"No. Wrong. Just because you wear them everywhere does not mean that they are actually versatile. It's just that you happen to have a badge and a gun and people are inclined to let you come in anyway. They are not versatile. The word you're looking for is practical, which, for you, is a good thing, considering the amount of times you jump onto or off moving vehicles or rooftops on a weekly basis."
Steve doesn't look like he's paying attention, which, fair enough. Danny is on this particular rant at least once a week, maybe more often. But Steve is glancing at him, and then down to the hand spread over his chest, and back up again, and he's got this ridiculous, absurd, wide smile that makes Danny feel like he's been cracked against a countertop like an egg and now this gooey, messy center is getting everywhere.
Eyes flicking down to look at his own fingers, because Steve is giving him a look that's amused and knowing and a little expectant all at once, like he's waiting for Danny to catch on to what he's doing.
So Danny looks. He sees his hand spread against the thin cotton of Steve's shirt, arm bent and laying comfortably on Steve's chest and stomach. Fingers, thick and blunt and usually all too busy getting in someone's face, good on a gun, not always delicate or careful enough for other things. Spread wide, like he can take ownership of a few inches of Steve's skin, never mind the fact that he's lying on top of him, edged a little towards the back of the couch. "What?"
Nudging towards challenging, with a creasing smile at the corner of his eyes. A little lazy, a little lidded, as his other arm moves, curls loose against the armrest Steve's head is leaning against. Fingers barely lifting, just to tap against his chest like a reminder. "You don't like it?"
Not a chance. Not when Steve is looking at him like that. Not when Steve's fingers are still toying with the seam of his jeans, and Steve is smiling at him like there is nothing wrong with this picture at all.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-11 04:02 am (UTC)Steve doesn't look like he's paying attention, which, fair enough. Danny is on this particular rant at least once a week, maybe more often. But Steve is glancing at him, and then down to the hand spread over his chest, and back up again, and he's got this ridiculous, absurd, wide smile that makes Danny feel like he's been cracked against a countertop like an egg and now this gooey, messy center is getting everywhere.
Eyes flicking down to look at his own fingers, because Steve is giving him a look that's amused and knowing and a little expectant all at once, like he's waiting for Danny to catch on to what he's doing.
So Danny looks. He sees his hand spread against the thin cotton of Steve's shirt, arm bent and laying comfortably on Steve's chest and stomach. Fingers, thick and blunt and usually all too busy getting in someone's face, good on a gun, not always delicate or careful enough for other things. Spread wide, like he can take ownership of a few inches of Steve's skin, never mind the fact that he's lying on top of him, edged a little towards the back of the couch. "What?"
Nudging towards challenging, with a creasing smile at the corner of his eyes. A little lazy, a little lidded, as his other arm moves, curls loose against the armrest Steve's head is leaning against. Fingers barely lifting, just to tap against his chest like a reminder. "You don't like it?"
Not a chance. Not when Steve is looking at him like that. Not when Steve's fingers are still toying with the seam of his jeans, and Steve is smiling at him like there is nothing wrong with this picture at all.