It's a swarm of hands and arms all doing the same thing, trying to get rid of these clothes, making Steve nearly swear at the buttons on his wrist that ends up having to do while the shirt is almost off of him, with the jacket is half caught in the crosshairs and Danny not helping in the slightest. There are hands on his skin, and his skin feels too thin, too vast, and like he can't even feel all of it anymore. As though none of him exists except the inches Danny is touching, through thin, fast gasps between nearly gritting teeth.
Remade in the waves of it bashing against the back of his teeth, when his body pushes into it, those hands, covering his body, traversing, painting paths of fire and attention and leaving them burned out and pulsing as they move on quickly. Danny still talking. Always talking. Saying more of those words Steve will never be able to forget, an he wants to say no. No, he never noticed this and no he has no clue in the slightest.
Danny hadn't known about him. He'd done a good job. Followed the rules and Danny hadn't known at all.
But Danny? Steve had seen someone of those looks over the last few years. They were in the folders that confused him. That once or twice made his chest and his consideration that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't insane and this wasn't just him. Broken. Stupid. Always wanting the only thing he couldn't have. Like it was a life vocation. He'd seen it. Lived on the short-lived high.
When Danny would suddenly look at him. While he was changing his shirt because of a case, Danny eyes would drop to his chest. When stabbing himself with an inoculation, Danny's eyes lingered on his hip even while yelling. Steve told himself, what he always told himself, while it smashed through him like a six footer. It was natural. Any person probably looked, just because it was going on. A new happening in the day. Something. Anything. He'd tell himself.
Because Danny would look. Swallow. Licked his lips once, or his expression pained for a flicker.
Before it was gone entirely. Before Danny was just yelling at him or talking about the case and it never happened.
Making Steve think he actually was insane, okay. Convincing himself just because it might have meant anything anywhere else didn't mean it meant anything to Danny. He told himself a lot of things for four years. Things that kept trying to reassert themselves into his brain with no hold. The force of tissue paper against the raging, brutalizing, burning storm that swept him away every time Danny looked at him, touching him, spoke to him like this.
This voice assailing him like a god damned weapon, like someone had blackened Danny's innards and then scooped them out and that person is somehow him. Leaving him in the red. Incapable of anything but forward, but Danny's voice and Danny's touch. Incapable of believing entirely, even when the proof is right there.
It's in his memories. It's the moments that drove him crazy with not understanding -- no one did that, no one okay, it was just part of the moments no one commented on -- and here, now. When Danny can't stop touching Steve's skin, or kissing him, or sounding like that any more than Steve can. Insane and impossible and happening all at once.
Steve trying for flippant and light, even if it goes out bottom, blacked barrel tar, mocking taunt and threat. "I'm sure you're going to tell me, since it seems you can't even shut up when you are doing this."
Not that Steve wants him to. He wouldn't want Danny without his thousand words and his hands everywhere. God, everywhere. Using that voice and hands that moors Steve to the ground, keeps him coming home, no matter if he's physically or mentally half the world away, or has left his ability to be humane far behind. Danny's voice is what tells him where he is, how he is, and he's never wanted to hear it more than he has right now
(Except
Except when he was limping out of that prison.
Except when the building exploded, raining down on them.
Except when Danny sagged suddenly, after the bomb was diffused.
Except when Danny was in the hospital, so still it was like he was dead.)
But they aren't now. Now, feverous with Danny's touch, and every reminder slamming through him. That he's always felt this way. Everyday. Through everything. Shoved down. Like his Mom, and his Dad, and Wo Fat, and Joe, and every other thing that didn't make sense, didn't have to make sense. Because at least Danny was here, laughing, joking, yelling, at his side, at his back, calling him his best friend, his partner, his boss, with that smile at the end of most nights, even when it was worn thin with exhaustion at the ugliness of the world.
He wants this, too. This painful, gorgeous thing Danny is talking about. That somehow Steve does to him even a cent of what Danny had down to him for all those years. Left him yearning and burning, but unable to touch. Steve wanting to groan through the madness flaring it through him, when he shoves through, like he's always been trained through. Straight through the fire. His hands finding the top of his own pants, taking the button and zipper, and just not caring.
