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@thekristen999 ‘s prompt: dizzy

This is a second chapter to Serious Left Hand Turn

Posted in a bit of haste, because the weekend is almost over, and who knows if or when I’ll have time to write . . . unedited, barely proof-read, and way longer than intended, but hopefully enjoyable nonetheless . . .

Danny missed out on a first-hand viewing of Steve and Harry’s rescue of Sophie; though from Sophie’s awestruck, wide-eyed glances at Steve, no doubt the two had been up to their usual insane, reckless feats.

Sophie wasn’t the only one casting glances in Steve’s direction. He had shut Danny’s protests down before the words were even formed, adding in a pointed look that was a combination of don’t-even-think-it and please. Danny would -- and usually did -- ignore the commanding glare, but he was -- as usual -- helpless against that pleading expression. He got the message loud and clear: the story Steve had given Harry was bad sushi, and they were sticking to it.

When everything was wrapped up as neatly as could be expected, under the circumstances, the offices were empty, save for Steve and Danny, and dark, save for the lights in Steve’s office and the soft glow emanating from the plasma screens.

“That was a day, hunh,” Danny said, following Steve as he wandered, uncharacteristically uncertain, into his own office.

Steve made some sort of noise of assent as he sank -- no, collapsed, Danny thought -- into his office chair. Danny made himself comfortable and sprawled on the sofa; too tired at the moment to muster the energy to shut down, lock up, and head out. A moment, he thought, to catch their collective breath and gather their thoughts.

Steve stared at his laptop for a moment and then closed it. “Screw it, whatever’s left can wait,” he said. “I’m ready to hit the rack.”

“Right behind you,” Danny said. They both chuckled at the obvious inertia which, despite their declarations, had them still slouched in the comfortable leather furniture.

Steve groaned and pushed himself out of the chair, long limbs unfolding less gracefully than usual. He started to say something, then stopped abruptly. He turned toward Danny, eyes wide in his ashen face, and grabbed at the desk for support. Danny launched himself in Steve’s direction, but not before Steve’s hands missed the desk by inches and he toppled, landing in a heap of tangled, cargo-pants clad limbs on the unforgiving floor.

“Steve!”

Danny was kneeling next to Steve in a flash, hands ghosting over the now-trembling shoulders, sliding against his too-warm next and head, checking for any obvious injuries. “Talk to me, babe,” he murmured. “Do I call for a bus?”

“No, n-no,” Steve managed. “Dizzy. Just dizzy. Gimme m’nute.” He curled in on himself, one arm covering his eyes in the crook of his elbow, the other hand scrambling for purchase on the glass-smooth tile.

“No one mentioned a blow to the head, so I’m assuming radiation sickness, right?” Danny asked quietly.

“Yeah,” Steve managed to grit out. “How’d y’know?”

“Dizziness, disorientation. Nausea. Vomiting. Diarrhea. Blood likely in both. Fatigue. Severe headaches. You tell me you have radiation poisoning, you think I don’t read up? You think I don’t sit up at night, worrying, reading about all the things that could go wrong? You think I was gonna just accept your superficial explanation, let you compartmentalize all this shit, push it down, try to ignore it, like you do everything else?”

“Stop talkin’,” Steve moaned quietly. “Hurts.”

“What do you need?” Danny asked, lowering his voice back to a murmur. He could do quiet, when he needed to.

“Room’spinnin’. Cold.”

“I can’t do too much for the vertigo, but I’ll get a blanket. Stay right there.”

He thought he saw Steve’s middle finger lift weakly, but he wasn’t sure. In his early days as a detective, he’d learned the value of keeping a pillow and blanket in his office. He went and got them, thinking fondly of all the times he’d ended up draping the blanket over Kono as she slept, long limbs sprawled impossibly over the small sofa in his office. She had a sofa in her office, too, but during rough cases, she inevitably ended up on his. The blanket still smelled faintly of her coconut and sandlewood shampoo.

Steve stirred, tried to lift his head as Danny returned and placed the blanket over him.

“Unh-unh, don’t try to move,” Danny said. “I got you.” He tucked the blanket around Steve’s shoulders -- his combat-booted feet would have to fend for themselves. He lifted Steve’s head carefully, slowly, and slipped the pillow underneath.

Steve let out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a whimper. “Hate this,” he whispered.

“I know,” Danny said.

“Sorry. You c’n go. ‘M fine.”

