Steve will always be physically incapable of keeping back that smugness, won't he. The tone of his voice points it out, easily recognizable from every other time he's done something crazy and succeeded, once again, because as much as the world seems to hate Steve's happiness, entropy and sheer blind luck must have made him their god.
He shouldn't be able to get away with even a quarter of the shit he pulls, and yet here he is, day after day, jumping off buildings like some kind of reversed Superman, chasing down crooks, tackling them into the sides of houses or trucks.
And now this. Where, admittedly, he might have some leverage, because Danny doesn't have the first idea what to do, no matter how Steve had rapidly laid out the possibility of keeping it as close as what he's used to as possible, because there is nothing. There's nothing about this that is anything like what Danny's used to, and it's not even a question of what goes where or who fucks who. It's about the fact that Steve could flatten him, without effort. It's about how a wrestling match between the two of them really is a goddamn wrestling match, and Steve would probably win but by God Danny's not going down without a fight, and he knows a few nasty moves from his days growing up in and around Newark and a few ill-advised trips to Canton, or Atlantic City.
Rachel, Gabby, they're both tiny. Slim. They felt slight and breakable in his hands, gusting breathless laughter into his ear, and any bites were barely enough to redden his skin. Steve's solid. Steve's heavy. And Steve is fucked up in the head in a way that makes both Rachel and Gabby look like the one sober adult at a Florida bar during spring break. Steve bites like he means it, sucks marks into Danny's skin, makes it physical, makes it a fight, makes it a sport.
And then he'll go and do something so goddamned sweet, like pressing a kiss to Danny's hip, or pushing their foreheads together, and it kicks out the rest of Danny's supports, topples him headlong into a soupy messy maelstrom of something too precious to look at head on, to breathe on, to touch without it shattering everywhere.
Not that Steve is being sweet. Steve's being a jackass, and he knows he's being a jackass, but it's not like Danny can't keep up with him there, at least, even if his heart is beating a sickening salsa in his temples at the brush of a fingertip, there, already feeling secret, already feeling like Steve's reaching right inside of him.
"I was saying," he says, gulping against a dry throat, searching for snappy, sarcastic, bravado. "You seem like you're getting distracted."
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He shouldn't be able to get away with even a quarter of the shit he pulls, and yet here he is, day after day, jumping off buildings like some kind of reversed Superman, chasing down crooks, tackling them into the sides of houses or trucks.
And now this. Where, admittedly, he might have some leverage, because Danny doesn't have the first idea what to do, no matter how Steve had rapidly laid out the possibility of keeping it as close as what he's used to as possible, because there is nothing. There's nothing about this that is anything like what Danny's used to, and it's not even a question of what goes where or who fucks who. It's about the fact that Steve could flatten him, without effort. It's about how a wrestling match between the two of them really is a goddamn wrestling match, and Steve would probably win but by God Danny's not going down without a fight, and he knows a few nasty moves from his days growing up in and around Newark and a few ill-advised trips to Canton, or Atlantic City.
Rachel, Gabby, they're both tiny. Slim. They felt slight and breakable in his hands, gusting breathless laughter into his ear, and any bites were barely enough to redden his skin. Steve's solid. Steve's heavy. And Steve is fucked up in the head in a way that makes both Rachel and Gabby look like the one sober adult at a Florida bar during spring break. Steve bites like he means it, sucks marks into Danny's skin, makes it physical, makes it a fight, makes it a sport.
And then he'll go and do something so goddamned sweet, like pressing a kiss to Danny's hip, or pushing their foreheads together, and it kicks out the rest of Danny's supports, topples him headlong into a soupy messy maelstrom of something too precious to look at head on, to breathe on, to touch without it shattering everywhere.
Not that Steve is being sweet. Steve's being a jackass, and he knows he's being a jackass, but it's not like Danny can't keep up with him there, at least, even if his heart is beating a sickening salsa in his temples at the brush of a fingertip, there, already feeling secret, already feeling like Steve's reaching right inside of him.
"I was saying," he says, gulping against a dry throat, searching for snappy, sarcastic, bravado. "You seem like you're getting distracted."