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Entry tags:
Ripped and Ready, H5-0, Steve/Catherine, NC-17
Title: Ripped and Ready
Fandom: Hawaii Five-0
Pairing: Steve/Catherine
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not mine
Notes/Warnings: So,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
leupagus was giving out prompts the other day, and I asked for a couple and she came back with Steve and Catherine's first hook-up, which sounded like fun for a comment fic. 4000 words later, here we are. =) Thanks to withdiamonds for reading it when I couldn't decide if I was going the right way or not.
Also posted to AO3, here
It's not that Catherine doesn't like the men (almost entirely men, the women who make it through Intel Ops Basic School at Dam Neck are few and far between) she works with--she does. They're incredibly smart and dedicated and hard-working, and they almost all treat her with respect and accord her the courtesy of assuming she's equally intelligent, dedicated, and hard-working. It's just that, well, when you get right down to it, they're analysts, desk jockeys, and that's really never done it for her personally.
As her suite-mates in college used to say, Cat likes them ripped and ready.
She doesn't, however, have much patience for--in trying to be charitable, she'll usually end up using the semi-polite euphemism of "less than standard intelligence." Or if it's late, and she's had a few, it's that she likes them with more rocks in their head than between their legs.
It definitely limits her options, at least until she gets assigned to a team that's trying to get a lock on satellite transmissions coming from the Balkans, ones that are tied to a weapons dealing branch of the Russian mafia, and Lieutenant Steven J. McGarrett, TDY from SEAL Team Three blows into her life.
Not stupid, not a desk jockey, most definitely ripped and ready. Also, cocky, mouthy, and thoroughly convinced of his own irresistibility, but Catherine can work with that.
She keeps it strictly business at first, because it is a sweet assignment for a newly-minted j.g. like herself, a nod that she's been fast-tracked; and she doesn't intend to put it at risk for anyone, no matter how well he wears his winter blues or how quickly he adapts to intelligence work. She does find it interesting that while NAVINTEL-San Diego is like a small town--full of gossip and everybody knowing everybody else's business--she never hears anything about him. There are no stories of him leaving the O Club a little worse for wear, no news of extracurricular visits to any of the city's plethora of exotic dancers, nothing but the report that he is ferocious on the paintball field--about which Catherine can't help but think, duh?--and that every flag football team at NAS North Island is fighting to get their hands on him, even if his temporary assignment means he could be gone with no notice and leave them screwed in the hunt for the base championship.
Catherine can add in that he swims very well--again, no duh. She sees him every morning in the natatorium, and it doesn't entirely escape her notice that as good of a swimmer as she is, he's doing two laps for every one of hers.
It only irritates her a little.
She gets past it, though, because after the first week, they're nodding hello to each other as they pass on the side of the pool, and by the second he's holding the door for her--completely unselfconsciously, she notes--on the way out. During the third week, he takes to stopping at her desk to make little jokes about the other early-morning regulars, and at the end of the fourth, while they're sitting on the edge of the pool after their cool-down laps, she doesn't feel the slightest bit skeevy about nodding at the ink on his shoulders and asking where he'd gotten it done.
"Subic Bay." He looks down at the lotus on his left shoulder and adds, "I had plans for more, but my team got yanked out."
"Interesting," Catherine says. "Especially since I'm pretty sure the Navy's been out of the Philippines since before you were even at the Academy."
"Officially," Steve tells her, with one of his grins.
"Oh, officially, right. How silly of me. I must have missed that in my daily briefings."
"Nah," Steve says. "Everything unofficial is on a need-to-know basis."
"Really." Catherine rolls her eyes. "I'm surprised it's not Eyes Only."
"Not that trip," he says, standing up and offering her a hand up. "Maybe this one, though." He shrugs and heads off toward the locker room with another smile, and all she can do is shake her head.
She'd be ready to take it further, and she doesn't have any doubts he'd be on board with the idea, too, but the project sucks them both in; it's top priority, screaming hot, and they're not finding shit. Every time they think they have a fix on a location, the signature disappears and they have to start scanning all over again. In desperation, Catherine puts together a plot of everything they've ever seen, even once, with the various levels of frequencies in overlays that they can manipulate in an attempt to find a pattern in the signatures. It's tedious and frustrating and a complete time-suck to maintain, but she can't think of anything else to do.
It's pissing her off that she can't find what she knows has to be there, to the point that she's dreaming about the bloody thing. It doesn't help that the Santa Ana's are blowing hot and dry, putting everybody on a hair-trigger, but she doesn't actually lose her grip until Steve makes some fucking awful joke about how he'd hate to see her if it was her ass out there on the line instead of his. He doesn't mean it the way it comes out, she can see that, but it really doesn't matter. She sucks in a deep breath, and ignores him and the sudden silence around them, pushing back from the computer and carefully, carefully lining up all the papers piled on her desk, all nice and neat (and fucking useless, her brain reminds her.) She manages to nod once when Commander Moore calls it a night, telling everybody they'll start fresh in the morning.