“Oh, yeah, you’re definitely fine. Can’t pick your head up off the floor. My guess is another round of puking is inevitable. Not gonna leave you here to aspirate, I’m not a schmuck.”

“G’ home.”

“I just said --”

“No. Me. Wanna g’home.”

“I know, babe, and as soon as you can lift your head up and, I don’t know -- you get the room spinning on one axis instead of two, or whatever, to where I can get you to the car, that’s where we’re gonna go. Unless you need me to call for a bus or take you to Queens, or -- Tripler, I guess, probably better equipped for this . . . “

Steve made a distinctly unhappy sound. “Home,” he muttered, with a remarkably stubborn strength for someone unable to open their eyes or move their head.

“Okay, okay . . . you just let me know when you think you’re ready to try getting your feet under you. I’m right here; not going anywhere. All right?”

Danny paced, feeling completely helpless. He’d always had Steve’s back, always would. Even when Steve had almost died, there was still something he could do to help, so he gave him part of his liver. It wasn’t like he even had to make a decision; there was no thought process involved. But this -- there was no back-up. There were no body parts to offer.

“S’op movin’,” Steve grumbled. “Makin’ me dizzy.”

“Oh, you’re able to criticize, that’s a step toward health.”

Steve mumbled something along the lines of fukkffff.

“I’m gonna go get you a ginger ale. When you’re able to sit up, you’ll need something. Ginger ale. And crackers. You want peanut -- you know, never mind, I’ll make an executive decision.”

Danny walked decisively out of the office, hoping that he was projecting some sort of control and calm that Steve would sense, huddled under a blanket in misery, covering his eyes. He reached the vending machines and fed a dollar bill into the canned drinks vending. The machine whirred and spit it back out at him.

He tried again.

And again.

The fourth time, he felt a promising tension, and about a quarter inch of the bill disappeared before the blasted machine changed its mind and spat it back out.

Danny pounded his fist on the machine in frustration. “Damn it, you fucking -- a ginger ale, that’s too much to ask? He doesn’t even get a fucking soda? He gives everything. He gives and he gives and the world just keeps taking. Is it too much to ask? A goddam soda, is that too much to ask now?” He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against his fist.

He opened his eyes, and the cheerful logos of Visa, Mastercard, and Discover filled his field of vision.

Oh yeah. The Five-O vending accepted credit cards.

He took a deep breath, shoved the crumpled dollar bill back into his wallet, and pulled out his Visa. A few whirrs and clicks later, a can of ginger ale landed with a satisfying thunk. He shrugged and pressed the button a second time. He repeated the process at the snack machine; one pack of peanut butter crackers and one pack of cheese. Taking a deep breath, he headed back toward Steve’s office.

*****

Seasick. He felt seasick. Except -- he didn’t get seasick. But from what he’d heard, this is probably about how it felt.

He’d never make fun of a seasick sailor again, not even privately. This wasn’t the first bout of dizziness he’d had . . . in fact, it was the dizziness and unrelenting headache that had prompted him to go to the doctor in the first place. He’d been worried about post-concussion syndrome, or maybe something hinky with Danny’s liver.

He should have expected radiation poisoning; seriously, his training, his experience -- this wasn’t his first exposure. Just his closest, his riskiest. The car battery had helped. Everyone at Tripler agreed on that -- he’d probably be dead, or dying, had he not rigged that up. He’d known the risks, going in -- that was why it absolutely had to be him, not Danny. Danny had to go home to Grace and Charlie. That was priority number one, no matter the mission.

Was it selfish of him that he wanted -- no, needed -- Danny to come home to him, as much as to Grace and Charlie? Maybe not to his literal home . . . although, midnight infomercials aside, he’d take that in a heartbeat. But Danny had to come out safe, no matter what. He wasn’t sure there was a point, otherwise.

He didn’t want to live in a world without Danny. It was that simple.

He heard the door of his office open slowly, quietly, and risked raising one eyelid to half-mast. A pair of loafers shuffled anxiously in his field of vision.

“Hey.” Danny half-whispered.

“Yeah.” Getting that much out was an effort, but it didn’t set fireworks off in his head, and the room didn’t spin in any extra directions, so he’d count that as progress. Time to test the waters. “He’p me up.”

“You’re sure?”

“No.”

Danny chuckled. “Okay. Sitting up, right? Not standing.”

“Yeah.” He heard the sound of something being placed on his desk, and then Danny’s hands were rubbing gently up his arms, slipping under his armpits, and he felt his upper body moving slowly, carefully. He braced a hand against the floor for leverage.

