12AN: Catharsis and fluff time, baby!
'Now bursting forth in splendor
Are the blossoms of second tries,
Because dreams that bear the mark of love
Are dreams that never die.'
"Moving Forward" ~ Colony House
Steve catches Danny studying him at times after that. A divot between his brows but a perplexed smile on his face.
The fact Steve is touchy for a few days after the revelation does not help, unable to sleep alone and unable to let Danny drive anywhere without him. He hugs Danny more often and Danny seems to be making a conscious effort to stay within eyesight. If he's reading on the beach while Steve cooks, he'll trundle inside and sit at the island instead. Like sleeping arrangements, they don't talk about it but it works.
Their incessant words die down.
Steve, however, doesn't think they've ever heard each other clearer.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Steve asks one night, when the question finally becomes too hot for the coals of his mouth to temper and he's vibrating at the revulsion of it all again. He crouches down in front of Danny's beach chair. The sun has finished its setting performance and Danny is sleep rumpled, but the intensity in Steve's voice yanks him back to true awareness.
"Are you going to sit in your chair like a normal person?"
Steve's jaw works at the avoidance of his question. "Danny—"
"Because that can't be comfortable."
"Danny, why did you hide it?"
There is no need for Danny to ask what Steve means, not with the fresh tears looming in Steve's eyes and the possessive way he clutches Danny's ankle, the one he'd bumped that night after the storm, that still has a bruise wrapped around the outside. The air between them fizzes this time in the face of such pain, though admittedly from different causes.
They haven't talked about what Tani said, not directly in the sense of climbing on rooftops and walking in front of cars and Danny thinking that he doesn't deserve any better—but despite their bantering, they've never really needed words to communicate. Danny figured it out the first time Steve woke up from a nightmare about it a few days ago.
Because he understands that while Danny has absolute faith in Steve's commitment to making this work, that he's not about to up and leave at the drop of a hat, this is not really the fundamental issue of the thing. This is not what has made Danny so tense and jittery lately. This is not the root of where his own panic attacks come from.
"Oh." Danny's own features twist in surprise, the genuine article. It causes a matching knife twist in Steve's chest. Danny truly doesn't understand how drop dead horrifying what he lived through is, that his subconscious came this close to giving up in the search for family and support. In the search for Steve. "I didn't mean to hide what happened with the sleepwalking. I just didn't think it mattered now, at this point."
Steve's grip switches to Danny's knee. He breathes hard through his nose until he's sure his voice will come out even. "Danny…Danny, it will always—" Steve's voice breaks and he tries again. "Always matter."
You will always matter.
Danny slips his fingers under Steve's palm, and the clasp is so ironclad that it takes a few clumsy tries. Now Steve's gripping the back of his hand.
"It's over, Steve. What happened, it's done. We've forgiven each other."
"But the nightmares still bother you."
Danny shakes his head. "You leaving is not what troubles me."
"Then what…?"
"Sometimes my mind…it's a mean, cruel bully who reminds me that the almost-being-struck-by-a-car incident represented being alone. I felt unwanted."
Steve accepts the thumb linked around his, hoping to show how ludicrous it is that Danny would ever go unwanted. "You struggle with being alone?"
Danny sags with a small grin, something tender. "No, Steve, not on your life. Quite literally, because the longest we've spent apart in the last few months is maybe eight hours."
Steve concedes this with a quirked brow.
"Sometimes…" Danny goes quiet. "Sometimes when I'm feeling scared or overwhelmed after a tough day, my mind takes me to my darkest places. Like you with the ambush in Kandahar."
Steve's eyes are black and serious, boring into Danny's. By contrast, Danny is open and lax, letting Steve read whatever he wants in his face.
"Like being abandoned."
"I've had lots of those moments, so my brain just kind of jukeboxes the whole thing and picks one at random. Insert a quarter, get a nightmare." Danny's attempt at levity almost works, until the words sink in and Steve realizes the price they've both paid for what they have now. How fake that levity is in this moment.
Further proving this, Danny thumbs quickly at his eyes. "I'm not used to happy endings, Steve. Or at least ones that last without getting shattered a few years in. My brain is still figuring out what to do with this one. That it's not an illusion or a trick, that I don't have to…to…"
He trails off but this time Steve doesn't try to fill the silence. They both sit there, listening to the waves, their rhythmic crash of the moon's gravitational pull on the earth. There is wind, there is the cry of a gull far overhead, and there is Danny Williams swallowing convulsively until his voice comes out with more croaked tone than breath:
"That I don't have to earn it or buy the love offered here."
The words are a water gun of pure acid squirted straight into Steve's chest cavity. He flinches back, recoiling, as if that will abate the sheer disgust of this statement. Finally, finally, Danny's behaviour the past or so month clicks.
