It's probably unsafe, staring across the cab at Steve instead of watching the road, but he's so flabbergasted, so disturbed, he can't help himself. "You're staying there?"
Distaste is freezing at the base of his spine, running icy fingers up along his back, but it's swamped in the next breath by an unexpected wave of pity that he hopes to God doesn't show on his face, because McGarrett is probably the kind of guy who takes being pitied as a mortal offense, the kind of insult that requires a duel to the death so he can retain his honor.
But it's there all the same, racing uninvited and unchecked through him like warm white water, because no one should have to stay in the house their father was murdered in, with blood still on the walls and yellow crime tape still closing it off to the public. No one. And especially not someone as clearly out of touch with his emotions as McGarrett, where it'll just become another stone in the massive pile of crazy he seems to be spending his time collecting, like he's going for the record in the "most fucked up life" contest. "Are you insane?"
It comes hard on the heels of the sympathy, blunt dog claws scratching the hollowed-out floor of Danny's stomach: unease. That maybe Steve really is. Insane. Or that the murder of his father actually did drive him over the edge, and it's not just Danny's hyperbole, because he's so damn calm about it, sitting over there, discussing getting a satellite connection from the house his father was murdered in, like that's the only questionable aspect of it. The only quality or possible lack of amenity that matters to him. "Couldn't you get, I don't know, a hotel room, or something? It's Hawaii. Hotels are everywhere. I'm pretty sure we just passed three in the last thirty seconds."
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It's probably unsafe, staring across the cab at Steve instead of watching the road, but he's so flabbergasted, so disturbed, he can't help himself. "You're staying there?"
Distaste is freezing at the base of his spine, running icy fingers up along his back, but it's swamped in the next breath by an unexpected wave of pity that he hopes to God doesn't show on his face, because McGarrett is probably the kind of guy who takes being pitied as a mortal offense, the kind of insult that requires a duel to the death so he can retain his honor.
But it's there all the same, racing uninvited and unchecked through him like warm white water, because no one should have to stay in the house their father was murdered in, with blood still on the walls and yellow crime tape still closing it off to the public. No one. And especially not someone as clearly out of touch with his emotions as McGarrett, where it'll just become another stone in the massive pile of crazy he seems to be spending his time collecting, like he's going for the record in the "most fucked up life" contest. "Are you insane?"
It comes hard on the heels of the sympathy, blunt dog claws scratching the hollowed-out floor of Danny's stomach: unease. That maybe Steve really is. Insane. Or that the murder of his father actually did drive him over the edge, and it's not just Danny's hyperbole, because he's so damn calm about it, sitting over there, discussing getting a satellite connection from the house his father was murdered in, like that's the only questionable aspect of it. The only quality or possible lack of amenity that matters to him. "Couldn't you get, I don't know, a hotel room, or something? It's Hawaii. Hotels are everywhere. I'm pretty sure we just passed three in the last thirty seconds."