Steve pulls back, but not far enough for Danny to do anything like breathe, or get his act together, or get a grip on his own rebelling mind, the rising, steel-plated bubble in his chest, because Steve is. Looking at him. Close enough to kiss. Close enough his lips still brush Danny's, when they move. Close enough that Danny would only have to tip his chin, and they'd be right back there.
Right back to exactly what he didn't need to know, which is how well Steve fits, when he shouldn't. When it should be impossible. Height. Breadth. Bumping chests and long arms. He's nothing like Rachel, Gabby, Melissa, all petite and tiny, fitting perfectly against him, delicate with soft curves. He could wrap his arms around them, and hold them close, and it never felt like trying to hold onto a plane as it takes off.
The way his arm is wrapped around Steve, now. Under his jacket. While Danny's just realizing how tightly his fingers are clenched in his shirt, at the same time as he's realizing that Steve's not pulling away from him, either. Leaned in. Pushed in. Pushed him back. Like. Except it's impossible. It's just Steve doing what he does. Maybe an extension of how he touches Danny anyway, fond and often. How he doesn't mind hugging Danny, or sitting next to him on the couch. Moments that were never, but were so close there were times when Danny drove himself into insomnia and the bottom of a bottle or his bloodied knuckles on some perp's jaw trying to convince himself that it wasn't, trying to remember it.
It's hard to remember right now, when Steve is so close, and looking at him like this, and it feels so real. Like he means it. Wants it. Like maybe it could be possible, after all, and Danny's fingers tighten a little further, when Steve's lips brush his, and his eyes go half-lidded, until that voice comes.
And those words. And everything they mean.
Washing out that lead balloon in his chest with a rush of dread, while he blinks, and feels like Steve just poured ice water over his head after a three-day bender. Like he's just remembering, now, where he is. What they're doing. Why.
Because maybe he is just remembering, and that's why his fingers let go, clench into a fist so tight he feels like the bones and tendons might snap, but it would be better. Preferable. To break his own hand, rather than put it back on Steve, who doesn't want it, who just reminded him. Good enough?
Because it was supposed to look good, but that was. It was. Too. And Steve doesn't want it. Is reminding Danny, maybe ordering Danny, to pull it back.
Except it comes out raw and hoarse in a way Danny hasn't heard, before, and Steve's face is blown wide open. Sounding like he's been gargling tar. Like each of two words had to be pried loose with pliers.
When Danny has never lied to Steve, and never wants to lie to Steve, but, in this moment, right now, cannot tell the truth to Steve. That it's too good. That Steve's selling it too well, because Danny's starting to believe it, let alone their perp. And Danny can't believe it, because it doesn't exist, and if Danny says he wants it, everything they've done and built and lived through in the last five years will be gone in a breath of dust.
Too many people lie to Steve. Danny won't. But he has to. But he can't.
Leaving him, tongue darting to lick his bottom lip, feeling like the smoking wreckage of a car, all twisted pieces of metal and the ghost of pain. Searching for what he should say, would say, if this weren't like willingly dousing himself in gasoline and setting himself on fire. "Yeah."
His voice isn't working right. His hands aren't. (They should be on Steve. He can't keep them on Steve.) Lungs aren't. Heart hasn't, in years. Nothing's working right, and he needs it to, can't lose it all, doesn't want to see as well as feel Steve's distaste. "Very convincing."
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branchandroot
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Date: 2015-10-15 05:45 pm (UTC)Steve pulls back, but not far enough for Danny to do anything like breathe, or get his act together, or get a grip on his own rebelling mind, the rising, steel-plated bubble in his chest, because Steve is. Looking at him. Close enough to kiss. Close enough his lips still brush Danny's, when they move. Close enough that Danny would only have to tip his chin, and they'd be right back there.
Right back to exactly what he didn't need to know, which is how well Steve fits, when he shouldn't. When it should be impossible. Height. Breadth. Bumping chests and long arms. He's nothing like Rachel, Gabby, Melissa, all petite and tiny, fitting perfectly against him, delicate with soft curves. He could wrap his arms around them, and hold them close, and it never felt like trying to hold onto a plane as it takes off.
The way his arm is wrapped around Steve, now. Under his jacket. While Danny's just realizing how tightly his fingers are clenched in his shirt, at the same time as he's realizing that Steve's not pulling away from him, either. Leaned in. Pushed in. Pushed him back. Like. Except it's impossible. It's just Steve doing what he does. Maybe an extension of how he touches Danny anyway, fond and often. How he doesn't mind hugging Danny, or sitting next to him on the couch. Moments that were never, but were so close there were times when Danny drove himself into insomnia and the bottom of a bottle or his bloodied knuckles on some perp's jaw trying to convince himself that it wasn't, trying to remember it.
It's hard to remember right now, when Steve is so close, and looking at him like this, and it feels so real. Like he means it. Wants it. Like maybe it could be possible, after all, and Danny's fingers tighten a little further, when Steve's lips brush his, and his eyes go half-lidded, until that voice comes.
And those words. And everything they mean.
Washing out that lead balloon in his chest with a rush of dread, while he blinks, and feels like Steve just poured ice water over his head after a three-day bender. Like he's just remembering, now, where he is. What they're doing. Why.
Because maybe he is just remembering, and that's why his fingers let go, clench into a fist so tight he feels like the bones and tendons might snap, but it would be better. Preferable. To break his own hand, rather than put it back on Steve, who doesn't want it, who just reminded him. Good enough?
Because it was supposed to look good, but that was. It was. Too. And Steve doesn't want it. Is reminding Danny, maybe ordering Danny, to pull it back.
Except it comes out raw and hoarse in a way Danny hasn't heard, before, and Steve's face is blown wide open. Sounding like he's been gargling tar. Like each of two words had to be pried loose with pliers.
When Danny has never lied to Steve, and never wants to lie to Steve, but, in this moment, right now, cannot tell the truth to Steve. That it's too good. That Steve's selling it too well, because Danny's starting to believe it, let alone their perp. And Danny can't believe it, because it doesn't exist, and if Danny says he wants it, everything they've done and built and lived through in the last five years will be gone in a breath of dust.
Too many people lie to Steve. Danny won't. But he has to. But he can't.
Leaving him, tongue darting to lick his bottom lip, feeling like the smoking wreckage of a car, all twisted pieces of metal and the ghost of pain. Searching for what he should say, would say, if this weren't like willingly dousing himself in gasoline and setting himself on fire. "Yeah."
His voice isn't working right. His hands aren't. (They should be on Steve. He can't keep them on Steve.) Lungs aren't. Heart hasn't, in years. Nothing's working right, and he needs it to, can't lose it all, doesn't want to see as well as feel Steve's distaste. "Very convincing."