The best thing about fast food? It's fast. Danny doesn't think it's more than three minutes from when they order to when the smiling girl behind the counter calls out their number and presents a large brown paper bag with the L&L symbol stamped on the side, by by God he feels each and every one of them like the seconds are actual grains of sand trying to drown him. McGarrett -- somewhere in the last hour or so, he'd started to think of the guy next to him as Steve, and that seems like one of those bad decisions he's always making that bite him in the ass, so he's trying to cut that shit out -- looks relaxed enough to the casual eye, but he's strung tight as a garrotting wire. How he hasn't collapsed yet of a stress-induced stroke is beyond Danny, but maybe it's more that McGarrett prefers instigating those in others.
But he's impatient, and it shows: the way he keeps glancing from his watch to the counter, the way he cases the restaurant interior like he thinks a suicide bomber might stroll in any second. Just standing next to him is making Danny's blood pressure rise, from sheer proximity, and it's not like it was low to begin with.
His own nervous tics escalate in response: while Steve grows more still, he feels edgier than ever, fidgety and impatient, fingers tapping against the counter until he glances down at them, twists his wrist just enough to see the first curves of two zeros.
Which just makes him purse his lips in annoyance, and go back to tapping.
So, all in all, it's good that the L&L staff are efficient and fast, and that maybe a grand total of five minutes have elapsed before he's grabbed the bag containing their lunches, and headed back for the door, checking his phone for the time and -- though it's not something he'll admit, not out loud and definitely not to McGarrett -- just in case Grace texted or called again.
She didn't, and it's just another weight that decides to sit on his stomach, along with the hunger gnawing there. "Okay," he says, brushing past it, sliding the phone back in his pocket, and pushing open the glass door. "Next stop, the Palave."
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The best thing about fast food? It's fast. Danny doesn't think it's more than three minutes from when they order to when the smiling girl behind the counter calls out their number and presents a large brown paper bag with the L&L symbol stamped on the side, by by God he feels each and every one of them like the seconds are actual grains of sand trying to drown him. McGarrett -- somewhere in the last hour or so, he'd started to think of the guy next to him as Steve, and that seems like one of those bad decisions he's always making that bite him in the ass, so he's trying to cut that shit out -- looks relaxed enough to the casual eye, but he's strung tight as a garrotting wire. How he hasn't collapsed yet of a stress-induced stroke is beyond Danny, but maybe it's more that McGarrett prefers instigating those in others.
But he's impatient, and it shows: the way he keeps glancing from his watch to the counter, the way he cases the restaurant interior like he thinks a suicide bomber might stroll in any second. Just standing next to him is making Danny's blood pressure rise, from sheer proximity, and it's not like it was low to begin with.
His own nervous tics escalate in response: while Steve grows more still, he feels edgier than ever, fidgety and impatient, fingers tapping against the counter until he glances down at them, twists his wrist just enough to see the first curves of two zeros.
Which just makes him purse his lips in annoyance, and go back to tapping.
So, all in all, it's good that the L&L staff are efficient and fast, and that maybe a grand total of five minutes have elapsed before he's grabbed the bag containing their lunches, and headed back for the door, checking his phone for the time and -- though it's not something he'll admit, not out loud and definitely not to McGarrett -- just in case Grace texted or called again.
She didn't, and it's just another weight that decides to sit on his stomach, along with the hunger gnawing there. "Okay," he says, brushing past it, sliding the phone back in his pocket, and pushing open the glass door. "Next stop, the Palave."