"Yeah, well, you and your lawn chairs, they're not exactly bad-knee friendly."
Not when he's crouched in front of them, anyway, and even with all the tricks he knows -- put his weight on the other leg and let that one bend more than the right, keep shifting it around -- it's really not a good idea for him to even do this sort of half bent over sort of deal. Not like there's any danger of wrecking his knee just by crouching down on it, not if he hasn't had to have surgery thanks to the shit they pull every week, but it's not exactly comfortable, either.
Except Steve's not pushing him back with anything other than words, and even those are low, quiet, anything but confrontational. Almost an apology, lacking any seriously sharp edge or arrogance, and that sucks, too, that Steve's unable to even mock him the way he always does. To call Danny a wilting flower or rusty Tin Man, like a bad knee is some kind of personal failure on his part instead of something he can't do shit about, something he should just go ahead and change, already, what is he, lazy? But Steve doesn't. Is just looking at him, with this something written across his face in broad strokes Danny can't translate. Fingers warm on Danny's shoulder, more like he's steadying himself than Danny, like all the light's gone out and he needs to navigate by touch.
Which is fine, but in Danny's experience, navigating with touch is a whole lot more enjoyable if they're both on the same piece of furniture.
"Okay, fine." Most of his weight right now is on Steve's thigh, anyway, the hand there balancing him, and he presses down again as he leans forward, erases the half-inch of space for a kiss that's almost as casual as the ones he presses to Steve's damp salty post-swim pre-coffee mouth in the mornings, before he has to go. Easy. Like any other touch. Like he can, just because he wants to. Like he owns Steve's mouth and kisses and it's a totally normal thing to do, which it seems to have become, over the last month, and that's strange enough. "Come on."
Pulling back, fingers sliding off Steve's skin, out from under his hand, stretching his back as he straightens, shifting his weight to his left leg by conditioned response. "You wanna watch a game, or something, or stay out here?"
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branchandroot
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Date: 2013-05-05 03:12 pm (UTC)Not when he's crouched in front of them, anyway, and even with all the tricks he knows -- put his weight on the other leg and let that one bend more than the right, keep shifting it around -- it's really not a good idea for him to even do this sort of half bent over sort of deal. Not like there's any danger of wrecking his knee just by crouching down on it, not if he hasn't had to have surgery thanks to the shit they pull every week, but it's not exactly comfortable, either.
Except Steve's not pushing him back with anything other than words, and even those are low, quiet, anything but confrontational. Almost an apology, lacking any seriously sharp edge or arrogance, and that sucks, too, that Steve's unable to even mock him the way he always does. To call Danny a wilting flower or rusty Tin Man, like a bad knee is some kind of personal failure on his part instead of something he can't do shit about, something he should just go ahead and change, already, what is he, lazy? But Steve doesn't. Is just looking at him, with this something written across his face in broad strokes Danny can't translate. Fingers warm on Danny's shoulder, more like he's steadying himself than Danny, like all the light's gone out and he needs to navigate by touch.
Which is fine, but in Danny's experience, navigating with touch is a whole lot more enjoyable if they're both on the same piece of furniture.
"Okay, fine." Most of his weight right now is on Steve's thigh, anyway, the hand there balancing him, and he presses down again as he leans forward, erases the half-inch of space for a kiss that's almost as casual as the ones he presses to Steve's damp salty post-swim pre-coffee mouth in the mornings, before he has to go. Easy. Like any other touch. Like he can, just because he wants to. Like he owns Steve's mouth and kisses and it's a totally normal thing to do, which it seems to have become, over the last month, and that's strange enough. "Come on."
Pulling back, fingers sliding off Steve's skin, out from under his hand, stretching his back as he straightens, shifting his weight to his left leg by conditioned response. "You wanna watch a game, or something, or stay out here?"