He takes quick little glances over, hitting the blinker and taking a turn at the next intersection. Steve McGarrett, mystery. Suddenly brought to life out of the pages of bare text and the single photograph in Danny's file that looks like basically every other military personnel headshot he's ever seen: American flag, white cap, neat uniform, deadpan expression that's nothing like the faint -- is that amusement?

He almost wants to squint, and look closer, would, if doing exactly that wouldn't mean he'd probably ram his Mustang straight into a fire hydrant or telephone pole.

It couldn't be. This guy doesn't have a sense of humor, right? It must be one of those things they stopped handing out at boot camp.

But it does kind of look like it. Amusement. Or something like it, perched there in the furrow between his eyebrows, and the way one corner of his mouth is looking a little softer, like the shadow of a smile that's existing in some other universe, on some other Steve McGarrett's face.

Whaddya know.

He sneaks one more quick, exasperated glance. "Anyone ever tell you people normally use words to communicate, not just steely glares and judo moves?"