"Yeah, you look fine, you look like you're about to have a stroke, and I am not hauling your heavy ass inside, so you'll sit and you won't bitch about it."
He looks like he wants to, which is sort of a relief, because it's always a little freaky when Steve shuts down and just lets things happen to him, lets people talk without paying attention to what they're saying, lets himself slide away to the role of distant observer in his own life.
Not today. Not after pulling that crap. Not after taking care of Danny and spending the night on his crappy pull-out, giving him something to hang onto when the world started swaying and spinning, and then deciding to just call it quits.
Steve doesn't quit. He's a SEAL. Danny's pretty sure it goes against every code written in his DNA or on his skin or in his self-defined role of The One Who Takes The Punches. "Do you want to talk to me about it, or are we good?"
They can. As long as Steve doesn't pull any of that shit again, doesn't start it up, with his shouldn'ts and the right thing to do, which might be true, but that doesn't make it any less bullshit, and Danny's sick of the world telling him what he can and can't have, is sick of Steve getting the same fucking message.
But his hands never leave. This crouch is going to play hell with his knee -- he can already feel the ligament creaking in warning -- but he doesn't move, stays where he is, hands on Steve's legs, running up them lightly, like they've done plenty of times before. This time, though, it's not to excite or tease or promise; it's just his palms, his fingers, warm and firm and grounded. Steve might bark, and he might snap, but he hasn't shoved Danny away or off him, and if he needs a reminder Danny's not going anywhere, well, he's damn sure going to get one.
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He looks like he wants to, which is sort of a relief, because it's always a little freaky when Steve shuts down and just lets things happen to him, lets people talk without paying attention to what they're saying, lets himself slide away to the role of distant observer in his own life.
Not today. Not after pulling that crap. Not after taking care of Danny and spending the night on his crappy pull-out, giving him something to hang onto when the world started swaying and spinning, and then deciding to just call it quits.
Steve doesn't quit. He's a SEAL. Danny's pretty sure it goes against every code written in his DNA or on his skin or in his self-defined role of The One Who Takes The Punches. "Do you want to talk to me about it, or are we good?"
They can. As long as Steve doesn't pull any of that shit again, doesn't start it up, with his shouldn'ts and the right thing to do, which might be true, but that doesn't make it any less bullshit, and Danny's sick of the world telling him what he can and can't have, is sick of Steve getting the same fucking message.
But his hands never leave. This crouch is going to play hell with his knee -- he can already feel the ligament creaking in warning -- but he doesn't move, stays where he is, hands on Steve's legs, running up them lightly, like they've done plenty of times before. This time, though, it's not to excite or tease or promise; it's just his palms, his fingers, warm and firm and grounded. Steve might bark, and he might snap, but he hasn't shoved Danny away or off him, and if he needs a reminder Danny's not going anywhere, well, he's damn sure going to get one.