She gets out of the building and off-base without anyone catching up to her, and decides that she'd better go home and get out of her uniform because the only reasonable plan for the night is going out and getting completely shit-faced. She throws in a shower, on the principle that a fresh start can't hurt, and leaves a note for her roommate before she calls a cab and heads down to the waterfront. A dive bar would definitely fit her mood better, but she doesn't need to deal with fending off the sleazes who won't take no for an answer. At least the ones hanging out in a tourist hotel will be pussies and back off if she gets nasty.
The place ends up in is packed--lots of vacationing tour groups and business travelers--but she manages to grab a seat at the bar, and after she orders her second shot of tequila in ten minutes, the bartender, a tall blonde surfer girl, says, "Make you a deal: you drink something that's not rotgut, and I'll keep the douchebags away from you."
"What exactly is in that deal for you?" Catherine asks.
"Pricier booze, a bigger tip, but mostly a higher chance of you not puking in my bathroom," Surfer Girl says, and hell, Catherine can agree with that. Her phone rings when she's three sips into the very excellent Mescal that they've agreed upon; it's an on-base number, one that she doesn't recognize, and she has no qualms about sending it straight to voicemail.
Surfer Girl keeps up her end of the bargain; Catherine's glass is never empty, and nobody even comes close to her, at least not until she comes back from the ladies' room to find Surfer Girl with a pissed-off expression on her face and Steve-Fucking-McGarrett on the bar stool next to the one Catherine's claimed for her own.
"Even if I'd wanted a drinking partner, Lieutenant," she says, sliding onto her seat. "It sure as hell wouldn't have been you."
"I can call security," Surfer Girl says, with narrowed eyes, and Catherine has to admit she's lucked out in the got-your-back category tonight, if nothing else. "Or the cops."
"I'll let you know," Catherine answers, then turns back to her own personal bane and asks, "How'd you find me?"
"Triangulated the GPS on your cell phone when you sent my call to voicemail," he says, shrugging.
"Jesus, McGarrett, like that's not creepy." Catherine takes a quick hit from the glass Surfer Girl (she really needs to find out a name, it's disrespectful not to know who's treating her so well) has topped off for her. "Not to mention ten kinds of illegal."
"I needed to talk to you." He shrugs again, and waits until she puts the glass down. "I'm sorry," he says, finally, with that goddamned sincere face, the one that Catherine is sure has served him well all over the world, but is doing nothing for her tonight but getting on her nerves.
"No," she answers, not caring how short she sounds. "No, you were absolutely right--it's not my ass that's on the line."
"I didn't mean for it to come out the way that it did," Steve says, moving the glass out of reach and leaning into her a little closer. "I didn't mean that what you do isn't of value."
"Oh, yes, please, let's add condescending to this day," Catherine sighs. "Could you get any mor--?"
"Cath," he says, in a low voice that shuts her up. "I've dropped with bad intel. I know exactly how much it's worth." He gets quiet for a couple of seconds. "I just meant that even when we go in and everything is right where you said it was going to be--it can still all go to hell in a heartbeat." For a second, she can see the truth of it in his eyes, but then he blinks and they're back to colleagues. He's serious when he adds, "Mogadishu was dead-solid perfect intel," but it's not personal.
"The worst part is not knowing," she says, after a few seconds. "I go to work and run scans and correlate data and write reports and -- nothing. I have no idea if what I might have filed is sending someone out or making it so they don't go or--even being read, really."
"Trust me, Rollins, if we're even thinking about going in, we are looking at everything we can find, everything you can give us." Catherine nods, back on a somewhat even keel and reaches for her glass again. Steve puts his hand on hers. "Look, let me buy you dinner? Someplace--not here?" he adds, glancing around at the getting-ever-tackier crowd.
Catherine hesitates. It's really not a good idea, not after everything--especially not after four tequilas, no matter how smoothly they'd gone down. It's been a hell of a day, though; and the only thing that's waiting for her is another round with Surfer Girl or bad movies with her roommate. Steve waits for her to make up her mind, no impatience, no super charm, no game at all, and that--that actually ends up sealing the deal.
"Sure," she says, and she absolutely is not charmed by the crooked smile she gets in return. Not, not, not, she tells herself as she catches Surfer Girl's eye and signals for her check. "I can pay for my own booze, McGarrett," she says, as he reaches for it.
"Absolutely, Lieutenant," he says, holding up his hands in mock-surrender.
