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The evening took the usual non sequitur path that an evening spent hanging out with Steve always seemed to take—the conversation wandering from stuffed crust pizzas, to the aerodynamic nature of ducks, to part-time jobs in college. Danny went from protesting that he really had tended bar at a place on the Jersey Shore called the Pink Porpoise, to loudly arguing that Steve clearly knew nothing about the fine art of cocktails, and somehow here the two of them were: eleven at night and indulging in a bout of competitive drink mixing.
“You see,” Danny said, pouring the Bailey’s over the back of a spoon, pleased to see that the shot layered just so, “I have such an extensive mental back catalogue of drinks with incredibly dubious names, Steven, that they make this”—he pointed at the freshly made Slippery Nipple—“seem utterly tame in comparison. I forewarn you only because I’m feeling charitable.”
“I’m not saying you know nothing, I’m just saying there are certain things that the military does better,” Steve said, but he was so clearly gathering together the ingredients for a B52 that Danny couldn’t stop himself from giggling.
“Kahlua, McGarrett? That’s your liqueur of choice?”
Steve paused with the bottle in his hand, and Danny hadn’t seen him look that affronted since the last time the Governor ixnayed the use of bazookas on the island. As an intimidation tactic, the expression would have been more successful if Steve hadn’t somehow lost his t-shirt and wound up clad only in a pair of striped board shorts with an umbrella from the last round of drinks tucked behind one ear. “What’s wrong with it? It’s alcohol and coffee, how’s that not your ideal thing?”
“Coffee flavour, Steven,” Danny scoffed, adding the essential—and if he said so, perfectly judged—splash of grenadine to a Jack Rose. “There’s about as much chance of finding actual coffee in Kahlua as there is of me waking up tomorrow to see a Black Mamo on my windowsill.”
Steve was completely still for a moment before a wide grin broke out over his face. “Danno,” he said, eyes crinkling with fondness.
“Okay, enough with the face!” Danny declared, feeling uncomfortably open—like Steve could see him far too clearly for comfort. He placed the apple garnish on the Jack Rose with a flourish and slid the glass over to Steve before downing the Slippery Nipple in one mouthful. He grimaced; gross, but effective. “I have a daughter. She learns things.”
“Uh huh,” Steve said, exchanging the bottle of Kahlua for the shot-glass. “But you’ve been listening.”
Danny hummed noncommittally, making a show of casting an eye over the wet bar as he decided what to make next. He could do a Sidecar, though he wasn’t sure if they had enough Cointreau left. “Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t.” Plausible deniability was something he’d gotten pretty good at, after all.
Steve just grinned again before taking a sip of his drink. “Huh,” he said, “not bad,” before downing the rest.
And okay, so Danny was good with the non sequitur approach to conversations, was really familiar with how things could come from out of left field when Steve McGarrett was around, but even he wasn’t quite prepared for his response to that grin. Steve had grinned at him a dozen times over the years, but there was something different this time—maybe the fact that it came at the end of a long week, or after the consumption of a probably ill-advised mix of drinks; maybe the stars were all aligned for once, or maybe Danny was just so irritated by that idiotic cocktail umbrella behind Steve’s stupid ear —that he didn’t care so much about deniability any more, let alone the plausible kind.
He knocked back one last drink, then walked over to Steve, tugged him down by the nape of the neck, and kissed him. At first, Steve startled, but then he groaned and shuddered and opened his mouth to Danny, and within two kisses they were upstairs, and naked, in Steve’s bed. Danny wasn’t entirely sure how they’d gone from a spur-of-the-moment kiss to rumpling up the too-neat sheets on Steve’s bed, but say what you would about Steve’s scary intense ability to focus—there were times, Danny had to admit, when it was more of an asset than a liability.
He said as much, propped up on his elbows in order to better watch as Steve finger-fucked him, which just made Steve snicker and very deliberately crook his fingers. Danny swore, back arching and toes curling, and Steve said, “You’ve seen nothing yet, babe.”
