But it's all so--ridiculous is what, that Steve, Steve with the silver flecks in his hair and insane tattoos, Steve with the same. Fucking. Beige. Boots. He wears all the fucking time, Steve with khakis and polos and more grenades than you can shake a stick at. Steve wants to go undercover as a rent boy.
"You're not actually serious," is Danny's flat statement when Steve presents the idea as a plausible solution. "Kono is--"
"Really fucking tired of dressing up like a skank," Kono interjects, not even bothering to glance his direction or uncross her arms. "Let Steve take this one, I plan on staying nice and warm and in the van."
"But he's--" Danny jerks his hand up and down in a gesture he hopes will indicate every bit of the All American SEAL-ness about Steve, which will only scream COP COP I'M A COP ASK ME HOW. "And, no offense, babe," he adds to Steve's challenging stare, "You're not exactly a spring chicken. What I've heard--"
"What you've heard?" Kono repeats, incredulously.
"Yes, what I've heard, from Vice Cops," Danny says, "is that the kind of skeeze-bags who pick their dates from a street-corner line-up, they, you know, tend to go for the legal-is-just-an-arbitrary-number type."
"Twinks," Steve says. Shrugs. "I can do twink."
"You can--no, babe, no, you can't--" Danny begs for the sake of his sanity, clenches both hands so he doesn't try to rake them through his hair and ruin it. "Hey, maybe Chin--"
They look at Chin. Chin looks back.
"Jesus," Danny says, patting his face, "Am I bleeding from any of my orifices?"
"Orifices," Steve snorts, shaking off Chin's glare of death effortlessly as he turns on his heel and wanders off.
"Steve, hey, " Danny calls, waving his hands, "We were not done talking--"
"No worries, brah," Kono says, fist-bumping his shoulder companionably as she slips on by, "I've got his make-up. We're golden."
Golden, Danny thinks, is not what they are. What they are is fucked.~*~
So. So. So fucked. Steve walks back into the conference room four hours later and the bottom drops out of Danny’s stomach like someone kicked it free. Oh Jesus.
And thing is, Danny is in his office when Steve struts by—all he gets is a glimpse of the outfit before he’s out of his chair, trailing after Steve like a hound dog following a bone. All he caught was black, too tight, and the back of Steve’s head, and already his mouth is dry to the back of his throat. Such a fucking bad idea.
But, see, Danny thinks there might still be some way to salvage this, shove aside this churning achy gut-deep clutch of panic and lust that has pretty much been gnawing at Danny’s insides from day fucking one of working with Steve McGarrett. He’ll get a real look at Steve and choose one of the many things wrong with his ensemble (not his makeup, Kono knows where Danny sleeps) and bitch about it until something changes or Danny’s voice gives out, and everything will be fine.
Everything is not fine.
Steve is. He turns at the sound of Danny’s footsteps and seems to physically rip Danny’s sight from where it had stuck on the high, round peach-shape of Steve’s ass in black jeans all-but fucking painted on, faded and worn so thin they’re barely there at all. There’s a hole the size of a matchbox just under the swell of Steve’s left cheek where it joins the strong flare of his thigh, and Danny has to blink, hard, and still that slip of bare skin is imprinted on the back of his eyelids.
His gaze pings up as Steve turns, takes in the sharp, gleaming silver of Steve’s buckle tangled in a nest of studs along his belt, follows the heavy zipper of his jacket up, and up, and Jesus, no, polka dots, no, but they’re small white spots on the jacket which cuts off abruptly at the shoulders, leaving ragged strings of fabric. The shirt Steve has on under it is long-sleeved, solid but weathered black, loose enough that he looks like he’s trying to look buffer than he is, like he has soft, unassuming, un-weirdly-tattoo-ed limbs hidden under there. His thumb is punched through the fabric at one cuff, the other sleeve too ragged to make more holes in, frayed and rotting just a little. Steve nails are black, chipped already, in character.
And then, finally, Danny has nowhere else to look but Steve’s face.
He dyed his hair. Danny can smell it on him from here, can see the results and where Steve’s hair is still damp, tousled like someone used it to hold him in place. And his eyes, jesus fuck. Mascara and eye-liner, eyeliner, and it makes Steve’s eyes look huge and blue and green, makes him look all vulnerable instead of mildly homicidal as he stands his ground and waits for Danny’s verdict.
"Well?" Steve asks, spreading his hands. And his stance.
Danny just about swallows his tongue.
