Steve is still cranky and pissed at him, which is a little unfair because all Danny's done is not told him more of the ridiculous fears that have been cycling through his head. It's doing him a favor, really, but it's clear Steve doesn't see it that way, when there's an edge to his words and no gentleness at all to the hand that sneaks around Danny's back and drags him forward, pulling him flush with Steve in a way that makes Danny lift up on the other elbow to look down at him. Turning Steve gently, slightly, pushing his shoulderblades back to the mattress.
And all this insanity is just. It's sick. And he hates it. Wants Steve to stop looking at him with this defensive aggression, the cantankerous frown wrinkling up his forehead. Nobody wants to be pulled into someone's arms like it's being done not to soothe, but to stifle. Like smothering a fire.
Except it has that effect, anyway. Being dragged close to Steve. Legs pushing together, bellies, chests. His hand finding Steve's side, the tense muscles there, mirroring his own.
Allowing him to breathe out, slow and relieved, like just getting here is lifting a weight, feeling the muscles start unknotting slowly, slowly, in his back, along his spine, tumblers drawing back in rusty, painfully slow pulls.
Voice dropping low, like now that they're in bed, he needs to be quiet. An intimate sort of not-quite whisper. Lids falling heavily low, shifting to find the comfortable spots against Steve, allowing his arm to go further around Danny, if that's what he wants. Words. More of them. But these quiet and getting calmer.
"Relax. Relax, babe."
Without knowing if he's saying it to himself or Steve, but feeling it work all the same. Even as he's leaning down, a little hesitant, because, come on, Steve really might actually hang him off the balcony, to kiss him again. Finally. Like it's the only thing that might breathe sanity and closure into his fucked up head.
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And all this insanity is just. It's sick. And he hates it. Wants Steve to stop looking at him with this defensive aggression, the cantankerous frown wrinkling up his forehead. Nobody wants to be pulled into someone's arms like it's being done not to soothe, but to stifle. Like smothering a fire.
Except it has that effect, anyway. Being dragged close to Steve. Legs pushing together, bellies, chests. His hand finding Steve's side, the tense muscles there, mirroring his own.
Allowing him to breathe out, slow and relieved, like just getting here is lifting a weight, feeling the muscles start unknotting slowly, slowly, in his back, along his spine, tumblers drawing back in rusty, painfully slow pulls.
Voice dropping low, like now that they're in bed, he needs to be quiet. An intimate sort of not-quite whisper. Lids falling heavily low, shifting to find the comfortable spots against Steve, allowing his arm to go further around Danny, if that's what he wants. Words. More of them. But these quiet and getting calmer.
"Relax. Relax, babe."
Without knowing if he's saying it to himself or Steve, but feeling it work all the same. Even as he's leaning down, a little hesitant, because, come on, Steve really might actually hang him off the balcony, to kiss him again. Finally. Like it's the only thing that might breathe sanity and closure into his fucked up head.