It's probably true. Wherein probably is like saying Steve wouldn't get naked, in loafers alone, if the fate of the world went bat shit insane and required that. But threats to national security never involved shoes. Especially ones he'd, even, vastly prefer his dress shoes to if he had to be pointed that direction. But he really doesn't have to answer when Danny is rambling on with those words, about his shoes, and his jeans.

His jeans which Steve sadly cannot rub his fingers down Danny's skin and still find pressed against his stomach, hugging his hips and his thighs. When even that momentary wistfulness is literally done right under, and burned right over into a crisp, at a violently pleased sort of possession to the memory of them. Having to pull and peel and jerk them off of him. How if Danny doesn't have room for them, Steve would make it.

"I don't know," comes in a gusted laughed, right against Danny's lips. The reluctance to let go of Danny's mouth, of the way Danny dissolves into him, pushing in and up, and meeting him, with the kind of force that goes from a fight to like interlocking puzzle pieces in seconds. Only barely beaten out by the need to toss, sizzling words. "The jeans have done pretty well so far."

Hand traveling down Danny's side, sliding out and back across the inward slop at the small of his back. Blunt, calloused finger tips traveling the decent of his spine, right down against starting curve of Danny's ass. "I'm pretty sure I can find a space on a closet shelf," Theres the flicker of smirk, the movement of his mout probably lost except for movement against Danny, but his cheeks still tug up and along with his eyebrows, "-or the floor, for them, if you can't."