He wants to burn down the whole house around them. The door, the walls, the floor. Danny.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2015-10-28 12:20 pm (UTC)It's a swarm of hands and arms all doing the same thing, trying to get rid of these clothes, making Steve nearly swear at the buttons on his wrist that ends up having to do while the shirt is almost off of him, with the jacket is half caught in the crosshairs and Danny not helping in the slightest. There are hands on his skin, and his skin feels too thin, too vast, and like he can't even feel all of it anymore. As though none of him exists except the inches Danny is touching, through thin, fast gasps between nearly gritting teeth.
Remade in the waves of it bashing against the back of his teeth, when his body pushes into it, those hands, covering his body, traversing, painting paths of fire and attention and leaving them burned out and pulsing as they move on quickly. Danny still talking. Always talking. Saying more of those words Steve will never be able to forget, an he wants to say no. No, he never noticed this and no he has no clue in the slightest.
Danny hadn't known about him. He'd done a good job. Followed the rules and Danny hadn't known at all.
But Danny? Steve had seen someone of those looks over the last few years. They were in the folders that confused him. That once or twice made his chest and his consideration that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't insane and this wasn't just him. Broken. Stupid. Always wanting the only thing he couldn't have. Like it was a life vocation. He'd seen it. Lived on the short-lived high.
When Danny would suddenly look at him. While he was changing his shirt because of a case, Danny eyes would drop to his chest. When stabbing himself with an inoculation, Danny's eyes lingered on his hip even while yelling. Steve told himself, what he always told himself, while it smashed through him like a six footer. It was natural. Any person probably looked, just because it was going on. A new happening in the day. Something. Anything. He'd tell himself.
Because Danny would look. Swallow. Licked his lips once, or his expression pained for a flicker.
Before it was gone entirely. Before Danny was just yelling at him or talking about the case and it never happened.
Making Steve think he actually was insane, okay. Convincing himself just because it might have meant anything anywhere else didn't mean it meant anything to Danny. He told himself a lot of things for four years. Things that kept trying to reassert themselves into his brain with no hold. The force of tissue paper against the raging, brutalizing, burning storm that swept him away every time Danny looked at him, touching him, spoke to him like this.
This voice assailing him like a god damned weapon, like someone had blackened Danny's innards and then scooped them out and that person is somehow him. Leaving him in the red. Incapable of anything but forward, but Danny's voice and Danny's touch. Incapable of believing entirely, even when the proof is right there.
It's in his memories. It's the moments that drove him crazy with not understanding -- no one did that, no one okay, it was just part of the moments no one commented on -- and here, now. When Danny can't stop touching Steve's skin, or kissing him, or sounding like that any more than Steve can. Insane and impossible and happening all at once.
Steve trying for flippant and light, even if it goes out bottom, blacked barrel tar, mocking taunt and threat.
"I'm sure you're going to tell me, since it seems you can't even shut up when you are doing this."
Not that Steve wants him to. He wouldn't want Danny without his thousand words and his hands everywhere. God, everywhere. Using that voice and hands that moors Steve to the ground, keeps him coming home, no matter if he's physically or mentally half the world away, or has left his ability to be humane far behind. Danny's voice is what tells him where he is, how he is, and he's never wanted to hear it more than he has right now
But they aren't now. Now, feverous with Danny's touch, and every reminder slamming through him. That he's always felt this way. Everyday. Through everything. Shoved down. Like his Mom, and his Dad, and Wo Fat, and Joe, and every other thing that didn't make sense, didn't have to make sense. Because at least Danny was here, laughing, joking, yelling, at his side, at his back, calling him his best friend, his partner, his boss, with that smile at the end of most nights, even when it was worn thin with exhaustion at the ugliness of the world.
He wants this, too. This painful, gorgeous thing Danny is talking about. That somehow Steve does to him even a cent of what Danny had down to him for all those years. Left him yearning and burning, but unable to touch. Steve wanting to groan through the madness flaring it through him, when he shoves through, like he's always been trained through. Straight through the fire. His hands finding the top of his own pants, taking the button and zipper, and just not caring.
He wants to burn down the whole house around them. The door, the walls, the floor. Danny.