Always. It's always Steve. Which is starting to bleed into meaning something he's not sure he's totally comfortable with, because he knows it hasn't always been Steve, not like this. Steve's been a problem ever since Danny caught him breaking into an active HPD crime scene, but he hasn't been this problem since then, right, hasn't been the thing sinking blades up under Danny's skin, sliding them soft into his gut before twisting hard and making him want to collapse under it. He hasn't always been the problem of Danny not being able to breathe, or of Danny not being able to think.
He hasn't. Can't have been. Danny would have noticed.
The thing is, he's just not sure at what point between Steve pulling a gun on him and Steve kissing him into the couch, wall, desk, mattress it shifted.
But it did, because this, this, is a problem. Steve's smile is a problem. Steve's eyes, ocean-blue now and sparkling, full of mirth that's pushed out all the stern bullheadedness of earlier, like water pushing oil out of a glass as it pours in. It's a problem in a way that's got nothing to do with anything Steve was saying before; this problem is intensely personal, is focused on slowly eating Danny from the inside, leaving this aching hollow behind that Steve then fills with bizarre transient seconds. Smiles and touches, the way the corners of his eyes turn soft and droopy in the mornings when he's barely awake. The possessive weight of his arms and legs when they're thrown across Danny in the calm certainty that no one's getting out from under them, no matter how they struggle.
Leaving him with a confused empty space crammed full of unrelated moments, all fluttering together like confused winged insects searching for a porchlight; all converging every now and again in a swift spiral that knocks him flat when Steve grins and it flips a fucking lightswitch in his chest and illuminates the whole bewildered mess with the confident rays of the sun.
It's a problem. Steve is a problem, and the fact that Danny's hands are tracking back up to try and find purchase in his hair to pull him back down for a kiss is a problem, too, but he's too busy fitting swears into the rapidly vanishing space between their lips to care.
"What do you think, you think I stress myself out, maybe for fun? I swear to God, Steven --"
But that's as far as he gets, Steve's name breathed against Steve's lips, before he has to give it up altogether for the far greater option of just shutting up entirely.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-05-17 07:48 pm (UTC)Always. It's always Steve. Which is starting to bleed into meaning something he's not sure he's totally comfortable with, because he knows it hasn't always been Steve, not like this. Steve's been a problem ever since Danny caught him breaking into an active HPD crime scene, but he hasn't been this problem since then, right, hasn't been the thing sinking blades up under Danny's skin, sliding them soft into his gut before twisting hard and making him want to collapse under it. He hasn't always been the problem of Danny not being able to breathe, or of Danny not being able to think.
He hasn't. Can't have been. Danny would have noticed.
The thing is, he's just not sure at what point between Steve pulling a gun on him and Steve kissing him into the couch, wall, desk, mattress it shifted.
But it did, because this, this, is a problem. Steve's smile is a problem. Steve's eyes, ocean-blue now and sparkling, full of mirth that's pushed out all the stern bullheadedness of earlier, like water pushing oil out of a glass as it pours in. It's a problem in a way that's got nothing to do with anything Steve was saying before; this problem is intensely personal, is focused on slowly eating Danny from the inside, leaving this aching hollow behind that Steve then fills with bizarre transient seconds. Smiles and touches, the way the corners of his eyes turn soft and droopy in the mornings when he's barely awake. The possessive weight of his arms and legs when they're thrown across Danny in the calm certainty that no one's getting out from under them, no matter how they struggle.
Leaving him with a confused empty space crammed full of unrelated moments, all fluttering together like confused winged insects searching for a porchlight; all converging every now and again in a swift spiral that knocks him flat when Steve grins and it flips a fucking lightswitch in his chest and illuminates the whole bewildered mess with the confident rays of the sun.
It's a problem. Steve is a problem, and the fact that Danny's hands are tracking back up to try and find purchase in his hair to pull him back down for a kiss is a problem, too, but he's too busy fitting swears into the rapidly vanishing space between their lips to care.
"What do you think, you think I stress myself out, maybe for fun? I swear to God, Steven --"
But that's as far as he gets, Steve's name breathed against Steve's lips, before he has to give it up altogether for the far greater option of just shutting up entirely.