"Hey, it is not my fault your fuse is too short to add steps to your thought processes, like, for example, a consideration of whether or not you really want to wreck your couch. I am not taking responsibility for your screwed-up priorities."
Okay. Partly because, well. He can't really argue with those, here. Can't say his own priorities aren't just as screwy, can't say he gave a damn about the couch, or their clothes, or the lights that are still on, or the fact that it's only just past dinnertime and they seem to have once again hurtled straight past possibility into this: Steve collapsed and heavy on top of him, his head swimming in a blissfully warm, generous glow.
The thought of bed doesn't even sound like a bad idea. Space to stretch out in, smooth sheets and soft pillows, and Steve there. Dipping the mattress. Laid out bare against the mattress.
Still, he feels he should put up some kind of argument, for the hell of it, because it's what they do, and because Steve is kind of an idiot if he thinks he has other plans. "No," he says, eyebrows pushing together like he's a little concerned about Steve's ability to remember basic facts. Like maybe Steve just asked whether or not Danny will be at work tomorrow, or if he misses Grace. There are certain questions that just have no other possible answers.
"I have no plans. My entire plan was basically to come here, so it would seem counterproductive to thank you for a lovely evening and leave right away. And, frankly, I find the insinuation that I might have something better to do than go back to my hellhole of an apartment by myself to be a little alarming, considering you know every boring detail of my life. Do I have other plans? I do not. However, I also didn't realize that you are actually a retiree from Florida. You know. Because it can't be past eight pm and you're talking about bed."
It's all just words, though. Handed out through a smile that can't stop itself, because Steve is looking at him with that goofy wide shine all painted across his face, and Steve wants Danny here. In his bed. With him.
And Steve, for all his complaining, hasn't moved. Not an inch, not for anything other than to better point his words Danny's way.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-18 02:42 pm (UTC)Okay. Partly because, well. He can't really argue with those, here. Can't say his own priorities aren't just as screwy, can't say he gave a damn about the couch, or their clothes, or the lights that are still on, or the fact that it's only just past dinnertime and they seem to have once again hurtled straight past possibility into this: Steve collapsed and heavy on top of him, his head swimming in a blissfully warm, generous glow.
The thought of bed doesn't even sound like a bad idea. Space to stretch out in, smooth sheets and soft pillows, and Steve there. Dipping the mattress. Laid out bare against the mattress.
Still, he feels he should put up some kind of argument, for the hell of it, because it's what they do, and because Steve is kind of an idiot if he thinks he has other plans. "No," he says, eyebrows pushing together like he's a little concerned about Steve's ability to remember basic facts. Like maybe Steve just asked whether or not Danny will be at work tomorrow, or if he misses Grace. There are certain questions that just have no other possible answers.
"I have no plans. My entire plan was basically to come here, so it would seem counterproductive to thank you for a lovely evening and leave right away. And, frankly, I find the insinuation that I might have something better to do than go back to my hellhole of an apartment by myself to be a little alarming, considering you know every boring detail of my life. Do I have other plans? I do not. However, I also didn't realize that you are actually a retiree from Florida. You know. Because it can't be past eight pm and you're talking about bed."
It's all just words, though. Handed out through a smile that can't stop itself, because Steve is looking at him with that goofy wide shine all painted across his face, and Steve wants Danny here. In his bed. With him.
And Steve, for all his complaining, hasn't moved. Not an inch, not for anything other than to better point his words Danny's way.