haole_cop | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

"All I'm saying is, if we'd stayed on land last week, the chances of us getting boat-jacked and left to die out in the middle of the ocean in a sinking boat -- I'm sorry, dinghy," his hand drops from where it had lifted, preemptively, to stop Steve from arguing, "dinghy, I know, I know -- would have been much more slim. I'd say that there would easily have been a zero percent chance of that happening. Mainly because one does not use boats -- or dinghies -- on land. Don't get me wrong, I fully accept the possibility of something else horrible happening. It always seems to, every time we leave civilization."

Which is why they are here. At a bar. Having a few drinks, while Danny eyes the pool table and the TV with equal amounts of casual interest, catching a few glimpses of the previous week's games and keeping an eye out for the Jets.

More to the point, as great as it is that Steve wants to show him his favorite hiking trails or mountainous drives or fishing spots from when he was a kid, the guy is already surrounded by memories of a life that, all of a sudden, turned out not have been necessary at all. The thought of Doris McGarrett, hiding out somewhere on the island, unapologetic for doing what she'd called necessary and what Danny counters was cruelty, makes rage spark low in his stomach and burn up through his chest, so they're out of the house that she'd left so miserable and broken twenty years ago and planted solidly in the present.

There are worse ways to wrap up a week. Actually being around other people, instead of opting for Steve's lanai or living room or kitchen. When, somehow, miraculously, Danny is still wanted there. Around. And they've fallen into something almost like normality.

He hasn't thought about it too hard. That's how you jinx a good thing, and this is good, a bright light shining somewhere in the cave of bullshit that collapsed around them the day Fryer was murdered and Shelburne turned out to be Steve's not-nearly-as-dead-as-she-had-previously-appeared-to-be mother. Add it all to the firestorm of a custody battle from hell, and, look, all he wants is a decent night out at a bar before, hopefully, going back tipsy to Steve's house and enjoying the comfort of his couch or bed.

Is that really so much to ask?

"Best to just resist the impulse to tempt fate, my friend."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Yeah, that much is obvious. When the hell has Steve ever decided to make Danny's life easier, exactly? Definitely not tonight, when he'd all but invited Hawaiian Resort Barbie over to hang out for their game, and Danny seriously has to wonder just what the hell, exactly, is going through his head, and considers the actual possibility that he might, for once, get to drive his own car tonight.

Which is about the last thing he wants. Which is sick.

"Thanks, buddy," he says, and he thinks it comes off as passably casual, despite the waves beating against his temples and the low-grade burn of pain lancing up his back from the way his muscles aren't loosening, even a little. "Glad to know you've got my back."

Stupid. It's so stupid. The way he can't focus as he leans to take this shot that Steve has made so annoyingly convoluted for him, how it actually takes him a few seconds to try and find any sort of quiet spot in his mind.

And it should be easy. Clear. Like shooting Peterson in the leg. You aim, pull the trigger. Exist in a second of clarity, while the world screams from outside walls of bulletproof glass. And he can do it. If he can do it on the job, furious and sick with worry and holding back just enough to not put that bullet in someone's head, he can finish a goddamn game of pool, and make this shot.

Almost there. Just about to make his move, when Lani's voice comes from somewhere nearby, and he glances up just in time to trace her line of sight from the middle of Steve's chest back up to his face, and he actually feels gutted. Like a fish, innards spilling everywhere while he flops around, helpless, paralyzed, nerves sliced apart. Followed by a quick glance to Steve, before he's staring at those two stripes by the far pocket again, stubborn, like focusing on the game will mean he won't hear whatever it is Steve has to say, because, come on, it's not like it's his opinion she wants.

Steve, who is almost definitely going to win, even when Danny manages to haul himself back from the brink and make the shot, cue trundling along the green field to bump one into the other, sending them both tipping neatly into the pocket and leaving him with a terrible shot, the cueball nudged right up to the bumper.

Which means it's just about it for him, since it wrecks his chances at getting a decent shot, and that means Steve will win, and Lani will stick around to play him, and Danny will, who knows, go back to the bar and see how many shots it takes to make this feeling float away.

Or stay here and be a dick about it, but whatever, he's not much of a planner, he thinks on the fly, and right now, as the cue ball spins away from the bumper and taps another stripe without sinking it, he'd rather not think about it.

Edited 2012-11-28 05:04 (UTC)

The last word of Danny's actually lands more to mark than Danny probably intended it, or maybe it smarts right where Danny actually did intend for it to, making Steve try to side step the giddy swing he can't, to focus on Danny's face. Fuming and tense, wondering where exactly it. That place. Somewhere between getting to tap on the glass of this new, glorious, utterly impossible thing -- Danny shoved overboard by an innocuous person, or, well, a few. Whatever.

Like there's any chance. Like he has anything to be concerned about. Like Steve gives a single care about anyone here. (In a way not related to the well being of their ability to continue taking on average seventy-two breaths a minute and sleeping in their beds, live their lives, in a state of relative fearlessness.)

Danny. Sparking like the center of a wildly malfunctioning firework. Because of her. Over him. Not looking at him.

And the point where he might, seriously, turn and rail at Steve. Angry and honest in the center of this place.

