Detective Danny Williams

In a universe where everyone is born with numbers on their wrists counting down to when they’ll meet their soulmate, send me 00:00:00 for my muses reaction to their numbers hitting zero when they meet yours.

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The world hates him.


Danny has proof, conclusive proof. He has lists. He has file upon file of evidence, neatly bagged and alphabetized, and it all points to one grim conclusion:

The world hates him.

He's known it for a while now. It just happens to some people, you know, some people are just pinatas for everyone else to beat on, some people are the muddied and jagged unexpectedly stepped-in, sock-soaking puddles of the world. Some people are golden, and some people get punched in the face when they go to shake hands. It happens.

After a while, Danny started punching first, just to save time.

The worst of it is, he knows. Okay? You knew, said his mother, not without sympathy, when he called to tell her he and Rachel split up. He knew when her clock ticked down in the middle of their marriage that it was all over, knew it was never going to be him, that they'd made a mistake. He knew. He remembers staying up, listening to her quiet breathing, as her clock ticked down the hours. She swore it didn't matter.

He knew it did.

Of course it did. They were young and stubborn enough to scoff at the numbers, that there were years left to go for both of them, well past the day they met, well past the day they tried to run off and get married in Atlantic City, well past the day they actually got married, on a sweltering day in August. The numbers lie, they told each other. This is love, they said. This is all there is. 

But it wasn't. Because the world hates him.

Exhibit A: his apartment. It is not the apartment of a man for whom things are going well, okay? His apartment building is the sort of complex police won't raid without backup. The apartment itself is a study in architectural misery. It's a cluttered, dingy shoebox of a room, for his cluttered and dingy shoebox of a soul.

And it's a fucking racket, okay, he is not a tenant, he is a serf. This place is one step above living in an alley in a rain-soaked cardboard box, but for the rent he pays, you'd think it'd be a three bedroom with an ocean view and marble counters. Okay? He pays by check but he's reasonably sure his landlord would accept blood drawn straight from his arm, or perhaps the arm itself. But he would be nice about it, because everyone is so oppressively nice here, with the sun and the surfing and that weird little hand wiggle and their brahs and breezy howzits, which isn't even a word, which leads him to --

Exhibit B: Hawaii.

He's aware, on a dim level, that most people like Hawaii. That people come from all over the world to vacation here, to look out at the water and frolic in the sand and waves, to eat the fresh fruit and buy pineapples for eight dollars a pop, because tourism is a racket here, too, just like gambling is in AC. He knows they think he's the crazy one for hating it, that in six months here he hasn't made any friends aside from Meka and has probably made more than a few enemies, all because he won't fawn over their stupid coral reefs and active volcanos. 

"So, let me get this straight."

He's in his office, changing, but he knows from experience that his voice can carry through the door and the windows (blocked by blinds, thanks, he's got no desire for anyone to be catching a sneak preview, here).  "I'm a filthy rich haole tourist out for a little easy entertainment.  And I'm -- what?  Kono, am I picking you up at the bar, or are we going together?"

Either could work, though he thinks the former would be better all around.  Definitely more of a slap in the face of the group they're aiming for, really stepping all over their feet, which Danny is more than happy to do.  When even the kapu are pissed at an outlying group of radicals, they are seriously starting to get aggravating.  He would label them, officially, a nuisance.

More than, maybe, but it's not like they're going to find some fat cat investment banker tonight, doped up on Sex on the Beach and getting away with it.  He checks his reflection, slicks palms over his hair, and starts rolling up his sleeves, still talking, to Kono, or Chin, or Steve, or maybe just himself if no one's listening, but he doesn't care.  They're going to go out and get the assholes, and that is the point of everything.  Has him just about bouncing on the balls of his feet, shoulders set, every muscle wired and ready for action. 

A different kind that he's dressed for, but action.  And, hey, it's nice to dress up for once in something that isn't black and white and makes him look like he's serving drinks.  "This is going to be some juicy bait.  Jesus.  Even I wouldn't trust me in this get-up."

It's good.  It was always going to be, on the Governor's dime, but it fits him like a glove and he looks like exactly the kind of casually-pressed guy who might play a round of golf in the morning, have a video conference in the afternoon, and call it a day by 2:30pm before hitting the a glitzy party or two.  "Hey--"

As he's pushing back out into the bullpen, fingers finishing tucking up the rolled sleeve of his shirt, finding Kono with a grin.  "I hope you feel like dancing."

