Steve has decided to move, and Danny's really not sure he's a hundred percent on board with that whole idea just yet, fingers tightening against the back of a shoulder. Aiming a disapproving look at Steve, who is watching him with a goofy, smacked-open look on his face. Moving is not his idea of a good time right now. He's not totally sure that things like legs or feet exist at all anymore, or that there's a reason good enough to force muscles back into some activity that isn't keeping Steve right here, on top of him, looking like the last KO of the night.
"Uh, you did, when you dragged me onto the couch and told me to take off my clothes."
Irascible. The whole idea is displeasing. Steve was the one who put them here, it is not Danny's problem that the couch is starting to stick and that the lights are still on and that Steve is sort of half-flopping off the whole setup. "Why are you moving, who said you could move?"
Can't they, just. Take a second. A minute. It's so rare that they could get the luxury of a whole hour, or evening, and he doesn't give a flying fuck that his hair must be everywhere and his eyes are probably as drugged-out dopey as Steve's are, because he is feeling Toast-level spaced right now, and Steve is looking at him with that face. The one he doesn't get. The one he hasn't defined. That's sort of dopey and relaxed and soft like Steve rarely gets. No mission to snag his every nanosecond of attention, no case to get under that frown and stick there in creases between his eyebrows. No Doris making him look lost in his own body, like that Tom Hanks movie where the kid wakes up one day as a grown man.
Just Steve, looking down at him and seeing God knows what, Danny's crows-feet and fluffed-out hair, the fading flush of heat and the sticky residue of sweat.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-18 12:46 am (UTC)"Uh, you did, when you dragged me onto the couch and told me to take off my clothes."
Irascible. The whole idea is displeasing. Steve was the one who put them here, it is not Danny's problem that the couch is starting to stick and that the lights are still on and that Steve is sort of half-flopping off the whole setup. "Why are you moving, who said you could move?"
Can't they, just. Take a second. A minute. It's so rare that they could get the luxury of a whole hour, or evening, and he doesn't give a flying fuck that his hair must be everywhere and his eyes are probably as drugged-out dopey as Steve's are, because he is feeling Toast-level spaced right now, and Steve is looking at him with that face. The one he doesn't get. The one he hasn't defined. That's sort of dopey and relaxed and soft like Steve rarely gets. No mission to snag his every nanosecond of attention, no case to get under that frown and stick there in creases between his eyebrows. No Doris making him look lost in his own body, like that Tom Hanks movie where the kid wakes up one day as a grown man.
Just Steve, looking down at him and seeing God knows what, Danny's crows-feet and fluffed-out hair, the fading flush of heat and the sticky residue of sweat.