"Oh jeez," Danny said. All he'd asked was for Steve to give him a hand carrying the last of his boxes into the house—he should have known that Steve would have heard that as 'please consider this carte blanche to poke through my personal belongings.' He closed the door behind him and set the box containing a motley assortment of underwear and paperback novels down on the coffee table. "Was that really necessary, Steven?"
Steve looked up at him from where he was sitting cross-legged on the floor. His grin was one that Danny generally associated with minor explosions and medium-scale diplomatic incidents. "You never told me you had all these photo albums."
Danny rolled his eyes. "I didn't realize that full disclosure of all personal assets was required before we moved in together. You want an itemized list? An exact count of the number of dessert forks I have, huh?"
"You don't have any dessert forks," Steve said, matter-of-fact, and if ever there was a man who could miss the point in favor of the completely irrelevant detail, it was Steven J. McGarrett. "You have, on the other hand, had some really interesting adventures."
Danny sat down beside him on the floor, ignoring the faint creak of protest that his bum knee gave in favor of bolstering it against Steve's warmth. "Which one did you... oh man." Steve had some sort of sixth sense for knowing exactly what would wind Danny up most—he'd put the album of Grace's baby photos to one side, ignored the ones of assorted cousins' weddings and bar mitzvahs and first communions, and settled on a battered red volume which contained all the evidence of Danny's junior year abroad.
"I had no idea such a sophisticated guy was moving in with me," Steve said, turning the page to show a much younger Danny—and ugh, just because he could grow a moustache didn't mean he ever should have—and Dave downing tequila shots in a dive bar in Amsterdam. Their clothing choices could best be described as 'ill-advised', and the less said about their headgear, the better. "Look at all this European culture you're absorbing here. If by culture you mean alcohol."
"I was twenty, okay?" Danny said, trying to snatch the album out of Steve's hands and failing. Stupid bastard with his pointy elbows. "Everyone does stupid shit when they're twenty, and I just happened to do my share while earning some college credit."
"Uh huh," Steve said deadpan, flipping to the next page—the four of them in London, standing outside Buckingham Palace, arms raised in triumph. Somehow, somewhere, they'd found a replica bearskin hat for Danny. It was almost as tall as he was.
"Would you believe me if I said that it looks bad," Danny said weakly, "but our conversation at the time was entirely about, uh, history? The long and sometimes troubled history of the relationship between our two great nations—"
"You got drunk and chanted 'USA! USA!', didn't you?" Steve said.
"Uh." Danny was pretty sure that they'd been loudly discussing the enormous size of George Washington's balls, and how much of a badass Abigail Adams was. "Sure."
"What's next," Steve said, flipping forward through the album, "you dressed as a mime in Paris?"
Danny shook his head, leaning a little more heavily against Steve's side. He'd been up since early morning, hauling the last of the stuff out of his apartment and into the truck, and between that and a long week at work, he was tired. "Actually, Mike got food poisoning the day before we were supposed to go to France, and by the time he was better it was near the end of the semester and we had work to catch up on. Never got to go."
"I'm very sad that you never got to broaden your mind by wearing a beret," Steve said solemnly, "and getting lost in the Marais trying to find the Louvre."
"You mock, my friend," Danny said, leafing through the rest of the album: him and the guys recreating the album cover for 'Abbey Road'; a shot of a canal in Amsterdam, taken from the window of the youth hostel they'd stayed at; him grinning, mimicking the pose of one of the Elgin Marbles inside the British Museum. "You mock, but you're not telling me that you'd have done any better in Paris when you were a kid, huh."
Steve looked at him, and cocked an eyebrow, and then said something rapid-fire in French that, to Danny's uncomprehending ears, had no trace of an American drawl.
"What," Danny said, "the hell."
"High school French," Steve said, and shrugged. "Mostly."
"Well, the rest's classified."
"What the hell sort of classified activity can a Navy SEAL get up to in Paris?" Danny said, squinting at him.
"I can't tell you," Steve said, the look on his face saying that he was highly aware of the fact that he was being a smug jackass, and that he was enjoying it. "That's what classified means, Danno."
Danny's life being what it was, Steve's expression was one that he found stupidly, irritatingly hot, so he pretended to think for a moment. "Well," he said, shifting so that he was kneeling and then swinging one leg over Steve's so that he was straddling him, "maybe if you said it in French, you could tell me some of what you got up to. I mean, not like I could understand any of it. Though"—he shifted deliberately, moved his hips so that his ass brushed against Steve's cock through two layers of denim—"possibility for bonus points if I pick up a thing or two a long the way."
Steve's eyes darkened; his hands came up to clutch at Danny's hips, holding him in place. "Bonus points, huh? What do I get out of this?"
"Well, you're not the only sophisticated one here, babe," Danny said, leaning in so that he was able to feel Steve's breath warm against his cheek. "You might be able to speak French, but I can do something French with my tongue that's an international language." He pulled back enough that Steve could see him waggling his eyebrows.
"That," Steve said solemnly, "is probably the worst come on line I've ever heard."
Danny rolled his eyes. Like that was the most important thing here. "But did it work?"
"Hell yes," Steve said. "Come here." Steve's kiss was slow and focused and intent, his lips slick and soft, and when he wrapped his arms around Danny, pressing the two of them together, Danny could feel each little hitch in his breathing that signalled more.
When they finally pull apart, Steve brushed a stray stand of hair out of Danny's face and said, softly, "Language of love, right?"
"French?" Danny asked, feeling something still-fragile turn over in his chest. They'd said the words, sure, they were moving in together, he'd even told Grace about the two of them, but there was some uncertain, greedy little part of Danny that wanted to hear those words as much as possible—to horde them against all chance of loss. "Or..."
And this time, when Steve whispered in his ear, Danny didn't have to speak French to know what he meant.