows his eyes and plucks the lube out of Danny's hand, using the other to shove Danny onto the bed. "You're overdressed," he says, and Danny can't help but notice that the same cannot be said for Steve.

"You've got some serious stripping skills, you know that?" Danny lifts his hips and slides out of the sweats, laughing when Steve yanks at them impatiently from the bottom and tosses them over his shoulder. "Always in such a hurry. Who was it who was talking about taking your time, enjoying the scenery--"

"Oh, I'll take my time," Steve promises, climbing onto the bed. He grabs for the lube and the condom.

"Uh, just a minute," Danny says.

Steve pauses with the condom wrapper actually between his teeth, and Danny's got a really inappropriate flashback to the way Tucker would freeze every time someone caught him chewing on Dad's loafers. "Wha'?"

"Okay, first of all, you look like a moron, take that out of your--" and Danny reaches over and twitches it out of his mouth. "Second, why're you putting on a condom?"

"Oh," Steve says, "I uh, usually put it on before? So I can focus on -- I mean, I want this to be good." He waves at Danny kind of vaguely.

"That's... nice," Danny says suspiciously. "But I mean, why are you putting on a condom as in, why you?"

Steve blinks slowly at him. "Is this a trick question?" he asks. "I'm sure you're clean, Danny, but safe sex is important in a new relationship and--"

Any second, Danny knows, Steve's going to launch into a lecture about the importance of keeping it bagged, and Danny's going to have to jizz in his eye in retaliation. So he interrupts, "I meant why are you putting on the condom."

"As opposed to...?"

"As opposed to me."

Steve actually smirks. "You want to do me."

"I'd like a discussion at least," Danny protests. "Why do you decide who does what?"

"Because I know what I'm doing," Steve says.

"Oh, and I don't?" Danny snaps; he knows he's being defensive about something that's batshit stupid, but whatever, Steve's a dick.

"Danny," Steve admonishes, "The anus is a very delicate--"

"Oh my God, shut up," Danny says covering his face with his hands.

"I'm just saying you need to know what you're doing if you--"

"I know what I'm doing! I've done it before!"

Steve's face goes slack. "You what? I thought you--" and he waves his hands around again, accidentally spilling lube everywhere but it's not like either of them are paying much attention.

"Yeah, I was married? For like ten years?"

"And your ex let you do that?" Steve looks weirdly impressed.

"'Let' implies that she didn't -- okay, right now we're talking about my ex-wife's butt and instead we could be fucking. Raise your hands all those who would like to be--"

Steve tackles him to the mattress, laughing, his smile imprinting itself against Danny's lips and cheeks and jaw. "I'd definitely like to be fucking you," he says, tongue warm and wet against Danny's pulse. "I promise, I can make it so good for you--"

"Come on," Danny says. He's probably sounding a little whiny but who cares. "Come on, I'm not some blushing bride here where you need to take charge of everything--"

Steve lifts his head, his grin broad and a little evil. "So the top's in charge, is that what this is?" He settles himself on top of Danny, his cock insistent against Danny's hip.

"Well," Danny huffs, distracted, "Yeah. I mean."

"So you fuck me, and you'll be in charge."

Danny's a lot less sure of himself now than he was a few minutes ago, but Steve's like a wild animal or a Teamster or something and the key is not to show fear. "Yeah."

"That doesn't sound very confident."

Danny glares at him. "You bet your ass I will. Sound better?"

"Oh, much," Steve says, which is when Danny knows he's in trouble. "This is just too good."

"What do you mean?"

"I think," Steve says, ignoring him, "That we'll bet your ass."

"And what does that mean?"

"It means, you fuck me. But you do it my way, and if you say you're in charge by the end of it, you can do whatever you want, get me to suck you off, tie me down..."

"What if you win," Danny mumbles, because this is going rapidly downhill and he's not totally sure he won't come just from listening to all the things Steve's imagining him doing.

"Danno, are you saying you think that could happen?"

