He starts to say what? because he'd been paying attention, sure, and this conversation has mostly been making sense to him, but then Steve tipped his head just slightly, and Danny's lost for a second, a flick of his eyes to Steve's mouth that feels like staring even though it lasts for less than a second.
He's so close. And Steve's always close, thinks nothing of shoving his way into Danny's space, the way he's shoved his way into Danny's life and job, and Danny's used to it, but he's not used to this. When there's deliberation, however fictional, behind the way Steve's turning towards him, when Steve's not just railroading him, running him over like a tank and Danny is just an especially persistent ant. When he's. When it would be so easy, when it would be the most natural thing in the world, to lean in closer, see what happens.
Which all leaves him a little at sea when Steve's watching him and waiting for an answer, and Danny's wracking his brain -- was it something about Kamekona? -- when the bartender saves him by appearing, smoothly, at his elbow. "Gentlemen," he says, diplomatic, smiling like he hadn't been here five minutes ago to see Danny steal Steve right from under than other guy's nose, "what can I get for you?"
It's a reprieve Danny's grateful for, since it lets him regain his footing, half-turn back to Steve and push his eyebrows up in a challenge. "Hey, I told you, I'm not ordering for you. What's it gonna be?"
It feels familiar, and a little sour in its familiarity, but that's good, right? It's a reminder, that whatever looks Steve gives him tonight, however he gets in Danny's space or touches him (or doesn't), nothing has changed. None of what matters. Nothing in the real world, in their real life.
Which is good. Better. Even if he feels a little like he's just been punched, instead of saved.
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He starts to say what? because he'd been paying attention, sure, and this conversation has mostly been making sense to him, but then Steve tipped his head just slightly, and Danny's lost for a second, a flick of his eyes to Steve's mouth that feels like staring even though it lasts for less than a second.
He's so close. And Steve's always close, thinks nothing of shoving his way into Danny's space, the way he's shoved his way into Danny's life and job, and Danny's used to it, but he's not used to this. When there's deliberation, however fictional, behind the way Steve's turning towards him, when Steve's not just railroading him, running him over like a tank and Danny is just an especially persistent ant. When he's. When it would be so easy, when it would be the most natural thing in the world, to lean in closer, see what happens.
Which all leaves him a little at sea when Steve's watching him and waiting for an answer, and Danny's wracking his brain -- was it something about Kamekona? -- when the bartender saves him by appearing, smoothly, at his elbow. "Gentlemen," he says, diplomatic, smiling like he hadn't been here five minutes ago to see Danny steal Steve right from under than other guy's nose, "what can I get for you?"
It's a reprieve Danny's grateful for, since it lets him regain his footing, half-turn back to Steve and push his eyebrows up in a challenge. "Hey, I told you, I'm not ordering for you. What's it gonna be?"
It feels familiar, and a little sour in its familiarity, but that's good, right? It's a reminder, that whatever looks Steve gives him tonight, however he gets in Danny's space or touches him (or doesn't), nothing has changed. None of what matters. Nothing in the real world, in their real life.
Which is good. Better. Even if he feels a little like he's just been punched, instead of saved.