He kind of feels like he's just treading water, here, as waves wash over his head, one after another, and he's not sure whether he's more pissed off at Steve for dangling information in front of her like a carrot, or for leading her into further conversation, or just for allowing this to happen at all. "Imagine what that would be like, getting easier as it goes."
Oh, sure. Some parts do. There are some things that only come with time and experience: the ability to sniff out a lie, trust in your own instincts, interrogation techniques. It's a process, and you learn on the job as much or more than in the Academy.
But easier? No. It never gets easier. His ability to deal with it, maybe, improves, but there's still nothing that hits like having to inform the next of kin, nothing that prepares you for the shock of losing a friend or colleague to the vagaries of criminal violence. Years of working homicide in Jersey, two more in Five-0, and some things hit just as hard as they always have.
Not that he particularly wants to get into a discussion of their jobs with this girl, doing her best to keep Steve's attention on her. It's in the pose; the way she leans on her cue, props a hand on her hip, all long legs and dark eyes and flashing smile.
Not that any of that is what makes Steve miss his shot.
Right?
"Lawyers," he says, just to get back in the game, aware that he's scrambling, a little, jumping in where he's not wanted, but he can't. Not. Has this thing, shoving at the inside of his chest, pushing him in, dragging him around like the comically oversized canes used to tug vaudeville performers off a stage. "They're the worst. I can't imagine working for one. No wonder you're out here; they have the tendency to make me want to drink, too."
Especially right now, when he feels like he's bleeding both money and actual blood, both of which are attracting sharks of a less literal sort than the one they ran into out on the water, a thought which simultaneously does nothing to improve his mood and makes him want to check his phone, just in case someone -- Rachel, her lawyer, his lawyer -- called.
Because that would be just about the cherry on top of the sundae of misery that this evening is turning into.
no subject
He kind of feels like he's just treading water, here, as waves wash over his head, one after another, and he's not sure whether he's more pissed off at Steve for dangling information in front of her like a carrot, or for leading her into further conversation, or just for allowing this to happen at all. "Imagine what that would be like, getting easier as it goes."
Oh, sure. Some parts do. There are some things that only come with time and experience: the ability to sniff out a lie, trust in your own instincts, interrogation techniques. It's a process, and you learn on the job as much or more than in the Academy.
But easier? No. It never gets easier. His ability to deal with it, maybe, improves, but there's still nothing that hits like having to inform the next of kin, nothing that prepares you for the shock of losing a friend or colleague to the vagaries of criminal violence. Years of working homicide in Jersey, two more in Five-0, and some things hit just as hard as they always have.
Not that he particularly wants to get into a discussion of their jobs with this girl, doing her best to keep Steve's attention on her. It's in the pose; the way she leans on her cue, props a hand on her hip, all long legs and dark eyes and flashing smile.
Not that any of that is what makes Steve miss his shot.
Right?
"Lawyers," he says, just to get back in the game, aware that he's scrambling, a little, jumping in where he's not wanted, but he can't. Not. Has this thing, shoving at the inside of his chest, pushing him in, dragging him around like the comically oversized canes used to tug vaudeville performers off a stage. "They're the worst. I can't imagine working for one. No wonder you're out here; they have the tendency to make me want to drink, too."
Especially right now, when he feels like he's bleeding both money and actual blood, both of which are attracting sharks of a less literal sort than the one they ran into out on the water, a thought which simultaneously does nothing to improve his mood and makes him want to check his phone, just in case someone -- Rachel, her lawyer, his lawyer -- called.
Because that would be just about the cherry on top of the sundae of misery that this evening is turning into.