He can handle McGarrett being all Super SEAL and closed off, inaccessible. He doesn't like it, but he can handle it.
But this? This is like those few other blips throughout the day, pushing aside the steel outer layer surrounding him, and making Danny realize there's a person underneath, a guy his own age who lost his father, who hasn't been home in far too long. All of which hits a personal button that he really, so much, would rather keep unpressed, because Steve can't be a real person. If Steve is a real person, then those zeroes on his wrist -- their wrists -- might be a real thing, and Danny's pretty sure he can't handle that.
Except he also can't help it. The begrudging step towards actual conversation, like he's been taunting Steve was impossible all day, because Steve is volunteering information for only the second -- maybe third -- time so far, and it's out before Danny can stop himself: "Yeah, well, he was right."
About the beer. Maybe not about anything else, because he's pretty damn sure that isn't a conversation either of them wants to get into here and now, or even could. Maybe after a few of the beers currently in Steve's lap. But not before.
The thing is, an hour ago, Danny would have thought it was impossible to get to that topic at all, but now? He's not so sure.
For now, though, Steve's asking him a question, and the part of him that wants to stubbornly not answer out of sheer spite is a whole lot smaller than he thought it would be. "At the brewery? No. It's not exactly, uh, something that would be a whole lot of of fun just by myself, you know?"
And it's not like anyone was jumping at the chance to go with him. Which is fine. He doesn't need to go see the beer being made, he's happy just drinking it at home, or at the occasional bar with Meka.
Flicks on the blinker, turns off the main road, headed towards the one that runs parallel to the shore, the one John McGarrett's house is on, for the second time today. "But I took a couple other ones when I first got here." There's a pause, as he looks out the window, back of his neck and shoulders tight, before amending. "Grace wanted to go."
Which shouldn't be a surprise. It should be clear by now that it's not a thing he'd do for himself, by himself, that this place is one he's interested in seeing much of. It's just a place. It's not home. It's where he works and lives now, but it's not home. That's all he cares about. "We saw lots of pineapple fields. I'm pretty sure I reached my pineapple-field saturation point about an hour in on the first day."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2014-09-07 08:20 pm (UTC)He can handle McGarrett being all Super SEAL and closed off, inaccessible. He doesn't like it, but he can handle it.
But this? This is like those few other blips throughout the day, pushing aside the steel outer layer surrounding him, and making Danny realize there's a person underneath, a guy his own age who lost his father, who hasn't been home in far too long. All of which hits a personal button that he really, so much, would rather keep unpressed, because Steve can't be a real person. If Steve is a real person, then those zeroes on his wrist -- their wrists -- might be a real thing, and Danny's pretty sure he can't handle that.
Except he also can't help it. The begrudging step towards actual conversation, like he's been taunting Steve was impossible all day, because Steve is volunteering information for only the second -- maybe third -- time so far, and it's out before Danny can stop himself: "Yeah, well, he was right."
About the beer. Maybe not about anything else, because he's pretty damn sure that isn't a conversation either of them wants to get into here and now, or even could. Maybe after a few of the beers currently in Steve's lap. But not before.
The thing is, an hour ago, Danny would have thought it was impossible to get to that topic at all, but now? He's not so sure.
For now, though, Steve's asking him a question, and the part of him that wants to stubbornly not answer out of sheer spite is a whole lot smaller than he thought it would be. "At the brewery? No. It's not exactly, uh, something that would be a whole lot of of fun just by myself, you know?"
And it's not like anyone was jumping at the chance to go with him. Which is fine. He doesn't need to go see the beer being made, he's happy just drinking it at home, or at the occasional bar with Meka.
Flicks on the blinker, turns off the main road, headed towards the one that runs parallel to the shore, the one John McGarrett's house is on, for the second time today. "But I took a couple other ones when I first got here." There's a pause, as he looks out the window, back of his neck and shoulders tight, before amending. "Grace wanted to go."
Which shouldn't be a surprise. It should be clear by now that it's not a thing he'd do for himself, by himself, that this place is one he's interested in seeing much of. It's just a place. It's not home. It's where he works and lives now, but it's not home. That's all he cares about. "We saw lots of pineapple fields. I'm pretty sure I reached my pineapple-field saturation point about an hour in on the first day."