He stops, thinking about the loss of touch, and almost like the shift in a balance, Danny hand steadies on him. Fingers against his skin. But not his skin. Another reason he just doesn't want this shirt anymore. He wants it to actually be Danny's fingers and the palm of his hand pressing on him, half necessity and half oblivious movement, hoving against him, so close it's always only almost.

Just before it falls away, and Steve muscles actually tighten a little. Like they need to twitch. Like something is suddenly missing, fallen out of place, puzzle pieces missing. Even when Danny's is filling the room again, and Steve looks back and down from hitting the landing first. Fingers at the bottom of his shirt, before he's yanking the thing up and over his head.

Even in the easy black of night it's so much closer the sharp, dark leer that he settles on Danny, sardonic and shameless, when he basically tosses the bundle of cloth at Danny's head, even calculating for the stairs he still needs to be taking. "It's cute that you think I'd stop for pants before they were all down."

Like a fourth of a inch of jean or polyester or propriety actually mattered when it came to surviving. Or taking down the enemy.