Steve's staring at him, eyes blown dark and wild. Like the back room, but not. Like every one of Danny's dreams or fantasies, the late night images he should never have allowed, the ones he kept like guilty secrets. But not.
Because he could never have imagined this. How it looks like any time he's had to drag Steve off a huddled suspect, to keep him from outright murder at the hands of the state. Or. Except it's nothing like. Not that, or anything else he's ever seen on Steve's face. Wild and unlocked. The whole room narrowing down to those eyes, his mouth, that Danny's eyes keep flicking to, because it's slick and a little pink and his lips are parted against the flood of oxygen that looks like its hitting him like someone threw a bowling ball at his head.
Saying that. Crushing Danny against the wall, without breaking his grip, without backing off, and saying that, which isn't an answer. Can't be. Because that would be impossible, okay, it would be everything Danny knew as impossible for years, for so many years he'd honestly stopped keeping track, just started thinking of it as another inevitability, like getting shot at. Another danger of the job, just as deadly. Loving Steve. Wanting Steve.
He never knew, though. Not really. Not how dangerous it actually was, until now, when Steve won't back away, when Steve is here, leaning into his, when Steve just attacked him, because Danny can't even call that a kiss, and Steve's riding the red line of demolition because Steve never does anything else. Fueling the fire with that statement. Like. Like he wants Danny to kiss him, like he did in that club. Forgetting everything, except how Steve felt, and how much Danny wanted him. How much he wanted it to be real. "I wasn't supposed to kiss you like that."
Careful words, against the hammering in his chest, that he needs to strangle, because he can't hope, okay. He can't. It's not possible. This is. Something else. It can't be. Steve doesn't. Danny wasn't supposed to kiss him like that. Or at all. This is, maybe, some kind of test. Testing the resolve Danny just said he had, that Danny promised he could put into practice.
Which is why he hates himself, for saying anything else at all, much less: "You didn't want me to."
Saying it. The words. And how they're almost a question. How careful they are. How cautious. How his fingers are shaking on Steve's wrist, with the strain of it, and the impossible, wild, drunken possibility of it, that he needs to strangle, before it takes hold, latches on, lets him believe, even for a second.
no subject
Steve's staring at him, eyes blown dark and wild. Like the back room, but not. Like every one of Danny's dreams or fantasies, the late night images he should never have allowed, the ones he kept like guilty secrets. But not.
Because he could never have imagined this. How it looks like any time he's had to drag Steve off a huddled suspect, to keep him from outright murder at the hands of the state. Or. Except it's nothing like. Not that, or anything else he's ever seen on Steve's face. Wild and unlocked. The whole room narrowing down to those eyes, his mouth, that Danny's eyes keep flicking to, because it's slick and a little pink and his lips are parted against the flood of oxygen that looks like its hitting him like someone threw a bowling ball at his head.
Saying that. Crushing Danny against the wall, without breaking his grip, without backing off, and saying that, which isn't an answer. Can't be. Because that would be impossible, okay, it would be everything Danny knew as impossible for years, for so many years he'd honestly stopped keeping track, just started thinking of it as another inevitability, like getting shot at. Another danger of the job, just as deadly. Loving Steve. Wanting Steve.
He never knew, though. Not really. Not how dangerous it actually was, until now, when Steve won't back away, when Steve is here, leaning into his, when Steve just attacked him, because Danny can't even call that a kiss, and Steve's riding the red line of demolition because Steve never does anything else. Fueling the fire with that statement. Like. Like he wants Danny to kiss him, like he did in that club. Forgetting everything, except how Steve felt, and how much Danny wanted him. How much he wanted it to be real. "I wasn't supposed to kiss you like that."
Careful words, against the hammering in his chest, that he needs to strangle, because he can't hope, okay. He can't. It's not possible. This is. Something else. It can't be. Steve doesn't. Danny wasn't supposed to kiss him like that. Or at all. This is, maybe, some kind of test. Testing the resolve Danny just said he had, that Danny promised he could put into practice.
Which is why he hates himself, for saying anything else at all, much less: "You didn't want me to."
Saying it. The words. And how they're almost a question. How careful they are. How cautious. How his fingers are shaking on Steve's wrist, with the strain of it, and the impossible, wild, drunken possibility of it, that he needs to strangle, before it takes hold, latches on, lets him believe, even for a second.
That maybe he's been wrong.