He's holding Danny's eyes for too long. That dangerous curling, widening, tightening feeling inside of his chest pulling his ribs in like a void, when he still hasn't gotten to taking another breath. Doesn't want to. Needs to look away. Especially when Danny's eyes search his face. Follow his own line of sight. When Danny licks his lips -- making Steve sure something in his chest is about to snap -- and then he looks away.
Beyond Steve. Leaving him there. Unmoored. Still hovering inches from his face, Danny's fingers on his neck, while Danny is looking over his shoulder. While Danny is doing the fucking job. That Steve needs to be doing. That Steve maybe needs to deck his head into the bar top to remember is the only thing on the planet, on the island, in the room, that he should doing. Because it was nothing. Nothing. Nothing at all.
He can pretend it doesn't feel like someone socked their knife-tipped boot in his gut several times.
It was a fluke. That touch. The only insanity here was the one inside his head. Inside his skin. He said he'd be fine, they'd be fine. He'd make that happen. Danny hadn't probably even though anything about it. Especially since he was looking between Steve and over there. Looking at his eyes specifically, then his mouth specifically again, and subtly back over Steve's shoulder. Where the guy was. All part of the ploy. So specific. Made to look right. But nothing else. Nothing.
He should give Danny a raise.
He might if he didn't think he'd be busy standing in a cold shower the rest of the night.
Words haven't happened yet. Steve's mouth still feels like paste, even wired, with his stomach hollowed and every hair on the back of his neck prickled between the person Danny's talking about and the fingers of Danny's hand still holding on to him in this charade. But he's listening. His eyebrows going up when Danny says things are going south. Meaning he needs to shut down everything that isn't the job. Isn't keeping everyone else in this place safe. How many seconds to reach his gun.
Even when Danny looks back to him, putting a too careful hand over the one he has on Danny's chest, and saying that. Reminding him, in one last puff of sanity, that this is his job and he's supposed to be able to fake this as well as he bragged.
Danny closes his eyes and leans in, but Steve doesn't. He was trained to walk into the halls of hell wide eyed and ready.
And he isn't ready; but he doesn't close his eyes. They're still open, when Danny's mouth presses against him -- light eyelashes and opposing shadow, haywire awareness, of Danny, of their guy, of Danny, sending everything in his center into a sudden riot. Because it's not supposed to be like this. It's not supposed to ever happen. Except it is. Except Danny's lips are soft, and Steve can't help that sudden, hitched, small gasp of air he sucks in from the surprise.
Or the way it snaps back inside of him, with that part of his lips.
How the fact he's supposed to hold stills, play nice, do this correctly, slides off his lap, and out of his head, or goads, chides, taunts, pleads that it could be, should be, isn't, because he pushes up suddenly, half off his stool and further into Danny's space, fingers tangling too hard into the hand that closed over his. His other one finding Danny's shoulder, while everything in him screamed he had to stop and he couldn't.
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He's holding Danny's eyes for too long. That dangerous curling, widening, tightening feeling inside of his chest pulling his ribs in like a void, when he still hasn't gotten to taking another breath. Doesn't want to. Needs to look away. Especially when Danny's eyes search his face. Follow his own line of sight. When Danny licks his lips -- making Steve sure something in his chest is about to snap -- and then he looks away.
Beyond Steve. Leaving him there. Unmoored. Still hovering inches from his face, Danny's fingers on his neck, while Danny is looking over his shoulder. While Danny is doing the fucking job. That Steve needs to be doing. That Steve maybe needs to deck his head into the bar top to remember is the only thing on the planet, on the island, in the room, that he should doing. Because it was nothing. Nothing. Nothing at all.
He can pretend it doesn't feel like someone socked their knife-tipped boot in his gut several times.
It was a fluke. That touch. The only insanity here was the one inside his head. Inside his skin. He said he'd be fine, they'd be fine. He'd make that happen. Danny hadn't probably even though anything about it. Especially since he was looking between Steve and over there. Looking at his eyes specifically, then his mouth specifically again, and subtly back over Steve's shoulder. Where the guy was. All part of the ploy. So specific. Made to look right. But nothing else. Nothing.
He should give Danny a raise.
He might if he didn't think he'd be busy standing in a cold shower the rest of the night.
Words haven't happened yet. Steve's mouth still feels like paste, even wired, with his stomach hollowed and every hair on the back of his neck prickled between the person Danny's talking about and the fingers of Danny's hand still holding on to him in this charade. But he's listening. His eyebrows going up when Danny says things are going south. Meaning he needs to shut down everything that isn't the job. Isn't keeping everyone else in this place safe. How many seconds to reach his gun.
Even when Danny looks back to him, putting a too careful hand over the one he has on Danny's chest, and saying that.
Reminding him, in one last puff of sanity, that this is his job and he's supposed to be able to fake this as well as he bragged.
Danny closes his eyes and leans in, but Steve doesn't. He was trained to walk into the halls of hell wide eyed and ready.
And he isn't ready; but he doesn't close his eyes. They're still open, when Danny's mouth presses against him -- light eyelashes and opposing shadow, haywire awareness, of Danny, of their guy, of Danny, sending everything in his center into a sudden riot. Because it's not supposed to be like this. It's not supposed to ever happen. Except it is. Except Danny's lips are soft, and Steve can't help that sudden, hitched, small gasp of air he sucks in from the surprise.
Or the way it snaps back inside of him, with that part of his lips.
How the fact he's supposed to hold stills, play nice, do this correctly, slides off his lap, and out of his head, or goads, chides, taunts, pleads that it could be, should be, isn't, because he pushes up suddenly, half off his stool and further into Danny's space, fingers tangling too hard into the hand that closed over his. His other one finding Danny's shoulder, while everything in him screamed he had to stop and he couldn't.