He thinks right away that it was probably too much.
Too much, and too specific. While still not being specific enough. When wanting to be with Steve is the only thing he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt, but it's so much harder to admit than that he wants Steve. But still maybe too cowardly. Still maybe open for interpretation. But with all his millions of words, the only ones that ring clear, like coins dropping on a marble floor. It's what he wants. It's still true. Still possible. On his end, anyway, which is the only end he can even pretend to control. When even that pretense is a bald-faced lie, because he can't control this, can only measure it out in two, or six, bare words and a meaningless tag.
Part of him wants to backpedal. To cover those words with an avalanche of others, hide them from plain or easy view. Take the high road of having said them, but behind a smokescreen, and it takes more than he'd be proud to admit not to, when Steve doesn't say anything at all, for a long time.
But then he does.
Not in words. The single, gruff one what feels like minutes later isn't Steve's answer. It's painted across him. In broad strokes over his face, the set of his shoulders. The strange, impossible stillness of him. When he's not waiting to pounce on a suspect. Isn't coiled and ready. Isn't loose, lazily undone, like an unlaced boot. Just, still. Perfectly so. Like he's preserving this in amber, in perfect quiet.
When his face clears, and he's not smiling, or laughing, or relieved. He's not angry or embarrassed. He looks. Like he's suddenly gotten to experience seeing the ocean for the first time, all over again. Paused, with something written in clear letters across his face that looks like nothing Danny's ever seen before. Like. God. Like an arrow shot straight into his chest, and he can't even breathe around it, and now Danny is wrestling with the sticky spider-strands of commercially-approved romantic messages, but then he says that one word, agreement, and relief floods Danny's chest like a dam breaking, carrying pieces of ice away and threatening to crack his ribs like someone snapping a wishbone.
He's no prize. He gets that. He knows. But he chooses to be here, and he wants to be here, and that look, that expression Danny can't name but thinks should belong to some offering greater than his messed up head and heart and self, that look says Steve wants him here, too. Even messed up and making him angry. Even saying the wrong things, all the time. Or too many things, or not enough. "Okay."
His voice has gone a little rough, making him his throat against the tightness there. And, Christ, but he really, just, can't be far away from him anymore. He feels almost lightheaded, like there's not enough air in the room, feels sore all over, and bruised. As exposed as a snail dragged out of its shell and dropped on a rock in the sun.
"So." He feels out of breath, like he's been punched in the stomach, or just finished sprinting a mile, but he puts out his hand anyway, palm up, pinky and ring finger curled just slightly in. Holds it out to Steve. "Will you come away from the door now, please?"
He could go. He could take the few steps back to Steve, get in his space, push his shoulders into the wood of the door and drag him down. But it feels like he needs that okay to be more than a word. Like he's drifting out on this wide blue sea, and he needs to haul himself back to shore, because he hates the sea, it is terrifying and awful and can't be trusted, but Steve gets it and maybe if Steve is adrift with him, it won't be so bad.
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Too much, and too specific. While still not being specific enough. When wanting to be with Steve is the only thing he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt, but it's so much harder to admit than that he wants Steve. But still maybe too cowardly. Still maybe open for interpretation. But with all his millions of words, the only ones that ring clear, like coins dropping on a marble floor. It's what he wants. It's still true. Still possible. On his end, anyway, which is the only end he can even pretend to control. When even that pretense is a bald-faced lie, because he can't control this, can only measure it out in two, or six, bare words and a meaningless tag.
Part of him wants to backpedal. To cover those words with an avalanche of others, hide them from plain or easy view. Take the high road of having said them, but behind a smokescreen, and it takes more than he'd be proud to admit not to, when Steve doesn't say anything at all, for a long time.
But then he does.
Not in words. The single, gruff one what feels like minutes later isn't Steve's answer. It's painted across him. In broad strokes over his face, the set of his shoulders. The strange, impossible stillness of him. When he's not waiting to pounce on a suspect. Isn't coiled and ready. Isn't loose, lazily undone, like an unlaced boot. Just, still. Perfectly so. Like he's preserving this in amber, in perfect quiet.
When his face clears, and he's not smiling, or laughing, or relieved. He's not angry or embarrassed. He looks. Like he's suddenly gotten to experience seeing the ocean for the first time, all over again. Paused, with something written in clear letters across his face that looks like nothing Danny's ever seen before. Like. God. Like an arrow shot straight into his chest, and he can't even breathe around it, and now Danny is wrestling with the sticky spider-strands of commercially-approved romantic messages, but then he says that one word, agreement, and relief floods Danny's chest like a dam breaking, carrying pieces of ice away and threatening to crack his ribs like someone snapping a wishbone.
He's no prize. He gets that. He knows. But he chooses to be here, and he wants to be here, and that look, that expression Danny can't name but thinks should belong to some offering greater than his messed up head and heart and self, that look says Steve wants him here, too. Even messed up and making him angry. Even saying the wrong things, all the time. Or too many things, or not enough. "Okay."
His voice has gone a little rough, making him his throat against the tightness there. And, Christ, but he really, just, can't be far away from him anymore. He feels almost lightheaded, like there's not enough air in the room, feels sore all over, and bruised. As exposed as a snail dragged out of its shell and dropped on a rock in the sun.
"So." He feels out of breath, like he's been punched in the stomach, or just finished sprinting a mile, but he puts out his hand anyway, palm up, pinky and ring finger curled just slightly in. Holds it out to Steve. "Will you come away from the door now, please?"
He could go. He could take the few steps back to Steve, get in his space, push his shoulders into the wood of the door and drag him down. But it feels like he needs that okay to be more than a word. Like he's drifting out on this wide blue sea, and he needs to haul himself back to shore, because he hates the sea, it is terrifying and awful and can't be trusted, but Steve gets it and maybe if Steve is adrift with him, it won't be so bad.