At least Steve settles back. At least Steve is wrapping him closer, pulling Danny further, until his hand is sneaking between Steve's back and the mattress, ribs against his fingers, heavy weight on his palm. Sliding a little more upright, enough to slip one leg over one of Steve's. Like enough contact, bare skin to bare skin, feeling Steve's pulse, lifting with each of Steve's breaths, will be enough to erase the ricocheting shots in his head, echoing there in a stubborn refusal to leave.
It's fine. He just needs to keep a handle on it. Just needs to make sure things don't go too fast, so he can keep them from hurtling towards the cliff edge of loss. Just needs to push that crazy away, acknowledge it's there, use it as a warning signal, and forget about it.
Which is easier said than done, but not impossible, not when Steve's fingers are slipping across his cheek, cupping his head, firm instead of gentle, like he's still not sure he doesn't want to push that same head into a wall. Not when Steve's arm is secure around his back, and his hand is spreading, like he needs to get as much of Danny under his fingers as possible. Not when Steve is kissing him like he's trying to make a point, like the argument is still going, just translated into the pressure of lips and slide of tongue and puffing breath.
Because Steve isn't giving in. Danny's not even sure Steve is actually dropping it. Just because he isn't glaring anymore, or arguing; just because he's using touch and holding Danny close and tight and a little exasperated doesn't mean he's forgotten. Because he hasn't. Steve has a memory like an elephant, and they aren't done with this.
But maybe there can be a break. Maybe Danny can convince him it's not the end of the world, not even that important, he's going to fuck up, of course he is. He's rusty at this, and it already means too much, is already going to take the ground with it when it goes. It's not a joke. Nowhere near it.
None of it. Not the way his back unlocks, inch by inch, under Steve's hand. Not the way he can feel something less definite unlocking in the same way, edging cautiously out from behind the gate it slammed. Careful. Relax, relax. Breathing deep when Steve pulls him closer, deep into the pillow and sheets, muddling everything around them, the dark settling back into place from the stir of earlier. When he can just sink into this. Stop talking. Words keep screwing up, anyway. His face keeps screwing up. His head. The instincts to rabbit the hell away from the sudden gaping maw of everything he knows could happen, that probably will, because there is no part of himself that won't get blown out when this goes.
But it hasn't gone yet, and that means he can firm his fingers against the back that's pushing them down into the bed, arm muscles tightening, pull Steve closer, and kiss him like maybe it could light the whole room and clear away these stupid shadows.
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It's fine. He just needs to keep a handle on it. Just needs to make sure things don't go too fast, so he can keep them from hurtling towards the cliff edge of loss. Just needs to push that crazy away, acknowledge it's there, use it as a warning signal, and forget about it.
Which is easier said than done, but not impossible, not when Steve's fingers are slipping across his cheek, cupping his head, firm instead of gentle, like he's still not sure he doesn't want to push that same head into a wall. Not when Steve's arm is secure around his back, and his hand is spreading, like he needs to get as much of Danny under his fingers as possible. Not when Steve is kissing him like he's trying to make a point, like the argument is still going, just translated into the pressure of lips and slide of tongue and puffing breath.
Because Steve isn't giving in. Danny's not even sure Steve is actually dropping it. Just because he isn't glaring anymore, or arguing; just because he's using touch and holding Danny close and tight and a little exasperated doesn't mean he's forgotten. Because he hasn't. Steve has a memory like an elephant, and they aren't done with this.
But maybe there can be a break. Maybe Danny can convince him it's not the end of the world, not even that important, he's going to fuck up, of course he is. He's rusty at this, and it already means too much, is already going to take the ground with it when it goes. It's not a joke. Nowhere near it.
None of it. Not the way his back unlocks, inch by inch, under Steve's hand. Not the way he can feel something less definite unlocking in the same way, edging cautiously out from behind the gate it slammed. Careful. Relax, relax. Breathing deep when Steve pulls him closer, deep into the pillow and sheets, muddling everything around them, the dark settling back into place from the stir of earlier. When he can just sink into this. Stop talking. Words keep screwing up, anyway. His face keeps screwing up. His head. The instincts to rabbit the hell away from the sudden gaping maw of everything he knows could happen, that probably will, because there is no part of himself that won't get blown out when this goes.
But it hasn't gone yet, and that means he can firm his fingers against the back that's pushing them down into the bed, arm muscles tightening, pull Steve closer, and kiss him like maybe it could light the whole room and clear away these stupid shadows.