He doesn't actually listen to Danny's words. This time.
The rest is a bold, smoking a lie. Of course. That he doesn't listen. That he doesn't have to, especially as partners. As his boss. As his friend. As whatever else he's become, that Danny just refused with violent volatility for him to not be. That he wants to half the time. That he misses the fuss when the house is empty and silent.
That even when he's distracted, entirely, somehow he stil manages to remember whatever it was Danny was ranting about at a given time, and the most ludicrous, crazy, five-year-old reasoning that falls out of his mouth sometime. That he frequently doesn't give it or Danny the time of day, in knowing he's listening, yeah, that happens. A lot, even, maybe.
But right now, Steve's definitely not listening to the question that gets smothered on his lips, when the thin skin under Danny's jaw has the tapping rhythm of his pulse shotgunning a little faster against Steve's fingers. The way Danny's fingers dig into his thigh. Not for balance or to hold him still this time. Before that hand is moving. Chasing over his skin, smooth and quick, getting everywhere on his skin. He's listening to those things.
To the way Danny seems to give up shifting, with conscious thought about position and sort of melts into him at the same time as meeting him. When Steve is chasing off the impulse for a shiver from the fingers in his hair and kissing Danny. Not furious, not blank and expected. Finding the flavor of his tongue, and the tang of the beer, and that something that is only Danny. That he thinks he'd miss if kissed anyone else at any point soon.
There's no rush. Not even with the screaming in the background. He can just kiss Danny. Because he still can.
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The rest is a bold, smoking a lie. Of course. That he doesn't listen. That he doesn't have to, especially as partners. As his boss. As his friend. As whatever else he's become, that Danny just refused with violent volatility for him to not be. That he wants to half the time. That he misses the fuss when the house is empty and silent.
That even when he's distracted, entirely, somehow he stil manages to remember whatever it was Danny was ranting about at a given time, and the most ludicrous, crazy, five-year-old reasoning that falls out of his mouth sometime. That he frequently doesn't give it or Danny the time of day, in knowing he's listening, yeah, that happens. A lot, even, maybe.
But right now, Steve's definitely not listening to the question that gets smothered on his lips, when the thin skin under Danny's jaw has the tapping rhythm of his pulse shotgunning a little faster against Steve's fingers. The way Danny's fingers dig into his thigh. Not for balance or to hold him still this time. Before that hand is moving. Chasing over his skin, smooth and quick, getting everywhere on his skin. He's listening to those things.
To the way Danny seems to give up shifting, with conscious thought about position and sort of melts into him at the same time as meeting him. When Steve is chasing off the impulse for a shiver from the fingers in his hair and kissing Danny. Not furious, not blank and expected. Finding the flavor of his tongue, and the tang of the beer, and that something that is only Danny. That he thinks he'd miss if kissed anyone else at any point soon.
There's no rush. Not even with the screaming in the background. He can just kiss Danny. Because he still can.