There are few things he loves more than the afternoons and evenings that he gets Grace.  Picking her up from school, taking her for a snack or a walk or a swim -- or all three, depending on how effectively she marshals those big brown eyes and the dreaded Look of Doom, that says she's not mad, Danno, she's just Disappointed, and, seriously, shouldn't that be his thing?  Except she looks so much like Rachel that it hurts, remembering the days when Rachel used to wheedle and coax and smile at him under a faint facade of sincerity.

Back in the old days.  When life was good the first time around, and he'd never wanted anything to change. 

But for a few hours, he can live it again; this time in sunshine and ninety-two degree weather, surrounded by palm trees instead of buildings, and he has to admit, you know, with Grace, the place is almost bearable.  The sun lights up her smile -- or her smile lights up the sun, he's not totally clear on which is which but it could be both, right? -- and she sits, legs swinging, at a picnic table, doing her homework and graciously allowing him to help, even though he can barely remember the basics of long division.  Mostly he points out how good her penmanship is, how organized she is, how responsible.

"I never did my homework right after school," he tells her, slouched on the other end of the bench, fingers clasped loosely together, elbows on his thighs and back curved, just brushing the table top.  She looks over at him, calm curiosity in her face, but he just can't get over it, can't, won't, ever.  He'll be slammed in the face every day of his life with the amount of trust that's in her eyes every time she so much as glances his way.  Thoughtless, instinctual.  Like her Danno will never let her down.

And, God, he's trying.  He is.

He has to win.  If not, he --







-- just won't think about that, yet.

"It's true," he says.  "And half the time I was playing sports, too, so it'd finally roll around to being dinner time, and I'd still have a dozen problems to do and a bunch of words to spell and a ridiculous amount of pages to read, like at least a hundred.  At least."

"Danno," she reproaches, in that tone he loves so much, little voice drawing out the syllables, full of disbelief and the slightest adult resignation with her father, who, Christ, feels like he's gotten poured full of sunshine. 

"It's true!" he says, and grins when she keeps watching him, level.  "Okay, maybe it was more like ten.  But it was definitely way too much reading to do, I mean, my brain was fried.  But you, look at you, you're a genius.  Harvard, here we come."

She smiles, and he feels like the sun's rising all over again, besotted and helpless in it, as he reaches out, reluctant, to tug on the end of her hair.

He misses the pigtails.  She looks so irrevocably grown-up.

Dropping that hand, he slides it into his pocket, searching out his phone and looking at the screen as he presses it on, frowning faintly at the text on the screen before glancing at Grace, hitting the message, and lifting the phone to his ear.  "Twenty minute warning, okay, Monkey?  Then we gotta get you back for dinner."

"Okay," she says, peaceably, and he smiles, but it's distracted, eyes sliding away from her to squint in the low-lying sun that's poured over this park.

Hey, partner. I guess you're still busy.  I'm headed back into the field with Joe, for that thing we talked about earlier, and I'm going to need you to hold the fort down for a while again.  If anything comes up, you know how to reach me.

He half expects a mahalo, but there's nothing.  No Danno, no timeframe, aside from -- he checks the phone -- an hour or so ago.

Which means Steve could be long gone by now.

He's still looking at his phone, gone black and silent, thoughts floating somewhere outside his grasp, when he feels the needle-point of attention on him, of eyes, and he looks up to see Gracie watching him, a tiny concerned line drawing across her forehead.  "Is everything okay?"

Innocent.  And there it is.  That trust.

He wonders how much longer Grace will believe him when he tells her his job isn't dangerous, if she's getting so perceptive already.  "Yeah, baby," he says, and reaches to pat her leg, thinking he hits believable.  "Now hurry up and finish your homework, okay?  You can surprise Mommy with it all done already.  Hey, hey."  She giggles as he leans over, pushing his phone into his pocket and stealing her paper.  "I don't think this is right, I think you have definitely spelled this wrong."

"That's a math problem, Danno."

"Oh, well."  He shrugs, gives the homework back.  "Then you're probably alright.  I was worried for a second there."

In the end, he doesn't really get a chance to think about the message much until he's dropped Gracie at the house, that wide, graceful mansion that he'd viewed with such bitterness, where he and Rachel --

Well, bygones.  It's too late for peace between them now, that's for sure, if she insists on pulling this shit, and he waits by the car until Grace has stopped turning around to wave and disappears down the drive, before taking the phone out and listening again, the smile he'd left her with fading from his face at the first sound of Steve's voice.

