Surprise!
c o m e a w a y l i t t l e l a m b c o m e a w a y t o t h e w a t e r .
“Doubts?” Steve murmured with his voice still soft from sleep. He stretched with a purring sigh as he turned gently on bed, facing Danny. “If you-“
“No,” Danny answered quickly, looking at Steve with assuring smile. “It’s strange, but not even one.”
“Good,” Steve smiled lazily, coming closer and plastering himself to Danny’s side. When he found with his lips the other man’s ones, he whispered, “Because we’re gonna do a play-off.”
I don’t know how many of you have seen Alex’s interview on Ellen, but at one point a picture of Lion popped up, and he exclaimed, “that’s my baby!” He was so adorably delighted that I promptly fell to the floor, awash with feelings. That’s how this came to be - it’s just a silly simple little thing, where Steve and Danny have a son.
-
Danny’s coasting on a generally chipper mood. It’s been a quiet fortnight, not much in the way of explosions or maimings - and, really, the standards that he lives his life by these days, oy vey.
The quiet has come at a cost, mind you. Steve’s been away for the last thirteen days, training god-knows-who to do god-knows-what. It’s not a cost that Danny likes to pay, truth be told, and he’s rather looking forward to having three heartbeats back under the one roof.
For now, he tries to focus on the good, of which there is plenty: it’s quittin’ time on a Friday evening, there’s a gentle breeze rustling the paperwork, Steve’s due back soon, and Alika is currently scurrying between his feet, seeking sanctuary from Kono’s clutches.
Doodling & waiting for the dl to finish.
This has been in my head since I first saw Alex’s haircut :3
AMEN
Beware weird sentences and ridiculously goofy Steve. You’ll see. *jazz hands*
-
Steve wakes up to golden light, the feel of fingers poking between his ribs, and Danny’s big blue eyes flooding his field of vision. He blinks, dazed, a little blinded by so much floppy blond hair all up in his personal space.
“Um.” Smacking a hand to his face, he scrubs roughly over stubble before scruffing his hair this way and that.
Alright. It’s not his finest moment, but he’s six months deep into Operation: Stop Waking Up So Fucking Early, It’s A Sunday, You Complete Dickbag. Oh, how he’d argued for something with a cool acronym, but Danny had dug his heels in.
Whatever it’s called, it’s an op at heart. Spreadsheets, a laser pointer, talk of incremental objectives and realistic time-frames – all had been employed without mercy.
The point is, he’s just starting to get the hang of this ‘sleeping in’ thing. He feels lost, maybe even a little dopey, and all he wants is to roll over and catch a few more zees. Possibly turn on the puppy-dog eyes and earn himself a sleepy orgasm.
Alas, it is not to be.
“You need to feed me now.”
Steve can feel Danny’s chin move as he talks, pillowed on his chest as though he belongs there. Which, okay, he does, and Steve kind of loves that fact a whole hell of a lot - but it’s not the issue at hand.
So. Maybe he mewls a little, maybe he doesn’t. He’d never tell.
“Mmmmnoooo,” Steve mewls. Oh well.
“French toast, please,” Danny steam-rolls on, paying Steve’s protests no mind. The ‘please’ is the product of being a father, but it’s quite clear that there’s no room for argument.
Steve stops caring about how much he loves having Danny spread over his chest. He stops caring about the little thrill he gets from coming home with someone - coming home to someone. Screw Danny, he thinks with a mental shake of his fist. Danny is a horrible person who wakes people up when they’re sleeping, and fuck off, Hell Week was years ago.
When blunt fingers resume their poking, Steve surges up, rolling Danny under him and kissing whatever patches of skin he can find. “You’re a demanding shit,” he grumbles, trying not to laugh when Danny’s whole face lights up with happiness. “I didn’t realize when I started sleeping with you that I’d end up with a needy puppy.”
“Please,” Danny scoffs. “I can get away with it.” His pale nose, dusted with a faint blush of freckles, wrinkles adorably.
Steve feels himself cave in slow-motion, his belly swooping when Danny threads their finger together, guides their knuckles up for a kiss.
“Scrambled eggs,” he protests around the angle of his own thumb, clinging to his last shred of resistance. When Danny looks like he’s gearing up to argue, Steve maybe, accidentally, elbows him in the groin. “Scrambled eggs, and you’ll like them,” he says, even as Danny bitches beneath him, all why you gotta do that, asshole, don’t damage the goods, you’re the one who likes to randomly grab my dick in the kitchen.
Which is, of course, how Steve finds himself making French toast ten minutes later. But Danny’s perched on the bench, swinging his legs and looking at him like he hung the moon – only when he thinks Steve’s not watching, of course.
So in the end, it’s worth it.
