That's not entirely untrue, and just the thought of that. It not being untrue, even when he knows it doesn't exactly mean much either, still feels like it's this unexplainable force pushing space into his chest. Between his ribs, betwen his lungs and muscles, between the successive breaths of air and beats of his heart.
Something more suspiciously confusing than comforting, but fragile and present. Even when his words are economic and even, maybe even undermining of the significance of her statement. "It's been a crazy few weeks. He's just now coming off a pretty good rough up from an undercover case."
Because forty to sixty hours a week he's still a detective, and Steve's partner. Not the person in his bed.
Except. Somehow he is, also. Was. That person physically present in his bed still, recently, because he made some promise in the dead of the night about just being there if Danny needed him. For beer and to unwind. And. Just to sleep like shit, while Danny laid siege to his bed, hissing when he shifted wrong. Which was, actually, almost entirely gone now.
He grumbled about it all still -- he wouldn't be Danny is he wasn't -- but he was actually back to sleeping. And Steve was there. Waking up. Falling back asleep. As, at times, irritably, annoyed by the constant waking up on night two or three, as confused and at a loss for this first half minute when he was waking up to any sound the house made, to an empty bed, the first time Danny was gone, again.
Whatever that meant. Whatever that wasn't. Whatever that was.
no subject
Something more suspiciously confusing than comforting, but fragile and present. Even when his words are economic and even, maybe even undermining of the significance of her statement. "It's been a crazy few weeks. He's just now coming off a pretty good rough up from an undercover case."
Because forty to sixty hours a week he's still a detective, and Steve's partner. Not the person in his bed.
Except. Somehow he is, also. Was. That person physically present in his bed still, recently, because he made some promise in the dead of the night about just being there if Danny needed him. For beer and to unwind. And. Just to sleep like shit, while Danny laid siege to his bed, hissing when he shifted wrong. Which was, actually, almost entirely gone now.
He grumbled about it all still -- he wouldn't be Danny is he wasn't -- but he was actually back to sleeping. And Steve was there. Waking up. Falling back asleep. As, at times, irritably, annoyed by the constant waking up on night two or three, as confused and at a loss for this first half minute when he was waking up to any sound the house made, to an empty bed, the first time Danny was gone, again.
Whatever that meant. Whatever that wasn't. Whatever that was.