Shifting carefully, a little more weight on his knees, which leaves him straddling Steve's leg, sitting back a little, the hand at Steve's hair sliding to the couch cushion, arm straightening. "You had a problem with the ties. I have not noted any filed complaints against the rest of my wardrobe. Shoes aside."
And, okay. He's not an idiot. He knows this is like waving a red flag at a bull, lifting up a little, ragging on Steve about how much Steve hates all of his clothes, because he does. Steve always has. Hated how Danny never wanted to fit in, to look Hawaiian. How he dug in his heels and wears the haole costume with grim pride.
But he just can't pass this up. He can't. It's impossible. The very idea that there is something about him and the way he looks -- goofy face, hair nothing like Steve's easily tousled easily worn regimentally short cut, built like a triangle or a bulldog, a full seven inches shorter. There are reasons he is sometimes invisible near Steve, no matter how loud he is or how much space he takes up.
But Steve is looking at him with this bewildered, short-circuiting desire, and it goes straight to his head like a tequila shot and high-voltage chaser, makes him a little crazy, wants to see how far he can push it, how far it can go. Is this for real? That slow lazy drawl, sun-thick, slow molasses. The way Steve's eyes move down his body, trailing a sensation of hands in their wake, like he's taping off broad strokes of ownership. Of t-shirt. Jeans. Danny.
"You're a liar. Weren't you just saying you like the jeans?"
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-11 11:43 pm (UTC)Shifting carefully, a little more weight on his knees, which leaves him straddling Steve's leg, sitting back a little, the hand at Steve's hair sliding to the couch cushion, arm straightening. "You had a problem with the ties. I have not noted any filed complaints against the rest of my wardrobe. Shoes aside."
And, okay. He's not an idiot. He knows this is like waving a red flag at a bull, lifting up a little, ragging on Steve about how much Steve hates all of his clothes, because he does. Steve always has. Hated how Danny never wanted to fit in, to look Hawaiian. How he dug in his heels and wears the haole costume with grim pride.
But he just can't pass this up. He can't. It's impossible. The very idea that there is something about him and the way he looks -- goofy face, hair nothing like Steve's easily tousled easily worn regimentally short cut, built like a triangle or a bulldog, a full seven inches shorter. There are reasons he is sometimes invisible near Steve, no matter how loud he is or how much space he takes up.
But Steve is looking at him with this bewildered, short-circuiting desire, and it goes straight to his head like a tequila shot and high-voltage chaser, makes him a little crazy, wants to see how far he can push it, how far it can go. Is this for real? That slow lazy drawl, sun-thick, slow molasses. The way Steve's eyes move down his body, trailing a sensation of hands in their wake, like he's taping off broad strokes of ownership. Of t-shirt. Jeans. Danny.
"You're a liar. Weren't you just saying you like the jeans?"