There's a weary kind of relief when the door closes, with the kind of response and firmer goodbye that says compliments won't get him anywhere and he's not getting out of this. Not that he's trying. Which he knows will be her point eventually. He's not trying to get out of this. If he was, he wouldn't have stopped her. He would have just given in and done a bang-up job of proving it didn't matter.
So, it matters. The door clicking, and the empty, hollowness, stuff up the silence of his house. When he's looking at the room. Tired of all the other things it tugs at him over. The way it looks all the same. To everyone, here, except him. When that hasn't changed, but everything has changed. He flipped the locks on the door, having no idea if they'd stay that way or be flipped back and Danny'd be headed that way soon, too.
Which, apparently, it isn't too early to wonder when he turns around to find Danny walking out of the kitchen. Slow, methodical, beer still there in his hand -- making Steve want one himself, or something else; definitely something else, but a beer would be a good place to start and a smarter place to stop, given they have work tomorrow. When he wants to wonder if Danny was listening at the door, waiting to come out.
But what he really can't stop is the way his brow knits, at Danny looking so slumped, while his own mind is slammed with the heaviness that's still clouding up his chest. Because he might believe have thought too many times already he wasn't good enough for Danny, didn't have enough to offer Danny, for what he knew of Danny and what Danny wanted or needed, if he could ever even figure out how to offer it or even try to reach the smallest percent of that.
It was a wholly different thing to stare at Danny wondering if the whole point was that his partner, his best friend, believed that, too.
About him. About what he'd do the moment Danny wasn't there. Why did it matter, then? Why the sudden panic on the lanai last week? Why all the slowly pieced together words on his walk that feels seconds ago? Did it matter? Did Danny want to get out of here, just as quickly as Cath had? Did he even want there to be anything left, under the circle of his finger, still echoing on Steve's skin, and the Jesus, I believe you that did not actually touch the point.
Or really sound like Danny believed him much at all. Especially if this was all in there, before now.
Things that big, didn't just vanish in seconds, after a few words were thrown at them, right?
It's all there. All there, jostling with the part of him that is exasperatedly exhausted already at the look Danny has, like he's already been rolled over by a truck, or a mountain. Like there's no light there, just a matching heavy weight, guilt and embarrassment, an awkward lack of wanting to be here, anywhere near Steve. He almost hates how badly he just wants to wipe that off Danny's face.
To not give a damn what all of this says about himself, or Danny's assumptions, that all of it could say anything still, weeks after that year snapped into a reverie he can't even explain, if he could just find a way to make all of that leave Danny's face first. He could handle the rest. He'd handled everything else. This week. This last few months. This whole year. He could take this, too, if he had to.
But maybe not the silence in this room. This room already full of too much in all it's silences and ghosts and memories.
It's still middle of the rung, still as relieved as it is sort of rough, when he just tips his head, saying, "Hey." Not in the least comfort by how much easier his chest feels just seeing Danny, here, in his house, still.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2013-02-07 06:44 pm (UTC)So, it matters. The door clicking, and the empty, hollowness, stuff up the silence of his house. When he's looking at the room. Tired of all the other things it tugs at him over. The way it looks all the same. To everyone, here, except him. When that hasn't changed, but everything has changed. He flipped the locks on the door, having no idea if they'd stay that way or be flipped back and Danny'd be headed that way soon, too.
Which, apparently, it isn't too early to wonder when he turns around to find Danny walking out of the kitchen. Slow, methodical, beer still there in his hand -- making Steve want one himself, or something else; definitely something else, but a beer would be a good place to start and a smarter place to stop, given they have work tomorrow. When he wants to wonder if Danny was listening at the door, waiting to come out.
But what he really can't stop is the way his brow knits, at Danny looking so slumped, while his own mind is slammed with the heaviness that's still clouding up his chest. Because he might believe have thought too many times already he wasn't good enough for Danny, didn't have enough to offer Danny, for what he knew of Danny and what Danny wanted or needed, if he could ever even figure out how to offer it or even try to reach the smallest percent of that.
It was a wholly different thing to stare at Danny wondering if the whole point was that his partner, his best friend, believed that, too.
About him. About what he'd do the moment Danny wasn't there. Why did it matter, then? Why the sudden panic on the lanai last week? Why all the slowly pieced together words on his walk that feels seconds ago? Did it matter? Did Danny want to get out of here, just as quickly as Cath had? Did he even want there to be anything left, under the circle of his finger, still echoing on Steve's skin, and the Jesus, I believe you that did not actually touch the point.
Or really sound like Danny believed him much at all. Especially if this was all in there, before now.
Things that big, didn't just vanish in seconds, after a few words were thrown at them, right?
It's all there. All there, jostling with the part of him that is exasperatedly exhausted already at the look Danny has, like he's already been rolled over by a truck, or a mountain. Like there's no light there, just a matching heavy weight, guilt and embarrassment, an awkward lack of wanting to be here, anywhere near Steve. He almost hates how badly he just wants to wipe that off Danny's face.
To not give a damn what all of this says about himself, or Danny's assumptions, that all of it could say anything still, weeks after that year snapped into a reverie he can't even explain, if he could just find a way to make all of that leave Danny's face first. He could handle the rest. He'd handled everything else. This week. This last few months. This whole year. He could take this, too, if he had to.
But maybe not the silence in this room. This room already full of too much in all it's silences and ghosts and memories.
It's still middle of the rung, still as relieved as it is sort of rough, when he just tips his head, saying, "Hey."
Not in the least comfort by how much easier his chest feels just seeing Danny, here, in his house, still.