He does think he knows. That's true. Danny doesn't doubt that for a second. Steve has seen him through the giddy rise and subsequent sickening drop of Rachel, was the one who dragged him, past reluctance into actual anger, into the few small steps he'd taken with Gabby. So Steve has some idea, has some clue.
But he doesn't know how terrifying it is. Steve is fearless in a way Danny has never been. Injury to self is the last thing on his mind. It doesn't even compute. The leaps Danny's head takes, from jokes about closet space or the consideration of asking someone out for a cup of coffee to divorce and hatred and ruin wouldn't make sense to him. They would seem like lunacy, because they are lunacy. And Steve hasn't had to do this, before.
Okay. Well. Obviously, parts of it he's done. There are places here where Danny knows Steve's experience far outweighs his own, but he's not talking about the physical stuff, alright, he's talking about the kind of damage a divorce like his leaves behind. Cracks splintering everywhere, all of them widened, weakened again when Rachel stopped picking up her phone and he found himself begging to her voicemail. Begging. So far past distraught. Broken down into something that didn't give a damn how short of a straw he pulled, as long as he got to keep it.
Steve knows what it's like to lose everything. To have the entire world shatter around you. But it happened to Steve when he was just a kid, which makes it more unfair, but also changed him irrevocably. Sure. Danny only knows, really, about the last two years. He supposes it's possible there was someone, someone other than Catherine, someone Steve loved like Danny loves Rachel. Anything is possible. Just like it's possible he'll wake up tomorrow and be able to have a friendly lunch with Rachel and Stan while Grace plays nearby and no lawyers show up at all.
Right? Anything is possible.
Like this is somehow possible. Steve, breathing quiet and steady against him. Steve's fingers in his hair. Steve, naked and wanting him here. Arms around him. Letting Danny's fingers trail over bare skin. Letting Danny think, and talk. Like Danny could just. Talk. The way he might into an empty room. Talk until he's worked it out for himself. Until the panic has been boxed away in words. Until he can breathe, and think straight. Until he no longer feels like he's hanging over the edge of a cliff, gripping for dear life onto a rope that's already snapping. Because Steve is being quiet, and Steve is being softer. Voice low. Not pushing or prodding. Not teasing or taunting. Just opening the door a crack more, instead of kicking it down or blowing it off the hinges.
And it's such a relief. Such a fucking load off. Seriously. They are tiny things, but they let Danny breathe like he's just been let out of a sealed box.
"Look, you know me. I make these leaps. I'm not ready to start considering what it might take for you to start hating me, alright? I know it's nuts. I know it's not even two weeks, and nobody even knows anything except Catherine, and that was by accident, and that I am a lunatic to rival even your most ridiculously out-of-bounds moments, alright. I understand that. I am -- we are -- just, occasionally, a little nerve-wracking."
Call it self-preservation. The kind Steve doesn't have. The kind Danny knows is useless, because he's already here, already in it. Because they are so far past a cup of coffee. Because this is something he knows and recognizes and is not nearly dumb enough to not know or recognize when the evidence is right in front of him, not once it's been lined up like this.
Because he's already fallen off that cliff. Holding onto a trailing end of rope that's falling with him is no more than a stubborn instinct; it won't help when he hits.
Except. When they. They. Because they're in this. Together.
no subject
But he doesn't know how terrifying it is. Steve is fearless in a way Danny has never been. Injury to self is the last thing on his mind. It doesn't even compute. The leaps Danny's head takes, from jokes about closet space or the consideration of asking someone out for a cup of coffee to divorce and hatred and ruin wouldn't make sense to him. They would seem like lunacy, because they are lunacy. And Steve hasn't had to do this, before.
Okay. Well. Obviously, parts of it he's done. There are places here where Danny knows Steve's experience far outweighs his own, but he's not talking about the physical stuff, alright, he's talking about the kind of damage a divorce like his leaves behind. Cracks splintering everywhere, all of them widened, weakened again when Rachel stopped picking up her phone and he found himself begging to her voicemail. Begging. So far past distraught. Broken down into something that didn't give a damn how short of a straw he pulled, as long as he got to keep it.
Steve knows what it's like to lose everything. To have the entire world shatter around you. But it happened to Steve when he was just a kid, which makes it more unfair, but also changed him irrevocably. Sure. Danny only knows, really, about the last two years. He supposes it's possible there was someone, someone other than Catherine, someone Steve loved like Danny loves Rachel. Anything is possible. Just like it's possible he'll wake up tomorrow and be able to have a friendly lunch with Rachel and Stan while Grace plays nearby and no lawyers show up at all.
Right? Anything is possible.
Like this is somehow possible. Steve, breathing quiet and steady against him. Steve's fingers in his hair. Steve, naked and wanting him here. Arms around him. Letting Danny's fingers trail over bare skin. Letting Danny think, and talk. Like Danny could just. Talk. The way he might into an empty room. Talk until he's worked it out for himself. Until the panic has been boxed away in words. Until he can breathe, and think straight. Until he no longer feels like he's hanging over the edge of a cliff, gripping for dear life onto a rope that's already snapping. Because Steve is being quiet, and Steve is being softer. Voice low. Not pushing or prodding. Not teasing or taunting. Just opening the door a crack more, instead of kicking it down or blowing it off the hinges.
And it's such a relief. Such a fucking load off. Seriously. They are tiny things, but they let Danny breathe like he's just been let out of a sealed box.
"Look, you know me. I make these leaps. I'm not ready to start considering what it might take for you to start hating me, alright? I know it's nuts. I know it's not even two weeks, and nobody even knows anything except Catherine, and that was by accident, and that I am a lunatic to rival even your most ridiculously out-of-bounds moments, alright. I understand that. I am -- we are -- just, occasionally, a little nerve-wracking."
Call it self-preservation. The kind Steve doesn't have. The kind Danny knows is useless, because he's already here, already in it. Because they are so far past a cup of coffee. Because this is something he knows and recognizes and is not nearly dumb enough to not know or recognize when the evidence is right in front of him, not once it's been lined up like this.
Because he's already fallen off that cliff. Holding onto a trailing end of rope that's falling with him is no more than a stubborn instinct; it won't help when he hits.
Except. When they. They. Because they're in this. Together.