Danny's quiet for a long beat than normal, but it's normal in its own way, too. It's not the bad way. The bad silences have hundred of their own markers. This moment of silence he knows, too. This is the one where if he looked over his shoulder straight to Danny's face he'd be rolling his eyes, mouth agape, at a loss for words, even Danny's five million of them, coming from everywhere, with more vocabulary words than any adult needs, is still at a loss for how broken Steve's head it.
How much Steve does not listen in the slightest when Danny is bitching, especially about him.
But. Danny knows he does, too. Rarely misses anything. Or they wouldn't be here. They wouldn't take every case that needed taking, doing nearly anything the cases required of them to take in the bastard and keep people safe. Even, albeit, highly illegally, sex exploiting, organizations. So Steve will be a smug bastard, and Danny will bitch, and the night will go the way all of the other ones go.
They'll win, and then they'll go home, where Steve will continue to be smug and Danny bitchy. Rinse, repeat in the morning.
Danny leans in finally, bumping into him, filling the space next him, the way Danny does and Steve is used to, as highly attuned to it as generally accepting of it now. No one touches him the way Danny does. No one would even consider it. Not on cases and not casually during a day. So Danny bumps into him, still standing, and stays there, warmth pressed to his hip and his shoulder. Danny actually getting to lean down to speak to him.
Warm breath next to his ear, that sends tendrils of warmth straight through his skin and down his spine too fast. Yanking at that ache that isn't supposed to listen. That Steve stuffed in its own box, with it's own name, and own caution tape, and locked up with chains. Doesn't look at except for the days when he can't help it. It's just for a little while he tells himself. This game. This lie. Where they are both keeping up the pretense that everyone around them would assume is just them flirting, asking and promising all the normal things.
Making him tilt his face, a little toward Danny as he speaks. Habit to find his face. To listen when he needs to. To want to see the reactions that cross Danny's face while he's an ass, because they are always the best. Even if there are only seldom and few situations that put him this close to Danny's face. Most of them moment right after they almost died again, but managed not to. Or when someone is drunk and walking suddenly seems less a given.
"Too bad the big guy wouldn't be in for those glasses as a necessity of island security, huh."
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2015-10-06 12:19 pm (UTC)Danny's quiet for a long beat than normal, but it's normal in its own way, too. It's not the bad way. The bad silences have hundred of their own markers. This moment of silence he knows, too. This is the one where if he looked over his shoulder straight to Danny's face he'd be rolling his eyes, mouth agape, at a loss for words, even Danny's five million of them, coming from everywhere, with more vocabulary words than any adult needs, is still at a loss for how broken Steve's head it.
How much Steve does not listen in the slightest when Danny is bitching, especially about him.
But. Danny knows he does, too. Rarely misses anything. Or they wouldn't be here. They wouldn't take every case that needed taking, doing nearly anything the cases required of them to take in the bastard and keep people safe. Even, albeit, highly illegally, sex exploiting, organizations. So Steve will be a smug bastard, and Danny will bitch, and the night will go the way all of the other ones go.
They'll win, and then they'll go home, where Steve will continue to be smug and Danny bitchy. Rinse, repeat in the morning.
Danny leans in finally, bumping into him, filling the space next him, the way Danny does and Steve is used to, as highly attuned to it as generally accepting of it now. No one touches him the way Danny does. No one would even consider it. Not on cases and not casually during a day. So Danny bumps into him, still standing, and stays there, warmth pressed to his hip and his shoulder. Danny actually getting to lean down to speak to him.
Warm breath next to his ear, that sends tendrils of warmth straight through his skin and down his spine too fast. Yanking at that ache that isn't supposed to listen. That Steve stuffed in its own box, with it's own name, and own caution tape, and locked up with chains. Doesn't look at except for the days when he can't help it. It's just for a little while he tells himself. This game. This lie. Where they are both keeping up the pretense that everyone around them would assume is just them flirting, asking and promising all the normal things.
Making him tilt his face, a little toward Danny as he speaks. Habit to find his face. To listen when he needs to. To want to see the reactions that cross Danny's face while he's an ass, because they are always the best. Even if there are only seldom and few situations that put him this close to Danny's face. Most of them moment right after they almost died again, but managed not to. Or when someone is drunk and walking suddenly seems less a given.
"Too bad the big guy wouldn't be in for those glasses as a necessity of island security, huh."