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So Steve's got this shirt.

And that, right there, first thing, right off the bat--Danny should not be thinking about McGarrett's shirts, given the amount of time he spends without one. It's like he's allergic to clothing, the way he sheds it at the drop of a hat, rushing into situations half cocked with his chest bared like he's George of the fucking Jungle, like he's a modern day goddamn Tarzan. It drives Danny nuts, every day, all the time, and he's even worse in the bedroom department; Danny so much as hints at sex and he's got himself a naked Steve, smirking like he knows how good he looks.

Which, yeah, okay, he probably does, Danny's not exactly shy about telling him in the heat of the moment, but Steve's well endowed with capable hands, it's not like Danny can help himself.

But, right, look, the point is that if Danny's going to spend time fixating on any part of the whole McGarrett wardrobe, it should be the lack of one. That's only logical, it's only fair, but instead Danny's got a...crush, that's what it is. It's a crush on Steve's favorite t-shirt.

It's just that it's soft, that's how it starts, Danny goes to peel it off of him one night and it feels good under his hands. It's warmed by McGarrett's skin, heather gray, feels beaten thin in that way that reminds Danny simultaneously of being a kid and brand-new adult; it's a stupidly comfortable t-shirt, he can tell just by touching it, and that's not fair at all.

"I am not letting you have this shirt back," he says. "You do not deserve a shirt this soft, with all the shit you put me through."

"Could you just shut up and take it off?" Steve gasps, and yeah, okay, that's a better plan, Danny goes with that.

He means to take it later, steal it, something, but he doesn't, he keeps forgetting, and now it's got him doing...things. Things like rubbing his cheek against it, letting his stubble catch on it a little, while they're watching TV; things like tangling his fingers in the sleeve and holding on while Steve drives. It's just a shirt, but Danny's attached, it's a problem, but whatever, he'll deal.

Only the thing is that he won't--the thing is that it's not about the stupid comfortable t-shirt, it's about stupid comfortable McGarrett, staring at Danny with his whole heart in his goddamn SEAL eyes. It's about the way he slides a hand into Danny's hair when they're watching TV, the way he smiles like a sappy, crazy asshole when Danny grabs his sleeve in the car. And Danny's pretty fucked, right, that this is his life now, that he's gone and hitched his wagon to the biggest lunatic around, but maybe it's not so bad. At least it's soft.

"Hey," Steve says, "you want to fall asleep on the couch, fine, but if you bitch about your back tomorrow you're not getting any sympathy."

"Yeah, babe, you got it," Danny slurs, mostly out already, and more or less stops thinking about anything at all, especially McGarrett and his goddamn clothes. He rubs his face against the soft fabric again, though; just the once, just because.

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