That sound. That sound is. Steve is going to die on that sound.

It's worse than being shot. It's worse than watching the machete that was coming for his throat. It's worse than moving blocks of stone to realize there was rebar sticking straight through Danny. Maybe just below that doorway, and the moment Danny walked out of that prison, limping and holding himself like his insides might fall out if he didn't. Moments Steve was sure he was going to snap and lose it.

Different ways, but all of them that. All of this that.

The sudden reddening madness threatening, and a spasm of something like hate, disgust.

When he can't tell if it's for Danny or for himself. For the overwhelming urge in his own skin, or the fact he has to force himself on Danny for the case, even if Danny did drag him over. That this has to look good. That Danny has the damned wherewithal to do that. To. Just. Fuck. Forget the shower. He was never going to sleep. Nothing would be loud enough. Cold enough. Nothing would drown out that noise in his ears. The way it vibrated through Danny's throat to his lips.

The way he can't even pull away, because Danny's fingers are suddenly on the back of his head. Pushing in on his skin, his skull, the bones in his neck, places only two people ever get to touch at all, and even then rarely. That hand shaking against him, and Steve doesn't want it to be this real. Doesn't want this close. Doesn't want to know how badly Danny might be keeping from shoving him away. It's going to chase every dream and nightmare. He's never going to want to sleep.

Or be awake. Maybe he'll just drink himself into an inability for all of the above.

Until he can't think. Until he can't remember. Until Danny's cologne isn't everywhere, and his skin.

His voice right next to Steve's ear, doing exactly what he told him to, asked him to relay. Because Steve hates not having eyes on him. Hates it. Because he can't focus. All he has is the hell that is Danny's skin and the wall that they are pressed against, and he needs something else. More words. Something to pulverize. Even if it's just slamming his head into the wall. Even though he can't. Even though he has to listen. And somehow not to the short, fast breaths in and out his nose.

"Stay on him," Steve says. Like Danny needs anyone to tell him his job. But Steve is always telling him his job. They're both always calling the shots. Apart. Together. He has to keep his fractured, and fracturing thoughts, from wobbling. From the desperate spike that makes him want those words to mean something else. Like the universe was messing with his mouth. When the idea of staying here, wanting to stay here, wanting to be here, shoved against this wall, to stay.

It's wrong. It's so wrong. He has to stop. They have a job. They have a job. They have a job.

He's racking his brain as hard as possible without actually hitting it on the wall.
Then. Because it means movement. Because it means attention.

Steve's hands slide up even as he takes a step back, hating and needing it so badly. Fingers catching on the buttons of that vest, and pulling at them, as he drags Danny out of the shadows and into the light. Eyes blown dark, but making himself try to effect that same smile from before. Maybe it works. Maybe it's been dipped in gasoline and shot through with a blow torch instead. But the words he says are clear for anyone nearby to hear, as he tips his head toward one of the earlier open doorways, "Hallway."

And starts pulling Danny by the undone parts of his far too nice suit toward just that. As though he needed Danny.

Here. Now. As though the room might be too open, but the hallway was far enough. Private enough. Public enough.