There's barely enough left of him to notice the weight, when Steve collapses. He's already gone, washed out and hollow, all the struts holding him up blown out, his insides a splintered mess.
Except not splintered. That's too sharp. He feels like a toasted marshmallow, all gooey and melted on the inside, after being shoved into the hottest part of the fire. Too knocked out to do anything other than breathe, eyes shut, while aftershocks rock gently through him at the slightest shift against his skin.
Conscious that there is something heavy on top of him, something pliant beneath. Unfamiliar space, familiar scents. Cotton and salt and aftershave and sex, mixed and sharp and heavy.
Unwilling to pull himself back out of it, because it was the best possible dream to have had. Right. The most realistic yet. Unlike anything he'd ever allowed, or caught himself imagining, before.
Maybe, because he'd never imagined this.
As pale a comparison to reality as his most vibrant dreams, fantasies, wishes had been, none of them were anything like what just happened: not from the moment Steve shoved him into the door to this one, where he's collapsed on Danny like a house of bricks that has only just realized nothing is holding it together, and Danny could never, not in a million years, not if he worked out every possible likelihood, have come up with anything like this, at all. Even the slightest shadow of similarity would have been impossible to find.
Because he could never have imagined it. How it feels, when Steve is dropped on him like a pile of rocks. What his breath sounds like, when it's rough from some other exertion than running, or fighting, or pulling himself up a cliff. How warm he is. How surprisingly soft, when Danny can detach his hands enough to run them down along Steve's skin, flat over his back.
Keeping him here. As well as Danny, who is having trouble remembering his own name, or how to keep his eyes open, or do anything but breathe in and out and slowly melt into a puddle of himself, here in Steve's sheets, can keep anyone anywhere, which is about as well as someone armed with some pipe cleaners could tie him to a chair.
Words are a laughable impossibility, while his eyes are sliding shut again, somewhere under the lead balloon that just crashed into his skull, but there's a low, slow, stupid noise that rumbles out of his chest, content and clouded.
It's just nice, okay. That's what he never would have expected. It's nice.
no subject
There's barely enough left of him to notice the weight, when Steve collapses. He's already gone, washed out and hollow, all the struts holding him up blown out, his insides a splintered mess.
Except not splintered. That's too sharp. He feels like a toasted marshmallow, all gooey and melted on the inside, after being shoved into the hottest part of the fire. Too knocked out to do anything other than breathe, eyes shut, while aftershocks rock gently through him at the slightest shift against his skin.
Conscious that there is something heavy on top of him, something pliant beneath. Unfamiliar space, familiar scents. Cotton and salt and aftershave and sex, mixed and sharp and heavy.
Unwilling to pull himself back out of it, because it was the best possible dream to have had. Right. The most realistic yet. Unlike anything he'd ever allowed, or caught himself imagining, before.
Maybe, because he'd never imagined this.
As pale a comparison to reality as his most vibrant dreams, fantasies, wishes had been, none of them were anything like what just happened: not from the moment Steve shoved him into the door to this one, where he's collapsed on Danny like a house of bricks that has only just realized nothing is holding it together, and Danny could never, not in a million years, not if he worked out every possible likelihood, have come up with anything like this, at all. Even the slightest shadow of similarity would have been impossible to find.
Because he could never have imagined it. How it feels, when Steve is dropped on him like a pile of rocks. What his breath sounds like, when it's rough from some other exertion than running, or fighting, or pulling himself up a cliff. How warm he is. How surprisingly soft, when Danny can detach his hands enough to run them down along Steve's skin, flat over his back.
Keeping him here. As well as Danny, who is having trouble remembering his own name, or how to keep his eyes open, or do anything but breathe in and out and slowly melt into a puddle of himself, here in Steve's sheets, can keep anyone anywhere, which is about as well as someone armed with some pipe cleaners could tie him to a chair.
Words are a laughable impossibility, while his eyes are sliding shut again, somewhere under the lead balloon that just crashed into his skull, but there's a low, slow, stupid noise that rumbles out of his chest, content and clouded.
It's just nice, okay. That's what he never would have expected. It's nice.