Steve shifts, but only slightly, a long heavy weight, like gravity's hitting him twice as hard now, fingers soft in Danny's hair, which has got to be everywhere, just -- everywhere, but he doesn't give a good goddamn, because it feels amazing. Close, and intimate, and he's relaxed enough that that doesn't set off unwelcome alarms shrieking through his head.
Just keeps his arm slung around Steve's neck, head turning, mouth and nose brushing against Steve's -- what is that, forehead? cheek? -- without making those fingers move. He can keep them there as long as he wants, that's fine. He can stay right here, half on Danny and half next to him, a puddle of melted, brainless SEAL that no one would believe could hurt a blade of grass in his current condition.
Steve. Pulling the floor out from under his feet, with his you are the best thing, the only good thing. Words sewn into his heart. Needlesharp and painfully precious. Something to take out, carefully, and look at, before putting it away again, quick and careful, terrified of shattering it. Like a bubble. Filmy glass. So easily dropped, and he is so clumsy.
But not right now. They can stay, right there, warm and secret, while he breathes in against Steve's skin, everything unwound, loosened, perfect. Blank exhaustion stealing in like a low tide. Considering letting his hands glide, slow, over Steve's skin, to indulge himself in the tactile, the reality, solidity of him. Touch him the way he ought to be, like something amazing, incredible. Not all a blunt instrument, only meant for destruction. There's this, too, and the accompanying bittersweet ache filling his chest that makes him feel strangely protective, possessive. Like he needs to tell the whole world to back off and leave Steve alone, jeez, just for a little while, the guy deserves a break, doesn't he?
And if he wants this, if this gives him a little of that, then there's nothing that will keep Danny from giving it. Anything. Everything. Steve is owed, fucking owed, by the world.
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Just keeps his arm slung around Steve's neck, head turning, mouth and nose brushing against Steve's -- what is that, forehead? cheek? -- without making those fingers move. He can keep them there as long as he wants, that's fine. He can stay right here, half on Danny and half next to him, a puddle of melted, brainless SEAL that no one would believe could hurt a blade of grass in his current condition.
Steve. Pulling the floor out from under his feet, with his you are the best thing, the only good thing. Words sewn into his heart. Needlesharp and painfully precious. Something to take out, carefully, and look at, before putting it away again, quick and careful, terrified of shattering it. Like a bubble. Filmy glass. So easily dropped, and he is so clumsy.
But not right now. They can stay, right there, warm and secret, while he breathes in against Steve's skin, everything unwound, loosened, perfect. Blank exhaustion stealing in like a low tide. Considering letting his hands glide, slow, over Steve's skin, to indulge himself in the tactile, the reality, solidity of him. Touch him the way he ought to be, like something amazing, incredible. Not all a blunt instrument, only meant for destruction. There's this, too, and the accompanying bittersweet ache filling his chest that makes him feel strangely protective, possessive. Like he needs to tell the whole world to back off and leave Steve alone, jeez, just for a little while, the guy deserves a break, doesn't he?
And if he wants this, if this gives him a little of that, then there's nothing that will keep Danny from giving it. Anything. Everything. Steve is owed, fucking owed, by the world.