Steve wonders when it will fully sink in. That this face, this one right here, where Danny Williams is looking at him, and looking away from him, through the traffic, like Danny wants to punch him again, but with disgust instead of rage. That it doesn't phase him. The anger. The disgust. Even getting punched. He has a job to do, and that Danny does have to like it. Doesn't have to approve of it. Doesn't, absolutely, have to do anything but keep out of being directly in his way.
That he's going to do that job. Whether they are getting along or not. Whether that was his house once upon a time or not. That a lot of dead people, and a lot more who are still alive, are riding on his ability to make sure he doesn't give a damn.
He can give a damn when the case is over. He can give a damn when he's dead. Until then he has a job to do.
One he has to focus on, while he's ignoring Danny, because he knows. Alright. He knows how close all of this is, and should be. He knows how easy it would be, to look over his shoulder, and go sliding on the first rough patch of ice. Not the house. The house is. It's just a house. The last place from the last day of another life. Where three people once lived who didn't exist any more. The house actually isn't the thing. It's the rest of it.
He knows how easy it would be to go sliding, if he looks at the rest of it. Or if he lets the house, or the last week, get a foot hold anywhere inside of it. Inside of him. If he lets it get personal. What it cost just to bag Anton. What Victor took when he killed Anton. The words on his phone. The tool box. The mini cassette recorded.
He knows. Has careful markers placed out. Where he can't sit, stand, look too long. Not yet. Not until this is done. Only then. It may annoy the crap out of him, or both of them, but he gets that Danny can't get that. That a greater portion of the world can't. That there's a reason why there are less than three thousand people who can do the job he does out of over three hundred million in their country. Because they are different. Elite. Able.
Steve looks up at the question, and there's that odd sloshing incongruity to it all. Danny, who's back to thinking he's insane, is still stopping, still getting beer. That he somehow thinks he's going to manage to keep having with Steve. Even though every time Steve says anything real the man goes five sheets of indignant and ignorant. But he's still asking. Still doing it. Still stopped, and it just jangles oddly in Steve's head. Making less sense than anything in the last few minutes.
But there's still that question. That Steve really hasn't a clue about it. He doesn't know what's there. Or what he could possible need between now and the morning. All of the options that sprout up are things he could get delivered, or catch a cab for, and it's not like plate meals can't be bought at a place on nearly every nonsuburian street. It's not even like he needs the beer. He just doesn't hate the thought of it either.
Which leaves him shaking his head, and just saying, "No, I'm good."
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That he's going to do that job. Whether they are getting along or not. Whether that was his house once upon a time or not.
That a lot of dead people, and a lot more who are still alive, are riding on his ability to make sure he doesn't give a damn.
He can give a damn when the case is over. He can give a damn when he's dead. Until then he has a job to do.
One he has to focus on, while he's ignoring Danny, because he knows. Alright. He knows how close all of this is, and should be. He knows how easy it would be, to look over his shoulder, and go sliding on the first rough patch of ice. Not the house. The house is. It's just a house. The last place from the last day of another life. Where three people once lived who didn't exist any more. The house actually isn't the thing. It's the rest of it.
He knows how easy it would be to go sliding, if he looks at the rest of it. Or if he lets the house, or the last week, get a foot hold anywhere inside of it. Inside of him. If he lets it get personal. What it cost just to bag Anton. What Victor took when he killed Anton. The words on his phone. The tool box. The mini cassette recorded.
He knows. Has careful markers placed out. Where he can't sit, stand, look too long. Not yet. Not until this is done. Only then. It may annoy the crap out of him, or both of them, but he gets that Danny can't get that. That a greater portion of the world can't. That there's a reason why there are less than three thousand people who can do the job he does out of over three hundred million in their country. Because they are different. Elite. Able.
Steve looks up at the question, and there's that odd sloshing incongruity to it all. Danny, who's back to thinking he's insane, is still stopping, still getting beer. That he somehow thinks he's going to manage to keep having with Steve. Even though every time Steve says anything real the man goes five sheets of indignant and ignorant. But he's still asking. Still doing it. Still stopped, and it just jangles oddly in Steve's head. Making less sense than anything in the last few minutes.
But there's still that question. That Steve really hasn't a clue about it. He doesn't know what's there. Or what he could possible need between now and the morning. All of the options that sprout up are things he could get delivered, or catch a cab for, and it's not like plate meals can't be bought at a place on nearly every nonsuburian street. It's not even like he needs the beer. He just doesn't hate the thought of it either.
Which leaves him shaking his head, and just saying, "No, I'm good."