by Jane Davitt

Seeing Danny in a bar is no big deal. It's Saturday night, after all, and they've had a week of chasing their tails -- more exhausting than dangerous, but it's left Steve uneasy, edgy, looking for something to do. The guy's entitled to sink a few and take the taste of futility away. Even if Danny had brushed off Steve's invitation to go out for something to eat earlier that day, claiming that he had a big night planned of doing nothing. He's entitled to change his mind and although this place isn't anywhere they've ever gone together, kind of out of the way, really, Steve thinks that he remembers Danny mentioning it once. Maybe that's why when he drove by something made him pull over and decide to check it out.

Steve's about to thread his way through the crowd to join Danny when he sees that Danny's with someone.

A man, so not a date, but Steve still hesitates, a rock in the sea of drinkers, getting jostling by elbows and over-stuffed purses slung over tanned shoulders. Could be a friend. Danny's been here long enough to make some, Steve knows that. Or a neighbor or a long-lost cousin on a visit. People who live in tropical paradises tend to have a lot of family from the mainland looking for a free place to crash.

He dismisses the third option. Danny would've said something if he was expecting company and really, where was he going to put them?

Just as he's walking forward again, still watching, all his attention focused on the blond hair, the wide shoulders of his partner, the man Danny's with turns and stands, heading for the men's room.

Steve's breath catches in his throat like a strand of hair. The man's young, early twenties maybe, his dark brown hair glossy, his body lithe, graceful. Even from here, with the room pleasantly dim, Steve can see that the guy's a looker, angled brown eyes, high cheekbones, tight ass.

His brain obligingly spits out a few more possibilities: an informant, a random encounter at the bar, a --

Steve isn't listening to himself. As the man stood, Danny had reached out and patted his ass, a crooked, blurred smile on his face. His hand had slipped, making the pat a grope, a caress, but the guy had just turned back and winked, flirtatious, winsome. It's as fake as the faux-diamond stud in his ear and Steve watches, helplessly, frozen in place again, as the man collects smiles on his way to the door in the back wall, his body swaying in an open invitation to look and admire.

Jesus, Danny's with a hooker.

Shock is followed by anger, hot, dark and sour, the kind that he associates with a gun in his hand or blood on his knuckles. He's got a violent side. He's got a possessive side. The two have never merged before, but unless he gets himself under control, that's going to change.

He's walking to the men's room, making sure that Danny can't see him, before he has time to do more than take a few quick breaths that do nothing to turn the heat of his anger down to a warm glow.

Danny's hand on another guy's ass. Danny paying for sex, his mouth on grubby skin, smudged by a dozen hands, getting his dick sucked and coming in a stranger's mouth… Steve swallows as if he can taste latex and rubs his hand over his mouth.

The men's room is occupied; the hooker and two other guys, one zipping up, the other drying his hands. They glance up, see Steve, and leave, self-preservation overriding hygiene in one case. Steve kicks the door closed behind him and locks it by leaning back against it.

Alarm followed by a dull resignation flicker across the hooker's face. He's mid-twenties, maybe, old enough to have had all the sweetness scoured off him, old enough for it to have been replaced with a superficial glitter of appeal.

Steve eyes him and says coldly, "How much?"

"I don't know what you --"

Steve leaves the door and has the guy up against the closest wall a heartbeat later, his hands tight in a cheap shirt pretending to be silk. "How much do you make in a night? Don't make me ask again."

The guy caves as easily as a cracked eggshell. "I don't know. Four hundred? But I'm independent, okay? I just do this now and then when I need the money."

Steve can guess what he needs it for but he isn't interested in anything but making sure that none of Danny's money or bodily fluids end up in or on the man's hands.

"I'll give you two if you get the hell out of this bar."

"You want us to go some -- hey! That hurts, man."

Steve shakes his head and moves his hand back to holding fabric not skin. "I don't want us to do anything. I just want you out of here."

"I'll go, I'm gone," he promises. "Just got one john to take care of and then --"

"You are so fucking stupid," Steve says tiredly. "That just cost you another fifty."

"What? Oh!" Speculation replaces apprehension. "Got your eye on him? Not sure you're his type, if you know what I mean."

"No, I don't know what you mean," Steve says. "You're down to a hundred."