He expected to feel the solid wood of his desk at his back; instead, he felt the warm, almost equally solid muscle of Danny’s chest. He was too miserable to try to make sense of it.

“How we doin?” Danny’s voice was soft in his ear. “You gotta hurl, try to warn me.”

“S’okay s’far. I haven’t opened my eyes yet.”

“Give it a minute.”

Steve nodded carefully. Danny’s arms were wrapped loosely around his. It helped keep the world still.

“How you feeling otherwise?”

He was tired, just so tired, of hiding the shitstorm that seemed to be taking over his body.

“Head’s killin’ me,” he confessed.

“Nausea, still?”

“Lit’l. Not as bad. As before.” Which was true, he realized, so maybe he could risk opening his eyes.

The office tipped sideways. He was sure, for one disorienting moment, that everything -- the sofa, the credenza, Danny, himself -- was going to plummet into some unseen abyss. His hands scrabbled for purchase; one against the floor, the other against something warm --

“Whoa, whoa, steady,” Danny was murmuring. “I got ya. We’re not falling. I promise.”

Steve didn’t know if he’d said something out loud, or if Danny was just fluent in non-verbal panic. He didn’t care, because Danny had one arm more firmly wrapped around his shoulders, and the other hand covering his eyes, pressing his head back against his shoulder, his cheek against Steve’s temple. The room continued to spin beneath them, but it had stopped it’s alarming tilt. Just like Danny had said . . . what was it . . .

“Jus’ one axis.”

“What? Oh, yeah. Okay. Back to a two dimensional spin? Good. Don’t -- okay, keep your eyes closed, I’m gonna just reach up --”

Steve felt Danny shift, felt the absence of the hand against his head, and then heard the soft pop and hiss of a can being opened. A faint scent of ginger drifted into his awareness.

“Think you can manage a sip?” He felt the cool metal pressed against his lips. He tilted his head back a little, Danny moving the can in perfect sync. A trickle went across his tongue, tickling and fizzing, and then slid cooly down his throat. His temperamental stomach seemed to have no objections, and he suddenly felt desperately thirsty.

“Easy, easy,” Danny said, tilting the can back. “Not too much, too soon. It helps?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Not to trivialize your suffering, but my ass is killing me, sitting on this floor. Ready for me to try to get you up and to the car?”

Steve took a deep breath and opened his eyes again. The spinning sensation was still there, but it was manageable. Not so different from a garden variety concussion. That, he was used to.

“You good?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m going to prop you against the desk. If that goes well, I’ll haul your ass up and we’ll take it from there. I’m going to ask one more time: you sure you don’t want me to call for a fast ride to Tripler?”

“Home.” Steve leaned forward, bracing his arm against the floor, and felt Danny move out from behind him, leaving an unwelcome chill of air. Then Danny’s hands were easing him back against the desk, which thankfully didn’t feel like it was about to fall off the edge of a suddenly flat earth.

Danny held the two packages of crackers in Steve’s line of vision. “Peanut butter or cheese?”

“Peanut butter.”

Danny tore the wrapper open, then passed the package to Steve. “Nibble while I close down the office,” Danny said.

The cracker was salty and settled some of the churning in his stomach. He hazarded another sip of ginger ale. That seemed to work, too. With any luck, he’d stave off the next round of puking until he got home, and sent Danny on his way.

*****

His luck only held until the parking lot.

They’d made it to the curb in a sort of three-legged, awkward, lurching fashion. Steve had no choice but to lean heavily on Danny, lest the world tip sideways. At least the dizziness was something of a cover for how weak his legs felt. As they approached the Camaro, he felt the tell-tale pooling of saliva under his tongue.

“Gon’ hurl,” he managed, and Danny spun him toward the public trashcan at the end of the sidewalk. Danny kept one hand firmly at his waist, and placed the other gently between his shoulder blades, keeping up a litany of soothing nonsense as Steve’s stomach rejected the thankfully small bit of cracker and ginger ale.

Danny tsked his disapproval as Steve started to wipe his mouth on his sleeve. “Neanderthal,” he said, and intercepted Steve’s motion with a napkin.

“You got something you can take for this?” Danny asked. “Because you’re headed for dehydration at this point.”

“At home.”

“You should carry it with, ya know?” Danny started moving them toward the car again.

“No use, knocks me out,” Steve said. “Haft’a take it, may as well go home. Useless.”

