He really doubts anyone would believe him, if he ever tried to tell anyone that Steve can be calm, peaceful, relaxed like this. Not that he would. He's jealous of it, knowing he's the one who gets to see this, be part of it, be the thing Steve's curled into, pillowed on. So well aware that heads would have rolled if any of those women really had tried to drape themselves the way his arm is currently draped.
Which is maybe a bad thing, possibly (definitely) an over-reaction, but at least he can think about it without the sudden mind-burning fury of earlier. If anything, this is a smug thought, still disbelieving, but fully aware of the amount of sheer luck and good fortune it implies. Being allowed. Wanted. Even if Steve suggesting he liked the way the bar drove Danny up one side of a wall and dropped him headlong off the other is insane, at best.
But this? This is great. Perfect. So comfortable that he could probably drift right off, amid cooling sweat and tacky skin and messed up blankets, knowing from a month of experience that moving, in this moment, would be ill-advised. Steve gets handsy when he's been knocked flat, and Danny's never gotten far.
Not that he'd want to.
His hand is loose against Steve's shoulder, the other curved lightly at Steve's hip, and he's not holding on, exactly, but Steve's not going anywhere fast like this. Head heavy, breath evening. Dashed to the bottom after sprinting to the top and jumping off, and now just floating, face cleared when Danny cracks a heavy lid to look at him, before letting it slide shut again.
It's true. This is good. The best. He's got his weekends with Grace, and nights with Steve, and those are the things keeping him sane, right now. A few moments, hours, against the world, before Steve is up and swimming, running against whatever clock is ticking inside his head, and Danny's inbox is full, phone ringing off the hook.
"See," he says, low and drowsy into the air, just for the hell of it, just to say something, picking out words all slow and methodical, "I told you going out wouldn't be so bad."
Even if he could have given all that up, just for this. Easily. In a heartbeat.
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Which is maybe a bad thing, possibly (definitely) an over-reaction, but at least he can think about it without the sudden mind-burning fury of earlier. If anything, this is a smug thought, still disbelieving, but fully aware of the amount of sheer luck and good fortune it implies. Being allowed. Wanted. Even if Steve suggesting he liked the way the bar drove Danny up one side of a wall and dropped him headlong off the other is insane, at best.
But this? This is great. Perfect. So comfortable that he could probably drift right off, amid cooling sweat and tacky skin and messed up blankets, knowing from a month of experience that moving, in this moment, would be ill-advised. Steve gets handsy when he's been knocked flat, and Danny's never gotten far.
Not that he'd want to.
His hand is loose against Steve's shoulder, the other curved lightly at Steve's hip, and he's not holding on, exactly, but Steve's not going anywhere fast like this. Head heavy, breath evening. Dashed to the bottom after sprinting to the top and jumping off, and now just floating, face cleared when Danny cracks a heavy lid to look at him, before letting it slide shut again.
It's true. This is good. The best. He's got his weekends with Grace, and nights with Steve, and those are the things keeping him sane, right now. A few moments, hours, against the world, before Steve is up and swimming, running against whatever clock is ticking inside his head, and Danny's inbox is full, phone ringing off the hook.
"See," he says, low and drowsy into the air, just for the hell of it, just to say something, picking out words all slow and methodical, "I told you going out wouldn't be so bad."
Even if he could have given all that up, just for this. Easily. In a heartbeat.