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The deep, dark, carefully guarded and slightly embarrassing truth, is that Danny Williams is habitually sleep-stupid. An intelligent and talented cop, a wonderful father, a passionate sports fan and all around puzzle-extraordinaire. But also hopelessly, desperately, adorably sleep-stupid.
Steve’s never had the balls to say it out loud, but sometimes he wonders just how the hell Danny managed to survive those post-divorce wilderness years, waking up alone and fending for himself.
“Danno?” he asks, voice soft and gentle, as though trying not to spook a baby deer. “You okay? Did you want something from the fridge?”
During the waking hours, he would never dream of coddling Danny like this – not unless he was angling for a rant of gargantuan proportions, hands flying everywhere, fingers poking between ribs and other places that they had no business poking.
But it’s currently oh-six-hundred, the world is a haze of smoky dawn light, and there’s something big and blue and innocent about Danny’s eyes; something lost and trusting.
It makes Steve’s belly twist with happiness, this sense of being needed, especially by someone who is normally so stubborn, self-sufficient and capable. Sure, they rely on each other all day long at work, but for a few fleeting minutes every morning, Steve is fully responsible for the stupid little Danny-things.
Like making sure that Danny doesn’t accidentally pour wine on his cereal; like checking the water temperature before Danny stumbles into the shower; even giving his face a sneaky once-over when they leave the house, checking for bits of tissue on his jaw. Considering how often Danny has to shave, he knicks himself with surprising frequency.
It’s the kind of responsibility that Steve would have called ridiculous, even faintly suffocating, not so long ago. Maybe it still is. But for the first time in his life, it doesn’t feel that way - it feels amazing. He just takes the days as they come, goes with the flow, strangely content and unusually patient.
He calls on that very same patience now, as he watches Danny stare gormlessly into the fridge. After a few seconds of silence, those gorgeous blue eyes turn on him, crinkled and confused.
“I… um.” Danny shuffles, naked feet shifting back and forth, left foot idly scratching an itch on the right ankle.
Steve spies Danny’s cereal bowl on the kitchen island, and deductive reasoning combined with familiarity regarding Danny’s morning routine lets him put the pieces together with ease. “You wanted the milk, right?”
He nudges Danny aside, pulling out the carton, and it doesn’t take him long to get them both settled at the table. As Danny pillows his head on his arms, Steve squeezes the cardboard flaps open.
He’s just debating whether or not to actually pour the milk into the bowl, when Danny begins to stir.
It’s always his breathing that gives him away – sleepy snuffles turning to precise inhalations, as if he’s taking the day by the horns and giving it a good shake. He shifts, blinking rapidly, realizing where he is and what he’s doing.
He’s never bashful about his morning-goofiness, not even within the privacy of their home – it’s just not who he is, not in his genetic make-up. But he is always quietly grateful for Steve’s help, happy to bestow lazy kisses of thanks.
“Morning,” he whispers against Steve’s lips, moaning the mmmmmm before whispering the word. Blonde stubble scratches against dark, noses bump affectionately and breath mingles. “Morning.”
They kiss around each other’s faces, darting little connections of teeth and tongue and skin, before finally their lips slide together, magnetic as always.
Cotton whispers as Steve hauls Danny off his chair, onto his lap, their bodies tangling even as the legs of the chair creak beneath their combined weight. Creak, creak, ruffle; a soft sigh, the wet sound of lips meeting, the happy hum of two people who love each other.
Danny is fully awake now – Steve can feel it in the strength of his movements, the deliberate way Danny’s blunt fingers slide under his shirt, sweep up and down his sides and stroke the tattoo across his back.
Eventually Danny pulls away, shifts on Steve’s lap so that he’s perched sideways, comfortable. “Morning,” he repeats, his voice strong this time.
Steve doesn’t have the heart to tell Danny that they’ve been up for ten minutes – that their morning started a while ago, it’s just that it took Danny some time to tune in. It’ll only make Danny cranky, and Steve loves the hopeless creature sat on his lap far too much to deliberately wind him up.
Besides. There’s more than enough time during the day to make Danny crazy.