Fic: Stripped

[azziria]

Title: Stripped

Pairing: Steve/ Danny

Rating: NC-17

Summary: Letting other people get too close can be dangerous.

Disclaimer: Don't own them, no harm intended, no profit made etc.

Warnings: AU, prostitution.

Word count: 8200

Author's note: Hooker!fic, Hooked 'verse, Steve's POV. Follows on from Hooked, Collared and Screwed.

---

Stripped

Steve's been selling himself for long enough, has seen enough other hookers fuck up, to know that you never, ever let things get personal. He's a whore; his clients pay for his services, he delivers what they've paid for, nothing more, nothing less and that's as far as it goes. It’s a business transaction, his body bought and sold and that's it. End of story. Hookers who get attached, who let their johns get attached, who forget that they're just whores and nothing more... well, that way leads to trouble, and Steve's not that stupid.

Which is why he's so pissed at himself right now.

Because the truth is that today he let a client get to him and that never happens, he's too good at compartmentalizing and shutting off. But today his last client was Danny, the cop who's never been with a hooker before, who's clean, who cares and who's far too fucking nice to be using a whore for sex. Steve had seen the look on Danny's face after they'd fucked, seen the haste with which he'd pulled on his clothes, desperate to get out of there and Steve knows revulsion when he sees it. Revulsion and self-loathing. He's pretty sure it's not homophobia though, that's not the vibe he's getting from Danny. Danny's problem isn't Steve and it isn't the gay sex, it's the fact that he's paying for it.

Right then, just for a moment, Steve felt sorry for him. Felt sorry for a fucking john and that's not something he can afford to do. After all, if the guy's so decent, what's he doing picking up a whore in a gay bar?

Fuck it, he thinks, Danny's just going to have to grow a pair and face the fact that he screws hookers. Or get out of the game. It's not Steve's problem. He's paid to spread his legs or open his mouth, not to care about whether the client feels guilty about what they're doing to him. He's a whore, not a fucking shrink.

It's not Steve's problem, which doesn't explain why he feels so pissed about it.

*~*~*~*~*

He's made his money for the day, his time's his own and he can stop now, head home, grab some food and a shower, wind down a bit. Maybe he can do something to ease the ache in his back and the soreness in his knees, can find a way to shake off the used feeling for a few hours before he has to go back out there and start all over again. He can go to ground and chill out where no one can get to him; take care of his own needs for a while rather than someone else's. He can forget about what he does to get by.

His building is deserted, there's no one around and the hallways are empty, so he makes it to his door without seeing anyone or being seen himself and that's good. He checks the telltales he's set; they're undisturbed, no one's been through the door since he left earlier and so he unlocks the door and slips quickly inside. Once he’s fastened the door behind him (all three locks, good and tight) he makes his usual perimeter check. He knows no-one’s been in there, but he can’t rest easy until he’s done it. The window bars are still secure, all the spaces an intruder could hide are empty, and there's no trace of any electronic devices in any of the obvious places. The area's clean; he can relax.

He knows he doesn't need to do this, that no-one's interested in him these days; he's not Special Forces anymore. But old habits die hard and sometimes it helps to keep the dreams out.

Anyway, it's his business and no-one else's what the fuck he does on his own time. Nobody else needs to know what he has to do to keep himself sane.

He shucks off his jeans and t-shirt, dumps them in the laundry basket then ducks into the shower and stands under the water for a long time. Out of those clothes he usually feels better, less wound up, like he’s shed the persona with the uniform, but today he still can’t let go for some reason. He knows that he should go for a run, hit the gym maybe, he has to look after the merchandise after all, no-one’s going to pay his price if he lets himself go, but the thought of working out doesn’t appeal.

He towels off, pulls on a shabby pair of boxers, cargo pants and an old and faded t-shirt from his SEAL days, and tries to do some stretches to settle himself, but that doesn’t work either, he still feels uneasy in his skin, like something’s off, only more so than usual. He knows that feeling, knows what it means, knows what's lurking and that he's going down if he doesn't fight it, but he’s dog tired now, bone weary and fighting is just too hard. He should go to bed if he's not going to work out, but he doesn't think he's going to be able to sleep and maybe a beer would help, but it’s the tequila bottle he pulls out and he knows where that’s headed, knows he's letting go, giving in, but right now he's damned if he cares.

The burn of the tequila in his throat feels like an old friend. He takes the bottle with him and stretches out on the couch, works solidly at getting the liquor down him until he starts to feel its warmth spreading through his body, erasing the dull ache at the base of his spine and the slight soreness from where Danny had fucked him so enthusiastically earlier.

