He'd always known, right, that giving Steve any kind of opening was playing with fire. That Steve has one single reaction to a challenge of any sort: to accept, and engage, and overwhelm.
Keep grenades in the car. Equipped Five-0 with military-grade tech and weaponry. Runs faster, farther. Hits harder. Will never allow anyone to think he'd shirk from any dare.
So Danny really should know better. Or maybe he did, and he wanted to see what would happen, anyway. If Steve would take the statement and run with it, or if he'd flip it back to Danny, like he does, sometimes. It's a thing. They do things all the time.
Except he doesn't, this time. Catches the hot potato Danny threw to him, and hands back a lit stick of dynamite. Pulling back, stepping back, not to move away, but to look Danny up and down. Assessing. Eyes tracking slow and specific in a way that makes Danny feel like he's being slowly dipped into a vat of boiling oil. "I don't know."
He's watching Steve's face, while Steve is looking him up and down, feels like an explosion someone muffled under a glass bowl when Steve looks up and meets his eyes again. "This is kind of making me think I should keep it forever."
Even if he, also, just sort of suggested it could come off. And Steve told him he should. Get rid of it. Leave it on the floor. Fulfill whatever images Steve had collected over the years, of how this suit distracted him when it was on and how he thought about it being off.
While Danny thinks about what it would be like. Taking it off. Losing his vest, shirt, pants, shoes, here at Steve's front door. Puddles of gray and white on the floor. What Steve's crisp jacket and dress shirt would feel like against his bare skin.
Watching Steve undo those buttons, all over again, but with meaning and intent behind it, this time. Because Danny will have told him to. Suggested. Offered. "If anyone's going to get rid of it, it oughta be you."
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2015-10-25 11:13 pm (UTC)He'd always known, right, that giving Steve any kind of opening was playing with fire. That Steve has one single reaction to a challenge of any sort: to accept, and engage, and overwhelm.
Keep grenades in the car. Equipped Five-0 with military-grade tech and weaponry. Runs faster, farther. Hits harder. Will never allow anyone to think he'd shirk from any dare.
So Danny really should know better. Or maybe he did, and he wanted to see what would happen, anyway. If Steve would take the statement and run with it, or if he'd flip it back to Danny, like he does, sometimes. It's a thing. They do things all the time.
Except he doesn't, this time. Catches the hot potato Danny threw to him, and hands back a lit stick of dynamite. Pulling back, stepping back, not to move away, but to look Danny up and down. Assessing. Eyes tracking slow and specific in a way that makes Danny feel like he's being slowly dipped into a vat of boiling oil. "I don't know."
He's watching Steve's face, while Steve is looking him up and down, feels like an explosion someone muffled under a glass bowl when Steve looks up and meets his eyes again. "This is kind of making me think I should keep it forever."
Even if he, also, just sort of suggested it could come off. And Steve told him he should. Get rid of it. Leave it on the floor. Fulfill whatever images Steve had collected over the years, of how this suit distracted him when it was on and how he thought about it being off.
While Danny thinks about what it would be like. Taking it off. Losing his vest, shirt, pants, shoes, here at Steve's front door. Puddles of gray and white on the floor. What Steve's crisp jacket and dress shirt would feel like against his bare skin.
Watching Steve undo those buttons, all over again, but with meaning and intent behind it, this time. Because Danny will have told him to. Suggested. Offered. "If anyone's going to get rid of it, it oughta be you."