He doesn't know exactly where his head is when it happens.
It might be with the invisible itch that's woken back up between his shoulder blades. Or the negligent amount of alcohol sloshing around inside of him. Or the endless stack of this room, against a to do list in his head, things that needed doing here, that he put off more often lately. Or the newest unnumbered thing they aren't talking about, might not even talk about.
But he does go still, it all goes still, for just a second when it does happen.
Danny's fingers wrap over his skin. Warm and known (not smaller, not pushy) and insistant (not trespassing or feigning request). Everything silences, snaps to attention, head turning back to Danny before the rest of his tilts that way. When he's looking back toward Danny's face, half question and half denial all tangled up there.
He hadn't been going anywhere, hadn't been about to do anything. Again. Not anything yet that Danny might think he has to throw at his head. When he's all tight and looks a mess of tense and angry all over again, even without the lights. Which Steve isn't quite sure how stepping into the house happened to make even more broadly painted on him.
When it would be incredibly easy just to stare down at him in the dark, of this empty rooms, that both feels it and feels everything but empty, and say nothing. But it's the same urge, too expectant and guilty and not all at once, that makes him just return about as solidly as Danny's words, "Nowhere." The same as where he'd been heading the whole evening.
Even if Danny had thought he should be anywhere else, with anyone else who decided to throw their hat at him, somehow. Like it was that simple. Just go. Like every second wasn't lined in every single snapping, biting sign he gave that anyone near Steve should not consider coming near him, talking to him, looking at him, touching him, trying to do a single thing. Which didn't add up in the slightest. But there is was.
no subject
It might be with the invisible itch that's woken back up between his shoulder blades. Or the negligent amount of alcohol sloshing around inside of him. Or the endless stack of this room, against a to do list in his head, things that needed doing here, that he put off more often lately. Or the newest unnumbered thing they aren't talking about, might not even talk about.
But he does go still, it all goes still, for just a second when it does happen.
Danny's fingers wrap over his skin. Warm and known (not smaller, not pushy) and insistant (not trespassing or feigning request). Everything silences, snaps to attention, head turning back to Danny before the rest of his tilts that way. When he's looking back toward Danny's face, half question and half denial all tangled up there.
He hadn't been going anywhere, hadn't been about to do anything. Again. Not anything yet that Danny might think he has to throw at his head. When he's all tight and looks a mess of tense and angry all over again, even without the lights. Which Steve isn't quite sure how stepping into the house happened to make even more broadly painted on him.
When it would be incredibly easy just to stare down at him in the dark, of this empty rooms, that both feels it and feels everything but empty, and say nothing. But it's the same urge, too expectant and guilty and not all at once, that makes him just return about as solidly as Danny's words, "Nowhere." The same as where he'd been heading the whole evening.
Even if Danny had thought he should be anywhere else, with anyone else who decided to throw their hat at him, somehow. Like it was that simple. Just go. Like every second wasn't lined in every single snapping, biting sign he gave that anyone near Steve should not consider coming near him, talking to him, looking at him, touching him, trying to do a single thing. Which didn't add up in the slightest. But there is was.