“Oh?” Danny panted, trying to sound nonchalant even though it was taking everything he had not to come right then and there. Steve’s fingers were big, stretching him more than Danny had been used to in quite some time, and his thumb rubbed circles into the soft, tender skin behind Danny’s balls. Danny couldn’t stop his hips from moving in restless little thrusts, had to flatten his palms against the mattress to stop himself from jerking off. He wanted this to last—wanted it to be memorable, if this was the only chance he got. “What haven’t I seen?”
“Well,” Steve said before leaning in and—the bastard—deliberately scissoring his fingers so that Danny’s hard cock twitched and leaked against his belly. “Stamina,” he said, and kissed Danny with a mouth that was still sticky-sweet. “Ruthlessness.” He nipped at Danny’s bottom lip and stretched his fingers wider, making Danny pant and groan. “Confidence...” He trailed tiny bites over Danny’s neck and across his chest. “And the ability to make snap decisions.”
“Jesus fuck!” Danny’s arms wobbled, unable to hold him up anymore, and he collapsed back onto the bed. “Are you quoting from a goddamn manual now?”
“Maybe,” Steve murmured against Danny’s stomach, rubbing it with his cheek so that the muscles there jumped and his stubble scraped against Danny’s dick in a way that shouldn’t be that hot. “We have a lot of those in the Navy."
Danny stared wide-eyed at the ceiling, at the hairline cracks that shivered their way across the plaster. He could relate. “What?” he said, reaching up with one hand and running his fingers through the short, soft strands of Steve’s hair. “You’re telling me that the SEALs have a gay sex manual? Wham, bam, thank you sir?”
Steve snickered. “Don’t ask, d—”
“Nuh uh,” Danny said, tugging gently on Steve’s hair and getting an intriguing little gasp in return. “No, rule number one: no puns in bed.”
“Strictly speaking, I don’t think that was a pun.”
“Uh huh,” Danny said, “sure, well, we could lie here all evening discussing rhetorical terms. Or, just a suggestion, you could actually finish what you started here and blow me.”
“There’s a thought.” Steve made a show of thinking it over, turning his head so that his lips were almost, but not quite, pressed against Danny’s cock. His breath was hot against the tender skin there; Danny shivered. “You want me to do that, Danno?” He pulled his fingers out of Danny as he spoke and then slowly, slowly, pushed all three back in: slow enough that Danny couldn’t decide if the anticipation or the stretch were better.
“Uh...” Danny groaned, bearing down, desperately chasing more pressure even as Steve pulled his hand away. “Come on, that, you terrible tease, I— That, I want that! Oh, god...”
Steve grinned up at him and then in one swift movement bowed his head and took Danny into his mouth, shifting so that he could take more of Danny in, moaning as though he was really getting off on it. Danny moved his hand from Steve’s hair to cup the nape of his neck, gently stroking the soft skin there, rubbing the hairs against the grain, and Steve responded by pressing his fingers in further, as far as they would go.
Jesus. Danny had always imagined that it would be good between them, in too many guilty sessions during his morning shower, or idle thoughts on the occasional quiet afternoon that came Five-0’s way. But no matter how vivid his imagination had been, he’d never pictured this. He let his eyes slide shut and gave into the moment, planted his feet, felt his shoulder blades press into the mattress as he arched his back, working to ground himself even as he felt his orgasm building. He was helpless to do anything else, couldn’t do anything else, not with Steve’s mouth hot around him and Steve’s fingers moving steadily inside him. Danny was caught in the push-pull of sensation, the sounds Steve made, low greedy noises that were driving Danny crazy.
He sort of wanted someone to invent time travel just so he could go back in time, smack the him of six or seven months ago upside the head—he’d been aware at least that far back that he wanted Steve, had worked it out over a long span of late nights and ruminative, solitary beers. He’d known, he’d known he wanted to kiss Steve, wanted to wake up with him and fuck him and shit, even share utility bills, and he’d still been too chicken, backed away over and over again. Danny could have had this for months and yet he knew that even tonight he still wouldn’t have done anything, if that familiar heady mix of lust and irritation hadn’t been all mixed up with a healthy splash of alcohol.
