He knows it's not gone. The way he knows Danny, and that Danny hardly lets anything go that fast. Not unless he's gotten to yell so fast and loud and pointed it begs to echo in the car. Which he hasn't. It's somewhere in check. It's in the set do his shoulders and the way he holds his jaw, while Steve is stepping back to one of the side tables, picking up his pint and drinking while he's watching his partner.
It's not fair, he knows. He told Danny it wouldn't be. Fair. Easy. Uncomplicated. Or said something near enough, while Danny blew him off saying he got this. Like he got anything about it. Like anything with Rachel or Gabby or the long line of tiny, dark haired women who led him around ever existed in a fashion where he couldn't step in, couldn't say a handful of definitive, unmistakable words.
He doesn't know what he would do if he could do them, or if he'd do anything at all. He doesn't always. You can trust Danny to blow over, like a volcano, too. Half the time he lets things fizzle themselves out around cases, too. At least about most subjects and flash reactions to things especially done by Steve that he newly hates each day. Things that aren't Grace. Still it sticks under his skin, like a teetering balance, watching him now, pretending he doesn't want it back.
That blade sharp, disregard of another person because it's so clear on him. That would be insane.
He makes his gaze follow the table. The cue ball. The stripes. Take stock of how Danny plays. Where he shifts his weight. How he shoots. It's not an excuse. To let his eyes glide along the length of his knock, fluttering pulse and shadowed skin, from shoulders that settle before each of those shots. Focusing through whatever all is going on in his head. That Steve would pay so much for a single glance at.
He's not bad, honestly.
When he's definitely not vetoing billards lighting from the places Danny's hair looks best (which is still unrivaled, about an hour past sunrise, disastrously rumpled by the pillow and still fast asleep, golden with sunlight, like rest of him, so that he looks entirely unreal, painfully impossible, utterly undeserved), and watching the table. Of course. The table. When he doesn't get his third anymore than Steve.
"Not bad." Which is still less complimentary than it could. An amused smirk like somehow Danny was displaying he knew how to do something surprising the whole rest if the world got. "Where'd you say you learned do this?"
The pint went back down and Steve walked back toward the table. He looked across the scattered ones every which way, comparing distances and complicated shots, before nodding. It's another not too bad one. The one lined up off a bumper, that should shoot straight toward the hole if he could hit the outside of it hard enough, but not so hard it would roll into the bumper first.
"One, corner left." Closer to the end he hadn't been earlier. When its not that hard to do this one. Angle it correctly, tap the side and listen to it slam in. But leaving the cue ball at the end of the table without much there still. So he was considering the other part of the table. Shot from here, free fingers brushing his chin, before he pointed.
"Seven, left side pocket, off the bumper." Two to be precise. The right side and the top. When he's giving Danny a pleased sort of smirk that slips fast into a determined set, before he's leaning. Readjusting for the cue stick again, along free of his side, focusing out all but most of the noise on the white. Lulling back and forward, once, twice, before it snaps the ball.
Which flies forward. Hits the first bumper across from him. Riding the angle for the top center. Slams it and keeps going. Rolling, rolling. Impacting the seven and sending it at a medium gait directly into the pocket.
Getting a bright, blown, whistle from not enough far away.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2012-11-27 06:35 pm (UTC)It's not fair, he knows. He told Danny it wouldn't be. Fair. Easy. Uncomplicated. Or said something near enough, while Danny blew him off saying he got this. Like he got anything about it. Like anything with Rachel or Gabby or the long line of tiny, dark haired women who led him around ever existed in a fashion where he couldn't step in, couldn't say a handful of definitive, unmistakable words.
He doesn't know what he would do if he could do them, or if he'd do anything at all. He doesn't always. You can trust Danny to blow over, like a volcano, too. Half the time he lets things fizzle themselves out around cases, too. At least about most subjects and flash reactions to things especially done by Steve that he newly hates each day. Things that aren't Grace. Still it sticks under his skin, like a teetering balance, watching him now, pretending he doesn't want it back.
That blade sharp, disregard of another person because it's so clear on him. That would be insane.
He makes his gaze follow the table. The cue ball. The stripes. Take stock of how Danny plays. Where he shifts his weight. How he shoots. It's not an excuse. To let his eyes glide along the length of his knock, fluttering pulse and shadowed skin, from shoulders that settle before each of those shots. Focusing through whatever all is going on in his head. That Steve would pay so much for a single glance at.
He's not bad, honestly.
When he's definitely not vetoing billards lighting from the places Danny's hair looks best (which is still unrivaled, about an hour past sunrise, disastrously rumpled by the pillow and still fast asleep, golden with sunlight, like rest of him, so that he looks entirely unreal, painfully impossible, utterly undeserved), and watching the table. Of course. The table. When he doesn't get his third anymore than Steve.
"Not bad." Which is still less complimentary than it could. An amused smirk like somehow Danny was displaying he knew how to do something surprising the whole rest if the world got. "Where'd you say you learned do this?"
The pint went back down and Steve walked back toward the table. He looked across the scattered ones every which way, comparing distances and complicated shots, before nodding. It's another not too bad one. The one lined up off a bumper, that should shoot straight toward the hole if he could hit the outside of it hard enough, but not so hard it would roll into the bumper first.
"One, corner left." Closer to the end he hadn't been earlier. When its not that hard to do this one. Angle it correctly, tap the side and listen to it slam in. But leaving the cue ball at the end of the table without much there still. So he was considering the other part of the table. Shot from here, free fingers brushing his chin, before he pointed.
"Seven, left side pocket, off the bumper." Two to be precise. The right side and the top. When he's giving Danny a pleased sort of smirk that slips fast into a determined set, before he's leaning. Readjusting for the cue stick again, along free of his side, focusing out all but most of the noise on the white. Lulling back and forward, once, twice, before it snaps the ball.
Which flies forward. Hits the first bumper across from him. Riding the angle for the top center. Slams it and keeps going. Rolling, rolling. Impacting the seven and sending it at a medium gait directly into the pocket.
Getting a bright, blown, whistle from not enough far away.