angelgazing (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
angelgazing) wrote2005-04-30 12:55 am
angelgazing) wrote2005-04-30 12:55 am
Entry tags:
fic - of movement and not standing still - las vegas (danny/mike)
title: Of Movement and Not Standing Still
fandom: Las Vegas
rating: BKON (Boy Kissing, Oh Noes)
summary: Danny isn't gay.
words: 830
warnings: Er. Minor traces of het? And rare fandomness.
notes: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sleepismyfriend for the once over.
Danny isn't gay.
It's not denial or suppression or… whatever. He's just not gay. He's straight as a ruler, straight as a-- Straight as a very straight thing and all around not queer.
He likes beer and football and breasts. If he didn't love Mary then her cleavage alone would've been enough to—But he did love her. He does. So that's not really a valid point.
Every Sunday they didn't have to work during football season Mike would show up at Danny's with a six-pack of cheap beer like Mary always used to steal from her dad and Mike's got a real distaste for the stuff, but Danny's got memories attached to make it not just bitter but bitter and something about that makes it good.
(He told Mike the story once, when he'd finished off most of the six-pack on his own and was maybe a little tipsy. Whispered about how there were memories attached to the beer and the girl didn't love him or didn't trust him or he just wasn't good enough, which was probably entirely untrue or entirely too true, and he wasn't sure he wanted the answer.)
They ate chips while they waited on pizza and Mike wiped the grease and salt from his fingers onto his jeans and Danny watched the slide of dark skin over light blue denim like it was fascinating. Like it was beautiful.
Like he was watching the way a skirt swayed in a counter beat against Mary's thighs all pink ruffles and lace and pretty, girly things.
Mike grinned and said he'd pay for the pizza and took the money from Danny's wallet on the coffee table. Danny laughed and kicked at his knee playfully. Watched—with his head tilted—the way Mike walked across Danny's living room like it was his own, like he was comfortable here. Danny didn't remember being uncomfortable in his own skin, but he scratched at his arm and figured it was catching up with him.
Danny didn't get drunk later—in a dive bar surrounded by people he maybe used to know—because he was imagining Mike's fingers on his thighs instead. He didn't do it because he was imagining Mary swaying with him, her hair soft in his hands and her breasts warm against him either. He mostly just got drunk to get drunk, and didn't bother to think of a better reason why.
And the thing to remember about Danny is: he's not gay. He isn't queer, or bisexual or bi-curious or anything other than completely and utterly straight.
So when Mike showed up Danny was sure he didn't call him. And even if he made something of a point to not throw up on Mike's shoes he also refused to give Mike his keys because there was no way Danny was drunk enough to let Mike drive his car.
Mike was warm inside the bar, when he laughed and put an arm around Danny to keep him steady. Outside it was different; outside Mike was cool against the sticky heat of Vegas. The blacktop moved like a wave under Danny's feet and he groaned as he put his cheek on Mike's shoulder. Mike laughed again and Danny laughed with him.
He didn't wonder what kind of catcalls they'd be getting on the strip.
"You're," Mike grinned, "Very, very drunk, aren't you?"
Danny groaned again, and pressed his fingers into Mike's side. "Yeah," he answered, and laughed against Mike's t-shirt. "What was your first clue, Sherlock?"
"Don't go knocking my skills, now, at least I can stand on my own."
"Shut up," Danny said. "The ground is moving."
And Danny was straight, so it was really probably all the fault of the large amounts of alcohol he'd consumed that he stumbled when Mike let go to unlock the door of his car and ended up, somehow, pressing Mike against the door. Danny laughed again and made a face and said, "I'm… Very, very…"
He kissed Mike, and it wasn't—Wasn't like kissing Mary, or Delinda or… Mike tasted like sleep and night and salt. He was rough around the edges, but his mouth was soft.
Danny pulled away and looked—well, felt embarrassed, he wasn't sure what he looked like because his eyes were closed and he was too drunk to stand on his own and Mike was stroking just above Danny's belt absently with his thumb and it made Danny shiver.
"Very, very?" Mike asked, and Danny nodded even though it made him dizzy, like when he was five and would nod at Mary too hard. Mike sighed and scratched the back of his neck absently. "Danny, I'm not—"
"I know," Danny said, and laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world. He leaned back because he'd lost his sense of balance and set off the alarm of the car behind him. "I'm not either," he shouted over it.