Danny. He's trying not to think about Danny, trying not to think about that look on his face. Telling himself that he's pissed because he wasted time feeling sorry for the pathetic loser. Steve knows what he is, knows what he does and why he does it and if Danny's going to pay a whore then he should at least be man enough to face up to what he's doing.

All too soon the tequila bottle's empty, so he rolls off the couch and fetches a new one from the cupboard in the kitchen. He should stop now, he knows that, but he's not going to. He's reached the point where he's drunk enough to let the dreams in; now he needs to drink enough that he won't remember them afterwards. He settles back down and takes a pull from the new bottle.

He wonders sometimes what will happen when he gets too old to do what he does, when no-one wants to pay to fuck him anymore. He’s got some money hoarded and he’s saving what he can, but it’s not enough, not nearly enough and he knows that. He supposes he’ll probably be entitled to some sort of service pension, is probably entitled to something now, disability benefit or something, given his discharge on medical grounds, but it won’t be much and anyway, he won’t take it. He has his pride, after all, even if he doesn’t have much else.

One day pride won’t be enough, though, he knows that. The thought of ending up somewhere where other people will hear when he has the dreams, where other people will know, horrifies him.

There’s always another option, of course, and there are days when he thinks about it, days when bending over and giving it up one more time or opening his mouth for yet another john seems just too much, when his bones ache and his knees are sore and the other option starts to seem viable, like the easy way out. He’s never been one for easy ways out though, never been a coward, so he pushes the thought away and gets on with it and tries not to think about being old and alone and unable to protect himself.

Alone he’s used to, that doesn’t frighten him. Vulnerable is what scares him most.

He swallows down another mouthful of tequila and tries not to think about it.

*~*~*~*~*

He comes awake with start to the sound of mortar fire, head fuzzy from the alcohol and heart hammering, all his instincts yelling at him to move, run, get out of there. He rolls and ducks for cover, off the couch and half behind it before reality kicks in. It’s not mortar fire, it’s someone pounding on his door and he struggles to the surface and hauls himself up because whoever it is clearly isn’t going to go away. He’s still in the ‘Stan, he can taste the dust and smell the blood, he’s still got gunfire and Cassidy’s screams in his ears, but he’s here, too, in his apartment, and his brain can't quite reconcile the two as he stumbles for the door. As he goes he grabs for the knife he keeps under the couch cushions, it’s no use against Taliban Kalashnikovs but it’s better than nothing at close quarters and at least he’s not going into this unarmed. He fumbles with the locks, fingers stiff and uncoordinated, pulls the door open, ready for attack. It’s Danny standing on his doorstep, Danny who looks him up and down and says “Jesus, Steve, what happened to you?”

Danny... Danny shouldn't be here, it should be Jones and Hathaway and Lee, the other guys from his unit... but they must be with Cassidy and Cassidy's still screaming somewhere, bleeding out where the bullet drilled into his femoral artery and Danny's saying "Steve, put the knife down, babe, it’s me, it’s Danny," and he doesn't know what to do...

But no, this is Hawaii, this is his apartment, he needs to remember that. Danny’s taking the knife from him, prying it from his fingers with a gentle touch, propelling him backwards towards the couch, following him in and closing the door behind him. This isn't the ‘Stan, he’s almost sure of that now, but Danny still shouldn't be here, Danny doesn’t belong here, this has to be another of his fucked up dreams just like Hathaway and Cassidy and the others.

Danny feels real enough, though, hands solid as he pushes Steve down onto the couch, voice soft and concerned, "How much have you had to drink, Steve?" And yeah, there are a few empty bottles—a lot of empty bottles—his head's throbbing and his mouth tastes disgusting. How many days has he lost this time? He's not sure.

Danny goes away again and comes back with water, clean water, in a glass and not a water bottle. "Come on," Danny says, "You need to drink this, get this down you."

The water's cold on his tongue, washing the taste of dust from his mouth and he swallows it down greedily. Where did Danny get clean, cool water out here? But then, Danny's a police officer, maybe he has special sources or something, but of course this is Hawaii, the water here's clean; he knows that, he just needs to fucking concentrate.

He empties the glass and Danny takes it from him and goes to refill it. He watches Danny walk away. It is Danny, not Cassidy, they've got the same build and the same coloring, the same way of walking, but Cassidy's dead, he knows that. Cassidy bled out in the dust and there wasn't a fucking thing Steve could do about it. So this must be Danny, even if he doesn't understand why he's seeing Danny here, his subconscious must be more fucked up than he thought.

He drinks the second glass of water, and Danny's speaking again, something about getting him cleaned up, “I hate to tell you this, babe, but you reek, how long have you been in those clothes?” and he's fucked if he knows.

