It should say something immediately. The way his eyes --light, bright, half focusedstill-- flicker at the antagonizing words.
Ballsy and arrogant, like there's no cliff he couldn't climb, surmount and leap off of. Right this second. Just like this. Without a stitch of clothing. With Danny leaning in against his fingers, and his voice tumbling, out all show, even when his pulse is softly racing not far from where Steve's hand is, and breathe comes thiner in it. All of it in his view looking down.
He lets his hand fall from the side of Danny's head, easy as his next breath, with an exaggerated raise of his eyebrows, taking up a gauntlet not even actually thrown down. Or not anymore thrown down or out than anything else that ever comes out of their mouths. Fingers falling through the air, close enough half an inch, an inch, at the most, would have some force of friction graze Danny's chest.
But he doesn't touch him. In fact all he does is smirk like he knows he could -- touch him, drag him close, kiss him -- like the insult and insinuation is nothing more than a compliment worse than gone straight to his head, like too many beers after the end of case where everything finally worked out, without any deaths, and even an easy, fast sentence.
When Steve steps back, and turns. Heading toward the desk in long, fast, efficient strides. Stoping only at the side, to start pushing things around. Locating a yellow memo pad and a red pen, neither the best choice with any thought. But thought isn't the point. Not even slightly. Especially not when he's looking up after he jots something, sizing Danny up for a second, and crossing out something, and suddenly, instead, writing another word.
Only to look up, smirk even more menacingly pleased with himself, all focus on the paper on top of stacks, and long limbs and tan lines, broken only by yellow light and shadows and the dark ink on his upper arms and lower back, before he amends the last word. Again. The smile at his lips, as he does such, a clear warning all its own.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-22 05:50 am (UTC)Ballsy and arrogant, like there's no cliff he couldn't climb, surmount and leap off of. Right this second. Just like this. Without a stitch of clothing. With Danny leaning in against his fingers, and his voice tumbling, out all show, even when his pulse is softly racing not far from where Steve's hand is, and breathe comes thiner in it. All of it in his view looking down.
He lets his hand fall from the side of Danny's head, easy as his next breath, with an exaggerated raise of his eyebrows, taking up a gauntlet not even actually thrown down. Or not anymore thrown down or out than anything else that ever comes out of their mouths. Fingers falling through the air, close enough half an inch, an inch, at the most, would have some force of friction graze Danny's chest.
But he doesn't touch him. In fact all he does is smirk like he knows he could -- touch him, drag him close, kiss him -- like the insult and insinuation is nothing more than a compliment worse than gone straight to his head, like too many beers after the end of case where everything finally worked out, without any deaths, and even an easy, fast sentence.
When Steve steps back, and turns. Heading toward the desk in long, fast, efficient strides. Stoping only at the side, to start pushing things around. Locating a yellow memo pad and a red pen, neither the best choice with any thought. But thought isn't the point. Not even slightly. Especially not when he's looking up after he jots something, sizing Danny up for a second, and crossing out something, and suddenly, instead, writing another word.
Only to look up, smirk even more menacingly pleased with himself, all focus on the paper on top of stacks, and long limbs and tan lines, broken only by yellow light and shadows and the dark ink on his upper arms and lower back, before he amends the last word. Again. The smile at his lips, as he does such, a clear warning all its own.