"You know, as appealing as that sounds, I sincerely hope she beats you. That would be beautiful."
The dangling promise of a second game doesn't help his mood much, beyond a sullen snap of electricity against thunderous black clouds. He's wishing he'd never thought to come here to begin with; in retrospect, it seems like a terrible idea. Who wants to be surrounded by people, loud music, irritating conversation. Who needs the aggravation?
It doesn't help that Steve is apparently enjoying the hell out of it all, cracking jokes and needling Danny like always, as Lani toys with her cue and tucks a satisfied little smile away at the corner of her mouth, and great. Third wheel is pretty much exactly the place he least wants to be, isn't it bad enough that Cath is still around, seemingly on endless R&R, and keeps popping up when he least expects it? Leading them into awkward standstills of conversation, where he doesn't know what to do or think, and ends up just bypassing it altogether in impatience, citing work as an excuse.
Lani leans in to break, and she's not bad. It's a clean crack, scattering the balls haphazard across the green felt, but though a few bounce off the bumpers, none sink, and she shrugs as she straightens, leaning back on her cue, while Danny struggles with the alternate feelings of being grateful that she's not good enough to be of much note, and annoyed that, if she were better, the game might take less time.
"So," she says, and it takes him a second to realize she's talking to him, which, okay, whatever. Not ignoring him is probably a good tactic, considering the fact he hasn't abandoned Steve to her yet and is thus far part of a package deal, "are you a cop, too?"
Like a hammer hitting his knee. "He's not a cop." Reflexive. Argued over hundreds of times. Steve's not. The whole idea is laughable. Getting better at procedure, yeah. Decent detective, absolutely. But Steve is a sailor, soldier, SEAL. Military through and through.
And because it hits a little sourly, mentioning work. Which chases them everywhere, even out to sea, and that is not the point of tonight, so he doesn't expand on it like he could, like he's tempted to, because, seriously, is one night off too much to ask?
Before he's half-turned towards Steve, gritting through the annoyance of having been made disposable, pasting a grin from somewhere across his face that doesn't feel too strained -- she might not even notice. "Me, definitely. What, isn't it obvious? How many times have people asked if I'm a cop? Too many, and usually the wrong people wanting to know. I'm starting to think it's something in my face. Or maybe I'm just the only person in Hawaii who doesn't dress like they're on vacation and people find that bizarrely suspicious. What are you waiting for?"
To Steve, along with an expansive wave of his hand, that almost feels correct. Weighted a little strangely.
no subject
The dangling promise of a second game doesn't help his mood much, beyond a sullen snap of electricity against thunderous black clouds. He's wishing he'd never thought to come here to begin with; in retrospect, it seems like a terrible idea. Who wants to be surrounded by people, loud music, irritating conversation. Who needs the aggravation?
It doesn't help that Steve is apparently enjoying the hell out of it all, cracking jokes and needling Danny like always, as Lani toys with her cue and tucks a satisfied little smile away at the corner of her mouth, and great. Third wheel is pretty much exactly the place he least wants to be, isn't it bad enough that Cath is still around, seemingly on endless R&R, and keeps popping up when he least expects it? Leading them into awkward standstills of conversation, where he doesn't know what to do or think, and ends up just bypassing it altogether in impatience, citing work as an excuse.
Lani leans in to break, and she's not bad. It's a clean crack, scattering the balls haphazard across the green felt, but though a few bounce off the bumpers, none sink, and she shrugs as she straightens, leaning back on her cue, while Danny struggles with the alternate feelings of being grateful that she's not good enough to be of much note, and annoyed that, if she were better, the game might take less time.
"So," she says, and it takes him a second to realize she's talking to him, which, okay, whatever. Not ignoring him is probably a good tactic, considering the fact he hasn't abandoned Steve to her yet and is thus far part of a package deal, "are you a cop, too?"
Like a hammer hitting his knee. "He's not a cop." Reflexive. Argued over hundreds of times. Steve's not. The whole idea is laughable. Getting better at procedure, yeah. Decent detective, absolutely. But Steve is a sailor, soldier, SEAL. Military through and through.
And because it hits a little sourly, mentioning work. Which chases them everywhere, even out to sea, and that is not the point of tonight, so he doesn't expand on it like he could, like he's tempted to, because, seriously, is one night off too much to ask?
Before he's half-turned towards Steve, gritting through the annoyance of having been made disposable, pasting a grin from somewhere across his face that doesn't feel too strained -- she might not even notice. "Me, definitely. What, isn't it obvious? How many times have people asked if I'm a cop? Too many, and usually the wrong people wanting to know. I'm starting to think it's something in my face. Or maybe I'm just the only person in Hawaii who doesn't dress like they're on vacation and people find that bizarrely suspicious. What are you waiting for?"
To Steve, along with an expansive wave of his hand, that almost feels correct. Weighted a little strangely.
"Shoot."