Steve's eyes burn too. "You're afraid that by telling me when you feel down or overwhelmed, it'll chase that happiness away. That you have to be whatever I need without reciprocation or you'll lose this."
It's not a question and Danny doesn't deny it. In fact, he's silent for a good long while this round, staring out over the waves that are too dark to see by now and melodic swaying of the sandy grasses. Danny's moved his chair a little so that it borders the nest, guarding that one lone egg with a faithful devotion that hurts like a tack under the skin. Small, but piercing. His thumb tightens around Steve's.
Just that touch irons out the hoarse, upset rasp of Steve's voice. It comes out smooth, sad, dripping over the edges with love. "I'm so sorry you're struggling with that lie, Danno."
"It's not your fault."
Probably not, but Steve takes an oath with himself right then and there that he'll be more alert for those kinds of days, for how it might torment Danny's sleep and subconscious thoughts. He'll give Danny more opportunities to talk about how he's feeling, to see the permanence of their life now, at least in relation to each other. It's hit Steve so many times in the last few days, that Danny nearly died, long before Steve found him on the side of the road. He's gotten used to people leaving, to death, to never having someone truly be there—until Danny. History cannot be allowed to repeat itself.
I almost lost him.
"You don't have to earn it, Danno." Steve jostles their hands to reinforce his point. "I love you because you're you. Nothing is going to change that."
Danny might as well be a statue.
The burn spreads down Steve's arms, his spine, into his heavy heartbeat. "Do you understand? You're so loved, and not because you bought it from me."
Danny swallows. Once, twice. Then he finally meets Steve's eyes head on. "I know that in my head. My heart will get it, eventually."
Because the beach is deserted and it's dusky, and Danny looks all cozy and domestic snuggled up in Steve's Navy sweater, sleeves still stained with the 'fusion' chili, and because he's having trouble breathing around the hot lump in his throat with the need for Danny to grasp how much Steve cares about him and always will…
Steve lifts Danny's palm and pecks it before he can overthink the impulse. His lips and nose brush over the soft underskin of Danny's fingers as he finishes.
Danny stiffens a little, more out of uncertainty. He doesn't look distressed, just confused. His pulse is fast now underneath Steve's thumb.
"Is this going to become a recurring thing with you?" Danny asks, blunt. "Because I'm a grown man who's barely even done that to a woman, let alone had it done to me."
Reverent, Steve replaces the limb on Danny's knee. He shrugs. "Maybe. Haven't decided."
"Oh," says Danny again. And he's baffled, but with that same dot of colour along his ears that was present the day he made Steve pancakes. He's starting to understand what that means too, all these little shards that make up the mosaic of his best friend. "Okay."
There is a cosmic law, somewhere, that says things break on the exact day you need them. Without fail. It's Steve turn to cook a nice Saturday dinner for Danny and Grace, something with lots of carbs and actual spices—he's labelled them with extra large print this time—and that, alas, needs to be simmered in lots of—
"Argh!" Steve flinches back from the spray of water above him. He towels off his face for the umpteenth time. "Stupid pipe with its stupid leak, that happens to spring right when I need to make my stupid internet recipe…"
His grumbling devolves into more creative epithets against their kitchen drain pipe while he wrenches at it. On his back in the open cupboard under the sink, Steve is just glad he hasn't changed like Danny left to do, still in his running clothes that are more than welcome to get soggy. If only he can figure out where the loose connection is coming from, then he could tighten it and be done with this hiccup.
Both long legs are curled up, but he stretches his left out until it touches the base of the island to alleviate some of the pressure on his back. The lip of the narrow cupboard digs into his spine, even though he'd moved their compost bin and dish soap bottles out of the way.
"One more twist ought to do it—"
One more does not do the trick and Steve swears while squinting past an even bigger slosh of water on his shirt.
While stemming the leak with another towel, Steve listens to the soft tread of Danny's socks patter down the round staircase. He tunes them out when the leak springs in a second spot, focused on not flooding their kitchen on tonight, of all nights.
There's a brush of fabric on his outstretched leg, and Steve spares a glance to see two pineapple polka dotted socks stop next to his shin. He waits for the quip, the nattering voice of Danny's smug amusement to wheedle about how Steve can stop a terrorist and this leaky sink has him beat.
But Danny says nothing for a few minutes, his toes arced in tense loops.
"Pass me the torque wrench?" Steve asks, because if Danny's going to stand there in silence, he might as well be a useful plumber's assistant.
Danny immediately grabs it off the island and crouches down. He's in a blue dress shirt, tucked, in keeping with his classic philosophy that his daughter should see a man, even her father, make an effort to look nice when taking her to a nice meal. Even if that nice meal is at their house and Grace already knows how special she is to them after years of this.
