"I will, at the very least, take this --" he hefts the box like a conversational prop "-- to the car, yes."
It's probably beyond idiotic, trying to even attempt to get McGarrett to relax. Optimistic to the point of lunacy, really, and he's honestly not sure why he's bothering to try. It's like pulling teeth, and it's almost definitely pointless, because he's never believed in the numbers and he's pretty damn sure someone goofed on them now, and yet, here he is. Dragging Steve into reluctant, nearly antagonistic agreement, willfully seeking out more time with someone who can't stand Danny nearly as much as Danny dislikes him.
But maybe it's not about the numbers.
Maybe it's more about the look on Steve's face right now. This strange, shuttered expression that makes him look like he's about ten seconds and a high-stress situation from just snapping. Maybe it's not about the numbers so much as it is the fact that Danny might have a crappy hole in the wall apartment to go home to, but Steve's got nowhere and nobody on this island anymore. It would be like going home to Jersey, and finding his family gone or dead and his house destroyed.
And that? He can't not offer. Can't keep from pushing it, blunt and bluster, into Steve's hands: forced company and a few minutes before he has to be alone with the ghost of his murdered father and the impersonal, static familiarity of a hotel room. John McGarrett is dead. The least Danny can do for his son is have a beer with the guy, right? It's not locking Hesse away, not yet, and it's not shutting down an international ring of human traffickers, either, but it's the best he's got right now.
The numbers have got nothing to do with it.
And they're not why, when he strides by Steve, he sticks out an elbow to knock his arm in passing. "Look on the bright side: if you piss off the cashier, maybe you can get another free t-shirt on the way."
no subject
"I will, at the very least, take this --" he hefts the box like a conversational prop "-- to the car, yes."
It's probably beyond idiotic, trying to even attempt to get McGarrett to relax. Optimistic to the point of lunacy, really, and he's honestly not sure why he's bothering to try. It's like pulling teeth, and it's almost definitely pointless, because he's never believed in the numbers and he's pretty damn sure someone goofed on them now, and yet, here he is. Dragging Steve into reluctant, nearly antagonistic agreement, willfully seeking out more time with someone who can't stand Danny nearly as much as Danny dislikes him.
But maybe it's not about the numbers.
Maybe it's more about the look on Steve's face right now. This strange, shuttered expression that makes him look like he's about ten seconds and a high-stress situation from just snapping. Maybe it's not about the numbers so much as it is the fact that Danny might have a crappy hole in the wall apartment to go home to, but Steve's got nowhere and nobody on this island anymore. It would be like going home to Jersey, and finding his family gone or dead and his house destroyed.
And that? He can't not offer. Can't keep from pushing it, blunt and bluster, into Steve's hands: forced company and a few minutes before he has to be alone with the ghost of his murdered father and the impersonal, static familiarity of a hotel room. John McGarrett is dead. The least Danny can do for his son is have a beer with the guy, right? It's not locking Hesse away, not yet, and it's not shutting down an international ring of human traffickers, either, but it's the best he's got right now.
The numbers have got nothing to do with it.
And they're not why, when he strides by Steve, he sticks out an elbow to knock his arm in passing. "Look on the bright side: if you piss off the cashier, maybe you can get another free t-shirt on the way."