He can hear the smile in Danny's voice. When it starts, the way it stretches, even when there's as much admitting as there is denial in that first question. Like Danny has no idea what he's talking about. Like Danny doesn't find way to touch him throughout days that Steve barely dares to even consider in his head near his team, near the rest of the world.

Fingers tracing inward from his sides making his other hands find Danny's side, the rise of his bone through slacks, drag him closer by the span of his hand there around Danny. The small shivers finding his center bumping into Danny's body, as he keeps talking. All those words Steve knew would find their way back. Sentences so completely full of themselves, of beginnings and endings, dragging up the memory of Danny barely able to reference for a second downstairs.

Barely beyond them now. Like he could somehow look back and down on them, on that moment.

That moment when Danny's words are hazarding a warning, that Christ might as well be an glaring invitation in the terms of a rebuff, reminder, warning, while there fingers are dragging lightning under his skin, across his side, down into sensitive skin, under his pants, his belt, causing his hips to start, and the fingers curved at Danny's hair to clench inward suddenly. A moment. Bare. A flicker. Before they drive in, matching it. Demanding.

Tiling his head up by his hair, only long enough to say, voice thick and rough sandpaper with the sensation, "Good," before he was claiming it. Danny's mouth; and not giving a damn that the bedroom door is steps from them still. The hand at Danny's side, tugging his shirt up, wanting Danny as well. Laid out, against his finger tips. His mouth. His skin, as well as every inch of what happened minutes ago, what happened in the bar.

To be able to lay his hands on all of it, like maybe it is his. Danny. As dangerous as that is even get near.