He's barely agreeing. Barely signing the check on Steve being right. On the fact he did shut up, except for that noise drug out of his chest and offered up from his lips, without even stopping kissing Steve. But it doesn't matter, because of the way Danny's looking at him. The tension at the edges of his eyes and the wariness inside them draining out, slowly. Letting the skin crinkle and betray Danny's lightening mood.
But those last words stick a little. Don't get used to it. That's the problem, isn't? Part of the problem wrapped up in everything from earlier, too. He's not. He's not used to it. He's still pretty sure if he accidentally smacked his head into something hard enough he'd wake up and none of this would have happened at all. Because maybe he passed out during a case somehow, doing on of any of the ten thousand things Danny screams at him not to do in pursuit of a suspect.
Because not even that changes it.
The way he wakes up, half expecting someone to be on the other side of his bed. Even when it's empty. The way one of his pillows has taken on the smell of Danny's shampoo, and gel, and him, just his skin. This combination that Steve buries his face in and considers not getting up to swim, on the few mornings we he can find himself managing to keep his head above the jangling fresh anger and confusion at everything else.
The way he is sort getting use to it. Even if it won't last, can't last. Even the way Danny will smile at him and then look right back down at the work on his desk, like he can't stare at Steve too long or someone else will notice. The way he's gotten to claiming Steve's space even more, when Steve can't even tell if Danny's doing it on purpose or not. His back, his arm, his shoulder. For noticeably longer presses of his fingers even during the day.
But he doesn't have long to think about that, to even realize the reaction to it has completely over-mapped any impulse or recognition for a need to respond. Because Danny's fingers on his jaw are dragging him back down, and the last really cognitive thought, is about how he's not sure he could ever not be used to Danny's mouth. Soft, and dry. The way he's pulled back in, and Danny opens up. As much taking as inviting as demanding, and it's such an easier language. Easier responses.
Fingertips tensing against Danny's scalp and tipping his head back, kissing him, demanding, shouldering into his space instead of just merrily being lead. Maybe a little more pointedly. Heatedly. Maybe because there is a point. But maybe because it isn't that he shouldn't get used to Danny silent. Maybe because he's already used to this. This thing where Danny pulls him in, and his lips open. When the world Steve has been trained to be hyper aware of at all seconds shorts out in static, for kissing Danny back. For stamping everything he has on those lips, on that mouth that he spends his whole day listening to.
Because nothing, nothing out there, could replace this. Because even if it had worked he'd still have woken up tomorrow morning and been confused in those first few seconds why Danny wasn't in his bed, deep heavy breaths of sleep alive in the room, and even when he realized it, maybe even because he realized it, why, why he wasn't. He would have drug that other pillow over his head and searched for any last trace of him that was still Steve's. Still there. Still in his arms.
Like this. When Steve is maybe not touching enough of him. When he can't kiss him long enough.
When the thought of letting go might be tantamount to treason now. Because he tried, and he doesn't have to now.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-05-11 03:53 pm (UTC)But those last words stick a little. Don't get used to it. That's the problem, isn't? Part of the problem wrapped up in everything from earlier, too. He's not. He's not used to it. He's still pretty sure if he accidentally smacked his head into something hard enough he'd wake up and none of this would have happened at all. Because maybe he passed out during a case somehow, doing on of any of the ten thousand things Danny screams at him not to do in pursuit of a suspect.
Because not even that changes it.
The way he wakes up, half expecting someone to be on the other side of his bed. Even when it's empty. The way one of his pillows has taken on the smell of Danny's shampoo, and gel, and him, just his skin. This combination that Steve buries his face in and considers not getting up to swim, on the few mornings we he can find himself managing to keep his head above the jangling fresh anger and confusion at everything else.
The way he is sort getting use to it. Even if it won't last, can't last. Even the way Danny will smile at him and then look right back down at the work on his desk, like he can't stare at Steve too long or someone else will notice. The way he's gotten to claiming Steve's space even more, when Steve can't even tell if Danny's doing it on purpose or not. His back, his arm, his shoulder. For noticeably longer presses of his fingers even during the day.
But he doesn't have long to think about that, to even realize the reaction to it has completely over-mapped any impulse or recognition for a need to respond. Because Danny's fingers on his jaw are dragging him back down, and the last really cognitive thought, is about how he's not sure he could ever not be used to Danny's mouth. Soft, and dry. The way he's pulled back in, and Danny opens up. As much taking as inviting as demanding, and it's such an easier language. Easier responses.
Fingertips tensing against Danny's scalp and tipping his head back, kissing him, demanding, shouldering into his space instead of just merrily being lead. Maybe a little more pointedly. Heatedly. Maybe because there is a point. But maybe because it isn't that he shouldn't get used to Danny silent. Maybe because he's already used to this. This thing where Danny pulls him in, and his lips open. When the world Steve has been trained to be hyper aware of at all seconds shorts out in static, for kissing Danny back. For stamping everything he has on those lips, on that mouth that he spends his whole day listening to.
Because nothing, nothing out there, could replace this. Because even if it had worked he'd still have woken up tomorrow morning and been confused in those first few seconds why Danny wasn't in his bed, deep heavy breaths of sleep alive in the room, and even when he realized it, maybe even because he realized it, why, why he wasn't. He would have drug that other pillow over his head and searched for any last trace of him that was still Steve's. Still there. Still in his arms.
Like this. When Steve is maybe not touching enough of him. When he can't kiss him long enough.
When the thought of letting go might be tantamount to treason now. Because he tried, and he doesn't have to now.