He can't think of anything worse than having to put those jeans back on, confining and clumsy against his skin, instead of being able to feel Steve's, brush of skin, leg hair (still a strange sensation, but not actually unpleasant). Blood-warm and without barrier.
The last word gets wheezed out, under the sudden weight pressing down on his chest, compacting ribs and sternum, and he aims a disgruntled look up, groaning under the pressure, light as it still might be. Nowhere near the kind of gravity Steve can force on a prone body, when prying answers from reluctant tongues. "Christ, can you maybe avoid snapping a few ribs tonight? Clothes. That's sick. How am I supposed to be able to appreciate all of this if you start deciding to put clothes back on instead of taking them off like you have no trouble with at work? Don't you think it should be the other way around?"
And, really, how the hell is he supposed to keep his head when Steve starts stripping his shirt off during the work day, to change after a particularly messy chasedown or to hit the water for reasons Danny can only describe as loose, at best? How is he ever going to be able to not see this, then, to not remember what it feels like to walk fingers down the slope of his back, to feel the slide of muscles, standing out in sharp relief, slick with sweat. He knows how warm Steve is, now. How surprisingly soft his skin is. How it flushes under the tan. What he looks like, half-lit and lazy, in a muddle of pale sheets and shadow.
The short answer is, he can't. Won't. Is never going to not know, now, so the best he can hope for is the kind of brief insanity that clutches him during shootouts, and can be shoved aside for the greater good and the necessity of survival.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-18 03:47 pm (UTC)He can't think of anything worse than having to put those jeans back on, confining and clumsy against his skin, instead of being able to feel Steve's, brush of skin, leg hair (still a strange sensation, but not actually unpleasant). Blood-warm and without barrier.
The last word gets wheezed out, under the sudden weight pressing down on his chest, compacting ribs and sternum, and he aims a disgruntled look up, groaning under the pressure, light as it still might be. Nowhere near the kind of gravity Steve can force on a prone body, when prying answers from reluctant tongues. "Christ, can you maybe avoid snapping a few ribs tonight? Clothes. That's sick. How am I supposed to be able to appreciate all of this if you start deciding to put clothes back on instead of taking them off like you have no trouble with at work? Don't you think it should be the other way around?"
And, really, how the hell is he supposed to keep his head when Steve starts stripping his shirt off during the work day, to change after a particularly messy chasedown or to hit the water for reasons Danny can only describe as loose, at best? How is he ever going to be able to not see this, then, to not remember what it feels like to walk fingers down the slope of his back, to feel the slide of muscles, standing out in sharp relief, slick with sweat. He knows how warm Steve is, now. How surprisingly soft his skin is. How it flushes under the tan. What he looks like, half-lit and lazy, in a muddle of pale sheets and shadow.
The short answer is, he can't. Won't. Is never going to not know, now, so the best he can hope for is the kind of brief insanity that clutches him during shootouts, and can be shoved aside for the greater good and the necessity of survival.
"I never said I didn't want to go up."