The hand catches around his wrist and it's rote. To catch the urge that say free yourself, fast as possible. To feel the automatic second response that says this is Danny, listen, listen. Even when it shoves hard against the fact he needs to not be. He needs to take a step back, he needs to not be so close he can see where the wind is pulling on individual strands of his hair, and the striations in his eyes.
Close enough he can't make out every hovering shift to Danny's tone in the words he is gritting out.
Angry and hurt, like he has any comprehension. Any at all. When he has none. When he doesn't get that Steve would do it, will, just to keep it here. Just that it never gets past this. This is the worst way Danny could or would ever look at him. This is the worst he could ever be at fault for doing to him. Giving him this for a month and ripping it out of his hands.
That hand. That one still on his wrist. The one that's wavering in the air and he wants to look away from it but he isn't. Jaw tightening, loosening, tightening. Lips following suit in a flux, against too tense, too hard muscles through his cheeks, his throat, down into his shoulders.
"I can't--" God, those two words just fall out. They feel like every line and curl and sound of them was cut directly out of his chest, and he can't even get to his chest, to his lungs, to let himself say the other words. He can't. Because Danny hates Rachel at times. He loves her. He's always going to love her. Beyond any epic wrong she continues to do to him, he gets that. But he hates her, too.
Even if only in brief seconds when he's beating his phone on the steering wheel of the camaro. When he's avoiding her calls. When he's giving her ring tones that display every ounce of vehemence. It's there, too. Like crevices that stay even when the ice thaws from where it crept. And Danny might say he hates Steve. Regularly. Loudly. Angrily. At his face. But he never really means it.
He's never meant it. Even when he's scared. Even on the voicemails, where threats wove into pleas.
And the idea Danny could. Mean it. He could take everything with this, and that could take Danny from him. Further than this ever conversation, or decision, ever could. He doesn't think there is even an example for how desperately far past torture the concept is, sliding slick and sharp in his head, through his veins, icing up his stomach.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-05-03 12:10 am (UTC)Close enough he can't make out every hovering shift to Danny's tone in the words he is gritting out.
Angry and hurt, like he has any comprehension. Any at all. When he has none. When he doesn't get that Steve would do it, will, just to keep it here. Just that it never gets past this. This is the worst way Danny could or would ever look at him. This is the worst he could ever be at fault for doing to him. Giving him this for a month and ripping it out of his hands.
That hand. That one still on his wrist. The one that's wavering in the air and he wants to look away from it but he isn't. Jaw tightening, loosening, tightening. Lips following suit in a flux, against too tense, too hard muscles through his cheeks, his throat, down into his shoulders.
"I can't--" God, those two words just fall out. They feel like every line and curl and sound of them was cut directly out of his chest, and he can't even get to his chest, to his lungs, to let himself say the other words. He can't. Because Danny hates Rachel at times. He loves her. He's always going to love her. Beyond any epic wrong she continues to do to him, he gets that. But he hates her, too.
Even if only in brief seconds when he's beating his phone on the steering wheel of the camaro. When he's avoiding her calls. When he's giving her ring tones that display every ounce of vehemence. It's there, too. Like crevices that stay even when the ice thaws from where it crept. And Danny might say he hates Steve. Regularly. Loudly. Angrily. At his face. But he never really means it.
He's never meant it. Even when he's scared. Even on the voicemails, where threats wove into pleas.
And the idea Danny could. Mean it. He could take everything with this, and that could take Danny from him. Further than this ever conversation, or decision, ever could. He doesn't think there is even an example for how desperately far past torture the concept is, sliding slick and sharp in his head, through his veins, icing up his stomach.