Danny's words aren't sticking more than any of his thoughts. Danny's voice with his name. That sharp, dangerous edge that is Danny begging him to back up. Miserable, the way only Danny can. Threatening to bite. Hurt turning with the fastest ease to bitterness. Acid spitting everywhere. A growl to warn that next comes the bite for the throat and Steve shouldn't want to push it. Push him. See how far it would. How many steps until Danny lunged or evaded. How many until Danny would. So many things fill that space.
But not words. Even as Danny tells him to back up.
But he doesn't. He takes another step forward. His knee running into Danny's leg.
In his ears, he can already hear Danny yelling. Use your words. Loud. Shrill. Smack him on the shoulder. The back. A fist in his shirt, pulling it out. Dragging him around, like he's a rag doll and not a SEAL. Words, Steven. Except he can't. He doesn't. His hand hits Danny's chest, palm flat. Buttons into his palm with the force of his movement. Too fast, and forceful. All his muscle behind it. Backward. Pushing him away. Like a rational human being. But there aren't any. He's made sure.
That there weren't any words for this when Danny was in the hospital. Any time he was beaten. Anytime someone tried to break him. His heart. His body. People. Rachel. Falling buildings. Bastards. With zip ties, and guns, and black bags. For every hole newly gouged into him. Any part of him. Every time Steve wanted to repay with the full extent of his training on that person. Steve made sure there were never any words for this. For the better part of half a decade.
There aren't any. He's good at his job. He follows the rules.
There's a madness shattering through him with every thought. That one. Twisted, distorted, exploding. When Danny's back does hit the door. Danny's head.
There's a rattle of the door actually being impacted. He's staring into Danny's face. Those dark eyes. Like it's a burning sign. A leveled town. Smoking crater. Then he's leaning in, doing absolutely everything he shouldn't. Can't help. Burns with want over. Reawakened. Insanity. Impossibility. This isn't real. It can't be. There's something dark crawling up his throat, a noise he can't admit to, doesn't want to claim or acknowledge, when his mouth crashes into Danny with so much less though that everything else earlier.
Everything fitted into his veins like an elephant inside a needle. Like a ship finding an ice berg or a reef of coral too late. He's always been too late to stop this. Years ago. In that doorway, calling his name over and over. Last week. When he agreed to let them do this, laughing. Today. When Danny told him not to punch him and leaned in.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2015-10-22 10:08 pm (UTC)Danny's words aren't sticking more than any of his thoughts. Danny's voice with his name. That sharp, dangerous edge that is Danny begging him to back up. Miserable, the way only Danny can. Threatening to bite. Hurt turning with the fastest ease to bitterness. Acid spitting everywhere. A growl to warn that next comes the bite for the throat and Steve shouldn't want to push it. Push him. See how far it would. How many steps until Danny lunged or evaded. How many until Danny would. So many things fill that space.
But not words. Even as Danny tells him to back up.
But he doesn't. He takes another step forward. His knee running into Danny's leg.
In his ears, he can already hear Danny yelling. Use your words. Loud. Shrill. Smack him on the shoulder. The back. A fist in his shirt, pulling it out. Dragging him around, like he's a rag doll and not a SEAL. Words, Steven. Except he can't. He doesn't. His hand hits Danny's chest, palm flat. Buttons into his palm with the force of his movement. Too fast, and forceful. All his muscle behind it. Backward. Pushing him away. Like a rational human being. But there aren't any. He's made sure.
That there weren't any words for this when Danny was in the hospital. Any time he was beaten. Anytime someone tried to break him. His heart. His body. People. Rachel. Falling buildings. Bastards. With zip ties, and guns, and black bags. For every hole newly gouged into him. Any part of him. Every time Steve wanted to repay with the full extent of his training on that person. Steve made sure there were never any words for this. For the better part of half a decade.
There aren't any. He's good at his job. He follows the rules.
There's a madness shattering through him with every thought. That one.
Twisted, distorted, exploding. When Danny's back does hit the door. Danny's head.
There's a rattle of the door actually being impacted. He's staring into Danny's face. Those dark eyes. Like it's a burning sign. A leveled town. Smoking crater. Then he's leaning in, doing absolutely everything he shouldn't. Can't help. Burns with want over. Reawakened. Insanity. Impossibility. This isn't real. It can't be. There's something dark crawling up his throat, a noise he can't admit to, doesn't want to claim or acknowledge, when his mouth crashes into Danny with so much less though that everything else earlier.
Everything fitted into his veins like an elephant inside a needle. Like a ship finding an ice berg or a reef of coral too late. He's always been too late to stop this. Years ago. In that doorway, calling his name over and over. Last week. When he agreed to let them do this, laughing. Today. When Danny told him not to punch him and leaned in.