Okay, fine. He is. A lost cause. Washed out to sea, gone, he knew it, has known it, for weeks. It's how he always is, like when Rachel hit him with her car and he couldn't stop thinking about her.
Which makes it fall out of his mouth, a kneejerk response that he doesn't think about too hard, brushing past waving hands saying no, stop, don't admit that. "Only when it comes to you."
That cause got dumped aside the morning Steve came back, before Danny had any idea that those voicemails were still on his phone, before he had any clue that the itch under his skin was a mutual one. When Steve asked him what was wrong, and it was impossible to lie, to not tell him, even with the sure knowledge that everything was going to be ruined, lost forever.
Except it wasn't. Except it's a month, now, and Steve is still here, running hands that are familiar, now, across Danny's body, wrapping around him and shorting the world out into a vicious spike of brilliantly sharp pleasure, like he'd stuck a fork in a wall socket. Grabbing Danny's breath in a fist and yanking it loose from its tenuous roots. His hand loosening from Steve's arm to skate up his shoulder, to hair, to jaw, back down his neck, chest. Unable to touch enough of him. Muscle and smooth skin, used now to flat hard muscle instead of soft curves, to weight, to rusty low chuckles instead of soft laughter. There is nothing soft about any of this, nothing sweet.
Even when he knows, now, there can be. That Steve collapses into a pile of loose limbs and curls into him like a dog that thinks it's still a puppy. That he takes advantage of late-night peace and quiet to press sleepy warm kisses against whatever skin is available. And Danny's pretty sure that there are times when Steve is watching him for no good reason other than that he's there.
But not right now. Right now, there's nothing but fire, want, everything narrowing down to Steve under his hands, above him, touching him, dragging out his ability to think or string enough brain cells together to talk. "By the way, you suck at pillowtalk, jackass."
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Which makes it fall out of his mouth, a kneejerk response that he doesn't think about too hard, brushing past waving hands saying no, stop, don't admit that. "Only when it comes to you."
That cause got dumped aside the morning Steve came back, before Danny had any idea that those voicemails were still on his phone, before he had any clue that the itch under his skin was a mutual one. When Steve asked him what was wrong, and it was impossible to lie, to not tell him, even with the sure knowledge that everything was going to be ruined, lost forever.
Except it wasn't. Except it's a month, now, and Steve is still here, running hands that are familiar, now, across Danny's body, wrapping around him and shorting the world out into a vicious spike of brilliantly sharp pleasure, like he'd stuck a fork in a wall socket. Grabbing Danny's breath in a fist and yanking it loose from its tenuous roots. His hand loosening from Steve's arm to skate up his shoulder, to hair, to jaw, back down his neck, chest. Unable to touch enough of him. Muscle and smooth skin, used now to flat hard muscle instead of soft curves, to weight, to rusty low chuckles instead of soft laughter. There is nothing soft about any of this, nothing sweet.
Even when he knows, now, there can be. That Steve collapses into a pile of loose limbs and curls into him like a dog that thinks it's still a puppy. That he takes advantage of late-night peace and quiet to press sleepy warm kisses against whatever skin is available. And Danny's pretty sure that there are times when Steve is watching him for no good reason other than that he's there.
But not right now. Right now, there's nothing but fire, want, everything narrowing down to Steve under his hands, above him, touching him, dragging out his ability to think or string enough brain cells together to talk. "By the way, you suck at pillowtalk, jackass."