Danny snorted and opened the passenger door. “You would not be useless even if you were in a coma. Your subconscious would probably solve a cold case, or something.”

It took all his effort to lift his leaden legs into the car, and he leaned his head back against the headrest, exhausted. He made a half-hearted effort to reach a hand toward the door.

“I got you,” Danny murmured.

He heard a crinkling sound, then the scent of peppermint was wafting toward him. Something pressed against his lip. Another peppermint. He accepted it with a sigh of relief, and Danny chuckled as he closed the door.

“Keep your eyes closed,” Danny ordered, sliding into the driver’s seat. “And I’ll try not to take the corners too fast.”

Steve didn’t remember drifting off, but he must have, because the Camaro was slowing to a stop, and when he opened his eyes, he saw his front porch.

“Thanks, Danny,” he sighed, and reached for the door. By the time he unfolded himself and got his trembling legs underneath him, Danny was there, his strong hands once again guiding and supporting him.

“I got it,” he protested.

“Look at you, you can barely stand on your own two feet.”

Steve realized he could not have navigated the front steps on his own power and sighed in resignation as Danny propped him against the siding and unlocked the front door.

“Okay, first,” Danny said, bundling him inside, “where’s the meds for the dizziness and the nausea?”

Steve looked at the stairs and groaned.

“Ah. Upstairs. Okay, let’s park you on the sofa, and I’ll run up after them. Where are they? Medicine cabinet?”

Steve shook his head. “Easier to just go up. Wanna go to bed.”

“Fair enough,” Danny said. “I can attest to the fact that sleeping on this sofa will do you no favors.” He hefted a bag on his shoulder, and Steve realized that he’d carried a go-bag in.

“Don’ need you to stay.”

Danny didn’t even favor that with a response, just push-pulled until they reached the landing. Steve paused a moment, gripping the railing, and Danny stopped with him.

“Almost there,” Danny murmured.

Steve nodded and managed to get one foot in front of the other until they were in the bedroom. He sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Thanks, meds are in the night-table drawer,” he said. “I got it from here.”

“You’re an idiot,” Danny said cheerfully. He tossed his bag on the foot of the bed, then opened the drawer.

“Don’t --” Steve protested, but Danny had already pulled the drawer open and was standing, uncharacteristically silent, staring at the neat rows of prescription bottles.

“Danny, I can --”

Danny held up a warning finger, grabbed the glass off the night-table, and went into the bathroom. Steve heard the tap running, then stop, and Danny was walking back toward him. He toed off his shoes, kicked them toward the end of the bed, and handed Steve the glass of water.

“Which ones do you need right now?” he asked, sitting down carefully next to Steve, running his fingers over the bottles.

“Um, Zofran,” Steve mumbled. Danny nodded, selecting the correct bottle and reading the lable. He took Steve’s hand gently in his own, and tilted a tablet into Steve’s palm.

He waited patiently as Steve popped the table into his mouth.

“You just let that one dissolve, right?” Danny asked. He put the cap back on the bottle and replaced it gently.

Steve nodded.

“Dizziness?”

Steve shook his head. “Has to wait. Can’t take them together. Doesn’t do much good, anyway. If m’stomach settles, m’not as dizzy. It’s okay, Danno, you can go, I’m just gon’ sleep.”

Danny raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Try t’sleep.”

Danny pointed to his go bag and sock feet. “Not going anywhere. Just stop.”

Steve stared morosely at the rows of prescription bottles. There was another reason he didn’t carry them to work -- it was bad enough that the evidence of his various failures taunted him every morning and night, but at least it was in the privacy of his own bedroom.

“Hey,” Danny said softly. He tucked a couple of fingers under Steve’s chin, tapping lightly. “Tell me what’s going on in that spinning head of yours.”

Steve gestured helplessly at the drawer. “This is my life now, Danny. Pills. A whole bunch of them to keep me from rejecting your liver, because I underestimated who we were up against on that case. A bunch more to deal with the shit-show that is radiation poisoning, because I didn’t think to . . . I dunno, I could’ve pulled a fender, maybe or . . . so now, I’ve got anti-nausea, antiemetic, I’ve got something for the runs . . . another one for constipation, depending on which drugs I take, it goes one way or another.”

Danny nodded. Aside from the anti-rejection meds, he recognized the names and purposes of the others. He pointed at a bottle labeled ibuprofen. “That’s what you’ve got for pain?”

“Anything stronger . . . risks the liver.”

