Steve steps back, which is one more courtesy than Danny expected from him, after actually ordering food, which is probably a good thing, too. Not that the guy can't take care of himself -- although Danny's not convinced he can, it's not like Navy SEALs are exactly famous for having real world skills and being able to cope with life outside black ops missions and orders -- but it settles something in his chest, mollifies that instinct he's never quite been able to quell. The one that makes him cut the crusts off Grace's sandwiches, the one that made him call his parents when they were out later than they said they'd be, to see where they were, the one that always made him step in between Matt and whatever schoolyard bully was giving him a hard time.
He knows people don't need him. The world has made that crystal clear, and it's a lesson he's learned the hard way over the last few years, but he can't quite stop the impulse to try. He's a cop and a dad. Telling people they need to eat as as instinctive to him as loving his daughter.
So he'll chalk Steve's order up as a small triumph in a life that has almost none, even as he steps up to the counter himself, orders the closest thing he can find to chicken cutlets. Katsu, whatever it is -- it's not bad, he's had it before, is basically chicken tenders and rice and some kind of sweet dipping sauce, and it'll hold him over fine until later. He's digging in his pocket for his wallet while the smiling girl rattles off their total -- no big deal, Steve already shelled out all the cash he had for those awful shirts, earlier, so Danny can step up and buy lunch. Especially if it was his idea.
"Mahalo," she says, taking the money with another bright smile. "Your order will be right up."
"Yeah, thanks." He waits for his change, glances at Steve to tip his head towards the waiting area, and heads that way himself, drumming his fingers on the counter and mulling over the day so far.
Garage. Getting kicked off the case. Getting pulled back in. Doran. His sore arm, and Steve's sore jaw. The open gap in his shirtsleeve, over a white bandage and torn muscle. Chin Ho Kelly.
And those zeros, flat and unchanging, inside his wrist.
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He knows people don't need him. The world has made that crystal clear, and it's a lesson he's learned the hard way over the last few years, but he can't quite stop the impulse to try. He's a cop and a dad. Telling people they need to eat as as instinctive to him as loving his daughter.
So he'll chalk Steve's order up as a small triumph in a life that has almost none, even as he steps up to the counter himself, orders the closest thing he can find to chicken cutlets. Katsu, whatever it is -- it's not bad, he's had it before, is basically chicken tenders and rice and some kind of sweet dipping sauce, and it'll hold him over fine until later. He's digging in his pocket for his wallet while the smiling girl rattles off their total -- no big deal, Steve already shelled out all the cash he had for those awful shirts, earlier, so Danny can step up and buy lunch. Especially if it was his idea.
"Mahalo," she says, taking the money with another bright smile. "Your order will be right up."
"Yeah, thanks." He waits for his change, glances at Steve to tip his head towards the waiting area, and heads that way himself, drumming his fingers on the counter and mulling over the day so far.
Garage. Getting kicked off the case. Getting pulled back in. Doran. His sore arm, and Steve's sore jaw. The open gap in his shirtsleeve, over a white bandage and torn muscle. Chin Ho Kelly.
And those zeros, flat and unchanging, inside his wrist.