"I would be," Steve muttered, with a glare through the mire of darkness. "If someone else would shut up."

But there's no actual steel or fire to his tone. Not when he's curving his back and stretching into Danny's thumb. Listening, with something like surprise and something like resignation, to realization the muscles through his right side, front and back are sore from holding in a different position for so long, even while moving.

It's not surprising, and yet it's not like he noticed either. There were other things to focus on.
Which makes the pressure feel even better. Sore, but good. Like it's pushing in pools of warm water.

Leaving him with his head still where it was, when Danny bumped him, pushing an urge to tilt his face and just kiss him again through Steve. Even though he doesn't do it. Doesn't move. Only watches Danny settle, through half closed, and mostly closed, eyes. Edging, without a single movement, toward the thought it maybe finally, actually, is okay. Because Danny is settling, and breathing in and out long rusty, stomach deep, breaths.