"Thanks." Steve sets down the wrench he has been using, a mechanic's tool, he sees now. He twists the torque wrench instead and what do you know—this time it works. Or, at least it stops the bottom leak, though not the one at the top. He gets ready to fix this one as well.
"You're picking up Grace in a bit? Just give me a sec and I'll drive with you."
No answer. Danny inhales a strange, short breath through his nose.
Steve's hands slow down around the pipe. Is this a panic attack? Is he trying to ask for help? "Danny?"
Danny doesn't get up right away or go track down his keys. And now he's tentatively rubbing Steve's bare knee with his knuckles, feather light. Steve freezes, opening his mouth. But Danny beats him to it—
"Love you, Steve."
The words come out gauche, lacking any kind of finesse. They are blocked, all right angles and gawky spirants. Danny looks away when Steve stares up at him, like he's been caught doing something embarrassing.
And it hits Steve like a sack of wet bricks, that Danny has been working up his nerve all this time, that this is the first time Danny has ever initiated saying it since they moved. It's a good thing Steve is already off his feet—he knows if this happened while he was standing, he'd already be collapsed on the floor at the sluice of affection Danny's words slam him with.
He feels safe enough to say it. He knows.
The monumental weight of this moment will stick with Steve until he dies. He's glad suddenly for his wet face, blinking up at the pipe even though he can't see it anymore through the blur. "Love you too, Danno."
Despite the fact that it's the beginning of November, it's still hot enough to cook an egg. The heat wave is forecasted well into next week. Because of this, Steve doesn't have energy to do much more than lay around and read, sometimes not even that. They'd ended up cancelling the barbeque plans with Chin because of it, and he didn't sound too sorry on the phone. The forecast next week is cooler, so they're all looking forward to a rain check.
This afternoon he hasn't made it down the beach for a swim, instead stretched out on the hammock. The wind is strong enough to push at it, enough for him to see why Danny's so in love with this spot. Danny is finishing a shower after de-weeding their front garden. Steve closes his eyes into the breeze, relishing the way it cools him off.
He's just about to follow the siren call of sleep when the hammock jack knifes. Its bucking nearly throws him out.
Steve's eyes fly open. "What in the—"
And there is one Danny Williams climbing onto the hammock. With absolutely zero grace. He hasn't even bothered to dry his hair, not that he needs to under the blistering sun that does it for him. Blond wisps whisper against Steve's chin when Danny finally gets comfortable and stretches out beside him. The hammock finally settles, gently swinging the two men back and forth.
It's an unprecedented moment that surprises Steve. Danny loves proximity, sure. They both do after the brief scare of being apart. But not necessarily intimacy. Steve is the cuddle-initiator in their relationship and Danny has never done this before. Usually at night, Danny just makes himself comfortable and lets Steve octopus around him however he wants, but he doesn't really hug back, doesn't seek Steve out with his arms in the way Steve himself is now notorious for.
But here he is, melded to Steve like thermoformed plastic.
It's a week for firsts.
So Steve is careful with the arm he circles around Danny's shoulders in reply, not sure what prompted the uncharacteristic move. "Hey, you."
Danny's only response is to shift onto his side, so his nose is pressed into Steve's T-shirt. Somehow, despite the heat, he's still wearing that red pullover Steve never got back. He's also wearing his own board shorts, but the way his hands are hidden in the sleeves broadcasts that this is not an ocean day.
Steve plays with wheat-like strands on the top of Danny's head. They feel like Charlie's, only coarser and longer. He checks for any shaking, if this could be another episode or a bad-brain day, as Grace calls them, but Danny's body is lax, putty against Steve's side. He goes so far as to verify this, by wrapping his other arm around Danny's torso, just to see if he'll feel trapped.
Danny sighs out a content noise that tickles Steve's skin.
And promptly goes to sleep.
Steve blinks up at the palm trees, confused with his sudden armful of Danny. He rummages under the sweater for Danny's naval and the man's pulse is as slow as Steve's ever felt it.
Danny is really just…that relaxed.
They nap for an hour or so, until the sun isn't so overpowering and they should probably be eating supper. Birds chatter overhead. There's a distant splash that is most likely one of the dolphins who live off the coast of their beach. Steve tears up at times, still seeing stars at this display of trust on Danny's part. He breathes in the unique scent that is Danny, hands a little wobbly where they comb through his hair, how he counts on Steve to be on watch while he's conked out.
Serenity. There's that word again. A tear slips down Steve's cheek into the dimples of his smile, birthed by peace and delivered through the sheer catharsis of this moment.
Danny's always had a scary, pre-sentient ability to read Steve, no matter how far apart they are. He wakes up even though Steve's tears are silent and no more fall. Danny intertwines his hand with the one on his stomach.
Steve sniffs. "I figured out what was wrong with my bread."
Danny's lips curve upwards, an action Steve feels against his chest rather than sees. "Did you now?"
