There's nothing to do but stare at him, as Steve hits slapshot after slapshot right into Danny's chest, words hitting like pucks, balmy island air suddenly knife-sharp and as cold as any winter morning Danny's ever lived through. Feeling like the ground has actually cracked open and swallowed him up, because Steve is seething, attacking, punching words like Danny's nothing more than a heavy bag, swinging ponderously, just waiting for the next blow.
He doesn't even notice the way his hand tightens on Steve's arm, fingers digging into shirt and skin, knuckles whitening, stubbornly refusing to let go.
Because Steve is saying these things. And keeps saying them. And believes them. And Danny's chest, stomach, gut, is an aching empty void. Lungs vanished. Stomach muscles tightening like he anticipates a hit.
"My job? My case? My daughter?"
Those are the reasons. They're good reasons, he'll give Steve that. Excellent reasons. Reasons he knows, and has known, and that haven't stopped him anyway, and he can't stop now, feels his voice rising like the shriek of a teakettle whistle. "Oh, no. No. You don't get to make this about me. If you changed your mind, you don't want me anymore, say it. But don't you dare stand behind Grace."
Nowhere. Nowhere. Nowhere. It beats in his blood like a fever, twists in the empty space, knotting and unknotting. This goes nowhere. Nowhere is waking up in Steve's bed with Steve still there, occasionally. Or waking up in Steve's bed with a pillow that smells like Steve. Nowhere is Steve whispering I want you and slowly driving him crazy. This is nowhere? All of this? The jokes Steve made, the way he talked Danny off that ledge, just two weeks ago. Saying it's just them.
Saying. Saying so much. Words kept squirreled away like contraband. Grinding disappointment into the surprise, the sudden breathless pain. Saying they were.
"Don't tell me what I need. I thought we were in this together, not that you get to shove me out the door just because you think you know what I need. So, just --"
Pushing closer, into Steve's space, bristling and stubborn, because he refuses, okay, he refuses to back down, to be pushed over, to roll onto his back and just let this happen. He refuses to lose this. Steve. Not over this. Not because of him.
But.
His voice drops, low and reluctant, words pushed by willpower, not because he wants to know the answer. "Tell me. If you changed your mind. You don't want this anymore. You don't want me. And I swear I'll leave you alone."
Even when just saying it feels like dropping a pile of bricks into his chest. He would. He'd have to. If that was why, and this cloud of excuses is just a smokescreen.
no subject
He doesn't even notice the way his hand tightens on Steve's arm, fingers digging into shirt and skin, knuckles whitening, stubbornly refusing to let go.
Because Steve is saying these things. And keeps saying them. And believes them. And Danny's chest, stomach, gut, is an aching empty void. Lungs vanished. Stomach muscles tightening like he anticipates a hit.
"My job? My case? My daughter?"
Those are the reasons. They're good reasons, he'll give Steve that. Excellent reasons. Reasons he knows, and has known, and that haven't stopped him anyway, and he can't stop now, feels his voice rising like the shriek of a teakettle whistle. "Oh, no. No. You don't get to make this about me. If you changed your mind, you don't want me anymore, say it. But don't you dare stand behind Grace."
Nowhere. Nowhere. Nowhere. It beats in his blood like a fever, twists in the empty space, knotting and unknotting. This goes nowhere. Nowhere is waking up in Steve's bed with Steve still there, occasionally. Or waking up in Steve's bed with a pillow that smells like Steve. Nowhere is Steve whispering I want you and slowly driving him crazy. This is nowhere? All of this? The jokes Steve made, the way he talked Danny off that ledge, just two weeks ago. Saying it's just them.
Saying. Saying so much. Words kept squirreled away like contraband. Grinding disappointment into the surprise, the sudden breathless pain. Saying they were.
"Don't tell me what I need. I thought we were in this together, not that you get to shove me out the door just because you think you know what I need. So, just --"
Pushing closer, into Steve's space, bristling and stubborn, because he refuses, okay, he refuses to back down, to be pushed over, to roll onto his back and just let this happen. He refuses to lose this. Steve. Not over this. Not because of him.
But.
His voice drops, low and reluctant, words pushed by willpower, not because he wants to know the answer. "Tell me. If you changed your mind. You don't want this anymore. You don't want me. And I swear I'll leave you alone."
Even when just saying it feels like dropping a pile of bricks into his chest. He would. He'd have to. If that was why, and this cloud of excuses is just a smokescreen.