Steve hesitates, and then folds in on him, and Danny hates doing this to him, but not as much as he hates the way he shivers when Steve's nose brushes against his neck, and Steve's breath puffs against skin that feels wired to a clutch of explosives ticking somewhere beneath his ribs.
He hates his own body, for that shiver, and for the way it wants to press into Steve, and for how his hands -- somehow both now on Steve's coat, one at his arm and the other at his waist -- tighten, reflexive.
Maybe as much as he hates that laugh, and Steve's displeasure at the whole scenario, at needing to do this, at continuing the illusion instead of just barging through the wall and making the collar, taking the mark out with the maximum degree of efficient violence.
He knows Steve hates it, too, but they're stuck, at least for a few minutes, until whatever move their guy is going to make gets made, and Steve is pressed against him, all along him, in a way that makes him scramble to remember football plays, multiplication tables, anything that isn't Steve's long, lean bulk blanketing him. Walling him in. Focused on him in a wholly new and dangerous way, that he's never seen before, only briefly imagined, without ever getting it right.
How Steve blots out the whole rest of the room, and Danny wouldn't be able to move, if Steve decided he shouldn't. How it could be. How it would feel. Pressed between the wall and Steve. What it would be like with nowhere to retreat to, not even the edge of a stool, or the line of a bartop.
The hand at Steve's arm slides up his shoulder, and Danny cants his head to get a better look at the room, giving the impression he's just baring his neck more, for everything he's not actually getting, that will be seared onto the backs of his eyelids tonight in Technicolor.
Watching as one man leaves an alcove not unlike theirs, and makes his way to the other end of the room, to another door. The exit, maybe. The back way, out to the alley where the bodies were all piled.
The soft click of a latch calls Danny's attention back, and he glances the way they came, to see a line of light appear, only to be blotted out by one figure. Alone.
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Steve hesitates, and then folds in on him, and Danny hates doing this to him, but not as much as he hates the way he shivers when Steve's nose brushes against his neck, and Steve's breath puffs against skin that feels wired to a clutch of explosives ticking somewhere beneath his ribs.
He hates his own body, for that shiver, and for the way it wants to press into Steve, and for how his hands -- somehow both now on Steve's coat, one at his arm and the other at his waist -- tighten, reflexive.
Maybe as much as he hates that laugh, and Steve's displeasure at the whole scenario, at needing to do this, at continuing the illusion instead of just barging through the wall and making the collar, taking the mark out with the maximum degree of efficient violence.
He knows Steve hates it, too, but they're stuck, at least for a few minutes, until whatever move their guy is going to make gets made, and Steve is pressed against him, all along him, in a way that makes him scramble to remember football plays, multiplication tables, anything that isn't Steve's long, lean bulk blanketing him. Walling him in. Focused on him in a wholly new and dangerous way, that he's never seen before, only briefly imagined, without ever getting it right.
How Steve blots out the whole rest of the room, and Danny wouldn't be able to move, if Steve decided he shouldn't. How it could be. How it would feel. Pressed between the wall and Steve. What it would be like with nowhere to retreat to, not even the edge of a stool, or the line of a bartop.
The hand at Steve's arm slides up his shoulder, and Danny cants his head to get a better look at the room, giving the impression he's just baring his neck more, for everything he's not actually getting, that will be seared onto the backs of his eyelids tonight in Technicolor.
Watching as one man leaves an alcove not unlike theirs, and makes his way to the other end of the room, to another door. The exit, maybe. The back way, out to the alley where the bodies were all piled.
The soft click of a latch calls Danny's attention back, and he glances the way they came, to see a line of light appear, only to be blotted out by one figure. Alone.
"Looks like he decided to come join the party."