"What," Danny says, "is that."
Steve would normally wait until the play is done, or the quarterback fumbles the ball, but there's something in Danny's voice that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand in warning. He turns, faux-casually -- no reason to tip Danny off that he's onto him.
And then he sees what's in Danny's hands, dangling off a thumb and forefinger on each shoulder, the Grateful Dead logo a little faded from repeated washes but no less recognizable. Steve blinks. Where the hell had Danny found it?
"It's a T-shirt, Danny," he deadpans, playing dumb.
"I know what it is, Steven, thank you for that stunning deduction. My question pertains to the fact that you appear to have a Grateful Dead T-shirt in your closet."
Steve crosses his arms over his chest, part-defensive and part-mulish. "And?"
"And I want to know where the pictures are. Oh my god, McGarrett, tell me you have a photo of you with long, flowing hair and faded jeans, or a mullet—a tie-dye bandana? Did you try to grow a mustache?—no wait, no, what am I saying, oh my god, you were one of those punk kids, weren't you? Black ripped jeans, baggy t-s, long hair obscuring their faces, ratty Chucks. Right? Right? I don’t know what would be better, you as a Deadhead or you as a moody punk. Please tell me you kept the pictures!" Danny by now is grinning like a shark; Steve has never seen him look so gleeful.
"What were you doing, going through my closet, anyway?" he grumbles, frowning.
Danny lowers his hands, still showcasing the T-shirt. "Did you, Smooth Dog McGarrett, or did you not ask me to move in with you earlier this morning?"
"...I did," Steve concedes, looking back up at Danny's dancing eyes.
"So do I, or do I not have the right to sort through your closet so I can make some space for my stuff?"
"You do," Steve confirms, reluctantly starting to smile.
Danny looks far too smug, and he doesn't need to say another word for Steve to add, "Point taken," as he stands and heads straight for him.
He can see Danny considering whether it would do him any good to run, as well as the exact moment Danny decides to wait him out. Steve doesn't stop when he reaches Danny, but proceeds to crowd him into the wall behind him. By this time Danny is barely containing his laughter, and the condemning T-shirt slips from fingers that appear to prefer to curl over the back of Steve's neck.
Steve nuzzles closer, kissing the soft skin under Danny's ear.
"What will you give me if I happen to find those photos?" he murmurs into the shell, feeling Danny shudder against his chest.
"Uh," Danny tries, but that's as far as he gets before Steve kisses him, takes his mouth and teases it open with his tongue, fills his hands with Danny's firm ass and pulls him closer.
"Well?" Steve prompts when he finally lets him up for air. Danny pants into his mouth, clutching at his shoulders to keep upright.
"The handcuffs?" Danny tries weakly, eyes still fixed on Steve's parted lips.
"Hmmm," Steve rumbles, making a show of considering his offer. "The handcuffs. Very nice, Danno. I'll see what I can do."
Danny has about enough time to squeak before Steve has thrown his entire bulk over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, and is loping easily up the stairs to the second floor of the house. Steve ignores Danny's growled protests and the way he tries to thump Steve in the kidneys, and throws him down onto the haphazardly-made bed, grinning triumphantly.
"Caveman," Danny grumbles, but Steve sees the way Danny watches his hands hungrily, eagerly.
"Moan all you want, Danno. We have the house to ourselves."