There's. Danny's fingers are. He can't even decide what the word is. Those fingers have been all over his skin.
And they feel almost. Coltish. Almost desperate. Uncertain he's real, but settling close. Warm through cotton. So warm. Making his whole chest hurt, like he hadn't realize he'd gone down too far into the black n' cold, and was through more than three-fourth of a double air tank supply. Making the entirety of his focus settle on that hand for a too sharp second.
When, for that second, that piercing sharp scalding second, all he can process is both how close, and not close enough, Danny is. Before it faded back a little, like the shrilling piercing hum of a radio wave too loud, and then gone, echoing, but not overwhelming.
"Maybe." Is a little terse, snapping back to Danny's word, when Steve's shifting his shoulders, the set of his spine, the position of his hips, the smallest shifts through most of his posture, because of that touch. "I don't know." Those single, so few, inches actually touched. "I haven't decided I'm not throwing you through it."
When he absolutely could, but the way he says it is far more noise and wind than an actual promise or threat, even for the frown that's hovering but as at least given up being a hard line on his mouth.
Steve tipped his head, slightly, as though counter-checking before deciding to agree or reneg, blue eyes, dark and silently wary. "Are you going to stop deciding you're the only person who gets to be right for at least two or three minutes?"
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And they feel almost. Coltish. Almost desperate. Uncertain he's real, but settling close. Warm through cotton. So warm. Making his whole chest hurt, like he hadn't realize he'd gone down too far into the black n' cold, and was through more than three-fourth of a double air tank supply. Making the entirety of his focus settle on that hand for a too sharp second.
When, for that second, that piercing sharp scalding second, all he can process is both how close, and not close enough, Danny is. Before it faded back a little, like the shrilling piercing hum of a radio wave too loud, and then gone, echoing, but not overwhelming.
"Maybe." Is a little terse, snapping back to Danny's word, when Steve's shifting his shoulders, the set of his spine, the position of his hips, the smallest shifts through most of his posture, because of that touch. "I don't know." Those single, so few, inches actually touched. "I haven't decided I'm not throwing you through it."
When he absolutely could, but the way he says it is far more noise and wind than an actual promise or threat, even for the frown that's hovering but as at least given up being a hard line on his mouth.
Steve tipped his head, slightly, as though counter-checking before deciding to agree or reneg, blue eyes, dark and silently wary. "Are you going to stop deciding you're the only person who gets to be right for at least two or three minutes?"