Danny pointed to the next bottle in the line-up; one he didn’t recognize.

Steve pressed his lips together in a thin line. Pandora’s box had been opened now; whatever this spark was between him and Danny, whether he’d imagined it, or wished for it -- this would extinguish it, once and for all. He nodded to himself. Better to just do it, get it over with . . . like ripping off a band-aid.

“Mirtazipine. Anti-depressant. Turns out I need pills to get out of bed in the morning.”

Danny nodded again, ran his finger over the label of the next bottle. “Venlafaxine. We’re old friends. For panic. You should have this one on you, babe. Doesn’t help in this drawer.” He pointed at the next. “Metoprolol?”

“If my heart starts racing and I can’t stop it. Was never a problem before . . . my training, the combat breathing . . . but now . . .”

“What do you see, when you open this drawer, Steve?”

Before he could answer, the room took another spin. He grabbed at the edge of the mattress, missed, his hand wrapping around Danny’s knee instead.

“Easy, I gotcha.” Danny reached up a hand to support his head, and then stood, gently easing Steve down onto his pillow.

Steve gestured in the direction of the open drawer. “I see this, Danny. I see all the ways that I’m . . . broken. Useless.”

Danny made a humming sound as he unlaced Steve’s boots and pulled them off carefully. Steve closed his eyes and threw his arm over his face for good measure. The world didn’t spin quite as quickly in the dark. He was vaguely aware of Danny moving around the room, and then felt a cool, damp, washcloth against his cheek.

“That’s not what I see,” Danny said, as he gently worked around Steve’s arm, washing his face, pressing the blessedly cool cloth against his forehead. “I see anti-rejection meds to keep a section of transplanted liver healthy, because you’re the kind of friend that someone would gladly give an organ to. Without thinking twice.”

Steve felt the weight of his gun and badge lifted from his hip, heard them placed quietly on the night-table.

“I see medication that you need because you are the kind of brave, selfless person who risks his life, without hesitation, for the people of this island. For my children. For me. And you need the meds because you were brilliant enough to find a way to protect yourself from at least some of the radiation, so you are alive. You’re sick as fuck right now, but you’re alive, because you’re so scary smart.”

Danny’s clever fingers were working at the buttons of his cargos, now. This was not at all the way Steve had imagined it. He couldn’t lift his head, couldn’t find strength to even protest.

“I see prescriptions for depression and anxiety, because the universe has dumped more shit on you than any one person can be expected to handle. You’re strong enough to know that you need help, brave enough to ask for it. Wish you’d told me, babe, but I understand why you didn’t.”

He managed to lift his hips as Danny tugged on his cargos.

“Geez, I could have pulled them off without undoing the button. We need to do something about your appetite?”

“Nothing tastes good,” Steve heard himself say. His voice sounded pathetic and weak in his ears. “Doesn’t stay down.”

Danny muttered something about soup, and pancakes, as he unbuttoned Steve’s shirt. “Sit up just a little for me -- there we go.”

Steve shivered. Danny was right; he’d lost weight, and now, in just his boxer briefs and t-shirt, the air felt too cool on his skin. Deft hands rolled him gently, carefully, and then he was under the covers, the sheets soft and familiar against his skin. He heard the lamp on the opposite side of the bed click on; sensed the absence of the stronger overhead light. Danny was bustling around in the bathroom again.

“Here,” Danny said, holding out a toothbrush and cup. Steve accepted the items gratefully. He’d have crawled to the bathroom if it had come to that -- he’d done it before -- but this was better. So much better. He finished, and Danny disappeared into the bathroom again, this time grabbing his bag on the way.

Steve was unaccustomed to being shown this level of care . . . unaccustomed to needing it. It felt so good . . . too good. It was too good to last. He was torn between longing for the luxury of accepting it, just this once, and the self-protective instinct to order Danny away. He couldn’t afford to get used to this -- couldn’t afford to let himself need it. Hot tears stung against his closed eyelids.

He heard the drawer of his nightstand being closed quietly, and looked up to see Danny, hair mussed, wearing a pair of basketball shorts and an ancient Bon Jovi t-shirt. Danny’s fingers traced over the edge of the drawer.

“These aren’t failures, Steve,” he said. He pressed his hand against Steve’s cheek. “They represent victories. And sacrifices, yeah . . . but never failures. Got it?”

Steve nodded shakily and felt a tear escape. He brushed at it quickly --

But not quickly enough. Once again, Danny intercepted his motion. He thumbed the tear away gently. “That’s not a failure, either.”

