(no subject)

[haole_cop]

"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."

Comments

[thebesteverseen]

It's not as good as it could be, but it is good. Good enough somewhere in the center of the tension it's not as thigh as always.

Melting the quirk of an annoyed smile, that isn't, into the pint glass of his beer, while Danny just keeps sawing away at his point. A point Steve has not stopped hearing about since the moment the dingy got hijacked -- far be it for Danny to actually wait for safety before that storm started. Today's at least is laced in fondness and that I'm right, you know i'm right tone that has Danny smiling and pushing, insistant but warm.

So maybe, yeah, Steve just lets him go on. Even if it does grate into the graze of that day, with Danny under the sun, surrounded by the sea, the equally memorable moments of sun all over his skin as hearing him yelling at the fish he caught, before the day was ruined. Which slights even the memory of those now. Pricking it with the tip of a blade every time Danny goes at it. But, you know, he's had worse, they've had worse, and this smile.

This ribbing, pushing, cajoling amusement that has nothing at all on the panic, warbling in the center of the ocean.

"It wasn't that bad, Danny," Steve counter, reminding him with a part-shake of his head, part roll of his eyes, like all the words were ludicrous, licking at his upper lip and rubbing his mouth with back of his hand, above his thumb, from finishing the beer in his hand through most of Danny's ramble. Eyebrows raised, amused dismissal along most of it.

Uncertain if he's saying it because it honestly wasn't, or because saying it really will just spur Danny to keep telling him how it was.