It's not entirely true. But without making it right. He hadn't, had he? He hadn't really wanted Danny to kiss him at all. At least no more than he wanted to be shot or stabbed. But it had become a casualty of this case. The undercover. A question they never actually asked or answered of each other. When they were making jokes as a group. Whether it was going to get to that point. How good was good and what was good enough for enough or wasn't. For each other. For the guy. For all the people they were keeping alive.
He hadn't wanted to know. At least as much he had. What it felt like. To have Danny pressed like that against him. Hands everywhere. The way it stayed on his tongue. The way it poured gasoline down his veins, lighting torches that had never gone out to begin with. Dusty and ignored, flaring to life, scalding with brutal heat. The same heat in Danny's eyes right now. Blue, wide, confused. Darting to his mouth. Fingers still tight on him.
Making Steve aware no part of him agreed. Not now. Not since. Not when it was barely inches, and these inches were in his own house, while Danny swallowed and made an effort not to stammer but couldn't stop looking between his mouth and his eyes. Danny. With a million words who chose a half handful, and thought Steve didn't want -- "Wrong."
It's a single word, a small one, sobering even as the delirious comment he would have made even three or four years ago -- Kiss me like that, again; low, in order, like a promise of the rain of destruction -- definitely in his twenties, definitely against a random person, faded into his teeth. But he isn't. Danny isn't random. Danny isn't the person to go down on like he's a sinking ship. Danny isn't someone to laugh at the insanity of undressing against his front door, screwing on the couch, and never having to think about it, once the mad drive leaves his skin.
It's Danny, whom he couldn't stand the idea he was about lose. To this same truth. Desperately thought he had. Only ten minutes back. The other side of this door. In the car that couldn't even entirely be cool yet from running. While Danny thought. What had he said? Something about Steve hitting him, or firing him? God. There weren't even words for how wrong Danny was. For how old he felt being aware even that the thoughts took place, consideration of ultimate, futile desemation sliding away.
Maybe he hadn't wanted it when they headed out tonight, but he'd take someone's head for trying to take it away now. He didn't want to not know what he did now. He didn't want to think of a night where it hadn't happened. Seeing Danny like this.
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It's not entirely true. But without making it right. He hadn't, had he? He hadn't really wanted Danny to kiss him at all. At least no more than he wanted to be shot or stabbed. But it had become a casualty of this case. The undercover. A question they never actually asked or answered of each other. When they were making jokes as a group. Whether it was going to get to that point. How good was good and what was good enough for enough or wasn't. For each other. For the guy. For all the people they were keeping alive.
He hadn't wanted to know. At least as much he had. What it felt like. To have Danny pressed like that against him. Hands everywhere. The way it stayed on his tongue. The way it poured gasoline down his veins, lighting torches that had never gone out to begin with. Dusty and ignored, flaring to life, scalding with brutal heat. The same heat in Danny's eyes right now. Blue, wide, confused. Darting to his mouth. Fingers still tight on him.
Making Steve aware no part of him agreed. Not now. Not since. Not when it was barely inches, and these inches were in his own house, while Danny swallowed and made an effort not to stammer but couldn't stop looking between his mouth and his eyes. Danny. With a million words who chose a half handful, and thought Steve didn't want -- "Wrong."
It's a single word, a small one, sobering even as the delirious comment he would have made even three or four years ago -- Kiss me like that, again; low, in order, like a promise of the rain of destruction -- definitely in his twenties, definitely against a random person, faded into his teeth. But he isn't. Danny isn't random. Danny isn't the person to go down on like he's a sinking ship. Danny isn't someone to laugh at the insanity of undressing against his front door, screwing on the couch, and never having to think about it, once the mad drive leaves his skin.
It's Danny, whom he couldn't stand the idea he was about lose. To this same truth. Desperately thought he had. Only ten minutes back. The other side of this door. In the car that couldn't even entirely be cool yet from running. While Danny thought. What had he said? Something about Steve hitting him, or firing him? God. There weren't even words for how wrong Danny was. For how old he felt being aware even that the thoughts took place, consideration of ultimate, futile desemation sliding away.
Maybe he hadn't wanted it when they headed out tonight, but he'd take someone's head for trying to take it away now.
He didn't want to not know what he did now. He didn't want to think of a night where it hadn't happened. Seeing Danny like this.