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Something has been niggling at the back of Danny’s brain for a while now. It’s been there for months, but he can’t put his finger on exactly what it is until a few days after Jerry’s discharge from the hospital. The team is gathered at a bar to throw Jerry a hey, welcome back and well done on not dying party, which doubles as a celebration of Ezra Hassan having been safely locked away and little Khalid having been moved to a foster family that won’t use his backpack to smuggle guns into buildings. Mostly, though, it’s truly centered around the fact that one of their own has fully recovered, or is at the very least well enough to get up and use the side of his body that didn’t catch a bullet to raise his glass at the table for a toast.
It’s a good one ─ a little mushy for Danny’s taste, but a guy earns that after what Jerry went through. Besides, he did very possibly save Steve’s life by randomly being present and ensuring that for once, it was not Steve that got shot. Danny, who will forever be faced with a scar running across his abdomen when he looks in the bathroom mirror before his morning shower, can appreciate a sacrifice like that.
When Jerry is done speeching, he’s blinking a little too fast, but he still manages an “I love all of you guys” before there’s the actual toast with shouting and the clink of glasses and some spilled beer in the commotion.
Danny sits there, in the middle of it all, clutching his Longboard and feeling astounded.
Steve nudges him. “Hey, you okay, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Yeah, fine.” Steve appears dubious, but before he can get in another question, Danny shakes off his stupor and grabs Steve by the arm. “Can I talk to you for a sec? In private?” He does ask, but it’s not really a request.
“Whoa, Danny,” Steve says, alarmed, because Danny hauls him up and out of his seat with enough force that his chair makes an awful screeching noise on the tile floor of the bar and almost topples.
“Where are you going?” Lou asks, from across the table from them.
“Nowhere,” Danny says, because he doesn’t have time for this. He drags an only partially cooperative Steve off to more laughter and jeering from their friends, and the jokes about another marital spat probably write themselves, but the awful thing is─ The awful thing is that they wouldn’t even be that wrong.
They end up outside, in the still evening air, a few paces away from the door and behind a pillar which doesn’t hide them, but still affords a relative measure of privacy. The light from the distant street lamps isn’t as bright as what was inside the bar, so Danny’s eyes need a moment to adjust, but he doesn’t let that stop him as he whirls on Steve.
He demands, now that he’s had some time for his anger to build, “When did you stop telling me you love me?”
It’s Steve’s turn to look shocked, right before he starts looking shifty instead, and then seamlessly segues into annoyed. He shakes off Danny’s continued grip on his wrist so he can cross his arms over his chest. “What are you talking about? I never stopped.”
Danny uses his now free hand to jab two fingers at Steve’s shoulder. “Yes, you did. I haven’t heard you say it since─” He doesn’t even know since when, Jesus. This is worse than he thought. It’s the quiet absence of something he’d been taking for granted for the last half a decade, at least.
“The sensory deprivation tank,” Steve fills in, quietly. Apparently, he’s already having a change of heart. “That was the last time.”
“That’s almost a year ago.” Danny pretends that doesn’t hurt like a motherfucker. “Why? After that you just decided, nah, had my fill of it now, can’t deal with spilling any more feelings?”
“No.” Steve’s quietness leaves as quickly as it came. It’s replaced by mulishness, and it comes out almost impressively when Steve says, clearly embarrassed but with his jaw set, “And you know what? You’re one to talk. You stopped saying it first.”
“Oh, I did, huh?” He did. Now that Steve has pointed it out to him, he doesn’t need Steve to confirm it. He changes tack before he can get thrown off course further or be made to feel guilty about this. This is not his fault ─ it takes two to tango. “Well, what does that have to do with it? If I stopped saying it, it was an accident. You, on the other hand, were evidently fully aware of what was happening. So why, huh?”
Steve glares at Danny’s temple angrily and says nothing.
Danny wants to reach out, grab Steve’s shoulders and shake him. He doesn’t do it only because there’s no way that could end well, and they really, really don’t need to escalate this to a physical fight.
After more long seconds tick by than Danny cares to count, Steve’s nostrils flare. “It felt awkward, okay? When you weren’t saying it back.”
“What, you thought I stopped loving you, just like that?”
Steve sniffs like that’s ridiculous, and then he suddenly won’t look at Danny’s face at all anymore.
Danny has known Steve for nearly a decade now, and they’ve been pretty close all that time. He’s used to having to do some reading between the lines, but what’s happening now feels more like a dancing neon sign. One that’s probably malfunctioning and electrocutes him, because it makes his heart stop for a fraction of a second.
He uses one hand to steady himself on the wall because he thinks he might pass out from anger, and the other to punch Steve’s solid bicep, a little too hard to count as companionable. “Jesus Christ, you idiot! Have I at least told you lately that you’re an idiot?”
“Yeah. If you ever stopped doing that, I’d have you checked for a brain injury,” Steve snarks back, but his spine is less of a rigid line already, the muscles of his crossed arms a little less bulging. He doesn’t have the decency to even pretend that Danny’s punch hurt him.
Danny seethes for another moment, and then decides to move past it, for a value of moving past it that means he’ll still yell at Steve, but a different set of words. “Yeah, well, you’re an idiot and I love you anyway. Worse, I might love you for it. Better?”
“Yeah,” Steve says gruffly, seemingly trying to pretend there isn’t a smile playing around his lips all of a sudden. “Thanks.”
“And?”
Steve raises his eyebrows in supposed innocence, which mostly just makes him look stupid and goofy as hell because he’s a shockingly bad actor.
Danny raises his own eyebrows right back and waves a hand to signal Steve to get on with it.
Steve grins. “And I love you too. That what you were looking for?”
“Yes. Thank you. Was that so hard?” He starts fishing around in his pocket for his cell phone.
“What’re you doing?” Steve asks. He sounds wary, but at the same time he decides to slouch against the wall, which is not exactly something he’d do if he felt Danny were still keeping him on his toes.
Danny taps at his phone until it agrees to show him his calendar. “Penciling in a weekly reminder.” He presses save on the alarm that will go off silently every Friday at noon, which will hit him with a notification that reads remind seal puppy you don’t hate his guts. Then he looks up at Steve, who hasn’t said anything yet.
Steve quirks an eyebrow at him. “That’s stupid.”
Danny can live with that. There are other things that he can’t, in fact, allow to happen, so they’ll both have to grit their teeth and bear a little stupidity to avoid building up boatloads full of it ever again. “Excuse you?” he asks, turning to head back inside. In his periphery, Steve pushes off from the wall and follows in his wake. “Our therapist would’ve been proud of me.”
Steve snorts derisively, but for the rest of the evening, he’s smiling more than Danny has seen him do in a while.
It must be infectious, because Danny catches himself at it, too.