She ends up leaving double the tab, making up for never catching Surfer Girl's name with cash, which is crass, but probably not unappreciated, even if the bar is packed and not showing any signs of slacking off. It takes them a while to work their way out of the room, Steve close in next to her, weaving them around the knots of people, his hand warm and strong on the small of her back. After the second time they come to a dead stop for a mini-drama playing out in front of them and he doesn't move it, Catherine gives up, and stops trying to ignore it.
She glances back at him while the all-important issue of who the young lady in question is going to dance with--the bad boy or the investment banker--is decided and smiles when he leans down to murmur, "My money's on the suit."
"Well," Catherine says, as the guy in the suit does indeed win the day, or at least the dance. "It's good to know you're not entirely wasting all that training in observation and analysis you've been going through."
She listens to herself and decides she's managed to not give away exactly how much she likes him bending down to talk to only her, or how much she likes it when his smiles reach his eyes. He'd showered and changed before he came looking for her; out of uniform, he doesn't look much like the golden boy of the Academy, especially with the tattoos on his arms showing below the short sleeves of his t-shirt. That's another thing she decides likes: knowing the whole of the designs, even if it's only because of a tame reason like working out together.
They make it out to the lobby, finally, and the sudden drop in noise is bliss, even before she adds in the cooler temperature. Catherine pulls her hair back and up, looping it through itself in a messy knot that at least gets the weight of it off the back of her neck.
"What?" she says, at the look on Steve's face.
"Nothing," he answers. "I just--I'm not used to it down. You always have it up when I see you."
"Regs, frogman," Catherine says. "Some of us don't get to play by SEAL rules." His hair is actually pretty short--some of the Special Forces guys she's known have gone all out, taking full advantage of the need to not look military when they run an op. "I should just go ahead and cut it, but I always find a reason not to do it, so…"
"It always looks good," Steve says, again with the sincere face. He reaches out and tucks one recalcitrant piece back behind her ear and that's--good grief, she's decked guys for less. It's so not a good sign that all she does is lean into him, even if it's only a tiny bit. He notices--of course he notices, she thinks with an inward sigh. He couldn't just be a normal oblivious guy. He doesn't do anything, though, only takes his hand back, and tucks it in his pocket.
"What…" He stops and clears his throat, and really, Catherine thinks, noticing how his eyes keep skittering away from hers. They're both overthinking idiots. "What do you feel like for dinner?" he asks. "We're right in the middle of tourist hell, but we can go up to La Jolla if you want, or…"
"Steve." Catherine puts her hand on his arm, right over the lotus tattoo, and his voice trails off.
"Room service," she says, meeting his eyes squarely, and smirking a little when she sees that she's honest-to-God surprised him.
"Cath," he says, very quietly. "You've had--"
"Don't," Catherine says, just as quietly. "Yes or no, but don't tell me I've had too much to drink."
"Yes," Steve says, almost before she finishes. "Yes." He looks down at where she's still got her hand on his arm, and then back up at her eyes and she doesn't see anything but yes there, too.
"I like your answer, Lieutenant," Catherine says, and steps back to let him get past her to the front desk. "You want to do something about it?"
"I like your hair the way you had it before, Rollins," he says, grinning back over his shoulder. "You want to do something about that?"
Catherine's tempted to ignore him, because he's far too accustomed to getting his own way, but then the practical part of her brain points out that if she liked it when he barely touched her hair, she'd be an idiot not to maximize the potential.
"Fine, whatever," she mutters to herself. "Win-win scenario." She watches him at the front desk and works the knot loose, using her fingers to comb out the tangles as best she can. It takes him a little while, but when he turns to come back to her, nothing has changed, not from the way he doesn't look away from her for a second.
"Success?" she asks, as he slides his arm around her, his hand settling on her lower back again like it belongs there, and steering her toward the elevators.
"I'd qualify it as a win," he says, again in that private voice that she likes so much. "Tenth floor. King-sized bed." The elevator that arrives is crowded but neither one of them hesitate to step on. He keeps his hand on her back; Catherine lets herself lean into it as they ride up.
"Water view?" she asks, when they've left the elevator behind, and it's only them walking down the hall.
"Of course." He slants a look down at her, one that's so incredibly smug, she can't help laughing.
"Oh, my God, you are so pleased with yourself, aren't you?"
"Very," Steve says, and she'd have something more to say about the smirk, but he's keyed open the door and they barely make it in the room before he's got her up against the wall and she doesn't have to keep her hands to herself.
He kisses like he does everything else, with an assurance that's almost reckless, and no distractions allowed, nothing slow or questioning or exploring about it, just his mouth on hers, strong and hard, no hint that he doesn't expect her to be right there with him. It's every bit as good as she thought it would be, better maybe, especially once he gets his hands in her hair, twisting it around his fingers and holding on, not tightening them until she mouths along his neck, her teeth grazing the strong tendon there.
