Or. Well. Not the problem, exactly. More like the trouble, this is the trouble with Steve: that there has never been a single moment when he hasn't been able to adapt his angle of attack to anything and everything the world has ever been able to throw at him.
Danny turning him against the couch, or threatening to take his hand away is only the cue for Steve to reconsider his offensive, to try another tack, pressing smug words against Danny's mouth as his hand, fingertips, start to wander.
Down. Where it doesn't seem like there's any space, and Danny's already shifting, opening up his legs to give room, every nerve in his body tracking the path Steve's taking, screaming new and no and yes all at the same time, confused and short-circuiting, because Rachel never, Gabby never, he never, and it feels weird. Unwelcome isn't right, but weird, tensing up his body, locking up muscles into sudden bewilderment, fighting the impulse to shove Steve back with the one to drag him forward.
Knowing without a doubt he'd have decked other people for less, for assuming, and clamping down on the reaction of but that's not right, because it doesn't feel wrong, either.
Just. New. Different. Steve's fingers moving to spots Danny barely even thinks about, let alone touches, considers. Wondering if Steve really means to follow his lead, right now, because Danny's pretty sure he's just about got his hands full with trying to force himself into relaxation, which works about as well as might be expected.
But. "When have I not backed you up when you do something crazy, huh?"
Pressed. Pressed against Steve's lips, in his tightening throat, in words that feel compacted and heavy, pieces of lead bitten off and swallowed hard. Fingers curling around Steve again, needed, that touch, reality, everything that's happening and everything he wants but doesn't understand.
It's important, okay. He always backs Steve up. Always. Follows his lead. Even when Steve's lead sends them both into the bullet-torn fray, crashes planes, gets them tied up and beaten, spares their lives by the fraction of a second and the thankfully dense material of Kevlar vests. Because trusting Steve isn't about always thinking Steve knows best, or never questioning him.
It's knowing Steve will always try. Will do anything. Always. So Danny runs a nervous thumb up Steve's skin, wraps his fingers around Steve's shoulder, and holds on, nudges forward, the absence of breath knocking holes in the walls of his chest, shrinking the world to something that lands between his shoulders and presses there.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-05-25 05:05 pm (UTC)Or. Well. Not the problem, exactly. More like the trouble, this is the trouble with Steve: that there has never been a single moment when he hasn't been able to adapt his angle of attack to anything and everything the world has ever been able to throw at him.
Danny turning him against the couch, or threatening to take his hand away is only the cue for Steve to reconsider his offensive, to try another tack, pressing smug words against Danny's mouth as his hand, fingertips, start to wander.
Down. Where it doesn't seem like there's any space, and Danny's already shifting, opening up his legs to give room, every nerve in his body tracking the path Steve's taking, screaming new and no and yes all at the same time, confused and short-circuiting, because Rachel never, Gabby never, he never, and it feels weird. Unwelcome isn't right, but weird, tensing up his body, locking up muscles into sudden bewilderment, fighting the impulse to shove Steve back with the one to drag him forward.
Knowing without a doubt he'd have decked other people for less, for assuming, and clamping down on the reaction of but that's not right, because it doesn't feel wrong, either.
Just. New. Different. Steve's fingers moving to spots Danny barely even thinks about, let alone touches, considers. Wondering if Steve really means to follow his lead, right now, because Danny's pretty sure he's just about got his hands full with trying to force himself into relaxation, which works about as well as might be expected.
But. "When have I not backed you up when you do something crazy, huh?"
Pressed. Pressed against Steve's lips, in his tightening throat, in words that feel compacted and heavy, pieces of lead bitten off and swallowed hard. Fingers curling around Steve again, needed, that touch, reality, everything that's happening and everything he wants but doesn't understand.
It's important, okay. He always backs Steve up. Always. Follows his lead. Even when Steve's lead sends them both into the bullet-torn fray, crashes planes, gets them tied up and beaten, spares their lives by the fraction of a second and the thankfully dense material of Kevlar vests. Because trusting Steve isn't about always thinking Steve knows best, or never questioning him.
It's knowing Steve will always try. Will do anything. Always. So Danny runs a nervous thumb up Steve's skin, wraps his fingers around Steve's shoulder, and holds on, nudges forward, the absence of breath knocking holes in the walls of his chest, shrinking the world to something that lands between his shoulders and presses there.
He said he's not going anywhere, and he's not.