Where has he been the last month? Where has he. That thought alone, annoyed and a little too cold, cuts, even shoved back toward the darkness at the back of his headed, in kier than anything filling up this room. But not fast enough. Not to miss this catalog of things too big to fit in the passing second.
His m-- Doris. Japan, and the plane she left on here. Malia's slowly fading wounds, and the grimness that learned to leave Chin's face, but stayed, stubborn in his dark eyes. Kono, skittish and ready to thrust herself even harder into the job. Danny, more tense and ragged, stepping away for phone calls that frequently returned him in a worse mood. Max's physical therapy recovery reports still sliding, silent but necessary, across his desk.
The normal psychopaths and killers of a given week, whom booking and locking away did not ease the ever present knowledge Delano and Wo Fat were out there. Already at work at whatever they would both be doing next. Each as dead a trail as the other.
And this. Him and Danny. At the end of terrible and surprisingly good days. Not enough that it had a pattern to itself. But. Semi-constant. Which Danny rolls on saying hasn't changed the whole time. Then. Maybe he was wrong? Maybe he was just reaching? After that entire scene at the bar that hadn't happened before either. When he'd never expected that to happen. Maybe something. Not that. Not all of those emotions, sharp words, shoving himself in between Steve and anyone else in the room.
That had been, alright. New. Different. Maybe wrongfully, but still, amazing.
When he can't keep himself from moving. Fingertips against Danny's neck, pulling him back closer, with the hand across his jaw. It'd would be so much easier to miss him or tell him to stop talking and then do as much. Retreat as quickly as possible from this insane, wordless tension mounting in his center. But when has he ever been good at it. Holding back. Breathing. Planninog to survive a situation.
Even himself.
When there's slightly more challenge, eyebrows raising, "Seriously? You're going to call all of that earlier normal?"
The word slips out too pressed. Maybe he needs to hear it was, if it was. If -- in everything else he's got in a choke hold not to forget any second of Danny he can help fading even slightly from this month -- it is just all nothing. Normal. What Danny does. At least he'd know.
When somehow that gives him the opposite feeling of this whole night so far.
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His m-- Doris. Japan, and the plane she left on here. Malia's slowly fading wounds, and the grimness that learned to leave Chin's face, but stayed, stubborn in his dark eyes. Kono, skittish and ready to thrust herself even harder into the job. Danny, more tense and ragged, stepping away for phone calls that frequently returned him in a worse mood. Max's physical therapy recovery reports still sliding, silent but necessary, across his desk.
The normal psychopaths and killers of a given week, whom booking and locking away did not ease the ever present knowledge Delano and Wo Fat were out there. Already at work at whatever they would both be doing next. Each as dead a trail as the other.
And this. Him and Danny. At the end of terrible and surprisingly good days. Not enough that it had a pattern to itself. But. Semi-constant. Which Danny rolls on saying hasn't changed the whole time. Then. Maybe he was wrong? Maybe he was just reaching? After that entire scene at the bar that hadn't happened before either. When he'd never expected that to happen. Maybe something. Not that. Not all of those emotions, sharp words, shoving himself in between Steve and anyone else in the room.
That had been, alright. New. Different. Maybe wrongfully, but still, amazing.
When he can't keep himself from moving. Fingertips against Danny's neck, pulling him back closer, with the hand across his jaw. It'd would be so much easier to miss him or tell him to stop talking and then do as much. Retreat as quickly as possible from this insane, wordless tension mounting in his center. But when has he ever been good at it. Holding back. Breathing. Planninog to survive a situation.
Even himself.
When there's slightly more challenge, eyebrows raising, "Seriously? You're going to call all of that earlier normal?"
The word slips out too pressed. Maybe he needs to hear it was, if it was. If -- in everything else he's got in a choke hold not to forget any second of Danny he can help fading even slightly from this month -- it is just all nothing. Normal. What Danny does. At least he'd know.
When somehow that gives him the opposite feeling of this whole night so far.