Steve closed his eyes and nodded. They flew open again when he felt the bed dip next to him.

“Danny, what -- “

“You think I’m gonna just leave you here, not able to walk in a straight line, liable to puke and keel over, end up with aspiration pneumonia?” He slid under the covers, reaching up and turning off the lamp. The room was bathed in the softest of moonlight.

The dark was comforting; it made his head pound just a little less. Just enough to realize this couldn’t happen.

“Danny,” he choked out, trying and failing to keep his voice even. “Danny, you have to go.”

Danny went tense and still. “You don’t want me here.”

God, nothing could be further from the truth. Steve pulled on the rapidly unraveling threads of his resolve. “I can’t need you like this. I can’t let myself . . . I don’t think I’ll be able to handle it when you leave.”

Steve felt strong, callused fingers brush against his cheek.

“What if I didn’t plan to leave?”

He turned on his side, trying to make out Danny’s face in the faint light.

“Danny . . . what --”

“Maybe I read things wrong but . . . I’ve had the feeling I wasn’t alone in this. Come on, Steve, we’ve been sidestepping around this for years. Just when I’d get up enough nerve . . . “

“Danny,” Steve whispered. Maybe he was hallucinating. He poked Danny, hard, in the shoulder.

“Ow,” Danny protested, indignant.

It sure sounded like the real Danny.

“But then, this thing happened . . . you got radiation poisoning and I got scared. Scared that . . . I’d never risk it, never find out if . . . if all those “I love yous” really meant what I wanted them to mean.”

“Yeah. I mean, yeah, it does. They do.” Steve wasn’t making any sense, but Danny could usually read him without words, anyway.

“Come’ere, you goof,” Danny grumbled. He scooted closer, pulled Steve closer to him, manhandled him until Steve’s head was resting on his chest, Danny’s heart thump-thumping a comforting cadence in his ear.

Danny’s strong fingers rubbed against Steve’s temple, the back of his neck.

“This help?” Danny whispered.

“God, yes,” Steve sighed. He cautiously threw an arm over Danny’s waist; tangled his ankle with Danny’s. “This . . . this okay?”

He heard the rumble of Danny’s chuckle. “This is great. Not how I imagined our first time in bed . . . gotta say . . . “

“Yeah, sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Danny murmured. “I should have known I would need to be the one to make the first move . . . DADT and all that. Shouldn’t have waited until you getting sick scared some sense into me. But I’m here now, and I’m here for whatever happens. You don’t want the team to know all the gory details, I get that. But you don’t go through this alone, not any more.”

Steve nodded, his stubble rubbing against the softer hair on Danny’s chest.

“There’s, ah, one prescription I didn’t ask you about.”

Steve snorted. “Figured you were being polite.”

“I was. Now I’m being curious.”

“They sent me home with Viagra, because it’s sometimes . . . helpful. Necessary. For transplant patients. Not to mention being on anti-depressants.”

Danny’s fingers were now tracing absently over Steve’s shoulder, across his biceps, as if, given permission to touch, they’d taken on a life of their own.

“I haven’t needed it,” Steve mumbled. “Seems that, at least, functions as usual.” The nausea was abating, the exhaustion taking over, and combined with Danny’s soothing touch, the pull of sleep was inexorable.

“Oh.” Danny paused a long beat, his fingers stilling. “I, ah . . . I didn’t think you’d been seeing anyone.”

“Haven’t.”

“Oh.” Another beat. “Oh! Okay. Good to know.”

“When . . . when --” Steve interrupted himself with a jaw-cracking yawn. “When I’m not, you know, puking or dizzy or keeling over . . . when I’m having a good day . . . “

“Shh,” Danny said, his fingers resuming their wonderful exploration of Steve’s collarbone. “A good day will be something to look forward to. In the meantime . . . I’m not going anywhere. Hey. How’s the nausea now?”

“Better.”

“Dizzy?”

Steve thought about that for a moment. He felt anchored, secure. The room wasn’t spinning; it was quiet, and dark. Danny filled his senses; his skin beneath his cheek, his hand . . . the scent of his aftershave . . . the sound of his heart. He felt a sudden, overwhelming rush of joy.

Positively dizzying joy . . .

“Yeah.”

Danny held him closer.

Steve didn’t bother to tell him that his head was spinning in a whole different way, for the best reason possible. He just held on tighter, too.