Steve's sure he said some word or made some affirmative noise, or at least that Danny got the gist already, before the phone was resting in his hand. Call clicked off, staring at the water, second guessing whether that had been wise. Whether he should have given more time and more thought to Cath's words. Instead he spend far too long going over it, in a circuit.
Trying to turn it outward or invert it, but it doesn't work much. He's still staring at the ocean waves lit on fire with the sunset. Turning deeper oranges and heavier goldenrod, that diffuses at the edges to muddier blues and purples, darker and darker at the edges. That remind him of bruises more than skylines. But not yet. It's not taking over just yet. The faintest frame heralding the end of the day. But it's got time. He's got time. To figure it out.
Or he doesn't, when Danny's steps make him still and then his voice is breaking on the lawn. Sending a zip up and down Steve's spine, ending in that clutching of all the muscles in his center tight, like he should sit straighter, but also like everything in his stomach vanished for a second, before steadying. When he takes the second to breathe in and turn his head, slow, maybe like it's all distraction, over reluctance.
Getting there when Danny's already jerking a thumb, waving a hand, turning away and walking off toward the house, a world of color and retreating movement, jerking something out of Steve's chest with a hard, sharp sensation as he does. Goes. Just. Just to get a beer. And that's not something that actually needed a response from him, either, was it, really?
Nor is the way his brain actually supplies those aren't blue jeans. Not that there was any reason they would be. Steve reached a hand up and rubbed at his jaw, before reaching down for his beer, again. Palming the top, popping it and pocketing. Before he's letting out a breath, taking a drink, and waiting. Again. A minute, a few at most, and that chair will stop annoying him at least. And Danny ranted that he couldn't be positive.
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Trying to turn it outward or invert it, but it doesn't work much. He's still staring at the ocean waves lit on fire with the sunset. Turning deeper oranges and heavier goldenrod, that diffuses at the edges to muddier blues and purples, darker and darker at the edges. That remind him of bruises more than skylines. But not yet. It's not taking over just yet. The faintest frame heralding the end of the day. But it's got time. He's got time. To figure it out.
Or he doesn't, when Danny's steps make him still and then his voice is breaking on the lawn. Sending a zip up and down Steve's spine, ending in that clutching of all the muscles in his center tight, like he should sit straighter, but also like everything in his stomach vanished for a second, before steadying. When he takes the second to breathe in and turn his head, slow, maybe like it's all distraction, over reluctance.
Getting there when Danny's already jerking a thumb, waving a hand, turning away and walking off toward the house, a world of color and retreating movement, jerking something out of Steve's chest with a hard, sharp sensation as he does. Goes. Just. Just to get a beer. And that's not something that actually needed a response from him, either, was it, really?
Nor is the way his brain actually supplies those aren't blue jeans. Not that there was any reason they would be. Steve reached a hand up and rubbed at his jaw, before reaching down for his beer, again. Palming the top, popping it and pocketing. Before he's letting out a breath, taking a drink, and waiting. Again. A minute, a few at most, and that chair will stop annoying him at least. And Danny ranted that he couldn't be positive.