There. Pushing Steve through the last few jerks, as he shakes, fractures, comes apart at the seams. Scraping the feet of the bed against the floor with the violence of it, before Danny's palm and thigh are sticky and wet, and Steve's muscles cut out like someone turned a key.

Which means Danny can let go, move his hand, find Steve's hip, wrap the other arm loosely around Steve's neck and let the bed catch him, let gravity swallow him as his eyes close and the world comes to a slow, drunken sway.

Up. Down. Back, and forth. Like they're on a hammock. A low, swishing sound sliding against the edge of his consciousness, that he knows must be the waves outside, the wind in palm fronds. And Steve's breathing, somewhere near his ear.

And the only thing he can think is how good this is. Good. Just. Everything boiled down to one word. Good. Being here. Steve's weight. Smell of sex, Steve, salt. Things he never would have associated together, before a month ago, that he can't get out of his head, now. His clothes smell like Steve, half the time. Are on this floor, or folded up on the dresser nearby, plenty of nights.

When was the last time he used his own coffeemaker?

Eyes closed. Steve within reach, and he's not going anywhere, either; Danny doesn't give a damn for any jokes that might be made, sly remarks slanted his way. It hurt. Not being able to touch him. To take some kind of stand. Was a sharp ache, and the sickening pain of a cracked bone.

So, yeah. He'll be possessive while he can, dammit, this, right now, Steve, here, under his hands, in his arms, laid out and wrecked because of him, home with him, it's his in this moment. Damn straight he's holding on.

It's the last thing he checks before letting everything else slide into welcome tidepool of relaxation.