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Thirty-Six Hours and Fifteen Minutes

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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.


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.


“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.


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.


“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."