The brush off comment earns the furrow glare from Steve. The one that mixes annoyed impatience, and a disrespectful arched confirmation that refused to be resigned. About the fact Danny is about as civilian as you can get. Both not caring to distinguish the branches, or possibly even having a clue. Because it was this magical, half-unreal, thing to these kind of people.
Stories you told. Like it wasn't made of mountains of actual broken bodies and sacrifices you couldn't ever take back, and wouldn't. Not even if you were given the chance. A million chances. People for whom the words honor and duty and loyalty and sacrifice actually meant something.
Who took pride in exactly where they were, what they did, were called.
No wonder he didn't fit into this place. Hawaii cared a good deal about those things, too.
But far be it for Danny to actually stop there. He gets into the sun, with a frown at the sky, that absolutely perfect sunny blue sky that Hawaii is famed for and chased after for, and starts a ranting diatribe on Steve's point like it actually was a question. Like anyone anywhere would or could actually question that he'd come in and done an effective job with less than adiquate resources and time.
Stopping, apparently, is something he doesn't do. Because he's still there, still going on while they cross the parking lot and Danny is slinging suggestions at him like Steve should care about half of those things. Like they would serve him on any level in getting down what he had to get done, as quickly as possible, without letting anything -- even himself, and his now all too personal body count involvement, the logical volatile reactive responses to such losses -- trip him up.
He has to. Has to do the job, and not be the job or in the way of the job if he doesn't want to be booted.
Not take it any more personally than the words that are bouncing off of him while he rounds on the passenger side, with that annoyance mixing toward mild amusement and pointedly sarcastic disbelief, tossing out as he's pulling on the door, "That's really specific for just starting, isn't it?"
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Stories you told. Like it wasn't made of mountains of actual broken bodies and sacrifices you couldn't ever take back, and wouldn't. Not even if you were given the chance. A million chances. People for whom the words honor and duty and loyalty and sacrifice actually meant something.
Who took pride in exactly where they were, what they did, were called.
No wonder he didn't fit into this place. Hawaii cared a good deal about those things, too.
But far be it for Danny to actually stop there. He gets into the sun, with a frown at the sky, that absolutely perfect sunny blue sky that Hawaii is famed for and chased after for, and starts a ranting diatribe on Steve's point like it actually was a question. Like anyone anywhere would or could actually question that he'd come in and done an effective job with less than adiquate resources and time.
Stopping, apparently, is something he doesn't do. Because he's still there, still going on while they cross the parking lot and Danny is slinging suggestions at him like Steve should care about half of those things. Like they would serve him on any level in getting down what he had to get done, as quickly as possible, without letting anything -- even himself, and his now all too personal body count involvement, the logical volatile reactive responses to such losses -- trip him up.
He has to. Has to do the job, and not be the job or in the way of the job if he doesn't want to be booted.
Not take it any more personally than the words that are bouncing off of him while he rounds on the passenger side, with that annoyance mixing toward mild amusement and pointedly sarcastic disbelief, tossing out as he's pulling on the door, "That's really specific for just starting, isn't it?"