Danny's words catch up with Steve like a bowling ball. His tone a struggling confusion and Steve wants to go still. He needs to take those words back from Danny and from himself. They shouldn't have come out like that. He shouldn't have let them. He needs to get himself back under even a millimeter of control. Even with Danny pulling him into pressing Danny right against the door. Somehow. He needs to. Has to.
His heart jackrabbiting, again, because of what those words betray. Things he shouldn't have admitted. That are stupid, and long. So long he doesn't look at it long. That it's not new for him, whatever Danny's suddenly realized. This impossible thing where Danny was apologizing and afraid in waves earlier because he felt this now. But it wasn't like that for Steve, and something bitter, and remotely shameful, yet sharp defensive of itself, crawls up his spine on the inside. Pricking him with metal splinters from every crawling leg.
He doesn't want to say a word now. Not a single one. He already said it all, didn't he? All, and too much.
That it was already happening at the point when Danny bought this suit, and wore it for the job, and Kono, and anyone else he might have worn it for. That night. To later dates. It's a good suit. An expensive suit. Danny should have been using it. Danny should be happy. With his things. With his people. Except even the thought feels like Steve punched his open face flat on, his fist taking out teeth and driving itself perfect down his throat.
Too much. He said so little and he still said too much. This is why he wasn't supposed to ever speak. That it had been years ago. That it's been years since he was interested. In his male partner, maybe even in other men. Maybe even long before that. Which adds another layer of bile to the stillness that's making him want to pull away from the insane warmth of Danny's body. Danny's eyes. His quick, confused breaths.
When he feels suddenly trapped, between having said the truth and knowing it's nothing like the truth. That if he opens his mouth, or Danny asks, he'll have to say now, because he doesn't lie to Danny. He's avoided it masterfully for years. The way he's avoided everything in those files he can't tell Danny either. All of them with their own special mission code names, redacted lines, shredded photos and records.
Danny has a box like that. In Steve. He always had. Names, and redacted lines, and shredded photos, and records, all.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2015-10-24 09:35 pm (UTC)Danny's words catch up with Steve like a bowling ball. His tone a struggling confusion and Steve wants to go still. He needs to take those words back from Danny and from himself. They shouldn't have come out like that. He shouldn't have let them. He needs to get himself back under even a millimeter of control. Even with Danny pulling him into pressing Danny right against the door. Somehow. He needs to. Has to.
His heart jackrabbiting, again, because of what those words betray. Things he shouldn't have admitted. That are stupid, and long. So long he doesn't look at it long. That it's not new for him, whatever Danny's suddenly realized. This impossible thing where Danny was apologizing and afraid in waves earlier because he felt this now. But it wasn't like that for Steve, and something bitter, and remotely shameful, yet sharp defensive of itself, crawls up his spine on the inside. Pricking him with metal splinters from every crawling leg.
He doesn't want to say a word now. Not a single one. He already said it all, didn't he? All, and too much.
That it was already happening at the point when Danny bought this suit, and wore it for the job, and Kono, and anyone else he might have worn it for. That night. To later dates. It's a good suit. An expensive suit. Danny should have been using it. Danny should be happy. With his things. With his people. Except even the thought feels like Steve punched his open face flat on, his fist taking out teeth and driving itself perfect down his throat.
Too much. He said so little and he still said too much. This is why he wasn't supposed to ever speak. That it had been years ago. That it's been years since he was interested. In his male partner, maybe even in other men. Maybe even long before that. Which adds another layer of bile to the stillness that's making him want to pull away from the insane warmth of Danny's body. Danny's eyes. His quick, confused breaths.
When he feels suddenly trapped, between having said the truth and knowing it's nothing like the truth. That if he opens his mouth, or Danny asks, he'll have to say now, because he doesn't lie to Danny. He's avoided it masterfully for years. The way he's avoided everything in those files he can't tell Danny either. All of them with their own special mission code names, redacted lines, shredded photos and records.
Danny has a box like that. In Steve. He always had. Names, and redacted lines, and shredded photos, and records, all.