(no subject)
I Knew When We Collided (Steve/Danny, ~425 words, a first) (also on AOOO)
Steve's not watching Danny, he's just taking inventory of all the differences between Danny asleep and Danny awake: his hair's mussed and messy; his forehead is smooth; there's a darker shadow of stubble across his jaw and throat; he's not wearing a tie (or shirt or belt or slacks or socks or, thank god, loafers); his hands aren't moving, and neither is his mouth.
At least until Danny mutters, "Stop staring at me, you freak of nature, it's creepy," and inches a hand across the sheets to find Steve's bicep and give it a shove.
"It's not creepy," Steve says.
"It's a little creepy, but I am quite the specimen, so I understand." Danny hasn't opened his eyes yet, but they're crinkled at the corners like he's on the verge of grinning. His hair's still mussed, and Steve scootches closer and reaches up to do something about it.
"Are you petting me now? Am I the domesticated animal in this relationship?" Danny sighs, but Steve notes, a little smugly, that he's not actually going anywhere. "You didn't have a puppy when you were growing up, did you," he says, not even a question, but his voice is quieter now, the way it gets when he says things like thank you and means them, so Steve tucks a few more strands of hair into place, slides his hand down and cups the side of Danny's neck, where he can feel Danny's pulse beating steady and solid and strong under his thumb.
"Is this going to happen every morning, this staring contest that you're always going to win, because I will always be sleeping like a normal person? I just want to know, so that I can prepare myself."
"Maybe," Steve says, and then he can't quite say anything else because his own pulse is speeding up and out of control, every morning as good as a shot of adrenaline.
"'Maybe', he says. All right, okay, I guess I can work with that," Danny agrees, stretching extravagantly so that his limbs overlap Steve's, oblivious to whatever it is that's going on in Steve's chest, except that now he's getting a grip, holding on and pulling Steve closer. It's a move, but it's not a military move or a date move-it's a Danny Williams move, and Steve goes, because Danny's a detective and he knows things; because Danny's murmuring "C'mere, you nutcase" and rasping their cheeks together as he settles back down in Steve's bed, head on Steve's pillow; because it's the first morning and maybe, maybe not the last.
Steve's not watching Danny, he's just taking inventory of all the differences between Danny asleep and Danny awake: his hair's mussed and messy; his forehead is smooth; there's a darker shadow of stubble across his jaw and throat; he's not wearing a tie (or shirt or belt or slacks or socks or, thank god, loafers); his hands aren't moving, and neither is his mouth.
At least until Danny mutters, "Stop staring at me, you freak of nature, it's creepy," and inches a hand across the sheets to find Steve's bicep and give it a shove.
"It's not creepy," Steve says.
"It's a little creepy, but I am quite the specimen, so I understand." Danny hasn't opened his eyes yet, but they're crinkled at the corners like he's on the verge of grinning. His hair's still mussed, and Steve scootches closer and reaches up to do something about it.
"Are you petting me now? Am I the domesticated animal in this relationship?" Danny sighs, but Steve notes, a little smugly, that he's not actually going anywhere. "You didn't have a puppy when you were growing up, did you," he says, not even a question, but his voice is quieter now, the way it gets when he says things like thank you and means them, so Steve tucks a few more strands of hair into place, slides his hand down and cups the side of Danny's neck, where he can feel Danny's pulse beating steady and solid and strong under his thumb.
"Is this going to happen every morning, this staring contest that you're always going to win, because I will always be sleeping like a normal person? I just want to know, so that I can prepare myself."
"Maybe," Steve says, and then he can't quite say anything else because his own pulse is speeding up and out of control, every morning as good as a shot of adrenaline.
"'Maybe', he says. All right, okay, I guess I can work with that," Danny agrees, stretching extravagantly so that his limbs overlap Steve's, oblivious to whatever it is that's going on in Steve's chest, except that now he's getting a grip, holding on and pulling Steve closer. It's a move, but it's not a military move or a date move-it's a Danny Williams move, and Steve goes, because Danny's a detective and he knows things; because Danny's murmuring "C'mere, you nutcase" and rasping their cheeks together as he settles back down in Steve's bed, head on Steve's pillow; because it's the first morning and maybe, maybe not the last.