"One." Steve shoots off his mouth, low and rough and self-amused, to no one's surprise. Obviously counting that second.
Maybe even looking for Danny to smack back at him. Words warm against cooling sweat and drying skin. The tickle of the mess of Danny's hair against most of his face, where his eyes are closed. Where he's not counting, maybe if only because he doesn't know. Whether it count up or count down, or where to, whether, how, when. Only why. He knows that one, but it's not like it clarifies a damn thing.
Even though Steve doesn't move in the slightest for being a bastard and poking that. Danny saying he needs a second and counting for one. He doesn't move at all. Just throws it out there like a target, letting himself soak into the bed. The exhaustion in his bones that exists. He can feel it. But it's beneath a glass wall, again. Where everything else is so highly keyed to Danny.
To each breath. To his few words. To when he moves. To how he holds still. To the way the stillness and the silence wouldn't bother him, not with anyone else. He'd roll over, or depending say goodnights, or whatever. Whatever the situation called for. Usually sleep. Just let himself sleep. Done with everything that needed doing. Except. That Danny doesn't do still, or quiet, or the smallest touch. Not when any of the three can be grand, large, and loud.
Not when every single thing he just did is nothing he's done before, and it's highlighted by all three of those.
no subject
Maybe even looking for Danny to smack back at him. Words warm against cooling sweat and drying skin. The tickle of the mess of Danny's hair against most of his face, where his eyes are closed. Where he's not counting, maybe if only because he doesn't know. Whether it count up or count down, or where to, whether, how, when. Only why. He knows that one, but it's not like it clarifies a damn thing.
Even though Steve doesn't move in the slightest for being a bastard and poking that. Danny saying he needs a second and counting for one. He doesn't move at all. Just throws it out there like a target, letting himself soak into the bed. The exhaustion in his bones that exists. He can feel it. But it's beneath a glass wall, again. Where everything else is so highly keyed to Danny.
To each breath. To his few words. To when he moves. To how he holds still. To the way the stillness and the silence wouldn't bother him, not with anyone else. He'd roll over, or depending say goodnights, or whatever. Whatever the situation called for. Usually sleep. Just let himself sleep. Done with everything that needed doing. Except. That Danny doesn't do still, or quiet, or the smallest touch. Not when any of the three can be grand, large, and loud.
Not when every single thing he just did is nothing he's done before, and it's highlighted by all three of those.