He doesn't look like he's about to have a stroke. Give Danny an inch and he can drag out any minor winding into something about passing out from cardiac arrest. Which he's not. Passing out. Or having a stroke. Or a heart attack. He's been through so much worse without passing out. Right? So much worse?
When he's got a semi-disgusted, insulted expression sporting itself at Danny's expense for the over exaggeration.
But he's looking at Danny's face still, and everything in his shoulders feels so much heavier, and he feels older than he did five minutes ago. Somehow. When Danny is blustering off along, still not long gone, not driven away, words falling out into questions, while his hands still haven't given up. They are tracing up Steve's thighs. Heavy and insistant and completely different way.
Like the movement is dipping fingers into his abdomen and his back, and tugging gently at all the muscles wound tight as a cement block suddenly. When he wants to tense up even more for it but his muscles are slowly loosening beyond his orders to anything of the contrary. Slowly slipping from his hands to Danny, even though his fingers aren't even touching those muscles.
"I'm not wrong," are still the words that jam themselves out of his teeth. But there's less derision and fanaticism about being right to it this time. Like there are no walls to the words anymore. When both sides look like they're written in a foreign language, and somehow and neither are or aren't right or wrong suddenly. And when he needs to stop looking at Danny's face, and the proof all over it, that discredits every single word that came out of his mouth.
But he can't. He really can't convince himself to look away. It's hard enough not giving in to reaching out and touching him.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-05-04 08:17 pm (UTC)When he's got a semi-disgusted, insulted expression sporting itself at Danny's expense for the over exaggeration.
But he's looking at Danny's face still, and everything in his shoulders feels so much heavier, and he feels older than he did five minutes ago. Somehow. When Danny is blustering off along, still not long gone, not driven away, words falling out into questions, while his hands still haven't given up. They are tracing up Steve's thighs. Heavy and insistant and completely different way.
Like the movement is dipping fingers into his abdomen and his back, and tugging gently at all the muscles wound tight as a cement block suddenly. When he wants to tense up even more for it but his muscles are slowly loosening beyond his orders to anything of the contrary. Slowly slipping from his hands to Danny, even though his fingers aren't even touching those muscles.
"I'm not wrong," are still the words that jam themselves out of his teeth. But there's less derision and fanaticism about being right to it this time. Like there are no walls to the words anymore. When both sides look like they're written in a foreign language, and somehow and neither are or aren't right or wrong suddenly. And when he needs to stop looking at Danny's face, and the proof all over it, that discredits every single word that came out of his mouth.
But he can't. He really can't convince himself to look away. It's hard enough not giving in to reaching out and touching him.