Christ. That laugh could be the end of him. He's pretty sure it's got a hefty chance of being the last thing he ever hears, between Steve's love of tossing himself headfirst into trouble and the way his heart falls all over itself in a frantic attempt to match the pace Steve's setting. It can't be good for him.
None of this can be. Wasn't that Steve's point? The one he so completely refuted, refused to listen to or understand or allow any hold on his decision? That Steve is a bomb waiting to go off, and take Danny with it, and, you know, that might be true, but right now that just feels like the kind of bomb he's been carrying for the last few weeks; the one that starts ticking down its clock at the first second of seeing Steve, and explodes, taking out the floor, ceiling, walls, only to reform again in seconds.
The one Steve's working at putting on the fritz, crossing wires into sparks as he slips buttons free from their holes, fingers moving quick and efficient over Danny's thundering heart. It's pounding in his chest like it's trying to bust straight through, like something out of Alien, into Steve's hand. Galloping straight into madness, light-headedness, ticking seconds faster than should be possible, because this timer's gone crazy, too, circuits frying and signals shorting out.
The whole countdown leaps ahead another minute when Steve's mouth brackets his collarbone, and he can't stop his hands from skating everywhere, trying to be all over Steve at once, too much area to cover, not enough palm or fingers. Letting go of his hair to run down over neck and shoulder, lifting to hip, fingers tugging at a beltloop before letting go and dragging over his back. The other hand pushing into a back pocket, lifting out, passing over hip and thigh to the spot where Steve's weight presses into his calves. Counting down seconds that can't be trusted to stay a full second's length, until this hits the point of no return.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2013-05-15 03:42 pm (UTC)None of this can be. Wasn't that Steve's point? The one he so completely refuted, refused to listen to or understand or allow any hold on his decision? That Steve is a bomb waiting to go off, and take Danny with it, and, you know, that might be true, but right now that just feels like the kind of bomb he's been carrying for the last few weeks; the one that starts ticking down its clock at the first second of seeing Steve, and explodes, taking out the floor, ceiling, walls, only to reform again in seconds.
The one Steve's working at putting on the fritz, crossing wires into sparks as he slips buttons free from their holes, fingers moving quick and efficient over Danny's thundering heart. It's pounding in his chest like it's trying to bust straight through, like something out of Alien, into Steve's hand. Galloping straight into madness, light-headedness, ticking seconds faster than should be possible, because this timer's gone crazy, too, circuits frying and signals shorting out.
The whole countdown leaps ahead another minute when Steve's mouth brackets his collarbone, and he can't stop his hands from skating everywhere, trying to be all over Steve at once, too much area to cover, not enough palm or fingers. Letting go of his hair to run down over neck and shoulder, lifting to hip, fingers tugging at a beltloop before letting go and dragging over his back. The other hand pushing into a back pocket, lifting out, passing over hip and thigh to the spot where Steve's weight presses into his calves. Counting down seconds that can't be trusted to stay a full second's length, until this hits the point of no return.