"Yeah?" The man shakes free of Steve's loosened grip. "What makes you think I'll pass up on three hundred from him for a hundred from you?"

"Three --" Steve's eyes widen. "What the hell is he paying you to -- no, don't tell me. Listen, he's --" He hesitates. He can't tell this idiot that Danny's a cop. "He's my sister's boyfriend," he compromises. "He's a worthless piece of shit, but she's pregnant and I guess that makes him family."

Dark eyebrows rise, an amused smile lighting up the guy's face, the first natural expression Steve's seen it wear. "Tell her to look for someone else. That guy's not the marrying kind. Trust me."

"Yeah, that's going to happen real soon." Steve breathes in and tries to think of a way to deal with the situation. He's stood next to ticking bombs and felt calmer. "Look, I'm trying to be nice about this --"

"Try harder," the man tells him. "You really need the practice."

"Okay, that's it, you asshole --"

With a timing precise enough that somewhere in the back of his head Steve hears the silence before the boom, Danny walks in, stumble-drunk, a frown on his face.

"Joe? Did you fall in or --"

He sees Steve and the words dry on his lips. Steve shakes his head, unable to deal with this, any of it. The lurch of lust he always feels when he sees Danny these days is a twist of sickness in his gut right now. Finding out that Danny digs dicks after weeks of wondering isn't worth this much misery. "You know what, forget it. I hope the two of you have a really happy ten minutes with each other." He stabs his finger into Danny's chest on the way past. "You and me, we're talking about this when you sober up. Even if he sucks your brains out through your dick, hold that thought, okay?"

He's halfway back to his car, striding along the sidewalk with a look on his face that has to be scary -- it feels scary wearing it -- when Danny slams into him, making Steve stumble and stagger and -- almost -- fall against the wall of a store selling tourist crap. He steadies himself, his palm scraping along brick, and breathes in the night air, thickly humid, fragrant with the smells of the city and the distant beat of the ocean. Everything's sharp and painful, outlined in red and redder.

"You arrogant son of a bitch." Danny doesn't sound drunk now, but coldly furious. "What the hell did you think you were doing back there, huh?"

Steve straightens and turns. "Excuse me? What was I doing? I wasn't the one with his hands all over some hooker's ass out in public."

"No," Danny says, bitter and smug, a man who knows he's holding every ace in the fucking pack. "You were the one screwing up an operation that took HPD Vice three months to put in place. Joe's a cop, not a hooker, you stupid -- He's a cop. I saw him in the bar and he recognized me, and started to flirt to get the chance to talk to me. He was being followed. He needed someone to play the part of a john and let him leave without any hassle. I was going to take him to a motel, book us a room, let him slip out the back."

Steve laughs full in his face. "You have got to be fucking kidding me. That's it? That's the best you can do? Danny, I'm new to being a cop, but I know a hooker when I see one and the only cover that guy's been under is a dirty sheet."

Danny's expression wavers, as if he hadn't expected his story, lame enough to be on all fours crawling, to be challenged. He opens his mouth but Steve's heard enough lies. He wants the truth, and he wants to be the one Danny's hot enough for that he'll lie, shame himself, to get.

There's a space, barely wide enough for a person, running beside the store and he drags Danny inside it, far enough into it that the shadows hide them, then presses Danny against the wall and himself against Danny. The shocked look in Danny's eyes might be lost in the dark, but he can feel the way Danny's body, all that solid, hot strength, tenses and goes still when Steve runs his hand past the roughness of Danny's jaw into that ridiculous styled hair, his fingers twisting a handful of strands in a way that he knows has got to hurt.

"Tell me what he was," he says into Danny's ear, soft and quiet. "Tell me what you were paying him to do. Then tell me why you didn't just fucking ask me to give it to you."

Danny's breathing like a runner at the end of a race, and this close -- Jesus, Steve's plastered to him, his leg between Danny's, his cock, ahead of his brain, already swollen full and hard, blind and stupid-cunning, riding any bit of Danny it can as Danny squirms, trying to get free.

Or maybe he's just trying to drive Steve out of his fucking mind, picturing how this would feel if they were naked and horizontal.

"Give -- you wouldn't give me --" Danny shakes his head. "No. This isn't happening. What the fuck are you doing, McGarrett?"