"Oh, yeah, yeah," he says on an exhale that sounds close to a groan, and if he likes the bare scrape of her teeth, he fucking loves getting bitten. Catherine can so live with the low almost-growls that follow every bite; and she's got nothing against the way he manhandles her t-shirt up and over her head to return the favor. He doesn't stop at her neck, just keeps going, laying quick stings over her shoulders and arms, along the curve of her breasts, taking turns with her nipples, every bite exactly hard enough to wring a gasp out of her, each one layering on top of the next until it doesn't take anything but the hot whisper of his breath on her skin to make her arch up into him.
"Bed," Catherine pants, digging her nails into his shoulders, down his back. "Now, Steve."
"Yes, ma'am," he answers, spinning her off the wall and backing her across the room with another one of the cocky grins. Catherine decides they're not nearly so annoying when he sounds as breathless as he does now. They're practically endearing when they come with a mattress under her back and a shirt that she can drag off over his head.
"Come on," she says, working at the button on her jeans with fingers that are so uncoordinated she's beginning to think she's lost a terminal number of brain cells. She gets it finally, and shoves everything off her hips, squirming to get them off completely and leaning up on an elbow to see where the hell the other half of the equation has disappeared to. Steve looks up from where he's sitting on the floor in front of her, half-naked and sweaty and--
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Catherine says, dropping back flat on the bed. "Boots? You wore boots to come hunt me down in the urban jungle?"
"What did you expect?" he snaps back. "Flip-flops?"
"I don't care," Catherine hisses. "Just … deal with it." The …and come fuck me is unspoken, but just in case he isn't on the same frequency, she bends one knee and pulls a foot up flat on the bed so he gets a good view when she gets a hand between her legs. She's already wet and slick; it takes practically no effort to slide two fingers inside and fuck herself with them.
"Jesus, Cath," Steve groans, coming up off the floor in a lunge, boots forgotten and cargoes half-ripped open. She manages two more strokes while he deals with the condom he's materialized from somwhere and then he's yanked her hand away and pinned it over her head. She arches up into him as he holds there, goddamned tease that he is, twisting and writhing until he's finally, finally fucking into her and everything she's planned on calling him disintegrates into a choked-off, wordless noise that she barely recognizes as her own voice.
Steve moves fast, leaning over her on one arm, fucking her rough and hard and deep and never once looking away from her. It's crazy-good, especially when she'd have taken any bet that he'd be the kind who needed to be smooth and in-control at all times. She gets one leg around him and runs her hands over any part of him she can reach, digging her nails in and marking him up whenever she can, pushing him, pushing him.
"Come on, baby, come on," Catherine says, not letting him slow down when he makes like he wants to draw it out. That's good, she appreciates the thought, but it's not what she wants, not now that she's got him like this, now that he's got her like this. He listens to her, going back to hard and fast, and she holds on for the ride, words falling out of her mouth, give it to me, let me see it, fuck me, urging him on until he comes, ragged half-growl fading into a shuddering gasp.
Before Catherine can even start to catch her own breath, before the heartbeat she can feel pounding against where he's half-sprawled on her calms down, he's sliding out of her and pushing her legs flat. He leans over her for a second, long enough for her to stroke the back of her hand across his cheekbone, and then he's biting his way down her body, lips and breasts and belly and thighs, spreading her wide and licking into her with fierce, relentless strokes that have her hissing and shaking and coming in seconds. He doesn't stop, though, just keeps the same rough rhythm with his mouth, sucking and biting, and fucking her open with two fingers, then three, then four.
"Oh, God, Steve, Jesus, please, please." Catherine chokes the words out, clawing and twisting and not sure exactly what she's asking for. He curves his fingers inside her, his thumb rubbing raw and harsh over her clit and it doesn't matter that it hurts almost as much as it feels good, nothing matters but getting more of it, more of him, and she twists up into it until everything's bright and jagged, the darkness behind her eyes shot through with red.
Steve works her through it, careful, whisper-light touches that bring her back down to where she's not flying anymore, only half-on, half-off a king-sized bed in a hotel room, Steve on the floor next to her. She reaches out and rests her hand on the back of his neck, combs slow and easy through the short, soft hair there. He doesn't exactly purr, but it's close enough.
"Still with me, Lieutenant?" he asks, after a while, and she tugs hard on the hair she's been playing with. "I didn't lose you during the burn-in, did I?"
"If any variation on the words 'hoo yaa' comes out of your mouth, McGarrett," Catherine says. "I swear I will… do something you will not like." She waves vaguely, the best she can do under the circumstances.
Steve's laugh--his real laugh, which she's actually never heard before, she realizes--is impossible to resist, so she doesn't even try.
"Come here," Catherine says, wriggling back and up until she's all the way on the bed, and thrashing around until the sheets and comforter are loose and she can get them over her. Steve deals with the condom and his pants--and his boots, finally, she's amused to notice--and crawls up next to her, that crooked half-smile back in place.
