This is for their cover, and that's why Steve won't hit him, but it doesn't mean Danny isn't going to pay for this later, and it doesn't mean Danny isn't going to replay every single second, every angle, every sensation of it over and over and over again in his mind, for what will probably be years to come. Even if he tries to keep it short, chaste, as unlike a kiss as possible, it still would.
And he does try. He does. It's meant to be quick and clean and as close to painless as having a knife shoved into his chest could possibly be, but then Steve's lips part, and Steve's hand twists to clench his, and Steve lets out that soft, surprised noise that lands in Danny's chest like a grenade, burns itself into the walls of his chest. He'll be hearing that gasp for the rest of his natural life, he's sure: will be haunted by it, the way it falls like a quarter into an arcade game and lights him up.
But none of that, none of it, is insurmountable. Still. He could focus. He could do his fucking job. He could ignore the surprise and the tension and the sudden wire-tight thrill that runs through Steve's body, sharp enough that guilt's the only thing Danny can feel, and it should ruin this as a kiss, destroy anything even barely resembling a kiss, but then Steve pushes up, and grips Danny's shoulder with deadly force, and Danny's drowning, falling. Steve's mouth too hard and too impossible to resist. His own parting. A soft sound, like he's been punched, landing hard in the bottom of his throat.
It's impossible. A dream he'll hate himself for in the morning, except that in the dreams, he's never feeling tight-chested from a lack of air, or the discomfort of being pushed back against his stool and the bartop, and Steve doesn't usually taste like red wine, or thrum with desperate energy.
When Danny's trying to remember that this is an act, the job, and Steve's just giving the best he can, because Steve's a fucking SEAL and that's what he does, his best, no matter what, but he can't, because his hand is leaving the back of Steve's to palm the edge of Steve's jaw, and his mouth is parting, and his lungs are burning. There's some voice from far away screaming at him that this probably looks like too much, they should tone it down, but he can't, can't, any more than he could cut off his own leg.
It was never going to happen. It's still not. But his body isn't remembering that. All it knows is that Steve is here, and shoving into his space, and every single cell in Danny only wants to drag him in closer.
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This is for their cover.
This is for their cover, and that's why Steve won't hit him, but it doesn't mean Danny isn't going to pay for this later, and it doesn't mean Danny isn't going to replay every single second, every angle, every sensation of it over and over and over again in his mind, for what will probably be years to come. Even if he tries to keep it short, chaste, as unlike a kiss as possible, it still would.
And he does try. He does. It's meant to be quick and clean and as close to painless as having a knife shoved into his chest could possibly be, but then Steve's lips part, and Steve's hand twists to clench his, and Steve lets out that soft, surprised noise that lands in Danny's chest like a grenade, burns itself into the walls of his chest. He'll be hearing that gasp for the rest of his natural life, he's sure: will be haunted by it, the way it falls like a quarter into an arcade game and lights him up.
But none of that, none of it, is insurmountable. Still. He could focus. He could do his fucking job. He could ignore the surprise and the tension and the sudden wire-tight thrill that runs through Steve's body, sharp enough that guilt's the only thing Danny can feel, and it should ruin this as a kiss, destroy anything even barely resembling a kiss, but then Steve pushes up, and grips Danny's shoulder with deadly force, and Danny's drowning, falling. Steve's mouth too hard and too impossible to resist. His own parting. A soft sound, like he's been punched, landing hard in the bottom of his throat.
It's impossible. A dream he'll hate himself for in the morning, except that in the dreams, he's never feeling tight-chested from a lack of air, or the discomfort of being pushed back against his stool and the bartop, and Steve doesn't usually taste like red wine, or thrum with desperate energy.
When Danny's trying to remember that this is an act, the job, and Steve's just giving the best he can, because Steve's a fucking SEAL and that's what he does, his best, no matter what, but he can't, because his hand is leaving the back of Steve's to palm the edge of Steve's jaw, and his mouth is parting, and his lungs are burning. There's some voice from far away screaming at him that this probably looks like too much, they should tone it down, but he can't, can't, any more than he could cut off his own leg.
It was never going to happen. It's still not. But his body isn't remembering that. All it knows is that Steve is here, and shoving into his space, and every single cell in Danny only wants to drag him in closer.