But Danny’s irritation with himself, strong as it was, was still over-powered by everything Steve was doing with his tongue, the hot focus of him, and soon Danny was coming with a long, drawn-out, sex-addled groan. He felt Steve come not long after, the jerk of his hips against the mattress setting the whole bed to shaking, and Danny hadn’t felt that sated, that bone-deep satisfied, in a very long time.
Steve gently worked his fingers free, then wiped his fingers on the edge of the sheets before heaving himself over Danny’s supine body to lie on the other side of the bed, on the narrow strip of bedding that wasn’t ruined with come or sweat. Danny twitched, letting out a heartfelt groan at how even the glancing brush of Steve’s skin against his could feel so good, his limbs relaxing until he was star-fished out across the middle of the bed. He knew that he had to look ridiculous, legs akimbo like that and his skin flushed and blotchy from Steve’s stubble, but when he felt that good it was difficult to care.
Steve propped himself up on one elbow and Danny grinned up at him. “It was my Slippery Nipples, right?” he said, feeling smug because that was one goofy grin on Steve’s face right there, and Danny was going to take the credit for putting it there.
“Sorry?” Steve said, but even though his brow furrowed and he was obviously trying for his best hard-ass Navy guy voice, his smile didn’t waver. Yeah, Danny was justifiably smug.
“You couldn’t resist them,” Danny said, deliberately stretching and spreading his arms wide, smirking when he saw how the motion drew Steve’s gaze to his chest. “I offer to make you one, and an hour later...” He snapped his fingers. “Boom.”
“Boom,” Steve repeated, deadpan, dragging his gaze up to meet Danny’s. “Is that what you’re calling it?”
“Well, I know how fond you are of explode-y things,” Danny joked, somehow managing to find enough energy to mime lobbing a grenade in the general direction of Steve’s laundry hamper.
“You know, it wasn’t the alcohol,” Steve denied, because apparently they were back in non sequitur city, then he leaned forward and sucked Danny’s nipple right into his mouth. Said body part was apparently hard-wired to Danny’s dick, because as fucked out as he felt, it still twitched; twitched again when Steve sucked harder, more, taking his time and playing with Danny’s nipple until it hardened to a peak. Then he pulled off slowly, scraping his teeth against the skin and grinning at Danny’s gasp.
“Christ, McGarrett! You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you? Deader than one of those Mamo birds, oh my god.” Danny knew he was babbling, but it was difficult to stop, hard to do anything but throw his head back and clutch at Steve’s shoulders. Steve could always get Danny’s pulse rising, right from the very first time they met, but never quite like this.
“Not gonna kill you, Danno,” Steve murmured. He placed a gentle kiss on Danny’s chest, right over the scar Danny’d picked up on a case back in Jersey. “Too many things I want to do to you.”
“See, this, this is how screwed I am,” Danny managed, fingers digging into the bright skin of Steve’s shoulders, nails scraping at the tattoos, “that I honestly don’t care that I probably should be worried at the implications of a statement like that.”
Steve stilled, his hand now a heavy weight against Danny’s chest. He stared down at the rumpled sheets as intently as if they contained the secrets of the universe. “I meant it, Danny. You get that, right? But I know I’m not the best catch and you’d prefer if... don’t ever want to put you—”
“Hey!” Danny smacked him upside the head, just sharply enough to have Steve look up at him with startled eyes. “No, you don’t get to give me that face, Steven, so you can quit that right now. Enough with the martyr crap. I’m a big boy, I wasn’t that drunk when I kissed you”—he started ticking things off on his fingers—“and I tend to believe that in vino veritas—”
Steve wrinkled his nose. “Are you quoting Latin at me in bed?”
“I am! And wait for it, here’s some more: ergo, in light of all these things and the fact that I’m capable of assessing risk my own damn self, if I hadn’t wanted you to blow me I would have said so. That was a joke, Steve, not me freaking out about—" he waved a hand between them, “—this!”
“Yeah, but we work together,” Steve said, "and I'm, you know..." He waggled his hand, as if that gesture could fully encompass three years of Danny following Steve across what felt like half the Pacific Rim chasing kooks and terrorists and every shade of asshole in between.
