His other hand finds Steve's hip, seeks out a beltloop, grabs it, tugs on it, and it's not like Steve couldn't take him down if he tried, but Danny's not exactly a wilting flower, either, stocky and strong and he can give as good as he gets, when Steve's fingers grip into his hair and pull. He wants to shoot someone, hit something, is in the kind of mood where tying a person to the hood of his car seems like the perfect solution to a night gone so far south he can't see anything but the bottom he's scraped along. He wishes for a car chase, a violent suspect, someone he can slam into a car with their wrists behind their back and cuff them.
But there's no criminal, no chase. No one to book, or cuff, or fight; just Steve, and the glass ceiling his blood pressure is shattering against. And he knows he can't hide it, okay? He never has been, these things have always played across his face like a movie getting skipped over. It's how they ended up here to begin with, because he couldn't strangle it that first morning Steve came back, in the diner, the most innocuous spot in the world, as Kaila dropped a napkin with a lipstick kiss practically in Steve's lap and Danny's head exploded into a jealous rampage.
"I can handle polite conversation just fine." Grinding, vicious, the way every one around them had hamstrung him into sullen submission, because he wasn't allowed to do this, couldn't say anything, do anything, step in and force them to clear off. "That's not the point, Jesus, I'm not gonna just stand around and be fine with some random woman touching you, they don't --"
They don't get to. It's the only clear thought, clear like a campfire licking flames into the dark, like a bolt of lightning blotting out the details of the world. No one does. He doesn't care if he's got no right, if they never decided, defined, it doesn't matter when it feels like his heart is being ripped from his ribcage and all he can do is fight it with whatever he's allowed, and push for more until someone finally shuts him down. The idea of losing Steve to some pretty smile and flirtatious glance is too absurd, shoving a violent mess of murderous thoughts into his head, unstoppable and spiraling into insanity.
This insanity, that's got him shoving forward and pulling at the same time, dragging Steve into his space, pushing into Steve's, like he could possibly wipe away the memory of anyone else even considering being there, other people, who were, what. "Nothing?"
Nothing, like Danny said, nothing? Or nothing, like actually, who cares about the girls in the bar, nothing? "Did that seem like nothing to you?"
Some tiny spark of what is left of his rational mind is trying to pull his finger off this trigger, point out that nothing is exactly what he wanted, for them, those girls, any other person who looks at him, to be exactly that, nothing, ignorable and unimportant. But Steve is looking so damn arrogant and that dark brilliance is back in his face, and Danny just wants to shove up under his skin and stick there like a bruise that won't go away.
Bare inches from Steve's mouth, with his heart hammering out staccato gunfire, feeling like he's losing his mind all over again. Jesus, fucking -- they don't get to, no one gets to take Steve away from him, no one gets to even try, not if he's there to do his best to stop it.
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But there's no criminal, no chase. No one to book, or cuff, or fight; just Steve, and the glass ceiling his blood pressure is shattering against. And he knows he can't hide it, okay? He never has been, these things have always played across his face like a movie getting skipped over. It's how they ended up here to begin with, because he couldn't strangle it that first morning Steve came back, in the diner, the most innocuous spot in the world, as Kaila dropped a napkin with a lipstick kiss practically in Steve's lap and Danny's head exploded into a jealous rampage.
"I can handle polite conversation just fine." Grinding, vicious, the way every one around them had hamstrung him into sullen submission, because he wasn't allowed to do this, couldn't say anything, do anything, step in and force them to clear off. "That's not the point, Jesus, I'm not gonna just stand around and be fine with some random woman touching you, they don't --"
They don't get to. It's the only clear thought, clear like a campfire licking flames into the dark, like a bolt of lightning blotting out the details of the world. No one does. He doesn't care if he's got no right, if they never decided, defined, it doesn't matter when it feels like his heart is being ripped from his ribcage and all he can do is fight it with whatever he's allowed, and push for more until someone finally shuts him down. The idea of losing Steve to some pretty smile and flirtatious glance is too absurd, shoving a violent mess of murderous thoughts into his head, unstoppable and spiraling into insanity.
This insanity, that's got him shoving forward and pulling at the same time, dragging Steve into his space, pushing into Steve's, like he could possibly wipe away the memory of anyone else even considering being there, other people, who were, what. "Nothing?"
Nothing, like Danny said, nothing? Or nothing, like actually, who cares about the girls in the bar, nothing? "Did that seem like nothing to you?"
Some tiny spark of what is left of his rational mind is trying to pull his finger off this trigger, point out that nothing is exactly what he wanted, for them, those girls, any other person who looks at him, to be exactly that, nothing, ignorable and unimportant. But Steve is looking so damn arrogant and that dark brilliance is back in his face, and Danny just wants to shove up under his skin and stick there like a bruise that won't go away.
Bare inches from Steve's mouth, with his heart hammering out staccato gunfire, feeling like he's losing his mind all over again. Jesus, fucking -- they don't get to, no one gets to take Steve away from him, no one gets to even try, not if he's there to do his best to stop it.