Steve is grateful for two different things. One, that he is already looking at Ruth, trying to maintain some semblance of attentiveness toward her plant problem even though he hasn't said anything in half a minute. And two, that he's insanely good at not needing to breathe even under the worst of under fire circumstances. Which is helpful when Danny suddenly shifts and there is a hand in Steve's pants.
In them. Jerking that knot of his guts even tighter. While he forces himself to take a breath in through his nose.
Because Danny touches him all the time. Like. All the time. Enough that people notice. Enough that he's caught the questionable looks that come at least twice as often as the actually joked questions and dismissed them all. Ones he'd asked himself years ago, but in a completely different way. Not light hearted and amused at all the contact. But actually torn up and tripping on his own inability to stop looking for it to mean something, anything, more.
But it wasn't. Even in the moments, carefully kept and cataloged across all these years, with rare varying barenesses of expression, whether terrified or grieving or laughing, when Steve thought Danny seemed almost like it was -- it wasn't.
It was just Danny, and if it was just Danny didn't extend in the same capacity to everyone else he touched and worked with, it was still Just Danny. Danny who manhandled him or his clothes, on a scene or at his house, like Steve was a personal jungle gym or a door, or a wall to lean on. But that was it. It was just how Danny was. Incredibly tactical, and almost entirely unaware of it, too. And over time, it just became their thing. Normal. Everyday.
Which had even let Steve slide that way, with the smallest of footsteps over half a decade.
But that was just their friendship, their partnership, just Danny. Like this was just Danny keeping his cover.
Even if it involved, apparently, shoving his hand down Steve's pants, like a ninety year old woman needed that kind of proof to believe Danny liked dick even when she'd already clarified her acceptance with the idea. Danny's fingers knocking against the skin under his shirt and getting a twitch out of a part of Steve's body that absolutely has no place in the case. Or Danny's stupid cover decision no matter the face on it. That Steve can just roll with.
Because even when he's annoyed as hell at Danny's choice, he's Danny's partner as much as Danny is his. He doesn't leave him hanging out there, even there in front of the old lady, not even if he's already planning the line dry hangout of him, and it, as soon as they can deep six her. But until then, he can resolve not to tense up and not to jerk away, no matter what his body is considering. Just let his hand slide across Danny's shoulder. Like it isn't Danny. Like it's someone else. Anyone else. Whoever the last guy was, whenever that was.
Until his fingers find Danny's collar, and wrap half against his neck and half over that collar, forearm resting a little more on his shoulder.
"Could you really?" Easy enough when Ms. Tennenbuam is looking all lightened hope through her tears that Steve still isn't sure are real or not, or whether he really even cares. Because it's a plant. Probably not even a twenty dollar plant. Definitely not a shoot your accomplice in the stomach and drive away with the spoils plant.
"Actually, better idea." Steve was raising his hand back from Danny's neck, and the nape of his hair, which was softer than Steve ever understood. But the man was obsessed with it. But he raised that hand so he could gesture and point with it. "We have a friend who is great with this kind of thing." Because someone has to be thrown under the bus. And they need to get back to work.
And Danny's hand needs to get out of his pants before his body starts reacting any more to it.
"Loves unsolved mysteries and getting to the bottom of them, he's your man."
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branchandroot
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Date: 2015-04-11 02:15 pm (UTC)Steve is grateful for two different things. One, that he is already looking at Ruth, trying to maintain some semblance of attentiveness toward her plant problem even though he hasn't said anything in half a minute. And two, that he's insanely good at not needing to breathe even under the worst of under fire circumstances. Which is helpful when Danny suddenly shifts and there is a hand in Steve's pants.
In them. Jerking that knot of his guts even tighter. While he forces himself to take a breath in through his nose.
Because Danny touches him all the time. Like. All the time. Enough that people notice. Enough that he's caught the questionable looks that come at least twice as often as the actually joked questions and dismissed them all. Ones he'd asked himself years ago, but in a completely different way. Not light hearted and amused at all the contact. But actually torn up and tripping on his own inability to stop looking for it to mean something, anything, more.
But it wasn't. Even in the moments, carefully kept and cataloged across all these years, with rare varying barenesses of expression, whether terrified or grieving or laughing, when Steve thought Danny seemed almost like it was -- it wasn't.
It was just Danny, and if it was just Danny didn't extend in the same capacity to everyone else he touched and worked with, it was still Just Danny. Danny who manhandled him or his clothes, on a scene or at his house, like Steve was a personal jungle gym or a door, or a wall to lean on. But that was it. It was just how Danny was. Incredibly tactical, and almost entirely unaware of it, too. And over time, it just became their thing. Normal. Everyday.
Which had even let Steve slide that way, with the smallest of footsteps over half a decade.
But that was just their friendship, their partnership, just Danny. Like this was just Danny keeping his cover.
Even if it involved, apparently, shoving his hand down Steve's pants, like a ninety year old woman needed that kind of proof to believe Danny liked dick even when she'd already clarified her acceptance with the idea. Danny's fingers knocking against the skin under his shirt and getting a twitch out of a part of Steve's body that absolutely has no place in the case. Or Danny's stupid cover decision no matter the face on it. That Steve can just roll with.
Because even when he's annoyed as hell at Danny's choice, he's Danny's partner as much as Danny is his. He doesn't leave him hanging out there, even there in front of the old lady, not even if he's already planning the line dry hangout of him, and it, as soon as they can deep six her. But until then, he can resolve not to tense up and not to jerk away, no matter what his body is considering. Just let his hand slide across Danny's shoulder. Like it isn't Danny. Like it's someone else. Anyone else. Whoever the last guy was, whenever that was.
Until his fingers find Danny's collar, and wrap half against his neck and half over that collar, forearm resting a little more on his shoulder.
"Could you really?" Easy enough when Ms. Tennenbuam is looking all lightened hope through her tears that Steve still isn't sure are real or not, or whether he really even cares. Because it's a plant. Probably not even a twenty dollar plant. Definitely not a shoot your accomplice in the stomach and drive away with the spoils plant.
"Actually, better idea." Steve was raising his hand back from Danny's neck, and the nape of his hair, which was softer than Steve ever understood. But the man was obsessed with it. But he raised that hand so he could gesture and point with it. "We have a friend who is great with this kind of thing." Because someone has to be thrown under the bus. And they need to get back to work.
And Danny's hand needs to get out of his pants before his body starts reacting any more to it.
"Loves unsolved mysteries and getting to the bottom of them, he's your man."