She gives up trying to resist that, too.
Fandom: Hawaii Five-0
Pairing: Steve/Catherine
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not mine
Notes/Warnings: So,
leupagus was giving out prompts the other day, and I asked for a couple and she came back with Steve and Catherine's first hook-up, which sounded like fun for a comment fic. 4000 words later, here we are. =) Thanks to withdiamonds for reading it when I couldn't decide if I was going the right way or not.Also posted to AO3, here
It's not that Catherine doesn't like the men (almost entirely men, the women who make it through Intel Ops Basic School at Dam Neck are few and far between) she works with--she does. They're incredibly smart and dedicated and hard-working, and they almost all treat her with respect and accord her the courtesy of assuming she's equally intelligent, dedicated, and hard-working. It's just that, well, when you get right down to it, they're analysts, desk jockeys, and that's really never done it for her personally.
As her suite-mates in college used to say, Cat likes them ripped and ready.
She doesn't, however, have much patience for--in trying to be charitable, she'll usually end up using the semi-polite euphemism of "less than standard intelligence." Or if it's late, and she's had a few, it's that she likes them with more rocks in their head than between their legs.
It definitely limits her options, at least until she gets assigned to a team that's trying to get a lock on satellite transmissions coming from the Balkans, ones that are tied to a weapons dealing branch of the Russian mafia, and Lieutenant Steven J. McGarrett, TDY from SEAL Team Three blows into her life.
Not stupid, not a desk jockey, most definitely ripped and ready. Also, cocky, mouthy, and thoroughly convinced of his own irresistibility, but Catherine can work with that.
She keeps it strictly business at first, because it is a sweet assignment for a newly-minted j.g. like herself, a nod that she's been fast-tracked; and she doesn't intend to put it at risk for anyone, no matter how well he wears his winter blues or how quickly he adapts to intelligence work. She does find it interesting that while NAVINTEL-San Diego is like a small town--full of gossip and everybody knowing everybody else's business--she never hears anything about him. There are no stories of him leaving the O Club a little worse for wear, no news of extracurricular visits to any of the city's plethora of exotic dancers, nothing but the report that he is ferocious on the paintball field--about which Catherine can't help but think, duh?--and that every flag football team at NAS North Island is fighting to get their hands on him, even if his temporary assignment means he could be gone with no notice and leave them screwed in the hunt for the base championship.
Catherine can add in that he swims very well--again, no duh. She sees him every morning in the natatorium, and it doesn't entirely escape her notice that as good of a swimmer as she is, he's doing two laps for every one of hers.
It only irritates her a little.
She gets past it, though, because after the first week, they're nodding hello to each other as they pass on the side of the pool, and by the second he's holding the door for her--completely unselfconsciously, she notes--on the way out. During the third week, he takes to stopping at her desk to make little jokes about the other early-morning regulars, and at the end of the fourth, while they're sitting on the edge of the pool after their cool-down laps, she doesn't feel the slightest bit skeevy about nodding at the ink on his shoulders and asking where he'd gotten it done.
"Subic Bay." He looks down at the lotus on his left shoulder and adds, "I had plans for more, but my team got yanked out."
"Interesting," Catherine says. "Especially since I'm pretty sure the Navy's been out of the Philippines since before you were even at the Academy."
"Officially," Steve tells her, with one of his grins.
"Oh, officially, right. How silly of me. I must have missed that in my daily briefings."
"Nah," Steve says. "Everything unofficial is on a need-to-know basis."
"Really." Catherine rolls her eyes. "I'm surprised it's not Eyes Only."
"Not that trip," he says, standing up and offering her a hand up. "Maybe this one, though." He shrugs and heads off toward the locker room with another smile, and all she can do is shake her head.
She'd be ready to take it further, and she doesn't have any doubts he'd be on board with the idea, too, but the project sucks them both in; it's top priority, screaming hot, and they're not finding shit. Every time they think they have a fix on a location, the signature disappears and they have to start scanning all over again. In desperation, Catherine puts together a plot of everything they've ever seen, even once, with the various levels of frequencies in overlays that they can manipulate in an attempt to find a pattern in the signatures. It's tedious and frustrating and a complete time-suck to maintain, but she can't think of anything else to do.
It's pissing her off that she can't find what she knows has to be there, to the point that she's dreaming about the bloody thing. It doesn't help that the Santa Ana's are blowing hot and dry, putting everybody on a hair-trigger, but she doesn't actually lose her grip until Steve makes some fucking awful joke about how he'd hate to see her if it was her ass out there on the line instead of his. He doesn't mean it the way it comes out, she can see that, but it really doesn't matter. She sucks in a deep breath, and ignores him and the sudden silence around them, pushing back from the computer and carefully, carefully lining up all the papers piled on her desk, all nice and neat (and fucking useless, her brain reminds her.) She manages to nod once when Commander Moore calls it a night, telling everybody they'll start fresh in the morning.