When Steve waits a few seconds to see if Danny is going to say anything to her question, deny for him, stake his ground, especially given that he'd been answering every single question fired Steve's way while at the bar, but he doesn't. He's just leaned over the table. That fitted shirt stretching tight across the span of his shoulders, as he focuses on the striped balls, and sinks two more in the same shot. Like he hasn't heard the question at all. Or doesn't care.

Neither of which Steve believes, but he looks back at her, shrugs, nonchalantly as if she asked about the weather. "Sure."

It'll only cost them, what? Ten-fifteen minutes of their night, and he'll win more like than not, and Danny will move back in the same way she is now midway though, and she might deserve something for being the point with which he's testing this insane theory against Danny, right? When he doesn't miss the small movement of Danny looking to her, but he's not sure what the expression on Danny's face is when he looks over here, again, finally.

For a moment, before it's gone. Danny's looking away, again. Steve doesn't know what it's supposed to be, edges pricking warmth.
It's entirely insane, isn't it? That somehow any of this matter at all? That on one level it'll make everything look more normal.

It's only ten or fifteen minutes. They've had dozens od stakeouts and undercover's that went days longer than that.

Steve finished his pint and dropped it back on the table, before walking back to the table, looking at the layout. Called his last ball and shot it from pretty much across the while table. Needing to hit only one side of it, hard enough to make is ricochet along a bumper and clatter into the dark insides of the table. Eyed the table, turned his attention toward the nine. Called it for one of the side pockets, and leaned down.

He connected with the cue ball and it went across hard, aimed easily for the center.

Edited 2012-11-28 06:08 (UTC)

There are a lot of responses he could make. Hand out. Ranging from the mildly dismissive to the outright rude, verging on an avalanche of words, all of which he could toss like darts at her head. Or, more likely, Steve's. Who accepts her challenge like he accepts every challenge ever laid across his path -- without question or much in the way of hesitation and, fine. They're at a bar, it's not unheard of, might even be the most normal way for this night to go, right?

What's one game of pool?

One game of pool that could easily turn into two, and drinks, and talking, and -- he is thinking way too hard about this, should just have cut her off like he did before, except that really? is sticking in his gullet like the scraping edge of a popcorn shell, and, fine, he might have been out of line before. It doesn't stop him wanting to shove his way back out there, again, when Lani is smiling at Steve's agreement and her eyes travel lazily over the flat line of his back as he leans to take his shot, and, really, couldn't she have some priors, a DUI, shoplifting, something little that he can call Chin and have him check?

"Your funeral," he tells her, the closest to conversational that he can drag, reluctant, cat claws catching the words along his ribs, and it comes out both flat and sharp, which he can't even feel guilty about, though he probably should. Manners, Daniel, says that voice in his head that still sounds like Rachel after all these years, which only makes him want to be even worse, because of all people to scold him, she has got the least possible amount of leg to stand on, and, Christ, he needs to get some air, or something, because this is all starting to spiral into something he really can't deal with, once Rachel comes into the mix.

"Knock yourself out," he adds, to the table at large, and sets his own cue against the rack, shaking his empty bottle. "I'm getting a refill."

He knows what he's doing. Knows the polite thing would be to point to Lani and ask what she's drinking, grab one for her, too, but he bypasses it, because she's already here, hell if he's giving her a reason to stick around further than the ones Steve is offering, which. It's not like he's exactly inviting, per se. He's not picking up what she's laying down, but he's definitely not pushing it off, either, and it's true. Maybe Danny should be paying more attention. Right? In the spirit of friendly competition, if nothing else, vying for the attention of a pretty girl, which he, seriously, could not care less about. He was never good at this part, anyway: too tongue-tied by the women who whacked him over the head at first glance, too impatient with the game to play it with anyone who didn't.

It would be natural. Acceptable. If he were to bring something back for her and throw himself into the mix. She's probably expecting it, even, it being the normal way of things. Obviously she's got her sights set on Steve, but it's part of the play, isn't it?

When he does. Want to shove his way in, stake a claim, plant his feet stubbornly and refuse to move -- but from the other side. Making it hard enough to peel away and head to the bar, fingers drumming on the slick surface as he waits for the 'tender to come by (without Steve around, she seems to be taking her sweet time), and then again for two more beers. Glancing around to see if Steve's cleared the table yet, before heading back that way, ending up somewhere between Steve and Lani, though she's around the corner from him. Putting Steve's fresh pint -- what? He can drink it or not, whatever, it's not like Danny wasn't going to be paying for his next drink anyway, regardless of what other offers might come in -- down within easy reach, and regarding the table and the two of them with a feeling of heading, once more, into the breach.

Fine. He can deal with this, dammit, but he's not going to make it easy. "So are you going to be a gentleman and let her break, or what? And, for the love of God," he puts his hands together, bottle in the way, but whatever, shakes them, almost close enough to let his fingertips brush Steve's arm.

"Do not make this unfortunate girl cough up seventy-five cents. I know you have at least that in you, right, Steven?"

Hypocritical, after he didn't get her a drink, or offer, or really do anything but reference her, but it's not like he's going to just be a non-entity in all this.

