Jesus. Steve feels like he's about to shiver himself right into shards, like Danny's going to end up with a handful of Steve-pieces when he finally just breaks apart, and it's wrong, wrong like sickness is wrong, wrong like the internalized struggle of someone trying to deal with pain too great to breathe through.
It hurts, seeing it. Like Steve's not even able to recognize him, and whatever he'd been thinking before this conversation started, sitting here alone on the lawn with a beer that's gurgling out into the grass, it's done a hell of a number on him. Danny can't even be angry anymore, seeing it, the way Steve pulls his hands back, fists them so hard Danny's sure trimmed nails are biting into his own palms.
"Come here," he says, dropping his hands, using one to pull at Steve's shirt, but he's not pulling Steve into him, this time; he's already moving back, taking a step, tugging Steve along without taking no for an answer until he's got him in front of the chair he'd left what feels like a lifetime ago, and pushes on his shoulders. "Sit."
Like he'd tell Grace, if she was sniffly and sad about something that happened at school that she wasn't telling him about, yet. A different tack from getting up in someone's face; directing them to sit down before they fall over, crouching in front of them so he doesn't strain his back. Hands never leaving Steve, aiming to leave them on his thighs if Steve isn't a stubborn dick about it and lets Danny do this for him, because Steve may be a perfect physical specimen, but even Steve shouldn't be standing up right now. It's got nothing to do with brawn or determination, and everything to do with the ability to remove at least one immediate source of stress.
Not putting Steve in a corner. Not coddling him. It's just like any other time Danny's dragged him away from a disintegrating situation, so they can talk, so they can breathe without fear of Steve suddenly going Guantanamo on someone's ass. "Relax."
no subject
It hurts, seeing it. Like Steve's not even able to recognize him, and whatever he'd been thinking before this conversation started, sitting here alone on the lawn with a beer that's gurgling out into the grass, it's done a hell of a number on him. Danny can't even be angry anymore, seeing it, the way Steve pulls his hands back, fists them so hard Danny's sure trimmed nails are biting into his own palms.
"Come here," he says, dropping his hands, using one to pull at Steve's shirt, but he's not pulling Steve into him, this time; he's already moving back, taking a step, tugging Steve along without taking no for an answer until he's got him in front of the chair he'd left what feels like a lifetime ago, and pushes on his shoulders. "Sit."
Like he'd tell Grace, if she was sniffly and sad about something that happened at school that she wasn't telling him about, yet. A different tack from getting up in someone's face; directing them to sit down before they fall over, crouching in front of them so he doesn't strain his back. Hands never leaving Steve, aiming to leave them on his thighs if Steve isn't a stubborn dick about it and lets Danny do this for him, because Steve may be a perfect physical specimen, but even Steve shouldn't be standing up right now. It's got nothing to do with brawn or determination, and everything to do with the ability to remove at least one immediate source of stress.
Not putting Steve in a corner. Not coddling him. It's just like any other time Danny's dragged him away from a disintegrating situation, so they can talk, so they can breathe without fear of Steve suddenly going Guantanamo on someone's ass. "Relax."