Steve isn't certain Danny should be talking at all. Danny has always talked too much, and Steve has always yelled at him. Insulted him talking too much. Made fun of his words. While paying more attention than he thinks Danny, or any person in the rest of the world, has paid any attention to, too. Except when he asks Danny questions and watches the small surprise flicker past that Steve paid attention to some small detail. While he wasn't looking, or was acting like it was all crap.
Danny knows. He does. Even when it's not something they say. Never has been. It moves circles no one could draw.
The way Danny starts talking suddenly when Steve was busy over here. Danny had seemed to have been busy, too. Fingers in his clothes and just as adamant about what had replaced the talking. Like his breath wasn't coming faster while he started spouting words that Steve had to cobble his brain together to translate, even as they came through clearly, into his inability and unending order to never let himself fall apart.
When it catches. Danny is talking about his suit, again. Back to the topic that had started evening stopping. When Danny had froze and Steve had realized how far he overstepped. Idiotically. Betrayed. Misspoken. Even at the truth. Too far back. Too indicative. Danny swamped with it. Realizing. Pulling apart the more important, to him, part of it. That Steve had been 'hating' this suit for years. In ways that had nothing to do with hate.
Closing his eyes, pillow compressed to his face, until he gave in.
Until his eyes were still closed, but it wasn't a pillow in his hands, put himself.
Feverish with the thoughts of it. With every line of the soft gray and match of the crisp white. Every crease and seam. Every second a hand had laid against it, Danny's or someone else's. Letting his mind burn down when he let himself think, gasoline and oil, what it would be like if it was his. His business. Touching Danny's suit. Touching Danny himself.
When Steve pulls back a second at these words, and the direction they are not even drunkenly sauntering, but that Danny is shoving back at him. The inclination that Steve had. implied. Not, entirely informed a too good detective. That Danny could have avoided. Entirely. Danny does. Knows how to. Avoid things. He doesn't want. They hold each others secrets like that, too. They know which things not to ask about. Not to shove guns and fingers into while pointing and refusing blindness.
Danny could entirely blow off the entire topic which pointed to Steve thinking about Danny sans suit. Naked. Being had.
But he doesn't, and Steve thinks his hearing might be turning into some kind of bubble where nothing else is.
Danny doesn't want him to pretend he didn't say it, and he absolutely would have. Even if his hands are too heavy, too erratic. When Danny is complaining about his suit. Suddenly jumping back to its defense and Steve looks down. Glazed, dark eyes and sudden seriousness. At the perfect shoulders, the shirt that's starting to get rumpled from friction, the buttons, and those pants that fit his ass far too well, even if Steve can't see that vantage from this spot.
"No," Steve declared. No mercy and no apology. For the thick rust in his voice, or the heavy spectre of how he looked down Danny's body. Almost electric with the fact he could. Danny was putting it out there. Letting him look. Asking him to reconsider. Consider him. That way. This suit, and everything under it. Blistering Steve's thoughts and his skin. When want bubbled like lava fighting for the surface.
His gaze flicked back up to Danny. Jumping without looking. "It's a travesty."
He should know better. Danny takes an inch, Steve takes a mile. "You should get rid of it."
no subject
Steve isn't certain Danny should be talking at all. Danny has always talked too much, and Steve has always yelled at him. Insulted him talking too much. Made fun of his words. While paying more attention than he thinks Danny, or any person in the rest of the world, has paid any attention to, too. Except when he asks Danny questions and watches the small surprise flicker past that Steve paid attention to some small detail. While he wasn't looking, or was acting like it was all crap.
Danny knows. He does. Even when it's not something they say. Never has been. It moves circles no one could draw.
The way Danny starts talking suddenly when Steve was busy over here. Danny had seemed to have been busy, too. Fingers in his clothes and just as adamant about what had replaced the talking. Like his breath wasn't coming faster while he started spouting words that Steve had to cobble his brain together to translate, even as they came through clearly, into his inability and unending order to never let himself fall apart.
When it catches. Danny is talking about his suit, again. Back to the topic that had started evening stopping. When Danny had froze and Steve had realized how far he overstepped. Idiotically. Betrayed. Misspoken. Even at the truth. Too far back. Too indicative. Danny swamped with it. Realizing. Pulling apart the more important, to him, part of it. That Steve had been 'hating' this suit for years. In ways that had nothing to do with hate.
Closing his eyes, pillow compressed to his face, until he gave in.
Until his eyes were still closed, but it wasn't a pillow in his hands, put himself.
Feverish with the thoughts of it. With every line of the soft gray and match of the crisp white. Every crease and seam. Every second a hand had laid against it, Danny's or someone else's. Letting his mind burn down when he let himself think, gasoline and oil, what it would be like if it was his. His business. Touching Danny's suit. Touching Danny himself.
When Steve pulls back a second at these words, and the direction they are not even drunkenly sauntering, but that Danny is shoving back at him. The inclination that Steve had. implied. Not, entirely informed a too good detective. That Danny could have avoided. Entirely. Danny does. Knows how to. Avoid things. He doesn't want. They hold each others secrets like that, too. They know which things not to ask about. Not to shove guns and fingers into while pointing and refusing blindness.
Danny could entirely blow off the entire topic which pointed to Steve thinking about Danny sans suit. Naked. Being had.
But he doesn't, and Steve thinks his hearing might be turning into some kind of bubble where nothing else is.
Danny doesn't want him to pretend he didn't say it, and he absolutely would have. Even if his hands are too heavy, too erratic. When Danny is complaining about his suit. Suddenly jumping back to its defense and Steve looks down. Glazed, dark eyes and sudden seriousness. At the perfect shoulders, the shirt that's starting to get rumpled from friction, the buttons, and those pants that fit his ass far too well, even if Steve can't see that vantage from this spot.
"No," Steve declared. No mercy and no apology. For the thick rust in his voice, or the heavy spectre of how he looked down Danny's body. Almost electric with the fact he could. Danny was putting it out there. Letting him look. Asking him to reconsider. Consider him. That way. This suit, and everything under it. Blistering Steve's thoughts and his skin. When want bubbled like lava fighting for the surface.
His gaze flicked back up to Danny. Jumping without looking. "It's a travesty."
He should know better. Danny takes an inch, Steve takes a mile. "You should get rid of it."