Edited 2012-11-28 16:31 (UTC)

Claws, sharp and long, scuttle up the back of his neck, not digging in, but dragging, hard and heavy up the nerve and muscles along his spine, when Danny announces he's going back to the bar. When that was never part of it. Danny walking away. Danny being anywhere away from him. Not even after or with his continued line of normal enough, annoyed snappy notes.

When he's casting a glance up as Danny is walking by. The words an announcement not a request, and he's really ending up catch a glance of his back when he'd wanted to see his face. When he has to hold it still, that confusing complaining jolt in his chest, just let his eyebrows rise and fall with a shrug of his shoulders, glancing toward the woman he's been left with, before be starts hitting Danny's balls.

Clear the table. Clean up the excess. Steady the nerves jangling like before any black mission's go mark.

"So, Steve," it comes after the clack of one, while he's already moving to get into the next sot for lining up another. Two left. "What do you do?"

He's sizing up the last one, to cast off bumpers. When he should just sink it and get on. When he wants these minutes to be over, even when his movement are clean. Tight coil of his arm. Wants to look over at Danny. Snap release of his shoulder, elbow wrist. Voice even and pretty lacking in arrogance. Straight forward, ho. "Head up the governor's HPD Task Force."

Not that Denning's got much say in how he ran his ship. Even now.

He doesn't need to look up to catch the surprise. To count the moment before there's a whistle like the one that announced her. When she's re-categorizing him in her head most likely. "Impressive."

Steve is almost tempted to give her a more stern blank look, for the word. It is. Not in the way her voice makes it sound. Like it's something flashy and amazing. It's back breaking hard important and it costs his team a lot in a lot of different ways, especially lately. But Danny appearing at his side completely derails that thought or any words to it. As does the pint that gets dropped not too far away, while Danny's voice runs over everything else. Needles and expression that begs him to complain about that drink or any of his insults.

When Steve is digging in his pocket, looking for the rack, sniping right back with a smirk breaking out, like it never left, like he couldn't for the life of him find any of those words to be holding the insults thrown at him. Not when he can nearly feel the electric charge in the few inches between them. "Don't be a sore loser, Danny. It's not pretty. If you're nicer I might even wipe the table with you, again, next."

He does. Actually. Have five quarters. Even if he's checked three pockets by the time he's gotten to three. Smug toward Danny, when he's plopping them in and starting to rack up. Looking up when he's raising it, saying "Ladies first," before stepping toward the side. Where his newly beading pint glass is. And Danny.

Edited 2012-11-28 18:17 (UTC)

"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.

"Shoot."

Edited 2012-11-28 19:11 (UTC)

Steve's mouth snaps, a hard quirk at the edges of it. Both of them firming in, lifting too fast and easy. Leaving him rolling his eyes, with a clipped shake of his head, while he's setting down his new pint and going to wipe slick fingers on his pants. Only to stop, reach out and wipe it against Danny's shirt sleeve, for his words, for the beer, for being a dick and goof, and someone he couldn't kiss.

But could absolutely aggravate for insulting him. "Thanks, partner."

When he can read the riot act tried to soak straight through those few words.

Words Steve is quite able to say for himself, and does at loud volume. They both do for wholly different reasons.

Like that scandalous mockery thrown all over them, as though putting Steve anywhere near his sacred little brotherhood is hilariously wrong. As though Steve still didn't see all this as a step-down from real work on certain days. Not lately, but sometimes. He'd still never claim to be it. He definitely wasn't a cop. He still hadn't even the slightest want to ever become one of them.

Lani, on the other hand, looks utterly confused. Like someone had thrown her out to sea without any warning. Looking between the two of them as Steve was walking back up, surveying the balls on the table, and really how easy it was going to be to beat her if her game looked like her breaking.

When she's bouncing her pool cue, looking like she's bright-eyedly caught him in a lie of some kind, that she could wield to make him explain why or why not, since this all looked like some rather interesting-in joke. "But I thought you said?"

"I did." He pointed to the twelve not far from the side pocket, like a handful still slumped in the middle due to her break, calling it.

"Then?"

"It's a special assignment." He called for the nine next. Not adding that it was. It had been, he had collected them all.

The original reason was beyond convoluted across two years. But they'd become something far bigger than what it had all started out as. Something worth staying for. Something he really didn't feel the need to point out to a random girl. No more than compelling to her about it, than he felt to tell them about the vast differences of where he came from.

The third isn't as easy. There's nothing specifically lined up. Instead he aims for the center. Breaking the pack of it up more.

"Ugh, you Neanderthal."

He makes a disgusted face and brushes at his own sleeve, after Steve's hand lifts, like he might be able to bat away the moisture wiped there, taking refuge in motion and reaction to quell the sudden lurch of his stomach that's got nothing to do with the fact that he's on his third beer in what is probably less than an hour. "Do I look like a napkin to you?"

On purpose, naturally. Danny didn't miss that little shift towards the hip of Steve's cargoes, so now he's just doing it to piss Danny off. So, business as usual, then, with the added bonus of a willing audience to grin every time Steve does something ridiculous, and for a second, all he wants is to warn her off, for her own sake and not his, because Steve is a nightmare, honestly, behind stupid goofy smiles that shine across the room like the sun rose early, behind dark blue eyes that crinkle when he's pleased, like now.