"But the ground is moving?"
"Yeah," Danny grinned.
fandom: Las Vegas
rating: BKON (Boy Kissing, Oh Noes)
summary: Danny isn't gay.
words: 830
warnings: Er. Minor traces of het? And rare fandomness.
notes: Thanks to
sleepismyfriend for the once over.Danny isn't gay.
It's not denial or suppression or… whatever. He's just not gay. He's straight as a ruler, straight as a-- Straight as a very straight thing and all around not queer.
He likes beer and football and breasts. If he didn't love Mary then her cleavage alone would've been enough to—But he did love her. He does. So that's not really a valid point.
Every Sunday they didn't have to work during football season Mike would show up at Danny's with a six-pack of cheap beer like Mary always used to steal from her dad and Mike's got a real distaste for the stuff, but Danny's got memories attached to make it not just bitter but bitter and something about that makes it good.
(He told Mike the story once, when he'd finished off most of the six-pack on his own and was maybe a little tipsy. Whispered about how there were memories attached to the beer and the girl didn't love him or didn't trust him or he just wasn't good enough, which was probably entirely untrue or entirely too true, and he wasn't sure he wanted the answer.)
They ate chips while they waited on pizza and Mike wiped the grease and salt from his fingers onto his jeans and Danny watched the slide of dark skin over light blue denim like it was fascinating. Like it was beautiful.
Like he was watching the way a skirt swayed in a counter beat against Mary's thighs all pink ruffles and lace and pretty, girly things.
Mike grinned and said he'd pay for the pizza and took the money from Danny's wallet on the coffee table. Danny laughed and kicked at his knee playfully. Watched—with his head tilted—the way Mike walked across Danny's living room like it was his own, like he was comfortable here. Danny didn't remember being uncomfortable in his own skin, but he scratched at his arm and figured it was catching up with him.
Danny didn't get drunk later—in a dive bar surrounded by people he maybe used to know—because he was imagining Mike's fingers on his thighs instead. He didn't do it because he was imagining Mary swaying with him, her hair soft in his hands and her breasts warm against him either. He mostly just got drunk to get drunk, and didn't bother to think of a better reason why.
And the thing to remember about Danny is: he's not gay. He isn't queer, or bisexual or bi-curious or anything other than completely and utterly straight.
So when Mike showed up Danny was sure he didn't call him. And even if he made something of a point to not throw up on Mike's shoes he also refused to give Mike his keys because there was no way Danny was drunk enough to let Mike drive his car.
Mike was warm inside the bar, when he laughed and put an arm around Danny to keep him steady. Outside it was different; outside Mike was cool against the sticky heat of Vegas. The blacktop moved like a wave under Danny's feet and he groaned as he put his cheek on Mike's shoulder. Mike laughed again and Danny laughed with him.
He didn't wonder what kind of catcalls they'd be getting on the strip.
"You're," Mike grinned, "Very, very drunk, aren't you?"
Danny groaned again, and pressed his fingers into Mike's side. "Yeah," he answered, and laughed against Mike's t-shirt. "What was your first clue, Sherlock?"
"Don't go knocking my skills, now, at least I can stand on my own."
"Shut up," Danny said. "The ground is moving."
And Danny was straight, so it was really probably all the fault of the large amounts of alcohol he'd consumed that he stumbled when Mike let go to unlock the door of his car and ended up, somehow, pressing Mike against the door. Danny laughed again and made a face and said, "I'm… Very, very…"
He kissed Mike, and it wasn't—Wasn't like kissing Mary, or Delinda or… Mike tasted like sleep and night and salt. He was rough around the edges, but his mouth was soft.
Danny pulled away and looked—well, felt embarrassed, he wasn't sure what he looked like because his eyes were closed and he was too drunk to stand on his own and Mike was stroking just above Danny's belt absently with his thumb and it made Danny shiver.
"Very, very?" Mike asked, and Danny nodded even though it made him dizzy, like when he was five and would nod at Mary too hard. Mike sighed and scratched the back of his neck absently. "Danny, I'm not—"
"I know," Danny said, and laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world. He leaned back because he'd lost his sense of balance and set off the alarm of the car behind him. "I'm not either," he shouted over it.
"But the ground is moving?"
"Yeah," Danny grinned.
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