Grumbled, but good-natured, mainly, if curious, because Steve's glee seems to have bled all away and that's -- that's not what he wanted, at all, and right in this second, Danny would put up with a dozen girls all vying for Steve's attention if it would get that brilliancy back in his face, the tease back in his voice.
To let him enjoy his evening, for once.
At least Steve's not arguing Danny coming in with him, which is good, right, which is a start to figuring out if things are still what they were a few hours ago, yesterday, last week, because it's one thing for girls to be throwing themselves at Steve and another one for this to have taken a turn for the unwanted.
But Steve's not arguing anything, which is sometimes a sign he's in a good mood and sometimes one that he's getting stuck in his own crazy head, and the way his shoulders are set, the way he's not grinning anymore, the way there's a minute pause in his steps once he opens the door and lets them into the house all set off warning bells in Danny's head that, really, seriously, he was hoping to avoid tonight.
That was part of the point of getting out to begin with, the way this house has been weighing on Steve ever since he came back from Japan without Joe and with Doris, and Danny hates it. It's a low-boiling hate that he's not allowed to let off the handle, that snaps extra aggression into every conversation with his lawyer, every fight with Rachel. This is always here, niggling at the back of his skull, impossible to fix, impossible to ignore, and it just shovels coal onto the banked fire still smoldering in his chest.
All of it focusing on the tattoo he can see, edging out of Steve's sleeve. The one the girl complimented, and traced. That Lani kept looking at, like she wanted to do more than track each line with her fingertip.
That might not have existed at all, if Steve hadn't gone into the service. Which he might not have done, if his father hadn't sent him away. If.
His hand reaches through the quiet dark of the front room, finds Steve's arm, just above his elbow. Jealousy and fury and the angry, confused hurt of the last few hours, month, striking up like a snake. Hauling him back, as if Steve were really on his way somewhere else. "Where are you going, huh?"
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Grumbled, but good-natured, mainly, if curious, because Steve's glee seems to have bled all away and that's -- that's not what he wanted, at all, and right in this second, Danny would put up with a dozen girls all vying for Steve's attention if it would get that brilliancy back in his face, the tease back in his voice.
To let him enjoy his evening, for once.
At least Steve's not arguing Danny coming in with him, which is good, right, which is a start to figuring out if things are still what they were a few hours ago, yesterday, last week, because it's one thing for girls to be throwing themselves at Steve and another one for this to have taken a turn for the unwanted.
But Steve's not arguing anything, which is sometimes a sign he's in a good mood and sometimes one that he's getting stuck in his own crazy head, and the way his shoulders are set, the way he's not grinning anymore, the way there's a minute pause in his steps once he opens the door and lets them into the house all set off warning bells in Danny's head that, really, seriously, he was hoping to avoid tonight.
That was part of the point of getting out to begin with, the way this house has been weighing on Steve ever since he came back from Japan without Joe and with Doris, and Danny hates it. It's a low-boiling hate that he's not allowed to let off the handle, that snaps extra aggression into every conversation with his lawyer, every fight with Rachel. This is always here, niggling at the back of his skull, impossible to fix, impossible to ignore, and it just shovels coal onto the banked fire still smoldering in his chest.
All of it focusing on the tattoo he can see, edging out of Steve's sleeve. The one the girl complimented, and traced. That Lani kept looking at, like she wanted to do more than track each line with her fingertip.
That might not have existed at all, if Steve hadn't gone into the service. Which he might not have done, if his father hadn't sent him away. If.
His hand reaches through the quiet dark of the front room, finds Steve's arm, just above his elbow. Jealousy and fury and the angry, confused hurt of the last few hours, month, striking up like a snake. Hauling him back, as if Steve were really on his way somewhere else. "Where are you going, huh?"