"I don't know about twink," Chin says, and right there are people here. "But I think I just dug up something that might prove you're our mark's type."
"Awesome," Steve grins, and Danny needs to go lie down.
Wilson Degrange—Skeevy McSkeeviton, if you ask Danny—is a 6-foot-6 bear of a man, with tree trunks for arms and legs and a face that might be considered handsome if he wasn't the devil incarnate. Wilson uses his twinks in every sense of the word, first as sex toys, then as guinea pigs for his designer drugs, and finally, as dealers, until they’ve outlived (or not) their usefulness. He is a bad fucking son of a bitch, and if he was a fraction less clever they would have had him weeks ago.
Danny is waiting for a time when Steve can look at this guy’s picture and not clench his jaw so hard he gets a visible tick. That will be a good day.
“We’re gonna get this guy,” Steve says in the van, holding still enough for Kono to finish dirtying him up in the most literal sense of the word. Steve has dirt smudged under his jaw, grit under his nails, mud on his knees like he’s been—
“I know we will, babe,” Danny says, even though this is just Steve pumping himself up. But it was either blurt that or lose another half hour of time he can’t account for thinking about Steve on his knees.
“Not too much dirt,” Chin says, simultaneously checking their earbud frequencies. “Don’t want him to look like a hobo.”
“But.” Kono holds up one finger. “We do want him to look like a Hoooooobo.”
“Yes,” Chin deadpans as Steve tucks his nose into his collar and tries not to crack up, “That is. Wow, Kono.”
“Thank you, thank you,” she smirks, and takes a little bow.
It doesn’t ever really get cold on the island, in Danny’s opinion, but he supposes if he was wearing as little as Kono sometimes has to, he would prefer the van as well. As it is, the night is damp enough to make it almost chilly, though Danny hasn’t busted out the light sweaters the way Chin and Kono have. Maybe he’ll regret that after the van has been off for a while, but at the moment Danny is enjoying the feeling of not continually roasting, thanks very much.
Steve is shivering, from where Danny can see him through his binoculars (they aren’t terribly far away in case Steve needs backup, but they are far enough that Danny’s sense of relief at being able to watch Steve’s back is overriding his creep-factor)—or it might be just an act. Wilson goes for junkies when his twinks aren’t readily available, and thanks to the Governor-sponsored free-meal vouchers Danny passed around earlier, twinks are scarce tonight. Steve’s head is tucked low, hip cocked, lips parted and looking very much like they want a cigarette to suck on, if only Steve had the cash.
And it’s un-fucking-canny, how much Steve looks like the boys Danny used to spend his short-lived Vice Cop days ushering off the street and into shelters, only to find them one block over the next day, ‘peddling their wares.’ Danny wants to grab Steve and march him into a diner, buy him coffee and pancakes and a serving of vegetables, wants to give Steve all the pamphlets and beg him to insist on a condom with his johns.
There was a reason Danny didn’t do well in vice. At least with homicide there’s a feeling of accomplishment when the murderer’s put in jail. Prostitution is a symptom of a bigger problem Danny isn’t equipped to deal with.
But he can get this fuckwad off the streets, and there’s a god damn start.
“That’s Wilson’s car,” Chin says, startling Danny out of his own head. And it is, a huge fuck-off gas guzzler of an SUV, with tinted windows, one of which rolls on down as they pull up to Steve’s corner. He’s waved on three guys already, Steve has, and Chin has every last one of their license plates stored in triplicate, waiting for HPD to collect them.
Wilson doesn’t lean out, makes Steve stumble to him on coltish, needy legs, and Danny knows it’s an act but his knuckles go white on the binoculars anyway.
“Lookin’ for a good time?” Steve asks, voice tinny on the wire. And a little raspy, too, Danny doesn’t think he’s imagining that. Though he is imagining how Steve’s voice might’ve gotten that way, and shit. He shifts in his seat.
Suddenly Steve gasps and lurches further into the car, and Danny’s on his feet before he can think to move. His bad knee almost gives out on him.
And then Steve is saying, “Chin-grabber, huh? I can work with that.” Voice tight like Wilson still has a grip on his jaw. It’s also a signal not to go in guns blazing, but fuck if Danny can sit down without Kono making him do it.
“We just have to get him soliciting on tape,” she whispers, even though Wilson can’t hear her. “That’s it. Just a little bit longer, Danny, he’ll get it.”
