The room has gone silent, again, but it's a different silence, now: not sullen and heavy, but electric, crackling. He can feel all the hair on his arms standing up, the trill of goosebumps chasing across his skin. It's the kind of tension that's bound to crack like bone, and leave screaming and pain behind.
But he doesn't move. Steve told him to stop, and Steve wanted to know, so Danny stopped, and told him, because it's the only thing he can offer, now, the only thing he can do to prove he's still Steve's friend, above everything else, that being Steve's friend is the most important thing to him, right now, in this moment.
Important enough that he'll willingly ruin it, to tell Steve the truth, because Steve wants it. Wants to hear it. Wants Danny to say it, clear as day and un-erasable. Wants Danny to write it in permanent marker across the air of this room, that feels like it's slowly filling up with lightning, prepping to spark and burn them both alive.
And Danny gets it. He does. Wouldn't have offered, if he weren't willing, but Steve, Steve is still pushing it. Still. After cracking Danny's chest open, and making him dictate everything Steve is peering at, Danny glances up at a nudge against his shoes, to see Steve right there.
Close. Too close. Pushing panic back into his chest like a tree branch, when there's nowhere to go and Steve won't just let him leave, which is ridiculous, because Steve didn't want this, in the first place. Tried to get Danny to let it go, before ever coming in. Tried to give him an out. Left the car running.
But now he's in Danny's space, exactly where Danny told him he shouldn't be, and Danny never thought of Steve as a particularly cruel person, but right now he feels like a bug, pinned to a board, struggling as Steve pulls his wings and legs off, one by one, slowly. "Steve --"
Half a plea, half a warning, eyes flicking to Steve's face, and then away again, because Steve looks like he's standing on his very last, snapping thread of sanity.
Telling Danny to let go of the door. Allowing him no escape. A bubble of misery cracking Danny's ribs, when his fingers tighten -- isn't this enough, hasn't he said, done, proved enough -- and let go.
Feeling like he's let go of the only handhold keeping him from plummeting into the chasm, but lifting his hand, in proof, in capitulation. In defense? Head turned, because Steve is too close, and Danny can't look at him like this, after saying that, after doing what he did.
Maybe he deserves it. His back against the door. Hands up, like Steve's about to execute him. Steve this close, close enough Danny can feel the heat he's throwing, can remember in vivid, perfect detail how it felt for Steve to take the last step and press him into the wall. His own voice too quiet and too careful and too wrecked on the rocks his willpower is trying to dash itself against, when he says, "You should really back up."
Because he's already proven, right, that he can't be this close. Can't be trusted. Not even when he should be bracing himself for the fallout. The punch. The anger. The disgust.
Can't stop himself, from already wanting to grip Steve's jacket, and drag him closer, and keep him here, until Steve says they'll be okay, it's okay.
When it's not. And Danny knows it's not. Won't be. Maybe not ever again.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2015-10-22 12:50 pm (UTC)The room has gone silent, again, but it's a different silence, now: not sullen and heavy, but electric, crackling. He can feel all the hair on his arms standing up, the trill of goosebumps chasing across his skin. It's the kind of tension that's bound to crack like bone, and leave screaming and pain behind.
But he doesn't move. Steve told him to stop, and Steve wanted to know, so Danny stopped, and told him, because it's the only thing he can offer, now, the only thing he can do to prove he's still Steve's friend, above everything else, that being Steve's friend is the most important thing to him, right now, in this moment.
Important enough that he'll willingly ruin it, to tell Steve the truth, because Steve wants it. Wants to hear it. Wants Danny to say it, clear as day and un-erasable. Wants Danny to write it in permanent marker across the air of this room, that feels like it's slowly filling up with lightning, prepping to spark and burn them both alive.
And Danny gets it. He does. Wouldn't have offered, if he weren't willing, but Steve, Steve is still pushing it. Still. After cracking Danny's chest open, and making him dictate everything Steve is peering at, Danny glances up at a nudge against his shoes, to see Steve right there.
Close. Too close. Pushing panic back into his chest like a tree branch, when there's nowhere to go and Steve won't just let him leave, which is ridiculous, because Steve didn't want this, in the first place. Tried to get Danny to let it go, before ever coming in. Tried to give him an out. Left the car running.
But now he's in Danny's space, exactly where Danny told him he shouldn't be, and Danny never thought of Steve as a particularly cruel person, but right now he feels like a bug, pinned to a board, struggling as Steve pulls his wings and legs off, one by one, slowly. "Steve --"
Half a plea, half a warning, eyes flicking to Steve's face, and then away again, because Steve looks like he's standing on his very last, snapping thread of sanity.
Telling Danny to let go of the door. Allowing him no escape. A bubble of misery cracking Danny's ribs, when his fingers tighten -- isn't this enough, hasn't he said, done, proved enough -- and let go.
Feeling like he's let go of the only handhold keeping him from plummeting into the chasm, but lifting his hand, in proof, in capitulation. In defense? Head turned, because Steve is too close, and Danny can't look at him like this, after saying that, after doing what he did.
Maybe he deserves it. His back against the door. Hands up, like Steve's about to execute him. Steve this close, close enough Danny can feel the heat he's throwing, can remember in vivid, perfect detail how it felt for Steve to take the last step and press him into the wall. His own voice too quiet and too careful and too wrecked on the rocks his willpower is trying to dash itself against, when he says, "You should really back up."
Because he's already proven, right, that he can't be this close. Can't be trusted. Not even when he should be bracing himself for the fallout. The punch. The anger. The disgust.
Can't stop himself, from already wanting to grip Steve's jacket, and drag him closer, and keep him here, until Steve says they'll be okay, it's okay.
When it's not. And Danny knows it's not. Won't be. Maybe not ever again.