Steve is plastered against him, and Danny wouldn't risk moving and shattering this peace for anything less than a full scale crisis requiring them both to get up and get to work. Still, he asks anyway, because that's what they do, what he does, what Steve expects, and Steve ought to bat it back again, but it seems like his thoughts are stuck somewhere in touch-generated molasses, because it takes him a minute, and he's tugging at Danny, possessive, like he thinks Danny might actually try to do what Steve suggested and sleep. Edge away, grab a pillow, get under the covers.
Which might not be a bad idea, if they could be like this, but Danny's not willing to risk it, just yet. Not when Steve's hand is there, tugging, or when Steve's voice is scraping the bottom, rusted-out and hovering somewhere between petulant and complacent. "Oh, okay."
Fingertips moving in circles, fingernails scratching lightly, twisting strands into twirled threads between them before letting go and running along scalp. "My mistake. I was foolwed by you cleverly disguising your alertness by looking like you're about to drop off any second."
Between this breath and the next, maybe. Chin grafted to Danny's shoulder, forehead close enough that Danny can lean his cheek against it and contemplate the insanity of wanting to press a kiss there. The absurd contradiction of wanting to be gentle with Steve, who is a battering ram of a person, for whom the word gentle would seem inapplicable.
And yet there it is; that feeling. Wanting to be gentle. Wanting to kiss him until he catches his breath, or rub fingers over his head, or watch him fall asleep. Thoughts that pinion Danny's heart, make it ache and tighten and feel oddly reckless with itself.
Wanting to follow that tug on his hip, to slide closer. Slip legs together, sling an arm over Steve's side, settle his cheek into that hair, and sleep. "I guess I was mistaken."
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Which might not be a bad idea, if they could be like this, but Danny's not willing to risk it, just yet. Not when Steve's hand is there, tugging, or when Steve's voice is scraping the bottom, rusted-out and hovering somewhere between petulant and complacent. "Oh, okay."
Fingertips moving in circles, fingernails scratching lightly, twisting strands into twirled threads between them before letting go and running along scalp. "My mistake. I was foolwed by you cleverly disguising your alertness by looking like you're about to drop off any second."
Between this breath and the next, maybe. Chin grafted to Danny's shoulder, forehead close enough that Danny can lean his cheek against it and contemplate the insanity of wanting to press a kiss there. The absurd contradiction of wanting to be gentle with Steve, who is a battering ram of a person, for whom the word gentle would seem inapplicable.
And yet there it is; that feeling. Wanting to be gentle. Wanting to kiss him until he catches his breath, or rub fingers over his head, or watch him fall asleep. Thoughts that pinion Danny's heart, make it ache and tighten and feel oddly reckless with itself.
Wanting to follow that tug on his hip, to slide closer. Slip legs together, sling an arm over Steve's side, settle his cheek into that hair, and sleep. "I guess I was mistaken."