And Danny knows that’s true, but he has this ugly jealous side that’s telling him Wilson’s paws are on what’s his, and even the view of Steve’s ass from here isn’t doing much to get that impulse under control.
“You’re not my usual type,” Wilson growls over the line. Danny clenches his fingers tight around the binoculars and tries to get any angle on Steve that isn’t miles of long leg and oh, the patch of skin bared by the tear in his jeans. Goddamn it.
“Baby,” Steve rumbles, amused, “I can be any type you want me to be.”
The air in Danny’s lungs in burning, trying to get out, and he doesn’t think anyone in the van is breathing either.
“I don’t pay cash on a first date,” Wilson warns, and Danny almost doesn’t hear Steve’s response over the short but strong rush of relief flooding through him. That they pegged this guy right, that he’s interested.
“Well then, we got a problem.” Steve is letting his hips sway, probably knows Wilson is tracking their movement. “This ass ain’t free, sweetheart.”
Danny is never going to be able to call anyone sweetheart without hearing Steve purr it like that. Jesus.
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t make it worth your while.”
“Oh,” Kono murmurs, “I think I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.”
Steve is leaning back, now, unsteady hands up as he baits the hook. “Sorry, man, I’m sure you would, but I need the fix more than I need the fuck.”
“Oh, I can get you the fix, baby,” Wilson drawls. Chin does an absolutely wonderful fist pump. “I’ll get you flying so high you’ll be begging me to fuck you up like a good little boy.”
“Yeah?” Steve asks, and Danny gets front row seats to the punch that breaks Wilson’s face. It’s beautiful. Possibly the most beautiful punch Danny has ever seen. Steve goes reeling back spitting curses a split second later, but Danny’s feet are already on the pavement, and Wilson can’t see for the stinging tears in his eyes mixing with the blood dribbling from his nose to do anything anyway.
Chin takes a couple running bounds and gets to Wilson before Danny, which is good for a great many reasons, not least of which avoiding going over their nightly allotment of police brutality. Steve is making a face as he shakes out his hand, the same face he had on after he beat and killed Bullfrog--I picked you, didn’t I? I’m bleeding and hurting but, hey, you’re still around, things aren’t all bad.
Danny didn’t know what to do with that look then, but he has a pretty clear idea of what he’d like to do now.
“Book ‘em, Danno?” Steve says, hint of a question creeping in at whatever expression is peering out from Danny’s features.
“Chin and Kono can take this one.” Danny is surprised at the low register his voice is lingering in, but he likes the way it keeps 110% of Steve’s focus behind his smudged eyeliner. “We should get you cleaned up.”
Steve shivers, and Danny is pretty sure it’s not the cold.
Danny drives them to Steve’s place, because Steve is too jittery to sit still, let alone handle a car on dark, winding roads. He keeps shifting in his seat, dragging his hands down his thighs, almost like he is a junkie needing a fix. Maybe he’s still playing the part.
Maybe Danny needs to watch the road and not drive them into the gutter where his brain is residing, fuck. Still—
“Stop,” Danny says, which is a pretty normal thing for him to do, but he reaches over and clasps Steve’s jittering knee when he says it, which is not. Steve goes absolutely mind-meltingly still, instantly, splays his legs a little wider and gives Danny a grin that Danny can see out of the corner of his eye where he is very steadfastly not looking.
“How did I do?” Steve asks, slouching down just a little so Danny’s hand edges up his thigh. “Did I make a good twink?”
“Jesus,” Danny hisses, snatches his hand back before he does something monumentally stupid. Steve laughs, a low rumble, and then they’re in Steve’s driveway and Danny has nothing left to do but put the car in park. No, that’s not true, he could idle, he could wait for Steve to get out and then drive like the wind away from this thing they’re falling head over heels into. This thing that's making Danny's heart pound and his palms sweat. This thing that wants to put Steve on the ground and mount him.
There’s a knock on Danny’s window, and Danny jumps, hard, before he realizes it’s just Steve. That Danny has been panicking himself up so hard that Steve has moved and Danny hadn’t noticed.
Steve knocks again, a brief rap of knuckles on the glass, and Danny doesn’t know why he rolls the window down, but he does. Steve braces an arm on the roof, leans in, head ducked low, and all the air vanishes from Danny’s lungs. He can smell Steve mixed with the heady scent of wet Hawaiian rainforest, can see the dangerous colors behind the dark smudge of Steve eyelashes as he pins Danny in and just looks at him.
