It makes him laugh, which is entirely against what Steve's telling him to do, a waste of the air he actually has managed to get, or keep, when it breaks ragged against Steve's mouth, tearing from lungs that don't seem to work right. Just like nothing seems to work right, around Steve. It's the only explanation for the way his body seems to have a mind of its own, control lost, snapped like a thread somewhere against Steve's fingers or his mouth or the words he keeps saying low into Danny's ear. Impossible words, like I want you and you already drive me insane, which, that's not fair. Danny can't be held responsible for all of Steve's crazy, that's like taking responsibility for the country's obsession with reality shows, or for Kim Jong Il.
Except Steve doesn't always seem crazy. Like right now. Instead of shoving Danny closer to the fire, he's holding onto him, arms hard and secure, weight pressing down in a way that's more reassuring than smothering, which is absurd. Steve crowds him. Drags him. Steve turns criminals into sad, smudged spots on the road, with this same body weight.
But Steve's not doing anything like that, now. If anything, he's tugging Danny back from the crumbling edge, voice quiet, tight and constrained, but low. Almost soothing. Like this is as much about, what. Taking care of Danny, as it is forcing Danny to lose every inch of self-control he's got left, wrapping that tattered cloak back around himself.
Making Danny take in a hard, deep breath that scrapes against his lungs like metal, a reckless, stupid smile pulling at his mouth against the helpless laugh. "I sort of thought you were aiming for the opposite."
Christ. How the hell is he supposed to breathe. Remember to. Care to. How could anyone, when Steve is here, shoving a lightning storm under his skin, settling on him like continental drift. When that second word darts past the roiling insanity to stick in something hidden deep and soft, striking with an ache that spreads like lit gasoline across the rest of his body. Something he's heard Steve say plenty of times, sure -- but not like this. Not in that dark, low, lingering voice. Whispered rough into his mouth. Hit like a light switch.
"You are not conducive to breathing."
He's sure he's made that point before, but it clearly bears repeating.
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Except Steve doesn't always seem crazy. Like right now. Instead of shoving Danny closer to the fire, he's holding onto him, arms hard and secure, weight pressing down in a way that's more reassuring than smothering, which is absurd. Steve crowds him. Drags him. Steve turns criminals into sad, smudged spots on the road, with this same body weight.
But Steve's not doing anything like that, now. If anything, he's tugging Danny back from the crumbling edge, voice quiet, tight and constrained, but low. Almost soothing. Like this is as much about, what. Taking care of Danny, as it is forcing Danny to lose every inch of self-control he's got left, wrapping that tattered cloak back around himself.
Making Danny take in a hard, deep breath that scrapes against his lungs like metal, a reckless, stupid smile pulling at his mouth against the helpless laugh. "I sort of thought you were aiming for the opposite."
Christ. How the hell is he supposed to breathe. Remember to. Care to. How could anyone, when Steve is here, shoving a lightning storm under his skin, settling on him like continental drift. When that second word darts past the roiling insanity to stick in something hidden deep and soft, striking with an ache that spreads like lit gasoline across the rest of his body. Something he's heard Steve say plenty of times, sure -- but not like this. Not in that dark, low, lingering voice. Whispered rough into his mouth. Hit like a light switch.
"You are not conducive to breathing."
He's sure he's made that point before, but it clearly bears repeating.