He's honestly not totally, one hundred percent, sure. He feels like he's swallowed his own tongue, that's lumping in his throat and making words impossible. Like he's back to being thirteen years old and shy around girls. Like he can't even rally his misfiring brain cells enough to string a full sentence together. Just by looking at him.
Because, Christ, Steve is. Steve is. His brain is sorting through every word he knows, and he just can't seem to land on any of them. He's seen this. Seen Steve in board shorts at the beach. In cargo pants, first dry, then wet at work, with his easy refusal to miss a chance to go in the water. Seen him in sleeveless SEAL tanks, and white wifebeaters that stuck to him like a second skin. Seen him preen and unfold himself for the benefit of nearby appreciate girls, on occasion, when they catch him in a generous mood.
Danny's seen it. Him. Multiple times. Enough that he could details Steve's tattoos, and a few more visible scars. He's seen him in daylight, on the beach, in public, in private. Seen him drenched and dry, beaten and bruised, and back to fighting fit. And now, he's seen him smudged in dim light, felt the play of muscles under taut skin without having to watch it.
But it's different. This. Steve's willingness to shed clothes, like they're no big deal. And, well. They probably aren't, to him. Not like they are to Danny. To most people. To anyone with the usual insecurities about lack of muscle or a pudgy stomach, a too-hairy chest or strange creases. No. It's Steve's willingness to strip that shirt off and throw it away like it's nothing, because he asked him to. Because he's seen like this before, but not like this. Not laid out underneath him, pushing minutely up into his hands, like this slow exploration isn't enough. Not for him.
And Steve is gorgeous. There's no questioning it. Even before, Danny would have said so. Would have admired him, and been more than a little envious. And like he said, it's not that he hasn't noticed Steve is a guy. The textbook definition. Tall. Heavy muscled. Still looking like a quarterback years later, with half-lidded eyes that would make a member of the clergy lock themselves in the confessional and then break out for some serious sinning.
But there are a lot of gorgeous people, especially here, where the vast majority of the population spends their lives in bathing suits, on the beach, in the water, in the sun. He could toss a rock and hit a dozen that could be photographed and put in a magazine with barely any touch-ups.
But none of them are Steve. None of them have Steve's crazy, or Steve's stupidly giant heart, that gets Steve in so much trouble. None of them have Steve's smile, or have had Danny's back through everything, everything, two women and a freak poisoning accident and more calls with lawyers than he can count and too many shootouts. None of them are Danny's best friend and partner. He is looking at the only person like Steve in the world, and that person is letting him. Wants him to look. To touch.
"Shut up." A little hoarse, but he at least seems to be regaining speech control. Sort of. While everything in his chest is jumbled and sifting into new spots, like a shaken snow globe. "Let me appreciate something for once in my life, you destroyer of dreams. Huh? Can't I take a moment to enjoy this? Is that too much to ask?"
Thumbs moving solidly towards the center of his chest, eyes flicking up to Steve's face with something like amusement that's been batted back into being, somewhere across the tattered remains of something too like awe, no matter what he says. They're just words. They don't mean a damn thing right now.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-12 09:00 pm (UTC)He's honestly not totally, one hundred percent, sure. He feels like he's swallowed his own tongue, that's lumping in his throat and making words impossible. Like he's back to being thirteen years old and shy around girls. Like he can't even rally his misfiring brain cells enough to string a full sentence together. Just by looking at him.
Because, Christ, Steve is. Steve is. His brain is sorting through every word he knows, and he just can't seem to land on any of them. He's seen this. Seen Steve in board shorts at the beach. In cargo pants, first dry, then wet at work, with his easy refusal to miss a chance to go in the water. Seen him in sleeveless SEAL tanks, and white wifebeaters that stuck to him like a second skin. Seen him preen and unfold himself for the benefit of nearby appreciate girls, on occasion, when they catch him in a generous mood.
Danny's seen it. Him. Multiple times. Enough that he could details Steve's tattoos, and a few more visible scars. He's seen him in daylight, on the beach, in public, in private. Seen him drenched and dry, beaten and bruised, and back to fighting fit. And now, he's seen him smudged in dim light, felt the play of muscles under taut skin without having to watch it.
But it's different. This. Steve's willingness to shed clothes, like they're no big deal. And, well. They probably aren't, to him. Not like they are to Danny. To most people. To anyone with the usual insecurities about lack of muscle or a pudgy stomach, a too-hairy chest or strange creases. No. It's Steve's willingness to strip that shirt off and throw it away like it's nothing, because he asked him to. Because he's seen like this before, but not like this. Not laid out underneath him, pushing minutely up into his hands, like this slow exploration isn't enough. Not for him.
And Steve is gorgeous. There's no questioning it. Even before, Danny would have said so. Would have admired him, and been more than a little envious. And like he said, it's not that he hasn't noticed Steve is a guy. The textbook definition. Tall. Heavy muscled. Still looking like a quarterback years later, with half-lidded eyes that would make a member of the clergy lock themselves in the confessional and then break out for some serious sinning.
But there are a lot of gorgeous people, especially here, where the vast majority of the population spends their lives in bathing suits, on the beach, in the water, in the sun. He could toss a rock and hit a dozen that could be photographed and put in a magazine with barely any touch-ups.
But none of them are Steve. None of them have Steve's crazy, or Steve's stupidly giant heart, that gets Steve in so much trouble. None of them have Steve's smile, or have had Danny's back through everything, everything, two women and a freak poisoning accident and more calls with lawyers than he can count and too many shootouts. None of them are Danny's best friend and partner. He is looking at the only person like Steve in the world, and that person is letting him. Wants him to look. To touch.
"Shut up." A little hoarse, but he at least seems to be regaining speech control. Sort of. While everything in his chest is jumbled and sifting into new spots, like a shaken snow globe. "Let me appreciate something for once in my life, you destroyer of dreams. Huh? Can't I take a moment to enjoy this? Is that too much to ask?"
Thumbs moving solidly towards the center of his chest, eyes flicking up to Steve's face with something like amusement that's been batted back into being, somewhere across the tattered remains of something too like awe, no matter what he says. They're just words. They don't mean a damn thing right now.