“You, ah,” Steve drags his thumb across his spit-damp bottom lip without breaking eye-contact. “You looking for some company?”
Danny loses time between sitting in the car and outside of it, which is no small feat considering Steve had been sort of in the way. Now Steve is—the neck of Steve’s ugly polka-dotted thing is all twisted up in Danny’s fist as he drags Steve to his own door, punches in the alarm code, and shoves Steve inside. Steve stumbles over his own feet and Danny is there to catch him, muttering dark things about Steve’s ridiculous scuffed-up biker boots as he leads his partner by his shirt to the dining room table, where he sits Steve the fuck down.
Steve’s hands go to Danny’s hips instantly, thumbs fitting to the grove at the top of Danny’s thighs and Danny has to squirm away like a skittish prom date just to keep from coming in his jeans at the sight of Steve looking up at him with those coal-rimmed eyes.
“Stay,” Danny says when he slips from Steve’s grasp, which surprisingly does a whole lot to ease up the bereft edge to Steve’s I-Can’t-Have-Nice-Things face.
“Danny,” Steve starts when Danny slips further into the kitchen to grab a dishcloth—exactly the moment when Danny steps out of sight, which makes sense.
Danny makes sure he doesn’t run the water until after he says, “Coming right back, babe,” so he knows Steve can hear him. He makes sure the water is warm but not hot, and tries not to think about other uses for a wet washcloth as he lathers it up.
Steve knows all the uses, is what Danny deciphers from the look he gets the second he’s back in Steve’s field of view. Steve knows every last thing you can do with a damp rag, and probably five of the things are how to kill a man. Danny doesn’t want to know.
He eases between Steve’s thighs, which part so easy for him it’s like he’s the hot knife and Steve is the butter. All sorts of clichéd symbolism Danny doesn’t need to think about at this moment. He gets a knuckle under Steve’s chin and tilts it on up, shamelessly watching the line of Steve’s throat and the way his Adam’s apple bobs under the gentle swipe of Danny’s thumb.
“You got dirt all over you, babe,” Danny says, and Steve fucking melts into him, all tension gone with the first drag of the wet cloth over the jut of his jaw.
There’s a smudge of dirt along the side of Steve’s face that Danny takes his time with, rubbing his knuckles over the shape of Steve’s cheekbone and trying not to shake too bad. Steve is so fucking pliant, so zoned out and trusting, his hands resting gently at the back of Danny’s knees. He feels too vulnerable, and Steve is the one letting himself be touched like this.
“Close your eyes,” he murmurs, and lets out a shaky exhale when Steve just obeys.
“Don’t like the eyeliner?” Steve does ask, and Danny is so careful, edge of the cloth and not pushing too hard.
“Like it too much,” Danny admits, rueful. He’s not very good at this, doesn’t want to get soap in Steve’s eyes. Mostly he’s just smearing it around. But the mascara isn’t quite so heavy when Steve blinks his wet lashes open, and he looks a little bit more like Danny’s partner than some poor boy on the street.
It scares Danny thinking about Steve like that, Danny realizes with a jolt that makes him drop the washcloth on the table with a soggy plop and cup Steve’s face in his hands. He likes this Steve, he wants this Steve, crazy, punches-bad-guys-in-the-face Steve, drive-you-up-a-fucking-wall Steve. Steve’s hands slide up the vulnerable backs of Danny’s thighs and it’s comforting. Steve sits up straighter and his lips part like he’s reaching up for Danny to kiss him, and it’s dizzying. Steve licks his lips and Danny wants to set things on fire.
Danny has a hand clenched tight in Steve’s hair, right at the scalp, yanking him back in a tight bow over the high back of the chair before he knows he’s moving. His knee is shoved up tight between Steve’s legs, right against his cock, snug against the growing bulge of it as Steve gasps and grasps at Danny, still at the unprotected bend of his knees. He doesn’t fight him one inch, leans into every point of contact Danny has on him and moans soft and sweet when Danny does kiss him, hot, panting kisses because Steve drives Danny to absolute madness. He would never do this, Danny is a nice guy, but Steve just. He slams his fists against Danny’s buttons and Danny just has to keep him here, just a moment (minute, hour) longer and get some of his own back, lick into Steve’s mouth until he’s ruined for all other kisses.
