Steve gives it a glance, mostly because it's a noise. Also. Because of the way it lines up in his head.
His eyes raise as much for the sound, as from the whip of movement of Danny moving to look. His gaze settles on the woman about ten feet off, behind him, them, at the same time as the grip of Danny's hand on his pool cue is evident in front of him. It shouldn't. He shouldn't. But his mouth twitches, half a smile tucking into the corner of his mouth uncontrollably.
When there is. Of course. A woman. This time with jeans that might as well have been painted on under that hand settling on her hip, half in her pocket. Impressed look framed by wealth of black curls, a pair of overly big blue sunglasses pushed up to hold the first back and a pool cue in her other hand. "Nice shot."
Steve gaze didn't flicker much, and there's. It was so hard to justify exactly why. But there was a desperate want, creeping, lightning fast through his skin to want to be able to see Danny's face. Everything. When the sudden scald of it made him look back at the table, between her and it, as though considering his next shot. When even that isn't stopping it.
When he's smug even as he declines the compliment like that isn't worth it, yet, with, "It's been a while. Give it half an hour."
He's done better. This isn't a cut throat game, with stakes, rules, and bets riding on it though. The kind that boredom weeks out from land only make tighter, tenser, and higher with each round. Especially when you're just twiddling your thumbs waiting for anything more to happen that the wind to blow and the waves to rock.
He pointed with the pool cue, just enough. "Three. Corner pocket."
Walk toward the right spot, and start lining it up, paying, it's not even funny, far less attention a pool table than he ever has.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2012-11-27 10:50 pm (UTC)His eyes raise as much for the sound, as from the whip of movement of Danny moving to look. His gaze settles on the woman about ten feet off, behind him, them, at the same time as the grip of Danny's hand on his pool cue is evident in front of him. It shouldn't. He shouldn't. But his mouth twitches, half a smile tucking into the corner of his mouth uncontrollably.
When there is. Of course. A woman. This time with jeans that might as well have been painted on under that hand settling on her hip, half in her pocket. Impressed look framed by wealth of black curls, a pair of overly big blue sunglasses pushed up to hold the first back and a pool cue in her other hand. "Nice shot."
Steve gaze didn't flicker much, and there's. It was so hard to justify exactly why. But there was a desperate want, creeping, lightning fast through his skin to want to be able to see Danny's face. Everything. When the sudden scald of it made him look back at the table, between her and it, as though considering his next shot. When even that isn't stopping it.
When he's smug even as he declines the compliment like that isn't worth it, yet, with, "It's been a while. Give it half an hour."
He's done better. This isn't a cut throat game, with stakes, rules, and bets riding on it though. The kind that boredom weeks out from land only make tighter, tenser, and higher with each round. Especially when you're just twiddling your thumbs waiting for anything more to happen that the wind to blow and the waves to rock.
He pointed with the pool cue, just enough. "Three. Corner pocket."
Walk toward the right spot, and start lining it up, paying, it's not even funny, far less attention a pool table than he ever has.