Even when Danny can hear the disinterest in his voice that's she's either ignoring or not getting, pressing her question while Steve slides around the table, eying shots

"Believe me," he says, "it's better not to know. Sometimes I think it's just a bad dream, myself."

A dirty lie. They've done too much good, taken out too many bad guys, saved too many people for him to think that's true, and that's not even counting the ways in which Five-0's become his family, the little, sometimes fragile, always fiercely loyal one he can depend on for anything, anytime, anywhere.

Even if his partner is systematically driving him crazy, tonight.

She shrugs, leans to take a shot, black hair falling over one shoulder in glossy waves. "Fair enough," she says, and the back of Danny;s neck prickles at the tilting smile she shoots at Steve. "Can't say a girl doesn't appreciate a little mystery."

He snorted into a laugh at the table, as Danny ranted in reaction. When there's no smallest bit of regret for having a reason to rub his hand on Danny's shirt. To watch the disbelief and disgust color his face, without one tiny bit of surprise. When it easy to just smile too much, and watch how his new opponent even chooses to view the table. Like it's mental chess match as much as pool.

His shoulders looser than in the while, when he's reaching up to rub at his neck while listening to Danny disdain the whole thing

Steve flicked a highly pointed, amused and highly disbelieving look at him, before he was tipping forward, leaning on the edge of the table, hands wrapping against bumper edges, without touching balls, leaning across a good bit of the table, and commenting back to Lani. Which might as well be like he's saying it directly to Danny, right?

They were often following and weaving into and out of each other's conversations,"Don't listen to him. That's all lies. He loves it."

Yeah, okay. So he can't really miss the way she's not focusing on her shot even a bit as he's demanding her attention with his half-lowered mock-secretive phrasing, but he still does glance at Danny twice while referencing him. When he can't help it. The challenging quirk of his eyebrows. Deny him. Tell him he's wrong. He'll still be right. Especially when Danny is fighting to keep this life, job, maybe even this.

Besides he'll win either way still. Even if Danny rolls into a rant about it over this suddenly.

Probably this game, without too much effort, when the short is distracted and goes off the wrong direction.

Edited 2012-11-29 03:34 (UTC)

"Incorrect."

It's like a hook. Snagging around his sternum, jerking him towards Steve, helpless as a bug caught in a porchlight. When it's all shining off of Steve like sunshine glimmering off water, and he just can't help it, can't stop it, the way it pools miserably in his stomach, ties itself in some stupidly convoluted knot that would earn a Boy Scout a badge. All of it, like a searchlight. Making it impossible to look away. Channeling the attention of the room, enough that Danny can feel it, like a changing current, when a few more people start looking their way.

He can't even fault Lani for screwing up her shot, when Steve's smiling that stupid smirk at her, eyes sparkling like he's got some great joke, like he wants her to pick up on this tease and rag on him about it, but she just blinks, looking a little swamped, while Danny's chest aches like someone's got a half-ton weight on it.

Love it? He hates it. Like he hates everything right now. The bar, the warm, dim lighting. Lani, shaking her hair back. And Steve. Most of all. Hating that stupid face, the joke, the way Steve glances at him, so amused with himself, like getting up under Danny's skin is the best possible thing he could be doing in this moment, while simultaneously charming and confusing the hell out of some poor local girl who has no idea what kind of mess she's walked into. Would look at the wreckage of the last month, and be speechless.

So, no, Steve, he doesn't love it. Like he doesn't love the way he is compelled to keep pushing into the conversation, before she can respond, before Steve asks or tells her anything else.

"That is an entirely erroneous assessment to make, see, this is why you need an actual detective," with a gesture to his own chest, more for the point than for Lani's benefit, but whatever, two birds, one stone, it works. "Around, because you make these statements -- pathetically untrue, by the way, what is there to like? You steal my car, we get shot at on a regular basis, and every now and again someone gets poisoned, kidnapped, or hijacked, just for kicks."

Already waving it off in Lani's direction. "No, I'm kidding, it's all very boring, really. Aside from the near-death experiences, those really have a way of keeping you on your toes."

Edited 2012-11-29 04:04 (UTC)

"You see what I have to put up with all day?" He's pointing at Danny, hand nearly crossing his chest, pointing toward Danny, with fingers arrange almost like a gun, that drop almost as fact as he's snorting. Skirting to the bottom of the table, and calling another short. Pausing, calling two. In completely separate pockets, half the table apart.

Leaning down, focusing, only to look up again, right before it might have connected. Just to shake his head, catching Danny's eye, when his mouth forms the word erroneously more than him actually saying it. When, even though he looks more distracted than he's been all night, stopping mid shot, he slips right back down, without resizing, calculating for the smaller cue and hits it with barely a second's reset.

Smiling smug as it hits a bumper, knocking the first ball down along that bumper a corner pocket, even as the cue heads for another bumper, before slamming another ball, sending it rolling toward a side pocket. Rolling in slower than the first, but still going in just as true.

When Lani watching it with the same awe that keeps coming and going, a little out of breath the way her small chuckle rattles out.

"You sure you need that whole half hour? I'm beginning to think you, all warmed up, might be something truly-" Except the way she says it, the smile the comes with it, says nothing about backing down at all, with that small pause in there on purpose. "-terrifying."