"I'm saying I believe in being prepared," Danny says.

"Well, then, if I win," Steve says, and right before he says it Danny knows exactly what's going to come out of his mouth, "You and me, next weekend. Surfing lessons."

"Oh hell--"

"Plus Gracie. We'll invite Kono, she can be the expert. Chin can be our lifeguard too and it'll be a nice family outing."

Danny opens his mouth to tell Steve forget it, but instead he says, "Fine, but everyone's wearing SPF 50 the whole day, got it?"

"Danno, the things you worry about sometimes worry me," Steve says, but he leans down and kisses him, slow and wet like he wants to do this for a while. Danny sighs into it, because he hasn't gotten tired of this, the way Steve just seems endlessly fascinated with making out.

Then Steve presses the lube into Danny's hand. "Show me what you've got, Danno," he breathes against Danny's cheek.

Danny tries to get up, but Steve isn't budging. "Uh, excuse me?" Danny tries.

Steve smiles. "We're going to do this my way, remember?"

"Okay, and what way is that," Danny says.

"Put some on your fingers," Steve orders, sucking at Danny's neck right where the collar will barely reach; and it's a little hard to focus both on slicking his fingers up and losing his mind from the way he can feel Steve's teeth and tongue.

"Ngh," Danny replies, fumbling with the cap.

"So far, not wowing me," Steve says, and bites down a little bit higher this time.

"If I have to ask Kono for some makeup so I can hide this, so help me God--" Danny snarls, and finally gets the lube open, spreading it on his fingers. Steve makes an approving noise as Danny slides his hand down between their bodies, between Steve's legs.

It's more than a little gratifying to watch Steve's expression as he presses that first finger in; Steve's got his eyes closed and his jaw clenched and his hips make this twisting motion back against Danny's hand. It's an awkward angle, but Danny can't bring himself to complain just yet, not while he's got Steve looking like this.

"You are such a slut for it, McGarrett," he says, meaning to sound a lot less reverential.

Steve opens his eyes and grins. "Oh, you have no idea." He nips at Danny's chin. "Gimme another."

Danny frowns -- Steve's still tight, and rushing these kinds of things is never a good idea. "I don't think--" he says, pulling his hand away. "Steve--"

With an impatient growl, Steve pushes himself up onto his knees, planted wide on either side of Danny's waist. "What did I say about doing this my way?" he says, snagging the lube and dripping more of it on Danny's fingers.

"You say a lot of things," Danny says, but he's busy cataloguing everything with a cop's eye for detail; the arch of Steve's neck as he twists to one side, the dark heaviness of his cock, the way it brushes oh-so-casually against Danny's chest like he doesn't know it's driving Danny crazy. "I don't usually pay attention."

"I've noticed," Steve says. Then he takes Danny's hand by the wrist and fucking guides him in, faster than Danny's been going and deeper, because everything about Steve McGarrett has to be like this. Danny curls his fingers and Steve jerks, his back arching as he moans.

"Okay, so two fingers works," Danny says, breathless. He's so hard he's dizzy with it.

"Mm," Steve says. "Yeah."

Danny realizes his free hand is clutching at the bedsheets so hard his hand is cramping up, but seriously, it's not fair to have to lie here and watch Steve fuck himself on -- Jesus, three now -- fingers, looking blissed out. Danny wants to flip them over, bend Steve in half and fuck him stupid, but he's so entranced by this that he can't work up the coordination to make an attempt.

Steve pulls Danny's fingers out, slowly, watching Danny's face the whole time. "You ready?"

"Isn't that usually the do-er's line," Danny asks, his voice shaky, "As opposed to the do-ee?"

Steve reaches over and grabs the condom, ripping open the packet. "I'm not even going to dignify that with a response."

Danny reaches out. "You know, I can put that on my--"

"I'm guaranteed faster," Steve says, rolling the condom onto Danny's cock.

"What, because you're vastly more experienced than me in the area of condom application?" Danny says, pushing himself up onto his elbows.

