Yeah, that much is obvious. When the hell has Steve ever decided to make Danny's life easier, exactly? Definitely not tonight, when he'd all but invited Hawaiian Resort Barbie over to hang out for their game, and Danny seriously has to wonder just what the hell, exactly, is going through his head, and considers the actual possibility that he might, for once, get to drive his own car tonight.
Which is about the last thing he wants. Which is sick.
"Thanks, buddy," he says, and he thinks it comes off as passably casual, despite the waves beating against his temples and the low-grade burn of pain lancing up his back from the way his muscles aren't loosening, even a little. "Glad to know you've got my back."
Stupid. It's so stupid. The way he can't focus as he leans to take this shot that Steve has made so annoyingly convoluted for him, how it actually takes him a few seconds to try and find any sort of quiet spot in his mind.
And it should be easy. Clear. Like shooting Peterson in the leg. You aim, pull the trigger. Exist in a second of clarity, while the world screams from outside walls of bulletproof glass. And he can do it. If he can do it on the job, furious and sick with worry and holding back just enough to not put that bullet in someone's head, he can finish a goddamn game of pool, and make this shot.
Almost there. Just about to make his move, when Lani's voice comes from somewhere nearby, and he glances up just in time to trace her line of sight from the middle of Steve's chest back up to his face, and he actually feels gutted. Like a fish, innards spilling everywhere while he flops around, helpless, paralyzed, nerves sliced apart. Followed by a quick glance to Steve, before he's staring at those two stripes by the far pocket again, stubborn, like focusing on the game will mean he won't hear whatever it is Steve has to say, because, come on, it's not like it's his opinion she wants.
Steve, who is almost definitely going to win, even when Danny manages to haul himself back from the brink and make the shot, cue trundling along the green field to bump one into the other, sending them both tipping neatly into the pocket and leaving him with a terrible shot, the cueball nudged right up to the bumper.
Which means it's just about it for him, since it wrecks his chances at getting a decent shot, and that means Steve will win, and Lani will stick around to play him, and Danny will, who knows, go back to the bar and see how many shots it takes to make this feeling float away.
Or stay here and be a dick about it, but whatever, he's not much of a planner, he thinks on the fly, and right now, as the cue ball spins away from the bumper and taps another stripe without sinking it, he'd rather not think about it.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2012-11-28 05:02 am (UTC)Which is about the last thing he wants. Which is sick.
"Thanks, buddy," he says, and he thinks it comes off as passably casual, despite the waves beating against his temples and the low-grade burn of pain lancing up his back from the way his muscles aren't loosening, even a little. "Glad to know you've got my back."
Stupid. It's so stupid. The way he can't focus as he leans to take this shot that Steve has made so annoyingly convoluted for him, how it actually takes him a few seconds to try and find any sort of quiet spot in his mind.
And it should be easy. Clear. Like shooting Peterson in the leg. You aim, pull the trigger. Exist in a second of clarity, while the world screams from outside walls of bulletproof glass. And he can do it. If he can do it on the job, furious and sick with worry and holding back just enough to not put that bullet in someone's head, he can finish a goddamn game of pool, and make this shot.
Almost there. Just about to make his move, when Lani's voice comes from somewhere nearby, and he glances up just in time to trace her line of sight from the middle of Steve's chest back up to his face, and he actually feels gutted. Like a fish, innards spilling everywhere while he flops around, helpless, paralyzed, nerves sliced apart. Followed by a quick glance to Steve, before he's staring at those two stripes by the far pocket again, stubborn, like focusing on the game will mean he won't hear whatever it is Steve has to say, because, come on, it's not like it's his opinion she wants.
Steve, who is almost definitely going to win, even when Danny manages to haul himself back from the brink and make the shot, cue trundling along the green field to bump one into the other, sending them both tipping neatly into the pocket and leaving him with a terrible shot, the cueball nudged right up to the bumper.
Which means it's just about it for him, since it wrecks his chances at getting a decent shot, and that means Steve will win, and Lani will stick around to play him, and Danny will, who knows, go back to the bar and see how many shots it takes to make this feeling float away.
Or stay here and be a dick about it, but whatever, he's not much of a planner, he thinks on the fly, and right now, as the cue ball spins away from the bumper and taps another stripe without sinking it, he'd rather not think about it.