![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
He can't sleep without some background noise.
Never has been able to. From sharing a room with Matty growing up, to having Rachel sleeping next to him, soft breath brushing against his chest, to the TV that's his usual company when Grace isn't over, he doesn't like silence when he's sleeping, and he doesn't like the sound of the waves, prefers the low mumble of human voices, even if he isn't paying attention.
Except what it really comes down to isn't that the waves are annoying -- swish, swish, back and forth, all goddamn night long -- or that white noise helps him sleep.
He hates being alone.
He really does. Honestly. it's one of his least favorite things. His family is large and noisy, and even when it was just him and Rachel and Grace, there were other people in the house, other voices, other words and bodies. It's part of why he let Steve push him into dating Gabby, because she was company, and someone to be around when he couldn't convince even himself that any of the team would want to hang out with him.
So the thing is, what this all comes down to, somewhere along the unsteady path his thoughts trip along, is that there's no TV in here, and he can hear the waves rolling in and in and in, but Steve's next to him, steady breath blowing gently against Danny's hair and neck, and it's all quiet, and the next thing he knows, he's blinking his eyes open and it's the dead of night, which is about all he manages to get before they slip closed again and everything smooths into silky, gorgeous sleep, pulling him down with the weight of Steve's arm and Steve's gravity and the kind of dopey sense of all being right with the world that he swears is familiar but can't pinpoint, can't remember.
It must not be that important, because it sure as hell doesn't keep him up, sends him off as sweetly as a lullaby.
He wakes up fuzzy-mouthed, bleary, and warm. Well. 'Wakes up' is perhaps a misnomer. He becomes slightly aware of something other than dreams and darkness. Of warmth behind him, around him. Of softness under him. Of the thin gray light of the room.
Of quiet. Peacefulness.
It makes him want to dig a hole in this bed, curl up, and hibernate through the storms that always seem to hit once consciousness takes hold.
Never has been able to. From sharing a room with Matty growing up, to having Rachel sleeping next to him, soft breath brushing against his chest, to the TV that's his usual company when Grace isn't over, he doesn't like silence when he's sleeping, and he doesn't like the sound of the waves, prefers the low mumble of human voices, even if he isn't paying attention.
Except what it really comes down to isn't that the waves are annoying -- swish, swish, back and forth, all goddamn night long -- or that white noise helps him sleep.
He hates being alone.
He really does. Honestly. it's one of his least favorite things. His family is large and noisy, and even when it was just him and Rachel and Grace, there were other people in the house, other voices, other words and bodies. It's part of why he let Steve push him into dating Gabby, because she was company, and someone to be around when he couldn't convince even himself that any of the team would want to hang out with him.
So the thing is, what this all comes down to, somewhere along the unsteady path his thoughts trip along, is that there's no TV in here, and he can hear the waves rolling in and in and in, but Steve's next to him, steady breath blowing gently against Danny's hair and neck, and it's all quiet, and the next thing he knows, he's blinking his eyes open and it's the dead of night, which is about all he manages to get before they slip closed again and everything smooths into silky, gorgeous sleep, pulling him down with the weight of Steve's arm and Steve's gravity and the kind of dopey sense of all being right with the world that he swears is familiar but can't pinpoint, can't remember.
It must not be that important, because it sure as hell doesn't keep him up, sends him off as sweetly as a lullaby.
He wakes up fuzzy-mouthed, bleary, and warm. Well. 'Wakes up' is perhaps a misnomer. He becomes slightly aware of something other than dreams and darkness. Of warmth behind him, around him. Of softness under him. Of the thin gray light of the room.
Of quiet. Peacefulness.
It makes him want to dig a hole in this bed, curl up, and hibernate through the storms that always seem to hit once consciousness takes hold.
