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And I drew a line for you

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Danny is exhausted, bone-deep tired. His limbs feel like lead, his head crowded with too many thoughts, too much to make any sense. He wants to lay down and sleep for a year or so, just curl up and zone out. He finishes his paperwork by sheer muscle memory, pounding out case summaries that get the nod from Chin, all Danny needs before he's gone, dropping into the front seat of the Camaro like it's a godsend. And it is, the best goddamn thing he's felt all day. His car, warm from the sun, and Danny could sit here all day. He could fall asleep here.

He's only closed his eyes when there's a light tap at the window, light and still too loud. He knows it's Steve before he even opens his eyes, is not surprised when he's right. Steve's grinning dopily down at him, and Danny is tempted, so tempted to ignore him because Steve means trouble and Danny is taking the next two days and sleeping.

"Danno," Steve says, and it's muffled because Danny hasn't rolled the window down, doesn't want to. He mumbles back a slurred, "McGarrett," and can't even find enough energy within himself to tell Steve exactly why he refuses to let him into his car.

Instead, he pops the locks and only grumbles a little as Steve climbs in.

"What d'you want?" Danny says, fingers twitching against the steering wheel. He should have left when he had the chance; he's going to kill Steve if there's some sort of emergency, some new case. Only Steve just shrugs and shifts, making himself comfortable in the passenger seat. Finally, he says, "Chin took my truck," and buckles himself in like it's that simple.

Danny looks at him for a long moment, searching his face for something he's not sure of, and after a bit Steve's mouth curves into a lopsided grin, easy and fond.

"Come on, Danno," he says, voice quiet, and Danny nods, mostly to himself, and starts the car.

He doesn't remember much of the drive after, doesn't remember turning left at Steve's street or right into his driveway, but he must have done it all because suddenly they're sitting in Steve's driveway and Steve's saying, "Come on in, you look like shit, you shouldn't be driving." And Danny snorts, but he's tired and he doesn't have a good record for denying Steve even when he's not.

Which is how he ends up on Steve's couch, one beer away from buzzed and sleep deprivation creeping up on him. The rest: the press of Steve's thighs against his, Steve's dick lined up with his, and his own desperate panting are a little harder to trace back.

"Danny, fuck," Steve says, and Danny spreads his legs, tilts his hips up into Steve, and presses his fingers harder into the bare skin at Steve's sides. It's all too much and not enough in the same moment. The feel of Steve perfect, their dicks sliding together through four layers of clothes, while Danny struggles to find enough friction, enough air to breathe. He shifts and magically everything lines up better than before, perfect, and Danny grits his teeth against the moan in his chest, can't stop the way his body shakes and arches up into Steve.

Their rhythm is sort of fucked to shit, Steve braced on the arm of the couch and Danny having trouble finding any sort of true leverage, but it feels too good to move, find a bed or even the floor.

"Danny, Danno," Steve says again and Danny forces his eyes open, forces himself to look up at Steve, his head dropped forward and the neck of his shirt stretched too far. He looks gorgeous, flushed and turned on, too much for Danny to handle. Still, Danny doesn't notice when his eyes slide shut again, when he pushes one hand up the back of Steve's shirt to feel the stretch and slide of muscle there. Steve presses into the touch and then he's moving, bracing himself lower and changing the angle, and Danny opens his mouth over a long moan, rasps out a rough, "Fucking-- McGarrett," and comes in two jerky thrusts.

It doesn't take much longer for Steve to come, a few desperate thrusts of his hips, pressing deep into Danny as if they were naked instead of still wearing clothes more than fourteen hours old. Steve is quiet when he comes and it surprises Danny every time the way he goes still, eyes shut and mouth tumbled open. He always makes the same soft snuffling noises when he comes down. He's smothering Danny a little, with his warmth and his weight, and he just presses his forehead against Danny's shoulder.

He's running his fingers slowly over the skin of Steve's back, drawing absent designs, when Danny starts to really feel the mess in his slacks, the too heavy weight of Steve on top of him. He says, "Come on, McGarrett," and it's a struggle to find the energy needed to move Steve. He's about to fall asleep, can feel it like a tug on his limbs, and as tired as Danny is, sleeping on the couch with Steve pressing him further and further into it does not sound like a pleasant way to spend a night.

"Goddamn SEAL, take up half the goddamn couch and me, can't even breathe," Danny grumbles, and finally Steve shifts off of him, rubbing roughly at his face. He says, "Goddamn," like a breath and Danny can't help the way he twists back into Steve, awkward, to press their mouths together.

It's not a great kiss, not as kisses go, but Danny feels something like home settle around him as he breathes in Steve's air, closes his eyes and presses his forehead to Steve's temple.

They're all tangled up on the couch, too many clothes and far too many limbs, but Danny doesn't move for a while. Finally, Steve says, "Come on, kid. Bed," and pushes Danny off the couch and up the stairs, all the way into his bed. The whole time, Danny's grumbling, "Who you calling kid, kid? I think if anyone is the kid in this relationship, it is not me." He's tired and irritable and not making any sense and Steve just grins and undresses him, pushing him down onto clean, cool sheets when he's done.

Danny is nearly asleep when Steve slips in beside him, pressing one hand to Danny's side, and saying, quietly, "Night, Danno."