He hates this perp, he hates this place, he hates this night, he hates himself, and he hates the look on Steve's face, that's half a bandit smile and half wrapped in yellow CAUTION tape, shuttering in on itself in that way no one else in the world ever seems to see, except Danny, who can never understand why they don't.
Because it's not Steve. That easy-going, surfer-boy aloha waggle of his fingers and quirk of his mouth, lazy blue eyes, relaxed shoulders. It can be, at home, at the beach, with the team, with Grace and her friends. But not when it's out in the world. Not when Steve's smiling, but his eyes have gone distant.
Danny should check in with him, say, who knows. God. Something. Any one of the million words he always has at his fingertips that have always worked to relax Steve before, make him laugh, haul him back from teetering into the minefield of his own mind. Apologize, or make a joke about how Steve's so good at this he's almost got Danny fooled, which would make everyone laugh and relax a little and only burn off an inch or two of his own skin with turpentine.
But he can't, because they're still on the job, and he's trying to keep eyes on their guy, which is almost impossible to do when Steve's hauling him around like this. On any other day, he'd relieve the tension a little by bitching about it, complaining that Steve can't give him a task and then make it impossible for Danny to actually do that task, except he does it all the time, God forbid Danny spend a single day on this job jumping through zero hoops, but he can't do that, either. All he can do is let Steve pull him, like he would if he were the person he's pretending to be, and Steve were the person he's pretending to be, until Steve stops, and then gives Danny no time to question it, before he's being pushed, back, feet catching and his hands on Steve's wrists to steady himself, until his back hits something solid hard enough to push the breath out of his chest.
Or maybe that's just the look on Steve's face. This one he doesn't know, and can't parse: wild and a little desperate and cagey, as strange as his whispered words are, that Danny opens his mouth to respond to -- say it's fine, or something like it, anything to wipe that face off Steve's face, but then Steve leans in and it all goes up in flames.
Everything. Hits like a match to a bubble of gas, punched straight through him, from his feet right through the top of his head. He feels like a marshmallow left in a microwave: expanding in fast-forward and exploding everywhere, leaving sticky, messy bits of his heart all over this room.
Because it is his heart. This ache. This explosion. Not his brain, that's been strangled right out of existence, or even his instinct. His stupid, clumsy heart, that's making him push back into Steve, and shove stupid, clumsy fingers into Steve's hair to drag him down, while the other hand fists in his jacket, lets go, slides under the fabric along Steve's side.
Some alarm, somewhere beneath the drowning and the choking dust, screaming that this isn't making it look good, it's taking too much. Everything he can't have, shouldn't want. Nothing that's on offer.
Steve kissed him for the job, but Danny can't seem to convince his body of it, because all it wants to do is kiss Steve back.
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He hates this perp, he hates this place, he hates this night, he hates himself, and he hates the look on Steve's face, that's half a bandit smile and half wrapped in yellow CAUTION tape, shuttering in on itself in that way no one else in the world ever seems to see, except Danny, who can never understand why they don't.
Because it's not Steve. That easy-going, surfer-boy aloha waggle of his fingers and quirk of his mouth, lazy blue eyes, relaxed shoulders. It can be, at home, at the beach, with the team, with Grace and her friends. But not when it's out in the world. Not when Steve's smiling, but his eyes have gone distant.
Danny should check in with him, say, who knows. God. Something. Any one of the million words he always has at his fingertips that have always worked to relax Steve before, make him laugh, haul him back from teetering into the minefield of his own mind. Apologize, or make a joke about how Steve's so good at this he's almost got Danny fooled, which would make everyone laugh and relax a little and only burn off an inch or two of his own skin with turpentine.
But he can't, because they're still on the job, and he's trying to keep eyes on their guy, which is almost impossible to do when Steve's hauling him around like this. On any other day, he'd relieve the tension a little by bitching about it, complaining that Steve can't give him a task and then make it impossible for Danny to actually do that task, except he does it all the time, God forbid Danny spend a single day on this job jumping through zero hoops, but he can't do that, either. All he can do is let Steve pull him, like he would if he were the person he's pretending to be, and Steve were the person he's pretending to be, until Steve stops, and then gives Danny no time to question it, before he's being pushed, back, feet catching and his hands on Steve's wrists to steady himself, until his back hits something solid hard enough to push the breath out of his chest.
Or maybe that's just the look on Steve's face. This one he doesn't know, and can't parse: wild and a little desperate and cagey, as strange as his whispered words are, that Danny opens his mouth to respond to -- say it's fine, or something like it, anything to wipe that face off Steve's face, but then Steve leans in and it all goes up in flames.
Everything. Hits like a match to a bubble of gas, punched straight through him, from his feet right through the top of his head. He feels like a marshmallow left in a microwave: expanding in fast-forward and exploding everywhere, leaving sticky, messy bits of his heart all over this room.
Because it is his heart. This ache. This explosion. Not his brain, that's been strangled right out of existence, or even his instinct. His stupid, clumsy heart, that's making him push back into Steve, and shove stupid, clumsy fingers into Steve's hair to drag him down, while the other hand fists in his jacket, lets go, slides under the fabric along Steve's side.
Some alarm, somewhere beneath the drowning and the choking dust, screaming that this isn't making it look good, it's taking too much. Everything he can't have, shouldn't want. Nothing that's on offer.
Steve kissed him for the job, but Danny can't seem to convince his body of it, because all it wants to do is kiss Steve back.