Edited 2012-11-29 04:33 (UTC)

"Shut up," he says, automatically, mouth running on autopilot while the rest of his body goes into mild shock at the glance Steve gives him.

Unfair. Stupid, stupid -- this is ridiculous, why is he even still here? Why stick around and watch Steve light up under the attention of some random stranger?

Why pretend to himself he even has the ability to pull away, huh? So who's the idiot, now? "What you put up with? I could do a rundown for you, of the stresses you have added to my life, but I think we'd run over closing time before I even got to the halfway point."

Easily. Particularly tonight, when he can think of a good ten, twelve, twenty, hundred other things. Like the way Lani, far from getting annoyed that her ass is being handed to her, smiles like this was her plan all along. Like the way his knuckles, when he looks down at them, are white against the brown glass of his beer bottle, hand doing its best to crush the thing. Like that pause she takes, head tipping slightly to the side, filling the air with promises that make Danny want to swat at them like mosquitoes, while it feels like he's breathing lead.

And there are so many things he could say. He doesn't even disagree. But "You have no idea," half grumbled into his beer bottle is the best he can do, feeling sick and annoyed and wishing they would at least put the Series on, or something, so he'd have something to watch other than...this. Flirtation. Whatever it is. Something like a bucket of cold water he can stick his head into, before it, like his bottle, threatens to just shatter.

Danny's ranting to a ramble he can't make out entirely over another set of words, just the low grumble.

It's wrong that even when he wants to hear it -- knows he's going to hear it whenever it is they get out of this place -- that it contorts across him so fast, burning through everything else. When he's grinning in-spite, and because of the malingering, warm water sloshing around the inside of his chest, and only slightly wanting to step closer. To be able to hear his words, smack them back with his own.

Not without looking like he's ignoring one for the other one thrown at him, when he idly considers choosing the opposite side of the table for more than one strategic reason, even if it cost him a shot. But he doesn't want it to. He doesn't really want to play below his game, or to drag this game out any longer than it has to go being a fair game. Especially when it easier. Slipping through like air, like old hat. When the game matters about as much as it doesn't matter.

But the words that she's saying, as clear cut and pointed as they can be, tug up at a wall of unmoved impatience. Not with her so much as this situation. He's in a good mood, all things considered. Which feels so rare, and easily shatter-able. He simply knows it could be better. Just not here. Not with this conversation. When he's angling for his shot, all sleek, smooth lines, unruffled half smile, and what he says, after he's calls it, is both.

"I'm okay," goldenly, easy dismissive. Like he isn't wiping the floor with her, or it wasn't a true enough compliment to be received as one, while another ball slides in without a hitch. "There were guys I trained with who were so good that giving them the table for more than a single turn meant you might as well hang up your boots."

People worth crashing and burning on dozens of times for that one time. Or second. For the spark of determined respect earned and kept there bleeding into other place. People long gone and dispersed into wind after numerous tours, and terms. People he hardly had a reason to draw back up to memory.

But he's looking up, seeing that question coming before it gets there, and stamps it off, barely breaking from his earlier words, and rolling it straight into a question, when he's barely looking up, at least as directly inquiring as a suspect might get, leaning into the table calling the last shot of of his eight. "What about you? What do you do with your days?"

Claiming that one, while talking, with relative ease, and turning his eyes toward the end shot. Calling it for a long shot.

"I'm a legal secretary," Lani said, shifting gears, determined beyond the shot of almost confused frustration, but seeming quite ready to talk about herself, given the opportunity. Still smiling, as she leaned on the table with hand and shifted her cue stick back and forth with the other. "About two years now. Definitely easier in the second year. Which is what most people say about jobs, right?"

Or not. When the cue ball hits it half an inch from where he needed it to, sending the eight ball sailing straight into the guard and hard back out into the rest of the table and most of the solid balls still scattered there.

"Is it?"

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.

Lani's giving Danny a wearing look, not quite reaching clear enough to a glare. Which Steve's catching, because he's looking over to as Danny's talking about lawyers with the still, sharp, edge creeping into his voice, and he gets it. Everything thing the single title drags up for him. As well as the fact she doesn't get Danny can complain about nearly anything that comes out of anyone's mouth, even when smiling. It's just him.

The same with the topics it unhelpfully pokes, making him tense-up more and fire off words like her profession offends.

"It's not that bad," Lani said, to Danny. The reproach slipping out more in her voice than the clarity of her face. Though Steve shifted, clearing his throat, drumming fingers on the side rail, maybe a little like he was bored or disinterested in watching where it might go, anything else she might say, "Your shot."

She's allowed to get on Danny's nerves. She's not allowed to start stirring up the water with Grace and the Edwards. There's only so much hell Danny needs to get shoved through, and someone else was not going to blunder into that even frowning at his reactions they had no idea what were based on.

He gives her a generic enough sort of smile, not missing the shift where she almost looks back to Danny, considers better of it, flips her hair instead and changes where she's standing while calling a shot that's rather well set up since the eight break. Which she does get, while Steve is not quite looking directly over at Danny. The second shot bombs though when she hits it too hard and sends it drunkenly seesawing the wrong way.

But she just shrugs with a raise of her hand, like it's silly and funny somehow.

