There's something that shutters closed across Steve's face, but before Danny can amend his statement, say -- fuck, anything, anything at all that even remotely sounds like his usual self -- he's rolling his eyes, and insulting Danny. Like he always does. Like it's easy. Like Danny wasn't just breathing his air, or gripping his shirt so tightly it was about to rip between his knuckles, or hadn't dragged Steve down, like he definitely did not need to do to make it look good.
Which is all this is. Making it look good.
That's what Steve's doing, when he tips his head, and Danny's chin jerks between the instinct to tip his own and catch Steve's mouth, and the over-correction of not. Molars grinding down on each other, while Steve keeps going, soft breath into Danny's skin, making this suit, perfectly tailored to him, feel suddenly far too small.
Without his hand in Steve's shirt, he's got no handhold. It's not like the Camaro, when he can hold onto the frame of the car and yell his displeasure over the wail of the sire. He can barely even hear his own voice, or Steve's over the alarms going off now.
How dangerous this still is. How he desperately needs Steve to believe that wasn't convincing, because if it didn't convince Steve, Danny's still safe, and he doesn't need to keep lying. Not anymore than he has for months. Years. From whenever this started, that was probably a lot sooner than Danny has any real gauge for.
Nodding, and licking his lip, that feels too dry, and that tastes like Steve, which is something he's not allowed, but can't keep from reaching for. It's already a ghost. Already gone. Never happened, and never will. "Good."
It means getting away from Steve, which can only be a good idea, right now, so Danny is all for it, even if he hates it, too. One more thing to add to the burning pile. He tips his chin up, lets the hand at Steve's head slide carefully back to his shoulder. Careful, careful. Aware any second it might betray him, and try to bury itself in those short brown strands again. "There's a back door over that way. If he thinks you're headed back in, ten to one he'll follow me."
He needs to. It has to. Because Danny can't stand here and resist this, while Steve is pressed against him, for very much longer.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2015-10-16 12:17 am (UTC)There's something that shutters closed across Steve's face, but before Danny can amend his statement, say -- fuck, anything, anything at all that even remotely sounds like his usual self -- he's rolling his eyes, and insulting Danny. Like he always does. Like it's easy. Like Danny wasn't just breathing his air, or gripping his shirt so tightly it was about to rip between his knuckles, or hadn't dragged Steve down, like he definitely did not need to do to make it look good.
Which is all this is. Making it look good.
That's what Steve's doing, when he tips his head, and Danny's chin jerks between the instinct to tip his own and catch Steve's mouth, and the over-correction of not. Molars grinding down on each other, while Steve keeps going, soft breath into Danny's skin, making this suit, perfectly tailored to him, feel suddenly far too small.
Without his hand in Steve's shirt, he's got no handhold. It's not like the Camaro, when he can hold onto the frame of the car and yell his displeasure over the wail of the sire. He can barely even hear his own voice, or Steve's over the alarms going off now.
How dangerous this still is. How he desperately needs Steve to believe that wasn't convincing, because if it didn't convince Steve, Danny's still safe, and he doesn't need to keep lying. Not anymore than he has for months. Years. From whenever this started, that was probably a lot sooner than Danny has any real gauge for.
Nodding, and licking his lip, that feels too dry, and that tastes like Steve, which is something he's not allowed, but can't keep from reaching for. It's already a ghost. Already gone. Never happened, and never will. "Good."
It means getting away from Steve, which can only be a good idea, right now, so Danny is all for it, even if he hates it, too. One more thing to add to the burning pile. He tips his chin up, lets the hand at Steve's head slide carefully back to his shoulder. Careful, careful. Aware any second it might betray him, and try to bury itself in those short brown strands again. "There's a back door over that way. If he thinks you're headed back in, ten to one he'll follow me."
He needs to. It has to. Because Danny can't stand here and resist this, while Steve is pressed against him, for very much longer.