He could focus on the game, you know. He could. Or he could focus on the way Danny's lips shift for a second there, like he was swallowing. Not ever out of the edge of Steve's vision. Something he's been watching for so long it's into years. When he always felt like he was watching from the outside, and he isn't somehow. When Danny's standing there, holding his cue, waiting and nearly fidgeting from What? just watching him?
Even now, when he's all burs, nicks, sarcastic aggravation that doesn't make Steve any less prone not to throw him to the wolves? How horrible is it that it just flares somewhere in his veins, hot and heady, with the flick of a glance toward Danny. Danny. Danny, who wants him. Even here, in a bar, not doing anything remotely worthwhile. Who has added, possible exploding at civillians to the list of new reactions no one planned for in all this.
When he's contemplating the length of a game. A few games. And the quality of sanity stretch slow, like a rubberband in the back of his head. When he's smirking as he stands, watching the balls flying across the table. Slamming agains the bumper, clattering at the plastic. Sinking one to the corner, which makes it easy to walk around the, edge, find the chalk for the first time, and dust the tip, while calling, "Two, side pocket."
Toss it down, brush his fingers off on his pants, and lay the stick across his skin again. Breathe out. Shoot, and watch a very easy shot sink next. Having to consider the table, angles, before deciding on a longshot. "Five, right corner." But he hits this one too much to one side, and it spins enough he knows in the first second it's going to slam the bumper and do just what it does, bounce around, moving the other balls.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2012-11-27 04:58 am (UTC)Even now, when he's all burs, nicks, sarcastic aggravation that doesn't make Steve any less prone not to throw him to the wolves? How horrible is it that it just flares somewhere in his veins, hot and heady, with the flick of a glance toward Danny. Danny. Danny, who wants him. Even here, in a bar, not doing anything remotely worthwhile. Who has added, possible exploding at civillians to the list of new reactions no one planned for in all this.
When he's contemplating the length of a game. A few games. And the quality of sanity stretch slow, like a rubberband in the back of his head. When he's smirking as he stands, watching the balls flying across the table. Slamming agains the bumper, clattering at the plastic. Sinking one to the corner, which makes it easy to walk around the, edge, find the chalk for the first time, and dust the tip, while calling, "Two, side pocket."
Toss it down, brush his fingers off on his pants, and lay the stick across his skin again. Breathe out. Shoot, and watch a very easy shot sink next. Having to consider the table, angles, before deciding on a longshot. "Five, right corner." But he hits this one too much to one side, and it spins enough he knows in the first second it's going to slam the bumper and do just what it does, bounce around, moving the other balls.