That thing they talked about.  Shelburne.  And Joe's ability to take Steve there, to him, to find this mystery that's been obsessing Steve for a year, the man behind all the murders, connected to Steve's life like some kind of destructive spider.  Breaking everything within reach, shattering a family, a life. 

Making Steve into the man he is now.  Like that sixteen year old kid never even existed.

No.  He did.  Does.  Danny sees it, sometimes.  More often, the longer Steve's been home.  That edge, the sharpness of him from the first few weeks starting to blunt, to bleed into island life.  Enjoying the good things.  Surfing, swimming.  Sun, sand, water.  Days like the barbeque.  Nights like...the one after.

He presses call back, without expecting anything to happen, and it doesn't, but his stomach still sinks like it's attached to an anchor when that voicemail message pops up.  The one he'd gotten to know so well over six weeks.  The only thing he had of Steve.

That this newest message might fit that description is zero comfort.

"Hey," he says, when it beeps.  "I, uh, guess you're probably on the plane.  So I wanted to, I don't know."  He levers off the car, takes a few steps.  Free hand lifting, moving.  Pushing at words.  Pushing at these feelings, choking.  Heavy, in the center of his chest.  "Wish you luck.  Try not to get shot, okay, nobody likes that, most people actively avoid it.  And, uh --"

Pausing, he glances across the street, at the house, knowing Grace is in there now, telling Rachel about her day, about her time with him, and for a second, it all seems impossible.  "I told Rachel I'm gonna fight it.  I don't care what happens, she can't take Grace away from me, and I'm not leaving this rock just to go dry up in a desert.  So, just.  Try to come back in one piece, huh?  If you're gone too long, I'm just going to take your office.  Dennings likes me better, anyway."  Licking at his bottom lip, glancing down.  Hand in his pocket, and this weight, here it is, back again, and he hates it, but he can hold it, maybe, a little while longer.  For Steve.  And he doesn't think Steve will, doesn't know whether Steve will be going to ground again, but he says it, anyway.  One more throwback.  Maybe this message will make it to him, too.  To be added with the others.

"Call me."


#


He gets it.  Of course he does.  Why Steve had to go, even if he's more than a little wary of Joe.  He likes the guy fine, but Joe, he always looks like he's hiding something behind that perpetual smile, those blue eyes that look like the kind of water so clear and still you've got no idea it's terrifyingly deep until you see your own shadow miniaturized on the bottom.

But Steve had to go.  Shelburne kept him away from Hawaii for weeks, and that was before he had a guarantee of finding him, before he had someone who knew, exactly, precisely, where Shelburne is, and Danny can't fault him for it, refuses to look at the days and weeks, maybe months, that might be spooling out in front of him.

Instead, he goes to visit Max.

The guy looks wiped out, and it makes something twinge in Danny' s chest to see him like that, lying in a hospital bed, pale and too exhausted from pain and medication to do much more than wave a loose hand.  "Hey, buddy," he says, grinning, as he pulls up a chair and settles into it, leaning forward, voice easy, like this is any normal conversation, like Max is doing his job in his lab and is about to say something Danny won't understand.

Instead, he just nods.  "Thank you for your consideration, Detective.  Truthfully, I did not expect many visitors."

Yeah.  He bets not.  He wishes, for a second, that he could get Lori on a video call, or something -- she always got Max better than any of the rest of them -- but it's still the middle of the day in DC, and she's working.  "You think I could just leave you here to fade away, without benefiting from the sunshine of my personality?"

Max considers him, gravely, with a faint edge of his usual curiosity.  "I appreciate your concern, but there is no reason to believe I might not convalesce fully in a satisfactory amount of time."

Danny shakes his head, lifts a hand to pat an arm.  "I want you to know I mean this, from the bottom of my heart," he says, seriously.  "I am truly relieved that you're okay.  I hate working with new people."

The tiny smile he gets is all the reward he needs.



He gets chased out sooner rather than later, though, by a nurse pointing out that Max needs his sleep, and the sun is starting to go down as he slides back into the Camaro, feeling oddly out of place in the driver's seat.  Pausing for a second, to look out over the parking lot without seeing it, glance up at the sky like a plane or a chopper might magically appear out of the wide blue, before shaking his head and turning the key.

