There are a few things he registers all at once, when he sees Silver Fox over there slip his hand from Steve's arm to the small of his back, in almost exactly the same way Danny might, except that Danny isn't a predatory asshole stalking an upscale gay bar, and he doesn't touch Steve like -- not with that intention, and anyway that's not the point, right, except that it is. That Steve doesn't like to be touched.
But he lets Danny.
Which doesn't mean Danny's now thinking about how he started touching Steve, unthinking, the very first day, started dragging him around by wrist or arm or shirt without even a week going by. He doesn't think about how he's the only one who's allowed to touch Steve, except for the times he does, like now.
Now, when Don Johnson over there wouldn't notice, but Danny sees like it's lit with a spotlight, like it happens in slow-motion with an announcer and color commentator explaining each possible angle: how Steve stiffens. The slight tension in his jaw, and the way it threads down along his neck, shoulder, and into his back. It's a hairline adjustment, nearly invisible to the naked eye, and, okay, if he were called on it, Danny wouldn't be proud of the fact he can read Steve so well, but he can. He sees it, the things no one else does. The times Steve won't even let himself feel the things that are threatening to break him, hurt him, confuse him.
Steve doesn't admit defeat, he's a fucking SEAL. That's why he needs Danny.
Even if he probably doesn't need the simultaneous reaction, the other one clouding Danny's thoughts and tunneling his vision: this punch in his gut, the visceral, absolute negation of it. That this guy needs to take his hands off Steve. Right. The fuck. Now.
He's only slightly aware of the red tinge around his vision, of how his pulse is jacked up and his breathing is shallow. All he can see clearly are fingers on the back of Steve's jacket, and Steve's polite, disinterested smile, that probably looks like winning the lottery to anyone who isn't Danny, and the fact that Danny's pushed himself off the bar and started over without really having any kind of plan in mind for when he gets there.
Which means it's probably good, right, that he gets stopped in his tracks by the kid watching him before, even if it takes Danny a second to parse the fact that he's being greeted, smiled at, as winningly as possible, by someone he won't even remember in thirty seconds.
"Sorry," he says, and then, "What?"
It's maybe fifteen feet from him to Steve. Who is fine. Who is an adult, and a soldier, and who can handle this, Danny, and it's just enough of a shock that he can take a second to think about a possible plan of attack, shove his hand into his pocket, and laugh at the kid's joke like it's anything he even heard.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2015-09-30 11:17 pm (UTC)There are a few things he registers all at once, when he sees Silver Fox over there slip his hand from Steve's arm to the small of his back, in almost exactly the same way Danny might, except that Danny isn't a predatory asshole stalking an upscale gay bar, and he doesn't touch Steve like -- not with that intention, and anyway that's not the point, right, except that it is. That Steve doesn't like to be touched.
But he lets Danny.
Which doesn't mean Danny's now thinking about how he started touching Steve, unthinking, the very first day, started dragging him around by wrist or arm or shirt without even a week going by. He doesn't think about how he's the only one who's allowed to touch Steve, except for the times he does, like now.
Now, when Don Johnson over there wouldn't notice, but Danny sees like it's lit with a spotlight, like it happens in slow-motion with an announcer and color commentator explaining each possible angle: how Steve stiffens. The slight tension in his jaw, and the way it threads down along his neck, shoulder, and into his back. It's a hairline adjustment, nearly invisible to the naked eye, and, okay, if he were called on it, Danny wouldn't be proud of the fact he can read Steve so well, but he can. He sees it, the things no one else does. The times Steve won't even let himself feel the things that are threatening to break him, hurt him, confuse him.
Steve doesn't admit defeat, he's a fucking SEAL. That's why he needs Danny.
Even if he probably doesn't need the simultaneous reaction, the other one clouding Danny's thoughts and tunneling his vision: this punch in his gut, the visceral, absolute negation of it. That this guy needs to take his hands off Steve. Right. The fuck. Now.
He's only slightly aware of the red tinge around his vision, of how his pulse is jacked up and his breathing is shallow. All he can see clearly are fingers on the back of Steve's jacket, and Steve's polite, disinterested smile, that probably looks like winning the lottery to anyone who isn't Danny, and the fact that Danny's pushed himself off the bar and started over without really having any kind of plan in mind for when he gets there.
Which means it's probably good, right, that he gets stopped in his tracks by the kid watching him before, even if it takes Danny a second to parse the fact that he's being greeted, smiled at, as winningly as possible, by someone he won't even remember in thirty seconds.
"Sorry," he says, and then, "What?"
It's maybe fifteen feet from him to Steve. Who is fine. Who is an adult, and a soldier, and who can handle this, Danny, and it's just enough of a shock that he can take a second to think about a possible plan of attack, shove his hand into his pocket, and laugh at the kid's joke like it's anything he even heard.
Just in case.