Danny notices things. He’s a detective after all; he’s trained and paid to notice minute details. And yes, he’s very good at it.
But sometimes, Danny notices things he shouldn’t. Like Chin on the phone with his new wife, still in the heady glow of newlywed bliss, and then he suddenly flushes a nice crimson, shifting uncomfortably in his chair and leaving Danny to assume that Malia isn’t afraid to wield the naughty over the phone. Really, did he need to see Chin aroused?
Nothing wrong with it, of course, but still. The unflappably Zen Chin hot and bothered is enough to make a guy do a double take.
Sometimes, Danny notices things about Steve. He’ll catch his partner staring off into the distance, the lines around his eyes pinched and weary and Danny physically aches to soothe him somehow. Then the worry sets in and Danny finds himself hyper vigilant, his concern usually getting the brush-off from his superhero-in-training partner.
It’s just not good for his health, noticing those types of things. Danny’s been noticing a lot of little minute details about Steve lately, especially after they came back from that North Korean hellhole.
The way Steve winces when his arm turns just so. The way the veins in his arms seem to be starker, more prominent, like maybe Steve has thrown himself into Hell Week style training again. Danny knows Steve’s been running more in the mornings, going farther, pushing himself.
Trying to outrun something.
But now, Danny’s become aware of other things about Steve McGarrett that he’s absolutely sure are not good for his health. Like the way the muscles in Steve’s throat move when he laughs, or those absurdly long eyelashes.
Why does a guy that deadly have the eyelashes of a fucking giraffe?
Or the way his polo shirts ride up over the bulge of his biceps during the day, and seem to make his arms look bigger when Steve crosses them over his chest.
Thigh holsters. In all his years of working in police departments, with the exception of the SWAT guys, Danny has never seen a man have such an affinity for thigh holsters. It started with one, now Steve’s taken to strapping both of those ridiculously defined legs in firearms and well, that’s just over kill. It also makes Steve’s ass look even better – if that’s possible – accentuated by those straps and you know, it’s just dangerous to distract a guy with firearm accoutrements on his partner’s anatomy during dicey situations.
It was that stupid Jersey-slip attempt with those handcuffs that made Danny notice something else about Steve fucking McGarrett. Something that Danny would have never thought could fuel his dreams and awaken him thrusting into his fist every morning since Chin’s wedding like a horny teenager.
Steve has enormous hands. And Danny can’t get enough of them.
All it took was a simple, gentle grasp, Steve taking hold of his wrist to fiddle with those cuffs. Danny looked down and… holy shit. Steve’s hand virtually engulfed his entire wrist.
Danny’s never been one to dwell on his size, because he’s proportional, damnit. But Steve’s big, warm hand encircling his wrist and looking so damn huge against his own bone structure was… enthralling.
Now Danny watches those hands, hypnotized by their dexterity, the way the muscles and veins quiver and jump with Steve’s movements. The way his strong, long fingers manipulate a pen while Steve’s filling out reports, or swiping across the tactical table sends Danny’s overwrought mind into a tailspin.
When Steve puts his hands on his hips, they dwarf his badge and well, there’s that whole proximity to his groin that suddenly has Danny needing to hide his lower half behind a desk.
The car? Oh the car’s the worst. For all the times Danny has bitched and moaned about Steve and his control issues driving his car, now, he’s perfectly content to ride shotgun and watch like a junky needing his fix. The way Steve caresses the gear shift is like porn. He cups the round head of the shift, his hand totally covering it, while his thumb traces patterns absentmindedly up and down the shaft.
All Danny can do is keep wetting his dry lips and finally slump toward his door, try to hide the fact that his cock is pitching a tent in his trousers that would make Barnum and Bailey jealous.
It’s almost painful now to share a beer with his partner, and really, if he can’t even drink a beer with the guy without getting hard, Danny’s a sick puppy. Steve’s figures curled around the neck of a cold longboard, condensation making them glisten and slick as he brings it to his mouth. Drops of water squeeze out from between his knuckles and goddamn, it looks like his hand could circle that bottle twice.
Danny tries to down his beer in one go, maybe drowning the want is better than simmering in it forever, but he’s having trouble swallowing. He chokes and before he knows it, he’s bent over coughing with one of those big, infinitely warm hands on his back rubbing circles.
