He's jumping at shadows and he knows it, because Steve is surprised enough that Danny starts talking at him in the dark about it. The answer to his own question that Danny hadn't asked himself and Steve hadn't asked him in return, and Steve is jumping at shadows in his suddenly ragged uncertainty and tension, because suddenly he's not certain what Danny means at the end either. About never getting this far, because he'd never get it right.
Whether it's that he could never picture how it would be, or if he had, and now he knew Steve couldn't get it right for him.
Which has to be wrong. Right? Maybe. Steve is certain he might be back to the need to smack his head on something very still, solid, and heavy again suddenly. Desperately wants to slide back five minutes, to the absolute certainty of his hands on Danny's skin and his. His mouth on Danny's, the sounds and the sensations. The lack of any question except to shove through and submit, all at the same time. All of that feeling miles away, when Danny isn't inches away even.
Making Steve shove himself back to Danny's words. The ones Danny just said. Something before it. Something else. Something worth saying, because Steve can pretend he has a clue what words are and that he knows -- because he does, and can't not know, knows better than anyone on the planet in these last few years -- that Danny needs to talk out everything, and that it's only worse when Danny doesn't.
Even if Steve wants to shove a rag in his mouth. Somehow hold this moment. Refuse to let it change, turn, be touched, be broken the way it feels like it is already, crumbling in his hands, dust on his tongue, because he inevitably breaks everything, or isn't good enough, or enough enough for them, even the things he actually tries for. Everything in this house turning sideways and sour. The number of goodbyes. Betrayals. Other places that needed all of those people more. Than this house. Than Steve. Because Steve could survive all of that. Had. Did. Kept.
The way the entirety of the inside of his body and head aches at the idea of Danny being next on this. Especially now. That he has to shove hard away.
Close his eyes and just shove something forward, even if it's unfair. At least Danny has some words. "How far did you get?" How long has it been, what day was it when, where did it start, and how far away is Steve from what Danny'd wanted.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2015-11-15 04:46 am (UTC)He's jumping at shadows and he knows it, because Steve is surprised enough that Danny starts talking at him in the dark about it. The answer to his own question that Danny hadn't asked himself and Steve hadn't asked him in return, and Steve is jumping at shadows in his suddenly ragged uncertainty and tension, because suddenly he's not certain what Danny means at the end either. About never getting this far, because he'd never get it right.
Whether it's that he could never picture how it would be, or if he had, and now he knew Steve couldn't get it right for him.
Which has to be wrong. Right? Maybe. Steve is certain he might be back to the need to smack his head on something very still, solid, and heavy again suddenly. Desperately wants to slide back five minutes, to the absolute certainty of his hands on Danny's skin and his. His mouth on Danny's, the sounds and the sensations. The lack of any question except to shove through and submit, all at the same time. All of that feeling miles away, when Danny isn't inches away even.
Making Steve shove himself back to Danny's words. The ones Danny just said. Something before it. Something else. Something worth saying, because Steve can pretend he has a clue what words are and that he knows -- because he does, and can't not know, knows better than anyone on the planet in these last few years -- that Danny needs to talk out everything, and that it's only worse when Danny doesn't.
Even if Steve wants to shove a rag in his mouth. Somehow hold this moment. Refuse to let it change, turn, be touched, be broken the way it feels like it is already, crumbling in his hands, dust on his tongue, because he inevitably breaks everything, or isn't good enough, or enough enough for them, even the things he actually tries for. Everything in this house turning sideways and sour. The number of goodbyes. Betrayals. Other places that needed all of those people more. Than this house. Than Steve. Because Steve could survive all of that. Had. Did. Kept.
The way the entirety of the inside of his body and head aches at the idea of Danny being next on this. Especially now. That he has to shove hard away.
Close his eyes and just shove something forward, even if it's unfair. At least Danny has some words. "How far did you get?"
How long has it been, what day was it when, where did it start, and how far away is Steve from what Danny'd wanted.