And then there it comes. Words that slipping out. Scatter shot, echo, like the hard cracking of thick ice. The constant chatter of a machine gun, when those three words come so fast finally. And Danny thaws in the snap of the sound. Suddenly forcing words out, and his face finally moving. Hands, hand, moving.
"We've already been over all the reasons, Danny. It's not like they've changed."
They had. They already said all the reasons. Every single one in the dark.
They already whispered each one into the void, into the night, tattooed them on each other's skin, with lips and teeth that are sharper than any burning hot blade, to leave scars that will be worse than any weapon, because they'll hover like untraceable whispers, keeping time and company with all the ghosts. Close enough to taunt and haunt, but never close enough to reach out and touch.
"And you know you don't actually not give a damn about any of it," is pointed, and sharp. It has to be. It's too true. It's the reason the words, get dropped on skin, in the middle of a forest fire of fingers. Because it matters. It all fucking matters, and they just kept letting this matter even more than that. For stolen moments. For kisses that branded skin and seared out thought. Because every single thing mattered. Every single rule had a reason they lived.
There would never be a day their jobs didn't matter. They would never be a time it wouldn't destroy everything.
Because Catherine was right about one thing. Even if she never latched on to it, if she only dropped the crumb for Steve to find.
Piece by piece in this god forsaken house, with an empty chair next to him. Danny couldn't be that term. He could never offer him that. He can't actually offer him anything. The couch, this chair, to fuck him, to make him laugh and leave him gasping, for a few minutes, that always end, always have to be put away and forgotten, like they are somehow wrong, something to be ashamed of, that Danny is, ever might be.
The iron clad promise that if it got out, Danny could, and most likely would lose his job, his case, his little girl.
And none of that is okay. It doesn't know how he let himself be, but -- "It's not worth it."
Steve said it, having to push up out of his chair, taking the beer with him. Because that was true as everything else. This isn't worth Danny losing everything. This isn't worth Danny losing the job he said right here he needed to have, needed to be good at and told he was good at. This isn't worth knowing, learning, what it look like if, when, it comes out and damages every shred of credibility between Danny's character and Grace.
Being the single, absolute canon ball to any slight chance. It's not worth it. Steve's not.
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"We've already been over all the reasons, Danny. It's not like they've changed."
They had. They already said all the reasons. Every single one in the dark.
They already whispered each one into the void, into the night, tattooed them on each other's skin, with lips and teeth that are sharper than any burning hot blade, to leave scars that will be worse than any weapon, because they'll hover like untraceable whispers, keeping time and company with all the ghosts. Close enough to taunt and haunt, but never close enough to reach out and touch.
"And you know you don't actually not give a damn about any of it," is pointed, and sharp. It has to be. It's too true. It's the reason the words, get dropped on skin, in the middle of a forest fire of fingers. Because it matters. It all fucking matters, and they just kept letting this matter even more than that. For stolen moments. For kisses that branded skin and seared out thought. Because every single thing mattered. Every single rule had a reason they lived.
There would never be a day their jobs didn't matter. They would never be a time it wouldn't destroy everything.
Because Catherine was right about one thing. Even if she never latched on to it, if she only dropped the crumb for Steve to find.
Piece by piece in this god forsaken house, with an empty chair next to him. Danny couldn't be that term. He could never offer him that. He can't actually offer him anything. The couch, this chair, to fuck him, to make him laugh and leave him gasping, for a few minutes, that always end, always have to be put away and forgotten, like they are somehow wrong, something to be ashamed of, that Danny is, ever might be.
The iron clad promise that if it got out, Danny could, and most likely would lose his job, his case, his little girl.
And none of that is okay. It doesn't know how he let himself be, but -- "It's not worth it."
Steve said it, having to push up out of his chair, taking the beer with him. Because that was true as everything else. This isn't worth Danny losing everything. This isn't worth Danny losing the job he said right here he needed to have, needed to be good at and told he was good at. This isn't worth knowing, learning, what it look like if, when, it comes out and damages every shred of credibility between Danny's character and Grace.
Being the single, absolute canon ball to any slight chance. It's not worth it. Steve's not.