Like Danny wouldn't crack before fear of death. The man wasn't designed to be hung off a building, or tortured until he rather choose to die than give an inch toward being willing to give in to whatever was wanted from him. Which was fine. It was. Not everyone was supposed to be. Trained to be. Should be expected to be. Or have the faintest clue what the hell that took to be part of you. When the only thing on the planet like that for Danny was maybe Grace in danger.
"Pretty sure that's what I've been trying to do," Steve hit back. At least it's like one.
Low, a little fierce, exaggeration of honesty lacing into the annoyance.
"Since we got up here." Since they were backing into this room. With hands and words and mouths. Fingers around his wrist. Before it felt like the room started sucking in. "Since before whatever it is you're not talking about, that has nothing to do with your jeans."
The worst part about the stressing bubble of annoyance is the slick slide of relief running down the backs of ribs, and his breast bone. Like somehow it can't be all that bad if Danny's finally gone back to throwing words at the air. Even if they are words that don't add up to much more than everything he's said before. Except that he had some reaction. To something. That Danny, himself, thinks is stupid. Is driving him crazy.
And Steve hates, almost too suddenly, not knowing even more. Like it slams him from a blind side with the weight and velocity of a moving vehicle. A car. A semi. A tank. Slamming through the whole part where it drives him crazy not knowing what happened, what he did, for himself, for how to go forward, this burns almost worst. Not knowing, so he can't take it from Danny's hands. Drag it out of him. Tease him, taunt him, give him something else to rail at, rant about, make it better or at least distract him from it.
Which is impossible when he has absolutely no idea what it is, or if what he'll choose will be that one thing it is about, only that Danny is ranting about it, only that it happened right here. Because there is nothing about Danny freezing up, denying and ranting, that makes it 'absolutely nothing to do with anything.' The words itself make Steve want to diagram the whole like minute and half of getting up here to figure what the hell could matter that much in the slightest.
That he can't do that either. No diagrams. No roof tops. No one he hurt, nothing he can punch. All he really has is letting go of Danny's chin, and dropping his hand to shove at Danny's bare chest, dropping the arm and hand between them, while Steve's trying not to grit his teeth and lock his jaw even momentarily. Making himself take the breath, even when it's just a snarling tangle from each direction.
"Get in the bed," taking a side step from Danny, to yank at the blanket and sheets down from under the pillow. The stupid pillow he spent half the night curled around, because it even smelled a little like Danny. Raising a finger on his free hand to point, far less menacing that even he wants it to be. "But don't think for a moment I wouldn't have brought you all the paperwork to do for yourself, on yourself, even if it did land you in the hospital."
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-28 03:33 am (UTC)"Pretty sure that's what I've been trying to do," Steve hit back. At least it's like one.
Low, a little fierce, exaggeration of honesty lacing into the annoyance.
"Since we got up here." Since they were backing into this room. With hands and words and mouths. Fingers around his wrist. Before it felt like the room started sucking in. "Since before whatever it is you're not talking about, that has nothing to do with your jeans."
The worst part about the stressing bubble of annoyance is the slick slide of relief running down the backs of ribs, and his breast bone. Like somehow it can't be all that bad if Danny's finally gone back to throwing words at the air. Even if they are words that don't add up to much more than everything he's said before. Except that he had some reaction. To something. That Danny, himself, thinks is stupid. Is driving him crazy.
And Steve hates, almost too suddenly, not knowing even more. Like it slams him from a blind side with the weight and velocity of a moving vehicle. A car. A semi. A tank. Slamming through the whole part where it drives him crazy not knowing what happened, what he did, for himself, for how to go forward, this burns almost worst. Not knowing, so he can't take it from Danny's hands. Drag it out of him. Tease him, taunt him, give him something else to rail at, rant about, make it better or at least distract him from it.
Which is impossible when he has absolutely no idea what it is, or if what he'll choose will be that one thing it is about, only that Danny is ranting about it, only that it happened right here. Because there is nothing about Danny freezing up, denying and ranting, that makes it 'absolutely nothing to do with anything.' The words itself make Steve want to diagram the whole like minute and half of getting up here to figure what the hell could matter that much in the slightest.
That he can't do that either. No diagrams. No roof tops. No one he hurt, nothing he can punch. All he really has is letting go of Danny's chin, and dropping his hand to shove at Danny's bare chest, dropping the arm and hand between them, while Steve's trying not to grit his teeth and lock his jaw even momentarily. Making himself take the breath, even when it's just a snarling tangle from each direction.
"Get in the bed," taking a side step from Danny, to yank at the blanket and sheets down from under the pillow. The stupid pillow he spent half the night curled around, because it even smelled a little like Danny. Raising a finger on his free hand to point, far less menacing that even he wants it to be. "But don't think for a moment I wouldn't have brought you all the paperwork to do for yourself, on yourself, even if it did land you in the hospital."