It's pressure storm swelling and swelling behind his breastbone. A warning about the lack of air, or one about the fact he's finally going to just explode. Which Danny's hair against his palm, curled into his gripping fingers. He doesn't know. He doesn't want to know. Danny's hand hard and hesitating on him. He knows it somehow. Without looking. Without being able to focus. Somehow. In the way Danny's gripping the cloth under his jacket and against his stomach, side, like a lifeline, a rope off a cliff. So hard. Nearly shaking. With.
Steve might want it to be anything else--
A stutter step before those hands were just as reckless as they were a second ago. Shoving his jacket aside. His shirt. Maybe even his pants. Until Danny's fingers were on his skin, like a brand, like another tattoo he could never remove, and not a layer of cloth that seems so trivial that it being gone would make him burned even
-- but it's like having a ice shoved at him.
Because it's not. Danny's not. And he needs to take it for what it is. Pay attention. Stumble back from the brink of full out insanity. Like he can tell. Listens. Knows. The way he's seen Danny's hand clench the door frame when the car is going too fast. Shakes and holds hard. White knuckled. Loud. Refusing to give in, even when terrified. Pissed as fuck. Disgusted. And today Steve is the car. The car Danny always, and never, yells about Steve driving.
An today Steve is the car, and there is no always or never here. Because it's not real. Because Danny needs him to stop, needs him to get off. Because Danny can play well, if he has to. But doesn't want this. Not anymore than the car going over a hundred, Steve with a gun, instead of a seat belt.
Steve nearly groaned, teeth wanting to snap, shatter, melt, with the rest of him, black as the shame and anger that smacks through him, when he drags his face back. Half an inch. An inch at the most. Trying to find air. Trying to find sanity. Trying not to find Danny's eyes. And failing. Desperately trying not to be drown by the need to just tip his head and touch Danny's mouth again. Light. Once, or twice. Or not. Not, just back into the wall. He hates himself. He is the worst kind of man right now. Heart pounding, focus splintered, pants so much tighter, every inch of skin alive. Bad. Actively. Boss. Partner. Best friend.
The world is still burning around his eyes, around his voice. Around the small, thin, desperate pull of air in while his mouth is still all but right back against Danny. What does it say about him that he just wants to close his eye (to Danny, to the case) lean into it again. Take what he can. Demand it from the world. Put something into that ugly, jagged thing in his chest that has been there for months. That no one can touch. That leaves him alone, except at night, in that empty bed.
That's alive and screaming in his chest. Petulant and insane. A cajoling, tempted, whisper to invade every shred of sanity.
"Good enough?" He means for the guy, but he can barely get those words out. Tries to ignore for the both of them the freezing tension that threatens to snap, shivering through his body, at only garnered for seconds, when his lips brush Danny's for the words. He means the guy. He means. They have to. The case. His voice is black as he feels whatever's left of his soul probably looks. Low. Bottom of the barrel. Scraping for real, for sane, and finding only this. Liquified remains. Swallowing through a desert and having to nod, barely that way, shift his eyes without shifting his head. For back there. Back where he'd been.
That guy. The only reasons he was ever allowed to, required to, touch Danny. Taste him. Burning alive.
He has to believe Danny understands. Desperately needs him to. Because Danny always understand him. (Usually.) Has to trust that Danny will understand this, too. Will believe him when he blows it off. When he blow off Danny when this ends.
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It's pressure storm swelling and swelling behind his breastbone. A warning about the lack of air, or one about the fact he's finally going to just explode. Which Danny's hair against his palm, curled into his gripping fingers. He doesn't know. He doesn't want to know. Danny's hand hard and hesitating on him. He knows it somehow. Without looking. Without being able to focus. Somehow. In the way Danny's gripping the cloth under his jacket and against his stomach, side, like a lifeline, a rope off a cliff. So hard. Nearly shaking. With.
Steve might want it to be anything else--
A stutter step before those hands were just as reckless as they were a second ago. Shoving his jacket aside. His shirt. Maybe even his pants. Until Danny's fingers were on his skin, like a brand, like another tattoo he could never remove, and not a layer of cloth that seems so trivial that it being gone would make him burned even
-- but it's like having a ice shoved at him.
Because it's not. Danny's not. And he needs to take it for what it is. Pay attention. Stumble back from the brink of full out insanity. Like he can tell. Listens. Knows. The way he's seen Danny's hand clench the door frame when the car is going too fast. Shakes and holds hard. White knuckled. Loud. Refusing to give in, even when terrified. Pissed as fuck. Disgusted. And today Steve is the car. The car Danny always, and never, yells about Steve driving.
An today Steve is the car, and there is no always or never here. Because it's not real.
Because Danny needs him to stop, needs him to get off. Because Danny can play well, if he has to.
But doesn't want this. Not anymore than the car going over a hundred, Steve with a gun, instead of a seat belt.
Steve nearly groaned, teeth wanting to snap, shatter, melt, with the rest of him, black as the shame and anger that smacks through him, when he drags his face back. Half an inch. An inch at the most. Trying to find air. Trying to find sanity. Trying not to find Danny's eyes. And failing. Desperately trying not to be drown by the need to just tip his head and touch Danny's mouth again. Light. Once, or twice. Or not. Not, just back into the wall. He hates himself. He is the worst kind of man right now. Heart pounding, focus splintered, pants so much tighter, every inch of skin alive. Bad. Actively. Boss. Partner. Best friend.
The world is still burning around his eyes, around his voice. Around the small, thin, desperate pull of air in while his mouth is still all but right back against Danny. What does it say about him that he just wants to close his eye (to Danny, to the case) lean into it again. Take what he can. Demand it from the world. Put something into that ugly, jagged thing in his chest that has been there for months. That no one can touch. That leaves him alone, except at night, in that empty bed.
That's alive and screaming in his chest. Petulant and insane. A cajoling, tempted, whisper to invade every shred of sanity.
"Good enough?" He means for the guy, but he can barely get those words out. Tries to ignore for the both of them the freezing tension that threatens to snap, shivering through his body, at only garnered for seconds, when his lips brush Danny's for the words. He means the guy. He means. They have to. The case. His voice is black as he feels whatever's left of his soul probably looks. Low. Bottom of the barrel. Scraping for real, for sane, and finding only this. Liquified remains. Swallowing through a desert and having to nod, barely that way, shift his eyes without shifting his head. For back there. Back where he'd been.
That guy. The only reasons he was ever allowed to, required to, touch Danny. Taste him. Burning alive.
He has to believe Danny understands. Desperately needs him to. Because Danny always understand him. (Usually.)
Has to trust that Danny will understand this, too. Will believe him when he blows it off. When he blow off Danny when this ends.