It's almost matter-of-fact. The kind of thing he used to always say, bemoan to Steve, during the few times he actually talked about Gabby that weren't limited to she's fine or that things were okay. Which was always an exaggeration, right, because nothing about Gabby suggests that anything anywhere might be blowing up. She was sweet and pretty and smart and classy, but she was never a wrecking ball sort of person.
Steve is. If this goes down, it's going down in flames. There's no other way, because Danny already pointed out that casual really isn't his game and Steve is essentially a walking talking truck full of propane with a casually lit match headed its way.
He's honestly not sure which is worse, when it comes to dizzyingly stressful thoughts: the idea that this is going to end, and end badly, or that it won't.
But it's not just him. Something Steve had to remind him of, that he's conscious of this whole time, now. Especially when Steve's stomach tightens under Danny's, in a way that makes the hand that had traveled to his shoulder slide back to his side, thumb pressing gently into muscles that are clenching, giving him away even if his voice isn't. Even if his face weren't.
Except it is. It's painted right across him, again, that same look from earlier. Some heartwrenching mix of hopefulness and caution and frustration that dropkicks Danny's heart right through his ribs. Steve shouldn't be looking at him like this. Steve should never have. This shouldn't have happened, wasn't supposed to happen. Steve wasn't supposed to kiss him in the living room.
But he did. And is. And he's still here.
Danny doesn't want to jinx it. Feels like if he breathes too hard, talks too much, says the wrong things, he will. "Which is not something I want to think too hard about or look for in this particular moment."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-03-02 03:15 am (UTC)It's almost matter-of-fact. The kind of thing he used to always say, bemoan to Steve, during the few times he actually talked about Gabby that weren't limited to she's fine or that things were okay. Which was always an exaggeration, right, because nothing about Gabby suggests that anything anywhere might be blowing up. She was sweet and pretty and smart and classy, but she was never a wrecking ball sort of person.
Steve is. If this goes down, it's going down in flames. There's no other way, because Danny already pointed out that casual really isn't his game and Steve is essentially a walking talking truck full of propane with a casually lit match headed its way.
He's honestly not sure which is worse, when it comes to dizzyingly stressful thoughts: the idea that this is going to end, and end badly, or that it won't.
But it's not just him. Something Steve had to remind him of, that he's conscious of this whole time, now. Especially when Steve's stomach tightens under Danny's, in a way that makes the hand that had traveled to his shoulder slide back to his side, thumb pressing gently into muscles that are clenching, giving him away even if his voice isn't. Even if his face weren't.
Except it is. It's painted right across him, again, that same look from earlier. Some heartwrenching mix of hopefulness and caution and frustration that dropkicks Danny's heart right through his ribs. Steve shouldn't be looking at him like this. Steve should never have. This shouldn't have happened, wasn't supposed to happen. Steve wasn't supposed to kiss him in the living room.
But he did. And is. And he's still here.
Danny doesn't want to jinx it. Feels like if he breathes too hard, talks too much, says the wrong things, he will. "Which is not something I want to think too hard about or look for in this particular moment."