"In the area of condom application on another guy's dick, yeah," Steve says breezily, shoving him back down flat on the bed. "Also, I find your coherence right now to be insulting."

"And we all know what happens when someone insults you."

Steve ducks his head and laughs, and Danny grins, because this is what they do -- a day and a half of sex haven't changed the fact that Steve's a psycho and Danny's... along for the ride.

"Just try to relax," Steve says, and begins slowly pushing himself down onto Danny's cock.

"I -- uh." Danny can't think of anything to say, because Jesus Fucking Christ, Steve is working himself down onto his dick and Danny can feel every clench, every spasm of Steve's ass. Danny can't do anything other than lie there and take it -- Steve has his hands planted on Danny's shoulders, fingers spread wide, and there's no way to get any leverage.

Not that he wants to, really. It's so tight it almost hurts and Steve is going slow for a reason; sweat is breaking out along his forehead and his grip is hard enough to bruise. Danny looks down and frowns. "Should -- that be happening?" he asks, breathless.

Steve shakes his head, although he doesn't seem to be responding to Danny, exactly. "It's just, oh," he says, taking another inch, "Been a while. I promise, it's nothing personal."

"Yeah, but -- you're going to like this at some point, right?" Danny says, because if this is what a cock up your ass does to your erection, he's honestly not seeing the appeal. Of course, from here, it's pretty fucking unbelievable.

Steve takes another deep breath and slowly, slowly settles his weight down on Danny's hips. Danny's buried up to his balls, and for a second he never wants to move again; it's perfect like this, with Steve's shivers ghosting over Danny's cock and everything bright and sharp-edged.

"I'm liking it just fine right now," Steve says, and sure enough his cock is half-hard again already. Thank God.

Then Steve starts to move, and the world changes. Danny actually whimpers the first few times, and Steve looks really fucking pleased with himself which normally Danny would object to. But--

But Steve's got his legs squeezing Danny's hips and he's just beautiful, in a way Danny can't really define and doesn't know how to respond to. Steve has never been easy, not the first time they met and never any time after. He makes Danny work for it, makes him hungry for it, and Danny can admit to himself here and now that if Steve hadn't taken him by the elbow two months ago Danny would've made a move by Christmas at least.

And fucking Steve McGarrett must have some kind of endorphin-related side effects, because Danny realizes he's babbling all of this, voice cracked as his fingers slip against Steve's hips and thighs.

"Jesus, Danno, please," Steve gasps, and bends down at an impossible angle and kisses him, wet and open and sucking in air when he can.

"I want, I wanted you," Danny says, scraping his teeth down Steve's throat. "So much, you drive me nuts, you know that?"

Steve groans and straightens up. "I'm starting to get the idea." Danny starts to push up, wanting to slam himself into Steve with every thrust, meet him need for need. He wraps his hand around Steve's cock and Steve actually whines.

"Oh fuck," Danny groans. Steve grabs Danny's hand.

"Harder," he gasps, "Oh Christ, Danny, you're gonna - just, yes," and he's coming, messy and gorgeous, all over Danny's stomach. For a moment he just stays frozen there, then slowly slumps down until he's curled up on top, nose bumping against Danny's ear.

But Danny's not quite there, and after a minute he manages, "Uh, Steve?"

"Mmm," Steve mumbles into Danny's shoulder, and Danny can hear the grin in the fucker's voice.

"I swear to God, McGarrett--"

But that just gets Steve laughing, which is all kinds of unfair to Danny's cock, and when he tries to thrust up again Steve pins his hip with one lazy hand.

"First," he says, raising himself up just enough to nip at Danny's ear, "Tell me who's in charge."

"What?" Danny almost forgot about this game; trust Steve to keep track, the asshole.

"You heard me, Danno. You're fucking me, you made me come first. You tell me. Are you in charge right now?"

Danny's literally too full of feelings to respond. "Fuck you," he manages.

Steve bites his lip and clenches, and for a second Danny's vision grays a little. "That's the whole point," Steve says sweetly. "So?"