"Let's get you into the shower," Danny says and pulls him up off the couch, he's got Steve's arm over his shoulder and he's helping him towards the bathroom and really, Steve's not fucking wounded, that's Cassidy. Danny should be helping Cassidy, but he can't because Cassidy's dead, that's what Steve needs to remember. Cassidy's dead, and so are Lee and Hathaway and Jones; Steve's the only one left alive and that sucks.

Danny gets the shower running, tests it with his hand. "Temperature's good," he says, and looks at Steve standing there, frowns and sighs. "Come on, big guy," and he's stepping in and tugging at Steve's t-shirt, "Let's get these clothes off you."

Danny wants Steve naked and that's not right, that doesn't happen here, here is Steve's space, Danny shouldn't even be here... Steve can't help himself, he jerks himself out of Danny's grasp, body tensing into defensive mode. Danny takes a step backwards, hands up in a placatory gesture, "Whoa, Steve, dial it down, I'm not after anything... you need to take a shower, you need to take those clothes off and get in the shower right now, can you do that, babe?"

Danny's staying back, his body language telegraphing non-confrontation, his stance confirming what he's saying, so Steve takes a deep breath, forces himself to relax and nod, "Yeah, OK."

Danny looks relieved. "OK then, you shower. I'm going to go clean up a bit," and good as his word he backs out of the bathroom, leaving Steve alone. Steve just stands there for a long moment, mind blank, not processing, but Danny's right, he stinks; he needs to focus and get into the shower, so he strips off his clothes and steps under the water.

The shower feels wonderful, the jets of water hot and strong and he tips his head back and lets it hit his face, feels it running down over his head and body and that's good. It's helping him ground himself; the water pressure is too high for him to be in the camp showers, and the tiles are wrong, so this must be Hawaii. He puts his hands out, runs his fingers over the smooth surfaces, tracks the lines of grout between them, uses their physical presence to help him concentrate. He's in Hawaii, Cassidy and the others are dead and gone and for some reason Danny is here in his apartment and he should be worried about that.

He kind of loses track of time standing there under the water with his hands on the tiles, trying to focus on being here, and he's so tired that he could almost fall asleep on his feet, but the dreams are waiting...

Danny's hand on his shoulder jerks him back to full consciousness. "You need to get out now, Steve, wrinkled isn't a good look, babe."

Danny pulls him out, he's got a towel, a soft, clean towel so he must have gone through Steve's closet and he has no right... He wraps the towel around Steve, enveloping him and blotting the water from his skin, tugs his head down to tousle the water from his hair with a gentle touch and Steve knows he shouldn't be allowing this, should be protesting, but it feels so nice that he can't quite...

"Bed," Danny says, and yeah, here's the payoff, here's what Danny came for, what Danny wants, what they all want.

"No," he says, "Not here... I don't..."

That gets an eye roll and an impatient huff from Danny. "Seriously, Steven? You seriously think that's what I want, with you in... this state? Because I have to say, you flatter yourself, my friend..." His tone softens. "You need to sleep it off, babe. In your bed, which I, being a thoughtful, kind and genuinely caring human being with a modicum of domestic skills, have made up fresh for you..." He's propelling Steve towards the bedroom as he speaks, and Steve can't help himself, he just goes with it, it's more trouble to argue with Danny right now.

He stops short when he sees the bed. Danny's put clean sheets on it, turned it down and he's so fucking tired and his head hurts and he just wants to crawl into it and...

But if he does, if he closes his eyes and lets go... he's still too close, he's still only just here. If he lets go now they'll drag him back, the dreams will come, he'll hear Cassidy again—it's always Cassidy—screaming and screaming, and the blood... He closes his eyes and he can see it, feels himself starting to shake, feels his teeth starting to chatter, he can't fucking control it, he needs to stay awake...

"Steve," Danny's behind him, close, his voice concerned. "Steve, what is it?"

He turns, and Danny's right there, up against him. "Steve, what's wrong?"

"I... I can't," he says, and he can hear his own voice cracking, "If I go to sleep... the dreams..."

For a moment Danny hesitates, looking up at him and Steve's not sure what he sees in those blue eyes, not pity, something else, but then he steps in, slides his arms around Steve and holds him, one arm tight around his waist, the other high on his back, pulling him in snug against Danny's chest. "Shh, babe, it's alright, I've got you," and Danny's petting him, hand moving firm between his shoulder blades in warm circles, gentling him like a spooked animal. "I've got you, it's OK."

Steve can feel himself slipping, fights it for a second or two and then he can't help it anymore, doesn't want to help it, drops his head and buries his face in the angle between Danny's neck and shoulder, breath coming in a sob as he does so. Danny smells of detergent and cologne and Danny. His body is warm and solid, strong against Steve's, and he feels so fucking good, so fucking safe, no one's held him like this for so fucking long...

