Steve shifts, like sand, rolling closer to bury his face in the crook of Danny's neck, making Danny's eyes blink open, and his hand lift, slightly, from Steve's shoulder. Hovering with brief uncertainty before moving up, towards the nape of his neck, the back of his head. Fingers straying into his hairline.
With Steve huffing grumpy aggravation into his skin, but it doesn't feel like actual exasperation. Not after Steve moved closer, took up more of Danny's space, skin, mind, everything. Purposefully. Not when Danny can feel the deep breath he's taking. Like he's trying to, what. Imprint this on his memory. The way Danny is, when his head presses deeper into the pillow and makes a whispering noise against the cloth as he presses nose and mouth lightly into Steve's hair, breathes. Deep and clarifying. Smelling shampoo, salt, sweat, Steve. Clean and warm. Sunshine. And no gunpowder. No strange mix of the beach and a fight.
Just Steve. Pressed against him, tucked into the curve of shoulder and neck and not looking like he plans on moving anytime soon.
"That was pre-emptive. And, see? Obviously necessary."
It sounds normal, despite the taut pressure in his chest, lacing him up against unstoppable expansion. Steve's on him like a blanket, like this isn't Steve's own bed, that he presumably takes up every night. Long heavy leg, long heavy arm, still proprietary over Danny's stomach, fingers curling under ribs, as if Danny could, or would, possibly, try to move.
They're pretty well past that. The part where sex with the ability to leave afterwards was still possible. He's not sure it was ever an option, not after the first day, falling asleep here, drenched in sunshine and exhausted to the core, still buzzing with the insanity of what they'd done.
This isn't like that. But they blazed right past that step, like they burned past others. Steps that never existed at all, that they can't go back to, because what would be the point? Even if all it's doing is shunting them faster and faster to some inevitable end, he'd never be able to look back, wish they'd started slower, wish they'd taken it easy. Nothing's ever been easy with him and Steve -- not like that. It's easy like breathing. Easy like gravity. Not easy like learning to walk.
There's a little voice in his head that sounds uncannily and unnervingly like Steve that says why walk when you can run?
Headlong into disaster, maybe, but he's going into it with his eyes open.
Well. In a matter of speaking, seeing as they are currently closing once more, even as he brushes his mouth across Steve's hair, tired and feeling expansive, wanting to be generous, wanting to give him something, anything, whatever he wants. The world has, he thinks, done enough taking from Steve. It's time to turn it around.
Lower. Quiet and soft, murmured into his hair. Sleepy, and fond. "Get some sleep, babe."
It's popping up more and more often these days, and it's sounding more and more like an actual endearment, but he can't care right now. Not when they're rocking to sleep, to a rhythm slowing with his breath and pulse, and a waiting, silent world.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2013-03-07 04:25 am (UTC)With Steve huffing grumpy aggravation into his skin, but it doesn't feel like actual exasperation. Not after Steve moved closer, took up more of Danny's space, skin, mind, everything. Purposefully. Not when Danny can feel the deep breath he's taking. Like he's trying to, what. Imprint this on his memory. The way Danny is, when his head presses deeper into the pillow and makes a whispering noise against the cloth as he presses nose and mouth lightly into Steve's hair, breathes. Deep and clarifying. Smelling shampoo, salt, sweat, Steve. Clean and warm. Sunshine. And no gunpowder. No strange mix of the beach and a fight.
Just Steve. Pressed against him, tucked into the curve of shoulder and neck and not looking like he plans on moving anytime soon.
"That was pre-emptive. And, see? Obviously necessary."
It sounds normal, despite the taut pressure in his chest, lacing him up against unstoppable expansion. Steve's on him like a blanket, like this isn't Steve's own bed, that he presumably takes up every night. Long heavy leg, long heavy arm, still proprietary over Danny's stomach, fingers curling under ribs, as if Danny could, or would, possibly, try to move.
They're pretty well past that. The part where sex with the ability to leave afterwards was still possible. He's not sure it was ever an option, not after the first day, falling asleep here, drenched in sunshine and exhausted to the core, still buzzing with the insanity of what they'd done.
This isn't like that. But they blazed right past that step, like they burned past others. Steps that never existed at all, that they can't go back to, because what would be the point? Even if all it's doing is shunting them faster and faster to some inevitable end, he'd never be able to look back, wish they'd started slower, wish they'd taken it easy. Nothing's ever been easy with him and Steve -- not like that. It's easy like breathing. Easy like gravity. Not easy like learning to walk.
There's a little voice in his head that sounds uncannily and unnervingly like Steve that says why walk when you can run?
Headlong into disaster, maybe, but he's going into it with his eyes open.
Well. In a matter of speaking, seeing as they are currently closing once more, even as he brushes his mouth across Steve's hair, tired and feeling expansive, wanting to be generous, wanting to give him something, anything, whatever he wants. The world has, he thinks, done enough taking from Steve. It's time to turn it around.
Lower. Quiet and soft, murmured into his hair. Sleepy, and fond. "Get some sleep, babe."
It's popping up more and more often these days, and it's sounding more and more like an actual endearment, but he can't care right now. Not when they're rocking to sleep, to a rhythm slowing with his breath and pulse, and a waiting, silent world.