There's no such thing as slowing down with Steve, and it's true enough that Danny can almost forget the times he's gotten Steve to not only slow down, but stop entirely, to listen to him. Fingers knotted in his shirt. Danny's voice getting louder, higher, words coming faster, hands flying.
He probably could. Stop Steve. Right now. If he put his hand on Steve's chest and pushed him, or said stop, stop, stop, hold on, Steve would. He always has, because he has always, for God only knows what reason, listened to Danny. Danny might mock and joke and complain that it never happens, but he knows that's a lie, that Steve does listen, does pay attention. Close attention, even. Surprising Danny with memorized details of a throwaway comment Danny might have made days or weeks or even months before.
He'd always thought it was because Steve is a details type of person, and he'd always known he was closer to Steve than most, but now he has to wonder, wants to know, if all those little gestures and comments and gifts and favors, if they weren't just Steve, being Steve. If they were this. The way so much of what he felt and did and said was this, even when he tried to convince himself it wasn't.
Any and every time he grew possessively, protectively angry about Doris, or Catherine, or the latest traitorous ghost from Steve's past to rear its ugly head. Dragging Steve to family holidays. Making sure he never stays by himself too long. Pulling him in on things he would never consider on his own, but that Danny knew he'd love, like camping with Grace's scout troop, or helping her train for a fitness test.
Anything and everything to chase away the blank distance in his face, or that false surfer boy smile. To dig Steve out, from beneath the SEAL and soldier.
All the reasons he knows they would listen to each other, even now, and no very good ones not to put them into practice and throw the brakes on, aside from how impossibly perfect it is.
Steve's mouth on his, fitting together as lips open. Steve's hips sliding against his, locking them together like pieces of a puzzle. How their height difference has been completely negated, and turned just into Steve everywhere, everywhere Danny can touch or reach or be touched. The way his pulse is sprinting, hammering into his head, threatening to shatter his ribs.
Or maybe that's just this feeling. Finally let loose, and filling rapidly, too fast to have any kind of a handle on it, impossibly big for Danny's chest, this room, this house, this island.
How much he loves Steve. How much this was never supposed to happen. How much he wanted it to.
Steve's hand is around them both, and Danny is gasping, holding on to Steve's back and hip like Steve's the only piece of driftwood keeping him from being swept out to sea, but the world is narrowing, and he's falling closer and closer with each slip of Steve's hand. "Fuck, Steve."
He's helpless against it. This. This feeling. Steve's hands and skin and mouth and breath. Steve. Him. Them. That wasn't possible. That was, for years. "It's been, Christ, I wanted you for so long."
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There's no such thing as slowing down with Steve, and it's true enough that Danny can almost forget the times he's gotten Steve to not only slow down, but stop entirely, to listen to him. Fingers knotted in his shirt. Danny's voice getting louder, higher, words coming faster, hands flying.
He probably could. Stop Steve. Right now. If he put his hand on Steve's chest and pushed him, or said stop, stop, stop, hold on, Steve would. He always has, because he has always, for God only knows what reason, listened to Danny. Danny might mock and joke and complain that it never happens, but he knows that's a lie, that Steve does listen, does pay attention. Close attention, even. Surprising Danny with memorized details of a throwaway comment Danny might have made days or weeks or even months before.
He'd always thought it was because Steve is a details type of person, and he'd always known he was closer to Steve than most, but now he has to wonder, wants to know, if all those little gestures and comments and gifts and favors, if they weren't just Steve, being Steve.
If they were this. The way so much of what he felt and did and said was this, even when he tried to convince himself it wasn't.
Any and every time he grew possessively, protectively angry about Doris, or Catherine, or the latest traitorous ghost from Steve's past to rear its ugly head. Dragging Steve to family holidays. Making sure he never stays by himself too long. Pulling him in on things he would never consider on his own, but that Danny knew he'd love, like camping with Grace's scout troop, or helping her train for a fitness test.
Anything and everything to chase away the blank distance in his face, or that false surfer boy smile. To dig Steve out, from beneath the SEAL and soldier.
All the reasons he knows they would listen to each other, even now, and no very good ones not to put them into practice and throw the brakes on, aside from how impossibly perfect it is.
Steve's mouth on his, fitting together as lips open. Steve's hips sliding against his, locking them together like pieces of a puzzle. How their height difference has been completely negated, and turned just into Steve everywhere, everywhere Danny can touch or reach or be touched. The way his pulse is sprinting, hammering into his head, threatening to shatter his ribs.
Or maybe that's just this feeling. Finally let loose, and filling rapidly, too fast to have any kind of a handle on it, impossibly big for Danny's chest, this room, this house, this island.
How much he loves Steve. How much this was never supposed to happen. How much he wanted it to.
Steve's hand is around them both, and Danny is gasping, holding on to Steve's back and hip like Steve's the only piece of driftwood keeping him from being swept out to sea, but the world is narrowing, and he's falling closer and closer with each slip of Steve's hand. "Fuck, Steve."
He's helpless against it. This. This feeling. Steve's hands and skin and mouth and breath. Steve. Him. Them. That wasn't possible. That was, for years. "It's been, Christ, I wanted you for so long."