“You okay, Danny?” Steve asks.
Damn him and his concern and his big goofy hands.
“Fine,” Danny wheezes.
Danny manages to keep his little hand fetish to himself for a while, his car rides with Steve being his own private peep show. Thinking about those huge hands wrapped around his own cock while he grinds into them is fodder to keep him up at night, but he doesn’t let anything slip around Steve.
But when a perp nearly knocks Danny off a balcony during a bust, those big, goofy hands of Steve’s save his life.
Danny feels the earth fall out from beneath him and his stomach is in his throat, feet kicking for purchase that just isn’t there. Then he swings back into the concrete of the building. He’s pretty sure this is not the way it’s supposed to go, although he does know that it’s not the fall that kills you, it’s that sharp stop at the end.
When he opens his eyes, Danny sees Steve’s ashen face over the rail, his arms straining under the weight of Danny’s body as he clings to his partner for dear life. Danny has an absurd flashback to their roles being reversed that day on that mountainside, but then he can hear Steve talking, yelling at him to give him his other hand.
Steve’s hands on his wrists are vices that he’s absolutely sure won’t let go.
Even though he’s positive his arms have been wrenched from their sockets, Danny manages to help Steve haul him over the balcony. They land in a heap with Steve partially on top of Danny, panting, wild eyed and more scared than Danny’s seen him in a very long time.
One of Steve’s hands is clutching Danny’s, but then there’s another hand on his face, cradling his cheek and Danny just can’t think. Steve’s asking him something, he’s sure of it and by the look on Steve’s face he must not have answered yet.
But the hand on his face is so warm and tender and sliding back into Danny scalp and, well shit, that should not feel as good as it does, so Danny just looks dumbly down at his own hand engulfed by Steve’s. He reaches up and covers Steve’s hand at his face and says the first thing that comes to mind.
“Your hands are gigantic.”
Steve’s mouth hangs open. “What?”
“Your hands. They’re fucking huge. Why do you have ginormous hands, Steve?”
The most beautiful, absurd smile lights up Steve’s face and he just laughs. Danny decides right then and there that he’s pretty much in love with that laugh. And that face. Possibly he’s in love with this entire goofball, but hell if he’s going to admit that here.
“You think my hands are big?”
Danny pulls one of Steve’s hands up to his face, spreads the palm and fingers wide and places his own in the center. Steve’s got what seems like acres of hand to spare around his own and something about that makes Danny’s stomach flutter.
“See? What are you, part NBA player?” Danny asks. “You really can’t just be anything close to average, can you? Even your hands have to be spectacular.”
Steve stares at their hands pressed together, something warm and rich coloring his eyes, his grin turning bashful before he closes his hand over Danny’s and looks over his shoulder. HPD is running all over the place and they’ve been sitting there, in their own little world together, oblivious to the mayhem. Danny would rather stay there.
Danny notices, with warm regard, that one of Steve’s hands is touching him – on his shoulder, near the small of his back, on his arm - during the med check, while Chin, Kono and Lori finish securing the scene, and while they walk back to the car. Never a disconnect.
Steve drives, of course, but the odd thing is that his free hand stays wrapped securely around Danny’s wrist. It’s a gentle hold, right on the pulse point and Danny’s still trying to wrangle his heart rate back in check after his little skydiving experience. Maybe Steve is just making sure he doesn’t have a belated coronary.
Danny is content to let Steve hold him there, the warmth soothing the strained muscles of his forearm and wrist where Steve gripped him and doesn’t think much about it until he realizes they’ve returned to Casa de McGarrett.
“Steve?” Danny asks, because, hello, they just finished a case and well, there’s a little bit of paperwork; a few witness statements to deal with.
Steve is silent and rigid as he leads Danny by the hand into the house, up the stairs and into the bathroom. This change in his demeanor sets off warning bells and Danny wonders if he did something wrong. He’s already kicking himself for admitting his more than passing interest in his partner’s anatomy, when Steve pushes him against the sink and goes to rummage for the first aid kit.
“Steve, listen,” Danny starts, because Steve’s face has gone all determined and lost that doofy bashfulness and now Danny’s worried he’s fucked up. “About what I said…”
“You think my hands are big,” Steve says casually, as he unrolls some bandages.
