"Well, I don't get to be outside with my daughter every weekend, do I?"
Obviously not. Not last weekend, certainly. But he does, on occasion, dress down, Steve. It's not like he has never worn jeans before. And he has even -- "You've seen me wear jeans. It's hardly a strange thing to do."
And, okay. Maybe not usual. Because the job takes up ninety percent of his time, and the rest of the time, he's dressed for it anyway because it spills over into that last slim percentage more often than it doesn't. Besides, he didn't bring a lot of casual clothes with him, and they're a useless expense so he doesn't buy them, either, only gave into buying board shorts when Gracie started raising eyebrows at the cutoffs he'd been using.
But Steve's smiling at him, and ragging on him in a clumsily gentle kind of way, and Steve's hand is warm and steady on his side. And maybe he feels a little guilty for accidentally chasing Catherine off the couch, but not by much, okay. Not when he gets to be here, instead. Feeling a goofy smile lighting like a slow-starting fire, finding its way back onto a mouth that felt like it forgot what the expression even felt like. Eyes half-lidded, dropping to Steve's lips, tongue darting out to wet his own, unconscious.
"Who said it's a habit? I didn't say it was a habit. It's the weekend, I can wear jeans if I feel like it, it's no big deal."
Jeans are just jeans. They are hardly habit-forming. Not like Steve. Getting under his skin and staying there. Causing cravings as bad as any nicotine fit or alcoholic tremors. Habit. Maybe it is. Except it feels like so much more than that. A habit is making the bed every morning. Having a cup of coffee. Reading the paper. Steve is a whirlwind of necessities that Danny hadn't ever realized could be a part of the world. He's not a habit so much as, what. A lifeline, maybe.
But there's something sort of hopeful about that sentence, pricking the balloon Steve is making of Danny's heart in a way that just makes it go higher, fill tighter, instead of bursting. "One new habit at a time, babe. Anything else is too distracting."
And he doesn't want to be distracted from this. Not from the different shades of Steve's smile and how his eyes go from ocean-blue to green to dark to brilliant. Not from the way his muscles shift under Danny's touch, like they're rearranging themselves for better access. And not those words. Never those words.
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Obviously not. Not last weekend, certainly. But he does, on occasion, dress down, Steve. It's not like he has never worn jeans before. And he has even -- "You've seen me wear jeans. It's hardly a strange thing to do."
And, okay. Maybe not usual. Because the job takes up ninety percent of his time, and the rest of the time, he's dressed for it anyway because it spills over into that last slim percentage more often than it doesn't. Besides, he didn't bring a lot of casual clothes with him, and they're a useless expense so he doesn't buy them, either, only gave into buying board shorts when Gracie started raising eyebrows at the cutoffs he'd been using.
But Steve's smiling at him, and ragging on him in a clumsily gentle kind of way, and Steve's hand is warm and steady on his side. And maybe he feels a little guilty for accidentally chasing Catherine off the couch, but not by much, okay. Not when he gets to be here, instead. Feeling a goofy smile lighting like a slow-starting fire, finding its way back onto a mouth that felt like it forgot what the expression even felt like. Eyes half-lidded, dropping to Steve's lips, tongue darting out to wet his own, unconscious.
"Who said it's a habit? I didn't say it was a habit. It's the weekend, I can wear jeans if I feel like it, it's no big deal."
Jeans are just jeans. They are hardly habit-forming. Not like Steve. Getting under his skin and staying there. Causing cravings as bad as any nicotine fit or alcoholic tremors. Habit. Maybe it is. Except it feels like so much more than that. A habit is making the bed every morning. Having a cup of coffee. Reading the paper. Steve is a whirlwind of necessities that Danny hadn't ever realized could be a part of the world. He's not a habit so much as, what. A lifeline, maybe.
But there's something sort of hopeful about that sentence, pricking the balloon Steve is making of Danny's heart in a way that just makes it go higher, fill tighter, instead of bursting. "One new habit at a time, babe. Anything else is too distracting."
And he doesn't want to be distracted from this. Not from the different shades of Steve's smile and how his eyes go from ocean-blue to green to dark to brilliant. Not from the way his muscles shift under Danny's touch, like they're rearranging themselves for better access. And not those words. Never those words.