He knows the answer. Of course, he knows it. He always does. Danny does not complain about anything as much as he complains about Steve. How he drives, how he does his job, how his face looks or the clothes he wears. Danny can hardly open his mouth without critique something about Steve as though Steve were a backwards, handicapped, four-year-old whom someone accidentally dropped into a uniform and gave full immunity to gum on.
But all that fire and frustration, all those complaints never stop it. The way Danny never leaves.
Only leaves him waiting, cheshire smile and the growing ache for egging his partner, his...Danny on to bitch, bitch and bitch some more about whatever will fall out his mouth. He could even tell Steve he was extensively retarded for the scene outside and he'd take it right now. Smile, snort, kiss it off him when he was done, or interrupt him through it.
Just wants him to start. The way you're counting the rungs up a roller coaster before the sudden free fall.
Except he doesn't. And the half-seconds begin to tick by.
One too long. Two too long. Long enough Steve is holding, watching Danny.
Watching Danny not throw it exactly right back, as fast as he can. Never looking away. Watching the way Danny's eyes dart. To his own eyes. To his mouth. Around his face. While Danny's face is taking on this nebulous thing Steve still can't figure out. Doesn't know what he's thinking. Why.
Is just about to open his mouth and say whatever the hell he can find in there, because he can't think of what could be wrong with his words, except that maybe they are too true. Maybe he shouldn't be playing with being Danny's worst trouble. Maybe not after what just happened. But then, Danny suddenly is throw out words. Flippant and short and spiky and Steve feels like his heart stopped working twice in the space of so few seconds there.
Making the world sharp, painful, and delirious. Even through the spike of adrenaline and relief.
Because whatever it was, Danny is right back to throwing words at his head and digging his fingers in his hair.
Because no one calls him Steven like that. His family uses it, used it more aptly where it comes to at least half of them. Did. It's like he has to remind himself the other two are alive. His mother, who shouldn't be. And his sister, who is ghost. Neither of whom are here, neither of whom say his name like this. Like it's fire slamming down at his veins on the wheels of mac truck.
Cracking the air before he's being kissed instead of insulted, when Steve doesn't even hesitate, doesn't even want to know what the rest of the words are yet, not when Danny's breathing the end of his name into his mouth, on to his tongue, and Steve's only reaction is to kiss him into the couch. Kiss Danny, sliding his hand his balance, fingers on the side of his head and the cushion, through the hard ache confusion in the center of his chest and the endless gratitude that these hands, his mouth, those words -- Danny is still here.
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But all that fire and frustration, all those complaints never stop it. The way Danny never leaves.
Only leaves him waiting, cheshire smile and the growing ache for egging his partner, his...Danny on to bitch, bitch and bitch some more about whatever will fall out his mouth. He could even tell Steve he was extensively retarded for the scene outside and he'd take it right now. Smile, snort, kiss it off him when he was done, or interrupt him through it.
Just wants him to start. The way you're counting the rungs up a roller coaster before the sudden free fall.
Except he doesn't. And the half-seconds begin to tick by.
One too long. Two too long. Long enough Steve is holding, watching Danny.
Watching Danny not throw it exactly right back, as fast as he can. Never looking away. Watching the way Danny's eyes dart. To his own eyes. To his mouth. Around his face. While Danny's face is taking on this nebulous thing Steve still can't figure out. Doesn't know what he's thinking. Why.
Is just about to open his mouth and say whatever the hell he can find in there, because he can't think of what could be wrong with his words, except that maybe they are too true. Maybe he shouldn't be playing with being Danny's worst trouble. Maybe not after what just happened. But then, Danny suddenly is throw out words. Flippant and short and spiky and Steve feels like his heart stopped working twice in the space of so few seconds there.
Making the world sharp, painful, and delirious. Even through the spike of adrenaline and relief.
Because whatever it was, Danny is right back to throwing words at his head and digging his fingers in his hair.
Because no one calls him Steven like that. His family uses it, used it more aptly where it comes to at least half of them. Did. It's like he has to remind himself the other two are alive. His mother, who shouldn't be. And his sister, who is ghost. Neither of whom are here, neither of whom say his name like this. Like it's fire slamming down at his veins on the wheels of mac truck.
Cracking the air before he's being kissed instead of insulted, when Steve doesn't even hesitate, doesn't even want to know what the rest of the words are yet, not when Danny's breathing the end of his name into his mouth, on to his tongue, and Steve's only reaction is to kiss him into the couch. Kiss Danny, sliding his hand his balance, fingers on the side of his head and the cushion, through the hard ache confusion in the center of his chest and the endless gratitude that these hands, his mouth, those words -- Danny is still here.