He can't go towards Steve, but he has to go somewhere, when Steve just stares at him, with that faint line pulling between his eyebrows, like Danny came in here and started yelling at him in Latin, or Chinese, so he moves. Not closer, because Steve doesn't want him closer, but back and forth, worrying a line across the room, into the carpet and hardwood floor, hands in the air. Dropping to his hips, lifting again, raising to card through his hair, hard enough to feel the pull, and wish he could strip the skin right off bone, peel off every part of himself he can't trust, can't look at, doesn't want, if it puts him here.
In Steve's living room, where Steve isn't talking to him.
Making him think, for the first time, with a cold drop of his stomach, that maybe Steve knows.
Maybe he's always known. Maybe he's only let it slide because they're good friends and good partners and Steve was always sure Danny would never, actually, act on it. Maybe he's been obvious all along, and this was just the last straw.
And if Steve knows, then maybe it's already too late to save any of this.
But he still has to try. Even with Steve standing silently over there, waiting, watching, letting Danny work himself into a lather, desperate to find the combination of words and sincerity that will make it clear, let him know, it's okay. Danny will make it okay, however he can. Whatever way Steve needs. "Look, I know you don't want to talk to me, alright? I know you probably don't want to look at me, and I know you damn sure don't want to be anywhere near me right now, okay, but --"
He pauses, holds up his hands, like he's surrendering. "I'm not gonna -- I promise, I won't touch you. And I never meant to -- for God's sake, Steve, I promise, it won't happen again, you don't need to worry about it. It doesn't...it doesn't matter."
Except how it does. How what he's feeling matters more than anything, because he can't control it, and he wasn't prepared for it, and he never meant to fall in love with Steve any more than he meant to freak him out tonight, but how was he ever supposed to guard against it? How could anyone?
How has everyone managed what Danny can't, what he'd hate most: walking out the door. Leaving him behind.
Just the thought makes him a little wild, hands going wide, and steps, forgetful, bringing him closer, until he stops, grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes with an exasperated groan at himself. "I know I weirded you out. I'm sorry. It was too much, and I should have...and if you want to hate me, I don't blame you, okay? I just...I'm sorry, alright? You trusted me and I let you down and I'm sorry, I'm sorry I feel this way, I'm sorry I couldn't control it, I'm sorry."
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He can't go towards Steve, but he has to go somewhere, when Steve just stares at him, with that faint line pulling between his eyebrows, like Danny came in here and started yelling at him in Latin, or Chinese, so he moves. Not closer, because Steve doesn't want him closer, but back and forth, worrying a line across the room, into the carpet and hardwood floor, hands in the air. Dropping to his hips, lifting again, raising to card through his hair, hard enough to feel the pull, and wish he could strip the skin right off bone, peel off every part of himself he can't trust, can't look at, doesn't want, if it puts him here.
In Steve's living room, where Steve isn't talking to him.
Making him think, for the first time, with a cold drop of his stomach, that maybe Steve knows.
Maybe he's always known. Maybe he's only let it slide because they're good friends and good partners and Steve was always sure Danny would never, actually, act on it. Maybe he's been obvious all along, and this was just the last straw.
And if Steve knows, then maybe it's already too late to save any of this.
But he still has to try. Even with Steve standing silently over there, waiting, watching, letting Danny work himself into a lather, desperate to find the combination of words and sincerity that will make it clear, let him know, it's okay. Danny will make it okay, however he can. Whatever way Steve needs. "Look, I know you don't want to talk to me, alright? I know you probably don't want to look at me, and I know you damn sure don't want to be anywhere near me right now, okay, but --"
He pauses, holds up his hands, like he's surrendering. "I'm not gonna -- I promise, I won't touch you. And I never meant to -- for God's sake, Steve, I promise, it won't happen again, you don't need to worry about it. It doesn't...it doesn't matter."
Except how it does. How what he's feeling matters more than anything, because he can't control it, and he wasn't prepared for it, and he never meant to fall in love with Steve any more than he meant to freak him out tonight, but how was he ever supposed to guard against it? How could anyone?
How has everyone managed what Danny can't, what he'd hate most: walking out the door. Leaving him behind.
Just the thought makes him a little wild, hands going wide, and steps, forgetful, bringing him closer, until he stops, grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes with an exasperated groan at himself. "I know I weirded you out. I'm sorry. It was too much, and I should have...and if you want to hate me, I don't blame you, okay? I just...I'm sorry, alright? You trusted me and I let you down and I'm sorry, I'm sorry I feel this way, I'm sorry I couldn't control it, I'm sorry."