Leaving it back in Steve's corner with a shot that actually isn't all that complicated for the eight. He calls for across the table almost entirely, in a straight line, not too far off the bumper. Just needing to knock one side of the ball and half it fall in, enough force but not too much, so it'll go without scratching behind it. Pull back, compensate for almost foot less stick than he licks, and let it roll.

Which, of course, sinks it in one, letting something between his shoulders shift and rearrange itself a little loser. Just the smallest notch. Even when Lani sounds self-satisfied pleased, like someone she won the game. "See. Terrifying. Another match? Or did you--?" This question does come with looking from Steve back to Danny.

Which is rather mirrored and even when Steve is looking at Danny from behind her, looking up from over the pool stick as he'd moved to hit the solids toward pockets. Something curious but still there, when the question is there even if his eyebrows don't raise. Because really whatever Danny wanted at this point, he'd probably be down for. Wherein probably was a very loose interpretation of a very obvious point.

He wouldn't beat off the option to be very far from this table. But, you know, if Danny wanted to stay and stake his side, he could.

Edited 2012-11-30 01:07 (UTC)

She doesn't like him.

Fair enough. The feeling's mutual, and he's happy to get into a discussion of the blood-sucking, bottom-feeding, emotional vampires calling themselves lawyers that he's know. Hell, he can't even stand his.

He'd be fine with that, vent a little of the aggression that's leaking into the air between them, when it's clear she thinks he should clear out so there aren't any more interruptions, but Steve steps in, and she thinks better of it, ends up just shaking her head and tossing back her hair and hitting her first decent shot of the night. It's not enough to save her, and Steve makes short work of that last shot, leaving Danny buzzing and confused and exasperated with the ghost of the glance Steve shot at him, like...what? He thinks Danny's about to lose his head at some annoying paralegal, just for being a little snippy about her job?

Please. She hasn't backed off so far, and she doesn't look like she's about to, either, even when she pauses, and glances at Danny, midway through her offer of another game.

He is, he knows, supposed to wave her off and tell her to go for it. Right? Or, maybe, agree to take the game, but let her stick around so she can concentrate on Steve and compliment him on winning (probably) again.

While his eyes slide over her shoulder, and meet Steve's, with the faint question in them, and, just for now, just for this second, it's like none of tonight happened, and they're across from each other in the war room; counting down outside a suspect's house; out on the lanai and surrounded by silence. Times when they don't actually need to ask questions, or can't, because there's no time or ability for words.

...It doesn't change anything, but at least it's Steve asking, and not her. "You know, I, uh, actually think I'm pretty done for the night." His smile draws tight and wry, and he tips his half-done beer bottle from side to side, free thumb jerking over his shoulder towards the door, and tries not to let his shoulders crack from the strain as she smiles, unable to hide it even when she's half-assing some pasted-on disappointment.

"Too bad," she says, but she's already turning to Steve, smile turned up to eleven, wattage threatening the lighting in the place. "Guess it's just you and me, then."

He wonders what it is he's hoping will come out of Danny's mouth, when the man hold's his gaze for a few beats before drawing up that tight smile. When he knows some of what's going on up there, but not all of it, and the muscles in the top of his stomach tense, the way they do when he's waiting for an explosion to sound. Because he's giving Danny the free reign to shove this whole thing even higher.

Except he sidesteps, sighting a decision to get out, and Steve feels himself breathe out for the first time in at least an hour. Letting him holding the air in the center as he starts shooting the pieces left on the table in a rather rapid succession trying not to part and parcel that way he'd looked back. When the warmth in his center is more like hot burning embers and less like a fire threatening to burst free.

Especiall when Danny face looks a little pained, and that's a dual edged knife and flood of warmth in his center. Because it looks like Danny thinks he gets to bow out gracefully somehow. Like they didn't come in one car, and wouldn't be leaving that way. The same way. With Danny ranting at the windshield about the newest thing to slice his skin open and pour a gallon of salt in.

When Lani's turning back to him triumphant, and he's wondering if she realizes she really hasn't asked him if he's staying.

Either time. That the assumption there was that, of course Steve would. When he probably shouldn't find a little pressing amusement in the very plain way he says, after the crack of the three, clearing the last ball from the whole table. "Actually that it's for me, too."

"Really?" There's such a surprised, up tilted, flash to a pout to that, as Lani leaned on her cue looking shocked by crestfallen.

She doesn't give him the chance to say anything else, which is probably good, because he's really not sure he could manage grinding out you kids have fun with even a passable degree of believability, and he's already considering the bleak outlook of a night alone in his shithole apartment, with no Steve and no Grace. Driving his own car, alone, with the mental image of Lani sidling a little closer to Steve with every shot she takes eat away at the base of his skull, drops of acid burning a hole right through his chest.

Not the way he'd hoped for the evening to go, but, hey, Steve looks a hell of a lot more cheerful now, and that was the point, even if this is so far from -- anything. Everything. He'd just wanted to get some time out of the house. Away from memories, and the heavy weight of them Steve's been carrying around, dragging like Marley's chains. Out, to a bar, for once, where's the harm in that?

Well, here it is, and he should have known better, but he didn't, and now he's going to leave alone, and Steve is going to finish up this game and then go too.

Wait, what?

