That deserves exactly the kind of snort Danny gives it. "Yeah, maybe."
Because Steve's regimental neatness would allow it. Like one dropped bottle wouldn't probably drive him crazy, just like an unmade bed or hair that's gotten too long. But that's all Steve says, and it's still better than the pulled-tooth no or okay of earlier, the low blank erasure of Steve that left Danny talking to a statue that sort of looked like his partner.
Anything's better than that.
The quick steps towards the house are a good sign, too; the faster they're inside, the sooner he can park his ass on the couch and not move for the next few hours, just keep Steve nearby and let some stupid movie or show drain over him, finish his beer and ignore the way his nerves keep jumping, twitchy and uncertain that this is the last of it, that Steve won't choose to be stupid again.
Hopefully not. He'd really rather just spend the night without having to point out the fact that he has no plans to fold under pressure and let threats push him away, and it's another little triumph when they get inside and no other sinkholes have opened up under his feet.
That leaves just making his way through the dining room and kitchen, headed for the spot on the couch that somehow became his normal one, after two years and change, without bothering to wait and see if Steve's getting a new bottle, in favor of grabbing the remote and flipping the TV on as he sits with a sigh. The idea of even going through DVDs seems pretty pointless, so he just flips through channels, waiting for something to catch his eye.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2013-05-06 05:09 pm (UTC)Because Steve's regimental neatness would allow it. Like one dropped bottle wouldn't probably drive him crazy, just like an unmade bed or hair that's gotten too long. But that's all Steve says, and it's still better than the pulled-tooth no or okay of earlier, the low blank erasure of Steve that left Danny talking to a statue that sort of looked like his partner.
Anything's better than that.
The quick steps towards the house are a good sign, too; the faster they're inside, the sooner he can park his ass on the couch and not move for the next few hours, just keep Steve nearby and let some stupid movie or show drain over him, finish his beer and ignore the way his nerves keep jumping, twitchy and uncertain that this is the last of it, that Steve won't choose to be stupid again.
Hopefully not. He'd really rather just spend the night without having to point out the fact that he has no plans to fold under pressure and let threats push him away, and it's another little triumph when they get inside and no other sinkholes have opened up under his feet.
That leaves just making his way through the dining room and kitchen, headed for the spot on the couch that somehow became his normal one, after two years and change, without bothering to wait and see if Steve's getting a new bottle, in favor of grabbing the remote and flipping the TV on as he sits with a sigh. The idea of even going through DVDs seems pretty pointless, so he just flips through channels, waiting for something to catch his eye.