His first reaction, unsurprisingly, is a wave of anger.
What is surprising is how hard, sudden, and vicious it is: leaves him feeling a sick twist in his stomach while his hands grip the steering wheel hard enough to whiten knuckles, because he suddenly just wants to haul off and punch Steve McGarrett and his fucking questions and his uncaring theft of Danny's life right in the face.
He wants to yell at Rachel for calling him now, during this, this worst day of his life, for forcing him to come here, for leaving him, for saying she loved him when they both knew it couldn't ever really be true. Not as true as it should have been. He wants to hate her, with a sudden hollowing out of his chest and gut, and he wants to hate McGarrett, too, and that disinterested question.
"No." It's tight, exhaled, relcutant. It didn't end well. It ripped him apart, limb from limb, snacked on his heart and soul and spent long months slowly tearing strips of flesh away from him until he was left this raw, bleeding mess. "She was, quite literally, not the one."
Made all the more obvious by his unbelievably offbase timer, the one that he can't help glancing at now, with a glare. It's responsible for all this, and he's got no one but himself to hold accountable.
So he glares at the timer, the road, Hawaii all spread out around them, while the Mustang accelerates angry down the clear road.
"Which would've been bad enough, but then my ex remarried and dragged my daughter to this pineapple-infested hellhole."
no subject
His first reaction, unsurprisingly, is a wave of anger.
What is surprising is how hard, sudden, and vicious it is: leaves him feeling a sick twist in his stomach while his hands grip the steering wheel hard enough to whiten knuckles, because he suddenly just wants to haul off and punch Steve McGarrett and his fucking questions and his uncaring theft of Danny's life right in the face.
He wants to yell at Rachel for calling him now, during this, this worst day of his life, for forcing him to come here, for leaving him, for saying she loved him when they both knew it couldn't ever really be true. Not as true as it should have been. He wants to hate her, with a sudden hollowing out of his chest and gut, and he wants to hate McGarrett, too, and that disinterested question.
"No." It's tight, exhaled, relcutant. It didn't end well. It ripped him apart, limb from limb, snacked on his heart and soul and spent long months slowly tearing strips of flesh away from him until he was left this raw, bleeding mess. "She was, quite literally, not the one."
Made all the more obvious by his unbelievably offbase timer, the one that he can't help glancing at now, with a glare. It's responsible for all this, and he's got no one but himself to hold accountable.
So he glares at the timer, the road, Hawaii all spread out around them, while the Mustang accelerates angry down the clear road.
"Which would've been bad enough, but then my ex remarried and dragged my daughter to this pineapple-infested hellhole."