Danny holds him until he stops shaking, until the tears stop and his eyelids grow heavy, and then he pushes him down onto the bed and curls up around him, holding him tight.

Steve falls asleep and the dreams stay away.

*~*~*~*~*

"Why the fuck did you tell him where I live?"

Chin's face is impassive and he doesn't even miss a beat at Steve's outburst, just calmly finishes drying the glass he's holding, sets it down and picks up another one.

"Tell who?"

"Danny. My client. The cop."

Chin sets down the glass, picks up the next one. "I didn't tell him where you lived. He came in here looking for you. I told him you were ill and that you'd be back in a few days."

"So how the fuck did he know where to find me?"

Another glass down, another up. "He's a detective, brah. How d'you think he knew where to find you?"

Chin's hard to read, he works that Oriental inscrutability thing like a pro, but nevertheless Steve's sure there's more here.

"What exactly did you tell him, Chin?"

Chin sets the glass and cloth down on the counter and finally looks at him. "The truth. I told him you're a vet who was discharged on health grounds. A vet who has bad days because of something that happened to him in active service. A vet who could use a break."

Steve's not sure if what's rising up in his throat is panic or fury. "What fucking right do you have..."

Finally there's an expression on Chin's face, something fierce that looks like anger but isn't. He plants his palms flat on the counter and looks Steve straight in the eyes. "Danny's a good guy, Steve. He cares and he wants to help."

"He's a john. They all want the same thing."

There's a trace of sadness and pity in Chin's face now as he shakes his head. "No, Steve, they don't. They all want something, but what they want isn't always bad."

"He's a john, Chin. A client. He gets what he pays for, nothing more."

Now the fierce expression is back and yes, maybe a hint of anger. "Listen to me, Steve. I've been doing this job a long time and I've seen a lot of hookers and a lot of johns. And I can tell you this: Danny doesn’t belong here and neither do you. Like I said, Danny's a nice guy. He was just trying to help you. So I think you owe him better than this."

That’s when he swears at Chin and leaves, because what right does Chin have to say something like that? What the fuck does Chin know about anything anyway?

*~*~*~*~*

"I think you owe him better than this."

He can't get Chin's words out of his head. He owes Danny.

He thinks back to that morning, to waking up warm and safe in his own bed with Danny curled around him, still holding him and how it felt good, treacherously good, like something he could get used to and that's a dangerous thought. Danny's just a john, after all. But Danny was still fully dressed, hadn't tried anything, he'd been true to his word whatever his motives and maybe...

He can't afford to let his guard down. That way lies trouble.

Danny had slipped out of bed carefully so as not to disturb him, shirt and slacks creased and crumpled and hair all over the place and had made him coffee. Steve had let him, had lain there listening to the noise of Danny in his kitchen and let himself drift...

Dangerous.

The coffee was good. Danny had sat on the edge of the bed as he tasted it, watching him drink and the bitter taste had brought him back to his senses. He had to stop this right now.

"You need to leave, Danny."

Danny hadn't understood straight off, had shrugged and smiled. "Got nowhere to be, babe. Thought I'd make us some breakfast..."

"I said, you need to leave. I don't do clients here." He'd tried to make it as cold as he could, no nonsense and businesslike. Anything to get Danny out of there.

Hurt had flared in Danny's eyes then, hurt and a touch of shame, but his attitude had said anger as he stood up. "That's not what I came here for."

"No? So if you didn't come to fuck me, what are you doing here?"

There was definitely more than hurt there then words bitten out with barely concealed emotion. "I came because I thought I might be able to help you."

"I don't need your help."

"That's not what it looked like last night!"

He'd made his face as blank as he could. "Go, Danny. You know where to find me if you want to fuck me and how much it costs."

"Fine." Danny had grabbed his jacket. "If that's how you want it." He'd left; slamming the door behind him and Steve had locked it securely and told himself that it was best this way.

*~*~*~*~*

"I think you owe him better than this."

Steve's angry. He tells himself that he's angry at Chin, for saying things to Danny that he had no right to say and that he's angry at Danny for invading his space and taking over, for daring to pity him, for treating him like he was some project, some hard luck case that needed his help.

He's lying to himself, of course and he knows it. The person he's really angry with is himself. He'd been weak, he'd let Danny in; let his defenses down, let Danny hold him and it had felt so good... too good. He can't afford to let people in like that, it's too dangerous. If you let people get close then you become vulnerable. There's no place in his life for hostages of fortune, he's learnt the hard way that the only way to survive, to stay safe, is to be alone. To rely on no one, to have no one rely on you.

That way you can never let them down. Ask Cassidy.

