Danny's backing down on the idea, quibbling, while teasing, and what really actually strikes Steve so much more than the fact he's being ribbed for the topic he brought up, or for the fact he's basically sprawled on Danny with no will in his bones to move at this second, is that Danny suddenly touches him even more. Danny leaning his head.
Warm skin, and stubble, first brushing, like a confused, uncertain question of a movement, before simply staying. Resting there, Danny's cheek against his forehead. Making Steve's chest tighten, even as something strikes up from his center, slamming him with a brick wall of longing to just move closer. Closer, not for his hand, but just tuck his temple in against Danny's shoulder and his neck.
To get lost in his beat of his heart, the way that he breathes, the fingers in his hair. Maybe it's girlie, or too sensitive. Sure, he can fall asleep nearly anywhere. Places other people would never consider, call literally impossible. Things he's done dozens and dozens of times for orders in the field. And his pillows a few feet away are none of those even.
But this. It shoves up into his chest. Hot and disastrously needy. Clinging to the backs of his ribs. Needling into his muscles.
The idea of how easy it would be here. How little he'd have to think about everything else. Just lose himself in Danny, and his skin, and his voice. The arm around him, the hand on his head, still laying on him more than the bed. It's beyond selfish, which he almost never lets himself be, no less see, but he wants it with a blistering pain, flash bright jagged, moment. The only sane thing that has stayed sane, even for all these changes and uncertainties.
They haven't been turned upside down. It hasn't ruined their work, and they've both made a rather concerted effort to keep it that way, Steve thinks. Not seeming to want to jeopardize Five-0, anymore than consider stopping this. Stopping this thing that doesn't stop. That makes Danny possessive and vindictive in one hour, and soft and teasing, like he is no, barely hours later.
When he could sleep. Okay? He admits it. Here. Right here. He could sleep and pretend it won't fade away, blow away, isn't melting closer to whenever, whatever the end is, by each second. He could close his eyes, and just go with the muscles releasing because of Danny, and let himself forget all of that. Anything struggling, straining, still tense in his head, to maintain realism. Pillows. Mothers. Jobs. Endings. Just get lost here.
Which is not an admission that can makes it anywhere past the bottom of his throat, the tight constriction in his chest. When all he does, is keep his long fingers and wide palm, lazily gripped over Danny's hip and side, to mutter, "It feels good."
It's a concession. The smallest drop compared to the thing he can't let out. Couldn't say. Not even here. To Danny.
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Warm skin, and stubble, first brushing, like a confused, uncertain question of a movement, before simply staying. Resting there, Danny's cheek against his forehead. Making Steve's chest tighten, even as something strikes up from his center, slamming him with a brick wall of longing to just move closer. Closer, not for his hand, but just tuck his temple in against Danny's shoulder and his neck.
To get lost in his beat of his heart, the way that he breathes, the fingers in his hair. Maybe it's girlie, or too sensitive. Sure, he can fall asleep nearly anywhere. Places other people would never consider, call literally impossible. Things he's done dozens and dozens of times for orders in the field. And his pillows a few feet away are none of those even.
But this. It shoves up into his chest. Hot and disastrously needy. Clinging to the backs of his ribs. Needling into his muscles.
The idea of how easy it would be here. How little he'd have to think about everything else. Just lose himself in Danny, and his skin, and his voice. The arm around him, the hand on his head, still laying on him more than the bed. It's beyond selfish, which he almost never lets himself be, no less see, but he wants it with a blistering pain, flash bright jagged, moment. The only sane thing that has stayed sane, even for all these changes and uncertainties.
They haven't been turned upside down. It hasn't ruined their work, and they've both made a rather concerted effort to keep it that way, Steve thinks. Not seeming to want to jeopardize Five-0, anymore than consider stopping this. Stopping this thing that doesn't stop. That makes Danny possessive and vindictive in one hour, and soft and teasing, like he is no, barely hours later.
When he could sleep. Okay? He admits it. Here. Right here. He could sleep and pretend it won't fade away, blow away, isn't melting closer to whenever, whatever the end is, by each second. He could close his eyes, and just go with the muscles releasing because of Danny, and let himself forget all of that. Anything struggling, straining, still tense in his head, to maintain realism. Pillows. Mothers. Jobs. Endings. Just get lost here.
Which is not an admission that can makes it anywhere past the bottom of his throat, the tight constriction in his chest. When all he does, is keep his long fingers and wide palm, lazily gripped over Danny's hip and side, to mutter, "It feels good."
It's a concession. The smallest drop compared to the thing he can't let out. Couldn't say. Not even here. To Danny.