"He said you were paying him three hundred," Steve says and God, he wants to punch something just thinking about the rustle of bills exchanging hands, being slid into a pocket. Danny paying for something Steve would've gone on his fucking knees to give him -- "If it wasn't sex, was it drugs?"

He hopes not. God, he really hopes not.

"What? Are you kidding me? No!" The outrage is genuine and Danny pushes him away so that Steve's the one with the wall at his back. "Sex. I was paying him to blow me, okay? Just that. Nothing kinky, nothing risky, just that."

It sounds pretty damn risky to Steve. "Three hundred for a blow job? You were being overcharged."

It's the best he can come up with but it does get him a response that sounds more like the Danny he's used to, a derisive snort followed by, "Don't assume I'm only good for one round. I'd have gotten my money's worth." A pause, and Danny adds ruefully, "It's been so long since I did this, the first time wouldn't have lasted long."

Steve can't help touching him again, more gently this time, repeating his gesture but making it a caress, not an assault, his hand falling back to his side a moment later. Touching Danny is addictive, he's discovering. No. He's always known that, from their first fight, when the need to make Danny submit, stop fighting had been like a drumbeat in his ears, loud, imperative, but the rush of the struggle had made even the punch he'd gotten well worth it."So why now? Why him? Jesus, Danny, I didn't even know you wanted it, any of it."

"Yeah, well, it's not something I go around talking about. I don't -- guys aren't -- sometimes, it just happens. Not often. It's been years since the last time." Danny exhales and the anger's back, Steve can taste it, acrid on his lips, the way they'd taste after -- if he'd been the one to -- "Sorry, am I fucking with your perception of me? Confusing your worldview? A tough cop from New Jersey shouldn't like guys? You're so goddamned black and white, you know that?"

"Hey!" Steve's stung, angry himself. "Don't judge me. Don't assume you know what I'm thinking. I'm pissed, yeah, but it's because you did something stupid, not because of -- not because you're gay. Bi. Whatever. That's not important. You can't go with hookers, Danny. Not when you're Five-0. Do I need to tell you why it's a bad idea? You want I should follow it up by telling how to look both ways before you cross the road?"

"Save the sarcasm," Danny snaps. "It was stupid. I was stupid. I won't do it again."

"No," Steve says evenly. "You won't."

"Jesus, what are you, my mother?" It's still dark, but Steve's eyes are adjusting and he can see Danny now, the details lost, but the general impression clear enough. What his eyes can't tell him, his memory supplies.

Danny's looking suspicious, his detective face on. He's working out what's going on here, the alcohol slowing him down, maybe, but not that much, not enough, not when Steve dragged him in here, pushed up against him, stroked his hair.

Danny would have to be dead-drunk or maybe just dead to miss that bread trail of clues.

"You're jealous," Danny says slowly. "Not pissed at what I did but who I did it with."

Steve doesn't reply. His silence does it for him.

"Jesus," Danny says and he's smiling now, leaning back, relaxed and smug. It's infuriating. "You really do want me. I thought you were just screwing with me, but you do. Huh."

Steve slams his hands against the wall, bracketing Danny's head, and leans in close. "Maybe not so much now I know how low your standards are."

Danny's smile goes away. "He was better-looking than you," he says, his chin jerking up. "And I don't think he'd have taken this long to get down to business. You owe me. I was looking forward to ending the night with a bang."

"You --" Steve shakes his head to clear it. "You're really pissing me off."

Danny shrugs. "So what's new?"

"You don't usually piss me off this much," Steve tells him.

"Maybe I just haven't been trying. Ask Rachel. She's seen me at my best."

Steve smiles, lets himself go someplace where he can be calm, if only for the moment it takes him to pin Danny to the wall with his arm across Danny's throat. He rams his free hand inside the front pocket of Danny's pants and pulls out his wallet.

"You were going to pay him in cash," he says, not making it a question, because really, at this end of the market, no hooker is going to take plastic. He flips the wallet open and sees the bills crowding it. One is sticking out; a hundred. He tugs it free and shoves the wallet back into the pocket it came from, not bothering to sneak in a grope or make the invasion a tease. He's not playing.

He holds the bill up, noting absently that Danny's not struggling more than the amount he needs to let himself believe that he's fighting back. He isn't. Even drunk and in this tight space, Danny could make life difficult for Steve if he wanted to, but after pushing Steve's arm away enough that he can breathe easily, Danny's standing still for the most part, his breath coming in quick, uneven gasps.

