He's got one eye on the mark, and his mouth open to report back in a whisper, when Steve shifts, and everything just goes haywire. Drops a cannonball in his stomach. Floods his skin with hot blood, and flushes it out again with ice, while Steve's mouth moves straight up the side of his neck, and Danny can't stop the strangled noise that feels like something in his chest is dying.
His heart, presumably. The one that can't take this, that maybe wasn't content with what it had before, but can't be taunted like this, either. How close to real it is, and how far it still manages to be.
Because real isn't an option. He'll be lucky if Steve even talks to him after this, if Steve doesn't question that sound, or Danny's hands all over him, or how Danny kissed him in the middle of a room full of people.
Even while Steve's reminding him of the job, and trying to get information, because he's carrying out the fucking mission while Danny's still trying to figure out if the lower half of his legs are still attached to the rest of him. Only noticing now how his hand has left Steve's shoulder to cup the back of his head, and wanting, insanely, with obliterating heat, to just pull. Drag him in and shove him back into Danny's throat, where Danny's pulse is leaping and skidding. On purpose. For real.
Except Steve is already stiffening, drawing back, and Danny can't blame him, as much as he wants to, because Steve doesn't, can't know that it's wrecking him. Dangling in front of Danny everything he knows he shouldn't want, but does, because Steve is impossible and irresitable and he drives Danny crazy, but he's the one who's always been there. Who saved them all. Who keeps being left behind.
Which is why Danny can't, and why he relaxes his fingers a little, even if it feels like they need to be broken with pliers in order to be forced to let go. "He's casing the room."
He is. The guy. Walking in, like a predator. Eyes drifting from group to group. Looking for whoever might be unlucky enough to grab his attention, and ire. "Picking a target, would be my guess."
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He's got one eye on the mark, and his mouth open to report back in a whisper, when Steve shifts, and everything just goes haywire. Drops a cannonball in his stomach. Floods his skin with hot blood, and flushes it out again with ice, while Steve's mouth moves straight up the side of his neck, and Danny can't stop the strangled noise that feels like something in his chest is dying.
His heart, presumably. The one that can't take this, that maybe wasn't content with what it had before, but can't be taunted like this, either. How close to real it is, and how far it still manages to be.
Because real isn't an option. He'll be lucky if Steve even talks to him after this, if Steve doesn't question that sound, or Danny's hands all over him, or how Danny kissed him in the middle of a room full of people.
Even while Steve's reminding him of the job, and trying to get information, because he's carrying out the fucking mission while Danny's still trying to figure out if the lower half of his legs are still attached to the rest of him. Only noticing now how his hand has left Steve's shoulder to cup the back of his head, and wanting, insanely, with obliterating heat, to just pull. Drag him in and shove him back into Danny's throat, where Danny's pulse is leaping and skidding. On purpose. For real.
Except Steve is already stiffening, drawing back, and Danny can't blame him, as much as he wants to, because Steve doesn't, can't know that it's wrecking him. Dangling in front of Danny everything he knows he shouldn't want, but does, because Steve is impossible and irresitable and he drives Danny crazy, but he's the one who's always been there. Who saved them all. Who keeps being left behind.
Which is why Danny can't, and why he relaxes his fingers a little, even if it feels like they need to be broken with pliers in order to be forced to let go. "He's casing the room."
He is. The guy. Walking in, like a predator. Eyes drifting from group to group. Looking for whoever might be unlucky enough to grab his attention, and ire. "Picking a target, would be my guess."