Steve's answer comes as they pull into the lot and park, leaving Danny to peer at him for a long second from under beetled brows, before shrugging and unbuckling his seat belt. "I guess that's one way to phrase it."
Which leads to him pushing the door open with a creak and pushing himself out right after it, without waiting for Steve, who may or may not decide to come in. Danny doesn't care either way, would maybe even prefer it if Brute Squad would just stay in the car and give him a second alone with his still-swirling thoughts, the thick scent of baking pavement and hot metal, and the zeros on his wrist that won't go away. He's got the insane urge to try and shake them off, even flicks his hand a couple of times like he's shaking water off it, but it's no Etch-a-Sketch: they stay put, more permanent than ink, glowing a gentle red that should in no way put him in mind of the fiery abyss of a doomed soul.
But does.
That's what love is, right? And he's not even convinced the numbers mean love, love, right, because he loved Rachel, loved her with everything he had, sprinted right off that cliff to be in her arms, to be the one to make her smile, gasp, sigh, laugh, and he doesn't feel a damn thing about McGarrett except pity that's tangled up in fury, and the same consistent cloud of self-loathing that's been storming around him since Rachel told him she was leaving. There's nothing to build on, here, and no ground he wants to try and break, no foundation he wants to build. Okay. Sure. He feels bad about the guy's father. He wants to catch Hesse, even if he doesn't have the same burning drive that's got Steve hellbent for leather. He liked the way Steve treated Chin Ho Kelly.
But none of that does a future or a family make. He's pretty sure, gun to his head right this second, he doesn't want Grace anywhere near Steve, and his guns, and his thousand-yard stare, and his total lack of social intelligence, aside from how to best manipulate people into giving him what he wants.
And that's really the kicker, right? Without Grace, there's no chance. Not for anyone.
It's not like they need anyone else. He doesn't. She doesn't. They have each other. That's enough. If it has to be. And he's pretty sure it has to be.
And yet he's still pushing the glass door open, hearing a bell jingle above his head, and striding to find the refrigerated section for the cold six-packs, because apparently, he can make all the goddamn decisions he wants, but he'll still find himself out there, on the line, holding out that offer and just waiting for it to get smacked into a mud puddle and trampled on.
no subject
Steve's answer comes as they pull into the lot and park, leaving Danny to peer at him for a long second from under beetled brows, before shrugging and unbuckling his seat belt. "I guess that's one way to phrase it."
Which leads to him pushing the door open with a creak and pushing himself out right after it, without waiting for Steve, who may or may not decide to come in. Danny doesn't care either way, would maybe even prefer it if Brute Squad would just stay in the car and give him a second alone with his still-swirling thoughts, the thick scent of baking pavement and hot metal, and the zeros on his wrist that won't go away. He's got the insane urge to try and shake them off, even flicks his hand a couple of times like he's shaking water off it, but it's no Etch-a-Sketch: they stay put, more permanent than ink, glowing a gentle red that should in no way put him in mind of the fiery abyss of a doomed soul.
But does.
That's what love is, right? And he's not even convinced the numbers mean love, love, right, because he loved Rachel, loved her with everything he had, sprinted right off that cliff to be in her arms, to be the one to make her smile, gasp, sigh, laugh, and he doesn't feel a damn thing about McGarrett except pity that's tangled up in fury, and the same consistent cloud of self-loathing that's been storming around him since Rachel told him she was leaving. There's nothing to build on, here, and no ground he wants to try and break, no foundation he wants to build. Okay. Sure. He feels bad about the guy's father. He wants to catch Hesse, even if he doesn't have the same burning drive that's got Steve hellbent for leather. He liked the way Steve treated Chin Ho Kelly.
But none of that does a future or a family make. He's pretty sure, gun to his head right this second, he doesn't want Grace anywhere near Steve, and his guns, and his thousand-yard stare, and his total lack of social intelligence, aside from how to best manipulate people into giving him what he wants.
And that's really the kicker, right? Without Grace, there's no chance. Not for anyone.
It's not like they need anyone else. He doesn't. She doesn't. They have each other. That's enough. If it has to be. And he's pretty sure it has to be.
And yet he's still pushing the glass door open, hearing a bell jingle above his head, and striding to find the refrigerated section for the cold six-packs, because apparently, he can make all the goddamn decisions he wants, but he'll still find himself out there, on the line, holding out that offer and just waiting for it to get smacked into a mud puddle and trampled on.
Because he's an idiot.
(But at least Longboards are on sale.)