He's as surprised as he isn't surprised, or just as pleased as he is pleasedly exasperated.
By Danny's mouth, when his fingers can feel the faintest tremble or the push of Danny's body against them, one hand still wrapped tight and the other trailing lighter, but firm, specific fingers. When Danny's voice was lost to himself seconds ago. When he didn't have enough air to breath, to swear, to anything more but try to climb through his backwards, heels digging in along fingers fisting his blanket to white knuckles the darkness hides from his eyes.
And still. This. Snappy. Sassy. Smarting. Backtalk. That makes Steve want to smack him and best him and go back to blowing him and kiss him hard and laugh, until the bed shakes, or at least until it's shaking his chest against Danny knee he's leaning against, and fuck him, until the entire damn world has been tilted sideways and nothing will ever be the same again in Danny's head. It should be annoying.
It pours down his back like hot water after a too long day, champagne bubbles taking up residence in his bloodstream.
"Yeah, that sounds about right." Rolls off his tongue sharp and irreverent, laden with a tractor of smacking sarcasm and the strong arm of authoritative heavy correction, when Steve is suddenly pushing himself up and over Danny's leg, stretching across his bed and away from Danny, but without actually leaving where his knees are.
Dragging open a bed table drawer and rifling in it as he's saying, still razor sharp and unholy bright in the dark room, night, against Danny's slander. The words that roll off the most loved, coveted, arrogantly thick. "Because I was the one of us gagging a few seconds ago." When his mouth was full, but Danny's was the one entirely blown beyond his control to even make his first word form.
Fingers catching without too much problem on the small bottle in question.
Especially given that he didn't abide much mess in most of this house, much less his space, which this room was at least as much as outside, and more than the un-chagned, un-aging larger sections of this house. Fast enough he's got his fingers closed around it and he's shoving the drawer back closer, before half-snapping, half sagging back toward where his balance is still settled.
no subject
By Danny's mouth, when his fingers can feel the faintest tremble or the push of Danny's body against them, one hand still wrapped tight and the other trailing lighter, but firm, specific fingers. When Danny's voice was lost to himself seconds ago. When he didn't have enough air to breath, to swear, to anything more but try to climb through his backwards, heels digging in along fingers fisting his blanket to white knuckles the darkness hides from his eyes.
And still. This. Snappy. Sassy. Smarting. Backtalk. That makes Steve want to smack him and best him and go back to blowing him and kiss him hard and laugh, until the bed shakes, or at least until it's shaking his chest against Danny knee he's leaning against, and fuck him, until the entire damn world has been tilted sideways and nothing will ever be the same again in Danny's head. It should be annoying.
It pours down his back like hot water after a too long day, champagne bubbles taking up residence in his bloodstream.
"Yeah, that sounds about right." Rolls off his tongue sharp and irreverent, laden with a tractor of smacking sarcasm and the strong arm of authoritative heavy correction, when Steve is suddenly pushing himself up and over Danny's leg, stretching across his bed and away from Danny, but without actually leaving where his knees are.
Dragging open a bed table drawer and rifling in it as he's saying, still razor sharp and unholy bright in the dark room, night, against Danny's slander. The words that roll off the most loved, coveted, arrogantly thick. "Because I was the one of us gagging a few seconds ago." When his mouth was full, but Danny's was the one entirely blown beyond his control to even make his first word form.
Fingers catching without too much problem on the small bottle in question.
Especially given that he didn't abide much mess in most of this house, much less his space, which this room was at least as much as outside, and more than the un-chagned, un-aging larger sections of this house. Fast enough he's got his fingers closed around it and he's shoving the drawer back closer, before half-snapping, half sagging back toward where his balance is still settled.