The fact remains that, if he looks at it objectively, Chin's right. Not about what Danny wants, Steve's not fool enough to fall for that crap, but about how he owes Danny. Whatever Danny's motives, he did a good thing for Steve... so yeah, Steve owes him. Steve is indebted to him and that right there is a point of weakness and dangerous.

*~*~*~*~*

Finding Danny's address isn't difficult; Steve did intelligence work in the Navy, after all. The address is an apartment and there's no one else listed as living there, so far as Steve can find out, so he thinks that Danny probably lives alone. Which might just shed new light on why Danny's buying Steve's services. Danny's not getting something from Steve that a wife or partner won't give him; it's just possible that what Danny's getting from Steve is all he's getting. And really, that isn't something that should bother Steve at all.

He watches Danny's eyes go wide when he opens the door to him and hey, Steve knows he looks good. He knows what works, the ripped jeans and the tight white t-shirt that shows off his tattoos, he knows what his clients like and Danny's no different from any other john.

"Can I come in?"

It's encouraging to see that Danny has to swallow hard and collect himself before he pulls the door wide. "Uh, yeah, come on in."

The place is small and shabby, it makes Steve's apartment look like a palace. There's not room for much furniture; the bed's a pull out, rumpled and unmade, there's a small table next to the window with two plain wooden chairs pulled up to it, and the wardrobe consists of a rail with some shirts and pants hanging from it. A door to one side stands just far enough ajar for Steve to see that it's a tiny bathroom with a shower cubicle.

The place is a shithole. Danny can't be earning much, Steve thinks, if he's forced to live like this, so how the hell can he afford Steve?

There's a framed photo on the table, a young girl with brown hair and big, dark eyes, a couple of brightly-crayoned pictures are tacked haphazardly to one wall, and a half-naked Barbie lies under the pull out side by side with a small plastic dolphin. So Danny has a kid, although she clearly doesn't live here with him. Perhaps that's where all his money goes; child support or maybe alimony.

He's not here to figure out Danny's problems though, he's here to pay his debt, he needs to remember that.

"What d'you want?" Danny's voice interrupts his evaluation of the room, his tone guarded and suspicious. Fair enough, Steve can't blame him after the way he behaved this morning.

"I came to apologize." He sits down on the pull out, leans back on one arm so that he's looking up at Danny and tries to look contrite. "I was out of order this morning. You were trying to help me, I get that. I shouldn't have been so hard on you, I'm sorry. I owe you."

Danny shakes his head, still eyeing him uncertainly. "No you don't. Like I said, I just wanted to help… after what Chin told me…"

Steve's still not happy about that, suppresses a sharp stab of irritation at the thought of Chin and his meddling. But now's not the time for anger, he has a job to do here, business to take care of. "I do, Danny. I owe you and I'm here to pay my debt." He lets his legs fall apart, rubs his fingers lightly across his crotch and smiles and fuck, he knows what he looks like, knows that Danny sees it too by the way he starts to flush red and shifts uneasily on his feet.

Danny's stance is wary and uncomfortable and his tone a little shaky. "Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"

Steve widens his smile a little, licks his lips and drops his voice. "I'm suggesting you fuck me, Danny. Free of charge, just this once. I owe you, you fuck me and then we're quits. Or I could go on my knees for you." He drags his thumb across his lower lip. "I could suck you, you could fuck my face, I could wear the collar again if you like, it's your choice…"

That's getting to Danny right where it counts if the line of his pants is anything to go by and yeah, Steve knows how to handle this…

Danny's staring at him. He sees him swallow again, run a finger around his shirt collar. "Is that what you think I wanted? Is that really what you think I was after?"

Okay, so maybe Steve's going to have to take it up a notch. He slides off the pull out and goes onto his knees at Danny's feet, looking up at Danny through his lashes and reaching out to run his fingers teasingly across the bulge in the front of Danny's pants. "Don't you want to fuck me, Danny? I'll make it really good…"

Danny makes a noise in the back of his throat and sways on his feet, leaning in towards Steve, but then he jerks himself away abruptly, a couple of quick steps backwards taking him out of Steve's reach. He runs his hand through his hair, his eyes wide and his breathing sharp. "Of course I want to fuck you, haven't you seen yourself? Who in their right mind wouldn't want to fuck you? Jesus, I'd like to strip you naked and put you down on that bed and fuck you right now…"

"So why don't you, Danny?"

Danny sways again and he's clearly fighting with himself, clearly wants this, but then he squares his jaw and looks Steve straight in the eyes. "I want to, of course I do, but I'm not going to because it's not right!"

OK, this isn't working, Danny's not supposed to be resisting, he's supposed to be taking advantage just like any other john would, not suddenly growing a conscience. All of a sudden annoyance is sparking hot in Steve's gut again, because who the fuck is Danny to be passing judgment on him and what he does? He tries to push it down, tries to stay calm and focus on his goal, tries to keep his voice low and seductive and full of filthy promise, licks his lips again and gives it all he's got.

