"Seriously?" Steve snaps, but the bite there is light, prodding and flash bright, more than steel and razor sharp.
"Reservoir Dogs." After all, the point isn't to have another fight over it, but bickering, shoving at Danny's buttons till he decides to relax and unwind, too. So that, at that point, Steve can. That's different. "It was totally a hit before Pulp Fiction, and got bigger even after it, when it broke out of independent movie hell."
Which was how he found it, but he'd had a lot of more important things going on than movies at the time.
It doesn't hurt anything that Danny's turning his head, rolling the back of it on Steve's arm, and looking up at him. That screwed up face like Steve has absolutely no idea what he's talking about and his head is made of rocks and broken bits of beach glass. Or more aptly, broken bits of weaponry and rocks, if Danny's conversation was anything to go on. But it lets him look at Danny again. Hair still half a mess, but his lips aren't half-swollen, and his eyes are blue and not as.
Scared. Scared is the word, and it tries to run away, melt away, slip away even in a thought. Danny, scared of him. Pleading. Terrified, and so damn pissed off unmoving stubborn. Not scared now. Maybe. Tired. Maybe wary? That makes his stomach sour, but he doesn't look away toward the movie even for the screaming. When he feels like it would take some kind of heavy weight, razor sharp object like a katana slicing between them to make him look away for this second.
Even if it's easier to furrow his brow and push back at Danny bitching, while gesturing a hand at the tv. "And make it into every other American shoot 'em up? I know you can be blind, but did you actually miss the whole chinese, martial arts, western mix-up it was going for the first time?"
no subject
"Reservoir Dogs." After all, the point isn't to have another fight over it, but bickering, shoving at Danny's buttons till he decides to relax and unwind, too. So that, at that point, Steve can. That's different. "It was totally a hit before Pulp Fiction, and got bigger even after it, when it broke out of independent movie hell."
Which was how he found it, but he'd had a lot of more important things going on than movies at the time.
It doesn't hurt anything that Danny's turning his head, rolling the back of it on Steve's arm, and looking up at him. That screwed up face like Steve has absolutely no idea what he's talking about and his head is made of rocks and broken bits of beach glass. Or more aptly, broken bits of weaponry and rocks, if Danny's conversation was anything to go on. But it lets him look at Danny again. Hair still half a mess, but his lips aren't half-swollen, and his eyes are blue and not as.
Scared. Scared is the word, and it tries to run away, melt away, slip away even in a thought. Danny, scared of him. Pleading. Terrified, and so damn pissed off unmoving stubborn. Not scared now. Maybe. Tired. Maybe wary? That makes his stomach sour, but he doesn't look away toward the movie even for the screaming. When he feels like it would take some kind of heavy weight, razor sharp object like a katana slicing between them to make him look away for this second.
Even if it's easier to furrow his brow and push back at Danny bitching, while gesturing a hand at the tv. "And make it into every other American shoot 'em up? I know you can be blind, but did you actually miss the whole chinese, martial arts, western mix-up it was going for the first time?"