She gets out of the building and off-base without anyone catching up to her, and decides that she'd better go home and get out of her uniform because the only reasonable plan for the night is going out and getting completely shit-faced. She throws in a shower, on the principle that a fresh start can't hurt, and leaves a note for her roommate before she calls a cab and heads down to the waterfront. A dive bar would definitely fit her mood better, but she doesn't need to deal with fending off the sleazes who won't take no for an answer. At least the ones hanging out in a tourist hotel will be pussies and back off if she gets nasty.
The place ends up in is packed--lots of vacationing tour groups and business travelers--but she manages to grab a seat at the bar, and after she orders her second shot of tequila in ten minutes, the bartender, a tall blonde surfer girl, says, "Make you a deal: you drink something that's not rotgut, and I'll keep the douchebags away from you."
"What exactly is in that deal for you?" Catherine asks.
"Pricier booze, a bigger tip, but mostly a higher chance of you not puking in my bathroom," Surfer Girl says, and hell, Catherine can agree with that. Her phone rings when she's three sips into the very excellent Mescal that they've agreed upon; it's an on-base number, one that she doesn't recognize, and she has no qualms about sending it straight to voicemail.
Surfer Girl keeps up her end of the bargain; Catherine's glass is never empty, and nobody even comes close to her, at least not until she comes back from the ladies' room to find Surfer Girl with a pissed-off expression on her face and Steve-Fucking-McGarrett on the bar stool next to the one Catherine's claimed for her own.
"Even if I'd wanted a drinking partner, Lieutenant," she says, sliding onto her seat. "It sure as hell wouldn't have been you."
"I can call security," Surfer Girl says, with narrowed eyes, and Catherine has to admit she's lucked out in the got-your-back category tonight, if nothing else. "Or the cops."
"I'll let you know," Catherine answers, then turns back to her own personal bane and asks, "How'd you find me?"
"Triangulated the GPS on your cell phone when you sent my call to voicemail," he says, shrugging.
"Jesus, McGarrett, like that's not creepy." Catherine takes a quick hit from the glass Surfer Girl (she really needs to find out a name, it's disrespectful not to know who's treating her so well) has topped off for her. "Not to mention ten kinds of illegal."
"I needed to talk to you." He shrugs again, and waits until she puts the glass down. "I'm sorry," he says, finally, with that goddamned sincere face, the one that Catherine is sure has served him well all over the world, but is doing nothing for her tonight but getting on her nerves.
"No," she answers, not caring how short she sounds. "No, you were absolutely right--it's not my ass that's on the line."
"I didn't mean for it to come out the way that it did," Steve says, moving the glass out of reach and leaning into her a little closer. "I didn't mean that what you do isn't of value."
"Oh, yes, please, let's add condescending to this day," Catherine sighs. "Could you get any mor--?"
"Cath," he says, in a low voice that shuts her up. "I've dropped with bad intel. I know exactly how much it's worth." He gets quiet for a couple of seconds. "I just meant that even when we go in and everything is right where you said it was going to be--it can still all go to hell in a heartbeat." For a second, she can see the truth of it in his eyes, but then he blinks and they're back to colleagues. He's serious when he adds, "Mogadishu was dead-solid perfect intel," but it's not personal.
"The worst part is not knowing," she says, after a few seconds. "I go to work and run scans and correlate data and write reports and -- nothing. I have no idea if what I might have filed is sending someone out or making it so they don't go or--even being read, really."
"Trust me, Rollins, if we're even thinking about going in, we are looking at everything we can find, everything you can give us." Catherine nods, back on a somewhat even keel and reaches for her glass again. Steve puts his hand on hers. "Look, let me buy you dinner? Someplace--not here?" he adds, glancing around at the getting-ever-tackier crowd.
Catherine hesitates. It's really not a good idea, not after everything--especially not after four tequilas, no matter how smoothly they'd gone down. It's been a hell of a day, though; and the only thing that's waiting for her is another round with Surfer Girl or bad movies with her roommate. Steve waits for her to make up her mind, no impatience, no super charm, no game at all, and that--that actually ends up sealing the deal.
"Sure," she says, and she absolutely is not charmed by the crooked smile she gets in return. Not, not, not, she tells herself as she catches Surfer Girl's eye and signals for her check. "I can pay for my own booze, McGarrett," she says, as he reaches for it.
"Absolutely, Lieutenant," he says, holding up his hands in mock-surrender.
She ends up leaving double the tab, making up for never catching Surfer Girl's name with cash, which is crass, but probably not unappreciated, even if the bar is packed and not showing any signs of slacking off. It takes them a while to work their way out of the room, Steve close in next to her, weaving them around the knots of people, his hand warm and strong on the small of her back. After the second time they come to a dead stop for a mini-drama playing out in front of them and he doesn't move it, Catherine gives up, and stops trying to ignore it.