Lani's surprise has nothing on Danny's. He feels like the floor's disintegrated beneath his shoes, and Steve, that asshole, is just shrugging it all off: her bemusement, Danny's confusion. Like it was a foregone conclusion. "Good timing," is all he says, blank and feeling it, wondering just what the hell is happening, here.

The stupefaction of that gut wrenching expression trying not to escape Danny's control (that on he somehow hasn't realized is soaked all through him, from his jaw to his shoulders, posture and bottle hold) is worth the price of the whole few words. Of the pout focused on him like he stole someone's promised toy. When he might be failing at keeping his cheeks from tugging up, brightening.

When he's grinning, even if he probably should be and giving a loose shrug of his shoulders. "Criminals don't sleep in."

Though Danny has gotten him to do so on very rare occasion. Not that he has designs on sleeping anytime soon yet. Not that he couldn't. But he has no design on staying here, entertaining someone else with small talk about the last things he'd wanted to talk about.

"But this was great," Steve tacked on, like he couldn't hear the go get em' team casualness. "Thanks for the game."

He might even mean the pool game, though he's not giving much for her baffled face. The one where she was breathing out a confused Yeah, like somehow she missed a step and was trying to figure out where it was an how to regain the foreground. Except he was already turning and moving to put his pool stick back up where Danny got it from.

He's got his eyes narrowed, the kind of bewildered frown creasing his forehead and tightening his mouth that he used to get a lot, back in the early days, when Steve was always doing things like, oh, randomly swearing in over the phone with the Governor, or dangling suspects off of rooftops.

And Steve is smiling. Like this is the greatest way the night could end, practically glowing under the dim bar light, and it's -- you know what, Danny wrenches his mind away from that particular line of thought, because it is anything but helpful, at the moment, to contemplate exactly how heart-achingly beautiful that smile really is.

Much easier to wonder what the hell is going through Steve's head, which seems to be the same question Lani's asking herself, as she stares at his back and Danny lifts his eyebrows, takes a last drink of his beer before setting the bottle down on a nearby table and lifting a hand to her, because he's got no idea what's happening, here, but she has arguably even less.

"Uh, nice to meet you."

Even if it's a dirty lie, even if he's wishing he never saw her, even as he's waiting for Steve to come around the table and join him, because he has got a couple of things to say, none of which should be anywhere near within earshot for her.

They're both still staring, Lani saying something to Danny, though she looks confused more than focused, when Steve turns back to join them after setting the pool stick into the holders. When he considers his pint glass and honestly he's got beer at home if he decided he needs more of it. He's already had the two, so really he could be good, too.

She does seem to collect herself for something at least by the time he gets back to them. Fingers a little tight on her own pool cue this time. The way her voice is a little tight, and more uncertain at the same time, all at once. "So, maybe I'll see you two around?"

Steve shrugged, eyes hands raising in the air as he said, "You never know," before crossing his arms.

Looking at Danny. With a glance toward the door and back to him. That answer about as potentially alluding and noncommittal as they came, not a yes, not a no, leaving him able to consider this all over and done with, when he's giving a nod. Like this standing part is impatient making already. They had other places they could be at the point right.

Okay. That, he gets, and it makes as much sense now as ever, he supposes, so he shrugs back, sliding one hand into a pocket while the other makes a loose gesture somewhere by his shoulder. "Alright, train's leaving," he says, and turns to head to the door, with a last, exasperated, wave of his hand. "Goodnight."

Taking quick steps, feeling like at least he can still own these few feet of bamboo flooring, almost jaunty, knowing when Steve catches up to him, because he can't not be aware of where Steve is at all times, any more than he can not be aware of his own limbs.

Cutting a sidelong glance at him, feeling pricklier and more defensive than ever, even though things are starting to go his way again, even with Steve there, looking all light-hearted and delighted with himself. It might be wrong, but Danny feels like that's just a warning sign of worse to come, and it makes him want to snap, to toss enough words and annoyance at Steve's head that something might actually break through.

"You know, I'm pretty sure you could have caught a different ride home."

Edited 2012-11-30 04:07 (UTC)

Danny looks beleaguered, but he's still following direction. Saying goodbye's and turning on his heel for the door without a word, which makes Steve roll his eyes at the ceiling, grin still tucked tight and wide, into both corners. There's a nod that's as close as he get to a goodbye for Lani, and he's taking wide, fast steps after Danny to catch back up to his side.

He doesn't miss the way Danny's head tips, glancing toward him, but he doesn't do much more than tilt a look over and down at him. He totally looks, if anything, about ready to go off. Like an alarm. When Steve is narrowly missing the spreading warmth getting broader again, when he's choosing to remember again the first words Danny'd chose last time, thrown at his head like he wished they were cement blocks in stead.

What? Shut up and rack, huh? Barked out sharp and defensive and angry, and so wire bare. Before it had smoothed off.

When Steve's going a bit of a way out of his way to wait for Danny to choose the first words this time. When he can't help that he snorts, or maybe it's a scoff. It's somewhere in the middle of the both of them. Danny making it sound like it was an option at all, even if, yeah, he's sure, it was a card on the table, not yet actually played.

Throwing back easily as though it'd been waiting all along, even though it really just rises in his throat easy and affordable on the subject, when he's pushing the door open and stepping out in the later night dim. His amusement flecked into every word, "And give up driving the camaro? It's finally getting to be like old times with her, again."