The apartment doesn't look any different.  Why would it?  Nothing's happened here, and even though the whole world outside feels like it's shifted a sharp thirty degrees, this place, the little shoebox he calls home, hasn't.  It's still, and quiet, and he's there for all of five minutes, long enough to change into a t-shirt and consider ordering something for dinner, before he starts wishing he weren't. 

It's not Steve's house.  It's not big and roomy and situated by the beach, away from humanity and all the noise and smell and clatter of them, seriously, his upstairs neighbor sounds like he's pulping wood up there, and that's all fine, normally, but it doesn't have Steve, either, and that's a thought he's been avoiding all night, until now.  Until it chases him down, sits him sternly on the couch, and tells him to pay some attention.

But he can't, okay, there's too much.  HPD still a wreck.  Max gunned down.  Steve, shot and being stupid about it, Kevlar or no Kevlar.  And above it all, sinking poisonous tentacles into the world, Rachel and Vegas and the possibility of losing Grace.

And now this.  Steve gone.  Not at the house, waiting for Danny to come by with some beer, a whole lot of complaints.  Not here to talk to, bitch at, sit with, unwind with.  It's not even the new, the physical stuff he's craving right now, it's just -- Steve.  Everything.  Everything about him.  His best friend, who he could really use having around tonight, who he suspects could probably use the same.  And it would be easier, maybe, to face the prospect of fighting Rachel, if he were able to have a little peace tonight.  To fall asleep next to a warm heavy body.  To hear that particular, sleepy tone saying shut up, Danno against the back of his neck, brushing shivers there, prickling tiny hairs and nerves into life.

It's not sex, okay, it's Steve.

His windows are dark now, and he leans back on the couch, an elbow on the back, hand resting at his mouth, eyes following the headlights of cars as they go by.  Wondering if Steve got his message yet. 

It might be weeks again.  He doesn't want to lead Five-0, doesn't want to be the point person, okay?  He can, and he will, because Steve wants him to and, more importantly, it's his damn job and someone's got to stick around and clean up the messes here.  Especially with HPD in tatters.

It just is like a tunnel.  All of these things, curling in on him, and Steve gone, meaning he's got to do the best he can and hold down the fort, which, true, at least gives him a purpose that isn't getting angry at Rachel.  And Steve -- will listen to his message.  Will get it.  Maybe even keep it.

He's got no comparison for the way something tiny lights just beneath his breastbone at the thought of those messages, but it's like the strike of a match, the quiet illumination of a nightlight.  Even with the memory of Steve's stricken face, like he thought Danny might, what?  Dislike the fact that Steve kept his voicemails, instead of feel like he'd just gotten everything he'd ever wanted for Christmas that had never been under the tree?

It's not even a thought, to pull out his phone again, hit the number, wait for the message.  Like Steve is really here.  Like Danny can talk to him.  And he can.

Just on a timeslip.

"Hey, so I checked in with Max, and let me tell you, the guy is surprisingly durable.  I think they're making the lab techs out of sterner stuff these days, which is great for us, you know, because I'm really not sure I want to go through another round of getting the tech to like us, you know?"  He pauses, shifts forward on the couch, elbow on his knee, hand running over his mouth before dropping.  "I have not yet harangued any government offices today, which I think you'll be happy about.  Thank you for keeping me in the loop this time so I don't feel the need to beat information out of government officials.  I am, however, unbelievably bored right now, I think I've seen all the movies I own about a thousand times, and there's nothing good on TV.  Anyway, just, uh...


"Check in if you can, I guess.  And, seriously, let's keep it under six weeks this time, huh?  And, hey.  Steve.  Be careful, will you, you know I hate it when you don't have any backup, so just watch your back, please.  And don't do anything stupid."  He takes a breath, considers, shakes it out with a shrug.  "I'll check in with you later.  See you."

It doesn't help much, maybe, but it eases a little of the worst parts of the pressure, and he's put the phone on the table, is pushing himself up to go get a beer, when it rings, and he turns, surprised, heart lifting --

Not Steve.  First push of disappointment aside, he leans for the phone, picks it up.  "Chin.  What's up?"

So, it's been a week.

Ish.  It's been a week, ish, and so far, okay, so far, things have not blown up in his face, and though he is feeling anything but certain that they will continue to be less than catastrophic, he's cautiously optimistic that maybe, possibly, they might continue to not blow up in his face.