"Why not, Danny? I want you to fuck me, want you inside me, want to feel you all hot and hard filling me up…"

Danny's bright red now, but whether with anger or embarrassment Steve can't tell, but he's still not giving way and his voice sounds cracked but determined. "I'm not going to because it's not right!"

That's it, Steve's given it his best shot and it's still not working. He can no longer control the anger from welling up inside him, can't stop himself even though he knows he should, knows that Danny is a client and that you don't talk to clients this way. "What do you mean 'it's not right'?" He can hear his voice rising, can't help but spit the words out. "What's not right, Danny? The fact that people pay to fuck me? Or the fact that you've been paying to fuck me? Because you didn't seem to be too worried about that when you had your cock up my ass the other day!"

Danny's voice is ominously quiet and full of bottled-up tension. "I did some research, OK?"

"You what?"

"I did some research. On you. Don't look at me like that, I'm a detective, it's what I do, I find things out."

Steve's suddenly feeling dizzy. He doesn't believe what he's hearing. He pushes himself up off the floor and sits back on the pull out, hunching forward over his knees to stabilize himself and running his hand across his face. This is not going to plan. He looks up at Danny. "What do you mean you did some research on me?"

"I called in some favors. I know I shouldn't have, I know it's none of my business, but I wanted to help… I know what happened, Steve. I know what happened to you in Afghanistan, at least the stuff that's not classified and I know why they discharged you. And this… what you're doing now, how you're living… it's not right, OK? You deserve more!"

Steve pushes to his feet, panic and anger surging up in his gut. He wants to hit something, wants to hit Danny, can feel himself losing control because what right has he to judge Steve and Steve's life? What fucking right and he stalks the three steps across to where Danny's standing, gets right up in his space and it's all he can do to stop himself from smashing his fist into Danny's face… "You don't know anything about me and my life! You have no right…"

But Danny's not giving ground, looks furious rather than scared. "No right? No right to what, Steve? No right to care about what happens to you? No right to care that after everything you've done for your country you've ended up doing this, selling your body to pathetic losers like me so that you can pay for that prison cell you're living in? No right to care that the only person looking out for you is the barkeep at the club where you fuck your clients? Is that what I've got no right to care about?"

Steve's off balance now, Danny's supposed to be backing off but he's not, he's facing up to Steve like this is something that matters, like Steve is something that matters, and that's not something Steve knows how to handle, so he goes on the attack. "You seemed happy enough to fuck me, Danny, I think that shows how much you care!"

Now Danny does step back, just one pace, but he keeps his eyes locked on Steve's. "I know what I did. I'm not proud of myself. I was lonely and I was weak and you're…" He gestures at Steve, "You're gorgeous and I could have that… but it was wrong, I was wrong and I shouldn't have done it…"

So that's what this is about, Danny making himself feel better and yeah, he's right, he's a pathetic loser. It's not disappointment at that that Steve's feeling, no, not that, it has to be contempt. "I don't need your pity, Danny."

There's fire in Danny's eyes now and a set to his jaw that suggests defiance rather than shame. "It's not pity, Steve, can't you see that? It's not pity, it's respect. I know what you did and you deserve respect for that!"

Respect's not a word Steve's heard much of these last couple of years, whores don't command respect; they don't deserve it. What fucking right does Danny have to be making fun of Steve this way, like he's so high and mighty himself, like he can appease his conscience if he pretends this is all about Steve?

He feels the anger surge up inside him, can't stop it, knows that he's about to break, white light and white noise exploding inside his head. He has a moment of absolute terror as he struggles to keep control, but then it's too late. He's got his hands on Danny, he can feel the cotton of Danny's shirt rip as he twists his fists tight in the fabric, jerking Danny towards him, and he's going to make Danny pay. He's going to hurt him, he's going to destroy him, he's going to beat him to a pulp, he's going to kick all the bleeding heart, condescending, pathetic pity shit out of him and make sure that he never does anything like this to Steve ever again...

*~*~*~*~*

When he wakes up he's not immediately sure where he is; the light's coming from the wrong direction, and the mattress is, quite frankly, damned uncomfortable. It's disorienting; he never stays with clients, never risks the dreams coming when he's not alone, always goes to ground in his own place where he's safe, but he's not home now.

He lays still for a few moments, as his training dictates, assessing the situation, gathering intel before making a move, doing it by the book.

He's not alone in the bed, that much he can tell, he can feel a warm body next to him and can hear breathing that's not his own. Turning his head gently he gets glimpses a shock of blond hair on the pillow next to him, there's a guy lying next to him, face mashed into the pillow and as he watches the guy shifts, burrowing deeper into the pillow with a contented sigh.

