He can't actually, actively ignore that. Not for longer than a second or two. The more and more noticeable twitching and shifting. Which hits not only his hand, but also most of his lower body as Danny is shifting in a very insistent way. Making him shove, exhaustedly at the cotton balls. Wanting to smother Danny's face with a pillow only for a brief second. Before he moves. Like he has a choice. Like he's even willing to let his head, or his body, or all of this think it's has the ability to control his choices and his actions.
When Steve is pushing Danny's thigh with the back of his hand, sort of settlingly, but also to have anywhere to drag him hand out to, from, before he's got his hand away. Before he's resting is awkwardly, on it's heel side against his blankets and giving a sort of cracked-eye glared toward the part of his head that is suddenly so very much not anywhere near silent, bowled over, and caved-in. When he can hold for a few more seconds, but really it's just starting to harp and grate between his shoulder blades.
There are things he's willing to wipe off on his bed, and there are things he's jut not going to. At least not right now, not tonight. The mess between their bellies he could deal with, deal with sleeping on and in even, but there are some things that don't get that. Not unless he's just so slammed under, or passed out, circumstances demand it, and he's nowhere near so checked by the bricks that still have a hold on that grey space between orientation and disorientation, that he can't handle it. It's not like it was so hard he couldn't move or think or make himself get up if shooting started.
He shifts his weight, catching his other hand on the bed the other side of Danny's arm, finding his legs. Pushing off the bed, with one hand, and the wrist-heel of his other, with something too fuzzy to even really equal a sort of muted resignation or frustration. His throat still full of wind and gravel, the all too unhelpful gentle sway of the room and the way none of his muscles really want to pretend they're attached to any of his bones currently.
no subject
When Steve is pushing Danny's thigh with the back of his hand, sort of settlingly, but also to have anywhere to drag him hand out to, from, before he's got his hand away. Before he's resting is awkwardly, on it's heel side against his blankets and giving a sort of cracked-eye glared toward the part of his head that is suddenly so very much not anywhere near silent, bowled over, and caved-in. When he can hold for a few more seconds, but really it's just starting to harp and grate between his shoulder blades.
There are things he's willing to wipe off on his bed, and there are things he's jut not going to. At least not right now, not tonight. The mess between their bellies he could deal with, deal with sleeping on and in even, but there are some things that don't get that. Not unless he's just so slammed under, or passed out, circumstances demand it, and he's nowhere near so checked by the bricks that still have a hold on that grey space between orientation and disorientation, that he can't handle it. It's not like it was so hard he couldn't move or think or make himself get up if shooting started.
He shifts his weight, catching his other hand on the bed the other side of Danny's arm, finding his legs. Pushing off the bed, with one hand, and the wrist-heel of his other, with something too fuzzy to even really equal a sort of muted resignation or frustration. His throat still full of wind and gravel, the all too unhelpful gentle sway of the room and the way none of his muscles really want to pretend they're attached to any of his bones currently.