Okay. He supposed there was an option somewhere for someone else to see him as optional to their night.

But there hadn't been a second when anyone in that room had been a second option to his.

Jesus, it's like the last half hour never even happened, like Steve hasn't been preening under the attention of extremely attractive, extremely available girls for the better part of the evening, and Danny, just. He can feel the heels digging in, in his head, stubborn now for the sake of it, for the sake of fighting about it, because Steve cannot be this oblivious, can he? When they've been a, sort of, a thing, and.

Yeah, okay, so they haven't defined it. There are no ground rules, although Danny thinks this should have been covered by the umbrella statement of how very not casual he has the actual ability to be, and how casual is Steve's M.O.

Like tonight. Which, fine. He doesn't know what sort of arrangement Steve and Cath had, only that Steve had been bewildered at the insinuation that the two of them were together in any sort of mutually exclusive sense, but he remembers seeing girls around, before. Now and again.

True, he doesn't know how many of them actually made it out of the bar with Steve, but he'd assumed at least a few had. Right?

So how wrong could he be to assume that tonight might have been the one where Steve finally blew him off? Never mind lingering glances at the spot where his collar folds against his throat, or the stupid jumpy lurch his heart makes every time they catch eyes without warning. Never mind all that.

And here is Steve, completely bypassing the point, while having just left behind one very confused, almost annoyed, girl, to leave with Danny, for...what, the Camaro? Making Danny's other hand slip out of his pocket, because this, okay, this calls for at least two. Waving in front of him, fingers pinching together as they move in tight little circles in the air. Plucking words, one at a time, and leveling them at Steve, measured, exasperated.

"Why are you smiling? Are you amused by something? Am I amusing you, Steven?"

It's rolling around in his chest as Danny's words come as a demand for some kind of understanding. Confused annoyance coating the edges, when he's actually talking to Steve about Steve now. It all spreads down along the inside of his skin. Warm and caustic. Warmer and more caustic that the late evening air that's clinging to his shirt, the back of his neck and forearms, as the Hawaii finds him again, outside. More than that.

But he's not stopping for that, or this, yet. Making for the camaro in very quick, efficient strides as he digs in his pocket for the keys, that come out with a quiet jangle in the all but empty parking lot. Listening to the voices from the swinging door go from a quite rabble, with certain close by one still clear, to a hum that's getting more and more distantly just a group of people.

When he can feel the parts of him tensing in some insane mounting excitement for getting away, for being away. The way it does when adrenaline is spiking through him, about to do something ludicrous, dangerous, amazing. Like jump out of a plane forty thousand feet and watch the world rush at him as he slices straight through the air. Thrums inside his veins, skipping up his heart.

But not quite yet. Which is why he doesn't favor Danny with anything more than a truly amused. "Get in the car, Danny."

Because he is. Amusing. Hilarious. He's going to start waving his hands and loudly defend acting like an ass for an hour. But if Steve has any say at this point, Danny's going to do it outside of this parking lot and away from these people. Where he can shove it all into a heavy, fast, roiling boil. Where Steve can have all of it finally.

All of it. Not just the parts the escapes Danny's mouth and all of his ability to hold his tongue. All of it.

Edited 2012-11-30 12:38 (UTC)

"That's all you've got, right now? 'Get in the car'?"

Sounding more amused than ever, sending a spiked wrecking ball of aggravation straight into his temple and tightening his frown. The girls aren't around anymore, he can knock it off, right?

Except it's Steve, and Steve has no concept of boundaries or limitations except to sometimes note when he slams right past them. Danny can't fault the guy for enjoying the attention, but it smarts, deep in his chest, to see him still so happy about it, in a way that he knows is going to spiral further, shield itself with old hurts that have nothing to do with Steve, but don't help the prospect of someone else edging in and...

What, taking him away? The way Steve didn't stay to flirt with Lani, or the nameless girl at the bar, or Megan the overly hospitable bartender?

But he might have. He could have. In so many ways, it's almost more like he should have. Right? A month is so much longer than he expected any of this to last, and it was always only going to be a matter of time before other people started looking at Steve, and Steve started looking back.

It's rolling around and around in his head, confused and unhappy and pissed off because of it, because, what the hell, what say does he have? Nothing, right? It's not like with Rachel or Gabby, when he could step in and make himself obvious -- but then, it's not like Rachel or Gabby ever seemed to really crave the attention from anyone else, either. And what could he say, anyway? That Steve is, what. His?

A sudden flash of possessive, fiercely selfish agreement shakes him right down to his center, but -- no. It doesn't matter if he's fallen asleep with a hand on Steve's arm or hip, doesn't matter if he's woken up the same way. They're partners. Best friends. And -- this. Whatever it is. Nobody else spends as much time with Steve as he does: mornings, work, evenings, night. Weekends without Grace. Weekdays, everywhere else. But that doesn't mean he can stake a claim.

"Fine, let's get out of here."

None of which has any effect on his temper, unless it's a deleterious one, dragging a thick, heavily sparking storm cloud along with him into the passenger seat of the Camaro, disgruntled and knowing he's got no right to it and that lack of right making it worse.