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Jul. 3rd, 2012 07:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
haole_copHe'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.
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.
