Steve moves when Danny tugs him, because Steve always moves when Danny tugs him, and not for any other reason, so it should absolutely not go to his head, and make him wonder what else he might be able to get away with, here. What Steve would let him do, for the sake of their cover. What he might be able to get.
Which is wrong, on so very many levels, not least of which is the one where it's not even what he would want, right, it would be cheap and more than a little sleazy, because it wouldn't be right. The right thing to do. Making Steve do or accept something he doesn't want, just so Danny can live out a few of those fantasies he shouldn't be having, anyway.
Steve's his friend. Best friend. His partner. His boss. The guy who's always there, for everyone, who'll break down doors and push through rubble and fight through armies just so no one is ever left behind, or alone. Who has saved Danny's ass on more times than Danny can count, and been there every single time Danny needed him. In his uniform at Meka's house or in the courtroom, speaking passionately about how Danny is a great father. In Colombia. Talking him down from panic, while a laser paints Danny's chest red. Talking him down from panic, while a building crumbles around and over them.
Steve's always talking him down from something, the one who drags Danny back to earth, is the brick wall at his back, supporting him, when he needs to face his fears -- and there are so many fears. Fear of water. Of small spaces. Of heights. Of crowds. Of losing Grace. (Of losing Steve.) Of being a terrible father, or boyfriend. Of failing as a cop.
Steve's heard them all, and he's talked Danny down from every single one.
But he's not talking Danny down, now. Not when he's leaning in, closer, focused like a sniper's site on Danny's face, and Danny should be letting go of that beltloop and laughing it off right now, but he can't. Isn't sure he can breathe, or think, when Steve's breath is ghosting in his ear and Danny can feel the heat he's throwing off like he's standing next to a furnace.
He should let go. That's what should happen, and not what does, which is how his fingers tighten, reflexively, with the instinct to pull him closer, pull him down make it so his lips and not his breath are brushing the shell of Danny's ear, that he's never aware of but which suddenly has all his focus, every nerve in his body reacting to each mocking word Steve's whispering.
Teasing. Making fun of him, like Danny knew he would, while Danny's getting wrecked on impossible possibilities and Steve being too close, when he's always too close, but it's never like this. Never when it's anything other than a casual slap on the back or an arm slung around his shoulders on the couch or even a bone-crushing, air-denying hug, after yet another day when they nearly died.
This is different, feels like he's been dropped into hot oil, sizzling up the back of his neck. "That's the only thing guys like that understand," he says, finally, and makes himself let go of Steve's beltloop, only to lift that same hand and tug on the lapel of Steve's coat, which feels automatically both safer, and frustratingly distant, even while his hand stays gripped lightly there. Hauling himself back into reality, the mission, the goal.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2015-10-04 04:26 pm (UTC)Steve moves when Danny tugs him, because Steve always moves when Danny tugs him, and not for any other reason, so it should absolutely not go to his head, and make him wonder what else he might be able to get away with, here. What Steve would let him do, for the sake of their cover. What he might be able to get.
Which is wrong, on so very many levels, not least of which is the one where it's not even what he would want, right, it would be cheap and more than a little sleazy, because it wouldn't be right. The right thing to do. Making Steve do or accept something he doesn't want, just so Danny can live out a few of those fantasies he shouldn't be having, anyway.
Steve's his friend. Best friend. His partner. His boss. The guy who's always there, for everyone, who'll break down doors and push through rubble and fight through armies just so no one is ever left behind, or alone. Who has saved Danny's ass on more times than Danny can count, and been there every single time Danny needed him. In his uniform at Meka's house or in the courtroom, speaking passionately about how Danny is a great father. In Colombia. Talking him down from panic, while a laser paints Danny's chest red. Talking him down from panic, while a building crumbles around and over them.
Steve's always talking him down from something, the one who drags Danny back to earth, is the brick wall at his back, supporting him, when he needs to face his fears -- and there are so many fears. Fear of water. Of small spaces. Of heights. Of crowds. Of losing Grace. (Of losing Steve.) Of being a terrible father, or boyfriend. Of failing as a cop.
Steve's heard them all, and he's talked Danny down from every single one.
But he's not talking Danny down, now. Not when he's leaning in, closer, focused like a sniper's site on Danny's face, and Danny should be letting go of that beltloop and laughing it off right now, but he can't. Isn't sure he can breathe, or think, when Steve's breath is ghosting in his ear and Danny can feel the heat he's throwing off like he's standing next to a furnace.
He should let go. That's what should happen, and not what does, which is how his fingers tighten, reflexively, with the instinct to pull him closer, pull him down make it so his lips and not his breath are brushing the shell of Danny's ear, that he's never aware of but which suddenly has all his focus, every nerve in his body reacting to each mocking word Steve's whispering.
Teasing. Making fun of him, like Danny knew he would, while Danny's getting wrecked on impossible possibilities and Steve being too close, when he's always too close, but it's never like this. Never when it's anything other than a casual slap on the back or an arm slung around his shoulders on the couch or even a bone-crushing, air-denying hug, after yet another day when they nearly died.
This is different, feels like he's been dropped into hot oil, sizzling up the back of his neck. "That's the only thing guys like that understand," he says, finally, and makes himself let go of Steve's beltloop, only to lift that same hand and tug on the lapel of Steve's coat, which feels automatically both safer, and frustratingly distant, even while his hand stays gripped lightly there. Hauling himself back into reality, the mission, the goal.
"It wasn't much of a competition."