Steve doesn't actually get distracted, ever. He is occasionally derailed when one of them says or does something he doesn't expect, but it never deters him from the mission du jour. His laser focus doesn't allow for things like distraction, or split-attention. When Steve's attention splits, people die.
So Danny doesn't actually mean distracted, because he's not sure Steve is physically capable of allowing distraction to exist, not just throwing up the mental blinders that must have been handed out with the uniform and the ability to switch off any degree of empathy or feeling when he graduated from Annapolis. Which is handy, when they're chasing down hardened criminals who have a tendency to go after innocent civilians and wreak broad swathes of public damage, but maybe less attractive in bed.
Not that Danny doesn't appreciate the attention. He does. But there are times when a guy could use a little distraction, maybe, when the normal back and forth banter they toss at each other all day -- in the office, on the job, in the car, on the couch -- is enough of a life raft to keep him afloat in a sudden tossing sea.
Okay. He wants this. He asked for it. He pushed and prodded Steve about it, and he's not going to freak out now and freeze up -- he's not -- but that doesn't mean he doesn't kind of want to sidle up to it, a little, take away from the capitalized letters his head keeps trying to type it out in by making it not the only thing going on. So it helps, when Steve teases, when Steve's mouth handily shuts down any attempt or ability to speak, because when Steve gets halfway up, reaches for the bedside table drawer, and rummages inside, there's really no going back.
Frankly, he's a little ashamed of the way his breath catches, knots deep in his lungs, unwilling to play nice. He's not a fan of how he can feel tension lacing up his back, down his legs, of the pit that's just opened up in his stomach. It's just sex. It's different sex, sure, but it's just sex, it's just Steve, and he knows Steve, trusts Steve, has spent the better part of two years cataloguing everything about Steve, in order to complain more efficiently and also, fine, because while it's good to know as much as you can about your partner, that doesn't generally extend to how they take their coffee, what their favorite food is, how they spend a free five, ten, or thirty minutes.
But he knows it all, anyway.
"There was no gagging," he says, because he knows he's supposed to, and he's grateful to Steve for giving him the distraction Steve would never take for himself. "Those were sounds of deep appreciation, my friend, but they were not gags."
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branchandroot
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Date: 2013-05-31 10:46 pm (UTC)So Danny doesn't actually mean distracted, because he's not sure Steve is physically capable of allowing distraction to exist, not just throwing up the mental blinders that must have been handed out with the uniform and the ability to switch off any degree of empathy or feeling when he graduated from Annapolis. Which is handy, when they're chasing down hardened criminals who have a tendency to go after innocent civilians and wreak broad swathes of public damage, but maybe less attractive in bed.
Not that Danny doesn't appreciate the attention. He does. But there are times when a guy could use a little distraction, maybe, when the normal back and forth banter they toss at each other all day -- in the office, on the job, in the car, on the couch -- is enough of a life raft to keep him afloat in a sudden tossing sea.
Okay. He wants this. He asked for it. He pushed and prodded Steve about it, and he's not going to freak out now and freeze up -- he's not -- but that doesn't mean he doesn't kind of want to sidle up to it, a little, take away from the capitalized letters his head keeps trying to type it out in by making it not the only thing going on. So it helps, when Steve teases, when Steve's mouth handily shuts down any attempt or ability to speak, because when Steve gets halfway up, reaches for the bedside table drawer, and rummages inside, there's really no going back.
Frankly, he's a little ashamed of the way his breath catches, knots deep in his lungs, unwilling to play nice. He's not a fan of how he can feel tension lacing up his back, down his legs, of the pit that's just opened up in his stomach. It's just sex. It's different sex, sure, but it's just sex, it's just Steve, and he knows Steve, trusts Steve, has spent the better part of two years cataloguing everything about Steve, in order to complain more efficiently and also, fine, because while it's good to know as much as you can about your partner, that doesn't generally extend to how they take their coffee, what their favorite food is, how they spend a free five, ten, or thirty minutes.
But he knows it all, anyway.
"There was no gagging," he says, because he knows he's supposed to, and he's grateful to Steve for giving him the distraction Steve would never take for himself. "Those were sounds of deep appreciation, my friend, but they were not gags."