[danny/steve words of some non-sexual rating]
continuing in the tradition of writing about danny and steve sleeping when i can't sleep. too tired for introductions with coding & capital letters and also, quite probably, sense-making. vrrrrrroom bed now.
less a deluge than a drought
Danny's pulse jumps beneath Steve's fingers, a steady one two one two, a static line to reality as he sucks in a third, a fifth breath. In the distance a dog is barking, and maybe it's that which drew him from sleep; more likely a dream brought him awake, suddenlysharply, too much too much too much. He is trained in the art of calming himself and can't, because this is Danny next to him, and Danny is too many things at once--a teammate and a responsibility, a comfort and an onslaught, a good fuck but a better friend. This is Danny, and whatever Steve was dreaming of was less and more real than this, this bedspace and something else between them, the trust inherent in a shared pillow.
Danny shifts and Steve's heart breaks, jumps, one two one two.
He traces the curve of Danny's jawline, the gradual dip of his broad-built shoulders, and feels unhinged; he mouths the place where Danny's hairline meets his neck and feels unmoored. There is nothing safe here, in the fraught darkness of thrown-awake desperation, scrabbling away from a half-remembered fear--Steve catches his breath a third, a fifth time, tries to recall how this is done. It's worst on nights like this, when he can't piece together what it was that startled him, when he's forced to guess instead. His waking mind is crueler than his subconscious that way, relentless in even this pursuit.
"You creepy fuck," Danny slurs, all warm, unbridled affection, muscles in his back rearranging against Steve's chest. He rolls over, slipshod, eyes closed, and Steve makes room; Danny presses into him, mouth soft and cracked open, something neither sigh nor snore slipping free. His fingers seek and land home, curled loose across Steve's bicep, a stretch of ink he had committed leagues and miles ago, and oh, Steve is a stupid man. There's so much risk here it's hard to bear, and his chest tightens and heaves, and he thinks Danny but whines instead, vocal cords choked still with slumber.
"Yeah, yeah," Danny murmurs, and his thumb moves back and forth against Steve's arm, slow and sure. "S'ok, stoppit, shut up."
Danny's hair is everywhere, in Steve's mouth, in his eyes, crisscrossing the pillow like all the paths Steve could have, should have taken. When he draws breath he displaces it, flutter-light, and Danny's leg slides between Steve's thighs like that's a normal, a natural thing. Danny's always going to be better at this, Steve knows, he's never going to pause over every half step forward like he's waiting for clearance, and that's okay and that's good and that hurts anyway, a dull ache in a muscle he hasn't kept up. Steve digs his fingers into Danny's hip, too much, too hard, and Danny sighs in something that's exasperation or exhaustion or both.
"What, then," he says, yawning on it. "C'mon, spit it out."
"Dunno," Steve admits, and feels better for it. "Something, I guess. Sorry."
"S'ok," Danny mumbles again, and there's his breath against Steve's neck, and there's sanity again, sliding in through the open window to beat the dawn. "Sleep, babe, 's fine."
"Okay," Steve says, "okay," and loosens his grip, just a bit, just enough.
less a deluge than a drought
Danny's pulse jumps beneath Steve's fingers, a steady one two one two, a static line to reality as he sucks in a third, a fifth breath. In the distance a dog is barking, and maybe it's that which drew him from sleep; more likely a dream brought him awake, suddenlysharply, too much too much too much. He is trained in the art of calming himself and can't, because this is Danny next to him, and Danny is too many things at once--a teammate and a responsibility, a comfort and an onslaught, a good fuck but a better friend. This is Danny, and whatever Steve was dreaming of was less and more real than this, this bedspace and something else between them, the trust inherent in a shared pillow.
Danny shifts and Steve's heart breaks, jumps, one two one two.
He traces the curve of Danny's jawline, the gradual dip of his broad-built shoulders, and feels unhinged; he mouths the place where Danny's hairline meets his neck and feels unmoored. There is nothing safe here, in the fraught darkness of thrown-awake desperation, scrabbling away from a half-remembered fear--Steve catches his breath a third, a fifth time, tries to recall how this is done. It's worst on nights like this, when he can't piece together what it was that startled him, when he's forced to guess instead. His waking mind is crueler than his subconscious that way, relentless in even this pursuit.
"You creepy fuck," Danny slurs, all warm, unbridled affection, muscles in his back rearranging against Steve's chest. He rolls over, slipshod, eyes closed, and Steve makes room; Danny presses into him, mouth soft and cracked open, something neither sigh nor snore slipping free. His fingers seek and land home, curled loose across Steve's bicep, a stretch of ink he had committed leagues and miles ago, and oh, Steve is a stupid man. There's so much risk here it's hard to bear, and his chest tightens and heaves, and he thinks Danny but whines instead, vocal cords choked still with slumber.
"Yeah, yeah," Danny murmurs, and his thumb moves back and forth against Steve's arm, slow and sure. "S'ok, stoppit, shut up."
Danny's hair is everywhere, in Steve's mouth, in his eyes, crisscrossing the pillow like all the paths Steve could have, should have taken. When he draws breath he displaces it, flutter-light, and Danny's leg slides between Steve's thighs like that's a normal, a natural thing. Danny's always going to be better at this, Steve knows, he's never going to pause over every half step forward like he's waiting for clearance, and that's okay and that's good and that hurts anyway, a dull ache in a muscle he hasn't kept up. Steve digs his fingers into Danny's hip, too much, too hard, and Danny sighs in something that's exasperation or exhaustion or both.
"What, then," he says, yawning on it. "C'mon, spit it out."
"Dunno," Steve admits, and feels better for it. "Something, I guess. Sorry."
"S'ok," Danny mumbles again, and there's his breath against Steve's neck, and there's sanity again, sliding in through the open window to beat the dawn. "Sleep, babe, 's fine."
"Okay," Steve says, "okay," and loosens his grip, just a bit, just enough.