Steve's back in motion, back to taking control of everything he can, from correcting Danny to pushing him towards the mattress, insulting Danny's shoes.
Again.
"They are shockingly comfortable," he points out. "I know personal comfort isn't even a blip on your radar, but it's nice for the rest of us who don't routinely find the most horrible things we can do to ourselves and make them happen for fun or in the name of training. Not to mention, they are professional. Professional. As in, of, relating to, or characteristic of a profession. As in, my job. Losing the tie hurt enough, okay? I realize cultivating a professional demeanor may seem like a waste of time to you, but I happen to like it, alright, I'm not going to go all Tommy Bahama just because I happen to be working on this godforsaken sand spit, understand. It is still work and I am still a detective."
More work on some days than others. "I can't believe you would consider the very respectable loafer a worse alternative to a break in national security. Surely that would have come up in the eight thousand years you spent chasing war criminals around the world."
The problem -- the only problem, really -- with being naked is that there isn't much to grab onto and tug when Steve pushes at him again, crowding him into the edge of the bed and making Danny sway for balance. There's no belt loops to hook his fingers into, no shirt to snag and pull.
There is the option to back down quietly and get in the damn bed, but when has Danny ever opted for quiet?
So his hand reaches up for the back of Steve's neck, the other landing on Steve's arm, fingers curling over ink that looks smudged and blurred in the dark. Finding leverage. The urge to say make me is rising giddily in his head, but he's not actually thirteen, no matter how much he might be acting like it lately, and that would be like waving a red flag at a bull before holding open the door to a china shop in invitation.
"What, are we in some kind of rush?"
Considering it can't be more than, what, eight? If that?
There's definitely more than enough time for Danny to pull at him and drag him down, if he has too, to find that smart mouth of his and shut it up for a minute.
no subject
Again.
"They are shockingly comfortable," he points out. "I know personal comfort isn't even a blip on your radar, but it's nice for the rest of us who don't routinely find the most horrible things we can do to ourselves and make them happen for fun or in the name of training. Not to mention, they are professional. Professional. As in, of, relating to, or characteristic of a profession. As in, my job. Losing the tie hurt enough, okay? I realize cultivating a professional demeanor may seem like a waste of time to you, but I happen to like it, alright, I'm not going to go all Tommy Bahama just because I happen to be working on this godforsaken sand spit, understand. It is still work and I am still a detective."
More work on some days than others. "I can't believe you would consider the very respectable loafer a worse alternative to a break in national security. Surely that would have come up in the eight thousand years you spent chasing war criminals around the world."
The problem -- the only problem, really -- with being naked is that there isn't much to grab onto and tug when Steve pushes at him again, crowding him into the edge of the bed and making Danny sway for balance. There's no belt loops to hook his fingers into, no shirt to snag and pull.
There is the option to back down quietly and get in the damn bed, but when has Danny ever opted for quiet?
So his hand reaches up for the back of Steve's neck, the other landing on Steve's arm, fingers curling over ink that looks smudged and blurred in the dark. Finding leverage. The urge to say make me is rising giddily in his head, but he's not actually thirteen, no matter how much he might be acting like it lately, and that would be like waving a red flag at a bull before holding open the door to a china shop in invitation.
"What, are we in some kind of rush?"
Considering it can't be more than, what, eight? If that?
There's definitely more than enough time for Danny to pull at him and drag him down, if he has too, to find that smart mouth of his and shut it up for a minute.