McGarrett pushes past, and it's probably just going to land on deaf ears, but saying "Come in" in as sarcastic a way he possibly can does Danny good, so he goes ahead and does it anyhow, closing the door firmly before crossing the room to the corner diagonal from the one where McGarrett's headed, studying him as he goes.
He looks waterlogged, and not in a good way: the wet shirts aren't doing him any favors and his hair, too short to get really unruly, is mussed and flatted on the top of his head from the rain. He's glancing casually around the room, and, fine, sure. The apartment is a rat trap, it's the place where rats go to die, but it's all Danny can afford, because Hawaii is the most expensive place he's ever tried to live, and that includes the poorly thought out six months trying to make a living in Brooklyn back when he and Matt were young and stupid and thought they could live on six packs of ramen noodles and light beer a day each.
So it sucks, but it doesn't matter, because he's not here for a good apartment, he's here to do a job, the job McGarrett knocked him off of, and to be with Grace.
The guy goes straight for the photo of her, and Danny gives him a tight grimace that could, if he was feeling generous, be called a smile.
It feels a lot more like he's garroting himself. "Yeah, that's stunning detective work."
Dry and laid thick with sarcasm. Some Navy officer thinks, because he's spent the last twenty years chasing insurgents through the desert and jungles, that he knows how to be a detective, follow a case? He can be Danny's goddamn guest. It's not his case anymore, not his problem. He can sit here and laugh about it all he wants.
no subject
McGarrett pushes past, and it's probably just going to land on deaf ears, but saying "Come in" in as sarcastic a way he possibly can does Danny good, so he goes ahead and does it anyhow, closing the door firmly before crossing the room to the corner diagonal from the one where McGarrett's headed, studying him as he goes.
He looks waterlogged, and not in a good way: the wet shirts aren't doing him any favors and his hair, too short to get really unruly, is mussed and flatted on the top of his head from the rain. He's glancing casually around the room, and, fine, sure. The apartment is a rat trap, it's the place where rats go to die, but it's all Danny can afford, because Hawaii is the most expensive place he's ever tried to live, and that includes the poorly thought out six months trying to make a living in Brooklyn back when he and Matt were young and stupid and thought they could live on six packs of ramen noodles and light beer a day each.
So it sucks, but it doesn't matter, because he's not here for a good apartment, he's here to do a job, the job McGarrett knocked him off of, and to be with Grace.
The guy goes straight for the photo of her, and Danny gives him a tight grimace that could, if he was feeling generous, be called a smile.
It feels a lot more like he's garroting himself. "Yeah, that's stunning detective work."
Dry and laid thick with sarcasm. Some Navy officer thinks, because he's spent the last twenty years chasing insurgents through the desert and jungles, that he knows how to be a detective, follow a case? He can be Danny's goddamn guest. It's not his case anymore, not his problem. He can sit here and laugh about it all he wants.