"What am I talking about?" It's a snap, worse than repeated accusation.
When his jaw wants to snap and the muscles through it, his chin, down his throat, into his shoulder nearly seize and Danny is jerked forward another inch. Because of that terrible emptiness and vast distance and easy, so easy it looks like it's relieving, agony in Danny's eyes, his face. With how it's wanting to look anywhere else but up at him, even when he is.
Because it is the only thing stopping him from shaking him for a moment. Because his hands are on Danny's shoulders, and Danny is only inches away -- and he's not there. He's somewhere far deeper, far further removed. Somewhere Steve's hands can't get. Somewhere his voice is barely reaching. Like he waited two days to realize Danny was already somewhere much further away than half the city and forty-eight to six hours away.
"I'm talking about you, barging into my house," He can't help the way the words fracture. Hard and harsh, like ice or glass shattering on the ground, even when they are getting tight and concise. "--without knocking, again--" Which is not the point, but he needs more words. More seconds. Not to feel like all of them aren't stopping Danny pulling away, more each each. "--and right back out the next second, like it was on fire."
When trying to maintain any decorum is beating on one side of his head. Especially because of Cath's voice still repeating that shocked question. Making him aware of the world outside, and the flood light, and neighbors, and cars, and everything. While the rest of him is fighting violently not to care. About his job, about propriety, about anything that is not Danny staring at him like touching him is even more painful.
"Whatever is going on inside that head of yours, it didn't happen." It didn't. Not last night. Not on the beach. Not at the top of either summit. Not on the couch. Not anywhere. Not anywhen. Not during anytime when they were renegotiating how to even be in the same space together. "Nothing happening." He's reaching, he knows he is when it's the same words. Choking his throat. The ones that didn't matter two seconds ago. and he needs better.
Same too little to cover too much. When it's anything. He needs to shove anything else out, anything else that might even get Danny's attention, make him believe it, that isn't marching in and dragging Cath out, and having her say it. And how much he couldn't do that. To her. "I told her it couldn't. I told her --"
Except so much is coming up blank. Because he hasn't told her much of anything at all.
And Cath, the great intelligence officer she is, she'd tried. Hard. In every situation. Oblique questions. Delicate prying fingers.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-06 06:51 pm (UTC)When his jaw wants to snap and the muscles through it, his chin, down his throat, into his shoulder nearly seize and Danny is jerked forward another inch. Because of that terrible emptiness and vast distance and easy, so easy it looks like it's relieving, agony in Danny's eyes, his face. With how it's wanting to look anywhere else but up at him, even when he is.
Because it is the only thing stopping him from shaking him for a moment. Because his hands are on Danny's shoulders, and Danny is only inches away -- and he's not there. He's somewhere far deeper, far further removed. Somewhere Steve's hands can't get. Somewhere his voice is barely reaching. Like he waited two days to realize Danny was already somewhere much further away than half the city and forty-eight to six hours away.
"I'm talking about you, barging into my house," He can't help the way the words fracture. Hard and harsh, like ice or glass shattering on the ground, even when they are getting tight and concise. "--without knocking, again--" Which is not the point, but he needs more words. More seconds. Not to feel like all of them aren't stopping Danny pulling away, more each each. "--and right back out the next second, like it was on fire."
When trying to maintain any decorum is beating on one side of his head. Especially because of Cath's voice still repeating that shocked question. Making him aware of the world outside, and the flood light, and neighbors, and cars, and everything. While the rest of him is fighting violently not to care. About his job, about propriety, about anything that is not Danny staring at him like touching him is even more painful.
"Whatever is going on inside that head of yours, it didn't happen." It didn't. Not last night. Not on the beach. Not at the top of either summit. Not on the couch. Not anywhere. Not anywhen. Not during anytime when they were renegotiating how to even be in the same space together. "Nothing happening." He's reaching, he knows he is when it's the same words. Choking his throat. The ones that didn't matter two seconds ago. and he needs better.
Same too little to cover too much. When it's anything. He needs to shove anything else out, anything else that might even get Danny's attention, make him believe it, that isn't marching in and dragging Cath out, and having her say it. And how much he couldn't do that. To her. "I told her it couldn't. I told her --"
Except so much is coming up blank. Because he hasn't told her much of anything at all.
And Cath, the great intelligence officer she is, she'd tried. Hard. In every situation. Oblique questions. Delicate prying fingers.