The last word of Danny's actually lands more to mark than Danny probably intended it, or maybe it smarts right where Danny actually did intend for it to, making Steve try to side step the giddy swing he can't, to focus on Danny's face. Fuming and tense, wondering where exactly it. That place. Somewhere between getting to tap on the glass of this new, glorious, utterly impossible thing -- Danny shoved overboard by an innocuous person, or, well, a few. Whatever.
Like there's any chance. Like he has anything to be concerned about. Like Steve gives a single care about anyone here. (In a way not related to the well being of their ability to continue taking on average seventy-two breaths a minute and sleeping in their beds, live their lives, in a state of relative fearlessness.)
Danny. Sparking like the center of a wildly malfunctioning firework. Because of her. Over him. Not looking at him.
And the point where he might, seriously, turn and rail at Steve. Angry and honest in the center of this place.
When Steve waits a few seconds to see if Danny is going to say anything to her question, deny for him, stake his ground, especially given that he'd been answering every single question fired Steve's way while at the bar, but he doesn't. He's just leaned over the table. That fitted shirt stretching tight across the span of his shoulders, as he focuses on the striped balls, and sinks two more in the same shot. Like he hasn't heard the question at all. Or doesn't care.
Neither of which Steve believes, but he looks back at her, shrugs, nonchalantly as if she asked about the weather. "Sure."
It'll only cost them, what? Ten-fifteen minutes of their night, and he'll win more like than not, and Danny will move back in the same way she is now midway though, and she might deserve something for being the point with which he's testing this insane theory against Danny, right? When he doesn't miss the small movement of Danny looking to her, but he's not sure what the expression on Danny's face is when he looks over here, again, finally.
For a moment, before it's gone. Danny's looking away, again. Steve doesn't know what it's supposed to be, edges pricking warmth. It's entirely insane, isn't it? That somehow any of this matter at all? That on one level it'll make everything look more normal.
It's only ten or fifteen minutes. They've had dozens od stakeouts and undercover's that went days longer than that.
Steve finished his pint and dropped it back on the table, before walking back to the table, looking at the layout. Called his last ball and shot it from pretty much across the while table. Needing to hit only one side of it, hard enough to make is ricochet along a bumper and clatter into the dark insides of the table. Eyed the table, turned his attention toward the nine. Called it for one of the side pockets, and leaned down.
He connected with the cue ball and it went across hard, aimed easily for the center.
no subject
Like there's any chance. Like he has anything to be concerned about. Like Steve gives a single care about anyone here. (In a way not related to the well being of their ability to continue taking on average seventy-two breaths a minute and sleeping in their beds, live their lives, in a state of relative fearlessness.)
Danny. Sparking like the center of a wildly malfunctioning firework. Because of her. Over him. Not looking at him.
And the point where he might, seriously, turn and rail at Steve. Angry and honest in the center of this place.
When Steve waits a few seconds to see if Danny is going to say anything to her question, deny for him, stake his ground, especially given that he'd been answering every single question fired Steve's way while at the bar, but he doesn't. He's just leaned over the table. That fitted shirt stretching tight across the span of his shoulders, as he focuses on the striped balls, and sinks two more in the same shot. Like he hasn't heard the question at all. Or doesn't care.
Neither of which Steve believes, but he looks back at her, shrugs, nonchalantly as if she asked about the weather. "Sure."
It'll only cost them, what? Ten-fifteen minutes of their night, and he'll win more like than not, and Danny will move back in the same way she is now midway though, and she might deserve something for being the point with which he's testing this insane theory against Danny, right? When he doesn't miss the small movement of Danny looking to her, but he's not sure what the expression on Danny's face is when he looks over here, again, finally.
For a moment, before it's gone. Danny's looking away, again. Steve doesn't know what it's supposed to be, edges pricking warmth.
It's entirely insane, isn't it? That somehow any of this matter at all? That on one level it'll make everything look more normal.
It's only ten or fifteen minutes. They've had dozens od stakeouts and undercover's that went days longer than that.
Steve finished his pint and dropped it back on the table, before walking back to the table, looking at the layout. Called his last ball and shot it from pretty much across the while table. Needing to hit only one side of it, hard enough to make is ricochet along a bumper and clatter into the dark insides of the table. Eyed the table, turned his attention toward the nine. Called it for one of the side pockets, and leaned down.
He connected with the cue ball and it went across hard, aimed easily for the center.