She glances back at him while the all-important issue of who the young lady in question is going to dance with--the bad boy or the investment banker--is decided and smiles when he leans down to murmur, "My money's on the suit."
"Well," Catherine says, as the guy in the suit does indeed win the day, or at least the dance. "It's good to know you're not entirely wasting all that training in observation and analysis you've been going through."
She listens to herself and decides she's managed to not give away exactly how much she likes him bending down to talk to only her, or how much she likes it when his smiles reach his eyes. He'd showered and changed before he came looking for her; out of uniform, he doesn't look much like the golden boy of the Academy, especially with the tattoos on his arms showing below the short sleeves of his t-shirt. That's another thing she decides likes: knowing the whole of the designs, even if it's only because of a tame reason like working out together.
They make it out to the lobby, finally, and the sudden drop in noise is bliss, even before she adds in the cooler temperature. Catherine pulls her hair back and up, looping it through itself in a messy knot that at least gets the weight of it off the back of her neck.
"What?" she says, at the look on Steve's face.
"Nothing," he answers. "I just--I'm not used to it down. You always have it up when I see you."
"Regs, frogman," Catherine says. "Some of us don't get to play by SEAL rules." His hair is actually pretty short--some of the Special Forces guys she's known have gone all out, taking full advantage of the need to not look military when they run an op. "I should just go ahead and cut it, but I always find a reason not to do it, so…"
"It always looks good," Steve says, again with the sincere face. He reaches out and tucks one recalcitrant piece back behind her ear and that's--good grief, she's decked guys for less. It's so not a good sign that all she does is lean into him, even if it's only a tiny bit. He notices--of course he notices, she thinks with an inward sigh. He couldn't just be a normal oblivious guy. He doesn't do anything, though, only takes his hand back, and tucks it in his pocket.
"What…" He stops and clears his throat, and really, Catherine thinks, noticing how his eyes keep skittering away from hers. They're both overthinking idiots. "What do you feel like for dinner?" he asks. "We're right in the middle of tourist hell, but we can go up to La Jolla if you want, or…"
"Steve." Catherine puts her hand on his arm, right over the lotus tattoo, and his voice trails off.
"Room service," she says, meeting his eyes squarely, and smirking a little when she sees that she's honest-to-God surprised him.
"Cath," he says, very quietly. "You've had--"
"Don't," Catherine says, just as quietly. "Yes or no, but don't tell me I've had too much to drink."
"Yes," Steve says, almost before she finishes. "Yes." He looks down at where she's still got her hand on his arm, and then back up at her eyes and she doesn't see anything but yes there, too.
"I like your answer, Lieutenant," Catherine says, and steps back to let him get past her to the front desk. "You want to do something about it?"
"I like your hair the way you had it before, Rollins," he says, grinning back over his shoulder. "You want to do something about that?"
Catherine's tempted to ignore him, because he's far too accustomed to getting his own way, but then the practical part of her brain points out that if she liked it when he barely touched her hair, she'd be an idiot not to maximize the potential.
"Fine, whatever," she mutters to herself. "Win-win scenario." She watches him at the front desk and works the knot loose, using her fingers to comb out the tangles as best she can. It takes him a little while, but when he turns to come back to her, nothing has changed, not from the way he doesn't look away from her for a second.
"Success?" she asks, as he slides his arm around her, his hand settling on her lower back again like it belongs there, and steering her toward the elevators.
"I'd qualify it as a win," he says, again in that private voice that she likes so much. "Tenth floor. King-sized bed." The elevator that arrives is crowded but neither one of them hesitate to step on. He keeps his hand on her back; Catherine lets herself lean into it as they ride up.
"Water view?" she asks, when they've left the elevator behind, and it's only them walking down the hall.
"Of course." He slants a look down at her, one that's so incredibly smug, she can't help laughing.
"Oh, my God, you are so pleased with yourself, aren't you?"
"Very," Steve says, and she'd have something more to say about the smirk, but he's keyed open the door and they barely make it in the room before he's got her up against the wall and she doesn't have to keep her hands to herself.
He kisses like he does everything else, with an assurance that's almost reckless, and no distractions allowed, nothing slow or questioning or exploring about it, just his mouth on hers, strong and hard, no hint that he doesn't expect her to be right there with him. It's every bit as good as she thought it would be, better maybe, especially once he gets his hands in her hair, twisting it around his fingers and holding on, not tightening them until she mouths along his neck, her teeth grazing the strong tendon there.