"I'm in charge," Danny tries, more out of a morbid curiosity to see what Steve's going to do with him than out of any actual conviction that he's running this show.

Steve shakes his head like Danny's disappointed him or something. "No," he says, drawing out the word as he lifts himself up slowly, slowly. "No, I think that's the wrong answer."

"No it isn't, oh sweet fucking Christ," Danny adds as Steve pushes himself up off of Danny's shoulders, leaning back until his hands are planted behind him, between Danny's legs. It angles Danny just that much deeper -- but worse, it gives him zero leverage with the way Steve's full weight is bearing down on his hips.

Danny grabs at Steve's thighs and stares at the completely obscene curl of Steve's body as he fucks himself on Danny's cock. It looks almost painful, the way his back is bent and the fact that he's already come, but every time Danny slides back into him Steve moans, high and desperate. So it's got to be working for him on some level.

And then he stops, and says, "Well?"

"Oh my God, I hate you so much," Danny groans. He's teetering on the edge and he'll go insane if he doesn't come in the next ten seconds, he'll lose his mind with it.

"You love me," Steve pants.

"I -- please, Steve, I, yes, anything--" And maybe that's a confession, because Steve's breath catches in his throat, and when Danny opens his eyes Steve is grinning down at him, smug as all hell. Steve gives a jerk of his hips that sends Danny off the cliff, and all he can think as he arches and comes is that Steve's going to be fucking impossible to deal with from now on.

Chapter 4: Mathematically Even

Summary:

Danny finds the shampoo and squirts a big blob of it into his hand, then plops it onto Steve's head. "Chop chop, McGarrett," he says, right before Steve honest-to-God growls at him and crowds him against the shower door.

Notes:

Thanks to lazulisong for looking through this and making sure it was actually presentable.

Danny wakes up sometime before dawn. Steve's still snoring, sprawled on his stomach and taking up way more than half the bed, his face buried in the pillow. Danny slides his feet out from where they've tangled with Steve's and staggers to his feet, the bleary idea of a leak and some coffee lodged in his brain.

He gets through the leak and halfway down the stairs before remembering, no coffee, and swears to himself.

"Wha'," Steve mumbles when Danny falls back into bed.

"I hate you," Danny says, "And if I spend another night here you are getting me the most expensive coffee maker known to man, you hear me?" He curls up behind Steve and presses an absent-minded kiss against the nape of Steve's neck.

"You don't even like coffee that much," Steve says, although the way he lets Danny put his arm around his waist belies the whine in his tone.

"No, but first thing in the morning it's necessary, plus, you should do something nice for me every once in a while."

"I do nice things for you all the time," Steve protests. Danny mutters something, already half-asleep again, and the last thing he remembers is Steve laughing softly at him.

When the alarm goes off, it's still mostly dark outside, and the bed's empty. Danny rummages around in the sheets for a second but comes up with bupkes, but he can see a faint light from the landing which magically leads downstairs and into the kitchen.

Steve's sitting at the table staring out at the early morning thunderstorm, a mug of probably-tea in his hand. He startles when Danny pads in. "Hey," he says, voice still blurry.

"Hey yourself," Danny says. "How long you been up?"

Steve shrugs, eyes sliding back to the window. "Not long."

Danny grabs the mug from Steve; it's cold, the tea half-drunk. "Okay, either you like your tea cold, which, nasty, or you're lying to me, and a partnership is based on trust, McGarrett."

That gets a brief smile, at least. "Sorry," he says, and he sounds pretty sincere.

Which might be a problem. Danny sighs and takes a seat in the chair opposite. "All right, what's with the face."

Steve tries to rearrange his facial features without moving a muscle. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"We've had this conversation like fifty times. Just, tell me," Danny says. He swallows down the knot of worry because if anybody's entitled to Big Gay Freakout, it's him, Steve's not allowed to do this.

