Seeing as how Danny is a detective and all, it doesn't take him so long to notice that after that evening on Tony's boat—the three of them feasting on pizza that's exactly as greasy as it should be—Steve takes to walking around barefoot when they're at home. He pads up and down the stairs even more silently than usual; wriggles his toes against the wood floor while he's dumping their grime-stained work clothes into the washing machine. For Danny, matching socks and a nicely polished pair of shoes, those are some of the hallmarks of a civilised individual, but Steve going barefoot gets to be a regular thing.
Danny lives with a Navy SEAL Neanderthal, okay, so this is far from the strangest habit he's had to accommodate. At the very least, no high explosives are involved, no one gets shot or wrongfully incarcerated, which is always a bonus; and hey, it actually gets to be sort of soothing. Evenings when they're not out chasing down bad guys or sitting with stoic paternal pride through one of Gracie's school talent shows, they sometimes end up piled together on the couch watching a football game or yet another repeat of Die Hard. And those evenings, nine times out of ten, Steve's bare feet will end up in Danny's lap and Danny will find himself massaging them.
Steve's feet are long and narrow and strong, with hairy toes and a wicked scar that runs across the arch of his right foot. He squirms when Danny ghosts his fingertips against the soft skin of his instep; never fails to groan pleasingly when Danny digs his thumbs into the balls of Steve's feet. Danny would joke about the perils of wearing big dumb combat boots most days, about the sinew-strong tension that comes from chasing perps over uneven ground and leaping off tall buildings, but these are the things he finds he can't joke about anymore, not where Steve's concerned. Steve means too much to him; their lives demand too much from them; and times like this, when Steve's barefoot and close, those are the times when Danny's most sure that Steve's not going anywhere. And hey, Danny's only human, and the noises Steve makes during a massage are very, you know... Steve. By which Danny means weird and heartfelt and bafflingly hot.
All of which is sort of a roundabout way of saying that Danny's been known to, you know, get a little bit of a hard-on going just from doing this: just from sitting there with Steve warm and solid beside him, with his hands working those low noises out from somewhere deep in Steve's throat. And Steve—because he's an asshole; because he has a sixth sense for the times when it's both wildly inappropriate and incredibly hot to, say, grin and tug his partner into a store room and make out with him when they should be doing paperwork; because Danny's careworn heart is still capable of being goofy for him—Steve will flex his foot and gently press it against Danny's cock through his pants.
Times like this, neither of them say anything. Steve keeps watching whatever's on TV. Danny keeps his hand on Steve's foot and it's so slow, so slow and so good—the warmth of Steve's body leaching through the fabric of Danny's pants, the slow determination of his movements—while they're sitting right there on the couch, watching the evening news with the curtains open.
Sometimes they take it further, turning quick and hungry to one another; kissing and kissing and peeling off their clothes while Danny presses Steve into the couch, works him open with impatient fingers. Once or twice though, they stay like this: Danny's mouth opening on a silent gasp as he comes in his boxers, hips bucking upwards, Steve's foot a delicious pressure holding him right there...
And hey, so maybe Danny's picked up a new kink or three in the past few months—so who cares? When he turns to look at Steve, sees the way Steve beams at him with uncomplicated, heartfelt happiness, it's not hard to recognise that Danny's got a good thing going here—hard not to feel stupidly grateful for it, because when Steve leans in to kiss him, he thinks it's good, better, best.