Not always, mind. He doesn't always like the quiet and hates being left alone with his thoughts, but the alternative is to let Steve McGarrett see more of him than he particularly wants to let show. He doesn't give a damn about his timer, and how he knows what he should be doing, how he should be trying to get to know the guy, open him up, see what it is about him that made Danny's numbers slip away to nothing when they pulled their guns on each other, but he doesn't.
Can't. Won't.
Not right now. Rachel wasn't that long ago, and he hasn't dated since, and he's a wreck, okay, and, and, he's not interested. All he wants to do is finish this job, find Doran, find Hesse, solve the case, dispense justice. That's it.
The road unspools in front of the Mustang, leading them further from the city, along a beach, where houses and apartments slowly turn into shacks, tents. Beach bums and homeless, surf camps, makeshift hostels: they're all out here, where no one seems to give a damn about living anywhere more complicated than a parked double-wide or an aluminum shed.
No sooner does he roll up and park than McGarrett, all wiry energy and focus, is up, seatbelt off, door opening, while Danny leans towards him, frowning hard. "Hey, hey. Hey!"
The last one at least gets the guy's attention; he leans back in. "This guy Doran's a shooter," Danny reminds him. "We shouldn't be doing this without backup."
no subject
Not always, mind. He doesn't always like the quiet and hates being left alone with his thoughts, but the alternative is to let Steve McGarrett see more of him than he particularly wants to let show. He doesn't give a damn about his timer, and how he knows what he should be doing, how he should be trying to get to know the guy, open him up, see what it is about him that made Danny's numbers slip away to nothing when they pulled their guns on each other, but he doesn't.
Can't. Won't.
Not right now. Rachel wasn't that long ago, and he hasn't dated since, and he's a wreck, okay, and, and, he's not interested. All he wants to do is finish this job, find Doran, find Hesse, solve the case, dispense justice. That's it.
The road unspools in front of the Mustang, leading them further from the city, along a beach, where houses and apartments slowly turn into shacks, tents. Beach bums and homeless, surf camps, makeshift hostels: they're all out here, where no one seems to give a damn about living anywhere more complicated than a parked double-wide or an aluminum shed.
No sooner does he roll up and park than McGarrett, all wiry energy and focus, is up, seatbelt off, door opening, while Danny leans towards him, frowning hard. "Hey, hey. Hey!"
The last one at least gets the guy's attention; he leans back in. "This guy Doran's a shooter," Danny reminds him. "We shouldn't be doing this without backup."