"Fine," Steve says. "I was thinking I probably shouldn't go out for a swim this morning. But I was kind of bummed about -- what, what?" he demands, because Danny can't help laughing.

"You're getting all broody and moody about your exercise schedule?"

"It's important to have a dedicated regimen that..." he trails off and looks hard at Danny. "Oh," he says, and then bites his lip. "I wasn't," he says.

Danny rolls his eyes. "I know that now, thanks," he says. "Now come on, finish your tea and crumpets over there so you can take me home and I can get into something that doesn't make me look like a hobo, here."

"But a really sexy hobo," Steve says, but climbs to his feet. "Let me grab a shower."

"By all means--" Danny starts, but Steve snags him by the waistband of his borrowed sweats and pulls him along. "We're gonna have a talk about you using me like your own personal blankie."

"What, like Linus from Peanuts?" Steve says, backing up towards the stairs, the backs of his fingers hot against Danny's stomach. "I always wanted to play piano."

This is what having conversations with Steve is like. "If you're anyone, you're the girl who keeps torturing Charlie Brown with the football."

"And let me guess, you're Charlie Brown," Steve says, looking skeptical about the whole thing.

"Hell yes I'm Charlie Brown, I am oppressed left and right around here."

Steve laughs and drags Danny up the stairs. "Your suffering is just epic."

It turns out that Steve pushed up against the shower wall is just as hot as Danny had imagined, Danny sliding the bar of soap over his back and shoulders, slipping careful fingers between his cheeks and grinning when Steve jerks and curses at him. "Fuck, Danny--"

"Yeah," Danny says innocently. "Come on, where's that shampoo that smells like vanilla, we've got to get going."

Steve twists around and glares at him. "You--"

Danny finds the shampoo and squirts a big blob of it into his hand, then plops it onto Steve's head. "Chop chop, McGarrett," he says, right before Steve honest-to-God growls at him and crowds him against the shower door, grabbing hold of Danny's cock with one hand and his hair with the other, pulling Danny's head back to kiss him nasty and hot while he works Danny over. The shampoo slides off Steve's head and onto his face, and Danny jerks away with a laugh and a helpless moan while Steve swears and tries to angle them so he can rinse the suds off his face. It's messy and ridiculous and when Danny comes, it's the best start to his work week that he can remember in a long time.

*

Danny steals a clean t-shirt and some new sweats, folding his pants and button-up over his arm. "Where's my tie?" he asks, looking around the bedroom. He does find the knife from yesterday, buried an inch deep into the plaster. He blinks and leaves it where it is.

Steve leans out of the closet, shrugging into a polo shirt. "Dunno," he says, way too breezy to be telling the truth.

"'Dunno'? You're comfortable going with that one."

"Am I comfortable -- yeah," Steve says. "Because I don't know where your tie is."

"Sure. Okay," Danny replies, biting back a grin when Steve follows him out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

"Okay what?" Steve demands.

"Okay nothing," Danny says, spreading his hands. "I'm sure you have no idea where my tie is, since that's what you said."

Steve squints down at him. "What, you think I'm hiding it under my pillow or something?"

Danny makes a see-sawing motion. "Under your pillow, maybe. All I'm saying is, if you're gonna jerk off with it--" Steve snorts laughing but Danny continues, "Semen is very hard to get out of silk. It's all I'm saying."

"Wow, first of all," Steve says, still laughing, "I doubt any of your ties are silk, and second, you're pretty confident in your own..." and he waves a hand vaguely at Danny.

"Oh, what, you're saying you haven't been having any inappropriate, non-work-related thoughts about yours truly in the past few months?" Danny asks, stepping forward a pace. Steve backs up casually, and when Danny takes another step Steve hits the back of the couch with his ass.

"Hey, we're currently at four to five, orgasm-wise," he says, trying to perch on the couch like he'd meant to be there all along.

"Only you would have a mathematical argument for this," Danny marvels. "All right, you want me to even up the score, let's go." He plucks at Steve's shoulder. "Come on, turn around."

