He doesn't even flinch when the worst of the worst parts come out -- words he prized so carefully, confused for some land he didn't know, trying to help, desperate and necessary and true. Still true. Hitting into his ears, into his chest the force of small grenades, showering shrapnel. But inundation to explosions, means at a point you don't even jump at the noise. You learn to process it as much as turn it out.
He's had ages to learn how to do that with his heart and head. Both in the field, turning it off. Turning it all off.
And especially this last month. With Doris. But watching Danny, the anger and pain that turn his eyes just shy of cold, blue lightning. That way each one of this words is edged in pain suddenly. In that breathless sort of pain Steve only had to heard one or two timess after Rachel. Back when he didn't even know there were phone calls and voicemails that were even worse.
When he can make out the tinned edge of a kind of fear that hardly ever touches Danny's voice, while his fingers are digging into Steve's skin. Tearing gouges into his stomach and churning his guts in a mush of meal not even the the most feral of dogs would eat, and saying those words. Saying them once. And then, again. Missing the whole god forsaken point.
Tell me. If you changed your mind. You don't want this anymore. You don't want me.
When Steve's throat is still smarting from in this together because it burns. Because none of those. Because every time he so much as tries to swallow, tries to shift the muscles to open his mouth, to even pull air in, everything locks. Because there is no world without Danny. He already knows that. He's already been there. He lived through the last year. He lived through the six weeks away, gasping for a moment's breath with each message.
He might never be able to scour Danny Williams out of his skin. His sheets. This beach. His bathroom. His mind. Especially now. Now, when it wasn't a dream. It was real, and Danny said all those things, and meant them, if maybe not as wisely as he could have been. He'll never. But. He keeps trying. His lips firm and his eyes feel suddenly parched desert dry to a dull sting. It's only a small set of words. A small lie.
If he could just say them he could set a statue, a brick in a wall, that could be built on. That could never be undone.But he can't. It's stuck in his throat. Like the two sides are Velcro, the lie jammed thick. That there will ever be someone else at the moment. That he could even believe himself that someone at sometime might come along and make him forget what a year hasn't.
This face, and these eyes, that mouth that has been everywhere on him, whispered, teased, promised and shouted things he can never unhear. The utter devotion of this man, the stunning work he does every day, how no one he's ever met is a singularly good, the way he smiles, lighting up like the sun rises in him. How he wears his heart and fears on his sleeve, loudly, with no shame. The way every single finger on his skin singularly undoes him, and makes him want more. The way that hand is even now.
Thoughts that turn Steve's heart to bleeding, throbbing, rusting lead with each new thought. Forcing him to shove it down. Hack it back, with a better, sharper focus, like a machette taking out weeds. Because there are more important things than whatever he feels, or can or can't live with. He's lived with worse. He made a year, without Danny ever knowing. He could make another and another, a few, especially for all these reasons that are bigger than him, bigger than them.
He could make Danny understand, when the man is shoving into his space, even closer, making the world fall away, and the whole point feel so much clearer, sharper, insaner, that he was able to do his job just find for the last year. Choking him roughly at, "That's not the point. It doesn't mat-"
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-05-02 06:26 am (UTC)He's had ages to learn how to do that with his heart and head. Both in the field, turning it off. Turning it all off.
And especially this last month. With Doris. But watching Danny, the anger and pain that turn his eyes just shy of cold, blue lightning. That way each one of this words is edged in pain suddenly. In that breathless sort of pain Steve only had to heard one or two timess after Rachel. Back when he didn't even know there were phone calls and voicemails that were even worse.
When he can make out the tinned edge of a kind of fear that hardly ever touches Danny's voice, while his fingers are digging into Steve's skin. Tearing gouges into his stomach and churning his guts in a mush of meal not even the the most feral of dogs would eat, and saying those words. Saying them once. And then, again. Missing the whole god forsaken point.
Tell me. If you changed your mind. You don't want this anymore. You don't want me.
When Steve's throat is still smarting from in this together because it burns. Because none of those. Because every time he so much as tries to swallow, tries to shift the muscles to open his mouth, to even pull air in, everything locks. Because there is no world without Danny. He already knows that. He's already been there. He lived through the last year. He lived through the six weeks away, gasping for a moment's breath with each message.
He might never be able to scour Danny Williams out of his skin. His sheets. This beach. His bathroom. His mind. Especially now. Now, when it wasn't a dream. It was real, and Danny said all those things, and meant them, if maybe not as wisely as he could have been. He'll never. But. He keeps trying. His lips firm and his eyes feel suddenly parched desert dry to a dull sting. It's only a small set of words. A small lie.
If he could just say them he could set a statue, a brick in a wall, that could be built on. That could never be undone.But he can't. It's stuck in his throat. Like the two sides are Velcro, the lie jammed thick. That there will ever be someone else at the moment. That he could even believe himself that someone at sometime might come along and make him forget what a year hasn't.
This face, and these eyes, that mouth that has been everywhere on him, whispered, teased, promised and shouted things he can never unhear. The utter devotion of this man, the stunning work he does every day, how no one he's ever met is a singularly good, the way he smiles, lighting up like the sun rises in him. How he wears his heart and fears on his sleeve, loudly, with no shame. The way every single finger on his skin singularly undoes him, and makes him want more. The way that hand is even now.
Thoughts that turn Steve's heart to bleeding, throbbing, rusting lead with each new thought. Forcing him to shove it down. Hack it back, with a better, sharper focus, like a machette taking out weeds. Because there are more important things than whatever he feels, or can or can't live with. He's lived with worse. He made a year, without Danny ever knowing. He could make another and another, a few, especially for all these reasons that are bigger than him, bigger than them.
He could make Danny understand, when the man is shoving into his space, even closer, making the world fall away, and the whole point feel so much clearer, sharper, insaner, that he was able to do his job just find for the last year. Choking him roughly at, "That's not the point. It doesn't mat-"