He wonders, if this had somehow happened, three years ago, if he would, by now, be sick of the way Steve follows his tugging hand to kiss him, deep and slow and electric, and figures, probably not.
How could he. How could anyone. How could it do anything but simmer down in his belly, the way that Steve is allowing Danny to wrap around him, move him around, keep him here. How Steve kisses him, again, and again, until Danny feels like a sand castle getting caught in a slow and rising tide.
Until Steve pauses, pushes his forehead up against Danny's in a way that feels so much more intimate than nearly anything else they've been doing, because Steve never does. Sometimes to Grace, if he's trying to comfort her, or settle her. Maybe once or twice to Catherine, before Danny had to look away, because it seemed so personal. From Steve, who believes in not only being a wall, but running through others whenever possible. Who loves the reckless, blunt force attack. Offensive strategies. Aggressive forward movement.
Now here, in bed, leaning his forehead against Danny's, and dropping two quiet words into the darkness, before his mouth is on Danny's again, and Danny's opens for him, even while the words rattle around like the last two gumballs in a dispenser. I did.
Fool Danny. It's true. He did. For years, as it turned out, and Danny still hates that, the clutch of guilt and sick worry in his stomach over it, over everything they missed, everything he missed, because he wasn't paying attention, or simply couldn't see it. Caught up in his own life and head and worries. Too certain it could never happen to ever consider the possibility that maybe Steve was hiding something, too. "Yeah."
His turn to drop it between kisses, but he can't keep them up, after that word comes out, pulls his head back, pushing it deeper into the mattress to look up at Steve, searching, studying, mouth pressing into a wry line. "I guess you did."
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branchandroot
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Date: 2015-11-16 09:46 pm (UTC)He wonders, if this had somehow happened, three years ago, if he would, by now, be sick of the way Steve follows his tugging hand to kiss him, deep and slow and electric, and figures, probably not.
How could he. How could anyone. How could it do anything but simmer down in his belly, the way that Steve is allowing Danny to wrap around him, move him around, keep him here. How Steve kisses him, again, and again, until Danny feels like a sand castle getting caught in a slow and rising tide.
Until Steve pauses, pushes his forehead up against Danny's in a way that feels so much more intimate than nearly anything else they've been doing, because Steve never does. Sometimes to Grace, if he's trying to comfort her, or settle her. Maybe once or twice to Catherine, before Danny had to look away, because it seemed so personal. From Steve, who believes in not only being a wall, but running through others whenever possible. Who loves the reckless, blunt force attack. Offensive strategies. Aggressive forward movement.
Now here, in bed, leaning his forehead against Danny's, and dropping two quiet words into the darkness, before his mouth is on Danny's again, and Danny's opens for him, even while the words rattle around like the last two gumballs in a dispenser. I did.
Fool Danny. It's true. He did. For years, as it turned out, and Danny still hates that, the clutch of guilt and sick worry in his stomach over it, over everything they missed, everything he missed, because he wasn't paying attention, or simply couldn't see it. Caught up in his own life and head and worries. Too certain it could never happen to ever consider the possibility that maybe Steve was hiding something, too. "Yeah."
His turn to drop it between kisses, but he can't keep them up, after that word comes out, pulls his head back, pushing it deeper into the mattress to look up at Steve, searching, studying, mouth pressing into a wry line. "I guess you did."
For years. Years. "Some detective I am, huh?"