"What are you--" Steve gets to his feet, confused, then glares. "Danny, we've got to get to work."

"Oh, now you're worried about our schedule," Danny says, tugging at Steve's pants and unbuttoning them. "Now turn around."

Steve is still glaring but he does what he's told, bracing his hands against the back of the couch. "You know, most handjobs don't require this level of instruction," he complains.

"I'm sure they don't," Danny says. "Spread your legs a little more."

"You want me to get low enough so you--"

Danny smacks Steve's ass, which gets a flinch and a flush that Danny files away to think about later. "The cracks about my height, as hilarious as they are, aren't going to get you off any sooner, so I'd shut up if I were you." He manages to get his good knee under him before Steve can figure out what he's doing, and spreads Steve's cheeks with his thumbs.

Steve's hole is still a little red from last night, probably sore, and Danny licks a careful stripe across it, gratified when Steve makes a pretty hilarious noise in response. Danny watches as Steve readjusts his grip on the couch back, his arms tense.

"So I'm guessing you're not too sore," he guesses.

"Uh," Steve replies.

"Right." Danny licks again, pressing his tongue against Steve's hole, tight and hot. He works a slow finger inside as Steve's breathing gets more and more ragged. "Just like that," Danny murmurs against the curve of Steve's ass, and gets a shudder in response. "Come on, babe, just for me, want to feel you."

"Danny," Steve groans, his hands planted on the back of the couch like he's got orders, "Please, I can't, you, I want--" He doesn't finish, just whimpers as Danny gets his finger all the way in.

"Yeah," Danny says, "Yeah, you can, come on," and Steve isn't even trying to make words anymore; he's gasping for air like Danny's drowning him. Danny presses his tongue in alongside his finger, and Steve yelps, arching back against Danny's face just before he comes. Danny manages to move away enough to see the brand-new stain on the back of Steve's sofa.

"Whoops," he says, completely unrepentant.

Steve's still breathing hard, slumped over the back of the couch and twitching slightly. "I am going to kill you," he says, very calmly.

Danny manages to get to his feet and pats Steve on the ass. "Whatever you say, babe." He looks Steve up and down. "You're a wreck; maybe you should take another shower."

*

It's somehow not a surprise when Steve follows him into his apartment, sprawling out on the wicker couch and watching through half-lidded eyes as Danny grabs some clothes. "So," he says, shifting around like he's just now realizing that that couch was the most uncomfortable thing on the planet, "We're dating now."

"I'd say so," Danny says, pulling his boxers and pants up and watching the way Steve tracks the movements of his hands. Steve's a lot more obvious than he thinks he is. "I mean, that was probably the longest date of my life."

Steve checks his watch. "Thirty-six hours and fifteen minutes," he confirms. "Although I don't know I'd call the whole thing a date, really."

Danny pauses in the middle of buttoning his shirt. "Really."

"Yeah," Steve says, climbing to his feet. "I mean, most of the time it's just a movie, maybe dinner, but usually the other party leaves at some point. You just kept hanging around."

"So that kidnapping charge I was thinking of filing," Danny says, "I should rethink that?" He picks out a tie from the rack with a little more force than strictly necessary, but before he can flip up his collar Steve's got his hands on his waist and is pushing him up against the kitchen counter.

"I'd appreciate it," Steve murmurs, grinning as he kisses Danny slow and sweet.

"Good, because coming from Mr. Grab-Ass, here--"

"Commander Grab-Ass, thank you very much--"

"Shut up," Danny orders, and kisses him.

THE END

Notes:

Further Notes That Are At The End: I probably should've finished this off a while ago but for some reason I wanted to fuck with people and write a huge angsty scene where Danny does in fact have a Big Gay Freakout and maybe they break up and that's the reason this is called Thirty-Six Hours and Fifteen Minutes, because that's how long they're really together.

And then I realized, wow, I'm a TOTAL BITCH.

Plus it was really boring to write.

So instead you got this.

You're welcome.