What else could he want. That list is too long, and too impossible, and too full of things he doesn't need Steve to ever know Danny's even thought about, let alone tried, or wanted.
Like how he could want this to be something like real, which would, first of all, take them out of this place entirely, and put them somewhere else. That dive bar they've been frequenting, down by the beach, a short drive or slightly longer walk from Steve's place. The office, where Steve always has a beer on offer, for days and weeks that are longer than they should be, considering they have a set amount of hours to them.
Or even Steve's own house, where they end up chewing the fat and drinking beers and watching the water or a movie or a game nine times out of ten, before Danny goes home because he's crashed with Steve too many times and it never gets any easier. And somehow it usually is at Steve's place, that house Danny could have sworn would be impossible to live in, the day he first walked in, the day Steve told him he'd be staying there, with his father's blood still splashed on the wall.
He likes his little house, the one he found, finally, back when Rachel was threatening Vegas and he needed to prove he could give Grace a decent style of living, but while Steve comes over, and pretty often, they tend to wind up, almost every week, in those chairs out by his little beach, watching the water.
Which makes sense. It's where it all began.
So he could wish them there, and while he's at it, he could want to be allowed to touch Steve the way he's "allowed" to touch Steve tonight, in these roles, that no one actually wants to be pushed too far, because that is not a thing you do fucking lightly, okay, even for a cover. It's not life or death, here.
But he'd settle for being able to stand right here, and, when Steve looks up at him from his new spot on the stool, slide his fingers along his jawline, lean in. Like they're pretending he would be able to do. Like would be allowed, even expected, here, even if this front room is pretty conservative, when it comes to bodily contact.
(The others, behind those doors -- those are where the gloves come off.)
But he settles for shifting his weight, slightly, so his hip and the elbow closest to Steve brush against him, and it's Danny's turn to lean in and down just a little, to talk low into his ear.
"How is that different from any other day?"
It's not. That's what he needs to remember. None of this is different, and it really, definitely, won't be different as soon as they make their collar and get the hell out of here, so he needs to keep a wrap on it. "At least it's not my cash, tonight. I'm going to enjoy putting in these reimbursement forms."
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What else could he want. That list is too long, and too impossible, and too full of things he doesn't need Steve to ever know Danny's even thought about, let alone tried, or wanted.
Like how he could want this to be something like real, which would, first of all, take them out of this place entirely, and put them somewhere else. That dive bar they've been frequenting, down by the beach, a short drive or slightly longer walk from Steve's place. The office, where Steve always has a beer on offer, for days and weeks that are longer than they should be, considering they have a set amount of hours to them.
Or even Steve's own house, where they end up chewing the fat and drinking beers and watching the water or a movie or a game nine times out of ten, before Danny goes home because he's crashed with Steve too many times and it never gets any easier. And somehow it usually is at Steve's place, that house Danny could have sworn would be impossible to live in, the day he first walked in, the day Steve told him he'd be staying there, with his father's blood still splashed on the wall.
He likes his little house, the one he found, finally, back when Rachel was threatening Vegas and he needed to prove he could give Grace a decent style of living, but while Steve comes over, and pretty often, they tend to wind up, almost every week, in those chairs out by his little beach, watching the water.
Which makes sense. It's where it all began.
So he could wish them there, and while he's at it, he could want to be allowed to touch Steve the way he's "allowed" to touch Steve tonight, in these roles, that no one actually wants to be pushed too far, because that is not a thing you do fucking lightly, okay, even for a cover. It's not life or death, here.
But he'd settle for being able to stand right here, and, when Steve looks up at him from his new spot on the stool, slide his fingers along his jawline, lean in. Like they're pretending he would be able to do. Like would be allowed, even expected, here, even if this front room is pretty conservative, when it comes to bodily contact.
(The others, behind those doors -- those are where the gloves come off.)
But he settles for shifting his weight, slightly, so his hip and the elbow closest to Steve brush against him, and it's Danny's turn to lean in and down just a little, to talk low into his ear.
"How is that different from any other day?"
It's not. That's what he needs to remember. None of this is different, and it really, definitely, won't be different as soon as they make their collar and get the hell out of here, so he needs to keep a wrap on it. "At least it's not my cash, tonight. I'm going to enjoy putting in these reimbursement forms."