Danny's had a lot of nightmares, since he was a kid, about drowning. About the impossible, implacable force of water, the unstoppable grip of a riptide, closing around his ankle, dragging him under. About not being able to breathe, and waking up with a bursting chest and panicked gasps that for a long moment still feel more like swallowing water than air.
This is like that.
He shouldn't be surprised. Steve is a force of nature, and Steve's favorite problem-solving method is to go straight through whatever barrier has appeared, and Danny should not be surprised that Steve's competitive nature and hard-wired need to be the best are running the show here. He shouldn't be surprised at the way Steve surges up, or how he shoves Danny back, or even the way his leg slides between Danny's in a way Danny knows will be playing back in his head, in brilliant, ultra-saturated color, for the rest of the night. It's not surprising that Steve wants to make it look good, or that Steve goes for broke, because that's what Steve does, who he is. The one who goes the extra mile or hundred. The one who keeps moving, on broken bones and not enough blood, fueled by stupid jokes and an unshakeable, impenetrable, steel wall of willpower.
None of that should surprise Danny, and he might even be able to remember that, if it weren't for the way Steve's hands travel down his sides, palms heavy and possessive and nothing like Danny remembers ever seeing, against Catherine's dresses or tank tops or even the bare skin of her stomach in one of her many bikinis during one of their many days at the beach.
Like Steve wants to burn straight through this nice vest and this starched and tailored and too-expensive shirt, the way he's burning through Danny's skin. Drowning him, until all Danny can taste or see or feel is Steve, and how wrong he was when he thought he knew how heavy Steve is, how big, how terrifyingly strong, how delicate that trigger really is, like a mousetrap straining to spring at the slightest touch.
Danny's going to hate himself for this, and maybe Steve, a little, too, for being so good at it. Making it look good.
Making it look too good, maybe, because Steve drags away, sharp and sudden, and Danny's lost for a second in a swell of unexpected and dearly needed oxygen, and on Steve's face. Looking. Dangerous. Like he wants to snap someone's neck. Cracked, or cracking. Taken by surprise, which is never a good thing to do to Steve, and Danny would warn whoever it was, tell them to get lost, because it's him Steve should be taking it out on, but then Steve looks back at him, and his face is full of dread.
Or distaste, maybe. Sinking a rock in Danny's stomach, because maybe it looked good and maybe it felt too good, but Steve's just doing what he does, the job, being the best at it, and Danny's job is to make sure that doesn't take the floor right out from under him.
Which makes him swallow against a sandpaper throat, and turn a little, to the bartender, who gives him a polite, disinterested smile, while Danny shrugs, letting his hand drift back to Steve's waist, as casually as he can make it, before moving to the center of his chest and giving a little push, while Danny stands up from the stool, away from the bar, searching for cool, calm, level.
Everything Steve just obliterated, that they still need, because they're still on the job. "Listen, if you wanted to get out of here, you could have just said so."
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branchandroot
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Date: 2015-10-13 01:04 pm (UTC)Danny's had a lot of nightmares, since he was a kid, about drowning. About the impossible, implacable force of water, the unstoppable grip of a riptide, closing around his ankle, dragging him under. About not being able to breathe, and waking up with a bursting chest and panicked gasps that for a long moment still feel more like swallowing water than air.
This is like that.
He shouldn't be surprised. Steve is a force of nature, and Steve's favorite problem-solving method is to go straight through whatever barrier has appeared, and Danny should not be surprised that Steve's competitive nature and hard-wired need to be the best are running the show here. He shouldn't be surprised at the way Steve surges up, or how he shoves Danny back, or even the way his leg slides between Danny's in a way Danny knows will be playing back in his head, in brilliant, ultra-saturated color, for the rest of the night. It's not surprising that Steve wants to make it look good, or that Steve goes for broke, because that's what Steve does, who he is. The one who goes the extra mile or hundred. The one who keeps moving, on broken bones and not enough blood, fueled by stupid jokes and an unshakeable, impenetrable, steel wall of willpower.
None of that should surprise Danny, and he might even be able to remember that, if it weren't for the way Steve's hands travel down his sides, palms heavy and possessive and nothing like Danny remembers ever seeing, against Catherine's dresses or tank tops or even the bare skin of her stomach in one of her many bikinis during one of their many days at the beach.
Like Steve wants to burn straight through this nice vest and this starched and tailored and too-expensive shirt, the way he's burning through Danny's skin. Drowning him, until all Danny can taste or see or feel is Steve, and how wrong he was when he thought he knew how heavy Steve is, how big, how terrifyingly strong, how delicate that trigger really is, like a mousetrap straining to spring at the slightest touch.
Danny's going to hate himself for this, and maybe Steve, a little, too, for being so good at it. Making it look good.
Making it look too good, maybe, because Steve drags away, sharp and sudden, and Danny's lost for a second in a swell of unexpected and dearly needed oxygen, and on Steve's face. Looking. Dangerous. Like he wants to snap someone's neck. Cracked, or cracking. Taken by surprise, which is never a good thing to do to Steve, and Danny would warn whoever it was, tell them to get lost, because it's him Steve should be taking it out on, but then Steve looks back at him, and his face is full of dread.
Or distaste, maybe. Sinking a rock in Danny's stomach, because maybe it looked good and maybe it felt too good, but Steve's just doing what he does, the job, being the best at it, and Danny's job is to make sure that doesn't take the floor right out from under him.
Which makes him swallow against a sandpaper throat, and turn a little, to the bartender, who gives him a polite, disinterested smile, while Danny shrugs, letting his hand drift back to Steve's waist, as casually as he can make it, before moving to the center of his chest and giving a little push, while Danny stands up from the stool, away from the bar, searching for cool, calm, level.
Everything Steve just obliterated, that they still need, because they're still on the job. "Listen, if you wanted to get out of here, you could have just said so."