"Want to see what I'll do for a hundred?" he asks and Danny's eyes close. It looks like a 'yes' to Steve.

Steve bets that Danny's kept his eyes closed during most of his blow jobs from guys, but as he reaches down to unbutton, unzip, and generally make it easier for him to get his mouth on Danny's cock, he keeps talking. Danny might not be looking, but Steve's damned if he's going to be recast as a blonde with big tits. Danny's going to know who's blowing him.

"Last time I did this was in broad daylight," Steve says conversationally. "Sun beating down on the back of my neck, spitting out the last mouthful of spunk to clear the sand from my mouth. That stuff gets everywhere." He drops to his knees and tries not to wonder what he's kneeling in. "My jaw ached for the rest of the day. Guy was hung."

"I'll try to measure up," Danny says sourly and Steve smiles. Yeah, Danny's with him. Good. Saves biting him to get his attention.

He's still holding the bill and on an impulse he can't explain he wraps it around the hot, hard jut of Danny's cock, smiling again at Danny's startled grunt. The bill's worn enough to shape itself to the flesh it surrounds, but it doesn't crease and crumple when he slides his hand slowly up and down, it just moves with him.

He can feel the heat from Danny's skin seep through it, warming his palm, and he leans in and licks the exposed head, the ice cream on top of the paper-dry cone, to get his first taste of Danny. It's a strange, powerful, evocative smell and taste, another man's cock, and with Danny the intimacy of the new knowledge he has is another factor to consider. No matter how this goes, he'll always be able to look at Danny and remember the heavy, fluid shift of Danny's balls as he cradles them in his hand, the sharp-tasting stickiness glossing the head of his cock, waiting for Steve to lap away assiduously.

He lets the bill flutter to the ground, lost, forgotten, after a while, waste paper, and gives himself the treat of a filled, fucked mouth, allowing Danny a few thrusts, jerky, uncoordinated, too deep for comfort, just to get an echo of that ache back in his jaw. After that, he takes over. Danny's not paying him to be an open wet hole, after all.

He can tell that he's not going to have long to make Danny forget every other mouth that's been on him. Danny's wound tight, adrenaline and arousal pushing him at his climax with more force than the flick and lick of Steve's tongue or the tight grip of Steve's hand. He lets himself enjoy it, making some noise, showing Danny how much he's getting off on doing this, his anger fading with every bob of his head as he works Danny over. He's turned on, his dick a tight curve of complaint, but he can't spare the effort to drag his zipper down and jerk off. He can do that any time; his hands are perfect where they are, touching Danny, moving over the warm skin, clouded with wiry hair, still holding the scent of soap.

Danny's touching him, anyway, running his hands over Steve's head and face, his fingertips tracing the shape Steve's lips are making, stretched taut or loose. Steve pulls off just long enough to kiss and suck on two of those curious fingers, drawing them deep then spitting them out because they aren't enough, he needs -- oh God, he needs this, Danny's hands merciless now, holding Steve's head still as Danny's hips pump fierce and fast, and come fills Steve's mouth, so much of it, so that he swallows and chokes and swallows again, desperate to take it all.

He ends up with his forehead against Danny's belly, hearing it rumble at him, Danny's hands petting him as if he's the one who's just come, his moans bitten-back and held in.

"I chose him because he looked like you," Danny says eventually.

"Are you kidding me?" Steve asks and rocks back on his heels. "He didn't look anything like me."

Danny reaches down, grabs his arm, and hauls him up. "Yeah, he did." There's the scrape of a zipper as Danny tidies himself away. "Well, okay, maybe not so much."

"He didn't look -- why are we having this conversation?"

Danny sighs. "Because it's easier than the one we're going to have when I sober up? The one where I tell you that we can't do this again because we work together and it might screw with me seeing Grace if Rachel finds out -- and, yeah, I know, but it might. That conversation."

Steve swallows, still tasting come. His head aches, his dick's reminding him that it isn't happy, and Danny's putting up roadblocks when Steve wants to drive fast, rubber burning, tires squealing.

He rubs his mouth dry on the back of his hand and sighs, accepting the reality and relinquishing the fantasy, for now at least. "I guess he was about my height," he says.

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