"Oh, yeah, yeah," he says on an exhale that sounds close to a groan, and if he likes the bare scrape of her teeth, he fucking loves getting bitten. Catherine can so live with the low almost-growls that follow every bite; and she's got nothing against the way he manhandles her t-shirt up and over her head to return the favor. He doesn't stop at her neck, just keeps going, laying quick stings over her shoulders and arms, along the curve of her breasts, taking turns with her nipples, every bite exactly hard enough to wring a gasp out of her, each one layering on top of the next until it doesn't take anything but the hot whisper of his breath on her skin to make her arch up into him.
"Bed," Catherine pants, digging her nails into his shoulders, down his back. "Now, Steve."
"Yes, ma'am," he answers, spinning her off the wall and backing her across the room with another one of the cocky grins. Catherine decides they're not nearly so annoying when he sounds as breathless as he does now. They're practically endearing when they come with a mattress under her back and a shirt that she can drag off over his head.
"Come on," she says, working at the button on her jeans with fingers that are so uncoordinated she's beginning to think she's lost a terminal number of brain cells. She gets it finally, and shoves everything off her hips, squirming to get them off completely and leaning up on an elbow to see where the hell the other half of the equation has disappeared to. Steve looks up from where he's sitting on the floor in front of her, half-naked and sweaty and--
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Catherine says, dropping back flat on the bed. "Boots? You wore boots to come hunt me down in the urban jungle?"
"What did you expect?" he snaps back. "Flip-flops?"
"I don't care," Catherine hisses. "Just … deal with it." The …and come fuck me is unspoken, but just in case he isn't on the same frequency, she bends one knee and pulls a foot up flat on the bed so he gets a good view when she gets a hand between her legs. She's already wet and slick; it takes practically no effort to slide two fingers inside and fuck herself with them.
"Jesus, Cath," Steve groans, coming up off the floor in a lunge, boots forgotten and cargoes half-ripped open. She manages two more strokes while he deals with the condom he's materialized from somwhere and then he's yanked her hand away and pinned it over her head. She arches up into him as he holds there, goddamned tease that he is, twisting and writhing until he's finally, finally fucking into her and everything she's planned on calling him disintegrates into a choked-off, wordless noise that she barely recognizes as her own voice.
Steve moves fast, leaning over her on one arm, fucking her rough and hard and deep and never once looking away from her. It's crazy-good, especially when she'd have taken any bet that he'd be the kind who needed to be smooth and in-control at all times. She gets one leg around him and runs her hands over any part of him she can reach, digging her nails in and marking him up whenever she can, pushing him, pushing him.
"Come on, baby, come on," Catherine says, not letting him slow down when he makes like he wants to draw it out. That's good, she appreciates the thought, but it's not what she wants, not now that she's got him like this, now that he's got her like this. He listens to her, going back to hard and fast, and she holds on for the ride, words falling out of her mouth, give it to me, let me see it, fuck me, urging him on until he comes, ragged half-growl fading into a shuddering gasp.
Before Catherine can even start to catch her own breath, before the heartbeat she can feel pounding against where he's half-sprawled on her calms down, he's sliding out of her and pushing her legs flat. He leans over her for a second, long enough for her to stroke the back of her hand across his cheekbone, and then he's biting his way down her body, lips and breasts and belly and thighs, spreading her wide and licking into her with fierce, relentless strokes that have her hissing and shaking and coming in seconds. He doesn't stop, though, just keeps the same rough rhythm with his mouth, sucking and biting, and fucking her open with two fingers, then three, then four.
"Oh, God, Steve, Jesus, please, please." Catherine chokes the words out, clawing and twisting and not sure exactly what she's asking for. He curves his fingers inside her, his thumb rubbing raw and harsh over her clit and it doesn't matter that it hurts almost as much as it feels good, nothing matters but getting more of it, more of him, and she twists up into it until everything's bright and jagged, the darkness behind her eyes shot through with red.
Steve works her through it, careful, whisper-light touches that bring her back down to where she's not flying anymore, only half-on, half-off a king-sized bed in a hotel room, Steve on the floor next to her. She reaches out and rests her hand on the back of his neck, combs slow and easy through the short, soft hair there. He doesn't exactly purr, but it's close enough.
"Still with me, Lieutenant?" he asks, after a while, and she tugs hard on the hair she's been playing with. "I didn't lose you during the burn-in, did I?"
"If any variation on the words 'hoo yaa' comes out of your mouth, McGarrett," Catherine says. "I swear I will… do something you will not like." She waves vaguely, the best she can do under the circumstances.
Steve's laugh--his real laugh, which she's actually never heard before, she realizes--is impossible to resist, so she doesn't even try.
"Come here," Catherine says, wriggling back and up until she's all the way on the bed, and thrashing around until the sheets and comforter are loose and she can get them over her. Steve deals with the condom and his pants--and his boots, finally, she's amused to notice--and crawls up next to her, that crooked half-smile back in place.
She gives up trying to resist that, too.
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