He doesn't know exactly what this face is Danny's making. When he's staring up with some combination of shock, something like being punched, confusion and something else. Something so much else, Steve doesn't even know what to make of it, of what to assume Danny is or isn't getting. Danny just keeps staring at him. Everything in Danny's face softening in a way that shouldn't be happening at all.
And Steve. Steve just wants to grab his shoulder, suddenly, and shake him, make him understand. As much as he hates it. Admitting it. Thinking about it. That he would rather be tied up and suspended, helpless, stabbed and beaten, than the other option. The one they are talking about. Because he could survive one of those. Has more times than Danny is allowed to have any frame of reference on.
Just when he thinks Danny will understand and let go, and every last piece of ground will go with it, into the sea, the way it should. Has to. That is when Danny tugs his wrist and gets closer, looking up into his face, with that expression Steve still can't translate. And then starts talking. Keeps talking. Words, and words, and more words. Before he's reaching out more.
Steve's past the point of thinking Danny is even hearing anything when there are suddenly fingers finding his throat. Making him swallow, crashing through the impulse to protect like a tsunami. Curling warm and solid, making his chest ache like it's being squeezed between crushing walls. Or, maybe, making him realize that feeling has been there all along. Has it? When he needs to say no, but all he can hear is the rush of his pulse so close to those fingers, the way his body twitches toward that touch.
And that hand itself. Warm and solid and painful, in the way where he need it go and wants it stay, to never let go.
Because he doesn't have an again. Grace is everything. The core of Danny. It's like saying try to breathe without the air this time.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-05-03 03:55 pm (UTC)And Steve. Steve just wants to grab his shoulder, suddenly, and shake him, make him understand. As much as he hates it. Admitting it. Thinking about it. That he would rather be tied up and suspended, helpless, stabbed and beaten, than the other option. The one they are talking about. Because he could survive one of those. Has more times than Danny is allowed to have any frame of reference on.
Just when he thinks Danny will understand and let go, and every last piece of ground will go with it, into the sea, the way it should. Has to. That is when Danny tugs his wrist and gets closer, looking up into his face, with that expression Steve still can't translate. And then starts talking. Keeps talking. Words, and words, and more words. Before he's reaching out more.
Steve's past the point of thinking Danny is even hearing anything when there are suddenly fingers finding his throat. Making him swallow, crashing through the impulse to protect like a tsunami. Curling warm and solid, making his chest ache like it's being squeezed between crushing walls. Or, maybe, making him realize that feeling has been there all along. Has it? When he needs to say no, but all he can hear is the rush of his pulse so close to those fingers, the way his body twitches toward that touch.
And that hand itself. Warm and solid and painful, in the way where he need it go and wants it stay, to never let go.
Because he doesn't have an again. Grace is everything. The core of Danny. It's like saying try to breathe without the air this time.