It's easier like this, with Steve badgering him and insulting him. Like usual. Just normal. Calms the frantic spill of thoughts and worries, insidious things that keep snaking their way into his head, the drowsy cotton-filled center of it.
Next time. Because there will be a next time. Even if he's not sure yet that he wants a next time, can handle a next time. He'd bluffed his way through this, tonight, and it's starting to show, to press and prod and suggest, annoyingly, that maybe he shouldn't have. Should have. Shouldn't. Should have known more, done some legwork on his own, figured it out, tried -- who knows? Gauging the looseness of complaining muscles. Forgetting all about the strange, slick feeling, until he tries moving again. "You're gonna have to give me a second."
Or a night. A day. Maybe a couple. Enough time for him to work through whatever it was that just happened. That he wanted, yeah. If not because he wanted it, for him, then because he wants Steve, and if this is going to happen, that's a part of it. He's not going to plant himself on Steve's chest and keep him from leaving, and then refuse the basic building block of sex, okay, he's not that guy. Doesn't want Steve to feel like he's missing out on anything, being here. Staying. Isn't giving anything up to do that.
Except he is. And Danny knows he is. He's too new at it, and too jaded by it at the same time. Different parts of the same whole. Has no idea what to do with these new ideas, possibilities; is all too aware of what can, will probably, go wrong.
But Steve's still here. Arm tucked firmly around him. Settled in like gravity, going nowhere fast, mumbling words into the back of his neck. Claiming. Possessive. Like Danny's another piece of this bed. House. Life. Steve's hand snug and stubborn against his side, bracing against argument.
It's nice, considering the free fall his thoughts are taking, of good, bad, weird. Steps he never takes, that he'd pole-vaulted over. Not sure if he recognizes or is sure of the place he's landed, feet sinking into quicksand, threatening to drag him down, suffocate him, snuff this all out with moving too fast, too much, too soon. Unable to do anything else, because it could all go in the blink of an eye, the sharp report of a firing gun.
He just needs a second. Or two. Or several thousand. It's fine.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-06-06 01:41 pm (UTC)Next time. Because there will be a next time. Even if he's not sure yet that he wants a next time, can handle a next time. He'd bluffed his way through this, tonight, and it's starting to show, to press and prod and suggest, annoyingly, that maybe he shouldn't have. Should have. Shouldn't. Should have known more, done some legwork on his own, figured it out, tried -- who knows? Gauging the looseness of complaining muscles. Forgetting all about the strange, slick feeling, until he tries moving again. "You're gonna have to give me a second."
Or a night. A day. Maybe a couple. Enough time for him to work through whatever it was that just happened. That he wanted, yeah. If not because he wanted it, for him, then because he wants Steve, and if this is going to happen, that's a part of it. He's not going to plant himself on Steve's chest and keep him from leaving, and then refuse the basic building block of sex, okay, he's not that guy. Doesn't want Steve to feel like he's missing out on anything, being here. Staying. Isn't giving anything up to do that.
Except he is. And Danny knows he is. He's too new at it, and too jaded by it at the same time. Different parts of the same whole. Has no idea what to do with these new ideas, possibilities; is all too aware of what can, will probably, go wrong.
But Steve's still here. Arm tucked firmly around him. Settled in like gravity, going nowhere fast, mumbling words into the back of his neck. Claiming. Possessive. Like Danny's another piece of this bed. House. Life. Steve's hand snug and stubborn against his side, bracing against argument.
It's nice, considering the free fall his thoughts are taking, of good, bad, weird. Steps he never takes, that he'd pole-vaulted over. Not sure if he recognizes or is sure of the place he's landed, feet sinking into quicksand, threatening to drag him down, suffocate him, snuff this all out with moving too fast, too much, too soon. Unable to do anything else, because it could all go in the blink of an eye, the sharp report of a firing gun.
He just needs a second. Or two. Or several thousand. It's fine.