Maybe he breaks it down to small things. The feel of Danny's hair slipping through fingers, and the other hand that catches at his side, helping hold him while Danny's shifting his legs and Steve's finding a place for his own, to which the honest answer would be, is, anywhere that is not this couch. But Steve doesn't care. Kicks one leg over the arm of the couch and the other is sort hanging off, at a right angle, foot actually flat on the floor.
But he doesn't care when Danny's settling after figuring out his own.
When it's just his fingers against soft cotton, and the solid warm weight of Danny landing, slowly, heavily against him. Twinging his rib just enough he feels it. Not enough he cares, and nothing like the rest of him, in his head, being pushed slowly, steady back. Away. Against the feeling in those fingers. Warm heavy had on his throat, fingers against his ear. That every ounce of two decades training says snap to attention for, but he doesn't have to.
Against the taste of Danny's mouth, and that soft, low sound that seems to be heard by his ears but be amplified inside every corner of his chest. Like that one sound can paint the inside of him. All the things he's counting, like grains of sands in the palm of his hands, waves rolling in, stars appearing. Exact, details. Every sensation. Paid a more full, and specific, attention. While he lets that other thing put itself away.
In boxes of boxes somewhere else. Quiet, dark, slowly, painstakingly, further and further away for now.
Until he can summon it in himself, small lopsided quirk of his mouth, in one of those seconds when air suddenly seems necessary, to toss out. Well, up. Head resting at that angle on the arm rest looking at Danny, gorgeous and lighter, bright, making it so easy to keep his own expression easy, fingers rubbing along the muscles on one side of Danny's lower back. "You never did answer the question."
no subject
But he doesn't care when Danny's settling after figuring out his own.
When it's just his fingers against soft cotton, and the solid warm weight of Danny landing, slowly, heavily against him. Twinging his rib just enough he feels it. Not enough he cares, and nothing like the rest of him, in his head, being pushed slowly, steady back. Away. Against the feeling in those fingers. Warm heavy had on his throat, fingers against his ear. That every ounce of two decades training says snap to attention for, but he doesn't have to.
Against the taste of Danny's mouth, and that soft, low sound that seems to be heard by his ears but be amplified inside every corner of his chest. Like that one sound can paint the inside of him. All the things he's counting, like grains of sands in the palm of his hands, waves rolling in, stars appearing. Exact, details. Every sensation. Paid a more full, and specific, attention. While he lets that other thing put itself away.
In boxes of boxes somewhere else. Quiet, dark, slowly, painstakingly, further and further away for now.
Until he can summon it in himself, small lopsided quirk of his mouth, in one of those seconds when air suddenly seems necessary, to toss out. Well, up. Head resting at that angle on the arm rest looking at Danny, gorgeous and lighter, bright, making it so easy to keep his own expression easy, fingers rubbing along the muscles on one side of Danny's lower back. "You never did answer the question."