Crazier things have happened.  Right?




Crazier.  But not by much more than this week.  Dragging out Sunday, before having to leave, to pick up dry cleaning, run the errands he usually does on Saturday.  Before heading to work Monday morning, swallowing past his heart in his throat, until it turned out that work is just about as normal as ever.  He busies himself trying to track down the shadowy agents of last week, without much luck -- shouting himself hoarse at the CIA home office and receiving nothing but icy politeness and a click before the line went dead.

Yeah.  They're under a rock somewhere, and unlikely to resurface, just to face the wrath of Five-0 and the HPD, not to mention the Governor's office, for kidnapping and assaulting an officer of the law, which he tells Steve before thinking that maybe, considering the murderous look on Steve's face the week before, he shouldn't have.

But aside from that, you know, it's been good.  Kono seems like a little more cheerful every day, and Chin -- who seems to be watching him or Steve more often than not, a faint frown on his face every time Danny so much as brushes past the guy (and, okay, maybe he gets a little closer than normal, but not by much, right, not noticeably) -- is always good, a steady, stoic rock.

So it's not, you know, bad.  There are times when it's great, honestly.  Even when he finds himself staring at Steve through the plate-glass windows of the office, caught by the slope of his shoulders and the line of his back and a sudden, vivid, mental image of running his fingers along bare skin, feeling him shiver against them.  Even the night he spent at his own place, suddenly so much smaller and more quiet than he remembers it being, and finds it hard to sleep, when the bed seems so much colder and larger than usual.

Which is crazy.  Even if Steve is like a furnace, and he takes up a crap ton of room, there is no sensible reason to miss him for a single night, or to spend as much time thinking about the next night he'll stay there as he does.

 

All he can say is, it's a damn good thing he's got plenty of paperwork to do.


Besides.  It's a pain.  Having to get up so early, bleary-eyed and grumbling about it, to get in the car and come back home before he can go to work, showered and dressed and not looking like he'd spent the night anywhere but in his own apartment, by himself, because Kono is like a freaking bloodhound once she's on the scent of something, and, okay.  Maybe he grumbles a little extra, just to clarify the point that he is not, in fact, leaving because he wants to, but because he has to still look like a responsible adult, despite the fact that Steve handily wipes away all semblance of self-control from him without anything more than a look or a touch.

(Though usually with a hell of a lot more than either, considering how wrinkled Danny's clothes have been this week.)

But, yeah.  That part sucks.  The leaving.  Particularly when, just as he's finishing up getting ready for work, there's a knock at the door, and the innocuous manila envelope being handed to him. 

It looks so innocent -- it really doesn't deserve the sickening thud his stomach makes as it hits the floor.
 

He's not expecting the bag over his head, though in retrospect, maybe he should have. It seems like the CIA's style: big black SUV, big black bag.

And the concrete, fenced-in room they put him in, that seems about right, too.

He'd just been leaving a message (a message, another goddamn message, trying not to think about the fact that Steve had picked up his phone the last time, that he told Danny to keep him posted, that he should be picking up, trying to ignore the weight settling in his chest) when his buddy showed up, and now he's waiting, silent, as they zip tie him to a chair, tug the bag off his head and wait while he looks around, breath coming hard through his nose, eyes darting from one face in a suit to another.

There isn't time for this. That plane is on its way, Steve has to know what's going on, he needs to know where it is, how he can find it.

And he, he is in over his head. Unable to move, as seconds tick by that he can't regain again and dread settles over him like a smothering pillow.

(It is all too similar to that time, months ago now, when he'd stared down the barrel of a gun into the eyes of his old partner.)

They're advising him, that's cute. He wants to rip this guy's face off and stuff it back in his screaming mouth, but he keeps his voice quiet, measured.

He's screaming on the inside, but he shoves it away.

They say the investigation is closed, because it doesn't exist, that he has no choice but to comply, but that's not true. He's got a choice, always has a choice, and right now, he chooses to believe that Steve will bring Wo Fat in.

Except they're saying that plane doesn't exist, either.

It's not that something cracks. It's not that he gets suddenly swallowed by misery and fear. It's more like a noose tightening around his chest as his face crumples and he struggles to keep in control.

It could be a threat. A warning.

