haolehothead | (no subject)

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- game: tabula rasa

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When the morning sunlight comes spilling into his room, Danny makes a muffled noise of protest as he rolls back onto his stomach and starts to regret asking Steve to put in windows. Sure, windows are great and they let the light in and now he feels like he lives in a home and not a shack, but in the morning, now he just feels grumpy and glared on.

Danny rolls onto his back and sighs, staring at the ceiling and glancing at the wall to his side that separates his room from Steve's. Usually he just knocks on it and asks if Steve wants breakfast, but Danny's got a full day with a shift at the IPD and then over to the Children's Office. Not to mention, he does want to see some people about house repairs. So, it's a long day, and he'd still like to squeeze in Date Number Six.

He finally coaxes himself out of bed. The sooner he gets to the office, the sooner he gets back for dinner. He knows he's going to be around little ones inevitably, so he doesn't go for the tie, getting an old Jets football jersey and sliding it on atop a pair of worn-in jeans. Yeah, he's gonna catch hell, but he learned his lessons about ties around babies when Grace was tiny.

He makes a note to pick up hair gel when he comes back because his hair is flyaways and tears, no order to it as he starts making noise to tell Steve that he's up. "Hey! I'm making fruit for breakfast. You know, just like every other day, since you haven't put a stove in for me!" he shouts, voice escalating on every word.

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Steve barely manages to keep himself propped up over Danny as he brings himself toward his own finish, and when that sound of pleasure reaches his ears he smiles, already starting to ease out of him, rolling over to rest along his right side.

He sits up almost immediately, enjoyable aftermath completely forgotten when that sound changes completely, brow furrowed with concern.

"Danny? Danny, are you okay - Jesus, what happened?"

Danny can't even move at that second, gripped with pain. He clasps at his thigh with both hands and sits up, managing to get his upper torso leaning over the lower, hissing in sharply. A sick part of his brain is chuckling, dying with laughter about the fact that he just re-tore his ACL having sex with Steve.

"Fuck," he cries out with a small jagged sob of a sound in his throat.

"Danny, talk to me," Steve says, even more worried by the fact that the only sounds coming out of Danny's mouth are wordless cries of pain. For as much as he complains about Danny talking too much, it's when he's not saying anything at all that he knows something is very wrong.

"Did you pull something? What is it?"

He doesn't even have his goddamn pain meds to help him, doesn't have a cane, doesn't have anything. He cringes and scrunches his face up tightly, rocking just back and forth slightly to try and ease the feeling. Usually it comes on slow, but this, this is hard and fast. "My knee," he spits out. "A goddamn boo-boo, is that what you fucking called it last time?"

"Well, I'd told you not to chase down - " Steve starts, and then clams up because even he knows this is not the best time to get into specifics of who did what and when, and he's already starting to look around for clothes, spotting his boxers on the floor and quickly stepping into them.

"Okay, we're going over to the clinic right now," he replies, looking right into Danny's face, "even if I have to carry you there myself."

"I am fucking naked!" Danny snaps at Steve, voice inching up into the higher registers of volume. "You better fucking be dressing me before you make me go see anyone." Danny lets his head hit the pillow again and a new, sharp, fresh wave of pain shoots through him. "Fuck," he whines. "You broke me."

Steve's getting dressed in the meantime, disappearing into his room to grab a t-shirt and pair of cargo pants before returning, rummaging through Danny's clothes to get him something clean to put on. "It's going to be okay, Danno," he murmurs, though some of it is partly to reassure himself, and he gently sits down beside Danny on the bed. "C'mere, sit up. I'll help you."

Danny groans heavily as he sits up slowly, shifting his bad knee precariously as he stares forlornly at the swelling. "No cane, no pills, and I just had the best sex of my life and now I won't get to have it again for six weeks."

"I'm sure the clinic will have something you can take for the pain," Steve says, nudging Danny's arms up and then tugging the shirt down gently, chucking fingers underneath Danny's chin when his head pops out through the hole. "And if I have to, I'll make you a damn cane."

Danny peers at Steve miserably, because those are only two of the things. The third is the one he's really pissed off about. And he's making it very clear from his look alone. For lack of a better term, he is sulking.

"Come on," Steve says, and slips off the bed to kneel in front of Danny. He's grabbed a pair of sweatpants thinking they'll be most comfortable at the moment, and turns them to the right angle before opening them up to slide Danny's feet inside, gingerly slipping the grey cotton up his legs.

Danny sighs heavily and shifts, lifting up his ass in order to get the sweats on. When Steve gets close enough, Danny threads both hands' fingers through Steve's hair and pull him in for a slow kiss, the kind that you give to someone who's more than just a sex thing. "We're not telling the doctor I hurt it having sex."

Steve smiles, nodding immediately as he cups Danny's cheek, thumb smoothing over the light stubble. "No, we won't." The smile gives way to a frown of thought, though, and he glances at Danny curiously. "What are we going to tell the doctor?"

"Surfing. You were trying to teach me to surf and my foot got dug in the sand and when I turned, it caught and twisted," Danny says, breathing a little deeper. It still hurts like a bitch, but the prospect of pills is helping. He shuffles to his feet and gingerly puts his full weight on one, reaching his hand up for Steve.

Steve actually considers this and nods finally, getting up to his feet and clasping the hand that Danny reaches out to him, using his grip to gently hoist him up. "That's actually pretty good. I'd believe it," he admits - especially given how their last attempt at surfing lessons had gone. "So, what, you going to need to be carried over?"

Danny pulls a bitch of a face, which is essentially his admitting that yes, he needs that kind of help if he's going to the clinic at this point in time.

"Alright, baby," Steve says, sliding one arm underneath Danny's shoulders as the other skims underneath his thighs, taking care to avoid his knee and picking him up as gently as possible, even if he knows some of the jostling will hurt Danny's knee. "Sorry," he adds, murmuring an apology against Danny's temple.

"Holy shit, I feel emasculated right now," Danny complains, hissing slightly when the pain is sharp. He's in Steve's goddamn arms in a honeymoon carry and he fucking hates his life.

"I wish there was a better way to do this," Steve agrees, "but it's not like I can just stick you in the Camaro and drive over." He has a feeling the trip is going to be a particularly tense one.

Danny grits his teeth together and just sighs, practically collapsing in Steve's arms, going dead-weight. "I'd suggest fireman's carry, but then I'm just gonna have a view of your ass all trip."

"I don't exactly hear you complaining about that," Steve says, and tries not to hitch Danny up too roughly, but he's really not going to make this any easier for him, is he? "Besides, you'd just look like someone I was hauling back to the hut to have my way with."

Danny just smirks at that. "Which is different than how we were exactly an hour ago, how?" he wonders, sliding a hand up Steve's shirt to grip onto it every time a new wave of pain comes around. "Fuck, this is probably easy for you. I hate you. I hate you and every inch of your height."

"We're almost there," Steve quietly assures him, even though they still have a ways to walk and Danny almost certainly knows that too. "And I'm not really sure what my height has to do with anything, but yours probably helps in this case."

"Fuck you, McGarrett," Danny says tiredly, giving up the fight and just sliding his other arm around Steve's waist. "This wasn't your fault. Not one inch. So don't think it was. Okay? Tell me you get that."

"Yeah," Steve replies, though he's already glancing down the path and trying to figure out if there's any more of a direct route to the clinic, getting his bearings now that the sun is finally starting to rise higher in the sky. "Yeah, I get it."

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