It's Danny. He's in bed with Danny, his client, this must be Danny's place, he's spent the night with a john, he never does that, why would he do that, it's too dangerous... and then it all comes back to him in a rush.

He'd wanted to kill Danny, he remembers that. He'd wanted to crush him, to maim him, to feel his bones crunch under his fists for daring to pity him, daring to respect him. He'd wanted to make Danny answer for every john who'd ever fucked him, who'd ever put him on his knees and used him, who'd ever treated him like shit because they'd paid for it. He'd wanted to end him, to end it because it was all just too fucking hard, too fucking difficult to go on like this...

He'd tried. He'd gotten hold of Danny, but Danny hadn't been afraid of him. Danny had pushed back, Danny had matched him, solid and unyielding; immoveable object to his unstoppable force. All of a sudden the world had changed, everything turned around in one breathless moment and he was lost. One minute he'd wanted to kill Danny and the next he was kissing him, frantic and desperate and it was like he was in freefall, spinning out of control, tumbling helplessly and unable to stop himself. But Danny had caught him, caught him and held him tight, grounded him, anchored him and pulled him down onto the bed, strong but tender and oh so insistent.

"Let me," Danny had said, hands and mouth gentle on his skin. "Let me do this. Let me do this, for you, let me make it good for you," like he really wanted to, like it meant the world to him, like nothing else mattered.

And for one heart-stopping moment it had all made perfect sense, so Steve had let him.

Danny's out cold, sleeping the sleep of the dead. Steve slides sideways, cautious, not wanting to wake him and shifts to sit up on the side of the bed. He feels… strange, but not bad strange. He feels shaky and new strange, like he's someone else and he doesn't quite know what to do with himself. He could make coffee, he thinks, like Danny did for him the other day, maybe slip out and pick up some of those malasadas from the bakery down the street, they could eat them in bed and Danny could bitch about the crumbs and then Steve could pin him down and lick them from his skin…

His eyes fall on the photograph on the table. Danny's daughter.

That's what he'd forgotten. Danny's got a daughter, a family, people who love him. Danny's connected, complicated, comes with relationships and obligations and that's messy and dangerous. You let people in, you let people get close and then they get hurt because they're close to you and it's your fault and you have to live with that forever.

It's like a shock of cold water, he feels a sudden lurch of panic in his gut, a lump in his throat and he's struggling to breathe. What the fuck was he thinking, he needs to get out, he needs to go right now, before Danny wakes up, before he lets this go any further. He can't do this, can't have this, he needs to protect himself, he can't afford to be let himself become vulnerable. This should never have happened, he should never have let it happen and he curses himself for being a stupid, weak fool. People like him don't get to have this because everything they touch gets fucked up. The best thing he can do right now—the best thing he can do for Danny, too—is to get the fuck out of here and never come back.

He pulls on his jeans and T as quietly as he can, grabs his boots and socks and creeps across to the door on silent feet. Danny stirs as the door latch clicks open and Steve freezes, but Danny doesn't wake, he merely snuffles sleepily and settles back down. Steve closes the door gently behind him and crouches on the step to lace his boots, finding it easier to breathe now that he's out of the apartment. It's starting to rain, one of those sudden tropical showers, and he lifts his face to it, letting the warm water wash Danny's touch from his skin. He's got a client appointment later, one of his regulars, he needs to get home and get cleaned up, get his head back in the game, get things back under control and forget all about Danny Williams.

Straightening up, he gives himself a quick shake and heads out across the street, fighting the urge to look back. He's made a mistake, he can't change that, but he can make damn sure that it doesn't happen again. Time to focus and move on.

*~*~*~*~*

Six hours later he's got five missed calls and three unanswered messages on his phone, all from Danny. He's on his knees on a hotel bed with David's cock up his ass, and all he can think about is last night.

It sucks.

David's getting there, he's fucked Steve enough times for Steve to know that, to know his tells and how he moves. When his phone rings he doesn't stop, just slows his thrusts, twists to pick the cell up from the nightstand and accepts the call, and Steve hears him tell his wife that no, she's not interrupting anything, it's just an offsite visit, nothing important, that yes, he'll collect Katie from her after school play-date and yes, he'll pick up some groceries on his way home from work, of course he'll remember, he always does. As he tells his wife he loves her and hits the button to end the call he picks up the pace, slamming deep into Steve and he comes with a hard shove and a grunt as he tosses the cell phone down on the bed next to Steve's head with a muttered "Bitch".

All Steve can think about is Danny.

David pulls out of him, rough and careless, tosses the condom into the trash and gets off the bed. Steve doesn't look at him; he knows what's expected of him.