He tastes like…salt water and island grit, smells like Steve except for this spot on his jaw that Danny didn’t get a chance to wash, where he smells like cheap cologne, where Wilson grabbed him. Danny growls even as he licks into Steve’s mouth, wants to take a sledgehammer to each of that shit heap’s fingers for the boys they couldn’t save before tonight, for touching Steve even though he’s the last person who needs saving. He might be saving Danny as they fall into each other, as Steve’s hands slide up to just under Danny’s ass and dig their black polished nails in through the thin fabric of Danny’s khakis.
Danny groans, and has to tear away just to breathe. Jesus fuck, the thought of those hands on him, the contrast of those nails and the reddened skin of—oh—Steve’s own cock as he jerks himself off, maybe works a finger into himself, two, pinked up asshole winking with black polished nails working in and out—Danny has to disentangle for a second, just to get his head on straight so he doesn’t cream all over the inside of his briefs.
Steve whines, high and cut-off, tries to drag Danny back with a sudden hand at the nape of his neck. Danny curses breathlessly, clenches his hand in Steve’s hair reflexively, and Steve instantly backs off, hands and arms gone limp at his sides like he’ll do anything Danny wants of him, even if it’s nothing at all. Danny can’t hardly breathe at the thought, so different from everything he knows about Steve, who most days seems to want nothing more than fighting Danny every inch of the way. But not here. Not blinking up at Danny with faintly-lined eyes, ridiculous punk clothes disheveled and stretched tight across his heaving chest.
“Danny,” Steve says, rough and rasping, and oh, oh this was, fuck, this was what Danny needed to hear, even before Steve says, “Danny, please, anything—“
Danny kisses him again to shut himself up, desperately swallowing back the noises he wants to make. Steve isn’t in some headspace, he isn’t playing the hooker, he said Danny’s name, and all Wilson got was an empty little “sweetheart” and a fist to the face.
“Steve,” Danny growls out in return, embarrassing because he can’t stop kissing Steve and he wants to sit in Steve’s lap and never leave, “God, you—drive me so fucking crazy, babe, I can’t—“
Steve doesn’t try swallowing his sounds this time, drags it out as he licks into Danny’s mouth and tears at Danny’s belt, no hand-eye coordination necessary. Which is good, because Danny’s is totally shot, can barely keep on his feet when Steve stops worrying his bottom lip long enough to pant out, “Let me suck you, Danny, I got this—“
Danny has to rear back all over again and shove Steve’s hands away, because if Steve touches him it’s game over. He grinds his knees sweet and slow against Steve’s erection when he does, though, just to say he isn’t going anywhere, and Steve moans shamelessly and rocks into the pressure. Danny almost can’t undo his own belt buckle, a buckle he undoes a handful of times a day on average, and now when it counts—
He shoves his khakis down the instant the belt gives and kicks them off, frustrated and hard and so focused on Steve stripping out of his shirts that he can’t really pay attention to just how ridiculously obscene his own dick looks, stretching out the fabric of his underwear and trying valiantly to peek out from the Y-front, where the fabric is already damp. Alright, it’s a lie, he notices, but only because Steve’s jaw drops open like someone just gave him a box of grenades for his birthday. Bad, bad analogy. But Steve’s thumbs dig in at Danny’s hips and yank him forward before Danny can get out of his briefs, and then Danny has to find something to hold onto.
The polka-dotted thing is gone, so when Danny grabs Steve’s shoulder he gets skin, hot flushed skin and the tangle of a black tank-top sleeve. Steve presses his face to Danny’s dick and breathes him in, too-dark lashes fluttering against Danny’s stomach where Steve has rucked up his shirt and Danny’s other hand clutches Steve’s head reflexively. Even though it isn’t polite. Even though it’s downright asshole behavior, actually, but when Danny tries to unclench his fingers Steve makes a disapproving, needy noise and pushes back into his hand.
“God, fuck,” Danny gets out, barely sane, “You’re going to kill me.”
“Not until I get your dick in my mouth,” Steve growls, and shoves Danny’s briefs down out of the way.
Danny’s legs do give out at the first touch of Steve’s slick lips around his cock, staggers back and Steve half lowers him, half bears him to the floor and climbs on top, hands on Danny’s wrists and his knees planted outside Danny’s, legs angled so his shins cross Danny’s and keep him pinned. Struggling would require actual braincells, though, of which Danny has fuck all, all of them getting sucked out through the hot clutch of Steve’s mouth, tongue pushing the head of Danny’s cock up against Steve’s soft palette and mercilessly licking just under the ridge.