“A one-man demolition squad with goofball tendencies? Shockingly, I’m aware of this and yet,” Danny lifted up both arms, “here I am and oh, look! No restraints! I think this means I’m here by choice and I’m not going to let you chase me away out of some misguided sense of—” Danny tried to raise his eyebrows and roll his eyes at the same time, which felt like it strained something vital. “Oh my god, is this—are you trying to be chivalrous?”
“What? No!” Steve’s denial was emphatic, but a little undercut by the way his face turned a bright, embarrassed red. Danny watched in fascination. How on earth did Steve think that was going to work, this sudden about-face when less than half an hour ago he’d had his fingers up Danny’s ass.
“It is! It so is,” he snickered gleefully, before reaching out and manhandling Steve so that he was snugged up against Danny’s chest. “C’mon, c’mere you ridiculous person, you. What I’m supposed to do with you, I have no idea.”
“I’m not a ridiculous person,” Steve said, but he could maybe have made his case more decisively if he wasn’t flailing his arms a little when he said it.
"You absolutely are," Danny said, wrapping his arms around Steve. "Sir Steven of Piikoi Street riding off to save the day and never realising that hey, what's this, this horse he's on? Totally a high horse."
"Well, it'd have to be, my legs are—"
"No deliberate obtuseness, McGarrett! You know exactly the metaphorical nature of the horse, and you know what I'm trying to communicate, here."
"Aren't you supposed to fall asleep after sex?" Steve interrupted, sounding pissy, and Danny repressed a grin, because if Steve was back to pissy that meant there was a good chance that things were going to be okay: that Danny could have this night and it wasn’t going to ruin everything.
"Well, that would be nice but, as I may have mentioned earlier, I have a daugh-ter." Danny sounded the word out with what, even to him, sounded like a very unconvincing imitation of patience. "Sleep deprivation is a given. One must take one's entertainment where one can."
"Wait, are you saying you and Rachel—you know—while Gracie was in the house?"
If Danny rolled his eyes that hard again, he was definitely going to sprain something. He knew that Steve didn’t hang around with a lot of people who had young kids, but jeez. “Steven. Rach and I didn’t separate until Gracie was five. Do you think I’m a monk? Of course we had sex while she was in the house—while she was sleeping in the house, you animal.”
“Huh.” Steve was clearly processing that—Danny could practically see the hamster working overtime, turning that little wheel inside his skull. “Actually, this could come in really useful when we’re working a case.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know, we could...” Steve shrugged his shoulders “... and stuff if we needed an energy boost or something, then get right back to work.”
“What,” Danny said flatly.
“There’s a couch in my office,” Steve pointed out with what he clearly thought was an aura of helpfulness.
“Weren’t you the guy saying you weren’t sure how this would affect us working together, approximately 2.5 seconds ago?”
"Well, that was before I knew about your super-power." Steve said, matter-of-fact, pushing up to plant one right on Danny's mouth. "The sleep-deprivation-busting one."
"Ohhhh?" Danny drawled, but Steve’s mouth was tantalising, and it was right there, and Steve wasn’t trying that hard to get away, actually. In fact he pretty much let Danny catch him.
They exchanged lazy kisses for a few minutes and then Danny pulled back, wanting certainty, wanting to be sure. "So. You're not objecting, then?" He could hear the anxiety in his own voice, faint enough that maybe Steve could pick up on it and maybe not—because this was big, what they were maybe-sort-of-fumbling around. Something flipped in the pit of Danny’s stomach, because he knew what he wanted, and now that he’d worked up the courage to go after it, somehow that made it all matter more.
Steve just looked at him, brow furrowed the way it always was when he had his mind set on a plan and couldn’t figure out why Danny was objecting to it—when he’d decided on jumping out of a plane or taking a corner on two wheels in the Camaro, something stupid and terrifying that always somehow worked out just fine, because this was Steve. This was Steve and Danny, together.
And then Steve grinned, and said softly, “Not objecting”, and Danny didn’t kiss Steve only because Steve kissed him first.