"Here." David tosses a wad of bills onto the bed and picks up his phone. The money will be all there, counted and correct, Steve knows that.

"Same time next Tuesday. And try and show a bit more enthusiasm, I'm not paying to fuck a hole, I'm paying to fuck you. Now get out, I've got business calls to make." And with that his attention's on his phone and Steve's dismissed.

Steve pulls on his clothes, stuffs the handful of bills into his pocket and gets the hell out of there, the words ringing in his ears. He's off his game and he knows it, couldn't keep Danny out of his head, couldn't pretend like he needs to to do his job.

Fuck Danny Williams and his bleeding heart.

*~*~*~*~*

It was all so simple before, he thinks. He took the money, he did his job and he might not have been exactly happy but he got by. Straightforward, simple and no one got hurt.

Fuck Danny and his fucking caring, complicating things, making it seem like maybe Steve has a choice, like maybe he could have more than this. Like maybe he might want more than this.

He looks around his apartment, at the bare white walls and the plain, serviceable furniture, at the bars on the windows and the way that everything is squared away just so, such a contrast with Danny's place, all rumpled sheets, dirty cups and pictures of his daughter. There's nothing personal here, no clutter or color, nothing that tells anything about the inhabitant. It's how he's made it, how he likes it and he ignores the little voice in his head that says that maybe, just maybe, the apartment reveals more about who he is than any cabinet of photographs and souvenirs could.

He knows it's only a matter of time before Danny comes knocking on his door, because Danny's not the sort of guy to let things go that easily. Sooner or later he's going to have to face Danny, because Danny's going to want answers. He's going to want to know why Steve ran this morning, why he's not taking his calls and what the hell is he going to say to him? That he doesn't want Danny, doesn't want this thing between them, wants Danny to fuck off and leave him alone? But when he faces the brutal truth, he knows that's a lie and he's pretty sure that Danny will know it's a lie, too. That Danny's better off without him, that everything he touches gets fucked up and ruined? That's the truth, but he's got a feeling that Danny's not the sort of guy to accept that secondhand. That Danny's got a family, a career, doesn't need the complications of getting involved with an ex-military head case with trust issues who earns his living sucking cock and getting fucked by strangers?

Yeah, he's pretty sure he knows what Danny's response to that one will be, too.

The thing is, he can't see why Danny would want him. He's such a fucking mess and it's only a matter of time until Danny realizes that and walks away.

Except that Danny already knows what he does, knows about his past, knows about the dreams, knows more about him than anyone does, except perhaps Chin. He can hear Chin's words in his head, "Danny's a good guy, Steve. He cares and he wants to help. He doesn't belong here and neither do you."

It was all so simple before, he had it all under control. Then he had a moment of weakness, he let Danny in and now everything's fucked up and complicated and he doesn't know what to do.

He has a choice, for the first time in forever maybe he has a choice and he doesn't know what to do about that. He's forgotten what it means to have a choice, he's forgotten how to choose and the thought exhilarates and terrifies and paralyzes him all at once. He grabs a bottle of tequila, not that liquor's going to help him any, he knows that and takes refuge on the couch, curls in on himself tightly and tries to think.

He has a choice and maybe, if he wants it, if he's prepared to take the risk, he has a chance. All he has to do is figure out what the hell it is that he actually wants.

*~*~*~*~*

It takes him three attempts to get to the door. Twice he walks on by, Danny's probably changed his mind, he probably won't want Steve now he's had time to think, but twice he forces himself to turn around, because he's not a coward, no, he's never been a coward and he's not about to start now. The third time's the charm, the third time he walks right up to the door, raises his hand and it's like he's on autopilot or like he's watching someone else from a long, long way away as the hand raps sharply on the faded paint and then it's done, just like that, no going back.

It seems like an age, like a lifetime and more until he hears movement inside, hears footsteps approaching, hears the rattle of the door lock, and then the door swings open and Danny's standing there. Danny, who's dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, who has tousled hair and bare feet. Danny, who right now looks like both the scariest and the most beautiful thing that Steve's ever seen.

Danny looks him up and down, a long, long look and Steve knows what he's seeing. He's seeing the scuffed boots, the cargo pants and the old, faded t-shirt. He's seeing the way Steve's fists are clenched at his sides, fingers flexing nervously because he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He's seeing the naked fear that Steve knows his face isn't hiding too well.

He's seeing Steve.

It's quite possibly the most frightening moment of Steve's life.

He drops his eyes from Danny's face, looks at his boots and shifts his weight. "Danny…" and it comes out small, so small and quiet, "Danny, I…".

"Shut up," Danny says fiercely, "Shut up and come here," and he's wrapping his arms around Steve, pulling him in, solid and tight, holding on to him as though he never plans on letting him go.

And really, Steve's good with that.