Steve slides back in and slams the door, and Danny does the same, only he finishes his off by tossing the bag of food unceremoniously into Steve's lap as the door's still closing. "Here, hang onto this."
A quick snap of the buckle, key in the ignition, and his hand on the back of the passenger seat to lever himself so he can see out the back window, and he's backing out, fast enough that the tires squeal, which is actually a nice break from McGarrett's stone-cold silence. He'd almost thought they were starting to get along, like maybe there was a human underneath the killing machine, but a glance towards the passenger seat makes him shake his head at that clear misstep of a theory. McGarrett's back in his own head again, got that thousand-yard stare of his, like he doesn't have the same damn zeroes lining his wrist that keep glaring up at Danny every time he twists his hand, like it wouldn't have given him that same brief jolt Danny got in the garage, the one he thought was adrenaline until he looked down and saw the single line of red curves.
He really is a cold fish, isn't he?
Except the problem is that Danny's sort of hooked, now. He's in this enough to need to see it to the logical conclusion: catching Victor Hesse at the very least, figuring out what the hell to do with the new information his timer keeps calmly reminding him of at the most. He can't just walk away, go back to his lonely island of a desk at HPD and ignore McGarrett making him his partner: the Chief wouldn't let it fly, and he'd get ostracized even further for dropping a hometown hero, the son of an HPD legend, in the drink and letting him wash away.
Nope. He's stuck here, like he's been stuck ever since he got here, but at least this case has the faint tang of freedom to it, like a window just barely open in an otherwise sealed room, like if he could just crack it, he'd be out, free, able to live his own goddamn life again, and not the one he's had to scrape off the leavings of everyone around him.
Of everything else, that might be the thing he hates most about this whole scenario -- about McGarrett himself: that he can see this sliver of light, this crack in the door, and it's only going to come slamming shut on him as soon as he thinks he can make a break for it. This asshole is playing with lives and careers he'll probably just leave in the lurch once Hesse is caught, and still, still, Danny is enough of an idiot to think there might actually be some hope.
So who's the real asshole, here?
At least Iolani Palace isn't far: a few intersections later, and they're turning in towards the city, buildings piling up around them, and the white facade of the palace looming ahead.
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Steve slides back in and slams the door, and Danny does the same, only he finishes his off by tossing the bag of food unceremoniously into Steve's lap as the door's still closing. "Here, hang onto this."
A quick snap of the buckle, key in the ignition, and his hand on the back of the passenger seat to lever himself so he can see out the back window, and he's backing out, fast enough that the tires squeal, which is actually a nice break from McGarrett's stone-cold silence. He'd almost thought they were starting to get along, like maybe there was a human underneath the killing machine, but a glance towards the passenger seat makes him shake his head at that clear misstep of a theory. McGarrett's back in his own head again, got that thousand-yard stare of his, like he doesn't have the same damn zeroes lining his wrist that keep glaring up at Danny every time he twists his hand, like it wouldn't have given him that same brief jolt Danny got in the garage, the one he thought was adrenaline until he looked down and saw the single line of red curves.
He really is a cold fish, isn't he?
Except the problem is that Danny's sort of hooked, now. He's in this enough to need to see it to the logical conclusion: catching Victor Hesse at the very least, figuring out what the hell to do with the new information his timer keeps calmly reminding him of at the most. He can't just walk away, go back to his lonely island of a desk at HPD and ignore McGarrett making him his partner: the Chief wouldn't let it fly, and he'd get ostracized even further for dropping a hometown hero, the son of an HPD legend, in the drink and letting him wash away.
Nope. He's stuck here, like he's been stuck ever since he got here, but at least this case has the faint tang of freedom to it, like a window just barely open in an otherwise sealed room, like if he could just crack it, he'd be out, free, able to live his own goddamn life again, and not the one he's had to scrape off the leavings of everyone around him.
Of everything else, that might be the thing he hates most about this whole scenario -- about McGarrett himself: that he can see this sliver of light, this crack in the door, and it's only going to come slamming shut on him as soon as he thinks he can make a break for it. This asshole is playing with lives and careers he'll probably just leave in the lurch once Hesse is caught, and still, still, Danny is enough of an idiot to think there might actually be some hope.
So who's the real asshole, here?
At least Iolani Palace isn't far: a few intersections later, and they're turning in towards the city, buildings piling up around them, and the white facade of the palace looming ahead.