There are hands moving, over his sides, parts of his back. Heavy, but slow. Almost like Danny was only in these seconds remembering he was here. Really here. His body. Him. When Steve lets his mouth lift with a breath out. Less like he was burning things out of it or writing things on it, but just remembering it was there. Steve. Under his hands. Still.

It's a strange second. Because he knows this feeling. Almost hopeful, certain but uncertain, wholly aware, with too much training to his life's name not to see it this way, too. As a gaping vulnerability. Something that screamed to be shored up, but couldn't. Even when he trusts Danny. Is safe with Danny.

But he'd been pretty certain about the safety of dead people staying dead, too.

He doesn't want that here. He didn't want it anywhere. And it got everywhere. Even when that thought made him want to beat his head on a wall. Because he couldn't wish her gone. Well. She was already gone. He couldn't wish her dead. Again. Couldn't wish himself any blindness. That was even more stupid.

It gets in everything. Fingers everywhere. All he is. Was. Might be. Touch.

When he just wants this to be good. He knows it might not stay, Danny might not stay, any more than any other teammate before him. Especially now. But he still wants it. Him. Every day, set of minutes, he can wrest from the world. When he's looking down at Danny, through the darkness, studying his eyes, his face. The feel of the fingers on his side, on his wrist.

The steady, unsteady, beat of his own heart in the dark with him.