Or it could be that that plane is at the bottom of the ocean right now, along with everyone inside.

He has to wet his lips once, twice, his mouth dry, throat so tight he can barely get the words out, seeing nothing but his own despair and rising rage. If they --

"Listen to me." He's so reasonable. Steve, Steve would expect nothing else. By the book. Steve, who is not dead right now. Steve, who had better fucking be the indestructible SEAL who can get out of anything, ever. Cargo pants and stupid smiles and overly violent tendencies and the twisting knot in Danny's stomach that comes with the realization that there is nothing that he can do to get to him.

"Ah, if anything happens to that plane." His voice is barely there, a whisper of a threat that makes it so much more real than any bluster could. "I promise you, I'm gonna find you. And I'm gonna kill you. Okay?"

If Steve is dead, he will not stop. There won't be any force on this Earth that can keep him from putting a bullet in each and every one of these men.

The smack he gets for his threat isn't even felt. It's nothing compared to the pain collapsing his chest.

"We're the good guys," Suit Number One says, and he has to keep swallowing, breath shallow and rapid, his face continuing to try crumpling.

"The good guys." He looks to his friend, feeling panic trying to well up from some deep, dark pit in his stomach.  "What did you do, good guys?"

Did they do it already?  Are they just screwing with him?  He's going to break this guy's face in, and enjoy it, but it won't solve the way his stomach has dropped out from under him.

Nothing.  That's the answer.  Is the plane still in the air?  What does nothing mean?  Is it nothing because it's all over and everything's been swept under the rug?

Nothing is what he can do, though, tied to a chair, brought to an unknown location, no phone, no sidearm, nothing.

And nothing is what he gets when they all leave.  Nothing fills his stomach, that spreading hole in his chest.

Steve.

So, he feels like he's just played footstool to an elephant. 

Everything hurts.  His chest hurts, his back hurts, his ribcage feels like somebody stuck a key in his spine and tightened the whole thing up a few thousand notches.  His head hurts.  His throat hurts.  He wishes like hell he'd gotten some more drugs before checking out, but they were screwing with his head, making everything fuzzy and inconsequential, blurry like that time Gracie got him to go on the swings at Ocean City and the world started spinning like a top.

What he really wants to do is complain, but there's nobody to complain to at home.  Grace is with Rachel, and Rachel is...not something he can think about right now, so he concentrates on how many aches he has, gets to somewhere around ninety before he even turns the key in the Camaro, checks his watch.  Sang Min's in protective custody by now, must be, even though he wasn't allowed to go with Steve and Chin to lock him up.  Even though he's fine.  Maybe he feel's like a soccer ball after bouncing through a stampede, but that doesn't mean he isn't completely, one hundred percent, back to himself.

Steven.

He has to adjust the driver's seat, because while he was incapacitated, Steve was -- surprise, surprise -- driving his car.  Once again.  Perfectly serviceable truck, the guy's got, but does he ever drive it?  No.  Of course not.  That would make sense, ergo, Steven chooses to ignore it completely.

Seat, radio, and mirrors adjusted, he finally pulls out, tugging at the knot of his tie to loosen it -- just a little, just enough to make breathing easier, because for a second there, he thought he actually wasn't going to be able to pull air into his lungs ever again, and it was miserable, like drowning on dry land.  The button of his collar feels like it's pressing too close to his skin, and he can see Steve's blurry face hovering over his again, can hear his name being said over and over again, frantic.

That's why he pauses once he's parked in the driveway, just to take a second to breathe, humid Hawaii air soothing against his rough throat, head tipped back against the seat, eyes focused on that picture of Grace Steve said was allowed to stay in the car. 

God, she's so beautiful.  His little angel.  God bless Steve for bringing her to the hospital and giving him something to hold onto while swimming back up out of the nausea and pain.

Speaking of Steve, he's got no idea if the guy's home or not; couldn't even pinpoint exactly why he's here instead of home, anyway, except that home is empty and he's had enough of tiny, silent rooms, thank you very much.  He wants somebody to argue with, and Steve just happens to be the best combatant he knows.

It's frustrating, trying to walk with his usual confident swinging steps; his feet want to stumble and his legs want to move slowly, but he makes it up to the door just fine, lets himself in because Steve hates it when he does that, and knocks along the wall as he comes into the house.

"Hey.  Special delivery.  Anybody here order a pizza?  No?  Good, because I don't have one."