He keeps his fingers in Steve's hair, but they're lighter, now, less a rub and more just a presence, smoothing over coarse, clipped strands, over gray speckles he can't actually see in the dark. And he's considering it. Just telling Steve to sleep. Breathe. Relax, let it all soak into him like bathwater: the dark, the peace, the calm that suffuses the island even when they can't touch it themselves. It's always there. Something beautiful and rich, something to do with the inevitability of the ocean, of beautiful weather, of sunshine and rainbows.
It's too much for him; he likes the bustle of cities and the noise of civilization, misses the hard gray reality of Newark and Manhattan, but right now, just now, here like this, he can appreciate the way Hawaii seems to tell everyone loving there to just chill. Lie back. Let it all just roll over, like a wave, like the perpetually rising sun. Even the persistent wash of the waves isn't as aggravating when it's blending with Steve's breath.
Look. He can't promise they won't get punched in the face with some new crisis or horror, maybe in the morning, maybe in a few minutes. It's possible. Maybe even probable. SO he can't say that this is all okay, that everything is fine and will continue to be fine, because it's not and it won't. Steve still has the reality of his mother to wrap his head around. Danny's still got Rachel and Grace to worry about. Malia is still recovering. And Kono -- she seems okay, but how okay can she really be when her Yakuza boyfriend is trying to revamp his public and not-so-public persona?
So is it any surprise that he wants to hold onto this, that he wants to let Steve have it, too? Steve, more than half curled into him, face tucked into the crook of Danny's shoulder and neck so he can feel every breath, feel the way it inflates an expansive, fragile glass balloon in his chest. Something huge and awkward, stumbling about on coltish legs, prone to tripping, but not shattering, not yet. Glowing too brilliantly to look at head on.
Yeah. He's the last person to tell Steve to wake up and face the world again. Someone's got to take that stand, and it might as well be him.
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It's too much for him; he likes the bustle of cities and the noise of civilization, misses the hard gray reality of Newark and Manhattan, but right now, just now, here like this, he can appreciate the way Hawaii seems to tell everyone loving there to just chill. Lie back. Let it all just roll over, like a wave, like the perpetually rising sun. Even the persistent wash of the waves isn't as aggravating when it's blending with Steve's breath.
Look. He can't promise they won't get punched in the face with some new crisis or horror, maybe in the morning, maybe in a few minutes. It's possible. Maybe even probable. SO he can't say that this is all okay, that everything is fine and will continue to be fine, because it's not and it won't. Steve still has the reality of his mother to wrap his head around. Danny's still got Rachel and Grace to worry about. Malia is still recovering. And Kono -- she seems okay, but how okay can she really be when her Yakuza boyfriend is trying to revamp his public and not-so-public persona?
So is it any surprise that he wants to hold onto this, that he wants to let Steve have it, too? Steve, more than half curled into him, face tucked into the crook of Danny's shoulder and neck so he can feel every breath, feel the way it inflates an expansive, fragile glass balloon in his chest. Something huge and awkward, stumbling about on coltish legs, prone to tripping, but not shattering, not yet. Glowing too brilliantly to look at head on.
Yeah. He's the last person to tell Steve to wake up and face the world again. Someone's got to take that stand, and it might as well be him.