Danny almost fucking whites out—it’s so good, and it’s been so long, and it’s Steve and it’s just too much, but Steve is a god damn ninja and snaps his fingers around the base of Danny’s cock and shoves the flood of his orgasm back into the swollen clench of his balls, which only try to come up tighter when Danny gets a blurry glimpse of nail polish. Jesus Christ, it should not be so hot, and maybe Danny whines that out loud because Steve chuckles and that’s a whole new level of special hell. Danny’s free hand scrambles uselessly but it feels like nothing is in reach, when it’s just he doesn’t want to grab at Steve and fuck up whatever groove he’s got going. Danny breaks his own cardinal rule and buries his fingers in his own hair, twisting and tugging and messing it up beyond all repair as Steve goes to fucking town on his dick, bobbing down deeper and deeper until the head bumps the back of Steve’s throat and Danny wants to cry it feels so good.
The view is just. God, if this never happens again, this is what every single one of Danny’s wet dreams is going to be like. Steve, painted fucking jean-clad ass high in the air, swaying like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it as all his focus is on Danny’s cock, and Danny, and making Danny beg (which Danny is not too proud to do, he just can’t remember words). Danny is feeling delirious from the lack of blood in his upstairs brain, wants a clone of himself so he can get blown by Steve and come up behind him at the same time, pet that bared patch of skin in Steve’s jeans until he writhes and grind his cock against Steve’s ass until Steve is the same shaking mess that Danny is right now.
Steve pulls off with a slurp and a hint of teeth that makes Danny jerk and try desperately to come against the grip Steve has on his cock. “God, Danny,” he says, voice utterly wrecked, and licks at the fingers Danny doesn’t remember putting near his mouth. Danny crooks his fingers and Steve follows grinning, licking and nibbling at them all the way up Danny’s body until he’s within reach of Danny’s mouth again, and then—
Then Danny’s hand smacks down on Steve’s ass, right over that god damn hole, and Steve tenses every single muscle in his body, gasps once, broken against Danny’s mouth, and jolts, shudders, eyes so wide behind the smudge of his lashes that Danny could fall right in.
“Oh,” Steve pants, “Oh, shit.”
“Did you just—“
But Steve is rolling to one side, still as close to Danny as he can get without being on top of him, his own black-nailed hand pushing down at his crotch where if his jeans were just a shade or two lighter Danny might be able to see the dark spot spreading. Steve turns a really lovely shade of pink, hiding his groaning embarrassed laugh against Danny’s shoulder.
And if Steve isn’t the death of him, then Danny’s own imagination will be. He bites his bottom lip and turns his face away, cock aching hard and neglected as he creeps a hand toward it, thinking just one good stroke—
Steve bats his hand away, might say “What are you doing?” Definitely says, “I’ve got you, Danny, I do.” And then his gun-callused fingers are wrapped tight around Danny again, working him up, up, up and over before Danny can really brace for it, and he falls to fucking pieces all over Steve’s hand, splattering up his chest and ruining his tie, which he never even got out of. Danny moans as Steve wrings everything he’s got from him, panting out of breath like he just ran a mile.
Danny turns his face toward Steve so he can breathe him in, tries to get his head back on in some way that resembles sanity. It does not help when Steve drags his fingers through the mess on Danny’s stomach, tracing patterns with his glossy black nails.
“So I’m going to ask,” Steve says after a minute.
Danny groans on principle, and thinks about a million other surfaces that are more comfortable than Steve’s floor, thinks about Liliha’s for breakfast and wondering if he can trick Steve into eating a doughnut if he tells Steve it’s got Green Tea in it, and does not think about how badly this could all turn out, how monumentally fucked they could both be by the choices they’ve made tonight.
Not to be deterred, Steve props up on one elbow and stares Danny down. The eye makeup is almost gone, now, but his hair is ten times the worse for wear, and his lips are plushed up with more than just kissing.
“Is it just the twink thing?” Steve asks, calm enough it makes Danny’s skin crawl—for the split second it takes him to see through to the panic and hope and something stronger than just affection that Steve isn’t sure Danny wants to see.
“They must’ve knocked you in the head so many times in SEAL school,” Danny says, voice trembling just a little at the edges. “No, babe. Not a twink thing.”
“Oh,” Steve says, and tries on a smile, which just grows all the bigger when Danny matches it with his own and runs gentle fingers through Steve’s hair.
“I kind of miss the grey,” Danny admits, and watches the moment Steve’s nose scrunches up before he laughs.