"Yeah. Isabelle lent us salt and sugar when we first moved, right?"
"Mhmm. You're getting warmer."
Steve smiles too. "Except she didn't think to label them, so both white powders are in clear Tupperware boxes with red lids. I switched them by accident—I've been using salt instead of sugar as a dough starter this whole time."
"Ding, ding, ding." Slurred with sleep, Danny's voice is still drier than ever. "Give the man a prize. You also tend to bake on cooler, overcast days."
"Is that bad?"
"Not necessarily, but it makes it harder for the dough to keep warm and rise."
"Ah. I did not know that."
"Professor Williams, at your service."
Steve playfully tweaks his ear. "You're so dopey when you're half asleep."
Danny opens his mouth with visible intent to verbally flip him off, when he suddenly closes it. Tilts his head up.
"What?" Steve listens. "What is it?"
But then he hears it too—a scratching sound. It's faint, almost inaudible, yet there's definitely something snapping about ten feet away from the hammock. Steve scowls. Those pesky flattop crabs must be at it again, the ones that keep climbing and scratching his chair. Once or twice he's even come close to sitting on them by accident. He'll have to butter the legs or something so they can't crawl up.
Danny gasps fully awake, jumping out so fast Steve pushes a hand on the ground to keep the hammock from rolling. Danny's eyes are wide, heartbeat a constellation of pings under Steve's thumb where he hasn't let go.
"What are you—"
"It's hatching. Steve, the egg—"
Trepidation festers high in Steve's stomach, at the damage control he's going to have to do in about five seconds when Danny sees that it's a crab responsible for the noise. He follows Danny down to the beach with a grimace.
"Danny, try not to be too disappointed, alright?"
"Steve—"
"I'm serious. The egg is dead, Danno."
Steve should know better by now, he really should. He learned long ago not to doubt his partner's instincts and that lesson comes flooding back when he squats next to Danny. Just in time to watch a thumbnail-sized beak crack through the egg's shell.
The beak is pure white.
Steve gapes while Danny pants out an elated cry, eyes as bright as Steve's now.
"You've got to be kidding me."
"Sshh!" Danny shushes him but he looks so ecstatic Steve doesn't have the heart to snipe. At first Danny reaches back as if for his phone, in his pocket, but he thinks better of it. Something about recording the moment feels disrespectful. "Here it comes!"
Neither of them dare touch the egg or assist its progress, though both want to. Steve can't tell whether he enjoys watching this new life fight out into the world or Danny's joy more. It's there in ribbons across Danny's face, from his crinkled eyes, to the broad smile, to the sand he can't help moving out of the way to make the turtle's path easier.
The egg thunks onto its side, recapturing Steve's attention.
And out pops a little crème coloured head.
Its large, marble red eyes see the sun. Dappled flippers windmill out next. Though the turtle looks straight up at Steve and Danny for a thoughtful minute, the first real sight of its second's old life, it quickly locks onto the lapping waves in front of Steve's chair with high tide. There's a peek of albino shell, with some sort of carapace deformity that makes the square, patchy pattern bleed into itself, like a golden kaleidoscope. It's breathtaking.
"Can't we just carry—"
"No," says Steve, firm. He knows Danny knows this. If it dies trying to get out, then it dies. That's how the ecosystem works. "You've been patient this long. Give him or her a minute."
They do, and though it's hard to see the baby struggle, eventually it breaks free. The creature is scrawnier than its siblings, oddly shaped back feet paddling. This one really is the runt of its litter. Steve has never witnessed anything like it in his life nor read about such a case, an ultra rare albino turtle hatching almost two weeks late and still ending up alive. Its chances of survival are not great, not with its stark colouring, but if they can beat the odds, so can this baby.
Suddenly, their turtle is off.
This forces Danny to move to the side so it can maneuver. Not quite fast enough—the turtle flops over his toes. Then it fades away into the surf, enveloped by a cap of buttercup yellow foam and swimming off to seaweed on the ocean floor where it will spend its first few months of life.
Danny's voice oozes with wonder. "I can't believe we just got to watch an albino baby hatch. Isn't that one of the most beautiful things you've ever seen?"
"Yeah." Steve keeps his gaze on Danny. He's content, and he is whole. The sun flashes molten sapphire in his eyes now, a ring of gold off his hair. "It really is."
(That sea turtle most definitely imprints on Danny and Steve.
It returns the following June, a white blob flapping around Danny in the shallows. Swimming out to the breakers with Steve. The two men can only stare at this familiar, opaline shell, though it's much larger now.
Then their turtle is gone.
The catch is that Danny imprints on everything too and so he names the turtle Hau, a Hawaiian word for snow or mother-of-pearl that Steve wasn't even aware he knew. More surprises.
Hau visits next year, then the year after that, and the year after that…)
