Steve does reply, but it takes Danny's brain a second to catch up with it, because it's breathed out against his lips between kisses that feel like being dipped into hot oil, over and over again. Covering his head. Boiling him alive.
And Steve would. He thinks. Steve laughs at him all the time, because Danny is his favorite joke, and Danny is his favorite punchline, but -- "Laughing isn't what I thought you'd do."
It's not the anger he expected, cold and furious and betrayed. It's not a fist to his jaw (even if it feels like one to his stomach, repeatedly). And when his back hits the door -- again, and again, for the third time tonight, Steve's pushed him into a door and kissed him -- it just sends a new flush of heat scudding across his skin.
His hands are following rules of their own. One slipping out from under Steve's jacket, only to track up his side and his arm to cup the other side of his neck, while the other slides down between them until Danny's palm is against his chest. Another spot his hand has rested, a hundred, a thousand times, but never like this. Not with Steve's heart jack-rabbiting beneath it because of Danny, and not the fight he wants to get into or break up.
He's so warm. Danny can't get over it, how warm he is, even beneath the layers of fabric that are starting to feel stifling on his own back, sticking between his shoulder blades.
Everything tipping up and down and absurd, and the joke is still that Danny knows Steve would laugh, but Steve wouldn't take it this far and Steve was never supposed to find this funny, but he wasn't supposed to kiss Danny, either, but then Steve's forehead is heavy against his, and Danny's blinking into his face, while those words come out. A swear, and his name, like he's never heard it, punching an ice pick into his chest, because Steve is saying his name like he's just climbed Everest, or been dragged out of the back of a truck, or was shot.
Like this has, somehow, not just wounded, but heart-shot him. Killed him. Hit him, center mass, and he's bleeding out all over Danny and the floor and about to drop.
Making Danny's hands slide up to frame the sides of his head, fingers gentler than they have been, because it's Steve. Like he just realized. It's Steve, and Steve is the toughest and most able and most capable person he knows, and Steve is also the most broken. The vulnerable spots he still has, that are the reason Danny loved him to begin with, because Steve's a person and not just a weapon, a weapon doesn't care if its hurt or tossed aside, and Steve cares too much --
Two words, that hit sore and leave him feeling bruised and too raw, while he's shaking his head against Steve's, fingers tightening, a little, possessive now, instead of just aggressive. "Yeah. I know. Come on, c'mon, c'mere, babe."
Tipping his mouth back up to Steve's. Needing to drink him in, even while this low, ragged voice is still coming up, quiet in the quiet room.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2015-10-24 04:08 am (UTC)Steve does reply, but it takes Danny's brain a second to catch up with it, because it's breathed out against his lips between kisses that feel like being dipped into hot oil, over and over again. Covering his head. Boiling him alive.
And Steve would. He thinks. Steve laughs at him all the time, because Danny is his favorite joke, and Danny is his favorite punchline, but -- "Laughing isn't what I thought you'd do."
It's not the anger he expected, cold and furious and betrayed. It's not a fist to his jaw (even if it feels like one to his stomach, repeatedly). And when his back hits the door -- again, and again, for the third time tonight, Steve's pushed him into a door and kissed him -- it just sends a new flush of heat scudding across his skin.
His hands are following rules of their own. One slipping out from under Steve's jacket, only to track up his side and his arm to cup the other side of his neck, while the other slides down between them until Danny's palm is against his chest. Another spot his hand has rested, a hundred, a thousand times, but never like this. Not with Steve's heart jack-rabbiting beneath it because of Danny, and not the fight he wants to get into or break up.
He's so warm. Danny can't get over it, how warm he is, even beneath the layers of fabric that are starting to feel stifling on his own back, sticking between his shoulder blades.
Everything tipping up and down and absurd, and the joke is still that Danny knows Steve would laugh, but Steve wouldn't take it this far and Steve was never supposed to find this funny, but he wasn't supposed to kiss Danny, either, but then Steve's forehead is heavy against his, and Danny's blinking into his face, while those words come out. A swear, and his name, like he's never heard it, punching an ice pick into his chest, because Steve is saying his name like he's just climbed Everest, or been dragged out of the back of a truck, or was shot.
Like this has, somehow, not just wounded, but heart-shot him. Killed him. Hit him, center mass, and he's bleeding out all over Danny and the floor and about to drop.
Making Danny's hands slide up to frame the sides of his head, fingers gentler than they have been, because it's Steve. Like he just realized. It's Steve, and Steve is the toughest and most able and most capable person he knows, and Steve is also the most broken. The vulnerable spots he still has, that are the reason Danny loved him to begin with, because Steve's a person and not just a weapon, a weapon doesn't care if its hurt or tossed aside, and Steve cares too much --
Two words, that hit sore and leave him feeling bruised and too raw, while he's shaking his head against Steve's, fingers tightening, a little, possessive now, instead of just aggressive. "Yeah. I know. Come on, c'mon, c'mere, babe."
Tipping his mouth back up to Steve's. Needing to drink him in, even while this low, ragged voice is still coming up, quiet in the quiet room.
"You drove me crazy all night."