Danny winces. “Yeah, can we just chalk that up to near death absurdity and leave it at that?”
Danny doesn’t want to leave it at that. He wants… Christ, he wants a lot of things. World peace, a decent pizza on this island, Grace to never grow up and Steve McGarrett naked and wrapped around him like a Gordian knot. Wishes and horses.
Danny doesn’t even know what Steve’s doing with the first aid – it’s not like he was hurt, per se – until he smells the witch hazel and feels it sting against his raw wrists. He sees the purple bruises starting to swell along his hands and wrists in the shape of fingers.
Steve’s fingers. Danny thinks maybe this is what it’s like to be branded.
Steve makes a face as Danny flinches under his touch, as though Danny's pain is his own.
“You saved my life, babe. I think the bruises come with the territory.”
“Don’t ever do that again.” Steve’s still looking at their hands, but Danny can feel the slight tremor in Steve’s as he dabs the medicine on Danny’s skin.
“I’ll try not to make it a habit,” Danny mutters. “Bungee jumping without the bungees never ends well.” He’ll try really hard not to do that “almost dying” thing again, too.
Danny looks at his hands resting in his partners. They really do look small in comparison and Steve’s gun calluses feel so damn good against his tender skin, even if Steve is taking all the care in the world to be gentle. Those careful ministrations cause an almost painful twang of longing to strike deep in his gut.
This close, Danny can see almost every one of those stupid lashes as Steve concentrates on his wrists. Really, sometimes this man is so beautiful it hurts and damn, Danny’s got it bad.
He wrestles with his heart and his head, because wanting these things is dangerous and often leads to heartbreak when Steve’s hand stops applying the witch hazel and starts a long caress up Danny’s forearm.
Danny’s a little awestruck by the way Steve’s fingers can encircle even the upper part of his arm when he feels Steve’s other hand tip his face up to meet his eyes.
There isn’t much that could have prepared Danny for the affection reflected in Steve’s eyes like a sucker-punch to the gut. There’s a little lopsided grin there and when Danny can find his breath again, he returns the smile.
“So,” Steve whispers as he presses in, almost nose to nose. “You got a thing for my hands.”
“I wouldn’t say a thing. I don’t think I have a thing.”
“I think you do.” One of Steve’s hands is now running down Danny’s chest, warmth seeping through his shirt and making his breath catch.
“I…uh,” Danny swallows as Steve bends down and noses along his jaw, the other hand warm against the side of his face. “I’m simply fascinated by size.”
He feels the bastard grin against his skin and Steve pulls back with the most glorious cat-ate-the-canary smile. Danny screws his eyes shut and chuckles because, what are you gonna do?
“Okay, that came out wrong.”
“So, the whole ‘big hands’-saying…” Steve says.
“Is bullshit,” Danny smirks, getting with the program and pulling Steve in closer by the waist. A quick glace and yeah, he’s not the only one suddenly straining his khakis.
Steve’s laugh is a deep rumble against Danny’s chest as they press against the wall and rock their hips together. The friction makes them both gasp and then those glorious hands of Steve fucking McGarrett are all over the place.
When one finally closes completely around Danny’s cock, hot and solid and urgent, sparks go off behind his eyes as they push and thrust into each other and maybe, just maybe, this is where he was meant to be all along. All caught up in Steve.
Later, after those magnificent hands and fingers have mapped out every inch of his body, across muscle and skin and inside, and they’re lying in a tangled heap of naked, sweaty limbs on Steve’s bed, Danny sighs.
He reaches over and kisses the inside of Steve’s palm, his knuckles – scarred though they may be – and even slips Steve’s middle finger in to his mouth and suckles it long enough that Steve starts to squirm. His partner starts making the most interesting noises in the back of his throat and Danny can feel him getting hard again against his thigh.
Danny smiles into the kiss when Steve rolls on top of him, covering his entire body with all that long, lean muscle. And when Steve gently takes hold of Danny’s wrists, pulling them above his head, Danny’s pretty much helpless to resist anymore.
So, yeah. Danny notices things. He’s big enough to admit it, after all.
He definitely has a thing for Steve’s hands.