It's not like he misses it, okay. It's not like it's hard to see a neon light flashing in your eyes. Especially when the divides between his world for over a decade were jagged and vastly apart. The same distance between endless weeks of back and mind breaking work in lesser able people, and the one of this world. With normal people and bars and the obvious reason they come here. That still related in his more to the novelties of bars in ports, crawling with 'juices.'
The reason Steve isn't missing it, almost like you can count it off. The way her hair gets flounced, or her shiny white teeth press into her bottom lip hopefully, as she looks up at him. When the hand that was at his shoulder is dropped, only to be replaced by her bumping her knees into his hip, calves and feet, bouncing just enough against the jeans and his own thigh, knee. Almost like an invitation to step even closer, without the words.
There's the smallest part of him, nearly tempted for a beat in time, beyond thought or action or choice, like it's easier to handle people that way. Be someone else. What they'd recognize and respond to. Smile bright and a little more expected than felt. That way lies the same as he's ever been, flirted with, or received the smile of a pretty face. And she is pretty. Her make-up isn't overly done, so the way she flushes actually highlights straight through it.
Except -- and this is the important part;
Except standing less than two feet off to one side is the first person he hasn't had to pretend anything for. For over a month.
Over a week ago he would have told you he'd never pretended or hid or faked anything where it came to his partner. But he'd always know. Somewhere in the back of his mind. Cold and sharp and vicious, it was at least one percent a lie out a hundred. Because he'd always been pretending this wasn't here, hiding it if he could even from himself, faking his way through those hours that flayed him bare before everyone except Danny because of Danny.
This is because of him, too. In a whole new way.
When the urge rises, more safe habit than considered option, and he doesn't want it.
He doesn't want to fake smiling or talking about his life or laughing about inconsequential things right now if he doesn't feel like it, or pull out a line in the space of time that is this minute, wholly divested from the one nearly two minutes ago. When the flash of heat, just from looking at him, watching Danny's eyes widen in recognition of it, seared through his skin faster than any words. Before this happened.
When it's really pale. Everything in front of him. Lovely hair, lovely face, tiny, well-bought outfit and insensible, but whatever, heels, and a body that means she either eats well or works out, or both. And he feels. Nothing. Nothing beyond a very programmed, even ignorable, appeal that does nothing but brush the skin of habit, or expectation, and slid away. Bare and bland in comparison to this other thing. This one he can't defined or name or forget for even one second.
"All in a day's work," Steve said, easily conversational but not inviting, sticking his one free hand back in his pocket and lifting the pint glass that was more than half full. "And, thanks, but it seems to have survived fine, so we're both in luck this time."
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The reason Steve isn't missing it, almost like you can count it off. The way her hair gets flounced, or her shiny white teeth press into her bottom lip hopefully, as she looks up at him. When the hand that was at his shoulder is dropped, only to be replaced by her bumping her knees into his hip, calves and feet, bouncing just enough against the jeans and his own thigh, knee. Almost like an invitation to step even closer, without the words.
There's the smallest part of him, nearly tempted for a beat in time, beyond thought or action or choice, like it's easier to handle people that way. Be someone else. What they'd recognize and respond to. Smile bright and a little more expected than felt. That way lies the same as he's ever been, flirted with, or received the smile of a pretty face. And she is pretty. Her make-up isn't overly done, so the way she flushes actually highlights straight through it.
Except -- and this is the important part;
Except standing less than two feet off to one side is the first person he hasn't had to pretend anything for. For over a month.
Over a week ago he would have told you he'd never pretended or hid or faked anything where it came to his partner. But he'd always know. Somewhere in the back of his mind. Cold and sharp and vicious, it was at least one percent a lie out a hundred. Because he'd always been pretending this wasn't here, hiding it if he could even from himself, faking his way through those hours that flayed him bare before everyone except Danny because of Danny.
This is because of him, too. In a whole new way.
When the urge rises, more safe habit than considered option, and he doesn't want it.
He doesn't want to fake smiling or talking about his life or laughing about inconsequential things right now if he doesn't feel like it, or pull out a line in the space of time that is this minute, wholly divested from the one nearly two minutes ago. When the flash of heat, just from looking at him, watching Danny's eyes widen in recognition of it, seared through his skin faster than any words. Before this happened.
When it's really pale. Everything in front of him. Lovely hair, lovely face, tiny, well-bought outfit and insensible, but whatever, heels, and a body that means she either eats well or works out, or both. And he feels. Nothing. Nothing beyond a very programmed, even ignorable, appeal that does nothing but brush the skin of habit, or expectation, and slid away. Bare and bland in comparison to this other thing. This one he can't defined or name or forget for even one second.
"All in a day's work," Steve said, easily conversational but not inviting, sticking his one free hand back in his pocket and lifting the pint glass that was more than half full. "And, thanks, but it seems to have survived fine, so we're both in luck this time."