Better Than Socks

by Jane Davitt

"Okay, we've done the easy ones. When was your first blow job?" Danny says, going for the personal stuff just to make Steve squirm. Call it payback for the last few months. He's earned every twitch after all those car chases, all those broken regs.

He's drunk enough --- hey, it's Christmas Eve, he's entitled -- to be mildly interested in the answer, but he's waiting impatiently for it to be his turn to spill. Candy-pink lips, those cute giggles when he asked Cindy to please spit out her gum first…good times and if two years later he'd found out that it felt just as good when the mouth belonged to a guy, well, that was his business and it wasn't like Steve would ask what his eighth blow job was like, now was it?

"Locker room, senior year, after the game when the rest of the team was showering," Steve says after a pause, the words dragged out of him, choppy and succinct. His face warms, his eyes distant, then they sharpen and focus on Danny. "Had to be quick, but that wasn't a problem. I was pumped, man."

Danny frowns to hide the way his heart had thudded at the image of Steve, sweaty, flushed and intense, grinding out a curse, his voice shaky, as he shot deep and hard. He takes a long sip of something fruity and icy cold, with an astonishing amount of vodka lurking in each sip. "You smuggled a girl in there with the team a few yards away? Sounds risky. Fun, but risky."

The pause is even longer and Steve's looking at the table now, his lips pursed. They're not bright pink the way Cindy's were, but they look warm. Kissable. Kissable? Danny pushes his drink aside. Lusting after Steve is one thing, an occupational hazard like bullets in the air around his head on a regular basis, but that doesn't mean that he has to get as mushy as an over-ripe pineapple over the guy's mouth.

"Yeah, it was," Steve says eventually, "but I didn't. Smuggle someone in, I mean. I wasn't the only player who waited for a shower."

It takes a while for Danny to get it -- totally the fault of the Slamma-Bamma-Mama he's been drinking -- but when he does, he smiles, slow and wide.


"Yeah," Steve says flatly, looking like a man with regrets and it's not even the morning after yet.

"Thanks," Danny adds, remembering his manners.

"What for?" Steve asks, a guarded wariness in his eyes.

"Are you kidding?" Danny holds up a hand that presumably still has four fingers and a thumb on it, though he's having difficulty in focusing. "One, you trusted me with a deep, dark secret."

"It's not actually a --"

"You shared, man. You shared," Danny says earnestly and pats Steve's arm. "That's good. Two, you dig guys. You do, right? I'm not gonna get to the end of this and you turn around and tell me you meant the cheerleader?"

Steve shakes his head. "It was a guy," he says. "Mostly, it's not, but sometimes, if it's the right time, the right mood, then…"

"I hear you," Danny says and tries to stop his head from nodding. Easy to start: difficult to stop. "So, three -- I was up to three, right?"

"I think so. Does it matter if you weren't?"

"Yes, because if I'm too drunk to count to three, I shouldn't be telling you that in between the long stretches when I want to punch you for being a reckless asshole, I kinda might have these moments, brief, fleeting moments, when I want to…"

"Yeah?" Steve says and he's all encouragement now, leaning forward so that the noise of the bar -- and it's all raucous carols and people singing who should stick to mouthing the words -- dims down to a fuzzy buzz.

"Be your cheerleader," Danny says and it makes perfect sense in his head, until he flashes on himself stark naked waving pompoms and cracks up.

Steve leans back, his mouth a grim, askew line. Not a happy camper. "I get it. You were joking. You're so fucking funny."

"What?" Danny chokes back the next chuckle and wipes at his eyes. "No! I was just -- never mind. Not joking. You have sex with your team members. There's precedent. I'm all over the precedent. And I'm your partner. That's even better than being on the same team. We get to have epic sex. Epic! This is the best Christmas present ever."

Steve shakes his head. "When you sober up, you're gonna wish you'd asked for socks."

"No," Danny says and means it, even drunk, he means it. "And I thought we weren't doing the whole present-swapping thing?"

"We're not," Steve said, a note of alarm sounding. "Shit, you didn't get me something, did you?"

"No, but…" Danny feels his mouth droop sadly as he slides effortlessly into maudlin. Throwing up can't be far away. "So maybe I'm not your type, is that it?"

"Hell, no," Steve says emphatically. "Not that I've ever gone for anyone like you before because there isn't anyone like you. I think that's a good thing."

"I think that's an insult," Danny grumbles. Steve gets told he's lusted after and that's the best he can do?

"Wasn't meant to be." Steve eyes him. "Okay, suppose we were playing Santa with each other --"

"That is so sick," Danny murmurs, entranced. Steve in red velvet and white fur and black leather boots…he could pull it off. And if he couldn't, Danny would. Take all of it off, leaving nothing but naked Steve, all tanned skin against that pool of soft, deep red velvet…maybe he could keep the boots on… "Don't stop."

Steve takes a deep breath. "This is what I want," he says and bends down to take the straw poked into his own frothy, fruity, frou-frou drink between his lips, sucking it long and slow until his cheeks hollow and Danny's gripping the edge of the chair to stop himself from grabbing Steve right there and planting one on his sweet, sticky mouth.

"Well?" Steve says, after letting the straw slip free. He licks his lips. "Have I been naughty or nice?"

"I don't give a fuck," Danny says honestly. "I'm still gonna blow you." He burps and tastes pineapple. "After I throw up or you might take it the wrong way."

"Did I mention how it was your romantic side that first attracted me?"

"We both know it was my ass," Danny says and signals for the check. He's going to leave a big tip. Huge. He's feeling pretty fucking merry right now.

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